Before he could take another step forward, four more shots 
sounded. Pain spiked through his torso, his arms, his leg. He felt the 
trickle of warm blood down his skin. As he took his next step 
forward, his wounded leg buckled. Spots of color danced across his 
vision. He tried to push himself up, and his arms collapsed under 
him. Impossible. He was Scholar-Lord of the Daeva Empire. He 
would not be brought down so easily by these men. Stand up. Fight. 
Rip your enemies apart. Do not die like a dog in the dirt. But soon 
the pain overtook any semblance of thought, and he found himself 


drifting in blackness. 


« Rather Die Young | Hub | Posthuman » 


Posthuman 


Clef didn’t miss his face. Initially the loss had been painful. It wasn’t 
just his physical face the creature had taken. For years he’d 
wandered with a hole in his existence, one that could not be filled no 
matter how much achievement or memories or fellowship he built 
up. They all simply... fell away, refusing to attach themselves to him. 
He may have acquired them, briefly, but they had never been his. 
Never been him. 


So he weaved himself a mask. An idea, a facade that he could wear 
like clothing to cover the torn skin. One that thrived on its 
impermanence, its malleability, its ambiguity. That clutched at the 
questions like a babe to a teat and drunk itself fat. He could no 
longer have a self. So he became a story. 


And of course, there were benefits to not having an identity. Like 
being able to walk into Site 2000 unquestioned. All you have to do is 
tweak the tale a bit. Yes, of course he should be here. No, it wasn’t 
strange that a notoriously volatile researcher was strolling into the 
most heavily guarded object on the planet. Continue your workdays. 
Everything is going as intended. 


He strolled down the sterile hallways of complex, whistling to himself 
and flipping his badge between his fingers. There were no guides on 
the wall to indicate direction. Everyone working here was expected 
to fully memorize their daily routes (and nothing else) before arriving 
at the station. It didn’t bother Clef. He knew exactly where he was 


going. 
“Sir?” 


He stopped to look at the source of the voice. Cute. Blonde. A bit too 
scrawny for him. He smiled. “Yes?” 


“No one’s scheduled to be in this hall at the moment. Where are you 
going?” 


SCP-715 in a secure vault. 


The current status for this project is pending. We're not go 
going to go looking for -B instances. We haven't been able 
many of these running around as we think there are, it wo 
least until we can figure out what they want. 


As for the -A instances... let's just consider the protocol lis 
We've been advised that it would not be wise to remove th 
current plan. 


- Asst. Dir. Weaving, Site 81 


Incident Report 715/A: [ACCESS RESTRICTED] 


Please Access Using 715/5 Authorization Code 


His eyes moved from her stern expression, to the way she held her 
hands on her hips, to the gun at her waist. Ah. One of those, then. 
He smiled. “There’s been a small malfunction in the 2Z-31 anchor. 
Trying to patch it up before it gets too serious.” 


“There aren't any repairs on the schedule.” 


“It just popped up. Try not to let these things linger for too long, you 
know?” 


She glanced at a PDA. “We update on a minute-to-minute schedule. 
Nothing’s showing up.” Her hand rested on the gun at her waist. Clef 
was impressed. He hadn’t even seen her switch position. Anyone 
else might have let her get the drop on him. “So again, what are you 
doing here?” 


His arm shot forward, snatching her wrist. Before she could get a 
grip the gun, he jerked back. There was a crunching noise as her 
ulna cracked. She screamed, but he already had his hand over her 
mouth, covering the noise. He worked the rest of his arm around her 
neck. She slammed against him, jabbed her elbows toward his side, 
but he rotated his body. All her strikes bounced harmlessly at her 
side. Soon, she stilled. He lowered her unconscious body to the 
floor. 


No alarms sounded. But now he had a time limit. He sprinted down 
the hallway, taking turns on instinct, trusting his memorization of the 
building to take him where he wanted to go. He darted up three 
flights of stairs, slammed open a door, breezed past the three 
researches chatting about takyon fields. He ran, unthinking, until he 
arrived at an unmarked, unassuming door. 


The central hub. 


Select few people had access to this. Most people wouldn’t even 
notice it under the memetic defenses. Even the people who worked 
at the site didn’t realize what the place was truly for. They thought a 
secret within a secret was all there was to it. But Clef knew. He’d 
known even before the Watchers told him. He’d known ever since 
they found the note on his dead corpse, when the pieces of every 
puzzle fell into place and showed him the true nature of the game. 


Even his comrades probably didn’t realize the full magnitude of this 
place. He glanced around, saw that nobody was watching, and 
opened the door. And prayed for forgiveness. 


« March of the Fire Ants | Hub | No Rain » 


No Rain 


The steel collar was just loose enough to keep from choking Cipher, 
yet tight enough that she had to stop herself from clawing at the 
metal around her throat. Every five seconds, a small red light 
blinked, accompanied by a shrill chirp. She shifted her neck. The 
feeling of the metal squeezing her windpipe remained. According to 
their captors (or “partners”, as the woman had referred to herself), a 
small device inside it would detonate if it detected any variance in 
local Hume levels. Or if Cipher tried to escape. Or if her captors got 
bored and decided to press the button just to see what happened. 


The car grumbled as it rolled across the gravel road. They’d been 
driving for hours now. Cipher had no idea where they were going, or 
where they were. So far they’d only caught glimpses of civilization- 
an old house here, a distant farm there. But between that it felt like 
they had somehow entered a different, empty world. 


Cipher and Kantos sat next to each other, facing the woman across 
from them. The fake O5-4 was asleep next to her. Their captors 
hadn’t handcuffed them. The woman had said she wanted to start 
their relationship “friendly”. She tapped a message into a small black 
phone of a make Cipher didn’t recognized. Since getting in the car, 
she hadn’t looked up from it. Once Cipher had tried to discreetly 
lean forward to see what she was typing. The woman had just 
shifted position slightly to hand the screen, as casually as crossing 
her legs. 


Cipher glanced at Kantos. He sat with his hands balled into fists on 
his thighs. His eyes were unfocused, staring at the car floor. She 
wondered what he was feeling right now. They barely knew each 
other- she’d only arrived at the assignment two weeks ago. Still, 
she'd felt a strong friendship developing with the man. The thought 
that he was being targeted for... whatever this was solely because 
of her made her stomach ache. She glanced out the window. The 
sun was beginning to set, dying the sky orange. The clouds had fled 


the sky, as if they too could sense what was coming and were 
preparing for it. 


“When will this be over?” Though Kantos’ voice was near-whisper, 
the sudden breaking of the silence made Cipher jump. She looked 
over at the man. He sat hunched over, glaring at the woman. 


Her eyes flicked up from the phone. She held her gaze on him for a 
moment before returning to whatever she was typing. “Soon.” 


“Not good enough.” Kantos’ voice sounded like the warning growl of 
a hungry dog. 


The woman sighed and put the phone down. “Is there something 
about this situation that makes you think you're in a position to make 
demands?” The fake O5-4 cracked open one eye and watched the 
conversation. 


“You said we were not your captives. That the bomb on my partner’s 
neck was simply a safety precaution. If we are your ‘partners’, tell us 
where we are going.” 

The woman looked at the false O5-4. The imposter shrugged. The 
woman looked back at Kantos and sighed. “We’re going to Site-19.” 


“Bullshit,” said Kantos. “There is no Site-19.” 


“It’s funny how much information they’re willing to keep from the 
bodyguard of an O5,” said the woman. “Yes, there is a 19. The 
rumors about computer error “skipping it” in the numbering 
sequence are just that. And we're going to it.” 


“I’ve seen maps. There is no secure facility in this area.” 


“Correct. It takes a rather... unorthodox route to access.” She 
glanced at her phone. “We should arrive in 20 minutes. Now be a 
dear and shut up.” 


Kantos sat back, scowling. The sun had sunk completely, casting 
the sky into night. Cipher frowned. It shouldn’t have gone down that 
quickly, especially not at this time of year. Through the darkness, 
she could just barely make out the silhouettes of passing trees. The 
only light seemed to be coming from the car itself. There were no 


stars, no visible moon. No noise could be heard except the rumble 
of the engine. The car slowed. Cipher felt the gravel road change 

into asphalt. She glanced out the front window and her eyes went 

wide. 


The largest building she’d ever seen loomed over the horizon. It 
looked more like a mountain than a construction. Even leaning 
forward and craning her head, she couldn’t see the top of it. She 
glanced out the sides of the window, but there seemed to be no end 
to it- it stretched to the edge of the horizon and beyond. The walls 
were black and reflective, like the surface of spilled oil. Patterns of 
rainbow light rippled across it as the car drew closer. Small drones 
and planes buzzed around the surface. 


The woman turned to Kantos. “Still think it’s just a rumor?” 
Kanto frowned and said nothing. 
“How have | never heard of this place?” said Cipher. 


“The Foundation isn’t a fond of airing out their dirty laundry,” said the 
woman. “Of it all, this might be the dirtiest. Don’t worry. It'll all make 
sense soon." 


« Posthuman | Hub | "Thieves!" Screamed the Ghost » 


"Thieves!" Screamed The Ghost 


Voices pulled him from the blankness of unconsciousness. 


“-unless you want your boss melting your badge for scrap before the 
end of your fucking shift.” A woman’s snarl. It occurred to Alarath 
that he hadn't talked to a woman since waking up in this new world. 
He opened his eyes. 


The walls around him were sterile white, lit brightly enough to 
eliminate any shadows. He lifted his head, wincing as the movement 
sent a spasm of pain up his chest. Thick blue covers were draped 
over him. Wires snaked from beneath. He traced their path to a 
mass of machines hanging next to his bed. Grey displays of 
numbers indicated statistics unknown to him. As he watched, one of 
the machines whirred, and a spurt of liquid traveled down the tube 
towards his chest. 


Alarath jerked his arm back, a silver restraint on his wrist held fast. 
He could only watch as the fluid slithered into his vein. Wriggling his 
other limbs confirmed they were similarly restrained. A prisoner, 
then. Unsurprising. But what were these machines, and liquid? 
Poison? A sedative? He felt no less healthy or aware than he had 
before. White bandages covered his chest and arm. Medical 
treatment? Who would provide such aid to a prisoner? 


The door burst in and a tall woman who looked like she would have 
fit right at home in a Daevite army strode into the room. Two men 
entered behind her. She paused when she saw him looking at her. 
Her grey eyes matched gazes with his and didn’t flinch. “That’s a 
problem,” she said. 


“Who are you?” Alarath said. His throat strained with each word. 


The woman ignored him. She turned to one of the men, a short, red- 
headed man with the kind of bulk that only came from a lifetime of 
war. “Get him back under.” 


The man nodded and strode forward. He drew a clear cylinder 
tipped by a long blade from his coat pocket. Alarath lashed his limbs 
out, trying to escape, but he couldn’t stop the blade from slipping 
between his muscles, and unconsciousness stealing him again. 


He woke strapped down in near-darkness. A small light above him 
illuminated a small room. The red haired man sat next to him, 
holding a long black weapon. The bed jostled. They were ina 
carriage, then? Going where? Alarath supposed he would find out. 
He doubted there would be any point in asking. The ride passed in 
silence, outside of the occasional noise from the outside world or 
grunt when the vehicle ran over a rough bump. After what could 
have been only an hour or half a day, he felt them sliding to a stop. 
The back of the door slid open. 


“Awake again? Tough fucker.” He couldn’t see the source of the 
voice, but recognized it as the woman from before. “What are you 
people standing around for?” He felt hands dragging the slab he was 
strapped to back, and flinched as the noon sun flooded his eyes. He 
found himself staring at the woman upside down. 


“So,” she said, “this is how it works. We don’t know who you are or 
where you come from. But we’re going to find out. And it'll be a lot 
less of a pain in my ass if you cooperate.” 


“If | do, you'll release me?” he said. He didn’t particularly care what 
the answer was. But it was what she expected. 


“Fuck no,” she said. “But you'll get a nice cage, and we won't have 
to hit you as much.” 


Alarath struggled to look around from his position on the slab. Four 
men with weapons stood around the woman. The red headed man 
was still in the vehicle, watching silently. His weapon just raised 
enough to be prepared for violence. “Well,” he said, grinning. “How 
could | refuse?” 


« No Rain | Hub | War Within A Breath » 


War Within A Breath 


In the hours of morning that still flirted with night, as Doctor Edith 
Spencer combed through layers of data from another world, she 
reflected on the pathways of life. If someone had asked herself a 
year ago about her future plans, she would have described a rapid 
ascent through the ranks of the Foundation, with the goal of 
becoming senior researcher at Site 81. Five years before that, she 
would have talked about her doctoral research, and her bright future 
career in academia. And ten years before that, the idea that she 
would even complete college seemed as laughable as an all- 
powerful organization suppressing the existence of things that went 
bump in the night. But somehow, the twists and turns of her life had 
led her here, with a metaphorical gun to the head of the Foundation 
and her finger on the trigger. 


A sequence of events totally unpredictable yet fully inevitable. 


It was six months ago that the Watchers had approached her. It had 
been a still June night, one of the many where she was the only one 
left in the lab long after the end of testing. She didn't mind her 
coworkers. Many of them she genuinely liked. But it was these 
times, secluded away with only her notes and her data, that she felt 
she could truly think. She always did her best work here. And her 
senior researchers’ surprise at seeing a new batch of analysis and 
conclusions when he arrived in the morning didn't hurt. But most of 
all she just liked the feel of the lab at night. The silence of the normal 
busy equipment. The solitary light at her desk, like a shield between 
her and the outside world. The idea that anything happening during 
these hours was hers alone to keep. 


So she instantly felt the presence of another person in the room. 
She pushed back from her desking, spinning to face the intruder. 
She hadn't heard the door open, but he stood there still. A pale- 
skinned, balding man clutching the edge of desk in the same way 
her grandfather clutched his cane. A wrinkled tattoo of an eye was 


on the back of his hand. He smiled at her. The expression was warm 
and terrifying.