"Do you want to play?" he asked. And he folded out a chessboard 
that was not a chessboard, because every move Edward made it 
countered perfectly, all on its own, and when it did it it picked ata 
golden thread from deep inside him and tugged a little more of it 
away. And the blond stranger went up to his mother, watching as the 
board ate her son a little bit at a time, and said something that at the 
time he had not understood. "Tell your husband he will have what he 
wanted." 


Edward awoke rumpled and bleary-eyed, the rain sluicing down the 
car's windows, and the dream tumbled away from him into the dark. 


« Act | - "Jellybeans" | HUB | Act III - "Rainy in London" » 


Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale Act III 


FoldUnfold 

Table of Contents 
Chapter Six: "Rainy in London" 
Chapter Seven: "Codex" 
Chapter Eight: "Castle" 


Chapter Six: "Rainy in London" 


In the morning's watery light, he sat for a few minutes while the 
events of the previous evening caught up with him. You fucking idiot, 
he thought to himself. He had forgotten the comb! There was no way 
if it remained on the person of Lady Penelope that he could call the 
police, if they were even willing to investigate. Besides, something 
within him told him that the noise her skull had made when it hit the 
floor had been very, very bad. He would have to go back, confront 
what had happened and try to get the comb if he had any realistic 
prospect of accessing MC&D's acquisitions warehouse and 
recovering the codex. 


He bought a warm Danish and a coke from a street vendor and sat 
in his car, considering his options, when his mobile vibrated to 
indicate a new text message. He picked it up and checked it, 
apprehensively. 


meet me @pimlico fresh 10mins death 


Unless the hygiene level of Pimlico Fresh's frappucino had really 
gone downhill, this was presumably a message from the Four 
Horsemen. He checked his watch. While he didn't have time to 
spare they might have some way out of this insanity. He dried his 
runny nose with a tissue—the night in the car had reactivated his flu, 
it seemed. 


As he entered the coffee shop he saw kid Death and his silly hairdo, 
sitting on a stool and swinging his legs. Beside him was a 


blackhead-smattered older teen who he presumed was Pestilence. 


"The harbingers of the apocalypse, | presume," said Edward tiredly, 
adjusting his tie and ruffling his hair in the café window. 


"Yes. You got another little mission from Marshall, didn't you?" 
Death seemed tetchy; maybe he'd chipped his nail polish. 


"So what if | did?" Edward challenged. "| need to set some things 
right and | can't do that unless | find out where Marshall's keeping ... 
something | stole from someone close to me. Do you have a 
problem with that?" 


"No, look, that's OK. Fine, actually, it's what we hoped for. It's the 
comb, isn't it?" said Pestilence, excitedly, grabbing a shoebox off the 
floor. 


"Yes it is. First of all, how exactly did you..." 
"Never mind about that," started Death. 


"Actually, | want to tell him. It's been requested by Saad bin 
Abdullah bin Abd al-Aziz bin Abdul-Rahman Al Saud." 


"Pardon?" 


"One of MC&D's Saudi clients. Something's up with the comb and 
Lady Penelope—it keeps being given to different people and ending 
up in her possession—haven't quite gotten on top of that yet—but 
it's an 11) century liturgical comb. | mean, it's worth something, but 
why is it being treated like the Holy Grail? We think there's 
something else going on—whether it's being used to smuggle 
government secrets, or whether it's some sort of Dan Brown puzzle. 
That's why we want you to bring it to us. At the very least we'd have 
something MC&D wants." 


"What? Did you not just hear..." 


"Yes," said Death, cutting in. "That's why War went and had this 
made." He signalled to Pestilence, who opened the box to reveal a 
yellowed ivory comb, identical-looking to the one he'd seen in the 
document given to him by Jeremy Marshall. "You give this to 


Marshall and return the real one to us." 


Edward took the comb from the box, turned it over in his hands. It 
was small, no more than six inches across, with fine ivory teeth in 
two different widths. 


"So, you guys are with the police, or...?" 


Death harrumphed. "Yeah, sure, I'm Officer Steve McDeath, you're 
all under arrest. Book 'em, Pestilence. Seriously, do we look like 
cops?" 


"No idea, but if you end up with something Marshall wants you'd 
better know what you're doing. Right now all I'm seeing are two kids 
in way out of your depth." 


"Please," said Death, "I've been screwing with powerful people 
longer than you've been a stock trader. We know what we're doing. 
You haven't met Famine yet, have you?" 


"Okay," said Edward, and finished his hot chocolate. 


"Good," Death said, wandering over to the window and looking out 
in both directions. "Pestilence, this idiot has a tendency to attract 
tails. One of them followed me half-way through London after our 
last meeting before | ditched him on the Tube." 


"MC&D?" asked Pestilence. 
"Not as far as | can tell. Crypto-governmental, looked like." 


"Well, looks like you're on your own," said Pestilence to Edward, 
leaving a five pound tip and disappearing into the back of the shop. 
When Edward looked around Death had similarly made his egress. 


Some pros, thought Edward. | give Marshall the fake—and what 
happens when you get in touch to ransom the real thing? Either you 
didn't think that part of the plan out or you don't care if | get myself 
killed either. No, he'd have to find something else to appease the 
Horsemen. 


Lady Penelope's mansion was as he'd left it—glass strewn over the 
porch on the right hand side of the house, increasingly soggy 
Goethe sinking into the drain. He cautiously moved into the summer- 
house. 


"Alexandra?" he called. "Alexandra? Are you OK?" 


No response. The creeping decay he had noticed before seemed 
suddenly more profound, ceilings sagging noticeably, the stairs 
feeling rotten and unsteady as he ascended to the first floor. The 
smell hit him as he pushed open the door to the master bedroom— 
nauseating, hideous. 


Lady Penelope lay on the floor—where she had fallen? He couldn't 
be sure. Her body had already caved in on itself, a putrefying mass 
he had to try and keep his breakfast down to approach. What could 
have done this? Her skin was taut over her skull, eyes like burst egg 
yolks. The comb was still in her hair. 


He knelt down, one arm up over his face, burying his nose in his 
elbow and breathing in the smell of Huntsman's proprietary fabric 
softeners. They did little to mask the stench. His other hand, 
trembling, reached out for the comb. He half expected the horrific 
thing to sit up and try to stop him. It came away, chunks of her 
blonde hair following, with little chunks of rotten flesh at their tips. He 
brushed the hair away in morbid fascination. 


The comb was in his hand. The replica, in his pocket. He knew he 
could not give the real comb to the Horsemen, and briefly toyed with 
the idea of returning them their own fake. No, still too risky. Not only 
would they likely have integrated some flaw to point out to Marshall 
to convince him that what he held was indeed fake, he still couldn't 
risk anyone telling Marshall he had been given a forgery, even if it 
wasn't true. And | don't like what one more theft will make me, he 
thought. 


On a whim, he went over to the oak writing table and saw the little 
key in the lock of the drawer. He turned it, put the real comb inside 
and locked it, and put the key in his other pocket. 


Edward drove to the main London chapterhouse and knocked on the 
door, holding his glass member's pass, which had somehow 
survived the night in his pocket. The bag-eyed porter opened his 
peephole and glared out, before crinkling in amusement. 


"Mr Gradley—you're expected! Straight through; Mr Marshall and Mr 
Carter are in the office towards the back." 


Edward didn't feel like facing either man again, but nodded and 
walked through into the ballroom, which was being prepared for 
some great theatrical display. 


"Excuse me, can you tell me where..." The staff ignored him, 
continuing their actions as though they hadn't heard or seen him at 
all. Brainwashed, he thought. 


Far from 'straight through’, the offices required navigation of the 
labyrinthine system of back rooms; many were locked and he heard 
voices raised in pleasure and pain. Eventually he emerged into a 
lavish Elizabethan parlour where Messrs Marshall and Carter sat 
taking tea from a pot in the shape of a screaming human head. It 
seemed to be a hit. 


"The body, Mr Carter!" Jeremy Marshall was enthusing wildly when 
Edward entered. "Ah, Mr Gradley. Does the young hero return 
triumphant?" 


Edward held up the comb, which he had wrapped in tissue, fearful 
that its teeth might break, before sneezing volcanically. 


"The dowager's comb, Mr Carter—back in the hands of its rightful 
owners." 


"Not for long, Mr Marshall," chuckled Carter, the growth on his back 
groaning with him. "Just make sure its new owner knows what 
precautions to take. Give Mr Gradley some Peramivir before he 
goes." 


Marshall smiled thinly. "Indeed. Now, Mr Gradley, the item?" He 
extended his hand. 


"| said | wanted to see where the acquisitions are stored," he 


If SCP-574 consumes more than three subjects in one month, 
additional facilities will begin constructing themselves around it. 
These will be support facilities for a factory, such as an electrical 
power plant, or a market to sell the goods produced within the 
factory. If allowed to build completely, these structures will become 
derelict and begin sharing SCP-574's properties. When it was 
initially contained, SCP-574 was surrounded by two power plants, a 
marketplace, and the remains of a harbor. If SCP-574 is denied 
food, these structures will begin manifesting more enticing items, 
such as silhouettes of women undressing, the cries of distressed 
animals, and the odors of food and cannabis. 


SCP-574 was initially discovered on 9/18/1995, when a homeless 
man called paramedics to it. Upon arrival, the subject claimed he 
had taken up residence within SCP-574, and had witnessed the 
deaths of other subjects due to SCP-574's effect. After several 
paramedics were killed, reports of the anomaly reached Foundation 
agents embedded in the American military. Containment was 
successfully enacted by members of MTF-w-7 "Home 
Improvement". As of 10/30/1995, all witnesses were issued Class-C 
amnestics, and SCP-574 was classified as Euclid. 


Addendum: Interview 574-A 


Interviewed: Subject 574-A 

Interviewer: Dr. Jankovic 

Foreword: Interview taken during initial containment. 
<Begin Log> 


Dr. Jankovic: So, please tell us how you came to find 
the structure. 


Subject 574-A: You mean the factory, right? | 
guess, | mean, it was someplace we all knew about. 
Good nights sleep, warm, usually kinda dry. 


Dr. Jankovic: It was a well known squatter camp? 


insisted. 


Marshall scowled. "Oh, very well. Mr Gradley insists on aggregating 
a double reward to himself, Mr Carter." 


"A—man after my own heart—Mr Marshall. Good to see old 
Bernard's Nordic blood not wholly diluted, yes?" 


"Then you shall see what lies beneath, Mr Gradley. But be advised 
—this is not a shopping trip. If you wish us to help you salvage your 
career, then you will be content to look and not touch, at least for 
now." 


Again with the blindfold! A velvety cloth was tied over his eyes and 
he was escorted quietly and efficiently into a car, which he later 
learned was a black limousine. He held the comb—the fake, of 
course—clutched tightly in his hands the whole way, fully expecting 
Jeremy to renege on his promise the second he had it in his 
possession. Mr Marshall sat somewhere to his right, doing 
something that made a disquietening scritch-scratch that seemed 
alarmingly close to his ear—possibly filing his nails, possibly not. 


The ride seemed to take hours, and Edward became increasingly 
nervous. It occurred to him that he had no real exit strategy— 
assuming he somehow got free of Marshall and gained free run of 
the warehouse, and assuming he found and was able to get out with 
the codex, what would he do? He had no car, no means of transport, 
and would surely be run down and returned to Marshall's tender 
ministrations within minutes. He resolved to take events as they 
came. For a while he tried to focus on the sound of the limo's wheels 
on the road, but, of course, he had no training in identifying a 
surface from the sound it made. For what it was worth the ride 
seemed smooth, so they probably hadn't gone offroad. Was that a 
good thing? 


At length the vehicle purred to a halt and Edward was bundled out, 
the blindfold removed. The blank-faced young men and women in 
formal serving attire had given way to seedy-looking private security 
with a paramilitary flavour; he saw at the hip of one the stock of a 
semi-automatic rifle. Before them was a vast rectangular concrete 


monstrosity, surrounded by two barbed-wire fences and angled 
subterranean roller shutters which as he watched retracted to admit 
an armoured truck. It looked less like a warehouse than some 
despot's compound. 


"This is where it all comes, Mr Gradley," gestured Marshall, as they 
entered on foot via a checkpoint—the guards immediately found 
something fascinating to look at on the wall or ceiling as Jeremy 
Marshall passed and the barriers were raised before they got within 
ten paces of them. Good to know, thought Edward; they're terrified 
of him. Any time something or someone behaves in a predictable 
way they can be exploited—stocks and shares 101. 


Edward had expected some vast space inside the warehouse— 
instead, they entered a serpentine mess of stacks and shelves, the 
aisles not straight but turning and twisting like a labyrinth. The only 
clue to the area's size could be seen in the height of the ceiling, 
rising far above the three and four shelf units. Watery naked bulbs 
hung like Christmas ornaments from the walkways above, criss- 
crossing the space and casting a green-grey pallor on everything. 
The area nearest to the door appeared to be outgoing objects— 
guards packaging five foot tall Easter Island heads in bubblewrap 
and loading them onto pallets. He scanned the items lined up for 
shipping but couldn't see the codex. 


"Stay close to me," warned Marshall, "we wouldn't anything 
happening to you, would we? And speaking of which..." he clicked 
his fingers and held his hand out occasionally. Edward grudgingly 
surrendered the comb, which Marshall spun between his fingers with 
glee, watching the play of light on its twisted little engraved figures. 


"A singular find, this. Such a shame that we have to give it away 
again so soon—and for such petty pleasures! Still, it always 
manages to return to us eventually." He withdrew a white silk 
handkerchief from his pocket, monogrammed with the club 
cartouche, and wrapped the comb before sliding it into his breast 
pocket. 


"So," he said, striding purposefully deeper into the warehouse, "this 
is the kingdom. Our little gallery. Well, one of them." 


Edward hadn't expected the noise. When they had first entered it 
had been almost too soft to hear—a distant susurration like the 
sound of a jungle. But as they pressed deeper into the bowels of 
MC&D's treasurehouse it rose sharply and horrifically; screams bird, 
animal, human, and things besides which sounded like none of 
them, and on top of them all the sounds of scraping iron and sawing. 


"Mind your step, Mr Gradley. | have business at the corner office—I 
need to see a man about a set of teeth. His, in fact."