Singular thoughts snapped through Salah’s synapses as he sprung 
back to the kitchen. Inkblood. Not cool yet. Foundation ambush. 
Needed gun. Safe in the wall. Combination. Grab gun. Turn. 


The inkblood was already there, back in human form, wreaths of 
liquid forming razor edges around his hands. A fist connected with 
Salah’s face, knocking him off balance. Shards of black sliced 
across his skin. The gun fell from his hand. 


Forget the gun. Frying pan off the wall hook. There was a satisfying 
ring to accompany the splatter as it connected with the inkblood’s 
head. He didn’t completely dissolve this time, focusing more on 
regenerating the head. 


Another swing, another ring, another splatter. Less splatter this time. 
Salah grabbed the inkblood by the collar and began to drag him 
towards the bathroom, smashing the pan into the inkblood’s head 
whenever it looked to be repairing. 


Kick the door down, throw the inkblood in the tub, stomp on his 
head, seal off the drain. Salah tossed the pan aside and tore open 
the supply cabinet. Remove plunger, snap over knee, impale 
inkblood through gut. Salah’s lips moved in a string of a silent sura. 
Medicine cabinet, remove toothpaste, draw the circle around the 
broom, sloppy nonsense symbols around the edge. The symbol 
itself didn’t matter: it just had to be a symbol for something. The 
inkblood strained against the makeshift binding, screaming, his ink 
now thickened into something like tar. 


Salah breathed heavily for a moment. The binding was sloppy, but it 
should hold long enough to get what he needed. He left the 
bathroom, reviewing his injuries: the bleeding in his side was just 
from a grazing strike, nothing of great concern there. A few 
bandages were all it needed. Same with the other cuts. But later. 
Had to deal with the inkblood first. 


The fierce tide of adrenaline had lessened enough for Salah to think 
straight. There was an inkblood in his bathtub. Tried to ambush him, 
probably planned on killing him in the first strike. Mary-Ann and 
Naomi were gone, with the Foundation. It was entirely possible that 
this was all a misunderstanding, the Foundation had come and 
gotten Mary-Ann and Naomi out before the inkblood arrived. But if 
that was the case, why was he waiting here in ambush? Just waiting 
until they returned? No. And if the Foundation was doing a rescue, 
they’d spare a few agents to spring a trap. And one inkblood wasn’t 


that much of a threat to multiple people who expected it. They were 
connected. 


But they weren't obviously AWCY, Mary-Ann would have sniffed that 
out easily. The setup wasn’t nearly theatrical enough, anyway. So, 
inkbloods either posing as or infiltrating the Foundation, from a 
source that wasn’t AWCY. 


He would find out soon enough. 


Salah liked to think that he had a great deal of self-control. Most 
people said that he did. That was a dangerous game, control. 
Watching the tiger pen. Holding the keys to the cage. It put one ina 
position of total responsibility if what was under control got out of 
control. 


Mary-Ann and Naomi were in danger. That was more than enough 
motivation for Salah to accept that responsibility. The cage had been 
unlocked. It was not a burning fire, nor a boiling maelstrom. No, that 
was anger. The cage had been unlocked and that young man had 
applied his rage to an older man’s experience, and it came out as a 
cold, calm, monolithic hatred, deep and dark as the gap between 
stars. 


He'd have to buy a new set of kitchen knives when all this was done. 


Kitchen to hall closet. Drano. Gloves. Back to the bathroom. 
Hopefully, it would all be unnecessary. Most people would give up 
after the descriptions of what was to happen. That was what was 
really effective: the fear of pain, rather than the pain itself. But this 
man was Foundation, most likely conditioned to resist interrogation, 
and on top of that, mad enough to deal with whatever black things 
some of the artists associated with. 


There was a line between a good man and a madman, and Salah 
felt himself crossing it. No sorrow now, no guilt, no regret for what 
was to happen to the man with ink in his blood. The same apathy 
towards the other that led to men with bombs strapped to their 
chests emptied out Salah for the first time in decades. He could feel 
it now, was aware of it, and didn't care. Not now. Couldn't afford to. 
Just had to trust that Mary-Ann would forgive him for it. 


Salah returned to the bathroom, setting his implements on the floor. 


“I'll give you a chance to talk freely, to avoid the mess.” He put on 
the gloves. “Where is my wife and daughter?” 


“Fuck you.” 


“I’m afraid that is out of the question. That binding will only last for 
fifteen minutes or so, and | plan on getting out of here in five.” Salah 
rolled up his sleeves. “You know, some time ago | was asked if | 
thought | was the Spanish Inquisition. | said no, on the grounds that | 
am not Spanish. As far as inquisitions go, | can’t deny that claim. | 
was, some time ago, the person people went to when they had dirty 
jobs to fulfill, because, to quote an old acquaintance of mine,” he 
held up the bottle of Drano, making sure the inkblood could see it. “I 


aed) 


was ‘a heartless motherfucker’. 


The car came to a stop. A chemical plant stood outside Mary-Ann’s 
window, lit by the lonely glow of security lights. The kind of building 
that thousands of people would look at and have it pass by without a 
second thought. That was a place that made chemicals. What else 
could happen there? 


“We’re here,” Redmond said, shutting off the engine. “Entry 
procedures will take some time, but as it stands we are ahead of 
schedule.” He paused. “You’re doing the world a greater service 
than you can imagine, Ms. Lewitt. It will not be forgotten.” 


“| wish it would be,” Mary-Ann said. Her hand rested next to Naomi’s 
cheek, waiting a moment before she moved to unfasten the carrier. 


I’m sorry... 


“Site thirty-six! Building four! Level three!” the inkblood screamed, 
foam bubbling out from mouth and eyes. 


“And where would that be?” 


The inkblood spat out a garbled set of directions. When he was 
finished, Salah nodded, and then poured the remainder of the Drano 
over the inkblood’s face. The would-be assassin gave one final 
spasm and scream before fully dissolving into a puddle of black and 
empty clothes. There was no further movement. Salah unsealed the 
drain and began running the water, washing the inkblood’s corpse 
down the drain. Nothing more than ink now. 


He walked back into the living room and picked up his phone from 
where he had dropped it on the floor. No, he wouldn’t call the 
Chapterhouse. With the alliance in place, there would be nothing but 
red tape everywhere. If the Foundation had been infiltrated, it would 
easy for those infiltrators to distract the investigation long enough 
that it would be too late to do anything. There was no time for 
niceties here, no time for red tape. There was no time to sit by and 
do nothing. The Voice had died while he sat by and did nothing. He 
was not going to sit by and do nothing and let Mary-Ann and Naomi 
die as well. 


He dialed. After a few moments, a voice answered. 
"This is DeMontfort." 


“Henry. It’s Salah.” 


“Salah? What-” 
“Mary-Ann and Naomi have been kidnapped.” 
“What? Salah that’s-* 


“The Foundation has been infiltrated by an unknown party, and has 
kidnapped Mary-Ann and Naomi. | have testimony from one of their 
agents.” 


Oh God... DeMontfort’s heart skipped a beat. Did he?...he did. That 
tone of voice gave it away, the steel-edged calm. DeMontfort hadn’t 
heard that in a long while. There was a time when the positions had 
been switched between the two of them. Salah was the cold, 

zealous one, and he the milder idealist. Now it seemed like they had 


switched back to those old places. If Salah had fallen back on his 
old interrogation techniques that quickly... 


“Salah, what did you do to him?” 


“| found out where Mary-Ann and Naomi are. | need as many 
Wolves as you can get me, as fast as possible.” 


DeMontfort ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Not today. 
Anything but this, any time but today. 


“| can’t get you anyone, Salah. Project Malleus is suspended until 
further notice. Straight from the Tribunal. | have no power anymore.” 


“You always have a backup plan.” 


Yes, he did, and if he used that backup plan now, for this, there went 
everything he had worked for. Malleus was already lost, and his 
position was on tentative ground already... 


“Look, | know we’ve drifted apart, but I’ve been looking at myself a 
lot lately...I’ve let Malleus get too far out of hand... this is all my 
fault, the mess the organization is in right now...” 


“Henry, Mary-Ann and Naomi are going to die if you don’t help me.” 


That voice again. The voice of a man who was dangerously close to 
losing everything. He'd crash and burn on this, DeMontfort could tell. 
If he didn't die during the attempt, of course. Nature's cruelty would 
most likely see him survive, to become some hollow parody of a 
man. Worse than he was when he arrived with Initiative, worse than 
DeMontfort had become. No, position didn't matter here. Lives were 
at stake, and a man's soul on top of that. Perhaps that was it. 
Perhaps God's plan here was simply to put DeMontfort's in a place 
where he could do some good. The allowance of evil so that a 
greater good might come from it. 


Yes, that was it. 
“Look, I'll see what | can do. They haven't cut all my strings.” 


“Right.” 


The call ended. DeMontfort sighed again, automatically reaching for 
the cigarette he didn’t have with him. What a time to give up 
smoking. He sat down at his desk and removed a pad of paper from 
the drawer. He tore off the front page and wrote a short message on 
it. 


Saturn Deer-It’s time. Send them to the return address | gave you. 


He folded the paper up into an airplane and threw it out the window. 
It swirled and drifted into the night. Fifteen seconds later, a second 
airplane flew back through the window, this one made of grubby 
loose-leaf. 


You, coming to me for help? Holy shit, | should start buying lottery 
tickets. 


DeMontfort made another plane. It was an awkward form of 
conversation, but it would do. 


You agreed to this, Deer. 


| agreed to look after some shit for Ursula, not you. By the way, 
how’s that lung cancer treating you? 


About the same as your little case of immolation. We have the 
agreement in writing, Deer. If anything, you are a man of your 
written word. 


That’s speaking contractually, and if we’re speaking contractually, | 
don’t give fucks for free. 


| can’t appeal to your sense of common decency, because you don’t 
have one. | can’t threaten you, because you tend to get over death 
easily. So, | will be honest: you will be supplying a raid on a 
Foundation facility. If the excuse to be connected to some hell- 
raising won't sway you, Deer, nothing will. 


Raising hell, eh? | like it, but | could use a little bit more. I’ve got 
integrity to uphold, Henry. Set your bribe a little higher. 


Money then? Some power? The loving embrace of a two-dollar 
whore? 


Please. | got all the money | want and all the bitches | can buy. 
Implying that | pay for them and they aren't attracted to me by my 
natural suavity. Because | don’t because | have that. You must not 
want this stuff very bad. 


| can take you off the Active Interests list. No more having to deal 
with us. That work out for you? 


Ha! You couldn’t get me anyway. | just like hearing you eating that 
humble pie while you suck me off. 


You're an irascible fuckwit, Deer. 


| do my best. One order of shit dug outta someone’s closet, coming 
up. 


The artist worked, and the slave called Cairn watched. In 
time, her work was completed. 


She built a machine, a great machine of iron barbs and 
steel spikes and flowing sulfur, animated by the three 
hundred screaming fleshy fruits impaled upon its thorns, 
twisted out of shape. The fruits were paired, male and 
female, set together, in a bouquet of flesh burning and 
screaming and fucking and hating and dying and living 
while blood and semen and bile and sulfur flowed and 
boiled and bubbled and flesh writhed and the flesh 
moved and the flesh hated. 


All this this was pleasing to Moluch, the Horned King 
Crowned in Shame. 


« Empire of Dirt (Part 1) | Hub | Empire of Dirt (Part 3) » 


Empire Of Dirt (Part 3) 


Daevon burned. Smoke blotted out a cold and uncaring 
sun as the streets flooded with feasting flesh and 
screaming gristle. The slave pits burned, the manors and 
gardens burned, the plazas swarmed with the aberrant 
throngs. Fountains ran red and brown. Pillars of flesh 
coiled around obelisks and temples, belching clouds of 
brown mist into the air. Occasionally, cracks of musket 
fire or the trumpeting of a mammoth overtaken by the 
horde would echo from the distance and then go silent. 


It seemed as if the entire world was dying. 


The slave called Cairn stood on the top step of the high 
temple, looking out across the city, watching it die. The 
empire was passing through the last violent throes of its 
death. Soon there would be nothing left but the pale grey 
steppes and the old, sick winds. 


Cairn had no master now: the artist now writhed atop a 
silk bed sheet with the slave-broker, their bodies fused 
and bloated. A tribute in undying art to the Horned King 
Crowned in Shame. This quiet here on the steps was 
only a brief respite. The peace here would not last long. 


He turned from looking at the city, and passed through 
the gaping hole where the great iron doors had once 
been set. Those doors had been torn apart, the metal 
crumpled like tissue. 


The inside of the temple was stained with blood and 
viscera, strewn with shattered weapons and torn clothing 
and the stone corpses of shattered idols. Temple guards, 
acolytes in white, priests, even high priests in their red 
robes, all of them in pieces, hacked apart. 


approach. 

0:00:32 Subject reaches SCP-634. Confusion increases, asks what 
he was supposed to do. Subject prompted to place hand into tank. 
0:01:04 Subject places right hand into tank. 

0:01:45 SCP-634 bites subject's index finger. Subject curses, 
removes hand from tank. 

0:02:12 Subject complains of burning sensation in finger. 

0:02:30 Subject places right hand into tank, appears to feel a 
decrease in pain. 

0:02:55 SCP-634 bites subject's index finger. Subject curses, 
removes hand from tank. 

0:03:23 Subject complains of burning sensation in finger. 

0:03:48 Subject places right hand into tank, appears to feel a 
decrease in pain. 

0:04:08 SCP-634 bites subject's index finger. Subject curses, 
removes hand from tank. 

[pattern repeats approximately every 90 seconds for the next 20 
minutes] 

0:25:00 Subject instructed to leave. Subject walks towards door. 
0:25:16 Subject reaches a distance of 2m from SCP-634. Pauses, 
audibly recalls that he was supposed to go do something to 
SCP-634, and turns to approach SCP-634. 

0:25:32 Subject again prompted to leave. Subject continues to be 
prompted until he reaches door. 

Subject treated for injuries to hand. Subject expresses confusion 
over why he would continue to repeatedly put hand in the tank when 
the fish kept biting him, but otherwise showed no lasting effects. 
Subject kept one month for psychological testing, showing no other 
signs of memory loss or impairment. 


“Brother,” a voice boomed from the throne above the 
high altar. “Il see they gave you new arms.” 


“Yes,” Cairn said. “And | see you regrew yours.” There 
was a faint, sad nostalgia about using his native tongue 
again. He had not spoken it in so long...