Once he was out of sight Perez opened up her database and 
tracked down the appropriate file. 'Huh...' It looked as though she 
had marked it as completed, but hadn't actually submitted it. Some 
time had passed since those tests, she couldn't recall all the 
specifics of the case; probably noone could. She reviewed her 
research notes and typed a hasty summary of findings to include 
with the description file. She quickly composed all parts of the report 
and sent them to the inboxes of the appropriate Senior Researchers. 
The description file would eventually be entered into the Log of 
Anomalous Objects; the extraneous communiques and surrounding 
circumstances would be redacted for reasons of practicality. 


To: Site-112 Senior Researchers 


Office <4 contacts> 


From: Perez, Researcher (ur.) 
<Sa.Perez> 
Subject: FA: AO-862 


Here is the summary of my Final 
Assessment: Object does not 
react to its environment at all. Its 
effect only manifests when 
another party interacts with the 
object. Only one specific result 
has ever occurred, despite all 
variables applied. Further testing 
is unlikely to yield new results. 


Placement in standard medium- 
value storage would be 
appropriate. 


Item Description: A piece of vine charcoal that causes 
"Someone help me! I'm trapped in the charcoal!" to be 
written every several seconds whenever used for writing 
or drawing. 

Date of Recovery: - - 

Location of Recovery: , Scotland 

Current Status: In storage. 


Charon (Part 1: Nekyia) 


Yanma Mirski sat on the concrete floor staring at the small gem 
before him. For the past dozen months he had sat at the bottom of 
this gloomy hexagonal vault, as he was doing now. The wall 
opposite him was decorated with various folders and documents 
upon shelves, illuminated by the light from the single opening above. 
He examined the item in his hand. It was an onyx gemstone about 
the size of a softball, with a dazzling gold decoration. He turned it in 
his hand and studied the main feature of this treasure, the infernal 
enigma that was the focus of his work - a small lock-shaped hole in 
one end of the object. 


Beyond the microwaves it emitted, its universal resistance to 
damage and the impossible detail in the gold filigree, the gemstone 
was mundane. It didn't turn air into seawater, it didn't make people 
forget about it, it didn't replace the consciousness of anyone that 
touched it. It just warmed surrounding surfaces and looked like a 
Fabergé egg. 


The lock was similarly mundane with one exception. Its purpose had 
eluded the Foundation for several years, but probing the interior of 
the stone produced sounds and movements within, ensuring it 
wasn’t a five-thousand year old Sumerian prank to trick idiots into 
trying to unlock an inert stone. The lock had a working mechanism 
that would function with a respective key. 


Placing the gem back onto its pedestal upon a shelf, Dr. Mirski 
retrieved a file from the shelf below that detailed all the attempts to 
open or unlock the item. Lockpicking; failed. No matter the skill of 
the user, the lock picks never worked. Brute force assault with 
various tools and implements; failed. Hammers bounced, chisels 
slipped, blades shattered, and not a single scratch or scuff was 
made. Heating to five thousand degrees Celsius; failed. The stone 
came out as cool as the moment it went in. Application of industrial 
cutting laser; failed. The beam reflected and the machine was sliced 


beyond recognition. 


No matter how far down the list he went, the outcome was always 
the same. Some of Yanma’s subordinates had gone as far to throw 
a nuclear warhead at the lock, under the guise of testing a sample of 
the Foundation’s armaments. All that resulted was confirmation the 
Lock would survive a nuclear holocaust, and that Yanma would 
probably be better off conducting Project Pluto alone rather than 
having to retroactively approve pointless attempts from the lower- 
ranked researchers in the project. 


Yanma returned the document to its spot, losing interest in the list of 
ten thousand ways to fail at his job. He decided to look through one 
of the other folders; he needn't go anywhere else as absolutely all 
the information on the Lock was stored within the vault. Suffice to 
say, there wasn't much. 


Retrieving the folder marked ‘Notes’, Yanma looked through the 
contents written by his former colleague, Quinton Hack. They had 
been assigned together on Project Pluto and entrusted with the task 
of opening the Lock. The majority of staff aware of the Lock believed 
that it contained the entire universe and thus would cause an 
apocalypse when opened. Perhaps the universe would rapidly 
expand out of the Lock; perhaps the solar system would be crushed 
by a colossal atom as it rushed in. The only way to know what would 
happen was to start it. 


Regardless of the madness it entailed, the task had been entrusted 
to Yanma and Quinton from the Overseer Council. “Open the Lock 
at all costs,” they had said. Utilise an infinite budget to open an 
indestructible object with. The Foundation had frequently come up 
against impossible tasks, but somehow managed to achieve them. 
Hopefully this would be no different. 


Grabbing a second folder filled with dim photographs and transcripts 
of a four-hundred year old journal, Yanma read through the 
scribbled notes of his partner. Quinton had been onto something, 
but Yanma never found out what. Quinton had realized something 
one night and quickly rushed back to Site-10 to write down these 
strange notes. Before Yanma had awoken the next morning, 
Quinton had flown to Site-17 for reasons that were at the time above 


his clearance level. Nobody had even heard of him since, simply 
vanishing from existence or into an alternate reality. 


Quinton’s epiphany had vanished with him. The night after his 
disappearance several files had vanished from the vault, prompting 
the addition of the time lock that Yanma alone could open. He was 
left alone to satiate the meagre curiosity of the Overseer Council. 
Working on one of the most secretive anomalies out there, he was 
bound to report to the council on his progress bi-monthly, though his 
lack of any actual progress neither surprised nor disappointed them. 
Project Pluto was little more than a black hole from which funding 
and resources never returned, and from which no information was 
retrieved. It should have been abandoned years ago, but the money 
kept coming and the Overseers kept waiting, so Yanma kept 
working. 


Yanma returned his focus to the notes before him. A small number 
of runes circled, with a line connecting them to the word ‘shame’. 
Several sections of underlined text detailing landmarks seen as the 
author aimlessly wandered the Mesopotamian desert, with the word 
‘Magnetite’ added and underlined. A blank page with IMMORTAL 
SUMER FAMINE' scrawled in rushed handwriting across its entirety. 
There were other notes that Quinton had written, but these were the 
most intriguing of them. 


For the past three months since the disappearance of Dr. Quinton 
Hack, Dr. Yanma Mirski had entered this vault in Site-10 fortnightly. 
And each time, he left without learning anything new from the notes, 
nor their true importance. What was the relation between the 
expedition of Sir Edwin Young, Third Baron, and magnetite? What 
was - or is - the immortal Sumer famine? Yanma rubbed the bridge 
of his nose in frustration, knowing he would probably never figure it 
out alone. He checked his watch - seven eighteen PM. He had 
entered the vault seven hours ago. Deciding against waiting inside 
the vault any longer, he returned the folders to their places and 
climbed the steel ladder to the surface. Completing the three steps 
needed to close the vault for the next three weeks, Yanma walked to 
the door of the room and exited. The hallway outside was 
whitewashed and connected to two others by T-junctions to either 
side. Remembering the layout of Sub-Level 1, he turned left and 


walked as the echoes of a conversation reached his ears. 


"Did you hear about C-Area thirty-two?" said a male voice, its owner 
hidden from Yanma’s sight. 


"No, what happened?" replied a second male voice, its speaker just 
as concealed. 


"Completely annihilated. Worst breach seventy-six has had to date, 
so bad they had to nuke the place just to stop him. You'd think he'd 
get mellow with age or something, but nope. He’s like a one-man 
war..." Yanma never heard the remainder of the conversation; what 
he had heard was sufficient to stop his legs and hearing as his mind 
raced, his expression being comparable to fish out of water. Pulses 
raced through neurons within his brain as ideas and theories within 
his mind connected, catalysed by the vague but sufficient 
information he had overheard by pure chance. 


“Is that it?” said the second voice to the first. “Yeah, I’m 
pretty sure that’s it. All nine-ninety told me to do was to 
bring you here, and tell you about the containment 
breach. After that, | woke up. You want to grab a meal 
before we get back to our usual rounds? | think they’ve 
got lasagna at the cafeteria today.” 


His mind unlocking from the rush of information, Dr. Mirski turned 
and raced back to the room he had just come from in a mad dash, 
hoping that he would be able to get back into the vault before it 
completely closed. Pulling the door open as fast as he could, he 
raced to the sealed hatch in the middle of the room. The sound of 
working mechanics had subsided, and the steel bars hidden 
beneath the surface of the vault had already slid into place. Yanma 
slammed his fist down in frustration. He'd have to wait almost an 
entire month now, but he could still investigate from what he 
remembered. He still had his epiphany to follow — “Immortal Sumer 
Famine” wasn’t a thing or event, it was a person. An immortal 
Sumerian who was followed by endless famine wherever they went. 


Once again leaving the room, Yanma set about planning his flight to 


Site-17. 


From: Heracles 

To: Hermes 

Subject: Obol 

Message: 

Subject is on his way to Tartarus. Please confirm 
intentions and advise on action. 


From: Hermes 

To: Heracles 

Subject: Re: Obol 

Message: 

Booking with Famine. Proceed with protocol. 


Dr. Mirski was tired from the plane flight, and looked the part. He 
couldn't be bothered combing his hair nor smoothing the wrinkles in 
his clothes. He was here to get answers, and if he needed he would 
flaunt his Level 5 clearance to get them. He walked the short 
distance from his vehicle to the main entry of Site-17. He walked up 
to the front desk and spoke to the well-dressed receptionist sitting 
behind it. 


"Yanma Mirski for his appointment." Knowing he would be asked for 
some form of verification, he removed the Foundation ID card he 
had from his pocket and placed it upon the reception desk. The 
receptionist looked at the card, then at Yanma before returning his 
gaze to the computer screen in front of him. The receptionist then 
waved over a nearby guard and informed them of where Dr. Mirski 
wanted to go. The trip to the room was short, ending with the guard 
adopting a position to one side of the doorway. Reminding himself of 
what he needed to ask, Yanma composed himself and entered. 


The cell was a standard two-room concrete chamber for humanoid 
anomalies, decorated sparsely with furnishings. It took a lot of 
cooperation for an anomaly to earn furnishings, with such rooms 
normally being barren. Sitting on a plastic chair was the being he 
had come to speak to, reading something on a handheld tablet. 
Yanma cleared his throat, notifying the humanoid of his presence. 


"Sorry." The man's word was rich with an arabic or middle eastern 
accent, his skin tanned appropriately. His arms and legs were 
mechanical, mimicking normal movement as he moved to a desk 
and put down the tablet while Yanma watched. The man turned to 
face his guest, the friendly smile he had showing yellowed teeth. He 
offered a mechanical hand for a handshake. "Dr. Mirski, | presume? 
| hear you have come quite a long way to see me, and on such short 
notice too. Do you want something to drink?" Accepting the 
handshake, Yanma couldn't help but grin at the friendliness of the 
immortal man. He looked no older than thirty-five, but was known to 
have been born at the dawn of the human race. 


"No thanks Cain, I'd much rather just get this done quickly.” Yanma 
had slept poorly that night, not just from the turbulent flight but also 
from his thoughts. Had Quinton found what he sought? Had he 
vanished for looking? Most importantly, was Yanma going to meet 
the same fate? Yanma had always been dangerously curious; soon, 
he thought, he will find out if he can take it too far. 


"| understand." Cain retrieved a second chair, offering it to Yanma 
before turning his own to face it. "What do you need of me?" 


"| have some questions about my work that | believe you can help 
me with. But first, | must ask; has a man named Dr. Hack come and 
spoken to you before?" Yanma spoke while he shifted in his seat, 
trying to find a comfortable way to sit. 


"Ah, Quinton Hack, yes. He came here some months ago - suddenly 
flew over from Site-10 to ask me to help him with his work. He 
mentioned you." Cain shifted to rest his head upon his hand, 
grinning at Yanma as though he was thinking of a joke. Yanma was 
relieved to know that his friend had at least gotten the answers he 
had sought. 


"Nobody has seen or heard of him since your meeting. Do you know 
what happened to him?" Cain simply continued grinning, rather than 
respond. Yanma felt uneasy at the strange humour the immortal was 
finding in his plight. It was only then that he noticed the sound of 
breathing behind him. 


"I've been busy," said the third person in the room as Dr. Mirski 


turned to see the familiar face of Dr. Hack. 


The resulting uneasy silence remained undisturbed for several 
moments until Cain stood up. "I will fetch drinks." Cain left the room, 
leaving the two researchers alone. Quinton walked around Yanma 
and sat down in Cain's chair. 


"| take it you've been keeping busy too?" He said, shifting to get 
more comfortable in his seat. 


The first thing out of Yanma's mouth was "Where the fuck have you 
been!" He was astonished that Quinton was still alive, but just as 
enraged that he had feigned his death for so long. He almost had a 
fit, right then and there. 


"Jeez, calm down would you? I've been busy, like | said. I'm sure 
you've got questions, but before we continue there's some 
paperwork to do. Bump you up to the right clearance to know I'm 
alive and what-not." Quinton spoke, grinning childishly as he saw 
the annoyance on his friend's face. 


"Is this a fucking joke to you, Hack? A prank for some shits and 
giggles?" Clenching his fists in sheer anger, veins began emerging 
along his arms. "Well the fucking joke’s on you. I'm level five now 
thanks to you, so your fucking 'info-sec' bullshit won't work. | have 
unlimited access." 


"Calm down, you're going to pop an artery. Level five doesn't get 
you everything, not anymore - the Overseers have all kinds of extra 
stuff hidden all over the place, need-to-know and such. I've been 
given permission to... lets just keep it simple and say you're being 
‘promoted to Level 6'." Retrieving a handheld tape recorder from his 
pocket, Quinton began recording their conversation. 


"This is Dr. Quinton Hack, speaking to Dr. Yanma Mirski. | am 
serving as a spokesperson to grant Dr. Mirski access to information 
for Project Charon. Dr. Mirski, there are two outcomes to this 
encounter and it is your choice which occurs." 


Quinton extended his index finger, signifying the first option. "First: 
You can accept the induction and will be brought up-to-date on 


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