The man in grey sat on the rooftop and waited. Beneath him, the city 
spread endlessly, an ocean of lights and color under the night sky. 
On the balcony below, a party was nearing its conclusion; slightly 
drunken couples making their goodbyes and wading their way 
home, the hostess surveying the mess they left behind them and 
sighing. The wind was fierce this high up, and he had to hold tight to 
his hat to keep it from carrying it away. The sounds of the metropolis 
were comforting, familiar. In that moment, he was at peace, though 
he knew it wouldn't last. He relished this small instance of freedom. 
Life is made in small hours like this, he thought. This place felt so 
familiar, yet he couldn't recall ever being here before. Then again, 
his memory wasn't what it used to be. 


It is time. 


The Breath of the World came the way it always did—sudden, silent, 
and irresistible. The words reached his mind without ever passing 
through his ears, but this ceased to surprise him years ago. A 
servant of the Breath learns to cope with surprises, or else he didn’t 
get to keep his mind for very long—while the Breath prefers its 
agents thinking on their own, he knew it wouldn’t hesitate to take 
matters into its own hands if it needed to. He had learned that the 
hard way. 


An Aspect requires your attention and my judgment. | will show 
you the way. 


It was time to go. He made his way to the stairs leading down from 
the roof and into the service halls. The presence of the Breath led 
him through twisting corridors and empty, derelict apartments, ones 
that had no right to exist in a classy part of town such as this. This 
was, of course, because they didn’t. As he followed the Breath’s 
instructions, the quality of the air began to change—the damp, cool 
northern European air became much drier and dustier. Sunlight 
began shining through the cracked windows and grimy skylights of 


the industrial complex he was making his way through, though it was 
night when he began his trip, seemingly only a few minutes ago. 
Turning a corner, he felt a crunch under his shoes—dry bones. He 
didn’t want to know who they belonged to. They might have been 
his. 


Others are searching for the Aspect—the servants of the 
crescent and those who seek to contain. 


At least now he knew where he was going—lran. His past 
encounters with the ORIA were often less than civil and ended 
badly. Mostly for them. Still, the vicious bastards were certainly a 
force to be reckoned with on their home turf. He was actually 
relieved to hear the Foundation was here as well—he would much 
rather leave an unworthy Aspect in their hands. While they were just 
as ruthless, at least he could respect their goals. He saw what some 
of the Aspects could do, felt them rend his flesh, tear at the fabric of 
his mind with mental claws, saw them open doors to places that 
should never be. And those were some of the more pleasant ones. 


You are here. 


It seemed he was. The last hallway led to a ladder ending in a metal 
hatch. He climbed out and surveyed his surroundings: he was 
standing in a vast salt flat, stretching to the horizon in all directions. 
Aside from the hatch, the landscape was entirely featureless. “Just 
lovely,” he muttered, forgetting himself for a moment, “You led me to 
the middle of Dasht-e Kavir. This is one of the largest, emptiest 
deserts in the world, how the hell am | supposed to find anything 
here?” A shock of intense pain ran through his body, and he 
collapsed to the ground, the salty dust staining his suit. 


A favor was granted. You will obey. West, towards the twin 
mirage. 


Grunting, he picked himself up and started walking. That was a 
mistake, and he should have known better by now—The Breath of 
the World had no patience for complaints. His outfit was ill-suited for 
the fierce heat of the salt flats, and his hat provided little protection 
from the sun, but he persevered; the Breath protected him from 
dehydration and sun stroke, but did nothing to keep him 


comfortable. When he spotted what he assumed to be the twin 
mirage, he was sweating profusely and his tongue felt like 
parchment. If the Breath hadn't told him about it, he would have 
missed it—it was just two patches of slightly simmering air, which 
did not disappear the way a normal mirage would as he approached 
them. 


The Aspect lies between. The others will be here soon, guided 
by the Manticore. 


He had to hurry. While the Breath offered him protection, he was far 
from invincible, and though he could fend for himself, he couldn't 
handle an entire ORIA detection squad or Mobile Task Force on his 
own, not for long at least. He moved into the empty patch of air 
between the mirages, and found himself standing in an enormous 
doorway, sixty feet tall at least. 


The sarcophagus. The Aspect lies within. It is time to judge. 


Colonel Abtin Arjmand was not a happy man. This entire expedition 
was a complete and utter disaster. First he had to drag an entire 
platoon to this arid wasteland to search for some heathen mythical 
beast, and after they finally found it after a month of searching, it 
devoured half his men before revealing the information they needed. 
Now, he and his remaining men had to leave their vehicles behind 
and spend half a day trudging in the salt flats on foot, searching for 
some half-invisible gate. This artifact had better be worth it, or else 
he was going to have some words with the research department. 
Words like “fire!” 


“Sir! | think | found something!” 


Arjmand hurried to where one of his lieutenants stood, and the 
young man pointed to a patch of shimmering air. “This mirage is 
acting funny. It isn’t fading, no matter how close | get to it.” 


“Good man, | think this might be it. Rally the men, we go inside.” 


If nothing else, at least they'll get out of the sun for a while. 


Agent Gladstone watched the Iranians disappearing into the mirage. 
He and his men were using some state-of-the-art camouflage, which 
was the only thing keeping them alive. Staying hidden on a salt flat 
was next to impossible, and he doubted anyone else was capable of 
it. The Iranians led them right to the location of the possible SCP 
object, though this left them in a problematic situation—the Iranian 
colonel had three times the manpower at his disposal, and though 
Gladstone knew the men of his task force were the best in the 
business, he didn’t like these odds. Plus, the Iranians were already 
inside, and if they went after them, they'll be discovered. He could 
wait for them to leave and ambush them then, but that meant risking 
damage to the SCP object, or who knows what else if the object was 
dangerous. No, he had to try disposing of the Iranians before they 
got their hands on the object, and he had a plan. 


“Turner! Get that drone of yours ready. We are going to have a good 
old fashioned fox hunt.” 


The man in grey crossed the vast hall that lay inside the mirage, 
making his way towards the sarcophagus. It was massive, far larger 
than any man could ever need, or so he thought until he removed 
the cover. The skeleton inside was enormous, at least three times 
the size of a normal man, and around him were various weapons, 
even the smallest of them too big for an ordinary man to use 
comfortably. None of them were the Aspect, so he continued his 
search. Eventually, he noticed something that stood out, a small 
piece of softness hidden between the rough edges and metal. It was 
a piece of dry parchment, a scroll, wrapped around what seemed to 
be a child’s toy. Curious, the man in grey inspected the old scroll: 


“Here lies mighty Rostam, Son of white-haired Zal, too great for his 
mother’s womb. Here lies fierce Rostam, tamer of Rakhsh, 
performer of the Seven Labors. Here lies fool Rostam, willing slave 
to the coward Kay Kavus. Here lies cursed Rostam, slayer of 
Sohrab, his son. All who defiles this final place of rest shall share his 
fate.” 


The Aspect is in your hand. The toy. Judgment is upon us. 


The man in grey never understood exactly how the Breath of the 


World judged the Aspects. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or 
reason to which Aspects it deemed worthy and which it rejected. 
He’d seen it accept seemingly worthless ones, like that weather 
vane that wouldn’t be moved by wind, and deny ones of immense 
power. 


This Aspect is abhorrent in my eyes. Remove it from my sight. 


And that was that. All this effort, for nothing. Once an Aspect was 
deemed unworthy, the Breath lost all interest in it. It was time for him 
to leave. 


Colonel Arjmand couldn’t believe his eyes. A palace, hidden in a 
mirage, amazing! He’s been hunting those damnable relics for 
years, and he’s never seen anything like it. 


“Men, | want this place combed. That beast told me there is an 
object of power here, and what it looked like, but not what it does. 
Just be careful, we don’t know what this thing can do.” 


His men did as ordered. Arjmand reached for the chain around his 
neck, feeling the comforting weight of the object that hung from it. 
He knew the price of using it, but having it around still made him 
more confident. If anyone tried to take what was his, they would pay 
dearly. 


“Sir, | think | found it! Here, in the sarcophagus!” 


“Let me see. Yes, this seems to be it! Prepare the carrier unit, we 
leave immi—” 


A sudden buzzing noise. Arjmand looked up just in time to see a 
small remote drone drop a payload of grenades on their heads. 


“They’re all down, Sir. The payload of stingers and flashbangs 
knocked them out cold!” Turner said, looking up from his pocket 
monitor for the drone. 


Gladstone grinned. They didn’t call his task force “The Mirth 
Busters” for nothing. He almost pitied the poor bastards—they just 


spent a month looking for the SCP, and when they finally found it, 
BAM! It was gone again. 


“Alright, move in. | want the object secured and the Iranians 
neutralized.” 


Colonel Arjmand barely managed to get a hold of his talisman 
before the grenades took down his men. He knew he was sacrificing 
much by using it, but he hardly had a choice. 


They were going to pay for this. 


Favors-Part Two 


Favors-Part Two 


Note: Naturally, this should only be read after Favors-Part One 


Colonel Arjmand wasn't sure he made the right choice. Granted, it 
was either using the talisman or certain death, but the latter seemed 
like a more attractive option with every passing moment. 


He was standing in a lavishly furnished dining room, surrounded by 
plump, richly dressed men, each wearing a different bizarre hat. One 
of them, sporting a hat that Arjmand was sure was made to look like 
two goats fornicating, approached Arjmand with a huge, smug grin 
on his face. 


"Captain Arjmand!" The fat man said, intentionally getting his rank 
wrong, "How pleasant it is to see you here again! What brings you to 
the demesne of the Djinn today?" 


Arjmand loathed the Djinn. The very idea of dealing with them was 
an affront to God, to decency, and, frankly, to common sense. The 
Djinn fancied themselves traders, honest businessmen, but they 
were much more similar to loan sharks. Behind that jovial, colorful 
facade lay a mind like a razor, and Arjmand knew he wasn't leaving 
without getting thoroughly sliced by it. 


"You know damn well what I'm here for, spirit! | know you keep a 
close eye on items like the one | was searching. Those pigs from the 
Foundation got the drop on me, and | need to repay them. With 
interest." 


The Djinn smiled warmly at him, and produced a notebook from the 
folds of his robe. Arjmand shivered. People always spoke of the 
terrible powers of the Djinn, but they rarely mentioned their complete 
mastery over numbers, real or imaginary. 


"Hmm, let us see," The Djinn peered at the notebook, now filled with 


page upon page of numbers. "Carry the one, reduce a week for bulk 
discount, add four months for multiple assailants...| would say you'll 
need one year of condensed time to deal with them and stay alive, 
in a reasonable condition." 


Arjmand relaxed a little—a year wasn't so bad, he could live with 
that. The Djinn wasn't done, however. 


"Of course, there is the matter of our commission. Let's see...stun 
removal, conversation fees, regeneration overload prevention, 
instant death fail-safe, friction nullifiers...that comes to five years 
overall." 


"Five years!? That's ludicrous! It's highway robbery!" 


The Djinn flashed his wide smile again, but there was nothing warm 
in it this time. "Come now, no Djinn would be caught dead on a 
highway. Five years, or no deal." 


Arjmand sighed. "If | give you five years, you guarantee I'll be able to 
dispose of those who attacked me?" 


"Of course. You know our word is good." 
"Do it." 


The Djinn placed a thick finger on the talisman still around Arjmand's 
neck, which started to emit a steady argent glow. Most of the silvery 
light flowed to the Djinn, whose grin could now only barely be 
contained by his puffy cheeks. Some of it, however, stayed in the 
talisman. And grew brighter. 


"It is done." 


Despite himself, and despite the knowledge he just lost five years of 
his life, Arjmand answered the Djinn's smile with one of his own. 


"Yes. And so are they." 


Agent Gladstone couldn't help but winch at the sound of gunshot. 
When he told his men to neutralize the stunned Iranians, they knew 


what he meant. It was dirty work, but he couldn't risk them following 
his team on the way out. Overall, things went surprisingly well for the 
Mirth Busters. 


"Colt, go check on their commander. | want to question him before 
we get rid of him." 


"Got it, Sir.” 


With this, Gladstone began looking for the object. The great stone 
hall with its great pillars and columns would take ages to properly 
search, but now, with the Iranians gone, they had all the time in the 
world. Maybe the Iranians already found the object. Their 
commander would know. 


"Colt, what's taking so long?" 


No reply. Gladstone turned to find the commander's body gone, and 
replacing it was Colt's, his throat crushed. 


"Defensive positions! We got a possible Zero-Thirteen scenario on 
our hands! Backs against a wall, now!" 


Well, so much for things going well. 


Colonel Arjmand hid behind one of the great pillars, having used 
three days' worth of strength and speed of his condensed year to 
crush the soldier's throat and escape unseen. He could feel time 
leaking out of him, a few minutes for each second- the human body 
was never meant to hold so much time at once. He knew he needed 
to act fast, lest he won't have enough time time left to finish the rest 
of them—their commander was already ordering a defensive 
position, and he would have to spend a lot more time to penetrate it. 
He knew his sidearm would be entirely unreliable under the 
influence of the Djinn's talisman, so hand-to-hand was the only 
option. The entire affair was giving him a headache. Damn the Djinn 
and their temporal nonsense. 


Arjmand considered his options. With his sloppy control, it would 
take at least two weeks worth of time to pick one of the soldiers off 


and just barely avoid the hail of bullets that would follow. There were 
fifteen of them. With him leaking time all over the place, and his 
muscles already aching from the abuse of using them in sucha 
careless manner, he knew he had no chance to win using strength 
and speed alone. Luckily, even a novice like him could use 
concentrated time in other ways. While he was protected from some 
of the more horrid effects of the Djinn's intervention, the soldiers 
were not.