"We're going to protect you," Marlowe went on, "But I've no doubt 
the Department of WestCiv is going to have people coming to talk to 
you soon enough. Do not lie to them; tell them everything you know 
about your sister and what she's done." 


"| don't know anything about her," Priss said with a bewildered smile, 
feeling her eyes get hot and wet, "I don't know who her friends are, 
where she goes at night, where she goes during the day. Nothing." 


"Good," Marlowe blew past Priss's warbling tone without a hint of 
sympathy, "Just keep your head down. And for God's sake, if the 
WestCivwvies do come to talk to you, do not try to contact Rhiannon 
Locke afterwards. That's like... just begging to get yourself 
disappeared." 


Priss shrugged, tears welling in her eyes, and smiling again, "She's 
got no cell phone on her. | wouldn't even begin to know how to 
contact her." She looked down at the envelope, then closed it, and 
rose from her chair, "Thanks," She muttered to Marlowe. 


"Just go, clean yourself up," Marlowe responded, seemingly more 
concerned with Priss getting snot and tears on her desk. 


Priss stepped out and went straight to the bathroom. She locked 
herself into a stall, set the toilet seat down, and broke down sobbing. 
She'd failed. The only thing ever asked of her by her mother was to 
make sure Rhiannon stayed safe, and she'd failed. 


She decided to head home early. As far as anyone who asked was 
concerned, she was afraid for her life. When her car didn't start, she 
numbly got out, and began to walk home. The world stood as it 
always had. Chaos and anarchy were nonexistent. Everything was 
quiet for her as she drifted through the long strip of houses and 
businesses separating the school from southwest 7th street, one of 
the major thoroughfares that separated the rich "southwest" from the 
poorer "northwest". 


She looked up, and saw a mural on the side of a fast food 
restaurant. Police officers were depicted, skinny and shriveled, 
wearing body armor and army helmets. A man sat in a car, hands up 
in surrender. In bright green was sprayed "PUT YOUR HANDS UP 


GET OUT OF THE CAR" over them, with smaller words in red 
rimming the center of action. She drifted past without reading the 
rest. 


As she crossed a short road, a man suddenly jumped down from a 
tree in front of her. He was black, thin, looked as if he hadn't eaten 
in days. He was smiling wildly, hands out at his sides and spread 
open, as if she were an officer, telling him to keep them where she 
could see them. 


"Have you heard?" 


She shrugged helplessly, "Yeah, I've heard." She wasn't in the mood 
to humor him. 


He pressed his index and middle finger to the bridge of his nose. 
She kept staring. Then he backed away with a frown. 


"Nothing's ever gonna be the same now. Change is comin’, you 
hear? You tell ‘em that, you tell 'em 'No more blood’, no more 
bodies. You tell those men of the times that the times are a- 
changin’. It's a revolution comin’, you hear?" 


He sounded like a teenager. It wasn't even noon. Normally she 
would've yelled at him, told him to get back to school and stop being 
stupid. She just shrugged now, and mumbled, "Okay." 


He turned and started to run. She kept moving, crossing 7th street, 
past the storage center, and onto 8th street. 


Traffic ground to a halt. The lanes were pinched off, as police 
cruisers parked in the street, with a small crowd of angry people 
flocked around the front of Domino Park. She didn't want to look, but 
she couldn't avoid it, like a tumor lodged in a throat, forcing all food, 
drink, and air to go through it, or go nowhere. 


There was broken glass on the sidewalk, and an old woman with 
blood on her face was yelling in Spanish at a younger woman. The 
woman was being held back by two officers. A group of older men 
were trying to restrain about thirty other people from surrounding the 
officers. No one was holding the old woman back. She kept 


storms separated our lifeboats, but two of them reached 
this island, mine included. 


[DATA REDACTED FOR IRRELEVANCE] 


We thought that the local wildlife were just aggressive 
and territorial when we first got here, and you probably 
thought the same. There was a few things | noticed, 
though, that the others didn't seem to. Our rafts were 
destroyed by the rocks, not the birds. They did not kill a 
single one of us, and the injuries they did inflict were only 
on our arms and legs, not our necks or throats. | don't 
think anymore, that they were trying to kill us, or harm 
us. They were trying to protect us. To get us away from 
this hell. 


We went missing, slowly, one or two in the night. 
Sometimes we never found the bodies, sometimes they 
would be hanging from the trees. | remember Clair 
finding that first one, he wouldn't talk for days, he was 
scared out of his mind. Irving said he just got up and left 
one day, didn't come back. They all didn't come back. 


There's something here, worse than anything I've ever 
seen. Since everyone left there's been glimpses I've 
seen of it, out in the bushes. I'm getting so tired now, | 
can't stay awake any longer. It's going to get me like it 
got everyone else. You have to get off of this island. You 
have to escape. 


its in the bushes 
[END] 
Recovered Photography: 
« SCP-929 | SCP-930 | SCP-931 » 


shouting, gesticulating with a cane, looking as if she would use it as 

a weapon. At least one man in the crowd was wearing the distinctive 
beret of a WestCiv militiaman. He was shouting at least two or three 
racial slurs a minute. 


She kept moving, leaving the main road and walking down into the 
quiet residential side roads of Little Havana. The shouting and cars 
honking faded, and she could keep walking in peace. Alone with her 
thoughts. 


Just a few blocks from home, that loneliness was interrupted by a 
man in an ill-fitting shirt and camouflage vest, beret marking him a 
WestCiv militiaman. He moved up alongside her. A pistol was 
strapped to his hip. 


"Howdy, miss. Lovely day, ain't it? You doin’ alright?" 
She nodded. 


"Reckon you heard what's been going on lately. Don't mean to 
impose upon you none, but it can be quite dangerous roaming 
around these parts without some kind of armed escort." 


Her eyes drifted towards his gun. 


"Not meanin' to offend you or... aggrandize myself." He stretched 
the pronunciation of the word as if it were brand new for him. 


"| just live a few blocks away, I'll be fine," She said. 


"In Little Havana?" He quirked a brow at her, looking away with a 
brief expression of ugly, naked aggression, before turning back to 
her, "The den of the beast?" 


She stared numbly. Ninety percent of the neighborhood was Cuban- 
American or some manner of Hispanic ethnicity. Every week since 
Key Biscayne, there was a meeting at the church. Neighborhood 
watch did a better job Keeping the community safe than local police, 
due to them being stretched thin dealing with far more 
neighborhoods than just one. At least she hoped that was why. 


A distant crack broke the silence. Then a series of them followed, 


back in the direction of 8th street. The WestCivvie gave a sleazy, 
victorious smile, and started moving towards the fire, "Take care of 
yourself, ma'am." 


She nodded numbly, and kept moving. 


There was finally a change in the news cycle. Priss got to hear her 
last name on the lips of every reporter, local and national, from 
DuMont Network News to FOX, CNBC, and America Today. At least 
now there was no doubt; Rhiannon Locke did indeed exist. 


Priss couldn't stand the sluggish influx of information. Watching 
reporters speak for twelve hours straight about a BREAKING NEWS 
tidbit already hours old by the time they'd started. Refreshing online 
newsfeeds, seeing the same headlines top each list, slightly re- 
worded but essentially the same. She gave up and kept her head 
down. Once a week, she decided she would check up on it. 


A month passed. By now, the whole world knew about Rhiannon 
Locke's former job. They knew about the boss screaming 
‘subhuman mongrel’ at a shy young employee. They ate up any bit 
of information given by her "official representatives", carefully edited 
for TV and played for all. Talking heads of all stripe made fortunes 
yelling at each other for the cameras. 


Every week, a video would be released by Rhiannon Locke, of her 
sitting on a couch, talking. Just talking. Everything Rhiannon said, 
Priss had heard before. It was as if she'd been using Priss as her 
sounding board for her speeches. She even heard some of Umber's 
words re-packaged for Rhiannon's own purpose. She was a 
madwoman, roaring and screaming, laughing and crying and 
gesticulating wildly. She could whisper to the camera and make 
herself perfectly understood. She told stories, all of which Priss 
recognized as being events from their past, in such a dramatic 
fashion as to make them seem wildly unreal. All of it managed to 
neatly fit right back in with her overall message: racial equality, 
gender equality, a break-down of the "nation-state" in favor of the 
"world-state”. A new vision of an America that did not, and 
seemingly could not exist. 


Civil rights leaders condemned her as a terrorist, usurping their 
peaceful cause for chaos and anarchy. One talking head on DuMont 
even suggested she was a West Civ "plant", acting to discredit and 
demonize the minority rights movement. All the while "Cultists" 
sprayed graffiti, soread leaflets, and infiltrated protests to turn them 
violent. 


Just a few more weeks, Priss figured, and all it would take for 
Rhiannon to set the county on fire would be a gentle push. Then... 
what? 


From : 113110Q0ULH@.com 

To : moc.liamtoh|rekcoL_P#moc.liamtoh|rekcoL_P 
CC: 

Subject : None 


| know what's been on your mind the past couple of 
days. I'm not going to say anything about her. I'm not 
afraid of what the Department of WestCiv might think, or 
try to spin my words into something to justify taking me 
down. She did what she did and I'm not going to dignify 
her by talking about her or what she may or may not do 
now. 


I'm only going to say this: You, Priss Locke, are not 
responsible for your sister or her actions. She is an adult, 
and so are you. Her choices in life are her own, and 
she'll suffer the consequences herself. You are not 
responsible for saving her from herself. 


And don't let the fact that she has the same last name as 
you be a crutch for you to go down with her. Blood 
doesn't mean you have to protect her from everything 
and everyone. Blood means SHE shouldn't do this kind 
of shit and then expect her family to take the fall for her. 


There was a guy in my regiment back during the Turkish 
occupation. Luis Greaves, immigrant from Guatemala, 
lived in New Orleans. Had a sister named Anita-Flora or 
something Anita. You probably know the type; magnet 


for trouble, runs through guys like new pairs of shoes. 


So every once in a while, Louie Greaves gets a letter 
from mom and dad: his sister's in trouble, she's gotten 
suspended from school, she's stealing money from them, 
she's staying out late and coming home early morning 
smelling like booze. So Louie sends them money, tells 
them 'Don't worry, everything's going to be okay’, gives 
them advice on what to do, etcetera. 


Then the hammer falls: she's been arrested. Turns out 
she's whoring herself while still stealing from mom and 
dad. Everyone but Louie suspects drugs. All that money 
Louie's sent, he can't afford to bail her out her out. So he 
finally took our advice and took some time to head back 
home to straighten things out. 


Three weeks later we get the news; Luis Greaves was 
killed in a shootout on the streets of downtown NOLA. 
His body wasn't found for a week. His balls had been cut 
off and stuffed in his mouth. Apparently he'd confronted 
his sister's "pimp" and gotten in his face about her. The 
pimp didn't take kindly to him and threatened to ship her 
off to Mexico or something. Louie lost it, then he lost his 
life. 


Few weeks later when | get back, guess who | see out 
on the streets in a low-cut top and high-riding skirt; Anita- 
Flora Greaves. Still out on the streets. Still hooking. Still 
with the same guy that killed her brother. She didn't give 
a fuck. People like her simply don't. It's not worth ruining 
your life to save her from herself. 


Please make sure you take care of YOURSELF. No 
offense to your mother, but right now you're the only 
good Locke left. 


From the Office of Ret. Lt. Col. Umber 


The Banners weren't given enough time to set up camp each night. 


They broke out their cots and rested in the dirt and mud, with the 
cubes for cover. Every hour or so, the whine of jet engines was 
heard, as Qing jets streaked past, providing aerial reconnaissance. 
They almost never dropped bombs. 


"Hey Sergeant Sheng," Cpl. Steve Chin called out. 


Sheng rose to his feet, flashlight out in the dark, making himself an 
easy target for anyone who might've been looking his way with a 
gun, "Who's speaking?" 


Sheng always seemed to make a point of never taking the enemy 
seriously. Every chance he got, he'd get up to his feet, popping out 
of cover. When it was quiet, he'd talk loudly, give out boisterous 
laughs, even call out to hidden units nearby. When it was dark, he 
had an obnoxiously bright LED flashlight he'd shine in a soldier's 
face. He didn't care; he didn't take the Dai Viet insurgents seriously. 


"Don't we have like... tanks and artilleries and bombers?" Chin 
called out in turn, trying to keep his voice lower than Sheng's. 


"Yes!" Sheng called out, "Yes we do! But we can't use them here." 
"Because the Emperor wants the land unblemished and intact?" 


"Why do you ask me these things if you already know the fucking 
answer?" Sheng's flashlight waved around wildly, then shut off, "We 
aren't at war with the land, only her people. We have to save her 
from herself." 


Why? Chin almost thought about asking that. Then the world 
suddenly brightened. Flares were being shot into the sky. 


"Not ours," Sheng called out before anyone could ask. A cascade of 
pops and cracks followed, incessant. Four minutes passed before 
they streamed off into silence. 


"We—" Sheng began, then was cut off as the gunfire resumed. Now 
Chin could feel impacts on his cube, nudging him again and again 
with each hit. 


"Well, up and at them," Sheng resumed, "Stay put until | say so." 


The gunfire kept coming, on and off, for nearly an hour. Chin nodded 
off, the gentle thumps on the cube soothing on his sore back. When 
he woke up, it was still coming. 


"What are we even doing?" A soldier next to him shouted against 
the din. It abruptly died down, allowing Sheng to fill the void. 


"Eh? Don't you pay attention to briefs? Too late to hurt us now, 
anyway; we're flanking them. Two Banners stretching out south and 
west, pushing them against the river. We come in from the East." 


A crooked crescent advancing on the thick pocket of insurgents. 
They'd detonated all the subterranean tunnels they'd found, then let 
the insurgents run rampant around a huge area, while the strings of 
cubes herded them all together, then started enclosing them and 
pushing them towards the river. It might not have worked so 
smoothly if the insurgents had had rockets and mortars left. 


Chin suddenly tensed up. Did they have rockets and mortars left? 
Then he relaxed, remembering the force of irregulars the army had 
sent in to "absorb" the insurgents’ mortar and rocket fire. 
Irregulars... ex-cons, foreign auxiliaries, mercenaries, conscripts, 
peasants. Vietnamese peasants taken from their villages for 
supporting the insurgents. Then fired upon by the insurgents, 
thinking them to be Qing Regulars. 


No big deal, Chin relaxed and nodded off again.