"Who... who are you?" said Femme Fatale, as she held 
an anatomically anomalous pose involving her backside. 


The corpse of Ronnie Ray-Gun smiled— or it would 
have, if it had any teeth. "Il... am Evil Empire! You idiots 
bought my story of being time-displaced. Everyone 
knows time travel isn't real!1 And soon, this planet will 
join my dominion across the stars!" 


"Evil Empire?" said Comrade Gunkill, his face turning 
pale. "Is impossible. You died twenty years ago!" 


"My body died," said Evil Empire, as a red welt appeared 
on Ronnie Ray-Gun's forehead. "Your superiors thought 
that the end of me. They never suspected that my power 
was from beyond the stars. One body was nothing, 
Comrade Gunkill... or should | call you Red 
Commando?" 


Whatever little blood was still in Comrade Gunkill's face 
drained from it. "Stop him!" he shouted. "My comrades, 
don't let him say anything else!" 


Evil Empire laughed. "Oh, it's been too long since I've 
been in Russia, abominations." 


In Russian, he said "Longing." 


Comrade Gunkill raised his gun and shot several times. 
As each bullet approached Evil Empire, a force struck it, 
cleaving it in two. Each time, another red slash appeared 
on Ronnie Ray-Gun's body, yet none of them seemed to 
affect him at all. 


"Jet fuel." 


Femme Fatale jumped from where she had been 
crouching, somersaulting through the air, her stiletto 
aimed at Evil Empire's vocal cords. Evil Empire caught 
her foot, throwing her into a pile of rubble. 


"Steel Beams. Nineteen. [COGNITOHAZARD 
EXPUNGED)J." 


Bodyjacker threw his amulet at Evil Empire, who 
instinctively caught it. His eyes, blackened with blood, 
widened for half a second, and the rest of the Foundation 
Force Five held their breath as Evil Empire got Jacked— 


"Just kidding," said Evil Empire as he dangled the amulet 
from one bony finger, as Bodyjacker's old body fell to the 
ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. "| have seen a 
starry field of the dead. Souls upon souls can only feed a 
soul eater. Now, where was |?" 


Chowderclef fired his Chowdercannon, and Evil Empire 
dodged it effortlessly. "No!" shouted Chowderclef. "My 
chowder is liberation!" 


"Eighty. Abortion." 


"What happens if he finishes?" said Zero-One, his voice 
calm and unconcerned. 


"One." 


"Nothing good." Comrade Gunkill closed his eyes as he 
shed a single tear. "I'm sorry, comrades. I'm so sorry." 


"Now there you go again." 


Evil Empire smiled as part of his face fell off. Comrade 
Gunkill was completely still. The rest of the Foundation 
Force Five, or at least the ones who still had bodies, held 
their breaths. 


"Soldier?" said Evil Empire. 


"Ready to comply," said the Red Commando, as he 
opened his eyes. 


"Then kill them! said Evil Empire. "Kill them in the name 
of the Evil Empire! 


HOW WILL THE FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE GET OUT 
OF THIS ONE? WILL COMRADE GUNKILL BE THE 
DEATH OF THEM? AND WHERE IS STAR COMMAND 
PROTON? FIND OUT NEXT IN FOUNDATION FORCE 
FIVE/STAR COMMAND PROTON #5: HE SEES YOU! 
FOLLOW THE ADVENTURES OF PANDORA 
SQUADRON IN SCPANDORA #76: COLONEL BOWE 
AND RAY-GUN'S COMMAND! AND DON'T MISS 
PENTA-5: BEYOND THE STARS, FOR THE 
SHOCKING TRUTH BEHIND EVIL EMPIRE! 


Footnotes 
1. Not so, true believer! The FF5 travelled to the past in the now- 
classic FF5 #74 


| Talked With 516 One Day 


| talked with 516 one day 
To see what it might have to say 
To learn about it even more 


| asked it “Are you not machine? 
What makes you stop and intervene 
From deep within inside your core?” 


It rumbled and tried to come near 
And stopped when | stepped back in fear 
| felt bad, for | knew better 


lts chassis covered in long vines 
And flowers colored like fine wines 
Almost like beautiful fetters 


But then this time, | stepped forward 
And walked with my shy, small steps toward 
The giant construct made for war 


Now, it lies content in these woods 
Sheltering underneath its hoods 
Tiny lives, here by the lake's shore 


| understand now why it chose 
To stay a weapon and oppose 
The nature of its existence 


If it crumbled, how would what's left 
Be used again, maybe for death? 
That would counter its resistance 


To keep one less weapon out of 
Our hands, call back the peaceful dove 
Once more to this horrid wasteland 


Barren not of life nor living 
But virtue of the forgiving 
Ability to understand 


before by the person who owned the input clothing. As well, in 
almost all cases, the output articles are much dirtier than those 
input, and are often covered in stains. Human (and other animal) 
bodily fluids of all known kinds have been recorded on various 
articles of clothing, and there have been several with contagious 
viruses, including Ebola and [REDACTED]. Occasionally, some 
articles have tears and cuts, corresponding to those that would have 
been made by various kind of weapons. 


DNA samples have been drawn from many of the output articles. 
Some samples match with those of victims of crime or disease, and 
more match with people who are listed as healthy, and suffered only 
temporary injury or illness. About 40% of the DNA samples are 
either animal DNA, or human DNA that has not been previously 
recorded in any database. Three articles have had residues of 
crushed insects of previously undiscovered species. One article 
[DATA EXPUNGED] no known life on Earth. 


Addendum: To better illustrate the condition of the output clothing, 
three excerpts from tests have been added. For photographs and 
complete transcripts of more tests, see document 950-Gamma. 


Test 950-Gamma-06 
Date: 05-12-2009 
List of submitted articles: 


¢ Five standard issue D-Class uniforms, previously washed and 
dried 

* One civilian sport jacket, large size 

¢ Three pairs of plain white ankle socks, lightly used and 
unwashed 

* Six pairs of underwear, recently washed, and still wet 


Settings Used: Tumble Dry, 60 Minutes, 'Colors' 
List of output articles: 


* One white tank top, woman's fit, dried blood stain with small 
knife tear in stomach area 

¢ One black sports sock, balled up, with dried saliva stains 

¢ One pair of children's size pajama pants, torn down the 


Talks With the Family 


This tale is a continuation of the Esoteric Warfare Unit 
from Three Sleepless Nights, and contains some 
reference to Walk The Floor 


A stuffed alligator with googly-eyes the size of golf balls sat perched 
atop the bookshelf of Colonel Manu Avninder. The bookshelf itself 
was hand-crafted out of fine mahogany and contained a hundred 
and thirty-three books on its shelves, all of which were blank. A 
tangle of vines and creepers hung from the ceiling, bedecked with 
tropical flowers and clusters of nuts. One particularly large bromeliad 
had taken up residence on the corner of the colonel’s desk. Brightly 
colored frogs hopped around the office, clustering around in the 
rock-lined pool in the corner. 


The colonel himself was sitting at his desk, sipping at a cherry 
cream soda. His lieutenant, a man who seemed to be constructed 
purely out of right angles, mustache grooming supplies, and cowboy 
boots, sat down on the other side of the desk. 


“So who do you have for me, Hubert?” Avinder said. 


“Five candidates.” Hubert handed some manila folders over the 
table. “Three internal, two on the outside.” 


“Any good ones?” Avinder flipped through the folders, bothered now 
by the thought that he would only be able to take one into the Unit, 
and let the rest go fallow in the great file cabinet of missed 
opportunities and crushed dreams. 


“The usual, it seems. Some good scores on the tests, a few minor 
talents. Nothing spectacular. Got one kid in Kentucky who can make 
liches out of roadkill.” 


Avinder nodded, and felt a twinge of disappointment as he passed 
over the file. Kid was the right of it: not even out of high school yet. 


Some redneck necromancy wasn’t worth the shitstorm that would 
erupt from come from that decision. 


The other candidates included the typical field agent who showed 
some promise on the psychic sensitivity tests, a woman from the 
Antarctic branch that had picked up on some of the local 
shoulderwoman traditions, a crippled, cancer-ridden vat-agent who 
had managed to recover from getting his head smashed in, and 
someone who looked to have learned the secrets of meth-magic. 
Avinder hated the fact that meth-magic was a thing, but such were 
the cards before him. 


Redneck was out, meth-magician was out if he could manage it. The 
rest were...well, they were. More disappointment on the plate. He’d 
probably get stuck with the white bread agent. Eh, couldn't be too 
hard on him. Probably a decent guy. 


“Mm. Well, we'll see where it goes from here. You have any 
preferences?” 


“Vat guy or the one from Antarctica.” 
“Cancerous regeneration or mending old pots.” 
“Take what we can get, | suppose.” 


“You know how it is.” Avinder stacked the folders in the corner of his 
desk. “The line between ‘valued agent of the Esoteric Warfare Unit’ 
and ‘living out the next fifty years in a solitary cell’ all comes down to 
whether or not Eight can get to them first without someone playing 
the Bowe card.” 


“Fucking Bowe.” 


Avinder pinched the bridge of his nose. The very thought of 
moderating his opinions on “General” Bowe made his head start to 
throb. “No, can’t lay all the blame on him. It was the shrapnel that 
did it. Shrapnel and ‘Nam, and a whole lot of bad circumstances. 


Hubert nodded, tapping the arm of his chair. 


“I’ve heard a theory that Bowe created Omega Seven as 


voyeurism,” he said. “Like, he had a weird obsession with the girl... 
dammit what was her name...” Hubert snapped his thick, callused 
fingers a few times. “Irene. That was it. Irene. One-oh-Five. Put her 
on the same team as Seventy-Six.” 


Avinder shook his head. 


“Nah. That’s just people shitting on his reputation. Omega Seven 
was just a regular old Cold War power fantasy. You know how it 
goes.” He cleared his throat, and resumed in a voice somewhere in 
the general vicinity of Richard Nixon. “We've got to get Seventy-Six 
operational before the Russians do it! We cannot stand for 
communist superiority!” 


“We cannot allow a war-god gap!” Hubert slammed his fist on the 
desk. He didn’t have to change his voice much to match. 


Avinder jerked up out of his chair, stiff-limbed and glassy-eyed, one 
arm outstretched in a rigid salute. 


“Mein Fuhrer! / can walk? 


The two looked at each other for a moment before breaking out in 
laughter. Avinder fell back into his chair and spun around once. 


“Yeah, don’t get your hopes up,” Hubert said. “The fucks over in the 
Coalition would never take you.” 


“Is it because I’m racially inferior?” 
“No, it’s because you're a fucking wizard.” 


More laughter. When it subsided, Avinder leaned back in his chair 
and sighed. 


“| mean, Bowe was probably the biggest fuckup we’ve had since, | 
don’t know, Carver shooting Deeds back in ’44, but after a while you 
just need to move on. He’s dead. Omega Seven lasted four months 
and six missions, and here we are, twenty years later, still worrying 
about it. You’d think we’d have learned by now.” 


“We’re the Foundation; when do we learn anything?” 


A red circle on Avinder’s touchscreen desktop lit up, “O5-8” written 
in write print. 


‘Ah, well speak of the devil, and he shall appear.” Avinder tapped 
the button. “Hey there, Overseer.” 


“Colonel,” the synthesized voice croaked. “I trust you are doing well.” 
“Well as | can be doing. Social or business call?” 


“Business. It appears that Foster is up to her old faux pas again. 
She called a vote of no confidence against Overseers Five and Ten 
for mothballing the phlogiston biometric suite and Betamax VCH 
containment units.” 


“That’s...that’s certainly something.” 


“As such, | will not be able to get you a specialist agent. The files 
Lieutenant Brooks has given you are no longer options on the table.” 


Dammit, that was fast. It’s like they’re stealing shitty Halloween 
candy from a diabetic baby. 


“Do you have an alternative?” 


“| can transfer an agent over from the latest batch of recruits, to be 
transferred out once the firestorm over Foster calms down.” 


“Not sure | see the point, Colonel,” Hubert said. 


“Saving face in front of the Overseers,” Avinder said. “Show that 
we're not dependent upon their approval.” 


“Ah. That would do it.” 


“I'll send you the required files,” Overseer 8 said. “The agent will be 
transferred over the day after tomorrow. Again, my apologies for the 
inconvenience.” 


The red circle faded as the personnel file appeared on the desk. 


“Guess this makes it easy for us,” Avinder said, flicking through the 


files. “Fucking mundies.” 
Two Days Later 


“Well, maybe he just doesn’t understand that I’m a subconscious 
manifestation of a deep-seated fear of sex. | mean, most of that is 
pretty obvious, I’m a swollen blood-colored penis-worm that hits on 
you all the time. Pretty basic symbolism there. But you can never 
presume that people pick up on that stuff.” 


“Mmmmph,” Barcode said, her head in her arms. 
“Don't take it so personally. | mean, he’s not psychic.” 
“Mmmph.” 


“Probably just jumped to conclusions. Saw things that weren’t there. 
Like me. I’m not there. | don’t exist outside of your head.” 


“Mph.” 


“Well, let's look at things one by one, okay? | don’t actually exist, do 
|?” 


“No.” 


“Right. I’m just a voice in your head. And have | ever caused you 
anything more than annoyance? Honestly now.” 


“No.” 


“And have you ever had difficulty in consistently and easily rejecting 
the annoyance that | provide?” 


“No.” 
The worm seemed to shrug. 


“Well then | don’t know what you want me to say. You know what’s 
up, he doesn't, end of story. You are not being tormented by some 
outside force, and you and | have an understanding. | hit on you, 


you tell me to fuck off, | fuck off, you don’t pull me out of your skull 
like a worm out of an apple.” 


Barcode raised her head, looking terribly glum. 


“Vinnie, | can’t drink, | can’t smoke, | can’t sleep, | can’t even hole 
myself up in my bunk with Spleeny’s smut collection. I’m tired and 
I’m frustrated and I’m just sick and tired of...everything.” 


“Then go out for a walk or something. Fuck’s sake.” Vinnie scurried 

off the table and out of sight. “Can’t do everything for you.” His voice 
faded away with the scuttling of his legs. Barcode stared blankly for 

a few moments, trying to discern the shapes that swam at the edges 
of her vision. 


Bingely bingely beep! Bingely bingely beep! 


Barcode lethargically grabbed her smartphone from her pocket. 
Caller ID read “10 Piece MacNugget”. 


“Hey there, sarge.” 
“Newbie's getting here in ten. You ready to show her around?” 


Barcode looked down at the threadbare BOB’S WHEELS AND 
PRAWNS t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants she had slept in last 
night. There was a stain above the AND, though Barcode had no 
idea where it came from. Actually, she had no idea when this shirt 
had last been washed. 


“Yeah, I’m good.” 
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were dead. 


This was not altogether a surprising development: they died with a 
certain regularity, and the process had become to them, and to 
those around them, a matter of banality. The philosophical 
implications of their repeated deaths fell on uninterested ears. 


Rosencrantz and Guildenstern returned to life. 


“There you go, everything’s all updated. Should be smooth sailing 
for a few months.” Kramer sipped from his mug of hot chocolate as 
he tapped a few chitinous keys on his laptop. It chirped and gurgled 
affectionately. “Took the liberty of deleting some junk files from both 
of you, too.” 


The twins sat up nearly as one: Rosencrantz was a bit faster, and 
stood up. Guildenstern rubbed at her eyes and rolled her broad 
shoulders.