The boy rubbed his face against his shoulder, dislodging the 
blindfold. Realizing he was no longer tethered by the catchpole, he 
dropped his shoulder and charged the agent holding fast to the 
McKeown woman — presumably his mother. The boy slammed into 
the agent like a linebacker, knocking him off balance and giving 
Nathan a clear shot as he stumbled, arms pinwheeling. Three 
supersonic flechettes sliced through the balaclava and drilled into 
his face, cleaving the tip of his nose in a surgical bisection and 
ripping the mandible from one of its hinges, the lower jaw flapping 
loose from the remaining attached joint. Broken teeth crested a 
waterfall of blood. The agent wailed. His tongue protruded like an 
angry pink worm from the back of his throat. If there were any words 
in that wail they were lost to his disfigured mouth as he collapsed to 


his knees. 


The two remaining agents reached cover behind one of the SUVs, 
dragging the old man with them as they laid down suppressing fire. 
The shots were scattered and all over the place. It was clear they 
had no clue where Nathan was, and he didn't bother seeking the 
protection of a tree trunk as bullets stitched a line of tiny meteoric 
craters in the earth several feet away, spraying him with loam. 


On Hammond Street a ball of fire suddenly erupted. There was the 
booming peal of the detonation of the proximity mine — Nathan felt 
the shockwave reverberate in his diaphragm — followed by the shrill 
protest of shearing metal and the crystal-chimes of glass hitting the 
macadam. The surrounding land was briefly bathed in a warm light 
as the flames blossomed. His suit rapidly changed colors trying to 
match the lighting, the outer skin turning bright orange before 
dimming as the flames withered and finally dissolved in a cloud of 
black smoke. 


The two in the car are now dead, but they've caught on and 
switched to a back channel. I'm trying to find it now. They'll be 
calling in support. 


I'MV ALMOST DONE, Nathan texted back in order to maintain 
silence. 


He stood and surveyed the situation. The boy had found a key ring 
on one of the corpses and was systematically trying each one on his 
mother's chains. The surviving agents hunkered behind the SUV, 
probably digging in, would hold the position until their backup 
arrived. 


They didn't understand that they had just boxed themselves in. 


Nathan popped two smoke grenades and lobbed them at the 
vehicles. One landed close enough for an agent to snatch it ina 
gloved hand and pitch it away, but it was too late. Pale, thick smoke 
was already enveloping them, expanding and spreading across the 
yard. Nathan cut right through the trees, emerging a hundred feet 
away as he made his approach. 


As he closed the gap he cycled through visual augmentations, 
switching to thermal-infrared imaging. His suit's color automatically 
changed to a milky, off-white to blend in with the smoke. 


He could easily see the agents now — one of them was trying to 
hook some kind of optical device on their head, but was having 
difficulty getting it to clip on the brackets of their helmet. The other 
clutched a submachine gun and sat on top of the old man, pinning 
him to the ground. 


Nathan paused a moment to listen in. One of the agents was 
actually a woman. Underneath the current of their voices, the 
prisoner repeatedly mumbled something behind the plug of the gag. 


"Did you see how many there are?" 


"| didn't see shit. | still can't. These fucking goggles aren't picking 
anything up." 


"Rodriguez is still alive. They blew his face off and he's still alive. | 
can hear him choking over there." 


"Sit tight. You can't do anything for him right now. Slanted and 
Enchanted is on its way along with a med evac." 


Nathan vaulted over the hood of the SUV, landing softly behind the 
pair. 


"This is goddamned Charlie Foxtrot.” 
"You got that right." 

"You still don't see anything?" 

"No. | told you. Neither did Overwatch." 
"Wait, | think | heard something." 


The man turned on the balls of his feet, spinning one hundred and 
eighty degrees as the smoke parted just in time for him to glimpse 
the bore of the gun pointed between his eyes. Nathan fired from a 
range of about two inches. Blowback showered his hand with blood 


and bone fragments as the skull split open like a rotten piece of fruit. 


The remaining agent whipped her carbine around while Nathan was 
aligning his next shot, readjusting from the recoil. He slapped the 
barrel away, iron-sight digging into his palm, as the first bullet 
glanced off his thigh. The other shots went wide, punching holes in 
the SUV's door panel and shattering the tempered glass window, 
breaking it into granular chunks. The tire popped, exhaling a puff of 
pressurized air as it deflated. 


She released her grip on the carbine and Nathan allowed it to fall, 
belatedly realizing that it was a distraction while she drew her 
sidearm. He sidestepped and she unloaded into the vacant space 
he'd previously occupied. Wedged in the tight quarters between the 
SUV and the box truck, he jumped onto the side of the truck, using it 
to pivot and change his trajectory, angling with his foot to strike at 
her exposed neck. 


Hearing him rebound the agent twisted and fired blindly. A bullet 
found Nathan, striking his forearm. The armor absorbed the round, 
deforming and pancaking the bullet while deflecting most of the 
energy, but the impact numbed his hand to pins and needles and he 
dropped his gun. The kick sailed harmlessly over the agent's head. 


She backed away and reloaded, ejecting the clip and sliding ina 
fresh magazine as she skirted the rear bumper of the SUV, putting it 
between her and Nathan. Reaching up with a gloved hand, she 
ripped the goggles off her helmet, and Nathan likewise cycled back 
to normal vision. The smoke was dissipating, now no more than 
tendrils of light fog being torn apart by a gust of wind. The nearby 
trees swayed back and forth. Leaves skidded past, chattering across 
the gravel. 


He snatched his gun up and sprung on top of the SUV, the chassis 
rocking beneath his weight and the roof dimpling. 


The agent looked up at him, sidearm gripped in a shooter's stance. 
"You're human," she said, like it was an accusation. 


Nathan cocked his head, rolling his shoulders in a shrug as if to say: 
You were expecting something else? 


"Might be Insurgency," she continued. "Or a Yeb. Definitely not a 
Neo-Luddite." 


Wait, Nathan thought to himself. | thought you were with the 
Insurgency. Again he found himself wondering just who exactly 
these people were. 


She fired at him, but the combat suit had already learned from the 
first bullet and had adapted accordingly. The rounds glanced 
harmlessly off the armor and cascaded down onto the roof of the 
vehicle. Nathan hopped down. Comprehending the futility of it, the 
agent retreated, pistol pointed at the sky. 


I'm in their back-channel now, the Director buzzed inside his head. 
The call signs match a known Foundation MTF. 


"What?" Nathan blurted in his surprise. 


"Negative," the woman was saying as she moved further away. "Still 
engaged. Can't terminate." 


He raised the flechette-gun, aiming to put this agent down. No more 
playing with her. No more fooling around. With dawning alarm he 
realized she wasn't addressing him — had never been speaking to 
him, not directly. 


"Initiate," she said before he could stop her. 


And the Hellfire missile, launched from the Foundation Overwatch 
drone — a hunter-killer UAV circling high above — struck the house. 


Part Two 


Kids with Guns Part Three 


Part Three 
Nathan jumped out the back of the Transall 700C. 


He was high enough that he could see the curvature of the planet. 
Far below him and to the southeast, out to sea, a storm was brewing 
off Cape Sainte-Marie. Charcoal clouds flickered with lightning as 
they spun clockwise. 


He wore a pressurized suit and a respirator with an oxygen bottle. 
As a precaution, prior to the jump he'd manually flushed the nitrogen 
from his system. 


He plummeted from sixty thousand feet. This high up the 
atmosphere was thin, the air cold, gnawing at him through the suit. 
He'd departed from Tahiti and so had no warm clothes, and the crew 
aboard the Transall had forgotten to bring him any. His fingers and 
toes went numb. He clenched them into fists to try and get the blood 
flowing. 


Nathan kept his back straight and arms folded tightly against his 
body as he dove toward Madagascar. He reached terminal velocity 
within fifteen seconds, free falling at over a hundred and twenty five 
miles per hour. He wanted to get back to the ground as soon as 
possible — back where it was warm — in order to avoid frostbite. 


He fell... 


At seventeen thousand feet he broke through the cloud cover. A 
great expanse of land spread out below him — plains of rust 
checkerboarded by vermilion. He could make out the dirty smudges 
of human settlements along the coastline, and pale ribbons scored 
the island back and forth. They were either roadways or dry 
riverbeds. 


dance that purports to allow a human performing it to direct honey 
bees towards a food source. The dance has not been tested. 


Researcher: Dr. Selvece 


Sample 887-7321: A 30-page literary analysis asserting that Holden 
Caulfield, the main character from the 1951 novel The Catcher in the 
Rye, is in fact a canine that has run away from his owners’ house. 
Written in Persian. 


Sample 887-7329: A poem entitled Kilometres Apart, detailing two 
anthropomorphized characters, "Kilomark" and "Milemary", who 
cannot be together due to differences in their measuring systems. 
Written in Esperanto. 


Researcher: Dr. 


Sample 887-7427: A complete season of the television series 
[REDACTED], written in Hungarian using the "Rovas" script used 
prior to the adoption of the Latin alphabet. Notably, the show's 
setting and characters are altered substantially in order to provide 
an analogy of the political events of the Kingdom of Hungary (then a 
part of the Austrian Empire) between 1843 and 1848 from a 
Hungarian nationalist point of view. The season ends just before an 
event analogous to the Revolution of 1848 occurs, with a cliffhanger 
that the show promises will be picked up "next season". 


Sample 887-7451: A 178-page novel entitled "The Ampersand's 
Coronation", written in English. The document consists of 
sentences, that, while grammatically correct, have no semantic 
value. 


Sample 887-7463: A proposal to move the island of Madagascar 
from its location in the Indian Ocean to the middle of the Pacific 
Ocean to better harness the "energies" that exist there. 


Sample 887-7471: A copy of the message inscribed on SCP-1050, 
translated into Spanish. Apparently signed by Charles II of Spain, 
who in addition to being King of Spain is also given the titles "Holy 


The lack of vegetation was glaring and the flat, empty terrain made it 
difficult for Nathan to orient himself. He knew the ground was rapidly 
approaching, but he couldn't tell how close he was in approximation 
to it. It was like skydiving over snow or water: utterly blank and 
featureless. There was nothing to frame his perspective; the towns 
were too far away to effectively use as a gauge. 


He relied on the altimeter in his HUD instead. When it reached 
eighteen hundred feet Nathan pulled the handle to the closing pin, 
releasing the pilot chute. An ATPS deployed from his back. His 
descent slowed as the parachute bloomed and created drag. The 
harness dug into Nathan deep enough to leave bruises while he 
wrestled for control with the toggles, using the steering lines to try 
and straighten out. 


When he'd finally gotten himself level with the ground he was 
already crashing into it. He landed on the balls of his feet and threw 
himself sideways to displace the impact energy, distributing it along 
his left thigh and buttocks. Although he had shock absorbents newly 
implanted in his ankles, it was habit to spread the landing-shock 
over a greater area to reduce the risk of injury. 


"My ride coming in from the west?" Nathan asked as he picked 
himself off the ground. A trail of dust in that direction had caught his 
eye during the descent. He unbuckled the harness container and 
shrugged out of the shoulder straps. 


Yes, confirmed the Director, speaking through the phone in Nathan's 
head. 


He removed the respirator's face mask. By the time he was stepping 
out of the pressurized suit a Jeep Wrangler was pulling alongside 
him. Behind the wheel looked to be a girl of twelve or thirteen. She 
had on camouflaged shorts and Adidas trainers patched with duct 
tape. Nathan was about to comment on her age then thought better 
of it. He tossed the parachute gear in the backseat and hauled 
himself into the Jeep by the roll bars. 


A hot wind scoured the island, spawning dust devils and thawing 
Nathan's fingers. He flexed them experimentally. Movement was 
fine and sensation was returning. 


They rode in silence. Nathan took the opportunity to bask in the sun 
and soak in his surroundings, though there really wasn't much to 
soak in — sand dunes met the horizon in a complete three hundred 
and sixty degree panoramic. The only sign of life during the short 
ride was a baobab tree. But as they drove past it he saw that the 
tree was in fact dead, the trunk rotten and hollow. 


Twenty minutes later and the girl dropped him off at a lake 
surrounded by hurricane fencing topped with razor-wire. The lake 
was gone, evaporated, leeched by irrigation systems. A gatehouse 
stood unattended, and large portions of the fence were missing. 


Nathan glanced at a posted sign. Next to the block letters was a 
radioactive trefoil: 


WARNING! 
NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS POINT! 


GUARDS NOT REQUIRED TO ANNOUNCE THEIR 
PRESENCE BEFORE OPENING FIRE 


The message repeated in French and various Malagasy dialects. 
Beneath the bold font was something about the federal government 
and nuclear isotopes. He dismissed the sign as a paper tiger. 


Treading past the gatehouse and fence, the lakeshore sloped down, 
and Nathan spotted a windowless concrete bunker by the banks. As 
he drew closer he saw that its industrial door was guarded by a 
digital lock and half a dozen laser-guided turrets. The guns chirped 
like birds at Nathan's approach, pivoting on gyroscopes and training 
their barrels on him. 


He paused on an apron of poured cement in front of the bunker. 
Suddenly the steel door rolled up. A ramp led downward, and 
Nathan followed its course until it opened into a cavernous room. It 
was cool and dark inside. 


He'd never been to this particular installation before, hadn't even 
known the Director had a place in Madagascar until he'd phoned 
him. All previous face-to-face interactions had been conducted in the 


Yukon, at a base carved into the layers of permafrost. 
Elevator, advised the Director. To your right. 


Nathan walked along a grated catwalk that clung to the wall, his 
footfalls echoing in the vast chamber. The bottom of the room — if 
there even was one — was lost in shadow far below. 


He entered the waiting elevator. The door snicked shut behind him 
and his stomach rose as he felt himself catapulted downward, 
burrowing into the earth. 


The door opened and deposited him in front of the Director. 


"Nathan," the Director said. Or did he? His lips moved, but Nathan 
wondered if he was still hearing his voice inside his head. It was 
difficult to tell. 


"Sir," he said. 

"How're you feeling? Shoulder isn't bothering you anymore, is it?" 
"It's fine." 

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. Come on, this way."