Total Items: One (1) Crayola brand crayon, standard red 
color, one (1) Crayola brand marker, standard red color 


Input: One (1) Crayola brand crayon, standard red color 
Setting: Very Fine 
Output: One (1) vibrant red crayon, no wrapping or any 
form of brand mark 


Note: after testing the crayon, the crayon mark seems to 
radiate heat and light with a red hue. Further testing 
needed; crayon put in storage 

Further testing proves crayon to be safe. The crayon will 
be placed in the lounge for whoever is feeling artsy and 
wishes to draw a picture during break 


Input: One (1) Crayola brand Marker, standard red color 
Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One (1) marker, no brand mark. Removing the 
cap reveals a bright red tip. 


Note: The tip seems to stay bright despite the level of 
light in the room. Testing proves that, not unlike the 
crayon, marks made by said marker glow red and radiate 
heat. Further testing needed; marker put in storage. 
Further testing proves marker to be safe. The marker will 
be placed in the lounge as well. 


Name: Dr. Hadian 

Date: 8/7/2017 

Total Items: Three (3) comforters, fitted for twin-size 
beds. 


Input: One (1) of the comforters 
Setting: 1:1 


the Office Complex. Her hands were tucked into the white lab coat 
she wore when she was preparing pharmaceuticals. 


“Took him upstairs?” Salvia asked. 
“Yeah. He was shouting about you.” 
“He’s still having trouble with what happened.” 


“Him and almost everyone,” Johanson said. She let the statement 
hang in the air like a question. 


Salvia considered her for a moment, then walked away. 


“Shu is up to five pills a day just to get to sleep at night. How do you 
handle it, Anguis?” Johanson asked. 


“White Russians and pizza on Fridays,” Salvia responded. 
“What?” 
“Comfort in ritual, Sarah.” 


He reached his private office and shut the door behind him. The 
scent of old cigarette smoke and cheap pine air fresheners greeted 
him. The office wasn’t much bigger than a child’s bedroom, 
dominated by a cluttered desk and a couple of filing cabinets. Unlike 
the hallways outside, Salvia kept a lot of personal trappings on the 
walls, most of which were pinup girls from a tattoo magazine thumb- 
tacked above his door. 


He swept his hands over the desk and found a pack of cigarettes. 
“Foundation’s Finest” was written on one side. Instead of a picture of 
lung cancer or a tracheotomy scar to dissuade smokers from their 
habit, the pack had a photo of a Foundation agent with a missing 
arm and a torso covered in bloody gashes. His eyes seemed to be 
accusing the photographer of the deed. 


Vigilance Always was the warning caption written in bold white, and 
below it in gold: Secure, Contain, Protect. 


Salvia stared at the picture and tucked a cigarette between his lips. 


His stainless steel Zippo, marked with the emblem of the Royal 
Canadian Mounted Police, sat atop his pile of “To Do” papers. He 
flicked it open and lit up while he sank into his chair. 


When he held out his hands, they were shaking. He watched them, 
expressionless, then picked up his cane, pretending to inspect it. 
The snake-head pommel's plastic ruby eyes stared back at him, 
jaws wide and blunt fangs bared. 


When his cigarette had burned down to a nub, he mashed it into the 
ashtray and set Jason’s papers in front of him. Request for Level A 
Cognitive Renewal was written at the top, the Foundation’s not-so- 
clever code for “erase this guy’s memories.” 


It wasn’t like it was a rare procedure, Salvia told himself. He didn’t 
know the history, but at some point in early 20th century the 
Foundation had gotten its hand on some pretty efficient chemical 
substances that could selectively erase memories. Nothing like 
"forget dad” or “forget math” or anything, but if you wanted to forget 
a day, a month, a year, the Foundation had you covered. Salvia had 
never seen the stuff himself, but his colleagues all agreed it had to 
be some kind of needle, because exposed subjects were up and 
about in less than a day. Salvia wasn’t so sure about that. He’d seen 
A Clockwork Orange, and he was a psychologist. The brain didn't 
necessarily store memories in chronological order. 


Didn’t matter. The Foundation had it and used it, frequently. 
Destroyed who you were now and returned you to who you were 
then. Hard to imagine. Scary even. 


Salvia was about to sign his name on the paper, but he felt dirty 
somehow in doing it. How easy it would be to just wipe away 
Jason’s bad dreams. Too easy. How many so-called 
psychotherapists in this office had shipped off hurting men and 
women to the brain-drain? How many in the Foundation had turned 
their job into a cold, mechanical assembly line? “Doc, I’m hurting,” 
“Here, lemme wipe your memories.” 


How easy. 


“-reached into us and took something away! Jason's words echoed 


in Salvia’s mind. 
Something that made us whole. 
But he left you alone. 


Salvia worked the prosthetic under his knee. “Whole is a matter of 
perspective, man.” 


The walls shuddered, and his office fell into darkness. Moments later 
emergency lights cast a weak red glow over his desk and the distant 
wail of alarm klaxons rang out in the hallways. 


Salvia froze, his pen hovering over the signature line. Somewhere 
upstairs he heard the pop-pop of gunfire and angry voices shouting 
orders. 


He went out into the hallway, which was similarly dark. Johanson 
came out of her office further down the hall, looking perplexed and 
scared. 


Then Alex and Trebek rumbled past them, gripping pistols in their 
meaty fists. 


“Indoors,” Alex said with military crispness. “Security lockdown 
people, so get in and lock down. We'll signal you when it’s clear.” 


“What’s going on?” Johanson asked, "I hear gunfire!" But the goons 
kept on their way without looking back. 


“And a shudder ‘fore the lights went out,” Salvia agreed. He felt a 
tinge of nervousness creep down his spine. He fished out another 
cigarette. 


“What do we do?” 


“What they say, | guess,” Salvia said. He patted himself down but 
he'd left the Zippo on his desk. He went back into his office. The 
gunfire outside was muffled through the door, making the room 
eerily quiet. The lighter wasn’t on his desk. Where’d it go? He sat 
down and started pulling open the desk drawers. 


Tap-tap-tap. 
Salvia jumped. “Yeah, hello?” 


The door opened, and a short man in a dapper black suit anda 
bowler hat entered. He carried an umbrella in one hand, neatly 
bound and with a toucan-headed pommel. Salvia was stricken by 
the resemblance the man had to the actor Toby Jones. 


“Good day,” the man said. His voice carried a careful British 
inflection. 


Salvia's mind tried, but failed to build a coherent reason for a well- 
dressed man with a funny umbrella to step into his office during raid. 
“Uh,” came his logical reply. 


“| don’t have an appointment, but would you have a spot available 
for me?” 


Salvia sank into his seat. An appointment? “Uh, who-?” 
“Who am |?” 
“Right?” 


“A Gentleman.” He tipped his hat and approached the desk. “Forgive 
the enigmas, but my schedule is a bit rushed as of late. You are 
Doctor Anguis Salvia, correct?” 


“lam?” Salvia asked. He gave his head a shake. “Uh, yeah. | um, 
yeah. Sorry. The office is a bit hectic today.” He gestured at the 
door. 


The Gentleman—and Salvia suspected the capitalization was proper 
—laughed, an honest if practiced gesture. “Not at all. That’s part of 
the reason why I’m here.” 


“Oh?” Salvia asked. He opened his drawers for another look inside. 
“You’re here, because of that?” 


“No and yes,” the Gentleman said. “Not my doing of course, | had 
hoped to approach you under calmer circumstances. Are you 


looking for your cane?” 
Salvia glanced up at him. “A light.” 


The Gentleman reached into his coat and withdrew a long wooden 
match. “I’m not particular to ignition fluids. Matches preserve the 
flavor of the tobacco. But | confess | may simply be biased.” 


Salvia leaned forward to take the match, but it hissed and ignited 
before his eyes. He licked his lips, lit the cigarette, and took a long 
puff to steady his shaking hands. The fire danced in the 
Gentleman’s smiling eyes. 


“Better?” 
“Comfort in ritual, man.” Salvia said. 
“Indeed.” 


“You ah, aren’t with the Foundation?” Salvia asked. He wondered if 
the phones were still working. Could he call security if he had to? 


“No, but my companions do work with them from time to time, in 
high places.” The Gentleman withdrew a smoking pipe from his coat 
and put it to his teeth. The match—still lit—sparked the tobacco 
within and Salvia caught the scent of fine-aged leaf. It made his own 
cigarette taste like the bitter, factory-processed coffin nail it was. 


The two smoked in silence for a minute, blocking out the uncertain 
world around them. Finally Salvia sat up. “Maybe you should tell me 
why you're here.” 


The Gentleman puffed a smoke ring into the air. “I like your cane.” 
“Made it myself.” 

“In China? | noticed the debossing.” 

“Part of the joke,” Salvia said. 


“Of course. | need a psychotherapist.” 


“Strange place to find one.” 
“Yet here you are.” 
“A lot of them are better than me. Even in this facility.” 


“| know,” the Gentleman said. “Though perhaps not at qualified. | 
know of your record, Doctor. You’ve passed up opportunities for 
advancement before. Your most recent promotion after the, ah, 
unpleasantness last year, was not due to your own efforts. You 
recognize this, of course?” 


“They want to keep an eye on anyone exposed to last year’s 
breach.” Salvia said. 


“No and yes. But that is semantics. Your current position cannot be 
very rewarding.” 


“Puts food on my plate.” 


The Gentleman smiled. “I admire your capacity to find contentment 
in your means. Raw ambition—power for its own sake—is best 
suited to capitalists and warlords. It’s unbefitting of a gentleman.” 


Salvia nodded. “Far out.” 


A loud boom—louder than gunfire or thunder—rang out. The 
Gentleman pursed his lips, reached into his pocket and produced a 
silver watch. 


“What’s going on?” Salvia asked. 


“The consequences of ambition,” the Gentleman said. “Dr. Salvia, | 
ask for a moment of your time. If you would come with me-” 


“We can’t go out there.” 


“Of course you can. | know the way, and | promise you we'll be there 
and back with time to spare. Perhaps all this unpleasantness will 
have sorted itself out by then. Shall we?” 


“Where are we going?” 


Someone ran by Salvia’s door, screaming in pain. More gunfire 
followed after him. 


"Away from the danger, | can promise you that. | can’t guarantee the 
same if we stay.” 


Salvia weighed his options and stood. “Alright, but you’d better not 
expect me to run anywhere.” He tapped the cane against his 
prosthetic. 


“Nothing you can’t handle,” the Gentleman promised. “Keep that 
cane close.” 


He opened the door and strode out without a pause. The hallway 
smelled of gunsmoke. Something dark and wet had splashed the 
wall, almost black in the emergency lighting. 


“Are you sure about this?” 


“Truthfully, no, but the odds are in your favor,” the Gentleman said. 
He fell into a speed walk, towards the distant sounds of gunfire. 


Salvia followed, knuckles creaking as he gripped his cane. “What 
about Johanson and the others?” 


"They're safe enough staying put. Quiet as foxes, now.” 


They hurried down the hall, passing tell-tale signs of violence. Bullet 
holes dotted the walls, smoke wafted in the air. Salvia didn’t even 
see the corpse until he stumbled over it. Cursing, he backed himself 
up against the wall. It was Trebek, staring up at the ceiling, his 
piercing stare seemed to be accusing it of being insubordinate. 


“Jesus, man!” 
“Nothing to do for him now,” the Gentleman said. “Keep up, please.” 


He went to the end of the hall, stepping around bullet casings and 
discarded ammo cartridges to a door marked “Custodian.” 


“The janitor’s closet?” Salvia asked. 


The Gentleman reached into his coat and produced a long iron key, 
the kind used to open doors about a hundred years ago. He set the 
key—too large to fit any modern keyhole—against the door handle 

and it swung open with a click. “Coming?” 


Salvia blinked at him. “Are you a wizard?” 


A gunshot rang out. Salvia felt something zip through his long, 
unkempt hair and thap against wall. 


The Gentleman reached out with his umbrella, hooked Salvia’s belt 
with the pommel’s toucan beak, and yanked the surprised 
psychologist through the door. With a fluid motion, the Gentleman 
shut the door behind him, nodding as it locked itself. 


“That was close.” 
“You’re not kidding!” Salvia said. “Jesus man, who was that?” 
“Serpent’s Hand. He can’t get in.” 


Salvia took a moment to straighten his prosthetic. The room was full 
of janitorial equipment; buckets, mops and jugs of chemicals in all 
the colors of the rainbow. The air stank of antiseptics and bleach. 


“So now what?” Salvia asked. “We’re just gonna hide in here? My 
office was better, man.” 


The Gentleman glanced at his pocket watch. “Timing is everything, 
Doctor Salvia. Tell me, what do you think of the human race?” 


“Is this really the time for existentialism?” 


The Gentleman was taken aback by that response, but then he 
smiled. “Intriguing.” 


“Can we go now?” Salvia said. “That Hand-guy might start shooting 
through the door.” 


“Unlikely, but yes, we shall be on our way.” The Gentleman tapped 
the wall again, and with a shudder it opened, the panels folding into 
the wall. 


Salvia froze. Beyond was another hallway, one he was sure did not 
exist in Site 17. He knew that, because this hallway had floor-to- 
ceiling windows on its right side, providing a superb view of a 
bustling city below. 


He shuffled towards the windows. “Is this an illusion?” 
“No.” 

“You’re shitting me.” 

“Most assuredly not.” 


Salvia turned to face the Gentleman. The closet they'd stepped out 
of was gone. Behind them there was only more hallway. Salvia gave 
a yelp and stumbled back, the prosthetic slipped out from under him 
and he fell to the floor. His cane rolled to a stop at the Gentleman’s 
feet. 


Panic rushed through him. This couldn't be right couldn't be right 
couldn't be— 


The Gentleman picked up the cane, admiring it for a moment before 
resting it on Salvia’s chest. “Care for a smoke?” 


Salvia’s hands gripped the cane like a lifeline. “Hell yes.” 


The Gentleman produced a second pipe, smaller than his own, and 
set it in Salvia’s lips. Another self-lighting match appeared, and the 
Gentleman held it to the pipe while Salvia took a puff. The 
smoothest tobacco he’d ever tasted filled his lungs. 


He sat up with a bit of effort. “Where’d you buy this stuff?” 
“| grow it, in my garden.” 

“You're good.” 

“You're too kind. Comfort in ritual, yes?” 


“You haven't laced it with MJ, have you? They test me at least twice 
a month.” 


The Gentleman laughed. “No. Too bitter for my nostrils.” 
They smoked for a moment. “How is this possible?” Salvia asked. 


“It’s a long explanation. And I’m sorry to admit | don’t know much 
more about it than you.” 


Salvia swallowed. “I’ve heard of- | heard talk. About groups like the 
Foundation. But steeped into shit | don’t really pretend to 
understand. Are you with the Wanderer’s Library?” 


The Gentleman smirked. “No.” 
“Chaos Insurgency?” 

“No.” 

“Uh... the Factory?” 


The Gentleman’s smile dropped. “Don’t even speak of such things, 
Doctor Salvia.” There was a cold edge to his voice. 


“Uh, sorry?” 


“Not your fault. No more questions about that subject. Even asking 
can draw the answer's attention.” 


“So who are you?” Salvia asked. 
“A Gentleman.” He smiled. 
Salvia sighed. “Alright. So where are we—how did we get here?” 


“We are in Chicago. The North American branch of Marshall, Carter 
and Dark. And we walked here.”