A figure stepped down from the throne, walking past the 
high altar and out of the gloom. Ab-Leshal, the First 
Sword of Daevon stood here: eight feet of weather-worn 
muscle, scarred and tattooed. Wide nose that had been 
broken too many times, strong jaw, crooked teeth, 
stringy hair, all features of the boy Cairn had played ball 
with on the River's bank. 


“| did not expect them to take you as bounty.” 


“They considered me a trinket. A little curiosity to keep 
around. The man who threatened the First Sword and 
was spared.” Cairn brushed aside his hair, revealed the 
brand on his forehead: khuk, the highest rating a slave 
could have. “Apparently | was an excellent conversation 
piece.” 


“Indeed.” Ab-Leshal paused for a moment, distracted by 
some fleeting thought. “Why are you here, brother?” 


“To bring you home.” 
Ab-Leshal shook his head. 


“| have written the Horned King’s gospel in blood across 
this continent, and every life | take now feeds him further. 
| feel my mind slipping into an abyss, and soon there will 
be nothing left but the savage, mindless animal. | am 
damned, brother. But | will do what | can with what time | 
have left. | will take this empire and all its gods to the 
buzzing, droning madness of hell with me.” 


“There is still hope.” 


“This is what | deserve. Mindlessness and damnation. | 


have laid waste to our home, destroyed the Voice, and 
the Tree of Life is dead. No. You return, to guide what 
remains of our people. That is your place. Mine is here. 
To seek an atonement | cannot achieve.” 


Ab-Leshal sighed. 


“The Seven Brides are dead. The scribes of the Texts 
and the Hanged King are dead. The Wonder-maker and 
Chou-dah-cleph and all the others have fled. Only 
Moluch remains. He will gather the legions, lead them 
here to me...and they will break upon me.” A pause. “It 
would be best for you to leave the city now. Before they 
arrive.” 


Cairn nodded. What had to be said was said. They would 
meet again, he knew, and that would be their final 
meeting. When all had been accomplished, they would 
strike each other down. 


He made his way back to the empty doorway, feet 
clapping on the mosaic floor. 


“Brother.” 

Cairn looked behind him. 

“God guide your path,” Ab-Leshal said. 
“And yours.” 


Cairn, son of Adaman the Hearer of the Voice, Chief 
Priest of the People of the Valley, the First Murderer, the 
Cursed Wanderer, disappeared from sight, moving 
towards the west. 


Ab-Leshal, son of Adaman the Hearer of the Voice, 
Protector and Shield of the People of the Valley, the 
Great Traitor, Breaker of the Bronze God, First Sword of 
Daevon, the Butcher of the West, returned to the black 
throne of the high priest, sat down, and closed his eyes. 


Sun set, and sun rose. 
Sun set, and sun rose. 
Sun set, and sun rose. 
Sun set, and sun rose. 


They had come. Men with swords and muskets and war- 
beasts flooded the high temple, and at the head of their 
column, a god. 


Ab-Leshal opened his eyes, rose, and took up his sword. 


Moluch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame, was 
pleased. 


A tacky little ornament dangled from the rear view mirror of Henry 
DeMontfort’s car, right next to the cinnamon apple air freshener. The 
ornament was a smiling, generic-looking humanoid with wings and a 
golden ring above its head, holding a scroll with the words “Don’t 
drive faster than your guardian angel can fly” on it. 


Technically, Henry DeMontfort was not driving over that limit. He 
was, however, driving faster than it was physically possible for his 
car to move. Montag was a rather fast flyer, though he did not have 
a scroll, halo, or wings like the little figure he inhabited. Or arms and 
legs for that matter. 


Salah sat in the passenger seat, loading cartridges into a magazine. 
He had said barely more than a few words since they had departed, 
focusing instead on checking and re-checking the relics. DeMontfort 
was Sure it was a better state than what he would have been in 
alone. Major crisis averted. 


That was one of many. There was only the most basic outline of a 
plan, that plan being “get in, rescue Mary-Ann and Naomi, get out”. 
That was effectively useless. They had no idea of the layout of the 
site, what the Foundation contained there, or what they would be up 
against. A hundred thousand variables got in the way. 


But Salah was sure they could succeed. DeMontfort could see that 
clearly. He was completely, absolutely certain that they could pull off 
this rescue. Those variables didn’t exist. The alternative was 
impossible. Any suggestion to the contrary, no matter how logical, 
would be thrown away. Anything short of his own death would be, at 
most, a minor inconvenience. 


“They'll most likely be waiting for us.” 


“They might still think that | am dead, so that may just work in our 
advantage. And so would be focusing on a different kind of 
counterattack. This is the Foundation: they deal in shadows and 
secrets, but they also expect that everyone else does as well. The 
easiest way to knock them off guard is to attack in the open. It is the 
last thing they would expect, and the last thing they would prepare 
for.” 


“Because only idiots would try barging through the front door.” 
“Exactly.” 
“lve approved worse plans. What of the inkbloods?” 


“| would assume that the source is contained within the site. As for 
the inkbloods, they are still Foundation agents, thinking like 
Foundation agents.” 


“So not a real infiltration. More of an oblique one. You’re sure there’s 
no outside party?” 


“Beyond the original source? No. It would be guiding actions, but not 
controlling them. Inkbloods operate voluntarily.” 


“Right, right.” 


There was a pause. DeMontfort felt a little bit of that insane, this- 
has-to-work faith in the back of his mind. Highly contagious stuff, 
belief. 


Ah, if he was going to die, he might as well be doing something 
good. 


“We've gone completely insane,” he said. 


“No. We're just realizing that the world is.” 


The break room reminded Mary-Ann of a hospital waiting room: 
Water cooler, bland furniture, out of date Time magazines on the 
coffee table, twenty-year old television. Comfortable, but not too 
comfortable. An imitation of comfort, with tension underneath like a 
taut rubber band. 


Mary-Ann stared into the empty styrofoam cup in her hands. The tea 
was gone. Redmond said she could take her time, to say goodbye 
and collect herself. She’d tried to pray, but the words were hollow, 
echoing in her head without any reassurance from above that they 
had been heard. She was alone. 


I’m sorry. 


She threw the cup in the trash and picked up the carrier. Naomi was 
still sleeping. Maybe it would be quick. Maybe there would be no 
pain. 


Maybe. 
“Okay. I’m ready.” 


Redmond nodded, and motioned for her to follow. Down a hallway, 
around a corner, down another hallway. Mary-Ann felt like she would 
fall under the weight of her own heart. A corn husk doll wobbling 
down a winding, wind-blown road. 


The hallway ended in blast doors, SCP-089 stenciled in yellow on 
the metal. The agent typed in an access code and swiped a key 
card. Metal ground on metal, and the door opened. 


The statue sat at the far end of the chamber: a bull-headed man on 

a throne, arms outstretched, wings wide, mouth open. A crude, ugly, 
horrible looking thing. A pile of wood sat next to it. She knew what it 
was for. 


Mary-Ann swallowed nervously as the door shut behind her. 


Abraham, take your son Isaac, your only son, whom you love, and 
go up to the land of Moriah. There you shall offer him up as a 
holocaust... 


The borders of the room seemed to expand as she approached, the 
statue loomed higher than it seemed. A chill ran up her back. She 
could feel a presence there, surrounding her, spreading out from the 
statue. Something big and distant and inhuman, pressing down, 
tearing that hollow hole even further. 


She was alone. Completely, utterly, absolutely alone. The 
Foundation and Initiative were gone. Salah was gone. God was 
gone. There was only her, Naomi, and the statue and its power, 
floating in an empty abyss. 


The flame flickered, and went out. 


Mary-Ann, take your daughter Naomi, your only daughter, whom you 
love more than anything else in the world, and go into the depths of 
Site-36. There you shall offer her up as a holocaust... 


At least, when this was done, millions of people would go about their 
day as if nothing happened, and they would live out their lives as if 
nothing happened today, that it was a day like any other, filled with 
happiness and sadness and boredom and anxiety and anger and 
love and hate and laughter and tears and births and weddings and 
funerals and life. A million days today, and a million days tomorrow, 
and so on. 


At least, Naomi would have saved them. 
For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son... 


Mary-Ann was at the foot of the statue. She set the carrier down, 
and took Naomi out of it. Her daughter wriggled in her arms, but 
remained asleep. Mary-Ann kissed her daughter on the forehead 
and hugged her close, for one last time. 


“Goodbye, Naomi. | love you.” 


With one hand she reached out and opened the chest of the statue. 
Gently, she placed Naomi inside and closed the hatch. She bent 
down and began to fill the furnace that was the throne with wood 
and kindling. Build it like a log cabin, her counselor had said all 
those years ago at summer camp. Big logs on the outside, kindling 
and tinder in the middle. 


There was a lighter there, sitting on the floor next to the wood: a 
cheap plastic thing one could buy at Wal-Mart. 


Into your hands, God, | commend her spirit. Amen. 
There was no answer. 


Mary-Ann lit the fire. 


A 2009 Honda CR-V smashed through the front doors of the 
Sanderson Chemical Plant at two hundred miles per hour. Metal 
screeched and crumbled and bent and burned in a shower of glass 
and shards of wall. The doors were torn off their hinges as Salah 
and DeMontfort leapt from the tumbling wreckage, wreathed in fire 
and mouths and eyeballs, landing safely as the hulk finally crashed 
to a stop. 


They were in. Step one complete. 


Naomi screamed. The sound was cut off by a cacophony of drums 
and cymbals over loudspeakers, and a rumbling that shook the 
chamber. Oily smoke billowed from the statue’s mouth and nostrils. 
The rumbling grew louder, and the tremors more intense. 


Any assurance that Mary-Ann had that she was doing the right thing 
shattered with that scream. She stood there, shuddering, unable to 
move, bile frozen in her throat, tears welling up in her smoke- 
reddened eyes. 


She had done it. She was burning her daughter alive. 


Murderer 
She was saving half a million lives. More than that. 
Monster 


Eventually, Naomi’s screams would stop, choked out by the smoke. 
Her death would be a few pitiful gasps for one more lungful of air. 


You killed her. 


When that was done, and the smell of burning fat and cooking meat 
would fill the chamber, rising up with the smoke. 


Death is too good for you. 


When all was done, the door would open, and there would be 
nothing but ash and charred bones. 


You deserve to suffer 
Tiny, charred bones. 


No. 


DeMontfort brought a donkey jawbone down on an agent’s head, 
liquefying it. Behind him, Salah fired a stream of burning white 
bullets down the hall, searing through ink and body armor alike. 


Mary-Ann’s arms shot back up to the hatch and tore it open, ignoring 
the searing heat. She grabbed Naomi out from the statue and ran 
towards the far end of the chamber, as far away as she could from 
the statue. Naomi coughed and sputtered and gasped and cried, her 
skin raw and red and burning. 


“No no no no...oh God please no... I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so 
sorry...Ssssshshshshhhhhnh...it's okay, mommy’s here. 
Sshhhhhhshshshh mommy’s here...you are my sunshine, my only 


sunshine...you make me happy, when skies are grey...” her voice 
creaked off-key with desperation, as the grim realization that she 
had rescued Naomi only for her to die in her arms rose to the 
surface of her mind. 


The coughing and gasping stopped. 
Oh no... 


Mary-Ann pressed a finger to Naomi’s neck. There was a faintest 
pulse there, and the tiniest wisp of breath from her mouth. For now. 
Mary-Ann let her held breath and rested her back against the wall, 
holding Naomi in her lap as gently as she could. If Naomi was going 
to die, it would be better like this. Better to die like this, than alone 
and abandoned in the bowels of that thing. 


Another tremor shook the room. Naomi opened her eyes, just a tiny 
squint, and nestled herself against Mary-Ann’s chest, as if seeking 
protection from the pain. 


She doesn't know | put her in there...she just woke up in a fire and | 
saved her... 


The tears came again, though this time from the pain of being 
forgiven. 


“It’s okay. I’m here.” 


A massive, noodly appendage lashed out of the splatter of marinara 
sauce on the wall, slamming through the blockade of Foundation 
agents. It twisted itself into a thumbs up as Salah and DeMontfort 
ran past before returning whence it came. 


Mary-Ann sat there and watched the statue belch smoke and the 
furnace burn bright, and listened to the rumblings of the earth below. 
The question of why no Foundation agents had come in yet, or the 
threat of what would happen from a half-finished ritual came to her 
mind and faded just as quick. They didn’t matter. Not now. 


A strange peace fell over Mary-Ann. The same sort of peace that a 
condemned man had on his last night, perhaps. Naomi still loved 
her, even here, at the end of everything. That was enough. Enough 
to fill the hollowness, enough to keep the world from crushing her 
completely. Enough to keep that one little flame alight in the dark. 


It was enough. 


Mary-Ann had killed. She had killed a whole lot of people, some of 
whom probably didn’t need to be killed. That had been her life: 
taking lives so that others could live in peace. Standing in that ugly, 
bloody margin between the dark and the light because someone had 
to stand there. She’d taken so many lives out of the world, and only 
brought one into it, and even after trying to destroy that one little life, 
she was still loved. 


That was enough. She wasn’t a monster. She could keep living, 
keep enduring the pain and the guilt and the shame. With that little 
bit of love, the world shifted into clarity. 


She wasn’t alone. 


God was there, in that little bit of love between a dying child and her 
broken mother, stuck in the deepest pit of a vast, uncaring, absurd, 
and horrific universe. God was there, recognizable when everything 
else had been stripped away. That little bit of love, in all its frailty, 
transcended all the pain that surrounded her, all the grief and 
anguish, all of it. 


Peace. She was at peace. 


Mary-Ann’s gaze once again moved to the statue. The presence 
was still there, but lesser now. Lesser now that she had recognized 
that it was a fraud. The despair she had felt before, it was a lie. A lie 
to make her despair, a lie to break her spirit, a lie to make her afraid, 
and through her fear, lead her to a horrific act. A lie big enough to 
make her carry out that act willingly. 


A coward’s ploy. The work of sniveling, warped, pathetic power, 
hiding in fear behind the shadows and lashing out its own despair on 
humanity. Never overt, never forcing its hand, no. It broke people. It 


SCP-635: Medieval Bootstrap Program 


Item #: SCP-635 
Object Class: Euclid