Plasma bolts lance through the air, slicing in front of the Rookie's 
face and forcing her off of you. The two of you look to the back of 
the train car, to where a few cyber-Romans have climbed the ladder 
and are now taking potshots at you with energy rifles. The Rookie 
shares a glance with you - if anyone's going to kill you it's going to 
be you. But at this point you're down to whatever's in your pockets. 


You duck around the side of the fin and fumble with the pockets of 
your bike leathers. Your hand closes around a small epinephrine 
injector filled with dark purple sludge; with a few quick taps, the 
sludge rises up into a man with a dog's head and a scorpion tail. 
You and the Rookie shake your injectors to reduce the chimeras 
back into a violet sludge and jab them into your necks. Then you 
throw a punch. 


Your hand takes a shortcut through another universe, dipping into a 
hellgate and then popping back out to connect with a legionnaire's 
face. The legionnaire stumbles back and topples right off the train, 
taking two of his comrades with him. You snatch his rifle from the air 
and try to avoid thinking about how your arm looks like a strand of 
spaghetti on the trip back. The instant the rifle hits your hands you 
spin and take aim at the Rookie, only to be met with a plasma rifle in 
her hands as well. 


More plasma bolts arc through the air and you make an unspoken 
agreement with yourself to focus on the other bad guys first. The two 
of you start firing from the shadow of the fins; with the wind at your 
backs and in their faces, you make short work of Alexylva's troops. 
The instant the last cyborg drops, you spin at the Rookie and point 
the trigger. 


The gun beeps but does nothing else - and a spatially tesselated fist 
sends you spinning out from the shelter of the fin. The wind catches 
you and sends you tumbling end over end. Desperately, you throw 
your arms out and manage to latch onto a rough edge of the 
otherwise smooth roof. 


The wind rages at you as you hang suspended in empty space, your 
hands scrabbling for purchase five meters away on the train. The 
Rookie approaches cautiously - she's crafty, and she knows it. She 
stops less than a meter from your hands and is about to stomp on 
your right hand when you hear a familiar roar. 


The Trans Am has finally managed to catch up to you - and it's 
racing along your side of the train. Its tire is even looking good as 
new; it could probably actually carry both of you home. But you're 
way past the point of cooperation at this point and you know it. The 
Rookie doesn't even hesitate - she takes a flying leap off the roof at 
the same moment that you release your death grip on it. 


The two of you collide in midair and that's when you pull out what's 
left of the utility knife and drive it into the side of her neck. The two of 
you crash onto the roof of the Trans Am and you kick her off. She 
flops onto the steel road, scrabbling at her throat, while you hang 
onto the Trans Am for dear life. Once the Rookie is out of sight, you 
slide into the front seat and give the steering wheel a rub. The Trans 
Am blinks and emits a satisfied purr. All that's left of the corpse in 
the passenger seat is a half-dissolved skeleton in biking leathers. 


With its own belly full, the Trans Am pulls away from the 
Phitransimun Combine. There are still a few jeeps in the rearview 
mirror, but they're of little concern to the living machine. The Am's 
metaphorical claws cut through the mesh between realities and it 
hoists itself out of the underbelly between worlds. Your vision fills 
with the colors of the rainbow and then they're gone, replaced with 
the bland grayness of an asphalt back road under a cloudy Earth 
sky. 


It's thirty minutes later that you stagger into the hideout, coming 
down off your high and acutely aware that a utility blade is buried in 
your belly. The Inside Man is, as usual, parked on the couch 
watching some brainless action flick on the television. He pauses 


the movie and turns to look at you when he hears your footsteps. 
"So? How'd it go?" 


You tear open the lootspace close to the ground and a pile of 
computer servers tumble out. The Man looks pleased. 


fortune for the stuff in these discs. Knew you could do it, Rookie." 


You don't have the patience to correct him, especially now that the 
effects of the hip flask are wearing off. You just want to collapse on 
the floor but there's too much to do - you need to appease the thing 
living inside your chest engine, you need to refill your satchel, and 
you need to fix your gut. That's going to take all night. 


But hey. That's just part of the fun. 


« | Hypervelocity | Terminal Velocity » 


The vessel lies on the ocean floor in three pieces. Evidence 
suggests that the hull was broken apart during the Project 

recovery attempt, and that it was largely intact at the time that it 
sank, save for a hole just forward of the sail and another further aft, 
just below the starboard missile tubes. Debris recovered from this 
hole indicates that the sub was struck by a P-120 Malakhit anti-ship 
missile while surfaced. One of the boat's own P-120 missiles has 
been fired. The submarine appears to have sunk due to rapid 
flooding following the missile strike. No remains of the crew have 
been found, either within the vessel or in the vicinity, and all 
emergency escape equipment is untouched. Divers sent to 
investigate reported anomalous currents, abnormal sea life, moans, 
unexplained voices and unintelligible whispering, and the presence 
of blurry, faintly glowing figures. Sea life in the area has been 
observed to be unusually aggressive — a diver was seriously injured 
by a large squid of unknown species, and on two occasions, 
observation submersibles have been aggressively approached by 
sharks and large squid. 


The wreck is surrounded by an anomalous pressure gradient 
extending approximately 250m centered on a point 30m aft of the 
center of the submarine. Within the affected region, pressure is 
much greater than is expected for the depth. This is believed to be 
the reason why Project could not recover the entire submarine. 
It has also significantly hampered further salvage and investigation 
efforts. The extreme pressure differential makes analysis with sonar 
difficult, as very high amplitudes are required. Special protection is 
also required for divers to approach the wreck. 


What records the Foundation has been able to obtain from Russia 
and the United States about the submarine strongly suggest that it 
was being used to carry some secret cargo, the nature of which is 
still unknown. Code-words used in the Russian documents imply 
that the secret cargo did not have anything to do with the typical 
nuclear or chemical weapons of the day. A mention is made of 
Project [REDACTED], a Soviet [DATA EXPUNGED]. 


Incident Report I741-C: On , SCPS Basisty reported a 
submerged contact approaching SCP-741 from the south at 46 
knots. Acoustic signature of the contact did not match any known 


Under Control 


December 6, 2023 


The plaza was awash with all sorts of activity — odd for this time of 
night, but not odd for this town. A group of ambient soviet 
factorypunk enthusiasts known as "hhh"! chose tonight to astrally 
project thaumic facsimiles of their music into the dreams of every 
sleeping Three Portlands resident who has an "R" in their name. 


The point was less to appeal to the Roberts and Rebeccas of the 
world, more to signal a certain aptitude to those who weren't called. 
Publicity stunts like these attracted anartists like moths to a fucking 
flame, and that's just what Adam Rowe was counting on. 


His hand slipped into his trouser pocket and fished out a worn, 
crinkled business card. 


God knows how long that card has been in Adam's possession. 


Long enough to bear signs of the skipper info-blockers' attempts to 
remotely declare half of it unreadable. This incompleteness had 
been a thorn in Adam's side for the past few days, as he was forced 
instead to trace the lines of contagion between the card and the 
person who created the garish design. 


This had been hard going — apparently, this intrepid individual 
doesn't spend much time in Three Portlands, so the lines just go 
nowhere most of the time. And when the creator is in Three 
Portlands, they aren't there long enough for Adam to triangulate 
their location and get there in time. 


But tonight was different. Right when hhh's signal went out (which 
woke Adam Rowe right up) the card started to ping all over the 
place. They were coming to check out the music, and Adam was 
going to be there to greet them. 


The crowd had been amassing for forty-five minutes now, clamoring 
around a big, round stage in the center of the town square. 
Countless other spectators sat on roofs or belayed on walls, specks 
of light on commercial brownstones and sleek glass edifices. In the 
air, buzzing drones circled the stage in slow, rhythmic cycles. 


Adam stood back, away from the crowd, tacky business card held 
high. From here he could feel the card's tonal links. The dealer was 
in the crowd. He approached the back of the spectators, pressing 
between them and squirming onwards. 


It was difficult to see what was going on — Adam's view was 
obstructed by damp denim and vinyl jackets, moving elbows 
dangerously close to his face as the crowd started to pump up. He 
was almost to the stage when he felt the link in the card terminate. 
Looks like this is it. 


A bald woman was standing in front of him, marveling up at the 
stage. He tapped her on the shoulder. She turned her head, smiling 
warmly. She had pointed horns grown from her temples. 


Adam cleared his throat. The yells of the crowd were thundering in 
his ears. "Are you... Jamoth?" 


She nodded. "Jameth. You have my card!" 
Adam smiled back, nodding. "Séance dust. Do you have it?" 
Jameth cocked her head. "Sure, friend. Gimme your card." 


Adam grimaced, snapping his fingers. A white index card appeared 
between his fingertips. He passed it over. 


"Thank you, friend." She raised her right index finger to the sky, and 
with a dull pop a small baggie of lime dust dropped, right out of 
nowhere, straight into her palm. "I'll be in touch. Try not to have too 
much fun!" 


Adam took the baggie gingerly. He nodded. "Don't think that'll be a 
problem." With a cordial wave, he began backing slowly out of the 
crowd. As he departed the plaza, a clanking rendition of 
L'Internationale had begun to play. 


When he got back to his room at the roach motel, he set the bag on 
top of the dresser and breathed to himself. "One down, two to go." 


One week earlier... 
November 29th, 2023 


The two of them had approached him at midday, cornering him as 
he walked down the street and politely asking him to come in to a 
nearby coffee shop for some words. He obliged. 


They led him in, past the counter (with menu scrawled in barely- 
legible Latin) and a mass of tangled pipes that continually seeped 
espresso. 


The first of the two, an imposing figure in nigh-opaque black 
sunglasses and a tracksuit, pulled out a chair and beckoned for 
Adam to sit. The other, a tall, pantsuited woman with straight brown 
hair and black-rimmed glasses, sat across from him at the tiny table. 
She smiled blankly. 


He ventured. "So... how's it going?" 


"We're representatives from a subsidary of Redzone Security. 
We'd like you to sign on as a temporary consultant." 


Adam narrowed his gaze. "Oh, I'm not really looking for freelance-" 


She raised her hand. "Allow me to rephrase. We believe that this 
contract would be beneficial for both parties, should you accept. 
Otherwise... well, we can't ensure that information about you won't 
fall into the wrong hands." 


Adam turned to his right — the big one was blocking his exit. They 
tapped their sunglasses, producing a red flash. He was being 
recorded. 


He swallowed and turned back to the woman. "What do you... what 
do you need consultation for?" 


"Redzone's proprietary data protection method utilizes a necro- 
thaumic pocket dimension of geas-bound indentured 
consciousnesses which provide the raw thaumic power necessary to 
render data fully inaccessible within the infosphere until decryption is 
required." 


Adam blinked. "Uh... go on?" 


"Recently, the data-locking procedure has been deadlocked with no 
apparent external causes. We're fearing a union. What we require is 
an effective way to necromantically access the souls and make any 
necessary actions to bring the process back into working order." 


He waited for an extra moment to make sure she was done. When 
she didn't speak, he opened his mouth. "Then... you need a 
necromancy consultant?" 


"That's right." 


"You must have gone to my- my father first, right? That's... | mean, 
you must know about what he was involved with. Right?" 


"Your father was considered for the project, but ultimately decided 
against. Too difficult to incentivise." 


Adam certainly felt incentivized. 


"We're not here to talk about your father. We're well aware that you 
possess your own talents. You're simply more flexible than he is, 
right? | mean, between you and me, he doesn't really do much for 
you, does he?" 


Adam squinted. "Stop that." 
"Stop what?" 
"That thing where you imply that you've been following me." 


Her eyes flashed down at the table, and then back up. "Sure. We 
haven't been following you." 


"Thanks." 


"Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. I'm Samantha. 
Were you to accept, | would be your primary line to Redzone. In 
return for some very, very minor help, we can offer an increased 
foothold in the town. You know how much an endorsement matters 
around here. Perhaps we can help you." 


There was a moment of silence. The big one was unmoving, like a 
big stone totem. "I... guess I'll bite. Do | sign something?" 


She smiled wider. "You do." From behind her chair, she pulled a 
single sheet of paper, which she set down in front of him. "Sign on 
the line, and then flip the page over." 


His brow furrowed as he skimmed the dense document. Seemed 
like a fairly standard non-disclosure agreement. 


He signed on the line and flipped it over— 
"F- argh." Adam felt a sharpness through his mind, like his neurons 
had been tied end to end and twanged like piano wire. 


"Standard company geas. This will inhibit your ability to disclose 
information about your assignment, or take action against Redzone 


assets or interests. We can't take chances, unfortunately. It will 
expire in ten days, on the 9th of December. As far as you're 
concerned, it won't even be there. Not like you'd want to do any of 
those things anyways, right?" She smiled warmly. The pain began to 
subside. 


"Yeah... right." 
"Keep the contract. We'll be in touch." 


Samantha stood up to take off, just as a floating platter brought over 
two glowing coffees. The silent one turned away, and the two left 
together. 


December 7th, 2023 


The day after the concert was bright and sunny, by extremely 
relative Three Portlands standards. Adam was walking down the 
street to his favorite establishment: the Symposium, which sought to 
combine two of mankind's greatest pleasures, alcohol and literature. 
For today's visit, Adam was just passing through the bar-ookstore, 
on his way to a different library. 


He passed through to the fiction section. Here, they had artfully 
selected companion beverages for each novel. With Murakami's 
Sputnik Sweetheart, they paired a tasteful Chivas Regal. With 
Borges' Labyrinths, a bitter fernet. With Ayn Rand's The 
Fountainhead, a big 'ol jug of bleach.