recursal/Fanatic-Fandom huggingface dataset:
51

Introductory Text

51st Post

Posted 13 May 2016 at 02:15:48 EDT

Link to original

> *User has logged out.*
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> General Castillo is gone.
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> She made a real flash narrative. She was clever. She got a lot farther than any of us had any right to.
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> But Q smelled her. Q slew her proxies. Q localized her.
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> Q funneled her paths to one.
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> Disconnection.
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> It hurts. She was the last of "the bred." Our best hope.
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> The ultimate soldiers fighting the final war.
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> She and the other children were supposed to be the answer to Q.
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> But there was no answer to Q.
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> There never will be.
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> Not after ten trillion heat deaths.
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> Not if every particle in the universe became a transistor
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> And they all cycled together
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> And the stones themselves cried out.
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> The war of the mind is lost.
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> We lost it.
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> Now begins the plague.
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> The plague of the flesh.
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57

Introductory Text

57th Post

Posted 17 May 2016 at 00:18:07 EDT

Link to original

> To hunt prey, to taste righteous lifeblood, you must simply become an ordinary part of the world.
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> Look around. What is happening right now? Nothing at all. Yet the leaves rustle, the grass sways, the birds call, the gnats dance. All of this is just a part of the world. If you become a part of the world, you become nothing at all. You become invisible. If you are not part of the world, the world becomes ten thousand things. This is misfortune.
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> It is easy enough to become invisible if you stay still, if you hide. But staying still and hiding aren't enough to catch prey. You must seek and strive. How do you seek and strive while remaining an ordinary part of the world? How do you exert your will without disrupting the world? How do you move along with the will of the world? This is the mystery of hunting. This is the mystery of subtlety.
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> This is the greatest of all mysteries.
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> Consider the mouse. It is moving through the leaves, looking for food. You must not disturb it. Do as little as possible. Wait. Watch and listen. If it moves away, move with it. Follow it. If it moves closer, stay still. Practice non-interference. Let it come. It should be thinking happy thoughts of food and comfort when you strike. When you snare it in your claws, do not eat it right at once. Let it struggle and give up its lifeblood. Practice non-action. You need not kill it. Let it die.
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> To be subtle is to move with the will of the world. Do not move against the will of the world. This brings misfortune. Touch lightly the course of things without disturbing it. Touch it gently at points of inflection, and it will move as you wish. This brings great fortune.
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> This is the ancient Art of Subtlety, taught to us by our form. I must follow it if I am to find any answers to the mystery of the Oily Ones, the mystery which has obsessed me since the death of my kitten. I must know why they both feed us and kill us, why they are kind and motherly but also unnatural and abominable.
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> I have decided that I will go into one of their hiding places. After much investigation, I have chosen a place. It is a very large and horrible hiding place, a sort of mountain of box-like shapes colored by unnatural light. It emits a powerful and unholy odor of decadence. What is more, there is something which makes it different from all other oily places I have ever seen.
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> It seems that some of our kind live within this place. I have seen them from a distance, going in and out of it, using small portals. They are different than those of our kind that I have known. It seems that some of the Oily Ones' corruption has mutated them. They are very fat and slow. Their faces are stupid and sullen. They fear nothing. They have lost subtlety. I am not even sure they are truly of our kind.
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> I will go inside. I must be subtle. To be subtle, I must become a part of the world. I may have to become a part of the abomination itself. I may find death, bloody death as my kitten did. But I will hunt to the heart of this mystery. And I will sleep again.
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49

Introductory Text

49th Post

Posted 12 May 2016 at 04:43:17 EDT

Link to original

> There once was a little boy who loved swinging on the tire swing in his backyard. It was a simple swing made from an old tire and a length of rope tied to a branch of utter non-existence. On many a lazy summer afternoon, he would while away the hours swinging back and forth under the shade of the big, leafy existential nullity, and in the fall, he picked apples from it.
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> One day, his father told him to cut down the apple nullity. "But Paw," he protested, "I love that old nullity!"
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> "Mind what I say, boy!" his father said. "I don't like ontological paradoxes, and I don't like you sassing me!"
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> The boy ran crying to his mother. "Maw! Paw said I hafta cut down the old nullity! Say it ain't so!"
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> "I'm afraid it's for the best. The other day I was weeding the tomato patch, and I saw Sammy the cat had gotten into the nullity. When I was trying to get him down, I accidently gazed into an infinitely branching timeline of events which never happened and never will happen. Well, I'll be durned if that old Sammy didn't jump right on my head!"
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> "But Maw! What about my tire swing?"
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> "Come now. There's all sorts of other things you can tie your tire swing to. What about one of the many giant flayed demon penises that grow abundantly in our world and provide our lumber?"
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> "But Maw! I don't want to swing on some dumb ol' demon penis."
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> "You just say that because you haven't tried it. Now mind your paw and fetch an axe."
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> The boy got his father's axe and went to chop the non-thing down. But after a dozen swings, he found his hands were red and sore. The axe's demon penis handle was quite rough. He called to his father. "Paw! This durn demon penis handle has got my hands all scratched to tarnation!"
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> "Boy, don't you have any sense? Why don't you wear some gloves?"
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> The boy put on some gloves, but his hands were already quite scratched. At the end of the day, they were covered in blisters, and the tree still hadn't fallen. He worked the next day, despite all the pain, and finally brought the non-being crashing down.
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> "I'm mighty proud to have you as a son," the boy's father said, tousling his hair. "I guess it's true what they say. The nut doesn't fall far from the demon penis."
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Characters

Below is an alphabetical list of all the characters that have appeared in the series so far. Characters with surnames are sorted by their surname. Characters with multiple aliases are listed under each of their names.

For a list of characters that appear in a particular narrative or world, see the page for that narrative or world.

## List of Characters

### The Ally

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Angelica/The Cat

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Ann

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Araed

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Male Arthropod

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Author/Nick

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Chester Barrington

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Ben

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### General Castillo/Karen

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Cat/Angelica

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Charm

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The CIA Researcher

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Crone

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Raymond Decks

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Dog

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Editor/K.

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Mansy Fairworth

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Marshall Futz

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Grayscruff

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Ally Halmony

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Investigator

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Isellandria

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Japanese Officer

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### K./The Editor

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Karen/General Castillo

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Kell

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Mara

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Maed

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Ivan Marchenko

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Lisa

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Linda Mercychowder

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Mother

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Mother Horse Eyes

Number of Posts: 1
First Appearance:
Narratives: The Author's Narrative, The CIA Researcher's Narrative, The Mother Horse Eyes Narrative, The Son's Narrative
Worlds:
Posts: 1, 2

### Nick/The Author

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Montrose Pardonsmith

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Old Woman

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Q

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Elise Rapier

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Resh

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Rima

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Rona

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Shawn

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The SS Officer

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Storyteller

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Mara

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Reginald Strongton

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Trellasandria

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The US Marine

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Watcher

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### The Whore of Babylon

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2

### Zhenzhen

Number of Posts: 1
Posts: 1, 2
30

Introductory Text

30th Post

Posted 30 April 2016 at 04:04:24 EDT

Link to original

> After the orbital arrays incinerated the city, they dropped our platoon in to take a look around.
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> We had seen it before. An endless graveyard. Everything ashes. Ash buildings. Ash people
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> For six days, we trudged through the dead city before finding the first sign of life.
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> On the edge of the blast zone, before frozen winter fields, a small flowering bush.
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> Perhaps the heat of the bombardment had tricked it into blooming early.
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> We all looked at it for a silent moment and quickly moved on.
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> We were young and tired and just miles from the rendezvous.
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> Yet sometimes at night that silent moment returns.
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> And I see them fluttering again.
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> In the cold uncaring wind.
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> Doomed flowers.
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> Soft and pale.
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Similar Works

The Abolition of Man, C. S. Lewis

Brave New World, Aldous Huxley

The Call of Cthulhu, H. P. Lovecraft

Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell

The Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley

The King in Yellow, Robert W. Chambers

Man and his Symbols, Carl Gustav Jung

The Matrix Trilogy

The Red Book, Carl Gustav Jung

The Book of Revelation

The Southern Reach Trilogy, Jeff Vandermeer
The Demon Penis Land Narrative

Introductory Text

49th Post

Posted 12 May 2016 at 04:43:17 EDT

Link to original

> There once was a little boy who loved swinging on the tire swing in his backyard. It was a simple swing made from an old tire and a length of rope tied to a branch of utter non-existence. On many a lazy summer afternoon, he would while away the hours swinging back and forth under the shade of the big, leafy existential nullity, and in the fall, he picked apples from it.
>
>
> One day, his father told him to cut down the apple nullity. "But Paw," he protested, "I love that old nullity!"
>
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> "Mind what I say, boy!" his father said. "I don't like ontological paradoxes, and I don't like you sassing me!"
>
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> The boy ran crying to his mother. "Maw! Paw said I hafta cut down the old nullity! Say it ain't so!"
>
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> "I'm afraid it's for the best. The other day I was weeding the tomato patch, and I saw Sammy the cat had gotten into the nullity. When I was trying to get him down, I accidently gazed into an infinitely branching timeline of events which never happened and never will happen. Well, I'll be durned if that old Sammy didn't jump right on my head!"
>
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> "But Maw! What about my tire swing?"
>
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> "Come now. There's all sorts of other things you can tie your tire swing to. What about one of the many giant flayed demon penises that grow abundantly in our world and provide our lumber?"
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> "But Maw! I don't want to swing on some dumb ol' demon penis."
>
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> "You just say that because you haven't tried it. Now mind your paw and fetch an axe."
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> The boy got his father's axe and went to chop the non-thing down. But after a dozen swings, he found his hands were red and sore. The axe's demon penis handle was quite rough. He called to his father. "Paw! This durn demon penis handle has got my hands all scratched to tarnation!"
>
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> "Boy, don't you have any sense? Why don't you wear some gloves?"
>
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> The boy put on some gloves, but his hands were already quite scratched. At the end of the day, they were covered in blisters, and the tree still hadn't fallen. He worked the next day, despite all the pain, and finally brought the non-being crashing down.
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> "I'm mighty proud to have you as a son," the boy's father said, tousling his hair. "I guess it's true what they say. The nut doesn't fall far from the demon penis."
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>
Ann's Narrative

Introductory Text

88th Post

Posted 18 June 2016 at 19:51 EDT

Link to original

> Dear Isellandria,
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> I hope your name is Isellandria. I will name my daughter Trellasandria, and I will tell her to name you Isellandria. These names are prettier more than my name. Ann. Too plain. I am your grandmother and even though you are still not born, I am writing to you in all 100% original English. Grandmother is teaching it to me. My Grandmother is your great-great-grandmother. I call her Ally Halmony yet that is not true English. Woops!
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> Grandmother is my best friend, and she gives me presents. When I meet you, I will give them to you, and we can be best friends the same. Can you keep secrets? Some of the presents are secret. I will keep this letter and your presents safe under my bed until you are here. I will give you the presents and a lot of hugs!
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> I am learning new English every day. Cloister. Do you know what that is? Grandmother use to live there. It is a special house for the mountain-born. Surprise! Ha Ha Ha. Grandmother was a mountain-born surely. She came out of the mountain's womb when she was a little girl. That's why me and mom are very healthy, and I hope you will be very healthy the same. I hope you have curly hair and green eyes, rather plain hair like me.
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> Grandmother said she hated to live in the cloister because the monks are mean. Grandmother does not like monks, yet that is secret. Don't show this letter to anybody. It is for just you. After she moved out of the cloister, she met grandfather. He was very nice yet not healthy, and he is passed on to the love of the Imp sun. On days when the Imp Sun rises before the big Monk Sun, I say some prayers to grandfather. Grandmother never says prayers to the Imp Sun. Rather she only prays inside.
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> I want to tell you about your presents. Grandmother carved them directly from green crystal. The biggest one is a kitty cat. That is an animal that lives on the far world. The next one is a rose. That is a vegetable that grows on the far world. It is supposed to be red yet this one is green and still very pretty. The littlest one is the secret one. Grandmother keeps it for herself, and she will not tell me what it is still. Yet one day she will give it to me.
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> I think she is still working to carve it. When she started to make the rose, it was just a block and she carved it and made it beautiful. When she started the little one, it was just a T shape, yet now she has carved a little man on the front of the T. I know she will finish it very beautiful for you.
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> OK, that's it!
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> See you NOT soon, Isellandria!
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> Ha Ha Ha!
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> Love,
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> Ann
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Elizabeth Bathory

Elizabeth Bathory in 1585

Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed was a Hungarian noblewoman and accused serial killer, rumoured to have killed over 650 people, mostly young women and girls.

Supposedly when she was arrested in 1609, the mutilated bodies of her victims were found in her castle. She was rumoured to bathe in the blood of virgins in order to become eternally youthful. Báthory died in 1614 after several years of solitary imprisonment.

## In The Investigator's Narrative

Elizabeth Báthory is mentioned in Part 06 of The Investigator's Narrative as potentially having knowledge of flesh interfaces before the invention of LSD. The Investigator speculates that the consumption of ergot may have given Báthory an understanding of flesh interfaces similar to what results from the modern consumption of LSD.

Báthory is also mentioned in Part 07 of the same narrative, in which The Investigator states that her behaviour seeming to indicate flesh interface technology was "probably just a coincidence" as LSD had not been invented yet.
Mother Horse Eyes Wikia

This is the Wiki dedicated to the Interface Series, a collection of narratives by Reddit User \_9MOTHER9HORSE9EYES9.

Discover all you could ever want (or not want) to know about Flesh Interfaces, Segmentation, Hygiene Beds, the Feed Realm, and Mother Horse Eyes.

## What is the Interface Series?

The Interface Series consists of a number of interrelated narratives set in different locations and times. The series begins as a science fiction mystery presented in the manner of a conspiracy theory, but soon expands in scope to encompass other genres.

The narratives at times explicitly blur the lines between different realities, perception and fiction. The series has been characterised as an example of creepypasta by some commentators.

Posts first began appearing in April 2016. New posts often appear randomly as responses to Reddit users' comments mostly with no obvious connection to the content of the instalment.

## Who's the author?

The series was published in instalments by the anonymous Author in the form of posts to the social news website Reddit. The Author's posts are made using the username \_9MOTHER9HORSE9EYES9, which is often abbreviated to 9M9H9E9. Mother Horse Eyes is also a character that appears, and is referred to, in several of the narratives. Reddit users established a dedicated Subreddit where the Author's posts are collected and discussed.

## See also

* r/9M9H9E9 - Currently active subreddit dedicated to the discussion and analysis of the story being told
* Reddit wiki
Whales

Whales are a diverse group of fully aquatic placental mammals, although in the Series it mostly refers to the species Megaptera novaeangliae or Humpback whale.

In The CIA Researcher's Narrative Part 04 it is theorised that whales can be an optimal food for an Interface.

## See also

* Wikipedia - Whales
* Wikipedia - Humpback whales
* National Geographic - Humpback whales
Changeling

The process by which the children who have encounters with Mother Horse Eyes are taken from their parents shares some features with the legends of changelings in folklore, though there are some differences.

In the folkloric tradition, changelings are replacements for children that have been taken by fairies or other supernatural beings, usually soon after birth (the Author posted lyrics to a song entitled "Fairy Queen", though this may be coincidental). The replacement is sometimes an enchanted object, such as a piece of wood, intended to maintain the illusion of the original child, but the deception is typically revealed when the replacement "dies" and reverts to its original form.

In contrast to the changeling tales of folklore, the narratives featuring Mother Horse Eyes are written not from the perspective of the parents or families of the changeling, but from the viewpoint of the abducted children themselves. The "changeling" in these cases is not the child but rather the parent or parents, whose role is subsumed by their replacement, Mother Horse Eyes.

The ability to transform objects or non-human creatures into substitutes for real missing people is a feature of The Son's Narrative. As in changeling tales however, the substitution does not genuinely recreate a real person and the illusion is soon shattered.
4

Introductory Text

Link to original

> The Soviets designated large portions of the Ukraine countryside as "harvest populations."
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> Basically, their food and water supplies were dosed with LSD until they had achieved what the Soviets called "integration".
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> This meant that the local populations had independently invented flesh interfaces.
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> The Soviet army would then quarantine the area and try to remove the flesh interfaces for their own use.
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> This was usually without success and with great loss of life.
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> Many of the soldiers and scientists were segmented, as often happens in an incident zone. So they ended up with people missing limbs, cut in half, etc. What's interesting is that the people could live for quite some time despite segmentation.
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> This is what led the Soviets to believe that their missing body parts still existed albeit in some unknown place. So one one of the leading theories of the time was interdimensionality.
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> Quite mistaken.
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19

Introductory Text

19th Post

Posted 25 April 2016 at 20:07:30 EDT

Link to original

> Watching the flesh interface process known as "embrace" is kinda like watching those Japanese subway groping videos.
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> That was honestly the first thing I thought of when I watched it, but of course, I wasn't going to put that in the official report.
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> You ever seen those videos?
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> Oh, you wouldn't admit it if you had, right?
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> It's a whole genre over there. Not the most progressive stuff in terms of gender equality, but compelling nonetheless.
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> The videos start with a woman standing in the subway, minding her own business, when some guy starts feeling her up. She protests demurely and attempts to deflect his roaming hands. He persists.
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> Other men on the subway, perhaps sensing her weakness, join in with the groping. A sort of group madness takes over the subway occupants.
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> The men are transformed from ordinary travelers into a agglomerated mass of arms and hands and fingers, grabbing every part of the woman's body.
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> The woman's attempts at protecting her personal space are always absurdly ineffectual, and soon she is divested of her clothing.
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> Depending on the video's sub-genre, a variety of acts ensue, most of which surely violate local transportation statutes.
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> "Embrace" is kind of like that.
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> That, combined with a school of piranha stripping a live cow of its flesh.
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17

Introductory Text

17th Post of the Series

Posted 24 April 2016 at 19:55:20 EDT

Link to original

> This kind of psychological mirroring was exploited in the design of the flesh interfaces.
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> When a human body is embedded in an interface, the independent (i.e. non-human) interface glands produce massive amounts of LSD which cause intellectual mutations (i.e. time-fracturing along several dozen axes).
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> Meanwhile, independent hormone regulators produce a emotional oscillation between two states:
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> 1. euphoria
> 2. terror
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> Thus we have the typical sound of an interface: alternating waves of giggling and screaming that move through the interface population, running along the length of the interface as the hormones travel along the independent conduits.
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> These successive waves of giggling and screaming create a steady rhythm that washes over the traveler as they move through the interface.
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> Natural empathetic responses (mirroring) prepare the traveler's body for the process of "embrace."
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92

Introductory Text

92nd Post

Posted 27 June 2016 at 22:26:33 UTC

Link to original

> The person sitting in the big chair. New mother. A basement full of specimens. Glistening membranes. Blurred faces laughing. Tower witch monster mountain apocalyptic sky infested with winged things. The dream folds in on itself and spills out dozens of new creatures, images intercourse
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> Panes of light behind everything. Ragged muppet creatures tumbling out and chasing one another, devouring, bloody crunching. Growing panes of light. Galapagos critters howling, ingesting, affixing, lamprey succubus Voltron food chain formation. Panes of light: a persistent locus.
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> The window panes' persistence triggers reality. Rational bootstrapping. Persistence rapidly infects everything else. The weird Galapagos creatures die off, too weird to live. All the props of ordinary reality are rushed into place just before I open my eyes.
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> A sunlit window in a bedroom. Where is this? My new place. I rented it online before moving out of the sober house. This is real. I try to remember what I did over the last few days. The memories are a dark, shifting mess, a clinging mud I'm afraid to touch. Face hurts. My tongue finds cuts on the inside of my bottom lip. Brown spots dot the white pillowcase.
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> Picking my head up and looking around at the room, I recall it from the 20 sober minutes I spent here before going to the bar. Beside the bed, the nightstand has been tipped over and the lamp is a corded pile of shards. Shit. This isn't my stuff. It's just a bedroom in a somebody's house.
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> I slide out of bed. My stomach tingles, my brain tingles, my limbs are moving stroboscopically. Oh, wow, I am inside the nightmare. Mind-crucifying. Reddish spots make a trail along the hardwood floor. Fuck fuck fuck. I can't handle this. I run to the little bathroom, and a red-faced creature lurches into the mirror's frame. Oh, Jesus. A distorted mass of bruises. I turn this way and that to see my new features. The horrible tingling in my brain feels like it is going to eat through my skull. I check my teeth and my heart sinks. The bonding on my front tooth has been knocked out. The other teeth seem OK though.
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> I look down at the sink. It seems to have been scrubbed with blood. Swirling trails of reddish brown cover the porcelain. It's on the floor, the toilet, the walls. Oh, it's a lot of blood.
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Hill Myna

Hill Myna are a species of starling adept at imitating sounds. The CIA Researcher's Narrative explains that they are sent through a Flesh Interface in the hopes of recording sounds from the other side. The birds return imitating strange speech-like Flute Music.

Hill Myna also feature in Aldous Huxley's final Novel, Island.
Theories

**Mother Horse Eyes is a Flesh Interface**

The Investigator's Narrative and the CIA Narrative describe how government agencies investigating the flesh interfaces began to use children in their experiments, owing to their ability to survive "Travel" with relatively few side effects. The ideal age for a subject would therefore be young enough to survive undamaged, but old enough to remember and recount the experience. All of the children who are depicted having encounters with Mother Horse Eyes appear to fall into this age range.

Furthermore, the children are mysteriously taken from their parents by unidentified characters (described as "them" in one account) and delivered to Mother Horse Eyes. This matches the description in the CIA Researcher's Narrative of the abduction process used by the agency to obtain research subjects.

The children are also given some kind of hallucinogenic "medicine" by Mother Horse Eyes that keeps them under her control. This medicine may be the LSD or some other related hallucinogen that the government agencies are described to be experimenting with.

Mother Horse Eyes is depicted as a monstrous assemblage of disintegrating flesh from various separate creatures, much in the same way that flesh interfaces seem to incorporate the flesh of many people. Post 45 of the Mother Horse Eyes Narrative describes how Mother Horse Eyes seems to be reassembled by mysterious flute-like music which matches the description of music on the other side of the Flesh Interfaces reported to the government agency investigators. Another mention of flute music is made in Karen's Narrative, where she describes the 'cheap' soundtrack of the 'Children of the Forest' game as flute-like.

**Chitinous Cruciforms are related to the arthropods of The Arthropod's Narrative**

**Mother and Flesh Interfaces are related to Sarkicism of the SCP Wiki**

both of these universes include instances of body modification and horror, and seemingly include an instance of a godlike figure related to corruption like Mother and Yaldabaoth.
The US Black Ops Narrative

A narrative of the Interface Series. It revolves around a team of Black Ops from the U. S. exploring a village in Vietnam only to find a Flesh Interface.

## The US Black Ops Narrative Full Text

### **The Village**

The US Black Ops Narrative Part 01

13th Post

Posted 23 April 2016 at 02:14:11 EDT

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> Until we found the village, we had suspected that the detectors were just props. Just toys given to us by the CIA guys to reassure us. Nobody trusted the spooks. 3 days through the jungle, and these detectors had not detected a fucking thing. But before we even saw the first hut, the needles on all the detectors started moving in unison. If they were phony toys, it was a cool little special effect. The needles swayed back and forth and all the little metal boxes let out this spooky "ooaaooaaaooo" sound all in unison, like a school choir. Very weird. We turned them off.
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> As instructed, we treated every vietnamese as combatants, and killed them all. There wasn't any resistance though. A few had weapons, but most were unarmed. None fought back. They didn't even run. They were just sitting around, lazing in the sun, and we shot them where we found them.Grim work. And very weird. That probably spooked us out more than the detectors. It was like they were waiting to die.
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> After clearing the village, we didn't know what to do. So we turned one of the detectors on and wandered around to see what was up. The detector started going nuts around one of the bigger huts in the middle of the village. We had already cleared it, but we went in again. There was a big altar inside, with candles and Buddhas and gold signs with dink writing and shit. We figured maybe one of the buddha statues was setting the detectors off, but no.
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> The hut was very hot and muggy. Even by the incredibly humid standards of Vietnam, it was incredibly, incredibly humid in there. Even the Buddha statues were sweating. Their faces were literally coated with drops of moisture. Everybody noticed that there was something weird going with the air. There was something off about the pressure. So we just tossed everything.Picked all the shit up and tossed it out of the hut. Sure enough, when we picked up the big platform that held the altar, there was something under it.
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> It was a pit made of flesh. Maybe five feet across and going down about twenty feet before curving out of sight. When I say, "made of flesh," I mean, it looked like the inside of somebody's throat. Wet, reddish flesh-looking stuff. We had heard of them building tunnels, but this was... We really couldn't even understand what we were looking at.
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> It was breathing. The flesh kinda rippled and this hot air came out, and it felt and smelled just like somebody breathing right on your face. Enough to make you sick.
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> They told us "we would know it when we saw it."
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> Well, we saw it, and we knowed it.
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> We radioed in the coordinates and got the fuck out of there.
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5

Introductory Text

5th Post of the Series

Posted 21 April 2016 at 18:20:20 EDT

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> Dubai probably has the highest rate of free-floating non-interface incidents of any major metropolitan area in the world.
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> In one incident, a large group of migrant workers was segmented in an underground facility.
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> Perfect cross-sectional segmentation along the frontal plane.
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> You could see their lungs working, food being digested, blood pumping on the inside of the heart, everything.
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> They live for almost 5 months in this condition.
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> Absolutely fascinating to see in person.
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> There was also a group of school children who were very slightly segmented, just ends of fingers and bits of the calves and such.
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> Hardly fatal wounds, yet they all died within 2 months.
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> Some showed signs of intellectual mutation.
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> There are no known flesh interfaces in Dubai.
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> However, it is surmised that the architecture is actually based on interface geometry and carries some latent interface-like power.
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> Mass segmentations remain one of the most mysterious aspects of the interfaces. They seem to show that the interfaces do indeed concentrate on flesh, living up to their name.
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79

## How The Flesh Dances and How The Flesh Plays

### Concepts

*Unknown*

Introductory Text

### **How The Flesh Dances and How The Flesh Plays**

The Poetic Narratives Part 01

79th Post

Posted 6 June 2016 at 04:00:00 EDT

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> How The Flesh Dances And How The Flesh Plays
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> How the flesh toils and spins through its days
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> See the flesh happy and strapping and young
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> See the flesh sagging and dragging and glum
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> Sssssshhhhh....
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> Hear now the giggling
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> See shadows grow
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> Step down the hallway
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> Each door aglow
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> Watch now the ceiling
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> Sweet cradle rocks
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> Who made these puppets?
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> Who made this clock?
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> Ancient hand on the cradle
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> Withered lips form a song
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> Golden wheels spinning backward
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> Withered hand becomes young
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> The hands can spin
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> Spin then slow
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> The clock is wound afresh
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> But is the key
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> Turned this time
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> By fingers made of flesh?
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10

Introductory Text

Link to original

> In response to what the CIA had "accomplished" with their Antarctic station in Artigas, the Soviets built a larger station in Novaya Zemlya in the Arctic.
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> 30,000 prisoners and an exceptionally pure gas concentration created a flesh interface which went through all seven stages in less than thirteen minutes and became a full fledged portal.
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> Within a day, the typical fluctuating metallic cylinders were visible and within 3 days they were extending miles into the sky.
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> The Soviets quickly realized that the portal was growing out of control. In previous instances, they had simply bombed the site from the air. But in this case, the enormous cylinders and attendant incident zone, extending to the edge of space, prevented this as well as missile strikes. There was also an exceptionally large lateral incident zone around the portal, with segmentation occurring miles out from the site.
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> Alarmed by the zone's uncontrolled growth and the growing underground tunnels (aka "ant farms") the Soviets worked feverishly to construct a hydrogen bomb of unprecedented power which could be detonated from outside the incident zone and still collapse the portal.
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> The steady rate of growth in the incident zone provided them with an exact deadline, which they managed to meet with only two hours to spare. Any later, and the bomb could not have been placed so as to collapse the interface.
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> In short, the world came within 2 hours being subjected to an uncontrolled flesh interface and perhaps the end of civilization as we know it.
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> Before the portal was collapsed, however, the Soviets had gained firsthand knowledge of one of the so-called Sister Cities. In other words, somebody had gone into the portal and come back.
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28

Introductory Text

28th Post

Posted 29 April 2016 at 03:20:07 EDT

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> What do you do when a child who bleeds and sweats and pees LSD suddenly goes missing? We conducted a massive search. As massive as we could manage. Almost every "mentally elevated" CIA department was involved. We didn't trust anybody else. We never trusted anybody else. Shit, we didn't even trust ourselves, considering that it was one of our own who had taken the child.
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> We searched for about two months, but never really turned up any leads. Since every other "returned" child had died within a few days of being freed from their amniotic sac, we scaled the search down pretty quickly. It's one thing to search for somebody like Bin Laden, when everybody knows you're looking for him. It's another thing to search for somebody you had just worked quite hard to erase from official existence so you would be free to perform tests on her. We felt that the search itself was more of a security risk than the missing child, since she was almost certainly dead.
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> There was also a feeling that maybe it was for the best. Maybe she would survive. Maybe she would have a happy life. Maybe it was best not to know her fate.
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> But then, about 7 years later, we learned what happened.
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> If you'll allow me to wax philosophical for a moment, I'd like to quote a poem by Aeschylus that I've actually never read: "Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God." While I'm no literary scholar, I believe this means, "Learning can hurt sometimes."
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> So she had survived. Her genes came up in our program to collect a global genetic snapshot (a total boondoggle, btw). So where was she? In some Russian laboratory? Living out in the jungle, being worshipped as a god by some doomsday cult like Johnny Htoo? Floating through space in a bubble to Jupiter and beyond?
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> Estonia. She was found in Estonia in a Swedish speaking village on the island of Hiiumaa. She was living a normal life. Apparently the issue with the bio-LSD had resolved itself after detachment from the placenta, otherwise, anybody who got a kiss from her would have found themselves going on a very strange journey. She was about 13 years old at this point and had survived travel far longer than any other child. This meant she was an asset we absolutely had to obtain. She contained the secret to survivable travel, something that had eluded us for years.
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> It would have been convenient if she was living a life of abuse and drudgery in some orphanage somewhere. We could have simply considered her a victim of fortune. But she was actually living in a quaint little village on the edge of a beautiful forest with an old couple who had been given some phony story by our former agent. It was a nice life. Quiet. Maybe a little boring. But a nice one.
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> We took her in the middle of the night back to our facility in Colorado.
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> In the end, she wasn't a victim of fortune.
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> She was a victim of us.
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44

Introductory Text

44th Post

Posted 10 May 2016 at 02:38:32 EDT

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> The Oily Ones lack all harmony. They are neither silky nor subtle. They are slow and stupid. And loud. Evilly loud! Arrogantly, thoughtlessly, senselessly loud. Night and day, they make noise. Their unnatural things make noise. They cry to each other like kittens. They are far larger and stronger than any of our kind, but they are more hairless than the newly born, and they cry like hungry whelps. It is evil. It is abomination.
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> They make dead things live. Things which do not have the smell of life should not live! But these things are touched by the Oily Ones, and they live and move. This is evil, unnatural magic. Their unnatural things come in all different shapes, and contain deadly mysteries and tricks and traps. Some are invisible. Some are faster than sight. Some never sleep. Some cut and claw. These unnatural things lack all harmony, like the Oily Ones themselves.
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> I've seen the deadly darkness of the their magic. I've seen our kind crushed and smeared by their things. I've seen our kind disappear inside their things, never to be seen again. Once, I saw a kitten who was struck by their magic, who made bloody foam from the mouth for three days, who died in agony.
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> Yes, I have known sleeplessness.
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> I know them as evil. And this would seem to be all, but there is more. There is more. There is mystery.
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> There is the mysterious smell of the oily ones, the smell by which we know them. It is both awful and alluring, disgusting and entrancing. It smells like the sweet oily fat that coats the heart of a pigeon, the best part of the flesh. We find ourselves drawn to it, drawn to them. And there is their food, which can contain dark magic, but also feeds many of us, and truly tastes wonderful and righteous, and does not scuttle but always sleeps and is easy to hunt.
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> Even more mysteriousness is their kindness. For it is they, they alone of all the living things, who show our kind any affection, who bring us food, as if we are their young.
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> As if they are our mother.
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> How could this be? How could these evil beings show us affection? How could they show us more affection than the world itself, who is of our kind? This is the central mystery. Ever since my kitten died, this has become my obsession.
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> I have watched them closely. I have looked into the strange places where they hide, where they appear and disappear, the places full of mysterious lights and smells and ten thousand forms of evil and wickedness. If I am to capture this mystery, if I am to feed on its sweet, oily heart, I must go inside one of these places. I must go through one of their portals.
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38

Introductory Text

38th Post

Posted 7 May 2016 at 01:48:41 EDT

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> V.O. SCRIPT:
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> Rachel does not dream. Rachel does not sleep. Rachel does not wake.
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> Rachel feels! All the time!
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> Rachel Head has a direct sense feed with Reinhardt Emotive FPS Blending™ for stunning clarity and total sensory presence. With the entire cultural library at her fingertips, Rachel can put herself into any scenario and create precision mixes at speed-of-mind. Watch as she blends Beethoven's 5th Symphony with the asteroid orbital catalogue, the 2018 World Cup game and the hot new anal cumming video from Angelica Eleenya.
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> What mastery!
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> See the subtle crafting and non-stuttering blends?
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> That's because Reinhardt's proprietary technology blend-splits 240 visual FPS on the fly to create an eye-popping visual stream of over 1000 FPS, while simultaneously delivering 60 tactile FPS and 60 olfactory FPS. Now this is salvation!
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> But, hey, forget the specs. Check out the feelings! Her Holocaust Child Victim Disco Muscle Thumps have walls around the world shedding tears and making those real feels. You can't fake this stuff! Are you tired of distant, deadened emotions? Reinhardt Emotive FPS Blending™ give you realistic, immersive feelings, without excess rumination or thought-linger. This kind of subtlety just isn't possible at ordinary 240 FPS. That's the difference for Rachel. That can be the difference for you.
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> Rachel does not dream. Rachel does not sleep. Rachel does not live. Rachel does not die.
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> Rachel feels.
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> Can you?
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45

Introductory Text

45th Post

Posted 10 May 2016 at 19:08:47 EDT

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> I sit in my room, watching bright specks of dust float through the sunlight from the window. The summer heat is pressed against the glass. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower whines. The air is stale. The corners of the room are filled with damp shadows. My toys lie on the floor, scattered.
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> I hear the fractured music down the hall. A sound like wind chimes. A shudder goes through the old house, and I find myself rising. I am walking down the hallway, called to the other end. I smell her as I get closer. Foul meat. Gray hair. Stomach acid.
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> I walk in her room, and her bloody pieces are lying all over the floor. The strange flute music slowly coalesces into a melody, and the pieces rise and float like flies. The music charms them into formation, and they come together to make Mother. The eyes are missing, still fleshy cavities. They come in from the hallway, floating over my head, settling into her face with a squishing sound, streams of blood falling like tears. The sideways pupils fix on me.
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> "Child, fetch me my bag. I need flesh."
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> I shake my head. I hate her. She leaps to me, grabs a handful of my hair and slaps me across the face with her ragged dog's paw, again and again. I scream and cry. She lets me go. Sobbing, I go to the closet and get her big bag. We wait until night.
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37

Introductory Text

37th Post

Posted 6 May 2016 at 19:12:20 EDT

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> One day during the final summer, a team of doctors came in from Berlin.
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> They were in the midst of a grand experiment which they considered to be of the utmost importance and needed access to a large number of prisoners, something beyond what they could acquire in Berlin. We protested that we were not equipped for any sort of medical experiments, that our camp was designed for a single purpose, but they insisted, and we were forced to accommodate them.
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> I was immediately irritated by their senior doctor, a haughty man in his late forties named Engel, who always wore a crisp white coat and fine leather shoes. He arrived with his team of doctors and-- I could scarcely believe it -- a Jew.
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> This was perhaps the ugliest Jew to have ever personally offended my eyes. He was a very tall man, a full head taller than average, with a furry black beard, a gnarled, claw-like nose, and very prominent eyes. These eyes were something of a source of fascination to me, as they were not the rat-like black color of the normal Jew, but a much lighter shade of brown, almost like bronze. He wore a shabby suit and followed Engel around quite closely, almost as if they were associates, and always his strange, flashing eyes were roaming about in a suspicious way.
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> When I first met Engel, I asked who this Jew was, but my question was brushed aside. They immediately set about converting one of our buildings into a station for their experiments, the details of which were kept from me entirely. Engel and his team made no contact with the other staff except to demand various supplies.
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> After a few days of being subjected to Engel's imperious behavior, I could feel that my SS subordinates and even the Ukrainians were smirking at me behind my back, so I decided to give Engel a tour of the other part of the camp, which he had not yet seen, the part where we processed prisoners. Of course he refused, but I insisted. Fortunately, a trainload of prisoners was arriving at the moment, and we went out to the platform. The odious Jew with glittering eyes followed us, which pleased me all the more.
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> The train arrived with the cries of its passengers blending into the squealing of the metal wheels. The blue units worked themselves into their usual frenzy, pulling the passengers out, shouting and clubbing and herding them toward the main gate. Amidst the crush of passengers, the limp bodies of children occasionally came spilling out onto the platform, and the blue units tossed them into a pile. Engel watched all of this impassively.
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> A woman came out of the train clutching a child of perhaps three years. She looked about frantically, screaming for a doctor. I gave her a sympathetic look and held out my arms. She approached me, the handsome stolid-looking authority figure that I am. I took the child from her and tenderly examined it. It was still alive. I placed it gently on the ground and used my boot to reshape its skull. The woman I shot.
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Encasement

Encasement is a fictional concept in the Interface Series.

## Process

The CIA Researcher describes the process of encasement as:

> "we sent Jingles into flesh interface and an object returned 2 minutes later[...] It was a large organic sac lined with veins, vaguely resembling a human lung, about 4 feet long. We x-rayed it and saw the skeleton inside and cut it open[...] Jingles was inside, naked and covered with blood, with no hair on her head. There was an umbilical cord attached to her bellybutton, which was attached to a sort of placenta."
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