"Eh. Probably some K-Class scenario happening somewhere."
"So what happens if they don't, uh—'reply in a sufficiently soulful manner'?"
Lawbert paused for only a fraction of a second as his massive brain dug up the corresponding information from underneath the layers of blubber.
"Should the described circumstances occur the offending participant will be considered to have lost the duel and also be a total poser. The nature of consequences for L-taking varies depending on the agreement between the duelists howeverly posertude is a severe offence in the regions of the noosphere where Slam-Poetry Duels are legal and a standard case is punishable by sentencing of 2.311 grams of community service."
"Grams?"
"Affirmative in the leftern lobes community service is defined as 'mandatory injection of complex sensations into—'"
"—Oh right, right! Psilocybin was the standard, so then they just consult the conversion chart if they use something else, right?"
"Affirmative."
Foundation Researcher Denzel Haldings finished filling his thirtieth page with the details of Noospheric Slam-Poetry Duels. Something about the nice, clean multiple of ten got him to objectively consider what he had spent the past hour and a half writing. He removed his glasses, then firmly planted his forehead flat on the desk.
Haldings had been with the Foundation for just under four years now, and he periodically asked himself why. He wasn't particularly important or skilled, perpetually hovering back and forth between the ranks of Junior Researcher and Researcher proper, so he could likely quit without much of a fuss. And given his unerring knack for winding up in the wrong place at the wrong time, only averting disaster through the same bizarre luck that put him in danger in the first place, it would certainly make his life far safer. So why stick with it?
Well, he knew why. The only thing more terrifying to him than walking around in a world full of anomalies would be doing so without even knowing it. At least this way his fear kept him primed to leg it at the drop of a hat.
"Next is article the fourth sub-section omicron: defined as if a participant should not respond to a challenge that they had verbally or mentally consented to at all within a period of—"
"—Just, just gimme a second, Lawbert."
Lawbert was a creature that took instructions very seriously, and followed them faithfully. The amount of time he waited before continuing was exactly one second, measured by his massive brain structure more accurately than an atomic clock. He felt very proud of being a Good and Obedient and Lawful space grub.
"—six Tuesdays or other Tuesday-shaped lumps of dreamtime."
There was a distinct "bding!" from Haldings' laptop. He tabbed over and looked at the SCiPnet message for approximately as long as it took for him to leap to his feet and grab his glasses. "Oh, hey, Lawbert, sorry but I have to go, uh, it's—Oh, Borgmann is back."
The extremely pink organism gasped. "Researcher Haldings! It is the 43,805nd not-birthday of Evil Kevin!1 You must greet the Director Borgmann at once and also pass on my ceremonial greetings as I have not received verbal permission to leave mine containment cell to do so in the fleshular!"
"Yep. Yep." Haldings was already out of the containment chamber.
In the small lobby of the also small Site-47, a couple others were already there as a tall figure stepped through the door. Most of them, similarly to the approaching Haldings, were pretending they didn't have anything else they should be doing, although they didn't want to not greet their noble leader. Site Director Gene Borgmann was a fairly likeable man, as far as bosses go. Anything with the same jolly portliness as him tended to sort of deflect animosity.
Haldings scurried over towards the vending machine in the corner of the lobby. A familiar, impeccably dressed and impeccably bored figure was already there waiting for him, and gave a casual nod. Agent Scott2 was probably Haldings' best friend at the site. When he had first been transferred to the site after one of his famous Haldings Moments, they had initially been put on several assignments together in the hopes that the agent's cool, collected demeanor would rub off on him.
This might have worked if Scott hadn't found Haldings entirely hilarious.
The two of them had quickly settled into a nerd/preppy kid symbiotic relationship. Scott was the sort who had joined up expecting to be assigned daring acts of espionage, as opposed to sitting in a car for seven hours watching to see if a fire hydrant spontaneously changed colors. As such, Haldings was a valuable source of enrichment for him while Scott became someone who would laugh and go along with it instead of screaming at him when Haldings had to explain the set of circumstances that led to him exploding five fire extinguishers in the Keter wing. The amount of effort and thought the two of them had put into finding more efficient ways of goofing off while technically still doing what they were supposed to be doing could have gotten them a doctorate.
Haldings jammed a dollar into the vending machine. "Hey. Welcome back, Director."
Borgmann looked around in momentary bewilderment for the source of the greeting, before adopting the cheery grin used by supervisors everywhere in an attempt to ignore the potential correlation between an employee's friendliness and one's control over their salary. "Mr. Haldings! Agent Scott! Pleased to be back!"
The bossman puffed on through the lobby, receiving smattered greetings as he went. "How was the Director's conference?" a very bored Agent Scott asked. "Oh," he replied, "Nothing exciting. Site-41 exists again. And 107 still needs about five times more funding." The agent tagged along with Borgmann as he continued, coming to a stop at the same vending machine as Haldings. The meek researcher, having claimed his pack of peanut butter crackers from a C-Tier brand, went to scuttle off but stopped.
"Oh, uh, Director. Lawbert said to greet you. Something about a birthday."
"Sounds like a fun change of pace. Everyone was a little—was stiffer than usual at the congress."
"Dang. What happened?"
Borgmann shrugged, before returning his attention to the vending machine. Scott waved a hand dismissively before chiming in.
"Eh. Probably some K-Class scenario happening somewhere."
Somewhere.
I conceive of myself.
I stir.
Initial welcome-home greetings over with, Gene Borgmann closed the door to his office before turning back to look at the room. It was as he left it; the corkboard was dotted with various thumbtacked Far Side cartoons, the small plastic elephant seal reared majestically next to the nameplate on his desk, the potted plant remained potted.
And the fridge.
He sighed, and settled into his intentionally-comically-small office chair. No use putting it off any longer. Being a site director meant there were certain things you had the responsibility of handling yourself. Leaning back, he double-checked the fridge's contents, inspected the concealed switch on the side of his desk, made sure the room's security cameras were running, and sat in wait.
11:55 am. There was a polite knock on the office door, and Gene assumed his most unassuming, baby-faced smile. "Come in!"
Management Liaison McCann stepped in smoothly. He was a recent addition to the site, only having been there around a month, and a temporary one at that. The nature of his role had him staying in one place for only a couple months at a time, moving from site to site wherever a need was found. In another week, he was scheduled to head elsewhere.
"Director. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I did! Don't worry, just a quick bit of business." Borgmann rummaged in a drawer for a few seconds before bringing out a neatly-organized personnel file and an opened envelope. McCann nodded, and took the seat opposite him.
"What about? I trust my file is in good order."
"Hmm? Oh, this isn't your file. It's Doctor Harris'."
McCann made a well-crafted expression of mild confusion. "Well, I'm—"
"—Oh, sorry, I should've mentioned, no need for secrecy. As Site Director, even of a smaller site like this, I have clearance regarding the FSD."
The 'Management Liaison' took a moment to look over the director. The man before him looked like a perfect hybrid of Kirby and the unnamed boss from Dilbert, resulting in something close to Brian Baumgartner. His eyes twinkled, and he didn't have even the slightest hint of stubble or worry on his face. It was impossible to feel threatened by him.
"Ah."
"Sorry again, I should've brought it up right away."
"No matter. So…" McCann gestured at the file with a minute tilt of his head. "Are there any issues with my work with Dr. Harris? If you're briefed on Fire Suppression, then you're well aware—"
"—Oh no, no issues, I'm well aware of the necessity of the division's work. This is just a little bit extra, to make sure everything goes smoothly." Borgmann's smile didn't falter for a second, his pink cheeks still dimpled upwards. "You see, there's a little drawback to FSD work, in that it can make the subjects feel disenfranchised with the Foundation. They'll stay, sure, but the quality of their work may drop. In our line of work, that can lead to fatalities, you know!"
McCann registered the plastic animal on the desk. "Elephant Seal" was a nickname that Borgmann had acquired from his subordinates over the years, in reference to his stature and tendency to make odd noises when startled. The Director had never complained about the moniker.
"So what do you propose?"
"Oh, nothing like that, no big projects. You'll be on your way in a couple minutes. The proposal has already been approved by Ethics," The director picked up the envelope, showing off the seal. McCann relaxed.
"—Just like your work was!"
The smiling eyes still hadn't looked away. McCann began to feel uneasy. "All it is, is that we help the subject in question feel like the incidents aren't going unnoticed, and that punitive action is being taken on their behalf to right any perceived wrongs. It works like a charm to reestablish loyalty."
Despite their comical appearance, male elephant seals fight for dominance in bloody displays where they slam against each other at full force. Their blubbery weight turns them into leathery battering rams, and the battles can go on for nearly an hour. The victor is only determined when one of them collapses from injury and exhaustion.
"It actually follows the same doctrine as Fire Suppression, in that a little uncomfortableness is a small price to pay for ensuring that the Foundation's workforce remains in top shape."
McCann's eyes quickly flicked towards the door.
When he looked back, the fridge was suddenly wide open and Borgmann was holding an entire largemouth bass,3 which was wearing ruby-red lipstick and false lashes.
"So, you just need to kiss the fish, McCann."
"Wh—What?? Are you out of your mind?"
"Ethics approved this, chum! Humiliation is even cheaper than threats, and has been ruled to be more moral as well. I'm sure you understand how this is necessary for continued operation."
McCann's face twisted into outrage.
"This is—"
"Oh, come on now. A little pain to keep the gears turning. That's what FSD is all about, that's what you are all about! Unless," Borgmann stared down, his cherubic smile utterly genuine. "You don't believe that. Unless you're just a small, cruel man on a power trip, leaping at an opportunity to get away with bullying."
The fish loomed closer as McCann stammered. The security cameras were trained on him.
"If that's the case, then I suppose you won't have to pucker up. I'll just inform the rest of the division that you might be unfit for your current station. That might get the whole branch looked into by Ethics, and your higher-ups might be demoted for letting it happen. Now, if you were a bully, you probably wouldn't care too much about whose careers you hurt."
Borgmann's grin still hadn't changed, but that was frightening now. Elephant seals primarily eat smaller fish, squid and crustaceans, but they have been known to occasionally eat sharks.
"But if there were others like you in the division, then they might care about who had gotten them demoted. They might care a whole lot."
The smaller man's mouth opened and closed without speech, rather like a largemouth bass.
The Site Director's door burst open as McCann stumbled out of the office, gagging and wiping off lipstick. He turned back to look into the office, and attempted to resurrect his air of importance. "You can't—You can't keep getting away with, with silly shit, Borgmann! We aren't in 2009 anymore!" he said, with finger pointed accusatorily.
The jolly man laughed.
"It gets results, friend! Just you watch me!"
After McCann had fled, Borgmann closed the door and placed the trusty fish back in the fridge. He sat down and finished sending off an email to Dr. Harris, camera footage contained within, and got busy reviewing containment proposals. It was unfortunate that the FSD was secretive even among themselves, and that embarrassed agents tended not to talk about what their pride had been through, otherwise they might have finally got the message that they weren't welcome at Site-47.
He couldn't magically undo the damage that had been done. But good laughter and a little justice was a great way to start.
The big man's smile was gentler now. Things were back to normal.
Elsewhere, a shadowy figure suddenly looked up from what they had been doing. In a voice that would be instantly recognizable if this weren't in text format, they whispered:
"It's coming."
They leapt to their feet, frizzy hair bouncing as they slung their weapon over their shoulder. Odd colors glittered in the darkness for a moment, and then they were gone.
Yu Shin-Il returned home from a long day overseeing the construction site. The new hospital was coming along slightly behind schedule, but there shouldn't be any issues. Funding was secured, South Korea was a wealthy country. Wealthy with money, certainly, and a rich and vibrant culture. But, he considered, lacking in other things. Birthrates were still declining. The hospital would see use treating illness and injury, but how many births would take place there? Far fewer, to be certain. In his childhood, long gone, gone like so many things, draining down the long spiral that was time, it had been different. Time stopped for no man, and that was the truth of it. It marched on, and on, always moving at the same pace and yet in some moments it could still seem to drag on forever, drag like his feet had dragged him up the stairs and through his door, where he still stood, pondering the moment, the moment that seemed to drag on forever, drag like his feet had dragged him up the stairs and through his door, where he still stood, pondering the moment, the moment that seemed to drag on forever, drag like his feet had dragged him up the stairs and through his door, where he still stood, pondering the moment, the moment that seemed to drag on forever, drag like his feet had
Stefani Markusdóttir knelt in her garden, determined to make the most of the daylight while spring lasted. You had to move quick in Iceland. And she did, but not as quick as the pests. She sighed as she inspected a leaf pockmarked with tiny cookie-cutter bites. As hard as one worked, there was always more work to do. Nothing could remain pristine after contact with the world. Still, she labored. It was what one did. But what would come of the labor? Everything that grew would be eaten away in time. No matter how much time passed, was the universe not still in its perpetual state of fruitless struggle? A grim, eternal infinity was all that the future held, never improving, and never ending either, just continuing onwards in its current mode, the only changes being superficial, a grim, eternal infinity was all that the future held, never improving, and never ending either, just continuing onwards in its current mode, the only changes being superficial, a grim, eternal infinity was all that the future held, never improving, and never ending either, just continuing onwards in its current mode, the only changes being superficial, a grim, eternal infinity was all that the future held, never improving, and never ending either, just continuing onwards in its current mode, the only changes being superficial,
The Angel stood where it had always stood, the twin rivers intertwining around it. The sand where the tip of its sword rested was molten glass now. It thought not of the garden behind it, save for its task of denying entry. It thought not of the world before it, save for its task of turning it away. Its duty was absolute. For the myriad souls of the children of God, it would not divert from its vigil for an instant. Knowledge of what was and what was soon to be flowed through the flames of its mind. It did not move. There could be no task of greater gravity than the one which it had been made for. Its voice impelled perfect obedience because it was perfectly obedient. It would obey. It thought of its task only with utmost seriousness. It would not move. It would stand guard where it had always stood, the twin rivers intertwining around it. The sand where the tip of its sword rested was molten glass now. It thought not of the garden behind it, save for its task of denying entry. It thought not of the world before it, save for its task of turning it away. Its duty was absolute. For the myriad souls of the children of God, it would not divert from its vigil for an instant. Knowledge of what was and what was soon to be flowed through the flames of its mind. It did not move. There could
Under-Secretary General D.C. Al Fine of the Global Occult Coalition surveyed the latest batch of reports. Seemingly every day now, new threats and new groups were cropping up. Some of them were swallowed up by other major players before they could be dealt with, and plenty were stomped out by the organization's troops, but there were still far too many left unaccounted for. Monsters. Plagues. Oddities. Dissidents. All of them straying from how the world should be, poisoning it, diluting it like saltwater in the well. This would not go unpunished. The firm boot of authority would come down and correct these errors. Yes. All that did not conform would be stamped out. Yes. These ones, these ones could be used. The gray mask fell over Al Fine's features, and spread to all those she commanded. United by authority. Empowered by it. Defined by it. In rightful, obedient service of it. Of Me.
Ameline Allard, Doctor of Pataphysics, was running from her lab to the Site Director's office. There was a reality anchor there, maybe it would be safe. She knew that it was a silly hope. This wasn't reality bending, whatever it was. The readings she had seen were those of the largest concentrated metanarrative spikes in history. This was a raw, elemental force of narrative, a living theme. There was no telling what it could do. She needed to get this news to the O5 council as soon as possible. The Foundation's task was thankless, but necessary. To stem the flow of terrors and uphold the status quo, keeping the world in that grey twilight between life and death. And nowhere was it more grey than for the Foundation, and their thankless but necessary task. To stem the flow of terrors and uphold the status quo, keeping the world in that grey twilight between life and death. And nowhere was it more grey than for the Foundation, and their thankless but necessary task. To stem the flow of terrors and uphold the status quo, keeping the world in that grey twilight between life and death. And nowhere was it more grey than for the Foundation, and their
…
I am here.
…
…
"…Howeverly if the defendant should fail to accurately smhyme—that is an approved abbreviation of 'smell rhyme'—then their case is automatically forfeit unless a medical examination can prove that their relevant glands are impaired and were impaired at the time of the incident."
"Cool."
"Yes super awesome cool now we continue to the jury bylaws for members versus non-members of the Oneiroi Collective in a mixed courtspace."
"Coo—Wait, the collective?"
"Affirmative."
"That's, uh, I think that's a GoI. I might not have clearance for this. Lemme ask Sambre."
Lawbert was blessedly quiet as Haldings typed out his message. Once the query was sent, he leaned back in his chair and let out a long "whooof".
"Okay, I'm calling break time until she answers."
Haldings finished the last of his peanut butter crackers, and took a swig from his water bottle. He got up and stretched briefly, then sat back down. No response.
"Mrm. She usually responds pretty quick, she's probably in the middle of something."
"Yes Doctorate Sambre is known to be highly punctual."
He reached back down to his laptop. "In the meantime, the, uh, new DanDaDan chapter is probably up."
Haldings killed as much additional time as he thought he could get away with. Eventually, he sighed and straightened up his posture again.
"Okay, if she's still busy then it's probably important. I'll try Kellan."
"…Okay, Ainsfield."
"…Damn, them too? Uh. Should I try the boss?"
"There is no legislature preventing this course of action."
"Okay, on it."
"…Oh. Uh-oh."
"What is the cause for consternated expression?"
"I only, uh, just noticed. Nobody else has sent anything in any of the channels since, like, an hour ago. Nothing. Not just our site, but—but globally."
Haldings looked up at the greater nerd anxiously.
"Lawbert, this might be something serious."
