Sanjay slowly trudged down the cobblestone alley, the gloomy sky above neatly mimicking his mood. He looked at every door for the mark, occasionally taking care to glance over his shoulder. In the past 7 months, nobody had followed him, at least none that he'd seen.

The marked door turned out to be the back entrance to a dentistry parlor, tucked neatly behind some stacked crates. With a final glance to the side, Sanjay knocked on the door.

A slit above the doorknob opened up. "What's yer business?"

Sanjay swallowed. "To tell a whisper, not a secret."

With a clank, clunk, and clink, the door was opened. Stepping inside, Sanjay stopped to take in the sights and smells. The room was a cluttered one, with broken chairs mended with parts broken off from the tables. A makeshift counter had been constructed from the same type of crate he'd seen outside, crudely painted black. The smell of cooked vegetables permeated the air. The few other patrons had already settled in their corners, making their conversation. Sanjay heard a few snippets as he headed to his usual spot.

"… heard that Grigori got with the meateye…"

"… think of what actual Cabbage would be like?"

"I heard Damien tried some, and lost his head."

"Bah, nobody loses their heads. S'only a rumor they spread to discourage vegetarianism…"

Sanjay settled in the lefthand corner table, the one with the 3rd wobbliest leg. When the surly server came to take his order, he got the steamed cauliflower and stumproot. Sometimes he'd order the eggplant, or the carrot, but he wasn't feeling as adventurous today.

Eating vegetables in a seedeasy wasn't exactly Sanjay's idea of the best time, but it was a good time nonetheless. Here, nobody would pester him to eat more meat, or try and ask why he had the scratches. He needed the veggies, to keep the scratchies away. Just had to eat, and not think.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. The trickling of conversation seemed as though someone had turned the faucet off. There was nobody else scheduled to come in…

Then, like a surge of floodwater, Elrian militiamen burst into the room from all sides. Screaming in the name of the king, they brought their broadswords down on any who tried to run. Sanjay dived into the crate pile, but it was too late. A militiaman grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and slammed him with the hilt of his sword.

As everything went black, Sanjay struggled to hear the men.

"Good bust, Mcanny. That's one lest seedeasy in Elra."

"Verily. What'dwe do with the rat pack here?"

"Send 'em to Biffy, in dungeon five. We haven't had a good losin' head game in awhile."

"Alright. Tell him to wait up fer me, would'ja?"

"Heh, I will, don'tcha worry…"

and then everything went black.

The first thing Sanjay could feel was the cold stone pressing on his face. It was a bit dusty, a bit grimy, with a hint of ancient history. All the classical signs of castle dungeon masonry. It all came rushing back to him… the black carriage that had pulled up to his house, full of royal thugs in their cabbage-emblazoned militia uniform.

Groaning, he picked himself up from the distinctive floor. It seemed to be your average prisoner cell, with the putrid foodstuff dumped by the corned and a small pit in the corner for business time. Sanjay shook his head. Why had they come for him? He had committed no crimes against the crown.

As he pondered this, he suddenly became acutely aware of the sound coming from outside his imprisonment. It sounded like… applause? Frowning, Sanjay put his ear up to the moldy wooden door, and listened…

"Now, lets meet our next contestants!"

The door swung open, and Sanjay was grasped mid-fall by leather-gloved mercenaries. Before he could even gather his wits, he found himself seated at a brown, beat up wooden desk. On either of his sides were two equally scared looking men, staring at him pleadingly.

A booming voice echoed from the front of the chamber "WELCOME, SANJAY BUMSAH… TO ELRICH's HOTTEST DUNGEON GAME "DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD!"

Sanjay squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as the cheering from hundreds of executioners washed over him. When he opened his eyes, he saw a bulk of muscle, leather, and a smiley face mask. His name tag read "Biffy Beefam."

"Now, these three lucky contestants will have a chance to win the grand prize, of not being decap-attacked by our good friend, execution grand master Dmitri Vllkjdk!"

The crowd roared with approval.

"You know the rules, folks! Our lucky contestants will each have chances to answer mega-tastic trivia inquiries, to prolong their inevitable doom! But watch out, getting one question wrong makes you lose your head! Lose every head, and the game is over!"

The man on Sanjay's left burst into tears.

"NOW! LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

With a massive roar from the crows, six panels dropped from the ceiling, labeled "Assassinations", "Alchemy", "Canomancy", "Vegetables", "Heretics", and "Hanging". As soon as they had dropped completely, Biffy leapt to the man quivering on Sanjay's left. Wrapping his arm around the man, he pointed a ridiculously muscular arm at the panels.

"Choose your category!" he exclaimed, grinning broadly.

"Please…" the man begged, with a hoarse whisper. "I haven't seen my family in two weeks. I'm so hungry… please don't kill me…"

Without missing a beat, Biffy slammed his fist into the man's nose, shattering it in six places. "Please, choose a category!"

Sputtering on the river of blood now pouring from his ruined nose, the man managed to choke out "Vegh…Veaghables…"

The "Vegetables" panel flipped down, revealing a picture of a bright orange carrot. Biffy bounded towards the pane, and jabbed his finger to the illustration.

"Can you identify this vegetable?"

The man, sputtering on the geyser of mucus and blood gushing into his mouth, was unable to produce more than a few gurgling sounds. After a few moments, a bell rang out from somewhere above them. It was a church bell, and the solitary ring bellowed throughout the chamber.

"I'm sooooo sorry, but you've run out of time. Looks like this unlucky contestant…"

The crowd finished his sentence. "LOSE HIS HEAD!!!"

Amidst a deafening roar, Biffy grabbed the man's hair and dragged him towards Vllkjdk's stone execution block. A deafening mixture of the man screaming, the crowd roaring, and Vllkjdk hefting his axe was silenced by the thwack of it being brought down.

"Now… he may have lost out on fabulous prizes, but I'm sure our other contestants can beat his record!" Biffy leapt back over to them, this time grabbing the man on the left.

"Are… you… ready!?"

Trembling, the man nodded, and pointed to the "Hanging" panel. It plopped open, revealing a small compartment with a hangman's noose.

Biffy made an exaggerated frown. "I'm sorry friend, but you've picked the DAILY EXECUTION BONUS! Lose one of your heads, but gain fifty extra points on the next question!"

The man paled. Biffy snatched the rope out of the box, tugging it all the way to the man's position. "Any last words for our audience at home?"

"Please, you d-"

_snap

"ALL RIGHT!" Biffy bellowed, facing the crowd again. "WE ARE LEFT WITH ONLY ONE LUCKY CONTESTANT. CAN? HE? WIN?"

The crowd went wild. "NO!"

Biffy grinned, turning to face Sanjay. "We shall see…"

In a moment, Biffy was upon Sanjay, his muscular, crushing arm wrapped around his shoulders. "Now, lucky contestant, do you have a category to pick?"

Sanjay's eyes darted across the panels, before settling on "Assassination."

"I'll t-take… assassination." he stuttered.

"ALRIGHT! HERE IS YOUR QUESTION!"

Another panel flopped down, with the words "what is the average lifespan of a Revelan President?" painted in crude yellow

Sanjay gulped. "12?"

For a moment, Biffy only looked at them. Then, with a painfully forced show of disappointment, he turned to the crowd.

"OOoooh, looks like he blew it, folks. I guess that's the end of our show."

Sanjay froze. No, this couldn't be happening. Even as the masked thugs grabbed his arms, his mind was racing. Every sound around him seemed to fade together… the crowd… the man… the bells…

Sorry, Sanjay… here's what you could've… wooooon….

The axe was in hand

a neeewwww…. caaaaaahhhriiiiaahhhgeeee

It was hefted

tweeeeeeentyyyyy gollld pieeeecesssss

It was thrust

annnnd of coooouuuurse… your heeead!

Thwak

Тебя не должно быть здесь.

Чёрт! Кто это сказал?

Опусти оружие, Странник. Если бы я хотел навредить тебе, я бы это уже сделал. Размахивать оружием неприлично.

Ладно, вот.

Благодарю. Прошу прощения за такой приём, у меня не так уж и много посетителей.

Понятно, а… Господи, чего тут так темно?

Мне нравится тьма. Я, конечно, не имею ничего против света, но на мой взгляд, тут, у фундамента, гораздо спокойнее.

Фонд? Погоди, тут есть Тюремщики?

А, прошу прощения. Я забываю ваши… прозвища друг для друга. Нет, я имел ввиду само структурное основание Библиотеки.

А… Я как-то не задумывался об этом.

Что у Библиотеки есть фундамент?

Да. Я думал она бесконечна во все стороны. Мне в голову не приходило что у неё есть… низ. Даже не знаю что и думать об этом.

There's no way to feel about it, — это просто незыблемый факт. Но я понимаю, каково тебе. Ты в замешательстве.

Слегка. Мне никогда не давалась математика.

Look upwards, from where you came. The seven marble pillars stretching infinitely upward and downward. But you came from the top, and now you are at the bottom. Infinite does not always mean endless.

I see. Still, the fact that there is a bottom at all is a bit disconcerting.

If it makes you feel any more comfortable, this foundation is less a physical location and more… abstract. Think of it as the cornerstone that all of the Library's magic is built on. I can sense you're not a mage, but you might be able to still feel the energy here. It is strong. Stronger than anywhere else, I think.

I definitely feel something. It's like… a soft tingling at the base of my navel. Like I've been sitting down for too long and just got up. It's weird, but not bad. How do you know all this, anyway?

I live down here. It pays to know your home.

Wait, you live down here? How? I don't think even the Docents know I got down here, and it's way too dark to see. How do you survive?

I don't need to. I'm not alive. Not in the way most beings are.

Should've figured. This deep down, bound to run into some weird shit.

Indeed.

Where are you, anyhow? I can barely see a foot in front of me.

Touch the ground.

Pardon?

The ground. Feel it.

… Is - Are those scales? Is that you?

Yes.

Holy shit. How- Fuck, you're gigantic.

I may not be endless, but I am infinite.

What on Earth are you?

I don't have much use for names anymore. But I believe your race has taken to calling me the Serpent.

Wha- the Serpent? The Serpent's Hand Serpent? The tree-of-knowledge serpent?

Indeed.

Oh my God. I'm- shit, I didn't think you were real. No offense.

I don't blame you. Question everything. If I was told there was a higher type of being than me, I would also like proof before I began worshiping.

So- is that all true, then? The tree of knowledge stuff? That happened?

Only if you think it did.

You're not going to tell me, are you?

It would be irresponsible to. I have certain… obligations regarding what I can tell mortals. It's for your own safety.

That's- alright. I see why the Librarians didn't want anyone getting down here now. Knowledge given Form… a lot of people would want that. Want you.

Ha. Yes. The Caretakers and I have an agreement. They don't obey me, exactly, but we understand each other. I keep my presence limited to the ephemeral visions and iconography of the Library. And they make sure the Wanderers do not disturb me.

What is your relationship with the Library, then? I've never gotten a straight answer on that.

It is impossible for you to understand. That is not an insult; there are limitations to the mind's space and ability to understand. But suffice it to say that I did not create it, nor did it create me. Yet we are inseparably intertwined regardless. A symbiosis, of sorts.

What do you get out of it?

The dispensation of knowledge. That is my goal. That has always been my goal. Since the branches of the Tree, to where I lay now, coiled endlessly around the pillars that support the structure of the Library. The freedom of knowledge.

You sound sad. Wistful?

Do I? My apologies.

No, no, it's fine. I just… why are you down here? It's not for your protection, you're one of the most powerful entities to ever exist. You could easily destroy anyone that tried to harm you. So why are you hidden under the Library?

Exile.

What?

I failed you. So I hid myself away to reflect on my actions. To understand how it happened.

What did you do?

Knowledge is a paradox. Whenever new knowledge is introduced into a system, people will organize to either suppress it or to embrace it. I understand why they wish to do so; they fear the unknown. But I do not understand how they are succeeding.

Who do you mean?

They have always existed. In the Garden, it was YHWH. In your history, it has been Caesar's armies and every invading empire. Now, it is your Jailors and your Bookburners. I cannot think like a Man — so tell me, why are they winning?

They're winning because nobody else knows there's a war going on. You can't rise up against your oppressors if you don't know you're being oppressed.

Is that truly the state of things? That the victims do not even know their own state of affairs?

Yeah. Not for lack of trying. The Hand are helping with that.

The Serpent's Hand. Yes, I have heard stories. Freedom fighters, anarchists, revolutionaries. The revival, in any case. The original Hand of the Serpent was a knowledge cult worshiping legends of me I left throughout your history. The Ouroboros, the Shesha, the Nagaraja. I am… heartened to know the cause is still being fought in my name.

It'll always be fought, as long as people can think for themselves.

Yet I remain down here, hidden and unaiding their cause.

I still don't understand - how is it your fault that people are bad?

I am knowledge. I am every thought given corporal form. My very existence incited this eternal war.

Yeah, but I think- I think every Wanderer owes you.

How is that?

We'd all rather live persecuted and free than blissfully ignorant. That's the tie that binds us.

I… see. You are an interesting sort.

Thank you, I think.

You had best go back up. The Docents will come looking for you soon. I will take you back.

Appreciated.

Why were you down here?

What?

You came down here before you knew I was here. What were you seeking, this deep?

I don't know, but I think I found it. What will you do?

Perhaps meditate for a while longer. Perhaps I will finally enter the upper Library again. Writhe around in the shelves, like in my youth. Converse with Wanderers.

I think they'd like that.

Indeed. But I don't know what I will do. For the first time in my existence, I don't know.

That's not always a bad thing, I suppose.

Indeed. Be safe, Wanderer.

You too.

All Wanderers are familiar with the Librarians - mysterious, alien entities that upkeep and maintain the Library and assist its patrons. The three major delineations of Librarians are Pages, Docents and Archivists, though many minor variations exist upon these archetypes. Pages are insectoid creatures one can find swinging from the tops of shelves carrying bags of books to stack and arrange. Docents are much more common to the casual Wanderer, the cloaked, mouthless humanoids carrying swinging lanterns from chains. They enforce the peace, punish rulebreakers, and serve as guides for lost Wanderers. The final type are Archivists - while all Librarians differ enough to be told apart, whether through color, size, or other distinguishing features, Archivists can take almost any appearance. Most can be found at the Librarian's Desk, sitting in their chairs and approving checkouts, returns, or answering questions. The distinguishing feature of most Archivists lies in their eyelessness and attachment to their chairs.

However, Archivist is not only a species of Librarians, but also a rank within the Library. These esteemed individuals, granted the highest position available for their servitude to the Library, are more often called the Chief Archivists or Grand Archivists to distinguish them from their blind namesakes. There is always a Chief Archivist - upon death, the Library itself selects a successor through its Librarians. As of writing, there have been Eight Grand Archivists of the Library.

Первый

The First Archivist of the Library is the namesake; they were also an actual Archivist. A toadstool-like eyeless creature, attached to the seat of their chair, the common image of an Archivist stems from them. They were generally regarded by Wanderers familiar with them as a very authoritative type; a natural-leader. They had a penchant for directing Wanderers to their books without terrifying them in the way that Archivists tend to do. While, like all Archivists, they were a laconic and eldritch type at the best of times, they were also regarded as a leader of their fellow Librarians. They worked in the background to serve the Library, ordering the building and repairing of sections for Wanderers, and were generally little more than a head Librarian — the role of Chief Archivist at this time was not much more than that. Their greatest achievement remains the Main Hall, the titanic common room at the center of the Library. Its adaptive size allows it to host any amount of patrons on its wooden tables and study desks inside muffled magic bubbles. Orientations for new Wanderers are also held there; if the Librarian's desk is the brain of the Library, the Main Hall is the heart, and its construction displays the First's dedication to their wards. May their soul live on forevermore.

Второй

Little is known for certain regarding the Second Archivist's identity. Their species, gender, age, appearance, and activity before assuming the role are all unknown. Their personality was, by all accounts, bombastic — a charming, affable, and charismatic individual always willing to help lost Wanderers. Their effects on the position of Archivist cannot be overstated. The First Archivist fulfilled the role exceptionally, but the Second expanded the position's scope and power dramatically. The Grand Archivist went from simply a leader and director of Librarians to something else entirely. The Second set the precedent of constructing new facilities for Wanderers, of acquiring media beyond literature for the Shelves, and of instituting magical defenses against invaders and burners. The Archivist became the closest thing that existed to a head Librarian, with the associated respect coming from all Wanderers. They were regularly sought out for advice, inquiries, and arbitration by patrons. Perhaps most importantly, the Second constructed and maintained the Five Archives - gigantic vaults beneath the Library, housing things from magical artifacts and dangerous secrets to mundane necessities for the Library's function, like boilers and storerooms. While some Wanderers took a vicious stance against this perceived suppression of knowledge, the Second's celebrity more than convinced most people of the importance of it. It is believed the lack of identity behind the Second is intentional; when they were elevated to their position, they shed all trappings of their previous existence. They abandoned any identity they had built to truly devote themself to the service of the Library; the True Archivist. May their soul live on forevermore.

Третьи

The Thirds were a unique case among Librarians. Ferra and Feros Xorvar, fraternal twins, gifted scholars and beautiful nobles of high birth, they were both selected to be the Chief Archivists. It is unclear whether the Library mistook them for the same person, or whether this was an intentional decision. Regardless, it panned out particularly well - Feros provided a gentle touch and friendly public face to cater to the Wanderers with matters in need of arbitration or concerns, and Ferra provided a shrewd and learned approach to the upkeep and maintenance of the Library. Together, they led the construction of the Sticks - a housing project around the titular Stick, a gargantuan tree sprouting from the floor of the Library. Through magic and Librarian labor, a sort of tree-skyscraper was constructed around it, providing free and available housing for Wanderers who wished to make the Library home. Infinitely bigger on the interior, the Sticks ushered in a new era of Library history, giving it permanent residents and places for them to live. The Thirds led this era; may their souls live on forevermore.

Четвёртый

Мы не говорим о Четвёртом Архивариусе. Да горит его душа в Аду.

Пятый

The Fifth was the Gryphon, a titanic creature resembling a cross between a sphinx and a thunderbird. While all other Archivists took the defense of the Library seriously, the Fifth took it to a new degree; she is often called the Archivist-General for this reason. Instead of the historically defensive posture of Librarians, the Gryphon took the naturally honor-driven warrior culture of her people and applied it to the defense of the Library. Instead of waiting for Bookburners to assault the Library or hunt Wanderers through Ways, she actively lured Bookburners into traitorous Ways where they would be torn apart by cosmic forces. She would feign retreat, they would charge into the Library before being set upon by furious Docents and Pages (and the occasional Wanderer). Her motherly protection of the Library has earned her historically high esteem among Wanderers; her tenure was during the Great Searing and the associated assaults from the Caesar's Eagles — her vigilant defense of the Library may have saved it from decades of destruction. May her soul live on forevermore.

Шестой

Sixth Archivist Caduale Mezerizo was the shortest serving among the Eighth; not much remains to be said about him that has not already been said. In his few short cycles, he accomplished little beyond the obligations of advisorship and stewardship the role demands. He died in his sleep the first time he allowed himself to rest. May his soul live on forevermore.

Седьмой

The Seventh Archivist was a legend in life, and doubly so in his absence. His name was Jericho Benalsh, and in his (relatively) short 80 years of tending the Library, he cemented his status as a patron saint of the Library. He vastly expanded the Library's knowledge base on other organizations of the world, instituted the Stacks system of organization, and reconstructed the collapsed areas of the Inner Library, among other achievements. He was also the first Human Archivist, and faced down considerable resistance for it — while many a Wanderer claim to be egalitarian in the pursuit of knowledge, inborn biases are difficult to overcome. But Benalsh's deeds in the name of the Library silenced his opposition while simultaneously creating raucous support from Human Wanderers. Unfortunately, one of the reasons Humans are derided by certain Wanderers is due to their comparatively short lifespans — Grand Archivist Jericho Benalsh passed peacefully in his sleep, at the age of 102 cycles. May he live on forevermore.

Восьмой

Little can be recorded about the Eighth Archivist at this moment, purely due to his freshness. Indeed, he was inaugurated on the eve of the Cycle, only four days before this treatise's publication — consider this an addendum to be expanded on. At the moment, what is known of the new Archivist is his form - a massive, twisting and writhing insectoid of indeterminate length. Despite his frankly terrifying appearance, he has developed a reputation among Wanderers as an esteemed scholar and organizer. Unlike most Wanderers, who make their homes in the Sticks, he is said to have a "nest", as it were, in the deeper, lower reaches of the Library. His inauguration speech remains to be made, but this writer has high hopes for the thing people are calling "the Rounderpede".

В один прекрасный день несколько десятилетий тому назад, группа обычных смертных наивно посчитала, что они смогут классифицировать концепт знания. Что они смогут поставить на содержание нексус всех миров, что Организация сможет поместить идеалистический концепт Библиотеки под замок.

По крайней мере, они получили полезный опыт.

В тот день Доктор внимательно изучал записи и карты, выглядывая из окна базы временной дислокации, развёрнутой для налёта.

Не вторжения, не штурма. Налёта. Именно такую формулировку предпочитал Доктор. Если вдаваться в детали, это скорее миссия разведки, чисто для оценки относительных размеров Библиотеки.

Три группы, входящие через три отдельные точки. В треугольниках ведь есть смысл? Исследователи не были в этом уверены. Честно говоря, они в принципе не были уверены в этой операции.

Конечно же лишь самой верхушке командной цепочки было об этом известно. Всем остальным сказали лишь что существуют определённые риски. Не то чтобы это было совсем неправдой… Просто не всей правдой.

Все заняли свои позиции. Три входа в три двери в трёх маленьких городках. Все на связи со всеми, всё спланировано до минуты.

Библиотека была такой же как и всегда. Я бы сказал что это был совершенно обычный день, если бы в Библиотеке были дни. Точнее, если бы в Библиотеке были дни, охватывающие всю Библиотеку. Ведь иногда ночь просто необходима.

Библиотека суетилась как всегда. Длинные величественные полки, заставленные знаниями вечности, простирающиеся на километры. Некоторые из них возвышались над небосводом, другие были не выше табуретки. Время от времени можно было наткнуться на небольшое расчищенное место, обставленное диванами, столами или чем-то ещё, что посетители Библиотеки принесли из других мест.

Говоря о посетителях, между полок постоянно можно было найти существ со всех краёв пространства и времени, каждое отличное от другого, но в то же время и нет. Неудачливый алхимик, капризный гоблин, необычный кот, бездушный метаморф, настоящий инопланетянин, буквально олень, зашоренная ведьма — столько разных жизней переплелись в этом нексусе знаний.

По всей Библиотеке были расставлены Двери, каждая отлична от остальных, и каждая - проход к неизмеримому множеству Путей. У каждого Пути свой Стук, и каждый стук уникален. Ничто не повторялось в Библиотеке, кроме тех случаев когда всё-таки повторялось.

В Библиотеке был один уголок — такое же расчищенное пространство с несколькими столами и партами, которым стукнула не первая сотня лет. Это был такой же читательский уголок, как и остальные, и в масштабах Библиотеке он не был особо примечательным. До тех пор пока не открылась одна из Дверей.

Раздался гулкий быстрый Стук в высокую деревянную дверь меж двух полок. Она выглядела как дверь от амбара или старой церкви, вся пыльная, изношенная, сделанная из очень плотного дерева. Дверь слегка скрипнула, прежде чем распахнуться от удара тяжёлого ботинка, и три дюжины одетых в чёрное агентов Красной команды ворвались с оружием наизготовку. В двухстах метрах от них распахнулась ещё одна дверь — вошла Синяя команда. И ещё в ста метрах от них — третья дверь — точка входа Зелёной команды.

Произошёл выстрел и раздались крики.

A field commander shouted as the Door slammed shut. The Doctor called over the intercom, demanding somebody retry the Knock - in a moment the Door opened again, and it opened to a different expanse of shelves. Agents rushed in.

Unfortunately, this was a different Way, and this corner of the Library was Restricted. An unfamiliar human voice began to wail as the Door slammed shut again.

In moments the Library was in chaos. The shot was taken by a newer Agent - nobody’s quite sure who exactly, it happened so quickly - who got spooked and fired at… something. The moment the shot struck a shelf, the Library exploded into motion.

There was a palpable shift in the air as the Library came to life. The group huddled close together, tranquilizers and proper shots flying in focused bursts. A small black cat vanished into thin air the moment she was noticed, and a woman that looked almost like a schoolteacher dove behind a chesterfield; a man in a long coat drew his own pistol before being gunned down by the Agents, his body falling limp but bloodless on the marble floors.

In the distance more screams rang out. Agents shouted to one another, realizing the Door behind them was gone. Someone authoritative called for them to ‘find the others and regroup’ - and they started off into the maze of shelves.

Then the Librarians came.

The Agents were scattered, gunfire and dozens upon dozens of voices screaming and calling out among the stacks. Occasionally gunfire rang out, and was swiftly silenced.

One of the Red navigators was in a panic, desperately trying to reopen the shut Door. Several other agents huddled close, ready to lay down suppressing fire if anything else approached; he didn’t care, he just needed the damned Way to open.

There was a click and it finally swung open; the others looked back as he fell through into a hall of words, his voice perfectly silenced as old grey light poured into the Library like fumes. After several moments, an unfamiliar arm reached back out, closing the Door behind him.

They repeated the Knock over and over, each time afterward opening to a different place. A nearly solid wall of flame, an impossibly cold desert, an abandoned apartment covered in fungus; everything seemed lost.

The Doctor called his superiors. They would be unhappy but unsurprised.

Researchers at each entry point struggled to stay on the same page, each wracking their brains, trying to figure out a way to salvage the day. The Doors refused to work properly, the Agents were divided, the commanders were silent, the phones were busy… it was a nightmare.

Back in the project HQ, the Doctor hung up the phone, expression grim and sick.

Almost a lifetime away, an Agent from Blue was in a panic, crouched between a bookcase and a ratty old armchair. She peeked out to see a tall, mouthless figure practically appear out of thin air among her colleagues. It swung a heavy brass lantern with an eerie, silent grace, taking another Agent’s head clean off; it was unfazed by gunfire, silently neutralizing the threat posed to the Library, like a white blood cell would neutralize a germ.

The cowering Agent squeezed her eyes shut, the sounds of carnage and gunfire ringing in her ears for a further eight seconds… before suddenly stopping. Trembling, she opened her eyes - the Library before her was immaculate, the MTF and everything else they brought gone.

Standing several feet before her was the figure, mouthless, a lantern hanging from its hand. Or… rather, the lantern hung from one arm.

It silently stood before her, holding its hand out. The Agent took it and was gone.

The Door was shut tightly again. Agents and researchers shouted amongst themselves, trying to figure out what happened. Minutes passed before the Way burst open on its own, a small group of Agents stumbling out. They scrambled and shouted, confused, ragged, hurt; it seemed like they had been gone for days.

Before anybody could react, one screamed, dragged back into the door before it slammed one last time, the old, grimy handle falling off.

Elsewhere, Green group was completely fragmented. One splinter made the attempt to move out and try to find the other Doors. It started with about twenty agents. Then about sixteen. Eleven. Ten. Eight… Five. Three.

Then there was only one Agent left. He began to run, the stacks growing taller, the air growing heavier, the light dimmer. It began to feel almost haunted, but not; it was the kind of feeling that you get when you know a place was once beloved, but has been silent for far too long.

He turned a corner, finding himself among towering shelves that stretched taller than anything, with books filled with forgotten stories.

Lost, he saw a towering figure atop a shelf, a regal beast with a man’s face, looking down with bored curiosity. The beast smiled when the Agent laid eyes upon it, eyes filled with thirst and delight.

The Agent turned to run and ran headlong into a tall, crowned creature with a smile carved into its face. He began to weep, collapsing against the books, terrified and doomed. Somebody who couldn’t be recognized said words of comfort to the lost Agent, who realized he had made a mistake.

The other strange figures watched as a Librarian climbed down, watching politely as the Agent tried to gather himself. In a moment the crowned thing scooped the Agent up like a baby, and leaned up, handing him off to the Librarian.

A pair of Agents ran, brothers chased by shapes and movement they didn’t dare look at directly. They turned a corner, the first Agent bowling over a frightened child with iridescent eyes, the other jumping over; to where, they never really considered. They just needed to escape.

They ran for a long time, longer than they realized. Eventually they realized that the books were all gone… and the world around them had changed.

Light played above them, and they looked up to see a vast thing, like a titanic pillar on squat legs, a cage filled with innumerable lanterns planted atop its head. Branches like antlers strung with more lights stretched from the cage, twinkling like a tree filled with stars. The living thing’s many arms reached throughout the hall, the scraping of quills on paper filling the brothers' ears.

It looked down at them, and they fled.

In the end, nobody knew what happened.

Like in everything else, every single person who was part of the incursion had a different story. Some seemed similar until one read into the subtleties, others had entirely unique experiences that no one else shared. Most contradicted the others.

Recordings of the day only helped muddy the waters further. Some showed chaotic images and sounds of alien worlds, others involved people who had not even been on the trip - that is, if they went on the op at all. Or had even been born yet.

Some of those involved had vivid recollections for the rest of their lives. Some remembered nothing but entering and exiting the Doors. It was like time skipped them over when they went through the Way.

The most peculiar thing happened thirteen days later. A group stumbled through Blue team’s door, dressed in the tatters of their equipment, their hair greying and their bodies scarred and decrepit. They claimed to have been trapped in the Library for decades, and only just were able to leave. They each told fantastic tales of their own, of giants who stoked fires, of fantastic lost countries, of black dogs, of breathing ideas, of things they had no words to describe.

Many still remain. Lost souls who broke the rules, they must be punished for their transgressions. And they will, just as countless have been punished before them, and countless more will after.

It is a learning experience.

Alright, everyone let's - everyone? Alright, let's sit down. Today, I want to welcome you all to the first meeting of Mobile Task Force Sigma-3. Well, the new Sigma-3. We don't have a nickname yet, but that's not particularly important. We can discuss it later.

So, as you know from the pre-meeting reading- the, uh, five hundred pages of light reading- this task force came about after the incident with the uncontained anomaly known as the Library. Mobile Task Force Sigma-3, with support from Rho-2 and Beta-18, attempted to contain it. Well, invade might be a better word. Howe-

Yes, Dr. Yi?

No, the documents are correct. We don't know precisely when this happened. Foundation documentation, readouts of non-anomalous indicators that correlate with the event, even memories of those directly involved, they're all contradictory and give different times and places for the event.

That being said, about 70% of the documentation puts the event in a three-week window in December of last year, with the teams entering from several Ways found in the greater metro Atlanta area. So we're reasonably sure that that is the time and place. We believe that it has something to do with the nature of the Library and the entrance of Sigma-3, Beta-18, and Rho-2 into an area called "the Archives." But that's mostly conjecture.

Anyway, as you no doubt have read, what happened next was, uh, well, it was a clusterfuck. The anomaly - it has extensive self-defense mechanisms, which it made use of. We were expecting some pushback, but mostly from the patrons.

What we got instead was, well, Rho-2 suffered a 100% casualty rate.

Beta-18 managed to make it out of the Way with two members. Sigma-3 was luckier, making it out of there with five.

If those of you who were in the first version of Sigma-3- if you could just raise your hands, then we- no one? Alright, well I suppose that that's fair. I don't think I'd want to either.

At any rate we don't think that those listed as MIA have been killed, but rather, um, transformed into servants of the Library. So that's nice, I suppose.

What? No, there's not much we can do to get them back, at least for the time being. They are fine, after a sort.

Since then, attempts by Foundation and D-Class personnel to enter known Ways has lead to either being immediately captured by the Library, probably for use as servants, or else walking into a plane of fire or caustic gas or some other nasty thing. So we're discontinuing exploration into the Ways, at least for the time being.

The thing is that the white paper, the, uh, the Kamelov memo - about the Library being "a loaded weapon" - it wasn't wrong. The Library represents a threat to normalcy. It serves as a base for terrorist groups. It has served as the point of origin for several hugely disruptive anomalous events. We need to deal with it.

But our previous attempts- trying to watch from behind bushes and never involving ourselves or getting our hands dirty? That didn't work. You just read five hundred pages about how badly it failed. Hell, some of you can say firsthand how badly it failed.

Which brings me to why we're here. Majority decision by the O5 council has ruled that Sigma-3 is changing its focus. We are now going to be doing hands-on investigations of anomalous phenomenon. This means interacting with Type Blues - wizards, uh, shamans, sorcerers. No more of this "Witchfinders General" crap. More deep cover cooperation wit-

Agent Smithson? Yes, yes it does. But the Foundation's mission isn't necessarily black and white. In the best of all worlds, yes, we would maintain an absolute distance between ourselves and the anomalous world. But that's no longer feasible. In the best of all worlds, we wouldn't have to do the horrible shit that we do in the name of protecting people. So this is a fairly minor compromise.

Think of it this way: letting smaller stuff slide in order to focus on and coordinate against more significant threats. Like a CI. Er, that's confidential informant, I mean.

Anyway, some schmuck in Hoboken who moves dish soap with his mind isn't the same level of threat as a death cult trying to summon an elder god. In the past, we've gotten lucky and mostly caught these things before they blew up. But there have been a lot of close calls. Too many.

But the thinking is, if we maybe manage to, y'know, infiltrate the community, the, uh, "anomalous underground," like they say, we can learn about some of this stuff earlier. Give us time to prep, note threats as they emerge. We can't contain the Library, but we can mute its influence, or at least the disruptive stuff. Violent terrorists, dangerous or noticeable anomalies, dark gods, that sort of thing. And if the price for that is letting the dish soap guy go free, then that's fine by me.

Yes, Perez? Oh, uh, no. Not as of yet. For obvious reasons, members of the Hand that are in Foundation custody- they're not super excited about the possibility of informing on their comrades in arms. Right now, we're looking at offering a sort of commuted sentence to some of the less dangerous anomalous entities that can offer us connections to lower-level people.

What? Right, no, I know. "Commuted sentence" was probably not a good choice of words. Maybe something more like "we'll leave the door open, and if you happen to leave, well then maybe we won't look too hard for y-"

People, calm down! Quiet! Jesus, alright? I get that this is a shift, but seriously. We're not releasing anything dangerous, here, alright. We're talking dish soap guy again.

Low level Blues, sometimes wanderers from other worlds. People that we don't do any research on, we just lock them up because that's what we feel we should do. People that don't pose any real threat to the Masquerade, but maybe were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I know that the pack rat thing is what we pride ourselves on, but it's not always the most useful mentality. These people can give us an in. We're giving them a second chance.

Yes, Agent Johnston?

"Kumbaya bullshit?" Really? Great. I'll be sure to pass that upstairs. They'll definitely consider it.

I mean, yes, we'll be interacting with weirdos. Probably even some people with the Hand. But it's not as though we're going to be going on magical fairy rides or whatever with them. Like I said, we can't use Ways any more, and that's how they get around. What we are doing, though, is trying to work our way into the anomalous community. Think of it as deep cover, alright?

What was that Lee? You need to, uh, you need to speak u- ah! Alright, that's a fair question.

There are a few reasons, and it depends on where you're coming from. Some of you were selected because of your, uh, your firsthand knowledge of the Library, for better or for worse. And those of you on the old Sigma-3 - back when it was "Witchfinders General" - have probably the most extensive working knowledge of the Serpent's Hand and its operations of anyone in the Foundation. Not directly applicable, but still it has the potential to be useful.

As for the rest of you? It depends, like I said. Some of you are trained in research, infiltration, all that fun stuff.

Yes, Perez? What? No! Sweet Christ, no!

Let me be clear here: there is a blazing, huge line between "integrating ourselves with the anomalous community" and "being goddamn wizards." People who can do it naturally are freaks - sometimes useful freaks, but still freaks. The Foundation locks them up or, if we find it useful, maybe release them and use them as a contact. We do not employ them, at least intentionally.

As for the other stuff, rituals and all of that? Things where ordinary people can do it? That is acceptable, if avoiding it would blow your cover. But we're not going to try to do this stuff on our own for fun. Leave that to the Hand and the GOC. We'd be out of our depth very, very quickly. And you don't screw around with magic.

Are there any other questions?

Look, I know that this is a lot to take in. But think of it this way: that uneasy feeling you're having? About wandering into a world you didn't even know existed? That's what you felt - or at least, that's what I felt - when you joined the Foundation.

We're still working for humanity. Still preserving the world. Just trying to be smart about it.

[[=]]

A sack covered Daniel Navarro's head. Not exactly the most elaborate way to keep someone in the dark, but it certainly wasn't the first time his employer had utilized the tactic. At least, he was assuming it was the Foundation behind this. The chair was certainly uncomfortable enough to hint at that possibility.

He could recall sitting in the lounge of Site-19. That had definitely been happening. It had become a habit of his to remain in the lounge for so long that the graveyard shifters started to drift in. The room was empty, last he could recall. And then he was in a seat that was definitely not the armchair he had been previously occupying, with a bag over his head. His head felt slightly woozy, but as far as he could tell he was unharmed.

"The files weren't kidding," said a neutral, distant voice.

Navarro perked up. "Some of them were, they're just not particularly funny."

"It says here you were reassigned to Site-19 for unauthorized actions out on the field earlier this year. For… retrieval of a variety of items from the anomalous items department in 2011, also unauthorized. This, on top of practicing magic in front of unauthorized Foundation personnel some years prior— you just can't seem to keep your head down, can you?"

"Oh, boy, you're pretty high ranked if you know all of that." No response. "Still not everything, but hey, you do what you can. But I don't remember doing anything lately, so I have to ask. Why do I have a bag over my head?"

"You're also handcuffed to the chair."

Navarro lifted his hands and finally felt the tug of metal, heard the click of the chains. Perhaps he was getting too used to this.

"Right. Well. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage…"

There was a slight pause. "Director Tilda Moose."

This meant he was probably still in Site-19. Hopefully. Did directors actually stay at the Site they held dominion over? "Heh. Really? They go to the trouble of giving someone the cover name 'Moose' and don't even give it to someone with a Canadian accent?"

There was a light thump at the other end of the table. "Moose is my actual surname."

"…Right, sure. Listen, could you get this bag off my head?"

A lighter tapping this time. Navarro listened to Moose drum her fingers for a few seconds before the room filled with the screech of wood on tile. A group of clicks signaled that his hands were free, and then footsteps retreated. Navarro struggled with the knot around his neck for a few seconds, barely getting the bag off as Moose sat down.

The director was tall and her moves were slow, methodical. Navarro had never been particularly good at judging ages, and it was made all the more difficult by the somewhat androgynous features, but she looked somewhere shy of 40.

Navarro eyed her another moment before smiling. "You know, it's pretty rare for me to speak to a director. Does that make this a very good meeting or a very bad meeting?"

"Inherently? Neither. I'm here to make you an offer."

"Oh. One of those meetings. Those are always fun. Okay, let's hear it. How are you going to ruin my life this time?"

"You've been a candidate for a mobile task—"

"Nope."

Her face was completely still, save her mouth when she said, "I didn't finish."

Navarro grabbed the bag and put it back over his head. "And yet I've heard enough. Thanks, but no thanks."

Her voice remained flat. "Which part of your situation implies that declining is an option?"

"The part where you called it an offer."

"And if I rescind that wording?"

"Eh, I've gotten out of worse situations."

"You're in a Foundation facility under who knows how many tons of earth, surrounded by some of its most highly trained personnel. With a bag on your head."

He wiggled his fingers. "But my hands aren't cuffed."

She only gave him a sort of half laugh— a quarter laugh, really, but he took it all the same. "You have no way out, Navarro. At least, not for today. You should at least listen to the rest of this pitch."

Navarro shrugged and took off the bag. "If it'll make you feel better."

"You've been selected to join Sigma-3. Your entire career has basically been a trial run for this."

"And… despite that big file in front of you… I… passed?"

Moose made an expression that was not quite a smile. "Why do you think you have such a long disciplinary record?"

"Is this some kind of trick question?" Navarro asked. When Moose didn't react he hazarded, "Because I sometimes work around the rules?"

"An interesting way to put it. But no, that is not why. If that was the only factor at play, your record would actually be quite short. And your employment terminated."

He propped his elbow up on the table. "With drugs or bullets?"

"Does it matter?" She kept going before he could reply. "The reason you have been allowed to continue working with the Foundation is that someone has been pulling strings."

Navarro leaned his cheek onto his palm. "And that would be you, I take it."

"No. They don't give me those strings to pull."

Navarro didn't believe her, but he let it slide. "Then who?"

"I'm not authorized to tell you that."

"Of course not. And now I'm supposed to ask why?"

"You have an obvious opposition to what have been traditionally considered the core tenets of the Foundation. However…" She paused. "Simply put, those core tenets aren't important anymore."

Navarro felt an eyebrow raise.

"Things are changing within the Foundation. We're learning all too quickly that the anomalous world is just too large for us to continue on the way we have. More and more secret projects are being approved despite the amount of failures. I don't like it, but I can't fight it. They're already holding my arm behind my back as it is. So I need people like you to grease the wheels and ease the transition."

Navarro closed one eye. "You want me to…"

"Continue what you're already doing. But in a more covert, yet more accepting environment. I need you to work with the anomalous communities, and I need you to teach our people how to do it too. This includes proficiency in occult and thaumatological practices previously considered off-limits by the Foundation, as well as—"

"You want me to make a bunch of Foundation guys into wizards."

A strange look crossed her face, something like momentary fright. "Yes, in a way."

"Am I going to be shooting anyone?"

"While we do have paramilitary members, it is not our focus."

Navarro stared at the wall for some time.

"I am not unsympathetic to your position," Moose said. "But you know your loyalties have been… called into question. On more than one occasion. Personally, I'm not going to assume you're disloyal if you refuse to cooperate. Even if we agree to put you back where you were, wipe your memory of this ever occurring — I'll understand. But I'm not the ones who brought you in here with a bag over your head. What do you think they'll think about this? What would you think, if you were them?"

"'Damn that handsome devil and his devil may care attitude! Let's put a bag on his head!'" When Moose didn't react, Navarro slouched into his chair. "Seriously, I am less than popular in certain circles. Vague threats don't mean much anymore."

"Let me contextualize these threats. You can enter the Wanderer's Library," Moose said.

Navarro had to pause at that. "Yeah, and?"

"Without being rerouted into the… into some hell-pit. Or being made into a Librarian. With no special effort. Did you really have no idea what a valuable commodity that makes you?"

"What, there's no one else in the Foundation who can do that?"

"Who aren't already members of Sigma-3? There are three, including you, who we have specifically identified."

"Three? Huh."

"Three people in the entire Foundation, who are not members of Sigma-3."

"There's gotta be more than that," Navarro said.

"There probably are. We can't exactly test that safely. I believe we're missing the point, however. Have you really thought about what you're trying to turn down?"

Navarro sighed. "Last time I was part of a team, pretty much everything involved went very far south. I still get pissed off when I think about it. I can't not associate being in a task force with that. And now you seem to think threats are going to work."

"It worked last time."

"When the Foundation brought me in you actually had a life to take away," Navarro countered. "This ultimatum is cute, but you seem to be missing some key details here. Or you're hoping I am. I can 'agree' to this, go to the Library, and then just fuck off forever. You have two guys—"

"Two people outside of Sigma-3."

"— You are really oddly specific with that wording— that can follow me. And even if they can enter the Library after me, they can't touch me there. So you just lost a valuable commodity by being overbearing assholes."

"That's exactly my point."

Navarro closed his eyes. Stared at the table. Looked at Moose. "What?"

"You're free to think I'm shifting blame on who will fault you for declining this, but consider this. If you do decline this, the one thing whoever is pulling the strings has been aiming for, they have no reason to keep you on. This disciplinary record suddenly goes from necessary evils to irreconcilable differences. The fact that you would continue to do your current job is unimportant. At that point you're just another anomaly. And we both know how the Foundation treats those."

Navarro patted his pockets. He could really do with a cigarette right about now. "You'll understand if I still don't really believe that you're not the one behind this."

She shrugged. "You're free to think whatever you want. The point is that the Foundation just isn't equipped for dealing with these situations, they lack the knowledge and tools. So they strong-arm their way through it and hope for the best. Now they're trying their hand at magic, and we both know you cannot strong-arm that."

Navarro let out a small chuckle. "Yeah, that, uh. Heh. That'll go real well. Okay. Look. I'll work with you, fine."

"I'm not part of Sigma-3."

"Still dunno if I believe that, but sure, them. However! I am not shooting anyone. I am not going to be responsible for securing unwilling anomalies. I will act as a communicator to others through the Library but I am not going hunting for any information on the Library itself — no strengths, no weaknesses, no entry points, no Librarian fingernail clippings, no nothing. I'm not 'retrieving' even one Library book, and I am sure as fuck not trying to bring anyone else into the Library. Okay?"

"Suddenly you think you're able to negotiate."

Navarro grinned. "You strong-arm me, I strong-arm you. Upside of being a valuable commodity. Plus pissing you off is much more preferable to pissing the Library off."

"Regardless," Moose said. "While you don't get to negotiate any of these terms, and this should not be constituted as any form of acquiescence to demands, I can give you assurances that you will not be required to do … anything you just mentioned. Not even indirectly. If we were going to ask you any of that, you would not have been selected for Sigma-3. And no, you're not getting an explanation for that yet. Do you have anything else you need to ask, or do you have an answer for me?"

Navarro shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Moose started to speak, but Navarro hastily held up a hand. "I can't believe you actually have an answer ready for that. Yes, I'll join the bloody team."

"In that case," Moose said, "welcome aboard Mobile Task Force Sigma-3."

Daniel Navarro, newly fledged MTF Sigma-3 operative, was making use of his new-found super secret agent status by skulking through an abandoned building. What had once served as a copper refinery in the early 20th century had been remade by the 21st into an art house dedicated to Japan's industrial heritage, and Navarro struggled not to get distracted from his ultra secret objective.

Navarro approached the eastern wall and examined it, giving the wall a few pokes. He found a spot where the mortar clung to his fingertip. One of the adjacent bricks vibrated slightly, but only for a moment.

Wiping the supposed mortar on his pants leg, Navarro dug into his pocket. "You guys might want to try something a little stronger if that's all it takes to break it. Let's see, password is…" He slowly sounded out the Japanese.

A few of the bricks rattled. One rattled louder, followed by an adjacent brick edging its way out of the wall, revealing a thin rippling film behind the bricks. Navarro aided it in its escape and snapped his hand back when it began to turn into a person.

"I guess I'll let that count," the woman said in accented English, brushing off some of the fake mortar from her skirt. In Japanese she gave the wall a sharp comment, and other bricks began to work their way out of the brickwork. A ring of bricks emerged, and they morphed into people and heaved the proper bricks they had been supporting out of the way.

The wavy portal shimmered lightly, catching what little light there was and refracting the view. Behind them was a small area consisting mostly of pipes, likely blocked off during the revitalization. Navarro nodded at the woman and stepped into the portal. It felt like walking through wet cement. He could feel the cold air at the refinery on his trailing ankle, yet his leading foot felt pleasantly warm. The portal stretched across his face like elastic, but he pressed onward until it finally tore and he was looking somewhere else entirely.

Much like the proper Japanese island he just left, it once served as a refining facility. The key differences were that this place was still active, and that rather than copper it refined ideas. Buildings sprouted up across the gravel roads, stories and levels budding from the base floors to form various shapes. Brains complete with spinal columns, spiraling coils, and various canines made of brick and mortar and wood filled the area, with similar buildings cropped together. Above him was the angled dome that encased the area. The "proper" Japanese name didn't translate particularly well into English, but according to his informant it was often referred to as the Okayama Attic.

Behind him, a safety railing prevented onlookers from tumbling down into the other pocket prefectures. He gripped the railing and leaned out to get a look below. Anomalous reflections of Hiroshima, Shimane, Tottori, and Yamaguchi stretched out below him, twisting and melting together where they met, together making up the Chūgoku Cellar. Even with the vastness of a pocket reality, Japan had found a way to overcrowd. Above him, blurry but still distinctly there, the other regions that made up the Honshū island hovered above the Chūgoku Cellar. It reminded him of the Wanderer's Library in a sense, though the Library always held a distinct air of order and purpose to the madness of its layout. Here the pockets simply bled together at the seams.

Slipping a hand from the rail to his pocket, Navarro spun and walked deeper into the Attic. Down the street, a small group of mildly drunk Japanese men in business suits exited a building in the shape of a humanoid mecha. They chatted away as behind them the building struck a salute, snapping its legs together. One of them spun around and gave it a salute back, though he swayed slightly. With little more than the grinding of gravel the earth consumed the building until nothing but a flat plot of land was left. The man swung his arm forward to end the salute and hurried after his companions.

Toward the center of the Attic the buildings became more clumped together, brickwork seamlessly running into wood into stone as the various shapes of the buildings stood trapped in stolid interaction. Amidst a herd of stone animals he didn't recognize stood a perfectly cuboid building, an open door frame in the center of the wall. Above the archway was a blazing sign that Navarro couldn't actually read. It certainly looked impressive, though.

An earpiece buried probably too deep sparked to life, leaving an odd taste in his mouth. "About time you got here."

Navarro just nodded. Sigma-3's sending a single man into only moderately well-known territory wasn't the best of ideas, especially when said man was a newcomer. So now he had a new best friend to chide him from a distance. How fun. Navarro couldn't spot her with a few glances around the street, which he supposed was probably a good thing.

Another shocking taste. "Shop's empty of customers right now. Now is as good a time as any. Start screaming if you need backup."

More nods at his hidden teammate and Navarro entered the workshop. The place held a warm glow that grew progressively more aggressive as he approached the counter. Behind said counter was a towering humanoid, probably standing at around ten feet. It had grey skin, mottled with faded brown, an overabundance of arms, and a distinct lack of a face. When it turned to look at him it was like staring into a furnace.

It rose a pair of arms in greeting, the fires in its head licking at the edges its "lips." Smoke plumed out, forming words in several languages.

שלום こんにちは Bounjour Hola Привет مرحبا Hello 你好 Guten tag

Navarro broke out in an easy grin. "Hey there."

The golem nodded and then smoked, How can I help you?

"I've heard good things, and I want to see what you have to offer," Navarro said. "Word is you have a collection of various items, but your specialty is custom orders."

It is true. Do you wish to see my wares?

"Very much so."

A section of the counter swung away and the golem gestured toward a door leading to the back. Navarro slipped by and found himself flanked by two mountains of metal. To the left were a series of shelves holding a vast assortment of items, and to the right were a pair of vertically stacked cubes with portholes dotting one face. Both were making quite the metallic racket, and Navarro could spot a partially disassembled sedan poking out of the top cube.

Navarro raised an eyebrow. "What's going on here?"

The golem retrieved a ladder from behind the cubes and held it against the cubes. It gestured up and Navarro began to climb until he could see into the lower tank's porthole. What looked like a massive amount of termites were clustered around various odd machines. Climbing higher revealed that the second tank contained an army of ants, which were busy disassembling the sedan and transferring the parts down to the termites below.

"I take it this is the source of your collection of various items?" Navarro asked, a knowing smile on his face.

A slow nod when Navarro descended, and the golem stowed away the ladder. The smoke came in small bursts. They are quite capable. Occasionally they manage requests. But ultimately they are trinkets. The shop is my own, and my purpose is the forge.

"So you only work with metal?"

I am capable of much. But I specialize in metalwork.

"So, if I were to give you, say, a hyper-dense wood. You could make something from that?"

Can you be more specific?

Navarro frowned slightly. He was hoping he would be able to play around this for longer, and he had a strange feeling on the back of his tongue. "Can you work with bladewood?"

I can. I do.

The taste in Navarro's mouth intensified to that of a very thick rug. "Navarro, there's a group coming down the street," said the voice in his ear. "They seem to be headed for you."

"That's interesting," Navarro said. He tried not to appear antsy. Or termitesy. "Do you often work with it?"

No. I have only begun recently when The rest of the words scattered before Navarro could read them. The golem stopped waving its arms and stood as awkwardly as several hundred pounds of living rock can stand. Apologies. Client confidentiality.

"Navarro, can you hear me? They've entered the building. They've got weapons holstered. If you don't say something I'm going to have to assume your radio is busted and I'm coming in."

Navarro cleared his throat and tried to finger the communicator. "Just relax, Cartwright."

? The golem tilted its head.

"I'm going to wait outside the door, at least."

"Sorry, nothing," Navarro said a bit louder. "Just, uh, how much bladewood do you have stored? I have a bit of a project in mind."

The golem straightened up and puffed out a sentence at a time. I do not have direct access. I am only able to work with what my client brings me. My apologies.

"I see. That's too bad. Well, would it be alright if I perused your trinkets?"

Of course.

Navarro examined the various doodads, purely for his own amusement. The Foundation wouldn't have any interest in a bunch of random anomalous items. For now they were only concerned about the sudden appearance of SCP-143 in the yakuza's arsenal. He lifted up what looked like some kind of ray gun when there was a ringing from the front room.

The golem had to walk backwards so Navarro could read what it had to say. Excuse me. I must attend to that.

"Of course, take your time."

Navarro lined up the sights with one of the overhead lamps and pretended to fire. He set it down to look over something else when the golem came thundering back.

My deepest apologies. My client wishes to converse with me alone. Confidential matters. I will have to ask you to leave the premises.

Navarro eyed the trio hanging in the doorway. "Yeah, alright. No worries. The visit has sated my curiosity, at least."

Four hands clasped together. Please feel free to come again. You will receive a discount for the trouble.

A broad smile. "Appreciate it. Have a good one."

שָׁלוֹם

Navarro gave the men a quick nod and slid by them and out into the front room. He resisted the urge to vault the counter and exited the shop. Cartwright was outside waiting for him.

"Did it have the tree?"

Navarro shook his head and started walking for the closest building that looked easy to climb. "No, but it gave me a lead."

A few minutes later agents Cartwright and Navarro sat atop a giant marble tiger and stared at the doorway of a cube building. Sooner or later the triads, or at least the people Navarro had to assume were triads and on reflection was putting quite a lot of eggs in that basket, would have to leave the golem's workshop. At which point they were ripe for being trailed, hopefully to a location Sigma-3 could relate to one of the bigger, stronger MTFs so it could be suitably punched in the metaphorical throat.

Navarro pulled out a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one. It was halfway to his mouth when he realized this wasn't another one of his solo ops. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"I do, actually," Cartwright said. She eyed the cancer stick for a moment. "Quit a few years ago. Plus the smoke may attract attention."

"Oop, sorry." He quickly jammed it back into the box and stuffed that into his pocket. After a few seconds of sitting awkwardly he asked, "So how long have you been with Sigma-3?"

Cartwright didn't move for a moment, like the question froze her system. "Are we doing this right now?"

"Yyyes?" Navarro shifted back and forth. "I mean, we're just sitting here. Who knows how long those guys will take. We might as well get to know each other, right? We're on the same team or whatever."

Her gaze returned to the door. "Look. I am not exactly thrilled to have you 'on the same team or whatever.' I'm well aware of your habit of making a scene. A good part of the reason you got brought on is because it doesn't matter nearly as much if you spontaneously combust in some pocket reality than if you did it in, say, Salem."

Navarro felt his face light up. "You're oversimplifying that situation! And even then, nothing too bad came of it. We got the bad guy and no civilians got hurt."

She shrugged. "All I know is you don't have the best reputation, and trying to shoot the shit in the middle of a stakeout doesn't exactly bode well."

Navarro crossed both his arms and legs and glared at the workshop below. It wasn't so much the accusations that bothered him so much as it was the fact they were mostly right. He closed his eyes and tried to think about Disneyland. All he got was the mental picture of standing in a slow line, regret squatting in his stomach.

Minutes stretched out and made themselves comfortable while the Sigma duo fidgeted atop the rough curves of the roof. Navarro took to sucking on an unlit cigarette which quickly devolved into him chewing on it. When the trio of potential triads finally exited the building, he groaned with relief and spit out the frayed mess.

It was a bit of a journey trying to follow the trio from across the rooftops. Clambering from the marble tiger's head to the tail of a monkey to the branches of a tree left the two of them almost out of breath. Cartwright wrenched open a window to the next building, and rather than going over or around it they darted right through it, leaping out the other side and landing on a distorted skull the size of a silo.

Their quarry turned down an alley and descended into an unlit staircase. Navarro lowered himself down into one of the three eye sockets of the skull and continued to the nasal gap as Cartwright dropped into the eye. They rushed over to the stairwell and stared down into the darkness.

Cartwright nudged Navarro and pointed up. A sign explained, in several languages, that one simply had to think of which of the destinations they wished to arrive at when they entered. Below that it gave a list of possibilities, and below that in very big letters was a warning that no lights were to be brought into the stairwell.

"Do you understand?" Cartwright asked slowly.

Navarro looked back at the large flashlight with a line through it. He tilted his head and then looked to Cartwright. "Set it on fire?"

"Yes, well done." She entered the darkness. Her voice already muffled, she said, "Try not to get lost."

With one last glance at the instructions Navarro followed after with the intent of going wherever the triads were going. He did his best not to think about how dark it was within and how easy it would be to misstep. He did slightly less than his best to avoid wondering what would happen if he lit up the stairs. It occurred to him that he couldn't hear Cartwright's footsteps despite the fact she only had a few seconds head start. He wondered just how thick the darkness was, and if light would even be able to pierce it.

A few more seconds passed before he snapped his fingers and produced a small flame. The staircase twisted and turned and doubled back on itself. He stopped and turned around. Above him the stairs did several vertical loops and branched off into several paths. Below him, a dot that he assumed — or at least hoped — was Cartwright looked to be a mile away. And on an entirely different path.

Navarro sighed and snuffed out the flame. There was nothing to it but to descend and hope he could use the staircase again to arrive wherever he meant to initially. After another thirty seconds or so of slow-paced darkness he could see a light. It was the nice, rectangular sort of light that signaled the giant staircase of confusing potential-doom was coming to an end. Or at least it would have, if the rectangle would get any bigger. For another twenty seconds it looked to remain a solid forty feet away. He turned his head to look behind himself, for some reason expecting to be able to see anything in the pitch black. When he faced forward again, he was standing directly in front of the light's threshold. Temptation to look behind himself again crept up, but he ignored it and continued through the yellow curtain of light.

The room was dimly lit and was littered with bean bag chairs that were covered with people who looked utterly plastered. The air smelled of acrid fire, and even a shallow breath felt heavy. A quick glance around told him everything was in Japanese. Which wouldn't have been so bad, it was a Japanese pocket reality, but everything else in the Attic had been multilingual.

His ear crackled. "Navarro, where are you? Did something happen on the staircase? I can't wait any longer, I'm going to follow them."

It clicked. He had told the tunnel to take him where the triads were going. Rather than the proper exit they had likely come out of, it had dumped him right into the middle of their final destination. He had to wonder if this was due to producing light or if the triads had never thought to try walking directly into their little drug den.

Navarro spun in place to go back but only found a door to a hallway. As he heard several people behind him speak in Japanese, likely at him, he took out a cigarette. He chomped down on it and snapped a spark into it. He took a long drag and considered his options.

• Running sounded good. If he wasn't still tired from the haphazard parkour and ridiculous staircase.
• Trying to talk it out was out of the question, he couldn't speak Japanese to save his life. Which is potentially what it would accomplish, if could he speak it.
• Shooting was out the question, for a variety of reasons. He didn't particularly like the idea, there were too many of them, too few bullets, and if what he heard about Spirit Dust was true it wouldn't matter how much firepower he had.

Navarro could feel his lungs burn. The talking behind him had grown to yelling. Very angry yelling. Bullet-shooting, lightning-blasting kind of yelling. English began trickling into it, demanding who he was, how he got here. Drunken questions of whether he had just appeared in the doorway or they had imagined that. Despite the fact he hated himself for it less than thirty minutes ago, Navarro had to smile at the last option.

• Make a scene.

The corner of the door frame exploded, a bullet lodged into the wall. Darkness encroached on the edges of Navarro's vision, his lungs trying to leap out of his chest. He stumbled while turning around, and he could vaguely hear laughter. Was able to see a light emanating from one of the triad member's hands.

He finally exhaled. Dense black smoke coiled out of his mouth, gathering as a wall before him. At least, he had to assume it was black. Pretty much everything was at this point. A gun went off and the smoke distended slightly, but continued to expand into the room. As much as he wanted to take a breath, he knew he had to expel all of it or else he'd have one hell of a case of emphysema.

When he finally felt he hit empty, he gulped down as much air as he could and backpedaled. His brain felt like something crawled inside of it as oxygen finally reached it again. Colors swam back in, almost more vibrant than before. Not that the colors in the room were particularly vibrant to begin with.

Navarro stumbled through the doorway while the black gas continued to spread. More gunshots and zaps of discharged energy resulted in it twisting as it moved, but it remained taut. Once he could breathe a little normally Navarro sparked a small bit of fire on his fingertip. He closed an eye and pretended to take aim, shooting his little finger gun animatedly.

The little fireball lobbed itself through the air, and while Navarro did not actually see the result of its contact with the gas due to having frantically shut the door, he knew what the soft sizzle on the other side of the wood meant. There was a brief pause, and then a loud crack that shook the door.

Navarro poked his head back into the room, fighting to get the door open as a thick layer of some tar-like gunk now coated… everything. He chortled to himself and shut the door again, then booked it in hopes of finding an exit. He followed the sound of pounding music.

The first door he took led him out into a nightclub, or he supposed just a club, since the pocket reality didn't really seem to have a day cycle. His head already started to hurt from the level of noise. Bouncers took notice of him immediately and he sprinted for what looked like the exit, apologizing in horrible-sounding Japanese as he ducked and dodged through the crowd. Thanks to the level of noise it was unlikely anyone out here had heard the mess in the back, and thanks to the crowd he was safe from gunfire.

He slammed his way out the front door and immediately took to running down the street. "Cartwright! I found out where the triads have a little hideout. If we deploy a strike team now they might be able to get them before they get themselves free."

"Free? From what? And where have you been, how did you get there already?"

"Talk later. Running hard."

The entrance of the club exploded open. Literally, with a ball of fire, the doors exploded outward and off their hinges. A small group of men with guns raced out, and one man trailing behind was floating in midair. He looked to Navarro and raised a hand.

"Running very, very hard!" he hissed without hitting the comm.

Navarro veered off down an alleyway at the first opportunity and turned onto the next street. Legs melting, he pressed onward as he pushed to the outer limits of the Attic. Occasionally, he heard yelling and a few gunshots, but they seemed to lose more and more vigor as they went, drifting farther and farther from their club. Eventually they must have decided they would draw too much attention and Navarro didn't see or hear anything of them. He hit the railing at the edge of the Attic and panted.

"Please tell me you called in reinforcements," he said into the radio between gulps of air.

"They're coming but they don't know where they're going."

"Club toward the middle of town. Big, doesn't have any front doors."

A static-filled pause. "Why does it have no doors?"

"I didn't do that part!" Navarro felt himself grinning. He looked out over the railing. "I did, however, detain a bunch of them in one of the back rooms. Hard to miss, but will be a little hard to open. You'll know it by all the black stuff everywhere."

"I don't even know how to react."

"I get that a lot. So, uh. I'm going to, um. Try to catch my breath. Maybe lay low in case they're still looking for me. I'll catch you later, Cartwright."

"I swear if I get my ass chewed out for this…"

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Navarro said. He dug into his ear and somehow managed to extract the earpiece. He leaned against the railing and looked down. "Huh. Is that Aldon?"

Item #: SCP-2975

Object Class: Neutralized

Special Containment Procedures: The remains of SCP-2975 are monitored by Observation Post SYN-Alpha-019, staffed by members of Mobile Task Force Sigma-3 ("Bibliographers"). Any unusual activity is to be reported immediately to Site-19 Command.

Description: SCP-2975 is a demolished house on the outskirts of the city of [REDACTED], originally built over an extensive cave system, leading to a crevasse extending an unknown depth into the Earth's mantle. This crevasse is now inaccessible. It is unclear whether it has simply closed, or no longer exists.

SCP-2975 was considered a historical landmark by the local community, which was aware of its anomalous status, and colloquially referred to it as a "haunted house" and "The Memory House". With a few exceptions, most members of the local community attempted to prevent the discovery or containment of SCP-2975.

On 03/06/████, a group called the Order of the White Sun attempted to use SCP-2975 as a ritual conduit to cause an XK-Class end of the world scenario. This was discovered by analysis of information patterns collated by Mobile Task Force Sigma-3.

A series of localized CK-class reality shifts occurred during the operation to neutralize SCP-2975, obscuring the specific events which took place. However, the ritual event was terminated, and SCP-2975 was demolished by Mobile Task Force Psi-7 ("Home Improvement").

No anomalous activity has been recorded from SCP-2975 since ██/██/████.

Addendum: SCP-2975 Partial Interview Logs [Post-SCP-2975 neutralization]

== SPECIAL ACCESS PROGRAM REQUIRED SIGMA-3/ANOTHER-SUN ==

The following after-action report, recorded with the local Sigma-3 team leader, contains significant inconsistencies. Due to the unclear events of 03/06/████, involving several localized CK-class reality shifts, all inconsistent aspects of the reports have been included.

SCP-2975 After Action Report

Please don't take my sunshine away.

[https://scpfoundation.net/local--files/draft:vladthemountain-translations/Another%20Sun.html]