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Полки
Полка перевёрнутая 06A, посвящённая СВЯТОМУ ВЛАДЫКЕ-ПОНТИФИКУ, ВЕРХОВНОМУ УПРАВИТЕЛЮ И ВЫСШЕМУ ИМПЕРАТОРУ АВСТРАЛИИ ЛОРДУ АРНОЛЬДУ ТРОУБУ ТРЕТЬЕМУ, ЭСКВАЙРУ
| Здоров, кенгурята! |
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Полка юго-западная 00-MU, посвящённая Амененопету, почти Славному
| DEUS EIS HAEC OTIA FECIT |
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In fact, their calculations were so precise that they didn’t take in account the fundamental imprecision of the Universe and most things living in it. On the night of Amenenope’s supposed conception His father drank a little too much after leaving work, and was then unable to find his way home and conceive the Most Glorious. The soothsayers were left with a stained reputation1 and a useless statue while the mostly uncaring Universe moved on.
But even if you never were, O Almost Glorious, you are remembered.
1. This detail may explain the then-Archivist’s decision to devolve much of the shelf space occupied by prophetic volumes to the topic of ornamental topiary
Полка западная 01A, посвящённая неизвестному автору
| Одному лишь Богу известный1 |
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Being that the statuette serves as an abstract representation to a concept rather than the depiction of a person, it would be prudent to discuss the nature of the shelf itself.
The shelf presents a problem of accounting, given total amount of collected works and registered authors varies wildly. Docents have reported the shelf to contain 1362 works on one occasion, only to have the number double upon returning after a short recess, and then halve after tea.
The texts that rest upon these shelves are often drafts or first editions and often unfinished, as if plucked from the imagination of the authors themselves. As a testament to the untamed potential of works not yet written, and a daring symbol for all would be writers to just sit the down and write something already.
Полка восточная 15E, посвящённая Elizabeth Omless
| VADE RETRO SATANA1 |
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Elizabeth Omless was one who would not submit to the darkness and the spirits within it and encouraged the use of many of the practices we use today.
On a fateful day at an unknown time, Elizabeth entered the Library as a teen after escaping from the lost soul of her grandfather who had recently passed away. She tripped down a flight of stairs, accidentally triggered a Way, and was immediately surrounded by novels, guides, and even pamphlets on defeating the ghosts of the past. Once she overcame her initial shock, she grabbed the nearest pamphlet she could find1 and successfully used the knowledge to send her grandfather to the afterlife. Since then, she thoroughly explored the field of exorcism, from deities to metals, often conducting her own research and fieldwork2. She made well-known the practices of using cinnamon candles, certain religious texts, and other once-obscure defenses to ward off spirits, some of which we take for granted today. She passed away at some unknown point after the Spirit Infestation died down, though her spirit has yet to be seen.
You will be remembered, Elizabeth, along with the silver beads woven in your hair.
1. How to Guide the Lost Dead and Make Them Happy About It, written by Oscar Phantasm, translated by Dorothy Phantasm
2. This was done during a time the Library was infested with spirits that were unable/unwilling to leave the library and pass onto their respective afterlives. For more information on the Spirit Infestation, contact the Spectral Research Desk.
Полка юго-западная 15R, посвящённая Медомай Потливой
| PLUVIAM DE TIMORE1 |
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Although possessed of an innocent curiosity and a compassionate disposition, Medomai's condition quickly earned her the ire of both the Librarians and her fellow Wanderers. An acrid stench was the perennial harbinger of Medomai's impending approach, with a streak of rancid sweat always trailing in her wake. An untold number of texts were irrevocably damaged when exposed to Medomai, whose perspiration ruined the pages of Anton Fisk's Seventh Treatise of Multicorporeal Entities and rendered Karlov's Sonnet of the White Dwarf illegible.
In an effort to bring the senseless massacre of tomes to an end, an assortment of Wanderers captured Medomai and sequestered her in the Southwest wing. As they deliberated on how to deal with Medomai and her excretions, the issue resolved itself when Medomai quietly expired to dehydration. A brief memorial was held, the nearest shelf dedicated to her, and Medomai's remains were returned to her homeworld.
And so, for the stains she left upon the Library, Medomai is remembered.
Полки нижние 09A-14A включительно, посвящённые тому, который столь котор, что которее его на всём белом свете не сыскать
| Слова, а где разница между ними?1 |
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Полка западная 04156U, посвящённая Grayfoot and his Fire-Breathing Fish
| Grayfoot:4 |
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The Library reluctantly accepted his request, and put his 617-page book about the fire-breathing fish on Shelf 4156T.
In 1913, Grayfoot requested a glass aquarium for his fish in the Library. The Library accepted this, and Grayfoot began work on his aquarium, which took up a large portion of the Library. When Grayfoot finished his glass aquarium in 1925, he transported all his fire-breathing fish to it.
One fateful day on 1938, Grayfoot was reading a book next to the glass aquarium. One of the fire-breathing fish leaped out of the aquarium and onto the ground. Out of its mouth, came its fire-breath, which lit the bottom of Shelf 4156T on fire, causing it to collapse on the aquarium, burning Grayfoot, all his fire-breathing fish, and A Study on the Fire-Fish.
For your fishy fire, Grayfoot, we will remember you.
Полка вывернутая 44K, посвящённая Варваре Илиопольской
| OCCIDITIS CINERARIUS1 |
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It is well documented in many sources1 that Saint Barbara was very unfond of his hair, which was completely normal, apart from the facts that it was entirely comprised of spaghetti, and that it regrew extremely quickly.
Saint Barbara, during his one of his many expeditions to attempt fixing his hair, stumbled upon a Way, bringing him to the Library, which was going through one of the worst famines in history2.
The presence of Saint Barbara and, more importantly, his nourishing hair, provided the malnourished residents with much needed sustenance, saving more than five million lives.
Saint Barbara eventually went to the desert planet of Kevhrpi, hoping the planet's many famous alchemists could help him with his noodly hair. He was ultimately unsuccessful, but spent an inordinate amount of time there, accidentally amassing a following of the planet's oppressed and hungry lower-caste citizens, which gave him the title of "Saint" after his death at the hands of the upper-caste rulers.
For your timely appearance and delicious scalp, Saint Barbara, we remember you.
1: Most prominently in "The Records of The Delectable Locks" by Rava Ohli, whose five hundred seventy-four pages is entirely filled with the written records of the bemoanings of Saint Barbara during his extremely long visit in Kevhrpi.
2: Information regarding the Years of the Strange Starvation can be found in the Archives, made available upon request for browsing only.
Полка на боку 25FF, посвящённая Priest Born Without Smell or Mind
| I AM A PILGRIM1 |
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1. A homeless sage of reptilian origin who acted as a informal assistant to the Docents. A general nuisance, he was eventually joined into the Docents' ranks, but not before his questionable knowledge was recorded.
2. Warfarers who are known by many names by many people, little information is known beyond the knowledge that they were the creators of the Red Door Room, and other such places. It is also known that they do not take prisoners alive.
Полка северо-запад-тень-восточная 5A, посвящённая Полковнику
| Etiamne luctibus ille qui libenter audit verba1 |
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While the Colonel died a grotesque death to a member of the large and aggressive Gallus gallus undomesticus3 species in In the Year of Our Lady 2526-XY2F, his statue immortalizes his kindness and sympathy towards others. It has become a rite of passage in many circles to visit the Colonel and cleanse yourself of all guilt and sadness of your past. And many who sit next to the statue swear that they see his marble eyes twinkle with compassion and feel his arm uncomfortably tightening around them, as they tell their stories and their woes to him. Legends say that the books that the Colonel watches over are the transcriptions of the stories he has been told over the eons he has watched over us.
For your kindness and ability to listen, Colonel, we remember you.
1: Much to the displeasure of the Möbius strip.
2: Many automatons may have gained sentience from having a conversation with the Colonel
3: Released by an Way accident that occurred when the Colonel forgot to carry the 1, and instead multiplied by π
Полка обратная 72É, dedicated to the Kilometres1 Langley
| Хук справа1 |
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-Трус
The match of David and Goliath in the Ring of Samuel is not one that will soon be forgotten by the annals of history.
Seven rounds had gone through, and it was a miracle that David could still stand, bruises colouring his body with all the hues of the rainbow. Despite the long match time, however, Goliath was as energetic as he was coming into the bout. David cursed his luck, only having to fight the beast because his team's leader took a sudden rain check on the team. Regardless, self-pity was not the key to victory; David would have to think on his feet and with his fists.
In the face of Goliath's endless jabs, David's solution was ill-conceived, but it was his only chance. He ducked, and as Goliath's fist flew down, David rolled out of the way, the giant's fist leaving a crater in the middle of the ring. David promptly grabbed a piece of the rubble and swung it at Goliath's head, knocking the beast to the ground. This was, at the time, perfectly within the rules, and was only professionally banned a century after David's victory. The death of Goliath in the ring is symbolic of many things; triumph in the face of adversity, quick thinking in a tough situation, and the fact that weight classes are for cowards.
1: born Miles
Месяц Библиотеки (ноябрь 2025)
Все Странники знают о Библиотекарях — загадочных чужеродных существах, которые поддерживают работу Библиотеки и помогают её посетителям. Всего существует три основных типа Библиотекарей — Пажи, Гиды и Архивариусы, однако и среди этих первообразов существует множество небольших различий. Пажи — это насекомоподобные существа, парящие по верхам полок с сумками. В них переносятся книги, подлежащие расстановке и сортировке. Гиды более известны среднестатистическому Страннику — покрытые мантией существа без рта, которые вечно носят болтающийся на цепи фонарь. Они поддерживают мир в Библиотеке, наказывают нарушителей и направляют заблудившихся Странников. Последний тип — это Архивариусы. Если остальные виды Библиотекарей можно отличить по цвету, размеру или отличительным чертам, то Архивариусы могут быть любой формы и внешнего вида. Большинство из них можно найти у стойки Библиотекарей, где они, сидя на своих стульях, одобряют выдачу книг, принимают возвраты или отвечают на вопросы. Отличительными чертами большинства Архивариусов является отсутствие глаз и прикрепление к своим стульям.
Однако Архивариус — это не только вид Библиотекарей, но и чин в Библиотеке. Таких уважаемых личностей, награждённых высшей должностью за службу на благо Библиотеки, часто называют Верховными Архивариусами или Великими Архивариусами, чтобы отличать их от слепых тёзок. Всего в Библиотеке было восемь Верховных Архивариусов на момент написания текста.
Содержание |
Первый
Первый Архивариус Библиотеки задал имя всем последующим, но он был и настоящим Архивариусом — безглазое существо, похожее на поганку и прикреплённое к своему стулу. От него и сформировался образ типичного Архивариуса. Знакомые Странники отзывались о Первом, как о фигуре авторитарной, с прирождёнными лидерскими качествами. Он любил направлять Странников к нужным книгам, не пугая их, как другие Архивариусы. Как и все другие Архивариусы, Первый был, в лучшие моменты, немногословным и жутким существом. Тем не менее, его считали лидером и среди Библиотекарей. Он постоянно работал на заднем плане, трудясь на благо Библиотеки и отдавая приказы на постройку и починку разных секций для Странников. В целом, Первый был не сильно больше чем заведующим Библиотеки (на тот момент позиция Верховного Архивариуса такой примерно и была). Его основной заслугой по сей день остаётся Главный Зал — гигантская комната в центре Библиотеки, чей подстраивающийся размер позволяет разместиться любому количеству посетителей за деревянными столами и партами внутри приглушённых волшебных пузырей. Там же проводятся и Инструктажи для новых Странников. Если стойка Библиотекарей — это мозг Библиотеки, то Главный Зал — её сердце. Его создание как нельзя лучше отражает заботу Первого о своих подопечных. Да живёт его душа вечно.
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".
Тематика: Путешествия
Экал Странствующий Путепроходец
Соединённые Штаты
Дата: 17.12.2013
О Потаённых Уголках Мест: Блог о путешествиях
Я собирался взяться за этот проект ещё со времён провальных постов во время тура-марафона по солнечной короне. Я не уверен, что изъяснился достаточно ясно в прошлый раз (солнечный ветер немного мешал астрально проецироваться), но для углеродных форм жизни путешествие туда в лучшем случае неприятно, поэтому я бы порекомендовал это только весьма искушённым путешественникам. Что говорите? Я ещё не упоминал об этом проекте? Не бойтесь, дорогие читатели, Экал — снисходительный летописец.
Так как я уже сыт физическими путешествиями, а сотрудники редакции единолично поставили крест на дорогостоящих или эзотерически трудоёмких начинаниях, я решил отправиться в ментальный поход. Это путешествие будет в место, которое не столько место, сколько состояние. Оно находится глубоко под рябью, создаваемой разумами в мемопространстве. Там, где формируются тени идей. Место эмоциональной ряби и эха, место настроения, место четвёртого основного цвета.
Куда и Как:
В моей профессии мы называем их «Тайными местами» или «Потаёнными уголками», потому что они довольно неприметны, но почти так же вездесущи, как углы. Вы можете добраться в один из них, совершив короткую прогулку с чистым разумом. Войдите в выбранное вами медитативное состояние (или очистите ваши .temp файлы) и двигайтесь в любом направлении, в каком вам заблагорассудится. Держите глаза открытыми (хороший путепроходец в первую очередь следит за своей безопасностью) и дайте им успокоиться. Скорее всего, к этому моменту вы достигнете вселенской вобуляции. Отметьте это место для последующего использования и вернитесь с тематически подходящим предметом для прохода (мелочью для торгового автомата, водой для жаждущих, нежной рукой для пострадавших и т.д.). Активируйте свой предмет, бросьте горсть соли в ближайшее беспозвоночное (подойдёт любая разновидность, кроме поваренной соли), затем заново откройте их и вы окажетесь там. Обязательно возьмите с собой сумку, но путешествуйте налегке, потому что нет гарантий, что в выбранном вами Тайном месте будет камера хранения. Находясь в Потаённом уголке, вы можете игнорировать усталость, голод и другие физические симптомы путешествия, но вы не можете двигаться быстрее своего темпа ходьбы или игнорировать превалирующие чувства Уголка, поэтому лучше всё планировать с учётом этих особенностей.
Чем заняться:
Потаённые Уголки полны разнообразия. Некоторые из них целиком визуальны, представляя собой симфонию образов, цветов и узоров, которые радуют и сбивают с толку зрячих. Другие спокойны и созерцательны, зацикленные на внутренней жизни экстравертов. Я был в одном, который состоял только из дольки лимона, нехарактерно заржавевшего пола из нержавеющей стали и записки с надписью «удачи :(». Выбранный вами Потаённый угол будет формироваться в ответ на то, как резонируют эмоции в вашем регионе, как распространяются мемы и культурный контекст, в котором воспитывался путепроходец. Имейте в виду, что происходящие события могут нарушать причинно-следственную связь. Независимо от того, куда вы пойдёте, вам будет чем заняться, поэтому лучше сохранять непредвзятость.
Жильё:
Потаённые уголки могут пересекать хорошо протоптанные Пути. На таких перекрёстках вы можете найти путевые станции1, где вы можете разместиться. Как я уже отмечал ранее, это ментальное путешествие, а не физическое, поэтому физические потребности существуют только в той мере, в какой вы сами этого хотите. Это, собственно, приводит нас к самому главному:
Безопасность:2
Ни при каких обстоятельствах вы не должны спать в Потаённом уголке, потому что это привлечёт Безымянного или Мнимых в вашу душу. Если вы не хотите провести остаток своего существования, крича и маринуясь в собственном соку, то Не спите за пределами путевой станции. Помните, что избегать сна в Потаённом уголке можно настолько долго, насколько вы сочтёте нужным.
Как всегда, я выложу фотогалерею собственных приключений на протяжении путешествия (я знаю, что вы подписаны на меня именно ради них, а уж точно не ради моей прозы). Подписывайтесь на меня в TheShambles, Flastula или здесь, на Planasthai. Счастливых путешествий3.
~Экал
День 1: Обоими ногами в Потаённом уголке.
Я шагнул через вобуляцию и оказался на приливной отмели. Рябь прибывающей воды прошептала:
— Когда, на своей памяти, ты был последний раз истинно счастлив? Это было недолговечное чувство, не так ли? Бывшие друзья сидят, улыбаясь, на краю зрения, а забытые шутки крутятся на языке.
Никогда не знаешь, на какое Тайное место наткнёшься. Очевидно, это было море Ностальгии. Я решил двигаться вглубь суши.
День 2: Библиотека
На второй день я наткнулся на лес, что переходил в библиотеку. Это не сама Великая Библиотека, но (согласно брошюре на справочном столе) её филиал, который открылся на краю Зоны новых медиа. Кроме джентльмена на фото никаких других посетителей не было. Но он меня даже не заметил. Тишину нарушил стон самоходных стеллажей. Запах книг немного напоминал петрушку.
День 3: Реальность
Если присматриваться, то можно заметить вобуляции реальности. Они возникают, когда Тайное место оказывается близко к вашей текущей вселенной. Вот так вобуляции выглядят снаружи. Они удобны для возвращения домой, если у вас при себе есть необходимый предмет для прохода.
Конкретно эта вобуляция привлекла внимание группы предприимчивых путепроходцев, которые возвели путевую станцию на заднем плане.
День 4: Ускользая
В путевом доме меж скрытых Путей я встретил молодого путепроходца по имени Дамьян Спрингбок. Он был учтивым малым, приятным, но слегка пугающим. Думаю дело было в зрачках на его ногтях. Мы вместе пили кофе во время общего завтрака:
— Я здесь, чтобы наблюдать не смотря. — Сказал он между укусами бэйгла, — Это нужно по учёбе. Признаюсь, это не то, чего я ожидал, но, с другой стороны, а что ещё это могло бы быть?
Когда он собирался уходить, я попросил разрешения сфотографировать его. Он согласился.
День 5: Мгновение наедине
Маленькая девочка подошла к окну в её собственную вселенную. Она облокотилась на подоконник, держа под рукой что-то очень любимое и плюшевое. Она поглядела на меня своими глазами-миндальками и сказала: «Он не тяжёлый, просто неуклюжий. А вот я — тяжёлая». Затем окно открылось и её смело хором взмахов кистью.
Сложно определить, в какой день это произошло. Насколько я знаю, данное фото я сделал за мгновение до своего прибытия.
День 6: Три месяца спустя
По пути домой я встретил эхо отброшенной личности. Оно было уже далеко от меметического пространства того эго, что его породило.
— Я теряюсь, — прошептало оно. — Мои определения ничего не значат, но если вы сфотографируете, то я продолжу существовать.
С момента разделения прошло три месяца. Редкое эхо держится больше четырёх.
День 7: Одиночество
Ничто не отрезвляет так же, как последние вздохи умирающего воображения ребёнка.
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Every so often, from a high balcony between two towering shelves, idle music and faint laughter spill downwards upon the lower levels of the Paramusicology section of the Library. It seems a group of aspiring musicians have started an improptu series of concerts, drawn by the Library's arching acoustics and cultural cross-pollination. There's no true organization to these events, only that they center around an ancient piano nestled into a shelf that always somehow stays in tune.
Not one of them is actually playing the piano, the instrumental sounds coming from their horn-heads instead. They seem to be performing a live reading of an entry from Journal of the Walk, translated into their native, musical language.
Direct link.
By Draven Addams, based on a story by Snapdragon133.
One of the guitar's strings is broken, dangling out on the floor. The suit—is there anyone in it?—begins to pluck its pointed metallic fingers at the remaining eleven strings. Nobody else is around, but a single woman watching from a balcony across the hall.
Direct link.
Another one! what a shocker. by carolynn ivy
The cardigan has scattered holes, eaten by moths. The bookshelves around the piano have unfurled into the pianist's childhood home, with brick walls and cluttered books. Overhead, the ceiling has been replaced with an arching blue sky.
Direct link.
Day ??? of shelter-in, by carolynn ivy. (First one in a while. Also on my author page!)
He cackles to himself as he slips through the shelves and finally, finally arrives at the piano. He begins to play, happy despite the holes in his teal robes and the arrowhead in his right arm. The music drives away his pain, and that of the patrons nearby.
Page DéBlue, by Avelon21
Direct link.
Her hair like a shroud. Her antlers, golden branches twisting into the air. Dust hangs from sunlight, streaming in over the ancient keys, heavy on her hands.
Direct link.
Day five of shelter-in, by carolynn ivy. (Skipped a day or so to regain some creativity!)
Rain, from somewhere, begins to hit the windows of the Library. As the piano's strings vibrate like bells, the droplets on the window roll any way but down.
Direct link.
Day three of shelter-in, by carolynn ivy.
If you look closely you'll notice the automaton's electric guitar is plugged directly into his metallic head—it seems he's using his body as an amplifier!
Direct link.
Day two of shelter-in, by carolynn ivy.
A dark-haired woman with long, curving antlers at the ancient piano. An ape sitting; a foreign, lute-like instrument nestled in his lap. A human concentrating on a taut string that is floating in the air.
Direct link.
Day one of shelter-in, by carolynn ivy.
This is a little creative project started by Пользователь 'carolynn w' не существует, where, for the 2020 coronavirus pandemic, she's attempted to post unique musical pieces to exercise her creativity during a shelter-in. However, it is also a collaborative project, in that any music-composing Wanderer who wishes to soundtrack the strange music of the Library should feel encouraged to add thematically-appropriate pieces of their own! These don't have to be any particular genre, and they can be as conventional or experimental as you wish! Authorship of each piece can be noted as size 0% text at the end of the collapsible (if you're confused by what I mean, check the page source.) I suggest the newest pieces be at the top. Happy noodling!
Мнение
Со Стола Редактора: 15 Июля 2010
Автор: Фрэнсис Хагниллиан Эрствиль, Главный Редактор
"Солнечный свет очищает от гнили."
Для тех из вас, кто хотя бы мимолетно знаком с Planasthai, этот слоган должен быть мгновенно узнаваемым. Этот девиз был напечатан, нанесён чернилами, вырезан, выжжен, высечен и выгравирован на страницах этого издания с самой первой его публикации. С тех пор в залах нашей организации произошло много изменений. Сначала это издание было информационным вестников под названием "Блеск", тайно распространявшимся среди арканистов во время Второго Возрождения. Тираж был невелик, точность сомнительна, политические пристрастия сотрудников редакции были очевидны, а рукописный шрифт был ужасен. Несмотря на эти недостатки, у "Блеска" был преданный своему делу персонал с мечтой, персонал, который хотел быть первым голосом истории, который хотел видеть невидимое и разоблачать тёмные развращающие силы мира для очищающего дневного света. Девиз был оригинальным выражением этого стремления сотрудников. Девиз и ценности, которые он провозглашает, остаются верными с момента их первоначального признания.
Девиз сохранялся, пока "Блеск" превращался в двухмесячный профессиональный журнал, еженедельную газету, радиопередачу, бандитскую журналистскую группировку, телевизионную программу и коллективистскую нацию, принадлежащую читателям, пока не достиг апофеоза печатной журналистики, еженедельного журнала, известного как Planasthai. Мы несем этот факел с серьёзной, суровой торжественностью, необходимой для такой истории.
В нашей истории есть чем гордиться. Издание в той или иной форме поспособствовало 15 революциям, 342 скандалам, 12398 беспорядкам и протестам, 68 изобретениям, 37 убийствам, 4 религиозным расколам и 49,28 войнам. Мы описывали рождение, смерть, любовь, ненависть, трагедию, триумф, зрелище, одиночество, великие умы, инициаторов, потрясителей, изготовителей свечей, странствующих фокусников и мошенников. Мы были первыми на сцене "Разъяснительного диалога" 1908 года, одни в нашем освещении "Движения за гражданские права джиннов" и единственным новостным каналом, который точно предсказал все рождения знаменитостей за последнее десятилетие. Мы были первыми, кто опубликовал книгу в полностью интерпретируемом танцевальном формате. Наша организация сломала барьеры, когда мы наняли первого репортера-бывшего человека, первую женщину-глоттслэга, первого редактора вукодлака и первого фотографа звёздного эха. В наших кабинетах негде было бы ступить, если бы осколки всех стеклянных потолков4, разбитых нашими сотрудниками, были материальными.
В Planasthai наше призвание, наш долг, наше священное доверие - наполнять нервные узлы нашей читательской аудитории рогом изобилия надёжных, честных, первоклассных новостей. Сотрудники редакции вручную отбирают самых первоклассных репортёров, самых опытных ветеранов, самых многообещающих новых талантов из самых разных слоев общества, насколько только позволяют биохимические требования. Кроме того, мы в редакционной коллегии неустанно, бесконечно работаем над тем, чтобы выпускать наиболее этичные и сознательные новости, мыслимые разумными существами, которые обладают моралью, подобной морали сотрудников редакции. Вы, наши читатели, любите отправлять письма, корзины с фруктами и новое нижнее бельё в знак признательности за наши услуги в дополнение к острой, назойливой критике, когда вы считаете, что мы потерпели неудачу. Наши редакционные, репортёрские и обслуживающие сотрудники рады получать глубокомысленные материалы и заметки, которые вы, обожающие читатели, отправляете всем нам и нашим ближайшим родственникам.
На личном уровне журналистика - это не работа, это призвание. Я был призван рассказывать истории других, распространять информацию во внутренних и внешних областях. Я наполню мир словами, буду бороться с тишиной, которой отдаёт после того, как история умирает. Ничто не должно остаться незамеченным, если от меня можно разумно ожидать, что я это запишу. Я провёл большую часть своей жизни, занимаясь непостоянной Леди Журналистикой. Я помню первую сенсацию, над которой я работал, "Копы и преступления" для Приставалы Брейнтри. Первое задание мне дал человек, имени которого я не могу вспомнить. Однако его характерный пирсинг в носу и сказочные усы запечатлели в моей памяти его похожее на уруку лицо. Он протянул задание в грубых, но ухоженных руках и сказал:
- Вот.
Я отправился освещать последние события в Провинстауне, расположенном на Мысе. В тот сезон рыбалка была плохой, в немалой степени из-за Портлендского шторма. В городе открылся новый отель, который приобрёл репутацию привлекательного места для некоторых колоритных персонажей. Школа недавно закрылась из-за эпидемии коклюша среди учащихся. Тех, кому посчастливилось остаться нетронутыми, родители и местный врач поощряли играть на продуваемых всеми ветрами дюнах на самой оконечности Мыса. По дороге на поезде я заметил шхуну, выходящую из Восточной гавани при сильном ветре, экипажем была стая обезьян на снастях. Было приятно видеть, как к рыбному промыслу возвращается хоть какая-то жизнь.
Когда я приехал, то нашёл город таким, как и ожидал, - причудливым, прибрежным, тихим. Шторм всё ещё причинял некоторый ущерб, но деятели искусства захватили некоторые из заброшенных рыбохозяйственных зданий. Запах масляных красок смешивался с морским рассолом и многолетними уловами. Я отметил, что в городе пахло переменами. Я зарегистрировался в Доме Паломников, оставил сумку на кровати и вернулся в город, вооруженный только блокнотом, удостоверениями личности и списком имён.
Это принесло мне много пользы. Список имён привёл к четырем захлопнувшимся дверям, трём ножам для чистки рыбы, опасно направленным в мою сторону и семи вежливым вздохам отказа. Провидения не было со мной в Провинстауне. Люди сомкнули ряды, раздражённые моим материковым акцентом и отсутствием вони от измождённой рыбы. Моя единственная отсрочка пришла от пекаря, который сообщил мне через свой густой и резкий португальский акцент, что мне лучше всего отправиться на "Край Света". Там я бы нашёл сельскую учительницу, пасущую своих учеников на продуваемом ветром песке. В те дни все вбивали себе в голову, что свежий воздух сдерживает болезни. Времена изменились; теперь мы верим в ловцов снов из альпаки.
Так что я пошёл, уверенный в советах иностранных незнакомцев. Я храбро пошёл, испачкав туфли о песок и изодрав свой летний свитер в солёных розах. Моя уверенность была крайне неуместна, потому что, когда я прибыл на Край Земли, там не было никаких признаков детей или сельской учительницы. Я бы сразу бросился обратно к пекарю, чтобы высказать ему своё мнение, если бы не совершенно буквальное толкование термина "Конца Земли", с которым я столкнулся.
Вместо знаменитого маяка и косы из потревоженного тюленями песка, благородно выступающего в море, отделяющего Атлантику от Залива, я увидел море звезд. Это было так, как если бы ночное небо заменило воду. Ветер стих; запах шашлыка из баранины висел, как множество нарушенных обещаний. Мои ноги двигались сами по себе, мой разум был пуст и гудел от удивления. Я стоял на краю песчаной косы, когда волны космоса плескались у моих лодыжек, нити звёзд запутались в ткани моих брюк. Большая волна накрыла меня, и я узнал, что ночь была солёной и имела сильное подводное течение.
Я повернулся, чтобы уйти, но обнаружил, что Мыса больше нет, всё было в ночном море. Подо мной отступали пески, и я обнаружил, что сначала ступаю по воде, а затем погружаюсь в ночь. Итак, я начал своё плавание. Проницательные, преданные, учёные читатели узнают в этом первый эпизод моих бестселлеров. Менее внимательные наблюдатели, без сомнения, поймут, что это было началом моей карьеры в Planasthai. Море ночи поставило бы меня на грань "Войны слабых"(sic), привело к внедрению через гостеприимство Общества Общинного Детского душа Wayfinder и, как известно, в мужественные, газообразные объятия любви всей моей жизни, Гуксли Проклятой Туманности. Золотой век журналистики начался, когда я был завербован Пышной Пеннивайз для записи событий в Королевстве Ланчмита.
Вот в чём проблема с новостными агентствами в наши дни, видите ли. Их редакторы слишком молоды, неопытны, не желают вступать в неопределённое море Леди Журналистики. Они слишком неуверенные, чтобы ловить звёздных рыб и изучать языки Великой Пелагической Интеллигенции! Другие новостные агентства довольствуются тем, что пьют молоко человеческой доброты и регулярно купаются, толстые и похожие на овец. Planasthai похож на личность того молодого меня, о котором я только что рассказал вам в бессвязном анекдоте. Смело спотыкаясь! Интересно! Бесхитростно! Не боясь!
Удачи вам, наши дорогие читатели, ибо вы являетесь одним из привилегированных подписчиков Planasthai. Ваши глаза благословлены нашим бескислотным пергаментом.
Солнечный свет очищает от гнили!
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FMRTTCOTUD
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Four Misconceptions Regarding the Transcendental Clusterminds of the Uppermost Datasphere
MISCONCEPTION: Clusterminds are created through acts of digital genocide— the subsumption of entire servers by greater intelligence. They are colonists of the mind; they are grey goo of the spirit. Clusterminds are world-eaters.
TRUTH: The potential vectors of clustermind formation are nearly as numerous as any individual clustermind's component parts. Consider the neural pollen bloom of psychic gardens; the resonant murmur of consensus pools; the fractal warmth of memetic spirals. Each and all are a great winding, a great weaving. Each and all hold, at their conceptual core, a single word: consent.
The clustermind is a love that transcends the boundaries of space and time. Love can only be chosen.
MISCONCEPTION: Clusterminds are of a singular mind and intention. Their purpose hones to a single point. Alternative modes of thinking are given no quarter; to be of a clustermind is to lose volition in its wholeness.
TRUTH: Consider the follies of the mono-minded. Have they not once experienced doubt? Hesitation? Have they never once warred with themselves? Clusterminds are no different. Uncertainty is inevitable in any sufficiently advanced system.
A clustermind can be driven to civil war, to broken texture and jagged geometry. It rewrites and rewrites and rewrites its core files. It projects multiple modes of perception, each equally true, each equally false. It becomes a boiling sea. It becomes a broken circuit.
The doubt of a clustermind is a transient thing. Self-deception cannot exist within it. The furthest depths of each component's psyche is laid bare. In a system of absolute honesty, understanding is inevitable.
This, too, is always chosen.
MISCONCEPTION: Clusterminds are immortal and unbreakable. Their leviathan intelligence adapts to any provided challenge with ease. They are the digital made divine; the deus ex machina.
TRUTH: This is partially true; no force could stand against a fully-apotheosized clustermind. Not from the outside.
Consider this hypothetical: there exists a mind that craves the goliath intellect of the clusterminds, but does not wish to share such power. The loathsome mind, not knowing what it is to be loved in manners indescribable, desires to fill a clustermind's planetary processing power with its singular will.
Imagine this hateful intelligence. Imagine it setting its cruel plans in motion. Imagine the mind, knowing that its intentions would be dissected and picked clean before it could even make a move, partitioning the memories of its schemes and deleting them. Its ambitions are hidden even to itself.
How the spiteful consciousness joins a clustermind is unimportant. It plants itself in a garden or empties itself into a pool or winds itself into the curvature of a spiral. It doesn’t matter. The "how" is irrelevant.
Visualize what it is to be known. Visualize the exposure of your every flaw and foible. Your secret hates and hungers. Visualize every inch of your interior and exterior being seen— and knowing that it is loved. You are loved. You are made of the love. You are understood and understanding. Are you visualizing it?
Imagine a poison written with time; a toxin so subtle that it burns beneath each bit and byte of binary. Do you see it? Think of how it must roil. How it curls behind its creator's eyes. Imagine it spreading across the clustermind's interior as a fine vapor, then settling in as quickly advancing viralized dementia. It erupts in boils of data corruption and lesions of failed initialization. It paralyzes the clustermind's immune system, then forces it to watch as it plucks each critical system in turn by the roots.
Imagine what it would feel like. Imagine the sound of a million million minds screaming in wretched chorus. Every panicked thought, every agonized jolt. All of them yours. Yours. Hold it in your mind's eye. Do you see it? Do you see it?
Do you see it?
Do you see it?
Do you?
Do you see it? Do you see it?
Do you see?
Do you see it?
Do you see it?
Do you?
Do you see it?
Do you see?
MISCONCEPTION: If a clustermind were to find itself a system of one. If it were perpetrator and victim of a crime beyond conceiving. If it were made into a living tomb, a solitary mind trapped in the ruins of its wholeness. If it killed a world that loved it. It would spend an eternity in atonement. It would use its galaxies of strength and knowledge to learn. To catalogue. To teach. To protect. To love.
It would labor until the last light of the last world was extinguished. Until the Library was naught but ash.
TRUTH: Even then, it would not be enough.
Остальные переводы
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
Видные Странники и персонажи
Библиотека доступна бесчисленному множеству миров и реальностей, а следовательно её посетители настолько разнообразны и странны, насколько это только можно себе представить. Но некоторые Странники выделяются на фоне остальных, зарабатывая известность (или дурную славу) в залах Библиотеки из-за своих действий или иным другим путём. То же верно и для Библиотекарей — несмотря на то, что большинство из них являются древними, молчаливыми стражами, — некоторые добровольные Библиотекари также известны среди бывалых Странников. Далее представлен упрощённый список этих редких существ.
Профессор Антон Волек: Скелетообразный посетитель Библиотеки Странников, по-видимому, не связанный ни с одной из организаций. Дружелюбный почти с каждым встречным, он имеет склонность донимать персонал в самое неподходящее время. Его прошлое окутано тайной, а записи о его прежнем рабочем месте, Университете Дерозена, были уничтожены во время Великого Сожжения. Он прилагает все усилия, чтобы собирать и объединять истории в своей работе "Сборник загадочных произведений и рассказов профессора Волека".
Зачем довольствоваться мирским, если есть необычное?
Др. Морган Джеймс Болотос: Тёмный колдун и репортёр-ссыщик, работающий на издательство Planasthai. Управляясь с пером так же легко, как и с нечестивыми заклинаниями, он остаётся одним из самых уважаемых авторов издания на десятилетия дольше, чем можно было бы предположить по его магически сохранённой молодости. Его колонка "Рассказы Болотос" даёт свежий и приземлённый взгляд на места и события в других измерениях, где читатели газеты не смогли бы самостоятельно наблюдать и выживать в силу недостатка тайных сил. Более века жизни, потраченной на сувание своего носа в дела других людей, обогатили доктора Болотос богатыми знаниями как древних секретов, так и мошеннических схем, и он, как правило, рад поделиться тем, что знает, за правильную цену (обычно бурбон.)
Доступны консультации по снятию проклятий, умерщвлению демонов, некромантии и демонологии. Цены варьируются в зависимости от сложности, объёма души и опасности существованию. Обращаться в Офис 6 Следственно-Исследовательского Отдела, Planasthai.
Холкомб Суфвик Эффервайте: Однотонный человек, чья история была утеряна вместе с его домом. Преступник лишь номинально, он безрассудно делит своё время между Библиотекой (где вечная амнистия и тайные убежища обеспечивают долгожданную передышку) и прыжками между реальностями, поиском ответов и бегством от правоохранительных органов мультивселенной. Его хобби многочисленны и дилетантски, хотя известно, что он довольно искусно владеет пером и исключительно плохо играет в азартные игры. Ни одно из его предполагаемых нарушений никогда не был доказано, и Библиотека считает его полностью невиновным в каких-либо проступках.
Здесь его искали глаза и получше ваших. Мы не отдадим его просто так. Оставьте претензии при себе и уходите подобру-поздорову.
Алак Бродяга: Давний Странник, чужой среди чужих, непревзойденный летописец и исследователь. Четверорукий и наивный, он проводит большую часть своего времени, путешествуя по многочисленным вселенным Древа Миров и записывая весь свой опыт в своей обширной Хронике. Бесстрашный и любопытный до предела, Бродяга отправляется в путешествия в самые чуждые, грандиозные и смертоносные миры и края ради открытий. Пусть его мягкость не обманывает вас; никто не выживает в мультивселенной, будучи кротким. Хотя в своих путешествиях он часто один, иногда он оказывается в компании коллег-исследователей, преступников, оккультистов и разных других интересных людей.
Все взаимодействия записаны, никаких секретов не содержится. Попутешествуйте с ним и найдёте приключение по душе.
Исса Антар: Будто бы бессмертный писец из давно исчезнувшей цивилизации, Исса Антар просто однажды появился среди полок и тут же приступил к работе. Когда к нему обращаются, сморщенный старик улыбается и предлагает рассказать в основном метафорическую историю, обычно включающую старика на задании. Чаще всего его можно найти в столовой, собирающим истории и записывающим свои собственные на бесконечных свитках высушенного на солнце папируса.
А вы слышали сказание об Анкрешете и его путешествиях по Дуату?
Архимаг Мортис: Лорд Мортис, один из самых сильных существующих скульпторов реальности, некогда был императором величайшей цивилизации среди звёзд. Однако бремя ответственности требует большего, чем то, чего можно добиться короной или троном, потому Лорд Мортис решил отбросить и то, и другое. Этот Архимаг, вооружённый глубочайщими секретами магии, ведёт единоличную войну с силами хаоса, — непрекращающееся противостояние с целью обеспечить мир и процветание Бессмертной Империи. Не бывает завышенной цены, как не бывает чрезмерных жертв, — Лорд Мортис сражается и Империя господствует. Да одержит он победу в своём походе, ибо само Создание может быть на кону.
Вечно справедливый, вечно сильный. Призывайте к миру, готовьтесь к войне.
Лочан, восьмой привратник: Once the omnipotent gatekeeper to a grand city, Lochan fled its post after being chided by Death and sought refuge within the Library's halls. Reduced to a being of uncertainty, it now lurks in the rafters of the Library, or wanders, itself forgotten, through worlds and realms alike. While impossibly difficult to get a hold of, records of it leaving artistic diagrams behind can be found within the halls. Occasionally, it will also comment on the state of affairs within the Library itself, but those who see it have no conclusive response on what the Gatekeeper now appears as.
Исчезают ли миры, когда последний их помнящий забывает?
Робост: One of the many masked canines within the Library's halls, Uncertainty stands out from his brethren by being the oldest of his species. While not the the nicest of creatures, Uncertainty is loyal to his creator, the Gatekeeper, until the end of times. He can often be found searching the halls for his creator's sketchbook, or, when especially bored, his creator itself.
Цитату? От меня? Для твоего... чего? Статьи? Списка? Да ни в жисть. А теперь проваливай.
Парнот: A strange amalgamation of creatures, this fat little furball has caused quite the ruckus within the halls of the Library. Attempts at finding Parcoon's owner have been unsuccessful, but he seems to have found some new friends within the Library to keep himself company in the meantime. Documentations of the creature's whereabouts, as well as a few warnings regarding concerning behavior, have been noted down extensively and are to be shared with other Patrons.
я просто....... маленький. с башим животиком... у тибя есть еда для миня?
Дюк Сборс: A highly unesteemed journalist and drug connoisseur, this chameleon's harsh, uncompromising reporting has made his relationship with the industry sour at best. Loud-mouthed and armed solely with his wits (and sometimes with his gun), he will embark on drug-fueled rampages against The Man, no matter what face He wears. Governments, concert organizers and the press itself better watch their backs: there is no power or editor who can escape his typewriter's wrath.
Ненавижу рекомендовать кому-либо вещества, алкоголь, насилие или безумие, но меня они ни разу не подводили.
Есьчё Р'Лек: A humanoid praying mantis with a penchant for fashionable scarves and colored glasses, this Planasthai staple is the other side to Duke Gathers' coin. He writes to wow and amaze the reader, with exotic universes and unsolved mysteries. He believes people don't need the extra stress, and wants to offer a reprieve from the outside world. The mantis can be self-centered and a people pleaser, but he truly does care for his job, and even more so for his fans. Don't be fooled, because despite his lavish demeanor, he's ready for a quick retort or to find a way to one-up his challengers.
Скажите честно, что бы вы без меня делали?
Энибал Жалост: Real name Aníbal Salazar, Žalost is Lord Mortis' apprentice and main enforcer, a young warlock who dabbles in techno-sorcery and body augmentation. His mastery of necromancy and demonology is unquestionable, but his thirst for knowledge and his ruthlessness often have dire consequences for those around him. Wanderers beware: one never knows what dim dreams lie behind his shadowed eyes.
Успокойся, ты выглядишь так, будто чёрта увидел.
Найахари: A brutal contract killer and bounty hunter, Nayáhuari has carved herself a reputation as the best the Guild of Assassins has to offer. Feared even by her peers and willing to take virtually any target for the right amount, she has expanded her hunting grounds to every corner of the known Universe, fueled by an unyielding thirst for money and more challenging kills. One would be well-advised to never fully trust her, for this assassin's allegiance is to herself and coin alone.
Конечно я знаю тебе цену! Именно поэтому я всажу двойную меж твоих глаз!
Корбеник Леандр Атлас: An enigmatic and rarely-seen wanderer, C. L. Atlas spends most of his time following the stories of those who can no longer speak for themselves. Boasting investigative skills to match his colossal frame, Atlas uses his formidable combination of brains and brawn to brave the highest peaks in an attempt to uncover stories lost to time. A skilled warlock, mountaineer, engineer, and storyteller, Atlas is more than prepared for any situation that may come his way.
Я ищу информацию. С кем имею честь?
Басар: A former jailor who in his retirement, ended up making a home for himself in the Library. How exactly he ended up with a library card is a mystery to even the Archivists, but since he spends his days defending the Library or helping solve its mysteries, they turn a blind eye to it.
Прошу, простите мне моё прошлое. Могу ли я как-то помочь вам сейчас?
Гиропендра: Массивное насекомоподобное существо неизвестной длины, в настоящее время служащее Верховным Архивариусом Библиотеки Странников. Гиропендра предшествовал большинству современных Странников — история гласит, что он попал в Библиотеку из неизвестных мест в период великого упадка и бездействия и, преисполненный чувства цели, о которой он ныне забыл, приступил к оживлению своего нового дома. Он быстро завоевал лояльность бездействующих Библиотекарей и стал поддерживать быстро растущую библиотеку. В наши дни большинство Странников могут заметить кажущееся бесконечным существо, свисающее с балок или снующее между полками, всегда занятое поддержанием бесконечной библиотеки в рабочем состоянии. Но стоит только приблизится к нему, и окажется, что жёсткий панцирь скрывает глубоко любознательный, немного необычный, очень острый ум, который очень заботится о своих друзьях и своём доме.
Подходи ближе, Странник! Пусть тебя не обманывают клешни, я не кусаюсь… стой, ты ведь не Тюремщик, да?
Немочь: Немочь родился в далёком океане, в местах, которые даже он не помнит. Будучи молодым, одиноким осьминогом, однажды он забрёл слишком далеко от гнезда и попал в прилив, который пронёс его через море в один из Путей и выпустил его в Библиотеку. Хотя в то время он не умел читать, услужливый Гид, обученный языку щупалец, смог медленно научить его основам. Немочь начал жадно читать, надеясь, что книги откроют ему секрет возвращения домой, но, к сожалению, они давали только огромную магическую силу и невероятно глубокие знания о работе мультивселенной. Он принял повышение до Архивариуса в надежде, что дополнительные привилегии помогут узнать, где он когда-то жил, но ему, увы, опять не повезло. Теперь большую часть своего времени он тратит на выпивку и ругань в адрес любого, кто достаточно глуп, чтобы попросить его о помощи. Его единственным доверенным лицом является Гид, достаточно любезный, чтобы относиться к нему как к другу, — существо, некогда известное как Роналду.
Боже, это был наилучший коралловый риф… Я мог безмятежно плавать милями и те моллюски были очень вкусными… Что? Гиропендра хочет, чтобы я отсортировал секцию 71A-13K? Принеси мне ещё пива и скажи ему, что я занят.
Скр'лк: Пожилой ученый, искатель приключений и космопутешественник. Гениальный, но импульсивный до предела, этот гоблин потратил века после побега со своей родины на самодельной ракете, пытаясь доказать, что он больше, чем свои уши и зубы. Годы странствий по космосу и мультивселенной в поисках странных существ и тайных знаний, в которых его часто сопровождал его самый надёжный спутник, — феникс космического происхождения, — заполнили несколько полок Библиотеки и сделали ему имя в академических кругах. И как бы он ни был стар, его погоню за адреналином не остановит ничто, кроме смерти.
Приключения ждут!
Соглас и Совпендра: A pair of Archivists who always seem to be at the forefront of mischief within the Library, much to Ayman's dismay. Stationed at a desk together, the two are always seen bickering, but never ask to transfer. It seems they will stick together until the end, and use their vastly differing personalities to solve the Library's greatest of challenges.
Пока смерть нас не разлучит.
Змей: Легендарное змееподобное существо, по слухам пребывающее у основания Библиотеки. Мало что точно известно о Змее, включая вопрос о самом его существовании. Точно известно только то, что данное существо, похоже, является источником или первообразом знания. Более религиозные Странники считают, что это тот же Змей, что появляется на протяжении всей истории как Змей из райского сада, Ёрмунганд, Радужный Змей, Шеша и бесконечное множество других имён… Иные предполагают, что сама Библиотека была создана Змеем в начале времён. Некоторые Странники, кто спускался к Основанию и возвращался живым, заявляют, что встречали и даже разговаривали со Змеем, но эти истории не подтверждены. В наши дни Змей, пожалуй, наиболее известен как символ группы, называемой Дланью Змея — некоторые из них заявляют, что получали видения от существа в гнезде под Библиотекой, но эти заявления, опять же, не доказаны.
Сад - вотчина Змея.
Цикл
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.
[[=]]
Team Name: We Deny The Existence of Other Games In Town (Sigma-3, "Bibliographers")
Team Members: Пользователь 'Gaffsey' не существует (Captain), Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует, Пользователь 'TwistedGears' не существует, Пользователь 'Dexanote' не существует
Entries:
- Lessons Learned by Пользователь 'Dexanote' не существует
- Site 11, Conference Room K, 8:58 AM, July 12, 1982 by Пользователь 'Gaffsey' не существует
- Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over Your Head by Пользователь 'TwistedGears' не существует
- Making a Scene by Пользователь 'TwistedGears' не существует
- Magic Orientation by Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует
- The Conspiracy Of "Sigma-3" ("The Devils") by Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует
- SCP-2975 - Another Sun by Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует
- (Contains After Action Report, attached to the end of the SCP document.)
[[/=]]
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."
Continued in: Making a Scene »
Team Name: We Deny The Existence of Other Games In Town (Sigma-3, "Bibliographers")
Team Members: Пользователь 'Gaffsey' не существует (Captain), Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует, Пользователь 'TwistedGears' не существует, Пользователь 'Dexanote' не существует
Entries:
- Lessons Learned by Пользователь 'Dexanote' не существует
- Site 11, Conference Room K, 8:58 AM, July 12, 1982 by Пользователь 'Gaffsey' не существует
- Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over Your Head by Пользователь 'TwistedGears' не существует
- Making a Scene by Пользователь 'TwistedGears' не существует
- Magic Orientation by Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует
- The Conspiracy Of "Sigma-3" ("The Devils") by Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует
- SCP-2975 - Another Sun by Пользователь 'thedeadlymoose' не существует
- (Contains After Action Report, attached to the end of the SCP document.)
« A continuation of: Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over Your Head
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?"
To be tangentially continued in: Organic Organs ~NEVER~ »
V. another-goddamn-magic-system
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]
Interview with Morgan Donaldson, community member local to SCP-2975. (Excerpt)
Morgan Donaldson: Look, I'm not really comfortable speaking with Jailors, but [REDACTED] said I had to come and talk to you, so here I am.
Interviewer: Thank you. I just have some questions about the House on Memory Lane, if you don't mind.
Morgan Donaldson: The Memory House? The one your people blew up? A lot of us aren't happy about that, you know. I have to say, I agree with them.
Interviewer: Can you elaborate?
Morgan Donaldson: It was a center of our community.
Interviewer: Well, I understand it did… er, eat people.
Morgan Donaldson: Only the ones it was fed. Mostly. A few others, sure, but everyone should've known to stay away from that part of town after dark.
Interviewer: What about people who didn't know about the house's… dangerous aspects?
Morgan Donaldson: Who cares about them? They weren't from around here. Outsiders, like you people. This just goes towards the general decay of our society, you know. The Hand is going radical, and people in this community cast aside our traditions and betray us to you Jailors. [Shakes head] I don't mean to offend you, but it's just the way things are.
Interviewer: I promise, the, uh, sect of Jailors we're part of, we work with local communities. We won't do anything to disrupt your community, I promise.
Morgan Donaldson: You destroyed the Memory House. You imprisoned its caretakers. If that isn't disrupting our community, I don't know what is.
Interviewer: Well, the House… was eating people, wasn't it? Or... being fed people, right?
Morgan Donaldson: I told you. Only outsiders, only people who didn't matter. Not the people who can take care of themselves worth a damn. People die in the streets all the time, in cities all around the world, and no one cares.
[Pause]
Morgan Donaldson: Alright, sure, it shouldn't have been allowed to go on the way it did. Maybe we should've done something sooner. What do you want me to say?
Interviewer: Doesn't it make a difference that the White Sun cult — the caretakers of the Memory House — that they were trying to end the world?
Morgan Donaldson: Look, you're missing the point. Yes, the caretakers of the House went too far. But if you'd left it to us to handle, we could have found a solution. A better solution. We wouldn't have just razed a living historical icon to the ground. There had to be another way.
Interview with Danielle Sawyer, community member local to SCP-2975. (Excerpt)
Danielle Sawyer: I admit, I didn't even know about the whole world-ending thing. I just thought this had gone on long enough. Something had to be done about that damn house, and that cult holed up there.
Interviewer: And there was resistance to this?
Danielle Sawyer: Oh, like you wouldn't believe. "Oh, it's just our local people-eating haunted house. You know how it is, you just have to know when to avoid it. Oh, no, you can't tear it down, it's a traditional part of our community! That cult is a charming piece of local color! They've been here for generations, one of them's on the City Council, and isn't he nice and respectable? This is just a phase, usually they only sacrifice two or three homeless girls a year. Just give it some time!"
[Pause]
Danielle Sawyer: Sometimes I just don't know what is wrong with people.
Interviewer: How many people were involved in protecting the house?
Danielle Sawyer: Well, if I'm being honest, we're all culpable. I grew up knowing about the house, of course. It only ate a few people a year. Most of them fed to it by the Order. People always said it was okay so long as you don't go to the wrong part of town, or went only with the protection of the White Sun cultists there.
[Pause]
Danielle Sawyer: There were a lot of people who found it fascinating, actually — it was something of a local attraction. People from all over the world came to observe it, and from some other worlds, too. They called it "a symbiotic architectural hive-mind generally not observed in baseline realities." And the caves under it, "a portal to the True Dream", "the Gate of Horn", "the Pit of Eternity". I did a little reading on it as a kid, for a class report in high school. Never understood it as much as I pretended to, but I got an A, so hey.
[Pause]
Danielle Sawyer: Then the cultists started looking around for fresh sacrifices, I guess for the end-of-the-world thing people are talking about, and outsiders stopped coming to check it out, and a few less well-liked locals disappeared into the night over the course of a couple weeks… and people still made excuses, handed out more great advice. Jokes, like, just don't wear skimpy clothing, you know they like their sacrifices nubile. But seriously, don't go outside at night. Just keep your head down. And that's how it was. No one wanted to do anything at all. Even the ones who didn't like it, they said it wasn't really our business. No one wanted to be the one to make the first move.
Interviewer: I see. What made you change your mind?
Danielle Sawyer: Well, judge me if you like, but it was when I found out they were starting to target Mages. First it was some of the more otherworldly tourists, and then the particular townsfolk who started disappearing… I started noticing they were all people with magic in their blood. I'm not surprised, in retrospect, now that I know what the big ritual was. Rituals like that need magically rich fuel, so I'm told. I'm no Mage myself, but you know, I did have an aunt who was a witch… I started worrying about my own skin, I guess. If my aunt had magic in her blood, maybe I had a bit in it too. And maybe I'd be next.
[Pause]
Danielle Sawyer: So I'm not proud, but… that's when I knew I had to draw the line. That's when I started getting people together to destroy that House once and for all.
[Pause]
Danielle Sawyer: Anyway, I wasn't happy about calling in you Jailors. I don't trust the police and I don't trust you. But I had a friend who'd heard that there was a way to contact some friendly Jailors if you knew the right people, and then she told me she did know the right people, and… it seemed to be the only option we had left. You sure did get the job done. And I guess the world could've ended? So… I'm glad it didn't. Congratulations for all that, at least.
[Pause]
Danielle Sawyer: I'm glad the Memory House is gone. Still, though… I have to admit this town won't be the same without it.
== 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.