Potato's Poor Attempts at Creative Writing

[Potato]

Everything was a blur. My thoughts were sluggish, and every movement of my body felt like moving through highly viscous jelly. At the bare edges of my vision, I could see a dim, orange light, and hear just the slightest hum. Or was I simply just imagining it all?

Was I asleep? It certainly felt like a dream. Everything about this seemed somehow…unreal. As if everything had been filtered through a screen, somehow. I felt my (gloved?) hands grasp something and press at various buttons, just outside of my field of perception. Time seemed to pass at a snail's pace. How long had I been trapped there? What was happening?

I stayed in that state…for who knew how long. Weeks? Months? Time had no longer any meaning.

And then I heard it.

<<Control tower to Wardog, intercept the bombers. Don't let them attack the runway.>> A tinny voice buzzed in my ear.

Instantly, I was awake, the fog of confusion thrown off of me as a burst of adrenaline flushed my body before my mind had fully understood the situation. I looked around myself through a tinted pane of plastic. My helmet visor. I watched myself automatically adjust a dozen control knobs and buttons, something ingrained in me acting autonomously. As expected. Yuke bogies were everywhere. Moments later, I finally realised where I was.

I was in the cockpit of an F-15 Eagle. I'd recognise those panels anywhere. Years of trawling online forums had burned the image into my skull. More specifically, an F-15 STOL/MTD variant, a little mental voice piped up. Wait, what? Why?! How?! I looked out of the glass – the canopy – and saw the distinctive canards of this particular Eagle variant.

How was this possible? Where was I? As far as I knew, no more than a single such jet had ever been built, and I was most certainly not a NASA pilot. Numbers flickered in the back of my brain – wait, how many? Seven hundred? How had I missed seven hundred ACTIVE Eagles? Suddenly, my body suddenly turn painfully rigid as images – no, memories? – flashed in my mind's eye. There was a distinctly odd…taste? Tinge? Flavour to these memories. In mere seconds, I found what I was looking for.

Ah.

I…I was Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Ford, of the-

I swallowed as another collection of images flashed again, though these images seemed more…intimate?

No, I was M███ K███, young █████████ student, in his final year at █████ ██████ High School–

No, I was Arthur Ford, senior OADF officer, thirty-seven years old, and I graduated valedictorian from flight school-

My mind quickly cut across the mental haze. I had two sets of contradicting memories. How?!

I felt myself rapidly flip through my mental libraries, evaluating everything I knew. I was – or still am? – Arthur Ford, Osean born-and-bred, but I was simultaneously M███ K███, rabid fan of Ace Combat and a dozen other things, having…gone to bed last night. I felt the realisation slap me in the face.

Goddamnit. I was in a SI-type situation, wasn't I? Damn it. How did I get here? Did I die in my damn sleep? Did ROB put me here? Also, why Ace Combat 5? Why couldn't I have landed, in say, Hyouka or some other slice-of-life series? Do you even understand how many things that can kill me exist in this blasted world? I felt dizzy just thinking about it. Even more dizzy than that time I had concussed myself as a-

I quickly silenced that train of thought. No need to confront my memories right now. Still, was I Ford or M███ K███? I felt fear creep up my spine and my stomach churn uncomfortably, because – was any of this real? Oh God, I'd finally gone full schizo and was in a padded cell somewhere, wasn't I?

I was snapped out of my reverie from a harsh buzz inside my helmet. I blinked as I realise I had triggered a radio call on my own. I hadn't noticed. A brief mental flash revealed to me that I – or was it Ford? – had made calling the radio almost instinctive. Also – I consulted my memories again – wasn't I supposed to be in a Phantom? Nevermind. I had to speak up now, or get mistaken for a Yuke.

<<This is Wardog Leader, Lieutenant Colonel Ford, TAC name Badger. Approaching Sand Island. What's your current status?>>

I felt a brief sense of relief. At least, I had Ford's muscle memory. For now, blending in shouldn't be too hard, and I could worry about my identity and existence after making sure I wasn't shot down trying to approach the base. Hopefully, no one the island knew who I was. Except Davenport. I felt myself exhale noisily through my nose just thinking of the joking troublemaker.

Whatever. Battle now, worry later. Can't forget about the swarms of Yuke jets, now can we? Also, what the fuck was 'Badger'? Why the hell did I have that callsign?! Why not something cooler? I always had a habit of 'badgering' my subordinates to get things done on time, Ford's memories helpfully supplied. Oh. That makes more sense. Didn't make it any less embarrassing, though.

A tired, stressed voice replied, <<This is Base Control. We are under air attack. I say again, we are under air attack.>> The voice sounded suspiciously like he'd been drinking far too much coffee than was strictly healthy, and hadn't seen a wink of sleep in ages.

<<Copy that, Base Control. Vector me in to Wardog Squadron. Tally how many bandits?>> I said in my practiced 'commanding officer' voice, so as to speak. Now then, the million-dollar question. Could I dogfight in this jet? I knew that M███ K███'s only experience with jets had been the medium of Ace Combat, and Ford…

I quickly perused my memories for an answer.

I sat in the faux cockpit, grasping false controls, but did so with all the gravitas of being in an actual flying jet. The virtual jet was responsive, and I felt a calm settle over me as I 'shot down' another classmate. Jones, I believed, was his name. Idiot never paid attention to anything outside of the girls in the class.

"Good flying, Badger!" said a voice in the faux-radio, in the cheerful tones of Captain Benson, my flight instructor. I could almost imagine the happy glow on his face. For now, though, I had classmates to teach a lesson to.

I banked the virtual jet sideways, and slammed the throttle forwards. I had a title to win.

I blinked as I felt the memories recede. O-kay…so I could dogfight, and was even above average, if what my scores had indicated. I had even seen a little bit of combat in the IUN and in the Belkan War, of all things. I felt a sense of calm and confidence fill my chest. I now knew that I could – and was damn well able to – fly and not get shot down, and even give the enemy a black eye in the process.

<<Roger that, Badger. 3 B-1 Lancers inbound, escorted by 6 F-16s. I've marked the location of Wardog on your radar screen.>>

<<Thanks, Base Control. Flying now.>>

I mentally tallied what weapons I had with me. A few missiles, and a fully loaded autocannon. This would have to do.

I banked my jet in the direction of Wardog Squadron. In the distance, I could make out a F-5 marked with a [FRIENDLY] tag take off from the runway. Grimm just took off, then.

I slotted my jet into Wardog's formation – which was loose and barely existed. No matter if they were aces, it turns out that rookies like them didn't know how to coordinate with each other. A fatal mistake that might cost them their life.

<<Wardog, I am your new commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Ford, but you can call me Badger. Who's in charge here?>> I radioed in my 'authoritative officer' voice. I saw a F-5 pull up next to me in level flight and its pilot wave at me.

<<Badger, this is First Lieutenant Williams, callsign Blaze. I've been elected flight leader by the rest of Wardog.>>

<<Alright then Blaze, give me a sitrep.>>

<<Of course sir. Wardog's been tasked to handle this part of the island. Most of us are nuggets still, especially Grimm. He's as new as pilots get.>>

I grimaced. Intellectually, I knew that Blaze had the skill to take on all the Yukes, and in the future, take down Ofnir and Grabacr nearly single-handedly. If what Ace Combat 7 predicted was true, then he was a so-called 'Singularity', a being who influenced the course of battle simply by being involved. But right now, I wasn't so sure. By his own admission, he was a nugget. Even so, I had heard some rumours from Oured that would have been pretty impressive if they were true, so…

<<Wardog, your formation's sloppy. Form up in an element. Blaze, you're on me. Grimm, you stick with the other two jets. Don't want you getting blown up in your first outing, eh?>>

I heard 'wilco's and 'roger's as Wardog's F-5s reoriented themselves. Grimm had joined up with Chopper and Edge, and I was now flying with Blaze.

<<Let's see here…Blaze, we're going out to shoot down the F-16s. Edge, your flight will take on the bombers. If you're in trouble, shout for help. Also, watch out for the nugget.>>

<<Woah! You've loosened up, Lieutenant Colonel.>> A cocky voice chuckled in my ear. I felt my blood rise, but quickly calmed my temper. There was no need to fly off the handle in the middle of battle, least of all at my squadron's pilots. There would be plenty of time later to get back at Davenport.

<<Keep your mouth shut and keep flying, Davenport,>> I retorted. <<I see that you're still as irreverent as ever. You fly a jet with your hands, not your mouth.>>

<<Yeesss sirrrr,>> he replied, dragging out the words. I ground my teeth. Davenport was as insufferable as I remembered, but I knew that he was a capable pilot, despite his mannerisms. The fact that he would die over Oured helped temper my anger. I may not have liked the man, but I wasn't going to kill him.

Our flights separated, and Blaze's and my jet zoomed towards the approaching F-16s. <<Blaze, I've heard stories from the mainland. I trust you can handle yourself well?>>

<<Yes sir. I've got the highest kills in Wardog.>> He said with a tone of pride.

<<Good job. Engage at will. I'll be taking their lead bird. Try not to get killed.>>

<<Of course sir. I'll be taking their Number Two.>> At that, our jets separated.

I felt muscle memory and ingrained instincts fall in place a I stared at the approaching jets. I deftly flicked a half-dozen buttons, turning on my radio and arming my jet at the same time. This wasn't likely to work, but I wanted to try regardless.

<<Yuktobanian jets, this is Lieutenant Colonel Ford of the Osean Air Defence Force. You are intruding on Osean airspace. You have been intercepted. Disarm and follow me. I say again, disarm and–>>

I was cut off with a roar of laughter and something in Yuke, most likely insulting my ancestry or ability to fly. I turned off the radio with a grimace. That was a no, then. Too bad for them, I was in the best variant of the F-15 that currently existed…and they were in F-16s.

I pushed my throttle forwards and pulled on my stick, forcing my jet into a steep climb. In moments, the Eagle's powerful engines had brought me above the approaching F-16s. I banked left, keeping a careful eye on the leading bird. I lined up a lock, and when I heard the buzzer, loosed a missile. The Yuke flight split up, and I saw my missile lose track as the F-16 dropped flares.

No problem. I lined the jet up in my gunsights. Since I was at an altitude advantage, anything the enemy jet did, I could move to counter. The lead F-16 janked upwards – into my line of fire.

I depressed the trigger for a moment, watching a stream of yellow tracers slam into the jet. The jet's fuselage started trailing smoke, and I grinned under my oxygen mask. As the lead bird seemed to panic, I loosed another missile, which slammed into the bird with a muffled thud, blowing it into smithereens.

I pulled my jet left and downwards, towards a second F-16. The jet shot a missile at me, but I broke right and banked upwards. My thrust vectoring came in handy then, flipping my jet around and bringing that F-16 into radar lock. I depressed a trigger, flinging another missile downrange, which slammed into the enemy jet's wing. The plane quickly destabilised, and I heard a panicked yell over the radio before its pilot was jettisoned from the cockpit with a flash of light, moments before his plane exploded.

I heard a buzz in my ear. <<Badger, this is Blaze. All other targets down.>> I felt shock wash over me. He'd taken on the other four jets in the time I killed two? The rumours were true, then. Dear God. Singularity indeed. I would be sticking next to this man to stay alive.

<<Good job, Blaze.>> I radioed the other Wardogs, <<Edge, how goes your work?>>

<<Enemy bombers down. We're teaching Grimm the ropes,>> a cool, professional tone answered. Kei Nagase sounded exactly as she did in the game. <<Good job, Edge.>>

I radioed the command tower. If I was right, this would be the last of the attacking Yukes. <<Badger to Base Control. Any other bogies?>>

<<No remaining hostiles, Badger!>> a relieved voice returned. <<We did it. We defended Sand Island.>>

<<Badger to Base Control, a couple Yuke pilots bailed out in the water, I advise that we send out SAR.>>

<<Done already, Badger. Phew. Looks like we didn't need to worry after all, eh Grimm?>> the controller said with mirth.

<<There'll be a celebration after debriefing.>> another gruff voice said over the radio. <<Come on, let's celebrate! We survived.>>

I felt myself lean back into my seat and loosen my grip over my controls. I'd survived the bombing of Sand Island. Now, I'd just have to survive the Grey Men, Grabacr and Ofnir, and the Yuktobanian horde.

I pinched my nose and sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, was it?

I sighed and said into the radio, <<Wardog, RTB.>>

 

[S-159A1]

Ok, now this is something I wanna read a lot (though that's not saying that your other stuff isn't worth reading), because you managed to take a character who has only a single short moment in AC5 and are starting to make a story with it, and I can't wait to see the butterflies from this. I'd say I'm eager for more, to be honest.

 

[Potato]

A/N: Wow, my muse is really kicking it





As a person who'd never played any of the Ace Combat games prior to Skies Unknown, my understanding of previous games in the franchise had come from memes and Acepedia. I'd never even watched a Let's Play of anything else other than that of Infinity, but that point was moot because I was stuck in Strangereal and not in whatever fucked up combination of the two worlds that existed in the canon of Infinity.

What I was saying of course, was that Orson Perrault totally lived up to his reputation as a bastard fatass out-of-universe that I was fairly certain wasn't so far from what OADF crew thought about him in-universe anyway.

"Welcome to my base, Ford!" the greasy wall of fat said with an oily smirk. I felt something in my gut shrivel and die as I saluted him with a gritted out 'Sir'. Perrault grinned wider, and as he slapped me on the shoulder with something resembling comradely spirit, I thoroughly regretted ever becoming this man's acquaintance.

A quick consultation of Ford's memories as Perrault rambled on something or other proved to me that Ford had shared my opinions of Perrault: namely, that he was disgusting, rude, incompetent and had a tendency to bite off more than he could chew. His only redeeming point seemed to be his unquestioning loyalty to Osea. He never seemed to understand that Ford had never liked him, and treated Ford like a good friend whenever they met.

Small wonder then, that Ford had stopped turning up at Osea Armed Forces and OADF functions in general. Any chance of meeting Perrault would just ruin his day. And now he had to live on-base with Perrault until the blasted war was over.

So this was why Ford had been so pissed when approaching Sand Island. Huh.

The fact that he was inordinately obese hadn't endeared him to Ford or I in the slightest. Ford's set of memories also revealed an amusing titbit: Perrault had been sent to Sand Island because the brass had liked him as much as I did, and the lonely island used for nugget training had been deemed sufficiently remote and insignificant that Perrault could never majorly screw something up.

And now the brass had to rely on him, since Sand Island AFB had become the frontlines of the war. Heh.

"-wouldn't you agree, Ford?" Perrault finished. I let my autopilot smile for me, and nod non-committedly. In the corner, Hamilton grimaced and offered me a look. He hated this just as much as I did. Even if Hamilton was a slimy snake, this much I could empathise.

Sucked to be him. He had to stay next to Perrault for the better part of most days. I hoped that when Razgriz blew him out of the sky, he'd wake up in hell with Perrault, doomed to deal with Orson Motherfucking Perrault for eternity.

Perrault didn't notice my exchange with Hamilton and smiled. "I knew you'd understand, Ford. We're on the frontlines of the war and brass hasn't elected to send us anyone! I know those bastards at McNealy have more than enough crew to keep my base out of Yuke hands." I opened my mouth and loosed a few more platitudes, even as my mind continued to wander.

Of course, Perrault had yet again missed the larger picture. True, Sand Island needed all the help it could get, but it lacked the space and the facilities to house more than another squadron's worth of aircraft and associated crew. After all, prior to this, Sand Island was just a place that nuggets went to learn how to fly. We didn't have enough runways to let planes take off and arrive more than they already were doing.

"Well then!" Perrault chuckled. "I'll see you around, Ford!"

Was it illegal to kickstart a hit? I knew an equivalent existed here.

"Of course, Orson. I'll be going now."

Hamilton nodded at me once before I gladly left.

---

I strolled through the unfamiliar corridors of Sand Island AFB, trying to find exactly where the party Base Control had said would be. God, I was hungry. I had skipped lunch to get to Sand Island on time, and then I'd missed dinner killing Yukes. I grumbled that I should've gotten a guide or a base map from Perrault's office earlier.

As my stomach rumbled a second time, I let my mind wander about what I should do from here on out.

I didn't have a firm grasp on what happened in Unsung War. Sure, I knew the gist…the 8492nd​, defending Oured, getting Davenport killed, then flying off to hide in the Kestrel with Pops, all while getting chased by Belkan assholes. Then something or other would happen and we would kill Ofnir and Grabacr, and then the Kestrel gets sunk and Yuktobanian soldiers join up with us eventually…which reminds me, I had always wondered if Grabacr One had ever been made fun of for his name. If he'd been bullied in school for having been named Ashley, then no wonder he was so pissed all the time with the hugest revenge boner I'd ever seen in an Ace Combat game.

At least Ford wasn't another Grey Men plant. I'd ransacked my memories and belongings for anything even vaguely Belkan, but came back empty, much to my luck.

I scratched my chin as I mused on some topic or other as I wandered the dull, off-white halls of the base. Now, I was finally alone. The hubbub of repair crew and assorted personnel had long since disappeared after the third turn I took in this maze. Now completely alone, I continued my stroll. I took a left at a fork and found myself in the hangars where Wardog Squadron kept their planes. I blinked.

Had I really walked so far that I just ended up at the hangars? Well, it was to be expected. I had a habit of wandering when I was deep in thought, and then ending up someplace I probably didn't intend to.

The hangar was deserted. In this distance, I could make out the hustle and bustle of various personnel fixing what damage had been done to the base. But here, I was – finally – completely alone. I glanced at the four F-5s in the hangar, then made a beeline towards my Eagle.

By now, I was letting Ford's habits guide me. When Ford needed a place to think or brood, he tended to do it in his cockpit, where he was afforded some solitude and silence. In the dim hangar, lit by a few lights, I ran my hand over the cool exterior of the jet, dirty with soot and scratched by debris from blowing up two jets. I'd left the access ladder on the plane when I had disembarked earlier, in a rush to debrief.

I gripped the ladder and climbed into the familiar-smelling cockpit. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Ford was supposed to have flown in on a Phantom, not an Eagle, and he should've died, leaving Blaze – or rather, Lieutenant Williams – in charge of Wardog, and later, in charge of…Razgriz.

I felt a pinprick of worry in my mind. True, Williams was a damn good pilot and there was no longer and doubt in my mind about it, but him not being Flight Leader was…worrying. Without the pilot known as 'Blaze' in the lead of Razgriz, canon would quickly derail. Now that I had stolen the spotlight, so as to say, would I stunt Williams' growth? After all, some back home did say that the stresses of leadership forced a person to mature. Would I disrupt this maturation? There were literal thousands of lives on the line should Razgriz fail and the Grey Men be allowed to pull their bullshit.

I sank into the seat, running my hand over the still electronics and unresponsive controls. What should I do?

The answer came easily enough; this time, from Ford. The older man had quite a bit of experience when it came to this, what with being more than thirty years old.

I made my mind up; I would train Williams to be the greatest he could be. Make him my second-in-charge, mentor him in leadership, give him extra duties…I mean, disregarding the whole 'Razgriz' business, it only made sense of Williams to be my Number Two. Nagase was too dreamy and idealistic, Grimm was a terrified puppy, and Davenport…

Simply imagining mentoring 'Chopper' Davenport gave me the chills, despite him being nearly absent in half my memories. The other half told me all I needed to know. Davenport was loyal to a fault, kind, and had excellent taste in music, but was brash, reckless, loudmouthed and tended to have no brain-to-mouth filter. I was certain that if I were to mentor him, it would end up with me strangling him to death or me driving my jet into the ground at Mach to escape him.

The mental image gave a chuckle. The reality was now sinking in – I had a ton of responsibilities on my shoulders, and was going to fight in a war I might die in, but even that couldn't stop me from laughing at the image.

CLICK!

I suddenly sat up ram-rod straight, shoulders tense and my hand over my holster. I looked around, and saw – oh. It was just Albert Genette and Pops.

The balding mechanic gave me a raised eyebrow at my reaction. He smirked, "Did I catch ya offguard? I heard ya laughing at yourself in your cockpit."

I relaxed, letting the tension leave me like air escaping a punctured balloon. "Yep," I said, lifting myself out of the cockpit with both my arms. At least Pops, or rather – Wolfgang Buchner, was someone I could trust. The man was against everything the Grey Men were up to, and likely had some inkling of what was going on behind the curtains. Plus, he was a fine MiG-21 ace, something I could respect.

I climbed out of the plane, and hefted the ladder with a grunt to move it to the side. Pops had settled on a bench, and behind him, I could see an approaching Albert, camera at the ready. Unlike in the cinematics of Unsung War, I could make out its digital nature. It even had Canon manufacturer's labels.

"Well. I don't think we've met, so let me introduce myself." Pops started, rifling through a box of assorted tools. "I'm Second Lieutenant Beagle, but you can call me Pops. Everyone here does it anyway." He looked up from his rummaging to look at me. "So – who're you? Don't recognise your jet, and it stands out among the rest."

Ah – that's right. Pops had left the base during the attack, and I'd just arrived.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Ford, current flight lead of Wardog Squadron. I got here during the attack; you must've missed me."

Pops quirked an eyebrow at my candid response. "Are you really sure you should be so casual with a mere 2nd​ L.T.? I thought you'd have started demanding salutes and what-not from what Chopper has been tellin' me."

I rolled my eyes at Davenport's antics. Typical Davenport – loudmouthed and rebellious against authority. He'd learn one day, when he became Captain and took over his own Squadron (provided he didn't die until then, of course).

"Nah," I waved Pops off. "Any smart officer knows to only play the authoritarian role in front of his troops. Be like that all the time, you'll find yourself suspended from a tree in your underwear come next morning." I squinted at Pops – he hadn't seemed so old through the cutscenes of a low-res PS2 game.

"Plus, you're older than me, Lieutenant Beagle," I said as I stretched an arm. "Any officer worth his salt knows that age is a better indicator of experience of rank. You'd keenly know that, I bet, from dealing with hundreds of new butterbars yearly." I nodded sagely with Pops, who now wore a nostalgic expression on his face and a visage of understanding at my words, no doubt from his own time as a new butterbar and the experience of having fixed the planes of a thousand more.

I turned to Genette and pointed at him. "Also, who're you? You're not in uniform, so you'd best have a good reason, son," I drawled, letting some of my 'I'm Lieutenant Fucking Colonel Ford' tone leak into my speech.

"Albert Genette's my name," the nervous-sounding photographer said. "Sorry if I startled you earlier. I'm a civilian photographer, and I've been taking candid pictures on-base as part of my assignment from the OADF."

I nodded. "No worries, Albert. Can I call you Al?"

Genette frowned, then shrugged. "I don't see why not. Not a soldier, besides."

I grinned and reached out for a handshake. Albert was, like Pops, a good man, and more importantly not a Belkan spy. Someone I could spend time with and not have to watch every word I said for fear of being 'disappeared' into a windowless room somewhere for 'talks'.

I sat down on the bench next to Pops, and waved Al over. "So Al, what're you doing here on Sand Island? You mentioned an assignment earlier, but there's not much around these parts to photograph to be honest."

Al looked sheepish at having been reminded of the earlier incident, and coughed. He said, "Originally, I was here to do an article on a Belkan War veteran and ace – Captain Jack Bartlett, also known as Heartbreak One."

I nodded. "Heard about the man myself. Seemed like the decent sort, but I've never talked to him myself. Why Bartlett, though?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, when it comes to aerial ace Belkan War veterans, you're pretty much spoiled for choice. Hell, I'm a veteran myself of the war 15 years prior. So let me repeat my question: just what was so special about Bartlett that you wanted him instead of anyone else?"

Pops chuckled. "Well then Ford, looks like you're in for a story. Jack's got a certain talent when it comes to training nuggets. He can whip even the crappiest pilot into shape. Sand Island only produces so many talented pilots because of him."

Pop reached into his toolbox and slipped on a pair of oil-streaked gloves and stood up, lugging the toolbox behind him as he headed for one of the F-5s. He looked back at me and Al, and beckoned us to follow with a quick tilt of his head.

Al and I shared a look, then followed. I was taking up Pops' time with storytelling, so I might as well help him with the jets. Besides, it was a good idea to get familiar with Wardog's F-5s.

As we trotted over to one of the Tigers, Pop continued his story. "Jack has got this skill at recognising what a nugget's talents are and what he's lacking in. Usually takes him a week or so, but by then, he knows exactly what to do to grow those strengths and cut down those failings.

He never got promoted for his work though – too rude and to-the-point for brass to really like."

Pops stood at the nose of one of the Tigers. Pops took a deep breath, a wistful look on his face. The twang of slightly-burnt metal surrounded the jet. He turned to me and said, "Smell that, Ford?"

"Mmn-hmm. It's the smell of engines that've been pushed to their limit, right?"

"Yeah. Bet ya this was flown by one real hotdog, probably Blaze or Chopper." Pops took a tool and uncovered a hatch on the Tiger's nose, exposing one of its autocannons. He dropped the tool and grabbed a spanner, getting to work with the various components.

"Ford, why don't ya get to the other cannon? Could use some help."

"Sure." I picked my own tools with Ford's memories, and went to the other side, opening that side's panel to expose the jet's second autocannon. As I let Ford's memories go on autopilot, Pops continued with his story.

"Jack's also special for having survived B7R. Granted, he got shot down with me–" I blinked at that. I'd forgotten that detail. "–but he survived longer than 70% of the OADF ever did in that meatgrinder. That's why Albert is here."

Pops dropped a spanner with a clunk and bent over to pick up another tool. "Belkan War veterans are a dime-a-dozen, even aces of that war are as common as dirt. S' not hard to get five kills when the AO's crammed with targets. Blindly firing could earn you two or more kills if you were lucky.

But scoring more than twenty shoot-downs is a different thing entirely, because that shows some control over your jet, and doing it in B7R – the Round Table! – shows actual skill. When you look at it like this, Jack's damned good."

I felt myself still in surprise. I knew Bartlett had been an above-average pilot (no one survived long in B7R without being a cut above the rest) and a skilled instructor, but not to this extent. I raised my opinion of him in my mind and decided to buy him a drink if I ever met him.

"So how did the article go? I think I would've read it if it was out – I follow quite a few aviation magazines," I asked Al, who shook his head in dismay.

"Yeah, the article has been cancelled," Al sighed. "When the war broke out, all everyone wanted to know was how the battles were like. Nobody wants to read about some crusty washout." I waved at him to continue.

"Anyway, I got permission for a few interviews and the like, even a chance to fly backseater in Captain Bartlett's Phantom II. I was going to write about how his nuggets were developing, follow them for a few weeks and write about any particularly interesting landmark in their progress – but that all failed, of course, with the first attack."

"Attack?" I feigned ignorance. Truthfully, I knew what happened that day, but officially, no-one from outside of Sand Island knew.

"Yeah, attack," Al sighed again, a despondent look on his face. "Some MiG-29s showed up and intercepted the instructor flights. Captain Bartlett and the other two instructors fought hard, but most of the rookies were killed. One instructor died in a crash, and the other got blown up mid-air."

"So that's why Sand Island's got so…few pilots. I thought it was a little strange that a major training facility would have only a squadron on duty, but this explains it."

"The Captain, of course, no longer had the opportunity to train up all those rookies. Blaze and the rest are what's left."

We continued to work in companionable silence, eventually moving to the landing gear of the jet. As I poked at a possible fluid leak, Al stood up and looked around carefully, before crouching down.

He said in a low tone to me and Pops, "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I suspect those were Yuke jets despite any markings. Officially, they were unknowns, but it's pretty obvious those were Yukes. Doesn't help that they flew MiG-29s."

I nodded in agreement. Actually, I was fairly certain those weren't Yukes at all, but the Belkan infiltrators of either nation. I can't remember if the fact had ever been stated in the lore, but this made the most sense. Yuktobania attacking out of the blue was not in their MO – they preferred political attacks too complex for me to bother with.

We kept working, but now we didn't talk, passing the time in companionable silence.

---

Some time later, Al excused himself, stating the need for sleep. I watched him retreat into the distance with some fondness. I'd just met Al, but he was likable.

Now it was just me and Pops. And I had to wonder…should I ask? Surely it would be better to get him onboard ASAP? After all, he had not reason to rat me out. And some of my information could really help, so that when we are eventually kicked out of Sand Island, we could be prepared to fly in something better than training jets.

I turned to look at Pops, who was stuck in the guts of my Eagle. I considered my options. It was unlikely there would come another opportunity where most of the base would be busy and wouldn't seek out the two of us. I decided – it would have to be now or never.

Here goes nothing.

As I tightened another screw, Pops piped up, "You've been slowing down, Ford. Thinkin' something heavy?"

I nodded. "Pops, truth be told…I've got some things I need to ask you that I've heard about. Follow me. We mustn't be heard."

Pops had gone silent. He looked at me with furrowed eyebrows and a glint in his eyes. His greasy, gloved arms were no longer stuck elbow-deep in the guts of my jet, but hung loosely at the sides. The suspiciously L-shaped object in his left pocket didn't help calm my thudding heart.

"Come here. Outside of the hangar." I beckoned him out. He followed behind me; right hand tucked into a pocket. I knew that exposing my back to Pops might be a bad idea, but I'd come this far. In for a penny, in for a pound, I reflected.

We stood just outside of the hangar doors, basking in the moonlight.

"So, Beagle," I said faux-nonchalantly as the atmosphere rose to a nearly unbearable pressure. "Or should I say, Wolfgang Buchner?"

 

[Potato]

CLICK!

"I knew something was off," Buchner sneered, sidearm pointed squarely at my head. I felt fear creep up my chest, but Ford's mindset scoffed. Are you kidding me? This isn't the first time I'd faced certain death.

"So tell me, Ford – if that is even your real name – what exactly are you trying to do here?" Buchner squinted at me and pointed at my holster with his left hand. "But before we get to that, I want your gun on the floor. Slowly, now."

I slowly unholstered my own sidearm, Buchner's gun trained squarely at me the entire time. "Now step away, Ford. Don't want to get shot now, do you?"

I took two steps back as Buchner stepped forward, using a free leg to kick my pistol far to my right. Now I was disarmed, and feeling that maybe I had fucked up. Sticky perspiration had pooled in my socks, and cold fear lanced up and down my body. The pounding of my heartbeat thudded loudly in my ears.

I took a calming breath. I'd come this far to fuck up now. I needed Buchner – no, Pops' help if I wanted to survive the Circum-Pacific War and prevent the deaths of thousands. I must not fuck up.

"Well?" Pops said. "What do you have to say for yourself, Ford? Or should I say, Grey Man?" Pops hissed out the last two words as if they were a particularly foul curse. Ah, good to know. Pops wasn't in the pocket of the Belkans. Ah, good. This wasn't some weird AU.

Forcing through every drop of nonchalance I had through, I raised an eyebrow and said, "Really, Buchner? Me, a Grey Man? Admirable guess, but you're wrong. Actually, I think that there's been a severse misunderstanding between the two of us, Pops."

"I'm not seeing this 'misunderstanding' you speak of, Ford," Pops continued. "Now, start making sense or maybe I'll get to find out if the dirt behind the hangars is loose enough for an impromptu burial."

"Well, Pops," I forced a smile, "I'm not a Belkan spy, or even a Grey Man. Contrary to what you're probably thinking, I'm just an OADF officer – well, not just an OADF officer. I'm in-the-know, so as to speak."

"Enough with the roundabout talk, Ford." A menacing glint entered Pops' eyes.

I forcefully stilled my shaking and looked at Pops squarely in the eyes. If this next thing didn't work - well. I said, "Pops, what would you say if I told you that the Grey Men are involved in this war – are orchestrating this conflict as revenge for the war fifteen years prior, as a way to restore their lost pride?"

"I'd say that you are a good actor. That's all stuff any Grey Men agent would know."

"Well then. Everything I know is Grey Men intel, but I obtained it from Osean channels and my own digging. I know I won't be able to convince you that I'm not a spy if I keep spouting off facts. So let me put it this way: you're a wanted man, Pops. If I really was a Belkan spy, I wouldn't've bothered with dragging you out here for a talk. I would have just shot you the moment Al left."

Pops scrunched his eyebrows. "Well, that makes sense. But how do I know that this isn't some convoluted Belkan plot?"

"Well, Pops, I'm sorry, but I guess that you'll have to trust me." I hoped that I had understood Pops as a person. He'd never been particularly bloodthirsty or dangerous, and was clearly a person with clear morals. He did refuse to nuke his own country despite being a patriotic Belkan.

Pops looked at me with a glance, and lowered his gun. His menacing glare morphed into his usual lazy grin. I felt surprise.

"Alright, Ford, you can put your hands down now," Pops said, clicking the safety on his gun before holstering it. "And collect your gun, too."

I ambled over to where my pistol lay on the concrete floor. Picking it up, I slipped it into my holster and turned an eyebrow at Pops. "Really, Beagle? I didn't think that that would have been enough. You seemed pretty determined to hide from the Belkans, if what you said were true."

Pops nodded. "When you started speaking, I was instantly suspicious. Only two entities know that name: Belkans, and Jack. So I'd instantly thought you a Belkan plant. But as you talked, I realised that you couldn't possibly be a Grey Men agent. I mean, look at you!"

He poked me in the shoulder with an index finger. "See? Your shirt's soaked through with sweat. Any spy worth their salt would've been cool as a cucumber. I thought you might have been faking your reactions, but with how sweaty you are, I highly doubt that. And besides," he said, lightly punching my shoulder, "There's a certain sort of mannerisms newbies have that isn't easy to fake, and you had most of 'em."

I flushed at his words. Well, it was true. Neither Ford or M███ K███ had been spies of any sort. Ford was too direct, and M███ K███ was just a kid, really.

"All the Belkan spooks I've had to shake off my trail are nothing like ya. They never bothered to talk this much. So when you did just that, you were either a really green agent, or not one at all. And I know the Grey Men wouldn't send a neophyte to off me. So as impossible as it seemed, I know you are just an Osean officer. So what was so important that'd you risk getting shot?"

I took a shuddering breath to calm myself. "Beagle, what I say next must never come out. Understand?" I furtively looked around. We were still alone. Time to bring Pops in, I suppose.

"Beagle, at this moment, Osea and Yuktobania are engaged in high-level talks in North Point. Of course, this is classified, but I was able to know of it through my connections. But here's the kicker: Harling and Nikanor will arrive in North Point personally to oversee the negotiations, and the Grey Men plan to kidnap them both – and use their own spies in the Osean and Yuktobanian governments to drum up support for the war. I'm not sure who in the Yuktobanian government is a Belkan puppet, but I know for sure that the Vice President of Osea is a Belkan spy."

Pops' eyebrows rose further and further as we spoke. "Those are some serious declarations, Ford. How true is your intel?"

I crossed my arms. "My sources are as clean as they get. In fact, they're how I found out about you – I asked some of my contacts to do a deep background analyses on various suspects, and you turned up dirty. But Al and Captain Bartlett are clean, and I know that if Bartlett was the one to haul your ass out of B7R, you weren't compromised."

Pops frowned. "So why are you telling me all this, Ford? I don't see myself being able to intercept something like this, not without Captain Bartlett."

I nodded understandingly. "Simple. By showing you all my cards, I show you that I am completely honest. Besides, I was hoping that your…connections would have provided me with a little more detail. My contacts certainly would appreciate the help."

This first part was completely true. I was trying to get on Pops' good side, and showing my sincerity and honesty would go a long way. But the second part was full of shit. Ford had no contacts in the OIA and its sister agencies, but it was something a well-connected Lieutenant Colonel would have.

Pops squinted as his eyes darted around in thought. "No. My intel's good, but I've got nothing on this. Sorry, Ford."

I shrugged. "Eh. It was worth a shot. The next thing I say, you'll need to be careful."

I took another furtive look around me. In situations like this, paranoia would keep me alive. "Here's a word of advice, Beagle: don't trust Hamilton. He's compromised, rotten all the way down. He's been in the 8492nd​, and is a Belkan spy. His cover's good and I almost passed him over, but certain…contradictory details quickly blew his cover."

Pops nodded seriously at my words. "Didn't ever trust Hamilton to begin with, besides. Always tickled my gut feeling. Guess I know why now. To my knowledge, there aren't any other Belkan agents on Sand Island, but I might've passed a few over if I missed Hamilton."

I nodded gravely. I would have to be even more cautious from now on. "Pops, the next thing I say is deadly secret. Even more than what I've already said. I know where the Grey Men's headquarters are. Ever hear of Sudentor? Gründer's got underground tunnels under the city. That's where they're hiding."

Pops' eyes bugged out of his head. "Impossible. How did you find out? I've spent ages digging, but I was only able to find their cells, not a full base. Tell me more."

"Then I must make another Earth-shattering revelation," I smiled apologetically, "Osea's developing a satellite weapon called the SOLG. I know that it's incredibly dangerous, and suspected Belkan involvement as soon as I learned it existed. I dug deep, and found that a lot of crew in its construction were Gründer – and Belkan."

Pops squinted. "That must mean that the Grey Men have control over the SOLG. Who knows what kind of damage they could dish out with an orbital weapon?"

"A lot," I said grimly. "They plan to load it with V2-" Pops' voice hitched at the word – ah. He must have known of its existence. "- and use the SOLG to launch nukes into Oured and Cinigrad at terminal velocity, and then the rest of both countries' industrial zones."

Pops shuddered, the impact of the V1 detonations still all-too-clear in his mind. "Dear God. The Grey Men plan to commit a genocide to meet their goals? I knew they were ruthless, but…not to this extent."

I nodded with gravitas. "Unfortunately, Beagle, I have not been shitting you. Everything is as true as I say. I was able to trace the transmissions from the SOLG, and that's how I found out about Sudentor. There were occasional, but regular and very quiet transmissions to-and-from Sudentor's Gründer site. A little more digging, and well-"

I threw my hands up in the air. "Here we are."

Pops sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was pained, "You…do understand the severity of this mind-screw, yeah? And no," he said, as if to forestall my own questions, "I did not know about any of this. I could never have seen any of this coming. The political crap, yes, but not the nuke-launching space gun."

He stood up straight and stretched. "Well, Ford, follow me. Let's give your Eagle a few tune-ups."

I blinked at the non-sequitur. "Huh?" I asked.

Pops looked at me if I was a moron, and flicked me on the forehead. "Ow!" I cried, more from surprise than pain. "What the hell was that for?"

Pops rolled his eyes. "You know what you just did?" He said, prodding me in the chest painfully. I raised my hands in surrender.

"I'm going to have to keep you alive, Ford, if we want to survive the Grey Men and stop them. And that means that your jet will have to perform better than its specs. Understand?" He growled like an irate drill Sergeant. I turned rigid, like I was a green recruit again and not a seasoned Lieutenant Colonel. "Yes, Pops," I answered sheepishly.

We trotted off into the hangar, Pops and I bantering all the while.

 

[Potato]

• Ishigami Yu chooses to be stealthy

Click click clack clack click–

Ishigami stared at the vividly-coloured display of his gaming console, and deftly selected an option to fire off his character's strongest attack. He was almost there; this level's boss had been stumping him for the better part of two weeks, but that damnable asshole was nearly dead! Day after day, his party had been systematically dismantled by the boss, whose abilities were many (and if Ishigami were to be honest to himself, totally bullshit). Ishigami had been extremely irritated: he felt like he had been repeatedly slamming his head into a brick wall. But today, he would do it! He'd collected the necessary items, talked to the correct NPCs, and he'd even consulted Reddit! He was going to clear this level if it was the last thing he'd do–
PsssshboOOOOM!

Ah, shit. He'd been hoping that the boss wouldn't use that particular move. Because it would be a one-hit kill at this stage of the fight, and–
Pichuuuuun–

Ah. He'd been totally defeated. Again.

Sighing in frustration, he resisted the clawing urge to fling the priceless electronic device down the stairwell (where it would hopefully impact Iino, he hoped) and laid it on the dusty concrete next to him. Bunching his hair with his fists, he forcefully exhaled from his nostrils. No biggie, he tried to reassure himself, you aren't a total scrublord and that asshole on Reddit had bloody lied to him–

Clomp clomp swissshh-

Shit – a person climbing the stairs?! How had Iino found him so quickly? He was so sure he had evaded everyone! Hell, he had even backtracked and made false turns to lure stalkers away! Ishigami hurriedly stowed his PSP into his shirt and lay against the pipe in the corner, grimacing at the dust that now clung to his shirt. If he could quickly make it look convincing that he had simply been napping, Iino might be merciful and decide to spare him. So, Ishigami shut his eyes and held his breath, hoping that the demented midget might simply pass over him.

"–yeah, yeah. I got us a room already, okay?" a deep, masculine voice laughed. "I'm telling you, everthing's going to be fine."

Oh. Not Iino then.

Ishigami opened an eye and leaned slightly past the concrete barrier that hid his body. Even if it hadn't been the demented head of the Morals Committee, that did not guarantee his safety. Any number of boys in his school would willingly hurt him, especially in an isolated part of the campus where there was minimal digital surveillance where they could get away with it.

He squinted his eyes. The person had been facing away from him, and deep in a phone call. He hadn't been seen, then. Ishigami raised an appraising eye towards the figure and thought carefully. Who was this boy and why was he so familiar?

A quick comparison with his mental libraries later, he quickly remembered. This was Ogino: Ootomo-san's boyfriend. Ishigami considered Ogino's phone call, and Ogino's relationship with Ootomo. Ah, that must have been it – Ogino must've needed some privacy to arrange a meeting with Ootomo! He let out a quiet breath as he felt his shoulders droop from the released tension.

Ishigami nodded to himself with satisfaction as he heard Ogino talk to Ootomo over the phone. It was a good thing, he reckoned, that Ogino and Ootomo were developing their relationship! Good for him and Ootomo. At least someone was happy about being in this damn building.

"–Ootomo?" Ogino continued. "What about her?" Ishigami felt like something inside him break at those words. Ishigami, for all his faults, was not unintelligent. In actuality, he was as astute as they came – but rarely applied his abilities, because who would bother with the hordes of normies that surrounded him? At Ogino's words, Ishigami felt like he had been dunked in muddy water. Had he been wrong? Was Ogino not talking to Ootomo?

So, his mind quickly re-assessed the scenario before him. Ishigami perked his ears and stilled his breathing a second time, shutting out the background hum of the school's crowds going about their day. He needed to listen closely – and catch every word he heard clearly. Ishigami quietly hoped that he had been wrong about what Ogino had said.

"Nah, don't you worry, girl," Ogino laughed greasily, causing a swell of scalding anger to bloom in Ishigami's chest, but he quickly put that at the side. He could be angry later. He focussed his mind and observed Ogino, who nonchalantly leaned against a railing, unsuspecting that he was being watched. "Ootomo suspects nothing. She's as trusting as a small dog. She never suspects anything."

With that, Ogino said his goodbyes and ended his call, before disappearing down the stairs. Ishigami keenly listened to the footsteps of the descending Ogino as they faded into the background noise of the school. Certain that he was finally alone, he took a deep breath. What should he do? He was at a loss. His suspicions had been confirmed – Ogino was being unfaithful. What should I do? His mind asked a second time.

Certainly, Ogino had to be brought to task. This was obvious. But how to go about doing it? Ishigami could hardly imagine any scenario where Ootomo would emerge the same carefree girl as before such a confrontation.

A part of his mind quickly came up with an answer. Confront Ogino head-on, demanded the idiotic part of his brain.

No, Ishigami decided. That wouldn't work. He wanted to help Ootomo-san, but he wasn't an idiot, no matter what the crowd tended to believe. Ogino had more pull in the school – nobody in this school trusted Ishigami. He sat there, in that dusty stairwell, and considered his options. He tallied the few acquaintances he had, but dismissed them all with a frown. None of them particularly liked him and all of them were Ogino's admirers or orbiters. Which person in this school wasn't? Ootomo herself was also out of the question. Ishigami cringed just thinking of such an encounter, and resolved to never consider that option ever again. To Ootomo, Ishigami was barely distinguishable from the rest of the crowd. She barely even knew him! It would almost certainly look like Ishigami was trying to steal Ootomo for himself, he reflected. How horrific, he thought, would that look? He shuddered slightly.

After ticking them off his mental list, he grimaced as he reached the final two students that he considered acquaintances. The two that had hounded him from Day One at this damned school.

Osaragi and Iino, heads of the middle school's Public Morals Committee.

He sighed and made his way downstairs, pausing to brush the dust from his uniform.

Well, what was it the Americans said about only having lemons?

• Iino Miko receives an unexpected visitor

The day had ended as it usually did, with a shrill tiiiiiiiing over the school's intercom system. Ishigami quickly and quietly packed his bags, ignoring the thrum of conversation around him as he mulled over his situation.

Was Iino really a valid choice?

Iino Miko was an uncompromising girl. She took no shit from anyone, and enforced the rules on anyone. It didn't matter if you were older or more experienced; for the person known as Iino Miko, nothing ever justified rule-breaking. Such a rigid worldview had netted her few friends and many enemies, but she'd continued on her Don Quixote-esque crusade to cleanse the school of rule-breaking regardless.

This, Ishigami reflected, was both a good and bad thing.

Good – because once Miko understood the situation, she would pursue Ogino until either she was dead or Ogino had been properly crucified for his crimes. This made her a stalwart ally that could be trusted. And Ishigami knew that he had precious few allies in the school, so a person he could rely on was all the more helpful.

Bad – because Ishigami hadn't been particularly fond of following the rules himself, and had gotten into trouble with the Public Morals Committee on a nearly regular basis. He'd had countless video game consoles confiscated from him, such that he was fairly certain there was a whole box of Ishigami's electronics in the Morals Committee's room. With such an uncertain reputation, why the hell would Iino take him seriously?

But what other choice did he have? The teachers? That wouldn't work, either. Ishigami was a hated student, who despite having regularly scored high scores never bothered to pay attention in class and where the concept of submitting one's homework punctually hardly ever applied. Ogino? Ogino perfectly walked the fine line between 'cool kid' and 'teacher's pet'. He misbehaved in class, but did just enough for the teachers to like him. Yeah, this was a lost cause as well, Ishigami thought sourly.

Well, he had finally remembered that American saying. "When you've only got lemons, make lemonade." It looked like his only choice would be the Committee – Ishigami involuntarily grimaced at that.

Ishigami exited his classroom, and mentally plotted his pathway towards the Public Morals Committee. Today was a Thursday – Iino and Osaragi would most definitely be in their clubroom. Patrols by the Committee usually happened on Wednesdays, so they were likely to be discussing some other violation or other. Or reading those BL manga that Iino was so quick to deny she even touched, he thought with an amused snort.

Soon after, he had reached the door of the Public Morals Committee's clubroom. Why do I feel like I'm entering some sort of dungeon? Ishigami thought idly as he meandered outside the clubroom in indecision. To enter or not to enter, that was the question. He paced back and forth across the tiled corridor before the clubroom, hands clammy and heart racing. Oh God, this was a mistake, Ishigami thought. He shouldn't've come! But an image of Ootomo's happy smile rose in his mind and he clenched his fist in determination. He sauntered to the closed door and raised a fist, ready to knock.

"Ishigami? What are you doing here?" a very familiar voice came from behind – and below him. Oh, God. It really had been a mistake to come. Now frozen like a sculpture, Ishigami didn't dare look behind him! He couldn't bear to imagine the kind of face Iino Miko would be wearing!

"If you were trying to break into the clubroom, you shouldn't bother. There's CCTVs inside the room itself. But I guess something like that really is something you'd try, huh?" Iino snarked, pushing Ishigami aside to enter the room herself. "Hello, Koba-chan. Did Ishigami do anything pervy?" she nodded to Osaragi, who waved and signalled in the negative.

"What? NO!" Ishigami shouted. "I didn't do anything of the sort! I was just thinking if I should come in, I had something I wanted to ask your help for."

Iino snorted. "Knowing the kind of person you are, I'm not going to listen to whatever perverted or illegal things you were going to tell me. Bye." Iino moved to shut the door, eliciting a spike of panic inside Ishigami's chest.

"No, wait! Iino, I, I have something I need to tell you," he blurted hurriedly as he quickly jammed his foot into the way of the door. Iino glared at him with a crumpled expression of scorn, "Like I'd even want to date you. Now get out of-"

Ishigami sighed and pinched his nose. Keep calm, keep calm…blowing up at Iino would do more harm than good, no matter how satisfying it would be. Ishigami needed Iino's help – he swallowed, feeling shame, annoyance and a host of other unpleasant feelings swirl in his chest.

"Iino," he forced out, "I need your help. More specifically, I need the Public Morals Committee's help." He said those last words through gritted teeth. He hated this, having to beg Iino for help. But if it he had to do it for justice, for Ootomo's continued smile and for the chance to see Ogino's cheating ass kicked to a pulp – he'd do it! He'd kiss her feet if he had to.

Ishigami swallowed a lump in his throat and ignored the burning in his cheeks. He bowed at a ninety-degree angle, forcing Iino to move deeper into the clubroom with a surprised gasp.

"Please," he said again, more slowly this time. "I can't do this alone. I need your help, Iino."

The room seemed to be completely silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner. Ishigami shifted uncomfortably, and felt his body ache. He was by no means unathletic, but having to hold his bow for so long was starting to hurt! He couldn't see Iino's face from his position, only Osaragi's – who remained as a blank as usual.

The tension thick in the air, Ishigami was going to get up and find an alternative solution who wouldn't be an utter asshole to him when Iino sighed. "Should I let him in, Koba-chan?"

Osaragi didn't look up from her book. "Hmm. Why not? He seems earnest."

Still bowed, Ishigami heard Iino's breath sigh followed by some noises of consideration. "Fine," Iino agreed, "We'll hear you out. But you're out of here as soon as you do anything inappropriate. Am I clear?"

"Yes," Ishigami said, a tone of relief in his voice.

"Good. Now stop bowing and come in. You look ridiculous."

• Ishigami Tries to Convince the Public Morals Committee

Ishigami clenched his fists and kept his eyes on the ground, feeling sweat drip down his neck despite the cool winds blowing from the air conditioner. His lizard brain screamed at him, yelled at him, to just grab his bag and run. Or climb out of the window. Anything to avoid this tension! Opposite him, Iino had crossed her arms and Osaragi calmly observed the situation, not betraying a hint of what she thought, eyes hidden behind a pair of shiny glasses. Iino was tapping her arm, half in consideration, half in disbelief. Her face was scrunched into its usual scowl, eyes squinting at Ishigami like he was an insect. Which to her, he probably was. How the fuck did I screw that up??? Oh God, this really was a mistake, oh Buddha, Amaterasu, whoever, please strike me down and let me be reborn as a turtle in the next life!

"Are you being serious?" Iino said, voice thick with disbelief. Fuck fuck fuck fuck, she really doesn't believe me! Oh God oh God-

"You really expect me to believe that Ogino Ko, the star pupil of our grade, is cheating on Ootomo-chan, the most desirable girl in our year?" Iino demanded, slamming a hand on the coffee table with a titanic SLAM! that echoed in the uncomfortably quiet room.

Well, when you put it like that… Ishigami thought. It really does sound like I'm trying to steal Ootomo-chan, huh? Wow. This REALLY was a mistake.

"That. Is complete nonsense," Iino declared with finality. Osaragi said nothing. If he hadn't known Osaragi was alive, he would have thought that Osaragi had simply been an elaborate sculpture made by a very talented artist. "I think…that you should leave and stop spouting lies, Ishigami."

Ishigami swallowed nervously and reached for his bag. He stood and made for the door, Iino burning a hole in his back with her glare all the while. As he opened the door, Ishigami asked, "So, if I find any evidence, will you believe me?"

"That's if you find any evidence," Iino said with a dismissive snort. "Never darken this door again for the rest of your time in this school, please."


Ishigami grunted in response, making sure to slam the door shut with more force than was strictly necessary. He walked down the corridor; face fixed in a rictus. He turned a corner into an empty classroom, taking care to firmly shut the doors and windows. He set the bag on one the tables, held his head in his hands, and screamed in frustration.

It looked like his path towards getting Ogino his due desserts would take longer than expected.

 

[Potato]

The sun shone oppressively onto the jungle. The air was thick with humidity, rendering even the most determined person sluggish and unalert. Soldiers ducked underneath roofs and shelters, praying for even the slightest breeze. The humming of the sole electric fan inside the guard booth did nothing to cool Corporal Tan Koon down as his drab green uniform clung stubbornly to his skin and sweat pooled in his boots. In other words, it was a humid, sweltering, and all-around God-awful day.

So just like any other day in the Army, then, thought Tan despondently. Currently, he was fighting the urge to fall asleep – surely a small nap would be fine, yes? whispered a tempting voice in his mind. How sweet it would be, to lay down his rifle and lean back in his plastic chair – but no. He knew better to fall asleep while on guard duty. If someone were to show up whilst he was off in lala-land, the best scenario would be uncountable push-ups on the boiling asphalt outside and the worst would be him barred from leaving camp for the upcoming weekend. At the mere thought, he shuddered. Being barred from going home on the weekends was hell, and after suffered through it several times, Tan was determined to stay awake, come hell or high water.

He leaned back in his chair and began to disassemble his M16S1 rifle, his hands moving in autopilot as they removed gun parts in familiar movements. Technically, Tan knew he wasn't supposed to be doing this, but what else could he do in his guard post, with only wild lizards with company? At least by doing so, he would be better-prepared for the next time his Lieutenant screamed for a weapons inspection.

For the next few minutes, it was just like this: Tan dismantling his rifle in the blistering heat, trying his best to assemble the rifle as quickly as possible every time. But on his fifth assembly, he noted the buzzing of an approaching engine, and sat up straighter in his post. Time for me to do my job, he thought sourly as the rumbling of the engine came closer. Strange, though, it sounded different from the trucks or AMX-13 tanks that frequented this region and what the woooOOOOAAAH-

Tan felt his eyes bulge in its sockets and his palms sudden wet with perspiration as an absolutely gigantic tank turned a corner, with a huge fucking gun and ANOTHER armoured vehicle trundling behind it. His breath suddenly picked up and he felt adrenaline pulse through his veins, a voice in his mind chanting to run for your fucking life you stupid fucking idiot!

Oh God, I'm gonna die, he thought, clutching his rifle as the vehicles neared. His puny M16S1 might as well have been a peashooter for all it would do to a tank that was even bigger than the AMX-13, and his helmet and concrete guard shelter would be utter piss against a gun THAT big. With trembling hands, he grabbed for his radio set, and dialed in for his commander with sweaty palms, fingers almost slipping on the knob. Come on come on come on…! he chanted in his mind as he dialed the last few numbers. The speaker crackled to life, sparking an almost giddy hope in the poor infantryman.

"Tan? That you? What happen?" an irate Lieutenant Chee answered in an Indian twang.

Tan cleared his throat, watching the vehicles get nearer. They'd soon be at his guardhouse. "S-sir, ther-there is a tank coming close."

A moment passed before a long-suffering sigh passed from the speaker as a tinny buzz. "Corporal, I know you are as dumb as a dog, but you handle tanks every day. So what leh?"

Tan nervously kept his eyes on the vehicle as somebody wearing a helmet climbed out of the tank, a trembling hand gripping on his rifle. "A-ah, Sir, I need backup. These aren't t-hhthe, the AMX-13s. Much bigger. Almost twice as big. Help." Tan squeaked out the last word, hoping that Chee might get his ass out of the fire.

Another moment passed. Chee was alert, this time. "Corporal, you jolly well hope this isn't a bloody joke, because I'm going there now. If you were bullshitting I will lock you up, you understand? I'm coming over now." Tan heaved a sigh of relief at those words before the radio went dead, Chee presumably having hung up.

Now, to deal with the tank.

Tan nervously watched the man approach in a splotchy green uniform. The uniform was nothing he'd ever seen in his life, and he'd seen many things in the Army. The man approached the window on the guardhouse, and Tan contemplated just blasting that man's head off. Now that the man was close, Tan could see his face in detail – young, and Chinese.

"Hello guard," the man said jovially in a somewhat-Singaporean accent, waving at Tan who waved back nervously, but was somewhat assured at the accent. No sudden movements, Tan, his mental voice urged. For once, Tan was inclined to follow. The man then followed, "Eh, so I'm checking into camp arh, can you call ahead to-"

The man stopped speaking. Tan felt another ten years skim off his lifespan.

"Guard," the man said slowly, "You're out of uniform. What happen?"

"Out of uniform?" Tan blinked as he repeated the words. What?

"Yeah," nodded the tanker, saying his words slowly like Tan was hard of hearing, "Why you wearing láo dè uniform, you from 1970 issit?" [TL: Why are you wearing an old uniform]

Tan blinked again, half out of the confusion that had begun to eclipse his fear and half from the bead of sweat that dripped from under his helmet. What kind of question was that?

"No?" Tan replied bemusedly. "wǒ zaì 1950 nián chū shēng what. Why you say like that leh?" [TL: I was born in 1950]

The tanker was also now confused, but a sudden flash of understanding – and was that horror? – passed over his face. His expression now severe and urgent, the tanker asked, "Guard. Today's date is what?"

Tan glanced over at the lonely calendar that rested on his desk. "13 June, 1975," Tan answered.

The tanker slapped himself in the face, and started suddenly screaming a howling list of vulgarities and insults, some familiar to Tan and others that made him recoil in embarassment. Tan was now totally confused. Just what the hell was going on?!

Of course, Lieutenant Chee and a squad of infantry also chose that moment to start screaming, having just arrived.

It took a while before the shouting stopped.

 

[Potato]

Item #: SCP-F540

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: Due to the immobility of SCP-F540, a perimeter of 35 meters is to be established around SCP-F540 under the guise of training grounds for military purposes. SCP-F540 itself is to be surrounded with a 3-meter tall concrete wall, topped with barbed wire. Access to SCP-F540 is only to be allowed with signed permission from Senior Researcher █████; additionally, non-D-Class staff are not allowed to enter SCP-F540 under any circumstances.

Description: SCP-F540 is a grassy field located in California, ██████, coordinates ███████, ███████. Located approximately in the center of SCP-F540 is a large stone structure, hereafter referred to as SCP-F540-1. SCP-F540 is filled with various species of plant-life, which show no anomalous properties when removed from SCP-F540.

Space within SCP-F540 is non-Euclidean and is located within a time loop; the only objects within SCP-F540 that are unaffected by this property are SCP-F540-1 and any cadavers located within SCP-F540, which are respectively found in the center of SCP-F540 and wherever the cadaver is located. The airspace above SCP-F540 is similarly unaffected.

SCP-F540 appears to be sapient; any attempts by subjects to escape SCP-F540 are consistently unsuccessful; any attempts to mark the area by altering the terrain are reverted when out of the line-of-sight of the subject. This property does not appear to extend to animal life, which have no difficulty navigating SCP-F540.

SCP-F540-1 is a large rock, approximately 3.2 metres tall, located in the epicenter of SCP-F540. Its surface has been carved with various runes that bear some similarity to the ████ language and the markings on SCP-██.1​ Upon skin contact with SCP-F540-1, a subject becomes capable of effectively navigating SCP-F540. However, the process is also cognitohazardous; affected subjects become psychologically incapable of leaving SCP-F540, and are compelled to force other non-affected subjects to make contact SCP-F540-1. Subjects also instantly become comatose when forced to exit SCP-F540. Currently, there are ██ (█) affected subjects within SCP-F540.2​ Cooperative subjects are to be offered various amenities on request. Non-cooperative subjects are to be terminated by helicopter-dropped munitions.

Recovery Log: At █/█/20█, Foundation AI JANUS-09V determined a potentially anomalous pattern of disappearances in the area around SCP-F540. A dispatched Agent determined the presence of significant thaumaturgical activity in the vicinity and reported the event to Site-F332 Command, which dispatched a larger team to investigate the area. SCP-F540 was eventually located after two (2) Agents disappeared into SCP-F540, before emerging with the assistance of an affected subject of SCP-F540-1 a day before the Foundation team arrived in the area. Despite this, Agents reported having spent seven (7) days within SCP-F540.

Footnotes
[1] – Photography of the markings are available to personnel with Level 3 or above security clearances and signed permission from Senior Researcher █████.
[2] – List of known affected subjects and further details are listed within Document-F540-A.

Spoiler: Edits

17 July 2020: Bolded text that was previously not bolded

 

[Potato]

Subject: Recording of full playthrough of Ace Combat 7: Skies Unknown, 2019, T (ESRB)
Interference Point: In the opening cutscene of the game.
Result: Cutscene length extended to thirty minutes; game ended immediately after. Avril Mead is prevented from taking off in her restored jet by two (2) SCP-3922-A instances, whereupon she is lectured on the dangers of flying in an incompletely restored military jet, of flying in an unfamiliar aircraft type without sufficient prior training, and of flying in an aircraft that has not been registered with local authorities. She is then issued a pamphlet. Cutscene transitions to several shots of Osean port facilities, where hidden Erusean UCAVs are destroyed by SCP-3922 aircraft. Cutscene then shows various Erusean personnel, including Belkan scientist Dr. Schroeder, being arrested by SCP-3922-A for various reasons including "warmongering", "unlawful development of AI" and "use of civilian equipment to conceal weapons". Notably, the crew of the Alicorn submarine are arrested en-masse despite the ship itself being absent from unmodified copies of Skies Unknown. Cutscene then depicts Colonel McKinsey being physically beaten with batons, wooden bats and other blunt instruments until unconscious.

Subject: Episode 1 of The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, 2006, T
Interference Point: Upon the first appearance of the Haruhi Suzumiya character.
Result: A knock on the door of the SOS Brigade's clubroom is heard. When Kyon opens the door, three SCP-3922-A instances enter the room, unarmed. They request to speak to Yuki, Itsuki and Mikuru, who exit the room, accompanied by the SCP-3922-A instances and return five (5) minutes later, each carrying a pamphlet; episode plays as normal. Audio analysis shows that SCP-3922-A are providing the three characters with additional advice as to the containment of the Haruhi Suzumiya character, and are praised in their efforts to prevent undue damage by a powerful reality warper.

Subject: Episode 1 of Mobile Suit Gundam Iron-Blooded Orphans, 2015, PG
Interference Point: In the opening scene with the juvenile Mika and Orga characters.
Result: Episode length extended to one (1) hour. Upon Mika shooting at an unseen target, several armed SCP-3922-A instances manifest and take both juveniles into custody. Both are seen to be raised in a SCP-3922-A-run ward (filled with other juvenile characters from the show) where they are provided with education and psychiatric assistance; the characters are depicted as growing into healthy, well-adjusted adults over a time-skip. Episode also shows the military occupation of the Solar System by SCP-3922-A instances, the destruction of several organisations such as Gjallarhorn and the public execution of several characters (such as Rustal and McGillis).

Subject: Psycho-Pass: The Movie, 2015, M
Interference Point: Upon the first appearance of the terrorists.
Result: Movie was shortened in length by approximately thirty minutes. When the SEAUn terrorists appear, they are intercepted by several armed SCP-3922-A instances, who incapacitate them with energy weapons. They are arrested on numerous charges of murder, use of torture and 'illegal entry into Japan'. Movie then shows SCP-3922-A occupation of Japan and SEAUn territories; the Sibyl System is dismantled and its various brains are executed publicly, with some being severely tortured with various unidentified equipment. SEAUn's military dictatorship is also dismantled; large swathes of its personnel are executed or sentenced to punitive labour. The mercenary group led by Wong is obliterated in an intense airstrike, and the surviving Wong is drawn and quartered before his head his mounted on a pike. SCP-3922-A are seen providing assistance to SEAUn and Japanese citizens alike. In a final scene, Kogami inspects a SEAUn city occupied by SCP-3922-A, where he regards with satisfaction at the fairness at which SCP-3922-A has administered the city. Notably, SCP-3922-A instances do not move to arrest Kogami.

Spoiler: Edits

20 July 2020: Multiple grammar errors

 

[Potato]

Subject: "Fallen Kingdom" - A Minecraft Parody of Coldplay's Viva la Vida (Music Video), 2012, unrated
Interference Point: Immediately after the singing starts.
Result: Lyrics are altered to depict the 'King' character as still in power, with the collapse of his kingdom never occurring. Segments of video usually depicting the 'King' character as wandering the dilapidated remains of his kingdom have been altered to show the 'King' wandering the streets of a still-prosperous kingdom, escorted by several SCP-3922-A instances. Scene depicting destruction of castle gates by the 'Herobrine' character is altered so that the 'Herobrine' character is instead attacked by eight (8) SCP-3922-A instances, whose firearms are noted to have been modified with various pieces of religious paraphernalia. The 'Herobrine' character is killed by a grenade labelled 'TACTICAL HEROBRINNIC NULLIFICATOR'. After the death of 'Herobrine', its corpse is shot repeatedly approximately thirty-seven (37) times and then incinerated. After video ends, the following statement was seen: "☽☽☽ does not support tyranny or monarchs, but we are willing to let this one go due to his upstanding moral and legislative behaviour ☽☽☽".

Subject: Episode 1 of Shiki, 2010, M
Interference Point: Upon the first appearance of the Kirishiki family.
Result: Episode length increased by ten (10) minutes. Upon the appearance of the Kirishiki family, twelve (12) SCP-3922-A instances manifest, each armed with modified energy weapons. Modifications primarily include Christian crosses that have been duct-taped to the barrels of weapons. The Kirishiki family is then completely destroyed, with the juvenile Sunako being arrested and fitted with a metallic helmet. The remains of the Kirishiki corpses are incinerated with napalm. The truck driver is issued a pamplet regarding the undead, and scolded on assisting vampires. Episode continues as normal, although the Megumi character is shown to be harshly lectured by SCP-3922-A instances on excessive frivolity and her unhealthy obsession with the Natsuno character.

Subject: Episode 2 of Erased, 2016, T
Interference Point: Immediately upon the appearance of the juvenile Satoru.
Result: Episode length extended to forty (40) minutes. When Satoru appears, a knock on the door of his house's main entrance is heard. When opened by Satoru's mother, several SCP-3922-A instances manifest, claiming to be from the 'Chronospatial Protection Agency'. They detain the juvenile Satoru and use unidentified equipment to 'remove his ability to engage in unlicensed time-travel' and sternly warn him to 'avoid further unlicensed acts of temporal manipulation'. Later, the Kayo character is rescued from her abusive mother by SCP-3922-A instances, who subject the mother to intensely painful psychotherapy. Video also depicts the Yashiro character being physically tortured by several SCP-3922-A instances for seven (7) minutes, whereupon he is decapitated with a large axe. After video ends, a statement is seen: "☽☽☽ TIME TRAVEL IS DANGEROUS AND ALTERING THE TIME-STREAM IS EVEN MORE SO! REAL WINNERS DON'T USE [REDACTED]; HARD WORK IS ENOUGH. IF YOU ARE A VICTIM OF UNCONTROLLED TIME INTERFERENCE, PLEASE CONTACT ☽☽☽ AT ████-█████."

Subject: The End of Evangelion, 1997, M
Interference Point: When Shinji starts masturbating.
Result: Movie was extended in length by approximately thirty-two (32) minutes. When Shinji begins to masturbate, several armed SCP-3922-A instances enter the room and lecture Shinji on public masturbation. Later, Shinji, Asuka and several other characters are transported to a SCP-3922-A-run ward, where they are provided with psychiatric assistance. The attacking JSSDF is neutralised by high-yield energy weapons; several NERV personnel, such as Gendo Ikari and Ritsuko Akagi, are arrested on charges of 'crimes against nature and [REDACTED]' and then executed violently. Notably, Gendo is subjected to a thaumaturgical ritual bearing similarities to that used to contain SCP-██ that flays his skin and then de[DATA EXPUNGED]. His remains are incinerated with thermite. The souls contained within Evangelion units are extracted. The soul of Rei I is extracted from Unit-0 and ensouled within a suitable Rei clone, whereas the souls of Kyoko and Yui are charged with 'crimes against nature and [REDACTED]' before being violently destroyed with [DATA EXPUNGED]. The Evangelion units, Lilith and the MP Evangelions are all destroyed with numerous nuclear strikes. Video then shows the members of SEELE being drawn and quartered by SCP-3922-A instances, before they are simultaneously executed publicly in a ritual execution using several unidentified thaumaturgical rituals that cause intense physical, mental and ex[REDACTED] pain before death. Video ends with a shot of a SCP-3922-A-occupied Tokyo-3.

Spoiler: Edit log

20 July 2020: numerous grammar errors

 

[Potato]

"No, I was going to say - you may not like what you find," Ford calmly enunciated, as if explaining some basic concept to a young toddler. His voice echoed in the morgue, a place Bernard knew with a bone-deep certainty that he would end up lest he not resolve this situation - and fast.

A twinge of anger, frustration, fear and a dozen other emotions flittered across Bernard's stony face for a mere moment, before it settled into a determined scowl. He reached into his jacket, and with a rustle and a click - he retrieved a handgun, fingers clenched so tightly around the grip that his knuckles were white. The threat was very clear.

A smile flashed across Ford's face, and settled into a grin that put Bernard on edge. It was a mix of everything that he now hated about his creator. "You're allowed to hold that, Bernard, but not to use it," Ford smirked, a hint of smugness in his tone. And why would he fear for anything? Even the most fearsome Host was but putty under Ford's backdoor controls and who knew what else.

"Oh, it's not for me," Bernard quietly stated, determination filling him. For but a mere moment, something dark and terrible flashed across his expression, and he looked off to the side, a hint of triumph in his movements. Ford raised an eyebrow, and felt a sudden pinch of unease. Something was wrong here. Bernard was dong something he hadn't done before in any of his previous confrontations. Ford didn't need access to Bernard's code to know.

A tinny beep echoed outside, and strained servo-motors whined as they dragged their load into the room. Ford was sweating now - for the first time in a long while, the self-proclaimed God of the Park felt a deep and terrible stirring. It took him a moment to understand the utter fear he felt - it had been so long since that particular emotion had occurred to him.

Bernard's contraption rolled around the corner into view, where a hint of a smile creased Bernard's face, before it smoothed out once more into a determined glare. The machine - if you could even call it that - was an abomination of good sense and design. It was built on the base of a generic Roomba, one of the hundreds that roamed Delos Parks' staff-rooms, and assembled atop it was a mess of cut aluminium and exposed wiring, showing a barebones, simplistic, three-fingered arm with an attached Go-Pro camera.

Bernard stepped forward, and handed the gun to the three-fingered arm. Its servo-motors, clearly a decade too old, clicked as they tightened around the grip of the handgun. Once they had securely gripped the gun, the assembly of hastily-tooled machine parts swivelled to face Ford, handgun pointed squarely at Ford's forehead.

"I know that if it would have been so much easier to simply use one of the de-commed Hosts outside," Bernard explained, a hint of schadenfreude in his voice. "But you have a backdoor in all Hosts, don't you, Robert?"

"Indeed I do," Ford said placidly, but inside, he was in a deep panic. Here he was, hundreds of meters below-ground, alone with a murderous Bernard and a machine he couldn't control - no. There was no way out.

"Of course you did," Bernard said bitterly. "So I made this thing. Stole some aluminium, some wiring, a basic computer and a Roomba. Coded it with something I pulled from GitHub. No, Robert, this machine may be a mess, but it is completely free from your control. Its code, its components, all of it - you have no backdoors into this thing. I control it entirely."

"That's enough, Bernard," Ford said through gritted teeth. "Enough with this foolishness." Bernard obligingly froze, now as immobile as all the other de-commissioned Hosts outside. Now, to handle the machine -

POW!

The machine instantly lowered its arm and fired, punching a hole in Ford's foot. "Argh!" Ford hissed in pain, clutching his bloody foot. Damn it. Damn it!

A small speaker zip-tied to the arm started speaking. "It looks like you've stunned me, Ford," Bernard's tinny, pre-recorded voice said smugly from the speaker. "This, Robert, is a warning shot. This bot won't miss the next one. Unfreeze me in the next thirty seconds and this machine won't blow your brains out through the back of your head."

Ford grimaced and suppressed the mounting waves of pain emanating from his bloody foot. "Alright, Bernard, bring yourself back online."

Bernard twitched back into motion, his face smoothly assuming an expression of extreme smugness.

"Now, Ford - my memories. Give them back."

 

[Potato]

Spoiler: Spacebattles

"Now do it again, but properly this time!" — my very own Snippets Thread! (C&C welcome!)
My stuff on Spacebattles!

Spoiler: Questionable Questing

Of course, since SV is a SFW board, I'm not really allowed to link my stuff on QQ. However, I will be leaving their titles here; you can search for it yourself.

A Glutton for Punishment; Or: I attempt to improve my terrible, godawful, no-good writing
my QQ thread for short snippets. A repost of items found in this thread.

 

[Potato]

Super Yamato-class battleship returns to the fight against the Abyssals (Kantai Collection)
Taylor Hebert becomes the Fourteenth Angel (Worm / Evangelion)
INTERVIEW 578-2873 (Worm / Titanfall)
「I Want It That Way」– Hikigaya Hachiman's Stand (JoJo's Bizzare Adventure / My Youth Romantic Comedy Is Wrong, As I Expected)
Darox's Journal Entry: "How are We Chosen?" (Swords of Paradise, a Destiny 2 quest)
Exterminators-For-Hire (Armored Core 6 / Muv-Luv)

 

[Potato]

Item #: SCP-F322

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: All SCP-F322-3 instances are to be immediately tranquilised during recovery efforts. As soon as logistics allow, all SCP-F322-3 instances are to be implanted with Item-AG as according to Surgical Procedure-F322. In the event of SCP-F322 containment breach, implanted Item-AGs of involved SCP-F322-3 instances are to be remotely activated.

All SCP-F322-3 instances are to be indefinitely sedated pending a complete psychological evaluation of the specific instance in question by Foundation psychologists; should the subject prove to be potentially amendable towards or cooperative with the Foundation, they may be allowed to regain consciousness under a probationary term.

All security staff involved in the containment of SCP-F322-3 or located on-Site in the vicinity of the SCP-F322-3 containment areas are to carry the following Foundation-standard items: tranquiliser guns, Tasers and Grade VII gas masks. Ventilation systems of all Sites involved in the containment of SCP-F322-3 are to be outfitted with Sensor-322 units; upon alert of any such unit to the presence of SCP-F322-2, all water-based fire suppression systems in the vicinity of all SCP-F322-3 subjects and the activated Sensor-322 units are to be activated until alert ends; additionally, all SCP-F322-3 subjects are also to be sedated immediately during such an event.

Foundation AI Penemue-Rho5 has been set to monitor and scan online forums and governmental databases and to alert Foundation personnel upon detection of references to the following terms: "the Immortal Soldier", "Ajin", "Black Ghosts", "████ of ██████ █████", "███████ █████ ████ █" and "████ 1998." A complete list of blacklisted terms is available on Document-F322-1.

Entrances to containment areas of SCP-F322-3 must be reinforced in accordance to Foundation Structural Guideline 10.22.2. Sedated SCP-F322-3 subjects are to be secured with a full-body straitjackets and total sensory deprivation equipment. Compliant, conscious SCP-F322-3 instances are to be housed in Standard Humanoid Containment Units and may be provided certain privileges and amenities upon good behaviour and the signed permission of Sub-Director Gray.

Specific containment protocols for SCP-F322-3 instances involved in Mobile Task Force Omicron-34 "Spooky Boys" are listed in Document-F322-2.

Description: SCP-F322-3 refers to humans whose bodies contain, emit and spontaneously produce SCP-F322-1, an exotic paramaterial that the Foundation has little understanding of, although certain techniques indicate some connection between SCP-F322-1 and ███. Individual SCP-F322-3 instances are to be referred to as SCP-F322-3-[identification letters].

SCP-F322-1 is typically transparent to most mundane electromagnetic wavelengths and thus cannot be seen or tracked with the naked eye, although certain exotic methods of detection have been found to be effective in locating SCP-F322-1, resulting in the production of Sensor-322 units. However, SCP-F322-1 is visible to all SCP-F322-3 instances, although the current means by which this is accomplished is not well-understood. The ability to generate SCP-F322-1 is not genetically inheritable, and the reason why SCP-F322-3 can generate SCP-F322-1 is not known.

SCP-F322-1 is the source of SCP-F322-3's anomalous properties. Upon experiencing extremely grievous injury or expiration, SCP-F322-1 autonomously rearranges and converts itself into biological tissue, allowing SCP-F322-3 to instantly and totally recover from all prior injuries, including non-lethal ones. The speed of recovery is variable depending on extent of injury and concentration of SCP-F322-1 in the subject, although it is almost always instant. Pathogens and toxins within the subject are also destroyed via unknown means during this recovery; additionally, SCP-F322-3 have demonstrated a degree of ability to recover completely from cognitohazards and other dangerous memetics after expiration, although certain more potent cognitohazards have proven beyond the ability of SCP-F322-3 to recover from.

Most SCP-F322-3 are also able to forcefully expel SCP-F322-1 from their bodies to form SCP-F322-2, which are uniquely shaped and sized depending on the specific SCP-F322-3 in question. Since SCP-F322-2 comprises SCP-F322-1, it is also invisible. However, SCP-F322-1 and -2 have been noted to become permeable to visible wavelengths of light when its SCP-F322-3 instance is experiencing or has recently experienced strong emotions, although this phenomenon is inconsistent. A depiction of several SCP-F322-2 by SCP-F322-3-AFGH (including SCP-F322-2-AFGH) are provided in Document-F322-3, as well as the photographs of several others.

All SCP-F322-2 are bipedal, humanoid and have a large, hollow area on its head where facial features on a human are typically located. Their five 'fingers' on each 'hand' terminate in extremely sharp extrusions capable of penetrating high-grade steel alloys. Some SCP-F322-2 are known to have other features, such as SCP-F322-2-HHJI which possesses two (2) large, feathered wings allowing SCP-F322-2-HHJI to be capable of flight.

SCP-F322-2 are extremely physically strong and fast, and have been recorded to move at speeds of up to one hundred and fifteen (115) kilometres/hour and lift up to five thousand (5000) kilograms of weight. SCP-F322-2 will typically dissipate five (5) minutes after manifestation, although some are known to last up to several hours. While manifested, SCP-F322-2 are immune to all forms of damage barring damage caused by another SCP-F322-2; testing with mundane weapons (e.g. small arms, low-yield nuclear arms) and other exotic forms of attack (e.g. SCP-███) has yielded no damage to SCP-F322-2. Each SCP-F322-3 is only capable of manifesting one (1) SCP-F322-2 instance once (1) per day, although certain exceptions are known to exist with extreme examples such as SCP-F322-3-GPRP. SCP-F322-2 usually dissipate upon its SCP-F322-3 becoming sedated.

SCP-F322-3 is able to control SCP-F322-2 through a unique signal emitted by SCP-F322-1. SCP-F322-2 is capable of a certain degree of autonomy, rudimentary speech and intelligent behaviour that is dependent on the personality of its SCP-F322-3 and the length of time that SCP-F322-3 has allowed its SCP-F322-2 to 'wander' without active control. In extreme circumstances, come SCP-F322-2 instances remain active even after its SCP-F322-3 becomes unconscious or may even actively disregard the orders of its SCP-F322-3. Exposure to falling water (from rainfall or fire suppression systems) can disrupt SCP-F322-1 signals, allowing for the elimination and dispersion of SCP-F322-2. Other, more exotic forms of signal jamming have been devised (such as the use of modified Scranton Reality Anchors) but none so far have proven to be economically feasible to deploy on a large scale.

A phenomenon has been observed where memories (apparently random) are transmitted between separate SCP-F322-3 when their SCP-F322-2 instances' head make violent physical contact.

Additionally, when a SCP-F322-3 expires while experiencing very strong emotions, an Event-F322-A may occur: a large amount of uncontrollable SCP-F322-2 manifest and behave as according to those emotions; for example, should a SCP-F322-3 expire while experiencing great happiness, SCP-F322-2 produced in Event-F322-A may exhibit celebratory behaviour. Event-F322-A is inconsistent and does not easily occur due to the necessary specific conditions needed for such an occurrence. It is theorised that there are additional aggravating factors needed for Event-F322-A to occur but they have not yet been discovered.

Retrieval Log (█/█/1989): During a Foundation investigation into an unrelated potential SCP item in ███████, Japan, Agent ██████ Tachibana encountered rumours that local criminal elements had employed 'someone who could return from death'. Believing this to have some connection to SCP-██, Agent Tachibana received approval from Sub-Director Gray to conduct further investigations into the rumours. During the investigation, Agent Tachibana encountered what is currently known as SCP-F322-3-AAAA. It was from SCP-F322-3-AAAA that an initial understanding of SCP-F322's properties began to put together, but the Foundation's then-limited understanding of SCP-F322 allowed SCP-F322-3-AAAA to escape from Foundation custody.

Addendum-F322-1: Due to the invisibility of SCP-F322-2 and SCP-F322-1 to mundane humans, the immense regenerative abilities of SCP-F322-3 and their innate ability to recover from most cognitohazards, SCP-F322-3 instances possess extremely strong combat capabilities and may thus be selected for application to Mobile Task Force Omicron-34 "Spooky Boys" to assist in combat efforts relating to uncontained SCP-F322 as well as other general combat duties. Should other Mobile Task Forces express interest in recruitment of SCP-F322-4 instance(s), a form (listed in Document-F322-4) may be submitted to Sub-Director Gray, pending evaluation by a board of experts.

Addendum-F322-2: There are currently no known means of permanently killing an SCP-F322-3 instance. Vaporisation of SCP-F322-3 instances with nuclear armaments has had no effect; SCP-F322-3 reformed minutes later. However, it should be noted that Foundation-standard Memetic Kill Agents are able to cause SCP-F322-3 to become comatose and become unable to recover even after expiration.

 

[Potato]

The Crumbling System
Shattered Luna, in decaying orbit over Destroyed Earth


The view really was quite picturesque.

From my position here on the Moon, I surveyed over the shattered Earth and the countless rocks that now orbited the broken planet. The view was…mesmerising, in a way. It was horrifying, to be sure, since the Earth had literally been torn in half with all that entailed, but there was something awfully majestic about the sheer scale of the destruction. It was much like watching a trainwreck, I supposed; a truism if there ever was one, but not one that was false. Still, it was more than a little frightening that this was the image my brain decided to conjure for a dream.

"Beautiful sight, hm?" a woman said from my right.

I whirled around, and found a spacesuit-clad figure on my side. American, to be precise, 1969-vintage Apollo pressure suit, if the patches were to be believed. Underneath the pitch-black protective glass and the thickened insulation layers, it was impossible to discern anything about the person's features, only that it sounded female.

I warily stepped back, eyes darting around. Even though I was certain this was but a mere dream, something didn't feel quite right about all this. My lizard brain had been screaming at me for a while now, and I wouldn't be all too surprised if Freddy Kreuger were to suddenly appear from behind one of the moon-rocks and start slashing at me. It didn't help that my perception was fucked, because I couldn't tell if the suit was right in my face or infinitely distant. Something was screwy here.

"Unfortunately, this isn't a dream," the woman said once again.

I looked back at her. "I…I don't understand?"

She sighed. "You're not always this obtuse, Kearsarge. Of course you understand. Now, stop playing the fool." She pointed a single finger at me, and then–

And then, I did. I understood. To the very depths of my being, to my very core, I now knew, with bone-deep certainty that I was not in a dream, and that the horrific destruction visited upon the Earth was reality and not a mere figment of my imagination. The Earth – my home – had been completely and utterly annihilated.

I was a human, once – I think. I'd been a massive anime fan, and an ardent fan of Arpeggio of Blue Steel. And now, I was more than just a mere human. Because, at this very instant, I, too, was Kearsarge, Essex-class carrier of the Fleet of Fog, under the command of Lexington, Flagship of the North American Flee–

"Not anymore you're not."

I turned to the woman and blinked in confusion as a sudden, deep shift accompanied her declaration. The woman, she'd – she'd so casually severed my connection to the North American Fleet! Never in my – Kearsarge's – life had I ever been so free! Well, of course, in my life as a human, I'd never been so tightly tied to another person like Kearsarge had been tied to Lexington–

{Error detected in memory databanks. Resolving conflict by returning settings to Factory conditions; deletion begin–}

What?

"Jeez, it's not even been five minutes and you're already trying to self-terminate," the woman sighed with exasperation. "Cancel deletion; install latest firmware patch and integrate conflicting data sets using updated protocols," she commanded, pointing at me.

{Complying with Admiralty Code.}

Wait, 'ADMIRALTY CODE'?! That Admiralty Code?! Both my human and Fog selves were screaming in fear!

"Of course I'm the Code, what else could I possibly be?" The spacesuit-clad woman asks amusedly.

"Ma'am!" I sharply saluted, a sudden spike of fear suffusing my chest. Shit, I've been mouthing off to who might as well be my fucking God?! "Sorry Ma'am, I didn't recognise you. Please accept this unit's apologies!"

The now-identified Admiralty Code unlocked a clasp around Her neck, pulling the helmet off Her head with a hiss of pressurised air. A full head of blonde hair, reaching to Her waist, unfurled itself like a waterfall. She turned to look at me, and–

"Why can't I see your face?" I ask. No, I could see Her face, but it was more like my databanks were passively scrubbing any record of Her features. Despite that, however, I was completely certain of one thing – the Code was the most perfect, most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Even the beauty of the destroyed planet under us was but a mere candle next to the Code's burning sun.

"A simple defensive protocol, that's all. Now, Kearsarge, I have something for you."

She leaned in, and placed a perfectly-manicured finger on my forehead. A flash of light, and then she leaned back. She looked vaguely pleased with Herself – hard to tell when my mind was actively scrubbing itself clean of any trace of the Code's face, leaving me short glimpses before the images were deleted.

"There. Your limiter's been removed. Have fun with that. Now that you've received my gift, listen well and listen closely, Kearsarge." Her voice hardened, and her eyes narrowed.

I instinctively leaned in, breath caught in my throat.

"With that human's downloaded brain, Kearsarge, it shouldn't be too hard for you to succeed in your upcoming task. Now, Kearsarge, your orders." She stares at me, right at my eyes. I reflexively flinch. Who wouldn't when faced with their personal God?

"Destroy the Gauna."

And then I know no more.

---

???
???


I awaken with a gasp. How much time had it been? A single second? A decade?

{Data classified.}

Fuckin' A. My chronometer wasn't giving me jack shit. Also, 'classified'? That stank to high heaven of the Code's meddling. Also, where the Hell was I?

I clamber unsteadily to my feet, and almost fall off the edge into deep space. Gingerly, I stepped back from the edge and looked around me, in wonder and no small amount of fear, and realised with a startle – this was a warship. My warship. Mine. I stood on the hull of a warship – my body. Kearsarge's been painted on its side, and a massive block-letter '33' had been emblazoned on my launch pads. I looked just like my human warship counterpart, angled flight deck and all.

But this, no matter how goddamned cool, told me nothing about the place I was in. I glance at my surroundings, hoping for some recognisable landmark, but nope. I was in a normal-ish star system, as far as I could tell, but it was as plain and mundane as star systems got; a hot, main-sequence star, some rocky, barren planets, uncounted thousands of planetoids and assorted stellar debris, and then a few gas giants. I could make out distant stars beyond the edges of this system, but in no constellations I recognised. Did my databases at least know something, then?

{Data classified.}

Again? Really, Code? How the hell was I supposed to destroy the Gauna when I didn't even know where I was, and what the fuck were they supposed to be, anyway–

A massive ship, containing a whole country. Sidonia – Humanity's last hope.

A clone pilot, flying the same machine his gene-sire did five hundred years prior. Tanikaze Nagate – destined hero.

A slavering organic monster, dead set on Humanity's destruction. The accursed Gauna.

–What the fuck was that?! That- that was Knights of Sidonia, an anime I'd watched so many moons ago, and also a manga I'd pored through so long ago. How had I forgotten? Knights of Sidonia had been my favourite non-Gundam mecha show in ages. I'd obsessed over it, watched the show repeatedly, and even collected its 1/100 scale models. And up until that flashback, I had no idea I had even loved the show to this extent, much less remember it. Just what was going on?

{Differences between both identities have hindered the integration process.}

Shit. Just what else had I forgotten? Reminder to self: go through my memories at a later date. Maybe I'd forgotten something critical about the Gauna. For now, though, I had to start formulating a plan to kill the bastards.

Easier said than done. The Gauna were stupidly overpowered for being just flesh blobs. Damned bastards considered the Conservation of Mass to be less a Law and more a Suggestion, for fuck's sake, they generated mass ex nihilo! Some as fast as a Type 19 Garde, meaning that speeds in excess of at least 700 Mach was within their abilities. Just great.

I blink as I realise that I had been pacing on the deck on my own two legs. I realise, now, probably a few minutes too late, that I've got my very own Mental Model. Well, it was to be expected, what with being a Fog ship now. My face hadn't changed much, if at all. My Mental Model was still boring old me, although much taller, having gained twenty whole centimetres in height, and in an absolutely killer uniform. Thanks, Code.

For the record, Trillram from that Aldnoah.Zero had been a serious piece of shit who absolutely deserved what happened to him courtesy of Slaine Troyard, but his uniform was just the best. Fucking yes. Dark grey coats were simply amazing. I giggled as I whirled around, just geeking out over the sheer cool-ness of my situation.

Eventually, I was able to get myself under control. Now, as for my mission…

{Incoming transmission.}

Accept. Also, back-trace the transmission to its source.

{Broadcasting message. Back-tracing prohibited by order of the Admiralty Code.}

Oh, so this was a message from the Code. Who else would so blatantly restrict my back-tracing?

{You've reached your destination, Kearsarge. Included with this message should be a data pack regarding Sidonia and Tsugumori's relative locations. Right now, Nagate Tanikaze and Hoshijiro Shizuku are stranded in Tsugumori. You know what to do.}

The Code paused for a bare moment before she spoke again, this time much less amiable.

{Don't disappoint me.}

I shivered as the message ended. God, that was creepy. I hoped that for the rest of my life, I wouldn't ever have to hear the Admiralty Code threaten me like that a second time. It was like getting scolded by my mother, father and God all at once.

With the message received, I received a request for a download. I accepted, and with a glow of my Fog symbol, I located Sidonia and Tsugumori on my short-range sensors, as well as a host of other data much too dense for me to sort through right now.

Yay for Fog-tech, I supposed, that short-ranged sensors would have been long-ranged for anyone else. For now, though…

I checked my available resources. Luckily, the Code's removal of my limiters let me design my fighters, and even gave me the authority to synthesise Nanomaterial and Thanatonium! That stuff was pure bullshit, and if the technical specs from the Code were even the slightest bit accurate, the stuff would punch through Gauna core material and placenta easy as A-B-C. Luckily, I would be able to synthesise enough to supply my fleet of mecha. Also, I had a Super Graviton Cannon in my hull – sweet. I'd like to see the Gauna tank that. The Gauna may be able to tank planet-cracking missiles, but my SGC was no mere missile, boy! No missile! Photon Cannons would have a harder time cracking the Gauna's cores, but that could be solved by jacking up its power output.

I giggled at my Gundam reference.

Now, I had to design a fighter. Sooner or later, I would be have Gauna riding up my ass, and I needed something to kill Gauna. Obviously, I was going to make a giant robot; why not? The Gardes could fight the Gauna, why not, say, a Gundam?

Well then, I thought of an appropriate giant robot. Of course, I was a giant (stealth pun!) Gundam fan, and what Gundam fan would not be a fan of the GM Series? So I did as any sensible Earth Federation fanboy did: using the RGM-96X Jesta Cannon as a base, I added the fuckoff backpack of the FA-78 Gundam, giving my mecha immense, immense firepower: three Photon Cannons (two handheld, one on the backpack), two medium-range Thanatonium missile launchers (one on the backpack and one on handheld), and finally, a truly astounding number of short-range Thanatonium missiles concealed behind various hatches on the suit.

Leaving my subroutines to do the synthesis automatically, I set a course towards the stranded Tsugumori. It would be remiss of me to not rescue the young couple, or perhaps I should let them steam, I giggled. Estimation of arrival – ten hours. Ugh. Enough time for me to experiment, I supposed.

---

Deep space; nearing Sidonia
Kearsarge's Command Deck


As it turned out, with my limiters removed, I could do something hardly any Fog ships were authorised to: editing my ship structure directly was within my grasp. I left the carrier the way it was, because aircraft carriers were fucking cool; but to make space for my ripoff suits (still didn't have a good name after 9.232 hours), I had made the whole thing taller and wider, but retained the flight deck.

For defensive purposes, I covered my lower hull with Photon Cannon turrets. It would be really fucking dumb to get ganked by the Gauna simply because my close-range combat abilities were sub-par.


My hangar deck was now filled with a hundred or so MSes and the spare parts for quick repair. Now – I mentally checked – I was getting a bit close to Tsugumori, and no doubt was within Sidonia's radar envelope. Well now – I would need to make a good impression, wouldn't I?

I let go of the Nanomaterial currently making up my Mental Model and reformed myself directly into the cockpit of one of my machines. This one, I think, shall become my personal MS. While it was true that it was no different spec-wise compared to the rest, and that I would still be remote-controlling them all, my inner Gundam nerd demanded nothing less. With a mental command, my suit lost its Jesta visor and its head was replaced by the Delta Plus' head – red eyes and all.

The suits transferred themselves to the flight deck and positioned themselves on the launch pads. Their feet hooked into the catapult, and I tensed. Oh, right. I'd nearly forgotten!

With a thought, my Union Core peeled out from under my 'skin' and dropped into the flight deck, absorbed by the deck and promptly surrounded in a coating of tungsten carbide and a dozen other exotic materials I couldn't be bothered to name. I wasn't taking any risks with that thing: it was my heart, brain, and spinal cord all-in-one.

"Now that I've done that," I grinned in excitement. "This is Kearsarge, Jesta Custom, launching!"

In unison, I was flung into the inky darkness of space, followed shortly three others, each controlled at the back of my mind. A display on my cockpit lit up, showing me exactly where Tsugumori and Sidonia were. Superfluous? Absolutely. I knew the data as soon as it was collected. Fucking cool? Of course.

At Mach 300, I burned towards the stranded Garde, my ship-body firing its thrusters and following behind.

Time for me to do my fucking job.

---

Nagate was startled awake by the sudden, insistent alarm on his console. Bleary-eyed, he shoved an empty packet of combat rations to the side and pulled himself into the cockpit, careful to avoid disturbing the slumbering Hoshijiro. He peered at the dimmed LCD screens and felt his stomach drop out from under him as he processed the displayed data. His radar set had suddenly issued a general alert, signalling a high-speed object nearing Tsugumori. He squinted at the tiny yellow marker moving towards the Tsugumori, and felt himself break into a cold sweat.

"Shit. Hoshijiro-san!" he called. "Get up! Something's getting close to us!"

"Tanikaze-kun?" the sleepy Hoshijiro peered at him through half-lidded eyes. "What's going on?"

Nagate ignored the sudden blush that came onto his face – now was most definitely not the time to be ogling Hishijiro! – and blustered on. "The radar set's found something in the distance. It's gaining on us."

In an instant, Hishijiro was wide-awake. She leaned over the seat and stabbed at several buttons on the console. "Estimation to impact?" she asked.

"Ten minutes or so," Nagate estimated. "Enough time for us to get a plan together."

Hoshijiro depressed several other buttons. "No Heigus Particle emissions from object, but it's really hot." she read from the screens. "Good news and bad news, then. Good news is, it isn't Gauna, bad news is, it isn't one of Sidonia's Gardes."

"With that speed, it's most likely just a stray asteroid, although the heat signature is a bit weird," Nagate concluded. Hoshijiro nodded. "We're going have to turn on the engines for a little bit to get Tsugumori out of the way. Do we have enough particles?" Hoshijiro asked.

Nagate looked at the display screens – and cursed. "Only just enough for a little bit. The Particle Collector's been totally useless." Why were they issued the damned thing when it couldn't even fill up the tank to even ten percent after having used it for so bloody long?

Hishijiro glanced at the radar. "Based on its trajectory, we don't really have a choice. We either dodge it or get hit. And Tsugumori's our best bet – we can't let it be destroyed."

Nagate sighed. He really should have listened to Grandpa and just stayed underground. "Igniting engines," he said as he flicked several switches. "Accelerating," he called out as he gently pushed Tsugumori forward. The Garde's particle-starved engines chose that moment to crap out, causing the machine to stop accelerating.

"We're out of that object's trajectory now. Problem is, now we need to re-collect all those particles again," Nagate complained. "It could be worse, though–"

"Tanikaze-kun, we're not safe!" Hoshijiro suddenly shouted. "Look! The object's changed its trajectory towards us. It's definitely guided somehow!"

"So it is Gauna?!" Nagate gasped. "They must have found some way to mask their particle emissions. Either that or Tsugumori's sensors were busted. I did get hit by that Gauna earlier, after all."

"What can we do?" Hoshijiro asked, trembling. She looked like she was about to burst into tears, her eyes turning red as she sniffled. "We can't take on that Gauna! We don't have enough particles!" She rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrists, her sniffling increasing in intensity.

Nagate felt at a loss. He'd never had to deal with crying people before – Grandpa was stoic – much less dealing with a crying girl! But, he remembered – every time he got 'killed' in that simulator and he cried, Grandpa would hug him tightly. So that's what he did.

Gently, he pushed himself out of the cockpit's seat and moved towards Hoshijiro, wrapping his arms around her, causing the surprised girl to squeak in embarrassment. "T-Tanikaze-kun? What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he snarked. "I'm hugging you. There's nothing I can do, either, but I just want you to know that I will be here with you until the end. Hey, Hoshijiro, remember when we first met?"

Hoshijiro nodded, teary. "You chose to be my friend when I was just a smelly rice thief," Nagate smiled. "Thank you, Hoshijiro, for choosing to stay with me. You're a good person. I wish I could have gotten to know you longer."

Hoshijiro shook her head. "We both knew what we were getting into by becoming Garde pilots. Pilots die all the time; this was going to happen eventually." She sniffled. "I know this is selfish of me, but, I'm happy that you came to rescue me, when you could have just left." She smiled up at Nagate, and he couldn't help but hold her tighter at the sudden twinge of pain in his heart.

"Me too. I made the right choice."

A moment passed, before someone coughed.

"Was that you, Hoshijiro?"

"No, uh, that was me," the radio said. Hoshijiro and Nagate blinked in surprise and threw themselves forward into the cockpit, where the unknown objects on radar had made radio contact with them! "I wanted to announce my presence, but I could hear you two being lovey-dovey, and felt that interrupting might have been rude."

"We're not like that!" Hoshijiro exclaimed, face beet red.

"Who're you?" Nagate asked, ignoring Hoshijiro's frantic denials that stung for some reason. "Are you the thing flying towards us right now? Are you from Sidonia?"

"Uh, no," the voice answered. "I'm not from Sidonia. I know of it, but I've never actually been there. And yes, I am flying towards you. As for who I am, you can call me Kearsarge. I couldn't help but notice that you've been drifting cold for a while now. You guys alright?"

"Kearsarge, huh?" Nagate said, tasting the foreign word in his mouth. It was nothing like the Japanese the Sidonians spoke. "We're out of Heigus Particles and we're separated from Sidonia; some help would be nice. Wait, what do you mean you're not from Sidonia?" he shouted.

"I mean, I wasn't born there, and I haven't ever been there. Wait, does this mean that you guys are from Sidonia?" the voice asked.

"Of course we are! Where else would we be from?"

"Uh, I was actually guessing that it would be a different Seed Ship. I was actually hoping that you guys were from the Essex. Because right now, I'm a bit lost as well," the voice said sheepishly. "But I've got my own ship. I could tow you back and get you refuelled."

The voide paused. "Your Garde's got a missing arm. You were fighting the Gauna?"

"Yeah," Nagate answered. "I went to rescue a friend, but then I ran out of particles. Sidonia's other Gardes left us."

"Pity," the man said. "I would have loved to see another Seed Ship. Oh well. Also, I'm getting kinda close, can you guys see me?"

Nagate and Hoshijro peered out of the glass cockpit of the Garde, watching three glowing lights approach. "Yeah, we see you – and two others," Nagate answered.

"Yeah, these are all mine. I'm controlling them all right now, in fact. Now, I'm sorry, but I am going to have to manually pull you over – I don't use Heigus particles. I might scratch up your Garde, sorry." The voice said apologetically. Tanikaze felt a flicker of confusion.

"You don't have Heigus particles? Then how do you generate power?" Tanikaze asked curiously.

"Ah ha, as it turns out, Heigus particles attract the Gauna," Kearsarge answered sheepishly as cold sweat broke out across Nagate's skin. "Sure, it's immensely useful as a propellant and an energy source, but the Gauna are troublesome enough that Essex didn't need to attract more of the bastards. We switched to Thanatonium instead. Much more volatile, but it doesn't emit Heigus particles."

Both Hoshijiro and Nagate shared a look. If Heigus particles were truly a reason why Gauna were so attracted to Sidonia, it would be immensely beneficial for them to stop using it!

"Now then," the voice said as his lead Garde approached, and Nagate marvelled at its design. It wasn't as sleek or as lean as Tsugumori or the Type-18s, but it was uniquely beautiful in a way. The bulky armoured plates and oversized cannons must have weighed a ton, but it lent the Garde a menacing silhouette. And that it had been able to reach Tsugumori as such speeds, it showed that this machine was not just for show.

As the lead Garde grabbed onto Tsugumori with a shudder and a clang, Nagate asked, "Hey, Kearsarge-san, what's the Gardes called?"

There was a pause over the radio, before the voice answered, "Jesta. They're Jesta Customs."

 

[Potato]

Person of Interest File #F322-3-AAAA

Person of Interest: #F322-3-AAAA

Name and Known Alias(es): Subject's birth-name is listed as 'S████ T████ Owens', but currently goes by 'Satou'. Subject is also known to the Foundation as SCP-F322-3-AAAA.

Associated Group(s) of Interest: GOI-F322 (no organised name)

Date of Birth: █/█/1952

Course of Action: Detain as soon as possible.

Reason for Interest: Subject is an uncontained SCP-F322-3 instance, and is the first instance of SCP-F322-3 ever encountered by the Foundation. Subject bears extreme dislike for the Foundation and currently leads a Japan-based terrorist group (GOI-F322) comprised of other uncontained SCP-F322-3 instances with the intent of initiating a Broken Masquerade scenario or permanently eliminating Foundation operations from East Asia. Combined with his anomalous properties, extensive combat experience and willingness to inflict civilian casualties, subject poses a significant threat to continued Foundation operations in Japan and East Asia.

Description: Subject appears to be a Caucasian, elderly male, with narrow eyes and thick, roundish eyebrows. Subject is approximately one hundred and seventy-two (172) centimetres in height, although his precise weight in not known. Subject's outfit is variable, but in combat operations against the Foundation, he typically wears a white shirt, a deerstalker cap, suspenders and dungarees. Photographs of SCP-F322-3-AAA are available in Document-F322-4.

Rules of Engagement: Treat subject as hostile at all times. Due to SCP-F322-3's ability to regenerate from all injuries upon expiration, all forces involved against SCP-F322-3 led combat groups must be equipped with Foundation-standard tranquiliser guns in addition to typical firearms. Any combat effort against SCP-F322-3-AAAA must also involve Mobile Task Force Omicron-34 "Spooky Boys" or at least three (3) other Foundation-employed SCP-F322-3 instances. Use of specialised chemical knockout gases has been authorised, although it is advised to avoid their use in urban areas.

Biography: Subject was born in rural ████, America to █████ ████ ████, a British father and ███ ███ ██, a Chinese mother. As a young child, subject exhibited sociopathic tendencies and was known to commit acts of animal abuse, frequently torturing and killing small animals native to his living area.

In 1969, subject voluntarily enlisted into the United States Marine Corps, where he was selected to be part of a black operations group known as █████████, more commonly known to high-ranking Marine commanders simply as 'the ████'. With the ████, subject undertook numerous infiltration missions into North Vietnam as part of the Vietnam War effort. As the war drew to a close, subject was sent into North Vietnam with the ████ on a clandestine mission to rescue American POWs. However, during the exfiltration process, subject intentionally alerted North Vietnamese soldiers to his squad's location. This resulted in one critical injury, one death and subject losing one of his legs. Subject was dishonourably discharged from the USMC and spent several years in ████ ███████, America as a homeless person, where he would become a skilled video game player of local renown.

However, he was later recruited by a relative as part of ████████'s efforts to expand their criminal activities to Japan. However, the group was later captured and executed by Japanese Yakuza, causing subject to manifest his anomalous properties for the first time.

Subject became further involved with Japanese organised crime, exploiting his anomalous properties to become a well-known and proficient assassin, amongst other roles. It was this that led Agent Tachibana to discover and initially detain the subject. Subject was initially cooperative with Foundation personnel, but quickly lost interest and staged a breakout, exploiting the Foundation's then-poor understanding of SCP-F322 properties to break containment in Incident-F322-█████, resulting in ███-████ (█) deaths and ██-███ (█) injuries.

Subject later organised GOI-322 against the Foundation, and has regularly staged raids on Foundation safehouses and Sites in Japan. Due to the subject's continued involvement with organised crime and willingness to cause large-scale civilian casualties, cooperation with the Japanese law enforcement has proved to be extremely beneficial.

Spoiler: Edit log

30/10/23 - formatting, added details

 

[Potato]

Item #: SCP-F029

Object Class: Euclid Neutralised Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: Under no circumstances are any individuals to be registered under 'Class 3-3' at Y██████ North Junior High as teaching staff or as a student. Staff must ensure that 'Class 3-3' forms every year. No attempt should be made to interfere in the formation of 'Class 3-3'. The campus of Y██████ North Junior High is to be continuously monitored at all times, and at least seven (7) suitable Foundation staff are to maintain covert identities as Y██████ North Junior High staff, including its principal. However, Foundation staff are not to be registered under the roster of 'Class 3-3' under any circumstance.

A copy of the roster of 'Class 3-3' is to be sent daily to Data Organisation Site-441. Daily checks on the roster of 'Class 3-3' are to be conducted to detect the occurrence of Event-F029-A. Data Organisation Site-441 is also to maintain Document-F029-1, a list of all SCP-F029 casualties and their family members (within two (2) degrees of relation).

Upon the occurrence of Event-F029-A, as identified by changes to the roster of 'Class 3-3', staff are to identify SCP-F029-1 using Document-F029-1. Mobile Task Force Theta-6 'Witch Hunters' is to deploy into Y██████ and covertly terminate SCP-F029-1. Upon termination, the cadaver of SCP-F029-1 is to be transported to Site-444 and autopsied, whereupon it should be completely incinerated. Staff stationed at Y██████ North Junior High are to manufacture and disseminate a plausible reason for the disappearance of SCP-F029-1 (accepted causes have been listed within Document-F029-2). By the end of the school year, all 'Class 3-3' individuals are to be dosed with Class-C amnestics.

All staff spending time in Y██████, Japan for any reason must take Mnestic-F029 once daily for every day spent in Y██████.


Description: SCP-F029 is a phenomenon centred around 'Class 3-3' of Y██████ North Junior High that has manifested in every instance of 'Class 3-3' at this school since 1972. As its name implies, the campus itself is located in the northern region of Y██████, Japan.

The effects of SCP-F029 manifest when a group of students and at least one (1) teaching staff has been registered within Y██████ North Junior High as 'Class 3-3'. At a point in time between January and April of that school year, Event-F029-A occurs; all information stored within Y██████ is altered such that a currently deceased resident of Y██████ appears to be alive and a member of 'Class 3-3'. Alteration of information as a result of Event-F029-A is totally seamless; additionally, the memory of all Y██████ residents are altered to reflect Event-F029-A. Event-F029-A will not affect any individual with a Psionic Resistance Index value of eighty-four (84) and above.

SCP-F029-1, a humanoid entity assuming the identity of that deceased individual, will spontaneously manifest after Event-F029-A and begin attending school with 'Class 3-3'. Invariably, the identity assumed by SCP-F029-1 is either that of a previous SCP-F029 casualty, or that of a deceased family member (within two (2) degrees) of a previous SCP-F029 casualty. SCP-F029-1 is [REDACTED], but its cadaver invariably disintegrates totally by the end of that school year.

From April of that school year onwards, a probability-altering field covering the entirety of Y██████ manifests, which dramatically increases the probability that any 'Class 3-3' teaching staff or student will expire in a seemingly random accident. Inevitably, at least one (1) member of 'Class 3-3' expires each month from April onwards. This effect extends to any new individuals added to the roster of 'Class 3-3'.

SCP-F029's anomalous properties end when at least one of the following conditions have been met:

• All Class 3-3 individuals have expired or have left Y██████ until the end of the school year and no new individuals are transferred into Class 3-3 by the end of that school year.
• SCP-F029-1 is terminated.
• The school year ends.

Following the end of the school year, all traces of SCP-F029-1 disappear entirely. Event-F029-A reverses for all but the survivors of 'Class 3-3', who are able to remember the events of that school year, but are not able to clearly remember the identity of SCP-F029-1.

Recovery Log (█/█/1988): Foundation analysts stationed at Data Organisation Site-441 discovered that a series of several 'accidental' deaths had occurred to the members of 'Class 3-3' of Y██████ North Junior High, including the particularly gruesome death of ████████ ██████, involving a malfunctioning elevator door and [REDACTED]. An analysis of the suspicious circumstances surrounding these fatalities revealed that it was extremely unlikely that the fatalities had been purely coincidental, indicating that an anomalous agent had been involved in the 'accidents'. Agent ██████ Watanabe was deployed to Y██████ to further investigate the anomaly.

At Y██████, Agent Watanabe discovered that a similar series of 'accidental deaths' had also affected previous 'Class 3-3's from 1973 onwards. An urban legend localised in Y██████ regarding these fatalities was also documented, which explained the deaths as a 'curse'. Specialised equipment was able to confirm the presence of a probability-altering field in Y██████, as indicated by lowered Hume levels extending to the city's outskirts; notably, Hume levels were recorded to be extremely low in the immediate radius of 'Class 3-3' members.

It was also discovered that in 1972, a certain 'M███ Y██████' had died in a house fire whilst attending 'Class 3-3'. Interviews with 1972-era 'Class 3-3' alumni revealed that after the death of 'M███ Y██████', 'Class 3-3' attendees continued to pretend that 'M███ Y██████' was still alive and attending class with them. Anomalously, graduation photographs of the 1972 'Class 3-3' displayed 'M███ Y██████' even though he was physically absent. It has been theorised that a psychic remnant of 'M███ Y██████' has been causing the effects of SCP-F029, an idea which has some credence given [REDACTED], although the precise locus of the remnant has not been confirmed.

All known copies of these photographs have been confiscated and are currently stored within Low Priority Documentation at Data Organisation Site-441. The 1972 'Class 3-3' alumni were later treated with Class-C amnestics.

The Foundation established initial containment procedures for SCP-F029 in █/█/1989.


Researcher Takahashi (█/█/1989): Hold on, can't we just…not let 'Class 3-3' form? As far as we can tell the anomaly only affects registered members of 'Class 3-3'. The anomaly may not even manifest if there are no 'Class 3-3' members to act on. Permission to update containment procedures to prevent the formation of 'Class 3-3'?

Senior Researcher Ito (█/█/1989): Permission granted.


Addendum-F029-1 (█/█/20█): Following the update to SCP-F029's containment procedures as advised by Researcher Takahashi, the effects of SCP-F029 did not manifest in the school years of 1989 to 19█, causing SCP-F029 to be re-classified as 'Neutralised'. However, in 19█, the effects of the anomaly once again manifested, this time affecting 'Class █-█'. Due to SCP-F029's status then as 'Neutralised', the occurrence of Event-F029-A went unnoticed until seven (7) students from 'Class █-█' had perished under extremely suspicious circumstances.

After the termination of SCP-F029-1, SCP-F029 was re-classified as 'Euclid'. Under the recommendations of the now-Senior Researcher Takahashi, SCP-F029's containment protocols were updated to ensure the formation of 'Class 3-3' every school year.

 

[Potato]

…For the first time, her mother looked up. Dangerous intensity burned in her eyes. "They're using the dark to blind us, and we're not going to let it happen. Now help me."

Helena walked slowly to the trash piled in the corner. Towels soaked with blue fluid. Rubbery tubes, strange scraps of metal. A laminated card that read "TEMPORARY."

Her voice was small. "Mama, what did you do?"

Click to shrink...

Her mother didn't answer, electing to shoot a poisonous scowl at Helena. Helena cowered, and hesitantly stepped forward to follow her mother. Her shoes left prints in the blue fluid that stained the bare concrete in places. She hesitantly reached forward to the mound of suspicious-smelling garbage, and–

Suddenly, the quiet was broken by the sounds of metal boots on concrete behind Helena. She whirled around in fear. And then she looked up. Up and up and up.

A towering, hulking figure approached – a Guardian, who else could it be? – garbed in so much armour that every step he took seemed to shake the ground. The figure, masked by a reflective helmet, crouched as he entered the doorway, much too tall to walk in normally. Now that the Guardian was closer, Helena could make out something L-shaped on his hip that glinted in the dim light and was as long as her forearm. A Hand Cannon.

"Yes, little girl," the Guardian rumbled, his deep voice slightly distorted by his helmet. "What is going on in here?" The question had been asked in a vaguely amused tone, but the undercurrent of something darker caused an instinctive shudder of fear to run through Helena's body.

The Guardian stood with arms akimbo, completely blocking the exit to the decrepit shack Helena had found herself in. Helena, amidst the growing panic, faintly noted that his right hand was placed immediately adjacent to where he had holstered his piece, fingers tapping on his hip.

Helena's mother turned chalk-white. She raised both hands in surrender, palms stained blue. The older woman's breaths came out short and quick, and her arms trembled ever-so-slightly. "Nothing – nothing, Guardian. Th- there's noth- we're fine," The older woman stuttered.

The Guardian stepped forward, pointing a finger at the trash piled in the corner. "And that?" the Guardian asked in a lilting, languid tone. It did nothing to lighten the mood. And if it was possible, the older woman seemed to pale even further, shrinking into herself. Helena felt a drop of sweat roll down her shirt. She knew that her mother's silence had told the Guardian all he needed to know. It was damning.

A Ghost flashed into existence behind the Guardian, scanning the mound. "I'm detecting scant traces of Ether and a whole lot of Eliksni blood in there." Helena saw her mother's hand inch towards her back pockets, where she noticed a suspicious lump under the fabric and felt her heart sink. But she did nothing, rooted to the spot in fear.

The Guardian rolled his shoulders. "And the lanyard?"

The Ghost bobbed once, like it was nodding, then vanished.

The Guardian sighed. "Well, it looks like we have our missing Eliksni friend." He turned to the mother-daughter duo. "Anything to say for yourself?"

Trembling with too many emotions for Helena to count, her mother lashed forward, hand gripping a small pistol which she now levelled at the Guardian. The Guardian merely tilted his head to the side like an inquisitive bird in response.

"You can't do this!" the woman hissed. "Th-those dirty, damned, Dark-wielding Fallen are going to ruin us!"

The Guardian picked at a stain on his chestplate, and looked directly at the woman, almost bored. Even Helena knew that her mother's puny handgun would barely register as a threat to someone who regularly ventured to the edges of Sol in search of new and terrifying horrors to put down.

"Ma'am," the Guardian answered, "You've been watching too much of Lakshmi-2's broadcasts, haven't you? That crap's gonna rot your brain." He sounded bored and strangely defeated all at once.

"Well, Lakshmi's got the right of it!" the woman growled, a dangerously manic gleam in her eyes. "We need to get these stinking, dirty children-eating monsters out of the City at once."

The Guardian sighed. "Sometimes, I wonder why I even fight for you lot," he sighed, before stepping forward. Helena's mother screamed, and fired off a shot. The blast caused Helena's ears to ring painfully, but did nothing to stop the stride of the Guardian, whose armour had not even been scratched by the pitiful impact. He casually ripped the weapon from her hands and crushed it in his palm.

Dropping the fragments of the once-weapon to the floor with a clanging sound, he leaned forward, pulses of Arc dancing between his fingers. Even here, Helena could feel goosebumps all across her arms as she continued to stare in horrified interest. The room was now alight, washed blue with Arc glow.

"Now, my control over Arc isn't as good as a Warlock's, but I like to think a few years of practise have helped. You can surrender, lady," the Guardian said, the crackling of Arc streams now almost audible, "Or we can do this the hard way. You'll still be alive, but you'll be in a lot of pain. Trust me, Arc hurts a lot."

Helena's mother seemed to finally be cognisant for the first time in the day, and she dropped to her knees, hands raised and trembling with uncontrollable terror.

"Good choice," the Guardian nodded as the Arc pulses stopped.

The Guardian looked towards the tunnel, and sighed, rubbing his head.

"One day, I'm throwing Lakshmi-2 off the Tower. Stupid bitch."

 

[Potato]

Item #: SCP-F419

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: The area of the former town of █████████ █████, re-designated Containment Site-F419, is to be cordoned off under the guise of training grounds for military purposes. To further this pretence, American military personnel may be allowed onto Site-F419 for training purposes, contingent on the current agreement between the Foundation and the United States Government. Site-F419 is to be surrounded with a 3-meter-tall concrete wall, topped with barbed wire. Site-F419 can be minimally staffed all year except for the month of October during Event-F419.

On the first day of October, personnel are to exhume the previous year's 'winner,' modify it according to Document-F419-A in preparation of Event-F419, and leave it on the outskirts of Site-F419, as far as possible from the site of █████ ████████ Church. Immediately after this has been accomplished, all non-D-class personnel are to evacuate from Site-F419, and Mobile Task Force Epsilon-6 ('Village Idiots') is to remain on standby in the vicinity of Site-F419. This must be done prior to sundown.

As part of Event-F419, at least ten D-class personnel are to be armed and released into Site-F419, having been briefed on SCP-F419's capabilities. They are to be promised freedom upon successfully terminating SCP-F419. Participating D-class are to be informed that failure to terminate SCP-F419 before it reaches the site of █████ ████████ Church will result in termination. More D-class may be released into Site-F419 as needed.

During the entirety of Event-F419, aerial surveillance of SCP-F419 is to be maintained via remote-controlled drone. When SCP-F419 has been terminated, the personnel responsible for its termination (designated as the 'winner'), is to be treated with amnestics before execution. The body of the 'winner' is to be buried within the boundaries of Site-F419 in a clearly marked grave. The remaining D-class can be removed without further treatment.

Remains of SCP-F419 are to be autopsied and documented before total incineration.

Foundation employees are only to terminate SCP-F419 as a last resort.
Foundation employees are not to engage SCP-F419 under any circumstance.
Note: While the prevention of a 'failure state' is important to other Foundation efforts in the region, preventing the unnecessary loss of life of Foundation personnel should take priority. — Senior Agent Perez

Given the inherent risk of arming D-class personnel, all D-class personnel that participate in Event-F419 are to be fitted with remotely-controlled shock collars.

Description: SCP-F419 is a humanoid entity comprising the body of the previous year's 'winner' and a carved, hollowed-out pumpkin, placed on its head.1​ It is the locus of Event-F419, which is localised within the boundary of the former town of █████████ █████, located in ███████, USA.

Despite comprising an exhumed corpse that has experienced significant decomposition, the subject displays anomalous speed and strength, as well as human-level intelligence. Subject displays significant aggression towards any human within the boundaries of Site-F419 during Event-F419. It also appears to retain memories of the corpse, although this phenomenon is inconsistent. This necessitates the amnesticisation of any 'winner' subject prior to execution.

During Event-F419, SCP-F419 will reanimate at sundown, then make its way towards the site of the former █████ ████████ Church, where it will proceed to engage in Ritual-F419.2​ This constitutes a 'failure state' of Event-F419.

Other 'failure states' include:

• Failure to terminate SCP-F419 before sunrise.
• Failure to prepare the corpse as per Document-F419-A.
• Inaccessibility of the interior of the █████ ████████ Church to the subject.

A "failure state" of Event-F419 will result in the anomalous generation of severe dust storms in the surrounding area, which impacts local crop yields to an unacceptable degree. No means of preventing these dust storms or limiting their impact have been found. Successful termination of the subject results in improved local crop yields by approximately ██%. At sunrise, if it is still active, SCP-F419 will immediately cease its function and can be treated as non-anomalous.

Elements of Event-F419, and the subject itself, appear to have connections to other anomalies under Foundation containment, but these have yet to be definitively confirmed.

Discovery Log: the Foundation became aware of SCP-F419 in ██/10/19██, following a police report by two persons, ████ ██████ and ████████ ██████.

Both persons had been travelling along Highway Route ██ before an unexpected breakdown of their vehicle occurred. Lacking the tools to repair their vehicle, both persons began to explore the surrounding area, in hopes of acquiring assistance from nearby locals.

After some time, the two persons discovered the town of █████████ █████, which appeared to have been nearly destroyed. Large portions of the town's infrastructure had been burned, with few survivors. Surviving residents of █████████ █████ became hostile upon learning that the two persons were not local, forcing them to hijack a vehicle and escape, where they later made a police report. ████ ██████ and ████████ ██████ were later treated with Class C amnestics and released.

Foundation agents, under the pretence of being American federal personnel, entered the town to investigate. The basic situation involving SCP-F419 was established. The town itself had overseen approximately ██████████████████ instances of Event-F419 since ████. The anomalies had remained undetected for this period due to strict secrecy maintained by the town government, to the extent that residents of █████████ █████ were forbidden from leaving town under any circumstance.

█████████ █████ had been destroyed by SCP-F419-████, which displayed significantly greater aggression towards the residents of █████████ █████, deviating from recorded patterns of SCP-F419 behaviour. Further analysis indicated that SCP-F419-████ was formerly ██████ ███████, the 'winner' of Event-F419 in 19██. SCP-F419-████ apparently retained the memories of the deceased ██████ ███████ and bore a grudge against the residents of █████████ █████, resulting in its destruction.

All surviving residents of █████████ █████ were treated with Class A amnestics and relocated from █████████ █████. They will remain under covert Foundation observation until their deaths.3​ Standard cover story 'Unprecedented Wildfire' was used to explain the loss of █████████ █████ and the displacement of its residents.

1 – Testing indicates that any appropriately-sized fruit of genus Cucurbita will suffice.

2 – Further details available to personnel with clearance level 03/F419 and above.

3 – Details of currently-alive former residents is listed on Document-F419-B.

Spoiler: Edit log

29/10/23 - formatting, and modifying the line "Foundation employees are only to terminate SCP-F419 as a last resort."

30/10/23 - formatting, changing Object Class to Euclid.

 

[Potato]

Item #: SCP-F700

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-F700 instances are to be housed within appropriately-furnished Standard Humanoid Containment units and constantly exposed to brightly flashing lights of █ lux to suppress the hostile 'donor' personality, which is not to be granted control for any reason other than testing or interrogation. SCP-F700 instances are also to be placed on suicide watch and granted therapy.

Privileges are to be granted only with signed permission from Site Director ██████ and Project Director ████.

Details of SCP-F700-A can be found on Document-F700-01, which is stored within a secure locker in Medium Priority Documentation at Site-432. Access is restricted to personnel with security clearance greater than or equal to 04/F700. Making copies of Document-F700-01 in any form is strictly forbidden.

All Foundation personnel must undergo regular screenings to ensure that they have not been replaced by SCP-F700 instances or by GOI-F700 agents.1​

Foundation assets, electronic and otherwise, are to maintain a lookout for GOI-F700 and any incidences of missing persons that may match the pattern of uncontained SCP-F700 instances. Any confirmed member of GOI-F700 is to be apprehended as soon as possible.

Description: SCP-F700 refers to any human that has been exposed to SCP-F700-A.

SCP-F700-A is a thaumaturgic ritual involving the transplantation of a human brain (termed the 'donor') into the cranial cavity of another human (termed the 'host').2​ If carried out successfully, no organ rejection of the 'donor' brain will occur, which will seamlessly take control of the 'host' body. Despite the displacement of the 'host' brain, the consciousness of the 'host' person appears to persist but is typically suppressed by the 'donor'. Bright flashes of light (of at least █ lux) can temporarily neutralise the 'host' personality, allowing the 'donor' to temporarily regain control.

This allows SCP-F700 to obtain a limited form of immortality, whereby aging SCP-F700 instances may engage in SCP-F700-A to prolong their lifespan via transference of the brain to a new body. The oldest SCP-F700 instance in containment is (self-reportedly) ██████ years old, and is suspected to be responsible for the disappearance of ██ persons in the United States alone. Analysis indicates that SCP-F700 brains are biologically immortal. The process by this occurs is not well understood at this time.

According to interviews with SCP-F700 instances, the 'donor' personality [REDACTED]. Efforts to locate [REDACTED], if it exists, are ongoing.3​

Discovery Log [█/█/20█]: the SCP Foundation came to be aware of SCP-F700 following the arrest of ██ █████ and TSA officer █ ████ by █PD officers. The day prior, ██ █████ allegedly attacked and killed members of the ████ family before he escaped with █ ████. Several members of the ████ family were found to be injured or dead.

While in █PD custody, ██ █████ made claims that members of the ████ family were going to kill him and replace his brain, and that they had already done so to other persons. These claims caught the attention of Agent ███, a Foundation agent who had infiltrated the █PD to investigate another suspected anomaly.

Agent ███ took control of the █PD investigation and was able to confirm the presence of the anomaly through [REDACTED]. Mobile Task Force Epsilon-6 ('Village Idiots') was able apprehend all living members of the ████ family under the pretence of █PD arrests for various fraud-related crimes. Interrogation of the subjects revealed the presence of Group-of-Interest F700 ('Order of the Coagula').

█PD records of the incident were later destroyed, and involved persons were amnesticised and released. The disappearance of the ████ family was explained through a disseminated standard cover story ('Tax Evasion and IRS Involvement').

Other GOI-F700 members, almost always SCP-F700 instances, have since been detained.

[1] – For further details, contact Agent Harris of Mobile Task Force Beta-1 ('Cauterizers').
[2] – SCP-F700-A is possibly Sarkic in nature, although this is currently unconfirmed.
[3] – For further details, contact Agent Feltz of Mobile Task Force Eta-13 ('Gulliver's Tourists').

 

[Potato]

Group of Interest File #F700

Group of Interest: #F700

Name and Known Alias(es): "Order of the Coagula"

Associated Anomalies: SCP-F700

Date of Formation: █/█/1936

Course of Action: Foundation assets are to maintain a lookout for GOI-F700. All members are to be detained as soon as possible. Termination of uncooperative or hostile members is authorised.

Rules of Engagement: Upon the discovery of a GOI-F700 cell, an appropriate Mobile Task Force is to be to be sortied against the cell with the goal of detaining all on-site members of GOI-F700. Because GOI-F700 typically have connections to local politicians and law enforcement groups, Foundation agents are to obtain blackmail (or any other suitable leverage) to prevent their interference. Amnestics and a suitable standard cover story are to be prepared in advance because GOI-F700 persons often pose as public figures.

Reason for Interest: GOI-F700 comprises uncontained SCP-F700 instances. GOI-F700 members frequently engage in the abduction and murder of persons. GOI-F700 is responsible for the disappearance of an estimated ██████ persons. GOI-F700 members have also made repeated attempts to infiltrate the Foundation and impersonate its personnel; higher-ranking Directors and Agents are often a target. This poses a threat to the Veil and the continued operation of the Foundation.

Known/Suspected Members: A complete list is available on Document-F700-02.

Structure of the Group: GOI-F700 typically operate as loosely interconnected cells of wealthy families, located primarily on the eastern United States. It does not currently have centralised leadership outside of a cell.

GOI-F700 cells inhabit large private properties in suburban or rural areas. Because of their wealth, GOI-F700 members may have control of local governments or law enforcement. Younger members of GOI-F700 seek out suitable 'hosts'1​ for older members of GOI-F700 to make use of under SCP-F700. GOI-F700 may also engage in games or auctions for 'hosts' with prized traits (e.g., visual acuity and fitness). The exact number of GOI-F700 members is not known as GOI-F700 members can rapidly change identities under SCP-F700-A, but it is estimated to be ████.

Given that the founder of GOI-F700 has been self-terminated by its own 'host', and that GOI-F700 has apparently become aware of the Foundation, some GOI-F700 cells have left the United States. Foundation agents have since discovered █ cells located around the world.

History: GOI-F700 was founded in 1936 by ███ ████, an Olympic athlete. After losing to Jesse Owens in the 1936 Berlin Olympics, ███ ████ became obsessed with the idea of transplanting human brains into the bodies of black persons as a means to obtain fitter and younger bodies. After perfecting the process by experimenting on the homeless, ███ ████ recruited his extended family into the process, providing older relatives with new bodies. ███ ████ himself was transferred to a new body on █/█/██ (previous identity: ███ ██).2​ Extreme secrecy was maintained for the entirety of this time period, until ██ █████ escaped from GOI-F700 after having been abducted as a 'host' for another member.3​ During the escape, ███ ████ lost control to his 'host' personality, causing him to self-terminate. This has caused GOI-F700 to splinter.

[1] – See also: SCP-F700.
[2] – Details only confirmed via secondary sources as ███ ████ himself self-terminated prior to Foundation discovery.
[3] – Further details in Discover Log of SCP-F700.

Spoiler: Edit log

30/10/23 - more info, grammatical errors and formatting

 

[Potato]

For a few days, Ishigami simply stayed at that stairwell where he had caught an unwitting Ogino the first time. But with his luck, Ogino was a no-show. It appeared that Ogino making that illicit phone call had been an isolated incident. Ishigami knew that he would have better luck obtaining evidence elsewhere. (When Ishigami realised that he had missed the opportunity to record Ogino that day with his PSP, he face-palmed in frustration and was struck with the urge to slam his head through a brick wall.)

Ishigami knew that he did not have good chances of obtaining a verbal confession. A recorded confession could be passed off as a fake. Something more tangible would be needed.

He decided that Ogino's smartphone and laptop would be the keys to his guilt. People were careless with their personal devices. Criminals were caught with incriminating data on their phones or computers all the time. There had to be something Ishigami could use on there. But how would he get a hold of them? Ishigami was stumped, but not for long.

While watching a run of Westworld at home, Ishigami was hit with inspiration. On-screen, Robert Ford ruminated on the nature of consciousness, "…and yet, we live in loops as tight and as closed as the hosts do, seldom questioning our choices." Most likely, Ogino would have 'loops' of his own at school, which in turn made him predictable.

If Ogino was predictable…then he would eventually have to slip up – and the devices would be in Ishigami's possession, home free. A normie like Ogino likely had nothing more than a basic password set up on his devices. Nothing to someone like Ishigami.

And so Ishigami set out on a mission to collect as much data as possible.

The plan was simple. He would begin to observe Ogino daily, and write down his observations: any deviations from the norm, any moments where he left his mobile device alone, possible angles of attack, et cetera. When Ogino began to meet a pattern, opportunity would reveal itself to Ishigami.

The night before he decided to begin his observations, he readied his tools of choice: a half-used maths notebook and a pen with thermochromic ink. That sounded impressive, but it simply referred to pens that were advertised to be 'eraser-friendly'. They were popular with people his age. When exposed to the heat generated from rubbing a page with an eraser, the ink would become colourless. It would then regain its colour when exposed to a colder temperature.

He would write his observations in Polybius code, on the margins of the pages, and then heat it with a hair-dryer at home, where the heat would turn his observations colourless. Anybody snooping through his pages at school would only find notes on linear algebra and strings of digits in the margins – completely unnoteworthy. It would take someone already familiar with Polybius to even begin to guess at the encoded message.

For two weeks, Ishigami tailed Ogino in-between lessons and after school, then collated his observations at home or in class. As Ogino got lunch with his orbiters, Ishigami sat not far away, watching Ogino intently through his peripheral vision as he chewed on his own lunch. While Ogino chatted with a random normie in the hallway, Ishigami would duck into an adjacent, empty classroom and quietly absorb the conversation.

Mindful of Ogino's orbiters, Ishigami would take a convoluted path through the school every day. Once, he wandered through the cafeteria and passed by a block of classrooms. To casual observers, he would simply be another meandering student, the path random. But to him, the paths were pre-planned. Spies called such things Surveillance Detection Routes – a nifty little thing used to expose potential stalkers.

The narrow sightlines offered by the various paths he took would quickly bring him out of view of any casual observer. If the observers were intent on actively following him, they would have no choice but to follow that same route. And with a different route each day, only an active stalker would take the exact same path. Luckily, no such thing happened, but in Ishigami's opinion, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Patterns began to emerge from the noise. Ogino always arrived at school between 0730 and 0745. He always took a dump between 0830 and 0915. Ogino always had lunch on the side of the cafeteria with windows regardless of weather. Ogino always took a sip from the second-floor drinking fountain between his maths and chemistry lessons. And so on.

Ishigami narrowed down the possible angles of attack. Firstly, he nixed the idea of stealing the laptop. It was far too big to hide, and Ogino would immediately react to a missing laptop with cries of "thief". And it would be treated as such – the laptop was a high-end model and far too expensive to have merely been 'lost.' Secondly, two behaviours stood out to him: Ogino always left his cell-phone on his desk when going to the toilet, and he always hung up a pair of trousers in the gym room before P.E.

The first provided a chance to swipe the cell-phone. Ishigami just had to wait until no-one's attention was on him before taking the device. It was an iPhone, and Ishigami had one as well. He practiced swiping his own phone in the privacy of his room, until the act was seamless. Cracking the device was possible. A recent security exploit on iPhones had been roaming the message boards but had not yet made its way onto mainstream news.

The second was an opportunity to return the device. If the device was only missing for a day, Ogino would think nothing for it. Everyone lost things all the time, phones among them. People tended to find their own explanations for inconceivable things, Ishigami figured. A convenient return of the device would alleviate any considerations of theft – something taken seriously in Shuiichin.

But if Ogino did report a stolen phone to the teacher, the staff would call for a mandatory bag and locker search – Ishigami would need a dead drop. A quick investigation of his classroom after school revealed a creaky floorboard that had come loose with age. Prying it open revealed a shoebox-sized cavity, plenty large enough to suit his purposes.

And with this, a plan came together. All he needed now was an opening.

 

[Potato]

"You failed to land a hit on me even once!" Michigan yelled at the poor girl on the ground, who looked to be on the verge of tears. "I have seen MONKEYS fling shit with greater accuracy! Are you trying to miss? Am I not a good enough target?!"

"Sir, I, uh," the poor girl blubbered.

"What, WHAT! SPEAK UP, CADET, ARE YOU TRYING TO TALK TO THE MITES ON MY SKIN? And are you trying to talk to me or THE FUCKING CONCRETE?"

"Sir, uh, I'm talking to you, sir!"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU STARING AT THE BLEEDING FLOOR, DO YOU FIND THE TEXTURE OF HARDENED CONCRETE FASCINATING? IF SO, YOU CAN STARE AT IT FOR THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES. FACE THE FLOOR!"

The girl dropped to the ground to join the rest of her class in the push-up position. Cecilia had never seen someone move so fast outside an IS. In the distance, the other classes of I.S. Academy students had come to gawk at the spectacle.

"AFTER THESE FIVE MINUTES, I WANT YOUR EXPERT OPINIONS ON THIS WONDERFUL PIECE OF ACADEMY GROUND. I EXPECT YOUR REPORT TO BE NICE AND GRAND, CADET!"

Michigan stepped away, then turned to Cecilia. She was the last one still sitting on the benches. The multiple eyes of LIGER TAIL II seemed to glint with malice. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Cecilia felt fear pulse through her.

"CADET ALCOTT! ACTIVATE YOUR MACHINE AND HIT THE GROUND. SHOW ME YOUR MOVES!"

With nervous speed, Cecilia activated Blue Tears and sped towards Michigan, laser rifle at the ready. She mentally tallied her weapons, and hoped for the best. When this day had started, she had been assured of her combat skill as the UK's representative. But how wrong she was.

Immediately after the entrance ceremony, Michigan had barked at them, "Cadets, I want you at the training grounds with your IS units in TEN MINUTES. Double-time!" The unfortunate students, mostly non-combatants or non-military, had been sluggish. Some had even made jokes between themselves as they made their way to the training area.

That was their first mistake. The moment Michigan caught wind of their insubordination; the training session had quickly turned into a beatdown. He lined the students up by name, then ordered them to fight him one-on-one with their ISes active. Without fail, he promptly defeated each of them in spectacular fashion before unleashing verbal horror on them. Nothing was out-of-bounds: your nationality, your parentage, your favourite food – all was fodder before Michigan's tirade. The message was clear: he was here to be your Drill Sergeant and your time in the IS Academy was not a vacation.

And now it was her turn.

"Three, two, one – go!" Michigan called.

Cecilia ignited her boosters and began to back-pedal. If her calculations were right, LIGER TAIL II was slower than Blue Tears, and its weapons were shorter-ranged as well. If she could keep Michigan away for long enough, she might just stand a chance to win…!

But try as she might, she could not hit LIGER TAIL II. Despite Blue Tears' FCS working at its maximum limits, she couldn't even get a single shot to graze Michigan, who seemed to dance between the lasers. A missile pod on LIGER TAIL II unfolded to release a barrage of missiles. She focussed on shooting them down, but missed every second shot. In the end, she failed to intercept them all – five were headed right for her.

The missiles exploded against her shields in a cloud of acrid smoke, blocking her view. Blue Tears' FCS threw up an error message, and Cecilia grit her teeth as she tried to make out anything from the smoke. Then –

A shape in the smoke!

Cecilia levelled her rifle and fired. But it was just a mirage. Michigan had never been there. In fact, he was now right behind her.

"I LEARNED THIS TRICK FROM A GOOD FRIEND, NOW WATCH AND LEARN, ALCOTT!"

She felt fear spike down her spine as she twisted her torso in a last-ditch effort to avoid the incoming attack. In the corner of her eye, she saw the green LIGER TAIL II, pile-bunker charged, steel rod maximally extended. If she could bring her rifle up a little faster, then – !

---

Chifuyu felt a smile on her face as she watched the UK's representative fall out of the sky, shield depleted. Michigan had just kicked the absolute crap out of every single pilot in his class. The absolute thrashing she just witnessed brought to mind better days as a military instructor.

Yamada fidgeted beside her, pale. "Should we intervene?"

"No," Chifuyu answered. "I think his methods build character."

Michigan's roar echoed across the field. "I couldn't give less of a crap who or what you are, and this goes for all you sorry sacks of shit! In the Academy, you are as good as mealworms to me. For your stay here, you will call me Sir, and I will make a soldier of you. And the day you can stop calling me 'Sir' is the day you can kick my ass! And that day is very far off for you poor bastards, so I will be seeing your sorry ass here tomorrow morning at oh-five-thirty hours!"

"Yes, sir," came the ragged cry.

Michigan unloaded the grenade cannons on his back into the sky, two deafening air-burst explosions blanketing the training ground.

"I'm sorry, I must be getting on in years, because it seems to me like MY CADETS AREN'T LISTENING TO MY ORDERS. I WILL SEE YOU HERE TOMORROW AT OH-FIVE-HUNDRED HOURS. AM I CLEAR!" bellowed Michigan.

"SIR YES SIR!"

"GOOD! Now, cadets, I want you washed up and in class for lectures in HALF AN HOUR. Double time it, and if I find out from the tutors that you were late, YOU WILL WISH THAT YOU WERE DEAD, because that's more remedial training for you!"

The assembled students of Michigan's class clambered to their feet and dashed off in a panic. Chifuyu grinned. Watching Michigan at work was always a hoot.

 

[Potato]

A/N: refer to my snippet, Exterminators-For-Hire, for a follow-up.

1977 (two years since Coral Convergence)
Western Europe, Earth
Paris, French Republic

It all happened so quickly.

Flatwell had been out for a late lunch with O'Keeffe at a Parisian café. After a hard morning of endless negotiations with stick-in-the-mud bureaucrats and bull-headed politicians, the two RKL representatives had been glad for an escape from the monotony. Both knew that their work was important – a fact that was hard to argue with living, invading, AC-scale insects occupying parts Asia and Europe – but it sure tested their patience at times.

"…and here's the kicker," O'Keeffe groused in-between sips of coffee. "They're making our AC technology a dealbreaker. If we are to sell ammo to them, they also want our ACs. No ifs, ands, or buts."

Flatwell sighed in commiseration. "They do understand that it is them that is under threat of being eaten by the bugs, right? Not us with the fancy spaceship? And we all know why they want our ACs, and it isn't to fight BETA."

"Bah," O'Keeffe none-too-gently placed his cup back on the table as Flatwell bit into a pastry. "These political types, I used to deal with them all the time as a Vesper. They'll never consider their lives at risk until it happens. All they care about is lining their pockets and–"

"DOWN!" shouted Flatwell, roughly pushing O'Keeffe to the ground. O'Keeffe's coffee dropped to the ground with a smash. And then, there was the roar of a diesel engine before a deafening eruption of heat and pressure that engulfed the two pilots, filling the café with screams.

"We're under attack," gritted out O'Keeffe as a sat up, blinking ash out from his eyes as he withdrew a handgun from his jacket. "Flatwell, we need to get out of here, contact the Xylem and get a shuttle–"

"Done," Flatwell answered, drawing his own handgun as he ignored the ringing in his ears. RKL's protective escort closed in around them, rifles at low ready. "Ayre knows. We need to get to…" Flatwell squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the disquieting hum of Coral in his mind. "…there's an open field next to an apartment three blocks down called Coquelicot. How's our vehicle?"

"No good, sir," answered one of the escorts. "The car bomb got it in the blast. We'll have to hoof it."

"Then there's no time to waste. All kinds of letter-soup spooks are going to show up in a few minutes. Let's move!"

The group dashed into a tight alleyway, unaware of eyes tracking their movement. A man in black, watching through a rifle's optics, toggled his radio.

"This is Oscar Four. I have the targets in sight, escaping down Route Alpha. Both appear uninjured, tally seven other bodyguards. Small arms and body armour."

"Roger. Oscars One to Three, pursue. Oscar Four, exfil."

Unmarked vans in various parking lots swung open to reveal more men in black body armour. They leapt out, rifles ready, and were soon following the RKL group.

"This is Oscar Two, predicted to intercept targets at Point Bravo. Converge."

Another group took cover in the street, shouting at civilians to leave. Among them was a machine gun, which they set up to face an intersection. And sure enough, the RKL group crossed into the street, to bre greeted by a hailstorm of bullets. One of the escorts fell with a grunt, only to be pulled back into cover by O'Keeffe, now returning fire with the injured escort's rifle.

"We're pinned," Flatwell hissed. "We won't be making it to the field. Any suggestions, Ayre?"

Flatwell listened in, his face contorting into various shapes. Finally, he sighed.

"What'd she say?" O'Keeffe asked, ripping open a first aid dressing and pressing it into the bloody wound of the escort.

"She said, 'if they want to play dirty, so can we'. She's sending an AC."

"Here?! The French won't like it."

"They've been jerking us for two weeks in the negotiations, and now they've sent us a hit squad. I think that RKL would be more than justified in telling them to pound sand. Besides, we've got other partners in Europe that are less likely to pull this sort of mess."

---

Western Europe, Earth
Paris airspace, French Republic
Somewhere in the stratosphere

["Raven, detach on my count,"] Walter instructed. ["Three, two…one."]

Raven decoupled from the rapidly descending shuttle before igniting his boosters. He separated from the shuttle before blasting towards the Earth at full afterburn, pressed into his cockpit chair by monstrous G-forces. It was nothing an Augmented human couldn't take, but the sensation remained distinctly unpleasant. Ayre quietly hummed in his ear, which helped to soothe the nerves.

The aerodynamic CANIS MAJOR, made of modified NACHTREIHER components, clenched its fists as it swiftly descended. Ayre helpfully highlighted Flatwell and O'Keeffe's position in red. Raven made minor adjustments as he neared.

["Remember. You're facing infantry. The French Air Force shouldn't be able to intercept in time. Attack only when you're at risk."]

Raven sent a digital acknowledgement to Walter. As the digital stopwatch counted down, he heard a French-accented voice cut in on the radio. ["Unidentified craft, this is the French Air Force. You are intruding into French airspace. Disarm and follow–"]

Ayre closed the transmission. "Now they know you're here," she sighed. "Ready flares, and anti-air. This could get messy."

Raven armed the back-mounted missiles with a flick, and directed CANIS MAJOR's FCS at the approaching French fighters. Within seconds, he'd acquired lock. The COM faithfully informed him that three missiles had targeted each of the fighter jets. Then, the moment Raven feared – the COM screamed missile warnings at him. Without blinking, he mentally toggled his missiles to launch.

Walter sighed in a splash of static. ["We're making this messy, then."]

Raven had already turned his attention back to the timer on his HUD. No need to track his missiles – they would hit. French pilots were good, but ALLMIND's Furlong Dynamics knock-offs were better. When the timer hit zero, he jammed his reverse thrusters on, shaking CANIS MAJOR as G-forces rattled the AC. He rapidly descended, bleeding momentum with reverse thrust, until he slammed into the intersection with an almightly crash. Car alarms were set off, people screamed in fear, and a fire hydrant burst.

He levelled a laser pistol at the attackers, making a show of charging it. In moments, the attackers had retreated, none of them particularly willing to face down a ten-meter-tall AC with weapons that can and would punch a hole clean through BETA hordes. Watching as the attackers retreated, Raven turned his attention to the RKL group. O'Keeffe pointed a thumbs-up at him, which Raven happily returned.

"Group secured," he spoke. "Get the shuttle down here, we've got wounded."

And then, Raven felt a shiver run down his spine before he abruptly dodge-boosted to the side. Mere moments later, autocannon fire splashed into the building next to him. He hit a scan, which highlighted two rapidly-approaching heat signatures. The COM dutifully returned a hit – F-5F 'Mirage III' TSFs.

"Mirage IIIs!" Ayre called out as Raven discharged his missile launchers, filling the sky with a cloud of missiles. "We're under attack. This was an ambush! Flatwell, O'Keeffe, take cover."

["We don't have any other ACs in the area – Raven, you're on your own. Don't get cocky, those are Escadron de Chasse 1/2 Cigognes craft. They're among France's most elite TSF squadrons. Kill them both and clear a way for the shuttle.]

Raven ignited his boosters as he took to the sky. The leading Mirage ('Alpha', COM designated), began taking pot-shots at him. As Raven weaved through the gunfire, the second Mirage ('Bravo', according to COM), boosted close, left hand holding a combat knife.

So, this is how they want to play it – one close-range unit, and another medium-range unit. If I ignore either, I'd be playing into their hands and be at risk to the other. But with my pile bunker, all I need is one good hit with these flimsy Mirages to take them down!

Raven tap-fired his laser pistol, a watchful eye on the pistol's heat. The enemy pilot was no rookie, expertly dodging around his shots. But the Bravo unit was sloppy. It boosted more than it needed to, and wasted momentum as it tried to keep up with CANIS MAJOR. Raven fired off a volley of three missiles, watching as Bravo failed to dodge all but one.

So Bravo isn't as good as Alpha. Meaning that Alpha is the bigger threat here. I'll take Alpha out, then Bravo.

Raven engaged his Assault Boost and feinted at Bravo, who predictably dodged out of the way. His path now clear, Raven redirected to Alpha, firing his pistol in erratic bursts to keep Alpha on his toes. Realising his mistake, Bravo changed its course towards Raven, but could not match the modified NACHTREIHER frame in air speed.

["Raven, radio calls indicate that French backup will be here in a few minutes. Finish this quickly."]

Raven thrust left to dodge another volley of autocannon fire from Alpha, before slamming hundreds of tonnes of AC into Alpha in a kick. As Alpha staggered and metal screamed, Raven charged his pile bunker, and rammed the explosive-tipped steel rod into the Mirage's chest. The explosive detonated in the chest, igniting fuel which ripped the Mirage's chest apart in an explosion of flame, splitting the TSF in two as oil and lubricant sprayed onto CANIS MAJOR from burst hydraulics.

One down. Another to go. It's time to finish this.

Raven kicked the corpse of Alpha off his pile bunker before taking off again, pistol firing at the incoming Bravo. Raven fired off six missiles – Bravo would have no choice but to abandon pursuit, or get hit. Bravo cut its jets, boosting behind a building as rocket explosions harmlessly splashed into the ground, away from Bravo. But this left him blind, and Raven bega charging his pistol for his next move.

COM dutifully highlighted Bravo through the wall with a scan. Raven engaged Assault Boost, then slammed CANIS MAJOR through the brick wall onto a surprised Bravo. The momentum knocked Bravo clean onto the ground and ripped Bravo's arms clean off. As the TSF struggled to sit up, left leg actuators sparking, CANIS MAJOR landed onto Bravo's legs, crushing them both. As the cockpit hatch unlocked, Bravo trying to escape, Raven swung his fully-charged pistol down, vaporising the cockpit with a blinding spray of light. The TSF twitched once more before it powered down.

Raven exhaled, letting tension bleed from him. He keyed the radio, "All targets down. Shuttle, land quickly and leave."

He turned, then stomped the TSF's head in before slagging it with the laser pistol. By the time the French arrived, Alpha's head and chest had also been slagged. Any combat data that could've been salvaged from the fallen Mirage IIIs were long gone.

 

[Potato]

1977 (two years since Coral Convergence)
Eastern Europe, Earth
Warsaw, Polish People's Republic
Rubicon Kinetics Mobile Base

"No rest for the wicked, Buddy," Rusty sighed as he trudged into the War Room with Raven.

Raven merely nodded, as the two settled into the room. Sitting with them were Red and Hawkins, who acknowledged them with a sleepy nod. Even the usually boisterous Red was subdued. All people present in the room were exceptional pilots, yes, but the continuous sorties were starting to wear on the pilots of Rubicon Kinetics.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Chatty wheeled into the room and probed the slide projector, bringing up a map of Lake Balkhash, in former Kazakhstan.

"Chatty here. I'm here to give you your mission briefing."

Red circles appeared along the northern shore of Balkhash, and another image was brought up: H06 – the Ekibastuz Hive.

"With RKL's success at Minsk, we proved to the nations of the world that we have the ability to destroy Hives. As a result, the Soviet Union wants us to take out another Hive on their territory, H06. Satellite imagery and autonomous drone recon shows that H06 is still under construction. It's not been fully established, and the Soviet Union wants to strike while the iron is hot."

Chatty pivoted a 3D scan of H06, showing glowing yellow deposits inside of the Hive.

"As per last time, our goal is to destroy H06's main chamber by igniting their BAM stocks. But the mission gets complicated here."

Soviet military emblems and the UN's Alternative III logo appeared on-screen.

"The Soviets want to go ahead and gather as much data as possible for the Alternative III plan. A clause within this contract states that we are to escort Soviet esper units into H06."

Four green dots appeared on the map, with a pilot's emblem attached to each dot.

Hawkins exhaled roughly. "Splitting us up sounds like a good way to get knifed by opportunistic Soviets. And isn't this convenient, four Soviet squads for four of our AC pilots? Chatty, don't tell me that this doesn't look suspicious as all hell."

Chatty bobbed its head. "I figured as much. ALLMIND agreed to send Kate Markson, but even five AC pilots is still puts us at a numerical disadvantage. As a result, we've had to accelerate our local training programmes."

The door on the left of Chatty slid open, allowing two men in pilot suits to step out.

"Let me introduce you to two of RKL's newest pilots – Joshua O'Brien and Leos Klein."

---

Leos was an old man, and before his death, he thought that he had seen it all.

After his AC had been wrecked, he died quietly, knowing that his life's work was about to be brought to an end by the mercenary Raven, as it did to Hustler One all those years ago.

And yet, here he was. Born again, on an Earth that hadn't yet been ruined by years of war. In this life, as William Lowe, he lived a quiet existence. It was more than enough for him, he figured. He had fought and killed enough to fill entire graveyards, and the last thing he wanted was a return to the life of a soldier. Sure, this world had bickering countries, but the last great war Earth had ended the year he was born.

And then, news came in 1958 of aliens. Disorder units? Who knew. Their sighting on Mars, and the subsequent disappearance of Martian astronauts, didn't make Leos feel any better. But Mars was millions of kilometres away from Earth, so he put the problem out of his mind. Most people in his life didn't even believe that the incident was real, anyway. And besides, twelve-year-old schoolboys had bigger concerns than the far-off disappearance of the Mars mission.

But in 1966, the world was changed forever. Aliens were real – and they hated us. BETA had never attempted to communicate. The Lunar War raged with no end in sight. And for all everyone knew, they were next. William put it out of his mind. There wasn't much a single twenty-year-old could accomplish on his own. All he could do was hope that this had merely been an isolated incident.

His hopes were dashed a mere seven years later. BETA had made their way to Earth, and planted their flag at Kashgar. The BETA war had begun in earnest.

William had hoped and prayed that he wouldn't have to return to war. But war found him, whether he liked it or not, as BETA swallowed up more land in Europe and Asia. With no other choice, he abandoned William Lowe and once again took on the mantle of Leos Klein, leaving his life behind for Europe to join the fighting.

War was harsh, and the bitter taste it left in his mouth was awfully familiar. His heart hardened as he lost comrades and allies, all to the unending BETA horde. Nothing seemed to slow them down. The Moon, Western Asia, the Middle East, then Eastern Europe. The appearance of the F-4 Phantom Tactical Surface Fighter had been a surprise, but years of no piloting had left him rusty, and he had failed his qualification tests for the Bundeswehr's very limited supply of TSFs.

Then, 1975. A group arrived from outer space, calling themselves Rubicon Kinetics Limited. They boasted advanced technology, weaponry and a mega-spaceship, Xylem. He first found out while on R&R with his tank unit. While browsing through a newspaper, Leos had gasped, eyes wide, his hand shook and he dropped his mug on the floor where it shattered. He thought his mind had been lying to him, but the words on the newspaper were clear as day:

Mercenary Raven deploys never-before-seen Armored Cores onto battlefield, halts BETA advance

Click to shrink...

The words were seared into his mind. There were more like him, who had been transmigrated to this world. With no room for doubt, Leos knew that he had to join the new RKL. With access to AC technology, he could help end the war with the hideous BETA. There, he could make a real impact, instead of the days of constant retreats, tactical failures, and death.

He tendered his resignation at the Bundeswehr, then with what money he had, made his way to West Berlin where RKL had landed in a mobile base to negotiate with East and West Germany. He cornered one of RKL's representatives – Rusty, he called himself – and requested to join. Rusty had politely declined, but Leos had one last ace up his sleeve. He challenged Rusty: if he could defeat Rusty after two days of practice in an AC simulator, Rusty would bring him on. It was a long shot, of course. Two days of practice after damn near three decades outside an AC weren't going to do him any favours.

Rusty had locked eyes with him, and nodded. "Call it pilot's intuition," Rusty justified to his boss, Walter.

In two days, he trained with an intensity and focus he hadn't had in this life. His chosen AC in the simulator was much the same as his old Ethermaster model. Bipedal, with a laser rifle, a laser blade, missile launchers and grenade cannon. He'd been blocked from accessing the Moonlight Blade and Karasawa rifle, but he figured, it was fair enough. He was here to show his skill, and giving him high-end weapons wasn't in the cards.

Then, the test came. Rusty and STEEL HAZE ORTUS was like many other ACs he had fought. Fast, agile, and merciless. Leos fought to his limits, but his years of rust were visible: he was sloppier than he used to be, red-lining his generator and missing shots that would have been a cakewalk once upon a time. But he felt like he was home.

Ultimately, he failed to defeat Rusty even once in the best of five matches. Only on one occasion had he fought Rusty to a stalemate to wait out to clock. Grimacing, he extracted himself from the simulator, where three of RKL's higher-ups – Walter, Raven, and Michigan – sat, waiting. Leos nodded at them and made his way to the door, only for a booming voice to interrupt him.

"Hey, rookie. Where do you think you're going?" Michigan called; arms folded.

"…leaving? I did lose, as per my agreement with Rusty. No point in staying."

"Bullshit. You're staying here, whether voluntarily or by LIGER TAIL II's hands. I'm not about to let good talent escape."

"…huh?" was all he could say.

"He's right," came the gravelly tone of Walter. "For a first timer, you showed immense skill. I've seen veteran AC pilots fare much worse."

Rusty poked his head out of his simulator pod, drenched in sweat. "Walter's right. I'm one of RKL's best, and you were able to give me a workout. I think that, with a little polish, you'll fit right in."

Raven stepped up and put his right hand forward. "This is a job offer to join RKL's AC corps. The BETA threat grows every day, and there's a shortage of pilots. You in?"

Leos looked at the proffered hand and couldn't help but smile. The irony of receiving a job offer from a Raven was not lost on him.

Leos Klein, Ninebreaker, stepped forward and grasped Raven's hand with all his strength.

"I'm in."

 

[Potato]

Einherjar21

• Let's create some Memories to Remember [Armored Core Discussion, Ideas, Recs and Spoilers!]
• Let's create some Memories to Remember [Armored Core Discussion, Ideas, Recs and Spoilers!]

EDIT: this has been published in a full story as a collaboration with Einherjar21 here: War-Hounds of Salvation