Item #: SCP-166

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-166 can be kept safely in a minimal security environment. As of ██-██-████, SCP-166 is housed in a standard Class B suite at Site-17, with the following alterations:

• The adjacent suite has been redesignated into a local observation post.

• Translucent acrylic panels have been placed in the approach corridor and staging area to prevent direct line of sight into the containment suite from the exterior hallway.

• Warning signs have been placed throughout the containment area indicating that no non-female personnel are permitted in the area.

Reasonable requests for personal items and modifications to the containment suite may be granted upon approval by a Level 4 or higher authority. To date, SCP-166 has requested:

• A copy of the Holy Bible (Douay-Rheims, Challoner Revision) (granted).

• A rosary (granted).

• Access to a Catholic priest for Confession, Mass, and other sacraments (permissible only under strict supervision).

• Various books and magazines, mostly religious in nature (granted, pending review and approval of contents).

• Access to the Abbess of the ████████ ██ ████████ ██████████ Convent in Cornwall, England (granted: SCP-166 is to be allowed a maximum of 1 hour of visiting time by this individual per week).

SCP-166 is generally content to remain in her quarters, as long as she is provided with entertainment in the form of religious materials, books, and art supplies. In return for her cooperation in her own confinement, SCP-166 is to be allowed a 24-hour excursion away from Site-17 to an adjacent uninhabited island no more than once per month. Limited Release Protocol 19-A is to be observed in these cases, with the added restriction that no non-female personnel are to be assigned to SCP-166 during this excursion.

Non-female staff are forbidden from viewing or entering the direct vicinity of SCP-166. Violation of this order will result in immediate disciplinary review and possible termination. At least one staff member must remain in adjacent observation room at all times, and maintain direct visual observation of SCP-166 through viewing slits or closed circuit television. In order to minimize the risk of accidental exposure, all cameras and windows shall be equipped with translucent filters with at least 50% exclusion of detail. No permanent record shall be kept of any photographic evidence of SCP-166's appearance.

Description: SCP-166 appears to be a female in her late teens or early twenties, of average height and slender build. Medical and physiological analysis indicates several deviations from baseline human norms, including a pair of small bony protrusions above her eyebrows, vertical slit pupils, accelerated hair growth, and unusual dietary requirements.¹

SCP-166 is noted for her unusual effect upon fertile human males. Upon establishing visual contact with SCP-166, 100% of human males tested attempted immediate amorous contact. In approximately 70% of these test subjects, the impulse faded after being removed from SCP-166's presence. In 30% of these cases, however, the desire turned into obsession, resulting in violent attempts to gain SCP-166's favor. Class-A amnestics were efficacious in most of these cases; the remainder required termination.

SCP-166's anomalous effect causes her distress, not least due to her desire to live a cloistered life based on the evangelical counsels. For this reason and others, direct contact between her and any human male is strictly prohibited.

Addendum 166-A: Circumstances of Retrieval: SCP-166 was originally retrieved from a convent in Cornwall, England, on ██-██-████. According to the nuns, she had originally been delivered to the convent by a "person of indistinguishable features" who claimed that she was the offspring of "an elder creature of great power," and provided instructions for her care. All attempts to locate the mother have been unsuccessful to date.

SCP-166 was raised by the nuns in a cloistered environment until a young man (Subject A) who sneaked into the convent to visit one of the novices accidentally caught sight of her. Three days later, Subject A became violent and attacked the convent, attempting to gain access to SCP-166. Subject A proceeded to kill one person and severely injure three others before being neutralized by force.

A Foundation operative consulting with a local priest regarding an unrelated matter heard of the incident and proceeded to the scene. When he too became enamoured, the operative immediately cut off contact, placed himself into confinement, and requested a female operative to take over the retrieval operation. Agent Beatrix Maddox made contact with the Abbess shortly afterward, negotiating the transfer of SCP-166 to Foundation facilities for containment and research.

Addendum 166-K: Interview log, dated ██-██-████.

Interviewed: SCP-166

Interviewer: ██████, Abbess of the ████████ ██ ████████ ██████████ Convent

Foreword: This interview took place on ██-██-████ during SCP-166's weekly visit.

<Begin Log>

SCP-166: Bless me, Mother Superior, for I have sinned. It has been █ years, █ months, and ██ days since my last Confession. I confess that I have committed the—

Abbess: My child. Stop. We have had this conversation before. I am not a priest. I cannot administer this sacrament—

SCP-166: (agitated) — the mortal sin of fornication. I have—

Abbess: STOP!

(Silence)

Abbess: Tell me what is wrong.

SCP-166: … I had the dream again, Mother Superior.

Abbess: Tell me about this dream, my dear.

SCP-166: Must I? It is the same dream every time, and you know how it goes.

(Silence)

Abbess: I see. You seem much more upset than usual, my dear. Did something happen?

SCP-166: I… I don't wish to tell you about it. It is too shameful.

Abbess: I see. Dr. ████████?² A word, please.

<End Log>

Closing Statement: Following this interview, Abbess ██████ petitioned the O5 Council for revision of Containment Protocols for SCP-166. Containment Protocols were tentatively updated to allow SCP-166 to see a priest, provided security procedures were followed.

Addendum 166-L: Interview log, dated ██-██-████.

Interviewed: SCP-166

Interviewer: Father ██████, a priest associated with ████████ ██ ████████ ██████████ Convent

Foreword: This interview took place on ██-██-████. Father ██████ (hereafter referred to as "Priest") carried out this interview from the other side of a sight-concealing panel while under armed guard. Per the request of Father ██████ and SCP-166, the guards present wore noise-cancelling headphones and earplugs to prevent their overhearing this conversation. Per standard security protocols, the conversation was recorded for archival purposes.

<Begin Log>

Guard: All right, Father. The mic button is located here: press it and SCP-166 will be able to hear you. If there is a problem, hold a hand up over your head, and I'll give you a hand.

Priest: Sure. Hand up if I need help.

Guard: Oh, and one more thing. I'm obligated to tell you that any move to breach the booth without my permission will result in your immediate termination. Understood?

Priest: Got it. Don't leave or I die.

Guard: I'll put on the headphones now. Signal me when you're done.

(Extended silence.)

SCP-166: Hello?

Priest: Hi. I'm Father ██████. I'm a priest in good standing with the Archdiocese of Southwark of the Roman Catholic Church. ██████ is a friend of mine. She told me about your… unusual circumstance and asked if I'd administer the sacraments to a prisoner in bondage.

SCP-166: Thank the Lord… Father, it has been █ years, █ months, and ██ days since my last confession. I confess that I have not attended a Mass during that time. I confess that I have attempted on three occasions to confess my sins to Abbess ██████, full knowing that she was not a priest and could not administer the Sacrament. And finally…

(Silence)

Priest: Yes?

SCP-166: I… I confess to the sin of fornication.

Priest: I see. Can you be more specific, please?

SCP-166: I… I believe I can. Has the Mother Superior told you of the circumstances of my birth?

Priest: I'm aware of them, and of the work of the Convent.

SCP-166: Then you know I was born out of a horrid act of sin. My very nature is sinful.

Priest: As are we all. Garden of Eden. Original sin and all that.

SCP-166: I… I suppose. But…

Priest: Your heritage isn't a sin that requires confession. It's a temptation towards sin, but not a sin in itself. Now, the sin you were confessing was fornication.

SCP-166: Yes.

Priest: Tell me what happened.

SCP-166: I… I have these dreams, Father. In them, I am naked, and I am walking through the woods… No. Dancing through the woods. There are men with me. Many, many men. They are naked as well. And they are all desirous of me.

Priest: I see.

SCP-166: In my dream… unlike in real life… I do not turn the men away. I lay with them. One after another. Until they are all… spent.

Priest: What happens next?

SCP-166: In my dream? In my dream, I… I then begin to change. My body changes from that of a woman into that of a man. And then I am surrounded by women instead. They are as desirous of me as the men were of me when I was a woman. And just like the men, I lie with these women. I put my seed into them, and they all become with child.

Priest: What do you think this means?

SCP-166: It is not a question of thinking. It is a question of knowing. Mother Superior has told me that this dream of mine, that I have over and over, it is my destiny denied. That my sinful nature wishes to carry out its purpose, to carry out a horrid ritual filled with lust. I have denied this all my life. This is why I must stay hidden from all men, for their hearts are lustful and their wills are weak.

Priest: I think you underestimate men. We're not all as bad as that.

(Silence)

Priest: In any case, if all you did was dream, you haven't actually done anything sinful. No sin has been committed. Everyone experiences temptation. Sin is a matter of actions taken.

SCP-166: I… I still confess to the sin of fornication.

Priest: How so?

SCP-166: The last dream… I enjoyed it. And in a moment of weakness, I…

Priest: Ah. I see. That's actually a different sin, you know.

SCP-166: There was a crucifix in the room with me as well. Do you think that counts as sacrilege, Father?

Priest: Maybe? Let's absolve you for as well, just to be safe. Is there anything else, then?

SCP-166: Several venial sins. I was angry at one of my guards for taking away my copy of Thomas Aquinas before I had finished reading it. And I was short-tempered with Dr. ████████ for denying me the ability to confess my sins for so many years. And I confess to eating meat on a Friday. I was hungry, and the meal plan for that day had nothing else.

Priest: Let's have a word with your caretakers regarding that. In the meantime, shall we pray?

SCP-166: Yes, Father.

<End Log>

Closing Statement: SCP-166 and Father ██████ then said several prayers in Latin, upon which Father ██████ administered the Eucharist through a slot in the concealing panel and absolved her of her sins. As penance, SCP-166 forewent her next five optional excursions, choosing instead to spend that time in prayer in her private quarters.

Addendum 166-E: Text of a letter, origin unknown, placed in SCP-166's suite on ██-██-████.

Dear ██████,

I first met your mother when she was a girl. She had hooves for feet and starlight in her eyes. She was beauty and nature, and I killed her with my own two hands.

Eden isn't a place. It's a state of being. They wanted to take us back to it. I stopped them. I took paradise away from us for a second time. I have never regretted my actions on that day, except one: that when you first met me on that day, you saw your father put a bullet into the head of your mother. I make no excuses, only explanation. I hope you understand why I did what I did. I hope you forgive me.

I love you. I wish I could have done more for you. The best I could do was leave you in the hands of kind and loving people and hope they would raise you in my place. From what I've seen, they did well. I'm sorry you couldn't stay with them. I'm sorry they've brought you to this place. I promise to do my best to make sure your stay here is pleasant. I promise to keep you safe.

Happy sixteenth birthday, honey.

Your father,
████ ███████

Addendum 166-V: Regarding SCP-166 and Sexual/Gender Minorities.

Any requests for data regarding SCP-166's effects on individuals who belong to or identify with gender and sexual minorities will be denied. We have confirmed a group of persons (cisgendered women) who are unaffected by SCP-166's anomalous effects, meaning that we have a set of staffing protocols which adequately fulfill the needs of the Foundation and SCP-166. Further experimentation is unnecessary and (given SCP-166's anomalous effects) dangerous.

Ethics Committe.

"Well," the lab-coated woman said, closing her clipboard. "It seems that the new blend is working out pretty well. We'll try changing the balance of honey, pollen, and dried flower petals, but I think within a month or two, we'll be able to completely remove the icky stuff from your diet. How are the new clothes working out?"

"Better," the young woman said, lifting her arm. The loose robes she wore were made of a pale orange, velvety cloth that floated in the air almost as if they were underwater. "And… the other?"

"Seems to mostly have faded," the scientist said. "We haven't had an incident at all in the last hundred blind tests. Our theory now is that whatever… psychic effects… were being caused may have been linked to your puberty. Now that you're fully matured, they seem to have ceased. Or, at least, gotten under control."

The woman nodded in reply, settling her hands back in her lap. "Then my request?"

The scientist smiled. "I'll bring it up at the next building, but… I don't see any reason why we couldn't have a priest come by. Under guard, of course. Separated by a steel screen at first. But that would still be sufficient for confession, right?"

"I believe so. And the other…"

"… still no," the scientist said. "No way we can allow you to return to the convent. Even if you are eager to continue your novitiacy."

"I understand."

"Is there anything else?" the scientist asked, getting to her feet.

The woman in the orange robes shook her head. "All else is sufficient," she said. "I will need new inks in a few weeks or so, but not before the end of the month."

"I mean, it's just…" The scientist sighed and shook her head at the spartan accomodations. "No computer? No television? You don't even have a rug in here…"

"Distractions from my chosen task," the woman in the orange robes said. She smiled. "Although, if I may be allowed one vice: some more of that lovely chocolate cake I had for dessert last night…"

The scientist smiled back. "I'll have a word with the chef, then."

The woman in the orange robes nodded. "Then that is all. Go with God, sister."

The scientist's smile turned crooked. She inclined her head politely before leaving the containment chamber, careful to slide the frosted-glass door into place before opening the main entrance.

The woman in the orange robes sighed. She inclined her head over her rosary, said a Hail Mary for the scientist's soul, and one more for her own. Undid the sash of her gown and studied her skin in the mirror, inspecting it closely for new sores or friction ulcers. Rubbed some salve over a few that had formed on her shoulders, wrists, and thighs. Repeated another soft prayer for her sinful self, then returned to the high desk that was the only other furniture in the small room.

The desk was an artist's drafting table. To her right, a cabinet filled with stacks of parchment paper, jars of ink, and a collection of pens, nibs, straightedges, and cloths. To her left, a large stack of pages, loosely bound together. She opened the front cover and ran a hand over the intricately illuminated text written on the frontispiece:

She had begun this project after reading in a magazine about an artist who had been commissioned to illuminate a bible for an English abbey, using parchment, quill, and collage. Her own early efforts had been amateurish in comparison, but she'd had over a year of daily practice. Her containment chambers served as well as a monk's cell, in terms of solitude and reclusivity.

The page that now rested between the rulers of her desk was not part of that project, however. This was a lesser task, one that she had begun on a whim, after agonizing over whether or not its very existence might be considered a sin of pride. After deep reflection and meditation, she had finally placed pen to ink. Unlike the Bible, however, which deserved to be glorified as the holy work it was, this page was written in plain, unadorned calligraphy.

It was entitled:

And began with the words:

My father was a man so consumed with his own wickedness that there were those who spoke of him as the forked-tongue serpent of Eden itself. My mother was a pagan whore who dared to erect her own Tower of Babel and challenge the LORD Almighty, and was struck down to earth for it. In my own youthful years, I was beset with demons who assaulted me day and night, as they did the Blessed Teresa. If any soul in this sinful world deserves damnation, mine is certainly that soul.

And yet, through the grace of God and our Lord Jesus Christ, who sacrificed himself upon the cross at Calvary for the forgiveness of sins, even I hold the hope of Heaven in my heart. .

A bit maudlin, but the words were certainly sincere.

She dipped her pen in ink once more and had begun to write when she heard the Containment Cell door open. Looking up, she saw a lone figure step through the open gateway and sit on the far side of the frosted-glass barrier.

"Was there something else?" she asked politely, putting pen to parchment.

"… hello, Merry." A man's voice.

A blot of ink splattered across the page. The woman froze, pen clutched tightly in her hand, heart racing, terror icing her blood. She picked up her rosary, retreated to the far corner of the Containment Cell, fingers reaching for the panic button…

"Merry," the man said. "It's me…"

"NO!" the woman screamed. "GET OUT!" She slammed her hand into the button. A klaxon began to sound, and a flashing red light illuminated the hallway.

The man inhaled sharply. "Merry, please. I need to… I wanted to…"

"Hail Mary, full of grace," the woman whispered, "The Lord…" She inhaled sharply as the words left her, fell back on the version she'd learned as a child. "Ave Maria, gratia plena. Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus…"

"Meridiana!" the man's voice shouted over the klaxon, over her panicked prayers. "You need to listen…"

"Doctor!" a woman's voice shouted over the intercom system. "Unlock the door now!"

"DAMN IT!" the man's voice shouted. "I need to tell her…"

The woman closed her eyes. She clenched her teeth. She clapped her hands over her ears.

And then she sinned.

The man froze. The woman heard a soft sob come from the other side of the frosted glass. The cell door opened, and a loud, angry female voice ordered the man to leave…

Then the frosted-glass door slid open, and the white-coated scientist was there again…

Dames are trouble. Tall, leggy brunette dames in green dresses that slither through your office door like silk over a razor blade are definitely trouble. And when the dame in question is also your sister-in-law, that's Trouble with a Capital T.

"Lily."

"Al." She closed my office door with the toe of a high-heeled snakeskin boot that clung to her calves like the snakes were still alive and trying to swallow her knees. "Been a long time, you ugly fat fuck."

"Not long enough, you cold-blooded tramp," I sneered.

She shrugged out of her overcoat and tossed it on top of that endless pile of empty pizza boxes that were forming a new geological strata on what had once been a beat up, flower-print couch. "Aren't you going to offer me a chair?"

"There's one right there. Help yourself."

Her tongue flicked over her lips like a cobra's as she showed me her pearly white teeth. "A gentleman would have pulled a chair out for a lady," she said, as the seat (like too many men) groaned and squealed underneath her skim-milk thighs.

"I'm no gentleman, and you're no lady. Cut the shit, Lily. I'm caught up on my child support for once. I'm staying 500 feet away from your sister and niece, like The Judge said. Hell, I even went to church this morning. So why the fuck are you trying to bust my balls?"

Lily's reply was to pick up her purse, open it up, take out her silver cigarette case, put it on the desk, put her purse back on the floor, open up her cigarette case, carefully pull out a single black-wrapped kretek, and fit it into a cigarette holder that was about as long as a samurai sword. "Got a light?"

"Ask the Devil for one. I hear you two are acquainted. Cut the crap, Lily."

Then I had to wait as she picked up her purse again, opened it up, fished around for a while looking for a lighter, muttered to herself for a bit, took her keys out and laid them on my desk, finally found what she was looking for, put her keys back in her purse, put the purse on the ground, thought better of that, picked the purse back up, closed it, put it back down on the ground, flipped open her lighter, snapped the wheel a couple of times, got even more annoyed, shook it up a bit, and dropped it onto my desk. "I'm out."

I opened up my desk drawer and tossed her a half-used book of matches from the Zis Boom Ba Nightclub.

She picked up the matchbook, carefully opened it up, tore off a paper match, tried to light it, failed, bent the match, tore off a second one, tried again, finally got that one to light, used it to light her goddamn clove cigarette, snuffed the match out, tossed it into my overflowing ash tray, put that cigarette holder to her lips, took a deep drag, and exhaled a big cloud of fragrant spicy smoke at my face. "I want to hire you."

"Not interested. Get the fuck out."

"I didn't tell you what the job is."

"I'd rather fuck a bratwurst."

"The job," Lily said, smoothly crossing her legs high above her knees, "is to rescue the daughter of Senator Raymond Hammett. The niece of Judge Chandler Hammett. The only man who can relax the restraining order and let you see my niece. Your daughter."

The words hung in the air like a piece of raw meat being dangled before a hungry Komodo Dragon. "And what if I say no?"

"You won't." Lily licked her lips like a lioness sighting a baby antelope rolling around in a pool of ketchup.

"What if I do?"

"Then I'll just have to offer you three thousand dollars in cash to make sure you say yes," Lily said. "And if you say no to that, I'll be reducing my offer to five cents in lead."

"Then I guess I really don't have any choice, do I?"

"No. You never did." She pulled a small, thick envelope from her purse and tossed it unto the desk. "All the information I have is in here. Plus two thousand. You'll get one thousand more once you bring back the Senator's daughter. Two thousand more if she's still alive."

"That's five thousand, not three."

"I know you, Al," Lily said. "You'll find some way to fuck this up. You always have."

"Then why the hell come to me? Why not go to Shakur?"

"Because Shakur would talk. You, at least, know when to keep your mouth firmly shut." She ground the remains of her cigarette out in my overflowing ashtray. "I'll tell my sister you send her your love."

"You know that's not true."

"But she'll believe it. I'll see you around, Al."

The door closed behind her like the last bell at Sing-Sing. I picked up the envelope and started reading.

I start every case the exact same way. First I cuss a lot at the shit I've gotten myself into. Then I take the cash advance and put it in the safe behind the couch, taking out one hundred bucks to pad out my wallet. Then I toss my Walther into my coat pocket and head down the block to the Last Chance Diner, where I say hi to Amber, take a seat in the corner booth closest to the bathrooms, and review my facts while waiting for Sal to bring me my clam chowder, toast, and Rumford's Own (black, no sugar).

It was all extremely simple. Mister Senator Raymond Hammett was in town for the Fourth of July Weekend, visiting his brother the Right Honorable Judge Chandler Hammett (and coincidentally taking a moment to grease a few palms and raise a few votes for his upcoming run for the Presidency). Along with Mister Senator Raymond Hammett came Mrs. Senator Raymond Hammett and their lovely young daughter, Iris Hammett. After a couple of obligatory appearances at various dinners and clambakes, Miss Iris decided to spend an evening with some old friends.

Details on what happened that evening are sketchy. Beer and wine coolers were involved. So were some nice young men with big smiles and fast cars. At the end of the evening, most of the other ladies remembered having a nice time and doing a few things that their parents wouldn't approve of.

The one thing none of them could remember was where the hell Miss Iris Hammett ended up.

I had a feeling I knew, especially when the words "Crimson Butterfly" came up on the police report.

It was time to have a talk with Konstantin Drakovich.

Those were the words that went through my head just before the madman burst into the diner.

He looked like he'd just spent the night in the dumpster. His lab coat was stained with some sort of horrible-smelling slime. His hair was caked with what was probably bat guano, and there was a big gash across his forehead. "Clef!" the madman screamed randomly. "Oh, thank God, Clef! I've found you!"

He ran across the diner, scaring the hell out of the waitresses, and collapsed into the seat across from me. "Clef! It's me, Lament!" he shouted, babbling nonsense words. "Clef, it's all gone wrong! They were trying to remake it, but it broke! Everything broke…"

"Look, buddy," I said, slowly reaching into my coat pocket to palm my Walther. "I don't know who you are, but you need help."

"I do need help!" the madman shouted. "Your help! Clef, the timeline's trying to fix itself, but it's shattered, and the pieces don't fit! You need…"

"Look, you've made some kind of mistake. I've never heard of this Clef guy."

"But… Clef! It's you! Alto Clef, from SCP Foundation!" The madman was clutching his hair like a blue-haired church lady clutching her purse.

"I have no idea who the hell you're talking about. My name's Al Clanton."

The madman's face twisted up like a church fair donut. "Oh God… you're integrating. You're fitting into the new timeline. Clef, you have to come with me right now. We have to find Nobody!"

He grabbed my sleeve, so I punched him in the nose and pulled my Walther, screwing the barrel of the pistol as hard as I could into his cheekbone. "I've got no idea who the fuck you're talking about, but you've got five seconds to get the hell out of this diner before I pump your goddamn skull full of lead!"

The madman's face turned the color of an altar cloth, and he let go of my sleeve, holding his hands up where I could see them. "All right," he said. "I won't take you anywhere. But you have to find Nobody. There are echoes everywhere, but the real one is here! Get him to the other side and meet with the others! We have to—"

And that's when a camera flash hit me in the eyes, and the bastard must have hit me and run for it, because by the time I could see again, he was gone.

Sal wanted me to call the cops, but I had to get a move on. If things were as bad as I thought they were, I was running out of time to find Iris Hammond.

I left Amber an extra-big tip and hopped the trolley downtown, past the docks and into Little Russia. Down to a little nightclub called the Crimson Butterfly.

The Crimson Butterfly was owned by a nasty customer called Konstantin Drakovich. Russian Mafia with connections back to the old country. Ran drugs, guns, girls, booze, and muscle, but his real passion was photography. Namely, naked photographs of women. Some of them were even awake to be photographed.

I pounded my fist on the naugahyde-upholstered front door, and a little shutter slid open, revealing a tiny window made of bulletproof glass. A moment later, the door opened up, and a human rhinoceros of a man opened the door.

"Fernand," I said by way of greeting. "How's the leg?"

"Hurts. How's the arm?"

"Not bad." Fernand and I had gotten into a disagreement a few years back that had ended with him breaking my arm with a barstool, upon which I made my counterargument with my Walther. No hard feelings on either side. Just business. "I need to see Konny," I said. "Right away. Concerns a girl."

"Most things do." He stepped aside and let me enter the darkened nightclub, gave me a quick patdown and put my Walther under the counter for me to pick up on my way out.

The Crimson Butterfly was one of those thoroughly nasty places that seem to crop up wherever immigrant communities gather. People, especially poor, down on their luck people, need a place to get drunk and forget about how poor and down-on-their-luck they are, and the Crimson Butterfly delivered. It also delivered low-grade heroin and cocaine, and most of the 'waitresses' didn't do much waitressing, except on their backs in the rooms upstairs.

I headed up to the office, where Konny was waiting for me. The fat bearded fuck was sitting behind his desk, flipping through a bunch of eight-by-tens while sipping a vodka on the rocks. "Here," he said, tossing them to me. "Tell me what you think."

I picked up the photos and was relieved to see the girl in them was a brunette, and not a platinum blonde. Then I took a closer look and felt my stomach churn. "Why the hell would you stick that in there?!"

"Eh. There's a market for it. I provide what my customers want," he said.

I tossed the photos back onto his desk and threw myself into the tattered leather chair across from him. "I've got a photo for you, too," I said, passing one of the wallet photos to the Russian.

"Pretty girl," Konny said. "Would like to have her in front of my camera. Looks familiar, though."

"Iris Hammond," I said. "Blonde girl. About yay tall. Blue eyes. Last seen in your club wearing a blue dress and drinking cosmopolitans with a couple of friends. I want to know where she is."

Konny tossed the photo back into my face. "Sorry," he said. "Can't help you."

"Can't or won't?" I asked.

"Same thing. Now get out."

"She's the daughter of a U.S. Senator," I said. "If anything happens to her, the Feds are going to be on top of this place like lice on a mutt. You know something, Konny. I want to know who has her and why."

"Nobody has her. Now get out," Konny repeated.

I felt a knife edge of pain stab through my skull, like a bullet through a chipmunk's ass. "What did you say?" I winced.

"I said, Nobody has her. And you have five seconds to get out my club before…"

"You're the second person today who's said something like that to me. What the hell is going on?"

"Dmitri!" Konny shouted. "Get this pig out of my club!"

"There's something dirty going on in this town, and I want to know what!" I insisted. "Who the hell is Nobody, and what does he want with Iris Hammond!?"

Konny reached under his desk, so jumped over it and punched him in the face before he could grab the shotgun I knew was hooked under his desk. He toppled over onto his back like a tipped cow, bellowing something in Russian. I grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head against the hardwood floor. "Who is Nobody!?" I shouted. "Tell me!"

The door opened, and a gigantic, scar-faced Russian walked in, carrying a PPD-34 submachinegun. He hesitated to shoot me, seeing how his boss was right next to me, so I very slowly put up my hands and got up, letting Konny get to his feet.

Konny stood up unsteadily and wiped a bit of blood from his nose with a grubby handkerchief. "You don't go looking for Nobody," he said. "He finds you. But maybe I make sure you not go looking for him."

He nodded to Dmitri, who put away his machine gun and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles instead. I winced and prepared to become the bass drum in the first movement of Symphony in Pain in F Major, by Dmitri Strelnikov.

So, what have we learned?

Don't piss off a Russian on his home turf? Also, the front steps of my apartment building are surprisingly comfortable to lay on after a pair of Russian goons drive you over there and dump you onto the sidewalk.

Both good lessons. But I'm thinking of what Kon' Draki' said just before he called in Strelnikov.

You don't find Nobody. Nobody finds you.

Not the exact words, but the meaning is close enough.

I need help on this.

You know who to go to.

I just hope she'll help me.

For now, you should probably pass out.

Yeah. Just for a little bit. Until I'm ready to get going again…

There are few things that will draw more attention than staggering into a police station at 2 in the afternoon, wearing a bloody shirt and sporting a huge shiner. Thankfully, the person I needed to talk to wasn't far from the entrance.

Karen Edwards was a secretary at the local precinct. She'd helped me out once or twice. We'd first met after she helped me out with the Armenian Avenger case, back when I was on the force. Seeing me, she greeted me with her usual warmth and decorum.

"Jesus, Al. You look like shit. What the hell happened to you?"

I leaned against the booking desk, wincing as I bumped my bruised ribs. "I had a run-in with Drakovich. I need help, Karen."

"I'll say you do. Starting with a doctor."

"I mean with a case. I need anything you've got on a guy calls himself 'Nobody.'"

Karen flinched at that name, but her eyes didn't widen: she'd heard the name before, then. "… I can't help you there, Al," she said.

"It's about the Iris Hammond case," I interrupted. "And I think time might be of the essence."

Karen's lips flattened into a thin, hard line as the duel between her inner crusader and her inner bureaucraft raged on. "Wait here," she finally said. "I need to talk with upstairs."

I made use of the time to wet my handkerchief at the drinking fountains and dab at the dried blood over my left eye. Pretty bad, but I'd definitely had worse. Dmitri must have been in a friendly-type mood.

There was a cough behind me, and a familiar-sounding voice said, "Al?"

The voice belonged to a tall, bald, and boring type in a grey flannel suit. Charlie Ogden Greer. Detective Charles Ogden Greer, of the San Carlos Police Department, to be exact. My old partner… and the current head of the SCPD Major Crimes Unit.

I felt another piece click into place in the Erector Set of my mind. "This is about the Reds, isn't it?"

"Not here," Charlie said. "Upstairs. In my office."

"We've suspected a link between the Children of the Scarlet King and the Russian Mafia for a long time," Charlie explained, after we'd settled in with a couple of glasses of scotch. "We'd never been able to prove it, though. Until recently, when we confirmed that some of the girls being snuck in from the old country are being diverted to the Children for their religious practices."

"I knew it!" I slammed my fist against the arm of the chair, causing my whisky to spill. "I told you years ago there was a connection, and you didn't listen!"

"We didn't," Charlie admitted. "But it wouldn't have made any difference if we had. We didn't have enough evidence to make an arrest. But the investigation has been making headway. Just last week, we managed to bust an attempt to smuggle girls into the city by cargo ship… including one slated for the Children."

"How did you manage that?" I asked.

"We didn't. The evidence was dropped onto our doorstep in an anonymous envelope. Signed 'Nobody.'"

I felt that cold ice pick dig into my brain once more.

"There's more. The week before that, New York PD reported a breakthrough in the murder of a girl in Queens. Someone literally dropped the murder knife off in an envelope. Again, signed 'Nobody.' Then there was last month, with the murder of those fox hunters in Philadelphia. Or the samurai sword morders in Chicago. My point is, this Nobody guy has been showing up for the past year, providing crucial pieces of evidence to police departments all around the country. And no one knows who he is or why he's doing this."

You wake up to the sound of your alarm clock ringing.

By Candlelight

You pull up to the gate of the facility and roll down the window of your car.

The guy in the booth gives you a smile as he notes your state of dress. "Hot date, Adams?"

"With my favorite person in the world," you confirm, passing him your ID. "Return time will be before midnight local. No perimeter security requested."

"Return time before midnight, no perimeter security, confirm," the security guy repeats. He swipes your ID card in his reader, taps a few buttons, and passes it back to you. "Feel free to call in if you decide to spend the night out," he says, smirking knowingly.

"You'll be the first to know," you confirm, tossing your ID badge into your purse and putting on your sunglasses.

It's about fifteen minutes to your destination, but you take the scenic route down the coast, driving with the top down and the setting sun at your back. The freeway is nearly empty at this time of day, and you let the big V8 under your hood cut loose, the wind whipping through your hair and the taste of the sea breeze upon your lips.

You pull up to the pier just as the sun begins to set over the ocean. Take a moment to activate the car's security system. Sling your purse over your shoulder and wrap your scarf around your neck.

A few heads turn as you stride up the steps of the pier and across the worn wooden planks. The maitre d' smiles as you walk in. "Andrea," he says, giving you a chaste hug and a kiss on the cheek. "So good to see you again. Your usual table?"

"Of course, JP," you say. "Tonight's feeling like a white wine kind of night. What have you got?"

"Mmmm… how about a Riesling? I have a very nice vintage from…"

"Never tell me where the grapes come from, JP," you remind him. "I don't like to prejudge."

"Of course," Jean-Pierre says apologetically. "I'll be with you in a moment." He gestures to a neatly dressed waiter, who leads you up a narrow flight of stairs and out onto a small balcony, where a tiny table with two chairs sits, decorated only by a white tablecloth and a small vase with a single white rosebud.

You take your seat and lean back in your chair. From up here, you can see the entire pier stretch below you, but you know (and have confirmed yourself) that it's nearly impossible for anyone below to see you.

The thing about cover and concealment: it's all about finding those little angles where you can see everything and they can't see you.

Jean-Pierre comes up with a bottle of white wine with the label covered in a white handkerchief. He pours a small amount into a wine glass and passes you the cork to inspect. You give the cork the traditional squeeze and sniff, then take a small sip of the white wine.

"Yeah, that's pretty nice," you say.

The maitre d' smiles and nods. "I thought you'd like it." He pours you a full glass then retreats back down the stairs.

You lift up the glass to the setting sun, take a moment to watch the vermillion hues catch the pale golden liquid.

"Here's to you," you say, then take a sip of your wine in a silent toast.

"I wonder who she's going to be today?"

Assistant Director Celesta, PHYSICS Division, Paris Branch looked up from her notepad. "Excuse me?"

"The Scary Lady," Director Theremin, PHYSICS Division, Normandy Branch replied. "No one knows that D.C. Al Fine looks like. Whenever we have these meetings, she usually takes the form of a famous film actress."

"During the Cuban Missile Crisis, she showed up as Vera Miles from 'Psycho,'" Assistant Director Contrabass, Nice Branch mused. "Shortly after 9/11, she was Sigourney Weaver from 'Alien'."

"Which wasn't nearly as scary as the time she showed up as Katherine Hepburn from 'The African Queen,'" Theremin said, chuckling. "That was the Roswell Crisis. Pants were browned. People nearly fainted."

"Twenty seconds to Conclave," a bespectacled technician said.

"All right, here we go," Theremin muttered, adjusting his tie. "No matter what happens, everyone stay calm."

"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven…" The tech stopped reciting his countdown out loud and raised six fingers, then five… four… three… two… one.

The room plunged into darkness. A moment later, the first twinkling star appeared in the black expanse… then another… then another… until, finally, one hundred eight twinkling motes of light shone in the void.

The first point of light shimmered and began to stretch. It soon expanded outwards into the shape of a tall woman clad in white, her weathered face still regal with authority, her hard, cold eyes staring imperiously at the other 107 stars.

"Katherine Hepburn. 'The Lion in Winter,'" Theremin whispered.

Celesta stifled a scream.

D.C. Al Fine stared into the abyss, and the abyss blinked back. Every single one of her nerves felt like they were on fire. Wearing Elanor of Aquitaine helped, but unlike Lady Kate, she didn't have a script to tell her what to say.

She would deal.

She straightened her back and adjusted the hem of her wimple. Her chin raised in a defiant, haughty gesture. She faced the Council with her feet apart and her hands clasped behind her back, and spoke.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and others. The Council of 108 is now in Conclave. The agenda today: the increasing belligerence of the Foundation, and our response to their actions. We begin with a report from PHYSICS Division. Director Theremin?"

The star that represented PHYSICS Division dipped and twinkled. A moment later, it expanded outwards into the form of a meek-looking older gentleman with thin, graying hair and spectacles. "Thank you, Ms. Secretary," the man said. "We received our first indications of a sea change in Foundation policy [X TIME] ago, after embedded agents reported an attack on one of their facilities by an unknown party…"

Al Fine quietly tapped a key on her keyboard, and the image of Katharine Hepburn continued to nod sternly as Assistant Director Theremin continued his presentation. She sat down hard in her chair and took deep breaths, glaring at the Powerpoint slides now hovering in the darkness of the Conclave.

A soft ping, and one of the many stars floating in the darkness slid closer. It expanded into a line of text shimmering in the darkness.

HE'S GOOD. WASTED AS AN ASSISTANT DIRECTOR. PROMOTE HIM.

Al Fine smirked and shook her head. A quick twitch of her eyebrow, and an answering line of text slid towards the star. BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU WERE LAST PRESENT IN CONCLAVE.

I'M MORE SURPRISED THAT MY CODES STILL WORKED. WE DIDN'T EXACTLY PART ON THE BEST OF TERMS.

IT'S NOT UP TO ME. THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL VIGILANCE ARE STILL TECHNICALLY PART OF THE COUNCIL OF 108. IT'S NOT MY BUSINESS IF THOSE NUNS NEVER BOTHERED TO CHANGE THEIR PASSWORDS.

THEN LET ME MAKE THIS QUICK. the star texted back. KEEP YOUR PEOPLE IN CHECK. THIS IS AN INTERNAL HOUSE-CLEANING, NOT AN EXPANSION OF POWER.

Al Fine snorted. BULLSHIT. EXPLAIN THIS. She gestured towards the image of Assistant Director Theremin, now surrounded by a floating video screens depicting blurry footage of black-clad soldiers gunning down lurching zombies by the dozen. Another showed two women dragging a pantsless man out of an apartment building and shoving him into the back seat of a black automobile.. A third showed men in Haz-Mat suits evacuating an apartment building, while a man with no face conversed with a Russian on the sidewalk.

There were a half-dozen more. All of them showed vastly different scenes, but they were all showing the same thing.

WE TOLERATED YOUR EXISTENCE BECAUSE YOU HAD ALWAYS TAKEN A PASSIVE ROLE IN PARANORMAL AFFAIRS, Al Fine continued. BUT YOU'VE STARTED ACTING PROACTIVELY. THAT MAKES YOU AN ACTIVE THREAT.

THEN TELL ME OUR OPTIONS.

I SEE TWO CHOICES, Al Fine replied, as Assistant Director Theremin began to wrap up his presentation. FIRST CHOICE: YOU BECOME A MEMBER OF THE GLOBAL OCCULT COALITION. YOU WORK BY OUR BYLAWS. YOU SUBMIT TO OUR OVERSIGHT. YOU ALLOW OUR INSPECTORS FULL ACCESS TO YOUR CONTAINMENT FACILITIES. YOU ALLOW US TO PROSECUTE CERTAIN OF YOUR PERSONNEL FOR THE CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY THAT THEY HAVE PERPETRATED, OSTENSIBLY FOR THE GREATER GOOD. AND YOU TURN OVER THE BLOOM.

THE OVERSEER COUNCIL WILL NEVER AGREE TO THAT.

THEN YOU KNOW WHAT'S COMING.

I DO. GOODBYE.

GOODBYE.

The star twinkled once and vanished from view. Al Fine closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

"… which leads to one simple conclusion," Assistant Director Theremin concluded. "The current situation more than passes the criteria for escalation of Response Level against the Foundation to Level 5. I will now answer any questions you may have."

"I will begin," said The Seventh Head of the Society of the Immortal Orochi. "Let us not mince words: this is a request to declare war against one of the most heavily armed paranormal agencies in existence, with the possible exception of PHYSICS Division itself. Is the Coalition even capable of winning such a war?"

"The Silicon Nornir have projected a 75% chance of victory in this war," Theremin replied. "However, in 50% of cases, victory has required the execution of Procedure Pizzicato…"

"… which is the very definition of a Pyrrhic victory," the Seventh Head interrupted, "given that we would have failed at one of our most important missions to achieve it."

"As I said before, that is only in 50% of the projected outcomes," Theremin insisted. "There are just as many scenarios that achieve victory without abandoning the Second Mission."

"By, for instance, executing an immediate decapitation strike against the Foundation's leadership through the use of memetic weaponry?" the Seventh Head said. "You are not the only one who has read the Silicon Nornir's analysis. Some of the scenarios they have proposed are grotesque in the extreme."

"I personally liked the one that proposed causing deliberate containment breaches in their facilities, counting on their own self-interest in keeping their anomalies contained to prevent a Second Mission failure," said Lord Marcus Crowley, Antipope of the United Church of Satan, Scientist.

"I'd like to ask a different question," a woman said. "Isn't it true that none of these plans matter in the long run? Even if you do succeed in defeating the Foundation, they'll just activate The Bloom and undo everything you've done."

Al Fine froze.

"What the hell is The Bloom?" the Seventh Head asked. "Who the hell are you?"

[AND THIS IS WHEN SOMEONE INTERRUPTS THE MEETING TO PROPOSE AN ALLIANCE]

Abigail Mary Bowe turned her face from the right to the left. "Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah," she repeated. Peace be upon you, and God's blessing. A reminder that though one faces Mecca in prayer, the lives of those around you are just as important as God's.

A low snort from behind. "I wonder what the 9/11 victims would say if they could see you now," Thomas Jay Bowe said.

"I would assume the same thing that the children of Iraq would say to you," Abigail Mary said, getting to her feet and rolling up her prayer mat. "Assuming, of course, that one could piece them back together after their homes were blown up in drone strikes."

Thomas Jay snorted. He was tall, lean, slender, with ebony skin and a shaved head and a soft, gentle smile that belied his angry words: the polar opposite of Abigail's short, freckled paleness and ginger curls. He was her brother, with all that implied, both good and bad. "James Aaron just reported in," he said. "The Project Romero test just concluded."

"How did it go?"

"He didn't say." Thomas Jay frowned. "Seems there was a complication."

It wasn't a particularly good image; the photographer had been using a telephoto lens from an unstable position. But it was enough for Abigail Mary to see what was going on.

Two rows of men in dark blue tactical gear, carrying riot shields and hand weapons, standing in a shield wall formation against a wave of rotting, walking corpses. Most of the corpses were children. Some of them wore brightly colored blue t-shirts with the words "HAPPY ACRES YOUTH CAMP" in big balloony letters.

"A Foundation Mobile Task Force?" Abigail May asked.

"Looks like," James Aaron said. He was olive-skinned, with dark brown curls, and a serious disposition. "Beta-5. I'm not sure which one that is."

"'Babysitters,'" Thomas Jay recited. "Primary mission: on-site security. Secondary mission: escorting vital personnel through danger zones. Tertiary mission: rapid-response force."

"Thanks," James Aaron said. "Anyway, all of that was pretty ordinary. What you predicted. Then I saw this." He tapped a button on his beat-up laptop computer, and the image turned into jerky, blurry film footage. What looked like a woman in a black catsuit, wearing a face-concealing helmet, stepped out from behind the lines and began rapid-firing a pistol, reloading as quickly as magazines could be tossed to her. "Twenty-two shots, twenty-two-kills."

"This is their new task force?" Thomas Jay asked.

"Andrea Adams. Mobile Task Force Lambda-2. She's the product of some kind of super-suit project." Abigail May tapped on

They grabbed Dietrich out of bed, pinning him down before he had a chance to react. A filthy rubber ball gag was thrust into his mouth, followed shortly by a black bag over his head. Despite his struggles, he was quickly pinned to the ground by iron hands, his wrists and ankles bound with zip-ties, and his body thrown roughly over someone's shoulder and carried bodily out of his bedroom.

He struggled as best he could, before he felt a pair of cold metal probes pressed against his bare thigh. "Try that again and I'll taze you until you shit yourself unconscious," a low, sinister voice growled.

Dietrich froze. He had no desire to spend his last moments with filthy underwear.

The next few minutes passed by in a blur. He had the vague impression of being thrown into the back of a van. There seemed to be someone else there: similarly bound and gagged. The van was driven for a long time, making sharp turns at odd intervals that indicated that the driver was trying to throw off his passenger's sense of balance. Eventually, though, the van came to a halt. The doors were opened. He was dragged bodily out of the vehicle. Strapped to a chair.

The bag was removed from his head. His first impression was a bright flash of light: cold, hard, instantaneous, leaving a rectangular after-image in his abused retinas. Aside from that, only darkness and the vague impression of a sinister figure sitting in a high-backed chair.

A low voice growled in his ear. "Name."

Dietrich mumbled helplessly around the ball gag.

"Shit," the voice growled. A pair of cold hands wearing leather gloves removed the gag.

Dietrich immediately screamed as loud as he could.

The gag was re-inserted.

The silent figure moved to the next chair over. "Name," that same low voice growled.

"I'm the fucking Queen of England, you shithead," Dietrich heard Bridge say, the sneer evident in his voice. Then the sound of another muffled cry as the ball gag was apparently reinserted.

Dietrich looked around desperately for any kind of reflective surface, found none. His heart sank. Then his spirits rose. If Bridge was here, that meant Alexandra was listening. And if Alexandra was listening, there was a chance rescue was already on its way.

He let out another low, muffled cry, and the shadowy figure came up behind him, undid the buckle on the ballgag. "Let's try this again," the voice sneered, and Dietrich felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head. "Tell me your name."

Stall. Stall for all you're worth. Stall for time right now. "Dietrich… Dietrich Lurk," he whimpered. "Ma Pa's Scottish, that's where the last name comes from… oh God, please don't kill me…"

"That depends on how you answer this next question," the voice said. "What's Lambda-2?"

"Lam… Lambda-Two? I don't know anything about any Lambda-2!" Dietrich whimpered, then let out a high-pitched scream as he heard a pistol's slide being drawn back behind his head. "WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!" he howled. "I can tell you something!"

"Talk now!" the voice shouted angrily.

"I heard a rumor! It's a secret mobile task force! They're all beautiful women, they're all naked, and they do nothing but give Clef blowjobs all day!"

"WHAT!?" the voice shouted, and this time the cry was incredulous. "Where the FUCK did you hear that?"

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Dietrich wondered, and then he felt a hand clamped over his mouth, and then a gunshot went off, and he really did piss his pants, but then someone tipped over the chair onto its side, and he felt the ballgag go back into his mouth… and then he heard someone come up behind Bridge and say, "I've just blown your friend's brains out. Lie to me like you did, and you get the same. Now, tell me. What's Lambda-2?"

A slow, shuddering breath… and then, in a panicked scream, Dietrich heard Bridge shout, "YOUR MOM'S SHITSTAINED CUNT!"

Click.

The lights turned on. There was a woman in a matte-black catsuit standing over him. Bridge had a guy wearing a hunter green suit. The room turned out to be a standard Foundation office block: Dietrich could see eight standard issue-cubicles of the type he'd spent countless hours in over the past few years. They were laying on plastic sheeting. The smell of urine and fear hung in the air.

A man wearing a ridiculous hat, smiling mirthlessly, stood before them. "Well you both pass," Director Alto Clef said. "Take a moment to get a shower and get changed, then report back here for briefing."