Bedlam

Link to article: Bedlam.

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[[include component:info-ayers
|lang=en
|page=bedlam
|authorPage=
|comments=
**Co-written by [[*user Jasiu06]] and [[*user Ralliston]]**

**[http://scp-pl.wikidot.com/doslownie-1984 ► Jasiu06's Authorpage]**
**[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ralliston-s-authorpage ► Ralliston's Authorpage]**
]]

[[>]]
[[module rate]]
[[/>]]

@@ @@

[[=]]

[[size 175%]]**Foundation Civil War**[[/size]]
[[size 150%]]**THEN**[[/size]]

-- ● --

[[image Cairo.jpg class="image"]]

[[/=]]

[[==]]

Cairo had always been a lively city, but tonight, there was thunder boiling in its heart.

Right at the turning point of the century's first half, it had found itself at the crossroads of triumph and disillusionment. Its streets and bazaars pulsed with commerce, music, and endless chatter, yet a shadow of uncertainty lingered all over the city. In spite of the recent victories, the Kingdom of Egypt had thrown itself into the Arab League war against the newly declared State of Israel, but the campaign had already revealed cracks in both the League's unity and King Farouk's grand political ambitions. Whispers of corruption and incompetence among the highest of echelons eroded the country, reinforcing the popular discontent with the still lingering influence of the Great Powers, their eyes focused on nothing but the Suez jewel in their crown.

It was never merely a waterway -- it was the greatest achievement of empire, carved into the very flesh of Egypt itself. While the dreams of the Pharaohs and the Caesars had once scratched at these sands to irrigate their crops, it was the machinery of modern imperialism that paved the way for the construction of a canal on an unprecedented scale. The desire for the Orient's riches literally tore through the desert with the hands of tens of thousands of local fellahin and imported labour, consumed by exhaustion, typhoid, and cholera. Many nameless, forgotten victims sacrificed upon the altar of the Great Powers, whose looming presence still reigned through the passing steel titans.

Indeed: in a land wounded by many a scars, the need for radical change was brewing, and though it would take years still until one of the many groups would make it manifest under its own dictate, for now it was there to stay.

Yet beneath the surface of mundane struggles of governments and kings, something much greater lurked restless. Cairo -- long a refuge for various reprobates, revolutionaries, and philosophers of the seen and the unseen -- had become a stage where hidden forces gathered. In smoky cafés and discreet salons, where politics mixed with espionage and the occult, intrigues ran deeper than the newspapers for commoners had dared print. And in this moment of uncertainty, in this moment of a breath painfully held, the city had been chosen as the meeting ground for a faction in a conflict far older, stranger, and infinitely more dangerous than the wars of men -- one that was soon to decide the fates of both sides of the Veil, whether they liked it or not.

And here it came: under a scorching sun, a luxury Bentley rolled to a halt outside a warehouse in the industrial suburbs of Shubrā al-Khaymah, just north of the capital. Its polished novelty stood in stark contrast to the grit of factory smoke and harshness of the desert climate. 

The two armed soldiers standing nearby -- dressed in British-style uniforms to avoid suspicion -- were already prepared for its arrival; they had been expecting it for many hours at this point. They straightened out their postures for one final time, and tightened the grips on their guns.

Much was at stake today. The wheels set in motion over the last few months -- countless meetings, setting up networks of sympathisers, plans and preparations -- reached their conclusion in this unassuming place. What was required of them was nothing less than perfection. 

The last of the dust settled from under the car's tires, and from inside the vehicle stepped out a European man, his immaculate suit shifting as he adjusted the lapel. At once, the soldiers snapped to attention, saluting with rigid precision.

"The session has already begun, sir," one of them reported, voice clipped and mechanical.

The guest did not answer; instead, his eyes swept over the pair with quiet scrutiny, a wordless command to proceed. Without hesitation, the soldiers pulled open the heavy warehouse doors. 

The place had been chosen by him, intentionally, so that it would be larger than they could ever need -- far from a surprise, given its previous occupation -- but as he stepped into the main hall proper, he realized that he might have miscalculated his original assessment. The voices of all the gathered thundered across the warehouse with enough might and fervour that one would be forgiven for thinking that the place was, indeed, full.

"—Which is exactly why we //need// a new mode of operations, better than that of the Overseers! The reforms of the [[[ralliston-s-proposal|Directive]]] are insufficient, which I have always vocally expressed, and now, with a clear break, we will find allies behind our cause to—" He recognized the voice of Dr. Elizabeth Tate, Vice Chair of the Ethics Committee in all but intent.

The man also recognized the person who interrupted her: it was impossible to mistake the tall, sturdy fellow, tight military clothing all around his sun-burnt skin, for anyone but General Joseph Armstrong, second in command of the Foundation's armed forces. "And what, let anarchy reign? Let another occult war break out? It is //exactly these reforms// which are a prime example of this very incompetence!"

His military prowess was met with murmurs of approval throughout the room.

"Joseph is partially correct, though he stops short of the necessary conclusion," this time, it was Dr. Julian Roy of the Department of Ontokinetics who spoke, with much less vigor but equal confidence as the preceding speaker. "Though we cannot parrot the old modus operandi, it is clear that we also cannot fully subvert it. If we are to determine the future of the human race, we cannot be fettered by the fear of //going too far//. Only with a clear path forward, not limited by any—"

The man finally cleared his throat, seizing the opportunity in the discussion.

"Gentlemen—" At once, all eyes were on him. "—and ladies." He nodded at those present, and walked slowly towards the triangular table, towards the only chair still missing its occupant. He took his seat, and eyed everyone who was there to join him.

There was much more of them than he had dared hope. He refused the urge to smile. 

Good. Very good. 

He had feared that most who had first joined their scheme would prove cowards when push came to shove, but from what he could see, all of them were present. All those who had declared loyalty to their cause when they had first begun putting their plan together had carried through their plans as intended, //and// also actually shown up. He was almost impressed.

"I am somewhat surprised to see that you had begun without me, but I will take that as only a sign of your enthusiasm to our cause." A few chuckles came as a response. He put his hands together, and continued, "Now, before we begin, I hope I must not say this: as of this very moment, you are all committed to our movement. There is no going back."

As if on command, they all nodded. He was right -- all around the globe, the research centers and Sites and Areas which had been their homes for so long were aflame by a fire of their own design. They had struck fast and hard, setting the Foundation's assets loose and planting charges were necessary, and they took Overwatch by surprise. A surprise that had, just as they had expected, turned the Overseers' attention away from its oriental fronts and onto the mainland, right where his companions were not -- a perfect opportunity to meet and organize before they could strike again, this time for good.

They were all certain of their cause, all those who surrounded the man -- he could see the common thread of doubt uniting them all, no matter their different backgrounds and ethnicities and indeed plans for how they were to proceed. He could see the disillusionment at the Foundation's decadence, resulting in its inability to stop another Great War of the mundane and occult varieties; at its growing inability to stand as a bulwark against darkness. At its weakness, made manifest in its willingness to bend under the push of the new age that was to come.

"As of today's morning, you have all become traitors to the SCP Foundation. Your superiors and subordinates may not yet realize this, but you must know that this is what you are. You cannot return. You will never be a part of that organization again."

A few loud cheers and bangs against the table followed. He could see the common spirit overtake them: the name and moniker under which they had gathered had stuck. The new Delta Command, a declaration of its intention to change the world already in its name, was taking shape faster than he had expected. Faster, certainly, than he had ever dreamt; that all the hardened types that made it up, mostly of the military type, could organize like this with each other was almost a miracle.

"But, if we play the hand we had taken right, the Foundation will not stand for much longer." He cleared his throat again, and gestured to the nearby soldier to come forward. He complied, bringing with him a suitcase full of documents. The soldier presented them to the man, and he grabbed the manilla folder, throwing it onto the table with great strength, with great determination. "Our declaration of war has already been prepared, and come evening, it shall be sent to all places within the organization that still matter."

And he was right -- laying there in front of them all was a letter, a manifesto, his own moniker and the numbers for which he stood signed right at the bottom of them. The mantle of the Engineer, of the creator of a new structured order that was to come after their victory, stood proudly in red letters below what they had to say. What they had to protest, against the joke that the Foundation had become. He would never use his own name, of course -- although some officers accepted entrusting command to the nephew of Foundation Overseer Three, Gabriel Miller, he still had to win over the rest -- but oh how he could wait until he would. The look on that old monster's face once they take their Site-01 by force and replace them, ready to steer the organization back onto proper tracks, will be nothing short of marvelous.

"You have already stricken fear into their hearts with our first move. They will not resist paranoia, and they will not resist slopiness. And we will be ready."

The soldier from before took out more folders, this time putting one copy before each of the gathered.

"What you will find inside is the role each of you will play in the upcoming week. Our first step had already taken them off guard -- we do not need much to push the already off-kilter //thing// which the Foundation had become into full chaos. We do not need much to scatter their attention and strike right in the heart of their treacherous, delusional rule -- the very same heart which they still think remains hidden to us."

He could see the excitement in the eyes of his new subjects turn into full on fortitude right as he said those words. He could see that, in this very moment, they would go with him to hell and back -- all in a last ditch effort to bring the organization they had dedicated their life to from falling away from their grip. From falling away into change.

"We will strike and we will succeed, taking their thrones for ourselves to share. And when we are done, dear friends—" He clasped his hands. "—we shall again change the world."

Thunderous applause followed the second he stopped speaking. For a moment, he let himself bask in the glory, standing up and eyeing them enthusiastically. He only stopped once he noticed a single, frail hand rising at the edge of the table. He nodded at the participant, then sat back up.

"...And what will we do after?" asked harshly Elizabeth Tate. "Would it not be better to draft up our plans now, so that we could present a clear case to what shall remain, once we take over? So that we may drive more to our side with reason?"

She had always been the most uncertain element of this coalition -- too idealistic, too willing to grant points and men to [[[serpent-s-hand-hub|communist bookfuckers]]] -- but that wasn't a concern for now. Now, a united front against the Overseers was all that mattered, and every potential ally had to be on board.

The Engineer only smiled apologetically, and waved his hand. "My friend, we may have wisdom now, but it is a narrow one -- it is a view that might be clear, yes, but one that does not yet see the full extent of the duty that shall be bequeathed to us. One not yet baptised in the fire to come.

"The foundations that this organization was built upon are putrid, rotten. We cannot hope to build anything that will last, that will endure, from that which we are already given. We cannot hope to find clarity in the ways for which it stands -- there, we will only find madness.

"No, there is no saving that which exists now. No way to find a clear path forward amidst all of their decadence. We are united by the shared understanding that the Overseers tarnished the Foundation's potential -- that their incompetence led to the tragedy of the Second World War and its occult side. There is no way to find a road upon which humanity could walk together, for a future that we were robbed of the second it decided to bend and break.

"But that which shall withstand the fire will prove pure and great; it will prove strong and resilient. It will prove //true//, for all of man to see. It will prove final and unbroken -- an order that we shall at last return to.

"And only from those ashes shall we build a new way, a new law: one that will be great and righteous. One that will be eternal. And one that will be unbroken, no matter what comes its way."

@@ @@

[[=]]

[[size 175%]]**Silesia**[[/size]]
[[size 150%]]**NOW**[[/size]]

-- ● --

[[image Spodek.jpg class="image"]]

[[/=]]

T-plus fifteen minutes after Heaven falls down, they drag him out by his feet, kicking and screaming. They drag him out into the evening breeze, for all the world to see.

He curses them out in a language that both speak but neither was born with, but his words would be of no impact even if the two soldiers were natives. He has lost his might and he has lost his army -- he has remained great only in title. Today, right when history is decided, the New Engineer -- what a grand moniker for such a little boy -- is barely a man. Today, he shares the streets with the rats he so desperately despises.

And one of the rats is there indeed, to witness his final humiliation: slowly but surely, Ry'hle Kiera walks out of the ruined Saucer, a cigarette right between his two bloodied fingertips. Its smoke joins the thick thaumic cloud pouring out of his back, and he grins. He grins, but he does not give the enemy fallen before him the dignity of acknowledgment -- he turns the gesture towards the soldiers which he knows are there to take the New Engineer.

For a while, they stand there, the three of them, and they exchange glances. There is no respect in the gesture, but there is an understanding: both the Coalition gun and the A.R.G.U.S. wizard know that the battle they've won, but most certainly not the war. It is the twenty-first century, and if something happens in this grand, unknown world, it is recorded and televised and put unto the shared digital psychosis for all eleven-point-half billion people on Earth to see -- the escape and humiliation of their leaders was no different. There's footage -- and if there's footage, there's outrage.

They have already lost their face and they have already lost their honor -- the least they can do is hang on to the facsimile they've created: the facsimile that they're peacekeepers that took up their arms for the good of Silesia. That they were here to liberate and not control -- that they were here here for the people, and not for their own status quo.

Speaking of the twenty-first century: here it comes right before them. A camera drone -- unVeiled, Kiera figures? -- slowly moves down, finally free to traverse the sky above Katowice now that the Insurgency was shot and left out to bleed in a puddle of its own piss. The drone is looking directly at the three, and the soldiers understand that this is their cue: the scrantonite manacles snap around the New Engineer's hands, tying down his magic once and for all.

A red light turns on, then hovers for a few seconds, and the drone flies off, its bounty right in its digital claws.

There is no doubt in the minds of the three men that this photo will be remembered for decades to come.

Kiera takes another drag, breathing a sigh of relief for the first time in six months, and he turns his eyes, filled with wartorn exhaustion, towards the skyline. It is tranquil again. He does not remember when it was last so. There is still movement in the distance, the last sons of the Insurgency shot and stabbed and turned to viscera, but before long the sun will go down and Silesia will go to sleep without fearing for its own children.

He exhales again, this time towards the two soldiers.

Beneath them three, the New Engineer babbles incoherently, switching from English to German to Polish to something else that neither can quite make out -- he shouts how this isn't over, only his head moving up from the ground he is pinned down to, and he screams about a fire and about ashes and after a while Kiera tunes it all out. Even when the Insurgent looks at him directly, cursing him out and blabbering on, he turns his eyes back to the two men who actually matter here.

Again a pregnant silence overtakes them, but is soon broken up by the soldiers nodding towards Kiera. Another acknowledgment falls: that this is his city, fair and square, and that this is his Silesia. They have fought for it under the pretense of propriety and they have lost.

There is nothing more to be said and there is nothing more to be done. The cards are no longer theirs to give out -- they will deal with the hand that they will be given when the time comes.

Smoke falls from between Kiera's lips, and as it goes up and up, it is broken up by the rotors of the Coalition helicopter, here to take the New Engineer and deliver him to a trial whose verdict was already decided.

@@ @@

[[=]]

[[size 175%]]**Foundation Civil War**[[/size]]
[[size 150%]]**THEN**[[/size]]

-- ● --

[[image Paraguay.jpg class="image"]]

[[/=]]

If Joseph Armstrong were to say which animal he was most similar to, he would have to invoke the name of the wolf.

Everything that he had achieved in his life he had won through strength, through violence -- through power made manifest first in his fists, then in his bullets, and at last in his orders. He was a hunter, through and through, and he had known nothing but force for all of his life. Over the many winters he had survived it had shaped him into a sturdy man, a resilient man; one who would stand no matter the circumstances and certainly no matter the enemy. One who would see the pack subservient to him make it through, no matter the blood and no matter the sweat.

He fancied himself an alpha, one who would not back down from any fight or any challenge -- right now, though, he lived more like a fox. More like a mouse, a rat, a disgusting piece of vermin that had scuttled away and hidden from its own dignity.

Cowering away in a Paraguayan cave or basement or run-down factory or whatever other nonsense it was this week was certainly not his idea of a fight, of a war. Not his idea of buying time and not his idea of retreating until another chance presented itself.

But none of this mattered: just like a true wolf, he would make do. He had to.

He sighed, the dampness of the half-abandoned shack heavy on his lungs, and went back to cutting what they could barely call vegetables back into the pot.

There were maybe thirty other men with him down here, all of them what little remained of his unit, and he didn't need any words to see that they too were starving. Had he more energy left in him, he would be furious -- but he had to save what was still left, so that their night escapades into the nearby warehouses and forests and clearings to gather whatever they could find would be successful. He could not afford to be wasteful; he had to do what which he had always done best, and conserve.

This is not how he had imagined it would all go. Not when they had first come together to form their Insurgency, not when they had gathered in Cairo to lay out a precise plan for the coup. Everything had gone smoothly at first  -- the Foundation's leadership had been paralyzed by uncertain internal loyalty, the swift takeover of its facilities, their acquisition of hundreds of anomalous artifacts, and the sabotage of its infrastructure -- but then came the fateful assault on Site-01. The event that had tested the internal strengths and affiliations of the Insurgency. The event that had revealed its internal cracks for the whole world to see. The event that had forced them to retreat, losing more and more ground to the Overseers, hiding until a moment could come. 

One which //would// inevitably come, he was sure -- between the rising tensions of the Cold War and internal pressure inside the Foundation building up like never before, they all knew that their time would sooner or later come again. That it would come and grant them victory at last, victory long since awaited and victory long since earned: victory promised and victory prophetic. Victory complete, for a final, perfect order to be thrust upon the world.

He just wished it would come sooner than later -- that they didn't have to hide away there, this far from civilization, until the Foundation's counteroffensive loses momentum. That they did not have to waste away in goddamned Paraguay out of all places. That they could again be warriors, again be victors, and not waste away like cowards.

Armstrong was aware of the grim truth: although no one wanted to admit it yet, they had lost this battle. There was no other way to put it. The rest of Delta Command believed in the false hope that a magical divine army would come and save them, salvaging their attempt to regicide the Overseers. But he knew that their mistakes were too deep to be salavaged, this far into the war.

Still: it was not nearly as bad as it could have been, of this he was certain. The recent changes in their haven -- partially the reason why they had chosen Paraguay -- made it the tiniest bit more bearable to stay here. The recent victory of [[[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paraguayan_Civil_War_(1947)|steady strong-arm rule over the Reds]]] mostly kept away the insanity Armstrong so desperately despised at bay. It also gave him the opportunity to meet many officers and young general of German descent who, just like Armstrong, knew and respected strength.

Armstrong blinked twice, snapping back into relative reality, and took a taste of the thing brewing in the pot before him. Although they had the blessing of the local junta, everything was done under the table, so they were on their own. The soup tasted just as tart as it always had, but it was also hot and liquid and that was all that they needed, this far into their withdrawal. Besides: it had the mushrooms in them. They would help the Insurgents pass the time.

Armstrong's men had first found them up west, when their trudge through Bolivia had taken them through mountains and caves and ravines. There, at the bottom of the continent and at the bottom of their desperation, they found the last hope that could save them from starvation: patches of mushrooms, growing deep, deep in caves far beyond the reach of light and man. They tasted worse -- and far more alien, nothing like Armstrong had ever tasted, [[[scp-7600|almost as if they were not of this cave and certainly not of this continent]]] -- than the pain growling in their stomachs, but they had to carry on, and the fungi made for an unexpectedly full meal. 

But they did so much more, too. They showed Armstrong and his men images, glorious visions -- promises that had given them far more energy to remain in the fight than the food did.

From that point on they had decided that they needed the mushrooms to remain in the fold, to remain in the struggle; that the fungi continued to sprout along their path down south felt almost like a sign from god himself that they were just. Like some miracle sent specifically to grant them hope amidst greatest desperation. They gathered as many as they could and they had eaten and Seen regularly since then, to remain high on spirit -- and tonight, it would be no different.

The clay bowl felt heavy under Armstrong's tired arms. He looked upon it, his heavy reflection greeting him from the thick liquid. He did not sigh, though he much wanted to. He did not look at his companions, either -- he did not need to know that they were already drowning in their own myths of the near future.

He took a breath, and drank the liquid whole.

It did not take long for the visions to come.

They were familiar at first, much more so than he had hoped: shifting like shadow, shifting like the wind. He saw his days of glory under the arm of the regime, under the Foundation as the leader of their Alpha-1. He saw again all the vermin that they had [[[carroll-022-the-last-stand|weeded out]]] during his tenure as soldier and commander -- he saw the strength they were allowed to wield back when his superiors had still not yet turned into cowards. He saw the fire and felt again the weight of the gun; he bled out the wounds and stitched up the scars, and he stood back up, his mind and soul shifting, ready to accept that which he would become.

And the world again fell on him, throwing him sideways and into conflict -- he saw again the halls of Site-01, the cold concrete lined with his dead. Once more he saw the blood and the shame and the pain, so much pain, and he was not General but Victim, but Martyr, sentenced to watch as his men die under the blades of those of the Red Right Hand who have Remained and Survived. He again saw Overseer Three, strangling his own kin without any hesitation whatsoever, and he again saw the plane coming down upon the hidden clearing, ready to take them to fight and die another day. Ready to take them back to shame -- shame that washed upon him and took him down, down to an abyss so dark that inside it he could barely see.

But again see he did, this time shown a path he had not yet seen before. One paved with chanting and one paved with red, so much red, waving in the background as they all saluted in his name. Long live the Insurgency, they all shouted, long live the Engineer and the General. And they all meant it, too -- he could see it in the fervour in their eyes, in the pins that they all have clipped to their coats and dresses and shirts. He could see it in the way that they stood up for him and his Engineer and his cause and brought about an era of reason and strength, rooting out the weakness and cowardice and contrast right by its stems, their path paving over all remnants of the Foundation and the Hand and the Company, and--

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

He then took his spoon back up and dug into the almost-empty pot for whatever still remained, shoving the food right into his mouth over and over until nothing was left.

He never noticed the fire under the pot go out; he was already back in his dreams, ready to see that which he was sure would inevitably await him.

@@ @@

[[=]]

[[size 175%]]**Silesia**[[/size]]
[[size 150%]]**NOW**[[/size]]

-- ● --

[[image Hospital.jpg class="image"]]

[[/=]]

The first thing that Anna Świtoń remembers is the words, their pressure breaking through the blinding light and right into her brain, kickstarting it back into existence.

The second thing that she remembers is their meaning.

"//Z drogi!//" shouts a woman whose voice Świtoń cannot quite place, both young and old at the same time, pushing the stretchers forward, always forward. She repeats her mantra a few more times, and the regular, circular (?) sound swirling in Świtoń's ears gives way first to white buzzing, then to wheels turning in great haste, then to the sound of metal cutting metal. 

There is a spark, then a curse, and the Yeren surgeon she suddenly remembers her company hiring digs into her guts, his fingertings sharper than diamond and his instinct more precise than blades.

She never feels the sedative take hold.

She dreams strangely, once they refill her fluids and hook her up to something that reminds her that she is alive. She dreams of great mountains, great deserts, great steppes and great forests -- all withering away but not quite dying under an eternal tomb as a cloud larger than life overtakes them all. She dreams of thunder rolling forward, its echo rippling like feminine laughter; she dreams of a two-pronged wound first in the world and then in herself, the planet's oceans filled with blood that isn't just hers. She dreams of a crown of thorns and and gold and bone, put upon the temple of She Who Will Remain, and--

--and then another bright light comes, plunging her from the darkness and back into existence.

The Yeren coughs, looking her straight in those glass eyes, and he renders his verdict.

He tells her that she will never walk again and that she will never cast again -- that it will be a miracle if she makes it out from under the IV. He tells her that never again will she see battle and that she is only laying here thanks to the miracles built from metal and crystal that made up more of her body than flesh did. He tells her that, unless she listens, she will die.

This is not news to her. She has heard these words more times than she can count -- she does not doubt she will hear them many times more.

Still: she nods in understanding, knowing the right buttons to push, until the doctor heads towards another victim of this battle, leaving her alone in the twenty square meter room. Only the empty chair, the beeping of the thing she owes her life to, and the boxy TV -- they know she likes it old-fashioned -- remain as her companions.

For a while she just lies there, enjoying the beating of her own heart. Then, inevitably, she sighs with a ragged breath, and turns the TV on. She has already witnessed the truth herself, on the frontlines of the conflict: she is curious what sensation the world will spin it into.

For hours she listens as they speak of tragedy and speak of loss; she listens as they give statistics and interviews and as they render judgment on an oh so clear-and-cut case. She looks as they show her in battle, breaking those little Insurgents one by one during her ascent, and for a while she almost smiles -- right until they say that the Coalition has began its withdrawal alongside A.R.G.U.S. and the Witch Slayers, leaving the no longer Chaotic ruins of Silesia to those still willing to dwell inside.

So that's how it ends -- with a battle she's fought and won, only for it to be surrendered from one insanity unto another.

She sighs again. Such is life; if nothing before broke her, neither will this.

For a while, she wonders whether or not they will call it the Eight Occult War, once the dust settles and intellectualism veers its parasitic tendrils into the politics; whether the Coalition will have the balls necessary to admit defeat in one of its missions and acknowledge this final milestone upon their end of history. But then she understands: if the [http://scp-pl.wikidot.com/krew-proch-i-wrzosy British Civil War], another Greek-Turkish bloodshed, or any other of the minor post-Veil smirkishes were refused this moniker, so will this one.

And history will move on.

Still: whether or not the Silesian Insurrection will be given the honor of carrying the mantle of the Eight, she does not doubt that it will be a turning point for humanity, going forward. That the Coalition could let a country slip away from under its own dictate and tear a new front unto Europe is not something that will go away lightly; and neither will the five million new mages created overnight from the Insurgency's stupidity. From over her thoughts she hears that there's talks of independence for Silesia -- of real independence, this time around -- and for a while worry crosses her mind: a nation full of mages, as industrialized as this, popping up in the heart of the Old Continent is nothing to scoff at. There will surely be many who will not be happy about it -- that is unless Poland and the new Silesia, whatever form it may take, will be able to forget their grudges, of course.

Well: it's not like it'll be her problem to fix, anyhow. She has long since given up caring about petty national squabbles.
 
She has heard all that she wants to hear. She turns the TV off before it gets too deep into her mind. The screen goes black again, and once more a reflection of Świtoń comes to greet her: but this time there is no adrenaline of survival, no smugness of victory. There is only Anna Świtoń -- a broken woman older than the world she's come to inherit, breathing only thanks to a machine she can no longer hope to understand.

For the first time in ages, the weight of her life falls upon her shoulders, and with it so does a realization: she is no longer a warrior, and she is no longer a leader. She is an old hag whose treatment will cost her company more than she is worth as an asset.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.

At first comes anger -- unjustified but nevertheless righteous -- that they would ever dare put someone else in her place. It'll probably be some earring-wearing faggot, she fumes through tightened lips, who has never seen war but is fluent in Adamic or Errikeshan and has hair colorful enough to fit in with the Fae recruits. Someone new and fresh to be put in place of someone like her, a relic of times long-gone, and--

And then comes clarity, and with it -- understanding. Understanding that, however it will not hurt, this will be good for her. That this is the last chance she will ever get at living a decade more -- that this is the only way her story can end not under the foot of some soldier manufactured with sensibilities that don't remember a time before Yugoslavia.

She lets herself fall deeper into the bed.

She has enough saved up in offshore accounts that this forced retirement will not be a problem -- whether or not she has little enough ego, she supposes only time will tell.

For a moment, she stares at the cold concrete ceiling, taking in each of the breaths that she was allowed to have. Then she calms her thoughts, ready for rest -- she will need it.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.

//Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.//

Anna Świtoń closes her eyes, and with her goes to sleep a memory of an age of magic and war and duty that will never see the light of day again.

@@ @@

[[=]]

[[size 175%]]**Foundation Civil War**[[/size]]
[[size 150%]]**THEN**[[/size]]

-- ● --

[[/=]]

[[image CI-GOC.jpg class="image"]]

The secretary stood at the head of the long, makeshift table, her hands trembling so violently that the single sheet of paper she had just read aloud rattled like dry leaves in the wind. She looked small, diminished by the weight of the words she had spoken.

Every pair of eyes in the stifling warehouse was drilled into her -- a collective gaze of hatred, paranoia, and bone-deep exhaustion. There was complete and utter silence in the air. Though she had placed the letter on the table, invisible suffocating shackles kept her paralyzed in the spot. She was like a gazelle that had stumbled into a den of starving lions.

Eventually, one of the men in a lab coat seated on the right flank of the table -- Julian Roy -- pushed his chair back. The scrape of metal legs against concrete sounded like a gunshot. He stood, smoothing the front of a lab coat and offered a sharp, dismissive nod to the secretary -- a silent permission to return to her workstation. The woman immediately seized this privilege with relief.

Roy turned to the assembly. 

"It is a forgery, naturally," he declared, his voice possessing the distinct scholarly certainty. "I am certain of it. This is theater. Yet another desperate provocation by the Overseers to sow discord among us. It is the only rational explanation. We must attempt to re-establish contact--"

"Rational?"

The word cut through the air, interrupting the professor mid-sentence. A man in a military uniform rose from the opposite side of the table. His demeanor commanded jingoistic respect, but beneath his facade of gravitas lay a long-accumulated rage.

"With your rationalism, you justified earlier plans that failed, doctor. So how can you be certain of that?" the Officer demanded.

His voice rippled through the room, and at once a terrible silence fell upon it: there was only those two men, eying each other from across the table with the kind of resolve reserved only for dying beasts. Had it not been for the //khamsin// beating mercilessly against the windows of the Cairo warehouse, the bystanders were certain that they would be able to hear their raging hearts, their ragged breaths.

Eventually, Julian replied: "Just look at it. It's ridiculous. It's nonsense."

"Armstrong was right from the start," the Officer spat, leaning over the table. "We cannot trust the United Nations. They are infiltrated by commies and sympathizers. Of course they will defend the Overseers. We should have listened to General Armstrong. We should contact the US Army immediately. Old Stan Bowe would support our--"

"Bowe is a rabid dog currently on the Overseers' leash. And your savior Armstrong is rotting away in some hell hole in South America." Roy snapped, losing his cool veneer for a fraction of a second.

The Officer looked Roy up and down, eyes narrowing into slits. He raised his chin, looking down at the scientist with the palpable contempt.

"Weren't you the first to preach about creating a New Order? About //determining the future of humankind//? And now you want to sell us to those UN bureaucrats?" The man approached the scientist, dangerously closing the space between them. "How do we know it isn't //you// who sold us in exchange for amnesty, you little //rat//--"

"That's enough!" The Engineer's voice rippled through the warehouse. At once, all eyes were on him. "That's enough." He looked at the Officer. "Stop this insanity. It's a ridiculous farce."

"I--"

"//I// do not care what your reasoning is. There is already too little of us left. We do not need further division."

For just a moment, both men stopped paying attention only to themselves and //looked// around -- and then saw that their leader was right.

There was maybe dozen of them sitting at the table, all holed up in the last place that they could still call safe. There used to be more, during the first sessions of the Delta Command, but those days had long passed. They were no longer a bulwark against the Foundation -- they were a flock, lost amidst a desert, and they were are all looking at the Officer, standing there like a raging bull. They were all looking at the duo without as much as uttering a word -- there was only consternation and deep hidden uncertainty where he would expect resolve.

The sight made both of them back down; slowly returning to their reserved seats, and turning their sight towards the Engineer. However, neither of them would admit defeat; both were opposing unstoppable forces. They both sat in silence giving the Engineer his floor.

He nodded in quiet appreciation. "It does not matter whether that letter is real or not. It could just as well be fake—" He looked at Roy silently. "—but it does not change the fact that we have failed to ally ourselves with the Coalition. We must learn to live in this world, and act accordingly."

He cleared his throat, and eyed all of the gathered. Roy couldn't tell what it was that he saw in the gesture -- whether it was an attempt to buy time or to get their spirit up, not like it mattered -- but for a while the Engineer just looked at them, the leaders of the strongest cells still standing. Of the only ones strong enough not to had been culled by the blades of the Foundation.

"It is clear to me that the situation that we had found ourselves in is not one we had envisioned," he said, putting his hands behind his back. "But this does not mean that it is lost. It does not mean that it is wasted.

"No; there is still a long way ahead of us. A way that will be filled with hardship, no doubt, but one from which I am certain we will emerge victorious. We did not win this battle, this attempted coup, but wars have been won with worse odds -- wars built on causes far less pure than ours.

"I need you to stay strong, my friends. I need you to remain by my side for after each storm always come calm waters -- and we are nothing if not experienced sailors. We will still steer this boat right into the harbour of victory, I assure each one of you, but the only way to do so is //together//. Only with a crew that rows alongside each other can we make it -- and we will make it, of that I am sure. It is only a matter of time, a matter of our own determination, until truth triumphs over evil.

"This is how it has always been, and this is how it will be again."

A woman in a lab coat was the first one to speak up. "So how are we to proceed?" she asked, looking at those seated next to her. "What is our plan forward?"

Before the Engineer got a chance to say anything, Julian tapped his fingers against the table. "It is clear to me that we cannot continue to solely rely on our military power. If we have not bested the Foundation yet, we will certainly not do so now. We //need// to diversify our efforts--"

"And turn ourselves into town preachers?" the silenced Officer asked.

"No, I'm just saying that if we speak only of the gun we will be seen as--"

"As what? We are already seen as not worthy of the Coalition's attention!" came another voice. "Maybe it's because of talk like this that they treat us like a joke, like a--"

"—You //fucking//—"

All at once, the room exploded, drowning in a torrent of voices coming from mouths fully aware that they had gambled their life on an altar of righteousness, ready to do anything not to surrender to the fate they had inevitably sentenced themselves to.

For the Engineer of the Insurgency, however, that inevitable fate brought a paralyzing clarity. He realized, finally, the profound foolishness of his decision. He had sacrificed his life for a cause that was supposed to bring him Heaven, but brought nothing. A cause he had built not for ideology, as he had told them, but for the power it would give him. For the might and honor that he would receive, finally surpassing the shadow of his uncle's own position.

It was a decision from which there was, truly, no turning back.

@@ @@

[[=]]

[[size 175%]]**Silesia**[[/size]]
[[size 150%]]**NOW**[[/size]]

-- ● --

[[image Prison.jpg class="image"]]

[[/=]]

The New Engineer has not seen the light of the Sun in many days -- he expects it'll be many more before he is granted that comfort again.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

This is good, he knows, for darkness is a friend to truth, to revolution -- change conspires in dark alleyways and in basements hidden beneath bustling cities. To live and die in its shadow is an honor; the man who walks when it's still bright has nothing to hide. And a man who has nothing to hide is a man ready to die complacent. Ready to die //cattle//. And here, in a concrete cell deep enough under the Hague to be mistaken for a cave, he has plenty of shade to become a friend to. 

He almost laughs. The fools. //The fools//.

Again the cosmopolitan hydra of the Coalition has shown the true colors of its idiocy -- once more it has proven before the whole world that it lacks the conviction or indeed strength needed to be the guide of humanity. Had it the balls to bear its weapons with the might required it would have taken him there and then, putting a bullet between his eyes before he could blink; but the idiots that they are, they will give him a trial -- a trial! They will grant him an audience before the whole world, one ready to listen to a truth that will free it from the chains of cosmopolitanism and insanity. They will grant him an audience to capture and rapture -- an audience to turn into the vessels for his revolution.

Yes, he can already see it, as clear as day -- billions around the world picking up the red banner of the Insurgency, his name on their lips, and--

He coughs hard enough to nearly spit out his lungs, and at once insanity gives place to fear. The neurons bleeding the hallucinogenic in his brain stop for just a second, and in that second the remaining high wears off -- the last particle of the faux-Engine's fungi leaves his blood, and with it his soul. His eyes snap back open, seeing everything for what it really is, and he feels his heart beating in an irregular, terrible rhythm.

A pain unlike anything he can remember splits his temples, and the guidance of prophetic providence leaves him, once and for all. He blinks twice, and consciousness takes back control of his body, at last robbed of its ambrosia.

He feels the world again. He feels the //cold// again. 

Terrified out of his mind from the newfound clarity, he starts to shake. Neither the blanket they have provided him with nor the rays of sunlight that he notices for the first time in days help with it; there is only a great chill now, deep in his mind and deep in his bones, and he remembers everything.

He remembers the Witch, he remembers the General, and he remembers the Rat.

He remembers the fists of the city coming down upon him; he remembers his loss at the altar of weakness.

At once, his heart begins beating faster, and the fear turns to //rage// -- the only thing that can still keep him alive, bereft of the spores which have fed him truth for the last six months. Rage that, were he a different man, he would see is coming from within himself //at// himself -- but he is Nathan Lee Simmons,  and he is the New Engineer. The only fault in his movement that he can see is the weakness of others; the cowardice of their humanity and the frailty of their plurality.

And oh how much of this weakness he can remember. His mind does not need to wander far to find all the seams creaking in his life against his effort and indeed against his will: first those traitors from PENTAGRAM, the ones who promised him glory and normalcy and //freedom// but gave only excuses and mockery and servitude. He remembers the fading light in the eyes of those who they allowed to man their bases -- the disgust that he felt looking at what the organization he had hoped would help save first America and then the world had let infiltrate its ranks. Then, another image comes: this time of the Insurgency itself -- of all the other cells that were not under his command, yet another image of decadence, their mission and truth led astray by the //[[[sc-05-321-05-335|thing]]]// that they let take up their crown. The //thing// to the lie of which he himself has surrendered for many, many years. And then, at the very last, a flash of the tall woman all in black, her tie and suit yet another broken promise of support for his cause, her money a lie that--

Another wave of shivers hits him, this time strong enough to make his whole body spasm and fall from the bed and onto the floor. He does not get up for what feels like hours. He is unable to.

He just lies there, more worm than man now, and stares at the walls of his prison. He stares until from the farthest depths of solitude comes a realization: that it does not matter that he is here. That it does not matter what judgment they render upon him in the week to come; that it is of no significance anymore whether he hangs or is left to rot in some cold waste until his heart gives out. He has already left his mark. He has already left his spark.

It isn't quite madness that overcomes him again -- for without the spores he is but a defeated, broken man -- but the sensation nevertheless heats him up enough to regain his composure. He sees now, that he has cast forward his truth the second he decided Silesia needed to be free -- that even though he was beaten and caged, that for which he stands for they cannot contain, they cannot kill. The word has been spread, and with it an eternal promise was given to the world; just like when Napoleon came upon Europe and shown the eternal light of pride to the whole continent, so did the New Engineer bring forward a revelation. A revelation that the Coalition is not immortal, and neither is its status quo -- that the world needs naught but a push to fall back onto the right tracks; to fall back into the embrace of the dignity that the new order has so desperately tried to rob it of.

His truth is here, and just like the truth of those who came before him it is here to stay.

Those who will follow in his footsteps -- and he does not doubt there will be many, now that those fools have made him the most significant man alive -- will not be the same as him and will certainly not wear the same shoes, but they will find the same path. They will find the outlines of his work, and they will build from there -- and they will find a way back into civility. A way back into dignity and a way back into a world built not on insanity but on the same values the civilization of Man has always relied on.

And they will not be able to get them all, once the fire spreads. They will not be able to silence the great voice that will come as an echo of his own, and--

--and again his whole body spasms, screaming to be reunited with the substance which has kept it alive for so long. A sharp tear passes through each of his muscles, then his nerves, and he no longer feels his hands and he no longer feels his legs. There is only a great and terrible craving, one which overtakes all of his civility and all of his instinct.

The last clear thought that he remembers having, before the hunger overrides him with strength enough to make him but an animal for the hours to come, is the image of a great cerulean banner, consumed by a flame redder and more tumultuous than anything he can imagine.

//The Insurgency is dead. Long live the Insurgency.//


[[/==]]

@@ @@

[[include :scp-wiki:component:earthworm
| first=false | last=false | hub=yes
| previous-url=/stray-pigs | previous-title=Stray Pigs
| next-url=/independent-republic-of-silesia | next-title=Republic of Silesia
| hub-url=/all-eyes-on-silesia-hub | hub-title=All Eyes on Silesia
]]

-----

[[=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box
|author=Jasiu06 and Ralliston]]
=====
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> **Author**: [[*user HarryBlank]], edited by [[*user Jasiu06]]
> **License**: CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/meanwhile-in-australia SCP Foundation Wiki]

> **Filename:** Cairo.jpg
> **Name:** Studentenmanifestatie in Cairo, Bestanddeelnr 901-9638.jpg
> **Author:** Nationaal Archief
> **License:** CC0 1.0
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Studentenmanifestatie_in_Cairo,_Bestanddeelnr_901-9638.jpg Wikimedia Commons]
> **Additional Notes:** Edited by [[*user Jasiu06]]

> **Filename:** Spodek.jpg
> **Name:** Katowie Spodek at night DSC 3199.jpg
> **Author:** Ranjithsiji; edited by [[*user Jasiu06]]
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> **Filename:** Paraguay.jpg
> **Name:** Humaitá López HQ.jpg
> **Author:** Unknown author
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> **Additional Notes:** Edited by [[*user Jasiu06]]

> **Filename:** Hospital.jpg
> **Name:** Hospital
> **Author:** Toshiyuki IMAI
> **License:** CC BY-SA 2.0
> **Source Link:** [https://www.flickr.com/photos/12173213@N00/8307111366 Flicker]
> **Additional Notes:** Edited by [[*user Jasiu06]]

> **Filename**: CI-GOC.jpg
> **Author**: [[*user Jasiu06]]
> **License**: CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bedlam SCP Foundation Wiki]
> **Derivative Of:**

> **Name:** -Lord Brougham and his Family, Cannes- MET DP275755.jpg
> **Author:** Charles Nègre 
> **License:** CC0 1.0
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:-Lord_Brougham_and_his_Family,_Cannes-_MET_DP275755.jpg Wikimedia Commons]

> **Name:** QSL SV5UN (1950).jpg
> **Author:** Olle Hagerbrant
> **License:** Public Domain
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> **Filename:** Prison.jpg
> **Name:** 10811799615 - Flickr - brdonovan.jpg
> **Author:** brian donovan
> **License:** CC BY-SA 2.0
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[[/=]]

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