Calibold/HarryBlank/Nico Proposal

Link to article: Calibold/HarryBlank/Nico Proposal.


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[[include :scp-wiki:theme:monotypical]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:betterfootnotes]]

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[[/module]]

[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source start=--
|name=Calibold, HarryBlank, and Nico
|no-right-margin=*]]
[[=]]
[[module ListPages range="."]]
**%%title%%**
[[/module]]

**[[[Calibri Bold's Mega Cool Author Page|Calibold's Wonderful Author Page]]]**

**[[[This Page Intentionally Left Blank]]]**

**[[[uncle nicolini author page|nico author page]]]**
[[/=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source end=--]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:customizable-acs]]

[[div class="detective"]]
"Site-01, this is Quinn Roscoe from MTF Kappa-16! I have confirmation that [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-containment-of-arsene-lupin | Arsène]]] [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-8136 | Lupin]]] and [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wanted-the-thieves-domain | the Thieves' Domain]]] intend on stealing SCP-001!" the detective bellowed into his communicator as he sped across [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/paramax-connection | Paramax's]]] lobby. In tow were Hercules Popeau, C. Auguste Dupin, and Zenigata Heiji -- his fellow [[[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tall-and-short-tales-of-the-thieves-domain | task force]]] members -- and Warden van Kann.

At the front desk, a guard was already stapling the old wanted posters back up with a look of tired resignation. Arsène Lupin, Irene Adler, Ishikawa Goemon and Robin Hood.

"Ros— this is Site-0—. Have you— Paramax yet?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Ha— left Pa— yet?"

"N-no, not yet. Site-01, do you copy? Lupin and the Thieves' Domain intend on stealing SCP-001," Roscoe repeated.

"Copy that! We w— increase security."

"Shit," he cursed.

"You're in the world's most secure pocket dimension, detective, it's nearly impossible to get signal out to the outside world," van Kann admonished him.

"You say that as if Lupin, his gang of miscreants, and the House of Stars didn't just break out of here," Zenigata grumbled. Van Kann turned to shoot him a dirty look.

"Be that as it may, this fortress was thought to be impenetrable, and yet here we stand. Well, ah, //run,//" Popeau wheezed. "Now you say Lupin and the others are going to steal SCP-001?" The Frenchman's stubby legs struggled to keep him up with the others.

"Of course. The ultimate heist. I knew it." Dupin smiled, running alongside Roscoe towards the entrance.

"You knew?! I swear, this is the second time you pull this shit on me, Dupin, and I am //not// happy about it." Roscoe stopped at the entrance gate, the others catching up to him. Van Kann gave a signal to the guards stationed above, who began opening the door slowly. "How did you know?"

"Simple dedu--"

"Don't give me that 'simple deduction' bullshit."

"But you are a detective, Mr. Roscoe," Popeau spoke up. He reached into his pocket and procured a handkerchief to doff the sweat off his brow. "Surely you could pick up on the clues."

"I'm not the world's //greatest// detective, unlike you guys."

"I am //not// a detective," Dupin panted out. "I am a //ratiocin--//"

"Yes, yes, a //ratiowhateverer.// I get it, you existed before the word did. But that's still what you are, whether you want to admit it or not." Roscoe was fuming as he turned to face van Kann. "Can't you make them open this any faster? We need to get out of here."

Van Kann motioned ahead to the doors, which opened to reveal the exterior of Paramax; a rock floating listlessly through space. There were a few guards present, as well as a UIU thaumaturge waiting for the group to approach. The thaumaturge began preparing a ritual, opening a portal for MTF Kappa-16, "Interpol," to exit.

"Where to, detective?" van Kann asked, motioning for them to approach.

"Our jet," Roscoe answered.

"And then?"

"Site-01."
[[/div]]

-----
= [[size 200%]]Calibold/HarryBlank/Nico Proposal[[/size]]
-----

[[div class="anom-bar-esoteric"]]

[[/div]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:customizable-acs
|containment-class= safe
|containment-image= https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/component%3Aanomaly-class-bar/safe-icon.svg
|containment-color= 0,159,107
|inc-esoteric-layout = --]]]

------

[[include component:image-block
name=https://scp-sandbox-3.wdfiles.com/local--files/harry-blank-5/001splash.jpg|
caption=SCP-001-SECURE.|
align=center|
width=100%|
]]

**Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-001-CONTAIN is contained within the SCP-001-PROTECT structure, which itself consists of three security layers:

* The first security layer is the integration complex, which is partially incorporated into SCP-001-SECURE. This layer is a zone measuring 150 meters between its outer wall and the second layer; it consists of an immense maze spanning the entire layer. The maze is occupied by the Integrated. Integrated are subsumed into the Foundation's computer network, SCiPnet, and act as both further processing power and security for SCP-001. Their biochemistry includes growths resembling film strips over their body; their brains are overwhelmed by the Foundation prime directive. As such, they remain standing in a dormant state until they detect an intrusion, at which point they will attempt to integrate the intruder via physical contact.

* The second security layer is the Essophysical Erasure Minefield, which occupies the internal SCP-001-PROTECT structure. This layer is an area measuring 200 meters between the first mine and the inner wall. It is fully occupied by McDoctorate-Deering Essomines placed in a random pattern.

* The third security layer is an unstable surreality matrix suspended over the ANTIPODE device, and supplying variable environments for its operation. Details on the ANTIPODE device are classified at Clearance Level 6: Cosmic Top Secret.

----

**Description:** SCP-001 is the SCP Foundation Central Data Hub, which holds all information ever acquired or documented by the Foundation. SCP-001 consists of three components: SCP-001-SECURE, SCP-001-CONTAIN, and SCP-001-PROTECT.

SCP-001-PROTECT is the sub-facility which surrounds the remainder of SCP-001. See Special Containment Procedures for more information.

SCP-001-SECURE is a massive computer network which surrounds SCP-001-CONTAIN. SCP-001-SECURE is designed to intake data from all other SCP Foundation facilities and process it, scanning the received packets and recompiling them into SCP-001-CONTAIN's primary format. Furthermore, SCP-001-SECURE can also remotely access SCP-001-CONTAIN, swiftly reading files and sending information to requesting units.

SCP-001-CONTAIN is a complex superdimensional structure which holds the data itself, after it has been recompiled. The primary format of data held in SCP-001-CONTAIN is [REDACTED].[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Access to this information requires direct approval from O5 Command.[[/span]] While some data is unable to be compiled, 99.3% of information held by SCP-001-CONTAIN is in its primary format, meaning it can only be accessed either from within SCP-001-CONTAIN, or through utilizing SCP-001-SECURE.

----

[[div class="roscoe"]]
It is my unhappy duty to report that our records have, once again, been seriously compromised by the actions of the Thieves' Domain (and reciprocal actions I was forced to undertake). While we're still reconstructing the timeline of recent events related to SCP-001, we do have recourse to a fun little two-perspective tale that popped up on the internet shortly thereafter: "Interpol vs. the Thieves' Domain," with putative collaborative authorship by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Frank Howel Evans, Maurice LeBlanc, Marie Belloc Lowndes, Kodō Nomura, Edgar Allan Poe, 'anonymous', and the word 'anonymous' again but in Japanese. It doesn't read like any of them wrote it, for the record.

I've included relevant excerpts below. We'll update the file properly once we know the whole story.

...they said, with undue optimism.

[[>]]
-- Detective Quinn Roscoe, MTF Kappa-16 ("Interpol")
[[/>]]
[[/div]]

----

[[div class="outlaw"]]
Lupin gazed upon the maze which sprawled before him, cane in hand. He clicked his heels together and turned to face his allies, a smile slowly scrawling itself upon his face. "Well, my friends, the time has come! Shall we?" The thief gestured for the group to follow him within, then turned on his heel.

Adler, Goemon, and Hood exchanged glances, but ultimately chose to proceed. They walked in silence, their echoing wake of footsteps the only sound.

"It's a bit too quiet, isn't it?" Hood asked, twiddling an arrow in his hands.

Adler didn't look at him before responding. "As much as I hate to give him any credit, he may be right. We haven't seen a single guard since we got here." She peered at the foggy labyrinth with a suspicious squint; she'd come equipped with a baseball bat wrapped in metal wire, anticipating resistance, but none was apparently forthcoming.

"I believe they have no need of guards," Lupin shrugged. "As the Omniscient told us, SCP-001 is a self-containing secret. It will protect itself with all manner of traps, it only seems we have not met with any yet... aside from this maze, and its most perplexing fog." His confident smile hadn't narrowed an inch since they'd entered.

"But if they have no need for guards," Adler asked, "how do they keep this place from being overrun by people trying to get their mitts on 001?"

"How do we even know if this 'SCP-001' is real?" Hood spoke up from behind.

"That's another thing, Mr. Lupin," Adler continued. "Are you sure it's even real? I've heard lots of different things about 001, ranging from it being the sun gone rogue to it being an apocalypse of flowers, to even being the reader of this very story."

"What?" Hood asked.

"Don't worry about it," she winked. "I'll handle the meta stuff, Rob."

The group rounded a corner, taking a left.

"Oh, I am quite certain it is real." Lupin was visibly trying, and failing, to contain his excitement. "It's the Foundation's biggest secret. That's why it's in the 001 slot. The fact that so many different variations of it exist merely throws those who seek the truth off the scent. It is a treasure worth stealing, and worth exposing to the world."

The group came to a three-way split. They headed straight through the fog, without hesitation.

"I still don't get it," Hood grumbled.

"You wouldn't," Adler sighed. "Your brain probably melted with cholera, or whatever they had going on back where you're from."

"I //told// you," the outlaw growled. "It is merely the //ague.//"

"I'm still hearing 'plague'," Adler laughed.

"Friends, friends, please." Lupin turned, walking backwards now. "We are all on the same team. Eh, Goemon?"

The ninja remained stoically quiet.

"Goemon?" Lupin repeated, tapping him on the shoulder with his cane.

"Shh." Goemon took a step forward, past the others and toward the next corner ahead. The group followed him into a larger room devoid of the maze's signature walls.

They were no longer alone.

Standing within the misty fog was a lone humanoid figure. It stood completely still, staring straight forward in the direction the four thieves had entered from.

Lupin paused, holding his arms to his side to stop the others from proceeding. "Take heed. This does not feel right."

"What's that guy's deal?" Hood asked, one arm over his shoulder.

Goemon stepped forward, ready to draw his //shirasaya// at a moment's notice.

"Goemon," Lupin started, "you shouldn't be so--"

Before he could finish, the entity before them sprang to life. Its eyes glowed red and it released a horrible, mechanical screech before bounding toward the group. Hood fumbled drawing his bow, and Adler readied her bat. Lupin remained behind them, watching as the beast approached.

It screeched again as it neared, but just as it was about to pounce on Goemon, it stopped. A rush of air, and its head fell to the ground as the ninja slid his blade back into its scabbard. A small torrent of brownish blood erupted from the now-exposed neck, and the body fell to its knees, dead. Goemon tutted, and took a few steps further into the fog.

Lupin leaned down to investigate the cadaver of their freshly-downed adversary. Immediately he spotted film strips protruding from its neck and limbs. He used his cane to tip over the body and get a better look at their attacker's torso. They wore a lab coat, and had a Foundation ID badge pinned to their breast pocket. The gentleman thief frowned.

"They would do this to their own?" He stood back up, careful not to step on any of the blood quickly pooling around the cadaver. "Judging from the hue of //le sang,// they were long since dead..."

"Perhaps this is part of the defense measures," Hood suggested. He sounded shaken. "A punishment for those who failed a test of loyalty." He took a deep breath and readied himself.

"There are more," Goemon said.

"What?" Adler looked around, her stance widening.

"More are coming. Steel yourselves."

"Curses." Hood nocked an arrow and drew his bow.

"You can say 'fuck', you know."

"How do you know there are more, dear friend Goemon?" Lupin walked up to where the former samurai stood.

"Listen," Goemon replied.

Silence fell over the group. For a moment, nothing was audible but the howling of the cold wind that drifted through the complex. Just as Hood was about to speak, the familiar bestial cries filled the air.

"Oh, //sard.//" Hood swallowed.

"Sard? The hell does that mean?" Adler stared at him quizzically.

"Not the time, //mes amis.//" Lupin reached into his coat to pull out a Walther P38. He examined it briefly, and sighed.

"Not very sophisticated of you," Adler remarked archly.

Lupin looked embarrassed. "I have seen... let's call him a namesake of mine, using one of these. I thought it might be worth a shot. Heh."

"I never took you for the sentimental type, Mr. Lupin." Adler smiled, marching up to Goemon and Lupin. Hood followed.

"Ah, Miss Adler, I am a romantic, but of course."

Goemon tutted again and drew his //shirasaya//, readying himself to combat the oncoming hordes.

"Perhaps after this we can all go out to dinner. We deserve some time to ourselves," Lupin grinned.

The cries of the damned creatures betrayed their presence though the fog, and the Integrated charged from the depths of the labyrinth. The first to show its face through the mist ate an arrow to the face. The next was shot in the chest by Lupin. Goemon and Adler charged forward, slashing skillfully and swinging wildly in a symphony of wood and steel impacting against flesh and film strips.

As they fought, more and more of the entities piled up in the choke point they had established. Despite the ground being rife with blood and cellulite, none of the four sustained any injuries or even showed any sign of slowing. Lupin analyzed the bodies as they went down, spotting fatigues common to the Chaos Insurgency, UNGOC helmets, and many, many more Foundation personnel.

One of the beasts, this one wearing Foundation guard armor, came up from behind and almost managed to grab Lupin. The thief was able to turn around in time and smash his cane into its head, sending it reeling. This, however, was not enough to down it. Lupin fired two shots into the thing's chest, which also achieved very little.

"Hmph." The gentleman thief holstered the Walther and readied his cane to bash the beast once more. The creature let out what could only be described as a digitized, bitcrushed roar before charging at Lupin. As its mouth opened, strips of film extended out of it like the grasping tentacles of an octopus. "How obscene," Lupin frowned.

The thing charged again as Hood unleashed a volley of four arrows at it. One went wide, but the other three stuck it in its side. Again, this did nothing to stop the rushing monster. Within moments, the former guard had absorbed the impact of Lupin's cane against its head, and had overpowered him to the ground.

The film strips smashed against the visor, cracking it open and raining a glass-like material onto Lupin as the tentacles threatened to enter his own mouth. Before he could even voice a request for help, he witnessed a flash of steel cutting his attacker to pieces. The ninja turned to face him, and the two exchanged a look.

"//Merci,//" Lupin nodded.

"//Douitashimashite.//"

Lupin was helped up by Adler, who had also rushed to his side. He picked up his cane and drew his Walther once more as the group backed into a corner of the labyrinth. Adler and Goemon stood in front of Hood and Lupin, who continued to fire their weapons as their allies provided them with cover.

"I'm running out of arrows!" Hood yelled over the carnage.

"That's good!" Adler grunted, bashing an enemy wearing Chaos Insurgency fatigues over the head with her bat.

"How do you figure?!"

"We thrive in the narrative by our very nature! If you're almost out of arrows, that means we must almost be out of enemies to fight."

Lupin fired his weapon at the last visible entity, hitting it right between the red, glowing eyes. A spurt of brownish-reddish goop squirted out, and it fell to the floor dead.

Silence.

"See?" Adler smiled, panting.

Now that they had a moment to breathe, Lupin approached one of the downed monsters which lay face-down in the muck. He turned it over with his foot, careful not to soil his fancy shoe with the blood-like substance. Careful analysis revealed that this particular person had once been a Foundation doctor; again, they still had their ID tag. Lupin removed it from the clip, and looked it over.

//"Doctor Kazuhiko Katō.// That name seems familiar," he mused out loud before dropping the tag.

"Come on, Mister Lupin. We don't have time to spend looking over all these dead bodies." Adler hefted her bat, marching ahead to the pile of gore they had created. She kicked at a severed head idly.

"We still need to figure out a way around this labyrinth," Lupin said with a sigh, checking on the magazine of his pilfered firearm. One bullet left.

Goemon glanced at the pile. He leapt atop it in a single bound, then again jumped up onto the walls of the maze. "The fog is only below. Come." The ninja waited for his compatriots to follow as they clambered up the slick mountain and onto the wall.

"Good thinking, Goemon." Lupin patted him on the back after he reached the top. "Even if we can't walk there, we can all make the jumps, given a good running start. Right, //mes chéries?//"

The three nodded.

"Let's move." The gentleman thief grinned devilishly, starting towards the exit just barely visible in the distance.
[[/div]]

----

[[div class="detective"]]
Zenigata Heiji was no detective.

He could not match wits with Dupin. He could not deduce things as easily as Popeau. He could not piece together things as quickly as Roscoe. From the very beginning, Zenigata knew he had been brought on as the team's muscle; with his trusty //jutte// and //zeni// coins, he could make short work of the criminals they were tasked with catching.

If only actually catching them could be that easy.

Unlike the other men he was working with, Zenigata boarded the jet with haste. Though he was no detective, he would try to help as best he could anyway. He sat down in an empty chair and opened up the Foundation-issue tablet he had been given upon joining Interpol. He'd found little use for it so far, but it was the only tool left to him now that they were to be trapped in a steel tube for an intercontinental flight. The policeman didn't know much about these newfangled fancy gadgets the world was so obsessed with nowadays, but Roscoe had done him the kindness of teaching him the basics.

The basics.

//What evidence do we have about the Thieves' Domain?//

They were thieves, that much was obvious. Thieves who stole anomalous concepts and dedicated them to the public domain. They were anomalies themselves, having once only existed in stories and folklore. The fact that Zenigata himself was fictitious was an existential problem he could put off for another time; he did not want to even consider the fact that his existence was entirely reliant on the fact that someone else had once thought about him.

Shrugging that tangent off, he resumed his pondering. When he had initially been brought into Foundation custody, he had heard someone say... what was it? That the rate of 'pataphysical' anomalies being discovered... with relation to intellectual properties in the public domain... had been skyrocketing, recently. Perhaps that would make for a good lead.

Zenigata got to keyword searching for 'public domain' within the database. His search yielded a few results, with names he had never seen before. Names like Lieutenant Columbo, Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, Beowulf, Paul Bunyan, Orlando, and Gilgamesh.

Zenigata did not recognize a single one of these.

However, it wasn't like they'd had television, most books, the internet, or even ancient Sumerian epics where he was from. All of this new technology was both exciting and terrifying to him. But now was no time to dwell on that, either. He sighed and swiped through the pages on the tablet, reading them as fast as he could. There had to be something the others weren't seeing there.

He thought for a moment. Perhaps if he searched the term 'copyrighted'. He did so, and waited for the massive database search to do its thing, playing with his coin in his hand. After about a minute, his search came back with a sparse few results.

He grumbled, but decided to look through them anyway. Most of the reports were Mobile Task Force logs of several teams tracking down anomalies that were copyrighted characters. He didn't find after-action reports to be too engaging, truth be told. But he read them all the same. And the more he did, the more he noticed a recurring trend.

The manifestations of these anomalies were very weak and usually dissipated on their own, not even meriting a file in the Foundation's extensive catalog. Most of them didn't even make it beyond forty-eight hours. He continued to read, taking note of all the characters he //did// recognize from consuming media since his manifestation into this strange new world. Iron Man, Mario, Pikachu, Arya Stark, Ignatius J. Reily, all of them licensed characters, all of them disappeared as anomalies.

None of them, again, even remotely familiar to him.

This line of thought was getting him nowhere. He needed to realign his mind-space. Zenigata fiddled with his coin again, trying to focus back on the Thieves' Domain. The only things he had in common with them were the fact that they were all public domain characters, and their relationship as two sides of the concept of law and order.

He flipped the coin.

Law and crime. Two concepts that could not exist without the other. Perhaps that was the reason he, Dupin, and Popeau had been brought into this world. To act as a check and balance on Lupin, Goemon, Adler, and Hood. But what was the Foundation's role in all of this? And why were they so different?

In his time since coming to the world, Zenigata had read the stories of origin for himself, his fellow lawmen, and the criminals they hunted. Not once had Irene Adler been depicted as a 'punk chick'. Rarely had Lupin not worked alone. And to make things stranger, Zenigata himself had been depicted as sporting a //chonmage// hairstyle in most versions he had seen. But now? He wore a simple ponytail, glasses, and an ear-ring.

Were they at the mercy of being remixed, reinterpreted by anyone who saw fit, simply because they were in the public domain? Was this one aspect of their anomalous properties? Part of the so-called pataphysics he had heard so much about?

Then, it hit him.

"//Yatta!//"
[[/div]]

----

[[div class="outlaw"]]
The space beyond the maze was comparatively straightforward: a wide, tiled corridor with a high, unbroken steel ceiling. The tiles were black and white, like--

"A chessboard?" Lupin scoffed. "Of all the magical heist clichés, a chessboard."

"Not a spark of originality in this lot," Hood agreed. "All facts and figures. No imagination."

"What if that's the point?" Adler gestured at the long stretch of monochrome. "What if this is where imagination goes to die?"

They examined the scene silently for a time.

Lupin, characteristically, was the one to break first. "By which you mean lit--"

"Literally die, yeah," Adler nodded. "Not being metaphorical. The Omniscient said this place is home to the 'only true death', remember?"

"Not the sort of thing you forget," Goemon grunted.

"Sure. So, what did that mean?" She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Definitely not that mess in there. I don't think turning into a zombie is the ultimate end, you know?"

"Hmm." Lupin twirled his cane thoughtfully, artfully, between the fingers of his left hand. "It could be a reference to the third layer, though. Our friend was vaguest of all about what lies there."

"I'd rather not find out by dying," said Hood.

Adler considered, but only for a moment. She rapped the end of her bat against tile after tile, the ceramic-on-steel-wire echoes clattering around them.

Nothing happened, so she dropped the bat.

"Can I borrow your cane, Monsieur?"

Lupin shrugged. The simple motion threw the cane into the air; the tip landed in his palm, and he held it out to her, perfectly balanced.

"Showoff," she smirked. She took the proffered weapon, and gripping it firmly, began tapping the tiles in front of them.

Three male throats inhaled in sharp unison.

"Don't puss out on me," she laughed. "If they were landmines, they'd risk damage to the systems. Whatever this is, it operates on a different lev--"

The cane was gone.

She'd had the faintest sense of a glimmer of blue-white light, oddly artifacted, but only in the space of an eye's blink. She had tapped a tile, and the cane had vanished.

"Well," she said.

"Not well at all!" Lupin roared. "A gentleman's walking stick is an expression of his body! His will! His //soul!//"

She snapped her fingers. "Aha. That's it. That's it exactly. Oh, shit, am I becoming a detective?" She laughed. "I might have to arrest you guys. Change teams."

"You talk enough to be one of them," Goemon agreed.

"Oh, Gooey, don't tease." She froze in place, suddenly, and reached into her clothes -- the others couldn't see precisely where -- to withdraw a monographed switchblade. She tapped each of the tiles she'd already tapped, stopping before she reached the offender. Nothing happened. She exhaled. "Okay, probably not randomized, and one time only. Might be timed, so we'll have to get a move on. Ah."

"You understand what happened?" Hood pressed.

She nodded. "I think so. I think this place //is// mined. I think the mines erase concepts."

"Concepts," Lupin repeated.

"That bat didn't mean anything to me, beyond admittedly looking badass. Your cane is a part of you, you said. Well, it's gone now. If you'd stepped on that tile, it probably would have taken the whole thing."

"The whole thing," he repeated, again. "//My// whole thing, you mean."

"I do mean," she grinned. "Now--"

CLANG.

Goemon had moved to the wall, and was slamming a pair of clawed gloves into its surface. Lupin grimaced at every blow. "Must you? Passing aeroplanes can probably hear that."

Goemon grunted noncommittally, and began ascending the wall.

Adler shrugged, surveying the space again. "Let him play ninja. I'm going to solve this one fair and square."

"Why?" Hood asked.

Lupin clapped him on the shoulder. "Because games are to be not avoided, Robin. They are //played.//"

He inclined his head in silent agreement, and removed three arrows from his quiver. "Then let's get tapping."

It was slow, dull work, and unremarkable until the moment when one of Hood's buttons slipped off -- the threadwork on his uniform was appropriately medieval -- and failed to vanish on a tile that took Adler's precious switchblade away in a cloud of sudden sparks.

"But why?" he asked.

"Because your buttons aren't you," she guessed.

"How do they know that?"

"Who? The Foundation, or your buttons?"

He made an elaborate gesture which translated to //take your pick.//

"What I meant is," she sighed, "I think these mines take out constructed concepts only. Lupin's cane, your arrows, my switchblade, and probably our bodies too. Probably."

She bit off a further speculation. It didn't look like anyone noticed, as they turned back to their task.

They reached the other end of the hall after a few close calls and one breathless moment, where it looked like Goemon might come crashing down from the ceiling and set off twenty tiles at once. As it happened, he reached the far side just a few minutes and one final vanished arrow before they did.

"A curious trap," Lupin remarked as they looked back over it from the far side. "If you're right, Irene, it seems designed to destroy fugitives from fiction like ourselves. How often do you imagine they face such foes?"

"People who hoard are like that," Goemon grumbled. "Not only afraid of men, but of their shadows."

"Is that what you think we are?" Lupin looked troubled. "Mere shadows of men? Half-real? Imagined, only?"

"Irene?" Hood's mouth hung open, and he was pointing.

She didn't need to look down. She knew what she was standing on. She'd stepped back very deliberately.

"Isn't that," Lupin began with laboured calm, "one of the... //problematic// tiles?"

"Don't move." Goemon was slipping on his //shuko// again, and pulling a length of rope from around his belt.

She waved him off. "What's to worry about? I'm nobody's fucking story."

And she walked back over to them.

This time even Lupin was clearly at a loss for words, so she tapped the stud in her nose. "I'm not Irene Adler. Not really. I've circulated too much. I've //lived.// I'll bet you all have. I've met people who didn't exist in my narrow little channel of existence. I might have been 'the woman' to Sherlock Holmes, but I wasn't much to anyone else. Blackmailed the King of Bohemia, and disappeared. Never got a second story. Even Moriarty got a second story." She danced away from them, landing on her boot-tips on each tile, deadly or not. "That isn't me. That Irene Adler didn't have many friends. She was a wicked woman who just wanted to settle down with a nice young man named Norton. Gents, I am not in need of any Norton. This is the shit I want to do. This //means something.//"

"You're saying," Hood said, very slowly, "that this room can't hurt us anymore?"

"Just our accoutrements, apparently. We've grown beyond its parameters. Beyond what our authors imagined. Together." Lupin, watching her dance, had a sort of dazed smile on her face. "How did you know, Irene?"

"Oh, well." She blushed. "I already accidentally stepped on one, a while back."

He didn't look like he believed her, but it did nothing to lessen the brightness of his grin.
[[/div]]

----

[[div class="detective"]]
Dupin sat against the wall in the airplane's tiny bathroom. Despite his growing fondness for the team, he preferred to be alone. In his hands was a small book: //Reading Like a Writer// by Francine Prose. It was the fifth tome on literary analysis he'd picked up since this case had begun, and yet he felt no closer to an answer as to //why// this was happening.

The only member of the Thieves' Domain he'd had an extended conversation with was Lupin. At the time, he'd assumed this story would only involve the two of them: nemeses in concert, the detective versus the thief. But now it was more complicated. Four detectives, four thieves, all in a convoluted dance to the end. All of them save Roscoe were characters at their core, archetypes of literature. Yet despite this, he failed to see the story being authored here.

His mind wandered to the four members of the Domain. Despite his limited personal interactions with them, his metatextual impressions were that they were not villainous by character. Indeed, each of them had some capacity for charity. Lupin frequently threw a bone or two to those less fortunate. Adler was a challenger of oppressive norms, progressive in some sense no matter what time period she was in. Robin Hood's whole character revolved around stealing from the rich to give to the poor. And Goemon, for all his brutality, was both loyal and stalwart, ready to protect the weak and innocent.

In a more daring story, perhaps, the author might pull a twist and have him team up with these thieves against a common, truly evil foe. But that was not his role. He was a detective, and despite the potential good nature of these thieves, they remained thieves first and foremost. In any story such as this, the detectives would be the heroes, and the thieves villains.

How depressing, he thought to himself. He loved being a detective -- he was warming, if only gradually, to the term -- and had no qualms about his role. But what would happen at the end of this? Once the thieves were caught, would he and his team likewise be returned to a toy box to gather dust? No, he was more than that, more than just a story to be told. He had a part to play, but this was not at odds with his agency as a living, thinking human. As it was for all the other players in this game.

It was like a lightbulb turned on. Well, it was more like a door opening. Dupin hastily stood up as Popeau walked in. The two of them stared at each other.

"Pardon," said Popeau sheepishly.

"Of course," replied Dupin. The two of them squeezed past each other awkwardly, until Dupin was standing outside. Popeau closed and locked the door behind him, and Dupin walked into the room where Zenigata and Roscoe were seated.

"Hey Dupin," said Roscoe. "Zenigata and I just got word back from the higher-ups."

Zenigata nodded. "Indeed. All of the individuals who have come alive from this widespread anomaly inhabit the public domain. Those who aren't disappearing rapidly."

"Since this stems from legal constraints, the bosses are considering lobbying for a reconsideration of public domain laws across the world."

"No, of course, it makes sense," said Dupin. "With the nature of this phenomenon..."

"What are you saying?" asked Roscoe.

Dupin raised both his hands in front of him for silence. "I have been too lost in the nature of our quest," he began. "Each of us, characters in a story, fulfilling a narrative niche. This is why we were brought together, after all. It was through this lens I analyzed our predicament. But I had forgotten that we are under the influence of //reality//."

"You think that we're not being affected by a narrative superstructure at all?" asked Roscoe.

"Quite the opposite," said Dupin. "Yes, we are all more than just characters, but nevertheless, between the intricacies of the phenomenon and the nature of our battles, there is one influence on this entire crisis we have failed to consider."

He paused dramatically. Finally, Zenigata rolled his eyes. "And what might that be?"

Dupin grinned. "Why, the author, of course."

[[/div]]

----

[[div class="outlaw"]]

"How odd."

Robin Hood, a denizen of the woods of Nottinghamshire, was well-acquainted with forests. More than any house or hall or fort, he considered the groves and plains of Mother Earth his home. However, for as many strange and bizarre oddities he'd encountered recently, he'd always been certain that //outside// could never be //inside//. At least, not until now.

Before him was an immense forest. His years as an archer had given him a keen eye for measurements and an instinct for geometry, but he didn't need any of that to see that the forest was much larger than the structure which supposedly contained it. The air carried the subtle warmth of springtime, and the trees were lush, full of leaves and flowers and fruit.

"Surely I must be mad," he said, turning to speak to the other members of his party. But there was no one there. Even the door through which he'd walked had vanished.

"Arsène?" he called. "Goemon? Irene?" No one answered. The Omniscient had warned them of this place, of course, but even he had struggled to describe it -- not due to a lack of knowledge, but a lack of words, as he'd put it. Robin was confused as to why that man had struggled to describe this place; it was as familiar as any stretch of nature.

//More// familiar.

Robin stumbled back. He knew these woods like he knew his own face.

Somehow, he'd been returned to Sherwood Forest.

He drew his bow. Whatever trickery this was, returning home had only enhanced his insecurity. He was just as much in danger here as he had been in the other two layers.

He reached a hand out and tentatively brushed it against a tree. He raised his arm and plucked an apple away from its branch. The feel of the fruit, the kiss of the breeze... despite what his rational mind told him, every bone in his body told him this was—

He shook his head. This was merely a diversion, an obstacle. This trick was all that stood between them and their goal. He began walking; though there was no path to follow, the encampment of his Merry Men was not far from here. Surely this was a test or a trial of some kind, and if it was, he would welcome the aid of his oldest friends.

He walked for several minutes, and as he did, the signs of humanity became more apparent. To the untrained eye, these sections forest looked like any other. But to Robin, every odd scratch in a tree or well-trodden patch of grass was as apparent as a photograph hanging on the wall of a family home, each one bearing a memory.

He stepped through a trickling stream and crossed over one last knoll, expecting to look forth and see his dozens of brethren singing and partying as they always did. He gazed out and fell to his knees: their encampment was in ruin. The area was littered with debris from broken arrows and torn fabrics. Almost all their tents and banners were burned or shredded. But what truly struck sorrow into Robin's heart was the bodies: several men, beloved friends, lay still throughout the camp. A few of his band were carrying corpses away from the camp, to their modest burial ground.

His despair was quickly overcome by a wave of boiling anger. Whoever was responsible for this atrocity would pay. He began marching down the hill when someone shouted: "It's the Sheriff!"

Robin nocked his bow. Of course. Without his presence, the sheriff had swooped in for an attack. Guilt would have wracked his body, but there was no time for regret now, only action. "To me, my merry men!" he shouted. "Rally together!"

But once more, he found himself alone. He looked around. The remaining men were running away in terror, but there was no sign of the Sheriff of Nottingham. Robin fell to his knees again and screamed with a ferocious anger. The Sheriff had not only killed his brethren, but struck such fear into their hearts that it wounded their very souls, turning these once brave men into husks of themselves, running from ghosts. Robin gritted his teeth and broke into a sprint.

He ran and ran through the forest, silently hoping a doorway would magically appear to whisk him away from this nightmare. He desperately hoped this was a trick of the Foundation, and that its security had not somehow truly brought him back to the real Sherwood Forest. Despite his rational mind's attempt at reassurance, however, his heart beat like a drum with righteous fury.

He must have run for miles, as he only stopped upon reaching the borders of Nottingham. Pulling up his hood, he walked in. The town was as he remembered it, but not as it was when he'd last seen it. Instead, it resembled the city as it had been while King Richard was away in the war. The people were sad and quiet. He spotted a guard accosting a young man. He started forward to help, but his last vestige of levelheadedness held him back. He could not afford to reveal himself here.

A woman standing a few feet away began crying quietly. "Oh, my King... why have you left us?" She wiped her eyes.

Robin turned slightly to her, making sure to keep his face hidden. "Have hope, my lady. He will one day return."

At this, the woman began crying harder. "From the dead? Do not mock me, sir."

Robin's heart sank even further. Despite their altercations, King Richard was the only man Robin had ever met who was both a king in title and in spirit. During his son's reign, even in their darkest hours, Robin and his merry men held hope that the king would return one day, ending Prince John's tyranny. If he was truly gone...

"I did not mean to mock, my dear," he said. "I am merely an occasional visitor. Pray tell, where can I find the sheriff?"

The woman let out another sob. "Upon his throne. The one for which he had slain King Richard's son."

So even Prince John was dead. In another time, Robin would have been delighted to hear this. But between the Sheriff and the prince, the Sheriff was by far the more vile. If he had assumed the throne, then Nottingham might as well be ruled by the Devil himself.

Robin made his way to the walls surrounding the palace. By now, the sun was setting, but this was only to his advantage. He walked up to a familiar part of the wall, one slightly worn by an old battle. As he'd done before, he began scaling it. The damage to the structure had never compromised its integrity, but it offered just enough holds for a man as lithe and talented as himself to climb it.

//Errol Flynn,// he heard Adler's voice whispering in the back of his mind. He smiled.

He made it up, ducking his head down until a guard passed by. He leapt onto the wall as silently as he could, and peered over the edge. Below him was a row of trees which lined the courtyard. He jumped down and used one to cushion his fall. He expertly wrapped his arms around it, turning what could have been a crash onto the pointy branches into a smooth descent along the trunk.

Robin ducked down, but quickly realized there were no guards in sight. An odd occurrence, but he took advantage of it and made a quick dash inside. He carefully scouted ahead for more defenders, but none appeared, turning the odd occurrence into a suspicious one. He knew the Sheriff well enough to recognize him as a coward; he would not leave himself unguarded.

Robin stopped at the doors to the throne room, and took a breath. Then another. Then, he kicked them open. Inside, rows of bunches led up to a raised dais where a single golden chair held court. Upon it was a hooded figure: the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Robin strung up an arrow, pointing it at the man's heart. "Sheriff!" he shouted. "You are a disgusting, cowardly, and cruel man. You will perish for what you've done."

"Oh," said a familiar voice. "Don't say such cruel things."

Robin gasped as the man stood and took off his hood. Underneath was not the sheriff Robin was familiar with. Instead, a much more familiar face gazed back, and Robin understood why his Merry Men had fled.

"No. That's impossible," he said.

The other Robin Hood laughed. "I quite agree. But here we stand anyway."

Robin drew his bow. "I suppose my quest is to defeat you, then. In the olden days, we would battle brutal knights and corrupt nobles, not magical impersonators."

"An impersonator?" asked Sheriff Hood. "I am the one true Robin Hood."

"I know of your crimes," replied Robin, "and that you are nothing like me."

The other Hood pulled out a sword, but instead of attacking, he lazily inspected it as he spoke. "Again, I agree. You are a thief, I am an officer. You live in the woods, I live in a castle. So on and so forth."

"Enough," said Robin. "Explain this mischief. I suspect I am somehow still within the confines of the Foundation's fortress. And if so, you are the enemy I must conquer in order to pass on."

"Then attack me."

Robin took aim, but didn't fire. Another little voice in the back of his mind, this one his own, whispered to him. This was all too simple, it said. Robin didn't understand the nature of this obstacle just yet. Was killing his double the answer, or was it a trick to trap him for good?

And yet, the voice from his heart boomed like thunder, shouting for him to strike down this imposter for what it had done to his Merry Men, to the kingdom, and to the people of Nottingham. Whether or not they were real was irrelevant; what he felt in his soul, //how// he felt towards them, was real enough.

He shook his head and lowered his bow. "Not yet." He stood at the ready, but spoke instead of fought. "Tell me what you are, and what this place is."

Robin expected his doppelganger to attack, or at the very least continue quibbling. Instead, Hood laughed and clapped slowly.

"My, my. The others were so much quicker to prove themselves. But there's no distracting you, I suppose." He shrugged. "Very well. I am the ANTIPODE device, above which the surreality matrix is suspended."

Robin looked over Hood's head, but saw nothing. Hood rolled his eyes. "Not //literally// above me, you fool."

"Why do you—"

"Look like you? Come now, you can determine that for yourself."

"ANTIPODE. You're an antipode of myself."

Hood clapped again. "Very good. Yes, I am the opposite of you."

"Where are my friends?" Robin clenched his teeth, but forced himself to remain calm.

"Faring much worse than you, I'm afraid," said Hood. "Each is battling someone equal and opposite to themselves in some manner. It's hopeless, of course."

Robin squinted. "Then why have you not attacked me? Forced me into combat? Why tell me any of this?"

"I've already won, my friend!" Hood spread his arms wide. "There's no point trying to distract you. This //is// your battle, and you surrendered when you left Nottinghamshire."

Robin could feel tears brimming in his eyes. Despite his many adventures with the Thieves' Domain, his mind had often wandered back to Sherwood Forest, wondering how his dear friends were faring in his absence. He'd always dismissed the thought as mere paranoia, but now his worst fears had come to light: the Sheriff of Nottingham was unchecked, and free to rule the land with an iron fist.

"The others have few loved ones to return to," said Hood, "and none who are harmed by their absence. You, however, are an equal opposite of me: the superior man over his subjects."

Robin shook his head, but Hood continued. "They're weak without you, just as Nottingham is weak without me."

Suddenly, a rush of anger overtook Robin. He nocked an arrow in his bow. "No."

Robin laughed, and Hood scowled in response. "You wish to fight me, then?"

"No, no," said Robin, and he laughed again. "You almost broke me. I lead the Merry Men, but I have no delusions of superiority to them."

"They are—"

"They are the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest, as strong and clever as they come, and I am but one. They are equal to me, as brothers in arms." Robin pulled back the arrow. "Just as my fellow thieves in //this// world are."

"You can't kill me," sneered Hood, "and even if you could, it would do nothing to the matrix itself."

"I know," said Robin, "but your speech of tyranny reminded me that this is an antipode world, a realm of opposites. A tyrant instead of a friend. A ruin instead of a home. And a reality instead of a metaphor."

Robin aimed, not at Hood, but above his head, and let his arrow fly. The sheriff's eyes widened in horror as he realized what was about to happen. The arrow reached a point above the sheriff's head, and a blinding light erupted from it.

Robin blinked the spots out of his vision. He was in a large, gray room; in the center stood some kind of short, metallic box. Above it was a metal cord, now cut short. On the box itself rested a black ball attached to the other end of the cord. It did not appear heavy, but the box's top was indented from the impact of the fall.

Around the box stood the other members of the Thieves' Domain, now looking around in bewilderment. They seemed physically unharmed, but they all bore expressions of combined shock and despair. They each walked up to the box.

"What happened?" Lupin blinked.

"I knew it was fake," said Adler, "but..."

"It got in our heads," finished Goemon. "How did we get out?"

Robin smiled. "A story for another time, my merry friends. Now..." He pointed at one of the walls, in which a simple door was set. "Are we ready to claim our prize?"

[[/div]]

----

[[div class="detective"]]
Popeau was unaccustomed to air travel; men of his day had traveled by trains, which had the advantage of leisure, however often it was punctuated by the disadvantage of murder. But even at his age, the spritely little man adapted well to new experiences.

Save one.

"//Zut alors,//" he whispered into his moustache, gentleperson that he was, and then loud enough for the others to hear he cried: "It is enough to drive a man from good humour, //avec certitude!//"

"What's that?" Roscoe yawned from their chair. "What're you on about now?"

Popeau was stalking back and forth down the jet's narrow aisle, working his hands and face in equal measure. "I must have //evidence!// Things to examine! Suspects on whom I might lay my suspicions, test them for sound-ness! I am no arm-chair detective, Monsieur Roscoe!"

Roscoe picked up an airplane pillow and propped it under their neck. "If you're not getting anything done, you might as well get some sleep. Be fresh and ready when we land."

"Pah!" Popeau twirled his moustache, then tugged at the ends in frustration. "Not while these conundrums vex me. No! It is an impossible situation, or I am not Hercules Popeau!"

"Why //are// you Hercules Popeau?" Roscoe yawned. "I swear you were Hercule Poirot when they picked you up."

"That's a point." Zenigata was staring at his files, his voice suggesting a distance of demeanour. "One of many. I'm still making connections."

"Why should I //not// be myself?" Popeau demanded, puffing up his chest. "I, Mademoiselle Fairfied's champion in the affair of //The Lonely House!// I, resolver of the affair of Angela Graham and the Prince!"

"I don't know what any of that is," Roscoe muttered. "But there's like fifty Poirot books. Agatha Christie is the bestselling author of all time, or something."

Popeau bristled, but said nothing. In truth, every time this issue came up, it made him uncomfortable. His creator, Marie Belloc Lowndes, had been a well-known novelist in her time, but her fame had been quite eclipsed by the creator of that damned knock-off.

As though reading his thoughts, Zenigata asked: "Did they ever figure out which of you came first?"

"Simultaneous invention," said Roscoe.

"//Balivernes,//" Popeau spat. "Mere twaddle. Mme. Lowdnes was adamant that the thief Christie road to glory on her coat-tails."

"I hear you were both rip-offs." Roscoe was barely moving their lips now, and their eyelids were fluttering. "Was reading... Wikipedia..."

With a sudden burst of energy, the little Frenchman darted over to Zenigata and began snatching up printouts. "Fah!" he shouted. "We waste our time on //trifles.// Let me see these connections you have made, officer."

Zenigata reached up to clutch, pointlessly, at the files now in M. Popeau's own clutches. "I'm still working on those...!"

Popeau plopped himself down in a chair across from Zenigata, and began sheafing through the papers. "Useless," he muttered. "Useless... ah, there is...! Hmm."

Across the cabin, Roscoe shut their eyes more tightly, and grimaced.

"Have you made a study of copyright," Popeau suddenly demanded, "Monsieur Zenigata?"

The policeman wordlessly shook his head.

Popeau waved the papers for emphasis. "It's a little thing, only a little thing, but I noticed! I know these things, these little things. In the east, and in the south, they worry about this thing very rarely, or not at all. //Droit d'auteur.// In Indochina--"

"Vietnam," Roscoe murmured, eyes still closed.

"--they are not very much troubled over who owns what, and for how long, when it comes to //propriété intellectuelle.// Nor in the Punjab, or //Algérie française.//"

Roscoe turned away, still grumbling, now shaking their head.

"What's your point?" Zenigata asked.

Popeau tapped the papers in his hand. "These appearances, and disappearances! Where copyright is lax, our fellows fluoresced. Dozens on dozens of reports, at the outset, far more than where red tape is strung tight. And then, //pouf!//" He tossed the papers in the air, and caught a few before they floated to the floor. "They vanished just as suddenly. Why is that?"

Zenigata mused. "Whatever's causing this is waxing and waning?"

"Adjusting, to be sure. To be sure!" Popeau stood up, tossing the papers back to Zenigata. In the midst of his theatrics he had somehow found the time to neatly stack them again. "Is it perhaps intentional? Is there a desired expression of this //anomalie,// something to be dialled into, like //une station de radio?//"

He stomped over to where Roscoe lay, and addressed the prone and now snoring detective. "I do detect a hint of the Belgian in my own manner, time to time. I am not this Hercule Poirot, //alleluia//, but I think perhaps I might have been. I might have been... adjusted."

Roscoe did not respond.

"But by who?" Zenigata prodded.

Popeau made a noise of exasperation, and headed back down the aisle. "I will take //une pause,//" he declared, "and come at the question afresh //dans un moment.// Perhaps a spell in the water closet will clear my befuddled head."

He knocked on the washroom door, once, twice, three times. On the occasion of the fourth he simply opened the door, and beheld a visibly bewildered Dupin.

A brief physical negotiation later, and the Chevalier found himself back in the main compartment. Dupin and the others chattered a while, muttering and conspiring and eventually reaching a new avenue of thought, while Popeau relieved himself. It did not sound like much of a relief, however; there was at once a mighty BANG, and a shifting sound, and then the door popped open again to disgorge a prodigiously immense old man.

In an instant, a pistol had appeared in Dupin's hand. "Hold!" he cried. "Identify yourself!"

In another instant, Roscoe was fully awake and pointing his own weapon at the interloper.

Said interloper blinked, then eased himself into the aisle. "What is this?" he cried. "A farce at the expense of Papa Poiret? //Quelle honte!//"

"Papa what?" Roscoe demanded, stifling another yawn. Their aim remained steady.

"Poiret," Dupin mused. "Oh, indeed." He reached over with his free hand to still Zenigata's; the policeman had a coin raised, ready to strike. "I think we might relax a moment, friends."

"Do you know what's happening, Dupin?" Roscoe demanded, never taking their eyes off the newcomer.

"I think I do," Zenigata said before the ratiocinator had a chance to respond. He lowered his throwing hand, and nodded at Dupin. "He was just talking about this. Someone messing with the nature of our manifestations?"

Poiret lifted the armrest separating two of the seats, and sat down on both. "Oh," he sighed. "Man was not meant for such altitudes. It is distressing. I am much distressed. Oh."

"What was that you were saying," Zenigata said, "about armchair detectives?"

Poiret blinked slowly, like a toad, then his face broke into a grin. "Oh, precisely! Precisely. Jules Poiret knows all there is to know about detecting from the comfort of one's //chaise.// This is not a matter for //clues!// And //suspects!//" He blew a raspberry, and closed his eyes. "This is a matter for deep thought, only. I imagine I will have it solved within the hour."

They watched him in silence for a while, then Dupin began to nod. "Quite," the Chevalier agreed with nothing in obvious evidence. "As Monsieur Roscoe said -- I heard them through the walls, this aero-plane is of very poor construction -- there was an even earlier template on which Monsieurs Poirot and Popeau were likely built. One Jules Poiret, from the hand of one Frank Howel Evans. There was doubt as to his exact provenance, or whether he even existed -- and I daresay imitators have produced an endless ream of faux manuscripts whose provenance withstands no scrutiny at all -- but a brief inquiry to the British Library settled that. Very helpful people, those archivists."

"Is all detective literature just plagiarism?" Roscoe muttered. "Who'd have thought crime literature would be such a legal minefield?"

"Precisely!" the big man shouted, and they turned back to look at him. His eyes were now open wide, and he was smiling. "Poirot would not do, no, he would not do at all! He is only in the public domain in the United States, where sense prevails. Fifty years past publication! In other jurisdictions they reckon by the author's date of death, and in some vile precincts -- like Canada," and he spat, "there is a moratorium on releases entirely. Poirot is a protected commodity beyond the Columbian republic! Not so Popeau, whose author perished in the late 1940s. But myself! Jules Poiret! My tales are so venerable, they have been out of print, out of circulation, and out of copyright //longtemps.// A sweet spot is being targeted, mark you me."

"But targeted by who?" Dupin pressed.

"Ah, now for that question, I will need a little help." He spread his hands wide. "Come, tell me all you know. Everything you worthies have surmised in the past few hours. Tell your tales to Papa Poiret, and he will put everything in order for you."

And he sat there, eyes half-lidded, listening and nodding and not interrupting as Zenigata and Dupin presented their half-formed cases to him.

Zenigata showed that while Interpol had been laser-focused on Lupin's band of public domain ruffians, plenty of copyrighted things were also popping into existence at the same time; most of the latter, however, had long since ceased to exist, for reasons unknown. What was known, was crystal clear, was that the Foundation had been forced to intervene by both the nature of the anomalies and their quantity. Well-known fictional figures popping into existence by the dozens? They //had// to cover that up.

"It also occurs to me," Zenigata added as an afterthought, "that the Domain have minds of their own. Is it possible they're focusing so much on the Foundation, rather than the rest of the anomalous world, specifically so that this investigation might exist? The love of the chase, or perhaps..."

"Or perhaps the hope that we, ourselves, will uncover the root of our mutual confusion," Dupin finished. "Yes, indeed. In investigating motives, we must first focus on effects. The nature of our altercations is most curious, no? Heroes and villains, but by no means is it clear which is which. We have been agents for the //status quo,// in more than one sense. Brushing all this free media under the rug, as though in service to the monied interests. As I said before, we must consider the author. Authors can be grasping, covetous things."

Poiret broke in with a violent clap of his hands.

"Very good. Very good! Now consider, first of all, the case of Robin Hood. That first report, Zenigata? That he was slight of build, and red of aspect? Could we not imagine him a fox in thief's greens?"

Roscoe's eyes widened. "You mean like... the cartoon?"

Poiret clapped his hands. "Quite so. But that creature was espied merely once, then appeared again as a man full-formed to attack Ms. al Fine's motorcade. This gave him much notoriety, and after that his form was fixed. Yes?"

Dupin nodded. "He's been consistent."

"Like van Kann said," Roscoe added. "Everybody knows Robin Hood, this version of Robin Hood, attacked the Undersecretary General of the GOC. So that's the permanent version of him now."

"And yet not so permanent, is he?" Poiret, with some effort, rose to his feet and stumbled over to where Zenigata's files lay. He plucked up a printout set of the defaced wanted posters, and presented them to the others. "You see this hand? How it wavers? Miss Adler wonders if he isn't diseased, and he admits to the possibility. He is not well, this Robin Hood. The man is a noble, and yet his handwriting is so dreadful! So very dreadful. It does not make sense. His very being is under siege, I think. Someone is doing away with him."

"Doing away with him," Zenigata repeated. "Hmm. And then there's you, changing identity..." He snapped his fingers. "And your poster being blurry, too. It all fits."

Poiret sat down beside Dupin, who scooted over. "These figures appearing and disappearing, let us consider them now more closely. We can see that the narrowest possible definition of the public domain has been targeted, though the aim went wild at first. Sloppy work. One by one the edge cases disappeared, but that is not what matters. What matters is--"

"Which ones never appeared in the first place," Dupin finished.

Poiret clapped him on the shoulder. "//Exactement, mon ami!// M. Zenigata tells us we are swamped with heroes and villains. Many, many detectives. M. Dupin has made a study of these. Tell me, which have never appeared at all?"

"To my knowledge..." Dupin's eyes closed, and his voice turned flat. "Basil of Baker Street."

"Who?" Zenigata asked.

Roscoe leapt to their feet. "The Great M—" They coughed. "The Great M--"

The other detectives looked up, concerned. "Is there something in your throat?" Dupin enquired.

"I can't say it." Roscoe sat down beside Zenigata. "Just like with Poirot, when I was writing up the file. Why can't I say it?"

"You know why," M. Poiret beamed. "Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain. Basil of Baker Street, an adaptation of that famous sleuth, is not. And yet I can speak his name! But one further stage of adaptation, and..."

Zenigata sucked in a breath. "Oh. Well, of course."

"The fox," said Dupin.

"The fox," M. Poiret smiled.

"They blocked their own properties from appearing," Roscoe smiled. "They put a cease and desist on the stuff //they own,// and everything connected to it. Not right away, and not very well, but they did it. The fucking idiots did it!"

"//Précisément,//" said M. Poiret. "They are still trying to erase poor Mr. Hood, out of a mistaken sense of proprietary concern, but he is too strong in the imagination for them. They have so little imagination themselves, those fallen imagineers. Ah, such thieves! Such scoundrels! They have profited from the //imaginaire populaire,// profited so greatly, and yet they are still grasping! Were it the fox alone, we might not have caught them, but ah." He patted his stomach contentedly. "Ah, ah. //S'approprier, non,// that we should catch them by a mouse's tale?"
[[/div]]

----

[[div class="outlaw"]]
The four members of the Thieves' Domain entered the chamber, and gasped. It was an immense circular room dozens of meters across and several stories high. But what made the place truly astonishing were the computer towers: hundreds of them, all extending from the floor to the ceiling, forming circular rows around the chamber.

There was no time for sightseeing, however. The gang made their way to the center of the room, wherein a lone computer terminal stood. It was an old thing; most people would instantly recognize that from its boxy, clunky design, but even the Domain recognized its age from the thick layer of dust resting on top of it. The screen was already on, displaying a command prompt ready for input.

Lupin's hands darted across the terminal until he found what he was looking for: a port. He pulled a flash drive out of his pocket.

"And now, world," he declared dramatically, "say //bonjour// to the SCP Foundation!"

He inserted the flash drive, and the computer shut off.

"Is... that supposed to happen?" asked Goemon.

Lupin panicked, searching around for a button to revive the computer. He found a large one on the side of the terminal and pressed it, expecting it to come online again. When it didn't, his worry visibly grew.

"Something's amiss," he said. "This should not be happening. We //need// the computer to complete our plan!"

The team scrambled around for several minutes, doing everything they could to reactivate the machine, but to no avail. Suddenly, the doors around the chamber opened, and guards began flooding in, weapons trained on the team. "Nobody move!" one of them shouted.

"Impossible!" snapped Lupin.

"Oh, come on, Lupin. You didn't really think you'd get //that// far, did you?"

The group turned and saw four familiar detectives walking towards them. In the lead was Quinn Roscoe, a disgustingly smug look on their face. As they approached, the guards rushed forward and handcuffed the would-be thieves.

"How?" Lupin demanded. "You could never have gotten here so quickly!"

Roscoe clapped his hands. "Oh, now //I// get to explain the plan for once. See, we didn't //have// to go through everything. Your little stint with intercepting the call was a nice touch, but you forgot to give any of the standard call messages, so we just flew here anyway. Took a bit of trouble to get through security, but once the Council saw what was happening, they were able to take matters into their own hands."

"But it's not fair!" exclaimed Lupin. "The computer shut off for no reason." Realization dawned on his face. "Unless—"

"Yeah," said Roscoe. "To do your big thing, expose the Foundation, you needed the computer. So, we just... turned it off."

Lupin stood, mouth open in shock. As a pair of guards towed him away, he stammered "You— you cheated. You cheated."

Roscoe turned around and grinned. "All's well that ends well, then?"

The other three detectives, who were all more bored than he expected, looked at him. "Uh, yeah. Great job," said Zenigata.
[[/div]]

----

[[div class="detective"]]

//[Arsène Lupin is seated in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the table. Detective Quinn Roscoe enters, and sits in the chair opposite to him.]//

**Roscoe:** Lupin.

//[Silence. Roscoe pulls out a folder and opens it.]//

**Roscoe:** We're still looking for all the items you've stolen. Some of them have been sent to other groups or individuals, but we're wanting to get it all back in order.

//[Silence.]//

**Roscoe:** If you cooperate with us, we can make an arrangement for you and your team. You're all very talented, and there's no reason to let that go to waste.

//[Silence. Roscoe sighs.]//

**Roscoe:** Lupin, it's only a matter of time until we find it all anyway and you lose any chance you have. Let it go. We beat you.

**Lupin:** YOU DIDN'T BEAT ME!

//[Lupin stands up, but is held back by the cuffs.]//

**Lupin:** YOU CHEATED! ALL OF YOU!

//[A guard enters, but Roscoe waves him away.]//

**Roscoe:** We stopped you. That's our job.

**Lupin:** YOUR JOB IS TO BE MY OPPONENT!

//[Lupin sits back down.]//

**Lupin:** A force of intelligence for us to conquer. Our greatest foes. And we would //outwit// you.

**Roscoe:** This isn't a //game//, Lupin.

**Lupin:** //Oui//, it was so much //more//. The culmination of our talents, our skills, our //conflict//.

//[Silence.]//

**Lupin:** I was impressed by all of you. Did you know that? I thought I'd met detectives able to match my cunning. That's why I let you get as close as you did.

**Roscoe:** What do you mean, let us?

**Lupin:** //[Scowls]// I see even now you manage to insult me further. Did you believe that our timing was mere foolishness? That we only began our infiltration //after// the House escaped? //Non, non, non,// it would have been unfair to leave you without a fighting chance! There is no sport in our final conflict if we were to engage only in subterfuge, for our theft to be unopposed.

//[Lupin pounds his fists on the table.]//

**Lupin:** We needed you //here//! Right on our tails, a chase to the end, for one of us to declare victory. But instead of chasing us, you //meandered// until you reached the game, and what do you do instead of joining? You burn the board.

//[Silence.]//

**Lupin:** What have you proven? Not strength, not skill, not intelligence, not cunning.

**Roscoe:** I'm not here to prove anything. I'm here to do my job and stop you from stealing anything. That's how this works.

**Lupin:** And your new partners?

**Roscoe:** They're here for the same reason I am.

**Lupin:** YOU DON'T GET TO DECIDE THAT!

//[Lupin pulls on his cuffs again.]//

**Lupin:** Who are you to deny a man his purpose? Who he is at his core? You and your secret-keepers, who gave you the right? You deny me, my team, and most cruelly, your friends, who they are.

//[Silence.]//

**Lupin:** Are they listening? Those other detectives?

**Roscoe:** Yes.

**Lupin:** Then to them I say this: you are pathetic creatures, and traitors to ourselves.

//[Silence.]//

**Roscoe:** I'll be seeing you soon, Lupin.

[[/div]]

------

**Addendum:** Following the arrest of the four members of the Thieves' Domain, MTF Kappa-16 ("Interpol") brought forward their fully compiled evidence suggesting the following:

* that the recent proliferation of narrative-based anomalies was deliberately engineered by a third party; and
* that this had been done in order to provoke Veil-sustaining organizations such as the Foundation to lobby governmental entities to end copyright expiration and prevent copyrighted works from entering the public domain due to the passage of time; and
* that further investigation pointed to GoI-066 ("The Walt Disney Company") as a likely instigator.

While directly seizing the (presumed) inciting device through hostile action would likely be successful, this would break all friendly relations with GoI-066 and potentially other major corporations, resulting in economic and political warfare. The O5 Council is presently deliberating a course of action regarding this development, and whether or not the Foundation will comply with GoI-066's plans.

MTF-Kappa-16 is on standby until the deliberations have concluded; once the ongoing crisis has concluded, the task force will be dissolved.

------

[[div class="outlaw"]]
They sat in silence for a time, Interpol and the Thieves' Domain. Not taking each other's measure, not staring each other down, simply simmering. Waiting for someone to rip the band-aid off.

It should have been Lupin.

He could feel Dupin's eyes on him, from time to time, behind those green spectacles. Absurd affectation. A set of screens to hide behind, like the coward he was. Dissembler. Cheater. Unworthy of the honour Lupin and his friends had paid him, the chases, the wild gambles, the outrageous fiascos they had concocted and sprung into being over the preceding weeks. It had all been for an audience of //boors.//

"Boys," Adler finally piped up. "You're starting to smell. Can we either hash our shit out, or empty the room before I suffocate in raw testosterone?"

Zenigata laughed. Poiret, who was sweating profusely, twisted his broad countenance into a look of utmost empathy. Goemon scoffed, but it was a scoff open to interpretation.

Lupin set his cuffed hands on the table, and sighed. "Fine. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Dupin took off his spectacles, and Lupin saw there were deep bags under the Chevalier's eyes. "Only that this isn't the end I would have chosen for our pursuit. Given the option, I might not have seen it end at all."

"Finally, he admits it," Roscoe grunted. They had a foot up on the wall, and their arms were crossed.

"What's done is done," Lupin snapped. "This is where all lines converge, //non?// The final page of the story, and all the others blank. Wiped clean."

The import of these words slowly dawned on the other thieves. Goemon rumbled, "I have faced death before. It holds no terror for me."

"That was probably a really original statement back in the Edo period," said Roscoe.

"Azuchi-Momoyama," Zenigata corrected softly. "And no, not really. Not even then."

"Whatever." The Foundation detective pulled up the empty chair, and sat down. "You're sulking. I get that. You had your eyes set on a prize, and you were bound and determined to get it. These gentlemen?" They gestured at their three fictional counterparts. "They were just as excited to figure it out as you were excited to get off Scot-free. But that was never going to happen. It //couldn't// happen."

"Your part, that is," Dupin interjected smoothly. "Your part couldn't happen. Because you would destabilize, and eventually destroy, all human civilization."

"Better a chaotic end than continuity under jackboots," Adler spat.

"But that's just it," Poiret sighed. "Continuity is an illusion. A product of weak minds drawing patterns where there are none. All is change, always."

"Yeah," Hood agreed. "Change. Who even are you?"

"A sign of the times, //mon ami,//" Poiret crowed. "And a symptom of the disease. There is something far fouler than the Foundation at work, and I think, I suspect, that you know it."

Lupin shrugged. "We're not detectives."

"No," Zenigata agreed. "You're not. But you outsmart them for a living. Poor Ganimard -- he's fine, by the way, I'll tell him you asked -- he says you've been twenty steps ahead of him for as long as he can remember. So let's not pretend you don't have your suspicions. You know you aren't here by accident. The question is, what can we do about it?"

"Nothing," Hood grumbled. "I mean, of course we know something's wrong. Nobody robs from the rich and gives to the poor anymore. And they should!" He slapped the table. Nobody jumped. "They should. But a merry band of thieves, righting wrongs? That's not how things work in your world. Someone masterminded this charade. Maybe you know who."

"Maybe," Roscoe allowed. "Maybe you wanted us to figure it out for you, and that's why you've been making such a big fuss for us specifically."

"Or maybe you're merely the worst of the worst, and our most natural target," Lupin sneered.

"Whoever started this," Adler continued, ignoring the verbal sparring match, "they plucked us out of the communal ooze for a reason. Made us what we were, at first. Thorns in your side. Old treasures plucked out of the bargain bin, with an eye to rescuing other things like us. Not even thieves. //Rescuers.//"

"And you rescued your way into the Foundation's bad graces," Dupin agreed. "As you were always intended to, to force a response. Why allow yourselves to be used in this way?"

"Because it was //right!//" Lupin shouted, standing up. "Because what you have, you should not hold."

"That's as may be," Zenigata nodded. "I'm a policeman, and even I think these people clamp down too hard."

"And they commit horrors," Popeau winced, "as cruel as those they keep under lock and key."

"But we aren't them." Dupin tapped the table lightly, a gentle echo of the master thief's angry slap. "We merely muddle through this drama, as do you. There may be a solution to the wider injustice that surrounds us, and we may all some day be part of it. But there is a crime still left unpunished, a wrong still unaddressed, //a collection of ill-gotten gains which begs to be pilfered,// my dear Arsène, and while we sit here and stew, one of the worst hoarders of public property ever to have existed sits triumphant and smug on their throne of lies. And all our fellow figments, all those who have been and might be again? They have been given life, precious and fleeting, and then struck down. All to protect a bottom line. Do we not owe them their revenge?"

"So, what?" Lupin sat back down, adjusting his jumpsuit as though it had tails and lapels to be smoothed. "You want advice on how to crack down on some corporate stooges? That is not our concern, //friend.// I am no advisor. I will not be party to your vile collusion."

Dupin, to the surprise of all the others, suddenly stood and gathered his waistcoat about him. "You might," he smiled. "I've taken the liberty of setting a relevant schedule for your recreation. Live-action Walt Disney film remakes. Ah! They will spin those careworn threads into false gold for decades to come, it seems. Such a pity."

Lupin scowled. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure." Dupin turned, then added over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought: "Enjoy the Foundation's hospitality, Monsieur Lupin. The meat loaf is said to be especially vile."

And one by one, the detectives departed.

Lupin, as was his custom, was the first of the thieves to smile.
[[/div]]

------

[[div class="detective"]]

**One week later.**

"You know, one of these days I'll be given a threat to global security that's just a one-and-done."

The four members of Interpol stood awkwardly in O5-8's office. When they'd heard that a Council member wanted to speak to them in person, Roscoe had immediately gone into panic mode, worried out of their mind that the detectives were going to be amnesticized or terminated or something even worse. Naturally, this put the whole team on edge, but thankfully the older woman seemed only annoyed, and not at them.

"Right after I got this position," the Overseer began, "my first thing was being assigned as liaison to a brand new department we'd just voted on. Fine, I say, nice and easy, and ever since then I haven't gone more than //one fucking week// without a phone call from some Division or Authority or Administration whose whole point is to try incredibly hard not to do anything. Then the Council decided I did such a good job with //that,// I get to be the emergency contact for six goddamn Directors. //Now// I'm woken up in the middle of the night, after fielding a call from a ninety-three-year-old corpse of a man asking for the //fifth time// for a file I //already// gave him. //And//—"

"Ah, I beg your pardon, //mademoiselle//," said Dupin, "but I'm uncertain as to what you wish us to help with."

"Yes, yes," said Eight. "Anyway, since the Domain's escape, they've managed to break into Disney's most secure vault and steal one of their little experiments. But it seems like your team's hunch was right on the money; since then we haven't encountered any new public domain anomalies, so they've ever stopped showing up or started //wising// up. I'm not complaining here, Bob Iger's a piece of shit and I'm happy not to have to lobby Congress again just to meet his demands. But of course, big picture: now we have to deal with a //second// heist gang running around snatching random shit, and unlike the House of Stars, the Thieves' Domain hasn't got a sitcom-style interpersonal drama fest every other week holding them back."

The three book detectives looked uneasily at one another. Roscoe squinted at Eight. "So... what does this have to do with us?"

Eight blinked. "I mean, it's obvious. You're being put back on duty."

The team cheered, clapping each other on the back and celebrating with glee until they saw Eight's baffled expression, and immediately stopped. "We're happy to help," Dupin explained somewhat unnecessarily.

"Indeed," said Zenigata.

"Hear, hear," Poiret sang, in a voice suspiciously more like Popeau's.

Eight let it pass. "Anyway," she continued, "while I doubt we'll be able to spring another trap like that again, your track record has been more than satisfactory; solid success rate considering the Domain's pataphysical nature, and exemplary damage control when it comes to failed interception missions."

Eight stared at the team. The team stared back. Popeau coughed.

"Yeah, that's about it," said Eight. "I just didn't want to give you the satisfaction of the last word. You're free to go now."

The four detectives exited the office, and the moment the doors closed, Roscoe pulled them into a group hug.

"Aw, you guys have no idea how happy I am about this," he said. "Seriously, I thought I'd never get to see you again."

"Oh, my dear detective," Popeau beamed, "we are likewise delighted."

"Yes, I for one am unprepared for an early retirement," said Dupin.

"Would you even notice the difference?" Zenigata grinned. "And somehow I don't think //retirement// is exactly what they had in mind for us."

The team laughed for a moment, but stopped as the disturbing thought of what might have been settled in. They stood awkwardly together for a moment.

"Well, at any rate, it's good we'll be able to keep working together," Zenigata concluded.

"Right?" said Roscoe. "When I heard the Domain had escaped, I thought for sure we'd all take the fall for it, but I guess it was a bit of a blessing in disguise, huh?"

"Ah... yes. You could say that," Dupin replied awkwardly.

The team began walking as Roscoe continued. "Apparently they were able to get their hands on a single screwdriver, which managed to facilitate their whole breakout. Crazy, huh?"

Popeau coughed. "Very much so, yes."

Roscoe turned around to look at them, and winked. The other three glanced at each other with concerned expressions as Roscoe pulled out a Foundation-issue phone, and began tapping.

"Looks like we've got an assignment already." They made eye contact with each detective in turn. "Well, don't just stand there! We've got work to do."

They smiled as one and headed for the exit, first at a respectable walk and then an ecstatic run, to wherever their next adventure awaited.
[[/div]]

[[=image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/arsene-lupin-vs-the-scp-foundation-hub/callingcard.png]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
=====
Arsène Lupin and related concepts are derived from //[[[https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Extraordinary_Adventures_of_Arsene_Lupin,_Gentleman_Burglar | The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Burglar]]]// by Maurice LeBlanc, 1907, in the public domain.

Irene Adler is derived from "[[[https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/A_Scandal_in_Bohemia | A Scandal in Bohemia]]]" by Arthur Conan Doyle, 1891, in the public domain.

C. Auguste Dupin and related concepts are derived from "[[[https://poestories.com/text.php?file=murders | The Murders in the Rue Morgue]]]" by Edgar Allan Poe, 1841, in the public domain.

Jules Poiret is derived from "The Murder in Judd Lane" by Frank Howel Evans, 1909, in the public domain.

Hercules Popeau is derived from //The Lonely House// by Marie Belloc Lowndes, 1920, in the public domain.

Zenigata Heiji is derived from public domain works by Kodō Nomura.

------
> **Filename:** https://scp-sandbox-3.wdfiles.com/local--files/collab:nicoharrycalibold001/001splash.jpg
> **Author:** [[*user HarryBlank]]
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ SCP Wiki]
------
> **Filename:** https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/arsene-lupin-vs-the-scp-foundation-hub/callingcard.png
> **Author:** Inspector Spinda
> **License:** CC-by-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ SCP Wiki]
=====
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