#writey asks

"Clef? Clef, why is this cat clinging onto you? You literally just walked in."

Clef isn't exactly ignoring him, but he's definitely not looking at him. He's very clearly focused on the large, fluffy black-and-white cat that tackled him the moment he walked into the Haven Cat-fé. His smile is as bright as the light pollution in the city at night, and Kondraki would bet money the cat would be smiling like that too if it could. Though it's hiding it well enough, batting at Clef like it's demanding treats.

"Konny!" Clef turns to him, holding the cat up until it's eye-level with him- impressive, considering their height difference. "This is why I wanted to take you here. Here, hold him." He drops the cat into Kondraki's arms unceremoniously, despite the protesting yowl from it and the fact Kondraki almost drops it.

Kondraki barely manages to get it in a proper position in time, carrying it like he remembers carrying Draven as a baby. "Clef, what the fuck-"

"Catdraki's as much of an angry bastard as you. You'll get along perfectly."

"... Who?"

"The cat he dumped on you," one of the employees in the back replies, a tall man who reminds him of Glass somewhat for reasons he can't place. "He renamed it, the asshole. Have a seat. Nyalto will be looking for Clef soon enough, so you get double the cats."

"Nyalto?" Kondraki turns back to Clef quickly. "Clef, did they name one of the cats here after you?"

Clef laughs. "Of course they did! Like I said, Kon- this is the best cat café in the city. And they recognize valued customers."

The employee shoots him a look Kondraki's seen a hundred times over- something along the lines of valued my ass. But Clef seems happy here. Even if here is a café in the middle of nowhere where he's been dragged into carrying a cat named after him.

"Whatever." Kondraki huffs, shifting the cat in his arms so he can see it better. It's got round white markings all over it contrasting its mostly black fur and it is unfairly cute. "What do I even do with this thing, anyway?"

it's the 50th flash fiction friday! i haven't written for these in a while, but we had four whole prompts this week and i really liked one of them. and i had a story i wanted to rewrite, if i can find the notebook it was in. so...

anyway, let's start! the prompt i'm using for now is-

[[MORE]]

.

There is light, a blinding, burning light, through every shard and fractal of his inhuman body. There is a scream sharp in his ears, in the bone-dry hollow of his throat where he can't reach. There's nothing, nothing past that.

It's only faintly that William realizes he's fallen to the ground.

A boot crunches down on his hands, where he was still scrabbling desperately against the sand, and the scream cracks along with the glass of his fingers. He doesn't think he'll ever be used to that sound, even after his body has lost all humanity. The god that made him this way growls, digging in their heel harder. He can't see past the blinding light.

"Did you think you could get away with this?!" Emil demands, their clarion voice ringing out like a trumpet. It's not the same soft, human one they'd used talking to their family, and talking to him in the quiet of night. "Did you think you could get ả̵̟͙͂̔̒̌̈̄͝ẅ̵̬̱̫̂a̴̭͇͔̹͉͔̋̆͑͊͛̾͘ÿ̷̨̢͍̦͎̫̳͙̘̙?! I've given you everything! I've given you more than you ever dared to hope for! And yet you still try to ḷ̴̨̼̙̖͎͔̮͗̎̇͐̕ë̸̳̭̫͓͇́̾̀͠a̸̛̪͎͎̔͗̍̀̃̇́͝v̴̼̪̈́͌̈́̉́̇͗̚͠ͅe̸̛̖̦̠̒̔̉!"

William forces himself to breathe. It comes in shaky, unstable in the sandstorm swirling around them. He can still feel the pain of it whipping into him. He doubts Emil's ever been able. "Please-" he chokes out, "please, no, stop-"

"You b̵̧̢̲̱̞̓͋̍̈̑̊͐̒͘é̴̬̘̻̲̘̗̣́̋̓̕͠t̶̨̟͔͍́̂̀r̵̢̳͚̹͔̰̽͂̐a̴̧̤̗͎̞̳̹͍͓̓̈́ỳ̵̧̱̳̣͖̰͍̼̞e̸̡̧̱͓̝̥͆͐̇̂̿̓́͝͝d̷̲̗̬̻͚̥̆ ̶̢̝̻͇̦̜̄̊̃̐̽́͋̚ͅm̴̧̺̼̓̀̅e̶̬͎̼͂̒͜!" Emil screams, all the fury of the sun being born bright in their whole being, "a̶̧͗ṅ̷̯d̴̥̐ ̵̛̖ȳ̷̭ö̸̯́ṷ̴̍ ̵͓̑t̷̙́h̴̜͑ì̵͍n̸̰͛k̶̺̅ ̶̜̓I̵̟̚'̸̠́m̴̼̏ ̶̜͊j̴̖̅ṳ̴̔s̴̩̈́t̵̰̐-̵̹͠ ̷͚́j̷̟͐u̷̦͘s̷̲̃t̷̛̺ ̴͚͊g̴̻̽ò̶̹i̷͛͜n̴̞̎g̷̤̑ ̷̰̒t̴͙͌o̵̞͋ ̴̧̈́s̷̢͋ț̸͛ö̸̗́p̵̹̐?̵̖̑ ̵̙̒Ṉ̴̔ò̵̼!̶̪̀ ̸̲̀Ẏ̵͈o̴̫͘û̴̧ ̶͍̃t̶̙͒ŗ̸̛ị̸̛ê̸̝d̶͇͒ ̶̡̛t̷͎̀o̸̙͒ ̷̼̈́l̶̦͐é̶͔a̵͖͝v̶̟̉e̴͓͝-̷̪͊!̶̬̈"

"Please, you're hurting me-!"

"- and you- you helped Adam ̵̠͝ĺ̷̥e̶̠͝a̸͔̒v̷̳̒e̵̻͑-̵̞̓!̷̝̕"

"Emil, you're breaking me!"

"G̴̛̣̠̯͈̲̟̖͖̟͉͚̏̾ͅö̵̻̬̩̗̳̙͍̫̞̩̳̀̈́̒͗̆͒̎͋ǫ̴̜̖͖͙͈̳͙̟͍̟͓̀̊͋̂̈́́̋̍̽̍͝ͅd̵͕̬̹̻̖̋̀̓̀̍͑͗͜!̶̧̢̡̱̼͎͍̥̳͉̗̱̺̰͈̜̼͆͒͗̇̔̄̃̍̋͋̓͋̌͆̓͘" The aridisol making up their body explodes outwards, enough that their form is barely humanoid anymore. Faintly, William can hear the terrified voices of the other townspeople, trying to take shelter from the dust storm. He tries to speak again and Emil shatters the glass of his legs.

"Emil!" Another voice cuts in through the storm, familiar and almost safe. Samuel Deke grabs Emil by the wrist, all the dust of him quickly absorbing the unbearable heat rising from his sibling. He doesn't seem to care. "Emil, leave him alone! He didn't do anything wrong-"

"H̶̛̜̑e̶̮͌̆ ̷̳͔̈́́ȉ̵̳̐s̴̬̾ ̷̭̤̈́̉ṭ̸̭͝͝r̷̙̟̅ẙ̵̘̀i̴͇̟̽͛n̴̛͚͒ĝ̸͚ ̸̢́t̵̤̦͊͘o̶̖̝̍ ̷͓̏ͅl̸̘̼͂e̷͍̋ǎ̸͍̽v̸̧̔ẻ̸̠ ̷̫̔̆m̴͉͕̀̚ẹ̵͖͑͗!̴̮͒" More shattering, this time in his shoulders. "I̸̼̍ ̴͓̆ď̸̦í̷̲d̸̙́ǹ̵̰'̴̭́t̴̡̆ ̶̘̑d̴̝̓o̵͖͛ ̶̧͠a̸̤͘n̴̘͐y̷̤̌t̵̯̂h̶̠̾ī̷̫n̸̼͒g̸͙͝ ̸̤̾w̴̿ͅȑ̶̯o̸̝͘n̵̻̓g̸̹̚ ̴̯̅Í̴͖ ̴̤̇d̶̺̕i̵͔̋d̵͙̃ ̴̟͠e̶͎̅v̶͎̀e̶̤͝r̶͙̒y̷̧͠t̷̺̋h̷͙̎i̴̫̒n̷͚̄g̴̢͐ ̶̪͂r̴̦͘ì̴̥g̶͈̿h̶͉́t̸̝̕ w̸͈̜̝͛h̴̨̡̰̊͌̈͆͆͝y̷̧̼͙͓̘̝̒ ̶̲͕̗̭͍̓̄̽i̷̧͉͎̫̾̀̾s̷̛̙ ̴̧̠͎̰͐͐͛͘ḩ̸̢̻̘̒̊̀̑̿̉͜ͅe̵̱̰̣̰͓͉̓ ̷̥̞̺̟̼̉͜t̴̡̻̰̘͓̪̀r̶̝͌y̷̛̽̊̚̚ͅi̸̭̤̦̮̬̟͌̔͂̑͗͝n̵̝̩͊g̵͖̹̪̈́̈́̈́ ̴̢̧̦͔̗̤͌̓͌t̶̗͈͓̏̀͒̇͛̔o̵̰̖̺͑͠ ̷͉̣̟̾̄̈͗͒̍l̶̨̦̫͇̜̓͝e̵̠̘̟̼̐̅̋ḁ̷̥͖̱͖͆͠v̶̘̥̂̄̎̓͘é̸̺͍̞̍̽̈͘ͅ ̴̧̮̮̣̋͂̂̏͋̌ḿ̴̺͎̘͕̺̄͗è̷̪͔?̸!"

"Emil, let him go!" There's a heavy crack, this one not in glass. The god of the town, the eye of the storm, the ever-burning sun- they freeze for a moment, the storm still as they register the crumbling soil of their cheek. The soil their brother hit.

"... S̶̘̋ǎ̶͚͛m̴̱̰̎u̴̞͔͐̀ȩ̷̢͂͝l̴̝̃͗."

"No! No, he- You can hit me, please, don't hurt him-"

"Who the hell do you think you are," Samuel snarls, their sand burning in the heat. "What right do you have to stop him? What right do you have to hurt him?"

"He's m̶͕͋į̸̺̽̊n̷̻͎̕é̴͓̙̇." Emil responds sharply. "As y̶̭̞͌̒ỏ̴̠̈́u̷͇̓ are. As t̵̪̭̑h̸̨̺̚ĭ̷̹s̵̜͐̈́ ̵̖̱̏͊t̶͎̄́ͅo̷̟̦̾w̴̰͓͛͆n̴̯͝͝ is. He's m̴̲̓̎ĭ̶̤͝ṋ̶̿͝ẽ̴̙̭̃, he's m̴̦͚͝ẻ̸̗͚, I've given him s̶͍̣̓ỏ̸̯͕̄ ̷̱̠̈m̴̭̌ủ̴͓c̸̟̤̈́͐h̴̖͌̋ ̵̬̈́̅o̸̢̮̓͘f̸͔̰̀̈́ ̸͍͕̆͛m̵̠̕ĕ̸̩̱- does he think he can j̷̐ͅú̵̋͜s̵͔̳̕t̵͕́ ̸̭͕̽t̴͕̊̑ḥ̸̩̂ȑ̶̠o̵̫̚w̴͈̋̕ ̴̹̚i̵̞̯̊t̷̰̑͘ ̷̞͉̆a̶̦̓l̸̙̬͒l̷̥̪̊ ̷͎͂ḁ̴̃͂ẃ̵͓̬͗â̸͎͇͌y̸̤͈̆̀?̶̤́!̴͎͛"

"He doesn't belong to you. None of us do." Samuel glares down at them. "Emil... Don't you love him? Don't you care about him? Why are you putting him through this?"

"Ö̷̟̪́f̸͚͋ ̴̰̯͝c̵̬̯̀̀o̶͇̼͋͝u̸̖̜͋́r̸̲͈̒s̶͖̻̈è̶͎͚ ̸̢̅̇I̷̡̛̓ ̷̭͋l̷̪͂o̷̖̖̊v̵̢̦̊ȇ̵̪ ̷̥͝ḥ̴͂i̶͉͗m̸͕͠!̴̺̕̚ ̷̧͙̊̿Ḯ̸͎̺͝t̸͕͙̃̈'̷̟̯̓͗s̵̆͜ ̶̙͋ẃ̸͎̰h̷͈̖̓͒y̸͚̾̅ ̴̩̒I̷̱͂ ̷̡̛̈́c̷͇͌́a̶̳̥͌̊ň̸̲'̷̧́t̶͉̆ ̶̯̳̾l̵̹̩̈e̸̘̾t̸̥͈͒̆ ̸͖̎̂h̵̢̯͒̈́i̶̙̲̔̅m̷̩͙͊̍ ̶̹̅̈́l̴̰͔̐͌ę̷̠̄̄ă̷̢v̵̟̦́ẽ̵͖͓!̵̮̦̀͌"

"Bullshit." Samuel doesn't react even as the flickering light of Emil returns to blinding. "You love having him. And if that's the only thing you care about then no fucking wonder William wanted to leave."

It is still night. But no-one would be able to tell with how bright it's become.

"... You're lying." Emil says. "I̵͇͝ ̵̫͕̎̎d̴̟͒̉ö̵̙́̈́n̷͔͈̋'̷̥͐́t̴̊̈́͜ ̵̱̳̉͊b̴͎̯̌̕e̴̜̖͂̋l̷̦̗̽̚i̵̬̐ĕ̸̜̦v̵͍̣̓ë̴̻́́ ̷̜͒̌y̴̛̟̺ö̵͎̗́̄u̴̺̥̐̀.̸͙͖́̚"

@flashfictionfridayofficial hope you like it!

"I'd make some joke about there being a big storm coming, but it's already here."

"Laugh at it, I guess," Hazel said worriedly, looking out at the pouring rain, "but will you be okay? You usually walk home from school, and the ground's going to be really muddy."

"I'm fine. I've walked home in worse." Ash joined her at the window. The storm did look to be getting really bad, definitely enough that the streets would be flooding a bit. Even what was visible of the road from inside the building seemed blurred and indistinct against the glass panes. "Or I could take a ride in your car. My siblings are out with my mom at some restaurant, so they definitely won't be back for a while."

Despite herself and the way the rain had already begun making her head pound, Hazel smiled. "My dad won't mind bringing you. Plus, your house is on the way to ours, so it's not a bother or anything!"

"Well, you've never been bothered by that. One of the good things about being friends with you." Ash smiled back. "Is your head okay? You said the sound of rain made it hurt..."

"I'll just put my headphones in and hopefully it'll go away." She started digging in her bag for the old pair. They were at the bottom, already tangled after a day of summer school. She got to work untangling them. "Anyway, did you like class today? I heard from some of your second-year classmates that you got to make a pie! Was it hard?"

"A little, but if I'm trying to get into culinary school pie is going to be one of the least of my worries." Fillets, macarons, a thousand other recipes- all of them were on the lesson plan for summer school. They had to keep getting better if they wanted to excel. "What about you? Did you have fun with remedial classes?"

The groan Hazel responded with was all the answer they needed.

"Come on. English classes aren't that bad. Once you get to story-writing it becomes a lot more interesting." They patted their younger friend on the head. "And once you get to fourth year apparently you'll be making video resumes, not looking over old books that make you want to cry. You'll be fine."

"That won't make it any easier to sit through." English classes- hell, just language in general, really- all of it was just so boring. Where were the concrete concepts? Where was the physical involvement? Where was the arithmetic and the calculation? "I don't need to know what an infinitive is to be an engineer, Ash! I really don't! God, and I wanted to sign up for math summer classes this year..."

"I'll tutor you next year if you fail again." Ash barely managed to avoid Hazel trying to whack them on the arm at that. "You'll get your math classes next summer. Don't worry."

"Do you promise?"

"Obviously I promise. How else am I supposed to keep getting your help with my math classes if I don't?" They pulled her closer, much more comfortable than she was hearing the storm. "Speaking of that, I brought the second-year's workbook. Do you want to fill it out? I'll trade for that cookbook you said you brought."

"Deal." Hazel pulled a thick book from her bag, dropping it in their lap. "This one had better have graphing equations. You were whining about hating doing that yesterday."

"You'll have to read and find out, I'm afraid. I've wiped every page of that workbook from my mind."

wow this one took a while. there's an iris here, though, so i feel like it's okay!

.

The walls of the site were wooden.

Some sort of anomalous effect, Iceberg deduced, scanning the dark material. Not touching it. He would not make that mistake. It was likely caused by SCP-4231's anomalous capabilities, specifically a typical stress response. So Wojciechowski had not managed to sedate it, then. The failure would be noted.

The fact that the bullet shells scattered across the floor were non-lethal was noted as well. That was likely not an anomalous effect. So the attempts to stop this termination were non-lethal as well? He hadn't expected differently of Wojciechowski, really. Gears would not appreciate that his hypothesis had been correct.

Gears. His assistant would prefer that he come back unharmed, wouldn't he? Objectives clicked into place in Iceberg's mind. Personal safety would have to be a concern, then. Not a priority, exactly, but a concern nonetheless.

Protecting 239, on the other hand, was a priority. Subduing 4231 was a priority. So he would take whatever measures were necessary.

The comm in Iceberg's ear buzzed, receiving an incoming signal. He allowed it through. "Status?"

"Iceberg? Oh, thank fuck." Wojciechowski's voice came through in a nearly inaudible crackle. It was strained, Iceberg noted. Injuries, then, were likely. "You have to stop Arlens. He's going for-"

"239. I'm aware." Iceberg's eye twitched slightly. "Status, Wojciechowski."

"Alive. Beat-up. Did you know Lens liked locking people into empty containment cells? Or breaking their ribs?" Wojciechowski coughed. "I sure fucking do. He tracked me down and shoved me into a room with no shadows. Fuck knows where James Talloran is. God, when I find him--"

"We'll address your revenge later. Where is 4231?"

"Jesus." Wojciechowski swore. "Don't call him that!"

"I'll call him what I like, director. Where is it?"

"He is going for the butterfly chamber." The other man laughed. "Not that he's getting in. I made sure of that. He'd have to cause a CK-Class scenario to get in, and... well. He likes his being 4231 about as much as I do."

"Do you really think we can rely on its discomfort with a number? It blew up your doors, Wojciechowski. It deserves to be an SCP right now." Iceberg's expression was almost cold enough to be called a scowl. Almost. "Evacuate your personnel. I will handle your breach myself."

The comm was silent.

"... you're going to kill him?"

"If it's necessary." And it almost certainly was. "Evacuate your men, Francis."

Iceberg could practically hear the silent fury on the other end.

Finally, finally, Wojciechowski answered.

"No."

"Then neutralize it yourself," Iceberg ordered. "I don't have time for your sexual tension. Get it under control and make sure it doesn't cause a goddamn breach. I will handle 239 myself."

"... Fine." Wojciechowski growled on the other end. "Don't get in my way. You're a very replaceable man, Doctor Gilles. That assistant of yours deserves a promotion anyway."

"I'd be happy to sign one for him," he responded. "Get your pet project under control."

There was the sound of a comm being crushed under rubber soles.

Iceberg sighed, turning his own comm off. The dramatics. Honestly. If he didn't want his pet SCP terminated he shouldn't have let it try to kill a little girl.

Especially not that little girl.

Iceberg stepped through the halls with a purpose, a hand on the grenades hanging from his belt.

"Damn it!" Butterfly slammed a fist against the closed door to 408's containment cell, anger burning bright inside him. He could feel the flickering life of his butterflies inside, the familiar feel of it only fuelling his fury. "G-d damn it, Clef. You and your g-ddamned lockdowns."

The 408s couldn't get out. Not with those protections. Butterfly had a feeling what was in place had been set up a long time ago, and it hadn't been meant to keep them in.

No. It had been to keep him out.

Damn Clef. Damn his director, planning and planning and lying his way through questions, through explaining what protections were on what. Damn the fact that terrifying competence had been turned to...

To what? To the whims of a little girl high on her own power, not even knowing what she had turned him into?

Fuck her. Fuck 239. Fuck this whole mess. When he found that girl, he was going to rip her to shreds.

Butterfly's hand slipped down the reinforced metal of the door, going down, down with his hope.

Hopeless. This was hopeless. He'd never get to her. Was he already too late? The alarm had probably alerted other sites, too, so he almost definitely had Iceberg on his trail. And even if not Iceberg, even if it was someone he could subdue without issue and get past to kill 239-- could he even do it? Could her powers overtake his? Could she look at him, twist him, turn him into something beyond his worst nightmares because he made her think of a monster?

Could he even do this?

... Not without help. Not without allies. And without the 408s... did he even have any?

The room was silent around him. Cursing him. Mocking him. He didn't. He didn't have anyone. The SCPs would have been evacuated and fucking Francis was against him and- and--

"... You look like you need a little help."

Butterfly jerked, spinning swiftly to find a young woman standing in front of him. She didn't so much as blink when he leveled his sword to her throat.

"... Iris Thompson."

"In the flesh," she responded, deadpan. "Lower the sword, Benjamin Kondraki. We need to talk."

"Don't call me that!" Benjamin Kondraki was a dead man. He'd died with his wife and he'd died with the thought that his son was a monster to be contained. "Don't you ever say that name again."

"Sorry." Thompson smiled. At least, it looked like a smile. His depth perception was shot to hell, of course, and his third eye stung with heat, but he swore even past that it looked more like a snarl than a grin. "This isn't the right world to be calling you that. But, well, with that name or not... I'm offering you an out."

"An out?" As if he'd trust her. 239 had never seen her, yes, but Thompson was personnel. Dating Francis's own daughter. Why she'd side with him over her site and her girlfriend he hadn't the slightest idea. "Spare me the bullshit, Thompson. What do you want?"

"It's obvious, Doctor Butterfly," she said, enough surety in her voice that he strained to hear anything inhuman past that. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing but the dregs of a dead god inside her. "I want you to win."

That made him pause. "What?"

"There are tunnels the director doesn't know about. Meant for Factotum use. O5 use," she explained. Something in her voice tired as she did. "How did you think I stayed hidden while they evacuated? The Council thinks it hides its things well, really. But it's easy to find them when you have all the time in the world. And we both know how much time I had."

"... Damn. 3999 really did a number on you, didn't it?" He remembered back when she had first come to the site, when she was still nervous and kind of snappy and excited. Now... well. "Where are they?"

"Right here." Thompson reached out, taking him by the wrist and tugging him past a corner to find a large door where there once had been wall. It hung open to reveal a tunnel, leading down, down, down. "And turn off the voice, Butterfly. No-one here's scared of you. Except maybe you."

"... Asshole." His voice, past the anomaly echoing it, was weak. Raspy. "How the hell did you find this?"

"I killed O5-6 in it a month ago. How else?" She pulled him in. "Do your best, Doctor Butterfly. Leave me a corpse to burn."

And didn't that send chills down his spine.

"Wait," Butterfly called, stopping Thompson as she walked away. "Why are you doing this?"

It took her a few moments to answer. The tunnels loomed empty around him.

"I like watching reality benders die," she answered simply. The door closed before him.

... Ominous. But helpful. Butterfly shook his head, descending into the dark of the tunnels. Hopefully she only wanted 239 dead. Hopefully it didn't extend to him.

But if it did...

Butterfly shook his head, looking through the tunnels. They seemed to match the halls of Site 17 enough, didn't they?

He wasn't exactly a stupid man. He knew his enemies-- friends?-- were dangerous. He knew it'd be risky to fight them without help.

And, well... 408 wasn't the only group of butterflies on-site.

Butterfly turned left, headed for the enclosure storing SCP-3209.

Iris Thompson travelled the halls with barely a sound. She knew well how to avoid making a sound on these floors, covered in wood or not. In her pocket, a six-sided die sat wrapped in her handkerchief, familiar and unturning.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" she heard Francis Wojciechowski demand in front of her. Iris did not look up. Instead, she shrugged, her fingers playing idly on that die.

"I'm with Butterfly on this one," she said softly, pulling the die out of its cloth. "That girl did something, that's for sure. The only thing to do now is stop it."

Francis scowled. He was hurt, Iris noted, with badly burned hands and broken gear, and he walked with a limp that screamed of a broken leg. "Iris. She's only a kid."

"And you're only a man." Iris met his eyes. "I could kill you without flinching."

"You wouldn't."

She shrugged. "Get out of the way and I won't."

Stubbornly, Francis stayed. Iris sighed. "Fine. Make your choice."

oh that one sounds so cute!! thank you leen!!

i asked my sister and she said clefdraki so let's go!

.

"Is there a reason you're blushing like that?"

Kondraki snaps quickly from the reverie he'd fallen into, denials immediately forming in his head. Still, even before he can begin to say any of them, he already knows his companion isn't going to believe any of them.

He was very resolutely not blushing. Not even a little bit. And if he was, it certainly wasn't because Clef was wearing his clothes.

The storm outside sends raindrops down hard onto the building, beating against Kondraki's apartment windows with the same ferocity they had been beating on him and Clef earlier. It's a miracle they got in quickly enough to avoid any serious risk of colds-- they're both old and busy enough that getting sick would be unbearably shitty-- but they didn't escape quickly enough to keep their clothes dry. Which is exactly the reason why Clef is currently in one of his worn shirts and jackets, the clothes too big for his frame. It is not something that he'd ever think of as endearing. Not in the slightest.

"I am not blushing," Kondraki shoots back. "Maybe it's a fever. Which would be your fault, by the way, since you're the one who insisted on going outside--"

"My fault? You're the one who said we could walk the whole way." Clef huffed. "Doesn't matter anyway. There's no way that's a fever. We were out there for, what, a minute? Two?"

"I said maybe--"

"Then again," he continues, a familiar Cheshire grin stretching across his face, "a minute or two's all you need to kill a man. Isn't that right?"

"... What are you talking about?"

Clef laughs. The sound echoes oddly against the thin walls. Kondraki swears, in some tiny, primal bit of his mind, that he can hear something far less human growl beneath his companion's words. "Wasn't the best idea to invite me in with you, Konny. There's nobody to hear you scream."

For a second, Kondraki wonders if it's a threat.

And then, of course, he properly takes in the fact that neither of them have weapons, that there are absolutely people nearby to hear him scream, and that he cannot take Clef seriously when the idiot is wearing a shirt too big for him, a jacket that hasn't been washed in a week, and the soaked, dripping wet hat that he'd refused to take off.

He laughs. There's nothing else to do. "Sure. Have fun trying to kill me, asshole. I'd like to see you try."

Clef groans, the failure of his attempt at friendly (?) threatening draining all the cockiness from him. He collapses onto Kondraki's bed, the damp from his hat already getting onto the sheets. "Fine. See how you like not waking up in the morning."

Kondraki shakes his head, leaning against the closed window. He can feel the rain pounding against it. He has no idea when it's going to let up, really. He wonders if he should be irritated that Clef's going to be here until it does.

But seeing Clef like this, somewhere safe, somewhere familiar-- and wearing his clothes too, fuck does that do things he's not going to think about...

.

.

It is said that there once was a green knight within this place.

That saying is the only thing that keeps Ferin moving, moving, moving. His son is still unconscious in his arms, the boy's heartbeat slow and unsteady despite everything. There is a black mark rippling through the skin of his neck, an expanding concentric circle that screams curse as much as it screams dying. There is a mirror of it on his own skin, but that is nothing against Alain's own danger.

He cannot let his son die.

It is said that there once was a green knight here. Caster, they called themself, like sugar, like magic. The magic they left behind is as clear as that sugar, seeping deep into Ferin's bones in a way that seems to drain all the taint of a curse from him. Will it be enough for Alain? He does not know. That magic seems to be making the cursed mark writhe under it, the black scattering further, thinner, quicker. Is it making him worse or better?

Ferin can't say. But the green knight was said to help. Perhaps their ruins can save his Alain.

Even if not him.

The magic seems to hear his plea, resonating deeper into his bones. Set him down, it seems to say. I will do what I can.

When he sets Alain on the ground, the plants beneath him twist from flowers into weeds. Ferin winces when he sees it, doubt and fear swirling discomfortingly in his thoughts. He does not know where the curse came from. But he prays, trusts, that the green knight can help. His grandmother always whispered about the Caster, they who were once the kingdom's benefactor. He prays that his grandmother was right.

"Please," Ferin whispers, his voice weak against the open garden. "Please save my son."

The weeds curl carefully around his ankles, around the joints of his fingers. He can feel the ring of clear magic within them. And you?

"Can you save me?" Ferin asks.

The garden is silent.

Ferin laughs, grief and desperation twisting into one echoing tone. The flowers under him are turning to weeds as well, far faster than they were with Alain. But that's alright. If Alain can be saved, that's all he could hope for.

"I don't mind," Ferin says. "I don't expect you to. Whatever this curse is, it is a strong one. Don't try to save those you cannot."

... I can save him.

"Then please." Ferin lets himself collapse, lets the weeds twist and constrict around his legs and hands. "I just want my son to live."

As you wish.

The flowers glow, a faint, white light, and for a second Ferin swears he can see the green knight's silhouette among them, a person kneeling to drain the curse from his son as roots drain water. The mark falls away, into the plants and into the flowers turning black, but all he can truly see is Alain.

Ferin smiles, the tears flowing down his cheeks nothing against his relief. Thank you, he wants to say. Thank you. Thank you.

"Your garden," he says instead, "is beautiful."

And that is the last he sees.

.

There is a boy playing in a garden, climbing a tree so high the leaves swirling an almost accursed black are almost untouchable. The weeds circle around his ankles as he climbs, thriving on magic long since immaterial.

Be careful, says the green knight, says the garden he plays in. Be safe.

god there are so many format things to keep track of? why the hecc did i use so much bold teeeeext--

anyway there's an iceberg in this one! stay tuned!

.

Clef had activated the on-site security system.

Butterfly could almost laugh with how predictable that was. How could he not have seen it before? His Clef had always had a thing for traps. For things already set in place, made to deter enemies. His office itself was booby-trapped to hell and back. It'd take him hours to get through, even with his anomaly. Of course the little bastard would make the decision to use the security system. Of course.

"You've got some nerve, Clef," Butterfly called, deflecting another rain of bullets with his sword. They were halved the moment they so much as touched the blade, with its razor edge, and he was certainly skilled enough to avoid being hit with whatever remained. "I don't remember the defences being so undiscriminating about shooting people. I'm almost impressed! You had, what, ten minutes to do this? Maybe you'll be able to slow me down."

Though it wasn't fucking likely.

What was odd, though, was that the bullets were wooden. Not the metal or lead he'd expected. There were some plastic ones, too, but it wasn't heat-resistant plastic-- those bullets were slower, melting, just as the wooden ones smoked or charred even before he could hit them. He knew for a fact that the security system was meant to kill. He'd helped design the damn thing himself. So why...?

Butterfly froze.

Was... Was Francis not trying to kill him?

But that was insane. Clef had been made doting, protective, or at least much more so than he was before. And he knew the man's limits. Killing hostiles was not one of them. Clef was a pragmatic man, if a dramatic one. He'd be trying to kill Butterfly without hesitation if he was really controlled, a caricature of what he once was. That was what had to be happening. So why were the bullets wooden?

One of the bullets grazed his shoulder. The most it did was bruise. And that... that spoke more for what was happening than Butterfly thought anything else could.

Clef was fighting back.

He hadn't thought it could happen. He'd thought that puppeteering was unchallengeable. But could it be fought? Could the others be fighting back, too? Was there still something of them left?

Slowly, carefully, Butterfly lowered his sword. The bullets didn't stop. But they didn't kill, either, didn't beget a second, lethal round. He did not raise his blade.

The security system did not click off.

Butterfly sighed, striding forward and halving any bullets that got too close to him. They weren't going to kill him, but they sure as hell weren't going to let him through.

... He wasn't going to hate them for it. If that was all their resistance could do... At least they were resisting.

"You're doing well, Clef. Francis." He wasn't sure if the man could hear him. But if he could, if there was even a chance he could past the unstoppable erasure of everything he was... Then Butterfly had to say it.

He pulled a pistol from the inner lining of his jacket and shot down the guns. The cameras, too, for good measure. Clef had eyes everywhere, after all, and if he did, the thing that wasn't him anymore did too.

From another hallway, Butterfly heard Clef's muffled curse. "Shit. Activate Phase Two."

"Two? What the fuck are you talking about-?"

The hall exploded into a thick, drugged haze.

Butterfly swore, stumbling back as his vision swam. Smoke had begun to fill the space, blanketing him in white. Anaesthesia? Some kind of sedative? Whatever it was, he couldn't breathe in it, and what he could get in was enough to bring him to his knees, to make his body crumple weakly under him. It was strong, unsettlingly so. Anomalous? A new, untested formula? Whatever it was- whatever it was--

Butterfly collapsed, doing his best to hold his breath. His body wasn't listening to him. Everything was going foggy, despite his best efforts. What the hell had Clef done?

As if on cue, footsteps began to register in his hearing. Rubber soles, like sneakers, maybe the ones Clef wore. His suspicion was confirmed when the eye-bleeding colour of them bled into his vision.

"Doctor Arlens Butterfly," Clef said softly, stopping just a few feet before him. "You're late for work."

"You son of a bitch." Butterfly practically spat the words out. They didn't come out clear. "What the fuck did you put in me?"

"Nothing dangerous, Lens. Just normal sleeping gas put through 914. We checked before replacing the canisters, don't worry." Clef kneeled down low enough that Butterfly could meet his eyes. "You know you're not getting that girl, right?"

"Fuck you." He was. He had to. "You're an asshole, you know that? A nightmare in human skin."

"Nice to know you care." Butterfly's head was pulled up roughly by the hair, and though his vision was swimming and the world was a blur he found the strength to growl. "And do you think 239 is that, too? Still ascribing to the old motto: Destroy, Destroy, Destroy?"

"I'm not GOC anymore, Clef. This isn't about that." Butterfly gritted his teeth. "It's about the fact she erased you."

There was no answer. Maybe it was disappointment. Maybe agreement. It wasn't as if Butterfly could tell.

"You look confused, Lens," Francis quipped. "Here. Why don't I shed a little light on the matter?"

There was the snap of a camera, and then the world went white with a burning flash.

There was nothing Francis hated more right now, he thought, than the sound of Butterfly screaming.

Whatever his coworker had done to the camera, it resulted in a lot of burns. Francis had worn protection against it, of course, the kind Butterfly himself had warmed him to wear whenever the cam was in weapon mode, but even with that and a gas mask the flash hurt his eyes and burned slightly across his face. The burns on Butterfly's face were deep enough to be second, maybe third degree, each one stretching bright and obvious across his skin. Francis winced, setting down the camera and reaching forward. "Shit. Lens, are you okay? Arlens?"

There wasn't an answer aside from a pained, shaking gasp.

"God. I really hope you're out of commission, Lens. These things'll only get worse if you keep moving." Francis lifted the taller man up as best he could, stumbling a little under the weight. "Come on. Let's get you into the medical bay and restrained. What the hell were you thinking, trying to kill 239? And warning us, too."

Butterfly shifted.

"Lens? You alright?"

"... I was thinking," Butterfly snapped, "that I needed to save you."

"What?" Francis froze. Something was wrong. Some primal, instinctual part inside of him was screaming for him to run.

"But you don't need that, do you?" his companion continued. Francis felt something jerk him back-- a hand from the shadows, James-- but that didn't stop Butterfly from gripping his wrists hard enough to break them, his words echoing and growling against the silence of the hall. "No. There's nothing left to save."

Doctor Arlens Butterfly grinned. Despite the skin burning away around it, the third eye on his neck was wide, wide open.

"I warned you," he said, and that was the last Francis heard before the alarms started to blare.

"Something's wrong in 17," Gears exclaimed, his eyes turned to the bright flash of a biohazard lockdown alert against the glass of a computer screen. "There's... a Level Five issue?! Fuck. Backup's requested. Do we go?"

"Not both of us," Iceberg responded, getting up from his seat. Gears imagined he could see panic, anything, past the steady cold of his gaze. "You stay here. If it's what I think it is, I'll handle it myself."

"But-"

Iceberg didn't respond, getting up and leaving the safety of his desk. Clear behind the alert warning was the transcript of a message from one Doctor Butterfly, sent by Francis Wojciechowski. A warning he had to respond to.

Whatever this was, it seemed he was necessary to stop it. And if it was necessary...

or: incident 239-b, but butterflyverse. 053 and 239 are swapped here, too! and 073 and 076-2, but that's really just a mention in the later bits.

i've only written two parts for this for now, but i like to think i can finish the whole thing within a week! i hope you enjoy!

.

Transcript of recorded message from Dr. █. Butterfly, sent to all personnel, Site 17. Subject: SCP-239. E-mail sent ██-██-████.

So you're telling me that we have a three-year-old girl capable of altering reality if she so much as blinks at it wrong and that we haven't killed her yet?

...

You have to understand that there have been record Hume level spikes here. Reported measurements are almost double the amount that got 3999-- that almost got 423-fucking-1 an SCP number. This is incredibly likely to strengthen as 239 grows older, especially if we are to continue implementing the Witch Child strategy and advancing her "studies". Those spikes do not stop only at Site 17 itself. The doctors frequently in contact with SCP-239 show similar effects in Hume readings, even those with only minimal exposure. And none of you can see it.

I've tried. I've tried enough. I've done this professionally, requesting readings, requesting permissions. Every single request was denied on the spot. Research was going well, you all said. Progress was being made.

Yeah, progress was being made. But it was on you. Not her.

Consider this a warning, Site 17. You have ten minutes to evacuate. I'm taking matters into my own hands.