DO THE STARS SING OUT?

hello hello!! Site-STAR askblog ran by @quillydraws! this au is a modern Hamilton x SCP Foundation storyline, set in the titular location of Site-STAR. :D

[theballadofquincy]

Site-STAR’s Official Dossier

…

…

…

Where was it?

…

No, not there…

Aha!

Alexander Hamilton had been combing through his correspondence, searching for a specific piece of information — he had a place to be, and he’d be in a terribly sorry state if he didn’t find it soon! Though, find it he did; so at least that wasn’t going to screw him over today…

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

CC: Dr. Burr / Agent [Elizabeth] Schuyler

Subject: Welcome to Site-STAR! 

That was an oddly enthusiastic subject line for something quite this serious, Alexander thought privately. Deeper in his head was the thought that he had never heard a word about this “Evergreen” fellow before, but that was pushed aside as well, in favor of reading on. 

To the new researcher, ALEXANDER HAMILTON,

Tally ho! As written earlier, welcome to Site-STAR, of the SCP Foundation — I do hope they’ve prepared you. 

Presently, Alexander nearly found this insulting — of course he was prepared, goddamnit, he had written extensively for years about what he was getting into! Well, until the Foundation learned of his knowledge of the anomalous and took him into questioning — but that point of origin didn’t matter. He was going to do official research there now, yes? Yes. Alexander was, thank you very much.

Now, Site-STAR, as I am sure you have gathered, contains anomalies of all classes — a given, as I hope you’d know. You have been granted access to most Safe and certain Euclid anomalies contained in Site-STAR, and you are pending assignment to a specific SCP. [Good luck, seriously.]

…Anyways, as for location: Site-STAR are located within New York City — maintaining the facility “Star and Cosmo Planetarium” to the civilian population. Site-STAR does indeed function as an observatory, maintained by select Level 1 personnel. [Well, and researchers who have been removed from higher tasks due to misdeeds. Not the worst punishment, really.]

Really sticking to a theme, Alexander noted wryly. Noted also was the idea of… a mundane job being a sort of punishment. Alexander did see that to be a logical choice— for his racing mind, observatory work would be hell for him in its stagnancy. 

I can practically hear you pondering “who do I need to know?”—

Decidedly, Alexander did not voice such a thing aloud. 

So, let’s see. Here’s the document on the key personnel, linked here. [You better read this, mate.]

There is one [1] file attached.

+ Display attached file? 

- File displayed!

Position: Director of Site-STAR

Name, title: Dir. George Washington, “Site-STAR Director”.

Clearance Level: Level 4

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Dir. Washington’s official photograph.]

Position: Agent of the Ethics Committee

Name, title: Dr. Samuel Seabury, “Ethics Agent” / “Doctor”; the latter used as an honorific frequently.

Clearance Level: Variable; 2-3, with specific access to certain Level 4 documentation per the Ethics Committee.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Dr. Seabury being photographed. He holds a document, presumably speaking on behalf of the Ethics Committee.]

Position: Head of the Department of ‘Pataphysics

Name, title: Head Researcher Aaron Burr, “‘Pataphysics Director”

Clearance Level: Level 3 — added clearance for Project [•••••]

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Researcher Aaron Burr. He holds SCP-[REDACTED] behind his back.]

…

Commit that last one to memory, HAMILTON; BURR has been assigned to orient you as you begin to understand Site-STAR. Best not to get his name wrong, yes?

Another matter — though she is not listed in the key personnel file [the reasoning escapes me, really], the other member of staff that will guide you is Agent ELIZABETH SCHUYLER. 

Alexander blinked, stopping to clean his glasses. Alright, I suppose I’ll have a… mentor of sorts. That’s new. The up-and-coming researcher stared ahead at his brightly-lit monitor, contemplating over the bit of information presented to him. 

Alexander Hamilton, truly, had never had significant help with his anomalous research prior to this — he prided himself on being a wunderkind unassisted, of course! Be that as it may… perhaps this was due. Yes, perhaps company wouldn’t be terrible. Certainly not for Alexander’s prospects of making a name for himself, in any case.

Their emails are as such:

Dr. Aaron Burr: [email protected]

Agent Elizabeth Schuyler: [email protected]

I do believe this is all you shall need! With that being said — good luck, reader[s]. 

Secure — Contain — Protect

Your fellow researcher,

—Dr.

That was odd. There wasn’t a name at the end — of course, Alexander knew the sender’s name from the email address — though he still found it slightly peculiar. Why wasn’t there a name at the end…?

Perhaps he realized that this was a notion only he would ponder, for Alexander puts it to rest. For now. 

[Wow. The first Site-STAR writing :> I hope ya’ll like it!! im not the best writer — like have you SEEN what the scp wiki / wanderer’s library cook up?? — but still! hooray!!]

[@ceo-of-lams / @logicalistlee / @spaghetti-number1rated1997 / @jadelemonadee / @sage-1324 / @thedivaking hello!!]

[Your friend,]

[—Florian Evergreen]

[site-star-communications]

WELCOME TO SITE-STAR :D

This is a Hamilton x SCP crossover AU developed by @quillydraws, and a very lore-heavy one. Currently being written! :D

All the characters will be here, eventually.

Keep this blog SFW — this is a place of anomalous work, don’t be weird to the doctors or agents. They might place you in the Femur Breaker.

[adamsadamsandmoreadams1776]

Don’t you wish Massachusetts was real

Oh— Good god! —What kind of ask is this!?

Do I wish Massachusetts was real? I have no need to wish it was real, because it is an incredible amount of real! I live in Massachusetts, you— you fool! What do you expect me to answer this with?

Good God! I swear you people send me these things just to set me off, for what else would be the purpose!?

Maybe you people do really do this to set me off, for your sick satisfaction..

I opened this blog to try and find more intelligent conversation than what I get in congress, and this is the best you can do? I do not know what I expected— but I certainly wish it would be better than what this is! Massachusetts is very, very, real! I do not know how you would even say it is not! Have you seen a map, ever!? Or— or even travelled!? Acquired something traded through Boston!?

People really need to learn common sense that should be even more common than what is professed by Mr. Paine! But— but I find people like this! Utterly unbelievable..

Can you believe people call me “obnoxious” and “a madman” while there are people like this running around.. oh, Good God..

John Adams

[site-star-communications]

SEND EMAIL?

>y

SENT.

>close scipnet

TAB CLOSED.

>access 4006, CL:3

OPEN DOCUMENT? +

DOCUMENT OPENED -

[ooc: tagging @quillydraws for the notif]

[askyourking]

hey I’m Washington’s son and I have a message for you

🚫🇬🇧🚫🇬🇧

I HATE THE BRITISH!!!!

Oh, how veery original. Do be sure to shout it a little louder, perhaps the pigeons outside didn’t hear you the first time.

[psychologica-warfare-and-cats]

fuck the pigeons

[site-star-communications]

don’t even I’m a doctor who has to see horrid shit. I’m also on my lunch break. let me have fun

[hammodernau-askblog]

To: Mr. Samuel Seabury

Ah, sal-utations and greetings! bally hell, i do lose track of these realities sometimes… Well. Hello there — I happen to also be a Samuel Seabury, a doctor and reverend at that. I’ve met a few other Seabury’s before, and I am… charmed to meet one in a modern state!

If you notice anything odd or anomalous with my appearance, please disregard it! Really! It is nothing you should fear for, sir, for it is controlled! …it hurts at times… though, you shan’t worry about me. ^^

~Dr. [Rev.] Seabury of the ████████ Division

[ooc: yes this is @quillydraws again 💔🥀🥀]

“And, also, if you're hurting(??), I could get you to the nearest medical center?? I CAN'T HAVE MYSELF BE IN PAIN !! ”

[site-star-communications]

…Terribly afraid there is a lot of technical jargon, and even more incoherent pained rambling, but refer to this if you’re worried. Which, you shan’t be! I am a-okay, it just… physically and mentally hurts to think about! Ahem, but I shall keep my mind occupied, I assure you!

[margaret-mansfield]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

@askjohnandre

She shakes her head, too weak to speak yet. She was shivering (being brought back from the dead is quite a change)

[askjohnandre]

John waited for a moment, and when she supplied no answer he said: “I brought you some tea. Do you need another blanket? I thought for sure you were dead when I found you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“You thought right, Major… I was. But it seems you’ve gone and stolen me back from the grave. If it was your tea or your hand that did it, I cannot tell… only that I breathe again.”

She shivered, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Another blanket would be kind. The dead are not used to the cold.”

[askjohnandre]

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

He returned with a quilt, hovering over the bedside, unsure what to do with his hands. “May I ask what happened to you? I found you in the garden covered by a shroud. How did you get in? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions, but you can see why I’d be curious.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

“How I got in?” she repeated, eyes glittering with something that was not entirely sane nor entirely human. “Major, when you’ve been dragged beneath the earth and had your name stitched into the mouths of worms, doors and locks become trifles. I did not walk into your garden—I was laid there. A shroud is not chosen, it is given.”

She fixed him with a long, deliberate gaze. “As for what happened to me… do not ask unless you wish to hear how the world ends in whispers and shovels.”

Her hand lifted, delicate and trembling, to rest against his sleeve. “But perhaps—” her voice softened, “for tonight, we can pretend it was only a dream, and you merely found me asleep among your roses.”

[askjohnandre]

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

John took her hand and swept down to give it a kiss, hoping to fizzle out the tension, but to his growing uneasiness, he found her skin cold and almost glassy like porcelain.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

“A tragedy, you say?” Her voice was velvet and ice all at once. “Then perhaps you are its author, Major André. Every tragedy requires both a victim… and a witness.”

She tilted her head, the candlelight glancing off her skin in an unnatural sheen, as though the porcelain comparison were less metaphor and more truth.

“Do not look so uneasy,” she added, almost teasing, though there was a dangerous lilt beneath it. “The grave did not keep me, and yet… it marked me. You may kiss a hand that is colder than the moon, but I assure you, Major—” her eyes narrowed, smile deepening, “—it still belongs to me.”

[askjohnandre]

The Major gingerly released her hand and rested it back onto the bed, afraid that if he simply let go it might have shattered. He backed away a step without taking his eyes off of her. “I do hope I won’t be witnessing your tragedy,” he forced his voice to stay even. “Rebirth seems to be a good sign of comedy, no?” He tugged his sleeve over his hand, wondering if he was imagining the chill that remained.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

“Comedy?” she echoed, her tone laced with something between mockery and sorrow. “No, Major. Comedies end in marriage, and tragedies in death. I’ve already worn one shroud… I do not think the play has turned toward merriment.”

Her gaze drifted to his sleeve where he tried to hide the lingering cold, and a faint smirk curved her lips. “But you’re clever to cover it. Some chills never leave. They burrow beneath the skin, and when you remember me tomorrow, you’ll find it still there.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, piercing. “So tell me—” her voice softened, half-whisper, half-incantation—“if I am neither comedy nor tragedy, Major André… then what am I?”

[askjohnandre]

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

“Must every story fit into a single category?” He tried for a smile. “We’re nuanced people in the flesh rather than figures on a page, correct? Or—“ he stumbled over his words. “Mostly in the flesh.” André gestured helplessly at her pale, glassy complexion.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

“Nuance,” she repeated, tasting the word. “A generous thing to grant me, Major. Flesh enough to fool the eye, yet not enough to fool the touch.” Her fingers brushed her own cheek, lightly, as though she too were confirming what she had become.

Her eyes flicked to him, sly, sharp. “If I am not tragedy, then perhaps I am epilogue. Or worse—a ghost in the margins of your comedy, haunting it until laughter curdles.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice low. “But tell me—would you rather me in the flesh you carried, or in the flesh you never touched? Which unnerves you more?”

[askjohnandre]

“You have a gift with words. I’m pleasantly surprised. I would have loved to work with you back in the South street theater.” André hesitated before adding, “I’m not sure how to answer that question, Miss…” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, her voice quiet but certain. “Names travel, Major. They cling even when flesh does not. I knew yours long before I opened my eyes in your garden. No—we have not met. But I have always known you.”

[askjohnandre]

André raised his eyebrows and nodded with some hint of reluctant yet amused acceptance. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile was soothing or scaring him more. “I see. Interesting. And may I know who you are?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret inclined her head, as though the question were ceremonial. “Margaret Mansfield,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Once of breath and bone… now, it seems, of your keeping.” Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Does the name mean anything to you, Major? Or shall I remain a stranger risen from your roses?”

[askjohnandre]

“Mansfield-?” His words caught in his through and he played it off as a cough. “I can’t say it does, Miss Margaret. You shall remain the stranger risen from my roses. An unsung mystery to me.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

“Then a mystery I shall remain,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Perhaps it is better so. Names can bind, and strangers may yet be freer than friends.” She settled back against the pillows, studying him like one studies a riddle. “Still… if I am unsung, Major, then who will write my song?”

[askjohnandre]

“Perhaps I will,” a flash of genuine excitement lit André’s eyes and he grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician and aspiring playwright. I can imagine your ballad would be one of a kind. An epic that will be recited through generations with both our names attached. From ashes we were born and to ashes we return.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

“If you make me an epic, Major André, then be careful. Songs outlive their singers. And once you speak my name to the world, you may find it chained to yours forever.”

[askjohnandre]

“I would. I’d weave your shroud into a beautiful tapestry.” He clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to touch her. “And I might not mind having my memory entwined with your song. I’m willing to go lengths to be remembered, Miss Margaret, and the singer of your epic is not a bad path to immortality at all.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice rich with promise and warning. “But remember this: a shroud, no matter how beautiful, is still a shroud. Once you weave me into your tapestry, you will never quite escape the threads.”

[askjohnandre]

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

He mulled over her words for a moment. “Must a shroud be bad and a tapestry be good, Miss Margaret? I think every good comedy needs some tragedy and vice versa. The best stories are a blend of both.”

“And how can we know you are immortal? We don’t seem to know what death wants with you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “A shroud may be sorrow, but it is also memory. A tapestry may be beauty, but it is also binding. One without the other is hollow.”

Her gaze sharpened, almost playful. “As for immortality… I do not claim it. I only know that death spat me out. What it wants with me?” She let the question linger, then whispered, “Perhaps only to make me wait.”

[askjohnandre]

“I’ll venture to say that you and I will be great friends,” André hesitated before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s rare to find a poet in the colonies these days, though if I remember correctly, you were born here, weren’t you? I suppose divine intervention comes with some perks.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

At his mention of her birth, her expression softened just slightly. “Yes… I was born here. The colonies raised me, then buried me, and now—” she gestured lightly to herself, “—they’ve seen fit to let me wander back.”

Her eyes glinted with a strange pride. “Perhaps you’re right. If this is divine intervention, then I’ll take the poet’s tongue as my miracle.”

[askjohnandre]

“Most people are engrained with a blind terror for the supernatural. I’ll admit, I am too, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve befriended a specter. Some plaything of a god, if you will.” The Major laughed a bit at the last part. “You flatter me with ‘miracle’, Miss Margaret. I won’t deny it, though.” He let a hint of playfulness touch his tone.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

She let the quilt fall a little from her shoulder, tilting her head at him with a trace of playfulness of her own. “And why shouldn’t I call you a miracle? You pulled me from silence, Major. That makes you either my savior—or my accomplice.”

[askjohnandre]

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

He reached over and pulled the quilt back over her shoulder. “A miracle and a savior? I can’t say I don’t enjoy those titles, though I don’t know how big of a role I played in ‘pulling you from silence’. I simply took you home like any good soldier would do.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

“Perhaps you are right, Major. Perhaps you are only a soldier, dutiful and kind. And yet…” Her lips curved faintly. “If you carried me from the garden, then you carried more than a body. You carried a story back into the world.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Prophecy or not, you’ve already bound yourself to it. Ink or no ink, you will be remembered with me now. That is how immortality works.”

[askjohnandre]

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

“It is an honor to be bound to one as interesting as you, then,” he said cordially, dipping his head the slightest bit without breaking his gaze. “Quite honestly terrifying, though. I had no idea you’d be such a tangle of tales.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

Her stillness remained unbroken, her gaze fixed and piercing. “You call it an honor—good. Then carry it as such. A tangle of tales is harder to forget than a single line, and I’ve no intention of being forgotten again.”

[site-star-communications]

rebloggkng this here!

[A fellow dressed in white — a lab coat, perhaps? — had walked over.] “What… exactly is the matter here?”

[They enquired vacantly, meeting both the Major’s and the revived’s eyes as calmly as can be.]

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

“The matter,” she said smoothly, “is that your Major has taken a corpse out of his garden and mistaken her for a guest.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her words hung heavy in the air.

She tilted her head, studying the man in white with unsettling calm. “And now you’ve walked into the middle of it. Tell me—do you see a woman before you, or a body that should not speak?”

[site-star-communications]

“In truth, ma’am, I see an anomaly. Not that’s… bad, of course,” [The fellow gave a small laugh,] “But it certainly is not what one would expect!

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

Her eyes fixed on the man in white, steady and unnerving. “But tell me… do you mean to study me, to solve me, or to bury me again?”

[askjohnandre]

The Major glanced between the two, thoroughly confused. “How-? Why are you in my home? I suppose I asked for this when I brought a body home, didn’t I?”

[site-star-communications]

“Thank goodness you weren’t near a lake, because… well, you’d hardly want to save a floating corpse.”

[margaret-mansfield]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

@askjohnandre

She shakes her head, too weak to speak yet. She was shivering (being brought back from the dead is quite a change)

[askjohnandre]

John waited for a moment, and when she supplied no answer he said: “I brought you some tea. Do you need another blanket? I thought for sure you were dead when I found you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“You thought right, Major… I was. But it seems you’ve gone and stolen me back from the grave. If it was your tea or your hand that did it, I cannot tell… only that I breathe again.”

She shivered, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Another blanket would be kind. The dead are not used to the cold.”

[askjohnandre]

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

He returned with a quilt, hovering over the bedside, unsure what to do with his hands. “May I ask what happened to you? I found you in the garden covered by a shroud. How did you get in? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions, but you can see why I’d be curious.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

“How I got in?” she repeated, eyes glittering with something that was not entirely sane nor entirely human. “Major, when you’ve been dragged beneath the earth and had your name stitched into the mouths of worms, doors and locks become trifles. I did not walk into your garden—I was laid there. A shroud is not chosen, it is given.”

She fixed him with a long, deliberate gaze. “As for what happened to me… do not ask unless you wish to hear how the world ends in whispers and shovels.”

Her hand lifted, delicate and trembling, to rest against his sleeve. “But perhaps—” her voice softened, “for tonight, we can pretend it was only a dream, and you merely found me asleep among your roses.”

[askjohnandre]

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

John took her hand and swept down to give it a kiss, hoping to fizzle out the tension, but to his growing uneasiness, he found her skin cold and almost glassy like porcelain.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

“A tragedy, you say?” Her voice was velvet and ice all at once. “Then perhaps you are its author, Major André. Every tragedy requires both a victim… and a witness.”

She tilted her head, the candlelight glancing off her skin in an unnatural sheen, as though the porcelain comparison were less metaphor and more truth.

“Do not look so uneasy,” she added, almost teasing, though there was a dangerous lilt beneath it. “The grave did not keep me, and yet… it marked me. You may kiss a hand that is colder than the moon, but I assure you, Major—” her eyes narrowed, smile deepening, “—it still belongs to me.”

[askjohnandre]

The Major gingerly released her hand and rested it back onto the bed, afraid that if he simply let go it might have shattered. He backed away a step without taking his eyes off of her. “I do hope I won’t be witnessing your tragedy,” he forced his voice to stay even. “Rebirth seems to be a good sign of comedy, no?” He tugged his sleeve over his hand, wondering if he was imagining the chill that remained.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

“Comedy?” she echoed, her tone laced with something between mockery and sorrow. “No, Major. Comedies end in marriage, and tragedies in death. I’ve already worn one shroud… I do not think the play has turned toward merriment.”

Her gaze drifted to his sleeve where he tried to hide the lingering cold, and a faint smirk curved her lips. “But you’re clever to cover it. Some chills never leave. They burrow beneath the skin, and when you remember me tomorrow, you’ll find it still there.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, piercing. “So tell me—” her voice softened, half-whisper, half-incantation—“if I am neither comedy nor tragedy, Major André… then what am I?”

[askjohnandre]

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

“Must every story fit into a single category?” He tried for a smile. “We’re nuanced people in the flesh rather than figures on a page, correct? Or—“ he stumbled over his words. “Mostly in the flesh.” André gestured helplessly at her pale, glassy complexion.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

“Nuance,” she repeated, tasting the word. “A generous thing to grant me, Major. Flesh enough to fool the eye, yet not enough to fool the touch.” Her fingers brushed her own cheek, lightly, as though she too were confirming what she had become.

Her eyes flicked to him, sly, sharp. “If I am not tragedy, then perhaps I am epilogue. Or worse—a ghost in the margins of your comedy, haunting it until laughter curdles.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice low. “But tell me—would you rather me in the flesh you carried, or in the flesh you never touched? Which unnerves you more?”

[askjohnandre]

“You have a gift with words. I’m pleasantly surprised. I would have loved to work with you back in the South street theater.” André hesitated before adding, “I’m not sure how to answer that question, Miss…” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, her voice quiet but certain. “Names travel, Major. They cling even when flesh does not. I knew yours long before I opened my eyes in your garden. No—we have not met. But I have always known you.”

[askjohnandre]

André raised his eyebrows and nodded with some hint of reluctant yet amused acceptance. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile was soothing or scaring him more. “I see. Interesting. And may I know who you are?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret inclined her head, as though the question were ceremonial. “Margaret Mansfield,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Once of breath and bone… now, it seems, of your keeping.” Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Does the name mean anything to you, Major? Or shall I remain a stranger risen from your roses?”

[askjohnandre]

“Mansfield-?” His words caught in his through and he played it off as a cough. “I can’t say it does, Miss Margaret. You shall remain the stranger risen from my roses. An unsung mystery to me.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

“Then a mystery I shall remain,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Perhaps it is better so. Names can bind, and strangers may yet be freer than friends.” She settled back against the pillows, studying him like one studies a riddle. “Still… if I am unsung, Major, then who will write my song?”

[askjohnandre]

“Perhaps I will,” a flash of genuine excitement lit André’s eyes and he grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician and aspiring playwright. I can imagine your ballad would be one of a kind. An epic that will be recited through generations with both our names attached. From ashes we were born and to ashes we return.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

“If you make me an epic, Major André, then be careful. Songs outlive their singers. And once you speak my name to the world, you may find it chained to yours forever.”

[askjohnandre]

“I would. I’d weave your shroud into a beautiful tapestry.” He clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to touch her. “And I might not mind having my memory entwined with your song. I’m willing to go lengths to be remembered, Miss Margaret, and the singer of your epic is not a bad path to immortality at all.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice rich with promise and warning. “But remember this: a shroud, no matter how beautiful, is still a shroud. Once you weave me into your tapestry, you will never quite escape the threads.”

[askjohnandre]

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

He mulled over her words for a moment. “Must a shroud be bad and a tapestry be good, Miss Margaret? I think every good comedy needs some tragedy and vice versa. The best stories are a blend of both.”

“And how can we know you are immortal? We don’t seem to know what death wants with you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “A shroud may be sorrow, but it is also memory. A tapestry may be beauty, but it is also binding. One without the other is hollow.”

Her gaze sharpened, almost playful. “As for immortality… I do not claim it. I only know that death spat me out. What it wants with me?” She let the question linger, then whispered, “Perhaps only to make me wait.”

[askjohnandre]

“I’ll venture to say that you and I will be great friends,” André hesitated before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s rare to find a poet in the colonies these days, though if I remember correctly, you were born here, weren’t you? I suppose divine intervention comes with some perks.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

At his mention of her birth, her expression softened just slightly. “Yes… I was born here. The colonies raised me, then buried me, and now—” she gestured lightly to herself, “—they’ve seen fit to let me wander back.”

Her eyes glinted with a strange pride. “Perhaps you’re right. If this is divine intervention, then I’ll take the poet’s tongue as my miracle.”

[askjohnandre]

“Most people are engrained with a blind terror for the supernatural. I’ll admit, I am too, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve befriended a specter. Some plaything of a god, if you will.” The Major laughed a bit at the last part. “You flatter me with ‘miracle’, Miss Margaret. I won’t deny it, though.” He let a hint of playfulness touch his tone.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

She let the quilt fall a little from her shoulder, tilting her head at him with a trace of playfulness of her own. “And why shouldn’t I call you a miracle? You pulled me from silence, Major. That makes you either my savior—or my accomplice.”

[askjohnandre]

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

He reached over and pulled the quilt back over her shoulder. “A miracle and a savior? I can’t say I don’t enjoy those titles, though I don’t know how big of a role I played in ‘pulling you from silence’. I simply took you home like any good soldier would do.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

“Perhaps you are right, Major. Perhaps you are only a soldier, dutiful and kind. And yet…” Her lips curved faintly. “If you carried me from the garden, then you carried more than a body. You carried a story back into the world.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Prophecy or not, you’ve already bound yourself to it. Ink or no ink, you will be remembered with me now. That is how immortality works.”

[askjohnandre]

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

“It is an honor to be bound to one as interesting as you, then,” he said cordially, dipping his head the slightest bit without breaking his gaze. “Quite honestly terrifying, though. I had no idea you’d be such a tangle of tales.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

Her stillness remained unbroken, her gaze fixed and piercing. “You call it an honor—good. Then carry it as such. A tangle of tales is harder to forget than a single line, and I’ve no intention of being forgotten again.”

[site-star-communications]

rebloggkng this here!

[A fellow dressed in white — a lab coat, perhaps? — had walked over.] “What… exactly is the matter here?”

[They enquired vacantly, meeting both the Major’s and the revived’s eyes as calmly as can be.]

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

“The matter,” she said smoothly, “is that your Major has taken a corpse out of his garden and mistaken her for a guest.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her words hung heavy in the air.

She tilted her head, studying the man in white with unsettling calm. “And now you’ve walked into the middle of it. Tell me—do you see a woman before you, or a body that should not speak?”

[site-star-communications]

“In truth, ma’am, I see an anomaly. Not that’s… bad, of course,” [The fellow gave a small laugh,] “But it certainly is not what one would expect!

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

Her eyes fixed on the man in white, steady and unnerving. “But tell me… do you mean to study me, to solve me, or to bury me again?”

[site-star-communications]

“Oh, none of the above. I am an anomaly, myself — marked with the number ████ , to be precise.” [████ tipped their head and smiled more amusedly — how funny it was to them that “anomaly” was seen as a derogatory phrase! Clearly, they weren’t born into the anomalous world.]

“And, I say, I pity the doctor — oh, but bless him, he could have been locked up like I was, if they were harsher, and he is a dear friend — who is assigned to me. He’s far too soft on his assignment.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s brows arched, her interest piqued. “Marked, are you?” she murmured, the smile tugging back at her lips. “Then we are kin of a kind. Not accidents, not mistakes—merely… inconvenient truths the world does not know how to name.”

She rested her chin lightly against her hand, eyes glinting. “I do not pity your doctor, soft though he may be. Pity is for those who deny what they are. If he sees you as more than your number, then perhaps he, too, has a trace of anomaly about him.”

Her voice dropped, smooth and intent. “And tell me—does your number bind you… or does it set you free?”

[site-star-communications]

“I disagree,” They chimed again, “The world does know how to name us, in places you haven’t found yet. There are a lot of those. As for my number, and my whole designation of SCP-████, I suppose it dehumanizes me, but at least it is a name. Never go without a name; people will forget who you are, and it is open to being stolen.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression sharpened, a flicker of something like recognition crossing her features. “SCP…” she echoed, the strange syllables rolling off her tongue like a curse. “So the world has built its ledgers of the unnatural. How quaint—naming anomalies as though that tames them.”

Her smile returned, slow and deliberate. “You’re right, though. A name, no matter how clinical, is still a chain to anchor you against forgetting. I was Margaret before I was a corpse, and I will be Margaret still, even if they number me, bind me, bury me.”

She leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on theirs. “But beware—names are a double-edged shroud. Keep yours, yes… but never let it be the only song sung of you.”

[site-star-communications]

“…I understand that. Though, some anomalous areas — such as the forest where naming could spell death take this rule much more seriously. The tree’s home that is aforementioned and its unnamed entities within had their names stolen, killed even.”

[SCP-████ found themself oddly enthused in the conversation — how fun, to not be bored! It wasn’t like talking to a friend, like how they and Dr. S██████ would speak, but it was new.]

“And, I’m sure most of them know that numbering us doesn’t weaken us. I have looked into the hearts of some of these agents and doctors and scholar-soldiers, and most would be kinder if they could do so safely; but, the older members, with more power, will quite literally end their lives to silence kindness.”

[margaret-mansfield]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

@askjohnandre

She shakes her head, too weak to speak yet. She was shivering (being brought back from the dead is quite a change)

[askjohnandre]

John waited for a moment, and when she supplied no answer he said: “I brought you some tea. Do you need another blanket? I thought for sure you were dead when I found you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“You thought right, Major… I was. But it seems you’ve gone and stolen me back from the grave. If it was your tea or your hand that did it, I cannot tell… only that I breathe again.”

She shivered, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Another blanket would be kind. The dead are not used to the cold.”

[askjohnandre]

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

He returned with a quilt, hovering over the bedside, unsure what to do with his hands. “May I ask what happened to you? I found you in the garden covered by a shroud. How did you get in? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions, but you can see why I’d be curious.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

“How I got in?” she repeated, eyes glittering with something that was not entirely sane nor entirely human. “Major, when you’ve been dragged beneath the earth and had your name stitched into the mouths of worms, doors and locks become trifles. I did not walk into your garden—I was laid there. A shroud is not chosen, it is given.”

She fixed him with a long, deliberate gaze. “As for what happened to me… do not ask unless you wish to hear how the world ends in whispers and shovels.”

Her hand lifted, delicate and trembling, to rest against his sleeve. “But perhaps—” her voice softened, “for tonight, we can pretend it was only a dream, and you merely found me asleep among your roses.”

[askjohnandre]

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

John took her hand and swept down to give it a kiss, hoping to fizzle out the tension, but to his growing uneasiness, he found her skin cold and almost glassy like porcelain.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

“A tragedy, you say?” Her voice was velvet and ice all at once. “Then perhaps you are its author, Major André. Every tragedy requires both a victim… and a witness.”

She tilted her head, the candlelight glancing off her skin in an unnatural sheen, as though the porcelain comparison were less metaphor and more truth.

“Do not look so uneasy,” she added, almost teasing, though there was a dangerous lilt beneath it. “The grave did not keep me, and yet… it marked me. You may kiss a hand that is colder than the moon, but I assure you, Major—” her eyes narrowed, smile deepening, “—it still belongs to me.”

[askjohnandre]

The Major gingerly released her hand and rested it back onto the bed, afraid that if he simply let go it might have shattered. He backed away a step without taking his eyes off of her. “I do hope I won’t be witnessing your tragedy,” he forced his voice to stay even. “Rebirth seems to be a good sign of comedy, no?” He tugged his sleeve over his hand, wondering if he was imagining the chill that remained.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

“Comedy?” she echoed, her tone laced with something between mockery and sorrow. “No, Major. Comedies end in marriage, and tragedies in death. I’ve already worn one shroud… I do not think the play has turned toward merriment.”

Her gaze drifted to his sleeve where he tried to hide the lingering cold, and a faint smirk curved her lips. “But you’re clever to cover it. Some chills never leave. They burrow beneath the skin, and when you remember me tomorrow, you’ll find it still there.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, piercing. “So tell me—” her voice softened, half-whisper, half-incantation—“if I am neither comedy nor tragedy, Major André… then what am I?”

[askjohnandre]

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

“Must every story fit into a single category?” He tried for a smile. “We’re nuanced people in the flesh rather than figures on a page, correct? Or—“ he stumbled over his words. “Mostly in the flesh.” André gestured helplessly at her pale, glassy complexion.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

“Nuance,” she repeated, tasting the word. “A generous thing to grant me, Major. Flesh enough to fool the eye, yet not enough to fool the touch.” Her fingers brushed her own cheek, lightly, as though she too were confirming what she had become.

Her eyes flicked to him, sly, sharp. “If I am not tragedy, then perhaps I am epilogue. Or worse—a ghost in the margins of your comedy, haunting it until laughter curdles.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice low. “But tell me—would you rather me in the flesh you carried, or in the flesh you never touched? Which unnerves you more?”

[askjohnandre]

“You have a gift with words. I’m pleasantly surprised. I would have loved to work with you back in the South street theater.” André hesitated before adding, “I’m not sure how to answer that question, Miss…” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, her voice quiet but certain. “Names travel, Major. They cling even when flesh does not. I knew yours long before I opened my eyes in your garden. No—we have not met. But I have always known you.”

[askjohnandre]

André raised his eyebrows and nodded with some hint of reluctant yet amused acceptance. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile was soothing or scaring him more. “I see. Interesting. And may I know who you are?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret inclined her head, as though the question were ceremonial. “Margaret Mansfield,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Once of breath and bone… now, it seems, of your keeping.” Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Does the name mean anything to you, Major? Or shall I remain a stranger risen from your roses?”

[askjohnandre]

“Mansfield-?” His words caught in his through and he played it off as a cough. “I can’t say it does, Miss Margaret. You shall remain the stranger risen from my roses. An unsung mystery to me.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

“Then a mystery I shall remain,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Perhaps it is better so. Names can bind, and strangers may yet be freer than friends.” She settled back against the pillows, studying him like one studies a riddle. “Still… if I am unsung, Major, then who will write my song?”

[askjohnandre]

“Perhaps I will,” a flash of genuine excitement lit André’s eyes and he grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician and aspiring playwright. I can imagine your ballad would be one of a kind. An epic that will be recited through generations with both our names attached. From ashes we were born and to ashes we return.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

“If you make me an epic, Major André, then be careful. Songs outlive their singers. And once you speak my name to the world, you may find it chained to yours forever.”

[askjohnandre]

“I would. I’d weave your shroud into a beautiful tapestry.” He clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to touch her. “And I might not mind having my memory entwined with your song. I’m willing to go lengths to be remembered, Miss Margaret, and the singer of your epic is not a bad path to immortality at all.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice rich with promise and warning. “But remember this: a shroud, no matter how beautiful, is still a shroud. Once you weave me into your tapestry, you will never quite escape the threads.”

[askjohnandre]

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

He mulled over her words for a moment. “Must a shroud be bad and a tapestry be good, Miss Margaret? I think every good comedy needs some tragedy and vice versa. The best stories are a blend of both.”

“And how can we know you are immortal? We don’t seem to know what death wants with you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “A shroud may be sorrow, but it is also memory. A tapestry may be beauty, but it is also binding. One without the other is hollow.”

Her gaze sharpened, almost playful. “As for immortality… I do not claim it. I only know that death spat me out. What it wants with me?” She let the question linger, then whispered, “Perhaps only to make me wait.”

[askjohnandre]

“I’ll venture to say that you and I will be great friends,” André hesitated before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s rare to find a poet in the colonies these days, though if I remember correctly, you were born here, weren’t you? I suppose divine intervention comes with some perks.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

At his mention of her birth, her expression softened just slightly. “Yes… I was born here. The colonies raised me, then buried me, and now—” she gestured lightly to herself, “—they’ve seen fit to let me wander back.”

Her eyes glinted with a strange pride. “Perhaps you’re right. If this is divine intervention, then I’ll take the poet’s tongue as my miracle.”

[askjohnandre]

“Most people are engrained with a blind terror for the supernatural. I’ll admit, I am too, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve befriended a specter. Some plaything of a god, if you will.” The Major laughed a bit at the last part. “You flatter me with ‘miracle’, Miss Margaret. I won’t deny it, though.” He let a hint of playfulness touch his tone.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

She let the quilt fall a little from her shoulder, tilting her head at him with a trace of playfulness of her own. “And why shouldn’t I call you a miracle? You pulled me from silence, Major. That makes you either my savior—or my accomplice.”

[askjohnandre]

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

He reached over and pulled the quilt back over her shoulder. “A miracle and a savior? I can’t say I don’t enjoy those titles, though I don’t know how big of a role I played in ‘pulling you from silence’. I simply took you home like any good soldier would do.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

“Perhaps you are right, Major. Perhaps you are only a soldier, dutiful and kind. And yet…” Her lips curved faintly. “If you carried me from the garden, then you carried more than a body. You carried a story back into the world.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Prophecy or not, you’ve already bound yourself to it. Ink or no ink, you will be remembered with me now. That is how immortality works.”

[askjohnandre]

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

“It is an honor to be bound to one as interesting as you, then,” he said cordially, dipping his head the slightest bit without breaking his gaze. “Quite honestly terrifying, though. I had no idea you’d be such a tangle of tales.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

Her stillness remained unbroken, her gaze fixed and piercing. “You call it an honor—good. Then carry it as such. A tangle of tales is harder to forget than a single line, and I’ve no intention of being forgotten again.”

[site-star-communications]

rebloggkng this here!

[A fellow dressed in white — a lab coat, perhaps? — had walked over.] “What… exactly is the matter here?”

[They enquired vacantly, meeting both the Major’s and the revived’s eyes as calmly as can be.]

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

“The matter,” she said smoothly, “is that your Major has taken a corpse out of his garden and mistaken her for a guest.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her words hung heavy in the air.

She tilted her head, studying the man in white with unsettling calm. “And now you’ve walked into the middle of it. Tell me—do you see a woman before you, or a body that should not speak?”

[site-star-communications]

“In truth, ma’am, I see an anomaly. Not that’s… bad, of course,” [The fellow gave a small laugh,] “But it certainly is not what one would expect!

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

Her eyes fixed on the man in white, steady and unnerving. “But tell me… do you mean to study me, to solve me, or to bury me again?”

[site-star-communications]

“Oh, none of the above. I am an anomaly, myself — marked with the number ████ , to be precise.” [████ tipped their head and smiled more amusedly — how funny it was to them that “anomaly” was seen as a derogatory phrase! Clearly, they weren’t born into the anomalous world.]

“And, I say, I pity the doctor — oh, but bless him, he could have been locked up like I was, if they were harsher, and he is a dear friend — who is assigned to me. He’s far too soft on his assignment.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s brows arched, her interest piqued. “Marked, are you?” she murmured, the smile tugging back at her lips. “Then we are kin of a kind. Not accidents, not mistakes—merely… inconvenient truths the world does not know how to name.”

She rested her chin lightly against her hand, eyes glinting. “I do not pity your doctor, soft though he may be. Pity is for those who deny what they are. If he sees you as more than your number, then perhaps he, too, has a trace of anomaly about him.”

Her voice dropped, smooth and intent. “And tell me—does your number bind you… or does it set you free?”

[site-star-communications]

“I disagree,” They chimed again, “The world does know how to name us, in places you haven’t found yet. There are a lot of those. As for my number, and my whole designation of SCP-████, I suppose it dehumanizes me, but at least it is a name. Never go without a name; people will forget who you are, and it is open to being stolen.”

[margaret-mansfield]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

@askjohnandre

She shakes her head, too weak to speak yet. She was shivering (being brought back from the dead is quite a change)

[askjohnandre]

John waited for a moment, and when she supplied no answer he said: “I brought you some tea. Do you need another blanket? I thought for sure you were dead when I found you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“You thought right, Major… I was. But it seems you’ve gone and stolen me back from the grave. If it was your tea or your hand that did it, I cannot tell… only that I breathe again.”

She shivered, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Another blanket would be kind. The dead are not used to the cold.”

[askjohnandre]

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

He returned with a quilt, hovering over the bedside, unsure what to do with his hands. “May I ask what happened to you? I found you in the garden covered by a shroud. How did you get in? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions, but you can see why I’d be curious.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

“How I got in?” she repeated, eyes glittering with something that was not entirely sane nor entirely human. “Major, when you’ve been dragged beneath the earth and had your name stitched into the mouths of worms, doors and locks become trifles. I did not walk into your garden—I was laid there. A shroud is not chosen, it is given.”

She fixed him with a long, deliberate gaze. “As for what happened to me… do not ask unless you wish to hear how the world ends in whispers and shovels.”

Her hand lifted, delicate and trembling, to rest against his sleeve. “But perhaps—” her voice softened, “for tonight, we can pretend it was only a dream, and you merely found me asleep among your roses.”

[askjohnandre]

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

John took her hand and swept down to give it a kiss, hoping to fizzle out the tension, but to his growing uneasiness, he found her skin cold and almost glassy like porcelain.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

“A tragedy, you say?” Her voice was velvet and ice all at once. “Then perhaps you are its author, Major André. Every tragedy requires both a victim… and a witness.”

She tilted her head, the candlelight glancing off her skin in an unnatural sheen, as though the porcelain comparison were less metaphor and more truth.

“Do not look so uneasy,” she added, almost teasing, though there was a dangerous lilt beneath it. “The grave did not keep me, and yet… it marked me. You may kiss a hand that is colder than the moon, but I assure you, Major—” her eyes narrowed, smile deepening, “—it still belongs to me.”

[askjohnandre]

The Major gingerly released her hand and rested it back onto the bed, afraid that if he simply let go it might have shattered. He backed away a step without taking his eyes off of her. “I do hope I won’t be witnessing your tragedy,” he forced his voice to stay even. “Rebirth seems to be a good sign of comedy, no?” He tugged his sleeve over his hand, wondering if he was imagining the chill that remained.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

“Comedy?” she echoed, her tone laced with something between mockery and sorrow. “No, Major. Comedies end in marriage, and tragedies in death. I’ve already worn one shroud… I do not think the play has turned toward merriment.”

Her gaze drifted to his sleeve where he tried to hide the lingering cold, and a faint smirk curved her lips. “But you’re clever to cover it. Some chills never leave. They burrow beneath the skin, and when you remember me tomorrow, you’ll find it still there.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, piercing. “So tell me—” her voice softened, half-whisper, half-incantation—“if I am neither comedy nor tragedy, Major André… then what am I?”

[askjohnandre]

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

“Must every story fit into a single category?” He tried for a smile. “We’re nuanced people in the flesh rather than figures on a page, correct? Or—“ he stumbled over his words. “Mostly in the flesh.” André gestured helplessly at her pale, glassy complexion.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

“Nuance,” she repeated, tasting the word. “A generous thing to grant me, Major. Flesh enough to fool the eye, yet not enough to fool the touch.” Her fingers brushed her own cheek, lightly, as though she too were confirming what she had become.

Her eyes flicked to him, sly, sharp. “If I am not tragedy, then perhaps I am epilogue. Or worse—a ghost in the margins of your comedy, haunting it until laughter curdles.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice low. “But tell me—would you rather me in the flesh you carried, or in the flesh you never touched? Which unnerves you more?”

[askjohnandre]

“You have a gift with words. I’m pleasantly surprised. I would have loved to work with you back in the South street theater.” André hesitated before adding, “I’m not sure how to answer that question, Miss…” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, her voice quiet but certain. “Names travel, Major. They cling even when flesh does not. I knew yours long before I opened my eyes in your garden. No—we have not met. But I have always known you.”

[askjohnandre]

André raised his eyebrows and nodded with some hint of reluctant yet amused acceptance. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile was soothing or scaring him more. “I see. Interesting. And may I know who you are?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret inclined her head, as though the question were ceremonial. “Margaret Mansfield,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Once of breath and bone… now, it seems, of your keeping.” Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Does the name mean anything to you, Major? Or shall I remain a stranger risen from your roses?”

[askjohnandre]

“Mansfield-?” His words caught in his through and he played it off as a cough. “I can’t say it does, Miss Margaret. You shall remain the stranger risen from my roses. An unsung mystery to me.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

“Then a mystery I shall remain,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Perhaps it is better so. Names can bind, and strangers may yet be freer than friends.” She settled back against the pillows, studying him like one studies a riddle. “Still… if I am unsung, Major, then who will write my song?”

[askjohnandre]

“Perhaps I will,” a flash of genuine excitement lit André’s eyes and he grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician and aspiring playwright. I can imagine your ballad would be one of a kind. An epic that will be recited through generations with both our names attached. From ashes we were born and to ashes we return.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

“If you make me an epic, Major André, then be careful. Songs outlive their singers. And once you speak my name to the world, you may find it chained to yours forever.”

[askjohnandre]

“I would. I’d weave your shroud into a beautiful tapestry.” He clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to touch her. “And I might not mind having my memory entwined with your song. I’m willing to go lengths to be remembered, Miss Margaret, and the singer of your epic is not a bad path to immortality at all.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice rich with promise and warning. “But remember this: a shroud, no matter how beautiful, is still a shroud. Once you weave me into your tapestry, you will never quite escape the threads.”

[askjohnandre]

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

He mulled over her words for a moment. “Must a shroud be bad and a tapestry be good, Miss Margaret? I think every good comedy needs some tragedy and vice versa. The best stories are a blend of both.”

“And how can we know you are immortal? We don’t seem to know what death wants with you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “A shroud may be sorrow, but it is also memory. A tapestry may be beauty, but it is also binding. One without the other is hollow.”

Her gaze sharpened, almost playful. “As for immortality… I do not claim it. I only know that death spat me out. What it wants with me?” She let the question linger, then whispered, “Perhaps only to make me wait.”

[askjohnandre]

“I’ll venture to say that you and I will be great friends,” André hesitated before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s rare to find a poet in the colonies these days, though if I remember correctly, you were born here, weren’t you? I suppose divine intervention comes with some perks.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

At his mention of her birth, her expression softened just slightly. “Yes… I was born here. The colonies raised me, then buried me, and now—” she gestured lightly to herself, “—they’ve seen fit to let me wander back.”

Her eyes glinted with a strange pride. “Perhaps you’re right. If this is divine intervention, then I’ll take the poet’s tongue as my miracle.”

[askjohnandre]

“Most people are engrained with a blind terror for the supernatural. I’ll admit, I am too, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve befriended a specter. Some plaything of a god, if you will.” The Major laughed a bit at the last part. “You flatter me with ‘miracle’, Miss Margaret. I won’t deny it, though.” He let a hint of playfulness touch his tone.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

She let the quilt fall a little from her shoulder, tilting her head at him with a trace of playfulness of her own. “And why shouldn’t I call you a miracle? You pulled me from silence, Major. That makes you either my savior—or my accomplice.”

[askjohnandre]

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

He reached over and pulled the quilt back over her shoulder. “A miracle and a savior? I can’t say I don’t enjoy those titles, though I don’t know how big of a role I played in ‘pulling you from silence’. I simply took you home like any good soldier would do.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

“Perhaps you are right, Major. Perhaps you are only a soldier, dutiful and kind. And yet…” Her lips curved faintly. “If you carried me from the garden, then you carried more than a body. You carried a story back into the world.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Prophecy or not, you’ve already bound yourself to it. Ink or no ink, you will be remembered with me now. That is how immortality works.”

[askjohnandre]

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

“It is an honor to be bound to one as interesting as you, then,” he said cordially, dipping his head the slightest bit without breaking his gaze. “Quite honestly terrifying, though. I had no idea you’d be such a tangle of tales.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

Her stillness remained unbroken, her gaze fixed and piercing. “You call it an honor—good. Then carry it as such. A tangle of tales is harder to forget than a single line, and I’ve no intention of being forgotten again.”

[site-star-communications]

rebloggkng this here!

[A fellow dressed in white — a lab coat, perhaps? — had walked over.] “What… exactly is the matter here?”

[They enquired vacantly, meeting both the Major’s and the revived’s eyes as calmly as can be.]

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

“The matter,” she said smoothly, “is that your Major has taken a corpse out of his garden and mistaken her for a guest.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her words hung heavy in the air.

She tilted her head, studying the man in white with unsettling calm. “And now you’ve walked into the middle of it. Tell me—do you see a woman before you, or a body that should not speak?”

[site-star-communications]

“In truth, ma’am, I see an anomaly. Not that’s… bad, of course,” [The fellow gave a small laugh,] “But it certainly is not what one would expect!

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

Her eyes fixed on the man in white, steady and unnerving. “But tell me… do you mean to study me, to solve me, or to bury me again?”

[site-star-communications]

“Oh, none of the above. I am an anomaly, myself — marked with the number ████ , to be precise.” [████ tipped their head and smiled more amusedly — how funny it was to them that “anomaly” was seen as a derogatory phrase! Clearly, they weren’t born into the anomalous world.]

“And, I say, I pity the doctor — oh, but bless him, he could have been locked up like I was, if they were harsher, and he is a dear friend — who is assigned to me. He’s far too soft on his assignment.”

[margaret-mansfield]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

@askjohnandre

She shakes her head, too weak to speak yet. She was shivering (being brought back from the dead is quite a change)

[askjohnandre]

John waited for a moment, and when she supplied no answer he said: “I brought you some tea. Do you need another blanket? I thought for sure you were dead when I found you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“You thought right, Major… I was. But it seems you’ve gone and stolen me back from the grave. If it was your tea or your hand that did it, I cannot tell… only that I breathe again.”

She shivered, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Another blanket would be kind. The dead are not used to the cold.”

[askjohnandre]

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

He returned with a quilt, hovering over the bedside, unsure what to do with his hands. “May I ask what happened to you? I found you in the garden covered by a shroud. How did you get in? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions, but you can see why I’d be curious.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

“How I got in?” she repeated, eyes glittering with something that was not entirely sane nor entirely human. “Major, when you’ve been dragged beneath the earth and had your name stitched into the mouths of worms, doors and locks become trifles. I did not walk into your garden—I was laid there. A shroud is not chosen, it is given.”

She fixed him with a long, deliberate gaze. “As for what happened to me… do not ask unless you wish to hear how the world ends in whispers and shovels.”

Her hand lifted, delicate and trembling, to rest against his sleeve. “But perhaps—” her voice softened, “for tonight, we can pretend it was only a dream, and you merely found me asleep among your roses.”

[askjohnandre]

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

John took her hand and swept down to give it a kiss, hoping to fizzle out the tension, but to his growing uneasiness, he found her skin cold and almost glassy like porcelain.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

“A tragedy, you say?” Her voice was velvet and ice all at once. “Then perhaps you are its author, Major André. Every tragedy requires both a victim… and a witness.”

She tilted her head, the candlelight glancing off her skin in an unnatural sheen, as though the porcelain comparison were less metaphor and more truth.

“Do not look so uneasy,” she added, almost teasing, though there was a dangerous lilt beneath it. “The grave did not keep me, and yet… it marked me. You may kiss a hand that is colder than the moon, but I assure you, Major—” her eyes narrowed, smile deepening, “—it still belongs to me.”

[askjohnandre]

The Major gingerly released her hand and rested it back onto the bed, afraid that if he simply let go it might have shattered. He backed away a step without taking his eyes off of her. “I do hope I won’t be witnessing your tragedy,” he forced his voice to stay even. “Rebirth seems to be a good sign of comedy, no?” He tugged his sleeve over his hand, wondering if he was imagining the chill that remained.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

“Comedy?” she echoed, her tone laced with something between mockery and sorrow. “No, Major. Comedies end in marriage, and tragedies in death. I’ve already worn one shroud… I do not think the play has turned toward merriment.”

Her gaze drifted to his sleeve where he tried to hide the lingering cold, and a faint smirk curved her lips. “But you’re clever to cover it. Some chills never leave. They burrow beneath the skin, and when you remember me tomorrow, you’ll find it still there.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, piercing. “So tell me—” her voice softened, half-whisper, half-incantation—“if I am neither comedy nor tragedy, Major André… then what am I?”

[askjohnandre]

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

“Must every story fit into a single category?” He tried for a smile. “We’re nuanced people in the flesh rather than figures on a page, correct? Or—“ he stumbled over his words. “Mostly in the flesh.” André gestured helplessly at her pale, glassy complexion.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

“Nuance,” she repeated, tasting the word. “A generous thing to grant me, Major. Flesh enough to fool the eye, yet not enough to fool the touch.” Her fingers brushed her own cheek, lightly, as though she too were confirming what she had become.

Her eyes flicked to him, sly, sharp. “If I am not tragedy, then perhaps I am epilogue. Or worse—a ghost in the margins of your comedy, haunting it until laughter curdles.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice low. “But tell me—would you rather me in the flesh you carried, or in the flesh you never touched? Which unnerves you more?”

[askjohnandre]

“You have a gift with words. I’m pleasantly surprised. I would have loved to work with you back in the South street theater.” André hesitated before adding, “I’m not sure how to answer that question, Miss…” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, her voice quiet but certain. “Names travel, Major. They cling even when flesh does not. I knew yours long before I opened my eyes in your garden. No—we have not met. But I have always known you.”

[askjohnandre]

André raised his eyebrows and nodded with some hint of reluctant yet amused acceptance. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile was soothing or scaring him more. “I see. Interesting. And may I know who you are?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret inclined her head, as though the question were ceremonial. “Margaret Mansfield,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Once of breath and bone… now, it seems, of your keeping.” Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Does the name mean anything to you, Major? Or shall I remain a stranger risen from your roses?”

[askjohnandre]

“Mansfield-?” His words caught in his through and he played it off as a cough. “I can’t say it does, Miss Margaret. You shall remain the stranger risen from my roses. An unsung mystery to me.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

“Then a mystery I shall remain,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Perhaps it is better so. Names can bind, and strangers may yet be freer than friends.” She settled back against the pillows, studying him like one studies a riddle. “Still… if I am unsung, Major, then who will write my song?”

[askjohnandre]

“Perhaps I will,” a flash of genuine excitement lit André’s eyes and he grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician and aspiring playwright. I can imagine your ballad would be one of a kind. An epic that will be recited through generations with both our names attached. From ashes we were born and to ashes we return.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

“If you make me an epic, Major André, then be careful. Songs outlive their singers. And once you speak my name to the world, you may find it chained to yours forever.”

[askjohnandre]

“I would. I’d weave your shroud into a beautiful tapestry.” He clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to touch her. “And I might not mind having my memory entwined with your song. I’m willing to go lengths to be remembered, Miss Margaret, and the singer of your epic is not a bad path to immortality at all.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice rich with promise and warning. “But remember this: a shroud, no matter how beautiful, is still a shroud. Once you weave me into your tapestry, you will never quite escape the threads.”

[askjohnandre]

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

He mulled over her words for a moment. “Must a shroud be bad and a tapestry be good, Miss Margaret? I think every good comedy needs some tragedy and vice versa. The best stories are a blend of both.”

“And how can we know you are immortal? We don’t seem to know what death wants with you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “A shroud may be sorrow, but it is also memory. A tapestry may be beauty, but it is also binding. One without the other is hollow.”

Her gaze sharpened, almost playful. “As for immortality… I do not claim it. I only know that death spat me out. What it wants with me?” She let the question linger, then whispered, “Perhaps only to make me wait.”

[askjohnandre]

“I’ll venture to say that you and I will be great friends,” André hesitated before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s rare to find a poet in the colonies these days, though if I remember correctly, you were born here, weren’t you? I suppose divine intervention comes with some perks.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

At his mention of her birth, her expression softened just slightly. “Yes… I was born here. The colonies raised me, then buried me, and now—” she gestured lightly to herself, “—they’ve seen fit to let me wander back.”

Her eyes glinted with a strange pride. “Perhaps you’re right. If this is divine intervention, then I’ll take the poet’s tongue as my miracle.”

[askjohnandre]

“Most people are engrained with a blind terror for the supernatural. I’ll admit, I am too, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve befriended a specter. Some plaything of a god, if you will.” The Major laughed a bit at the last part. “You flatter me with ‘miracle’, Miss Margaret. I won’t deny it, though.” He let a hint of playfulness touch his tone.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

She let the quilt fall a little from her shoulder, tilting her head at him with a trace of playfulness of her own. “And why shouldn’t I call you a miracle? You pulled me from silence, Major. That makes you either my savior—or my accomplice.”

[askjohnandre]

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

He reached over and pulled the quilt back over her shoulder. “A miracle and a savior? I can’t say I don’t enjoy those titles, though I don’t know how big of a role I played in ‘pulling you from silence’. I simply took you home like any good soldier would do.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

“Perhaps you are right, Major. Perhaps you are only a soldier, dutiful and kind. And yet…” Her lips curved faintly. “If you carried me from the garden, then you carried more than a body. You carried a story back into the world.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Prophecy or not, you’ve already bound yourself to it. Ink or no ink, you will be remembered with me now. That is how immortality works.”

[askjohnandre]

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

“It is an honor to be bound to one as interesting as you, then,” he said cordially, dipping his head the slightest bit without breaking his gaze. “Quite honestly terrifying, though. I had no idea you’d be such a tangle of tales.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

Her stillness remained unbroken, her gaze fixed and piercing. “You call it an honor—good. Then carry it as such. A tangle of tales is harder to forget than a single line, and I’ve no intention of being forgotten again.”

[site-star-communications]

rebloggkng this here!

[A fellow dressed in white — a lab coat, perhaps? — had walked over.] “What… exactly is the matter here?”

[They enquired vacantly, meeting both the Major’s and the revived’s eyes as calmly as can be.]

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

“The matter,” she said smoothly, “is that your Major has taken a corpse out of his garden and mistaken her for a guest.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her words hung heavy in the air.

She tilted her head, studying the man in white with unsettling calm. “And now you’ve walked into the middle of it. Tell me—do you see a woman before you, or a body that should not speak?”

[site-star-communications]

“In truth, ma’am, I see an anomaly. Not that’s… bad, of course,” [The fellow gave a small laugh,] “But it certainly is not what one would expect!

[margaret-mansfield]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

@askjohnandre

She shakes her head, too weak to speak yet. She was shivering (being brought back from the dead is quite a change)

[askjohnandre]

John waited for a moment, and when she supplied no answer he said: “I brought you some tea. Do you need another blanket? I thought for sure you were dead when I found you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“You thought right, Major… I was. But it seems you’ve gone and stolen me back from the grave. If it was your tea or your hand that did it, I cannot tell… only that I breathe again.”

She shivered, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “Another blanket would be kind. The dead are not used to the cold.”

[askjohnandre]

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

He returned with a quilt, hovering over the bedside, unsure what to do with his hands. “May I ask what happened to you? I found you in the garden covered by a shroud. How did you get in? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with questions, but you can see why I’d be curious.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

“How I got in?” she repeated, eyes glittering with something that was not entirely sane nor entirely human. “Major, when you’ve been dragged beneath the earth and had your name stitched into the mouths of worms, doors and locks become trifles. I did not walk into your garden—I was laid there. A shroud is not chosen, it is given.”

She fixed him with a long, deliberate gaze. “As for what happened to me… do not ask unless you wish to hear how the world ends in whispers and shovels.”

Her hand lifted, delicate and trembling, to rest against his sleeve. “But perhaps—” her voice softened, “for tonight, we can pretend it was only a dream, and you merely found me asleep among your roses.”

[askjohnandre]

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

John took her hand and swept down to give it a kiss, hoping to fizzle out the tension, but to his growing uneasiness, he found her skin cold and almost glassy like porcelain.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

“A tragedy, you say?” Her voice was velvet and ice all at once. “Then perhaps you are its author, Major André. Every tragedy requires both a victim… and a witness.”

She tilted her head, the candlelight glancing off her skin in an unnatural sheen, as though the porcelain comparison were less metaphor and more truth.

“Do not look so uneasy,” she added, almost teasing, though there was a dangerous lilt beneath it. “The grave did not keep me, and yet… it marked me. You may kiss a hand that is colder than the moon, but I assure you, Major—” her eyes narrowed, smile deepening, “—it still belongs to me.”

[askjohnandre]

The Major gingerly released her hand and rested it back onto the bed, afraid that if he simply let go it might have shattered. He backed away a step without taking his eyes off of her. “I do hope I won’t be witnessing your tragedy,” he forced his voice to stay even. “Rebirth seems to be a good sign of comedy, no?” He tugged his sleeve over his hand, wondering if he was imagining the chill that remained.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

“Comedy?” she echoed, her tone laced with something between mockery and sorrow. “No, Major. Comedies end in marriage, and tragedies in death. I’ve already worn one shroud… I do not think the play has turned toward merriment.”

Her gaze drifted to his sleeve where he tried to hide the lingering cold, and a faint smirk curved her lips. “But you’re clever to cover it. Some chills never leave. They burrow beneath the skin, and when you remember me tomorrow, you’ll find it still there.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, piercing. “So tell me—” her voice softened, half-whisper, half-incantation—“if I am neither comedy nor tragedy, Major André… then what am I?”

[askjohnandre]

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

“Must every story fit into a single category?” He tried for a smile. “We’re nuanced people in the flesh rather than figures on a page, correct? Or—“ he stumbled over his words. “Mostly in the flesh.” André gestured helplessly at her pale, glassy complexion.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

“Nuance,” she repeated, tasting the word. “A generous thing to grant me, Major. Flesh enough to fool the eye, yet not enough to fool the touch.” Her fingers brushed her own cheek, lightly, as though she too were confirming what she had become.

Her eyes flicked to him, sly, sharp. “If I am not tragedy, then perhaps I am epilogue. Or worse—a ghost in the margins of your comedy, haunting it until laughter curdles.”

She leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice low. “But tell me—would you rather me in the flesh you carried, or in the flesh you never touched? Which unnerves you more?”

[askjohnandre]

“You have a gift with words. I’m pleasantly surprised. I would have loved to work with you back in the South street theater.” André hesitated before adding, “I’m not sure how to answer that question, Miss…” he trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, her voice quiet but certain. “Names travel, Major. They cling even when flesh does not. I knew yours long before I opened my eyes in your garden. No—we have not met. But I have always known you.”

[askjohnandre]

André raised his eyebrows and nodded with some hint of reluctant yet amused acceptance. He wasn’t sure if he’d smile was soothing or scaring him more. “I see. Interesting. And may I know who you are?”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret inclined her head, as though the question were ceremonial. “Margaret Mansfield,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Once of breath and bone… now, it seems, of your keeping.” Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Does the name mean anything to you, Major? Or shall I remain a stranger risen from your roses?”

[askjohnandre]

“Mansfield-?” His words caught in his through and he played it off as a cough. “I can’t say it does, Miss Margaret. You shall remain the stranger risen from my roses. An unsung mystery to me.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

“Then a mystery I shall remain,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “Perhaps it is better so. Names can bind, and strangers may yet be freer than friends.” She settled back against the pillows, studying him like one studies a riddle. “Still… if I am unsung, Major, then who will write my song?”

[askjohnandre]

“Perhaps I will,” a flash of genuine excitement lit André’s eyes and he grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. “I’m a musician and aspiring playwright. I can imagine your ballad would be one of a kind. An epic that will be recited through generations with both our names attached. From ashes we were born and to ashes we return.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

“If you make me an epic, Major André, then be careful. Songs outlive their singers. And once you speak my name to the world, you may find it chained to yours forever.”

[askjohnandre]

“I would. I’d weave your shroud into a beautiful tapestry.” He clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to touch her. “And I might not mind having my memory entwined with your song. I’m willing to go lengths to be remembered, Miss Margaret, and the singer of your epic is not a bad path to immortality at all.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice rich with promise and warning. “But remember this: a shroud, no matter how beautiful, is still a shroud. Once you weave me into your tapestry, you will never quite escape the threads.”

[askjohnandre]

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

He mulled over her words for a moment. “Must a shroud be bad and a tapestry be good, Miss Margaret? I think every good comedy needs some tragedy and vice versa. The best stories are a blend of both.”

“And how can we know you are immortal? We don’t seem to know what death wants with you.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “A shroud may be sorrow, but it is also memory. A tapestry may be beauty, but it is also binding. One without the other is hollow.”

Her gaze sharpened, almost playful. “As for immortality… I do not claim it. I only know that death spat me out. What it wants with me?” She let the question linger, then whispered, “Perhaps only to make me wait.”

[askjohnandre]

“I’ll venture to say that you and I will be great friends,” André hesitated before taking a seat at the foot of the bed. “It’s rare to find a poet in the colonies these days, though if I remember correctly, you were born here, weren’t you? I suppose divine intervention comes with some perks.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

At his mention of her birth, her expression softened just slightly. “Yes… I was born here. The colonies raised me, then buried me, and now—” she gestured lightly to herself, “—they’ve seen fit to let me wander back.”

Her eyes glinted with a strange pride. “Perhaps you’re right. If this is divine intervention, then I’ll take the poet’s tongue as my miracle.”

[askjohnandre]

“Most people are engrained with a blind terror for the supernatural. I’ll admit, I am too, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve befriended a specter. Some plaything of a god, if you will.” The Major laughed a bit at the last part. “You flatter me with ‘miracle’, Miss Margaret. I won’t deny it, though.” He let a hint of playfulness touch his tone.

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

She let the quilt fall a little from her shoulder, tilting her head at him with a trace of playfulness of her own. “And why shouldn’t I call you a miracle? You pulled me from silence, Major. That makes you either my savior—or my accomplice.”

[askjohnandre]

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

He reached over and pulled the quilt back over her shoulder. “A miracle and a savior? I can’t say I don’t enjoy those titles, though I don’t know how big of a role I played in ‘pulling you from silence’. I simply took you home like any good soldier would do.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

“Perhaps you are right, Major. Perhaps you are only a soldier, dutiful and kind. And yet…” Her lips curved faintly. “If you carried me from the garden, then you carried more than a body. You carried a story back into the world.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Prophecy or not, you’ve already bound yourself to it. Ink or no ink, you will be remembered with me now. That is how immortality works.”

[askjohnandre]

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

“It is an honor to be bound to one as interesting as you, then,” he said cordially, dipping his head the slightest bit without breaking his gaze. “Quite honestly terrifying, though. I had no idea you’d be such a tangle of tales.”

[margaret-mansfield]

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

Her stillness remained unbroken, her gaze fixed and piercing. “You call it an honor—good. Then carry it as such. A tangle of tales is harder to forget than a single line, and I’ve no intention of being forgotten again.”

[site-star-communications]

rebloggkng this here!

[A fellow dressed in white — a lab coat, perhaps? — had walked over.] “What… exactly is the matter here?”

[They enquired vacantly, meeting both the Major’s and the revived’s eyes as calmly as can be.]

[site-star-communications]

I, Dr. Seabury, will undertake the experiment to activate the ██████, to assist the 001 Project. I understand the possible cognitohazardous [and / or] infohazardous effects of this experiment, and take the risk upon myself to further this research.

I understand the need to discover whether this anomaly has ties to my current assignment, SCP-████, known as ███ ██████ before containment; my assignment to my friend said SCP is why I ask to personally undertake this, despite the risks.

—Dr. S. Seabury

[site-star-communications]

It still hurts somehow

Physically, I mean — gah-! — Dear God…

That… was an infohazard, and one that— forces oneself to recall it as to prolong the pain — oh, god, ow…

I think I saw past the layer of… of narration… bally hell, what I- dear lord this is painful-! — wouldn’t give to make this untrue…

E-experiment concluded, I- I believe.

—Dr. S. Seabury

[hammodernau-askblog]

Plot Information ;

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

no modern military in this modern au... But I still want it to be associated with the revolutionary war. So soldiers are spies in this au. Cyberwarfare and espionage is my hyperfixation rn plz dont sue me hehehe xoxo !!!! >XP

The context is that George III (once a pop boy group member now turned into evil ceo or smth 😞) proposes a bill entitled CrownNet that is said to be a British organization that controls information, surveillance, commerce, and media to build unity and order for the better of society - but secretly, it's for harvesting data, silencing slander and dissent, and controlling the government of America . The bill managed to pass, 5+ years later, Washington, a leader of a cyber splinter, had enough. He chose privacy and independence for his people, and so he brought back his team together and helped it grew even bigger through time. He named his team "The 4RMY" and it stayed secret to avoid digital footprint and be identified by the CrownNet.

What George III doesn't know is that a group of rookie spies would destroy this system and out of his organization's control in the future!! Crazy!!! anyways this idea was ass lmk if i should actually follow it

[site-star-communications]

OOC: wait lowkey this would mix well with my au holy shit

[site-star-communications]

I, Dr. Seabury, will undertake the experiment to activate the ██████, to assist the 001 Project. I understand the possible cognitohazardous [and / or] infohazardous effects of this experiment, and take the risk upon myself to further this research.

I understand the need to discover whether this anomaly has ties to my current assignment, SCP-████, known as ███ ██████ before containment; my assignment to my friend said SCP is why I ask to personally undertake this, despite the risks.

—Dr. S. Seabury

[askyourking]

An urgent message for the King!

Hello. I have not written in some time, I do apologize. I was away in search of information… and, I have received something that may be of interest to you.

I humbly provide these recovered snippets of truth to you. It is my sworn duty as an agent, after all. I… do apologize for what this information may do to you, sire, truly, I do…

~Agent O. T.

[OOC: full credits to SCP-2776, I wrote none of this!]

...I

Thank you for informing me of this, Agent Thornewood. However, I daresay my George is hardly one of... those beings. I assure you, he is the real deal.

[site-star-communications]

…I am not even going to question how you know that

i assume it is a private matter?

And I also will not confirm or deny if you’re right. You would certainly be surprised at how advanced anomalous mechanicalizations can be.

Those files do belong with me, though.

—Dr. S. Seabury

[site-star-communications]

don’t tell Dr. Seabury I’m putting this out here… or, do. He deserves to be spited :)

—Agent Hamilton

[askyourking]

Hello my love. Some people have expressed their suspicious. Towards Lord North. I'm just checking if everything is okay. With you. Where are you?

Yrs

I’m in my study, dear, with Judith. And yes... I’ve heard. But I don’t think he’d be up to anything bad. He wouldn’t.

[asklordnorth]

I wouldn’t!

[site-star-communications]

…

[askyourking]

To His Majesty King George the Third,

Do you happen to know where I would be able to find that… thing? There was a child that abducted me and then wiped your memories… I’m blanking on the name, but I have a use for them right now, don’t worry your head why.

Evermore, your obedient servant,

— F. North

...He has a name, North. Mammon. Now, why exactly are you looking for him?

[asklordnorth]

Aha! Nevermind! I’ve just been informed he is no longer needed!

[askyourking]

I— excuse me, what??

[asklordnorth]

Do not fret. Nothing sinister happening here! Haha.. uh— Ensign, please help me.

[ensign-baker-writes]

Er, there’s… a… an organization actively trying to contain oddities like them who defy the common laws of the universe and we’d like to prevent that. Yes.

[askyourking]

...He's still my son, Ensign, and I will not have you simply take him away like that.

[ensign-baker-writes]

That is… very true, but we wouldn’t have took him away. Simply would have warned him — that is if he hadn’t already found them, my liege!

Ah, but, on a serious point: the organization in question… they /also/ can wipe memories. So, that’s one more reason for you to keep safe.

[asklordnorth]

Oh, lord, okay. Sir, I promise me and Mr. Baker don’t want to do anything to or with him I simply asked because he is one of the few I know that has wiped a mind before, and at the time I asked we found that to be important for something, but it is taken care of now. It’s it hot in here? Is anyone else sweating?

[site-star-communications]

…?

An anomaly capable of amnesticizing others?

[This could be… a breakthrough in research. The most reliable method.]

…That seems like a threat.

—Dr. ████

[muffinz-reblogzz]

Haha what nooo I don’t have any capabilities 😅 I used a piece of tech tied to my fate

[site-star-communications]

Anomalous tech is… still anomalous, good sir! [Apologies for Dr. ███’s overzealous nature. They’re… not okay right now, I do wonder what’s going on with them. I shan’t ask, I suspect it’s classified.]

Pardon, though I must enquire: do you… have any reason for keeping an amnestization device with you?

—Dr. S. Seabury