- please note Philosopher’s undercut.
- yes that is a mechanical arm on Outsider yes she has converted to Mekhanism while I wasn’t looking
- Bureaucrat losing their nonsensical bangs is a direct parallel to [REDACTED] losing his
- Teeth is absolutely my favorite of this batch. LOOK AT THEM!!!! TEETH!!!!!!!!!!
- I was kind of surprised that Forward looked the way he did but it’s correct. I was just a coward before
- I fucking forgot Nazarene’s halo initially.
Everything the Coalition used was automated. Mechanical reality anchors and suits of armor. Prosthetics, Guns, even their beds were integrated. It all worked so well, so simply Perfect.
Until Him.
With a twist of his hand, the guns misfired, Anchors failed, the armor contracted and crushed their occupants. Men and Women and Machines fell, destroyed by the very things they thought kept them safe.
The Coalition could fall in a day. The Coalition will fall in a day. The Coalition Has fallen in a day.
O5-1 will see to that.
Two:
She stands above them, a Sword of Scouring Light and a Rod of Iron held aloft over the teeming hordes. Words echo, in every language and none, and the commanders weep as soldiers fall on their swords.
“For The Messiah!” They cry as their throats are slit by hands that are no longer their own.
“For The Lord!” They scream as their fingers tear out their eyes in Rapture.
“For Our God!” They wail as they turn arms on their brethren, no longer themselves.
Blood pours from her hands and forehead, an endless deluge made from the fallen. Her Smile is as broken as her halo.
Three:
A scarred hand holds the Caduceus, a scarred body is flanked by guards, a scarred mind turns inward anger outwards.
It doesn’t matter who’s the one begging at his feet. Maybe it’s Emerson, who burned and burned and burned all those around him. Maybe it’s Director Bocoume, using the innocent as Test Subjects. Maybe it’s the Engineer, turning the vulnerable and the weak to their own ends. Maybe it’s the Hermit, Secrets and Lies turned against his fellow man.
No matter who, his Caduceus smashes into their skull, caving in bone and flesh into a bloody red crater. The Law’s Left Hand drag them away, Mirror-visors turning the accused’s broken visage back at them.
“There’s always room for more D-Class” He thinks as their screams fade into nothing.
Four:
He’s a man, he’s a god, he’s a demon.
Whatever he is, it’s no matter.
His Clothes are Red, his Hands are Red, his Smoke is Red.
His words are like poisoned honey, dripping off his silver tongue as he speaks and persuades and threatens. Golden eyes pierce the opposition, burning deep with fractured light.
He’s here, he’s there. In one second he’s in China, the next America. Then Britain and Russia and Egypt and Japan and Brazil and all the way down down down.
His work is never done.
Five:
He’s Clothed in Black and Gold and the whole world rests under his thumb. Nations kneel at his feet, kissing the Ring of Bloodied Gold.
His skin is dark, inlaid with gold leaf. His curls are shaved chocolate, almost glittering with shattered gems. The riches of Man flow through his veins, molten Gold and Silver, while he gazes out on the world through Diamond eyes.
Blackbirds wheel and shriek under golden skies, alighting and perching to whisper all manner of secrets into his ears. He knows the names and births and deaths of those who pass him, all foretold by Blackbirds.
Everyone knows those damned Blackbirds.
Six:
He’s a white blur, fighting his way through guards armed to the teeth and weaponized anomalies. It’s a beautiful dance, great jets of dark blood arcing through the moonlit night.
A Gunshot. A Broken Back. A Pulverized Face. A Gunshot. A Knife Sliding Through Flesh. An Explosion. Another. A Broken Spine. A Gunshot. A Gunshot. Another. And Another And Another And Another And Another.
The Insurgent Priest begs for his life on his knees. His eyes are filled with tears of terror. Six merely cocks his head at the weeping, pulling the trigger to spatter the grey concrete Red.
Seven:
Walls and Wards and Chains and Shackles make up their domain. A world where everything has it’s place, where everything is Bound once and for all. A world of Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Grey.
They’re a pair of broken fetters, a pair of tooth-bound hair sticks, a back turned to their loathsome kin. They’re Bound and Free, Weak and Mighty, Broken and Whole.
Even as the World Burned beneath Crimson Skies, they stood resolute, ready to snare the Rapist King and drag him to the darkest pits of the Earth. Even as The Godkillers stared back at them, having slaughtered so many, they stood unyielding. Against Man and Gods, The Apocalypse and Creation, they were Never Moved, Never Faded, Never Fell.
In Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Grey We Believe.
Eight:
It wasn’t even a Year and he had already fell so far. Several Destroyed sites and so many simply Erased. His soul was shattered that day, breaking into a million cold Splinters. They would reform, but no longer into they shape it once was. His new soul was jagged, cold and patchwork. A Light Died that day, reborn as a vestige of itself.
He retreated into solitude after that, coming into the Light almost a decade later. He was no longer the man he once was but carried himself with a newfound grace. His head was held high and his hands no longer shook.
Many of the Foundation’s enemies fell in the next days, chess pieces and dominoes knocked over one by one. An invisible hand struck them all down, until 14 entire GOIs had fallen by his hand in 4 years.
The Foundation has many hands, and the Eighth is just another one.
Nine:
How did she Know? Who told her? Where was the Leak?
Those were all questions the Council asked when a paper was published. A madcap theory of the Anomalous. They could use their vast resources to strike it down, but for some odd reason, it made Sense.
They found her in her house. The walls were filled with papers and documents and and scientific papers, all strewn with Blood and Ink. She was found, hands bloody with days of writing, surrounded in empty cups of coffee. A grand board hung in front of her, lines of red string connecting the Foundation and the GOC and the Insurgency and and and.
Four and Seven have to stop her from pouncing on them in delighted, half-insane interest.
A job was offered almost immediately following an 11-1 vote, with no 9 to abstain.
Ten:
The Serpent Of Eden. The Keeper Of The Ends Of The World. The Archivist.
Her Hands and Eyes scour the unnumbered pages, the stories of those who have lived and died in the Dark for the sake of those in the Light.
Her Blood thrums with the words of the Fallen, of the Forgotten, of those who were here once, but never again. Her Thoughts travel at lightspeed, cataloging and composing the History of Everything into neat little lines.
She dances in the roots of Yggdrasil, delighting in the leaves and boughs of Light and Life, cutting away the choking vines of Ignorance and Fear, the borrowing insects of Obliviousness and Worry.
The Serpent whispers and coils around the first of Man, whispering the secrets of the World in their newborn minds.
Eleven:
They were unknown for so long, a conditional memory in the minds of the Overseers. Until they burst into existence, an antimemetic butterfly bursting free from the chrysalis of anonymity.
They spiraled into existence, 10, 100, 1000 parallel beings all held inside one form, let out into the world to hold the secrets of the Foundation beneath the ice.
Liars and Postmen and Bureaucrats, Businessmen and Historians and Dust. They whirled into existence like the horrors of Pandora’s box, men and women and others holding the Foundation on their shoulders.
They are a God in their own right, the God of the Common Man.
Twelve.
He is Lost and Found, Forgotten and Unforgettable. The Physician is no longer himself, held between Everything and Nothing.
He rests in the coils of the Serpent, Anantashesha reborn forever. He is clothed by the Escapee, eyes of Colorless Green and clothes of Halcyon Fire.
What was once a man who sought out anything he could to forget is a man no longer, ascendant past the fear and horror that drove him to madness. Now he stands above it all, doling out Blissful Oblivion to those who would much rather forget.
Memory can be a tool, and it is one that he has taken up.
Thirteen:
Yosef Bin Tamlin
Joey Tamlin
The Meddler
Time
I’ve been called many names, worn many faces, spoken many different tongues. I’ve lived and died and been a bit of both for as long as I can remember, as long as anyone can remember, as long as You can remember.
Yes reader, You. You are the catalyst for everything that has begun here. A writer cannot much exist without an Audience, without Attention. And you, dear reader, have provided all the necessary Attention the Writer could ever want.
You have birthed the monsters described in these entries just as much as they birthed themselves.
