This is bad.
The moment O5-3 speaks, the room feels colder—not physically, but conceptually. The Watcher rarely interrupts ongoing operations unless the threat curves sharply upward, and this one does exactly that.
A factory.
Built in 1835 by James Anderson.
A name already soaked in blood, suffering, and forbidden ambition.
Anderson did not merely exploit workers—he used them. Flesh, will, and soul bent into fuel for arcane machinery. The factory is not just industrial. It is ritualistic. A place where profit, magic, and cruelty fused into something that should never have been allowed to exist.
We only learned of it because one worker escaped.
Barely alive.Barely sane.
He reached out to a high-ranking government official—by sheer chance, or perhaps fate—and luck, for once, favored us. That official is one of mine. One of the quiet levers pulling America's strings from behind the curtain. The report reached O5-3 within hours.
The location is confirmed.
The factory still functions.
And that is the most terrifying part.
The structure can create weapons. Not merely arms of steel, but devices infused with contracts, bindings, and prices written into reality itself. Anything produced there demands payment—not currency, not blood alone, but something far worse.
A soul.
Repeated sacrifices.
Endless escalation.
The factory does not stop asking.
Eventually, it demands something that cannot be given.
I already know the answer before the discussion ends.
There is no using it.There is no bargaining with it.There is no price worth paying.
But leaving it unsecured is impossible.
After a brief, tense exchange with O5-3, the decision locks into place.
Containment.
Immediate and absolute.
A Mobile Task Force is dispatched—one specialized in arcane suppression and industrial anomalies. Reality anchors, thaumaturgical dampeners, memetic countermeasures. No interaction. No experimentation. No activation.
Their orders are clear:
Secure the perimeter.Silence the site.Prevent production.Ensure no one ever signs anything.
If the factory resists, escalation is authorized.
As the deployment begins, I feel something subtle—a pressure, like a distant awareness brushing against mine. The factory knows it has been found. Places like that always do.
But it does not frighten me.
Not anymore.
Some prices are too high.
And some doors are sealed not because they are useless—but because they are hungry.
The Foundation does not feed monsters.
It cages them.