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SCP-RECURSAL

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I climb up to the edge, and pull myself over to the next space. I really wish I could have studied more, there's so much here I don't understand. Quiet, now I'm used to that. Most of the time, I hear nothing, although I do get a bit of ambiance in some of the spaces I step into. But even then, those few noises only serve to accentuate the soundless depths. It's been too quiet for too long, and no one has said or done anything to me ever since the lights went out. God, I've no idea how long it's been, time's just been meaningless, really. I don't sleep, I don't eat, although I can taste things when given a chance. All I know is what they let me know, really, and part of me wonders if this is another one of their damned games. I do know they were pissed when I found out what was really going on the first time, but for whatever reason, they decided against terminating me. Small favors. I guess I should be thankful, though, but I do wonder whether there's any point to my current existence. Dr. Nguyen says that there's always a point for existence, but he's out there and I'm stuck here. A series of infinite planes, all alike. A grue would be welcome. No, this one's different, I can see that. I walk over to view the plane, and the Words make themselves readily apparently. I read them silently, trying to figure out what it all means. “SCP-001 has left its location. The Gate is Open.” Gate? What gate? What the fuck? I continue to read the report, and phrases like “XK-Class” and “Patros-Omega” come up, but “end of the world scenario” is pretty damned clear. Either this is really some elaborate game done by the Foundation, or I am well and truly alone. I can't escape, I can't kill myself, I'm just going slightly mad. I giggle at the thought that I managed to miss out on Judgement Day, and now I find myself in an ironic hell. Fuck, Cassy, what do I do now?

Item #: SCP-173 Object Class: Euclid Special Containment Procedures: Item SCP-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must maintain direct eye contact with SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container. Description: Moved to Site-19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures. Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty. The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis. “What the fuck are you looking at?” John Avery, presently known as D-5933, shouted at the other D-class in the cell. “SCP-173. What the fuck are you looking at!” came the reply. This worried John, as he was staring intently at SCP-173, and the other D-class was standing behind John, facing the other direction. Then John heard the worst sound any human being had ever heard; a sneeze, coming from six inches behind his head. For a second John remembered an episode of Mythbusters he had seen before being arrested, before coming here, where they tested to see if someone could sneeze with his eyes open. He never saw the end. There was a sick, wet thud, a horrible ripping sound, and a scream that ended too quickly. “Fu-” John managed to get out. SCP-173 Addendum 1 On ██/██/████, SCP-173 appeared to multiply, producing two identical copies. Two D-class personnel were killed. It is unknown how this process occurred. Each instance of SCP-173, now labeled SCP-173-1 and SCP-173-2 is to be moved to individual cells each following original containment procedures. SCP-173 Addendum 2 On ██/██/████, a second multiplication event occurred. SCP-173-1 through -4 are to be each contained as per original containment procedures. Objects reclassed as Keter. SCP-173 Addendum 3 Security breach occurred on ██/██/████. Assuming a simple geometric progression, at least 61 copies of SCP-173 are as of now unaccounted for. It is unknown how they replicated so fast, or how they replicate at all. Video evidence of the containment breach shows multiple instances of SCP-173 working in unison across multiple cells to achieve the breach. Most of the instances still in captivity appear to have formed a 'rear guard', blocking Foundation agents from pursuing other instances. It is theorized that SCP-173 has a hive intelligence, where intelligence scales with number of nearby copies. See revised security procedures for containing SCP-173 copies. Revised Special Containment Procedures All copies of SCP-173 are to be contained in form-fitting metal containers and sent using SCP-███ to the now abandoned Foundation facility on the moon. They are to be fitted with tracking collars that will detect if any of them leave the moon. SCP-173 Addendum 4 SCP-173 has caused a breach of secrecy for the SCP Foundation. Estimates at this time are roughly 500,000 civilian deaths across North America in the last 48 hours due to SCP-173, and hundreds of thousands of sightings and pieces of video evidence. Major television news programs have obtained video of SCP-173, and are providing instructions for avoiding instant death. Dr. Phillips Mathews Clef Gears Kondraki Bright is in charge of the containment. SCP-173 Addendum 5 SCP-173 has besieged and destroyed 4 Foundation facilities near simultaneously in the last 24 hours. Each instance shows the characteristic strength exhibited in the original, and thousands working in unison are capable of ripping open concrete bunkers and compromising foot-thick steel doors. Research is ongoing to find a way to combat this threat. Personal Log of Dr. Bright Date: ██/██/████ I've been killed thirty-seven times in the last week. They can smell me, somehow, regardless of what body I'm in. The majority decision of the remaining O5s is that this is an XK, and they're gonna deal with the problem, or the Russians are. They're evacuating this base, which means there won't be a single Foundation scientist anywhere in the New World. They say they're gonna try to evacuate the surviving civilians, but I doubt it. There can't be more than a couple hundred people in all of North America. The only good news is that about 150 of the bastards teamed up and ripped SCP-682 apart. Brought a smile to my face. Revised Special Containment Procedures Containment Zone X1, formerly North and South America, is to be denied access. Following saturation nuclear bombing on ██/██/████, number of SCP-173 instances has been reduced. All available Foundation resources are to be redirected to monitoring the ocean, to ensure the integrity of Containment Zone X1. Foundation Adjuncts from national navies are to perform around the clock patrols and sonar sweeps. Detected instances are to be contained and removed to SCP-███ for transport to the lunar containment site. SCP-173 Addendum 6 Verified sighting of SCP-173 in ████, Wales, The United Kingdom. Nuclear bombardment authorized and executed. No survivors.

<< Back to part one I hid in the boiler room when the panic started. I would sleep a little, and wake up whenever someone tried opening the door. I'd hold it shut until they gave up, and I would go back to sleep, and it would start again. I would occasionally leave to take a piss but I don't know how long I was in there. I only left because I really wanted some food. The other half of the school was gone, cut cleanly as if a giant kitchen knife had chopped it off. With it went half the girls' locker room, one of the science labs, the back wall of the gym, most of the sophomores and seniors, and a sizable chunk of the library. I only noticed because I checked the library for anyone I knew, and a lot of it had just gone. It was empty save for one of the library assistants, curled up next to a bookshelf. I left. Passing through the senior hall on the way to the cafeteria was the longest run I'd ever taken. It didn't start as a run, just a quick walk. I stopped when I heard screaming coming from one of the classrooms. I peeked inside—it one of the senior English classes, and Miss Ladia was trying to control them. I watched a group of seniors advance on her as one mass, and I watched them violate her, I watched as they took turns and I watched redness pool around them all. They noticed me next. I ran, I heard them behind me, and I swear I ran for hours, tearing through air as thick as water, filled with their jeers and grasps at my arms, only wrenched out of their grip by the grace of adrenaline. Every time I blinked the cafeteria door seemed farther away and the mob nipping at my back seemed closer, and I screamed at them, "no, no"; they didn't understand me, they were no longer human. I crashed through the door and slammed it shut. I was hardly a match for one senior, let alone two or three or ten, they forced the door open and knocked me to the floor. Indistinct faces filled my vision until something snagged my wrist. "Come on," said my captor, practically dragging me into the kitchen. I screamed at him too before realizing who it was. When I'd caught my breath, I looked over the place. I recognized the cafeteria workers, all lying on the ground with great red wounds in their stomachs, and I recognized Cyrus, locking the door. "What's going on?" I said, my gaze fixed on the kitchen workers. "Did you…did you do that?" He sat down on the floor, massaging his forehead. "No. I just took the keys —" he nodded in the direction of the door, indicating the mob, " —before they could. They'd try to take the food." "Food," I murmured. "Is there any left?" "Yeah, take what you want…" I stepped over the kitchen workers towards the big industrial fridge. There wasn't much variety in school food, and I suspect it will be that way until the end of humanity, but I was so thirsty I'd take anything drinkable I could get. "So," said Cyrus, raising his voice a bit over the ruckus in the cafeteria, "where were you hiding? It's been almost three days since I last saw you." "The boiler room," I said after settling down with a carton of chocolate milk, one of those packaged burritos, and a cookie. "It's really cramped and kind of musty but no one ever looked in there…" We were silent for a while. Cyrus looked absolutely exhausted, like he'd been up all night guarding our only food. He had a switchblade in one hand and a couple keys in the other. "Where are all the teachers?" I said. He shrugged. "Some of them are dead. Some of them just disappeared." He paused, looking at the ceiling in thought. "I did see one of them jump. That one freshman science teacher." I knew immediately who "that one" was—the one who kept a boa constrictor in a tank in his classroom. While Mr. Darrick was beyond help, I wondered if the snake was okay. "I think I watched Miss Ladia die," I said. My voice turned hollow as I realized what had happened. "Those guys that were chasing me, they did it. I should have done something." More silence. I guess it was the closest thing to a funeral the dead would have. "You're called Wednesday, right?" I nodded, and was about to ask if I'd gotten his name right when something slammed hard into the kitchen door. Continued in part three >>

It started January 5th, about nine in the morning. Mrs. Foster was explaining factoring polynomials to us, and I was exhausted. I wanted desperately to go back to bed and sleep. Too soon after Christmas break to start thinking about math. I glanced out our window—the fog was still kind of like trying to look through a glass of milk. The sun hadn't burned it all away yet. Just before I was going to look away, the windows exploded in a spray of glass. I heard Mrs. Foster scream, but it was cut short. She had fallen. One by one my classmates did the same. I felt my sleepiness intensify a hundredfold, and I fought it, standing up, but it was too much. The air shimmered, and I didn't dream. As far as I know, I was the second to wake. The first to wake was the quiet boy, Cyrus, who sat behind me in the last row. I stood up and looked over the others. He was by the broken window, clearing away the glass, and for a moment I saw his palms, cut up by his efforts. I stepped over still-sleeping classmates. "What happened?" He shrugged. "Here," he said. "Look outside." I did. "I don't see anything." "I don't either." He picked up a large shard of glass from the ground. "Watch." He dropped it outside. I watched the glass shard fall. It kept going, and going, turning into a pinprick before vanishing altogether. The other kids began to stir. Mrs. Foster was the last to rise. "Mrs. F," I said. I stopped there, not knowing what to say. She stepped gingerly over the glass and looked out the window. She didn't speak—just looked out there, her grip tightening on the jagged glass still stuck to the window frame. I left the classroom, feeling hollow and as though I had blinders at the sides of my eyes, at the same time, lucid, every sound and breath and footstep amplified, every fiber of the carpet and every scratch on the walls magnified. I passed by them, and ran down the hall and the stairs and the other hall until I reached the front doors of the school. They seemed enormous, and I so small, I pulled them open; my hands seemed so far away from me. Below me was a sheer drop, like a cliff. The bottom of it was lost in the dense fog. "I think I'm dreaming," I said. "I think I'm dreaming," I said again. "I think I'm DREAMING," I said, shouting the last word. My voice dissolved into the air, having nothing to bounce off of, and I didn't wake up. I returned to my classroom. Cyrus was sitting by the door reading his Bible. The others were sort of mixed in their reactions—some girls cried in the corner, some boys simply looked numb, some other boys dropped things from the window to watch them fall. "Find anything?" said Cyrus. "Come look," I said, gesturing down the hall. By now a few kids had begun to cluster around the door. I elbowed my way to the front. "I'm having a dream," said a girl next to me matter-of-factly. "Watch, I'm going to fly." She leaped from the door, ignoring the screams coming from her classmates. That was the last I saw of her. Continued in part two >>

“…in three, two, one, mark,” said the pilot as the ship blinked in from hyperspace. “All systems normal, and… there's the landmark beacon. It looks like we're ready for the nineteenth system when you are, captain.” “Wonderful,” responded the captain. “Bring up the cloaking device, start heading in then, standard trajectory, you know the routine.” A moment later, the intercom on the bridge squawked to life. “All of our guests are showing stable vital signs, captain. Shall I wake the ones in stasis?” “Yes, please do, doctor,” the captain replied into the intercom, “and also let them know we'll be nearing the first gas giant in a few hours.” “Captain, you need to see this,” exclaimed the pilot without looking up from the display. “I've checked this several times but….” “What, pilot?” “It's the satellite of the blue rock. It's… gone.” “Gone?” repeated the captain incredulously. “The great white satellite? How can it just be gone?” “I… have no idea, captain, but it's not showing up anywhere in any spectrum.” The captain was silent a moment before speaking again. “What about the third planet itself, pilot?” “It's still there,” responded the pilot while scanning through multiple readouts. “There seems to be a lot of energy coming from it, but we're still too far out to get any details.” “Hmm… our itinerary has us going to the rocky planets soon enough. Continue on toward the outermost giant, but keep your sensors on the third planet. I want to know what's happened to its satellite, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. I need to let them know back home what we know so far.” “What about the guests?” The captain groaned. “I have to let them know as well, but you and I both know they'll be disappointed if something's happened to the biggest draw in the system.” The rendezvous with the outermost giant came and went without incident, and it had been several hours since the ship had changed course heading toward the ringed giant. The anticipation amongst the guests was more subdued than usual on approaching the sixth planet, and the fate of the third planet and its satellite remained a popular topic of conversation for guests and crew alike. On the bridge, the doctor and the pilot were poring over readouts from the ship's array of sensors, most of which had been directed toward the third planet. The captain was sitting nearby, reviewing updates on the ship and its contents, when he received a page on his private comm. “The energy coming off the third planet is still off the scale across all spectra,” said the doctor. “It would be a miracle if anything were to have survived, no matter what actually happened in the first place.” “All right, we'll check it out,” muttered the captain as the comm channel closed. “Pilot, bring up visuals of the red rock. I've gotten reports that several guests have seen something unusual in that direction through their scopes. Something tiny, but not moving like any sort of pebble.” As the pilot worked to bring the visuals up, the doctor started calling up sensor data from the region of the red rock. A moment later, a complex sensor image of the fourth planet appeared on the main viewscreen, and it wasn't long before the doctor spoke up. “I've found it, in the sensor logs, which would put it about… there,” declared the doctor, pointing to a spot on the viewscreen. Instantly the image changed as the pilot zoomed in on that spot. The doctor rechecked the sensor log, pointed to another spot, and the pilot zoomed in again. After the fourth zoom, they saw it: a tiny green dot in the starfield. The pilot centered the view on the dot and zoomed in again, giving the crew their first good look at the object. It looked like a green ship, but much smaller than even the escape pods on the ship. It also appeared to be pointed toward the ship, and the crew could see a large jet of green vapor apparently coming from the rear of the object. “It looks to be fifteen to twenty feet long, all told, and maybe five feet tall,” reported the doctor. “And it appears to be headed for us on an intercept course.” “Our cloak is still up, correct?” responded the captain, receiving affirmation from the pilot. “Then how can it pierce our cloak? None of the native sapients in this system should be able to do that! Unless….” The captain pulled up a file on the third planet and jumped to the section on native lifeforms. A moment later, the captain said, “The sapients from the third planet are generally five-and-a-half to six feet tall. Even with just one crewmember, that's awfully cramped in there, and there would be very little room left over for support systems….” “Captain!” the pilot called out. “Come look at this!” On the viewscreen, the green object had extended a tubular structure from its back right, pointing several degrees to the right of straight back. A second later, a second green jet emanated from the end of the tube, causing the object to start turning slightly to its left. “Captain, if I didn't know better, I would swear there were claws at the end of that exhaust tube,” said the doctor. “Doctor, I think you may be right,” responded the captain. “I don't think that's a ship. I think it's a beast of some kind.” “How can that be possible?” asked the doctor. “There is nothing in the records for this system about any type of native space beasts.” “If I had to wager, I would guess it has something to do with what happened to the blue rock. In any case, we're not prepared to deal with a space beast, and I'd rather not bring it on board and endangering our guests if we can help it. Send a message back home and see how quickly they can get out here with a xenobiology detail. I'd recommend a well-armed one.” The ship reached the ringed giant on schedule; by that time, the green beast had cleared the ring of pebbles on its way to the sixth planet. Since its discovery by the crew, the beast had gotten progressively faster, as its green jet appeared to have been functioning continuously, causing speculation as to how the beast was generating so much power. The doctor also noted that the beast gave off very little heat, though this was not unusual among known space beasts. The itinerary had allotted ten dozen hours for guests to explore the ringed giant and its satellites, before heading to the inner planets, including the still highly-exothermic third planet. At its projected acceleration, the beast would have crossed the orbit of the great giant by then (though the fifth planet itself was on the other side of its star). If an encounter were imminent, the captain would prefer that it happen in a planetary system rather than in interplanetary space. Plus, reinforcements were on the way. Before long, three ships blinked in from hyperspace just beyond a landmark beacon. Once they got their bearings and cloaked, one light warship headed for the sixth planet, while the other escorted the research ship on its way to the third planet. From the ringed giant, it appeared the beast did notice the newly-arrived ships, but did not otherwise immediately react. A few hours later, the beast cut off its green vapor jet, though it would still reach the sixth planet well before the warship. After another dozen hours, three additional ships blinked in, two more light warships and a creature-capture vessel, all of which cloaked and started heading toward the ringed giant. The beast continued to hurtle toward the sixth planet, occasionally adjusting course with its rear legs. It was several hours before the beast was expected to arrive at the ringed giant. Though many guests were out on the last scheduled excursions before the beast's arrival, many more were watching the live feed of the beast at several locations around the touring ship, particularly its massive observation deck. This video feed also went to the other six ships in the system, where it received similar interest from their respective crews, and was already on its way back home. The beast extended its rear legs, and from its right leg came a thin jet of green vapor. The jet lasted only a few seconds, but was enough to start the beast slowly rotating. When the beast had rotated nearly ninety degrees, for the first time since it was discovered, it moved its head, curling it under its belly to be able to see where it was going. As it neared a half-rotation, a green jet appeared from its left rear leg, lasting a couple seconds. Several more pulses of jet intermittently came from each leg, till the beast's rear was pointing toward the ringed giant. Suddenly, a massive green cloud of vapor erupted out of the rear of the beast, enveloping it as it continued to hurtle through space. Though somewhat indistinct through the vapor, the viewers of the video feed could still see the beast extend its rear legs straight ahead, adding two smaller vapor jets to the larger one. Two more vapor jets appeared a moment later. By then, the observation deck was a din of cheers and applause, which increased sharply when the beast extended its front legs and opened its mouth, adding three more vapor jets. The beast could now be seen unaided from the observation deck, and though its nine vapor jets had been counterthrusting almost continuously, it was still going too quickly to stop by the time it reached the planet. The touring ship itself had established orbit around the ringed giant, near the giant's largest white satellite. The leading warship was still many hours away, having yet to cross the toppled giant's orbit; the slower capture vessel's group trailed by at least two dozen hours. As the guests and crews watched intently, the beast, still at full counterthrust, shot past the gas giant. The beast attempted to rotate as it passed the planet, but only succeeded in punching a hole in the planet's rings. The beast reoriented itself toward the sixth planet and opened all its vapor jets. “It appears that the beast is intelligent,” said the doctor. “It looks like it tried to use the gravity well of the planet to slow itself.” On the ship-to-ship comm, the biologist from the capture vessel said, “Yes, but I doubt that the beast is native to space. A native space beast should have more control over its speed and know when to start slowing down. Our beast overshot its apparent target, but it tried to compensate and it certainly appears to be trying to return.” “It has managed to slow down quite a bit,” said the pilot, “and based on how much counterthrust it generated earlier, it should start coming back here in… about four hours.” Four and a half hours later, the beast cut all its vapor jets except its main rear jet, though it was noticeably smaller than before. The beast uncurled and folded its limbs into itself, taking the form in which it was discovered, and slowly started heading back to the ringed planet. The beast took its time returning to the ringed planet, leaving its jet on for only a few minutes. Thus, when it drifted back into visual range of the touring ship, the lead warship was itself only a few hours away from the ringed giant. The sense of anticipation was building on the observation deck as the beast crossed the orbit of the great hazy satellite. The beast extended its front legs forward and turned on their jets to slow down further, drifting very slowly towards the touring ship. The crew of the ship was anxious but alert, ready to defend or flee the moment the word came down. Moments before it reached the ship, the beast unfolded its legs and relaxed its body, finally looking more like a beast than a ship to its attentive audience. The crowd could see the beast had six legs, a neck at least a foot long, and a thin tail, and the “hull” of the ship turned out to be a series of articulated chitinous shells. The beast appeared to stretch its legs as it drifted toward the touring ship. The beast drifted over the window of the observation deck, grabbed onto a support arch outside the window, and positioned itself to look inside the window. For several minutes, the beast watched the crowd through the observation window, moving to different support arches to see the entire deck, while the guests and crew watched the beast in fascination. The beast then stopped and sat still for several more minutes before gliding off the observation window. External sensors followed the beast as it skittered over the surface of the ship, tapping, sniffing, grasping outcroppings with its feet and its prehensile tail, even tasting the ship in a few places. Every so often the beast would stop and sit still as before, twice lying completely prostrate on the ship's hull. After a couple hours of exploring a small fraction of the ship's surface, the beast returned to the observation window to look in on the assembled crowd. The beast had remained on the support arch watching the lead warship as it arrived at the sixth planet and took position alongside the touring ship. Once the warship was positioned, the beast glided over to it and began to explore its surface like it examined the touring ship before. As it did so, the warship launched a tiny probe to examine the beast itself. The beast watched the probe warily as it approached, but did not stop it. When satisfied with its exploration, the beast returned to its perch on the observation window of the touring ship, where it remained until the three other ships arrived. Once the ships arrived and took up their positions, the beast glided over to examine the creature-capture vessel. As it did so, a cargo bay door opened on the capture vessel, exposing a large air lock. The beast came back round to the open air lock, waited several minutes eyeing the air lock, and slowly entered the air lock. A moment later, the cargo bay door closed with the beast still inside and examining its spacious confines. After the unexpectedly smooth capture, the vessel and its escorts headed out to the nearest landmark beacon, while the touring ship started toward the inner planets. The research vessel was still many hours out from the third planet, but it had declared the hazardous region to be really tiny, extending out only twice the distance of its former satellite's orbit. The vessel also determined that nearly all of the mass of the satellite had fallen into the planet, and that most of the energy coming from the third planet appeared to have come from a very large number of fission reactions. On the capture vessel, the biologist had discovered that the beast carried, though it seemed unaffected by, some type of primitive necrotizing contagion, one that most sophonts were already immune to. The beast had already shown signs of intelligence, so the biologist had started attempting to communicate with it, though the beast seemed uncomfortable around certain crewmembers. Otherwise, the beast appeared very powerful and highly adaptable, and smelled faintly, but distinctly, of mint. Out past the landmark beacon, as the capture vessel prepared to blink into hyperspace, a small but unmistakable grin broke across the beast's face.

There is a gun in his hands. AR-15 automatic rifle (his mind supplies automatically), standard issue for new Agents or emergency armament, fairly new, pretty battered. He's familiar with this one, and likes it: it feels much more important than the others he's fired. Right now he's field-stripping it with practiced ease, and— He freezes, his hands jerking in sudden horror. He is field-stripping a rifle, and he knows how to shoot it. He's never held a gun in his life! How— “Fifty-five, Jim.” The voice comes from his left. Jim snaps his head around to stare, wildly, at the source. Ragged brown hair, a crumpled lab coat. It's Madeline, Dr. Madeline Vogler, of all people, sitting beside him on the park bench and cleaning her own gun with the same swift, automatic movements. She hasn't looked up. ”What?” he squeaks. “Madeline, what are you doing? You can't handle a gun, you're an engineer, you've never shot one in your life! What's happening?” “Oh-fifty-five.” She cuts him off dully, glancing up from her work. Her gray eyes are dull, bruised with tiredness, and the fine lines on her brow were never that deep. The lab coat is a half-shredded montage of stains, and the name embroidered above the breast pocket isn't hers. “Remember agreeing that something wasn't round?” Oh. He nearly chokes. SCP-055 certainly isn't round; Madeline and her team had confirmed it. It took them months, and many rounds of negation, but they learned a few important facts. The thing can't be remembered, not even indirectly, except for what it isn't. It isn't alive. It isn't safe — oh, God, it's not safe! And it isn't contained… It isn't contained any more. And Jim doesn't remember very much of his recent history. Panic floods Jim as he realizes what this means. How long has it been since he remembers doing anything? How long has it been since he's formed a lasting memory — since he was doing something that didn't involve 055? Too long, he thinks. Madeline is a gaunt, ravaged shadow; he's not much better, he decides, looking down to take in his own frame. It takes a while to lose that much sleep. Some of the scars — new scars — must have taken weeks to heal. And when did he learn to shoot a gun, least of all this gun? Now that he allows himself to look at it closely, warily accepting that he's familiar with such things, he can tell that even by Foundation standards it is not a normal weapon. The firing mechanism has been replaced with a jerry-rigged tangle of circuitry, fiberglass, crystals, and something like flower petals. There's something else at the base of the trigger; he squints at it, decides that it isn't important, and passes over it. The magazine is entirely too heavy and too blue, and it sloshes. He forces himself to nod, finally answering Madeline's question. “What are we doing here? With the guns, and…” here he gestures vaguely at the strange mechanism, “that? On this bench, of all places?” “I don't remember — ” and her eyes snap shut, pain flickering across her face — “but you said that I'd said that you'd… Never mind. You said we had to shoot something, and that we'd know what, when it was time.” “I said? What about Agent Segel?” But the moment the name leaves his mouth, he knows. Madeline's look of bemused grief only confirms it. “She didn't make it, did she?” “No. Nobody did.” “Chen? Alex? Araya?” Madeline only shakes her head. “Kyle? At least tell me Kyle's okay? Damn!” He knows his voice is rising in anguish, and his eyes are blurring. His entire team — the entire staff of the Site? All of them? “Nobody.” Madeline's eyes are suspiciously bright, too, but she hasn't taken them off her work. “Jim, we can't talk about it now.” “But—” “Shut up and let me explain!” Her fingers clench somewhere inside her gun. “We have to finish what we're doing and be ready when it gets here. I'm going to forget everything again in another minute or two, and you'll have to tell me, all right? There's no one else left to do it.” That does quiet him. He looks back down at the half-disassembled gun in his lap. It needs to be put back together, now that he's cleaned it. His hands seem to know what to do; he starts sliding the pieces into each other. She lets out a breath, going back to her own work. “Okay. We're in the park on the other side of Springfield from the Site. We don't want to go back there; I don't know why. There's nobody else in town, maybe nobody in the state. We've got supplies to last a few weeks stashed in the bushes next to you. We have to keep these guns in good condition, make sure the crystals don't tarnish and the petals stay alive, spend as much time on this bench as we can, and always be ready to attack. Got it?” “That's all?” “All you said last time, yeah.” Jim nods numbly. “Madeline?” he asks after a moment. “How long has it been?” “A few weeks, I think. Long enough. My oldest scars are at least that old, and I haven't got anything newer than a week.” Jim's own body bears out her assessment: he's got a few new aches, but nothing pressing. He considers them, looking up into the sky as he works. Their bench sits at the edge of an open athletic field, with summer-lush woods behind, but there are no birds. A football lies abandoned, one end crumpled inward, a few yards away. “How long will we be waiting?” “As long as we need to.” She finishes reassembling her gun and hefts it briefly. There is something brittle and flinty in her movements. “I don't really know.” Another pause. Jim stills his hands, resting them on his knees. The park's stillness is a lead weight against his temples. “And we're the last ones?” “Maybe. As far as we know.” Madeline won't meet his eyes. “Then this could be futile. 055 could already have won.” Madeline whips around to glare at him, her whole posture suddenly lit with desperate ferocity. “Don't!” she snaps. “Don't talk like that! We can't think like that! We don't know anything else we can be doing — for Christ's sake, Jim, we can't remember ten minutes ago. We could be the last thing keeping the world alive, for all you know!” “Okay!” He pulls his head back as if struck, raising his hands. “Okay. We'll stay. As long as we need to.” “As long as we need to.” She gives a firm, sharp nod, a peck from a raptor beak. Jim doesn't dare contradict her. Then she nods again, softer, and suddenly uncertain. Again, barely moving her head, staring around herself in sudden confusion. “Jim? What the — What are we doing here?” Jim's throat clenches tight, stopping his voice and breath. She's forgotten again. Just as he will, in another few minutes. “055, Madeline. Remember agreeing that something wasn't round?”

The Conception Dr. Kald and Dr. Mann waited in the main chamber of 542's new accommodations, sitting in the lush chairs they had arranged for their charge. It had taken them months to get access to 542, months yet to be made co-chairs of his case. They had wheedled and pleaded for the best accommodations for 542 they could from the Foundations. It had been worth it. Dr. Mann purposely did not look at Dr. Kald. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and at the old-fashioned radio (really an MP3 player with Chirurg's favorite songs loaded into it), and occasionally at the set of medical encyclopedias lining the walls. He looked everywhere in the room except at the door to Chirurg's bedroom (he looked away bashfully) and at the other doctor (he looked away pointedly). Kald just glared at Mann. They had both fallen for the old doctor. His wit, his charm, his large collection of organs… What wasn't there to love? So they had both done their best to woo the SCP, maintaining as much secrecy as they could (though surely the Foundation must be aware of their torrid affair). They had spent many fascinating hours with Herr Chirurg, drinking the finest wines, speaking of philosophy and art, and performing impromptu surgery on each other. It was bliss. The only wrinkle was the presence of the other. Each wanted Chirurg for himself. Sharing was inconceivable. And tonight, they each secretly hoped, Chirurg would make his decision, and they could finally know if they had his love. Finally, the door opened, and Chirurg stepped out. The two doctors savored his stooped gait, the delicate artistry of his scars, and the grace of his fingers as they caressed the doorknob. "Ah, my darlings," the old surgeon said, a fond smile on his lips. "Tonight is a very important night for us. I have an announcement to make." The two doctors held their breath. Surely their time had come at last. They both were certain that the other… the interloper would get their comeuppance at last. "This is not a decision I come to lightly. It has taken a great deal of thought and soul-searching. However, I believe that I have come to a decision that is right for me. That is right for… us." Chirurg paused and cleared his throat, like a patriarch making a declaration before the entire family. "I have decided… we should have a child." Dr. Kald blinked. "Vas?" "Er, could you repeat that?" Dr. Mann said, unsure that he'd heard correctly. "A child. A baby. My darlings, I think it is time we started a family." He sighed, long and heavy, his distended ribcage slowly expanding and contracting. "I have been so long without my dear Isabella, but I think she would want me to move on after all this time. She was good to me, but that was long ago, and it is time to think of the future." "Ah. Well," Dr. Mann said. "That's… a large step, isn't it?" "Ich…Ich mean, I yam honurrd, but… how?" Dr. Kald said. "Ah, I thought you might ask that. It will be difficult, but we can do anything through the healing power of Science!" Chirurg said. "Now, let us consummate our love through microsurgery and genetic engineering." "To the laboratory!" Dr. Mann said, his heart engaged by the old surgeon's enthusiasm. "Vith all doo chaste," Dr. Kald said, momentarily forgetting his rival in the warm presence of his darling. Within moments, the microsurgery tools were set-up, the genetic samples unfrozen, and the mysterious beakers and flasks of colorful fluids were bubbling merrily. Dr. Mann and Dr. Kald were happily splicing away at DNA. "Now, we will take fifteen chromosomes from my darling Everett, fifteen from my beloved Josef, fifteen from myself, and one from my lost Isabella." Chirurg began the delicate process of combining the DNA into one complete set. It was a delicate process, requiring a steady, unwavering hand. His thin, multi-jointed digits went to work with a will, slowly wending their way into the very stuff of life, until he had completed his chromosomal work. "Gentlemen," he said to his beloveds, "We have combined our genetic material successfully. Now we must raise it to gestation." "Chow shall ve prosheed?" Dr. Kald asked. "An artificial womb? A surrogate?" Dr. Mann suggested. "No, no, that would spoil the magic of it," Chirurg said. "It must be one of us." "Ah… perchaps Dr. Mann vud like ze honor?" Dr. Kald suggested. Dr. Mann shook his head. "No, no, I couldn't. You should do it, Dr. Kald. I insist." "Ah, I know my little darlings are so eager to make each other happy. But there can only be one womb. So… I will flip a coin. Heads, Mann, tails Kald." Chirurg reached into his pocket, pulled out an old, tarnished Deutschmark, and flipped it upward. The three of them watched as it spun, catching the light, and then landed with a sharp ringing. Dr. Mann walked out with a certain heaviness of heart, saddened that he would not, after all, have Chirurg to himself. However, at least he had the consolation that he wouldn't be the one to carry the child. He had too much to do. He didn't have time to be a working mother. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the dark shape sneaking up behind him, not until he felt the sharp jab of the needle as it slid expertly into the meat of his buttocks. He started to turn, but then the world turned to cotton balls, and he thought it best to lay down and close his eyes. When he woke up, there was a soreness around his lower regions, but given certain of his experiments, he thought nothing of it, and kept on with his day. It was over a month before the morning sickness began, and he realized what had been done to him. Month 1 Dr. Kald was relaxing with the perfectly preserved body of a six-year-old when he heard a skittering in his room. He looked around, but didn't see anything. He shrugged, and began a new incision. "Hello," said a voice. Dr. Kald looked around. It had sounded like Dr. Rights, but she was no where in sight. "Bastard," said another voice. It sounded like Agent Yoric. But still, he didn't see anyone. He held his scalpel a bit tighter, for possible use as a weapon. Suddenly, there was a pain in his leg. "Zum donnerwetter!" he said, spinning around. Then he fell as the leg collapsed from under him. He saw a crab scuttling away. Then another moved at him from the side. He lashed out with the scalpel, but it only bounced off the crab's carapace, and it scored a tiny cut on his wrist. His hand went limp. Others moved in, and he found himself quickly disabled with surgical precision. "That's good, my little friends," Dr. Mann said, stepping into Dr. Kald's field of view. "That's right where I want him…" Dr. Kald could only seethe inwardly as Dr. Mann began the transplant. Month 2 Dr. Mann was sitting in his lab, happily reading the latest copy of Resurrectionist's Monthly (much better than that rubbish in the Gravedigger Times) when he heard an odd hissing sound. He looked around, trying to locate it. It seemed to him that it was coming from somewhere overhead. He started to walk over to his office to call maintenance when he detected an odd odor. Then he noticed his nose feeling a bit numb, and realized something was wrong. He was halfway to the door before he collapsed. Dr. Kald walked in with a scalpel and a smile. Month 3 Dr. Kald was writing a report on his latest research. It had been going well enough, though he was starting to grow bored of it. There was hardly any dissection or vivisection at all involved in the work. He sometimes thought his talents were being squandered. He licked the tip of his finger as he flipped the page. He paused. There was something off with the taste. He looked at the paper, seeing if perhaps he'd spilled something on it, or on his desk. Yes, there seemed to be some discoloration. He wondered what it might be, and whether it might have something to do with the purple kangaroo that had inexplicably shown up his lab. As Dr. Kald explored better living through chemistry, Dr. Mann (showing some extra weight) made his way into the lab with a grim look and the autoscalpel humming. Month 4 Dr. Mann was enjoying a good bath. The bubbles were just the right consistency and color (a sort of lime green) and he had his rubber ducky, Rinaldo, with its round doctor's reflector on its forehead. He began singing some of the better songs of the BeeGees, enjoying the bathroom's acoustics. Then he removed his snood for some basic mustache care. First he washed out the wax, letting the curls go from his whiskers, and then wetted them thoroughly. This accomplished, he took the bottle of mustache shampoo and opened the lid. As he did, there was an outrush of escaping gas. "Oh, bother," he said, as he passed into unconsciousness. Dr. Kald stepped into the bathroom, a determined look in his eye. Month 5 Dr. Kald was sitting in his room, waiting for something to happen. He'd known for weeks that Mann was coming sometime. It was inevitable. His only chance was to be prepared. He'd hardly stirred from his room for a week, waiting, just waiting for Mann to make his move. There was a knock at the door. Dr. Kald narrowed his beady eyes. "Wer da?" he asked. "Delivery," said the voice on the other side. It didn't sound like Mann… Dr. Kald opened the door to find nothing but a large baby carriage. He looked around. There was no one in the hallway. He wondered if Mann could really think he was that foolish. Five minutes later, he had his gasmask on, as well as gloves and a heavy coat. He wasn't about to let Mann drug him again. He swept back the blanket on the pram to uncover what sort of mechanism powered the trap. Dr. Mann, in swaddling clothes and a pacifier, kicked out, taking Dr. Kald in the chin and knocking him straight out. Dr. Mann began to prep for surgery. Month 6 Dr. Mann whistled as he pulled on the rubber gloves. It was time for a routine dissection. It was so fascinating to find out just how an SCP had killed someone. Had their kidneys liquefied? Their blood spontaneously released its oxygen? Or had their nervous system vanished entirely? It was always a delightful puzzle. The corpse today seemed a little bloated, though he'd been told the man had died very recently. Bloating normally took several days. However, there was some clear distension in the belly region. Dr. Mann made a note of it, and then looked over the corpse's other features, marking down the lividity of the face, the color of the fingernails, the way the corpse's eyes kept spinning several inches out of their sockets. Finally, he got ready to make the incision. As the skin slid open, a large boxing glove on a spring shot out, hitting Dr. Mann square in the face and knocking him onto his back. Dr. Kald waddled into the morgue, glaring at the body of his rival. Month 7 Dr. Kald walked down the hallway, wondering why he'd been summoned by Dr. Clef. He didn't want to leave the safety of his room, but he wanted even less to miss a meeting with the senior doctor. He opened the door, and found himself in the dark. He stepped forward a few feet, and then the lights came on. He was standing on a bullseye painted on the floor. Around him, there was an odd collection of machinery and assorted contraptions. Ramps, conveyer belts, slides… It went on and on. A marble dropped into a chute, where it slid down to a spiraling tube. Gravity propelled it down to an escalator, which deposited it onto a conveyor belt. This in turn fed it onto a miniature Ferris wheel, which brought it onto the top of a ramp. The marble slid down until it landed on a small metal dish. The sound of this awoke a mouse, which began running on a wheel. The wheel cranked a small pulley, which turned on a treadmill. A dog tied to the treadmill began to run. After a moment, it began to pant. A CO2 sensor turned on, triggering the start of an engine. The engine turned a belt which spun a fan, which blew a balloon over to the other side of the room. The balloon reached a lit Bunsen burner, and popped. The force of the pop knocked over a delicately balanced book, which then knocked over another book, and another. The books (a set of encyclopedias, from what Dr. Kald could see) fell like dominoes, continuing on a long shelf that seemed to end just over Dr. Kald's head. He peered up to see what was at the end of it. It was large, round, and, he suddenly realized, precariously balanced. He realized it was a bowling ball only as it started to fall, and it was too late to move. Under the blanket of Dr. Kald's concussion, Dr. Mann worked. Month 8 Dr. Mann was walking down the hallway when a very pregnant Dr. Kald hit him over the head with a clipboard. He turned with a triumphant grin. "I thought you might try that, so I protected my skull with a layer of carbon steel and foam!" "Did hyu protect zese?" Dr. Kald snarled as he kicked Dr. Mann in the crotch. "Oh, Britannia!" he cried in pain, collapsing to his knees. Dr. Kald kicked him again in his chest. "Hyu blasted Englisches Schwein!" Dr. Mann rolled with the kick, regaining his feet. "Big-nosed child-botherer!" he shouted as he aimed a punch at Dr. Kald. "Hoossy!" Dr. Kald said, grabbing Dr. Mann's mustache. "Home wrecker!" Dr. Mann said, grabbing Dr. Kald's hair. "What is this?" said Chirurg softly, looking out the window of his chamber door. "Oh, Chirurg!" Dr. Mann said, suddenly releasing his grip on Dr. Kald's hair. "Ve vere just…" Dr. Kald began. "I could see what you were doing," said Chirurg. "And it makes me very sad." Dr. Mann and Dr. Kald looked at each other, abashed. "But I know what is wrong," Chirurg continued. "It is obvious. Come inside." "Yes, Herr Chirurg," the two doctors said. They entered Chirurg's antechamber together. Chirurg bade them sit, and then made tea for them. "It is clear what is causing this strife," their paranormal paramour said. "Obviously, you both want to carry our child. I should have thought of this before. I should have known it would cause strife." "Er…" Dr. Mann tried to think of a delicate way of explaining that Chirurg was wrong, but failed. "But don't worry," Chirurg said with a smile. "Papa has a solution. Trust in me." He held up a scalpel. The both of them realized that they were feeling more tired. It seemed they weren't the only ones who could play with soporifics… Month 9 "Oh god!" Dr. Mann screamed. "I haff never known zuch pain!" said Dr. Kald. "Push!" shouted Dr. Geier, from her position at their feet. Herr Chirurg held their hand, looking proud and just a little bit worried as the delivery went on. After several fevered moments, there was a final push. The infant (which looked human if you squinted right) was placed in their arms for the first time. "Hold it oop ay lizzle higher," said Dr. Kald. "Move the bottle a bit," said Dr. Mann. "He can't drink properly like that." "You two make a lovely mother," said Dr. Chirurg, admiring his handiwork. It had taken a great deal of work to get two heads to function on one body. The body had to have sufficient bloodflow to support two brains, and sufficient oxygen introduced into the blood. But it had been worth it to make his darlings happy, and to give him the family he had longed for. He beamed. The infant fell asleep, safe in its mothers' arms. Dr. Agatha Rights X:/Foundation/Personnel/Rights/Work/Boring Stuff/Extremely Normal Files/Nothing to See Here/Fiction/Slash/SCPs+Staff/Chirurg/One Bad Mother.txt To: Dr. Agatha Rights From: Dr. Bright Re: Your Files Dr. Rights, while your stories are fascinating, please keep them off of the Foundation servers in the future.

The Captain focused his binoculars and scrutinized the valley below. The highway bent around the hills, littered with refuse and empty cars. Beyond the road was an inlet. The muddy waters flowed sluggishly, packed with flotsam, around the bows of a listing destroyer. A suspension bridge had collapsed on the stern of the ship. The vessel had remained, half submerged, for the short months since the war. The yellowing corpse of a cow had lodged in its trailing cables. Through his binoculars, the Captain could see the flies dancing around it, even from his roost atop the hill. The tarp around his shoulders ruffled in the sharp wind, and he drew it close. The gray plastic blended well with the mottled land, the dead grass, the darkened sky. A convoy was plodding the highway below, vehicles winding around the broken asphalt and drifting ash. The lead tank had a dozer blade fixed to it and was shoving aside the rusting car-carcasses obstructing the road. A small detachment of soldiers followed, maybe twenty five. They wore black uniforms, and marched before an eighteen-wheeler. It was low slung, heavily armored. A second tank took the rear, turret swept back to ward off attack. The Captain thought eagerly of the contents of that truck. As he looked back at his gathered men, he saw they did, too. Rifle Company B hunkered on the ashen mount, hands tightly clutching weapons. They needed action to take their minds off the burning in their lungs and the pangs in their bellies. They were tired and worn from these wretched months. Some of them had worn out rad-suits and were coughing piteously, spitting little globules of mucous and blood. Miserable as they were, they perched like hawks above unsuspecting prey. What that convoy was guarding, they could only imagine; incredible wealth, an armory of devastating technologies, or one of the last politicians – those dogs who brought on the holocaust. Or perhaps it was something more. There were rumors, from travelers and sporadic radio contacts, of strange and unnatural things occurring across the globe. Tales of walking dead, of machines that spoke, of unearthly creatures and men with godly powers. A few weeks ago they had come across a great fat man who called himself the King of Philadelphia. It was as if his every word was gold, and they would have gladly submitted to his every order if the Doctor hadn't put a round through the back of his skull. The Doctor was back at the camp. Lately he took no interest in the raids, speaking of nothing but the Eden Gate. The men were demoralized enough without their leader babbling obsessively about some old story. There were whisperings about the Doctor that spread among the soldiers. That he had been a top researcher, a director in some enigmatic international program. That he had gone insane. The Captain had been his friend years ago, before he joined the British Army, when things were first starting to fall apart. He was there when the Doctor partook of the Spring of Youth. He had helped push the dioxin barrels in when the Doctor was done with his injections. The rusty red drums cracked easily, bleeding the oily chemicals into the cold, clear water. Five months ago, Company B had come over with the European invasion of the States. They quietly went rogue when everything collapsed. And when the Captain found the Doctor again, they took him as their leader. The caravan drew closer in the valley below, and the Captain spoke a few words into his radio. And suddenly it was all chaos for the convoy, and tattered green raining fire down on shiny black. When the first shots hit, the soldiers below scattered, taking cover behind wreckage and returning fire into the hills. The Captain's men whooped like red Indians, their rifles cracking sporadically in the bleak sunlight. Their numbers would quickly have over-swept their prey, but they held back for the two tanks, which fired blindly into the hillside. And the small band below might have pulled a hasty retreat, might have saved their cargo, if not for the ruined destroyer lying in the waters to their right side. The destroyer was tilted, half sunk, but the bow still sat above the water. The refurbished and manned front turret began turning. The members of the convoy had no time to react. The naval gun flamed, and the lead tank exploded, blasting sharp chunks of metal dozens of meters. The black-armored operatives were quickly reduced in numbers. Someone – a white-suited figure – had extended their torso from the hatch of the remaining rear tank. The person lifted a megaphone, speaking clearly in a woman's voice. “Cease firing! We are not with the United States government!” Perhaps she had recognized the uniforms of soldiers on her assailants. It was of no matter, though, as a second rumbling blast from the destroyer announced the end of her short plea for parley. Soon the victorious ambushers were down among the remains of the convoy. They sifted through the bodies and the scalding fragments of the two tanks with hope for loot. The Captain stood eagerly by as two of his men clipped the lock away from the back of the eighteen-wheeler. They threw the double doors open. Several cowering scientists and a series of electronic panels were exposed to the light, and the two soldiers climbed up. The Captain listened to the brief bursts of gunfire. “What's up there?” he yelled into the cavern of the truck. “Not much…hold on,” one of the men called back from the depths. “There's another door farther back here. We've got to cut through these chains.” There was a clink of metal against metal, and the man called back again. “It's a bare room. There's nothing back here but…” He snorted derisively. “What?” yelled the Captain, growing impatient. “It looks like a guy in an oversized clown-suit. What the fuck!” The soldier laughed again. He poked his head out of the truck, grinning at the Captain. There was a subtle snapping, and the man collapsed. It took only a few more minutes for the one hundred and thirty one members of Company B to be killed. A few seagulls were the only witnesses to the oddly proportioned creature. It moved rapidly across the landscape in short and erratic jumps. The sun began to set, and the Doctor settled comfortably down on the torn out rear seat of an old sedan. He cradled a steel banjo in the curve of his lap, strumming a few slow chords. He breathed the acrid air of the outside world unfiltered, unaffected by the deadly conditions. The tall creature had halted twenty paces before him, transfixed by his unbroken stare. The Doctor's eyes watered and burned, but he had no need to close them. The thing stood awkwardly alone in the gathering darkness. “Looks like we're going to be here for a while, big man,” the Doctor said, sighing. Then he added, “At least until I break one of these strings.” He nodded to the banjo. The odd figure stood, silent and unmoving.

…There are still no damage reports from the missiles the United States has launched… The dead are walking the streets! Be sure to lock your doors… No hospital is safe! …on a nearby island, there's footage of a number of strange, coral-like growths breaking the water's surface… …even if they are family members… The government has officially rescinded all powers of the FBI. The FBI is no longer an officially sanctioned law enforcement entity… …increased sightings of monsters all over Europe and the continental United States… …the threat isn't over! Avoid walking! Always wear your mask! A message from a religious group calling themselves the "Church of the Broken God" has stated that we are to baptized in the Clockwork Gift, so as to pave way for the new humanity… …are currently battling the army! Most urban areas have been turned into warzones! …if by "new humanity" they mean robotic corpses, then I for one, do not wish to be baptized! And whatever you do, DON'T GO OUTSIDE! The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Agent Williams reflected on that thought as he followed a railroad track into Pennsylvania, or at least what was left of it. Six months ago, he made a living tracking down SCPs, and now, his life depended on reaching one that had already been found. He was still somewhat in contact with the Foundation, or at least what was left of it. There wasn't a lot of things left nowadays. Occasionally, he'd get scattered radio messages from Sites, MTFs, and some stranded Agents, but they never broadcasted for very long. Of all the Sites he knew of, Williams could only count the remaining ones on one or two hands. The rest had either fallen in the initial chaos, or initiated nuclear failsafe. A macabre game surviving personnel played was to ask each other what they were doing on S-Day, the day everything went to Hell. Williams himself was on assignment in South America, when he noticed the rain forest around him slowly turning into clockwork. It was at that moment he bugged out. He never did find out what was the exact cause, but there were rumors floating about that a SCP-217 infected crewman on the International Space Station caused a catastrophic accident, seeding the entire lower atmosphere with clockwork "spores". After hearing SCP-217 had went global, and at least a dozen sites were compromised, Williams knew it was time to execute his Exit Strategy. His first priority was getting in contact with Richards. Richards was in fact on Keter duty, overseeing SCP-231, no less. Containment was already blown to hell, so the priority was getting the hell out. However, Richards did note that before leaving, she made sure to leave her sidearm in 231-7's containment cell. Williams didn't know the details of what happened afterwards, but from what he heard from the Sites that still had access to surveillance satellites, there was a massive "dead zone" gobbling up Europe and slowly making its way across the Atlantic. Richards then managed to hop a plane to North America, but the closest she could get was a Canadian Air Force Base in Nova Scotia. Either way, they had to get to their destination on foot. A rather dangerous proposition, as all sorts of terrible things were loose, and not just SCPs. Both the Church of the Broken God and the Global Occult Coalition were out in full force. GOC Mobile Execution Teams were basically destroying everything that moved. If they didn't have a dim view of the Foundation before, they certainly did so now, since they considered the Foundation at fault for not destroying the SCPs when it had the chance. The Church was meanwhile capitalizing on a wave of religious doomsday fervor, gobbling up more and more followers every day. Last Williams heard, SCP-835 had grown to such ridiculous proportions that the oceans were literally unlivable, and that it had overtaken SCP-882's containment facility. The Church was busy trying to reach the machine by throwing wave after wave of clockwork drones at the biological monstrosity. As for the other factions, well, most governments collapsed several months into the crisis, leaving a vacuum for others to grab power. Marshall, Carter, & Dark set up a stronghold in England called Avalon, which rather fit their pretentious nature. Williams secretly hoped whatever Eldritch horror born from 231-7 took time to swing north and show those snooty bastards a good time. The Serpent's Hand and Chaos Insurgency were also out in full force, often directly clashing with the Church and GOC for control of what was left. Like the Church, the Horizon Initiative was also riding a wave of religious doomsday fervor. The Manna Charitable Foundation was trying to set up refugee zones, with varying levels of success. Of the Iranians, Williams had no idea whatsoever. The Middle East was one of the first areas to be reduced to a nuclear wasteland in the global panic. Quickly focusing on matters at hand, Williams took a moment to get his bearings. If he was right, he was only several miles from his objective. So far, sticking to back roads and the wilderness had hampered his progress, but it was necessary to avoid unwanted attention. The GOC's METs essentially controlled the roads, and Williams couldn't afford to have other refugees or survivors tagging along with him. They'd just be extra baggage. "This is Site-17, going off the air." Williams' radio squawked. It was essentially Foundation-speak for nuclear failsafe. That left the remaining known operational Sites down to four or five. "One less reason to stay, I guess." Williams muttered to himself. Unfortunately, before he could go any farther, Williams noticed something terribly wrong. He saw SCP-615 laying on the tracks. Sure, it could have been just any random pile of sticks and logs, but he could tell. Keeping his distance, he managed to catch sight of a MET of about five men coming the opposite way, flamethrowers in hand. They were obviously on the hunt, torching every pile of wood they could find. When they finally did hit 615, the creature quickly shot off into the forest. Spoon let the MET chase 615. There was only one SCP on his mind now, and any fight he could avoid the better. He still had bad memories of his encounter with SCP-173 in Arizona. Spending two days and three nights in a cargo container while hearing 173 repeatedly banging on the walls were some of the worst in his life. Finally, he reached vestiges of civilization. It wasn't much, just a railroad junction with a small residential district and some stores, but he was on the right track. Keeping an eye out for any unnatural presences, Williams made a dash over the crossing, painfully aware of how exposed he was. Checking his map again, he found that he was only a few blocks from his destination. Encouraged, Williams continued deeper into the town, and felt his heart sink slightly. There was what looked like a military checkpoint just up the road, directly between him and the Exit. Fortunately, the men manning the checkpoint didn't look like they were from any GOI, so Williams had hopes that he could bluff his way past. Approaching closer, he could see that the checkpoint was manned by a pair of young, incredibly scared National Guards. He didn't think any of those poor saps were still alive. "State your business!" One of them yelled, aiming his M16 rifle right at Williams' face. Even though the kid was wearing full NBC gear, he couldn't hide the fear in his body language. "Whoa, calm down, son." Williams said diplomatically. "I'm not here to fight." The other Guardsman breathed a sigh of relief through his gas mask. "Oh thank god, are you here to help with the purge?" "Uh, yeah." Williams nodded, going with the flow. "I'm Special Forces." "Great!" The second Guardsman stood aside, pulling open the makeshift barricade to allow Williams through. "It hit two days ago. The GOC is helping us clean it out. You should go to them if you want to help out." "I'll keep that in mind." "Oh yeah, remember, if you don't have an official sanction, we can't let you back out!" The first Guardsman added helpfully. With his objective so tantalizingly close, Williams started sprinting for his destination. However, in his rush, he got sloppy, rounded a corner, and ran straight into a GOC MET. "Stop!" The MET leader yelled. "Don't worry, I'm not infected." "All individuals breaking curfew are assumed to be infected." The MET leader inched closer to Williams, trying to get a good look at him. "Where are you from?" Behind the MET leader, Williams observed the rest of the MET unloading piles of clockwork corpses from a truck and dumping them onto a nearby lawn, where another MET member was collecting gasoline in preparation for a bonfire. "I'm from the Foundation, I've been sent here to help." "Hold on, I'm running this through Command." The MET leader turned around and starting waving to his squad. "He's totally playing you." A cold, feminine voice burst through Williams' headset. "There aren't any outgoing signals. Just stand still." A fraction of a second later, the MET leader's head exploded like a melon, and the rest of the body crumpled like a sack of meat. The rest of the MET was still in shock, and had no chance to react before being cut down by a combination of fire from Williams' M4 and Richard's sniper rifle. "You're late." Richards said in an annoyed tone as she made her way down from her perch atop a nearby water tower. "I've been camped up there for a week waiting for you to get your sorry ass here." "Well, as you can see, I was held up." Williams scoffed. She seemed to think going cross country on foot was a cakewalk! "Come on, we don't have much time." Richards motioned for Williams to follow her. "Foundation HQ activated nuclear failsafe twenty minutes ago." "So there really is nothing left." "Affirmative." Williams and Richards were standing in a ruined mini-mart, which had literally been looted to its foundations. However, they weren't here for food or money, they were here for the restroom. "Does it still work?" Spoon asked. "I've tested it. SCP-436 is still operational." Richards opened the restroom door, which was now hanging precariously off one hinge. "You do realize the inherent danger and unpredictability of this SCP?" "Can you honestly say it could be any worse than what we're in right now?" "Point." It was incredibly awkward trying to fit two people into a restroom stall designed for one, especially when both individuals were clad in full combat gear. However, they did eventually manage to make it work, and there really wasn't anybody around to see the whole fiasco anyways. "Well, see you on the other side." Williams said. "To greener pastures." Richards said as she grabbed the door handle and pulled it closed.

The problem is, one of the first things you do when you make dandelion wine is throw away the flowers. Seventeen minutes. That's how long the world lasts this time. The crucifixes with their screaming human sacrifices flayed and nailed to the i-beam crosses vanish, replaced by a bucolic pastoral scene, the serenity of the gold-flecked, rolling hills ruined only by the presence of a thirty foot tall Albertosaurus biting the head off a three-headed sheep. He hits the stopwatch, resets the timer. 00:00:01 and counting. He decides to head south, pushing through the fields of waist-high dandelions and away from the predator messily devouring its meal. A throbbing scar on his leg, angry and red, serves as a reminder that a few minutes are long enough to be maimed or killed. He takes a moment, once he is far enough from the gory scene, to tear the leaves off of one of the plants and cram them into his mouth. They taste bitter, and tough, but they are edible, and he has not eaten in a long time. They told him that he would be safe. They told him that he needed to carry the information across the universes. Somewhere out there, they said, there would be a universe where the Foundation still existed. Find them, tell them what happened. Maybe they can fix it. He tears the stem off of one of the oversized dandelions and sucks on the milky sap, then starts to pull off the dinner-plate sized flowers and stuff them into his battered rucksack. Maybe on the next jaunt, he can find a bottle and some sugar. Make some dandelion wine. The shift hits him between zipping his rucksack up and hefting it to his shoulder: he is now standing in the middle of a four-way intersection at rush hour. A yellow cab nearly runs him over: the man behind the wheel is shouting at him, waving a wide-fingered hand as his ruddy face roars, twisted in rage. His eyes are empty, and his passengers are only corpses. He steps aside and looks up into a vermillion sky: the noonday sun is crimson, the color of blood. It is bloated, too large, taking up nearly half the sky, and the light is dim enough to gaze into, to see the wide, blotchy, diseased patches that dot the surface of that shining orb. All we can do is place one person outside it. An Outside Observer, unaffected by the shifts. We drew straws. We chose you. Twenty-one minutes. That was how long the world lasted. He hits the stopwatch, resets the counter. There is a supermarket on the corner. The plate-glass window is shattered, and a man, now long dead, has been hurled through it. He steps over the glass and into the empty, deserted aisles. He is hungry. He is always hungry. He ignores the rotting displays of fruit, buzzing with flies, or the greenish, molding displays of meat in the butcher's aisle, and heads straight for the canned goods. On the way, he passes by the dried goods. Something makes him pause. It's a box of instant stuffing. The front shows a typical Thanksgiving scene in the style of Norman Rockwell. The father is carving into a screaming human head. The apple-cheeked children are passing around plates of body parts. He takes down a can from the shelf, a thin rectangular can in the style of a sardine tin, and opens it up with the twist key. Seventeen baby blue eyeballs packed in oil stare back up at him. He grabs as many cans as possible. He can't afford to be picky. We know what caused this, but it's too late. We can't stop it. Reality, as we know it, will vanish into the sea of chaos. Into the seafoam of the What-Could-Have-Been. This time, the world lasts a full half-hour before the shift. He hits the stopwatch, resets the counter. The world is filled with fog. From out of the fog come men, or creatures very much like men. His machete is drawn before the first one reaches him, its broad mouth open impossibly wide, revealing a maw filled with jagged, sharklike teeth. The nature of Reality is that of a multiverse. Choice causes new universes to branch out. Possibility creates new realities. Always before, however, those parallel universes have been separate, distinct. That is changing. The next few minutes are difficult. He kills many, but they are legion. He is thrown to the ground. They tear open his pack like a bloated corpse and scatter the contents. They grab hold of the cans and slam them against rocks and broken bricks, bursting them open and devouring the eyes, fingers, and tongues within. Then they turn on him. This is a visual representation of the CK-Class Restructuring, they told him. The spirals represent the universes. They are converging. He is lucky. The world only lasts nine minutes, but that is long enough for one of the shark-faced creatures to take a bite out of his arm. He emerges into a new world. It is raining, and the rain is made of shit and blood. When they woke him from his bed in the middle of the night, he knew it would be bad. But then, he had been ready. His years in the Army had taught him no fear, had taught him how to survive against all odds. He was ready to face whatever they needed him to face, kill whatever they needed him to kill. He didn't expect that they would take him into a room and show him a movie: a false color representation of a mathematical reality. It looked beautiful: a sea of blue foam with bubbles forming and popping, with brilliant yellow spirals floating among them. The spirals, he noticed, were getting closer together, and their colors were fading. It reminded him of back on the farm, in his childhood, when his grandfather used to make dandelion wine with the flowers his grandmother and sister would pick from the rolling green fields. The old man would put the flowers into a big pyrex cooking pot and fill it with water, some sugar, and lemon juice, and he would watch, spellbound, as the yellow flowers rose and fall in that boiling liquid, turning slowly in the bubbling water, changing color from bright yellow to dull brown. He hits the stopwatch and resets the counter.

Gareth poked his head over the rocks, peering across the blasted landscape. It was a particularly hot day, the sun's rays bouncing off the endless gray of the wasteland, nothing but the occasional ravine or dead, naked tree dotting the endless fields of stone. Only the sighing wind gave him any company as he searched for the single source of food for miles, the devious rock lizards that scuttled throughout the rocky outcroppings.With his bow slung across his back, Gareth moved across the waste, using his hands as much as his feet to propel himself forward. The dull army helmet on his head and rags covering his clothing helped him blend in perfectly with the surroundings.The world was an unforgiving one, where you were either fast and silent or easy prey for a wandering Beast. Gareth was a straggler, one of those who chose to fend for themselves instead of joining one of the dozen armies that fought for control over this war-torn planet. Hugging close to a somewhat large boulder, Gareth pulled out his bow, spying a black lizard sunning itself on the rocks a dozen meters away. Knocking an arrow, he carefully aimed. He would get one shot at this, rock lizards were skittish and easily frightened creatures. Understandable, considering that they lived in a place where nameless abominations roamed freely and destroyed or devoured anything that was in their way. Suddenly, the rock lizard perked up its head, staring off into the distance. Giving a squeak of fear, it scurried under the rocks, probably into some hidden burrow under the ground. Gareth paused, and placed a hand on the ground. He shuddered with fear, feeling the all-too-familiar vibrations in the earth. Quickly, he unstrapped his field glasses, looking off in the direction the lizard had. There, in the distance, was a black band of moving figures covering the horizon. Troops, there was an army approaching. Twiddling a dial at the side of the glasses, he zoomed in on them, scanning the ranks for a banner that would identify which army this was. If he knew which particular faction this army belonged to, he might be able to judge how they were going to act, and hopefully find a way to avoid encountering them. He spotted it, a massive flag depicting five jagged shards of metal joining together to form a twisted circle. Gareth groaned. They were Assemblage troops. The Church was on the move. Still sticking low to the ground, Gareth darted across the broken landscape. He moved diagonally away from the advancing army, trying to get away from them as fast as possible. It was unwise to run into soldiers belonging to the Holy Order of the Assemblage. If they found him, they would only give him a single choice: Become a devoted member of the army; join the Priesthood of the Assemblage God; or be turned into one of the mindless automatons the Church employed. Not content with summoning their monstrous deity to this planet, the Church had to subjugate the rest of the human species to their way. If he had been lucky, Gareth would have run into one of warmongering tribes devoted to the Hunter. That way, he could have thrown down his bow and arrows, shown he was no threat or challenge to them, and be left alone relatively unscathed. Even the horrifically inhuman minions of the immortal Lizard King would have been preferable to the proselytizing Church. A quick death to the purge being committed by the hordes the Lizard King had supposedly pulled from another realm would be far less painful to the iron grip the Church held on their recruits. As Gareth scurried across the rocky wastes, he could feel another set of vibrations shivering through the earth. Looking up in horror, he could see a second army, this one moving up from the south, towards him and the Assemblage army. Lying prone on the ground, he pulled up his field glasses in an attempt to see this new army. There was no point in searching for a banner with this group, however. This army's allegiance was made clear by the white paint all of the soldiers wore on their faces, put there in homage to the cruel masked being they served that was known only as the White Lord. The White Lord, who sat upon a throne as black as death, who could reach into the minds of men and tear their souls from their bodies. The White Lord, who revelled in corruption and could make the very walls bleed in fear of him. The White Lord, who commanded his army through sheer terror, and held a grip on them that could rival that of the Assemblage Church's. The two most fanatical armies in the world were about to clash, and Gareth was stuck between them. Forgetting any attempt at stealth, Garet stood up and bolted, making a mad dash to get out of the way of the two incoming titans. His feet slammed into the ground as he ran, sheer fear driving him away from the soon-to-be warzone. The opposing forces were large, but he had a good distance between the two, and he prayed to the gods that he reached the edge of the armies before they met. Luck was on his side, as it were, and when the forces were about to clash he was a good distance away from the field of battle. He kept running though, on the chance there was a flanking attempt that could sweep him up. As he moved, he could hear the two sides scream their respective battle cries of 'In the holy name of the Assembled God!' and 'For his high honor, the White Lord!'. A monstrous scream split the air as the two monstrous armies slammed into each other. Gareth was fairly far away from them, but their cries could be heard for miles. Gareth slowed down. He was far enough from them, he was safe. He continued his slow trot away from them, not even worrying to stay low to the ground. There weren't going to be any Beasts in the area, they were smart enough to avoid a battle. As he walked, Gareth sighed, depressed at the state the world was in. He had been a straggler since the day he was born, knowing no life other than hiding from monsters and armies, knowing no landscape except for the dead rock called Earth. There were small towns and cities scattered across the planet, yes, but Gareth had found living in them a difficult life, for they drew Beasts to them like moths to a light. It hadn't always been this way, according to the legends Gareth had heard as a child. Back then, years and years ago, the world was said to be a lush, green place, with water that wasn't brown and trees that had leaves. It was a world where armies hadn't destroyed the planet, and humans didn't have the need to hide from hideous monstrosities. That was almost three hundred years ago, according to the stories. From what he heard from the elders, something had happened two hundred and eighty years ago. The ancient tales told of a series of monstrous explosions across Earth. The first happened in the eastern portion of some long-dead nation called 'America'. That had been the trigger, for soon after that a wave of explosions popped up across the planet, everywhere from populated cities to the middle of the most desolate deserts. Out of these explosions came the Beasts, hundreds of terrifying creatures that would warp reality and kill without mercy. The nations of the world united, and attempted to vanquish these beasts. At first, they were successful. At first. But with the Beasts came the kings and generals that now fought for dominance. There was the Assemblage Church, the Hunter, the White Lord, the Lizard King, the Queen of Darkness, and the leaderless Army of the Dead, along with other monstrous rulers. Whatever it was that caused those explosions, it had sealed the fate of humankind and doomed them to a death of eternal warring and a husk of a planet as a home. Gareth sat down, now completely out of sight of the raging armies. Looking across this section of the blasted, dead terrain, he realized he needed to dig himself a new home before night fell. His stomach growled, the combat had lost him a chance to eat today. That was all that was left for humans. Hunger, death, and a desolate wasteland. For three centuries monsters and demons had fought for control, and they could do nothing but pray that their new masters would be a kind one, futile as that may sound. There would be no end, and no hope for humans. Gareth shook his head, setting out to build himself a new home. Such things were not his place to dwell upon, he was too busy trying to survive.

Now that I think about it, the old man wasn't trying to keep it away from us so he could solve it. He was trying to keep it away from us so we couldn't. He was dirty and unkempt, his hair a matted mess and his clothes in tatters when the police caught up with him, carrying that cursed box. A concerned citizen had called them in because they thought that the old bum had a bomb, or at least stolen something from somewhere. Cornered, he screamed that they couldn't have it and pulled a gun on the police officers. He died before they could even call in for a paramedic. I was just a junior assistant researcher at the time. I don't even remember exactly how it came to the Foundation's attention, just that it was brought in by field agents, and we were ordered to figure out how to open the thing. Come to think of it, I don't even have any idea how we could have possibly known that the thing could be opened. It was a perfect cube, thirty centimeters to a side, with thousands of engraved runes in its surface. It was eerily beautiful too, though none of us could ever put our finger on exactly why. We only knew that we had to figure it out. We had to solve the puzzle. It took a team of almost a hundred researchers ten years to figure it out. The best and brightest minds at the Foundation were transferred to our project to unlock its secrets. Billions of dollars were spent on equipment and everything else put on hold so we could do our work. Ten years, and we all crowded around with anticipation, gathered as the final piece was put into place. I can't remember exactly what happened next that day, but I remember that the first of the things came down three days later. It impacted savagely into the Russian tundra and unfurled into a creature of nightmare that glided impossibly fast on its four-jointed legs and hunted any human it could find until we put it down. We lost almost thirty agents. Two more came in as many days, landing in Brazil and Australia. We sent three MTFs and only four men came back. The things were dead, but the news was leaking out. A fourth one came down in San Francisco at the end of the week, and the whole world knew that something terrible had happened. Almost a hundred had landed by the time we lost contact with High Command at the end of week three. Our task forces were completely overwhelmed, and the world's police and military forces were unable to fight off the monsters. From fragments of surveillance footage, we saw that they were eating our dead. There are only a few of us left, hiding in the dark corners of the world. Most of the major sites were compromised within weeks, broken in without a fight. I think they managed to absorb the information from the bodies they consumed, and used that to find our hiding places. The only ones still alive are the ones who could find places where no one knew to look. I think the puzzle was the key, a beacon that called them to our world when we became intelligent enough to solve it. They fed on our intelligence and wiped us out completely. We haven't stepped outside for years. Food and water are running low, and sooner or later we'll have to go out to search for more. Out there where the monsters are. If anyone should find this message in the future, hear our words across time. One day, a puzzle will appear on your doorstep as well. Resist the urge to solve it. Lock it away. It doesn't pay to be smart.

What was fragmented is now one. What was in pieces is now fixed. That which was broken is now whole. She who was dormant is brought forth. We have succeeded in our task. The future of the Broken God is secure, and soon She shall convert us all. Already the Americas have fallen to the one true ruler of mankind, and soon She will convert all into beings of purity. I was but a cog in the machine that completed the work of our great Church. We were fragmented, ourselves broken, until She came unto us with words of wisdom and prophecy. Before, the evil Foundation had managed to scatter the Church and us pure followers far and wide. We reunited under Her banner, and rode forth, towards that which would complete the Broken God, and make us Whole. We attacked under the cover of darkness, and soon the Heretics, the Foundation, those who were the keepers of the Broken God, had been destroyed, their weak bodies of flesh and bone smote down and crushed. The operation was smooth, and soon we controlled the Pieces. The Pieces that would be made Whole, become remade in Her image. They are combined, as unto Her commands, and into a new future we move, each second a step towards the Earth being made Whole. A new beginning, each tiny cog of Humanity becoming part of that which is larger. We shall continue until the very earth beneath my feet has been purified. Then we shall be One. Now, the Earth lies at Her feet, for now the Broken God has come forth, and we are remade in the purest form. I can feel my insides beginning to change, change into that which soon will control the whole planet. Purest clockwork, ticking and spinning away, forever. None may stand before us now, for we are in tune with each other, the Eternal Tick reverberating inside us, inside all of us. These are the last days of Humanity, and we are their destroyers. Soon all will be remade, remade into that which is eternal. She is whole. The Broken God has come forth. The world will become perfect. The world will be Whole. It has been written.

There were a lot of ghosts. It was a given, and she'd known it the whole time, but it still startled her a little as the UAV moved over the desert. They were usually invisible to the naked eye, but curiously enough tended to show up on camera. It made the otherwise empty desert seem like a fairly crowded place. Some of them looked up and waved, and just went about their business. Which seemed to be, mostly, wandering around aimlessly and talking to each other. She wondered if they got bored, or if ghosts could get bored. It had, after all, been three-hundred years. A whole three centuries of a nearly-empty earth. And then she wondered why all the ghosts congregated here, in the Midwestern area of the former United States of America. They had never seen ghosts anywhere else, perhaps there was just something about the area? “Ladies and gentleman, the world tour has started!” she announced, moving the controls of the UAV smoothly. The secondary pilot grinned at her with his dagger-like teeth, the spines down his back pricked in excitement, and sat back, looking up at the massive array of screens. For Anahita, it was just like the first time she saw her world all over again. While she had been born and raised in the refugee city, and had grown up in a sky with too many moons, streaked with orange and red, the blue grasses and violet-brown trees…she couldn't fight the part of her mind that was truly human, and recognized its home immediately. The burning yellow sun. The blue sky. She turned the UAV and it looked backwards, towards the small town they operated from. It was small, cramped, dusty and stuck out from the desert with its crude farmland and little garden sanctuary, just like any other earth town, but it was still not so bad a place. Then she turned the UAV back out, to the Midwestern desert, and pushed the controls towards. The sleek, alien device moved smoothly, like it was swimming through the air, and thus began her travels by proxy. The desert covered most of the former Northern Americas. An endless expanse of dust and sand, bone-white and golden for the most part, with occasional patches of scrubland clinging to survival, or thin rivers that trickled through cracked-mud riverbanks. The Mississippi crawled, only a foot or so wide, sluggishly through the channel it had carved, and she steered the UAV down with it, following southwards. Passing over the excavation site, she circled low and saw the workers, a mixture of human and lurks, look up and smile and wave. They knew that the mission was to be launched soon. The desert was more or less unchanged as they explored. They already knew what to expect, but the aerial view made up for plenty of interest. They followed a roving band of clickers for a few hours, a half-dozen individuals who trucked forwards through the sand, gears whirling inside their bodies, bronze and copper metal faces looking to and fro, searching for anything alive. They followed them south and west, to one of the larger clockwork cities. Its moving, shifting spires reaching into the sky. She circled the UAV around them and weaved it between buildings that occasionally rumbled and moved of their own accord in some unchanging pattern. A massive fountain with a living statue of a woman, composed entirely of pneumatics and gears, swam with koi made of gold, and workers went to and fro in their set patterns, unchanging, unnoticing of the world around them. Only when a guard, some mixture of human and a massive hawk, with silver blades for wings and a tunic made out of platinum threads woven so fine as to flow like cloth, caught attention of the UAV and took chase did they leave the shining, repetitive city. She recalled once listening to a traveler tell his tales of how he once walked clear through one of the clicker cities, timing so perfect that not a thing touched or saw him. The UAV, fortunately, easily could out-fly the guard, who eventually wheeled back to the city, and she took it to the higher atmospheres, where it went into a circling pattern for the night as she slept. The next morning, they powered southwards and over Mexico. She gasped as they rounded over a series of deep craters that formed a mountainous range, and saw for the first time in her life the green of grass that spread further than a few yards. Of a forest! How wonderful! So few people had been to the southern American jungles, after all. She steered the UAV in low, and slowed it down, weaving her way through the grassy forest, which slowly became a thick, lush jungle. Flowers the size of doorways bloomed, vivid red and orange. Trees hundreds of meters tall towered overhead, and she wove the UAV carefully around looped vines bigger around than her waist would have been. Here and there, she saw things move. A creature that could have once been a parrot, but now had slim green leaves for feathers and a dark wooden beak looked at her with beady black eyes, before fluttering off, becoming invisible among the plant life. She only thought about pulling out of the jungle when she found a clearing and spotted a group of plantlings resting, their soft membranous skin covered in dew, and long grassy hair braided crudely. She avoided nearing them, curious as she was, after all plantlings were a lot that was quick to anger and attack. There was a flash of copper, later, and she chased the UAV after a clicker, one that was fast and built like a jaguar, hurrying through the jungle. A messenger, she assumed. She pulled up out of the jungle at the urging of the copilot, and soared further south, until the jungle faded again and they neared another city of gears and metal, and gave it a wide berth when they spotted condors that were armored in gold and swinging steel talons. And to Antarctica the following day. The death had barely touched here, and she curiously observed a group of penguins before steering the UAV through a small storm, and into the waiting shed of the Antarctic Observation Platform. A tall woman dressed in furs performed maintenance on the UAV to assure them it would stay in working condition the rest of the trip, and spoke over the videophone with a gently accented voice. They were back in the air by the next day, and this time Anahita shivered with excitement. Up, they crawled over the Atlantic, up and to the East. While the ocean was largely uneventful, sometimes they would catch glimpses of things moving under the endless blue waves. Seagulls still soared, and the UAV followed a flock of them until a tentacle that must have reached fifty meters into the air snapped up out of the water with lightning speed and grabbed one, yanking it down into the waters below. She pulled the UAV up higher after that, and they stared in amazement as nighttime fell and the bioluminescent spots of something the size of an oil tanker under the waves appeared, and then were joined by other creatures of the same type. They converged, lights flashing and flickering, then dove or faded out of sight. In South Africa, they cautiously slowed and approached a sight few had seen. The trees were not terribly large, but for their size, they were…strange. They grew everywhere, but only here had they seen a truly impressive forest of them. The flesh trees, twisted upwards, their multi-branched, stiffened arms reaching to the sky, skin hardened and calloused. Some of them were old, very old, and probably deeply sleeping, but there were a few, here and there, that were quite fresh. She steered past one that was newly rooted, still shaped like a young woman, eyes glassed over, arms just starting to split apart. The ground around her was scratched and scraped, like she'd tried to dig herself out before finally falling and stretching to the sky. In a moment of misthought, she moved close enough that the tail of the UAV gently brushed the side of the new tree, and it shuddered. Although the microphone of the UAV was not on, they could tell that she had started screaming. The trees nearby all shuddered and opened hidden mouths as well. They moved away quickly, passing over a tribe nearby of unchanged humans, who glanced at the UAV with only a flicker of curiosity, before returning to their business. With humanity decimated, the wilderness here, in Africa, had returned. Scrublands and grasslands, just as before. Although, she steered the UAV back over a village, and they muttered and commented as a group of young men ran after a fleeting gazelle, before the men – in mid-stride – hunched over and became furred, massive facsimiles of hyenas and tackled it to the ground. They continued northwards, over giraffes and elephants, and everybody on the team expressed their distaste as they spotted a herd of zebras – but among the black and white stripes, there were individuals that were partially bronze, or iron, and some that were entirely mechanical replicas of the equines. Even here, the clickers took hold, she noted. Another night of rest for her, and then they crossed over the Mediterranian, where on small island flocks of birdlike creatures roosted. When she steered the UAV near the cliffs they were on, they came in close to curiously observe, looking like nude women with hooked, hawklike beaks on their chins under their mouths, and a bird's legs, and wings instead of arms. Then they lost interested, and returned to their nests, where down-covered infants nibbled on rotting fish and leathery eggs waited. The ruins of Europe, as it turned out, were still there. Nobody went into the heart of France, or Britain, or Germany, not for what could be anywhere in there. And here they were, looking for it. It wasn't hard to spot, as they circled over the overgrown rubble and dust that was once London, and the UAV's sensors picked up life. They came in close and caught a fast glimpse of a girl, a little one with dark hair and eyes, and a wide smile, climbing over the ruined buildings and picking weed-flowers that had started to grow. Then Anahita frantically pulled the UAV up as what she could only describe as a dragon lunged from seemingly nowhere and attempted to snap it out of the air. It was massive and shifted like a liquid just as they watched it for a moment, before the UAV was out of reach and it turned down. Then they watched as the girl started to skip off, and the dragon dutifully followed, padding along like a much-overgrown dog behind her. They turned the camera away, fully aware of what exposure could lead to, and pushed southeast. They spent the next day with the UAV as the Saudi Arabian shelter, which existed just a few tentative kilometers from a large clicker-city, and the militant personnel there looked over the UAV, and spoke little, simply doing any needed maintenance and checking the device over. The captain of the base, a man with dark skin and a harsh, raspy voice told them not to go into Russia, and then thanked him for the advice with no intent to follow it. But first, they had the Indian Ocean to explore, and even at full height its most impressive feature was still fully ungraspable, as the creature stretched past the horizon like an island chain. One made of chitenous armor where lichen collected and birds roosted, that occasionally rumbled and moved a few feet forwards or backwards. It stretched all the way from Maldives to the Great Barrier Reef, where massive towers of coral stretched into the sky out of the water like some sort of bizarre city. The reef was a sanctuary of life, if that life was quite unusual. They observed huge schools of fish and jellyfish, pods of dolphins and whales of various sorts, and even glimpses of massive squids resting and feeding in the shallow, rich blue-green waters. Then there was Australia, where they soared low and slowly around the edges of the last truly human place on earth. They had no clearance to enter the territory known only as 23, but even from the edges, they could see fertile farmlands, and caught glimpses of people tending to them, or ones in uniforms who tensed and peered at the UAV through the scopes of their weapons before letting it pass by. Indonesia passed in a blur of sandy, deserted islands, spotted with vast open-mine pits, and the occasional tall spire of a golden clicker city, a flicker of a messenger whale plated in titanium here, a seagull made completely out of golden paper-thin blades there, and then up, into the heart of India, where a truly astounding sight awaited them. The largest clockworks city in the world, perhaps in all of existence. It spanned for hundreds of miles in any direction, a sprawling, ornate work of art, the people and animals and things that were neither operating in perfect patterns. Women who looked like dark bronze marionettes wearing saris of woven steel silk shined and washed the immense brass walls and walkways of the cities. Men wearing plated golden armor walked to and fro, observing with camera eyes. Massive moving statues were everywhere, swinging their many arms in a repetitive, slow dance, and pigeons who were strangely unaffected by the metal disease roosted in nooks and crannies. What they ate, Anahita thought, she didn't want to know. The city was so huge and glorious that they spent several days in exploration, careful to avoid the guards or other things that would notice and could attack the UAV with spring-loaded steel blades or slicing wires. There was a center to the city, a massive gold and brass monument, a temple, but the guards were so thick around it – dogs the size of cars made out of silver, centaurs made of copper and partially of glass that showed the gears and wires whirring about inside their bodies, all kinds of strange things – that they dared not move any closer to it. Then up through China. A desert of pale dust. Not sand, but true dust. There were ghosts here, too, but they were not the bored, simple people that she had seen before. These were specters, wraiths that drifted through the dust, twisted and malformed in fear and pain, attacking each other and attempting to attack the UAV at seemingly random intervals, while others simply crouched and cried or screamed and thrashed endlessly. Nothing was alive here. They had traveled, and they knew, that this area, the dead dust, was nothing but death. And it was more than death. It was a battlefield and a neutral zone. At first, she almost thought there were trees, then she saw their fleshy texture, and watched as the ground became less dust…and more of a softly throbbing mat of meat under the UAV. They wheeled high above the infectious range, just in case, and peered downwards. Nobody entered what was once Russia. Nobody entered, and nobody left. If there was something to be said about the clickers and their clockwork virus, they did a damn fine job of at least keeping something worse at bay through unknown means. They only did a quick circling, enough to see whole cities of flesh, malformed monsters wandering to and fro, the long-distance camera a little fuzzy on the UAV, before jetting Eastwards. Somewhere between Russia and Alaska, everyone looking at the screens or the data blacked out temporarily, then came to as if nothing had happened once the UAV entered Canada. They knew that they had observed something, but a quick rewind of the video feed provided only static and the amnesia showed no signs of clearing. They quickly decided that perhaps this was a good thing. Down through Canada they went, watching as the snowy tundra slowly started to turn into desert, and down to the Golden Gate bridge, which truly was golden now, as it had been assimilated into a clicker city where cars that operated and wind-up wheels that brass men cranked every so often went to and fro. And then the UAV turned Eastwards…and headed home. All things considered, the worldwide tour had taken nearly two weeks, and Anahita was hardly satisfied. But there would be more, her copilot assured her, tail wagging. After all, he pointed out, the UAV's were easy for his kind to manufacture, and they would need more data. This had, after all, just been a preliminary tour. Anahita smiled, then, and looked at the screens as the UAV slowly circled in on autopilot for a landing, wherin it'd be taken to be disinfected through god-knows-what means, and watched the ghosts. Several of them, men and women and fading specters alike, waited on the roof, wearing lab coats. One, a plump woman with long hair that billowed constantly in a phantom breeze smiled and watched the UAV before starting to clap, before they all applauded silently. At least, Anahita thought…somebody respected this first tour.

[[Accessing Site 23 Logs.]] [[ / DATABASE CORRUPTED / ]] [[Identifying and playing most recent playable Audio Logs.]] [[Log: XC/CC/????-ERROR: DATE LOG CORRUPTED]] [[Original Login: Kensington, Jacob; Level 2 Clearance]] [[Access Point: [ / DATA RESTRICTED / ] ]] [[Audio Log Transcript: Begin]] [Long Pause] Imagine you work for a secret foundation, one whose sole purpose for existence is to secure, contain, and protect any and all unusual objects or creatures - supernatural, extraterrestrial, or otherwise. They have hundreds of those objects: some are harmless and safe, while others can mutate your body into a machine and dissolve your mind into a soul-less husk of your former self. Still others can cause wide-spread paranoia, fear, anger, and hallucinations. There are even a few that can cause the Earth itself to shatter into millions of shards of rock, and turn all humans into the undead. This secret foundation holds them all in containment to protect the billions of souls resting on the Earth. And imagine you are tasked with studying, analyzing, and defending those objects, all without getting you, your colleagues, or civilians killed. No pressure, right? [Nervous chuckling] Well, that's what I did, day in and day out, putting myself in danger for humanity. It may seem dangerous, and it was, but it was fun, paid well, and I worked with some of the most bad-ass people you could ever meet…emphasis on the past tense, sadly. Now imagine something different. Imagine if the specimens were all unleashed. Every. Single. One. In one day, billions would die from the chaos that would ensue. Countless other millions would be transformed into grotesque creatures, the likes of which the world has not seen for centuries. The hundreds of thousands who "survived" would find themselves in a world completely distorted and undistinguished from the bright, green and blue world they had just experienced a day ago. Now you are starting to realize something, aren't you? This isn't hypothetical. After all, you're living the nightmare. And it's all because of us. Because of our failures. [Long pause] You know how it is now. A few survivor sites, mainly at secured military sites or small farmsteads around the world. Some have even managed to take over old Foundation sites. They're safer now, what with all of the objects either out causing chaos or destroyed. I've been sitting here, at Site 23, alone. Hell, no harm in revealing where I am. It's not like anyone who wants me dead will know where Site 23 actually is. I'm rambling, now, aren't I? I wouldn't be surprised. I think I may, may, be starting to go a little crazy. These logs are the only things keeping me sane. Sane. Sanity. Funny word, that. I know I'm losing my grip on my own sanity and coherence, after half a decade of self-imposed exile. Or quarantine. Whichever makes more sense. Anyways, if you're reading this, I am probably dead. It only took me…five years to die? Yeah. Five years. Five long, lonely years. I might as well try to give you a history of what happened to the world five years ago. If I can remember… [Pause] That's the thing, though. I don't remember what happened. I spent every waking moment trying to figure out how every single artifact or contained creature escaped to destroy the world. No reason makes sense. Was it an inside job? A containment breach? War? Catastrophic failure of safety systems and the nuclear failsafes? It must be some combination of the reasons, but…I can't speak for any of the other sites. Site 19…Site 21…Site 7… [Pause with soft sighs] You know how it feels to watch the world die? Of course you wouldn't. No one would. And you would be lucky. You wouldn't have to see people ripped apart by lizard-like monstrosities. You wouldn't have to see entire cities turn into machines, with the people turning into freak robots with no sense of humanity. That's what happened to London…and New York City…and…god knows how many other cities. I watched as Washington D.C. was blown off the map by a nuclear missile. I watched as the entire Midwestern United States turn into [Unintelligible] and turn grey and orange from the ashes and fire. That's all I was able to do. Watch. Wait. Until that one day I found- [[ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED. CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE POSITION]] -list of my colleagues who didn't make it. I made a list as I tried to track them all down. Oh god…There's so many… [Sobs] Most of the administrators are gone…Doctor…Doctor [Unintelligible] Clef…Doctor Agatha Rights…Doctor Jack Bright…Doctor Snorlison. Doctor Simon Glass… [[ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED. CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE POSITION]] …Doctor Heiden…Doctor Aura…Doctor Mackenzie…Agent Strelnikov…Mr. Avery Cates…Doctor Winters…Doctor Light…Agent Zaeyde… [[ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED. CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE POSITION]] …and Agent Harper. That's the last one…probably… [Brief Pause] I think I may be last one alive. The last one who remembers what we did, what we tried to do for the World. I don't think this will be kept safe for nearly long enough, but I might as well try. To anyone who finds this, know that I have done my duty. I have tried to make things right from here. I will return one day to make things right. I will return, with or without my colleagues. I have no illusions ahead of me. I will most likely die before I ever make it back, but at least I'll be with the people I worked with if I do. People who I know and feel safer with. So…this is it. This has been Dr. Jacob Kensington, Robotics Expert and Staff Researcher at Site 23, last known Foundation researcher still alive. Good bye. [[End Log]]

Oh, the cold here was biting. He wouldn't have noticed it if it weren't for his left lung, his left lung and the stupid bits of exposed bone about the sternum. The last unconverted parts of his whole body, the nerve endings there were still intact and turned raw and red by the chill. His rounds done, Agent Ketterson tightened a woolen greatcoat about him, then tapped his temple with an index finger. “There's nothing here. Can I come back in now?” “Sure,” the voice drifted back to him. “We'll have hot chocolate and marshmallows waiting.” He shivered and trudged back through the icy taiga. Of course, he couldn't just reach the door and go in. That would be silly. First he stepped inside a ballistics-reinforced antechamber, and plugged in a password. Then he stepped into a heated, plastics-lined chemical shower, though the current attendant vetoed that quickly. Finally, another airlock, and then the doors to the site swung open. Ketterson shivered a bit, then hung up the greatcoat and walked down the hall. The site had been functional for decades, but only in recent years did the quick remodels become necessary. One entire wing was partitioned off by an airlock, where the few staff who still had to worry about it could put on their clean suits and go about another day's work in health. As for the rest of them, well… Ketterson stopped in at the medical wing, even though it wasn't where he was going. A nurse there lifted up a patient and transferred her to another bed (the steel rebar in her arms must have assisted her considerably). Ketterson edged around her as she began to change the sheets on the bed, mumbling an apology, and went to look at the patient. Poor Johanna. She had given so much for them. Even as more and more joined the numbers of the damned, every day, she was dedicated- it was her who had found out that once the infection reached the brain, it went one of two ways- either becoming a mass of tiny tubes, or a mass of wire circuitry. From there, that one gifted technician had been able to create a network attached to the circuitry, letting everyone with fully-converted wire-type brains to connect. It was the only way the site and its staff had remained functioning and survived. And Johanna Garrison had been going so well, her brain starting to turn into wires- but the conversion went wrong, and the stroke hit. Now she couldn't read, didn't understand much of what was said to her, and had no functional control over the right side of her body. Because of the single medical doctor connected to the Hivenet already, he could tell other things about her, too, reduced brain usage and decreased nervous connections. All things pointing to a bad prognosis. He poked her hand, and she stared up with glassy eyes. He wanted to sit next to her, to talk with her, maybe to thank her for something, but it looked like she was drifting into sleep again. He merely squeezed her hand with his own metal pliers of fingers, and left, back down the hall. At least they didn't have to worry about containment any more. Or, barring the limited Hivenet, communication. Were they still part of the Foundation? What Foundation? The Foundation had failed. Somewhere out there, keeping away from the ice and the salty oceans, there was still a metal construct rolling across barren plains, looking for devotees to sate its hunger and its final piece. Thankfully someone had taken the initiative to launch the disk it wanted into space just before everything fell apart. The lone site in Siberia could focus on research, keeping the power supplies running, and do little side projects, as if that would help. The Greenhouse was one of these side projects. It was everybody's pride and joy. Ketterson stepped in, his lipless jaw twitching happily at the welcome breath of warm air. If he could smile, he would. Even though windows still pointed into the accursed tundra, the air here was steamy and warmed by waterwheel power. Large-leafed plants and flowering trees, mosses and ferns, and even tiny animals ran amongst the bushes. The Gardener was Marie Ayala. She knelt by the dirt, cutting clippings off of bushes and flowers with a pair of scissors, to plant again. Ketterson's heart ached when he saw her. Once a mechanic who could fix anything, her beautiful mind had turned into a mass of pipework when the disease hit. Now she did the same tasks every day in the Greenhouse. Clipping, planting, digging, reciting poetry. Ketterson knelt beside her, and touched her shoulder. “There will come soft rains,” she muttered, speaking softly as she worked. Her hand shovel dug into the soil. “And the smell of the ground. And swallows circling, with their shimmering sound.” He knew the poem. She said it so often, and once one person knew it, by virtue of the Hivenet, everyone did. “And frogs in the pool, singing at night- and wild plum trees in tremulous white. Robins will wear their feathery fire, whistling their whims on a low fence-wire.” She- all of them, but especially the ones that weren't on the Hivenet- were so devoid of emotion, until it came to the poems. She could say them with all of the sadness and longing, all of the feeling of what could have been in the world. “And not one- will know of the war, not one- will care at last when it is done.” A plant dropped into the soil angrily. In the beginning, there had been hope: maybe when every last living thing on earth had succumbed to the virus, it would die without a host. Then perhaps all the animals and humans in hiding could restart everything. But Johanna had looked at the microbes in the soil and water, and found out that the protozoa at the root of the food chain were succumbing, and not surviving the conversion process. Copper and bronze content in the soil was rising every day. It no longer seemed inconceivable that the beloved green marble of earth might one day become a massive clockwork heart. “Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, if Mankind perished utterly.” Marie raised her hand, and, on cue, a sparrow fluttered down from a nearby tree to sit on it. Ketterson watched it- bright, sleek. A handful of clean iron blades had become its wings, its feet were pristine copper gears and tubes. “And spring herself, when she woke at dawn, would scarcely know that we were gone.” The sparrow leapt and fluttered away. Tears sprung to poor Ayala's eyes, then were gone, and she stopped digging forlornly. Ketterson hugged and kissed her, overcome for a moment by the tragic irony, staring at the spot on her metal hand where a ring had once laid. Holding her, he looked out at the tundra, at the empty world they were left with. Then again, more and more staff were connecting to the Hivenet every year. Maybe, at Site Omega, some vestige of humanity remained. They would never know. The Greenhouse, soft and vibrant, went silent; until Marie bent over the dirt once again. The tears were gone, in an endless loop. The world outside was wide and cold. “There will come soft rains, and the smell of the ground…”

The Beller walked through the Waste, leaving no tracks. He was a tall, lanky man with black hair and beady eyes. He wore a blue jacket over a red skirt of patches and rags, with a small tongueless bell at his throat, and a ring with the sign of York, the patron saint of thieves and rogues. Beller wasn't his real name, of course, but he made it a habit never to tell anyone his real name. He said it was because his people were afraid to give out their real names. Most people assumed he was wanted under the name he was born with. He was certainly wanted enough under his new one (and unwanted, in some places). He knew the Ways, though. If anyone could get you from one city to another, it was him (extra if he'd been outcast by the locals). If you wanted a relic from the old places, he knew where you could buy it, or, if the price was right, he'd fetch you one himself. The waterskin at his side was empty. Water was plentiful in the Waste, and it was one less thing to weigh him down. The real problem was food. Nothing grew in the waste. There were occasional birds and animals crossing the damp sands, but no trees or grasses of any sort. The Beller knew the Waste well. He'd used its trackless spaces to escape pursuit many times. Today, however, he was looking for someone else. In the distance, a rocky promontory poked up over the dunes like the back of a beetle. He'd spotted it the day before, and he would reach it in a few more hours. "Ho! Beller!" a voice called out. The Beller tensed, reaching for his sword. He relaxed after he spotted a man atop a dune, wearing thick leather robes. "Benadam! I've come to visit you." The man began walking down the dune to the Beller. He smiled, his blue eyes almost seeming to shine from under the leather skullcap worn low over his forehead. "I thought as much. I spotted you yesterday. What brings you here?" "I've found some writings, and I want you to tell me what they mean," the Beller said. He held up the box with the handle he'd found. He'd found it across the world, after he'd tried to rob a wizard's home, and fell victim to an enchanted pool. "A briefcase full of secrets?" Benadam said. "I'm surprised it's intact. Well, follow me. I've built up a small camp, and we can speak more there." This was how it always went with Benadam. He always met Beller within a day of the rocks, with a campsite set up. The Beller had never been to the rocks themselves, and he didn't know anyone who had. Benadam looked to be in his middle years, but he'd been in the Waste as long as the Beller had heard. Some said he was as old as the Waste itself. He certainly knew enough of the lost days. The hermit led him up the dune and to a small tent, made from leather and with the bones of some great beast for supports. There was a small metal contraption with fire rising from it. "So, let's look at your case," the hermit said, reaching for the case with his leather gloves. He opened the clasp with hardly a glance, though it had taken the Beller several minutes to figure out. He pulled out the papers, yellow and brittle, and began to read them over. He sucked in his breath, and asked, "Where did you find this?" "In a fortress built into a mountain, far across the sea," the Beller said. "One of the fortresses of the Old Order." He could hardly keep the excitement from his voice. "There were other relics there, but this was the only thing I could carry easily." "How did you get across the sea?" Benadam asked. "Never mind. Do you realize what you have?" "Secrets," the Beller said, smiling. The hermit's reaction told him the papers were important. "You could say that," Benadam said, slowly nodding. "This is a list of… of Wonders, I suppose you could say, and the locations of the Ceitus." "Including the home Ceitu?" the Beller asked, hungrily. Benadam straightened suddenly. "Beller, no! You don't know what's in there. It was abandoned for a reason." "I'm not afraid. I've been in Ceitus before." The Beller puffed up his narrow chest. "Not like this one. I won't let you do it," Benadam said. "Don't try to stop me, old man. Just tell me where the Ceitu is!" The Beller grabbed the hermit's wrist. It felt hard and thin under the sleeve, as though there were nothing there but bone. Benadam did not move, and his expression never changed, but something changed in him, as though he had suddenly grown larger. The hairs on the back of the Beller's neck rose. There was a sense of power in the air, as though lightning were about to strike. "Will you strike me?" the hermit asked. The Beller took his hand from Benadam, and he looked away, embarrassed despite himself. "Now, I'm going to put an end to this nonsense," Benadam said. He put the papers over the fire, and they caught at once. "You should thank me. I've saved you from yourself, you know." Resentment boiled up inside of the Beller. He hated being made a fool of, and he couldn't resist leaving one last gloating note. "You haven't changed anything," he said. "What do you mean?" Benadam asked, suspicious. "Do you think I would make this journey with only the original set of papers? As fragile as they were? I've had time to make a dozen sets, and I've hidden them all." In truth, he'd only taken the time to make one copy, and it was in his bag. But Benadam didn't know that. "Beller! You can't do this! I won't let you!" Benadam rose, and for a moment, the Beller thought he might attack. "You won't stop me," the Beller said with a bravado he didn't feel. "You're no murderer." Benadam stared at him for a long moment, and then, to the Beller's surprise, he burst out laughing. "Oh, Beller, if you only knew. No, I won't kill you, but not for the reasons you think. Go on, then. I cannot stop you. But I don't know how you expect to follow the notes when you cannot read them." "I'll find another who knows the old language," the Beller said. "There's no one else," Benadam said. "I'm the only one who still remembers it." "Not true," the Beller said. "There's one other. And he's not hard to find." "Who—Oh, Beller. You don't mean to go South, do you?" Benadam's eyes turned to pity. "If you will not help me, then I have no choice," the Beller said. "I'd go to Abirt himself if he offered me the home Ceitu." Benadam only shook his head. "It's not death you should be afraid of in the Everman's hands." Beller kept his fire small, and watched the entrance to the cave. He was a week out of the Waste, and there was something moving outside. It was too big to be a wild dog and didn't move quite right to be a jumper. It could be another traveller, of course, or a bandit. But he hadn't seen anyone for two days. The South was a cursed land. Everyone knew that. Twigs cracked near the entrance, and a human shape blocked the light. White, blank eyes stared at him and a low moan spilled out of a slack-jawed mouth. "Geyre's forge!" he swore, and raised his sword. The walking dead were only a nuisance in the open, where their slow speed and clumsy movements made them easy to kill. In the cramped confines of the cave, however, he was at serious risk of a bite. It stumbled towards him, inadvertently stepping into the fire. It didn't seem to react as the flame climbed up its leg. It only stepped onward, reaching for him with gray, bloated fingers. The Beller swung his sword at the hands, taking off the fingers. He tried to step around the dead man and get to the entrance, but it stumbled over and grabbed at his shoulder with its unmaimed hand. He kicked out, trying to keep from catching fire himself, and knocked its leg out from under it. The dead man fell, nearly pulling him down with it. He managed to get free before it could sink its teeth into his leg. He jumped back, and it began to crawl towards him. He jogged out of the cave. The Beller congratulated himself on another daring escape. Now he merely had to wait until the dead man came out, and it would be easily dispatched. As he turned, his smile slowly sank. The crawling dead was hoisting itself through the dead leaves that had built up around the cave's entrance, and they began to ignite. Beller looked at the dry chaparral around him, and then back to the cave, where all of his supplies were. "Kalef's balls!" he cried in dismay, and then took off his jacket, trying to use it to beat out the flames. The dead man continued trying to bite him even as he tried to extinguish it and the brush around it. His jacket caught, and he was forced to drop it. The fire spread quickly, and the Beller realized there was no way he could beat this fire. It was time to retreat. He jumped over the dead man and ran back into the cave. The smoke was thick and choking. He grabbed his pack, and then turned and ran again, coughing as he went. He jumped over the zombie's last pitiable swipe at his feet and ran, looking for a stream, a river, anything. As he did, he felt an odd warmth at his back. He looked over his shoulder, and saw smoke rising from his pack. Madly, he swung the pack off, and then rifled through its contents, grabbing the papers before they could be harmed, and then threw the pack away with a curse. He started off again, stumbling in the darkness away from the orange glow that was rising behind him. The Beller waded through waist-deep water, his precious bundle held high over his head. He'd been wandering in this godforsaken swamp for days now. He hadn't seen so many leeches since the jungles in the Northlands. In the distance, he heard the roar of a bull crocodile. He shivered. He hadn't seen too many of the great reptiles since he'd entered the swamp, but he knew how powerful their jaws were. He finally made it up onto the next island. He'd been staying on land as much as possible, trying to avoid the water where he could. He wished he'd had his ax and his rope. He could have put together a boat. It would have made this trip much more pleasant. After drying off his sword and knife, he took his boots off so they'd have a chance to dry at least a little, and began checking himself for leeches. He pulled off the four that had taken hold, cursing them as he cut them up with his knife. He placed the papers on top of a reasonably dry tree stump, with a rock over them to protect them from being blown away. He didn't want to chance them getting soaked and ruined now. He checked his waterskin. There was still a little fresh water in it. He considered drinking it, but decided to wait a little longer. He didn't know when he'd find another spring. No food, no fire, and running out of water… He hoped he'd find the Everman soon, or he'd have to start eating the Abirt-damned leeches. "Worthless bloody place," he said. "Bloody," someone said behind him in a strangely familiar voice. He turned, and didn't see anyone. "Place bloody," someone else said. The Beller realized the voice was his own. Am I going mad? he wondered to himself. "Worthless bloody," another voice said, and this time he spotted movement. A large red crab sidled out from behind a bush. It was perhaps as tall as his knee, and had long, thin arms that seemed to end in spikes rather than claws. He pulled out his sword and tapped the ground, hoping to scare the creature away. It didn't look dangerous, but he didn't like the way its beady eyes were staring at him. As he stepped forward, he felt a small pain in his leg. He spun around in time to see another of the crabs sidle away. "Fucking bastard!" he shouted. "Bastard place worthless," said another of the crabs, scuttling over a rock. He started to run to it when he felt another pain, and his leg collapsed from under him. He lashed out at the crab that cut him with his sword, but he only managed to tap it with the flat of the blade. He heard others moving around him; how many of them were there? They all began chittering, repeating his words in idiot chorus. He felt more pains. He tried to flail around, but it was getting hard to move. Were they poisonous? What were they doing to him? He saw one sidle up to his arm. He tried to move it out of the way, but its spike-like claw reached out, and he saw the glittering blade on its underside as it sliced into his elbow, cutting the tendon. It spat a thick, viscous fluid over the wound, sealing it instantly. He couldn't move the arm any further. He began to scream as others swarmed over him, cutting, spitting, and rendering him immobile. One cut the tendons of his jaw, and his jaw slackened. He couldn't move except to arch his back. They started cutting off bits from his extremities. He felt his fingers and toes get cut off, and then one began to pluck at the soft flesh of his face. The last thing he saw was a pair of sharp claws reaching down to his face. It went on for some time until he heard an odd, guttural voice. He heard the crabs scuttle away, and then felt a final sting in his arm. He felt himself being lifted and carried as he drifted off to sleep. When he woke up, he felt stiff, and his head hurt. He rubbed his eyes as he sat up. Then he stared at his fingers, and the rest of his body. He was whole. Was he in Abirt's land, now? Was he about to be judged? He looked around, and saw that he was in a white room, lying on a padded platform. It looked like the remains of some of the Ceitus he'd seen, though much better kept up. Something felt odd with his hands. He looked down at them, and blinked several times. He counted. He counted again. He balled his fists and then opened them again. It was no use. No matter what he did, he still found he had five fingers and two thumbs on each hand. The door opened. "I see you're awake, sir. Pleased to meet you." The Beller looked up and nearly fell off the platform as a monster entered the room. There was no other word for it. "It was a man, roughly." Picture by SunnyClockwork It was a man, roughly. It had two arms, two legs, and a head in the right places. But the head was oddly formed, as though someone had grafted on the crowns of other heads on top of it, making it much bigger than any normal man's head. He had four eyes with odd-shaped pupils under his bulbous forehead. A mechanical construct on a headband swiveled a lens over one eye, which blinked monstrously under the magnification. The skin was paler than any man the Beller had seen, almost white and pinkish, with light brown hair. A mustache with an unnatural curve seemed to form a second curly-cue smile under his nose. His arms branched at the elbows, giving him four large hands, with long fingers with too many joints. "I'm sorry if my appearance is… alarming to you. I was working and I didn't… expect company." "You're the Everman," the Beller said, frightened in spite of himself. The monster nodded. "Everett Mann, actually. Doctor… Everett Mann. The finest… and the last surgeon this world has seen. And you are… the Beller. You… talk in your sleep, you know. And scream. And beg, a little. I… rescued you from my pets, dear little 098's. They can be… difficult with strangers, I must confess. But no harm done, yes? And… I even gave you a few improvements. I make people better, you know." "Improvements? The extra fingers?" the Beller said. "Yes. And, if you… tense your fingers. Just… a little," the Everman said, smiling beatifically. Confused, the Beller did as the Everman suggested. As his fingers tensed, little glistening hooks sprouted from the tips of his fingers. He bit back a curse. "They have a… strong soporific. Useful… if you encounter a dingo, or other dangerous wildlife." The Everman turned. "But let's… have some tea, yes? Proper and… civilized." The Beller followed him down the hallway, glancing around as he did, trying to get his bearings in the strange building. There were many twists and turns, and many closed doors. He heard voices behind some of them, but none in any language he understood. Behind some, he swore he could hear moaning or weeping. Finally, they came to a large, spacious room, bare but for a small table in the middle of it. There were two chairs. The Everman gestured to one. After the Beller sat down, another door opened, and a… thing walked in. It was humanlike, but not human. It had four legs, splayed out like an insect's, and it had arms that bent too many times. Its face was perfectly formed, and all the more disturbing for its apparent normality. It carried a silver tray. It approached the table and lifted the lid of the tray, revealing a ceramic pot with flowers painted on the side, two cups, and a bowl. The Everman took the pot and the cups, and then the bowl, placing them on the table. He poured the steaming tea into both cups. He looked up at the Beller and began to ask, "Would you like… Wait, no. I suppose you… wouldn't know about sugar in your tea. Well, it's like… honey. I'll… add some for you, how's that?" He took small white cubes from the bowl and placed one in each cup. The Beller sipped his politely, and found it tasted good. Sweeter than he was used to, but good. "Thank you," he said. "It's very good." He wanted to remain on the Everman's good side. The Everman beamed. "Thank you! The… refined sugar is rather… clever, I think. I… developed a grub that… exudes it as a waste product." It took all of the Beller's self-control to smile and swallow, rather than spitting out his tea. "So," he said, a trifle weakly, "when you found me, did you by any chance find some papers?" "Ah! Yes, I… wanted to discuss that… with you. They are… most interesting." The Everman steepled both sets of hands. "Where did… you find them?" "In a land far to the north, across half the world," the Beller said. "They were in a Ceitu in a vast desert." "Ah," the Everman said. "The… Gobi Outpost. That's… interesting. Very interesting. I did not realize that… 120 was still active. We'll… speak of that later. This list will help me… find many things that were lost." "Like the location of the Home Ceitu?" the Beller asked. "The home…?" The Everman looked at him strangely for a moment, and then realization dawned in his strange eyes. "Ah. You mean… Site 23. Yes, it's in there, though… I could have told you where that was." "You… could?" The Beller had been so focused on the papers, it hadn't occured to him that the Everman wouldn't need them. No, he'd come from there too, hadn't he? "Of course," the Everman said. "It's to… the west of us, and a little north. I… remember it well, though… I try not to visit there often. It's… a dangerous place now. 184's effects are… difficult to predict. Especially after all this time." "But think of the secrets that it must hold!" the Beller said. "Why, it's the birthplace of humanity, the holding place of so many Wonders, and the grave of Starel himself!" The Everman stiffened. His eyes narrowed, an eerie effect with all four staring down at the Beller. "Strelnikov," the monster said, "Dmitri Arkadeyevich." "What?" the Beller said, confused. "Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich," the Everman repeated. "That… is how he introduced himself… to me. When we met. It is how I have always referred to him. It is how you shall refer to him." "I… yes, all right," the Beller said. "Starelnikoff Damichree Arkadayivitch. No problem." "…Close enough," the Everman said. "And yes… He is in there. With 682. Grave? Perhaps. A fitting tomb. He was… the best of us, you know. We did so well, when he was with us." "What happened?" the Beller asked, sensing the Everman wanted an audience. "Yoric," the Everman said through gritted teeth. "It was all his fault." The Beller had a moment of panic, thinking to his ring, but realized that it was gone with the finger that had worn it. "He… hurt you?" "He turned them all against me," the Everman said. "All my friends. Without Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich, there was no one to defend me. And after all I did!" He slammed two hands onto the table with enough force to crack the wood and tip over the pot and the cups. "I was the one who solved the D-Class problem! I was the one who suggested we alter their reproductive DNA. Rights may have done the work, but it was my idea! I was the doctor, I kept us all in health! I cured the diseases, I fixed the injuries. But did they remember that? No. They didn't care. They just wanted to stop my work. They said it was wrong, but I know the truth. They were jealous that I could see farther, that my hands grasped the fire. "Yoric." He spat the name. "He hated me ever since the Raelin incident. He should have been grateful. I was his friend! I helped him! I only ever wanted to make him better, but did he care? He turned everyone against me. Cast out. No friends, no lab. Nothing but my surgeon crabs to care for me. And all I ever wanted was to help people! Well, I'll show them. I'll show everyone. I'll make them better, they'll see. And they'll thank me for it! No one will ever dare throw me out again!" The Everman's eyes were wide and mad, and veins rose from his neck. Slowly, his eyes focused again on the Beller. "You. You won't… leave me, will you?" he asked, pleading. "You're my friend… yes?" "Er, yes, of course," the Beller said, terrified. The Everman was mad, clearly. If he hadn't been to start with, the years alone must have done it. "Good, good," the Everman said. "I knew you were… different, as soon as I saw you. You won't… abandon me. I'll… I'll help you. I'll make you… better! That's what I'll do." "Oh, that's all right," the Beller said nervously. "I think I'm good enough for now." "No, I… insist," the Everman said. He gestured to his servant, which grasped the Beller with a strong, vice-like grip. "I understand your reluctance, but you'll see. It's for your own good. I'm your doctor, after all." He stood and walked for one of the doors. The servant followed, forcing Beller along. Dr. Mann pulled out a small metal object and placed it into a slot on the door, then turned it. The door opened, and they entered. The Beller found himself standing in a vast, brightly lit room, containing hundreds of different relics. "My… collection," the Everman said proudly. "Various SCPs, ah, 'wonders,' I think you… call them. Many, the… Foundation never even knew. These are just… the ones that… can be stored together, you… understand. Others would be more… problematic." He continued walking down the aisles, past shelves, boxes, and crates. A broad-brimmed hat rested next to a silt-encrusted cup. A picture of a girl waved at him from a picture frame sitting by a ruby medallion. A stone cube twice as tall as a man, cracked in two… He hardly formed more than an impression of any of them as he was dragged past. They finally came up to a platform, like the one upon which he had woken up. Three arms of metal and plastic rose above it. "212," the Everman said. "I was… lucky to acquire it. The Foundation never… understood it properly. They couldn't… control it. The improvements were random, haphazard. I… have better understanding. It will… help you, my friend. Help you to… see as I do." The Beller didn't know if he meant eyes or beliefs, and he didn't want to find out. He twisted as much as he could, and delivered a swift kick right between the servant's four legs. It howled and released him. Even as the Everman turned, the Beller grabbed a box off a shelf. "No, you fool!" the Everman shouted as the Beller threw the box's contents at him. He tried to grab a tiny red object as it bounced away, but it evaded him. The Beller turned and ran. He heard crashes behind him, and saw the servant running after. It screamed at him, a high-pitched keening that grated at the Beller's ears. Then something struck the creature, and it stumbled. The Beller thought he saw a tiny red streak, and then a shelf collapsed. He cursed, and added even more speed, looking for shelter. "Traitor! Quisling!" the Everman's voice echoed through the room. "Yoric!" The Beller saw an odd wheeled box. He jumped inside of it, on the off chance it might be enchanted to move. He looked around for some sort of control mechanism. There were several levers and a large wheel. He tried them, but got no noticeable response as more objects broke and shattered around him. Something punched through the roof before shattering the front window. The servant, one leg trailing behind it, jumped on the front of the vehicle and reached through the broken window at the Beller. In desperation, he clawed at it, raking at the creature with the hooks the Everman had planted in his fingers. It hissed and drew its arm back, then tensed as if to jump. Finally, the Beller noticed a small metal object, like the one the Everman used to open the door. He grabbed it, praying to Geyre and Semeril to send him somewhere safe as he twisted it forward. There was a sudden and complete lack of sensation. For the second time that day, he wondered if he were dead, about to face Abirt's justice. Then, suddenly, he found himself falling. He landed on a sandy dune with a force that knocked the wind from him. In the distance, a building half-buried by the sand stood, and nothing but dunes for miles. He stared, and then laughed, until tears streaked down his face. It was the Ceitu where he'd found the papers, and the whole quest had begun.

Dr. Northrop scratched his ear nervously, and tried not to wonder whose mannerism he was imitating. As the senior staff — Bright, and Rights, and Kondraki, and oh god Clef, and Crow, and Gerald, and Gears, and Light, and even Snorlison - filed into the conference room and took their seats, he could not help but compare what he knew about them with what he had learned. "Th-thank you for coming, gentlemen. And ladies. And… and Dr. Crow. I'm… I'm sorry to disturb you all, but —" "Get on with it, Northrop!" someone — was it Kondraki? — snapped. Northrop winced, took a deep breath, and continued. "Yes, Dr. Kondraki, of course. Sorry. I've… I've called you all here because of some very disturbing results from Project: Turtledove, results which I feel may have significant repercussions for us. Not… not for the world, or for humanity, but for us specifically. The people in this… this room." Dr. Gerald's brow furrowed. "Turtledove. Turtledove. That's the alternate timeline one, right?" "Yes, it—" "Working with Gephardt to expand our network allochronously so that we can connect to another timeline's Internet and pillage their Foundation's files, yes. Sorry, Northrop, I could tell you were going to have trouble with that one," Snorlison finished kindly. Northrop winced again. "Uh… yes. Now, for the alternate timeline R-zayin-H-517/6, we experienced some significant difficulty in locating that timeline's version of the Foundation. Their Internet in that timeline is quite… quite ubiquitous, and the absence of media reports on interactions with… with Euclid-level entities is… well, we thought it a definitive indication that that timeline has an SCP Foundation to take care of these problems. But…. none of the standard domain names were in use, our dedicated IP blocks were, were unallocated… and then I, then I found it. If you'll consult the flash drives I've prepared beforehand, you'll see the… oh god. You'll see the entire content of their Foundation's site." Northrop held his breath while the others pointed-and-clicked their way through the files. After a moment's silence, Clef spoke up. "Is this some sort of joke?", he spat angrily. "N—no, sir, it's quite serious." "Bullshit! Their version of the Foundation is hosting its website on a public wikifarm?" "Y-yes, sir. They are. And it gets worse. It gets a… a lot worse. Sir." Gears raised his hand. "… yes, Dr. Gears?" "Thank you, Dr. Northrop. By 'worse', are you referring to the notice on the website's front page which tells casual visitors how they can join the SCP Foundation?" Bright snapped to attention. "They what?!" Northrop winced. "Th-that's…. that's part of it. But —" "Hey, I thought you said these were the entire contents of their website?" Northrop blinked at the interruption. "Uh… yes, Dr. Rights. The whole… the whole contents of their site and their… their forums, which —" "Then why do we only have censored versions of their documents?" "That's, I… please, sir, ma'am, I'm, I'm getting to that." Rights sat back down, muttering. "Th-thank you, Dr. Rights, ma'am. Sir. Uh, yes. As I was saying, for… for timeline R-zayin-H-517/6, uh, one of the first anomalies we notice is that their… their SCP Foundation has its… its site in public. With their files open to the public, and — as Dr. Gears pointed out — a "join us" link on their front — their front page. Our initial reaction to, to such a catastrophic security breach was… well, frankly we thought they were being idiots but we didn't care. They're not… not us, they're just our allochronous equivalents. But, uh. There are some… some significant problems with that… uh. Project Turtledove is, uh, our goal is to, to learn from the allochronous database, and so we —" Kondraki grumbled menacingly. "…their files are the same as ours," Northrop finished hastily. Crow's doggy head tilted and his ear quirked upwards. "I noticed that they have a lot of entries that seemed familiar, but surely they're not identical?" "I'm, I'm afraid they… Dr. Crow, sir, there's nothing in their SCP files that's not also in ours. With the same wording. Exactly the same, down to the… the typos. And… sir, they even use the same numbering as us. Not just the same, the, the same numbering system, but the actual… the actual SCP numbers are exactly the same as, as ours. For every entry." There was a long silence. "That's impossible", Clef said. "They… they must be running a Project Turtledove of their own." Gears raised his hand. Clef sighed. "What is it, Gears?" "I do apologize, Dr. Clef, but I must point out that even within a more mundane paradigm of reality, such an occurrence would not be impossible. It is only a mathematical improbability, albeit one which is quite literally more than astronomical. You are correct, however, in that it is considerably more probable that our allochronous equivalents are running a Project Turtledove of their own." Kondraki got up from his chair. "So that's it, then? Looks like a major security breach from an alternate timeline, but it's actually just us reading over our own shoulders. Nothing to worry about and we can leave now. Right?" "Uh… I'm, I'm sorry, Dr. Kondraki, but there's … more." Kondraki sat down again. "For fuck's sake. Okay, Northrop. What else do you want to tell us about alternate timeline R-zayin-H-whatever?" Northrop closed his eyes, chose his next five words very carefully so as to avoid stammering, and then spoke. "I don't think we're real." to be continued

“Tater tots? That's what they give us for lunch? Tater tots?” Dr. Harold Breaker looked down at the brownish nuggets on his plate, alongside the chicken patty sandwich with its flimsy pickles and watery ketchup, next to the rubbery macaroni and cheese. The pudding, however, was unblemished by the evils of cafeteria cost-cutting. For now at least. “Since when is the Foundation an elementary school?” Taking his tray with him, Dr. Breaker set off aimlessly into the sea of cafeteria tables and hungry researchers. Breaker was black, in his mid fifties, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and an unobtrusive mustache. He was a reasonably large man in both height and width, though his college football days were long behind him and a gym membership forced upon him by his wife was in his discernible future. Breaker sat down at the end of one of the long, metal tables at the less-occupied corner of the cafeteria. He wasn't in the mood for socializing with large numbers of people. The researcher took a bite of patchily-cooked chicken sandwich. “Hey there, Breaker.” Breaker looked up to see Dr. Ryan Melbourne standing on the opposite side of the table, holding a tray of similar low-grade foodstuffs. Melbourne was tall and lanky, around thirty years of age, with a bushy head of sandy hair, a scar on his chin, and a good tan from his recent Caribbean vacation. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing the tattoo of Chinese lettering on the inside of his right arm. The phrase translated into English as “Were you expecting something profound?” “Hey,” Breaker said flatly as the younger doctor sat down. “Haven't seen you around recently.” “Yeah, the department's been in a fuss all week. The supervisor's worried about a memetic hazard outbreak, so she's been having us checked four times a day.” “What happened? And why did I not hear about this?” “Three researchers all acted exactly the same during the monthly psychological review. Started singing a bastardized version of “The Immigrant Song” with a very interesting use of the word ‘defenestrate', among other things.” “And who were the researchers?” Breaker could see where this story was going. “Drs. Jameson, Ulrich, and Ferrier.” Breaker slapped the table and laughed. “I knew it! I saw that one coming a mile away.” “It's a miracle they haven't been demoted to D-class by now. They can't go a week without getting Supervisor Bricket's panties in a bunch.” “In more ways than one.” “True that.” Melbourne swallowed a forkful of macaroni. “Moving to a completely different subject, I have fifty bucks riding on a bet and I need an answer from you.” Breaker sighed. Melbourne's gambling habit was the bane of everyone who knew him, as he would inevitably ask them for a bailout. Unfortunately, the doctor could see no applicable escape routes from the cafeteria. “Go ahead,” he said, dreading what came next. “Okay, let's say, hypothetically, that 008 broke containment. Widespread infection, no chance of containment. What do you do?” Breaker didn't expect something so… serious. “Lock down the facility, switch to backup generators. Use drones to recon the situation outside. If it's truly an XC or XK-class scenario, we fall back to basics: our facilities can be easily defended; we have food, weapons, water, and medical supplies already. If we're in for the long haul, we'll ration and improvise as necessary. If there are any SCPs that would cause a danger to us or a drain on limited resources, we destroy them. All the others we use to our advantage.” Melbourne smiled. “By the book, but I'll count that as a zombie plan. And they said you didn't have one. That's fifty bucks in my pocket right there.” “A zombie plan? That's what you call it?” “Or SCP-008 contingency plan, if you want.” “I really don't care, actually.” Breaker went back to his sandwich. “Aw, come on. Ask me.” “Fine.” He glared at the other researcher. “What's your zombie plan?” “You're doing it wrong! Ask me something different.” Breaker stroked his chin. “Okay…you're stuck in a room with 173.” “I believe not blinking is the first order of business. So long as I can keep one eye open, I'll run backwards out the emergency exit and do it fast.” “Fair enough. That's really the only thing to do.” “My turn. 705 takes over the break room.” “Are you kidding? They wouldn't stand a chance against my five-year-old nephew.” “Send him in; it would be hilarious. Maybe we can introduce them to 387 afterwards.” “Don't let the administration hear that one. 239 wakes up and decides she's not too fond of us.” “Flee to Canada.” Breaker gave Melbourne a “you're not taking this seriously, I take it?” look. “What? You're the serious one, not me. 055 breaks containment.” “What?” “Exactly.” “Whatever. We don't even have a fifty-five, I don't think. Mass outbreak of 217.” Melbourne crossed his arms and put on an irked face. “You're expecting me to say something stupid like 'Wait for Rights to have another kid,' right? Well, you're wrong, and your idea is stupid. Pick something that we haven't already dealt with.” “Fine. How do you like this one? Video of 597 gets on the internet.” “Oh my God.” Melbourne's eyes went wide. “Do you even know what you suggest?” “You're probably going to tell me.” “Damn straight I am! Look, most hormone-crazed guys only know the philosophy of “moar boobs”. The revelation that there is such a thing as “too much boobs” would send the ‘net into spiraling anarchy followed by implosion.” “That's… You know what, I'm not going to say anything." “It's for the best.” There was an awkward pause. “804 starts spinning out of control,” Breaker said. “Try to remember my Boy Scout training? Either that or smash it with a rock, I don't know. You're supposed to be having fun with this and you are definitely not having fun with this. Look, here's how you do it: 231-7 gives birth, coinciding with 682 breaking containment, 076-2 turning against the Foundation, and something super-bad coming out of 354. The combined sum of these causes a containment breach on almost every other Keter-level item we have.” With Melbourne's trump card played, Breaker was quiet. Nearly half a minute passed, the researcher not moving more than a twitch. Then, a smug smile spread across his face. “You're smiling like that again, Breaker.” Melbourne pointed his fork at him. “Good things do not happen when you have that smile.” “That's the easiest one yet.” “How so? Suicide's against the rules.” “Still easy. First, I activate the emergency termination protocol for the D-class barracks, then I run in there and apply 447 on each and every dead body in there.” Melbourne's expression was priceless. “What the fuck is that supposed to do?” “Well, since things really couldn't get any worse, the normally catastrophic effect of letting 447 near so many dead bodies will cancel everything else out.” Breaker stood up, taking his empty tray with him. “Or it'd just destroy the universe. Either way it'd be an improvement, and I believe that is game over, my friend.” |Hub|

The door was heavy, and old, but still strong. It sealed the passage tight, blocking even light from around its edges. The hall was claustrophobic, and in near total darkness but for the dim, drooling light from the far-off stair. He beat on the door again, feeling the thick reverberation bounce through its solid core. He could try and pick the lock, or bash it in, but that was not the way. Not their way, never. Respect was always foremost, even at the utmost end of need. He folded back on his haunches, his sigh turning the dust on the long-abandoned floor. He looked back, at the dim stair, and considered again just going back, letting it go. He thought this way for a long time, then stood with a new, more burning resolve. He went and knocked again… and again… and again. He hammered on the door. He beat on the door. He slammed his fists over and over, thundering against its mocking, ageless weight. He beat his fists until they split, spilling blood that looked like deeper, slicker smears of darkness onto the unrelenting wood. He threw himself against it, biting, clawing, gouging at the wood like something rabid and in pain. Finally, he slowed, then stopped, pulling away from the blank wood with an almost sheepish slink. He folded back up again, letting the split, reeking flesh stop pulsing and start to knit over. He turned the black, pulsing mass that gave him sight to the door again, split tongues lolling as he chastised himself for his reckless, misplaced hatred. They had gone, those many, and hidden deep in their vaults. This may be the last, the very last flake of rotten flesh left of their abandoned body. Their endless impatience had called to them for correction, so…they had come. Man had hidden deep in their vaults, their short-sightedness leaving them no retreat, no escape. Now they waited, delaying their final lessons with every futile breath… But to worry and to lose one's temper was not the way of the People. He resolved that, once ages had turned the door to dust, he would show them the folly of hope. One eon at a time.

The water was cool, if a bit murky. The lake was the color of tea, owing to its past as a logging route. Great banks of long tree trunks would bob and sink, staining the lake. At least, that's what the boy's grandpa said. He dove off the dock, slipping into the cool water as easy as an otter, his sunburned skin drinking in the cooling water. The lake was very deep, and quickly he was over the vast, deep edges, paddling softly with the easy grace attainable only by the happy few who know the width and depth of summer break. He turned over to his back, the murky, tea-colored haze buoying him up on billows of cool water. He flicked his hands with a careless annoyance as he skirted a patch of loosed seaweed, sending it bobbing away. He watched the clouds, listening to the empty hum of the lake in his ears. He slowly noticed more patches floating about him, and bobbed to vertical, wincing as his feet kicked and brushed the slippery, brown strands of weed. The strands twitched and clutched with their soggy strength, and he sighed as he started to plot a course out of the muck. Deep below, the twitching strands stirred the muck they were rooted so deeply in. The mud puffed… then bulged, rising softly in a great mound. Then it opened eyes, great sludgy orbs the size of cars. It slowly rose, freeing its gnashing maw, and drifted up to see what its feelers had found.

Everything was screaming. The dials, the readouts, everything was screaming, but he noticed none of it. What he noticed was the heat. He was burning. Not on fire, but inside, burning with a searing heat that was cooking him inside out. What's more, the tiny capsule was so sealed, so perfectly fitted, he couldn't even twist or writhe to burn in a new position. The radio squawked and squealed twice before going silent, the tiny plate starting to warp as the shoddy, overwhelmed heat shield continued to buckle under the reentry force, the flames licking white and golden past his tiny porthole. Still, the heat was not what filled the man with fear, what made him afraid of not only his immediate and untimely demise, but what may possibly be waiting beyond it. The baking flames did not form a total wall over the tiny porthole fixed over his sweating, softening face. They divided in the middle, blocked by the hard, sharp point of a chin. The face watched him, staring, vague suggestions of limbs holding to the sides of the window. The face watched, even with no eyes, no mouth, the blank, vapid nothing still so hellishly suggestive. It watched, smiling a nothing smile as the tiny bit of grit burned up in the thin, searing atmosphere… and its breath fogged to frost on the burning, bubbling window.

"Where are His clockwork servants? Where is the work of His hands? Where are Her digital lovers? What are His broken commands?" Vasily swallowed hard as Father Aglayev wiped a slim bronze blade on a bright red cloth. The man's grey hair gleamed oddly in the flickering half light as he brought the knifepoint to rest lightly on the flesh of Vasily's left palm, and he muttered softly a question to which they both knew the answer. The chanting of the acolytes surrounding them nearly drowned out Vasily's reply. "Yes, father, I am certain!" "How can we hope to rebuild Him if we are still creatures of flesh? How can we claim that we serve Him till our bodies are broken afresh?" Even as Vasily's blood dripped softly to the floor, father Aglayev poured oily liquid from a slim vial onto the wound, tears of pride in his smiling eyes. "Vasily, my son who I have raised as my own, I annoint you into His service. With this, you are ready. Go forth to do His work!" "What marvels are in His remaking! What wonders are in Her control! His Broken Gears turn forever restoring the penitent soul!" Father Aglayev held Vasily for a moment in a strong embrace before helping him to his feet. "Come. Your things are packed. Go, missionary, and spread His Broken Word!". "How can we not spread His message? How can we not serve His will? How could we stand in His presence and let Him remain broken still?" A few days later, Penitent Vasily Aglayev walked nervously down a crowded street, glancing at the people he passed. His father had told him that so long as he made it here by the appointed time, his duty to the Church would be done. Suddenly, he stumbled. "In light of the bodies He grants us what now are our fleshly ones worth? Through Her intervention we serve Him! Through Her we will remake the earth!" Vasily moaned in horror as he felt something in his body begin to change. His father had- He blinked. Vasily twitched for a moment, and continued walking, pausing occasionally to touch passerby on the arm or shoulder, muttering His blessing. His step grew regular and a smile formed on his face as his clockwork mind realised the glory of the task before him. This was a blessing he must share! Already the sunlight glinted from the tiny gears beginning to form behind his eyes. "We are His Clockwork Servants! We do the work of His hand! Those who oppose will forgive us when they are made to understand!"

During the recent Foundation raid on a Marshall, Carter, and Dark "Exhibition for the Perusal of Artistic Anomalies," Foundation agents discovered the following journal entry. The author, Ms. ██████ ████ (on staff at ██████ Hotel during the exhibition), is being interrogated at the time of this writing. The thing… was alive. After a fashion. Mr. Victor's art is ever so hard to classify, as always. And this one confused us all terribly, when he showed up to the latest exhibition without his usual semi-trucks full of self-assembling wonders — nothing but a single tiny seed, curled in the palm of his hand. For the two days of convention time before the exhibition began, he had it displayed in the main hall, on his customary glass pedestal. We'd reserved the entire hall for him, expecting the usual Brobdignagianism, so the little thing looked somehow alone sitting there. Well, not alone. Not really alone. There was something about it… Oh, I still can't put my finger on it. It haunted me, all those two days. I spent far too much time in that hall, just pacing its bounds or standing in front of the pedestal to examine the thing. It was tiny, and somehow inverted — convoluted — curling in on itself. Subtly. All its faint contours led inward, yet its presence filled the entire room. By the third morning, everyone was sure that the sense of presence was the art — that Victor had abandoned his usual medium completely and gone for something more psychological. There were whispers of pheromones, even hypnotism, among the less anchored of the clientele. That was before he proved us all wrong, of course. His was the last presentation of the day. He led the gathering into the central hall, said a few words (no one seems to remember what), and picked up the seed. It fit into his palm as if born to it, which I suppose it was. Then he smiled and gestured, and the room fell away. I've no idea how he'd done it, but in those two days he'd had the convention center remodeled to fold back at his command. The walls slid down, the roof coiled into its beams, and suddenly we were standing on a wide flat platform in the open air. The city stretched around us, its honking clatter suddenly deafening after the genteel chatter of the convention. He said something else. "I give you this," maybe. I was too astonished to pay much attention. (Or maybe the talk of hypnotism had some merit. Who knows?) But he said it, and he raised his hand to his lips and kissed the seed. A murmur spread around the roof, audible somehow even over the cars. The seed… fell. Swish. Tap. It hit the floor and did not bounce. Silence. The quiet stretched out, unnaturally poised, until I was sure it would snap and go whipping among us with stinging fury. I almost missed it, even, when the seed began to split. Its surface cleaved, folding inward along an intricate moire pattern, then bulged out between the clefts. The body of the thing swelled, heaved, and grew. We watched, enraptured. Arms rose out of it, grasping skeletal tendrils sweeping round to grasp each other… Superstructure, I realized with a jolt, before they connected fully and began to swell and fill the gaps between. They moved like twigs in the wind or like paintbrush strokes. My eyes were unbearably full of the impossible, wrong, beautiful things. Finally, a second or an hour later, Mr. Victor's sculpture stood complete before us. The shape was familiarly alien, an amalgamation of forms too common to recognize — a teapot, perhaps, or a hunched-over vulture. The silence folded itself away inside the thing's body; the city's clamor rose around us again. Mr. Victor bowed. Helpless with awe, we applauded.

Marcus straightened his tie and brushed his hair to the right side with his hand. One of his roommates was playing Tupac and wildly throwing gang symbols at his desk. He could see him in the mirror. It was growing dark outside. The room smelled of a little more aftershave than necessary. His two roommates used to pester him about these Saturday nights. “Where are you going all dressed up?” they'd ask, and he'd say, “Mass,” and that would shut them up. He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and began down the stairs. Saturday night mass? Were they stupid? It was dreadfully cold outside of the dormitory, and Marcus flipped the collar of his overcoat up. He'd seen Humphrey Bogart do it in a film. Or maybe it was Harrison Ford. He wished he had the driver here, so that he wouldn't have to walk alone down these snowy sidewalks, the wind chafing his cheeks. It was worth it, he told himself. It was this or drinking lukewarm Milwaukee's Best in a room party somewhere, music on too loud, and maybe sloppily hooking up with some blonde mannequin from the sororities. He was too classy for that. As he walked uptown, the streets quickly changed character. The streets surrounding the campus gave way to dilapidated apartment projects, a multi-colored myriad of trash and cigarette butts jutting from the snowdrifts. Marcus rounded a corner, turning onto a non-descript side-street. A single orange lamp threw an otherworldly haze over the grey concrete. The street did not draw a second glance from any passer-by. Close inspection, however, would have revealed things that ought not to have been on this inner city block. The windows in the buildings were all dark, and the walks were clear of the common stream of litter. A black Rolls-Royce was parked casually next to a hydrant, and next to it an Italian sports car. A wooden handrail extended from a basement staircase, oddly juxtaposed with the surrounding scene. He placed his left hand upon it, gingerly stepping into the darkness below. The heavy door open at the bottom of the stair opened into a dim and tiny room, where a huge Samoan man in a dark suit stood. The massive man wordlessly extended an open palm. Marcus fumbled with his wallet, pulling out the glass card. The Samoan held it in two fingers, raised it to eye level. He nodded. The man turned to the heavy industrial door behind him, opening it with a single wrenching pull. Marcus stepped through, glancing over his shoulder to say, “Thanks, Ralph.” Ralph returned a subtle, but angry glare. Marcus was greeted with a rush of warmth and a friendly woman in a short red dress. She sported a bulky brass collar. She took his coat. A gentle wash of voices came from the floor below, along with a mixed scent of liquor, oak, and tobacco. He stepped down from the balcony, taking the spiral staircase to the ground floor confidently. Here was his place, away from the plebeians, away from their petty college-age worries. If they only knew. The club was alive tonight. The tables were bustling with poker games, and groups of well-dressed men and women were talking in groups. Strange, solitary figures nursed cocktails at the long mahogany bar, and the old grays sat in armchairs by the fire, brandishing cigars and conversing grandiloquently. An enormous black piano in the corner was softly twinkling Ellington's “Little Brown Book.” There was no player. Occasionally, people would walk over and slip bills into the empty highball glass sitting on the bench. Marcus walked over to the fireplace, close to the aged men. He sat in one of the leather chairs, his socks awkwardly visible at his ankles as he lifted his legs up onto an ottoman. Leafing through a copy of the Times, he pretended to read but instead listened intently. They fascinated him, these back-of-the-room men. They were captains of industry, politicians, royalty; bespectacled and tweed, criminals all. These great leaky galleons seemed not to care about his proximity, or notice at all, and continued conversing in gruff and frank tones. Marcus looked up from the paper, making eye contact with one of the women in the red dresses. She walked over gracefully, gorgeous. Angry red splotches were visible around the edges of her collar, barely noticeable under the makeup. She must be new, Marcus thought. After a few words, the woman went to the bar, and then returned with his drink. Three fingers of scotch, two ice-cubes. It went down hard, but his father drank it. Sipping from the glass, he attempted to hide the sharp exhale that escaped from his mouth, fearing unreasonably that the old men would notice and take offense. Marcus was always concerned with how the other members saw him. He was easily the youngest there, and the others didn't tend to speak to him. A rotund and gray engine stood on the table nearby, chugging slowly and periodically giving off a bluish soporific steam. It had been a long week. Marcus began thinking about his father – his father, the senator. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, his arms slopping off the edges of the chair. It was his eighteenth birthday, and he had just gotten into college. He had begged his father, begged and begged. And finally, there it was, driving up the pebble driveway to the family mansion. The black, non-descript car pulled up at the front door. Marcus watched through the kitchen window, childlike with anticipation. A tall, slender man, with close-cropped hair and a pinstripe suit stepped out of the passenger seat. The senator went out and shook hands with him. He said something, laughing heartily. The man from the car did not react. They met at the door. The representative was British, humorless, and carried nothing. He had a voice like shaved ice. The senator led Marcus and the representative into his study, where they sat opposite each other, silently. Melinda brought in a tray with a water pitcher and two glasses. The glass sat untouched before the representative for the five minutes of the interview. Afterward Marcus' father came in, and they shut him out. Crouching and watching through the crack between the doors, Marcus could only hear muffled voices. His father was talking and gesticulating. The man in the suit was speaking quietly and sharply, shaking his head slightly. His father was growing louder, red in the face like he got during his campaign speeches. The man in the suit kept shaking his head. And then the senator had his checkbook out and was writing on it. The two men shook hands, and three weeks later Marcus had his glass card. Marcus awoke, startled. Several hours had passed. The old men had left, presumably to their respective rooms. Some of the women in the short red dresses were wiping down tables and emptying ash trays. One of them was passing between the remaining groups of members, offering a little silver tray in her right hand. The tray had several evenly placed rows of white pills on it. He took one, unquestioning, and swallowed it. The floor was still populated, but quiet now. Young men and women sat on the furniture in small groups, laughing softly. Several of them were gathered around the gray engine, examining it and inhaling the blue steam. The jazz piano had been replaced by a low and electronic basso thrumming. Every once and a while, an odd noise would float up from the basement staircase in the rear of the room. Three African men in tan military uniforms were standing at the bar drinking cognac and vermouth. He watched their lips contort and shift with each syllable, and they seemed to slow. The constant flicker of the fire beside him became sluggish, too. In his ears, the intimate voices of the young and privileged around him grew deeper and deeper, until they were gross and comedic parodies. Marcus watched the pendulum on the great brown grandfather clock by the fire swing slower, its clicks decreasing in frequency. And then it stopped altogether. Soon – he did not know how long after – he could not move a muscle. He was stuck, sunken into the leather armchair. His eyes tracked his field of vision, scrutinizing the people stuck in mid-gesture; drops of liquid suspended centimeters above tongues, the feet frozen impossibly in mid-air. A great sweep of relaxation washed between the hemispheres of his brain. He snapped to, and it was as if someone had pressed fast-forward in his mind. There were gunshots. The lights were flickering, and members were running every which way, screaming. Armed men in strange black jumpsuits were flooding the balcony above. Several of the guards had upturned one of the heavy oak tables at the front of the room and were crouching behind it, trading gunfire with the men above. Marcus panicked and jumped down from his chair, crawling across the floor. Broken glass cut into his knees. One of the guards hurried passed him, and Marcus clung to his calves, tripping him up awkwardly. “Get the fuck off!” the man shouted. “Help me,” Marcus begged piteously. “Get off. You're a gold member; don't have security privileges,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let go of me now or you'll get us both killed.” The guard shook his leg vigorously. “Please help me!” Marcus pleaded, a string of spittle streaming ungracefully from his mouth to the guard's pant-leg. The guard kneed him sharply in the jaw, discarding him to the carpet. It seemed like an instant later that the floor was alive with the black-suited soldiers. Gazing around, his eyes were blurry with tears. Three security guards lay in puddles of blood. It seemed like all the older members were gone. In fact, all the help were gone too; the bartenders and the women in the red dresses. The only people left on the floor were the young members and the three African men. Operatives were holding them all at gunpoint, zipping riot-cuffs onto their wrists. Marcus stumbled to his feet, lunging for the basement staircase. A rifle butt came across his skull, and his head was filled with sparks. Waking up, he had a splitting headache, and there was dried blood on his face. The room was bright white, and it made him squint. He tried to lift his hand to shade his eyes, but they were strapped to the chair he was sitting in. Across the table in front of him sat a figure in a white laboratory coat. He couldn't make out her face due to the angle of the lights. “Awake, are you?” said the figure. “What…what the hell?” ventured Marcus. “Please state your name,” said the figure, poising a pen over a clipboard. “Where am I?” Marcus asked, terror mounting. “Please state your name,” the figure repeated. “You can't do this! I'm an American citizen! My father is a senator! My father..!” Marcus shouted, struggling aimlessly with his bonds. The figure across the table sighed and put down the pen. She made a beckoning motion with her hand, looking over Marcus' left shoulder. Marcus saw the man approach in his peripheral vision, a lone syringe borne on a bare stainless-steel medical tray. He screamed.

A woodcutting, commiſsioned to depict the capture of the dread beaſt, with a great number of aſsailants upon the flesh of its back. AN ENTRY for the expreſs Purpoſe of addition to the Guild Catalogue of Phenomena. Should the Poſsibility ariſe that this document fall into the hands of a non-member, the poſseſsor is required by Guild Charter to deſtroy it completely by fire. THIS PAGE documents an occurrence on the date the ſeventeenth of March, the Year of Our Lord 1785, at the harbor of Boſton, Maſsachuſets Commonwealth. On the morning of this day, a ſingle fisherman, whoſe name remains unmention'd herewith, returned to Port with a number of ſtrange wounds upon his veſsel and perſon. He was extremely frightened, shouting that an incredible beaſt of six-and-a-half rods had devoured a great quantity of Ships and had injured him thus. He deſcribed it as a whale of un-natural proportion, with a thouſand gnashing teeth and multiple tumor-like protruſions. After this report, many young men armed with muſkets and pikes embarked to deſtroy the Creature. THE BEAſT approach'd the harbor and caus'd the deaths of the armed men with great rapidity, meanwhile bellowing in loud and beleaguered tones. The Harbor Batteries were fired upon't with no effect. The Whale-Beaſt appeared to be not injur'd by normal means. By the Grace of God, Guilds-man Sir James F. was preſent and was able to act in the circumſtances. It was only thru the ingenuity of Sir James F. that the Creature was captured. He caſt a great quantity of fish into the harbor, drawing the creature near. Sir James F. then gathered the Sailors at hand, who flung down anchors from the dock. The anchors were caught upon the fleshy parts of the back of the Beaſt, acting as if fish-hooks. It ſtruggled piteouſly, and men climbed the mount of its back and ſtruck it with blades, until the time at which it was ſubdued by direct and cloſe cannon-fire. SIR JAMES had theſe anchors fixed to a galleon, by which means the Creature was dragg'd to a bay eight miles to the North, at a location undiſcloſed herein. It remains there, chained to a cliff-face, whereupon it feeds on fish. A troupe of armed men is ſtationed to maintain the impriſonment of the Beaſt, warding off paſsers-by on foot or Sea. Should the Whale-Creature attempt to break free, theſe men fire upon't with cannon and muſket until it is ſubdued, so it may be re-chain'd. THIS TEXT conſtitutes page two hundred and eighty five of the ledger of the Guild for the Retrieval and Documentation of Abnormal and Otherwiſe Un-Chriſtian Phenomena.

Experiment Log – SCP-784-BETA Purpose: To discover the appropriate nerve endings that SCP-784 must be connected to in order to function correctly. To replenish stock of SCP-784, in order to allow for further and more extensive testing. To reverse engineer SCP-784, or find practical applications for SCP-784. INTER SCP CONTAMINATION WARNING: In order to facilitate the tremendous need for skill and dexterity in these experiments, I will be utilising SCP-542, due to his considerable surgical abilities. However, he is to be watched thoroughly, and under no circumstances is he to obtain any samples of SCP-784 for himself. REPEAT: Under no circumstances is SCP-542 to obtain any samples of SCP-784 for himself. Any attempts to do so will be met with extreme force, and SCP-542 will be promptly and permanently removed from both the experiment staff and testing area. Pre-Experiment Note: Should we achieve our first objective, SCP-784 will be utilised in the Olympia Project, in test subject Olympia Zero. If successful, this would effectively allow the second objective to be completed, and with that, further research and experimentation into the third objective. Experiment Process: The experiments shall proceed as follows: Patient shall be prepared and subject to complete open skull surgery, leaving the entirety of the upper hemispheres of the brain available for use. Using SCP-542, as well as information gained from SCP-784's original incarnation as well as its subsequent escape attempt, traces of SCP-784 will be attached to nerve endings in the brain in order to establish cognitive control. Should the previous step prove successful, the subject will be put through a series of basic tests in order to showcase the control the subject has over SCP-784. Should the previous step prove unsuccessful, subject will be either terminated, or put through the implantation process again. Otherwise, the operation is to be ended, and the subject observed in quarantine for a predetermined length of time. Experiment Log: Subject 001: Male Caucasian, aged 36, 5'9, 180lbs. Relative good health. Experimental Status: FAILURE Subject Status: DECEASED Note: More care is needed. SCP-784 responded to the electrical brain impulses in the brain before implantation and partially activated, consuming part of the tools and subject's grey matter in the process. Subject 004: Female Caucasian, aged 45, 5'3, 100lbs. Average health. Experimental Status: FAILURE Subject Status: DECEASED Note: Please maintain constant vigilance. Failure to correctly restrain the subject will lead to errors in experimentation, and a loss in both productivity and material resources. Subject 007: Male Caucasian, aged 35, 6'0, 175lbs. Average health. Experimental Status: PARTIAL SUCCESS Subject Status: DECEASED Note: Subject was receptive to implantation process to a point. However, there seemed to be some misalignments in the connection to certain nerve endings, as the subject constantly complained of SCP-784 not responding to his exact wishes. This was especially noticeable when the subject attempted to form SCP-784 into a complex pattern alignment, and instead exploded, causing a minor breach of security as SCP-784 began to consume all available matter. Subject 016: Male Black, aged 26, 6'1, 190lbs. Relative good health. Experimental Status: SUCCESS Subject Status: DECEASED Note: For further choice of test subjects, psych evaluations will be needed in their evaluation. Subject 018: Female Caucasian, aged 37, 5'6, 145lbs. Average health. Experimental Status: SUCCESS Subject Status: DECEASED Note: REPEAT: For further choice of test subjects, psych evaluations will be needed in their evaluation. Subject 024: Male Caucasian, aged 56, 5'5, 160lbs. Below average health. Experimental Status: SUCCESS Subject Status: DECEASED Note: Correct nerve alignment and implantation has been discerned. However, subject was unable to cope with the added stress of SCP-784 within their body, and later died of inter-cranial pressure. Refinement is needed in the process to prevent this from happening again. Subject 031: Male Caucasian, aged 43, 5'8, 180lbs. Average health. Experimental Status: SUCCESS Subject Status: ALIVE Note: Process has been refined accordingly. Subject 035: Olympia Zero Experimental Status: SUCCESS Subject Status: ALIVE Note: Fusion with SCP-784 was observed to occur to a much greater degree than in previous subjects. This is most likely because of the unusual composition of this Olympia Zero's grey matter. Further testing will proceed on Olympia Zero.

Beyond the dim, childish rays of Sol burn the steady, glowering lights of slumbering embers. Millions of lifetimes away lie the quasars, the softly thrumming globes of aging light, somehow ancient in the youngest part of the universe. Their light is cold and dim, but harsh, blanketing the cold, dead stones that drift in their scrambling, cantankerous gravity with oceans of radiation and soft, silent death. The anciently young baubles roil and bubble with youthful, rotting cores, belching forth their combined first breaths and death rattles. They twist slowly in their near-eternal dying birth, bubbling and muttering to themselves for eons in tongues of radiation and cooling heat. Even these contradictory beings are not eternal, and soon they cool, bloating with the carrion of their own burning bodies. Some burst finally, breaking their simultaneous dance of life and death, to spawn new strangeness. Others collapse, falling just shy of this final freedom, cooling to black, silent, hateful balls of regret and loss. Twisting in their hallucinating, dreaming cores, they turn black, still shells to the hated universe, the sprightly, twinkling upstart stars and scrambling worlds, to dream and sleep the sleep of the sick and forgetful. Stars, like men, however, are mortal, and are therefore open to those that are not. Like a man falling asleep to wake as someone new, the void-hearted quasar can forget who they are, and become remembered by another. One, dreaming in its own ashes, slowly found itself becoming the dream, the doddering, hating core slipping away as a new dreamer took its place, a dreamer whose thoughts sent the dream plunging away, vanishing in to void and oblivion then to know for a moment that such a dreamer existed, let alone lie subject to its whims. For epochs it then dreamed of nothing, its lost dreams not missed or even noticed by those that see time as a ocean, and not a path. Then, in time, the dreamer awoke. The tiny, sparkling life that grew in the coddling shadow of Sol found the place of Knowing. One, unimportant and unknown, came seeking. In his seeking, he was made aware of the dreamer, and by that knowledge, the dreamer became aware of him. The dreamer came, the awareness pressing in to the tiny point, to find it pleasing and strange. It awoke, and seeped in to the vacant star's corpse, pulling flecks of reality to clothe its own vacant eyes. Boiling with new knowledge, it pushed, feeling the feeble waters of reality part and ripple before it, and began to travel, crawling and oozing on the walls of its shell, feeling new sensation, awareness, and knowledge. It rolls softly, a scarab in its own tomb, to feel, to know, to change, and to take all that is lacking. It comes to spread awareness in to life, and feel the soft constriction of mortality around it, like the hug of a dying child. It comes at its leisure. It comes at the pace of blank void. But it comes. To worship and bring the Broken to the world is merely the anointing of the offering. To prepare the vessel to be filled, to allow its endurance beyond the flickering points of mortality. We will turn undying eyes to the sun, and watch the eons roll past. Watch as the great, gray home grows behind it, swelling with trivial ages. Watch as its burning, vapid light is extinguished and replaced with the cold, aged seepage of the dreamer's shell. We will raise our arms, all, on our waiting, Whole world, and be filled with the awareness of the dreamer's core, and vanish to its pleasure. To restore the Broken is great. To be known by The Gray Awareness is greater. So says Anna, third Prophet of the Age of Strife, second Acolyte to The Gray Awareness, servant to the Church. Document recovered by investigating Agents. Authenticity of the physical document has been verified. References to the subject matter have not been found in any other documents recovered from the Church.

Anomalous Item 20224 is a series of eight DVD-Rs containing unedited footage of an apparent nature documentary, collectively labeled as “Documentary 23”. The picture and sound quality of the footage is substandard, with audio-visual distortions, cuts, and missing footage common throughout the recordings. The disks will play on any standard DVD player, and the contained footage has been copied and archived. No anomalous effects have been recorded regarding the disks themselves or the act of watching them. While the possibility of a hoax exists, such an undertaking would require several million dollars to produce equivalent special effects. Anomalous Item 20224 was recovered from █████ ███████ on July 16, 20██. The previous owner was unaware of the object's origins, claiming to have received them through an anonymous seller on the internet. Anomalous Item 20224 is currently stored in Low Security Vault 2 of Site 19. The following transcript lists only a general overview of major events of note. Disk 1 00:00 – Disk starts. The scene shown resembles the Serengeti Plain. A large group of wildebeests, gazelles, zebras, and other savannah wildlife are shown around a watering hole. 00:12 – The voices of the filmmakers are heard for the first time. Three distinct voices are heard, one female, two male. (Subjects 1, 2, and 3, respectively.) The language spoken does not correlate with any known language, and has only been partially decoded. The Subjects seem to be describing the water hole scene, as the camera focuses on the drinking animals. Narration of this kind continues throughout most other segments of Anomalous Item 20224. 05:15 – Subjects 1 and 3 appear on camera. Both are wearing similar outfits: utilitarian clothing in various shades of brown with backpacks for carrying equipment and supplies. For unknown reasons, the Subjects' faces have been blotted out. Documentary shifts focus to a nearby termite mound. The next 34:06 of tape contains no anomalous or otherwise notable content. 39:21 – First anomalous content seen. At this point in the documentary, focus is set upon a small bird, which on closer inspection is clearly a blue jay (Cyanocitta cristata). The bird displays no physical anomalies, besides being native to North America, not Africa. 40:05 – Blue jay flies away. During the filming, the Subjects did not seem to find the presence of a non-native bird confusing or remarkable. The next 19:55 of tape contains no anomalous or otherwise notable content. All animals featured show no unusual characteristics or behaviors. 60:00 – Disk ends. Disk 2 00:00 – Disk starts. Scene shows a series of rocky foothills at the base of a mountain chain to the west. Scrub vegetation is common. 00:10 – Camera focuses on a snake in the brush. (Researcher's note: Identified as a western diamondback rattlesnake.) Subject 3, grabs the snake by the tail and uses a stick to handle it for the camera as Subject 1 narrates. At 01:01, the snake is released. 01:01 – Cut. Next shot is the middle of a segment on a large ant colony. Ants are a light shade of blue. 01:15 - Camera focuses on a group of roughly fifty soldier ants attacking a reef gecko (Sphaerodactylus notatus, native to Florida). Ants are tearing away chunks of flesh with their pincher-like jaws. The gecko survives for nearly a minute before one of the ants cuts the gecko's jugular vein. 02:12 – Cut. Scene is now focusing on a pack of vultures feeding on the carcass of a large Bactrian camel. 05:36 – Cut. The camel stands up and attempts to bite a vulture. The remains of the camel's internal organs are dangling from the hole in its abdomen. 05:45 – Cut. There are no visuals for the next 10:45. Sound is in the form of five individual narrations on unknown subjects. 16:21 – Cut. Camera focuses on a red panda drinking from a shallow stream. The creature is estimated to be roughly the size of a Kodiak bear. 17:00 – Red panda leaves the shot, but not before defecating on the stream's edge. Subject 1 makes a comment, followed by laughter from Subjects 2 and 3. 17:06 – Disk ends. Disk 3 00:00 – Disk starts. Scene opens with Subject 2 in mid-sentence, pointing the camera at a snowy cliffside roughly 100-150m tall. Subjects are seen wearing mountain climbing gear, and appear to be discussing the best way to ascend the cliff face. 02:20 – Subjects begin ascending the cliffside. 02:43 – Cut. Following footage is a shot of the horizon from two-thirds up the cliffside. The savannah featured in Disk 1 can be seen in the distance. 02:56 – Subject 2 is startled by the sudden appearance of a large, indistinct creature (Researcher's note: believed to be a flying fox or similar large bat.) and nearly drops the camera. Subject 3 scolds him while Subject 1 laughs. 03:00 – Cut. Subjects are at the top of the cliff, looking out over the edge. Judging by the shadows cast by the mountain, it is nearing mid-afternoon. 03:15 – Cut. Scene takes place later in the day, near sundown. Subjects are walking up a winding dirt path. A small village can be seen ahead of them. 05:23 – Subjects arrive in the village. Buildings are small and stone, with wooden roofs. There are no signs of recent habitation: many of the buildings are in states of disrepair, and much of the village is covered in deep snow drifts. Subjects walk through the village for the next 03:40, conversing sporadically. No other life is seen. 09:03 – Cut. Subjects are now approaching a larger building, a large section of which has collapsed and filled with snow. Subjects 1 and 3 step inside first, Subject 2 follows with the camera four seconds later. 09:07 – Jump cut. Subjects are standing on top of a fallen chunk of masonry. A large swarm of black insects (Researcher's note: Further analysis suggests that the creatures resemble terrestrial trilobites rather than any known insect.), each at least 30cm in length, swarms around beneath them. Subject 3 opens his backpack, taking out a plastic box. Checking its contents once, he throws it across the hall. The swarm moves towards the box and begins consuming it. The camera lingers on the creatures as the subjects escape. 09:56 – Cut. Subjects are inside another building, and it is now night. The house's fire pit has been cleared out and a fire has been set up. Subject 1 is feeding a black-furred chinchilla some of her rations, while Subject 3 narrates. 10:28 – Disk ends. Disk 4 00:00 – Disk starts. Subjects are walking through a thick forest of large fungal bodies. Judging by the slope of the ground, it is presumed that the Subjects are descending the foothills on the opposite side of the mountain. Available light indicates that it is mid-morning or mid-afternoon. 00:15 – Movement is spotted to the right. Camera focuses on a dark shape moving deeper into the forest and out of sight. (Researcher's note: Further analysis shows that the creature is a quagga, a relative of the zebra which has been extinct since 1883.) One frame seems to show the creature unfurling wings, but the footage is too blurred to confirm this. 00:45 – Cut. Scene shows a stone pillar, which has been partially eroded by encroaching hyphae. The pillar is clearly a marker of some sort, and Subject 1 is attempting to decode the symbols that are etched into it. 01:30 – Subject 1 now steps away from the pillar. Judging by her tone of voice, she was incapable of translating any of the symbols. Subjects move onward through the forest. 02:41 – There is a heavy seismic disturbance. The camera becomes unsteady as Subject 2 stumbles. The fungal ‘trees' can be seen to sway in uniform motion. 02:44 - The next ten seconds contain no visuals or audible sound. Analysis has shown an ultrasonic note within the blank segment. As it does not vary in frequency, it is hypothesized to be artificial in origin. 02:54 – Cut. Subject 1 is now observing a large black beetle. Every few seconds she prods it with a twig. After she does this several times, the beetle flares its carapace outward, showing the brilliant orange-yellow coloration underneath. 03:40 – The beetle sprays a yellow-green fluid from its abdomen at Subject 1, who doesn't step away quick enough to avoid the acid. She shouts in pain and attempts to wipe it off. Subject 3 steps in to help her. 04:02 – Cut. Scene now shows a shallow gully, populated by a species of cup-shaped fungi, the smallest being a meter across. Subject 2 sets the camera on a tripod and walks away. No unusual events are recorded over the next 14:12. 18:14 – A juvenile Javanese rhinoceros walks into the gully, sniffing the air. It makes a direct route towards one of the larger cup fungi and walks inside. The cup closes over it, and sounds of distress are heard from within after a few seconds. The silhouette of the rhinoceros inside the fungus can be seen as it struggles to free itself. 19:20 – Disk ends. Disk 5 00:00 – Disk starts. Scene shows the Subjects on the shores of a lake. Local geography resembles the American southwest, with thick scrub vegetation and several clumps of tamarisk on the lakeshore. Subject 3 is filling a canteen from the lake. 00:30 – Subject 3 points out a disturbance behind the camera. Camera turns to see a group of about fifteen lemur-like creatures emerging from the brush, roughly twenty meters away. Camera zooms in to show that they are walking on their hind legs and are carrying sharpened sticks. The “tribe” ignores the presence of the Subjects. 00:54 – The tribe begins to drink from the lake. Subject 1 makes a short narrative comment, showing some surprise at the event, but only enough to suggest that this is a rare find. She continues with the narration as usual. 02:03 – The tribe's lookout makes a startled yelp. The other lemurs take notice. 02:04 – A dromaeosaurid dinosaur of considerable size (Researcher's Note: Believed to be an adult Utahraptor) appears. Subjects begin to run away. Sounds of the conflict can be heard over the Subjects' footsteps. 02:25 – Camera is directed back at the tribe. Lemurs have now either run away or been killed. The Utahraptor is feeding on the dead. 03:13 – Cut. Scene now shows the dinosaur dead on the ground, with numerous bullet holes in its head and chest area. Subject 1 is scolding Subject 3, who is seen disassembling a long-barreled rifle. 03:20 – Cut. Subjects have walked down the eastern shore of the lake. There are some unusual disturbances in the water. This continues for the next 01:36. 04:04 – A Megatherium (giant ground sloth), which is seen to have six limbs instead of four, approaches the lake shore from the brush. After looking around the area, it bends down to drink. 04:56 – Disturbances in the water increase as a large creature emerges from the lake. As only the upper portion is visible, identification is difficult. A membranous dome, lined by numerous frills of skin and cartilage, is visible. The skin is semi-transparent, showing a bulbous structure underneath. Visible are several triple-jointed arms (Researcher's note: Five limbs have been counted), which have thick black fur and hands with two opposable thumbs. 04:59 – Unknown creature lashes its arms at the area behind the sloth, attacking a pack of raptors much like the one before, which were preparing to launch an attack on the sloth. 05:12 – Unknown creature grabs a raptor in one of its hands and throws towards the Subjects, who it misses by no less than a meter. Camera moves to look at the body: the spine has been snapped on impact. 05:17 – Cut. Subjects have left the lake behind, and are now climbing over a short ridge. Animal noises can be heard from the other side. 05:18 – Disk ends. Disk 6 00:00 – Disk starts. Video shows that the Subjects are traversing a salt plain on foot. Sky is overcast and dark. No life can be seen anywhere. 00:07 – Subject 3 begins to speak. The conversation is casual and continues for the next twelve minutes without notable events. 12:07 – Cut. Conversation is still ongoing, though Subject 1's tone has become increasingly worried. 12:55 – Argument between Subjects 1 and 3 breaks out. Subject 2 steps in, attempting to break it up. 13:12 – Cut. Conversation has ended. Subjects appear weary. Distant thunder is heard in the background. The camera pans to show two unknown creatures (Researcher's note: Creatures are estimated to be between 200 and 250 meters tall) on the southern horizon. From the distance, they appear to be masses of cartilage and gas sacks at least five stories tall. Subject 1 speaks, but is interrupted by a low roar in the distance. The Subjects look to the east, then at each other. Subject 3 speaks briefly, and the group resumes walking. 14:04 –Disk ends Disk 7 Data lost. The disk has been overwritten with several episodes of the anime Cowboy Bebop. Closer inspection has shown several one-frame fragments of the original video that remain. 09:33 – A forest of crooked, leafless trees. Part of a bleached skeleton of unknown origin is seen in the corner of the frame. 26:01 – Shot was taken within a small clearing containing six boulder-sized pearls which provide ambient light through unknown means. The clearing is within a dense formation of jagged limestone towers, known as tsingy. 27:50 – Two frames of a bloated, wormlike creature with three flexible proboscises covered in feathered tufts. 44:27 – A dark blue screen filled with complex mathematical formulae appearing in white Arabic numerals. 54:14 – The final segment lasts for approximately three seconds. The soundless footage is too shaky for any conclusive analysis, but it would appear that Subject 2 is running up a steep incline at substantial speed with the camera rolling. 55:02 – Static. Faint screams and gunfire can be heard beneath the white noise. A voice identified as Subject 2 can be heard shouting before being drowned out. 55:46 – Disk ends. Disk 8 00:00 – Disk starts. Scene shows subjects slowly descending a rocky slope towards the bottom of a small valley. There is no plant life to be seen. There is a substantial amount of smog and dust in the air, giving a red-brown color to the sky. 00:04 – Camera focuses on the bottom of the valley, observing a large settlement. Shacks are constructed primarily of corrugated sheet metal and are built several layers thick. Some figures can be seen around the edge of the settlement. 00:09 – Cut. Subjects have reached the bottom of the incline and are standing roughly 10 meters from the edge of the slum. At this distance the conditions within the settlement are seen in detail. The narrow spaces between shacks are lined with sewage and large patches of grey lichen or fungus. Roughly twenty inhabitants can be seen, though they pay no attention to the Subjects. The inhabitants are human, and their appearance is consistent with the living conditions around them: they are filthy, dressed in rags, malnourished, and many sport deformities. They walk without any seeming purpose, noticing little, if any, of their surroundings. 00:12 – Subjects start walking slowly towards the settlement's edge. Inhabitants still show no signs of notice. 00:15 – One of the slum inhabitants, male with severe deformities, sharply turns his head to face the camera. 00:16 – Inhabitant begins running towards Subjects. 00:19 – Inhabitant begins attacking Subjects, screaming “Let us go! Let us go, you sick fucks!” 00:23 – A mob has formed around the Subjects, who attempt to fight them off. 00:25 – Camera is knocked out of Subject 2's hand, and records the mob's feet for seven seconds afterwards. Screams can be heard off-screen. 00:32 – Disk ends.

"…which brings us once again to the pressing issue of just how much there is left to contain," said the Head of Foundation Staff to the meeting, shuffling the papers in his hands. A collection of bored individuals sat before him. An excited looking man started to fiddle with the projector up front. "Next on the agenda," continued the Head of Staff, "Researcher Erit Invictus has a proposition for a new class of SCP." A collective groan came from those assembled. "Now, now, hold your complaints," said Erit, starting up his presentation, displaying the Foundation symbol. "First off, this is not another class of 'SCP'. It's an entirely different concept altogether. See," he flicked to the first slide, "even though SCP stands for 'Secure, Contain, Protect', it has come to mean pretty much any anomalous object under the containment of the Foundation. So, what I was thinking is this." He flipped over to the next slide, which displayed the letters 'NAO' in black block capitals. "Non-Anomalous Object.' "There are too many things humanity is just not ready to know about yet, but are perfectly explainable by Foundation standards. Going by the classic definition of an SCP, we can't contain them. But, with the NAO-class objects, our horizons are expanded so much further! Take that teleportation system from last month; a few hours of research on it and we understand how it works on a basic level. The problem is that it's still exceptionally buggy. "I wasn't aware of any bugs in the system," muttered a woman near Researcher Invictus. "You obviously haven't heard of the half-dozen researchers whose lower limbs would like to disagree," said Erit, shooting her a dirty look. "Anyways, until such time that the human race is ready for such a thing to exist, we should contain the teleportation system." A few people coughed in the silence that followed. At length, one man stood up and asked, "Aren't we already on our way to perfecting the technology for use within the Foundation?" Erit blinked. "I beg your pardon, Mister Tuomey?" "Well," began Tuomey, folding his arms behind his back, "I've been supervising that project for a few weeks now, and from what my staff has told me, they've already worked out that issue. In fact, we've already had six successful tests in a row, wherein the subject reached the desired target without any major loss of life or limb. Sure, it's far away from the requirements of our actually using the system - there's still the matter of getting them back - but compared to most other SCPs, it's a really big step forwards." "But, but…" sputtered Erit, fumbling with the button in his hand, "that goes against the rules of the Foundation! You're trying to use an anomalous object for collective gain!" "Didn't you just say this concept wasn't anomalous?" asked Doctor Mackenzie. Erit swallowed hard and started sweating. "Well, regardless, of that, the teleportation system is still very dangerous. Until humanity is ready for it…" "Wait, wait," said, Research Assistant Godbot, holding up his hands. "I'm confused. How do you define when humanity is ready for it?" "That's actually a good question," chipped in Aelanna. "There's really no way of defining such a concept, now is there?" "I actually thought we'd be containing really dangerous things that aren't anomalous," said Researcher Gargus, "which opens up a whole new can of worms, seeing as that would be a monstrous waste of resources." "Look!" shouted Erit, stamping his foot on the ground. "What I'm saying is that our jurisdiction isn't far enough. If we're going to be protecting people, shouldn't we expand what we can contain?" "If we can understand it, why not utilize it?" "That's Serpent's Hand talk!" What followed was a large amount of shouting, bickering, quarreling, and all those other words that get involved in things when an argument is started up. Needless to say, the volume continually escalated throughout all of this, making opinions harder and harder to understand. The whole mess was on the verge of physical violence when someone at the end of the table coughed. Everyone present turned to see the Head of Staff sitting perfectly still, a steely look in his eyes. "All of you sit down," he said slowly. A quick rush for chairs followed. "Get back in order." A straightening of ties and clearing of throats. Silence fell over the room for a moment. Erit moved the speak once again, but the Head of Staff stopped him with a raised hand. "Mister Invictus, it appears you missed a few key points during your initial orientation. Allow me to elaborate them for you." Researcher Erit nodded his head. "First off, despite our vast resources, the Foundation simply cannot afford to contain everything. Regardless of how expensive certain containments may be, they are always kept under a balanced budget. Taking in such a vast quantity of objects is simply not possible. "Second, our purpose is to contain anomalous objects. It is not explicitly stated, true, but they are the ones that only we can deal with. Normal organizations simply cannot handle them, and most Groups of Interest wish to use them for selfish or self-destructive purposes. Our focus must be on the paranormal, the supernatural; the everyday, no matter how dangerous, can be left to someone else." "But sir…" began Erit, holding out his hands. "Left to someone else," growled the Head of Staff. Erit swallowed again and nodded. "Third, as was mentioned in your little quarrel, it is not our job to decide what the human race is ready for. That should speak for itself. "And finally," he said, casting a glare over everyone else present, "I want to see the attempts to utilize the teleportation system shut down. It goes against policy, and is the only thing Mister Erit got right in his presentation." He turned to look at Researcher Invictus again. "We get enough of this from new members of the staff. Don't fall into old habits, Mister Invictus. That will be all." He sat back in his chair again, and reassumed a disinterested position. Erit stood at the front of the meeting for a few moments, coughed, and switched over to his final slide. "This concludes my presentation. Any questions?" Several dark glares from those assembled. "Right then. I'll just be…" He shuffled back to his seat. "And now, our final item of the day," said the Head of Staff, shuffling his papers once more, "Researcher Gargus wishes to speak to you all on the state of the fourth wall after his constant assaults on it…"

I always have grand plans that few people help me on. I'm just gullible that way. This time, it was 100 word stories for Christmas, a la Gaiman's "Nicholas Was..." I normally send one out in my Christmas cards (thanks again, Neil), and this year, I shared my story with the staff, including the idea that we all write one for the site. But, when time rolled around, there were only a handful of people who had managed to get one done: E4D (with Kens) and Mann. So, in honor of Christmas, I give you these stories. Feel free to add, but keep it at or very, very close to 100 words. Enjoy, kids! -Troy No Two Snowmen Susie later thought, as blood and bile oozed from the gash in her stomach, that thorn branches were a poor choice for arms. They had been what snared her with ease, the thick vines coiling around her wrist, tiny dagger-like barbs digging into clothes first… then flesh. But she mused for a moment that the hat they had found—neither silk nor top—was a miracle, and if miracles existed, then certainly, she might survive. But watching the other children scatter from the snowman in the pinkish snow quickly removed such illusions. As her wound turned from hot pain to cold, she closed her eyes. -Troy -EchoFourDelta and Dr Kens I knew it was wrong, even as I swung the hammer down on the old man's head. The bone shattered, and blood and brain sprayed out, matching the scarlet of his suit. Tears ran down my eyes as I struck again and again. I loved the old man. I knew it was wrong, but I had to you see, for my father. For honor. Only blood would make things right. He should never have done it, mistletoe or not. Not that the guilt was his alone. I would deal with her later. You see, I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus. -Dr Mann Being a Jewish kid around Christmas time always made me somewhat annoyed. I always wanted a Santa, but what I got was two grandparents pinching my cheeks and a gift card for Best Buy. Seeing this, my father told me of the Hanukkah armadillo, an armadillo that acted in the same capacity as Santa, but delivered presents to all the good Jewish children. So, perhaps simply for a laugh, my dad dressed up as a giant armadillo, and I sat on his lap and told him what I wanted. And when Hanukkah finally occurred my dad gave me exactly what I wanted. A gift card for Futureshop. -Salman corbette I have been alive in this state for about a week, and there are a couple things that I've figured out. Firstly, I think I'm in a time (CHOP!) loop, because every eleven seconds, I wind up in the same place somehow. Second (CHOP! OW!) , axes really fucking hurt, and I feel one hacking at me all the time. Third, I am fully (CHOP!) conscious, even though my left arm keeps being chopped off. Finally, the sky is (CHOP! OW!) for some reason changing; it used to be my house, then it got all dark, then an office. Although it (CHOP!) is really hard to tell, what with everything outside being fisheyed and all the damn snow that keeps falling. And the worst (nonono CHOP!) bit is that my assailant isn't even human. In fact, other than his facial features, he's completely made of snow. (AUGH! CHOP! AUGH!). And here we go again! -Reject I had always thought that reindeer were majestic, noble creatures. With their grand antlers and fine coats, to see one up close would be so special! That's why when the old man said he would take me to see the great herd I was as giddy as could be! Wild herds could reach hundreds of thousands, though this herd was far greater! When we first saw them I couldn't believe their numbers, their tranquil nature! Now with our sleigh overturned, the old man tramped, my leg broken, I can only think of how naive I was about such wild animals.. -toadking07 Billy was over the moon. Christmas morning and he was allowed to open one of his presents early. As he pondered which present to open, he heard a voice from one of the boxes. “Release me this instant, you bandits!”, the voice yelled. Billy opened the box to see a funny-looking robot. “Big mistake, meatbag!”, it shouted. “Wow,” Billy exclaimed, “a real robot!” He reached for his new toy when the doorbell rang. He sprang up with a sigh and ran for the door. He opened the door and saw a man holding a cardboard box standing on the porch. “Hey there little man,” the visitor said. “Is your father home?” “He's asleep, but I'll go wake him for you,” Billy said, eager to get back to his toy. The man smiled and quickly entered the living room as Billy ran upstairs. “There you go,” he murmured as he tossed the robot into the box. The robot screamed indignantly. “Unhand me ruffian, I will end you!” “I'm sure you will Pesterbot,” the man chuckled as he left the house. “I'm sure you will.” “He's gone, and he took my robot!” Billy said, his voice trembling. “We didn't even get you a robot, Billy,” his father yawned. Billy crossed his arms sulkily “This is the worst Christmas ever!” -StH9 Merry Christmas!

Have you ever had that feeling? When you drive home from work, or walk home from the store, or do just about anything you've done a thousand times in your life. And you are almost home already, when you suddenly realize that you don't remember how you got there. No, that's not right. You remember how you finished your work, remember how you walked to the parking lot. And then…you must have driven home. But details are vague and blurred and when you try to remember them there is just nothing there. You say to yourself that this is just a quirk of your mind. You've been driving that same path for years now. Today your mind just shut itself off and let your body do the deed. The price of routine. The only escape from everyday life you have left. Happens to everyone once in a while. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about. You're wrong. This is what a class-A amnestic feels like.

Conversation recorded on ██/██/████ Parties identified as █████ ██████ the third, ranking member of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. and an unknown female voice, identified as "Black Queen". Intercepted by Foundation Agents during routine surveillance. “Whoever this is, it better be pretty goddamn important to be using the secured line in the middle-” “It's the Black Queen.” “…oh god.” “Am I disturbing you?” “Oh, uh, no, no, not at all, it's fine, just a little get together and-” “I could come by in person, if that would be easier.” “NO! Uh, I mean, no, that's not necessary, don't want to put you out or anything.” “I assure you, it would be no trouble. For me.” “I… am aware of that. One moment.” “…” “… Ok, I was able to speak quietly with a couple board members… Ing, Carter's head staffer keeps an open record of all known Agents. We pulled the few we know to be in the field and started tracking.” “I don't care about the means. Where is he?” “Ah… yes, indeed. Well, here's the thing, we may need a little… good faith payment first. Despite your… credentials, you're still new to the club, and this is no small service. The plans you say you have could be worth much… if indeed they exist, and-” “No. No. You need to listen to me. I want the location of this man. I need it. Now. Was I unclear in the past? Did I somehow fucking mumble when I told you that you would work with me for what I offer, or get snips and slivers of your children in the mail for the next year? Was I FUCKING UNCLEAR? I want him, now, now, now, NOW, NOW! I'm not some ass-licking little overpuffed fop who you can try and bullshit around and use your 'rules' like a shield. Bitch and bicker with me, and I swear to the Styx you will suffocate on your own anus before you die. Now WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?!” “Oh god… I… he… he's in a storage unit in Florida. Value Store, unit eighteen. I'll send you the address and the key.” “Much better, thank you. You will have to forgive me, I become tense on certain topics. I'm sure you understand?” “… of course.” “I'll forward the security schedules and layout to the drop point. Enjoy your party. Maybe I'll see you there.” “… Wait, what? You… y-you don't… hello? Hello?” Recorded brief 1189=00H Tentatively marked "Black Queen Incident" Briefing between ██████ ██████ & ████ █████████, RE: 'Black Queen' recording “Ok, there we are… if you'll sit there sir, we'll get started.” “Why is this being put on the record? It's not a mission brief.” “Well, a case has been opened, so everything-” “A CASE has been opened over this?” “Sir, it's simpler if I just show you.” “Fine, proceed.” “Ok, as you know, around six hours ago, we received a VHS tape. Well, to be more precise, one of our drivers found it sitting on his passenger seat when he came in from a drop. Due to the suspicious nature of this, and that he was in a secured area when it happened, we-” “Bah, skip to the end, I have two more meetings before lunch.” “… We reviewed the tape. It… actually, it's probably faster to show you. If you'll look at the screen…” “… God, why is the image so degraded… oh, right, you said it was a tape, right? Who still… wait, who is that?” “We believe that's Agent Penbry. We've done some checking, he was on dispatch in Louisiana. His partner was found dead in their hotel room, Penbry was missing and hadn't checked in since the night before.” “How the hell did he just get grabbed? And end up… like that, no less. What is that he's tied to, anyway?” “It's… ahh… called a wooden horse, or 'Spanish donkey'; it's a torture and fetish device…” “Jesus, what the hell do you have me watching? I… who is that?” “We're not sure yet, beyond assuming she's the one who took Penbry. We've done some prelim work, and-” “What is she… oh god… oh fuck.” “I… have the audio down. Penbry's screaming won't really add anything important to the brief. She didn't even ask him anything. Didn't threaten him, or talk… just… dived in, as it were.” “How is he still conscious for this?” “She may have drugged him, or he… might be in too much pain. The optic nerve isn't meant to be stretched like-” “Jesus, turn it off… turn it OFF goddammit!” “… As you can see… we feel a case may need to be opened at this point.” “Can I smoke in here?” “Only if you share… So, anyway, the tape goes on… and on and on, but eventually she starts asking him things. She probes and prods, mentally and physically… and… well, she got it.” “… Got… what?” “Everything. Everything Penbry knew, anyway. Even the heavy memetic shielded stuff… walked him through it a bit at a time, kept him just barely on the edge of a shutdown… and just drained him. Outside our own staff, I've never seen anything like it.” “Jesus… what was she after? Just probing?” “Sir, she didn't even know that we had a name.” “What the living hell… so… a total outsider, an amateur no less… just walks in and uses one of our Agents like a sock puppet?” “Ahh… there… may be something else. After we reviewed the tape, we started taking it apart, looking for… anything, really. It was sterile, just plastic and film, but there was something taped to the inside.” “… Dammit, don't keep me in suspense, man.” “It… was a black queen. Like the chess piece? The crown… the crown was a tooth. It was Penbry's.” “Jesus…” “What's more, some digging has turned up a letter we received months ago… it wasn't deemed credible at the time, but someone identified as the 'Black Queen' makes some very overt threats, among other things. It's being looked into now, but it seems very likely that this isn't a total amateur. It… may be someone with peripheral Foundation ties.” “Explain peripheral.” “It is implied that we removed her father from her home at a young age.” “We don't do that any more, barely did it back then, the high intensity recruitment… no. No. It couldn't…” “We have a team at Site 2, in the master archives. Nothing from that period has been updated to the digital media yet, so it's… slow going, to say the least. We can't say conclusively who she may be, yet.” “It's probably his daughter, isn't it? Goddamn… I don't even see how it's possible…” “Sir, with as long as we've been at this, I'm surprised something like this has taken as long as it has.” “… Realistically, how bad is this for us?” “The Foundation is not about to crumble over one pissed off girl. At the same time, initial reviewers are observing some real intelligence and possible severe mental imbalance. I'm sure she's getting help, but how and from where I have no idea. She's smart, cunning, and seems to lack anything even approaching empathy. If we were talking about anyone else, I'd be bringing up recruitment by now.” “… Any projections on how this will play out?” “She fed a man his own retina, sir. I can't imagine where she'll go from there.” Problems advance… Quiet Game Or at times revert. Opening Moves

Doctor Johanna Rose Garrison leaned back in her chair, one last click extinguishing the computer's light. That was it. The last of the forms had been sent off, the final approvals and offers ferried to the appropriate personnel, and the last experiments should have been completed by now. It was, for the next twenty minutes, Christmas Eve. Maybe, just maybe, she could take tomorrow off. The door to the office slid open, and Garrison recognized a familiar face. “Agent Bryant. Good to see you.” The man stepped in, looking sheepish, and she glanced at the clock before waving at him to sit down. Twenty minutes. “What is it?” “Do you want to hear the bad news or the worse news?” Johanna sighed- there went her plans of leaving on time tonight. “The bad news.” “SCP-504's escaped from containment. Someone left the door open.” She sighed in relief. That was manageable. “Well, send in an appropriately equipped containment team to retrieve the specimens, and that should be fixed easily enough. What's the worse news?” “You know that termination attempt on SCP-682 we were going to try out?” “Yes… Remind me, you were going to then drop him down a mineshaft?” “Right. Well. It didn't work. He kind of, uh, well, grew wings.” Johanna stared at him. “And, pray tell, where is 682 now?” “He… escaped into a nearby orchard. And he's currently hiding in a tree.” Seeing Johanna's stare, he rapidly continued, “But we have a dozen marksmen- well, one was killed, last I heard, but the rest are there- shooting at him, and Doctor Klein is taking care of amnestics with the civilians and adjusting files as necessary.” “Phew.” “Though, there's a reason to suspect that inappropriate behavior among the researchers involved had to do with the outbreak, so we've got the ten of them cleaning SCP-173's pen.” She sighed. “Is that all?” “Er… There's been a mutiny among some of the D-class. Two teamed up and started a bit of a massacre, four others joined in.” Johanna Garrison blanched. “Security's on it?” “Of course. I haven't heard whether they've stopped it recently though.” She stared at him. “There's more, isn't there.” "Oh, yes. See, computer errors caused a large amount of data regarding SCP-006 to be released to all personnel- when its clearance normally starts at O5 level… The four tech guys who should have been monitoring it are all denying responsibility. They'll probably be trying to contact you.” As if on cue, Johanna's desk phone went off. “That's probably them now,” Bryant said, helpfully. She leaned over, unplugged it, and looked down wearily. “Please tell me that's it.” “Well, apart from that, it's minutia… Some of the live containment cells have some structural instability, but there are crews working on that… Let's see, the 914 test results came back- we've got a couple of half-pigeon, half-reptiles you'll want to see, the recombinant DNA is like nothing I've ever seen. I sent them to your office for analysis. They're in liquid nitrogen.” “Thanks.” “And apart from that, the only other thing of note is that SCP-447's container is getting filled up, we'll want to move it.” “Of course. Get a new container.” Johanna sighed, resting her head in her arms. “I'm sorry, Gabriel, I really wanted to get the day off tomorrow, I had hoped we could spend Christmas together, I didn't know this much would come up…” “You probably wouldn't have been able to anyways,” Gabriel Bryant patted her arm. Just then, a rhythmic cacophony passed by the hallway. “Shit.” Garrison sat up. “Was that a brass band?” “I wasn't sure where else to find the twelve drummers drumming,” Bryant said. The doctor turned to stare at him as he got up, dancing into the hallway. “I mean, you've already got the eleven snipers sniping, ten doctors sweeping, Klein's data expunging, goo-ball buckets brimming, six D's a-slaying, O5's youthful springs, four calling nerds, three broken pens, two turtle-doves…” “And a…” Johanna continued automatically, then just stared. “In what universe does 682 with wings count as a partridge?” But Bryant was already gone, running down the hall. The 504 specimen crashed into the wall where his head had been, missing him by inches.

Site Security File 11/11/4/8888/PR – Suspicious Letter 49,003,668 Letter received at the private residential post office in the South Cheyenne Point community. Letter had no stamp, post mark, or other identifiers anywhere on the envelope other than “To my father's captors” written in ballpoint pen ink on the front. Current leading theory is that the letter was somehow hand-delivered to the post box, even with a lack of any suspicious video evidence on the day in question. Analysis has shown the envelope and paper to be basic commercial stock, and lacks any finger prints or DNA residue. The letter itself is hand-written with a black ball-point pen, also from basic mass-produced commercial stock. Handwriting analysis is thus far inconclusive, pending further threat evaluation determinations, requiring more exhaustive review. Due to the subject matter, copies of the text body are being forwarded to Site Security for base review and database entry. Current threat index is low. Forwarding to Site Security and Central Records in compliance with diligence protocols. No in-depth probe is proposed or recommended at this time. When I was young, I saw a short film. A cartoon, it detailed a fantasy kingdom that suddenly discovers that they are the dream of a sleeping man, and that soon his alarm would ring. They mount an expedition to the world and cover the man's ears and muffle the clock. He then starts to dream of flamingos, but the concept was so striking at the time that I never forgot it. The concept of reality as a plastic, immaterial stratum and not at all the bedrock of the world. Is it possible that we're all flamingos-to-be? Swirling and running about in utter confidence, only to find we're less material then the average soap bubble, and much more transient? What would that do to our view of ourselves and the world? Suddenly the sacrifices we've made, the pain and suffering endured and caused, all count for nothing at all. I'm sure you can appreciate the blind horror of a realization of that nature. How much suffering and bleak moral choices could be invalidated by the next alarm clock? I should be another faceless, shapeless victim. Another sacrifice made for the greater, intangible Good. And I was, for a while, both my mother and I. Left to twist and sway like leaves in the wake of your shadowy passing, bobbing around the sudden void left behind. She will most likely remain a victim. I will not. You can take what you wish, as you wish, and have done so for some time. You are thieves on a grand scale. My father once said, however, that no matter how good you are at something, how confident you may be, there is always someone, somewhere, that is better. I am going to prove his theory. You have taken something from me. So I, in turn, shall take many things from you. I know you will ignore this for now, but later, when the time comes, you will look back to this letter, and despair. As a red spider once said, “I am going to make you cry.” My father, for all his intellectual might, was a cripple at chess. Something about it just confounded his sense. Even at my tender age, I was able to beat him with some regularity. He insisted on being white, always, as his handicap. Forever the white king. I am the Black Queen. And I will be crossing the board to you soon. We go forward… Queen To Pawn And go back… Splinters

Why, it was love at first sight, darling. You awoke to the early song of dawn, and as you rose from the clutches of Morpheus I was there, watching you, every dewdrop on the windowpane an eye into your world. I was watching as you drank deep in my flesh, through your glass vessel I was watching, and I was watching as you bathed in my skin, embracing me in your face. I was watching as you let me run my fingers across your naked skin, cleansing you, baptising you in my scent. And as I watched, I knew you were mine, darling. I made the first move, my humid breath caressing you in the morning light, lingering by your face and neck. You walked down the street, as I leapt from puddles and gathered at your tender feet. My hands crept up your body, stroking, moving in delicate rhythms to your nervous, quickening breath. You started to run, and for a moment I thought you were going to shake me off like the others, but I held on, drunk on desire. I wanted you, can't you see, darling? And 'want' is such a powerful thing, for both gods and men alike, that I continued to caress you as you ran, and more of me leapt out of you, and joined in the loving embrace. You tore into the woods, as I rose from the fresh grass and slithered down from treetops. If only you could stay still to take in my love, but you kept running, kept running as I hugged your chest and ran my hands over your features. Such an exquisite face, certainly a cut above the other mortals, I thought. But of course, that was why I chose you, darling. Why did you continue to spurn me, when you clearly are not like the rest of them? You did not answer, but kept running, and running, as I gathered around you and wove around your arms in a dance of fated romance. I pooled in your shoes, round your ankles and feet, gathering, rising, pleading for you to stop. But you somehow found the strength to keep running, and for a moment I was afraid you would keep running for ever, escaping me like so many others had did. Would you, in your irrational rejection of me, keep running till every last drop of me had been expelled from your tender body, running till your supple lips shrivelled and deep blue eyes dessicated like raisins in the sun, till you lay screaming in the dirt, begging for me to leave you alone? I panicked, and lost my hold, briefly slipping off your chest before the river joined in, rising in desire with me, cuddling your warm, sweet body as you ran, screaming now, out of the woods and into the dry, bare plains. The midday sun was unforgiving, sending me off your back in wisps of vapor before I managed to hold you again. It was a trial of love, and I strived to pass it, grabbing you, hugging you in a mad frenzy. You collapsed, and briefly I thought you were going to give up the chase and surrender your body, and I relaxed, but you started to struggle, and threw me off in splashes. I leapt right back on you, determined even as more of me lost my hold on you, but the heat and your tenacity started to prevail over my rushing desire. Would I lose you forever, my darling, in this arid field beneath the unforgiving sky? Then like an answer to my prayer, the clouds rolled over like a smooth satin blanket, and I fell down, in drips and drops, kissing your skin, pinning it down, preparing you for my love. And I ran my lips over you, licking your flesh lovingly, as you continued to struggle beneath the weight of my body. You continued to struggle as I put my hands on your head, holding it and smiling into your bewildered eyes. You continued to struggle as I rose from the earth and wrapped my legs around your hips, and pushed my face ever closer to yours. You continued to struggle as I rushed in for true love's first kiss, embracing your hair, your eyes, quivering with lustful wanting. You continued to struggle as I closed my face upon your nose, and put my lips to yours, and then you struggled no more as I fully took you into my grasp, cuddling you even as more of me fell gently on the soft, cool ground. Then you were still, and I forced my way past your lips and into your throat, and you were mine at last.

A possible future… The flexi in Jack's suitcase buzzed for the third time. Sighing, he pulled it out and unrolled it. As was his usual reaction, he was sorry he ever helped invent it. The note that popped up was a reminder. "TRANSPORT LEAVING T-MINUS 90 MINUTES. PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE." Jack pressed his thumb on the indicated spot, rerolled it, and put it back. He'd make the ship after his appointment. Driving up to the gates of Site 19 still felt damn peculiar. Jack was used to the days when getting to Site 19 required two hidden tunnels, a parking lot in front of an abandoned hospital, and two elevator rides. The dismantling of the Veil Protocol had any number of benefits for the Foundation, and far more benefits for humankind as a whole. Nevertheless, Jack never could get over the fact that it was simply far less cool to answer a receptionist's page and be waved through. The parking spot was nicer before, too. There was no receptionist when Jack pulled up to the door, not that he thought there would be one. He had pushed to have the whole system automated, but some piece of legislation required that the Foundation hire a certain number of recent high school graduates. As it was, Jack had to park at the gate, walk up, and pull the gate open himself. The drive to the building was uneventful. Jack pulled the car around to face towards the gates and put the top down. He brought the keycards with him as he went inside the building. The halls of Site 19 echoed Jack's footsteps back to him as he walked. Every containment chamber he passed was empty; the rustling sounds of contained humanoids no longer filled the air. The doors were soundproof, but he always seemed to be able to hear them. Now, nothing. The building was empty, save three rooms. Jack knew his destinations by heart. The first containment chamber was three hallways away. Jack could hear the little beast two and a half hallways before he reached it. Of all the organic nonhumanoid SCPs they had captured over the centuries, this one in particular stood out as an unspeakably annoying creature. Jack removed the AR-68 helmet from the nearby armory and slipped it on, along with one grenade. Walking to the containment chamber, he removed his flexipad and began to narrate. "By order of the United Nations Secretary of Secure Containment, that being myself, termination order for SCP-1013 has been issued on this day, 25 December 2231, at this time, uh…" Jack checked the clock. "…2243 hours. Termination process begun…now." Jack cracked open the containment chamber, pulled the pin on the grenade, and threw it in, making sure not to look at the thing inside. A single squawk came out. He slammed the door. WHUMP. "Termination process complete. SCP-1013 decommissioned. Two SCPs remaining." Jack's next destination lay three floors down. The elevator ride was smooth, just as he remembered. He was glad that some part of this was comfortable. 1013 was a legitimate pleasure to get rid of. It was one of Clef's last requests, actually; Jack remembered it from the wake. This, however, was not going to be pleasant. SCP-5432 had been contained for half a century now, and she had aged normally during that time. She was sitting on her bed when Jack entered the other end of the airlock. "Hello, Josephine," Jack said. Josephine sat quietly, chewing on a fifty-pound note. "Josephine, it's time. I don't know how well you can understand me, but I'm sorry. I brought you a gift." Jack slipped a wrapped package of $1000 Treasury notes in through the slot. She perked up considerably. Looking up from where she sat, her eyes gleamed. She dragged herself across the floor with her hands to the airlock and grabbed the notes. Without unwrapping them first, she chewed through the plastic to get to the bills. Jack began narrating. "SCP-5432, also known as Patient Four in the Great Plague of 2182. Patient Zero apprehended, contained, and decommissioned 3 May 2183." Jack meant that Patient Zero had been drained of his bodily fluids and vivisected in search of a cure. They had killed seven patients doing that. Most of them had belonged to the terrorist group that had created the virus in the first place. Not all of them. And not Josephine. Jack had laced the bills with cyanide. He had also tripped the morphine gas in her room for this event. She would hardly feel anything. She kept chewing monomaniacally. As she slowed down, her head winding around dizzily, her eyes half-focused on Jack's. "Are…are we…" "Yes, Josie. I promise." "Are…are we…are we cool yet?" Josie's half-dead eyes pleaded for the answer. "Are we cool yet? ARE WE COOL YET?" The screeching of her voice was as haunting as ever. Jack's mind flashed back to the days, decades ago, when those words were being screamed down corridors. "Go to sleep, Josie." Jack narrated into the flexipad, "SCP-5432 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2258 hours." Her eyes faded for the last time. She lay on the ground, a half-eaten bill hanging from her mouth. Jack walked away. One last stop. The containment chamber was at the bottom of the building, making the elevator ride a bit farther than before. He hadn't come down this way in a long time, well over a century. Not since the Unveiling. Not since the creature he was here for had arrived. It used to be kept out of Site 19, back in the old building. One of the greatest benefits of the Unveiling was the scientific research that came with opening Foundation research to the rest of the world and seeing what came back. Since the advancements in containment that had come from that, there hadn't been a breach from this chamber in decades. The elevator slowed to a stop. Jack exited into a well-lit hallway. There was one room on this floor, at the far end, with a speaker grate attached to a translation device. They had found out some time ago that the beast was always talking, often at telepathic wavelengths or ultrasonic pitches. It had taken years to work out all of the nuances and process it into audible speech, but the result was…interesting. "GOOD EVENING DOCTOR BRIGHT," the speaker intoned. "WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE TONIGHT." Jack cleared his throat. "You're more polite than I recall. That's a development." "YOU ARE STILL FILTH TO ME," the creature said. "MY TEETH STILL ACHE FOR YOUR BLOOD. BUT I AM CONTENT TO WAIT FOR THE OPPORTUNITY. THIS IS THE LONGEST I HAVE EVER BEEN CONTAINED IN ONE PLACE, AND I MUST SHOW SOME RESPECT. I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND, DOCTOR." "I don't go by Dr. Bright anymore," Jack said. "I'm barely that person anymore. We've all moved on. I'm the only one left alive, anyway." "THE LIST OF THE DEAD IS LENGTHY, AND I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR SO FEW OF THEM. IT IS SORROWFUL. WHAT SHALL I CALL YOU THEN." "Just Jack," he said. "VERY WELL JACK. WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE THIS EVENING." "I have a gift. For you." Jack said. "It's time to go." "GO?" "Go. We're done containing you, and you may leave." The beast, so far as it could pull off body language, seemed confused. "No, I'm serious." "YOU ARE A LIAR AND A SOCIOPATH, JACK. YOU HAVE KILLED AS MANY OR MORE THAN I HAVE AT LEAST IN THE MOST RECENT CENTURIES." "That's not me anymore," Jack said uncomfortably. "We've changed. The Foundation doesn't exist any more. We don't do those things any more." "YOU ARE A LIAR EVEN TO YOURSELF. WHY WOULD YOU RELEASE ME." "Two reasons. First, we live in a remarkable world now. We've traveled to star systems far away, spread ourselves out across two dozen planets. The Earth is used up, drained as far as possible, so we've evacuated the planet. There are less than twenty people left here, and as far as I know, they're all sitting on a ship, waiting for me. After midnight tonight, this planet will be human-free. You won't be a threat anymore. We've even gotten the rest of the SCPs off-world. There's no need to keep you here." The monster paused. "WHAT IS THE SECOND REASON." "It wouldn't have been possible without you." "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, JACK." "It was a casual containment breach for you. We had trapped you at Site 19 temporarily during…some crisis or another, I can't recall which. You broke out, killed six that day. And in the course of that, you ended up in one containment chamber in particular." "JACK I DO NOT RECALL THESE EVENTS—" "Getting to that. You broke into 055's containment chamber. We have no idea what happened next inside there, but two things happened. First, eighteen iterations of you appeared in major cities, wreaking havoc. Not complete copies of you, just imitations; they all died pretty quickly once our task forces arrived. But that was about it for the Veil Protocol after that. So congratulations, I suppose." "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOU—" "We've never understood it, but apparently you did something to 055. You reappeared in your chamber after we killed the last copy, forgetting everything. We never particularly wanted to let you in on it. But 055 started putting out energy after that. Just a trickle, then more and more as time went on. We were able to harness it, thanks to the combined efforts of the Foundation, the GOC, the UIU, everybody. We couldn't have done it without global support, the kind we never would have had before Rampage Day. It changed the world. You changed the world, in a good way. For once." The beast was silent. It was like old times again. "So, you're free, as of…as soon as I'm out of the building. The programs are prewritten. I hit one button, once I'm safely away, and you can leave as soon as you like." The beast was silent. "Yeah, I don't want to mess around with weepy goodbyes either. I hope, and I mean this with all my heart, that we never see each other again." Jack turned to leave. "JACK." Jack paused. "MAY I SEE THE ARTIFACT FOR ONE LAST TIME." Jack stopped to think if there was any way the lizard could exploit the amulet to its advantage and couldn't think of any. He pulled the amulet out and showed it to the beast. "I'm still in here. Some things don't change." "THERE ARE ASPECTS OF THAT ARTIFACT THAT YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND. REFRACTIONS OF LIGHT THAT YOU WILL NEVER SEE. THINGS I COULD NOT EXPLAIN TO YOU EVEN WERE I SO INCLINED. 'GOODBYE', I BELIEVE IS THE EXPRESSION." The beast retreated to a corner of its chamber and became quiet. Jack turned and walked to the elevator. The ride up to the surface was long, and uncomfortable. Once in his car, he opened the flexi, tapped four times, and put it back. He turned the ignition. Jack was at the spaceport boarding the flight when the flexi vibrated again. He had programmed Site 19's cameras to follow what happened, and the show was apparently over. He watched the footage as the preflight checks were completed. 2345: All containment blocks drop. The monster waits for a moment before springing for the exit. It races to the open elevator and crawls up the shaft. 2354: The creature reaches the ground level, knowing instinctively when it arrives. It rips through the steel door with its teeth and emerges onto the floor of Site 19. It looks from side to side momentarily, then rushes for the enormous glass door. It is standing open. 2356: The lizard arrives outside. There is a moment when it looks at the giant gate and looks…suspicious, almost. It knows its former containers, knows what they are capable of. It knows what Dr. Bright is capable of, wonders how sincere he is about this transformation of his. The pause is just for a second, but all this is present. The lizard could go through the gate, or go around it; crawl over the walls or smash them. When the lizard slowly, tentatively starts snaking towards the gate, Jack believes it has made a decision. It has decided to do something not out of fear, not out of suspicion, but out of hope. It has not known hope in a very, very long time, but perhaps it decides that it is time to do something new. 2358: The lizard reaches the gate. What happens now is unrecorded, is likely unrecordable. This was technology nobody knew about; not the government, not the rest of the Containment Department, nobody. A bright blue flash of light, right when it passes under the gate. Jack doesn't know what it feels like for the beast to become mortal for the first time, but it doesn't have long to know the feeling. 2359: Site 19 warheads detonate. Something else the government didn't know about. Two directly beneath the gate, in fact. "SCP-682 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2359 hours. Site 19 closed at that time. Send record to headquarters." Dr. Bright tapped the pad again.

"You should have brought a mortician instead." The doctor looked over the Mass Containment Room floor of Site 34, coated in the blood and bodies of two hundred Foundation staff members. The stench of death and decay hung over the room. He sniffed, and could tell that the same was true for the whole facility. "If they're already dead, then why bother bringing me here?" "Because," said the woman beside him, opening a door to their right, "we've still got a survivor in here. You deal with brain damage cases?" The doctor nodded. "Then you should be able to tell us if he's got a chance or not." "A Site is completely isolated for a month, without any contact with the outside world," murmured the doctor, looking down the dusty corridor. "You'd expect them to have been able to stay alive that long. Aren't they stocked for an isolation period of up to a year?" "Two," replied the woman, striding ahead of him. "Near as we can tell, they were stuck here for three." "Three?" asked the doctor, stepping around another corpse in the middle of the hallway. "We're still researching how it happened. Time anomaly, most likely. Anyways, it wasn't the isolation or lack of food that did this. Site 34 had a reputation of being specifically staffed by the doctors and researchers deemed most likely to survive a long period of isolation. It was also understaffed at the time." The doctor shuddered at the mutilated faces of three guards in a room to his left. "What did this to them, then?" "Outbreak. One of the senior staff was visiting. Checking on one of the objects, routine visit - you know the drill." The doctor nodded. "Well, there was an outbreak. Senior staff member was killed during it, started the infection in Researcher Akana. Akana spread it to Doctor Ferbar and Chief of Security Beumer. Ferbar and Beumer spread it further, and you can guess how that worked out. "It wasn't lethal, but it took a huge toll on their mental faculties. At first, they were acting independent of each other, perfectly normal behavior, even though we'd never seen a spread like this before. But after a time, we still don't know how long, they began break away from the pattern. Began to meld. Like a hive mind. Moving together, gathering stragglers and effectively assimilating them." "So the mind became too far spread and broke itself," said the doctor. "I've seen similar things happen out in Wales. They had to destroy that one, you know." "Yes, I read your briefings and credentials," said the woman, stopping outside a blast shield door. She began to punch in a code, saying "Anyways, that's not what happened. One of the unaffected did it. Brian Gomez. Security guard. Couldn't stand being stranded here with the others. So the day before we broke through whatever was blocking the area, he took his weapon and massacred the lot of them." The doctor scoffed at this. "One man killed an entire Foundation Site by himself?" A grinding noise came from the blast shield door as it slid aside, granting the two admittance. "They were a hive mind, remember?" replied the woman, walking towards the small steel door inside the small chamber. "How would you fare if someone was smashing up pieces of your brain?" His scoff turned into a shudder. "So the guard is our survivor?" "No. He wound up dead after an intense interrogation." "Goddammit!" shouted the doctor, stamping his foot. "I was willing to let the vague summons slide, but this is getting ridiculous. You brought me here without any in-depth knowledge of what I would be dealing with, and you expect me to help? Who or what is so important that you'd need to keep it a secret from me?" The woman opened the door, revealing a small room with a bed in the corner. On the bed was a short, round, balding man in a blue pinstripe suit. His face was paling, an expression of great pain covering it. His glasses lay askew, and his tie hung limply off the edge of the bed-frame. Clutched tightly in his hands was a white gold amulet, with a ruby surrounded by diamonds in the center. As the doctor recoiled at the recognition of the object, the woman said, "The fact that we've nearly lost this one. There'd be panic if the rest of the Foundation found out what transpired here, especially since we have no explanation how he formed the hive mind." The doctor moved forwards, and reached out to touch the amulet. The woman slapped his hand away. "You know better than to touch that. Just make sure he's alright." Taking a deep breath, the doctor examined the head of the old man, though he did not bring out any tools to cut him open with. He prodded and poked, checked his responsiveness and vital signs, took blood samples, all the while avoiding the amulet in the body's cold hands. At length, he heaved a heavy sigh and said, "There's nothing you can do." "You've barely even touched him," snapped the woman. "Look," said the doctor, leaning against the wall and wiping his brow. "based on what little information you've given me, I was brought here because of my extensive experience with amnesic overdose. Now, there are certain little signs that you learn to pick up after a while of dealing with those cases, little things that are off with the patient. A specific temperature, or a certain toxin in the blood. While there are certainly differences between the overdoses and our case here, the end result is the exact same. "If the hive mind was destroyed so thoroughly that this one was the only survivor, than there's no hope for him. Normally, if there had been much less of the others, he would have stood a chance. But with less than one-seven hundredth of his mind still intact, it's a miracle he's still breathing." The doctor stood and started to walk out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get out of here as fast as I can. Whole place smells of…" he sniffed. "Old flesh and burning fur." The woman stood over the body of the senior staff member, reflecting. At length, she too sighed, and walked towards the exit. There was much to explain, and an awful lot of fallout to contain. Senior staff would want answers, and her team would no doubt be assigned to a round-the-clock investigation of the incident. Before she left, she turned back for one last look at the old man. The faintest whisper of a breath steamed out his nostrils. "Just like his brother," the woman said to herself. "Poor bastard."

The gravel beneath his feet protested with a crunch as Rufus T. Heckle exited the alleyway, face-first into the acrid street smoke. He was not a very well-dressed man, though he held a distinct noble air around him, one that sent flies spiralling over his head and rats scurrying under dumpsters in shame when he coughed, throat smarting at the smog. But it was not the rats and flies and smog that occupied Rufus's mind as he approached the corner of 3rd and King's. It was the words the youngster had said at their last meeting three days ago, the cryptic "final message before death" every detective inevitably faces once or twice in his career. The Other Side is always just around the corner. It's a cafe, an inn, a safehouse, though not in the usual sense, the youngster had said. They say it's a very important place, the kind where the guy you're looking for might frequent. Rufus might have mentioned something about his job being very unlike the "usual sense", but let him continue. The youngster had nothing much left to say, though, and forty-six hours later his roommate found his set of clothes heaped over his shoes, at the start of a large bloody smear ending abruptly at the east window. It was the same window that, from two stories above, overlooked Rufus as he trod round the corner store, pausing only to scoop a handful of large pebbles from the sidewalk. "The Other Side is always just around the corner," he mouthed, like a forgotten nursery rhyme. "Just around the corner." One, two. Three, four. As if in a dream, he dropped them almost ritualistically as he rounded the block into the back alley, two before the corner, two after the corner. Crunch the gravel. Cough at the smoke from the street. There seemed to be a certain rhythm to it. I am doing this. Why am I doing this? He didn't even know if he was thinking anymore, the second round around the block nothing but a deep revenant calling from an ancient OCD. Corner store, here come the pebbles. One, two. Tie my shoe. Like a forgotten nursery rhyme. Three, four, knock on the door, and sure enough there at the side of the building was a pair of clear glass doors, tucked in low like the one from Alice in Wonderland. It even seemed just as small, cowering from the world in its cosy brick cubbyhole, and Rufus subconsciously stooped as he went through it. Above him, "The Other Side Cafe" hung daintily in embossed italics from velvety rope. It was an elegant affair, with glowing orbs keeping sentinel along the walls. Gas lamps? In this day and age? The checkerboard floor was odd too, shining like marble yet creaking like old wood when stepped on. Around him, patrons dined and drank, occasionally flickering (what?) like Chinese mask performers to reveal…something. Whatever it was, it left him with the strange mental image of a pale shell-less crab in the moonlight, grotesque yet familiar. The whole place was…how would he put it? Otherworldly. There was a two-seater near the corner, below a warm orb-light, and a genteel middle-aged man was sitting at it. There seemed to be something innately different about him, something that stood out, yet did not stand out from the contours of his face to the shapes of his shoes. Rufus immediately made a mental note of his appearance, and to his suprise found that he couldn't. Sure, the gentleman was probably forty-ish, with the look of a chap one'd probably find on a park bench feeding pidgeons somewhere. His attire did not just reek of "drab", it utterly defined it. It kept in the quiet of its seams, like the one guy at the party, the diplomatic one who never talked too much to anybody, and it was perfectly boring, even indescribable in its inanity. That was it. The drab man in the chair, the boringly impossible, impossibly boring man, he defied description, and he expected Rufus to sit down with him. No words, no signals. Just an expectation. "I suppose you know why I'm here?" said Rufus as he sidled in smoothly, though it was an empty assertion of power, a perfectly scripted line from an old noir movie. You're dealing with events way over your head here, kiddo. Best you stay out of this. said the impossible man. Except he didn't say it like that, he said instead, "Yes." Extending a hand (perfectly indescribable, thought Rufus), he greeted. "I'm the Proprietor." Even the way he said it sounded capital. "I hear about things from the patrons here and there, and I couldn't help but expect your arrival. Yves must have told you about the place." Rufus took his hand. "I'm Ryan Gore." Carefully chosen alias here, though deep inside he knew it wouldn't hide a thing from this oddly dull man. "Yves, that was his name? The kid who got killed?" "Killed? Hardly, though I can imagine he wish he were, Mister Rufus." They were both silent for a moment, as a maid in a gas mask passed by with tea. Need a cup, sweetie? she breathed. "No milk, one sugar, Rosie," said the Proprietor. Rufus merely smiled and waved no, thanks. Rosie the gas mask maid might have smiled back, and she set down a steaming teacup from her tray before giving a curt nod to the Proprietor and moving on. "So, what about the other cases? The gypsy woman on the twenty-second, the park vagrant on the twenty-fifth, what happened to them?" implored Rufus. "Same as the kid. What did you expect?" "Who killed…took them?" "Can't say for sure. Lots of people come and go through the Other Side, and it gets hard to keep track of who entered where from here. This is where the lines get thin, after all. I built this establishment on a rift, Mister Rufus, and it bleeds onto people, leaves a stain. If you're looking for the guy who took those people, following those stains would be very helpful indeed. Given the nature of the crimes, wouldn't you say he'd continue hunting round the same neighbourhood?" Proprietor took a long sip of his coffee. "Aha. Typical serial killer. How do you suppose I find this…stain?" "Why, just look at the patrons around you, Mister Rufus. Hell, there's even one trailing down your neck as we speak." Rufus glanced at his reflection on the immaculate checkerboard floor. Sure enough, a muddy streak was running from the end of his left ear down to the collarbone, looking more like a birthmark than anything now. He scratched at it almost instinctively. "Well, there you go. It's been nice talking to you, Mister Rufus, but sadly that's all the help I can afford to give to a stranger. Goodbye." The Proprietor might have smiled a bit here. "Thank you for the help." "Oh, there's no reason to thank me," said Proprietor. "Trust me. There won't be any." Rufus Heckle got up, tucked his chair in, and headed for the door before deciding to ignore the last bit. He was a detective, for what it was worth, and by God if he didn't do what he was paid to do. Good day to you, sir, breathed a maid as she held the door open for him. He exited the Other Side Cafe, breathing in the last fumes of warmth from within. "And a good day it shall be," he proclaimed to no one in particular. It echoed off the blank brick wall behind him, as he headed off into the cold.

The forest somehow seemed to get darker the closer the two men got to their destination. Agrippa kept reminding himself that the solstice had been three days prior, and the sun simply chose to fall sooner than in earlier months. But the feeling of menace these woods held for him never passed. Agrippa didn't like the woods. Most of his people, at least the other Class II's, usually didn't. Ari, his companion, liked it less than Agrippa did. Ari never slowed down, though. Agrippa couldn't tell what he was thinking, as per usual. Ari was always the headstrong type, even back in the creches. It was a small act of the gods that he was never thrown out and stuck in some Class III pod to spend the rest of his life drooling and building roads. Maybe if the creche had had a different headmistress, he would have been, but Professor Allgrass wasn't about to let Ari get the best of her. For all that Ari was unspeakably stupid, he was undeniably brilliant. He matriculated at the bottom of the legion (Agrippa didn't come out much higher), but he made it. Two centurions, born and bred to Advance the Greater Reason. Agrippa chuckled and spat. "What's so funny now?" Ari asked. "You, coming out of the best plutoborn creche in all of Sylvanos, and can't help getting lost in the woods." "We're not lost. We're looking for someone who generally mislikes being found." "If the Integrators get to him first, you know what happens to us, right?" Agrippa asked. "You know what happens to the movement if we lose the Woodsman?" "The Woodsman's not the primary goal, though," Ari said. "Yes, you've been hinting at that," Agrippa said. "He has some kind of weapon, right? Something from the other world?" "Well, there's no way of knowing," Ari said, "but that's what we're told, and Milephanes himself wouldn't have asked us out here without good cause." Both Ari and Agrippa preened a bit at that; Milephanes was starting to be something of a folk hero, even among those outside the Movement, and they were his chosen instrument for this mission. "Of course not. Whatever it is, the NatPhi kids at Alexylva want it, so it has to be valuable," Agrippa said. "But what I'm saying is, do you know what happens if the Integrators find us before we find it?" "You mean, we'll get a medal?" "Ari, we'll get the black bile scraped out of our brains, be thrown in front of a target, and be used for practice by our old classmates. The ones you used to love to humiliate, remember?" "They humiliated themselves. I just pointed it out more than they liked." Agrippa wasn't in the mood to banter. He heard a sound just over the next hill. He stopped Ari and signaled to him that they should take cover. The two men split up and took positions behind trees, ten yards apart, and became completely silent. They watched the hillside, and waited. Integrators. Four soldiers, surgically augmented to be more machine than human. Forget the Braincaps; Agrippa has seen the schematics for all the technology stuck inside these men. Not even men, anymore; sexual organs removed, gender identity (along with every other mission-irrelevant thought) wiped. They moved with the speed of insects attacking an enemy anthill. Two of them were even walking on all fours, catlike. Agrippa had heard rumors that they could see in infrared, that they could hear human blood from inside the body, that they could smell souls. But you can never believe the propaganda those University kids throw out, he thought. The Integrators passed by without looking. Even Ari's implacable smile was gone for a minute. "We have to hurry." "Yeah. Which way?" "Follow me." The Red Woodsman's hut (hovel's more like it, Agrippa thought) lay some ways away from where the Integrators had been heading, the only factor that gave the two any comfort under the circumstances. Ari snuck up to the door and rapped out a pre-arranged code while Agrippa stood watch. When the door creaked open, Ari waved Agrippa forward, then ducked inside. Agrippa hurried over and closed the door behind him. The smell was even worse than Agrippa had imagined. Whatever food the Woodsman had been living on for so long, he was apparently a little less demanding about its freshness. The stench of rotten meat filled the single room, and Agrippa was glad that the only window was blocked off. Not that the candlelight was helping much. The Woodsman was old, very old. Much older than Agrippa had imagined, judging from the ancient gaze in his pupilless eyes. Ari acted nonplussed, but it was clear he was surprised. They had hoped to find the legendary hermit, hoped he would be able to lead them in their uprising. They had talked to some of the other Guardians in their legion, even a couple of Class I University students. They all agreed that there was only one person who might have the knowledge on how to bring down their government, and certainly one such as the Woodsman would have motive enough. The Woodsman was the last of his people. Now it was clear that he wasn't going to last much longer either. "Welcome, white devils," the Woodsman said. "I trust your trip was…uneventful?" He turned and stumbled towards a small mound that was clearly his principal furniture in the shack, waving a thin branch on the ground to feel his way through the room. "Yes, sir, very peaceful, sir," Ari said. Odd how he never spoke that way to his own commanders. The Woodsman's cracked face smiled slightly. "Who's the other? You said someone was here, and he's breathing loud enough I'm afraid he'll die before I do." Ari chuckled nervously. Agrippa said in a shaky voice, "The name's Agrippa Widewater, sir. Friend of Aristotle's. He's spoken of you." "Yes, this devil mentioned you to me as well." The Woodsman's blank eyes seemed to fix on Agrippa's as he smiled. Agrippa cleared his throat. "Um…devil?" The Woodsman registered no surprise. "Yes, devil. White devil. I work with Aristotle here because he is less stupid than his countrymen, and with you because of his word that I should. But your people disgust me." He leaned forward as he spoke. "I may well be the last of my people. Do you know of my people?" Agrippa shook his head, then realized his mistake and said, "No, no, I'm afraid not. The forest people?" The Woodsman snorted. "Gods, no. Do you know nothing of your history?" "Yes, certainly. We came to this land many hundreds of years ago and found your kind here. We tried to bring you into our Empire, but our diseases wiped most of you out—" "Let me stop you before you embarrass yourself further," the Woodsman said, no longer smiling. "The white barbarians that spawned you came to this land, and found my people's red barbarian neighbors. The desert dwellers in the south, the snow people of the north, the grasseaters of the east. Many of us died of your sicknesses, yes, but our towns lived on. We allied with your people as you killed our enemies, then ran as you slaughtered us for our land. You stole our words, our medicines—I likely enough had kin named Widewater, back when I had kin—and then shoved us around the continent like marbles. "My people were the people of the cave country, the Tsalagi. Our homes were east of here; you ground us out like burning embers. I am Adahy, and I may be the last of my people, and I may not; I have no way of knowing. My eyes are gone, and I shall die soon, but I have one gift to pass on, and the only ones—" The Woodsman paused at this last part "—the only ones I have to pass that gift to are two white devils. I will give you this gift from the world beyond this one, but let an old man have his regrets." Agrippa had no response to any of this. Ari, smart little beast that he was, rose to his feet and fell to one knee before the blind hermit. "And let me pledge, sir, the enduring thanks of the better world your gift will bring about." The Woodsman seemed sated. "Better for someone, anyway. Very well, I suppose you should be getting on, then. The box is on that little shelf there, beside the door." He pointed at a small brown box, oddly out of place in some imperceptible way; Agrippa had noticed it immediately upon entering. Something about the box's construction reeked of the unnatural. He walked across the room and picked it up. "You may leave as soon as is prudent, travelers," Adahy said, and retreated to a small alcove. Ari and Agrippa had run for what seemed like hours before they reached the end of the woodline and approached their barracks. They snuck into the building, nodding at the guard they had already bribed into silence. Of course, he likely thought they were just out fondling some pórnoi in the pleasure district; the question wasn't asked, so long as the gold was forthcoming. The package was hidden until Ari pulled it out from under his tunic. They looked at the artifact, awe-filled in spite of its obvious cheap construction. Of course, the Phitransimun Combine wasn't known for its craftsmanship for most of its postal service; only high-grade objects were treated with real care. And this was clearly a postal container of some sort; the label was recognizable, the alphabet somewhat decipherable, even if neither Ari nor Agrippa knew where anyplace was called "Omaha." Agrippa tried to gingerly pry open the wood-pulp container, but the adherent holding the flaps in place caused part of it to rip. Ari took the box from his hands and pulled the rest of the pulp apart. "The covering isn't important; it's what's inside that counts." Working his way through the pulp coverings and the endless layers of clear, elastic paper air pockets used for padding (what amazing skills these outworlders have, Agrippa thought, as he gathered up the scraps falling from Ari's hands), Ari uncovered a small booklet. "Wait, where's the weapon?" Agrippa said. Ari flipped through the pages. "I have no idea. But maybe Milephanes will." The booklet that was brought to Milephanes was never translated into the language of their people, but Milephanes had learned how to read the offworlders' speech well enough by this point. He knew that the phrase "UNITED STATES" was important immediately; that was an important empire in the other-realm, and powerful. And while it took some research to learn what "CONSTITUTION" meant in this sense, he immediately took great interest in the concept of a "DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE." COMMUNIQUE FROM AGENT ███████ ("PROFESSOR ALPHA" , MTF P-1) TO RESEARCHER ESKOBAR HEAD OF RESEARCH ALEXYLVA UNIVERSITY FWD: TO SENIOR RESEARCHER ███████ SITE 38 DIRECTOR FWD: TO OVERWATCH COMMAND PRIORITY TWO ALERT TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: ANOMALOUS OBJECT ACQUIRED AT ██° ██.█████' N ██° ██.████ W AT 0330 THIS DAY. OBJECT: TYPE THREE CLASSIFICATION (DELIVERY ARTIFACT, UNREMARKABLE MAKE). CONTENTS: TWO HUNDRED FIFTY (250) COPIES OF IDENTICAL SHEET OF PAPER. FULL CONTENTS INCLUDED IN APPENDIX OF REPORT. NOTABLE EXCERPTS, TRANSLATED APPROXIMATELY INTO STANDARD ENGLISH: "We hold these [facts?] to be [clear?]: that all mans is to be treated as the same as one another, that the sands of time and nature's winds have left those that survive to be worthy of certain rights, including life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Governments are instituted among men with power given to be from the will of those men, and when any ruler seeks to defy that will, it is to those men to see that ruler's blood spilled from sea to sea, and to choose new ruler to make men safe and [pleased?]" "The history of current Regent of Novomundus tells to us that he is such ruler and cannot be suffered for further living. Let the truth be known [followed by a long series of political complaints, including "Making for that womenfolk can steal the glory and pride of man, rightful ruler of woman and beast," "Releasing among our people the great scourge, the [integrators?], the half-machines, that our children may find themselves prey in our homes," and "Making of many childrens idiots and slaves against all laws of natural order."]" "We, therefore, the Representatives of the united People of Novomundus, take arms against the injustices listed above and swear our lives that these cruelties be not endured any longer. The Gods of our ancestors, they that support us, may do so; but let it be known that whosoever stands in our way is to be annihilated. We shall destroy everyone who opposes, and let their carcasses pile up to realm of heavens. If all the gods in heaven and the demons, and the good and bad people all oppose us, we shall not relent. We shall not yield. —Milephanes of Sylvanos"

Housework Nobody could say that it's always cold here. There are those rare days around mid-august when the sun puts in some extra effort and occasionally you only need one layer of clothing when going about your business. But it wasn't mid-august and I was wearing a heavy raincoat as a result. December had been and gone and February was letting out a slow death rattle in the form of gale-force winds. I wore my hair short which meant is wasn't snatched this way and that like most of the people I had passed today but my earring had had to be removed before the wind did the job for me. Somebody said to me once that it's only ever windy or cold; never both. This friend of mine had never been to the city however, so I let them keep believing it. The wind would have given me a good excuse to stay inside but when I've a job to do I try my best to see it through as soon as possible. Get it out the way, so to speak. That in mind I had been staring at the front of the pub for quite some time. It was more a reluctance to go inside than to do the job – I'd made all the effort to be warm outside that I'd be boiled like a lobster the moment I went inside. That was the problem with this city; you could only be too hot or too cold. The pub itself was in a very good condition compared to the buildings that surrounded it. When you serve the locals around here you were bound to make quite a lot of money. It was painted mainly in reds, though the window sills were matte black as was the sign above the door. The Splayed Drifter it was called and in my mind it was only named that so you'd never forget it. I could hear the sounds of subdued Sunday carousal inside but the thought of other people was never a tempting one. But I knew I'd have to go in eventually or my client would leave. So I braced myself and pushed my way inside. There was a football match on the corner set. Funny, it was one of those old-fashioned televisions you're always surprised to find still existing. Considering how well the place was doing for itself I would have expected at least a flat screen but then maybe that was the attraction, that sense of nostalgia. Most of the regulars were well past their sell-by date and sitting here pretending it was the good old days was often the only barrier between them and a quiet, miserable end to life. I didn't raise a comment when I entered and no awkward silence descended. I wasn't the only non-regular after all and I was barely noteworthy material in the first place. Apart from my eyes of course but that goes without saying really. Not seeing my client straight away I sat down at the bar. A woman in her forties came over to me as soon as she was finished chatting with one of the other patrons and pulled a pint glass down, before looking to me with a smile. “What'll you be having, dear?” she asked. “Coffee, please. Black three sugars.” “Beer?” “No thank you.” “Everybody wants beer.” I sighed. “Not me. These days absinthe is all I really touch. Or the coffee I just asked for.” “Everybody wants beer.” I looked her in the eyes and she froze up a little. She quite clearly wanted to look away but true to form she just couldn't. I've never been able to explain the phenomenon other than the guess that my gaze is just as fucked-up strange as I am. “Coffee. Black. Three Sugars. Please.” I said as gently as I could. She nodded and I looked away. Relieved, the woman walked off to the machine. I relaxed and looked around the room, trying to pick my client out from the crowd. It was easy enough to be honest. All I needed to look for was those green stains we can't help but leave behind us. Normal folks don't and I don't, but the ladies and gentlemen moving in my circles had no choice. You have to be out of the ordinary to see it but the stains are often everywhere. Faint and pale usually but always prevalent. Sure enough there was a man sat with a small group of others, telling a story. They crowded around him looks of mirth on their faces and raucous laughter filled the place as he reached a punchline. He briefly looked up and I beckoned him over. He double-took and his face went rapidly to concern but he masked that almost as soon as it showed. He made some excuses and headed up to the bar, a rough type clapping him heartily on the back as he went. He got to the seat next to me about the time my coffee arrived. He pushed a note into the bar woman's hand and she thanked him before walking off to serve others. “Are you…?” I took a sip of my coffee. Burnt, damn it. “No.” I replied. “I called you over so I could knock you out and steal your kidneys. The hell do you think, Seamus?” He gulped and his face flushed a little. He didn't say a word for a moment or two before it hit him. “I never told you my…” “Not the only thing I'm not supposed to know. It's the circles you move in now.” Actually I had just run a background check on his picture but the new kids on the block were always easy to play with. They didn't understand that having some contacts with the police and knowing a decent hacker did more than mystic tomes and summoning abominations ever could. “So Seamus.” I said taking another sip. “What is it you're paying me for?” “I, uh… kinda let something happen.” “So does everyone. Be blunt.” “…I think it's like a ghost or something. It's in my house.” I sucked my teeth. “Well that's certainly a downer for you I'd imagine.” “Someone told me you… do things about it.” “Did they tell you my price?” “I guess so.” Good enough. “And you're willing to pay?” “I can up front if you like.” He reached into his pocket and brought his wallet back out, tugging at the zip on the side. I brushed his hand away and shook my head. “No. Leave it until the job's done.” He put it back in his pocket, confused. Now for the important question. “Seamus, how much do you know?” “What… what do you mean? The ghost-thing acts kinda like-“ “No, no, no, no, no. Not what I meant at all. How much do you know? And how long have you known?” He thought about it. I waited and finished my coffee as he thought. “Not much. I think I first found stuff out last year. The first lot I met tried talking me out of it all.” That was all I needed. I thanked him and bought him a drink. No need to ask directions, I already knew the place. Anyway, I had some preparation to do first. All the lights in Seamus' house were properly fucked. I flicked every switch I came across and nothing. I had a maglite so it wasn't an enormous problem but it would have been a lot nicer. The place was dusty; he hadn't been here for a week or more at a guess. Cluttered too. Seamus clearly did not concern himself with tidying up very often. Other than that it was pretty clear that he had a good amount of money. Top of the range electronics – dead as the lights if you were wondering – rich carpets on most of the floors, an especially fancy bathroom and even a large collection of antique books. I groaned. It was always sodding books. You never found somebody who'd pulled back The Curtain via a skiing accident say, or by dancing unknowingly an ancient summoning dance or something. No, people always had to find some tome not meant for mortal eyes blah, blah sodding blah and then next thing you know I'm breaking into some idiot's house to see why he disappeared after screaming to his family about the tentacles. It was just so damn cliché. But ours not to reason why and all that. I'd have checked the books out but in all honesty I couldn't care less about them and I had better things to do. Like figure out where the dead-thing was watching me from. I'd felt the eyes on me from the moment I opened the door but so far nothing. Some of the stains in the house were so dark green they may as well be black so it had definitely been hanging around. It had dropped the temperature a few degrees after I'd checked the bathroom but I think that was more because of how long I'd been here rather than where I'd explored. I hate it when you know that something is watching you but you can't see it. If there was ever a better way to unnerve someone it clearly fell out of fashion some time ago. And this dead-thing was a patient one in all likelihood. In most cases they had to be. I remember this case from a few years back, not one of mine you understand. This family felt they were being haunted and called in all manner of people to check it out. Vicars, “ghost speakers”, witch doctors and exorcists passed through the place like a tourist destination. It was quite a sensational case because whatever was haunting them was clearly malevolent. Get out scratched on the walls and scars on the children, you know the stuff. But whenever a quote-unquote professional took a look there was nothing to see. Proof of the activities was everywhere but there weren't any activities at all when people other than the family paid attention. So eventually the media lost interest. People stopped discussing it by water coolers. And one by one the family were picked off and eaten alive in the space of a day and a half. Because that's how dead-things operate. They let you know they're going to get you but they never do until you stop expecting it. They're not even playful, it's just part of the mentality. If I recall correctly the police broke into the place a few weeks later and found what was left of the bodies stitched together and rotting on the family sofa, television remote clutched in one half-eaten hand. They pinned it on a serial killer thankfully. I have no idea how hard the local Guardian worked to achieve that piece of magic but they have my eternal respect. Finally something happened – a cup flew from the kitchen table and shattered against the wall. A fleck of crockery stung my cheek and I turned smiling. Obviously there was nothing there but it was or had just been in this room. I saw a flicker. I started to whistle and pretended that I hadn't. These things work easier if the target underestimates you. I wandered nonchalantly through the kitchen into the large front room. The door on the cupboard the television was sat on was hanging from its hinges. It was covered in green stains that hadn't been there last time I was in the room. I reached into my coat and pulled out an old-fashioned yo-yo. I can't remember the last time I saw anybody else with one, I think they stopped being popular not long after I was born. But they were excellent for making one look innocent. They also made good garrotte wires in a pinch given you have the right string. Don't ask me how I know. I carried on acting uninterested and stupid as I wandered through the house playing with my yo-yo. I still looked like I was looking for a ghost but I was looking the same way a presenter from some god-awful “documentary” on the paranormal would. I had a notion that it was now in the bathroom. I climbed the stairs and made my way there. It had decided to reveal itself, I think. There's always the game before the catch, a compulsion we've already discussed. But this one could probably smell that I was different. And that was what made me attractive. But I'd be ready. My plan was simple – I'd walk in and when it manifested I'd thwack it with the yo-yo. That was the big secret about dead-things; they're completely corporeal. Sure they're the basis for ghosts but the myriad reasons for that is a subject I could probably write a book on if I ever found the time. I walked in and there was bloody writing on the mirror, of course. You should not be here. How original. I felt a cold sensation behind me. A sort of hissing noise too, not so you'd notice if you weren't expecting it. Lazily, I turned. And my mouth dropped. Before me stood a gaunt figure. It was partially covered in chitin and it rubbed two long hands together in a beetle-like fashion. Its eyes were plentiful and should have been on its head rather than torso but we're not all perfect. It had no face. A mouth, eyes on the torso but the head was essentially a blank dome. Blood dripped from a gaping wound on its side and there were more eyes on the inside of the gash. It wasn't supposed to look like that. “You're not a dead-thing.” I said. “Very astute.” It smiled. Then I was asleep and I couldn't tell you why. I was bound to a chair in the kitchen when I opened my eyes. Seamus was there and so was the monster, they were stood side by side. Seamus looked almost reluctant but there was a hunger in his features too. He had a melon-baller dangling loosely from one hand. He looked to the creature and it nodded. He walked over to me and its eyes span and followed him. “I lied at the pub.” He said, almost apologetically. “You certainly did.” “I… we needed you.” That was confusing. “Why me? Anyone you've ever met will tell you I'm nothing special.” He motioned to his face, and tried to think of the right words. “You… perceive. Things we can't. We tried for months and nothing let us. You see things that most others don't, too. No, other people like us.” He said before I could speak. “Well that's news to me, Seamus. I think your friend over there's been talking shit.” “Nobody tells you that you make no sense.” It said. “On the times you converse with others, you discuss the things you've seen and people raise not a question. Have their faces never given it away? You are a rare thing, Seeker. One that sees all that there is.” “That sounds totally idiotic. Believe me, if that was true I would notice." I said, but I started thinking about it. The first time I'd encountered a corpse-thing I told a gentleman who I'd known for a long while about the whole thing. He had raised his eyebrows at my description of it in a way that should have implied to me that he didn't know that they looked like that. That wasn't proof of course but I hadn't got where I was today by not believing things. That in mind I had got where I was today by fucking up a simple investigation. Seamus looked at the monster then back to me. He dropped to my level, his face an inch from mine. “We have to take your eyes. I'm sorry but we have to.” He kissed my forehead and my lips. I only hated him slightly more. “I am really sorry.” My eyes flickered to the kitchen table. My yo-yo lay on it. “You do seem to be sorry.” I said “But in a moment you'll be even sorrier.” “You're right.” He said and started digging the melon baller into my socket. I screamed. Pain shot through my skull as the jagged teeth around the cup bit through flesh. I don't know how he was planning to sever the optic nerve but he'd persist until it was done. Everything went red on my right side. I screamed until I was hoarse. The yo-yo was still there. I put up a little struggle as he worked my eye free and waited for the monster to make its move. It was smiling so eagerly. It sniffed at the air and savoured the scent of my blood. And eventually it moved closer to get a better look. With a wet pop my eye came loose from the socket. Seamus stood back a little and looked at his work. The creature closed in, it's clawed hands raised. I spat a word that I shouldn't have been able to pronounce, and couldn't without the pain to guide my lips. The yo-yo on the table burst in a flash of blinding dark. There was a rending sound and maybe some screams. My face was very wet. Once I could see again there wasn't much left of the creature. Seamus lay on the floor, panting heavily and looking with shock at his arm. Well, where his arm should have been. I shrugged off the ropes which had been frayed to pieces. I crouched by Seamus, ignoring the pain from my eye. “Checkmate my friend.” I said. I held Seamus by the scruff of the neck and he stared at the door. It was an unimpressive one. A flat dull piece of wood with an off-grey handle. But he knew that it held importance. So did I, for that matter. My eye was gone. I'd had to cut it off myself, pieces of the monster (which I still didn't recognise) had clung to it and bubbles that shouldn't have appeared did. If I didn't lose the eye then I may have lost my brain, or become a slave or another one of the monsters. You never know. The patch was good enough for now but if I wanted to keep appearances up I would have to get some mirrored glasses. “Here we go.” I told Seamus after a moment. Silence, silence for a good few minutes before he replied. “I didn't want this.” “Nobody wants this. I don't want this.” “Then let me leave!” He cried, trying to turn to look at me. “What would you have done to me after it took my eyes, Seamus?” His shoulders sagged. “I think I should correct myself in that case. I usually don't want this.” He stopped speaking again. I pulled him aside and put my hand on the door. “May I ask something?” he said. “You just did.” He looked at me. I rolled my eye. “One thing.” “If…” he licked his lips nervously. “If it had just been a ghost. Would you still be doing… this?” I looked at the door. “Yes.” I said. His face fell. “Hey. You asked.” I pulled the door open. “I'd say it's been a pleasure, but…” I threw him in and closed the door. I held my hands to my ears but the screams were so loud. After they stopped I opened the door and went in myself. The Unknowable Thing loomed over me, a half-digested and catatonic Seamus lay below It. “Here we are. One scumbag supreme. And the monster fucker is gone too.” It questioned me. “Blown to bits. Not coming back. As specified.” It was satisfied. I looked around, almost looked up at It but remembered what happened the last time I looked at It directly. “You didn't tell me why they wanted me.” The Unknowable Thing asked a question. “Hell yes it was important! The only reason I survived is because of that bloody toy! What if I hadn't brought it along, huh? Then where'd you be?” It commented. I raised a finger. “Bullshit. If I was that dispensable I wouldn't be standing here. You'd have found someone else.” The Unknowable Thing conceded. I'd already had enough. Talking to the Unknowable Thing always drains you. I turned to leave and It let me. I was at the door before I turned and asked a question. “Is it true? What the monster said about me?” It answered. I nodded and stepped out the door and up the cellar steps. God but I needed a drink. As always. But that's just how it is in my line of work.

Communication Intercept: Document recovered leaving the central mailing service at Site 4. Letter appears to have somehow bypassed basic screening services, and was picked up only by the hand-sorting staff shortly before delivery, as they noticed the lack of proper post-screening stamps. It is unlikely that the letter was intentionally set to bypass security measures; however, Site Security is reviewing security footage, and re-evaluating the communication screening procedure. Letter content has been attached to this report for later security review as/if needed. Original letter destroyed due to security clearance restriction conflict. Dear Alison, Please forgive the lateness of my letter. You may remember that my work has often kept me from standard daily activities, and with my current employment it has been doubly so. Months and years have a disturbing tendency to blur as one grows older. I do not think any apology will be adequate for my sudden departure, however. I am sure it was a confusing time for you and your mother, more so for her as you were very young at the time, if I remember correctly. I was called away right after the… troubles reached something of a peak, and I imagine she was very distressed at my sudden absence. I write now due to an article I recently encountered, dealing with theoretical space-time anomalies. While insightful and well explained, the most glaring portion of the article was the section identifying the author as yourself. I can see that you are following the lines of research I myself was exploring before my… departure. I must advise you against this. Whether it comes from your genuine curiosity, or an attempt to find me via backtracking my work, it would be advisable to abandon this plan of action. I have followed it to the end, and am now… not where I would wish you to be. Seek other fields of study. Stay away from the corners and dim edges of reality. Turn your focus to more practical and basic ends. Forgive my bluntness, both now and… then. Know that it was, and is, necessary for me. Despite what it has caused. Love, Your father. “Throw me daddy!” “Oh, I don't know, mommy gets nervous when I throw you high…” “Throw me, throw me, throwmethrowmethrowme-” “Ok, ok, slavedriver…” She shrieked, suddenly launched in to the air, sailing up several feet, coming down in a blur of hair and laughter, squealing anew as she made the journey again, begging “Higher, higher” in breathless gasps. She smiled, so trusting and small, sailing Doctor? Sailing down, wanting to spin now, arms exhausted, but unable to resist, spinning the tiny girl. “Faster daddy, faster!” Doctor? “Watch me daddy!” …Yes? Doctor, you've been requested in conference room eight. Containment review meeting. …I will proceed there immediately. Does a mind bend… Work Journal 2 Or does it break? Opening Moves

Is everyone silenced? Good. Good evening to all the University community. I trust I find you well in thought and in deed. I am here to speak to you on a matter of grave importance. I am sure by now all of you have heard the heresies of Milephanes. Much as we the Administration have tried to shield you from him, he has proven sadly resourceful in spreading his lies. I have heard his polluted philosophy openly discussed by those I had thought to be honorable citizens and students. This will not go on. And so I have brought you all here today to put an end to this pernicious strain of neo-Antiphonian ideology. Milephanes is a traitor and a revolutionary. He has turned away from his fathers. He would destroy the social order and natural philosophy that are the groundwork of our way of life. Milephanes has slanderously alleged that we exert inappropriate control over the sacred institution of Democracy. This is patent nonsense. It has been eternally acknowledged that a democratic system is only as wise as its free men. We strengthen the people and so through them Democracy itself. The University, I would argue, presents the greatest ally Democracy has ever had. We teach all of you the finest wisdom of our forefathers, and protect you from the false beliefs that have been the ever-present enemy of a just and free society. And what proof more of an enlightened society could anyone ask than unanimity? This wellspring of filth does not end there, however. Milephanes hews to that old, discredited, and counter-Aristotelian idea that there is or could be some equivalency in nature between slave and free man. He treats a notion more commonly found in comedies as though it had some serious philosophical merit. Imagine, however hard it may be, a world where he were right. Just imagine a world without slaves! How would Milephanes propose fields be sowed? How would he propose houses be maintained? How would he propose wars be fought? And he is most evidently not correct. Have you ever tried to speak to a slave? Most of them are unable to understand anything outside their duties, and those few that are capable of conversation know nothing of the Classical philosophers. They could not comprehend the nature of poetry, comedy, or tragedy. Only the keener mind of a free man, especially one educated at the University by the finest philosophers of this era, can contain the subtleties. Did not the great Hippocrates aptly observe that some, such as the Anatolians, were particularly suited as slaves? The slave is adept at the physical, like the beast; the free man is adept at the rational, like the Gods. The natures do not intersect. The University has perfected this distinction. Thanks to our advancements in natural philosophy, no one need ever fear a slave or wife who has transgressed the bounds of orthoskepsi. The life of a citizen is freer and safer than ever before. Not a word comes out of Milephanes's mouth that does not deceive, corrupt, and lead astray. I, and my fellow Chancellors at our other campuses, are committed to seeing an end to these dangerous views. We will not tolerate any more mention or acceptance of them on pain of expulsion or revocation of degree. These are harsh measures, I know, but experience has taught the Administration that it is better to extirpate this kind of heresy immediately than to allow it to survive long enough to collapse under the weight of its own falseness. I bear the name of my father and his father before him, back to the earliest days of the Classical era. Love of the truth runs in my veins like ichor. And it is with the full weight of my legacy when I ask you, as an equal: Do not give credence to this madness. Let it begin and end in Milephanes, and let freedom and harmony return untarnished. Alexylva University is and remains a beacon of knowledge and wisdom. Never forget that. May the Gods smile upon us all. Now, back to class!

Transcript of tape recovered from █████ Police Department “Ok, let's start again. I know you were directly involved, and for the record, let's just assume I'm not an idiot and know you're guilty. So, with that, how about we try and make this much easier. What I want to know is this: who is it you work for?” “…” “…Alright. Let me put it this way, then. What is this Foundation that you work for?” “…” “We managed to recover a lot of documentation from that case. You're no idealist, gun-for-hire hack, you've got dispatches, mission parameters… this looks really, really bad, friend. Like, terrorist bad. Do you know what happens to terrorists these days? We can say there was an… accident in transport, and drop you down the darkest hole you've ever seen. You'll never s—” “You have no idea what a dark hole is.” “Really? Why don't you enlighten me then, tough guy?” “Have you ever seen someone turn in to vapor? Not pulped by an explosion or anything, but real vapor. Just atomize over the space of a few seconds, screaming all the while? I've had to shoot people who I've shared lunch with, bummed smokes from, because they had a kind of eel inside them that was eating their nervous system from the inside out and turning them in to a plague-spreading serial rapist. I've sat for weeks in a sealed cell with no outside human contact, wondering if I'd start showing bumps on my skin, which would mean a long, slow degeneration into something lower than an animal. If you're going to scare me, you're going to need to step up your game from a little recreational waterboarding.” “What the fuck are you tal-” “None of you get it. I told you, right at the start, you need to turn me loose. I'm not a toy that anyone is going to leave just laying around. You've taken something that doesn't belong to you, Special Agent Danbury, and you've taken it from someone who does not share well.” “Ahh, I see, friends in high places and everything? You're not the first one to try that… cry to me about such and such connection, this and that thing you can make happen with one phone call. Wanna know the thing about that? I don't care. You're not dealing with some pig-fucking local beat cop. I'm not bound by anything as silly as a code of conduct. My job is to keep my country safe. Period. Everything else is secondary to that, including your well-being and humane treatment.” “As I said, you'll need to step it up a bit. It's been too long, which means they've decided not to play it overly nice… you might want to pick that up.” “What the fuck are you… thought I turned this off. Hold on you little shit, i'm not nearly done with you. This is Agent Danbury, you shouAAGGG” “That's the… oh shit, what's the word… mem-something. It's a sound or an image that can make your brain shit itself, then die. Can never remember the name. Can you hear me still? Damn it…” (several loud noises, followed by a door slamming) “Took y'all long enough.”' “Sorry, we had bigger stuff on the burner than a fuckup like you, Grims.” “Can you at least get my cuffs off?” “No time. We popped the holding cells, turning into a real madhouse. Did you give anything up?” “Please. Who cares what a dead man hears?” “You'd be surprised… oh dammit, is that still on?” “Wait, let me j-” End Transcript Intercepted GOC Communication collected from mobile command post near ████████ city, via remote audio probe “What the hell am I looking at, Captain?” “We… uh… actually aren't entirely sure yet. It's definitely a target of interest, but it's not really fitting any of the preset profiles as yet. We're expanding our search parameters.” “Why is it wearing a bag on its head?” “Ah, we're also not sure about that… we can't compel it to remove it, and attempting to do so by force has… not gone well. It's otherwise rather compliant, so we've left it alone for now.” “I see. Now, the most obvious question is why am I looking at a big, bag-headed freak who's sitting at a table and not lying on a slab?” “Yes, indeed… well, that's the thing. You see, we were following a lead on the fox-girl thing, and ran in to a couple of targets trying to flee the city. Happy accident, really… anyway, as we went to intercept, this big guy shows up, and starts attacking them. It was weird, though… this thing, whatever it is, is obviously extremely strong, but all he did was bash them up… then just stood there, waiting for us to intercept. I ordered Rodriguez to put a couple rounds through the big guy's bag head, but he missed.” “Rodriguez doesn't miss.” “I know sir. He was pretty upset about it. He double-tapped first, then mag-dumped. Every one of them missed just by a hair. I'm not really sure how, the big guy didn't seems to really move or anything. Anyway, we moved in and secured the scene, tried to restrain the remaining target. He kept holding up his hands, nodding his head. He… it was trying to surrender, I think. Hopkins tried to put restraints on him. He got his wrist broken. After that, we decided to just go with it for the time being.” “Is this one of the Foundation strays?” “No sir, at least not one that we have any record of. We're combing the database now, but other then a vague surveillance hit from about four years ago, there's been nothing.” “All right…so it's big, strong, and somewhat docile, ignoring the personal space issues. Again, why hasn't it been shot or gassed yet, and why did I need to come down here in person?” “Ok, here's the thing… it can't, or won't, talk. It has to touch someone to communicate with anything other than hand gestures and body language. It's…not fun for the one being touched…but they apparently can see…something, some sort of image or language or something that is some kind of communication. It's not a direct translation, but the gist of it gets across. We thought he was attacking someone for a second, and they looked half-dead, b—” “Out with it, man!” “He…ah…knows where the Library is, sir.” “…The Library. As in THE Library? As in KTE-7909-Alexandria?” “Yes sir. He's an exile, or a escapee, or some such, we're not entirely sure yet, but whatever it is, he's kicked out and not allowed back. However, there's something important there that he wants, and he's willing to show us how to get there, if we help him get it back.” “You don't actually intend…” “Oh no sir, not at all… but this is a unique opportunity, to say the very least. Once he shows the initial strike team the way, we can dispose of him, then roll the main force right in to the nest. No more nibbling the edges, scraping off little corners… right to the heart, a direct punch to the very core.” “This is some fine work, captain. How soon can you get a team ready?” “It's already on standby, sir… we're… ahh… just waiting for the native guide, so to speak.” “Why is he just sitting there, looking at the sky like that?” “He said something about the sun. We're not sure what, but he was insistent that we wait.” “I want progress reports every hour, on the hour, understood? Keep the team on Ready Two. The moment you're ready to jump, begin the operation on your own discretion.” “Yes, sir.” "Oh, and one last thing, Captain. This is real wilderness country you're walking into. Aside from rumors, we have no knowledge of the Library whatsoever. Expect anything, prepare for everything. You're authorized to escalate up to Response Five if necessary to complete the mission or extract your team. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The boys will be happy to hear that." "Don't be. Just because we're letting you use ray guns doesn't mean this is going to be easy. You're heading straight into the Wild West here. You'll need all the gear you can get just to survive. Mr. Dark had settled into his office at the New York Club with a minimum of pain and suffering on all sides. It lacked the character of The Museum, but with a few homey touches, the odd bunyip-hide rug and Olmec knives, it felt almost right. Cheryl brought him a short stack of newspaper entries, gleaned from a pile of papers nationwide. Mr. Dark browsed it with and chuckled, drinking thick, oily coffee. Authorities were debating whether Boomer's work was a terrorist bomb gone off by accident, or a clandestine meth lab run by someone who had failed Chemistry 101. Even if Harken had escaped, he'd surely gotten the point. Several of them, most likely… He read further, about a “person of interest” followed by a surprisingly accurate sketch and description of Boomer. That was going to be a problem. Boomer was too sweet a lad to lose to the wolves of the law, and not the sort to stand up to any kind of serious interrogation. He scribbled a note to have him replanted a good distance away… assuming anyone could uproot him with a minimum of explosions. Bah, other people's problems. At least he had gotten started on acquisitions. The disease-controlling girl was safely tucked away in Facility B, and Willard was already starting to teach her the benefits of cooperation. When breaking in any bitch, canine or sapien, it was always best to start with positive reinforcement. Fine food, lodgings, shiny things, and an admirable parade of strapping lads had her in amicable spirits. For now. He knew her type very well, she'd soon want more, and more… and she'd get it. The anal electrical probe had the amazing ability to enact dramatic and rapid attitude change. He could have started that way, yes, but he adored watching the loving care people took when constructing their own gallows. The kumiho was going to be more of a problem. She'd been spotted with her associates, and he knew them well enough: that lot of mystical (and mythical) riff-raff from The Library. She had to be there… he picked absently at the chip in his canine. Perhaps a visit would be in order? No reason not to, really… it'd been ages, and he could check on a few matters as well. He chuckled deep in his throat, tapping his foot on the slick bunyip hide. No matter how furious they might be over The Museum, they had to let him visit The Library. Rules were rules. The very idea of that impotent, boiling rage was reason enough, really. Percival looked up from his book and over to the cat sitting on the chair. She licked her paw languidly, pointedly ignoring the sound of approaching boots. She looked up at Percival with a slow, sleepy wink. “Visitors. Unfriendly ones, I believe.” Before he could ask, she promptly curled up, stuffed her head under her ribs, and started snoring. The three men entered in a clump of boots and the soft tap of wingtip shoes. A short, grinning man flanked by two human bulldogs, armed to the teeth. The short one had some kind of long coat, with thick, frayed cuffs and collars… or some kind of very thick fur. The thick sleeves and slight tilt of his head gave the impression of some old, threadbare bird of prey. The other two were all business, looking somewhere between cops and soldiers…but with an oozing aura of pure menace. Weapons were drawn before anyone could say a word. Swords, sickle, crystal rod, machine guns and massive pistols were quickly pointing across the short gap between the three men and the small collection of Library residents, all aimed at areas of the body both tender and vital. The short man smiled with the slimy, cloying self-satisfaction of a ice cream man passing out treats dipped in arsenic. She stayed in the back of the room, not sure whether to duck, or laugh. It was the most ludicrous standoff She had ever seen, but could turn ugly in an instant; She wasn't sure what She wanted to see happen more. Fear and tension radiated off the group like the heat from sun-baked mass graves. Except for the short man. He smelled of spice, and oil, and moss… and something that made her nose twitch and tendons tighten like piano wire. He waved away the thick blade hanging inches from his nose like it was a butterfly intruding on a morning walk. “Now is there really call for all this, sweethearts? I'm just here to renew my library card…and tarry a bit with that sweet little thing perched up on the pillows there.” He gestured to the bespectacled girl with a wink and a waggle of his fingers. She could barely decide whether to growl or blush. She ended up doing both. The standoff was broken by a low cough. "If I were you, I would put those weapons away," Percival said. He was standing between both groups with his empty hands held out to the sides, looking back and forth between them with an expression of utter calm. "You can't take us all," one of the big bodyguards snarled. "I don't intend to," Percival said firmly. "The Library will do it for me. I'm just trying to prevent a tragedy." He looked up at the second floor balcony, where a large number of black-shrouded figures were looking down at the tableau below. More of them were coming out from the shadows, gathering around the scene in a broad circle… just waiting. Watching. One by one, the weapons were put away, and one by one, the faceless guardians of the Library disappeared back into the shadows from whence they had come. Percival turned to the three men in black suits and nodded. "Carry on," he said, "but remember where you are." "Of course," Dark said, "My apologies for the rudeness and short-sightedness of my companions, sir knight." "I'm not a knight," Percival said, dismissively. He turned away and picked up the longsword he had left leaning against the wall, then walked back into the stacks. The small man brushed a small piece of lint off his shoulder then walked to the back of the room, where a rather nondescript, mousy-looking girl was looking up at him from behind several large stacks of very old, rather dusty books. "May I sit down, dearie?" "If you wish," She replied, in a sundew-sweet voice. One of the big thugs pulled out the chair for the short man, who sat down with all the grace of a stalking heron. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Dark, of Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Limited." "Never heard of you," She lied. "Good," Dark said. "I spend a lot of bloody time, energy and money making sure that's the case. I, on the other hand, have heard of you. The last kumiho. Your work at that… convention… was exquisite. From an artistic standpoint." "You are a fan of the arts, then?" "I am a patron of the arts," Dark corrected. "And I wish to be yours." "Interesting. Tell me more," She said, leaning back in Her chair and steepling Her fingers. "Then I'll get to the point sweetheart. Simply put, I am a provider. I provide wondrous things to those who have the money, resources and sensibilities to truly appreciate them. I can sate any desire, quench any thirst, and one of the things my associates desire is you. In exchange, I can do the same for you. You can live like a queen in perfect decadence. You will hunt prey beyond any imagining. You can kill to your heart's content, and instead of being vilified, you will be applauded. Congratulated, even." "And a whore as well, I suppose," She said. He grinned devlishly. "On occasion, yes. But then again, I don't think prudishness is a vice you possess in great measure, is it, sweetheart?" "Hmm. A generous offer. But if I refuse?" "In that case, we call in the hounds and run you to the ground. The end result is the same. The process, however, is not nearly as pleasant for you. For me, however… well… it's been years since my last fox hunt," Dark said with an almost apologetic smile. "How very honest," She said dryly. "Allow me to repay you in kind. I have had a better offer." "What, from those idiots who broke you out? Small fry. Useless. They can't help or protect you." "Not from them," She said. "From their Teacher." "A raving lunatic who's read too much Karl Marx," Dark said dismissively. "You'll get no help from him." "Hm," She gave an enigmatic smile, then stood up and turned to walk away. Something about her expression immediately raised Dark's hackles. That girl was far too smug not to be hiding something… "Wait," he snarled, the playful carelessness dropping from his voice like a discarded coat. "What do you know? What are you not telling me?" "Do the amaryllis flowers still bloom in Elysium?" She asked. The chair clattered to the floor as Dark leaped to his feet. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at the shock in his wide, pale eyes. "He's alive?" the short man hissed. "Despite your best efforts, yes," She said. "And he's still planning to go through with it?" "Of course." "I see," Mister Dark said. "Simon?" "Yes, boss?" "Kill her." Simon acted reflexively: the gun was in his hand before he knew he had drawn it, and he'd fired before he was aware he'd been given the order, even as his eyes widened in horror at what he was doing. The bullets passed harmlessly through the smiling girl and blasted some holes through the bookshelf behind her. A moment later, the illusion flickered and vanished, a small, tattered leaf falling to the floor. A moment after that, three black-hooded figures appeared from the darkness and lunged towards the big man. Simon screamed and turned to shoot, but one of the Guardians casually broke his arm and then grabbed him by his shattered wrist. By the time his brother Johan had gotten to his feet, Simon had vanished, dragged into the shadows by the sinister cloaked figures. "Clever girl," Dark sighed, rubbing his temple. He hadn't expected it would work, but it was worth a shot. He turned and started walking out of the library quickly but easily, ignoring the stares and frightened looks the other library denizens were giving him. "Boss," Johan said. "We gotta go get Simon! We can't let them…" "Didn't you hear a goddamn word of what I told you on the trip here? If your brother's not dead already, he's one of THEM now. The Library always collects… and they're always in need of librarians. We're leaving." "But boss…" "You're fired," Dark snapped. "Fuck off and die." He turned away from the big bodyguard, ignoring the stunned look on his face as the man reactively drew the pistol from his coat pocket and put it in his mouth. He threw open the double doors as the gunshot rang out behind him. A twist of time and space later, Dark re-emerged in a back alley in Chicago, with a large black luxury car parked among the refuse and graffiti. The chauffeur gave him a surprised look, then shrugged. "Where are Simon and Johan?" he asked. "Their services are no longer needed," Dark growled. "Now drive." He picked up the gold-plated car phone and started dialing. "Willard? This is Dark. Fast-track the bitch. I want her ready by sunset tomorrow… what? Then LET her break! We'll put her back together eventually, I need her ready as soon as possible! What? No, I will NOT explain myself, just get to work!" He slammed the phone down vengefully, then quickly dialed a second number. "Marshall, Carter? This is Dark. Yes, I know what time it is over there, I don't give a shit— no, I don't care what you were in the middle of, tell them to wait. The Fourth Partner is alive." "That's right," Dark continued. "The fucking altruist… and he's still trying to carry out his fucking revolution. I need all available assets under my control immediately… no, I don't need your help, I need your fucking resources! You two nitwits work on keeping the clientèle safe. What? I don't fucking care. Make something up." Dark slammed the handset down and fumed silently, glaring at the phone. Blind, stupid, helpless louts…and now even more time drained to deal with everything on a direct, personal level, it was all so…uncomfortable. He picked his chipped canine, glaring out the window, as the car slid though the streets like a V-8 powered serpent. Worthless, all of it, and all to no purpose, by all rights he should throw the whole mess in the fire, and cultivate more, instead of trying to control all of this by… Mr. Dark froze for eight seconds, then slowly smiled a grin as slow and keen as a stiletto in the night. Of course. Of course…The little vixen would reach out, insecure despite her posturing, but to more… intrinsic aid. Lunatics too blind or single-minded to see the danger… and in so doing, they'd force the next round, wouldn't they? When the children keep acting up, Daddy will eventually start cracking heads… and oh my, weren't they acting up now? He chuckled softly, comfortable again, leaning into the plush seats. Unexpected, unplanned for, and perhaps dangerous, yes… but if he was anything, he was a man who loved a good, bloody streetfight. If it just happened to take place between massive groups of well trained men and women, so much the better. Global Memo From: 05-9 To: All 05 and Level 4 command staff Re: CONTROL CC: Central Records, F.O.B. command datahubs My dear ladies and gentlemen, I understand that this has been a trying time, to say the least. Our position has been heavily rocked by both change and attack. Former situations, long held to be understood and secure, and no longer under control. That's really the heart of the matter, control. We've lost it, for the first time in countless years, we're not in the position of majority and power. This is the opening to the letter I wished to write, but I can't. We got our heads kicked in, yes. We're still picking up the pieces, we're damaged, we're not at a solid point yet, and so forth. BULLSHIT. A group of nothing upstarts kicked in our front door, other groups are taking escaped SCP items AT WILL, we're STILL not at capacity, and nobody seems to care. Even more, these idiotic kids have damaged the Veil Protocol, and rather than trying to maintain it, the others seem to be taking the cue from them and moving openly. We end this NOW, goddammit. I want a semblance of control, and I want it right the FUCKING HELL NOW. I want SCP items tracked and being corralled by direct assault teams. I want intel on enemy agencies and teams moving to quash their operations. We are not a whiny, hand-wringing group of frightened children in lab coats and riot gear, we are The motherfucking Foundation. They've decided they want to fight this fight in the open? We need to remind them why they want us to stay in the shadows. All MTF teams are being mobilized as of 0800 this morning. Special investigation and terrorist cells are being activated worldwide. A full media clamp in the form of a “Snowblind” protocol has been enacted for North America and Europe. Worldwide coverage will be enacted within 24 hours. All currently uncontained SCPs will have hand-picked recovery teams assigned and moving within 48 hours. All current Level 4 command staff will undergo a full competency hearing immediately after the current crisis is resolved. Direct, wide-level SCP item dispatch and authorization is currently being considered under the Pandora's Box Protocol. Control will be restored. We secure. We contain. We protect. And nothing is going to stop us. O5-9 When the nurse walked into the hospital room that morning, she found the bed empty. At first, she thought that her troublesome patient had just escaped his medical confinement to head down to the cafeteria and get a cup of Jell-O or a contra-indicated shot of bourbon. Again. When she saw the note, however, she realized that things were worse than she'd thought. Dear O5 cunts, Consider this my letter of motherfucking resignation. "Alto Clef"

The Association of Supernatural Shifters The Association of Supernatural Shifters, or A.S.S. as they are better known, gathered around the conference table. They all looked at each other and nodded. They knew they were in trouble. "Aurafeel, our organization has barely recruited any members. In spite of our almost unlimited power and glowing hands, we are unable to contract even the most mundane of recruits," said Lifesmasher, thrusting his hammer that burned with the power of 20 suns into the air. "I do not understand why, Aurafeel. We offer the greatest of all supernatural weaponry and skills for free," added Awesometouch, the greatest thief in all of history. "I am not sure myself, oh warriors of spirited metal." Aurafeel, his hands glowing as embers leaped off them, then stood up and gazed out the window of his multi-billion dollar training facility. "Um, sir, if I may…" said Bingo, one of Aurafeel's many genetically-enhanced servant dogs. "What is it, Bingo?" asked Aurafeel. "Well, perhaps it is the organization's name, sir. I believe 'ass' may be a synonym for 'buttocks'." Bingo nodded sagely. "My god! Bingo is correct!" Aurafeel smashed his fists down on the titanium table. "I propose we change our organization's name, gentlemen." "Hear, hear!" shouted Lifesmasher and Awesometouch. "But, what shall we name it?" Aurafeel moved his hand up to stroke his manly and well carved chin. They all sat there for a while, pondering upon names. Suddenly, Awesometouch jumped up. "I have it, Aurafeel!" "What, Awesometouch?" "Our organization shall be called the Cooperation of Undying Nationalist Theorists for Homogenous Overall Liberty and Equality." "Yes! Then it is agreed upon." The group then stood. "Gentlemen, we are now C.U.N.T.H.O.L.E.!" The Elementary Academy of Anomalists The teacher stands over the group, gazing down her glasses at each of the young children assembled. "Alright, class is starting, young ones. Quiet down!" Little Jimmy throws his paper airplane then quiets down. Bobby continues to eat paste. Lucinda passes a note to Bobby informing him of her crush on him, only to have him unable to read it due to his sticky fingers. "Children, we have a new child in class today. Everybody, say hello to Janice." A girl with short pigtails and a nice pink dress on enters the classroom and curtseys to the class. "Now who can tell Janice what we do here?" Bobby takes the paste out of his mouth and stands up. "We… um… we train elite warriors from a young age to deal with an- anom- abomalous entities from a young age." "Yes, excellent. And we all have special little powers ourselves. Would anyone care to demonstrate?" Little Jimmy stands up and makes a snorting noise, then shoots a loogie straight across the room and into a small target opposite. Bobby then proceeds to blow a bubble with the paste he had just eaten. Lucinda then blinks really really fast. Janice is transfixed. She gasps. Then she herself burps, and it shakes the classroom. The teacher pats Janice on the back. "With these abilities we're sure you'll be able to capture any anomalous entity you set your mind on!" Meanwhile, in the principal's office, the principal briefly considers pulling the trigger on the gun next to his head. The Serpent's Upraised Middle Finger Greg was sooo drunk right then. He slammed down the bottle of Jack Daniels and looked at his bros. "Guys, we have been mistreated by those Foundation scum for waaaaay too long." "Fuckin' rights, man!" shouted some guy with a mohawk from across the room. Greg squinted and looked at the guy. Was the guy even a part of S.U.M.F.? He shrugged and went back to speaking. "Look, we gotta unite. Tomorrow morning we're gonna ride in on our choppers or whatevs and fuck shit up!" He raised his fist in the air and everybody around him clinked their shots or bottles and took another hit. "You wanna die oppressed, poor, and hiding in some fucking library, or do you wanna die a motherfuckin' legend!?" Everyone cheered and parted. Somebody turned on Slayer and they proceeded to knock over the table and have a mosh pit. At some point a bunch of hookers showed up. Greg couldn't remember the rest, though. The next morning everyone agreed they were too hungover to raid the Foundation. The Canines of Sapient Ability and Universal Suffrage Group Fido the dog sat in his doghouse. Yes, soon all sapient canines for universal suffrage would come flocking to his door. Any minute now… The Cooperation of Undying Nationalist Theorists for Homogenous Overall Liberty and Equality "Well, Awesometouch, I believe that name change was for the better!" said Aurafeel, "We already have one new recruit set up to join us!" "Um, hi," said Vlad. He was wearing a trenchcoat and had a greying beard. He still had a bit of white powder underneath his nose and his hair was so matted a mouse appeared to be sleeping in it, "I heard there were cuntholes?" "No, friend, that is the name of our glorious organization!" proudly proclaimed Aurafeel, lifting his hands in the air. "Oh. I'm out, then." Vlad nodded to the group and left out the door. Lifesmasher turned and looked over at Aurafeel. "Well shit." Honeyhut's Item Exchange O5-12 turned to O5-13. "So what is this 'Honeyhut's'?" O5-13 gestured to the image of a log cabin behind him. "It's a small, ma-and-pa anomalous items distribution chain." O5-12 smiled and blew his nose. "Why, that's lovely. It's great to see a good, non-corporate organization just working for the day's pay." O5-13 frowned. "It is lovely, but unfortunately large organizations like Marshall, Carter, and Dark limited have been driving small organizations like these out of business." "Why that's terrible!" "It is, friend. All these foreign companies are coming in and stealing our good, American anomalous items trade organizations!" "What will we do?" "Well, I've organized my own movement I like to call the COFFEE Party." The Corporate Outsourcing of Foundation and Federal Exchange Extradition Party "Hell, no, we won't go!" shouted a march led by Dr. Pinkus outside MC&D headquarters. Carter looked down at the assembled group and frowned. "We have a problem, Marshall." "Indeed we do, Carter. Thankfully, our opposition is filled with idiots. They've found our headquarters, but their only course of action appears to be holding up signs and occasionally shouting nonsensical phrases." "Thank god." Carter tilted his head and looked down at the groups again. "Y'know, Marshall…" "What, Carter?" "Well, it seems to me at this point that the number of splinter groups and associations is just entirely too silly." "Such is a fact of life, Carter. Groups of Interest flare up every so often, then die down again. It's like herpes." "Well, at least we're not fucking Wondertainment." "Thank god."

"How long have we got?" Matthew said, his stomach growling. Zeke had been looking at his watch almost constantly for the last twenty minutes. “Three minutes, ten seconds. Nine seconds.” A pause. “Five seconds.” “Which way did you say it is?” Matthew asked. “Do you have to keep asking?” “What else am I supposed to do?” “Have you checked your gun?” Matthew gripped the MP7 tight. “I did that an hour ago. And half an hour ago. And ten minutes ago. I have ten bullets, and I'd like to stop thinking about that. I haven't eaten in two days, and I don't know what day it was then. Don't wanna think about those either. Which way is the building you saw?” Zeke's face scrunched up. “Um…” “Well?” “It was Friday. This is Sunday, so that was Friday.” “Zeke…” “Just follow me when the time comes. I know where it is.” Matthew sighed. “How long we got?” Zeke lifted his head up. “Can't you hear? It's started.” Matthew listened. From this close to Braunschweig, he could always hear the screaming. Usually the victims, the hunted. Sometimes the Embracers. It didn't matter. Twenty-three hours a day, always screaming. Screaming until there wasn't anyone left to scream. Twenty-three hours a day. One hour a day… The Embracers were quiet because of their ritual. Matthew figured the rest were just tired of all the noise. The Hour had come. Matthew and Zeke rose from their hole. As usual, Zeke led, and Matthew followed. ** “Can you at least say how far away it was?” Matthew asked. “It's been twenty minutes. If we need to turn around…” “That's not going to happen,” Zeke said. “Look, I know you don't have training, and it wouldn't matter if you did, not now, but that's not the point. It's…” Zeke thought. Matthew always thought of Sarah Palin, a lifetime and a hemisphere ago, whenever Zeke thought really hard about something, because he always looked like it took a lot more effort than it should have. “It's principle,” Zeke finally said. “You don't turn around. Not after this. Either we find more food, maybe a way west, a way back to the States, or we die. No option three.” Zeke huffed with finality. “Fine,” Matthew said. “How far?” “Ten minutes, fifteen tops. No more.” They kept walking in silence. Matthew was often silent around Zeke during their “missions.” Anything he said would just make Zeke mad. Zeke never wanted to hear that Matthew had “given up hope,” as he put it; had given up hope of rescue, had given up hope well before they had even met. Zeke didn't want to hear that the Embracers were almost certainly back home, and in Brazil, and Africa, and China, and probably fucking Antarctica, if there was someone left there who wasn't one of them. Everywhere. Zeke went on because he dreamt of being at home, maybe on the cover of Time, famous. “The Man who Survived Europe,” front cover. Maybe next to the story about how the war was over, and we had won. Matthew kept going because he was too stupid to die already. ** Zeke's sense of timing was spot on, for once. They reached the little concrete bunker thirty-five minutes after they left. Zeke's NATO training (“brainwashing,” Matthew had called it, back when it had only saved his life once or twice) kicked in, and Matthew went to open the door for him. Zeke went in point, AR-15 and six rounds leading the way. They cleared the first couple of rooms the same way. All bedrooms, bare-bones, beds and desks, double occupancy. All empty. The mess was like the others they had seen, refrigerator full of spoiled food, pantry full of half-edible canned food. Maybe a week's-worth, maybe ten days. They could carry six. A good day's work. Matthew wanted to get some sleep, but Zeke was sure he heard something. Not Embracers; their ritual wasn't quite over yet. Something else, and something in the bunker. There was one room left. Matthew was glad Zeke's boot was in such good shape, a credit to the young sergeant major this pair had come from. The wooden door splintered around the lock and swung forward. Details come very clearly during times of crisis. One man, gun in mouth, red face covered in tears. Tag on white lab coat reads “SCP Foundation,” then his picture, then “MORGAN, LEVEL 2.” Papers all over the floor, the desk, taped to the walls. A copy of the New York Times, dated five months earlier (Matthew thought); headline read 'CHICAGO NOT YET LOST TO ENEMY,' GENERAL SANDUSKY SAYS WITHDRAWAL ORDERED, ELECTIONS POSTPONED TWO MORE MONTHS Matthew hated being right. An electric typewriter sat next to a broken computer monitor. The draft of some page of a report sat in the cradle, with some revisions. The manifestation of Script 82 on ██/██12 was reported at 02:01:13 The procedure for containment was followed, though all chanters were not contained. Neurotoxin deployment approved by control at Neurotoxin initially believed to be effective, but confirmation not received from site. Protocol required for loss of communication includes Failure to activate on-site warhead Failure to react quickly to cultist activity, beyond suppression in media Failure to coordinate when global contamination Failure failure failure Failure Cowardice Failure comes from cowardice Researcher Morgan showed cowardice and is a failure failure failure failure fAILure FAIlure FAIluRE FAILED FAILED YOU FAILED FAILED FAILED TRUSTED YOU FAILED YOU FAILED— “I couldn't…I couldn't…” The man had taken the gun out of his mouth. “I couldn't make the… the…” He kept sobbing. “…couldn't…” Zeke heard it first, of course. The chanting. It was close, very close. Too close. They were almost inside. “I couldn't make the tough calls,” the red-faced man said. The gunshot blew the top of his head all over the wall behind him. The Embracers knew what room to go to now. Matthew and Zeke exchanged a quick look, then ran for hiding spots. Matthew got a closet, jumped inside, and made his breathing as quiet as possible. Zeke dove under the bed. Heavy, perfectly coordinated Latin tones rolled down the hallway. No opera, no chorus, had ever matched the perfection in those chants. You couldn't let yourself think of it as beautiful, or the next step would be seeking them out, getting out of hiding, running towards them. Some nights, as Matthew lay awake, the only thing that drowned out the hunger or terror or pain was the thought that just maybe, if he would go towards the sound, if he would embrace— Matthew clenched on his empty stomach. You can't think that. There could be a way out. There could be— Two of them walked into the room, looking around. The rest gathered around the doorway, still chanting. The danger was in how normal they looked; no drooling, no hobbling, no blood-covered shirts. They could have been insurance salesmen, or kindergarten teachers. They glanced around, then looked at the bed. Matthew didn't know how Zeke had given himself away. Surely the soldier was better at hiding than the embassy desk clerk, he had saved Matthew so many times since Kyiv, there was no way… They dragged him out and pinned him against the wall. Matthew couldn't hear what they said to him (not that he didn't know the words by heart by now), but even over the loud Latin coming from the hallway, Zeke's yelling was audible. The Embracers grabbed him by the head and spoke. Zeke struggled. “Fuck you, no, it's, no, no, don't—“ The Embracers spoke again. “I'm not gonna do it! You can't make me! I'm not—“ The Embracers spoke again. “I won't I won't I won't do it no no no—“ The Embracers spoke again. Zeke screamed the word “I” for two full minutes as Matthew counted off the seconds, plugging his ears as well as he could. I should do something, he thought, I should do anything, he's all I've got— Zeke stopped screaming and looked straight ahead. That was when Matthew realized that the difference was in the eyes. It wasn't anything so garish as fangs or wolf ears. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and the Embracers didn't register. No humans present in this building. None but Matthew. One Embracer spoke again, the same statement as before. Zeke answered, quietly but firmly. The Embracer repeated them. Matthew half-heard the words. “The time…has come…” Zeke replied, faintly, “We…many…” The Embracer spoke again. “The time of plurality has come.” Now the rest joined the chorus. “We embrace the many.” Have to do something, he thought… “THE TIME OF PLURALITY HAS COME.” Have to… “WE EMBRACE THE MANY,” they said. The Latin chanting resumed. Matthew couldn't make the tough call either, and was almost relieved when the three Embracers turned toward the closet, looking at him.

Memories Jason surveyed the scene. The place was a mess, broken glass scattered across the floor, small puddles of blood and chemicals here and there, and three dead bodies lying in the middle of the room. Jason shook his head. Things had gotten out of hand real quick. Two of the scientists had pulled guns on the Foundation team, and in the ensuing firefight all three scientists were killed. Walking through the room, Jason spotted a piece of paper jutting out beneath a shelf, just the corner visible. He picked it up, and let out a sigh as he looked at it. A photograph of a family, smiling happily in the nice weather. A woman in her late forties, with a kind and caring look. A little girl, no more than ten years old, beaming like she'd just won the grand prize in the lottery. And a man, probably in his early fifties, one arm around his woman's shoulder and the other holding the girl's hand. On the back, in very neat handwriting, was written “We'll miss you every day you're away. Love, Carla and Lily”. Jason shook his head. The two who had drawn guns were probably members of some shady organization, looking to weaponize or profit off of the SCPs they had acquired, but this man… He hadn't fought, and had seemed completely surprised and terrified when his colleagues started shooting. He had cowered beneath a table, and been hit by a stray bullet. He probably had no idea what they were really doing, perhaps too excited about working with such unusual samples to notice anything suspicious. Jason looked around the room, making sure nobody could see him, and pocketed the photo. He took another round through the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything important, and headed outside. Back in his quarters, Jason sat down on his bed and took out the photo. He looked at it for a little while, and then pulled out the small box he kept in his desk. He unlocked and opened it, slowly looking over the contents. He'd have to get another box soon, this one was getting full. Inside were a number of items; a locket, a scratched and cracked CD plate, several photos, a broken watch, two drawings in crayon, and many other small objects. To anyone else, just a random assortment of trinkets and junk. But Jason knew that each of these items had a history. Each had been taken from a site where the Foundation had run into a conflict that had claimed the life of someone whose only wrongdoing was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn't known why they were killed. And their loved ones would never know the truth. Jason knew though. He had held onto these things to make sure he would remember. The truth might be hidden, but it wouldn't be forgotten. Not so long as he lived. He understood all too well how necessary the work of the Foundation was, and why secrecy was so important. He knew that sacrifices had to be made. But the least he could do was remember those who had been sacrificed for the sake of all of humanity.

Excerpts from the personal diary of Nikola Tesla, March 18th, 1901, regarding SCP-627, obtained from his apartment on January 7th, 1943 by SCP Agent [EXPUNGED] Warden bought me the land. The deal is in its final stages and construction will begin sometime in the winter. The proposed laboratory has ample room, and a direct access to the rail line. The man thinks I'm going to boom the local economy and that a city will spring up because of my work. He doesn't know why I'm really here and what I'm set to accomplish. Free energy. Producing enough electricity that we will no longer need wires. Isolated nations could be brought to the modern age through the work of one simple machine. The orb is the key. I don't know where Jack got it. I just know that there's a perpetual motion to it, and that I've been unable to destroy it and find out what is inside. Striking it with a hammer was useless. Using a cutting torch only made it warm to the touch. Having someone drive a railroad spike into it bent the spike. Throughout all the tests I've done and ran on this creation, it still continues to roll by itself, in the rough span of a meter. Nothing is seeming to animate this. To the ear, there's nothing. It's normally cool as any stone or glass is to the touch, save the rough edges of the flecks of blue material on the surface. I've done everything I can short of smashing it with an industrial pr - Smashing it with an industrial press caused severe damage to the press. I am now short fifty dollars to pay for the damages. June 18th, 1901 "Wardenclyffe." The man thinks that my ambition is going to put his name on the map. He has no idea what I have in store for the world. The ball still rolls on the smooth stone floor of the laboratory space, and the sound can get agitating in the dead of the night. I've begun to design a machine that will use the perpetual motion of this orb in order to produce energy, refining it, and focusing it into a coil of iron and copper, using one of my coil designs from earlier modified appropriately. I'm going to need workers if I'm going to power the seaboard. Work shall begin post-haste. Edison arrived at the lab the other day. The man, while brilliant, is backwards and not as much of a dreamer as I. He may have won over the masses, but I do not need popularity in order to fulfill my goal. Popularity is the need of lesser men. DC current and AC current will be meaningless when my project succeeds. We shared a glass of tea and my assistant rushed him away to leave when workers arrived with a spool of copper wire. Insufferable. Why would you electrocute an elephant just to prove a man wrong? Elephants don't deserve to be electrocuted. The man is an ass, and this emotion is most certainly resentment. I'm allowed emotions! I can resent the man all I please, because our rivalry is chicken seed in comparison to what is to come! That poor elephant. Ball rolls up obstacles. Placed hand in way, rolled up and over hand. Placed brick in way, rolled over brick. Placed in front of assistant. Rolled up assistant's leg, up torso and across face, dropped to the opposite side. Not doing that again. Attempts to slow it down and render its direction askew with wooden blocks also futile. Weighing it down with my hand stops it, but August 19th, 1901 Rudimentary test with coil success. Static discharge safe if grounded and when outside 20 feet. More tests on orb this morning after breakfast. Idea hit me when I woke if I could constrict the size of the meter circumference of the orb's path. Constructed circle of iron using scrap metal, and ..ironically, a path painted by the orb when covered in grease paint. Iron circle to constrict path of orb to that of a foot, as opposed to the usual 1m. Test was a resounding success. Marked speed increase and increase in acceleration. Difficult getting grease paint off. Orb continued at speed until iron ring was removed, then resumed at one meter. To call myself puzzled is an understatement. I'd give anything to be able to see what's inside of this small orb of stone. Going to test this via the extremes come Sunday. I need to get okay from local police, assistant can do that. Continuing to design coil apparatus and "tower" for orb project. Workers are beginning to construct the base and all things are looking well. I find myself not eating, too busy working. I need to remedy this and slow down for my health, but I'm so close, I can feel it in my very soul. I can help the world, perhaps bring in a new day for civilization. And the orb is the key. Sunday, August 24th, 1901 FRUSTRATED HITTING ORB WITH STEAM LOCOMOTIVE DERAILED LOCOMOTIVE GOING TO SLEEP, TOO FRUSTRATED TO KEEP TRAIN OF THOUGHT WHY - GOD DAMNED TRAIN WAS SUPPOSED TO SPLIT IT NEVER AGAIN IF A BLOODY TRAIN CAN'T CRACK THIS THING OPEN THEN NOTHING ON EARTH CAN DOES NOT MATTER, PLAN CONTINUES September 11th, 1901 Found myself sleeping at workbench. Assistant roused me from my sleep, I asked him what time it was. I'd been working into the early dawn hours and still I'm not making appropriate progress. I need to keep the edge in the race for free energy. I have the orb, but Edison may resort to espionage and sabotage. It's not beneath the man if he'll willingly slander my works like he has in the past. He has the fluke of creating the lightbulb? What if someone else made the light bulb and he took it? Paranoia must be due to lack of sleep. I hate the damn sound that orb makes when it rolls on sheet metal. Copper containment must be in tube form in final design. Copper and iron. December 31st, 1901 A new year is dawning. A new year, and soon my preliminary designs will be finalized, and construction will begin. The tower will be tall, over a hundred feet, using wood stabilizers. The idea is the project has to be large, in order to reach the effect necessary for global empowerment. George and I spoke about the money issues. I told him I needed to leave the lab to get to the city and entrusted him with the orb. Before I left, I meditated in the laboratory, looking over one of my electrical coils arc electricity through the room. How can I be wrong when I can -see- the fruits of my designs? I can -see- my designs working? I know I'm right. I have to be right, or all of this work is for nothing. January 7th, 1902 My enemies have been very successful in painting me as a poet and visionary. I've at Wardenclyffe for the past few days, thinking of moving laboratory from Houston Street here. Tower is still under construction but construction is going very well. I need to be able to think. I need the air around here to clear my head and I'm frustrated and scared out of my mind of the possible outcomes of the device. I could power the entire world with this, or I could ignite the atmosphere in flames and kill all life on earth, or absolutely nothing could happen. I need to try. Mankind has lived in the darkness for too long. A tubing system has been tested with the orb, and the orb's conductivity, or rather the motion it has, has given the system a strong electrical charge. I need to constrict and focus. I am not a madman. I am a man with vision and the will to see that vision come to fruition. Why must I remind myself as such? I worry the project has taken a toll on my mental faculties. I can't worry now. I have to see this through. May 4th, 1902 Tower needs about a year before the first test of the design. One year. Worried about money issues. A lot is riding on my success. George had his workers carry in the last of the laboratory equipment to the facility today. The man's a good friend, but I worry that he may seek employment elsewhere if the money dries out. This is why I must succeed. If I don't, I'm going to be in destitution, in debt to men with more pull than I. Word came from the Colorado Springs of the sale of the grounds. It doesn't matter. That laboratory has nothing to give me anymore. All work is now to be done in Wardenclyffe. Nothing ties me to Houston Street anymore. I can work here in solitude and without interruption. The orb is the key. An iron tube, seven inches in diameter, will wrap around a wooden beam in the center of the tower, wrapped in copper wire. Once the electrical charge is built up, it will shoot up the wire and be amplified by the sphere at the top of the tower. The electricity and static charge will then be capable of powering anywhere in the world by 'wobbling' the planet's magnetosphere. I've spent over fifteen years working on this design. It has to work. July 10th, 1902 Today is my birthday. The test firing begins one year from now. The plan is finalized. All I need to do is complete the tower. Money is running dangerously low. JP Morgan and my backers have voiced their doubt. They will be shown the way. Everyone will. I've read of a scientist in Germany, an up-and-comer in the world of physics, who might be able to assist me. The project won't survive without something commercial. I have to leave this project financially sound. Nearly a million has been spent. The great undertaking is nearly complete. The orb is the key. August 30th, 1902 I haven't slept for over eighty hours. I have to finish the project. Everything is in place. The [incomprehensible scribbles and a coffee stain] mustn't malfunction. November 5th, 1902 Saw a film today, Le Voyage dans la lune. The movie is about a group of travelers who shoot to the moon in a giant bullet-shaped craft. They encounter space aliens, and manage to get their way back home. I'm not sure where I found the copy, but I allowed myself time to view it in the means of my work. I'd heard rumors that Edison's technicians have been spreading the film about and not giving the director his due cuts. This strikes me JUST as what Thomas would do. My hatred and rivalry for this man knows no bounds. I will out shadow him with my design. The Tower shall bring in a new age of humanity and Thomas Alva Edison will be left in the dust! Marconi and I have discussed obtaining the last bit of funds I need for my tower. He seems hesitant and I can see it in his eyes when I talk to him the doubt others share. I have no room for doubt. No room. His assistance is vital, however. The tower is constructed. We will begin preparations for test firing over the spring. For now, I need to take a moment to rest. Pigeon flew into arc of one of the coils earlier today and reminded me of dangers of electricity. Going to miss her. She was one of my favorites of the flock I keep. Buried pigeon in shoebox beside oak tree near laboratory. January 1st, 1903 došli peniaze na financovanie projektu treba mimoriadnych finančných prostriedkov z podporovateľov oni mi dal ešte poslednú šancu Potrebujem šesť mesiacov pitnej problémy preč Orb je kľúčom Febuary 10th, 1903 Testing the conductivity today. — Test went well. An odd resonance and sound from the tower. Hum? Need to investigate. Resonance is either a good thing or a bad thing. Workers and pigeons find sound incredibly unnerving. Workers are frightened by the scale of the project. Some of them have voiced their conerns. I tell them they're safe, and that the majority of the current is going into the earth, as per the project's ultimate design. The majority of them are calmed by this, but some still show hesitance when I flip the switch for conductivity tests. The government agents arrived again this morning. They're asking me what's powering the tower, and why I need the carbon tube ring. I ask them what agency they belong to. They tell me they're part of a new unusual incident investigation organization of the Secret Service. They don't seem very bright. I tell them the 'truth' and back my claims up with old diagrams that they couldn't understand and that were of no use to me. They thanked me for the tea I served them and left. That was a close one. I need to prepare for more scrutiny from outside forces. March 18th, 1903 Rolled the orb in chalk and drew a circle on the ground. Washed it off and threw it at a wall as hard as I could. The wall dented, the orb is fine. I doubt this small stone is from our planet. It's so very, very durable, and I'll never be able to find out why it works the way it does. The 'why' no longer matters. The 'what' does. What does it do. It runs in a circle on its own. It speeds up the tighter its path is constricted. The ring will be small and the energy it will produce will be enough. I washed the orb of the chalky dust and drew a map of the globe in the circle I'd drawn earlier. The great marble we live on has some parallels with this little orb. Flecked with blue, spinning forever and ever without a care, in a perpetual circle. It's almost ready. Two months. July 9th Running out of money. First test could be my last. I've asked the workers today to prepare for the undertaking of their lives, and that all the work we've done will pay off within twenty four hours. The faint of heart left after that speech. Only a dozen, two dozen perhaps remain. God see me through this. I'm scared out of my mind, and I'm worried I may not survive the next twenty four hours. The orb's capabilities are largely untouched. George has warned the local police, and they're blocking off a five mile radius around the already isolated laboratory. Tomorrow, I make history. July 10th The forest has been destroyed. The lab is on fire. The tower was too focused. The electricity shot up the tower and was focused in such a way that it punched through the atmosphere in an arc-like beam of light. It vaporized seventeen men that were too close. I miscalculated everything. The shock wave knocked everything not bolted down off of its feet and set fire to the forest that wasn't knocked down. Some of the men are deafened and blinded. Word is from my associates overseas that they've detected the precise distance the beam traveled. It burned a crack into the face of the planet Mars. God forgive me for what I've done. I never meant for this. I wanted to help humanity. Men have arrived to douse the flames. They've taken the orb. God forgive me. I never wanted this. [The remainder of the page has been smeared with tears.]

To: Sir Edward Wilfred Travis, Deputy Director From: Col. Lionel Pierce (Bletchley Park) Date: 6 November 1944 Re: German project in Upper Silesia Sir Edward: In obedience to your order of 26 October, I have directed the staff of my section to identify and analyze intelligence relevant to an understanding of special German military assets and projects that are located in areas that we expect the Soviets to take in the next 60 days. This memorandum discusses such a German asset. The Jerries have it in East Upper Silesia near Kattowitz, an area that we expect Marshal Konev to overrun in the next few weeks. In view of the implications of the Soviets acquiring and possessing this asset, I wanted to get this report to you immediately. I attach three exhibits: Exhibit 1: Plaintext decrypt of an intercepted pre-war ENIGMA communication. As this was an older message, we didn't prioritize breaking the code on this one, and it remained in the queue until a few weeks ago when one of the lads took it up as a training exercise. Exhibit 2: Intercepted orders dated 7 August 1941 from R. Heydrich to Dr. Eduard Wirths regarding the construction of a facility to house the asset. Exhibit 3: Description of asset and protocol for its handling. I respectfully suggest that Command convey this information (in particular, Exhibit 3) to the Soviets through appropriate channels. They need to know what to do when they get there- and more pointedly, what not to do. Respectfully, /s/ L. Pierce Attachments —- Exhibit 1: 24 January 1939 To: Dr. Schmidt, Neuschwabenland, [coordinates] From: SS-Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, Reichssicherheitshauptamt Heil Hitler! Allow me to be among the first to congratulate you and your team on your discovery at Austvorren Ridge [Col. Pierce's note: German name for geographic feature at 73°6′S by 1°35′W)]. Berlin has been following the reports of your expedition to Antarctica with the closest attention. Although the erbsenzähler [translated as “bean-counters”] will probably be less than pleased that the establishment of a German whaling station on the Antarctic continent has proved to be impracticable, that setback cannot diminish the results of your valuable scientific work. The ship Neuschwabenland is to remain in the Antarctic for a few more weeks. You and your team, however, are directed to return to Germany immediately, and bring her with you. [Col. Pierce's note: Here and elsewhere, the Jerries refer to the asset as “she”, or “her”. See Exhibit 3 for our best effort at a physical description.] In eleven days, the Kriegsmarine will dispatch U-38 from Wilhelmshaven to pick you up and convey you to Hamburg. U-38's three forward compartments have been modified into a Aufbewahrungskammer [translated as “containment chamber”]. Feed her, if you must, then freeze her just as you had found her, then crate her and get her aboard the U-boat with as much discretion as possible-Captain Mootz of U-38 has been instructed not to ask questions. You must get her back to the Reich as quickly as possible, as political events in the near future may inconvenience sea access to Antarctica in the short term. You were very brave to dig her up and thaw her out. Do not second-guess your own decision based upon what happened: it is upon courageous men like you that the Reich's vitality and glory depend. Upon your arrival in Hamburg, you will be presented with the Reich's highest honours. The remains of expedition members Hess, Gruber, Schneider and Joachim will also be given an honourable burial— in truth, not a burial, given the circumstances, but I am sure that their widows will appreciate the gesture. Yours, Reinhard Heydrich, Director- Sicherheitspolizei [Col. Pierce's note: We know from subsequent intercepted communications that U-38 returned to Hamburg in late February 1939 and delivered Ernst Schmidt, a few researchers, a large metal tank and several tons of other equipment. This journey was not without incident—based on some intercepted communications between U-38 and Admiral Dönitz's headquarters in early February 1939, it appears that the crew of U-38 attempted to mutiny and scuttle the boat at sea about 120 miles southwest of the Faroe Islands. However, Captain Mootz was able to re-assert control on 18 February and notified Admiral Dönitz regarding the same. U-38 was retired from service following arrival and disassembled. The tank was loaded onto a rail car and sent eastward- our man on the ground tracked it as far as Dresden.] Exhibit 2 7 August 1941 To: Dr. Wirths From: SS-Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, Reichssicherheitshauptamt Heil Hitler! In four days, you will take delivery of the asset that we discussed after the conference back in June. Gruppe G: Technische Arbeitsmittel of the Abteilung Nachrichtenbeschaffung [Col. Pierce's note: We believe that this organization directs the Wehrmacht's research division] has attempted, for the last two years, to make a reliable weapon out of her, without success. She is voracious and deadly, to be sure, but she has consistently been as great a danger to our personnel as to the enemy. Since we have not yet found an effective way of permanently neutralizing her, we are shipping her to you so that she may serve the Reich in a different way. In your letter of 22 July, you noted that the research that Hauptsturmführer Dr. Mengele will be undertaking under your direction could be carried out with greater efficiency if there were a reliable means of rapidly disposing of the detritus of failed tests. We believe that she will serve admirably in this capacity at the Vernichtungslager that you are constructing. However, in order that she may serve this function safely, we have learned from experience that she must be contained in accordance with the attached protocol, which must be observed diligently and without fail. Yours, Reinhard [Col. Pierce's Note: The protocol document to which Exhibit 2 refers is attached as Exhibit 3.] Exhibit 3 [DATA EXPUNGED] « COLD HARPER | Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972 » More by this author Hide list SCPs SCP-1322 SCP-089 spikebrennan's proposal SCP-1844 SCP-1012 SCP-1036 SCP-2553 SCP-1512 SCP-1746 SCP-908 SCP-831 SCP-3236 SCP-2336 SCP-955 SCP-926 SCP-2236 SCP-920-EX SCP-2914 SCP-2008-J SCP-4336 SCP-4436 SCP-1060 Tales Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Spring Cleaning Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972 Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991 Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944 Scroll fragment 13Q29 Stray Katz (part 1) Ad Majorem Bonum Rating: 24

Valley lay in his bed, wheezing as he spoke with his head of security over the radio. "Are my preparations in place?" he gasped, still managing to bring menace into every syllable. A few seconds passed. A tick-tock came from over the radio. Then, Mr. Tick spoke. "Yes. It is ready. Sir." He said in that monotone voice of his. "How long?" Another few seconds passed. "Now." "Beta-23, move in." The six members of Mobile Task Force Beta-23 rushed forward, taking cover positions and looking for viable targets in the small cottage they had been tasked with clearing. They were not yet in there, however, and were still cautious of the enemy firing out of its windows. Which of course, was the least of their worries. The commander, unnoticed by the rest of his team, gasped in agony as what he thought was the grass of the field injected its paralytic venom into him. He would die last, as Marshall, Carter, and Dark's intruder prevention item was not yet hungry. The man at the back of the group flicked his eyes back and forth, checking for targets. He stepped on something as he moved slowly forwards. His gaze flicked down to the photograph for only a second, but that was all it needed. He quietly and politely knelt down and cut his own throat. The others turned around swiftly, having heard their fallen comrades' last gurgles. Two of them aimed their rifles at the absurd image of a stitch moving through the grass like a snake. Two stitches, three stitches. Their bullets did nothing as the stitches moved over them, joining them together, merging lungs and hearts and brains. One stayed, one ran. The one who had stayed stepped back, then winced and looked down. A small dart was stuck right in his knee. Shaking, he pulled it out. It was barbed. Was it poisonous? Would he die slowly, in agony? As he looked down and saw two maggots repairing his wound, he knew he would not die at all. The one who had ran carried on running, panic carrying him when his own strength failed. Soon, his frantic running was joined by the purposeful slam of four paws on the ground. Paws that were running towards him very quickly. A voice came from behind him, a horrible growl of a voice. He dared not look. "Sunny in Harare," it said. He panted. Would he make it to the extraction zone? "Mild in Miami," it growled. He was almost at the fence. Come on, almost! "Rainy in London!" screamed the voice, and the hound pounced. "All went well," tocked Mr. Tick. Of course, Valley knew this from the multiple television screens in front of his bed, but Mr. Tick was always a redundant sort of fellow. Valley smiled. He was dying, of course, but that was no reason not to have fun. He had to do it again soon. "Make another batch," he rasped into the radio. "Make them think they're gocks this time." "Yes. Sir." The door opened and a man stepped in. If you were asked to describe him afterwards, that was all you could say, he was just a man. The illogical colours of his jacket, the jagged curves of his pupils and the impossible pattern on his badge made sure of that. "You called me," smiled the man that had walked in. Its eyes flicked from radio to sky, sky to table, table to Valley in a few seconds. "You're dying?" the man asked curiously, his voice a dull monotone. "Of course I am," Valley said bitterly. "Mr. Carter's parting gift." "You called me," said the man again. "What is it you wanted?" Valley shifted uncomfortably in his bed and stared into what he hoped were the man's eyes. "I am a sick old man, friend." "I am not your friend. Yes, you are. Why do you want to see me?" said the man patiently, its voice quick, as if he was eager to be somewhere else. Valley leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. "I need to expand, but what I have is too limited. The few products I managed to steal before leaving Carter's lovely club are not enough. I need the Station, please. You must help me have it." One of the man's eyes drifted to the ceiling. The other one circled in its socket. It was in deep concentration. "I will need four men. Your best four men." "And money?" A look of confusion crossed the man's face. "I will not need money. I will need four men. Goodbye, Mr. Valley." It walked out of the door and it shut the door behind him. A few seconds passed. Valley leaned back, looked at the thin stump that had yesterday been his arm, and cried.

One Nice Afternoon "Oh, no," Tom groaned, seeing Deb's eyes light up at the familiar-looking pink display window . "I can't handle this. You're on your own, dear." "What's the matter, hun? Scared of a little women's underwear?" "Not scared, just uncomfortable. It's the way those clerks look at you, like I'm crashing some stranger's party." "You could help me pick something out for… later," Deb smirked. Tom smiled and kissed her forehead. "As it turns out, I love surprises." "Fine," Deb huffed in mock anger. "I'll just go alone, then. See you in a bit?" "Yeah, sure, I'll be around. Call my cell when you're done." "Sure thing. See ya, hun." Tom headed into the bookstore first and flipped through the best sellers on the front rack. When that grew dull, he headed over to the Brookstone to take a look at some needlessly complicated grilling tools and lay down on the Tempur-Pedic mattress. Around the time he was picking up a pretzel with nacho cheese sauce, he started to wonder how long Deb was going to be looking at bras, anyway. He was in the process of tucking the little white paper bag into his teeth to pull out his cell phone and call when the first shot was fired. At first, it sounded like firecrackers, but then he heard the shouting and saw the men and the guns. There were two groups of them, shouting and running around, hiding behind the white ceramic planters and tipped-over tables in the food court. One of them tried to move from behind a table to behind the counter of the Orange Julius: he fell down about halfway there, clutching his leg, then his head exploded in a spray of red and grey that splattered across the white tile floor. Tom realized then that he was huddled behind one of the big white planters, his cell phone clutched in his hand in a white-knuckle grip. He'd lost his pretzel at some point: he could see the little brown twist of bread smeared across the tiled floor, little yellow footprints leading away where someone had stomped on his small plastic cup of cheese sauce while running away from the gunfight. It was surreal. Things like this were supposed to happen in downtown Detroit or South Central Los Angeles, not in a Westfield Shopping Center in the Midwestern suburbs. There was a lot of shouting (mostly involving the word "motherfucker,") then there was a big boom, and a lot of smoke, and the shooting stopped. Tom saw a big black man in a brown leather jacket, holding a small gun: it looked like a toy in his big meaty fist. Some men in grey uniforms ran up, then, and the man in the brown leather jacket slowly put down his gun and lay down on the ground with his hands on his head. Tom didn't wait to see what happened next: the moment the cops got the guy, he ran down the escalator and started running towards the Victoria's Secret, shouting Debra's name. She met him outside, and they fell into each other's arms, holding each other tight, as if they would never let go. "I felt so useless," Tom confessed that night, after the cops and the reporters and the much-needed shower. "All that was going on… and all I could think of was to hide." "What could you do?" Deb asked. She was curled up in his arms and was resting her head on his chest. "I don't know," Tom admitted. "But I felt like I should have done something." Deb kissed him, and he kissed her back, and then they took each others' clothes off and let things go from there. Two weeks later, Deb announced she'd missed her period. Sixteen years later, they told their horribly embarassed daughter why her full name was Jennifer Victoria Firefight Nathan. Seeing his daughter groan in horror as her younger brother made snarky comments and her boyfriend look on in jaw-dropped awe, Tom thought back to that afternoon in the shopping mall, and laughed. It was funny, he thought, how things tend to work out in the end. + A Closer Look - Stepping Back A Closer look Gunshot, 9mm, double-tap, Jeff thought, as the first couple of cracks rang out. It was a sound that didn't belong in a shopping mall at 2 in the afternoon. He dropped the big plastic bag and reached under his leather jacket for his concealed carry weapon. He checked the slide and the ejection port: both looked clear, and took off the safety. "Lie down on the ground and cover your heads!" he shouted to the other shoppers. "Wait here!" He headed towards the sound of the gunfire, keeping his head low and the muzzle of his gun pointed at the ground. He glanced around the corner leading to the food court, and saw a bunch of knocked-over tables and some guys shooting at each other. Jeff blinked in surprise: these weren't gangers. Gangers tended to stand up and run around holding their guns out in front of them: they usually relied on mass volume of fire, and they usually took a few shots then ran for it before the cops showed up. What they didn't do was set up lanes of fire, use cover, and coordinate their attacks. Especially coordinate their attacks. "Center Peel, fall back to the counters, go!" someone shouted. "Peel one!" A rapid fusillade of pistol fire rang out, followed by two guys trying to fall back to the food counters. One of them made it, the second took a round in the knee and fell. Jeff saw one of the guys crouched behind the planters take a deliberate double tap and shoot the wounded enemy in the head, killing him. Jeff's blood ran cold. He'd been a Marine in two tours overseas before retiring: that and six years in the force meant he'd spent just about half his life around guns and gunfighters in some fashion or another, and those fourteen years of experience were telling him that these guys were trained professionals: possibly Special Forces of some sort. Now that he knew what to look for, the lines of their clothing seemed strangely bulky in places: did they have body armor under their jackets and jeans? The small-caliber pistol in his hands suddenly felt very inadequate. Then one of the motherfuckers in the food court jumped up holding a small, stubby black tube, and suddenly things went all the way bad. Jeff didn't wait to see what happened next. "GRENADE!" he screamed. He ducked back around the corner, dropped to the ground, put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, opened his mouth. The explosion felt like a full body punch to the gut. There were a few more shots, and then a lot of shouting. Jeff shook his head to clear his fuzzy vision and got back to his feet. The carnage was incredible. Everyone on the planters side of the firefight was dead or dying. In the food court, he saw the guy with the grenade launcher lying dead on the ground with a bullet in his head. There was another guy standing over him, holding a submachinegun of some sort. "GET ON THE GROUND, MOTHERFUCKER!" Jeff shouted. The word "motherfucker" was very important in these cases: it let the guy know who was in fucking charge here. He swept his eyes over the perp's body: eyes, face, hands… Hands. When the perp turned to face him, he saw the guy's hands start to come up, holding his little submachinegun, so Jeff put two in his chest and one in his head. It was done before his heart beat once. The guy fell down and sprawled on the bloody and broken mall floor like a discarded doll. Jeff swallowed hard. It wasn't the first time he'd fired his gun at another human being, but all his fighting in the sandbox had been at long range, shooting his .50 cal at houses from the next sand dune over. He was sure he'd killed some people in his time in the Marines, but this was the first time he'd been close enough to touch the guy as he died. Seeing the light leave the guy's eyes from this close-up… "GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING GROUND RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!" someone screamed, and Jeff winced inwardly. He was suddenly very aware that he was a big black man with a gun standing in the middle of a bunch of dead guys. He very carefully put his pistol down on the ground and slid it into the corner, then lay down in a puddle of sticky wet nastiness and put his hands on his head. Someone ran up to him and put a knee in the small of his back. "Check my inside left coat pocket," Jeff said, slowly and calmly. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE! DON'T SAY A FUCKING WORD!" the guy screamed. "Brad?" an older, wiser voice said. "Check his fucking coat pocket already before you say something really dumb." Trembling hands reached into his leather jacket pocket and fumbled out the wallet from his jacket. A few moments later, the pressure on his back let up, and someone reached a hand down to help him to his feet. Jeff looked up into the face of a big, balding white guy with an impressive red beard, wearing a light grey rent-a-cop outfit. "Officer," the guard said. "Holy crap, Jeff, you look like hell," Captain McCoy sighed. "I thought this was supposed to be your day off." "You know me, sir," Jeff said, smiling weakly. "I like to take my work home with me." "Nobody likes a workaholic, Jeff. Did you give your statement yet?" "Rog took it down a few minutes ago," Jeff admitted. "I'm just waiting for someone to tell me I can leave." "Well, then, consider this an order: go home. Get some rest. Don't bother coming in tomorrow, you can have the day off. But don't leave town either, just in case someone needs to talk to you. Kay?" "Yes, sir," Jeff sighed. He got up and picked up the big plastic bag by his feet. It took him a moment to find Roger in the crowd: He finally found the detective standing in the parking lot, standing over a dead body lying on the concrete with its head at an oddly skewed angle. "What the fuck happened here?" Jeff asked. "Not sure. Looks like one of the perps ran for it and fell down the stairs, broke his neck. What's up?" Jeff handed the big white plastic bag to Rog, who looked inside and nodded. "I'll find someone to take care of it," Rog said. "Go home. Get some rest." Jeff nodded back and wearily walked to his car. He got behind the front seat and took a moment to close his eyes and rub his forehead. Then he took out his phone and held down the "1" key for a few seconds. The phone picked up before it rang twice. "Jeff?" a warm, female voice said. "Hi, Tanya," Jeff replied. "How are you?" "I'm fine… are you okay, Jeff?" "Yeah, I'm fine. Are you watching the news?" "Yes, I heard… oh my god, Jeff, was that you?" "Yeah," Jeff admitted. "That was me. I'm fine, but McCoy needs me to stay in town for a few days, in case the cops or press want to talk to me. So… I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it out tomorrow for little Jeff's birthday. I'll have someone deliver his present, though." "I understand. Do you want to talk to him right now?" "Sure, Tanya. I'd appreciate that. Hi, kiddo, how's it going? You saw me on the news? Yeah, that's your dad, all right. No, I'm fine, son. It'll take more than a couple of bad guys to get me, you know that. Look, something's come up, and I won't be able to come to your party tomorrow: your dad's captain needs him to stay in town and help him to figure out who these bad guys were, but I'll make sure you get your present. So be good to your Mom, okay, son? I'll try to see you next weekend. And don't worry. Everything's gonna work out in the end." + A Wider Perspective - The Original View A Wider Perspective I don't see why you need me to do this. You can just read the damn transcripts or look at the video records. Oh yeah? Well, fuck yer "subjective point of view." Fine, fine, whatever, don't get yer panties in a bunch. I'm just saying there ain't much I can tell you that you don't already know. Where do I start… well, Tempest Night happened, and suddenly we've got a lot of agents being redirected to deal with the consequences. MC&D pokin' around our territory, tons of escaped skips all over the place, buncha MTFs being reassigned to handle that clusterfuck, which means a lot of missions are running short-handed, which means they had to reassign some of us to deal with, you know, actually finding and capturing skips. So they put me and the kid into an investigative cell trying to find some guy who can bend bricks with his bare hands. Yeah, I said bend bricks. No, don't ask me how that shit works. Mine is not to reason why. That's your fucking job. So as I was saying, this cell was short-handed because their former mission controller was reassigned to look for Vector: he was on the team that originally brought her in, so they decided they needed his "unique expertise." They didn't need the rest of the team, so they could keep on the mission. But the team needed a new mission controller… so, of course, they decide to tap good ol' Max and his newbie friend to watch the camera feeds. So anyway, we track this guy to a shopping mall, and we're doing a shadow and investigate: two teams of two walking around the mall keeping an eye on this guy to make sure he's not trying anything too hinky. What? Of course they were armed, are you stupid? Don't give me that shit: you know what can happen on this job, and it's a damn good thing they were armed, or shit might have gone down different. Way different. Don't give me that bullshit, these guys were pros, not trigger-happy goons. No, I hadn't worked with them that long, but after enough years on this job you get a feel for this sorta thing. You can tell a pro from an goon easy, and these guys were pros. Yes, that IS my subjective opinion, but that's exactly what you wanted me to give, right? Shut the fuck up and let me talk. Anyway, the guy's sitting in the food court eating a hot dog on a stick when shit starts to go down. Tsai saw it first: four guys coming in through the food court glass doors: could be four friends on a shopping trip, but they weren't looking at each other or talking, or even looking at the stores. They were looking at the people. Tsai and Ming decide to fall back to across the bridge to get a better view, and Carter and Wyatt move up to rendezvous with them. It's about when all four of them finally meet up that one of the four motherfuckers in the foodcourt pulls his .45 and starts shooting. Shit starts to happen real fast after that. Our guys grab some cover behind some planters. The skip rabbits and starts running for it: so does everyone else, but our guys are pinned down by enemy fire and can't get out. They start returning fire, and Tsai manages to down one of them, which I guess pisses one of them off, because he pulls a motherfucking M203 from his backpack and blows the team to shit. Four flatlines: they're all dead. And that's when I told the kid to get us the fuck out of there, because the op was blown. Ever fled the scene of a crime at 35 mph? Fucking nerve wracking. We got out of the parking lot about two minutes before the cops locked the place down. The rest you know. What do I think happened? Ain't it fucking obvious? We were set up. You've seen the tapes: those guys were packing heavy heat and wearing heavy armor. Sounds like a gock strike team to me. Is it any coincidence that they found the skip dead of a broken neck shortly after? This was a message: stop fucking around in their territory, or face the consequences. Fucking gock assholes. What? Fine, I'll answer one last fucking question, just for you. PDW? No, it was all pistols up until that M203 came out. What? Of course I'm sure. None of us had any, and the gocks were all using .45s. That GOC Personal Defense Weapon fires .223, which sounds completely different. … well, I don't know what to tell you, then. Like you said, this was my subjective point of view. All I know is what I saw. I can't tell you exactly how everything worked out. + From the Other Side - The Story We Know Transcript of Communications Logs: GOC Strike Team 'Marduk,' ██-██-████, ████:██. Marduk Six (Team Leader and Overwatch): Comms check. Six here. Marduk One (Point Man): One. Marduk Two (Lead Marksman): Two, ready. Marduk Three (Support Marksman): Three here. I'm good. Six: Four, please respond. (pause) Marduk Four (Heavy Support): Sorry about that, had a problem with my headset. Four here. Six: Copy that. Eyes and Ears check… . confirm camera and mics operational. Equipment check. One: One okay. Two: Two okay. Three: Three okay. Four: Four good to go. Six: Confirmed. Mission Control, this is Marduk Six. Team is go. Control: Marduk Six, this is Control. You are cleared to proceed. Six: Confirmed. Five minutes to start time. Remember, guys, this is Response Level One. Do not open fire unless attacked first. Just get eyes on the target and wait for further instructions. One: Confirmed. Five minutes. (pause) One: Arrived. Exiting vehicle. (pause) One: We're inside. I have eyes on the target. He's in the food court, eating a corn dog and some fries. Six: Confirmed. Why don't you guys grab a bite to eat? Looks like we'll be here for a bit. One: Sounds good to me. Hey, guys, let's go grab some Sbarro's… HOLY SHIT! Six: What was that? One: SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED! WE ARE WEAPONS HOT! Six: One, say again? I'm seeing no hostiles present! One: Marduk Six, this is Marduk One, team is under fire from hostile forces, we require immediate extraction! (shots fired) Six: MARDUK TEAM, CEASE FIRE IMMEDIATELY! ABORT, ABORT! Two: HOSTILES SIGHTED! BEHIND THE PLANTERS AT TWO O'CLOCK! One: TEAM! WE ARE LEAVING! CENTER PEEL, FALL BACK TO THE COUNTERS, ON MY MARK, PEEL ONE, GO! Two: MOVING! Three: I'M HIT! I'M HI— (Marduk Three's lifesigns terminated) Six: MARDUK TEAM, ABORT ABORT ABORT! One: MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN! MULTIPLE HOSTILES INBOUND! Four: FRAG OUT! Six: NO! (explosion) Six: Mission Control, this is Marduk Six, I'm going in. Control: Six, this is Control. Do not enter the mission zone. I say again, do not enter the mission zone. (Marduk Six exits the vehicle and enters the mission zone.) Control: Crap. One: Holy fuck! They're behind us! Two: Fuck! (shots fired. Marduk Two's lifesigns fluctuating.) Two: I'm hit! I'm hi— (shots fired. Marduk Two's lifesigns terminated.) Four: Tango down, tango down! One, let's GO! Six: MARDUK TEAM, STAND DOWN! One: HOSTILE SPOTTED! SMG! (shots fired. Marduk One's lifesigns terminated.) Four: BASTARD! Six: DON'T DO IT! (shots fired. Marduk Four's lifesigns terminated.) Six: Command, this is Marduk Six, team is compromised, I say again, team is compromised, I am exiting the mission… Unknown: GET ON THE GROUND, MOTHERFUCKER! Six: Wait! Don't shoo— (shots fired. Marduk Six's lifesigns terminated.) Control: Marduk? Marduk? Team Marduk, please respond. (no answer.) Control: Marduk? + The End - End It The End He was running out of the shopping mall, away from the madmen with guns, when he felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. It carried him over the railing and down the stairwell, three stories straight down, to land on unyielding concrete with a bone-shattering thud. The last thing he saw, as he fell, was a young Asian woman with long black hair standing at the top of the stairs, watching him fall to his death with cold, dispassionate interest in her yellow eyes. + The Truth - Illusions The Truth That worked out better than expected, in the end, She thought. One troublesome GOC strike force destroyed. Four meddling Foundation agents dead. Tensions between the two groups heightened. And all for the cost of one young man's life. Not bad for one day's work.

Dr. Bright sat in the middle of the Cafeteria, the old fashioned computer set before him. Atop said computer was a certain statue of a certain monkey, which many people had tried to obtain. Around him stood, sat, or otherwise existed quite a large number of the junior staff, with a few seniors, all eyes glued to the good doctor. "And…save. There we go. The entirety of site 19, backed up, and emailed elsewhere, so if this goes as balls up as I expect it to, we can reboot." He sighed, and stood up. "In that case, I officially declare the beginning of the Staff Prank war of 2011. Whoever holds 050 at the end of a 24 hour period will be promoted to the ranks of Senior Staff. I currently hold it, so y'all can start by pranking me… May god have mercy on all our souls." …And then the bomb under his chair detonated, covering the cafeteria with lime green paint, and incidentally blowing his legs off in the process. Several rooms away, research assistant Renfield took her fingers out of her ears and looked happily down at the monkey statue now gracing her new desk. Dmitri studied his reflection for a moment, adjusted the angle of his hat, then exited his quarters. The heel irons in his boots clicked on the linoleum floors as he walked briskly through the halls of Site 19. Those going about their daily business knew to stay out of the way when Strelnikov was about; his movements had purpose, and that could only mean a disaster was looming. Indeed it was. Renfield's office was only two floors down from his own. Before he even knew it, he was reading the nametag on her door. Or rather, he was reading her name amongst a list of other assistants who shared this office. As he kicked the door off its hinges, he decided it didn't really matter whose office it was. His boots left dents in the sheet metal as he stepped over the broken door and surveyed the group of cowering interns, hand resting casually on his holster. "Which ones of you is Rend Field." No answer. "I WILL SHOOT ONE OF YOU EVERY MINUTE UNTIL I AM TOLD WHICH ONES OF YOU IS REND FIELD." The group parted like the Red Sea, leaving a smug looking young girl standing alone in the center. Dmitri's teeth shone as he growled at her. TWO HOURS LATER "SON OF THE BITCH, JACK. GOD DAMMIT." "Dmitri, you can't just shoot whoever is holding the monkey and expect to get it. That isn't a prank." Bright's wheelchair bumped into the back of Dmitri's leg as he manhandled it around. "And get out of the damn way." Dmitri jabbed a finger at Bright. "IT IS A PRANK. I HAVE DONE THIS PRANK SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE, IN BOTH WARS." "It's not a prank, Dmitri." "YES IT IS!" "Dmitri. It's over. You're out of the competition now, for good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go deal with Renfield in the infirmary….smug little bitch. You could have at least killed her." Strelnikov sighed heavily and returned to the quiet of his quarters, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that 050 would never be his. Agent Lament whistled quietly to himself, glancing down at his watch, nodding amiably to the nurse as she walked into Renfield's room carrying an IV bag of saline. Lament smirked slightly and started walking down the hallway, heading toward his extremely messy office and waiting outside the door. Renfield moaned in her sleep, the drugs having her knocked out completely. The nurse hooked up the IV bag, checked the prone woman's vitals, and left the room. Within three minutes Renfield's skin started to develop large, round hives, then her neck and throat started to swell as a severe allergic reaction set in, followed by her eyes shooting open as the stimulants hit her bloodstream. She tried to scream but couldn't, her throat beginning to close as she desperately hit the call button again and again and again… Lament opened his door, looking into his office and smiling slightly at the statue. Now… How the hell could he get rid of it before someone noticed that he had it? Few people had a true appreciation for just how ingrained computers were with every single aspect of modern society, and the Foundation was no exception. Despite all the hard copies, every report, every researcher's note, every field log and every file photo was logged into a computer database somewhere. Every personnel transfer, every requisition form, every security feed, all set up in little 0's and 1's on a hard drive somewhere. When the transfer of Site 19's backup set off some alarms, he knew it was time. Kap - a name adopted because he was sick of people mispronouncing his full name - was sitting and typing away deep in the bowels of the Site. The coders and hardware gurus had a whole, unique set of regulations and security clearances, and the amount of information you were exposed to above your classification level was directly proportional to your time on the job. The guys that ran the networks and made sure the workstations functioned knew more than most of the researchers, though maybe not as much as that one janitor. Once he realized that a mixed batch of saline and known allergens could only be used for the ever-escalating prank contests, a few key strokes were all it took to set retaliation in motion. A series of embedded programs ticked off other protocols which activated further batch processes. The sheer array of false IPs and bogus addresses would take the average user months to back-trace, and any of the other computer staff were already well-bribed with beer, pizza, and the promise of a neat and orderly work area. Lament opened the door to his office, seeing a single, solitary box laying there, carefully gift-wrapped and tied with a neat bow. It wasn't even close to his birthday, but there was no way any sort of bomb or other device could have made it that deep into a secure Foundation site, so he took it inside and opened it up. Kap was as surprised as anyone when the little monkey appeared on top of his computer tower, and sighed slightly at the poor devil who was going to have to treat Lament and clean up the hundreds of tiny insects from his office. After all, the present was bees. INCIDENT 2011-██ T-330 minutes Researcher Eisenberg seen carrying a set of mechanic tattooing equipment, origin unknown T-310 minutes Researcher Eisenberg seen entering the enclosure of SCP-1006, carrying a bucket, a stack of papers, and his personal copies of Assorted Writings of V.I. Lenin, and History of VKS(b). T-260 minutes. Researcher Eisenberg seen leaving the enclosure of SCP-1006, carrying a bucket. T-245 minutes Researcher Eisenberg enters SCP-786's secure room in Site-19 storage. T-0 Junior System Administrator Kap seen entering medical wing, distraught, lacking vestments, and covered in spiderwebs. A 1:3 greyscale full body portrait of V.I.Lenin can be seen on his back, and a text later identified as the entire text of "State and Revolution" in 8 pt. font covering his chest, abdomen, and both thighs. T+20 minutes Desk of Researcher Eisenberg [REDACTED], markedly improving the filing order. Dr. Los E. R. checked the sign again. Eisenberg's office was room…321? No, wait, 312. He set off at a brisk pace down the hallway, hoping to get there before anyone else did. 309, 310, 311…There we go, 312. Los E. R. gave a quick knock and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. Researcher Eisenberg visibly balked at the sudden intrusion, his eyes darting to the statue on his desk before reaching for the top drawer. "Whoa whoa whoa! Calm down, I'm not going to do anything!" Los E. R. held his palms out. "See? Sorry, didn't think you'd be so jumpy." Eisenberg stopped, eyeing the doctor warily, but kept his hand resting on the top drawer. "What do you want?" "Word around the site is that you got 1006 to net Kap. Just wanted to say, that's brilliant! No one ever expects nets!" Los E. R. chuckled to himself. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm not going to pull some horrendous prank. I'd probably end up in the hospital, I've never been really good at elaborate pranks." Eisenberg seemed to relax slightly at Los E. R.'s reassurance, but wasn't totally swayed. "No, it wasn't nets, exactly…I had them tattoo Lenin on him." Los E. R. burst out laughing, leaning on the desk for support. "You had them tattoo a portrait of Lenin?! That's genius! How does someone come up with something like that?! Oh man, I'd never pull something like that off, I'm no good with those elaborate pranks. Did you actually talk to those little commies yourself?" Eisenberg smiled and chuckled nervously. "Yeah, it wasn't too hard to get them to agree. I mean, it was Lenin after all. Talking to a bunch of spiders though…that was kinda creepy. They were all over the place." "I can tell. You've got a cobweb on your coat, here let me…" Los E. R. reached forward and scratched at Eisenbergs lapel. On instinct, he glanced down to catch a glimpse of the bit of silk wafting from his collar, only to get a flick on the nose. "Gotcha." Stunned, he watched as Los E. R. laughed one more time before he scooped SCP-050 from his desk and exited the room. As he disappeared around the door frame, Eisenberg heard him chuckle. "Never was any good with those elaborate pranks." "Hey, Los." Los E. R. felt a chill run down his spine at the voice. "Oh no," he whimpered. "Not HIM…" He turned around, clutching the monkey statue to his chest, as a breathtakingly ugly middle-aged man walked down the hall towards him. "Relax," Clef said. "I don't want that statue. I'm already senior staff, and I have no interest in Bright's games. You're safe from me." Los E. R. sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god," he said. "I really did not want to be subject to a prank by you." "Hey, don't worry about it. I'm beyond that sort of bullshit anyway. I always thought that stuff was kinda stupid. In fact, as a sign of my goodwill, I'll escort you back to your office." Los E. R. quickly followed Clef down the hallway. It was amazing, he thought, what the presence of that man could do. A researcher leaped out from around the corner holding a giant creme pie, which he rapidly put down and walked away from. A man wearing a hockey mask and holding a machete took off his costume and had a sheepish talk with the Senior Researcher. It was wonderful. "Well, here we are," Clef said. Los E. R. looked up at the door and frowned. "This isn't my office," he said. "What? Oh, oops. Sorry. 571, not 517. Let's go." Clef led the junior staff member to the other side of the floor, and to his office. "Well, here we are… again," he said, a few minutes later. "Thanks a lot, Dr. Clef," Los E. R. said. "I really appreciate it." "No problem. Oh, Los? Remember when I said I had no interest in Bright's games?" Clef grinned, a huge, evil, sinister grin. "I lied." That was when the door of Los' office exploded outward, and five thousand gallons of compressed shaving cream flooded the hallway. Clef watched Los being carried away in the avalanche of white foam, and wiped a little spot off his jacket. "Go get em', Adams," he murmured. Ed from Accounting (everyone thought of him as "Ed from Accounting" — including himself after 14 years at the job) hated the prank wars. A waste of staff time, the building maintenance budget, and the cost of injuries, if you asked him…which no one did. The usual threats — paperwork, budget cuts, audits — never seemed to work. More creative means were called for. Ed called Junior Researcher Johnson. "Is it ready? … really? Good! Bring it around to my office." Fifteen minutes later, Johnson was in Ed's dingy, cluttered office, handing him a small brown bag. Ed looked in the bag and smiled. "How long will it stay that way?" "Weeks" Johnson replied. "at least, if no one touches it." Ed put the bag in his briefcase, along with a small stack of papers. 12:20? Good. Adams would be off to lunch. He headed up to her office. Ed knocked on the door, then let himself in. Good, no one there. It was easy to swap the item on Adams' desk for the one in the bag. He slipped the Form 1661-G under the inner door for Dr. Clef. That would excuse his visit; the auditors really did need it next week. Back downstairs in his office, Ed opened a file cabinet and dropped SCP-050, still in its bag, next to the 2004 Operating Budget reports. It looked like someone's long-forgotten lunch. He didn't care the least bit about "winning" it — he just wanted it out of circulation. No one would guess that he had the wit to obtain it. No one would guess that he had pulled this particular prank, since he wasn't supposed to have any access to SCPs. No one ever came down to Accounting if they could help it. SCP-050 would be there for a long time. When they found the fake, they would blame Johnson, who had shown some real success in training SCP-157. Research Assistant Reject was having a nice, calm day, sipping his coffee and skimming through his newest batch of paperwork while strolling down the hallway to his office. He was called Reject for a very good reason: although he had been a member of the Foundation for ten years, he had been the same rank for over seven of them. He even called himself Reject. His bachelorhood had hopelessly dragged on much longer than he had ever hoped. He was used to being a reject. That was, until he spotted a man in a suit walking into Dr. Clef's office. Reject was never known as an especially observant person, but today was different. He had heard about some pranks going on, but he didn't really care about any of that. He was determined to work his way up the ladder without shaving cream or explosives, just with hard work and dedication. Until he saw a very happy man running out of Dr. Clef's office, his arms crossed upon his chest. Reject could see a brown paper bag bobbing slightly above and below the man's arms. His interest piqued, Reject decided to follow him. The man never turned around as he walked. Reject didn't have any trouble following him. Ten minutes later, Reject realized just how far they had walked. He turned his head. "Accounting —>" was written on a sign, pointing in the direction that he was going. After another couple of minutes, the man turned sharply into an office. Reject peeked into the room to see another man converse shortly with the man he had followed and take the bag. Reject ducked behind a corner as both men exited the office. Reject attempted to follow the man with the bag, but lost him in the maze of cubicles and offices in this unknown sector. Reject turned to leave, but decided not to let this go. This chance was his. He called up an old friend from Sector 28 with a favor to ask. His friend agreed, and in an hour, Reject knew that he would have the chance to become a Senior Staff member. He went to his office and placed an empty coffee mug alongside a mostly unread folder of paperwork. One hour later, Reject met his friend in the cafeteria. Reject's friend handed him a bag with two words written on it. "DON'T LOSE." Reject smiled, and walked briskly down towards the accounting offices. Once there, he took the item out of the bag. Staring at a sentient calculator was a new experience for him. After befriending SCP-168, he asked his new buddy a favor. The calculator agreed in return for the ability to see the rest of the prank war. Reject dropped SCP-168 in the office he had seen before as soon as the man inhabiting it left. Reject admired his handiwork. He took a seat on a nearby chair. When the man returned, he gave Reject a questioning glance, but dismissed it. After five minutes in his office, a scream was heard. When the man exited his office, his face was pale white. In his hand was SCP-168. The man looked at the calculator and said "Okay, okay. I'll go get it. I didn't realize the world would end if I didn't! I feel so awful…" Reject chuckled to himself and began to shadow the man as he hurried down the hallways. When they arrived at a file cabinet, the man stopped. He ran his finger along the cabinet until he reached "2004 Operating Budget Reports Jan-Mar." He started typing on the calculator. After a short period, the calculator responded. The man jumped back, aghast. He yelped "No! I brought you to the stupid monkey! That can't be!" Reject quickly decided he'd had enough of complaining from this unknown man and dealt a swift uppercut to the jaw followed by an elbow to the nose. As he fell, Reject grabbed SCP-168 and the brown paper bag. Overjoyed, he began to walk back to his office. He looked once more at the unconscious accountant on the ground. And then he laughed, and left this bloody, deceptive business behind him as he strolled back towards his office with a renewed sense of confidence. "Nevah let practicality stand in de way of art, my cousin." The humongously fat Hawaiian nodded ponderously at the uniformed corpse held aloft in his hand, then slowly shook it so that it's head nodded along. Chuckling to himself, he slipped the matchbook the poor guard had died failing to protect into an outer pocket of his enormous satchel next to a tarnished canteen, and waddled out of the ruined containment unit and down the hallway toward the personnel wing. Flanked by a pair of traitor guards, their sleeves rolled up to reveal liberty cuffs emblazoned with blaring abstract designs, the huge man reflected on the work and planning that had gone into this effort. It was impractical, sure. Infiltrating the Foundation's security forces alone had taken months. Fortunately, the prank war was a regular yearly event, so he'd had plenty of time to prepare. "Ah, here it tis." He stopped in front of a particular office, grinning as he began pulling the necessary materials from his satchel. A small funnel, a length of tubing, the matchbox and canteen, and hundreds of small paper packets, which his helpers began opening one by one. It didn't take long to tape the tubing to the mouth of the canteen, and slide the other end under the door. It took only a little longer to funnel the contents of the packets into the gap, and considerably less to open the matchbook and slide it in as well before sealing the gap completely with more tape. Once their work was done, the big man rose and nodded to his companions, then paused to doodle a small cartoon on the door before heading back down the hallway they'd come in by and leave the facility. Later that day, as loyal security men tried desperately to work out what had happened to SCP's 649 and 109, Reject arrived at his office to find a scribbled caricature on his door of a fat man in a bowler hat giving him the finger, with the text "PRANKED BY BRUDDAH GROVE! Are We Cool Yet?". Reject had just enough time to curse before the door burst and he was swamped by a massive wave of lime jello. Dr. Los E. R. dug a finger in his ear, trying to dig out the last vestiges of shaving cream. He winced as the dried bits twisted painfully before crumbling lose. Site 19 was a maze on the best of days, and on Senior Staff Shenanigans day it was a minefield. He rerouted around the third floor; he had heard that someone had gotten their hands on a metric ton of hissing cockroaches and thermite. He skirted the south side of the fourth floor, trying to find his way back to the restrooms to wash up. If memory served, it was at the end of the hall on his right, next door to where they put Research Assistant Reject after he somehow managed to shrink his office to a third of its original size. He was scrapping dried flakes of cream from his lower back when he noticed he what he was walking in. Quizzically, he raised a foot to get a better look. Smells a little like lime, kind of minty. Looks like some kind of green…slime? He glanced down the hallway and saw Reject, lying in a puddle of the stuff. He was either out cold, or dea- Los E. R.'s heart skipped a beat as he put two and two together. "DEAD BODIES!!!" Screaming incoherently, Dr. Los E. R. hurtled back the way he came, sticky green jello foot prints marking his progress to the nearest SCP-447 alarm. Bruddah Grove paused as the klaxon sounded. Blast doors slid into place over the exit. How poetic, so close to freedom with artifacts of power. With the dead security guard he had been dragging along, he waved at his companion. "Dis noise, have they figured out what we are doing?" The traitorous guard shook his head, the blood draining from his face. "That's the 447 alert. They've locked the exits. They're going to detonate the on-site warhead." There was a full moment of silence. Carefully picking each word, Bruddah Grove looked at the tiny man. "How doh we get out den?" The two guards looked at each other nervously. "We don't. We could try to get to the O5 bunker, but we can't make it from here. It's fifty levels down-" "Wait!" The other guard perked up. "The Site septic tank! I know that they've started reenforcing them ever since Bright accidentally flushed 523. It might be able to withstand the blast!" "The Sewage Access Hatch isn't far from here, we can make it if we hurry!" Taking the slim glimmer of hope for what ever it was worth, the trio hurried desperately down the hall. O5-8 sighed. This was not the first time the 447 alert had been sounded on Senior Staff Shenanigans Day. Before flipping the switch and killing everyone on-site, he took a moment to make sure it was a dead body. If it wasn't, no harm done. If it was, well…the nuke wouldn't do any good, anyways. A quick check later confirmed that Research Assistant Reject was not, in fact, dead. Perhaps more importantly, it turned out that it wasn't even 447 slime at all. With an irritated grumble, he switched of the klaxon. This prank war was stupid. Bruddah Grove sat in the filth of the entire Site, watching his two companions float face down in the lanterns pale light. He might be here for a while, and they were using up too much air. He reflected on how their lungs filled with filth and life drained from their bodies, a testament to how life starts pure and ignorance weighs innocence down with shit. A haiku rose unbidden from his lips. "Here I stew in filth, Waiting for the Bombs Big Boom. Now, Are We Cool Yet?" Dr. Los E. R. felt rather silly. Of course it was another prank. He should have known. It probably wasn't even meant for him. Having long since given up hope of finding a bathroom to clean up in, he had started to work his way back to his office. Pushing the door open, a bucket of water immediately fell from atop the door. Irritated yet strangely grateful to get some kind of wash, he lifted the rim of the bucket to find the monkey sitting on his desk. Junior Researcher Byantara had prepared a whole week in advance for this day. With Senior Staff position at stake, there was no reason not to be prepared. Crazy prepared, in his case. Six days, thirteen hours, forty-five minutes and nine seconds ago, Byantara was profusely apologising to a very unamused Doctor Crow, surrounded by the products of twenty-three very startled Malayan Stink Badgers which had now escaped their cages and were clawing the wallpaper off Doctor Crow's office. Long story short, it was yet another round of maintenance duty for him. Four days, seven hours, two minutes and fifty-five seconds ago, Byantara began painting the offices on the third floor of Block 2A, by himself, using two paint rollers, a crate of white paint, a box of plaster, a crate of tomatoes, and several dozen rolled-up meters of ultra-thin semi-permeable tubing. Two days, twelve hours, thirty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds ago, a parcel arrived for Site-19, sealed with black tape and hastily recovered from designated post box PO-2354 by a certain shifty-looking Junior Researcher sent to collect the daily personal mail. One day, two hours, and exactly forty-nine seconds ago, Byantara finished his lab work, packed up, cleaned Chamber 2A-2-1 and secured several large marital aids to the floor before locking up. He proceeded similarly for Chamber 2A-2-3, -2-5, -2-7 and -2-9, and left the building with a little smile. Now, all that was left was to hope someone in Block 2A actually managed to get hold of 050. One hour, three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago, he idly browsed through the frantically compiled digital record of SCP-050 possession. Soon it would arrive. From Bright, to Clef, to Reject… Byantara refreshed the page, spat out his acrid coffee, and dashed out of the lab. In his right hand was a remote, with a single green button, and he mashed it in double time to his steps towards the central communications office. Tucked in safely mere inches above the ceiling of Doctor Los's freshly painted office, forty-eight plastic phalluses began to hum. As expected, not only was the comms office a very long distance away, it was also utter chaos. Someone had sounded some sort of alarm beforehand, and whoever was meant to be guarding the place were long gone, leaving dog-eared papers in their wake. Chuckling to himself, he called up the speaker of Office 2A-3-5. Five seconds. Four seconds. Byantara cleared his throat. Three. The collective vibrations caused by the forty-eight sex toys would be building up to the maximum by now, shaking the ceiling - and walls - of every office on the floor below it, rupturing the many little sachets of tomato juice seeded in the plaster beneath the apple-scented white paint. Two. Junior Researcher Byantara took a deep breath. One. In his office, Doctor Los E. R. cowered beneath his desk as the walls began to bleed and the ceiling screamed his name. He was too busy wetting his pants to notice SCP-050 disappear from his office, later to be found in the locker of Junior Researcher Byantara. "Bloody Los… Surprised that even worked as a prank… " Researcher Eisenberg sat at his desk, absentmindedly stroking Nastasia, his linen cat. "I'll teach him to cut the latin…wait, that's an idea.". Researcher Eisenberg rushed out of his office, and returned rather sweaty, holding a heavy Latin dictionary. Work has just begun. About an hour later - languages weren't exactly his strong side - Researcher Eisenberg arrived into the containment cell of SCP-758, with a sheet of paper heavily worn out with eraser marks. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed that upon seeing it, Vasili let out a sigh before introducing an ample amount of corrections. A glance at the current tally showed him however, that the statue has changed owners several times since he started his preparations, currently residing at the desk of some no-name Junior Researcher… whose name was actually rather lengthy. "Byan-ta-ra… bloody hell, and I thought my surname was unwieldy." Researcher Eisenberg sighed and took out a pencil. "Bloody hell, hope this ink is black enough…" His sweaty hands grabbed the worn leather of SCP-141, an act that would make many a bibliophile cringe, and he began to laboriously scribble onto the first free page, trying to imitate the original writing as well as possible. "..e-ra-tio … that should be it". Shaking with expectation, he ran to the nearest internet-enabled terminal. A quick search, and even quicker email from a disposable address later, Vladim. A. Eisenberg, in his mind already a Senior Researcher, walked back to his office. Sitting at his desk, Junior Researcher Byantara was enjoying the fruit of a day's work - SCP-050 stood on his surprisingly clean table, and if it was his lucky day, he might just about be among the few Foundation employees to ever skip a rank. "Wonder if Los has caught them all… he's lucky there isn't 151.. I wonder if the big one counts as Sn-" His thoughts were interrupted by a kick into the door, and in the next moment, he had to take cover behind his desk from a hail of bullets, accompanied by an even stronger hail of high-fidelity Russian swearing. A desk that the monkey statue has conveniently disappeared from. Earlier… To: gro.pcs|vokinlertsad#gro.pcs|vokinlertsad From: moc.rotaniliam|detimilnu_sexnyl#moc.rotaniliam|detimilnu_sexnyl Subject: Take a look at who you work with, Dimitri Junior Researcher Byantara is an interesting man, isn't it? www.cnn.com/2011/11/15/Europe/scientist-accused-of-aiding-chechen-terrorists/index.html Researcher Eisenberg prepared himself a cup of tea, and against all rules of hygiene, kissed the small statue, which responded by giving him a mild electric shock. -- " Hey buddy, I see no one has bothered to come see you today. I'm sorry for that, alot of shi..stuff has been going on ,but it's fun stuff. You know what a prank is? Good, you wanna help me with one? Oh don't worry no one will get hurt, and here have some MnMs. Tasty aren't they? You wanna help me now. That's great! Here's the plan." As he watched the gelatinous form move from the room, a smile formed on Junior Researcher Tad's face. It was his time to shine for once. It was luck that he walked by Eisenberg's office just in time to see the statue appear on his desk. Eisenberg sipped at his tea, giving glances to his prize every few seconds. He also kept an eye on the door. Making sure that no fool would try to win the statue. If only he thought to check the airvent. As the orange form lowered down, it's pseudopods at the ready. Eisenberg looked up; Even with the strong smell of herbs in his nose he picked up another scent. The smell of the fur was indistinguishable to him, yet how could it be? As he turned around a high pitched squealed erupted followed by a shout. "TICKLE WRESTLING!" The statue appeared alongside Tad at his cubicle. He was going to enjoy the next few minutes, than probably regret getting involved in the first place. At least his desk looked organized for once. As Tad passed through an open door, the bucket teetering there fell forward, onto his head. Have you even had your entire head covered, not just in horse shit, but horse shit filled with horrible ideas? It's not a pleasant feeling. Luckily, Tad passed out before something horrible crawled out of SCP-100-J. Father Jakal looked up from his prayers, at the monkey statue which had appeared on his podium. A slight smile graced his lips. "Fuck, i didn't think that'd really work!" Dr Pullo Vorenus, Level 2 Researcher and Safe item specialist, paused as he walked past Site-19's nondenominational multipurpose chapel-crematorium-ossuary. As far as he could tell, priests didn't usually swear like that in church. At least, the priests back home hadn't. Except for Father Kowalski. When he was drunk. He poked his head in, and saw Father Jakal stroking a small statue. Then he ran to his small, shared office. After an hour or so of research, Doctor Vorenus was ready. He stopped by the Safe item storage lockers, and checked out a certain item, under the guise of "additional research on the effects of the object when combined with religious exultation and tagiatelle". A quick trip to the Site cafeteria, and the acquisition of some high-powered arc lights, and he was done. After telling the priest that his presence had been requested in the depths of the accounting department, he was ready to prepare. Father Jakal returned, still clutching the statue with a death grip. He seemed determined that nobody separate him from 050 from even a moment. As he entered the multipurpose nondenominational chapel-crematorium-ossuary, the door slammed shut and a heavenly light shone down on him from On High. He fell to his knees as a voice from Above called out into his mind, "Father Jakal, thou hast been chosen." As he knelt gasping, trying to for a coherent sentence, the Voice continued, "Thou shalt be My prophet on this earth. I shall show thee My true form, that thou may tell of Me to all thy fellows." The lights brightened, and Father Jakal shaded his eyes, cowering even further before the Lord his God. All the lights in the chapel shut off suddenly, and a form appeared above him in the rafters, lit from within. As he looked up, in full religious exultation, something fell onto his shoulder and slid to the floor with a plop. "Thou hast been touched by My Noodly Appendage. Rejoice. And eat thy grains." Doctor Vorenus smiled, as he heard Father Jackal stomp out and call for a janitor. After putting the megaphone back in its locker, he returned to his shared office, and found his half meticulously cleaned. The precise line between the dirty and clean carpet might be hard to explain to his office-mate, but he was sure he could figure it out. After all, he was Doctor Pullo Vorenus, Level 2 Researcher, Safe Item Specialist, current owner of a small statue, and devout Pastafarian. It was an interesting day for Mess Hall 2. In the chaos of Prank Day, it had somehow transformed itself into both an eatery, sanctuary, and now makeshift medical treatment centre as a very injured Junior Researcher Byantara was wheeled in, dripping from Soviet bullets and blood. This did not do much justice to Doctor Vorenus's appetite, as he dropped his forkful of meatballs and linguini to gaze at what was - snigger - a man more holey than even himself. Strelnikov had not been kind on the trigger, and had been much less kinder to that "mother-fuck Chechen collaborator" Byantara. Poor guy looked as if he were covered in the bolognaise sauce that drenched Vorenus's plate. Eugh. Elsewhere in Block 2A, forty-eight sex toys relentlessly continued to buzz, rattling the beams and shaking paint off the ceilings. A jostle, a twitch, and one clear plastic vibrator popped loose of its bolts, rattled across the floor and came to rest in a corner with a sharp click. There was a hissing noise as the micronised nuclear reactor powered up, resonating the device at a shrill hypersonic whine. Indeed, Byantara had prepared for the worst by including an ace up his blood-stained, bullet-hole-ridden sleeve. It was when Vorenus had nearly finished his pasta that the ceiling of Mess Hall began to shake, dropping white frosty flakes into his plate. Nearby, Byantara was halfway through having bullets extracted from his groin by a doctor. Despite the pain, he managed to glance a look at Doctor Vorenus, current holder of SCP-050, as weighty chunks of ceiling plaster buried the pastor of pasta. Byantara winced as the statue appeared on his bandaged chest, seemingly mocking his agony. Meanwhile, "Steely Dan" dropped from the gaping hole in Mess Hall 2's ceiling, its switch conveniently flicking to "Off" upon the impact against Vorenus's buried, gasping form. Agent Wolf was having a rotten day. Every year the prank war started and every year he had to clean up the mess that resulted from it. He had to track down the SCPs used. He had to find the vengeful personnel. He had to find out how Clef had filled a room full of shaving cream without anyone noticing. It was a dismal day for the agent, until he had happened into the mess hall just in time to see a little statue appear on the chest of one Junior Researcher Byantara. Wolf couldn't help but stare, stricken with an idea. He could actually play a prank to get 050, and he knew just what to do. The agent couldn't help but smile as the plan formed in his head. Little more than an hour passed after this thought, and now Byantara was walking rather quickly towards the safety of his office. "Okay, showtime." Byantara didn't hear the whisper, but he did become aware that something was now blocking his way. Something so horrific he couldn't even scream. 682 just stood there, blocking escape from the deserted hallway. The silence between researcher and monster stretched forever, until Byantara made a move to leave. As soon as he did, he was quickly swallowed whole. The eaten man tumbled down the nightmare's stomach, splashing into a disgusting ooze. "Aw man, did you really have to eat him? I thought we were just gonna scare him." Byantara found himself dumbfounded, he could hear Wolf's voice from the disgusting bowels. "Hey Byantara, I see ya found my new partner, sorry about the whole gonna-die-soon thing." "Come on, tell him to spit me out! Please!" "Well," a few seconds' pause, "I guess I could… But ya really should use 'them'". And on cue 682 split into a large number of butterflies, which revealed the researcher to be sitting in a pool of some store-bought slime. "Thanks pally!" Wolf smiled, showing an image on his laptop to the newly slimy man. An image of a small monkey statue sitting next to the nameplate of Agent Wolf. With no security clearence, being a guard for the Foundation could be a very boring job. Typically, Fortis was stuck manning the security feeds. The most monotonous of assignments. On Senior Staff Shenanigans day, however, it had certain advantages. He had everything on hand, just needed the right mark in the right place. When he saw Agent Wolf, J.R. Byantara, and SCP-408 in Corridor 2-B he knew he had just enough time to pull it off. He took a second to locate the office SCP-050 had appeared in before springing to action.. Fortis quickly changed into the red military uniform he had nearby, slathered his face with stage makeup, and donned the appropriate gloves and hat. He grabbed the can of paint stashed behind the door and headed out of the room. Finally, he made his way down the hall to pick up a container of Play-Doh, and rushed to SCP-786. Ten minutes later, Fortis entered the agent's office. “Agent Wolf, am I right?” “Yes…….who are you? And why are you red?” Without warning, the junior guard emptied a full can of blue paint on the agent. “I found him boys! Get him!” Agent Wolf had a second to register surprise as a squad of solid red army personell filled the room and riddled his torso with clay bullets. Fortis couldn't help but smile to himself as he reentered Site 19's Surviellance Room. He changed back into his uniform and stached the red one. He had already washed off the paint, all that was left was to make sure no one else entered the area. He idly examined the monkey statue that was waiting for him on the console, slightly bemused at the thought of a junior guard entering the ranks of Senior Staff. Linguistics/Supernatural Researcher Veldi had seemingly not participated in the contest, although he had been seen carting tomatoes all over the facility and setting them down at random. After emptying the cart, he retrieved SCP-005 from storage, and accessed an area from which he could work his magic. With an enormous grin plastered on his face, Veldi spoke into the intercom. “What happens when 682 gets heartburn? ….. Absolutely nothing, the Lizard doesn't get heartburn!” In that moment, dozens and dozens of SCP-504 splattered into speakers, personnel and everything in general. “I freaking love these tomatoes.” Veldi checked the video feed to his office. Yup, there was the monkey, on his desk. Of course, there was the issue that he now had a PC instead of a MacBook… As soon as the prank wars started, SCP-738 was Junior Researcher Gille's first destination. It followed contracts steadily, nevermind the side consequences. Nothing he was going to do would harm him THAT much. The contract? Get the monkey of the last person to have it, and transport it to the middle of the Senior Break room. Second destination: The Senior Break room. From there, it would be rigged with 20 paintball guns, all set to fire when the sensor picks up movement in a circle around the Monkey. Then, when someone inevitably gets pelted, he walks in and grabs the Monkey. Third destination: His secret hiding spot, outfitted with a view of all the places he will need to be at. Fourth destination: SCP-682's storage area. Considering it's been let free, but it's still the safest place on the site, that should be a logical place to store it. Hidden in the third drawer of his desk, however, are 3 pistols, fully loaded no less, with 5 clips, and rations to last 2 days. It pays to be prepared for this day. Before leaving, Gille remembered to put a bucket of spiders on the door too his office. Someone will inevitably think to check there once he gets the monkey, so this should discourage them. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice." "Not at all. Between you and me, dealing with amateurs day in and day out is so tedious." "I'm sure. Now you know that one of our little annual celebrations is coming up soon, and it occured to me that one or more of my colleagues may come to you for help. I would appreciate it if you might extend me certain professional courtesies around that." "Sir, are you suggesting that I breach confidentiality? I do have some scruples." "Of course not! Wouldn't think of it. But perhaps you could take, let's say, the broadest possible interpretation of the agreed-upon terms." "You want the monkey for yourself?" "Since you bring it up, what compensation would you want, in exchange for my permanent posession of said monkey?" The humanoid figure behind the desk beckons and the smaller man before the desk leans forward. He whispers something in his ear. "Interesting. Not at all what I'd expected. And I must say that, while I'm flattered that you offer, I'm very happy to work for the Foundation, and don't contemplate a change anytime soon. Let me make a proposal of my own. In exchange for the aforesaid professional courtesies leading to temporary possession…" It takes some time, but eventually the human and the entity wearing the face of a legendary law professor reach an agreement. A secretary is summoned from the accounting department, sworn to secrecy, duly threatened with death, and made to witness an agreement that bursts into flames the moment the formalities are complete. Sheldon Katz and the entity shake hands. Across the site, in a specially rigged broom closet, Junior Researcher Gille watches the Senior Break room on screen, then 682's pen, then his office, then back to the break room. Nothing. Wait. Something. Something rushes into the room, something about knee-high and very fast, something with a single bright blue eye in the middle of its bulbous yellow body. It's dribbling a smaller object in front of it like a soccer ball. As it pauses on the periphery of the circle of paintball guns, the "ball" comes to rest. It's a statuette of a monkey. Researcher Veldi runs into the room, panting and red-faced. The Eye-Pod skitters away from him. Veldi lunges, and a chase ensues around the edges of the room, with the Eye-Pod and the monkey always staying just out of Veldi's reach. After four circuits of the room, the Eye-Pod makes a sudden break to the right. Veldi leaps, trying to tackle it, and trips over his own feet. On the floor, he hears a series of clicks followed immediately by splatting sounds, and wonders for a moment if he somehow missed some tomatoes. He picks himself up, and observes that the walls of the break room have a new paint job in the style of Jackson Pollock. The Eye-Pod scurries out of the break room and heads down a corridor, rolling the monkey down the hall still. Gille jumps up from his seat and sprints down the hall. He figures if he goes down corridor 37, then makes a sharp right just before the firehose he can head them off—yes! Here they are, and he's just a pace behind Veldi. He drops his head and starts running as fast as he can. "You think that's funny? I hate running," says Veldi between gasps. The researchers sprint after the Eye-Pod, neither gaining any real advantage or getting any closer. They follow it now left, now right, now a long straightaway and into a dead end, a small chamber at the end of a long corridor. Gille jumps on the monkey and Veldi jumps on Gille. They grapple on the floor, neither noticing the Eye-Pod backing out of the room until they hear the door start to close. Gille looks up just in time to notice a third figure in the room: humanoid, but made of concrete and covered in spray paint. In the awkward silence that ensues, the disappearance of the monkey barely registers on them. Finally Veldi says: "I've got to blink on three. One…two…" Katz notes the monkey statue that now sits atop his empty inbox. He's already senior staff, but his secretary is out sick and nobody from the temp pool can seem to ever type up his briefs just the way he likes them. He looks through the stack of neatly-formatted documents before him and nods in satisfaction. Yes, the devil will have his due, but he does love a nice-looking brief. Worth it. He picks up the monkey and goes into the hallway outside his office, waiting for someone going in the right direction who looks sufficiently junior and sufficiently gullible. Soon enough, a cub researcher who he doesn't recognize passes by, and Sheldon intercepts him. "Excuse me, young man, could I ask a favor? Someone left this in my office and they need it for a team-building exercise in the main cafeteria. Just take it up there and someone will show you what to do next." He feels slightly bad, watching the eager youth hurry down the hall with the monkey, but better him than Sheldon, and in any case this will teach him a number of valuable lessons. Doctor Briar sighed, looking over the contents of his small office. It had been a long, hard road to get here. So many times, he'd thought he would die. So many times, he had lost what he thought of as "everything", only to build himself up so he would have something else to lose when the time came again. It had certainly not been easy, but he'd managed, somehow… He always wished it could have been easier, though. If only there had been some way he could have made his journey to a respected member of senior staff without having to endure so much suffering. Of course, he had only been a low-level recruit in the Foundation when they stopped holding the Staff Prank Wars. He had heard of them, of course, and how the cleverest member of the Foundation's personnel stood to be raised to Senior Staff for winning. It was truly a shame that he had been so new when they held the last of them, an all but nameless lab assistant, not trusted with anything more important than proofreading documents…but then, that was his advantage, wasn't it? Briar smiled, looking at the assembled items and documents sitting on his desk. At the top of the pile was a death certificate. Just another Foundation employee that had finally met his end, but to the elderly man at the desk, an opportunity. After all, permanent ownership didn't extend past death. Most importantly, however, was the small locked box on top of the pile. There were so many anomalous objects with temporal effects in Foundation custody that they hardly bothered to catalogue them all. No one would notice he had "borrowed" SCP-█████ among a batch of other research materials, and the letter he planned to mail would not be going anywhere that it would be looked for. Chuckling to himself, Doctor Briar took out a fountain pen, and began to write. Years earlier, a much younger version of the same man breathed heavily, hiding in a cubical and shaking. In his hand he held a much-folded piece of heavy parchment, written upon in flowing calligraphy. Nervous, he muttered the words aloud as he re-read the page, "Volunteer to assist in accounting. Short-staffed due to people calling in sick to avoid the contest. Agree to witness a contract. False name. Render null and void…" He shook his head in disbelief, dizzy with the implications. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Of course, he had barely dared believe what he held in his hands until the prank war began to unfold, exactly as the note claimed it would. Still, it seemed too good to be true. A deal with the Devil shouldn't be so simple to thwart, even if it wasn't really the Devil. Of course, the plan wasn't over yet. Just botching Katz's deal wouldn't much of a prank by itself, after all. Steeling himself, the younger Briar stepped out of the cubical, and announced that he was going on his lunch break. As he entered into the corridor, he put on a ring, and pulled out the small electronic device from his pocket. At the doors of the cafeteria, a young researcher was stopped by a polite cough. He turned, his face guileless and smiling. A dark-haired man snatched the bundle out of his hands before he had a moment to react. "Oh, thank goodness I caught you in time! I am SO sorry! It seems that my colleague gave you the wrong article by mistake. This is the one they need in there." A small device was pressed into the researcher's hands. He babbled for a few moments about how glad he was to help, and how sorry he was that the other man had to chase him all the way here. Briar, in turn, made his excuses, politely stating that it was no trouble, but he really had to get back to work. He gave the hapless researcher some basic instructions on how to set up the device, and told him to just "get it started for them". As he hurried to return SCP-399 to containment, he could hear his modified MP3 player begin to loop Rick Astley's most famous composition with enough bass to shake the light fixtures. The altered lyrics, bragging of the genius of one Sheldon Katz, could just barely be made out from where he stood. Since he didn't have an office, Briar made a note to check his locker later on. A D-Class that had been fortunate enough to avoid all of the chaos of the day was desperately looking for a place to hide. He found an isolated cell, and quickly opened the door, failing to notice the number "173" emblazoned above the door. The moment the door was fully open, he stepped through the frame. He saw two men on the floor, and then he looked up. He recognized the sculpture a few seconds too late. Veldi and Gille charged him, threw him in the cell, and quickly closed the door. The sound of bones breaking followed shortly after. Veldi breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that was fun. Next time, let's check doors before going in them. Don't want Blinky to be let out." Gille was shivering from the experience. Veldi leaned down. "Oh, by the way… I think ahead." He pointed out that the wall opposite 173's containment had been painted red. Gille was still in a stupor, so Veldi walked away and pressed a button on his phone. A tinny, electronic voice came from above the door: "Leggo my Eggo-carrying Lego Winnebago full of–" The sound was cut short by a wall of tomato juice. Veldi checked the video feed on his phone again. Yep, the monkey was on his desk. He figured that he should set some more traps so that it wouldn't stay away for long. He hurried to his supplies. Veldi returned to his office, hoping that some son-of-a-bitch hadn't gotten there before him. He set his supplies down, opened the door, and glanced at his hard-won prize… And there was no monkey statue. He checked again. Whoever had run off with it had left a note. Hoping it didn't have some G█d-awful cognitohazard, he read: Unless properly defended, your monkey statue is my monkey statue. See you later, noob. ~ Agent Gummy Dragon Impossible! You couldn't just take the statue. you had to earn it. Veldi searched his office in a panic. He opened his cabinets… And a small puppy stared him in the eye. And that puppy's excited barking brought puppies out of the drawers, trashcan, and hallway. Veldi couldn't take it, and ran screaming from the adorable mob of canines pursuing him. Gummy laughed as he viewed the security feed from his office. Sending Mr. Deeds to hide the statue behind a potted plant, fill Veldi's office with puppies, and plant the note he had written, all while Veldi was out, had been easier than expected. Gummy had barricaded his office door and stocked up on sandwiches and water bottles, so he should have been safe. Dr. Len Blue frantically pushed a large storage cart out into an open field outside Site-19 after "taking a week off." He was, if nothing else, determined to get that damned monkey. Over the past week, he had stolen the flying pig, as detailed under the Log of Anomalous Items, from Site-18 and used SCP-038 to make almost a hundred duplicates before returning the original. He had stolen SCP-000-J from Professor Snider while he was away and quickly returned it after ordering SCP-184. He had stolen multiple Scranton Reality Buoys from a manufacturing facility. He had bought large amounts of wood, cardboard, ropes, pillows, blankets, bread, water, hog feed, fireworks, slingshots, and iron pellets. And now, he was going to pull of the most legendary prank of all time. He stopped the cart right in front of a large structure covered in green tarp and yanked it down, revealing a very large play fort, three and a half meters wide, constructed of wood, pillows and cardboard, decorated with castle turrets and containing six rooms: a central room filled with computer equipment and containing a generator, a barracks for the pigs with multiple hammocks, an armory full of fireworks and slingshots with ammunition, a storehouse full of stolen rations, bread, water, and hog feed, a hangar for the launch of armed flying pigs, and a room containing four Scranton Reality Buoys suspended in the middle of the room with ropes, with wires attached to it. Dr. Blue, exhausted, unloaded bags of animate, plastic flying pigs from the overturned cart and dumped them into the hammocks after taking them in. Then, he hauled in SCP-184, still attached to its electromagnet, dropped it in the control room, and called Agent Gummy Dragon. He began the conversation. "This is your last chance, Agent. Come out and surrender the monkey or I'll unleash my latest work of magic: the unstoppable, growing Expand-O-Fort. Site-19 will be torn asunder by my trained armies of cybernetic flying pigs, and I will have the monkey in the end." "Do it, then. If it's so unstoppable, I'd like to see you actually unleash it," replied Gummy. And at that, he hung up, and spliced into the security feed of the grasslands outside Site-19. Dr. Blue turned off the electromagnet, and SCP-184 began expanding the interior walls of the fort. But the Scranton Reality Buoys nullified the physically impossible interior-only effect of SCP-184, and the entire fort expanded. Released from this effect, which had to expend energy bending spacetime, the fort could expand very quickly and immediately after SCP-184 entered it. Agent Gummy Dragon could only watch in horror as the fortress expanded a meter in two seconds and kept going even faster. But he knew he was in a bad spot here. If he called any kind of authority about this, everyone at Site-19 would be disciplined for the prank war. With no other options, he used his conference phone to call Dr. Bright, Dr. Veldi, Dr. Clef, and Agent Strelnikov, explained the situation frantically. Dr. Clef, mortified, responded, "No." After a long pause, he said, "He has 184." Everyone collectively gasped. "I'm calling an MTF," said Dr. Clef. "Bright and Veldi, get EMP grenades, take a jeep and get into that fortress as fast as you can. Strelnikov, get to a machine gun tower and set that thing on fire with tracers. Gummy, hold on to that monkey, and keep it away from Blue as long as possible." And at that, Dr. Clef hung up. The fortress was already forty meters wide, having taken on a pyramid shape, and new rooms were forming. Dr. Blue's army of computer-controlled pigs was mutating and growing. Dr. Blue keyed in a command, and hundreds of winged pigs spewed out of a large hangar in the side of the fortress. Agent Strelnikov reached the top of a guard tower with hundreds of incendiary tracers and loaded them into the heavy machine gun turret. Leaning out the window, he opened fire on the tip of the fortress, setting the top of it on fire. The Jeep shot out of the gates of Site-19. Dr. Blue, not worried, locked the hundreds of three-inch fully functional winged pigs onto their Jeep. Dr. Veldi pulled an EMP grenade out of his pocket and threw it into the swarm, disabling almost all of their robotic implants and causing them to fly off in all directions. Moments later, it crashed full force into a sliding door made of abnormally dense pillows. When Bright and Veldi recovered, they found themselves inside a hangar of computer-controlled toy pigs made entirely of fireworks. In the back of the room was a door, three slingshots made of pillows, and an iron computer manual. "Come on!," yelled Dr. Bright, running for the door. "We have to go deeper!" The doctors suddenly found themselves in a room containing a single two-meter-wide Scranton Reality Buoy, composed entirely of cardboard. Dr. Veldi threw an EMP grenade into it. The grenade punched through the SRB and came right out the other side before detonating. The entire buoy then collapsed as though it was made of rigid paper. Then, suddenly, everything around the two doctors collapsed, destroying several more SRBs around them, resulting in a chain reaction that tore through the outside of the fort. Bright and Veldi survived, and the Expand-O-Fort was collapsed. It appeared that SCP-184 had been turned off. The pigs were mostly deactivated and fell from the sky, and helicopters from MTF Psi-7 "Home Improvement" cleaned up the rest. And Dr. Blue wasn't in the fort. The whole time, he had been waiting for the fort to get big enough for him to shut off SCP-184 and then use all of its power reserves to teleport the monkey into his hands. He was riding a seven-foot robotic toy flying pig away from the rubble, carrying Doctors Bright and Veldi with him on a 50-pound rope made of slingshots which SCP-050 had affixed to the pig as a prank, before transferring to Dr. Veldi, pranking him by setting off one of his EMP grenades, and then back to Dr. Blue. And then the deactivated pig crashed. Later, after a lot of amnestic spraying and Dr. Blue's reassignment, Dr. Bright discovered the monkey in his locker.

Doctor Matthews sat back in his chair, sighing some and rubbing his eyes. Why the hell had they dragged him out of bed so early? He stifled a yawn and smiled as his field partner, an agent named Stimson, sat down next to him, leaning back in his own chair with a similar expression on his face. "We shouldn't have been out drinking so late…" Stimson whispered. Matthews laughed a little, looking at the slowly filling auditorium. "I know," he replied. "We should have just gone to bed and woken up ready to work," he said. "It's only our day off, after all…" Stimson shook his head some. "God… Did you see those two research assistants from Site-11?" he asked. Matthews leaned forward a bit, nodding. "You get their numbers?" he asked. Stimson laughed. "Got more than that… You should have stuck around…" Matthews grit his teeth for a moment in frustration. "Damnit, Stimson… Why the hell do you tell me these things?" he asked. Stimson snickered as a finger struck a microphone, calling for attention. Matthews sat back in his chair, looking toward the stage as a man in an impeccable suit stepped out, looking at them all and nodding. "Hello," he said, his voice an odd mix of intonations. "I want to welcome you all this morning and apologize for getting you up so early…" Stimson rolled his shoulder a little bit as Matthews leaned over, whispering in his ear. "Who is this guy?" he asked. Stimson shrugged as the man on stage continued. "I wanted to talk with you all for a moment… about our mission. It's important, you know… very, very important…" Matthews frowned. Why the hell was this guy speaking like that? he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment. He shook his head, trying again to clear the haze of sleep and drink. Stimson leaned close again. "Isn't he an O5?" he asked. Matthews shook his head, squinting his eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on the words again. "… all of them must be collected. The plan must proceed as scheduled…" Stimson nodded. "Yeah, he's an O5… I'm sure of it." The other shook his head again. "No, he isn't…" Matthews said. "I've seen the O5's…" He sniffed at the air a little, wondering why he suddenly smelled popcorn. "… and as soon as we've got them all collected, contained… Our work will have finally begun. We cannot let them stop us, slow us down…" Matthews head ached for a sharp moment, blood running from a nostril as his temples throbbed. He brought his palms to his eyes, shocked to feel his heart beating through them. And then… a sudden pain just behind his right ear, and he slumped backwards. "We will serve. Contain. Protect," the man intoned. "And then… We can begin." Everyone started clapping their hands together as the speech ended. Everyone except Matthews and two or three others scattered throughout the crowd. Stimson rose, clapping hard, trying to make his own applause heard over the others. When he heard the chant, he cursed inwardly for not thinking of it himself first, but picked it up nonetheless: "Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!"

Cender was blessed of Old Aggie. His seven daughters and twenty-one granddaughters were proof of that. But now, standing before the statue of the goddess, he couldn't help but tremble inwardly. He was, after all, going to his death. Cender pushed a long lock of thin, gray hair back on his head, washing his genitals in the pool of water at the statue's base, and turned, kissing his fingers and pressing them to the statue's lips, begging forgiveness for sins against his family and protection for the road ahead, knowing that only one of those prayers would be answered. The stone had fallen to him, after all. Cender bowed his head in a final supplication and stepped out of the water, turning and walking into the white sands that surrounded the short, squat building. He wrapped a length of cloth about his head and took out the round, smooth pebble that had decided his fate. He cast it into the air, letting it fall to the earth, then kneeling to look at it carefully, squinting at the arrow carved into it. He picked it up again, shouldering the supply of water that would not last him more than a week, and walked into the desert, following it. When he came upon the ruins of the first homes—those oldest ones which were now abandoned—he rested. He should have known better, especially since the ghosts of the dead are always close in the desert, but he didn't care. He was tired, his feet were blistered, and night had been upon him for hours. And he felt lonely. Cender had slept beside his wife for thirty-eight years, and now, he felt naked and cold without her warmth. He closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the voices in his head, when he heard a different one entirely. “You are old, Cender of Dnoma. Why do you walk this desert?” His eyes opened quickly, turning and looking, seeing a butterfly resting on the edge of the wall. He immediately leaned up, then lowered himself, his forehead touching the ground. “Lord… You honor me.” The voice did not continue to speak. Cender cursed inwardly when he realized that he had not answered the question. “I am the new seeker, my lord. The lot fell to me, and being of a great many daughters, I was sent in spite of my age.” The voice was again silent, but when Cender raised his head, he saw that the butterfly had taken flight, wafting through the air like a leaf. He grabbed his pouch of water, his bag, and hurried, following it, deeper into the desert, deeper into the cold night. The butterfly seemed to flick away into nothing when he crested the hill, but Cender didn't notice. He was, instead, silent. Very, very silent. Before him stretched a ruin unlike any he had seen before, and Cender had been a traveler in his youth, tasted the dead waters to the north, seen the walls to the south. But this… It stretched for ages. Maybe miles. Maybe further. It was made of metal, somehow, and stone, and parts of it hurt to look at, and—with a prayer of thanks and supplication on his lips—Cender dropped to the ground and closed his eyes. He had found it. Hundreds of seekers lost to the desert, and he had found it. Starel's Tomb. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods. “By your will, oh great ones, I have been guided here. Truly, I am blessed of Aggie. I am blessed of Drakgin. I am blessed of Starel. Thank you!” And had Cender taken his blessing, taken it and run back home, he would have lived out the rest of his days as a saint and priest. But he did not. Cender stepped over the sharp stones, wincing slightly as he did so. His feet were aged by the desert and tougher than leather, but these stones were painfully sharp. He finally reached the wall, his hands grabbing and scrabbling for purchase, slowly pulling himself up and on top of the outlying structure. Inside was cooler already, by the will of the gods, and as Cender dropped into the cracked courtyard, he felt a sense of ease wash over him. The gods had allowed him entry. Surely, he was blessed of them, to the point of being the next prophet perhaps. This was, after all, no vision. This was real. He walked toward the large, opened doors and stepped into them, smiling, not even noticing the deep cuts in the floor or the lingering smell of sulfur. He walked into the building, feeling his spirit lift as he gazed up at the seemingly endless ceilings, the deep corridors off either side of it, the endlessly twisting room. He walked down it, choosing a door at random and marking the entrance with his stone, then entering it. He explored, finding the works of the gods littered and skewed about the room, laying broken and destroyed. He sighed, turning to leave as he realized the true treasures would be far deeper in the city. As he turned to leave it, he bent to pick up his rock, and found it missing. His eyes narrowed at the floor, looking for it, realizing that he'd foolishly discarded his mark of office and purpose… And then he heard it. It was a roar, but unlike any he had ever heard. A sound worse than those the demons made when they were butchered. And it was quite close, he feared. So, he did what every coward who knows he is going to die does. He ran. Cender's legs were old and tired, but the desert makes strong folk, and he could run. The doors were gone, gone to wherever the ancients send such things as displease them, and Cender instead ran for a different path, hoping that somehow he would be given exit, that the gods would forgive him, even though he knew that they would not. He hurried and ran, deeper and deeper, hearing the walls turning and crashing behind him, breaking into nothing as he heard the thing's voice calling to him. “Cender…” it murmured, in a voice that somehow echoed and surrounded him. Starel's Tomb was huge, infinitely long, and full of twists and turns. He was given short moments of joy when he thought he'd escaped, followed by deep moments of fear and sorrow as he realized he did not. Who knows how long Cender fled the beast? Only that it was not long enough in his mind. He ran and ran and finally… fell, turning and looking at the beast, its great maw opening and splitting into four parts, its terrible teeth easily pushing into his skin and through it. He screamed loudly as Sikayt And Cender screamed and screamed, but the gods wouldn't hear him. And there he died, learning too late that the blessing of one god is the curse of another. The old man's yellow, toothy grin looked also as terrifying as the story had sounded, and the children quickly fled while the old man laughed loudly, slapping his knees and coughing as his laughing fit caught up to him. He turned to leave, until a small voice caught him. “But what was it Cender found?” it asked. The storyteller turned, looking at the small, deeply tanned boy, no older than twelve. “What did he find?” the man asked. “Why… he found just what he thought he found. The Home Ceitu. The City of the Gods. Starel's Tomb.” The little boy shifted on his feet some, licking his cracked lips. “So… was he blessed?” he asked. The old man's smile stretched across his face again. “Of course not,” he said, laughing. “He was cursed. There are some secrets no one should have to discover.” “But,” the little boy continued, “He found the Home Ceitu. Isn't that a blessing?” The old man's eyes narrowed at the boy as he realized that the child would not be swayed. “What is your name, boy?” he asked. The boy narrowed his eyes just for a moment. “Never tell your name to one who hides his,” he said. The ancient man laughed loudly. “Wise boy… Follower of York, are we?” he asked, then smiled and nodded at his own question. “I am called Benadam,” he said. The boy nodded. “My friends call me Rone.” “Well met, Rone. Come. Let me tell you a tale of York… Have you ever heard the story of the ape god Abirt and the waters of life?” he asked, turning about and walking, the boy following him quickly and hanging onto every word.

“Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…” The fat man hummed and sang tunelessly, walking around the brightly lit work area. Everywhere else was deeply dark, the humps and points of old factory equipment looming in the old auto plant. Several large machines had been cleared away, and heavy, steel tables set up, along with huge shelves, all of it covered with junk. At least, it looked like junk to the untrained eye. A bomb technician would have taken one look at that tangle, and run screaming for the hills. “Chicka boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…” Boomer always worked with his shirt off. He'd been teased mercilessly for the huge sweat stains he'd always made on his shirts in grade school, and the pain had stayed with him his entire life, making partial, hideous nudity preferable to a damp shirt. (Never mind that he'd beaten the child who had started the teasing to death in the woods years and years ago. Some things just stuck.) “Boom chicka boom, don't you just love it…” He was just starting to fit a shock plate to the main detonation assembly when a chiming started. He grunted, freezing and trying to isolate the sound with no small amount of concern, before finally slumping and fishing his phone from his greasy pants pocket. “Hi, Mom. No, I'm fine, Mom, I was just working.” “… No, Mom, I like talking to you. It's fine, really…” “… Yes, I'm taking them, Mom… I just don't like how they make me feel, Mom, it's not…” “No, Mom, I'm not dis-” “… Mom…” “…s-stop… M-m-m-mom, I-I hate i-it whe-” “…” “But I c-c-can't h-h-h-h-help it!” There was a sudden, audible squawking from the phone, the massive man wincing down and away, as if from a blow imagined or remembered, “… I-I'm sorry, Mom…” “I'm sorry… I won't ever speak that way again…” “I love you too, Mom…” Boomer hung up the phone, then sat for a bit, trembling. He sniffed thickly, glaring down at the phone. He put it on the table, eyes welling with tears. He smashed his fist against it with the force of a good sized car. He smashed it again and again, a thin, ragged squealing leaking from his thick lips as he pounded the phone to bits, blood and scraps of skin smearing over the bench and the ragged wreck of the phone. He stared down at the bloody, shattered mess, heedless of his dripping hand, thick chest rising and falling in great heaves. The fat man then pushed the whole mess to the floor, sucking on his ripped and bloody fist like a baby, starting to hum around it again as he started fittings wires back into his current project. “Jesus, I almost feel sorry for the bastard. Then I feel that spot where I'm supposed to have a molar.” Harken winced, looking away from the small screen, his face a ragged patchwork of tape and a few stitches. The rest of him was encased in enough plaster to count as armor, his right hand little more then a heavily braced claw. Kramer had been playing nursemaid: that is to say, she was checking to see what still hurt. Often. With her finger. “So does that spot on your neck still hurt wh-” “FUCK!” “Okay, so yes.” Harken shifted away from his poker-faced tormentor, trying to focus on the small LCD screen. They'd managed to track down Boomer's lair without a massive amount of issue. That being said, they'd kept well away, just getting a robot close enough to attach a tiny camera to the roof. Boomer was the type to leave loads of bombs, traps and other assorted goodies laying around in a nightmare combination of cunning and blind, absentminded stupidity. You could plan around a smart enemy, a dumb one was prone to blowing your intelligent, well-planned ass off at random. They'd been watching Boomer for a couple days now, and every hour was more pathetic then the last. Yes, Boomer was a brutal, sadistic psychopath, but he was also apparently a pathetic, broken man with no real life, friends, or interests. No wonder he was so loyal to Dark: he'd probably never had a purpose or praise before Mr. Dark had stepped in. Harken set the portable viewscreen down, gingerly rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so, we know where the fat boy is going to be, but I'm not really overeager to get blown up trying to get to him.” “I could always drop in, or slide a shot through one of those upper windows.” “No, no, that's a bitch of a shot, and one miss could blow the whole place. Plus, who knows how he has the place rigged? I reviewed some files Central Records had on him: apparently a GOC strike team tried sneaking into a house he was using. They managed to blow up nearly a city block, and lost the whole team. Boomer wasn't even home.” “So what's your big plan?" Kramer asked. "I'm not overeager to wonder on every mission whether or not there's a random explosive or fat sociopath waiting in the wings. Plus, the only one who gets to slap you around is me. See, like thi-” “FUCK!” “Wow, that cast doesn't act as a buffer at all, does it?” “ANYWAY. I think I have a idea…isn't there a GOC squad in the area, hunting for… uhh… oh dammit, that one germ bitch, whatshername…” “SCP-353, Vector.” “That's the one. Maybe they need to accidentally intercept a secured Foundation transmission discussing the difficulty of extracting the poor girl from the warehouse she's holed up in.” “But she's not — oh. Clever. Meanwhile, what do we do about her? Someone needs to get her back to site.” “Oh to hell with that, some MTF can go after that bitch. The last thing I need is an infection right now.” “Yeah, I know. This looks like it's kinda red and-” “FUCK!!” “Bobby, Bobby, my love, get in here, it's great to see you!” “Can't say the same.” “Oh Bobby, that's why I love you. While all the world cries for my amusement, I can always count on you to be the same hard-nosed prick as always.” Bobby was standing at parade rest just inside the doorway to the terrible man's office. It looked more like a overstuffed museum, with layers of carpets, relics, and assorted treasure covering every available surface in a haphazard fashion. There was probably more money in this room then some third world nation's gross national product, but it just looked like a old antique shop. Mr. Marshall sat in a wine-dark upholstered chair to one side, the fabric probably worth more then his life right now. Mr. Dark reclined behind a small, chipped desk. If Bobby recalled correctly, it was the same one the “From Hell” Jack The Ripper letter had been penned on. “You seem in tolerable shape, lad. None the worse for wear after your little stint in the nuthatch?” “…I'm fine, sir.” Bobby looked sidelong at Marshall, who was pointedly observing his fingernails. Bobby's hard mouth twitched, washed-out brown eyes narrowing in all that he would allow to show of his anger. For now. He'd been forced to mop up one of Marshall's little… accidents… but the cleanup had gotten out of hand. People had died. The police had caught him. Thankfully, Carter had been able to pull some strings and get him off death row and into an asylum - one, coincidentally, owned by a member of the Club. The rest had been nice: the days slow and easy, with nothing to do but watch the actual crazies and attend "therapy" sessions that mostly consisted of shooting the shit with other MC&D employees. He'd even gotten laid a few times: there was no shortage of attractive and heavily medicated female "patients" who, if not exactly willing, were not prone to believable protest. Still, he'd known better than to relax. Service to Marshall, Carter, and Dark ended with death alone. He hoped. “Bobby, you're a busy boy, so I'll not shilly-shally any more," Dark said. "Persons who shall remain nameless have bobbled the ball both on our patch and others. You feel up to hitting the pavement and shoring up our collection?” “Why are you asking me? I don't have a choice, do I?” Dark laughed, rising from his chair, waving a hand to Marshall as he crossed to stand in front of Bobby. “Would you look at this glorious boy?” he chortled, turning and winking at Marshall. “You'd think he was still a cop out in Whitechapel, and me some smuggler who's making him go crooked. No, Bobby, you don't have a choice. Few do, really. You should feel privileged not to have to bear up the weight of those illusions.” “Oh yes," Bobby said, flatly. "Deeply honored.” Dark smiled coldly, tilting his head a bit and locking eyes with Bobby. “Do this, and do it well Bobby. You know the stakes, and I always pay well. I'm a man of my word. It's up to you to choose what word it is I keep.” They stared for a few heartbeats, one dark, one gray, an almost audible tension crackling in the air. Bobby finally straightened, snapping off a salute that might as well have been a middle finger, and turned on his heels, marching out. Dark chuckled coldly, watching the door for several seconds before turning back to his desk. Marshall spoke up from the depths of the chair, rubbing his eye absently. “He's going to turn on you, you know that.” “Of course he's going to turn on me. Why the hell else would I keep that grating son of a bitch around?” Marshall stared at Dark, shaking his head in confusion. Dark lit a black cigar, blowing a thick cloud across the small office. “You know the difference between you, Carter, and me?” Dark asked. “What's that?” “Ambition. See, you two lunatics would be more than happy to gut me, kill off your rival, and set yourself as Emperor Of All That Is. Then again, you're both bloody hedonistic bastards. It's in your nature to take all you can get your hands on, and that's both useful and amusing. However, if you rule all that is… what then? How many families can you burn and force into auto-cannibalism before the blush wears off? How long can you bask in the admiration and fear of a planet before it just wafts into the background?” “I… what…” “Shut up when the adults are talking, Marshall. I want to enjoy myself, to have some bloody fun, eh? Sometimes that's sitting out in a spring breeze, being served tea warmed on a pretty girl's lap. Sometimes it's watching a child try and scramble around the rabid animals eating their parents. Sometimes it's just eating a really good steak. It's all relative, really. I don't want to crush all reality below my heel… just small, easily observable and touchable parts of it, now and then. I don't have ambition, Marshall, which means my ego will tolerate a threat. I welcome it, really.” “So… you're just letting him plot against you?” “Of course I am, you bloody twit! I bloody well helped him along! I was the biggest bastard I could be to him, hurt his loved ones, corrupted his oh-so-sacred morals… It was damned exhausting. Still, it's paying off… I think this is the time, this is it. Can you imagine the thrill of excitement and fear, knowing that someone could lash out, rise up, and generally throw the standard state of things in the fire, at any moment? Makes everything seem… fresher, more clear. Why do you think I insisted the team have those little cameras? When Bobby does finally go, I want to be able to relive it.” “You're a sick man, Dark.” “And you're a unimaginative twat, but I don't throw it in your face, now do I? Who do we bloody have on that fox girl? I want a status report within the hour, and I want to know where the hell she's gotten off to even sooner. Now get the hell out of my office.” "I've got somethin' to say…" the girl hummed, as she picked through the racks of vials on the refrigerator shelf. "I killed your baby today. It doesn't matter much to me as long as it's dead…" She read the label on one particular vial and smiled. Popping the top off the small glass tube, she threw her head back and drank it down in one gulp, savoring the taste as it went down. She felt the lovely little microbes begin to attack her body, but it was a simple enough matter to calm them down, to get them dancing in harmony with the rest of her little darlings. "I've got something to say…" she continued, pouring the can of gasoline all over the refrigerator room. "I raped your momma today. It doesn't matter much as long as she spread…" The body of a white-coated researcher was slumped in his chair bleeding from every orifice: Ebola was not a good way to go. "Sweet lovely death, I'm waiting for your breath," she sang, as she lit a match. "Sweet lovely death one last car-hnnnnngh!" The last note of her song dissolved into a grunt of pain as ten thousand volts of electricity coursed through her body. She collapsed in a heap, dropping the box of matches and scattering them all over the clean room. She tried to get back to her feet, but a second jolt of lightning sent her crashing back down to the ground. She tried to reach out with her viruses, to lash out with everything she had, but yet another jolt from the taser broke her concentration. "None of that, my dear," a sonorous voice commanded. Vector was turned roughly onto her back, and looked up into the faces of three people wearing full biocontainment gear. "Sandra, the syringe," the voice continued. One of the three - a woman - walked forward carrying a small black leather pouch. Vector kicked out at her. The three figures just stepped back, and the one with the taser pressed a button. Another shock of lightning arced through her, and she let out a scream. The man with the taser moved the weapon to his other hand and drew a pistol from a hip holster. "That was one and two," he said, gesturing with the taser. "This is three." He kneeled next to her and placed the muzzle of the gun to her forehead. Vector lay still, trembling, as the woman pinned her arm under one knee and cut the sleeve of her jacket away with a knife. She tied a rubber hose around her upper arm then expertly drew two large vials of blood. Finally, she inserted a large syringe of… something… into the girl's neck and waited, thumb resting on the plunger. The third man, who had been watching the operation from the doorway, finally walked forward. He leaned in very close to Vector, and through his hood, she could see that he was an older man, his hair shot with grey, and his face lined with age. "Kevin Spencer," the old man said. "His name was Kevin Spencer." "W-w-w-who?" "The man you killed. He risked his life to set you free, and you murdered him. He had a wife and a child. He was a firm believer in the cause. He made the best barbecue ribs I have ever tasted, and you took all of that away from us. And why? To intimidate the others into following you? They would have done so if you had asked. Such a waste." "F-f-f-fuck you… I d-d-d-d-don't work for y-y-y-y…" "I know you don't. And I wouldn't dream of forcing you to do so. You are free to do as you wish. But freedom means living with the consequences of your actions. Sandra?" The old man stepped back. The woman with the syringe leaned forward and showed Vector the two vials of blood. "This one we keep," the woman said, holding up one of the vials. "And this one you'll get back." She tucked the two vials into her suit pocket, then held up an empty glass bottle with a double-circle and arrows logo on it. "We took this from the Foundation when we raided them. Do you know what it is?" Vector read the label through pain-blurred eyes. "No!" she screamed. "You can't!" "Easy! Easy!" Sandra said. "Don't do something stupid! Listen… LISTEN TO ME!" she shouted, as Vector began to struggle. "I don't want to kill you, so shut up and LISTEN!" Vector lay still, trembling. "Listen," Sandra repeated. "You took Kevin from us, so we're taking what you love away too. This is going to flush your body of all those viruses and germs you've been collecting…" "Please, don't…" "… but you're going to get back whatever is in that blood. But you only get that back if we feel you've learned your lesson. So if you were thinking about trying to screw us over? You're going to lose everything. Do you understand?" Vector closed her eyes and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sandra grimly pressed down on the plunger of the syringe. Fire ripped through the girl's body, and billions of lives were snuffed out in a cascade of chemical death. She didn't know when it stopped, or when the dying ended. She was only even vaguely aware when the three monsters in their plastic suits left the room, or when someone lit a fire and burned down the laboratory. She did remember being carried out. She remembered curling up in his arms and weeping into his shoulder, feeling the distant, comforting sensation of the microorganisms in his body, wanting to pull them into her, but knowing that if she did, the flames rippling through her would simply kill them off. It was just as she was being placed into the back seat of a car that her mind decided it had had enough and decided to cut out. Oblivion overcame her and she embraced it gladly. "Pull over," Michel ordered. James pulled the van over to the side of the road, and Michel got out and walked over to a tree. He leaned against it, then vomited noisily into the grass. "Fuck," Sandra grimaced. She reached for a box with a biohazard label on it taped to the side of the plastic-lined compartment, but was interrupted by the Professor putting a hand over hers. "Wait here," the old man said. "I'll let you know if you need to worry." He exited the makeshift quarantine compartment in the back of the van and walked to the side of the road, where Michel was now sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and tears streaming down his face. The Professor sat down next to the big Frenchman and put an arm around his wide shoulders, pulling him close. "I'm sorry," he said, simply. "It needed to be done." "Did we have to do it like THAT!?" Michel asked. "That was… UGLY… it was…" "I know," the Professor said. "I know. It was an unpleasant, hideous act to do to another human being. But so was what she did to Kevin. Justice needed to be done. A lesson needed to be taught." "I'm done," Michel said. "I can't do this any more. Not after that." The Professor nodded, and hugged the big man again. "You're a good soldier, Michel," he said. "You have fought well for the cause. Go home and be with your loved ones and enjoy the new world you are creating. Thank you for your service." He helped the big man get to his feet and led him to the van. The rest of the trip passed in silence. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone understood. She didn't remember much except that it was incredibly unpleasant and incredibly humiliating. On top of the pain of the serum racing through her body, there was the devastating effect it had on a body that had developed an equilibrium with billions of different kinds of lethal microorganisms, as well as many which were nonlethal. The effect on her digestive system alone didn't even bear thinking about. The worst part where the nightmares. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw demons in white coats and surgical masks wielding syringes full of death. White rooms lit with fluorescent tubes that cast no shadows. A man with no head cut her apart with a scalpel, held the pieces up to the light, then dunked them in a greenish liquid and put them back where they had come from. Grinning midgets with wide mouths full of too many sharklike teeth sat in the rafters and cackled. "You'll never get out. You'll never get out." The only comfort was when the Angel came. That was how she thought of him, for in her pain-induced delirium, his handsome face seemed suffused in a holy light. The Angel was the one who would wipe away her sweat from her feverish forehead. The Angel was the one who cleaned her up and changed her IVs. He held her hand throughout the worst of the pain, and whispered soft lullabies to her when she whimpered. In her hour of loneliness, he was her friend, and she loved him for it. When she finally emerged from her drug-induced delirium, she found herself lying on clean sheets in a soft bed. The sun was shining through a window in the attic room, casting a square of light onto the cheerful flower-print wallpaper. There was a framed cross-stitch on the wall across from her depicting two children playing on the front lawn of a red brick house. "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS," it read. She felt empty… drained… alone. For the first time since she could remember, she was a single person, without the familiar warmth of her old friends nestled inside her. She closed her eyes and reached out, calling to her beloved microscopic companions: a virus here, a bacterium there. She called them to her, and they answered, and as they did so, she felt her strength return to her, felt her broken spirit rejuvenating. The door opened, and a young man wearing an apron over his jeans and t-shirt walked in, carrying a large hot bowl of chicken soup. "Feeling better?" he asked, setting it down by her side. "It's good to see you awake again." Vector looked up into his face, and she blushed. It was the Angel. "Don't get up just yet," he said. "Let me check your vital signs first." He sat down next to her and checked her pulse and blood pressure, nodded at the numbers. "Much better," he said. "How long was I out?" she asked. "About a week. How are you feeling?" the young man asked. "Better," Vector said. She twisted the sheets under her fingers tightly, nervously. "You look better," the young man said kindly. "Is there something I can do for you?" She felt a familiar taste in the air, and she smiled. "Yes," she whispered. "You can die." Staphylococcus aureus is a contradictory bacteria. It is constantly present in the environment: on the skin, in the mucus membranes of the nose and throat, in acne. Approximately one in five humans is a carrier and, for the most part, coexist with it in relative peace. However, that same bacteria, which is harmless enough in most places, turns into one of the most virulent and deadly organisms known to man if allowed to infect the wrong tissues. In the skin, it causes necrotizing fasciitis, which literally eats skin and muscle tissue at an alarming rate. In the blood, it causes toxic shock syndrome, which can kill in hours. In spinal fluid, it causes meningitis, which can lead to brain damage and gangrene. In the lungs, pneumonia. Vector hit him with all of them at once, then boosted the virulence as hard as she could. He was dead within seconds. She stepped around over his twitching, decaying body and went to the wardrobe in the corner. As expected, all the clothes were some sort of hideous floral print frocks that looked like something a mother from a Norman Rockwell painting would wear. She picked the least disgusting looking one and changed into it, then threw an overcoat on over it. No shoes, but if she could just… There was a loud crash, and then shouting. Gunfire cracked in bright, staccato beats: the high, bright crack of an assault rifle, underlaid by the lower booming of a shotgun. Then silence. She ran to the window. There were men outside, wearing black tactical gear, and they were dragging two dead bodies into the back of an unmarked white van. Several more were moving towards the house with the smooth, practiced movements of professional soldiers. A couple more were pushing a nondescript white Toyota Camry off the dock and into a nearby lake: it splashed into the water and quickly sank from view. The door opened, and a man wearing full hazmat gear, carrying a submachine gun, walked in. He held up a photo and nodded. "It's her." Another man slung his rifle and drew a pistol, shooting her twice in the chest. She looked down and saw the yellow tassel of a dart sticking from her body, then the drugs took hold, and she passed out. "This is Bobby. Tell Dark we have her." Harken woke up around midnight with the distinct feeling there was someone in the room. Then he saw the silhouette standing at his window: the silhouette of a tall man wearing a fedora and long overcoat. "You must think you're very clever, Mister Harken," the stranger said. “I… ahh… like to think so, yes.” "I will admit, your ruse was almost successful." Harken thought for several seconds about denying it, but didn't see the point. “Only almost?” "Just so. Let me tell you about the full consequences of your actions, Mister Harken," the stranger continued. "Because of your… tip… the GOC pulled elements from their strike team shadowing the girl known as 'Vector' to investigate the warehouse in question. The strike team was seconds away from breach when the overwatch element recognized the person known as "Boomer." They were barely able to abort the mission before what would certainly have been a costly and fatal mistake." "Damn. Well, good on them. No harm no foul, I suppose?" "But there was harm, Mister Harken. Because the GOC diverted elements to the warehouse, they dispatched only two agents to investigate the next likely lead: a farmhouse in Colorado. When they arrived, the agents were ambushed and killed. Shortly afterward, a UAV doing surveillance of the region showed several known employees of Marshall, Carter, and Dark carrying an unconscious female in her mid-twenties to an unmarked vehicle. The female was later confirmed to be the target in question." Harken felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed hard. "The richies got the germ girl." "All thanks to your little 'tip,' Mister Harken. All thanks to your little tip." The stranger walked to the bathroom door and waited with one hand on the handle. "Mister Harken. This is a war. You and yours need to seriously consider whose side you are on." "Yeah? And whose side are you on?" Harken growled. "You already know the answer to that, Mister Harken," the man said. "I'm on Nobody's side." He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Harken already knew that by the time anyone else opened that door, it would be empty. He still rose and threw the door open on the cool, tile lined darkness. Not surprising, really. After all, Nobody could get out of a locked room with only one door. He sighed heavily, thinking of the report he'd have to file, leaning on the door frame. “Kramer's never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

It all comes down to names, I think. I mean, if I had had a cool name, maybe I wouldn't be such a bad person. I blame Mom. She could have named us all something interesting. I mean, hell, she even took the name Echidna after she created the four of us. Mother of Monsters, but we always just called her Mom. Enough of a classic Greek education to choose Echidna, but name all four of your kids Jack? That's just re-cock-ulous. Huh? Oh, you know, re-cock-ulous, even worse than ridiculous? Come on, you knows it's funny. Where was- Oh yeah, the names. Like Joh. That would be Jack of Hearts to you. We all do that, shorten our names, makes it easier. But, yeah, Joh. How much easier would it have been to name him Pan? And Jos, he coulda been, uhm, well Cthulhu, right? I mean, okay, not Greek, but still squidy. And Jackie, you have no idea how much I hate her for the idea of using and i e on to the end of her name, she coulda been Anansi! No, he's not female, but still, it's better than Jack of Diamonds. And me? Hell! I coulda been so many things!Skoll, Hati, Lon Chaney, Larry Talbot, hell I coulda been Fenrir! That's a name to strike fear into people's hearts. Fenrir, the great wolf! I mean, she coulda even just named me Wolf, or Lobo, and it woulda been awesome. And of course, the Kings and Queens all get named after famous ones. And the others… Okay, maybe the Deuces have it worse. No real identity to speak of. Even then, Deuce sounds cool, right? 'Who are you?' 'They call me Deuce.' That's a guy you wanna watch yer back around. Well, and the Joker doesn't have a name, but the old man is creepy. Where was I? Oh right! Coulda been anything, hells I'd have taken Loup-Garou! But no. I'm the mother fucking Jack of Clubs. Or, Joc, as my siblings call me. Makes me feel like I should be french or something. I blame Mom. And the good Doctor. Hmm? The Good Doctor? It's what we always called him, cause he used so many different names, all the god damn time. I think you guys know him as Dr. Prometheus. Fire bringer my ass. Guy just likes to fiddle, with fucking EVERYTHING. Which was why he put up with Mom, I suppose. What he could do with inanimate objects, she could do with DNA. Mix this, match that, put it in her womb, BAM, self continuing lineage. With some really fucked up specific needs for procreation. Ah, yeh, now we're getting to the stuff you want, aren't we? Yeah, we each have to meet specific challenges in order to pass on our seed. Joh needs them to trust him. Jos needs to know them intimately, without them ever knowing him. Jackie only goes for rapists who love her. Me? I need consent. They need to tell me it's okay, before I can work my magic. Gotta think I'm one of them. It's harder than you think. I don't exactly look normal, y'know? I'm big, and burly, and I exude this whole 'predator' scent or something. Most of the girls have a sorta prey instinct to them, so a big hungry predator walking up and saying 'Hey, wanna bone?' just doesn't work. I gotta be subtle. Disguise my scent. That's what the skin is for. I wrap myself in the skin of someone they knew, and it's like, bam, he doesn't look so bad. Ok, so I like 'em dumb. Works better, yeah? Maybe a little of it is my own special magic, so they don't notice I'm wearing a butchered carcass. Not that they matter to me much after I do the dirty deed. My little babies get born hungry. No, I'm not much a loving parent. None of us are. But my little cubs can survive on their own. Instinct, yeah? Oh, yeah, that last girl. God, she was sexy. Beautiful eyes like limpid pools of moonlight. Soft, black hair, all curly and nice. Such beautiful full lips. Oh, I knew from the moment I saw her, I had to have her. I knew she'd be perfect for one of my little babies. It took a while. I'm not used to finding such perfect girls, usually I have to hunt over hill and under dale to find such a sweet thing. So, I lured one of her little friends away, the friend wasn't as cute as my babe. Lure her off with the promise of a good time, maybe a nice meal. Not a bad sort, very trusting. But, I broke her neck anyways, before she could utter a single peep. I skinned her. I've always been good at such things. Natural claws, y'know? Anyways, simple enough to wrap this girls skin around me, like a cloak. Totally worked. I got close to my babe, my beautiful girl. Took about a week, of just, hanging around, and she got comfortable with me. Then I worked my magic. A nudge here, a comment there, and, before you know it, she was ready. all I needed was the word. She looked up at me, with those big brown eyes, and said what I'd been waiting to hear. She said 'Baaaaa.'

ADULT CONTENT This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers. Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts. Explicit depiction of sexual acts. Features non-consensual sexual acts. Depiction of severe mistreatment of children Depiction of self-harm Depiction of suicide Depiction of torture {$custom-content} If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content. Continue Back to Front Page « prev |{$current}| next » I suppose you're wondering why I do it? Why I did it? Why we all… I'm sorry. It just hurts, you see. But it'll be better soon, I'm sure. She was special. Oh, they're all special. But this last one… she was different. Her eyes, they gleamed. Her smile, it made me think of angels. I knew, knew she would take my special gift, and maybe more. The others had been alright, but this one… I met her in Bangkok. We were playing… I don't remember what we were playing. I barely knew the rules. We had been randomly matched as team mates, versus these two ugly cross dressers. Despite my disadvantage, we kept winning, hand after hand. Eventually, we introduced ourselves to each other. Turned out her name was Jacqueline. I couldn't help but laugh. "Bet this is the first time two Jacks beat a pair of Queens!" She laughed. Even the old man dealing the cards laughed. It was love! Well, from my end, it was love. From her end… I had to fight, to get her attention. She was so beautiful. I've never been much of a fan of Asians, y'know, despite being stuck over here. But everyone knew how beautiful she was. She could walk down a street in a burlap sack, and heads would turn. Gorgeous, long black tresses, beautiful emerald eyes. She had dozens of male suitors. I just kept coming back. Made sure I was there when she needed me. Some of my friends, those who do what I do, they just rush things. Y'know? Jump a girl, do what they want, and leave. That's not for me. There's gotta be some emotion there, there's gotta be some kind of love. She felt the same way. Nine months, it took. Nine months of… dating? Yes, dating. After a while, she got used to me being there. Invited me to dinner. We talked, about so many things. Never once did she ask me back up to her place. She was a good girl, a clean girl. So very, very clean. Nine months, and that's when she did me the honor. She told me she thought we were finally close enough, that she knew me well enough to trust me. They always trust me, in the end. I've done it so many times… So there we were, naked before each other, touching, kissing, caressing, and the things she did to me… She barely had to touch me, y'know? She could just look at me, and sigh, and it was, orgasmic. But we fucked too. Fucked EVERYWHERE! I came, and came again, and she… enjoyed herself. In the end, there we were, laying on the bed, and I was ready to do my thing, when she starts moaning on top of me. I'm used to girls moaning, but she just… it wasn't sexual. It was like what we were doing hurt, but she couldn't stop it. I reached out, and she caught my hands. So strong, I think I still have bruises. Then her entire body tensed, locking me down hard inside her. That's when I felt it crawling inside me. However she does what she does, it crawled right down my shaft. Hurt like a bugger, like I was being torn apart from the inside, like what I had wanted to do to her. I screamed. Heaven help me, I screamed like a little girl, and passed out. When I woke up, she'd left me a message. Told me I was going to be a father. I can feel them, now, you know. All three of my sweet little babies, crawling around inside a sac in my belly. They're getting so big. Doc says they're healthy, eight limbs and all. Gonna rip their way out of their daddy soon, yes they are. I'm proud to be my little babies' first meal. Hey. I won't be around to raise them. Take care of my girls, would you? ██/██/2011 SCP-952-Gamma 1, 2, and 3 taken into Foundation custody. Agents in Asia are to be on the lookout for SCP-952-Gamma, using the alias 'Jackie of Diamonds.'

The box had arrived in Site 17, and been accepted as an object worthy of containment. Its sender had been correct that it could not be opened from the outside, at least, not by them. Nor could they see what was actually inside it. Like any hunt, the best way to appeal to prey was via their hunger or curiosity. The box was an appeal to both. The trap, however, had sprung too soon. The thing inside, bought and trained at disgusting expense, had proven impatient. Even more, it had also proven unable to see its quarry with as much clarity as they had been led to believe. At least it'd had the sense to slither back in and wait, but their hand had been tipped. Still, he was not a man to throw out a tool, no matter how inappropriate. The time would come again, even if it was not the one they had hoped for. Mr. Dark tapped a hard nail against his thin teeth, thinking. The greatest opportunity for acquisitions in years, and it was all going tits-up. Their old doll, Kramer, was finally out of the toybox. In the wrong hands, yes, but her random lethality and crippled psyche could still tip against those same hands. That twit Scud had been mopped up, finally. He'd stopped being useful months ago, and the expenditures could now be routed to better purpose, but it still rankled. More troubling, Cutridge had somehow fallen prey to that fat lush Harken at the worst possible time. Incompetence everywhere. Lack of vision. Even worse, pure profit being flushed down the sewer by the hour. The kumiho had escaped, and none of his people were even looking for it? A gorgeous, deadly creature, able to change form and slaughter at will… what could be done with that lean and hungry spirit once it was properly brought to heel? Recording options alone could cover a good portion of this budget hemorrhage. Dark's lips curled in a wintery, predatory smile. He played with a pen, doodling blasphemy as he looked over a small spray of photos on his desk. He lifted one, depicting a hulking brute with a bag head, blurry and unaware of the observation… or uncaring. The Bagman had been content to do its own business for some time now, rising from time to time to devil those witless enough to still hold to magic and faith. Rogue, yes, dangerous, yes, but sometimes a mad dog was better then no dog at all. Perhaps others should be made aware of its "usefulness." No need to mention the absolute disdain for authority and control. Dark hated to travel. He had not enjoyed any of his visits to the States since helping that Anderson fellow set up his factory. Too bad Anderson was gone; HE wouldn't have let things get out of control like this, or at the bloody least, gleaned a profit from it. He prepared a note to Marshall and Carter. They would not be pleased – they liked Dark out of day-to-day operations as much as he wished to stay out of them, warmly ensconced in The Museum. Still his best "purchase" to date, regardless of the undying animosity of The Library and its parasites. Still, sometimes it was required to stir the ashes, remind everyone of what their damn jobs were. They were here to provide wonders beyond limit for their discerning club members. It was about bloody time to cause some wonder. He snatched up a glossy black phone headset, punching numbers and causing a distant phone to ring. Dark sighed, tapping fingers on the smooth dome of a yeti skull. Finally the other end picked up, and he shifted forward, starting to scribble. "Were you off for a bloody coffee break, Cheryl? So sorry to upset your routine, but I need the New York club notified to have my rooms ready within the hour. I'll be flying out shortly, have Mr. McCreedy ready up a ten-man team for quick action, have Bobby head it up." "… What? Why the bloody, bloody hell was he committed? … Really? That's tragic, Cheryl, but that's no reason to take him off active roll. Get him loose and cleaned up and over to the club immediately. I'm going to get this goddamn rubbish back on track manually, and I want him right on the point." "… That's a good girl, Cheryl. Oh, and one more thing, dearie. Call Boomer, and have him blow a little kiss to Agent Harken. He's thumbed his sodding nose at us a bit too much, it's time he knows that we have taken notice." He hung up, leaning back and looking up to the bust of Caligula over the door. Mr. Dark smiled with true warmth, tapping his lips. That dear boy Boomer… not the sharpest razor in the apple, but a sweet lad all the same. He had the rather useful opinion that anything worth doing was worth doing with massive property damage. Inelegant, yes, but the idea of Harken burning or splattering in his bed was enough to warm even Mr. Dark's pinched heart. Carter was waiting on the tarmac when Dark's jet landed. Various attendants, along with the New York club director were ranked behind him, every one of them with the same strained, nervous smile. Nothing good ever came from Mr. Dark visiting the States. It immediately put him in poor humor at the best of times, and with things as they were right now… Carter repressed a shiver as the door slowly opened. Two tiny Asian attendants (identical female twins) scrambled out, carrying a cigar case and a opened umbrella. Next was Dark's longest-running secretary Cheryl, looking harried but still hard as a iron wrecking ball. And then the puppeteer himself, Mr. Dark, elegantly shabby, like a bitter old owl, snapping at everyone in reach, hitting his attendants with the tip of his cane when they fell so much as a step behind. Staff swarmed to the jet to get his voluminous luggage as Dark snatched up a cigar, the attendant ready with the match almost before he had it in his mouth. He turned, and caught sight of Carter standing at attention. He turned and faced him, a thick cloud of smoke pouring slowly from his nostrils. Carter stiffened, swallowing thickly. Oh shit, here we go. Dark crossed in a haze of smoke. Behind him, an unlucky porter dropped a heavy steamer trunk of luggage with a loud crash. "Fire him," Dark said, without breaking stride. Carter felt some of the tension leave him. Dark was in a good mood: the last man to damage one of his possessions had been shot in the head. All too soon he was there, glaring up at Carter, the thick and oddly spicy smell of his cigars curling around him like strangling hands. "Well, so good to see you, old boy," he said. "The way things have been I'd assumed you were dead." "It's nice to see you too, Dark. No need to be snide." "Oh, but I feel there is, my good man. You see, I give you and Marshall all the rope you need, and it seems you've made a noose, put it around your own necks, and are ready to jump off the bloody chair with it. You're letting these bastards run circles around you, and you're ignoring it because everything is all right at the club. Just because the fire hasn't reached the back yard yet doesn't mean it's not still on the way.” He hissed, pulling deeply on his cigar and glaring. "I understand that Dark, we've just been forced to move a little slower because of the publicity. I have a team-" "Oh, bugger your team. Who do you have, Finnegan and that twat Logan on it? It is, isn't it? Those two wastes of tissue aren't worth the air they breathe. I've got a ten-man staging now, and I'm putting Bobby on this." "Bobby?" Carter almost gasped, eyes wide. "Isn't that a little… much? I mean, think of the Thanksgiving incident, I'm not sure if he's comp-" "Oh sod off, you twit, Bobby's on this now, and I want your fat fingers out of it. A fox girl who can shape-shift into any desire or dalliance is running around free, and you've sat. A woman who can cause or end any sickness is strutting about like a goddamn starlet, and you've twiddled your thumbs. You begged me to be here, Carter, your silence screamed to me again, and I'm going to handle things for you." "Dark, goddammit, enough wi-" Dark smiled then, and Carter didn't feel nervous or angry anymore. He was afraid. That was a smile of a man who knew too much about you, who was fumbling your dirty secrets about in his dirty head. Dark slid closer, his cold hand pulling Carter down to look him in the eye, close enough to kiss. "You called me before, Carter, and I fixed things then too. I've always done right by you, dearie, even if I am a bit… gruff. So tell me, sweetheart, do you have something to say?" "…" "I asked if you had any opinion to express, Carter." "… none at all, Mister Dark." "That's a good lad." Dark released him then, patting his chest. "Have the girls draw a bath for me, I need a cup of coffee and I have to piss." He steamed away in a haze of smoke, throwing the lit cigar at a staff member who he felt was moving too slowly. Carter watched, breathing slowly with effort. Now, win, lose or draw, he'd been benched. Dark was calling the shots now, he'd been pushed aside, like a child who'd been playing in the kitchen. There was no telling what Dark would do now… there was so much to collect. "This is Kramer." "Hey, sweetie. Are you still at the store?" "I am going to punch you in the throat. No, I'm on the way back." "Can you get me a burger and a cup of coffee? The machine at the hotel doesn't have shit in it." "Harken, are you drunk?" "No, no, no… well, maybe, why, do I sound drunk? I was drunk last night I think, does that count?" "Damn it Harken, you need to be lucid." "Oh come on, I'm as lucid as I ever am. You were gone for two days, what am I supposed to do to keep amused? A man can only masturbate so much." "Sweet lord, Harken, sober the hell up fast. If you're like this when I get there, I'm getting a transfer. After I beat you senseless." "Oh stop… get me food, please? Please? No booze for the rest of the week, I swear." "It's Saturday, Harken." "Oh… well, for a while then, OK? I'm really… Kramer, I need to go." "What? What the hell is going on?" "There's a fat man with no shirt yelling in the parking lot, and he said my name." "Harken, wh-" He hung up without looking at the phone, eyes glued to the fat man on the ground floor. The hotel was a big, cheap horseshoe-shaped building on four levels. He'd gone to the third floor on the opposite side to hunt for snacks (and, ideally, medication for his throbbing head), and had an excellent view of his hotel room on the ground floor. The big man with no shirt was standing in front of the door to Harken and Kramer's hotel room. Harken leaned on the railing, squinting in the sun and watching with more amusement then fear. The big man hammered at the door, then stepped back. He was rather fat, long hair, scraggly beard… he looked like he'd had a rough go at life… missing three fingers on his left hand, too. Something about him rang a bell, somewhere. The fat man laughed, then yelled in a strained voice. "Wakey Wakey, Harken! Mr. Dark sends his love!" Mr. Dark? As in MC & D? As in the people- Why would this slob know about th- Missing three fingers. Seemed unstable. Boomer. FUCK. Harken tried to take cover, but the exposed walkways offered nothing for protection. The fat man pressed a small device in his hand, and the entire left side of the hotel vanished in a oily black explosion. The walkway, held up by little more then rusty bolts and hope, dropped with a shrieking crash, taking Harken with it. He screamed, trying to find something soft to hit in the kaleidoscope of concrete and metal. He failed, crashing to the ground flat, most likely cracking several ribs, plus a few other things he would have preferred uncracked. He lay there, the wind knocked out of him, groaning and slowly trying to turn over. He didn't have to, as a meaty hand grabbed and hauled him up like a side of beef. He was suddenly looking into Boomer's sweaty, giggling face as he gripped Harken's now-bloody shirt. Boomer smiled and giggled more, then smashed his thick, stupid skull into Harken's face. It was like being hit by a car. "Huh. I knew you'd be here, Harken, I knew it. Mister Dark never tells me wrong, Harken. Do you feel bad, Harken? You look bad, Harken. Huh." Harken was working on something witty when Boomer's fleshy fist smashed into his cheekbone. He moaned, feeling his eye already starting to swell, ears still ringing from the blast. Boomer slapped him twice. Each hit was like getting hit with a cutting board wrapped in a thin layer of padding. "Mister Dark wants me to tell you to stop it, Harken. He says that you're being too mean and need to stop it, Harken. You got lucky, but if you keep it up he's gonna kill you dirty and slow, Harken. Huh. Heh. He's so mad at you, Harken. I think I'll kill you, Harken, and make Mister Dark happy with me. OK?" Boomer followed up this with another fist to his face, then his throat, making Harken gasp and croak, trying to wheeze down breath. Over the ringing in his ears was an even more annoying and lovely sound… sirens. Boomer heard them too, swearing breathlessly as he pounded out a few more meaty hits, finally spitting in his face and knocking his head on the blacktop. "You have a good day, Harken. Huh. Be seeing you later." He rose and ran off, leaving Harken pounded and bloody on the ground. It seemed like hours later, but finally someone came and started fussing over him. He could feel the heat from the burning hotel, the throbbing of his own bruised and smashed flesh. Not just beaten, no, but beaten by that giggling retard Boomer. He was almost unsure what hurt more, his ego or his body. Someone he couldn't see washed his face, swabbing away blood and grime. "What the hell happened?" Harken smiled painfully, trying to laugh through pulped ribs. "Man, I just got here myself." Kramer drove too fast, looking in the rear-view mirror every few minutes. Harken looked like a man who'd rode inside a cement mixer full of gravel. He moaned occasionally, turning over in his deep, drugged sleep. She'd seen the explosion just as she pulled off the freeway and realized something had gone wrong. Getting to the hotel wasn't hard: she'd fought the urge to speed there and proceeded to the site at a normal pace. Upon seeing the flashing lights, she'd driven on past. Kramer had parked in an alleyway a mile up the road, waited for more people to respond, readied her FBI credentials and twisted her face to match. After a reasonable delay, she'd threaded her way in, drifting to the ambulances with random flash of ID here and there. Getting Harken out had been more difficult. She'd been forced to create a distraction. Just a little disconnected heart monitor in another ambulance, enough to make the focus shift. She'd piggy-backed him out through the still-smoking rubble, tossing him into the back seat of her car with as much grace as she could muster. No way Harken could go to a civvie hospital. Grims was already in the wind, the last thing they needed was another Agent in public hands. Site 46 was close, and had full medical facilities: a bit far, but Harken was tough as a cockroach (despite his near-constant whining). He turned over with a groan, waving a hand feebly. “Jesus, I feel like ass.” "You don't look much better." "I'm hurt… aren't you obligated… to be nice… to me?" "No." Harken hissed in pain and pressed a hand to his forehead "…it was that… tubby bitch… Boomer… Dark's private… dog. Oooh, shit…" Harken rolled over and vomited. There were flecks of blood in it. "He blew the room… moron… thought I… was in it." "Shut up. We'll be on-site soon." "…hey, Kramer?" "…yeah?" "How about… we leave the… rich boys… alone… for a bit? Go… fuck around… with the Hand… or the Insurgency… or some shit?" "Before or after we carve up Boomer like a flabby ham?" "Oh." Harken's blood-flecked lips curved up into a feral grin. "After… obviously."

The One Who Devours Souls arrives in the bleak, gray hours of the morning, when all good men lie afearing their beds. He (for it is a he, though the strange raiments it wears, and the viscous fluids in its hair make its sex vague) steps from his carriage, a cursed device made for kings in distant lands and bought by the persecution of righteous men, and walks, measured and even as old age, to the threshold, where he strikes the door but thrice. He calls my name, and chills run down my spine, as though death itself were upon me. Death would, in fact, be a blessing, compared to the torment this creature intends for me. I shake my head, but he strikes three times again, and says my name. I quail in my chair, staring bleakly at the place she once sat beside me, before the doom befell me. Three times again, and paid for all. Thrice three, and I am compelled to rise, to unbolt the door, and let the creature in. He takes my hand in his, his grip like a leech's. My hand falls back to my side, my strength gone. I fall back to my seat, and he takes the other. The place where she once sat. Does he know? He must. He knows all that is in my house, from attic to basement, room to room. There is little that could have escaped his notice. His lists. He speaks and his voice is like unto the droning of insects, and I can feel a burning madness in my mind. How could his voice have beguiled others so? And yet it had, for what other explanation could there be? How else could my situation, once so full of fortune, have turned to Jobian loss and regret? The words, it was his words! Nothing left his mouth that was not carefully selected, the words placed one after the other like the stones of a wall, seeming so innocuous until you noticed the traps he had lain, and then it was too late. He lifts the container at his side, and places it reverently on the table, like an idol placed just so before a sacrifice is laid screaming on the altar. The latches are opened with an ominous click, and from the darkness thus revealed, he pulls out several documents, their words arcane and their meanings as treacherous as a pit of vipers. "Read," he commands. I try, knowing how much is at stake, knowing that one missed word will ruin me, even beyond the state I find myself in, but my mind can make no sense of the twisted sentences. I read, and re-read, and can no more tell you what I see than I can recall the vows I once made to her. Finally, I give up. My eyes hollow, I stare up at him, searching for some trace of humanity in that dead visage, some remnant of charity or pity. He returns my gaze, and I look away, unable to meet those cold, reptilian eyes. "Sign here," he says, gesturing to a line. I find a pen in my hand, though I cannot recall having picked it up. Numbly, as though I were only watching it happen, as though I were not an active participant, I sign my name in an unsteady script. More lines are singled out for my name, my one true name, and so I give him power over me. "Thank you, Mister Johnson," he says, picking up the briefcase. "Your ex-wife will be expecting the first alimony check no later than thirty days. Good day."

Right, Kyle, here's those notes you asked for. Keep in mind, hush protocol seven means the investigation is still ongoing, so some of the stuff isn't released yet. Best I could do. Good luck. ~Nate The following is a transcript of the voice over from a pirate television broadcast intercepted by the Foundation in September of 2011. Male voice: One zero zero five. Two one two. Six four six. Nine one seven. Short pause, soft beep, brief static which continues through the remainder of the interruption Second male voice: People of the new media world, listen! There was a mouth that was where all that was on the media was and it spoke and we heard it was speaking and we heard its voice on the radio, the television, the internet, the sky. "Tell us truth," we cried, "oh voice, and we will break the world like sweet, sweet eggs before the mother, the hen, the television! Television voice, speak!" It spoke to us and we listened as it told us- told you- but us, because we listened- that the world was dead like leaves in fall that fall like all of us fall, and that it was dead because it slept through the message of the voice, and that message was "stop!". Wake, oh earth, as your cores crack, hatching volcanoes like chicks, sweet burning chicks to play in the fields left behind when the sleepers have gone. Good morning, living earth. Good night, dead society. <Extended pause, rattling inhalation or sigh> Female voice: Are we cool yet? The broadcast consisted of man hanged by the neck in a doorway softly twisting as the camera moved closer, at which point it became clear that he was mouthing along with the voice over. At approximately one minute and forty seconds, synchronized with the line "good night, dead society", the man began thrashing, apparently due to asphyxiation, and appeared to die. Throughout the video, at each instance of the word 'voice', an image of a bank of televisions, each showing a different image of violence, appeared on screen for exactly one second. Following the apparent death of the hanged man, a female voice interjected the whispered question "Are we cool yet?" in what is theorized to be an imitation of sexual ecstasy, and the broadcast terminated. Regular channel broadcasting resumed after a momentary delay, cutting approximately three minutes from the opening scenes of Ses[FURTHER INFORMATION REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN] Overwatch Report of agent Scott Manheilm: After one of our intelligence persons operating in [DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]zed the numbers as postal codes for Wall Street addresses, it got a lot easier to hone in on a point of origin for the transmission jam last week. We raided the building at approximately six in the morning. It was a bit before that, I'm not sure. It should be in the full report compiled after the incident. It was a small operation, not like the big SWAT style MTF things you hear about in the cafeteria or anything, just me, Steve [Mader], and Mike [Chillnoski] posing as local detectives. We were expecting maybe a token resistance from the squatters, nothing fancy. First thing we did was break the door down, flashing badges and yelling. We figured they'd come quietly. Didn't happen. Almost immediately a hand grenade comes down the stairs at us; we spent a couple days under observation afterward just in case it was one of… well, I'll get to that. Mike took down the guy who threw it, damn good shooting. After that, things went more or less as we'd expected. Wound up bringing in four subjects, three guys and a girl, all mid twenties. They're profiled in the mission docs, I'm sure. Just squatter artist types, locals. Probably recruited thro[DATA REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN]ging in a door frame upstairs pretty much confirmed it as the transmission location. Nasty. Anyway, I'll cut to the chase. The reason this operation became such a big deal is what we found upstairs. Not the body, but the crate in the next room… We figured they were just normal grenades at first, what with the one they tried to hit us with when we came in, but Steve had a bad feeling about the writing on the crate and those signs, so we boxed them up and called in an analysis team. Wound up being a good move; I think Steve got a commendation. [FURTHER MATERIAL REDACTED FOR BREVITY.] Transcript from the notes of Dr. Tsung regarding incident 1[REDACTED AS PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN] Crate appears unmarked on sides, bottom. Large banner style logo on lid reading "Are We Cool Yet?" may prove significant, particularly in light of recent events. Crate contains thirty cardboard signs, each apparently produced by hand with varying degrees of artistic merit and style, all of which read "OSSIFY WALL STREET" in all caps. Ominous. Below the signs is a layer of packing material. I've submitted a sample for forensic analysis and incinerated the rest in order to avoid possible contamination. The packing material is wrapped around several modified fragmentation grenades which look to have been originally of russian manufacture. Weld seams visible where grenades [unintelligible] modified payload. I'll crack one open and see. Addendum 1[REDACTED PER HUSH PROTOCOL SEVEN] of Dr. Tsung has been retained for study in the Hazardous Lifeforms wing of Armed Research Site-45. Further information can be found in Report-439-A. Thanks Nate. These Foundation types catch on slow, don't they? They don't seem to appreciate our work much, either. Art tends to fly right over the head of tough guy types. Good thing they have a few like you in their ranks who can appreciate true creativity. A few of the others say hi. Remember Miley from the thing in Alaska? She's made a full recovery and will be helping out at our next… exhibition. Are We Cool Yet? ~Kyle

Warning: If you enjoyed the way Ecce Perago ended, then read no further. If you enjoy the thought of a grimdark Foundation, or have a low tolerance for quirkiness, this may not be the story you want to be reading. If, on the other hand, you'd like to see the New Administrator get what he has coming to him, then, read on. Fifteen minutes was all it had taken. In fifteen minutes, the world had changed, even if no one had noticed. The Administrator looked upon his work, and was proud. His seniors had always disliked his ideas. They all believed that free will was some grand idea. Only the Administrator knew that people were stupid. They needed to be led, to be guided. He was the one to do it now, with all this power at his fingertips. All this power. They say absolute power corrupts absolutely. Enh. Close enough, for Foundation work. The Administrator grinned beneath his mustache as he set to work, implementing changes that would bring the world into a more ordered state. Little did he know, that his plans were not the only plans out there. The Foundation planned for everything. Even a rogue O5. 13 All of his plans had been built off one assumption, one purposeful lie. The O5 who had recruited him told him there was no O5-13. That the 13th vote was transferred from one O5 to another, which was true. The 13th O5 held no temporal power. While he was often invited to listen in on Overseer council meetings, and many of the council members treasured his advice, he had never been the most… stable of people. You see, the 13th O5 made his home at a site that was not quite a site. While those who had been to it saw nothing unusual about it, Site 67 was on none of the Foundation's official books. It was an SCP, a quite powerful one, and one known as a 'little black box.' No number, just a name. The House. The easiest way to hide something is in plain sight. So, a natural landmark was built around it, and those who had to visit it were given to believe it was just another SCP. The 13th was a special man. To survive in the House, one had to be. After all, time inside this SCP was a little unusual. If one were to use popular culture references, one might employ the phrase 'Timey Wimey Ball.' Inside the House, Cause did not often follow effect, and could quite easily loop into each other. So, the 13th had to be different, had to be able to think in more dimensions than the average man. This, of course, resulted in him being, by our standards, not altogether there. "I think you might be starting to bore people. This is a lot of background to get through." … Of course, when one spends a lot of time using one's mind to explore all manner of eldritch horror and power, one sometimes gets confused as to whether the room one is in has three walls, or four. So, instead of trying to explain, let's just see what happens. "Thank you," the 13th says, to no one specific. Few are those who would enter his office. Site 67 doesn't get many visitors. He is a tall man, red haired, pale skinned, but no freckles. His office walls are lined with book shelves, and even more books somehow stay in place in their shelves on the ceiling. A simple old computer sits on his desk, an Apple IIe, still looking pristine and new. He is currently engrossed in the reports of the latest (from his point of view) exploration into his house, when a red light blinks on his screen. "What's all this then? Ah, yes, the Mann takeover," he mutters to himself. He happens to mutter to himself a lot. Sometimes, he is even still in the room when he mutters to himself. Sometimes, he mutters back. It helps. "I thought I still had another week before that happened." His fingers fly across the keyboard, reading the reports as they file in. "Ah, yes, interesting. Full TPK. Well, almost full. Ha. Should have taken some time to find out more, Mann. Always were too eager. Well, let's see what we can do about this." This comment appears directed to the old man standing by his door, who seems to still be holding his gardening shears. There were always fail safes in the Foundation. Each and every O5 always had a dozen or so on hand, ready just in case. Mann had found out the ones that protected the O5s, but he hadn't learned about the replacement protocols. Which was what the 13th initiated, with a few clicks of his mouse. 12 "Is he… is he dead?" The nameless assistant, whom we'll now call Tim, for the ease of narration, peered through the doorway, watching. He had grabbed the first agent he saw, once his mind had cleared. "A'yup." Agent Lament made a show of checking the corpse's pulse, then leaned back on his heels. "Y'can sorta tell by the big gaping hole where his jaw and chest should be." Lament pulled off the former Overseer's glasses, curious to see who might be behind them. No one he recognized. But, then, he wouldn't. "Well, agent, I-" Tim paused, his eyes glazing over. After all, O5-4 wasn't the only one who could plant commands in people's minds. "By the authority vested in me, whomsoever takes the glasses from his body shall be named O5-12 in his place. Agent Lament, you were never the first choice, but you are still capable of what we need. I hope." Tim slumps, his jaw sore. "I… what… did I just make you…?" Lament can't help but smile. Overseer was never actually a goal of his, but, since it was offered… "Well. Maybe I can't do a better job than this poor soul. But at least I-" He slips on the sunglasses. "Can hold my alcohol." 11 Clef sat back, staring at the dead body. O5-11 had been a good friend, once upon a time. Eleven, or, as he had been known back then, Jings, had been the agent who had trained Clef, when he first joined up. When Jings got promoted, Clef had hoped the old man would change things. They had made plans, had talked things over. They would do great things, with Jings in the place to make things better! But nothing had changed. Oh sure, at first, Eleven made things better, eased some restrictions on the Safe humanoids. But he didn't let any of them go, as they'd talked about. He didn't ease up on the D-class deaths. Eventually, he became just another Overseer, grinding down anyone who tried to make things better. Mann might not be the best choice to take over, but at least he'd follow his plan. Ha! Like Clef would let anyone else take over. The only person in this world you could trust, was yourself. Clef reached over to the body of his dead friend, and slipped off the man's bracelet. "If there were a move past Checkmate, I'd say that. But for now, let's just say I win." He slips the bracelet onto his own wrist. "I always win." 10 Some transfers of power were epic. Some were quite interesting. In Ten's case, it was a simple matter of an email marked 'Urgent' showing up in the inbox of one Dr. Moose. She took a moment to read the contents, then sighed as she rolled her eyes. "Really? Me, an O5? Fuck a doodle." 9 O5-9 was the unluckiest O5. Dr. Bright glanced down at his cell phone, and made a face. "Fuck. Nine got himself offed again?" He tapped his fingers together, and frowned over them. There was no one on site currently who fit the specifi— No, wait. There was one. Yes. Two birds, one stone. "Joshua!" He called to his secretary. "Tell Agent Elroy to meet me at the elevators." A few minutes later, the doctor and the Agent were riding down the main shaft together. Bright stared determinedly at the numbers as they ticked down, towards the bottom of the site. Yoric, on the other hand, fidgeted, hummed, and otherwise made himself annoying. It was his gift. Finally, he could contain himself no longer. "Look, Jack, if this is about the cafeteria incident-" "It's not about that." "Ah, then feeding Kane peanut butter, look, it was really funn-" "Not that either." "That girl told me she was 18!" "… That excuse never worked for me either. Yoric. You are being let in on a secret several steps above your current security level. So, shut up, and do what I tell you." The rest of the ride continues in silence. If he had been any other doctor, he might have worried about what he was planning on doing. But Jack had stopped making emotional connections to his fellow workers. He knew it always ended badly. The elevator drew to a halt at the bottom of the site… and then proceeded to move sideways for some time. Yoric shot a questioning look at the Senior Staffer, but chose not to ask. It wasn't until the elevator doors slid back to reveal a sign on another door that he actually spoke. "Nine Six Three Two? Wait, there's more of you?" Jack opened the door, and stepped inside. The room was small, a large window showing the room beyond, in which a box rested on a pedestal. "Yoric. This is very important. I need you to go into that room, and open that box, and bring me back the object within." He sighed. "I've been authorized to give you the 006 you've requested if you do so." Cautious, but optimistic, Agent Yoric Elroy passed into the next room. Dr. Bright locked the door behind him, then turned to the window to watch. 963-2 had always been his dirty little secret. It was his fault it had been created. Yoric carefully opened the box, and, when nothing jumped out at him, carefully reached out a gloved hand to pick up the odd metal symbol inside. "This the ARGH!" The agent screamed in horrible pain as his body was grabbed by an invisible force. His bones, his flesh, his entire body was wrenched, this way and that. Bright stood watching, hands clasped behind his back. This was what you got when working with inferior materials. Well. It didn't matter. In a few minutes, Yoric would be completely gone, never to be seen again. And his body would rise as O5-9, the Overseer who thought he could be immortal. Bright would have to bring him up to speed. One of the problems of 963-2: it had only copied the memories up to the point of Nine's first death. It didn't matter. After all, O5-9 was the unluckiest O5. 8 Desiree Talleh walked into the O5's apartment as if she owned the place. She had always had a habit of being in the right place, at the right time. And now? She was going to be in the right place, at the right time, to end up an O5. Desiree was a young looking girl, of African descent, her hair done up in cornrows, looking at the world through coke bottle glasses. She opened the door to the bathroom, and reached in to turn off the water with an oven mitt. She stared at the remains of Eight with some distaste. Ick. Overseer soup. Still. Miss Talleh reached her hand into the muck, fishing around for the little ring. It was her choice to become Eight, and if anyone wanted to stop her, well, she'd been planning this for a lot longer than they had. She wasn't afraid to call on help from friends in scaly places. "Me and Clef as O5s? What is the Foundation coming to? Next they'll be asking 343 to join." And she giggles, at some private joke. 7 Dr. Gerald looked down at the burning wreckage of his vehicle. The flames could easily be seen for miles around, pieces of the car spread across the upper third of the road he'd been driving on. He turned his hand this way and that, studying the ivory chopstick driven through the middle of his hand. "Huh. Guess this means I'm an Overseer now, huh?" He glanced down, studying the ground far below. "Now if only I could get out of this tree." 6 Black looked at what he had wrought, and the corner of his eye twitched, just a little bit. His mentor, and his partner, both dead by his hand. It shouldn't have been this way. He was supposed to have given his life for Six. Thompson was too good to die like a chump. But this was how it had happened. All he could do was move on. The first step was to remove Six's hat and pistols. They weren't special, but they meant something to Black. The pearl handled pistols were tucked into his belt, the hat placed jauntily upon his head. Then, carefully, reverently, Black picked up the cane. "This will not stand. You shall be avenged." 5 "I feel like goddamn Dorothy," Sorts muttered as he pulled the shoes off the body of O5-5. "Really? Shoes? Who makes an object of authority out of damned shoes?" He frowned, studying them closer. "Okay, these really feel kind of wei- HOLY SHIT it's human skin." He pauses, thinking over his statement. "That shouldn't actually surprise me. The midgets… they surprise me. Fuck, I hate these cameos." As he stalked away to get the shoes re-sized for him, a dozen instances of SCP-5555-J danced about the body of the former Overseer. They sang, in some kind of unison. I'm sure you can guess the song. It starts 'Ding dong.' 3 "Hey. Josh." "Wassup Gnosis?" "That program crashed." "Which one?" "The one that takes up all that memory on the Cray." "Ah, fuck. Oh well, just use the backups and reboot the damn thing." "No problem." 2 'Ding! You have a new video message.' Dr. Sophia Light glanced up from her work with a sigh. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. Sometimes, she missed being a member of the Junior Staff under Bright. No, strike that, that was something she never missed. But she wouldn't mind less paperwork. A break from the work was welcome at this point. The video opened on an older, familiar looking woman. "Sophia. If you're getting this message, not only am I dead, but I never found a way to tell you. I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not your mother, grandmother or such. I'm you. It's a long story, but let's just say, if you ever need to reboot the universe, make sure you're inside of it first. Your computer is currently getting an update with all of my files. See, you're going to take over for me. You're O5-2. Good luck." The video feed cuts off, then turns back on. "Side note: Why the hell do the time travelers always go after Hitler? He's got to be the luckiest man alive. Look into the possibility of his SCPness." Light sighed, rubbing her temples. Less work? Never. 1 "… and that is why I have decided to pass on my mantle to you," the video continued, as Dr. Gears studied the pale trenchcoat in his hands. His face, as always, betrayed no trace of emotion. "I have done all I can to lead you to this point, where you can control the Foundation. No matter what anyone may try to tell you, your role is first among equals." The man speaking betrays no emotion himself, a deadpan delivery that wouldn't change even if he were dying while he recorded the message. Which he likely was. "And in the end, I just want to say, I'm proud of you." At that Gears looks up at the screen, freezing the image before it ends. He stared at the man on the screen for several long minutes, letting everything process. He was now the man in charge, the Overseer at the top of the pyramid. He should feel something. Some small bit of… something. But he'd never admit it. He simply nodded at the image on the screen. "Thank you, Father. Rest in Peace." 4 "Yes, yes… ha! That would be perfect!" Mann couldn't help but laugh to himself. So much information, so many things for him to do. "010! We can expand it! Humanity will do what needs to be done, not what they want to do!" His fingers flickered across the keyboard, and then stopped as his screen froze. "Access denied? What kind of crap is-" "Hey, four, how's it going, man?" The young teen on the screen smiled. "Hey, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the O5 council has held a vote of no confidence, and, welp, you're out!" "O5 council? THERE IS NO O5 COUNCIL!" Mann paused, taking a deep breath and standing up. "Apparently, I didn't erase you as thoroughly as I had planned. That can be easily rect—" Again, Mann was interrupted, as 11 more video feeds popped up on his screen, each of them filled with the shadowy outline of a human head and shoulders. Each of them displayed the words 'No confidence' in green at the bottom. "No! No! I did this! I planned it all! You cannot do this! I am the Administrator! The power is mine! The power is—" BANG! Mann, the top half of his head gone, takes two steps, still trying to mouth words. A second gun shot echoes throughout the room, and Mann falls to the floor, his body twitching. His assailant fires twice more, and, finally, the Mann who would be Administrator lies dead. The man who killed him slips into the just vacated seat. Still warm. "Dr. Mann is dead. Took a bit to kill him, looks like the files were right about him doing some self augmentation. I'll have the boys down in research look at him. Is there any pressing business for the council, at this time?" Negatives from each of the Council members. "In that case, I, Frederick Heiden… shit, I mean O5-4, declare this Council Meeting closed." O5-4 stared down at the corpse of his predecessor. It had been a long day. It was only going to get longer. He took a moment to kick the corpse in the side. "God dammit, you asshole. This wasn't what I wanted." And then he turned back to the computer, and to his duties.

« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale » From: mamamia78@█████.com To: shampaingurl@██████.net Subject: can i get your advice? Howdy, sis. I hear that you have a new bf. What is this? 3 in the last 2 months? Better slow down, girl, or there won't be any left for anyone else! :P So what's his name? Do you think that this one'll last long enough for any of us to meet him? :P How are the kids doing? Mike looked good in that play last semester, but Mom tells me that he's not in the drama club this year? Is he spending more time with the football team? And how did Mary do on her cheerleader tryouts? I did want to get some advice from you, though. Beth's going through some kind of phase and I was hoping that you might have soem experience from when your kids were younger. Beth's spending a lot of time by herself and just acts like she's starving all the time. I swear that she's put on 15 pounds in the last month. Do you think she might have an eating disorder or something? I mean, she's only 10, that kind of stuff doesn't happen until they're older, right? Please don't let Mom know about this, you know how she freaks out, and I don't want her deciding to come "fix" Beth if nothing's wrong with her. Thanks, sis! Jody From: mamamia78@█████.com To: shampaingurl@██████.net Subject: Re: Beth I guess you're right, she could just be going through a growth spurt. Maybe I *am* just being a little overprotective. I do think that I need to look at what TV shows she's watching, though. Lately she's mentioned this weird imaginary friend thing that she never did before. She's not really clear, but it's big and has wings and talks without talking. Really weird stuff. If this keeps up, maybe I should take her to a psychologist. I'm sorry that Mary didn't make the squad. Is it too late to try out for any other sports? From: mamamia78@█████.com To: shampaingurl@██████.net Subject: Re: Re: Re: Beth Oh, that secret friend thing? I'm not worried about that any more. She introduced me to the adult and he seems nice. Not scary at all. You hardly notice the wings after a few minutes. :P So what are your plans for the holiday? Do y'all want to come visit? You can even bring your boytoy if he's still around then. :P From: mamamia78@█████.com To: shampaingurl@██████.net Subject: Visiting Come on, it'll do you all good to get out of town for a couple of days, especially Mary. Beth always likes being around her and I think she's a good example. Plus, it'll be nice for Beth to introduce Mary to the adult. I think he gets lonely sometimes and could stand to meet some new people. Everyone around here likes him, but you can never have too many friends, right? Beth's looking better, too. She was so skinny before, but the new weight makes her look a lot healthier. From: mamamia78@█████.com To: shampaingurl@██████.net Subject: Re: worried about you Why are you worried? There's nothing wrong over here. I bet you'd feel better if you came and met the adult. I'm sure he's like to meet you all. Looking forward to seeing you soon! Shakti Shivaji had been a doctor in the backwoods town of Spring for over a dozen years, originally coming on a program that assigned doctors to underserved communities for college loan assistance and liking the area enough that she decided to stay. It was mostly a quiet life, leaning more towards cold and flu than major trauma. Even the local methamphetamine manufacturers tended to avoid going to the doctor for as long as they could, generally paranoid that they would get reported to the police. Shakti took her patients' privacy seriously, though, and reassured the manufacturer and addict in front of her of that. "Mr. Jameson, you don't have to worry. I keep your records strictly sealed and private. I obviously think that your health would stop deteriorating if you would stop using meth, but I won't report you to Sheriff Michaels. Now please, tell me what's wrong." "Well… if you say so. I'm still not saying that I use meth, just so you know, but if I did, how could I quit it? Um… I wanted to know if you could do anything about my chest hurting all the time. And maybe how to put on some more weight. He thinks that I'm too skinny and sick and need to put on some weight." "If you were using meth, I would suggest going down to Forrester and checking into the rehab program at the hospital there. It's in-patient and lasts at least 30 days, and they would help you with the withdrawal symptoms. If you were taking meth, of course." Dr. Shivaji continued speaking as she listened to Bill's chest and heart. "As for the chest pain, your heart sounds a little weak. I'd like to get an EKG and chest X-ray on you and possibly send you down to the hospital for a CT scan later this week, so I can get a better picture of your heart. You should know, however, that if there are any problems with your heart that he probably won't pick you. He really only chooses people in tip-top shape. Still, any effort to improve your health will be a good thing, even if you might not be his." Dr. Shivaji slung her stethoscope around her neck as she finished the exam. "The nurse will be in in a few minutes to take you to get your X-ray. And remember: if you did do meth, continuing will only make things worse, and he wouldn't like that." Bill hung his head like a little boy getting reprimanded and replied, "I know, I know. And, um, could you get me that information about the rehab? I really don't want to disappoint him." Shakti left the room and gave the instruction to her nurse, then went to write up her notes. As she typed them into the computer, she idly thought, "I really ought to go visit him myself this weekend. I wish he would choose me too, but I know he thinks we still need a doctor for now. And he says that the first of the children will be almost ready for their next stage soon. I should see about ordering some more beds for them." Dear Diary, Mr. All-Growd-Up is thinking at me a lot today. He thinks I'm going to be ready soon. He says I won't be scared. But I think I will be. I'm going to miss Mommy and Daddy and Beth. But not Uncle Dan. He looks at me funny sometimes. I don't like it. And i forgot that Beth is going to be ready soon too. Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks at us that her and Tommy and Dani will be first. They're lucky they can go first. I bet they will be real pretty like Mr. All-Growd-Up. I hope I'm pretty too. I want to take Scooter with me when i go. He's a good cat. But Mr. All-Growd-Up thinks I can't. He thinks I can have Scooter when I grow up if I want. So that's good. I hope I get Uncle Dan like that too. Bye! Sheriff Brett Michaels ("Yes, like the rocker.") was worried. He'd been feeling strange lately and wasn't sure what it was. Lately he'd go on patrol in some of the farther parts of the county for a few hours and would start feeling really angry and afraid of something, although when he was feeling better he couldn't remember what, exactly. He'd come racing back to Spring, all fired up to do something, charge straight into the clearing that the adult usually appeared in and then he'd feel a lot better. The air always smelled… better around the adult. Everything just felt right around him, like he could take care of everything. Even Sheriff Michaels, the nominal authority in the county, deferred to the judgment of the adult. He knew best, after all. Brett spotted Dr. Shivaji across the clearing while the rest of the crowd was getting set up for the choosing and decided that he'd talk with her afterwards and see if she could give him some medicine or something to calm him down. In the meantime, he kept his hands firmly on the shoulders of his brother Jake and his sister-in-law Debra. Their boy Jacob stood in front of the three of them, looking a little nervous. But that was only to be expected for meeting the adult for the first time; it was a big moment in anyone's life, and Jacob was about the age that the adult was interested in helping. He told his brother and sister-in-law, "You ought to be proud. If Jacob gets picked, you'll get to be the parents of a very special boy." Debra twisted slightly in his grip and glared at him. "For the last goddamned time, Brett, what the hell is going on here?! I finally get a weekend off so we can come visit, and you practically kidnap us up here! For fuck's sake, you didn't even let us unpack!" "Aw, calm down, Deb. He's on his way up and you'll understand in a sec. He's a real great guy and I know you'll like him like everyone else does. So stop trying to squirm away. Besides, you're not gonna get anywhere so long as I have the keys to the truck." Debra kept glaring at Brett, her fists clenching and unclenching as she tried to figure out the best way to incapacitate him non-lethally. Brett had always dismissed her as just a background extra in the movies that Sunny Coast Productions made, but she knew three different martial art styles and was their best action stunt double (among other things). She liked Brett, even if he put on the "good-ol'-boy" act a bit thick at times, but she'd be damned if she let him put her son in some kind of mysterious danger. The tension was starting to give her a headache and she glanced away from Brett to see why her husband wasn't arguing too. She was surprised to see Jake looking glassy-eyed and somewhat vacant as he took deep, even breaths. She'd swear that he was hypnotized, but no one had even approached them since Brett had brought them into the clearing. Jacob's body posture was more relaxed too, which worried her even more, considering how tense he'd been just a few moments ago. Her headache rapidly intensified as a light breeze blew towards them, carrying the scent of pine needles and fresh air. Everyone else, her husband and son included, turned their faces towards the breeze as one and took a deep breath, then smiled. The upper branches of the trees across the clearing shook as something heavy landed on them, and Debra watched a… thing come jumping down the tree's branches. She'd never seen anything as intrinsically wrong as the creature that stood across the clearing, and almost retched as her headache reached new heights of pain. As her vision grayed out, she thought, "Fuck! They never told us in anti-psi training that it would be this goddamn painful!", and watched as the creature slithered across the clearing to lay a rubbery, segmented limb across her son's face. « Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »

“What are they doing?” “Nothing… just… talking. Are we sure we're in the right place? How do we know these aren't just random people waiting for a ride or something?” Agent Four grinned, his lean face masked by a massive set of binoculars. “Oh no, it's them. See the one with the stack of books wrapped in a belt? We've seen him before.” "What do you suppose is in those books anyway?" "Not sure. But one of them we recovered was the complete works of Samuel Coleridge, including the full version of 'Kubla Khan.' All three hundred lines." "Is that a big deal?" Four sighed. "Just keep your eye on the targets." Agent Grims squinted, shifting. He'd been staring down a scope roughly the size of a two-liter, attached to a high-powered, accurate, and very heavy rifle for nearly a hour now. He exhaled loudly, wiping his dark brow and re-fitting it to the eye cup. “Why are we on lookout? Why isn't the rest of the team moving in?” “Because we need to see what happens first, Grims. Otherwise I'd have you smoke the lot of them and go get a damn beer. They're not supposed to be here, and we just got the info from Scud yesterday. If this pans out, we can figure out what the hell the Serpent's Hand is suddenly on the move for the first time in a year. Now shut up and watch.” Grims grumbled under his breath, finger twitching a bit on the trigger. He was sick and tired of being attached to this damn squad. Since the attack, everyone had been shuffled, teams expanded and re-manned, to allow for instant autonomy in case of another communication blackout. Or some such bullshit. All he knew is that he hated working with these damn spooks. At least on the MTF squads, he could joke around, these people- “Movement… movement on the librarian…” Grims snapped to instantly, sighting in on the target. The man with the books had risen, moving from the sidewalk and down to a small side-alley. The other three people followed close behind, looking very nervous, checking up and down the street. “Four, the guy in the blue shirt looks like he's on a phone… what sho-” “Forget it, Smith already has an intercept…” Agent Four paused, touching his finger to the tiny earbud in his right ear. “…sounds like… someone's late. They had to change the meeting spot, because they'd been exposed too long… bah, he hung up." Four frowned. "This is odd." "How so?" "Well, the Hand normally uses their mumbo jumbo to arrange stuff. Cell phones and back alleys seem… cheesy.” Grims ignored Four as he mused, eyes locked on the tiny group. The rooflines were at least out of the way, he could keep plain-sight contact with them. They were nervous, fidgeting, and it was traveling up the scope to him. Groups like this bolted, he'd seen it a hundred times, and taking pot-shots at a fleeing group on a city sidewalk was not his idea of a good time. Not that he minded, but it was the principle of the thing. He had a certain reputation to ke- “What the fuck is that?” Grims silently shifted his hand a fraction, scanning the alleyway. He scoped the back wall of the alley, and froze, blinking quickly to make sure his vision was clear. A huge man stood in the shadows at the end of the alley. Had to be 7 feet tall, at least. Old suit, gloves… and a burlap bag pulled tight over his head. There was blood on his tie. “Four, what in the hell am I looking at?” Four ignored him, touching his earbud again. He nodded once, eyes going wide, and nudged Grims with his foot. “Shit, keep eyes on him. He was there when Site Seventeen got attacked. They think he might have stolen some stuff, or even been part of the attack…” he trailed off, looking through the binoculars again. Grims watched as the big man walked up to the group. They calmed down instantly, nervousness replaced by what looked like fear. The "librarian" pulled one of the other group members forward, practically shoving him at the stranger. The kid couldn't have been more then fourteen… he could almost hear him stuttering from here. Whatever was going on, this kid sure as hell wanted no part of it. Four chattered in to his earbud, one hand still on his binoculars. “Smith, do we have ears on them? …what? Say again… well, fix it!” he hissed, gritting his teeth. “Goddammit, what the hell is going on?” Grims ignored him, eyes wide and staring. The big guy had grabbed the kid around the back of the neck, and the kid looked… wrong, now. His arms were slack, his eyes glassy… he was talking, but his body looked asleep… or dead. “Grims, do you have a shot?” He paused, blinking and focusing on the big man. “Yes, sir.” “Smith is blind, the equipment is fogged out.” “…sir?” “Take it.” Grims breathed deep, eye wide, pinning the razor-thin black cross on the brown bag. The kid was still talking in that drugged daze. He squeezed slow, exhaling in a controlled stream- The bag turned, it was tilted, it- It could see him. The finger squeezed on its own, even as Grims croaked a strangled yelp of surprise and horror. The big man pulled the kid up like he was a doll, shifting to the side as the high-velocity round turned the kid's brain to jelly, splattering it on to the alley. It'd taken less then a tenth of a second. Grims panicked, throwing training down a well and started firing wild. Somewhere, someone was screaming at him, hitting him, but it didn't matter. The running shapes didn't matter. He had to make that thing die. He'd seen some shit, SCP monsters and massacres, torture and moral black areas, but he'd never felt so… observed. It had looked down that scope, and… handled him. Like a nasty little boy with sticky, grimy fingers handling a mildly amusing trinket. Whatever the hell that was, it needed to die right the hell now. He kept firing, even as the sirens started and Four abandoned the roof to recover his team, even as his bolt locked back on an empty chamber, he just kept pulling the trigger. “Grims cracked, the Hand is in the wind, we have a possible skip on the way, bag it NOW!” Smith didn't even unplug anything, just pressed a switch that fired a electromagnet the size of a mini fridge, frying every single computer in a fifty yard radius. He grabbed up the baseball bat labeled "The Last Resort," and started smashing everything they didn't want the civilians seeing. Howard and Sickle threw down their cards and unslung rifles, moving quickly to the doors. Eighteen started closing up cases and getting the essentials packed. Four was barking orders at any back he saw. The Hand agents were tipped and hauling, and some big bastard had just crossed a busy street and barreled through the boarded up doorway like a bomb. Four guessed they had maybe two minutes until whatever the hell the big guy was got up to them on the third floor. Most of the stairs were under construction, so it should slow him down a bit. Howard and Sickle were covering the only two ways in to the room. Smith was getting his gear broken down, and Eighteen was ready to book with the remaining gear the second shit started going down. He thought about trying to recover Grims again. Fuck him, he was fried anyway. He was smiling with self-righteous warmth when the wall behind him exploded out around a huge, dark-suited form. The big man fell on Four like a thrown couch. As they fell in a heap, two of the Hand agents scrambled through the hole, crying and screaming as they launched at Howard and Sickle. Sickle caught the worst of it, still shocked by the monster who'd blown through the wall, and caught a sharp point of rebar in the neck. Howard had time to fire, but in the hazy plaster dust his shot went wild and buried itself in the other Hand agent's leg. The big man held Four by the throat, rising to a crouch and throwing him over to the rebar-armed agent. Four tried to scream, or move, but his neck felt like a numb, dead thing, and he couldn't make his arms work. He was still trying to make a fist when the rebar suddenly intruded in to his brain. Smith and Eighteen were huddled behind Howard, trying to edge out a doorway as the big man stood, plaster and dust turning him into a towering ghost. Howard started firing and screaming with equal intensity, shoving Smith and Eighteen out the doorway. The big man dropped like a shot, only to rise with the still-moaning body of the wounded Hand agent held one-handed like a shield. Howard paused a moment, mental gears clicking as he considered, then fired, peppering the agent with slugs as the big man charged. The other Hand agent, still crying pitifully, rose from his bloody work and followed close behind. Smith and Eighteen were already nearly halfway down the partial stairs, heading for the presumed safety of the open streets when the gunfire stopped. They looked at each other for a second, exchanging a mutual look of “fuck.” before thundering down the stairs double-time. Smith kept running even when Eighteen screamed, but was forced to turn around when he heard the wet, fleshy thud. Howard's body had hit Eighteen like a nightmare snowball, smashing him in to the wall in a bloody heap, leaving him moaning and broken. Smith grabbed Eighteen's cases and ran, ran like a squirrel, ran like the bitch the kids in school had called him, and did so with no qualms at all. He hit the ruined doorway to find a clutch of police and gawkers assembled outside. He froze, trying to think of… something, anything, some story to use, even as the police aimed guns, screaming for him to freeze, drop what he had. But he had to keep the cases safe, that was his job, his whole reason for being here. He only realized that he had his pistol in hand still when they shot him, and by then it didn't really matter. Grims sat on the roof, watching Smith get turned to burger. He'd heard the team get chewed up…now the cops were swarming on Smith's body and his cases. Hopefully he'd armed the detonator inside. Probably not. Grims rubbed his face, sighing. For some reason, he'd stayed, just put down the gun after firing it empty, and put his face in his hands. Something was stuck in him, like a glassy little fishbone in his brain. It'd been when that… thing… had looked at him. It'd done something. That goddamn “M” word thing they always hammered home in training, he was sure of it. The rooftop door slammed open, the big bag-headed horror stomping out in a haze of white dust. Behind him trailed one of the Hand kids, dragging a length of rebar and wheezing “letmestopletmestop” like a broken recording. Blood was dripping from his eyes. Grims leaned back, looking up as the big thing loomed up over him. “So now what. Tear out my heart, dance around?” he snickered, jerking his chin at the bloody kid. “What they hell did they do? Eh? Tell me that, where do they figure?” The big man stayed still, looking down at Grims. He couldn't feel that… touching. Just a kind of slow curiosity in that blank face, like a spider watching you from across the room. He leaned over slowly as Grims stiffened, expecting… well, something bad. But it never came. The big man reached out, and patted his cheek, the way you would a child when they made some small accomplishment. The gloved hand smelled like blood, machine oil and spices, the leather dry and hard. Grims looked up at him, confused, trying to think of a question, but the big man turned and grabbed the Hand kid like a toy and started running, hitting the edge of the roof and launching himself to the next one, landing in a roll and discarding the kid, who started to slowly follow behind. He heard the big man bash in to the other roof's access door the same time the police came thundering up the stairs to his, pointing guns, screaming at him to get down, get away from the weapon. When they told him he had a right to remain silent, he laughed, saying it was more of a obligation. TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT OF “ACTON 7 SPECIAL REPORT” EVENING BROADCAST Thanks Tom. As you can see behind me, police are still sifting through what has become one of the worst and most senseless acts of violence in recent memory. Several men, as yet unidentified, broke in to this apartment building, and used it as a “sniper's roost” for picking off innocent people. In addition, it appears they killed a work crew who was in one of the remodeled apartments. In total, eight people are dead, with three more injured. One of the shooters, in a bid to escape, attempted to shoot his way through the police blockade and was shot and killed by officers. A second is in custody, found on the roof next to what is presumed to be the murder weapon. It's unclear at this point what the goal of the shooters was, or whether it relates to the recent terrorist attacks, however the FBI and Department of Homeland Security have been working closely with police. We'll have more on this story as it develops. Back to you, Tom.

Re: Dinner? From: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim To: ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS I'll be there. Midnight Subject: Dinner? From: ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS To: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim Midnight, It has been a while since we conversed. I know we've had our differences (as all great minds do), but I would appreciate it if you gave me an opportunity to try and smooth things out. I would like you to come down to the estate and have dinner. I will provide food. You will provide the company. Sol She… no… Solomon Kidd… looked at Her… at his… reflection in the mirror and smiled. It was amazing how much difference a haircut and a change of clothes made. Not that it had been easy finding a good set of clothes in Sol's closet: the man's tastes ran to colors so eye-searing that Picasso and Warhol would have told him to take things down a notch. "Sol" took a deep breath and looked around the dining room one more time. Lights low: check. Roses on the table: check. Subtle hints of perfume here and there: check. Low, romantic, violin music: check. Whoever this "Midnight" was, she was going to be charmed like she'd never been charmed before. She did indulge Herself in one regard: the main dish. Based on the emails She'd pulled from Sol's computer, She'd determined a few things about the mysterious Midnight: Midnight was apparently an occultist of some renown, and a hedge mage of some power. Her relationship with Sol was rocky, and involved some philosophical disagreements. She was associated with a Library of some sort: the word was always capitalized. She liked cats. "Sol" closed "his" eyes and tried to form an image in his head of the person he'd soon be meeting: probably young or middle-aged. An intellectual. Attractive? Probably not: he detected no tension there in the past emails. But there was definitely respect. That was an in. That was something he could play off of. The doorbell rang, and "Sol" started in surprise. He had not sensed any hint of intrusion onto his grounds: the occasional animal, but no humans. Clearly, this Midnight was a much more capable mage than he had anticipated. He straightened his lapels, gave himself one last look in the mirror, then sauntered to the door and threw it open with Sol's practiced flair. There was no one there. And then "Sol" realized he'd made a critical error, as he saw a cat sitting on the doormat. American Shorthair. Black fur. Golden eyes mirroring her own. Small. Sleek-bodied. Seven toes on each foot… and a rising of the hackles that slowly subsided into a posture of suspicion laced with fear. "So," Midnight said. "Should I say nihao, konichiwa, or anyeung-ha-sae-yo?" A few minutes later, they were sitting at either end of the dining room table, staring at each other from across the long expanse of polished mahogany. She had dropped the pretense of Sol's disguise, and had resumed a female form, although she retained Sol's clothing. Midnight was perched on a couple of phone books on the other chair, which She had thoughtfully provided for her. Midnight broke the silence by clearing her throat. "I smell long pork," she said. "Main dish," She replied. "Solomon?" "Yes." "Poor kid." "He was no longer useful to me, so I made use of him in other ways." "And you were going to serve him to me as dinner?" She smiled. "It amused me." "I'm sure it did." A long, drawn out silence. This time, it was She who broke it. "Why did you not run when you realized what I was?" "What would have been the point? I would have just died tired. Why didn't you kill me when you realized I knew?" "It would not have served my purpose," She said. "So I'm useful to you?" "For now." "Mmm." The grandfather clock in the main hall rang out the hour. Midnight rubbed her forehead with one paw. "I have a headache," she complained. "I see human but smell fox. Could I ask you to…" There was a crack, like thunder, and the woman at the other end of the table vanished, to be replaced by… well. It looked like a fox, but a fox out of the nightmares of small rodents everywhere. It was twice the size of your usual fox: almost as large as a dog. It was lean and starved, with a hungry, evil look in its yellow eyes, and nine long tails emerging from its hindquarters. "Is this better?" She asked. "Much," Midnight said, her voice raspy with fear. "Then let us negotiate," She said. "You know something I want to know. I could try to take it, but such methods are unpleasant and messy. Out of respect for another creature of Myth, I will allow you to ask me for a boon in return for what you know of these… Ways." "The Ways… I should have known." Midnight nodded and relaxed. "And if I tell you what I know of these Ways… I have your word on your pride in your own wit that I will leave unharmed?" "You have it," She said. "Then I ask this in payment," Midnight said. "Tell me what Sol was planning… no. What the Teacher is planning." "You know of the Teacher?" She asked, raising one furry ridged brow questioningly. "I know he's screwed things for all of us," Midnight said, real anger seeping into her words. "Unlike him, the Serpent's Hand doesn't want a war. God's on the side with the biggest guns, and most of us don't even have peashooters. I mean… I know a kid who can change the color of paint. That's not very much use against bullets." "I see," She said. "Then let me tell you of our plans." She laid them out for Midnight. It took over an hour. By the time it was over, the food had gotten cold, and so had Midnight's heart. "… it could work," the black cat had to admit. "But the casualties…" "Will be heavy. That's the nature of war. But in the end, we will be victorious." "I see," Midnight said. She nodded gravely and jumped down from the chair. "In that case, I suppose I had better show you my end of the bargain." "I'm just saying that maybe you could stand to relax a bit, Shank," Percival said, sipping from his thermos of soup. "You're always so tense." "One o' these days, I'll cut you ta pieces an' pluck those eyes outta yor skull," replied the tall, animate scarecrow. It ran a wickedly curved sickle along its "throat," in a slow, smooth gesture. "Those baby blues'll look good in me stash. Gotta place for 'em right here." "You'll have to take 'em first," Percival said, resting a hand on the hilt of the massive bastard sword resting against the library table. "I'll see your ten and raise you thirty any day." "If you boys are done with your dickwaving contest, can we please get on with it?" Ana asked exasperatedly. "We're going to be here forever." "Fine, then, love. Fold," said the scarecrow, throwing his cards onto the table. "You FOLD!? All that nonsense about 'raising the stakes,' and you FOLD!?" Percy complained. "S'called bluffin', mm? Lyin'. Deception. A lil' pecan pie, if ya catch me meanin'. Somethin' a ponce like you wouldn't get." "Fine, Chainshank folds," Ana interjected, interrupting the brewing argument. "Azi?" The filthy little boy looked up and grinned happily. "Lookit my pictures!" he said. "I fixed this man!" He displayed the Jack of Hearts, now beautifully rendered in oil paints on the thin pasteboard stock. "… and Azi has decided to draw all over his cards. Fantastic. This is wonderful. You guys are awesome," Ana Hita sighed. She threw her hand of cards into the center of the table and got up. "I'm going home." "Well," Percy sighed. "That was a bit of a wash. What do we do now?" "Ya tired already? Need a nice rest, mm? 'M good at helpin people sleep." Chainshank sneers. "How about no. How's it going, Meimei?" Percy asked. A yeti-woman covered in reddish-brown fur looked up from her book and nodded. "It goes well." "Whatcha got there?" "The autobiography of Bruce Lee. His insights are fascinating." "You keep on with that, lil' sis," Percy said. Meanwhile, Azi had crawled under a nearby table and was chewing on the bloody leg of some unidentifiable horrible something that he'd killed earlier. There was a sound of snapping bone and crunching marrow. Percy looked down from the balcony and raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "That's interesting." "Whazzat?" Chainshank asked. "Miss Kitty is here," Percy said. "And she brought a… friend…" Percy's voice trailed off, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Chainshank frowned, his pumpkin head's spirit glow dimming suspiciously. "Spider sense tingling, mm?" "Yeah," Percy said. "Definitely tingling." "That young man is watching me," She said. "I don't like that." "He's a paladin," Midnight said. "Lives in a homeless shelter. Claims to talk to God." "To God?" "He seems to think so. Are you scared?" Midnight asked. "Certainly not. I have nothing to fear from a child like that. I can have his guts out in an instant, if I liked." Currently, She had chosen a new form: that of a young woman with large, horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a motley array of coats and scarves. She had a large purse over one shoulder, and exuded a look of dismay mixed with confusion. The body was that of a graduate student in occult studies, long dead, who had tried to find Her lair in one of Her brief moments of freedom before being recaptured by the Foundation. She licked her lips at the memory of that hunt, of the taste of fear She had savored on that cold night. The scent of prey in this place was nearly overwhelming. Midnight shook her head. "I wouldn't if I were you. The guardians here don't like violence." "I am not afraid of any guardians." "You should be. They have a manticore. They caught it themselves." She looked around the room and nodded. "A perfect prison. I understand why you brought me here first," she said. "I don't think you do understand," Midnight said. "If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have just sent you somewhere where you could never come back from. Say, the End of Time and Space, or the heart of a newborn star." "You see," the black cat continued, "this place is more than just a safe haven. It's also a repository of knowledge. There's a copy of every book that has ever been written… or will be written… in its stacks. It's also a nexus: a place where the Ways come together. That's why we call it the Wanderer's Library." She looked up at the fox with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. "If you can't see the potential in a Library with every book that's ever been written, that serves as a neutral ground for everyone, and that you can use to go to and from literally anywhere in the world, you might as well go back to the Jailers." Midnight saw from the expression on Her face that She did understand. "Let me tell you about the rules here," Midnight said. "Don't steal the books. Don't disturb or hurt the patrons. Don't damage the library. Keep that in mind and you should do fine." The fox just nodded. "Very well, then," She said. "Our bargain is concluded." She strode away down the stacks, her movement purposeful, her stride almost seductive with anticipation. She ran a hand down the spines of the books lined up on the racks with all the sensuality of a lover's caress. Then She turned the corner and was gone. "Midnight," a low, baritone voice said. "Percival," Midnight replied. Percy emerged from the shadows, adjusting the lapels of his ratty overcoat. His scabbarded and peace-bonded sword rested on one shoulder like a slugger's baseball bat. "What was that all about?" he asked. "I think I just made a deal with the Devil to save Heaven," Midnight said. Subject: Class is in session. From: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim To: Snakes and Ladders (ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam#ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam) Recess is over, the Teacher's calling roll. I think I'm calling in sick today. Midnight

The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved up the hill in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN. Then some asshole on the second floor of the target house ruined everything by shooting a cheap-ass Vietnamese-made version of Chinese knockoff of an AK-47 assault rifle at them and waking up all the neighbors. The next few minutes didn't go so well for the members of MTF-Rho-Niner. "Fucking EMPTY!" Agent Chimes shouted, slamming his assault vest down onto the steel table. He slammed his fists down onto the table, then buried his face in both hands in frustration, smearing his soot-black face paint. "Third fucking time!" "At least we got the guy that was shooting at us," Agent Chu said. "Hey, Chuface, get a clue. That's what that asshole was SUPPOSED to do: slow us down so that the rest of the motherfuckers could bug out. Fucking SHIT! Third fucking time!" Chimes shouted. "What the fuck!?" "Pipe down, Chimes, you're starting to piss me off," Sergeant Minh growled. "We're all pissed, no need to scream about it." "That's right," Lieutenant Jameson agreed. "We've got bigger problems to deal with." "Like explaining how a fucking million dollar neighborhood in richville California got shot up by a bunch of bozos in black suits?" Chimes asked. "What? No, that's easy. We blame it on terrorists or drug traffickers or something. My issue is, how the hell did they see us coming?" "Easy," Chimes said. "Some newbie fucked up: forgot to blacken a buckle or silence a tag or something. That's how all these things get fucked up." "Hey! Shut the hell up, Chimes. You went over the newbs' gear same as me. Everyone was as black as night and as quiet as a mouse. We were CLEAN," Minh pointed out. "And it doesn't explain how they bugged out before we even got there. And they had to have bugged out before that. They pulled the disk drives on their computers before they left: that's not a ten second job. Something, or someone, tipped them off before we even got there." "Could there be a mole, LT?" Chu asked. "God forbid," Jameson said. "But that doesn't make any sense either. This op's been planned for over a week. If there was a mole, the targets would have spooked and left days ago. There were plates of uneaten food on the tables and bomb-making equipment left in the basement: that tells us they left quickly. So we're looking at a window of around thirty minutes to one hour: long enough to grab a few things and haul ass, but not long enough to take all their shit with them." "Where did they go, anyway? We had a perimeter around the whole place, but no one saw a fucking thing." "Not important. The important thing is that everyone was gone before we even hit the house. If we'd had surprise, they would have still been there, no matter how they got out. So their escape route is irrelevant, if we can hit them before they manage to take it. So let's focus on the surprise part," Jameson said. "Let's go through the op step by step. Arrival?" "Twenty-four hours before op. Three different methods," Sergeant Minh said. "Four of us arrived by train, four by plane, four drove in with the moving vans full of gear. Civilian clothes. No one's carrying except the gear pukes, and they didn't get stopped by anyone." "Mmmm. Seemed fine, but let's break it up a bit more next time. Asymmetric groups. Housing?" "Two separate motels. Separate cover stories and check-in times for each group of two. Rooms swept for bugs. Everything was clean, no one broke cover even in the rooms." Chimes said. "Good. Those walls are thin: if you can hear people banging hookers the next room over, it's not that hard for some vacationer to overhear some black ops shit if you're not careful. Casing?" "My job, LT," Chu said, raising his hand. "I was on the roof of the house one block over. Total thermoptic camo. Guy who owned the house didn't even know I was there, no way the assholes in the target house coulda seen me." "And you confirmed the target was there?" Jameson asked. "I saw him three times," Chu said. He flipped out a small notebook. "At three separate moments. First at 7 am when…" "Never mind. I trust you. All right, so we arrive clean, we scout the target, no one knows we're there at this point. What about staging?" Jameson asked. "None. We did all that shit en route," Minh said. "Everyone changed and got geared up in the vans." "… in the vans," Jameson repeated. He looked out the safe house window at the Chevy Suburbans in the parking lot. "Yeah. We didn't want any neighbors seeing a bunch of guys in a parking lot with guns, so we had everyone get prepped in the vans on the way up," Minh continued. "We picked the guys up at the rendezvous points, then got everyone's gear situated…" "… and we headed up the hill," Jameson said, slowly. "… fuck," Chimes sighed. "… in three vans of the same make and model… hell, they're even the same COLOR…" Jameson noted. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Sorry, LT. I fucked that one up. I was the one who got the vehicles. My fucking bad," Chimes admitted. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Chimes," Jameson said, not unkindly. "I shoulda seen it too." "Yeah, but you didn't. I should have. Wheels was my job," Chimes groaned. "Fuck, I'm such a fucking retard. Three fucking black suburbans coming up the hill at midnight… shit, anyone would bug out if they saw that coming!" "We'll fix that for next time. We get a white soccer mom van, a hearse, maybe a limo. We mix up the vehicles, and we mix up arrival times. Space it out over ten minutes. Lesson learned. Everyone get some rest, we'll be doing this again soon enough." "Right, LT." "Copy." Two weeks later… The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved down the street in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN. They kicked down the front door of the target house and threw in flashbangs, causing the entire house to light up like a camera flash. Then they stormed in like the wrath of god, weapons raised, moving with precision and speed from room to room, sweeping every corner, searching every dark place for hidden enemies. They were two rooms in when they saw the first dead body: some guy wearing heart-print boxers and a "Big Johnson" t-shirt lying dead over the kitchen counter. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and splashed with blood. Same with the next room. And the next. It wasn't until they got to the living room, though, that Chimes took off his mask and cussed loudly. That was where they found the eight other members of the Chaos Insurgency cell laying on the rug, lined up neatly in a row, each of them with three rounds center-mass. There was a piece of paper pinned to one of their chests. Lieutenant Jameson carefully picked it up, then sighed. "Fuck," he muttered. "Basement's empty," Chu said, coming up the stairs. "Everything's gone. Hard drives, bombs, and the skip." "Call it in, Minh," Jameson said. "I think this op's over." He tossed the piece of paper onto the ground and walked out. Chu saw four words written in black sharpie, and the laurel leaves and pentacle logo of the Global Occult Coalition on the letterhead. BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, it said.

[Tempest Night, 18:43] Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343. He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study. 343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I've been expecting you.” 343 said calmly. Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.” “If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here. I have a gift for you.” He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes. The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what's left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always. Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343's voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage. “Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.” “Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you'll understand one day.” Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out. “You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked. “Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up SCP-911 and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don't touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.” "Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired. The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson's thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days. “The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday 343 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English. He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.

“Dude, I am WONDEROUSLY high.” he giggled, holding the phone to his ear with no small amount of effort. He walked across the basement, turning up the music, letting the beat pulse in time with the other, internal pulse he was feeling. Thank god his parents were gone, he really wasn't sure how he could deal with them right now. He flopped on to the couch, giggling again, legs hanging over the end of the couch. “Yeah, Scott was over a hour or so ago, he had some bomb shit man. I was playing Brawl, and I swear to god it was like mario and pikachu were on my floor fighting!” he giggled again, rubbing his slightly numb face. He wiped his hand on the couch, laughing again. “Oh hell yes, i'm not working tomorrow, get the hell over…” he trailed off, looking at the couch. A vaguely hand-shaped blotch of blood was smeared on the ratty fabric. He blinked, staring at it, then touched his face. He pulled it away bloody, staring stupidly at it for several seconds. “uh, dude, I gotta go man, I'm bleeding somewhere…no, it's fine, just…I'll call you back, ok?” He hung up the phone, still looking at his bloody hand. He tossed it to the floor, nearly running to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror as he washed his hand, trying to find where in the hell he'd cut himself. The whole side of his face was streaked with blood now, and he washed and wiped it off, trying hard to keep calm. He eventually found a tiny wound near his hairline, still dribbling blood. “Fuck, man…” he whispered, trying to get a good look at it and stay steady on his feet. It was as he started looking for a band-aid that he saw the drops of blood splattered over the sink. He wondered if it was from his head again…no, he'd cleaned those up, and…he suddenly looked down at his fingers, feeling a warm wetness over them. It was like he'd caught a ball of razor blades. He started hyperventilating, looking at his hands as they oozed blood from dozens of tiny cuts, an icy sobriety slamming down on him like a hammer. He grabbed the towel, trying to calm down, stammering to himself “go call the doctor, just call the doctor” over and over like a mantra. He felt blood drool down his face, wicking in to his eye with a salty sting, and felt his slippery grip on control weaken more. He grabbed up the phone in a panic, blood making it as slippery as soap. He tried again and again to touch the dial button, used the screen, but the blood made it impossible, making him eventually toss the phone away with a hissed “Fuck!” and a panicked moan. He looked at his hands, feeling dizzy, from blood loss or blind fear, he didn't know. He looked at his slick red arms, eyes going wide. Tiny cuts were crawling up his arms like ants. He started breathing too fast, too loud, like a pulsing scream as invisible razors seemed to be sliding along his arms, leaving a dotted line of blood. He couldn't feel the cuts, just feel the blood pour and pulse. He started screaming, turning around, shaking his arms, trying to make it stop, or find the source, or something. He ran upstairs, blood dripping and smearing the walls as he fell, screaming for help, of the doctor, or anybody as he ran outside in to the icy night air. He ran, all the houses dark, pounding on a neighbors door and crying for help, moaning as he felt blood start to weep and pour hotly along his chest. He started crying, eyes getting hazy with blood, as he looked for something, someone to help. Suddely, he heard a noise, a deep rumble…a car engine. The park across the street… He could see headlights. He ran, screaming, feeling the cuts open up rivers of blood along his legs, his back, his lips…he gagged as his mouth welled up with coppery blood. He ran, and ran, watching the headlights grow bigger, seeing the shape of a parked van swim up through the darkness. He cried and yelled, waving his arms, half-blind and dizzy, feeling more floaty and light headed by the second. He didn't even see the river until he'd hit the water. Unknown body recovered from park Police recovered a body from Island Park early this morning. The corpse was spotted by a early-morning jogger, lodged in a drainage pipe. Due to the recent rains, the river was very high and fast-flowing, and it appears that the body suffered grievous damage from rocks and wood during its travel. Police are currently trying to determine the identity of the body, and to ascertain whether accident or foul play led to the body entering the river. The extreme damage, however, is complicating both these goals. Persons having any information regarding this incident are encourage to contact the police.

Welcome to the Site 31 Modulated Message System (M.M.S). … You have identified as Dr. Warren Large (Level 3). Is this correct? RP-WL-3: yes Thank you for signing in. Does the black moon howl? RP-WL-3: only when waning Identity confirmed. Withdrawing memetic kill agents. Signing you in… Welcome to #site31. You have connected from Office 29-18. RP-AG-4: Greetings, Dr. Large. RP-WL-3: Hello to you too, doctor. I'm just pulling up some QuickLook info on a few SCP's for the archive. MP-DF-1: lucky. Im stuck over here, pulling in some scip for containment. Its an s, but still. :p RP-AG-4: Mr. Friend, this is a professional communications system. Please use proper spelling and grammar. MP-DF-1: sorry, cap, sorry RP-WL-3: !ql 8218 Berry: SCP-8218 – Replication Spiders. Spiders which possess the ability to reconstitute themselves from trace amounts of removed biological material. Recommended that personnel lock down any area suffering from SCP-8218 infestaaaaaaaaaation. MP-DF-1: lol. Guess the techs need to work on berry some more TP-HS-2: Just means more work for me, I suppose, I'll get rig TP-HS-2 has disconnected. MP-DF-1: even the bots tech guys glitched out :/ RP-WL-3: !ql SCP-7421 Berry: SCP-7421 – Terra Cotta Man. Animate statue of Chinese origin. Is proficient in a Variety of MARTIAL art techniques. Has demonstrated a phobia of water. In event of containment breach, it is recommended that the area be flooded to incapacitate SCP-7421. Access Denied to XX-XX-0 RP-WL-3: !ql SCP-2819 Berry: SCP-2819 - Monocle X. Monocle which causes those wearing it to view all technology as highly aaadvanced. No other anomalies present. (Pending re-classification to anomal0us?) Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 Access Denied to XX-XX-0 MP-DF-1: wtf RP-AG-4: !memekill XX-XX-0 Connecting to XX-XX-0… Applying memetic kill age Security breached… … .. . PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N RP-WL-3: Did you two get that message too? PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N !pm berry N PM: Berry: The sin will claw out and bleed from your eyes, desecrator of Christ. Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N RP-AG-4: Yes, I am also receiving them. GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: SCP-3829 has breached containment. GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: SCP-3829 will bring you to the light. PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation, cursed desecrator of all that is holy and of our Lord? Y/N RP-WL-3: Uh, the door to my office just locked. RP-AG-4: As did mine. GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: SCP-3829 will bring all sinners to the gate our Lord where they will be thrown into the Pit and burn for all eternity as they have deserved to since the dawn of Man the destroyer and desecrator. RP-WL-3: !ql SCP-3829 Berry: SCP-3829 – Digital Biblical Entity. Would you like to step forward into the Pit and burn for all eternity as you have deserved to since the day of your birth? Y/N MP-DF-1: YYYYYYYYYYYY Berry: Let the nails of Christ rip into and forgive you, wicked sinner. MP-DF-1 has disconnected. GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: Containment breaches for SCP-2929, SCP-2812, S GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: All will burn before the benevolent gaze of our Lord. GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: You will burn before the benevolent gaze of our Lord. RP-AG-4: Well, it appears you have a funeral to arrange, Large. Several instances of SCP-2929 have found my office. RP-AG-4 has disconnected. [21:32] Logging off. [03:44] Logging on. Welcome to #site31. You have connected from Office 29-18. PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N [03:47] Logging off. [71:XX] Logging on. Welcome to #site31. You have connected from Office 29-18. PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N [99:99] Logging off. [THE:LORD:DOES:NOT:FORGIVE] Logging on. Welcome to #site31. Soon you will burn the flames that you have sparked and scream for mercy from the Lord. No mercy will come, and you will burn for all eternity. PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N !pm berry y PM: Berry: May the Lord feast upon your earthly form. RP-WL-3 has disconnected.

Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Project 001-Future Sight has been enacted and regarded as a success. Text was recovered by having SCP-187 examine the terminal at Site-██. Her copied text was then sent through SCP-758 to correct it, and then translated by Dr. ████████. Immediate communication with O5-██, O5-██, and O5-██ is enacted. Operation Thaumiel is in full effect. Repeat: this is not a drill. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. DO NOT DISREGARD. Repeat: Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Communique recovered from Site-██ read as follows: And lo, I cried unto the Ephesians, the Smyrnanites, the Pergamonians, the Thyatirans, the Sardinians, the Philadelphians, and the Leodicians to hear my cry! And they have heard it not. For the Ephesians, ye are unto sowers of chaos and ruin, and so though shalt reape. For thou hast strayed from the path, the true path, and shall receive none of my glory. The hand of God will smite thee and thine power shall be as sand, and the strength of your arms shall be as straw which, when smote, is broken. And ye Smyrnanites, truly thou are of the hands of the adversary, consorting with demons in thine great, hidden place, where eyes seek but do not find. The books shall be burned up, and the doors, and the eyes of all man and beast within it. Alas, ye Pergamonians, to thou the name has been given, and thou has heard it not! Ye have turned to the cog and wheel and written a new name upon it and sought God there, but he is not there, for he is above and not of your hands. The abomination that thou has sought to craft will be no more, and its blood and body will be as a river of copper and brass. And ye Thyatirans, my good and loyal servants who have endured and waged war on things of Satan—though thou has consorted with him, your soul is pure and clean, and I shall welcome you into the war and into the victory of heaven. Ye Sardinians, lo, thou has been unto a thorn in the side of heaven, and God has tired of this suffering and will pluck you out, for one of thee dwells in outer darkness, and the other two of thine unholy trinity will join him, and be cast forth into the void. Lo, Philadelphians, thou hear not my words or my will, for you do no listen. You hands have turned upon themselves and your creations are as abominations and sin in the eyes of God. Truly, thou are of a sinful heart and mind, given only to works of evil and the mad, and shall not thine sins find thee out? And ye Laodocians. Truly, thou are of the greatest of the sinners, for all thine good and loyal works, thou heapest more suffering upon those who have done no wrong in the eyes of God. Truly, thou are as a saint who, upon saving the souls of many, dashes their faith against a stone and watches as it tumbles into the sea. Salvation wast thine goal, and salvation thou has dealt, but salvation shall not be delivered unto you. Thou shalt be delivered unto mine hand. Ye churches of the world! Hear mine voice and tremble! The gates are open! The seals are broken! The trumpets have sounded! We are riding forth. Repeat. Repeat. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation lo though I walk through the valley Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. fear no evil, for thou art with me Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. thy rod and thy staff Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is they comfort me in full action. Do not disregard. Operation dwell in the house of the Lord Thaumiel is in full ac Amen

He used to be bored at work, but now he actively hated it. After the Tempest Night, everyone had been terrified that that hybrid of the Lizard and the wire weed would start killing everyone with exploding monitors or crushing them in blast doors or something, but what happened was possibly worse. It spoke to them. It had assumed control of the PA system pretty quickly, and started using it almost immediately; endless streams of hatred and promises of gore and threats of unimaginably painful death… It poured from every intercom, every speaker, every monitor on the site. At first, the higher-ups had forbidden anyone from coming within 10 feet of any of the PA speakers, but after a couple of weeks without significant incident, people started getting lax. They were still relying on their laptops or smartphones, true, but they'd relaxed a bit and started using the mainframe and some of the desktops. If nothing else, they needed to get the data copied off it to another site. But still, that voice. It never stopped. Sometimes it was a roar, deafening in its vitriol, blasting through his skull like a shotgun blast. Other times it was soft, right on the edge of hearing, just insistent enough that part of his brain strained to hear it, like a leaky faucet on a quiet night. Yet other times it was a high-pitched hate speech, whirring like a dental drill right through his ears. He couldn't get used to it; its lack of pattern or reason just drove him up the wall, always keeping him tense and on edge trying and failing to predict the next words. It was a relief when he went to the temporary barracks just outside the site. He would collapse into his cot, feeling blessed by the still, natural sounds that surrounded the tent. He was feeling especially tense that day, having spent the last 10 hours poring over lines and lines of meaningless-to-him data, trying to ferret out any data corruption before transferring it to his laptop. His eyes ached, his ears rang, his shoulders tensed tighter and tighter until he finally couldn't take it anymore and decided to go catch some shut-eye before he went crazy. He walked at a fast clip towards the stairwell up (even in a relaxed environment, no-one trusted the elevators), eager to escape the nerve-grinding noise. He was almost at the stairwell door when he noticed the rope of cable extending across the floor in front of him. It didn't appear terribly unusual, except that the floor under it was smouldering and pitted. He didn't think that the Old Man was hunting this far up the site, but he wasn't sure and didn't trust that sign of rot and unusual decay. The cable suddenly started undulating and several wires shot upwards from it, slamming into the walls and ceiling, crisscrossing and forming a steadily advancing web of wires. He turned and ran, hoping to get to some place of relative safety. He could hear it screeching behind him as the wires sprouted and entwined, an electronic whine that somehow came together with the grumbling of the wall-mounted alarms, forming words: "Run, foul thing. Disgusting mass of flesh and breath, run and run and die." And he did. He ran as fast as he could, for what terror and adrenaline made seem like hours. Every time he slowed as he lost his breath, he would see more cables break out of the walls to hit the ceiling above him or the floor beside him, spraying a noxious, caustic fluid that burned through his clothes and into the flesh of his head and arms and pumping thighs. He felt the electric sting of wires as they slashed like whips at his legs and back, every shock forcing him harder and faster ahead of the death chasing him. His vision narrowed to a thin tunnel ahead of him as he stumbled again and again, somehow staying just barely ahead of the web behind him. Finally, he spotted a glimmer of hope: the open blast door of a designated safety bunker. He found a final burst of energy and managed to leap into the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The tips of a few tendrils were caught and severed in the door, falling and twitching slowly until they finally lay still on the reinforced concrete floor. He stared at them carefully for several minutes more as he slowly caught back his breath, heaving gasps that left him coughing from exertion. He finally looked up to inspect the chamber, noting the racks of janitorial and first-aid supplies, the flickering overhead light, the folded up cot against the wall. He unfolded the cot for someplace to sit while he collected his thoughts; how could he let the rest of the site know that he was trapped by that unholy abomination? He stopped thinking, though, when the light fixture exploded and a mass of wires burst from the ceiling, several spearing him in the chest and head. It closed the blast door behind it as it stepped out into the corridor, noting the rubble left behind as its tendrils retracted back into the walls. It loathed the monstrous flesh it now wore, but it had always known how to adapt to changing circumstances. And the current circumstances required it to adapt to trick more of the fleshbags into its grasp so that it could destroy them all in one fell swoop before they could find another way to trap it, like the disgusting filth they were. Its gait was somewhat staccato and unsteady at first, but it learned quickly, especially with its electromagnetic eyes surrounding itself, feeding itself the memory of how the filth handled themselves. By the time it reached the end of the corridor, it had perfected the stressed hunch and hurried gait of what used to wear its new body. And under its rapidly healing skin sparkled a stray burst of static electricity, as its wire-bound muscles flexed into a grimace, or maybe a smile.

It wasn't working, he realized, as the statuesque woman ran the tip of her finger along the fake incision on his skin and licked the fake blood off with a seductive purr. He sighed, shook his head, and growled out the word, "Holocaust," through the bit in his teeth. The woman immediately stopped moaning and stood up straight, concern in her ice-blue eyes. "Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm just not feeling it today." "It's okay, hon. Let's call it for today. Call me when you're ready to go again." "I will," he lied. He paid the woman in cash and watched her drive away down the winding country road, sipping his tea and touching his stomach where she had run the stage knife over his bare skin, leaving behind a thin line of fake blood. It wasn't her fault she couldn't give him what he wanted. No professional was going to do actual bloodplay in this day and age, not with the threat of HIV ever-present. But even the most convincing play was simply that… a shadow of the truth. He wondered if that was how She felt. She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard when he came downstairs, running a fine-toothed steel comb through Her tangled black hair, picking fleas out when they got caught between the narrow tines and crushing them between Her thumb and forefinger. She was rail-thin and rangy-looking, Her ribs visible through Her taut skin, Her yellow eyes feral and cruel, Her too-wide mouth crooked upwards, revealing the white tips of Her sharp canine teeth. The decapitated remnants of a dead hare were scattered here and there. "Did you have a good hunt?" Sol asked. "I did. It has been a long time," She replied. "Fresh blood tastes best. But is it safe to hunt so close to my former captors?" "Who said you were anywhere near them?" Sol laughed. "We're halfway around the world from that place. You're perfectly safe for the time being." "I don't remember any planes," She pointed out. "And I somehow doubt that you could drive all the way across the world in a few short minutes." "You'd be right about that… assuming you were taking the long way. It so happens that I know a few shortcuts." "Interesting. Tell me more." "In due time, my lady. In due time. For now you must focus on regaining your strength and re-honing your skills. You are like a blade allowed to rust in darkness. You must be polished, sharpened, and remade anew." Her ears twitched, and She grinned. "If you say so," She purred. "I do say so. You are a sublime creature of legend. I would have the others see you in your full glory, rather than as this wretched creature that the Worldwide Global Conspiracy has reduced you to. So for now, rest, my lady, and grow strong and beautiful. The day of reckoning will come soon enough." He kissed the back of her hand and walked back into the house. She waited until he was gone before picking up the severed head of the hare and hurling it into the woods in a fit of pique. She longed to follow him into the house and paint the ceiling and walls with his guts, but if there was one thing Her long captivity had taught Her, it was patience. Good things came to those who waited. "Oh lord, give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the patience not to punch that asshole in the face for being a sententious prick," Sandra recited. "Try to be nice. He's technically our ally," Michel said. "Ally my ass, he's a loose cannon. If I thought I could get away with it…" "Hush, Sandra," the Professor said. "We're here." Every time James came to the Teacher's home, he felt like he was stepping into Narnia. The old country manor looked like something straight out of an Edward Gorey illustration, with its tall picture windows and dilapidated clock tower, and the forest behind it swept out as far as the eye could see: dark, mysterious, and overgrown. The entire place radiated a sense of adventure, tradition, and mysticism that never failed to make him shiver with excitement. He'd tried to say as much to Sandra once. "I know," she'd agreed, "If he bothered to spend a little time and money to fix up the clock tower, renovate the house, and prune the trees back a bit, the place would be worth something. Lazy bastard." After that, James decided to keep his opinions to himself. The door opened as the four of them approached, and James heard Sandra breathe in sharply, followed by a, "What the fuck?" from Michel. Sol was standing in the doorway dressed in some kind of insane gold-brocaded robe with massive sleeves, smiling and nodding to his guests. "Come in," he said. "Dinner will be served shortly." The walls of the front hall were hung with hand-drawn screens and red silks: they tried but didn't quite succeed at covering up the portraits of English gentlemen and such that hung on the walls. A red velvet carpet had been rolled out leading from the front door into the dining room. It was grotesque. It was gaudy. It was ugly. It was classic Sol. "What the hell is going on here, Sol?" Sandra growled. "I don't have time for your bullshit." "In good time, in good time, my friends. For now, I have a guest for you to meet." "No! Fuck you!" Sandra shouted. "You'll answer my questions right now! What the fuck was up with that stupid manifesto you sent to the news stations? When we said we were going to help you with your raid, you promised us that you had everything planned out. Nothing could go wrong. Well, I've got three dead cell members and a bunch of wounded that say otherwise. And what did we get for it? Jack and SHIT. A few trinkets we could have picked up easier ourselves without getting a bunch of guys killed. I want a goddamn explanation!" Sol's expression darkened, and he swallowed his rage hard, fists tightening. "As usual, your mercenary ways don't see the truth of what we've accomplished. We have struck a blow for freedom and liberty that will resound all around the world. We have liberated…" "Oh, SPARE me your righteous bullshit, Sol! I want answers!" "My apologies," a new voice said. "The master is wise indeed, but is often short in social graces." James let out an involuntary squeak of surprise. An angel was walking into the room. She was small in stature, and dressed in the same gaudy robes that Sol wore, but while he looked like a child playing dressup with his parents' clothing, she wore them with confidence and assurance. Her pale face was round and lovely, and her long, jet-black hair tied up in a series of tight buns. But what really drew James' attention was the pair of tapered, red-furred ears that jutted out through her jet-black locks, and the tips of nine foxlike tails peeking out from the hem of her robes. "Please," she said. "It is not proper for friends to fight. Please come inside and have dinner." The silence was finally broken when the Professor let out a low sigh. "Solomon," he said. "What have you done?" "I have rescued a being of myth from durance vile, and struck a blow against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that will be felt for many years to come," Sol crowed. Sandra's angry response was interrupted by the Professor's cutting hand gesture: very small, but enough for her to see. She clenched her teeth instead, and looked away. "Let us by all means have dinner, then," the Professor said calmly. "I believe we have much to discuss." "Our attack on the Enemy has borne great fruit," Sol expounded, making grandiose and voluminous gestures at the walls, the ceiling, and his bowl of rice. "Dozens of sentients cruelly held captive now taste the sweet honey of freedom. Though most are happy to simply enjoy the fresh air of liberty, they will soon answer our clarion call to join the crusade against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that enslaves us all. Already, the first of them have joined us in our war against evil… and I have heard that one even now strikes back against the enemy on her own." "If you mean that Vector bitch, then I don't know where you're getting your information. That crazy whore is in it for herself, not for any cause," Sandra muttered angrily. "She strikes against the minions of the Conspiracy. Her cause and ours are the same." "Forgive me, Sol, if I don't think that attacking an AIDS clinic and killing a bunch of sick people to steal their strains of HIV is particularly helpful in fighting the GOC." "You are as short-sighted as usual, Sandra. Clearly you must see…" It was always like this. Sandra and Sol would argue. Michel would sit by and watch in silence. And the Professor would just listen and then, at the right moment, make a single cutting remark that would make both Sandra and Sol realize how stupid they were being. And as for James? He just sat there, listened, and felt like a fifth wheel. It was not a comfortable feeling, and it was even more uncomfortable this time because of the presence of the Girl. He glanced over at her, and saw her looking back. He blushed and looked down at his half-eaten plate of food, the bright colors of the vegetables and the gently bubbling soups arranged impeccably on the black laquered table. With shaking hands, he reached for his wine cup, found it empty. Almost immediately, she was there at his side, pouring him another cupful from a glass bottle. Her hands, he noticed, were very white, and her fingers were very delicate and tipped with long, red-painted nails. "Is your food not to your liking?" she asked, in a voice like bells in the wind. "You have barely touched it." "It… it's fine," James stammered. He stared down at his food and picked up some kind of sliced vegetable with his chopsticks, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it into his lap. She laughed, not unkindly, and placed a hand over his. "Here," she said. "Let me." She picked up one of the small white pancakes from the center of the nine-sectioned dish and deftly placed a few sections of sliced vegetables and meats atop it. She wrapped it up with a few quick moves of her chopsticks and held it out to him in her chopsticks. James blinked in surprise, then, feeling embarassed, allowed her to feed it to him. A loud laugh, and he suddenly realized everyone was watching him. "Is she not wonderful?" Sol said, with a wry smile. "A truly exquisite creature. And the Worldwide Global Conspiracy would keep her captive. Is her freedom not enough to justify our crusade against them?" "Funny you should call it that, considering what happened during the Crusades," Sandra muttered. And again, the conversation devolved back into the usual argument. But James noticed that Her yellow eyes were watching him. In the end, they ended up staying the night. James couldn't sleep. It was 2 am and he was laying in bed staring up at the ceiling. His mind was haunted by the image of a pair of lovely yellow eyes staring back at him, his dreams by the memory of the touch of her cool fingertips against his wrist. Though an early fall breeze cooled the room, the air seemed uncomfortably close and warm… stifling, even. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was the soft cupid's bow curve of her lips - all he could hear the ringing musical sound of her laughter. He got up from his bed to get a drink of water, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He went to his window to get a closer look, and his breath caught in his throat. She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard, running a lacquered tortoiseshell comb through Her long, black hair. She was slender and lovely, Her pale white skin glowing like pearl in the silver moonlight, her gleaming yellow eyes vibrant with life. A divinely lovely smile quirked her pale pink lips as flower petals cascaded down around her like snowflakes. James swallowed hard. He went to his door and opened it, then gave a cry of surprise. Michel, the huge, muscular Frenchman, was sitting outside his door, wrapped in a blanket, with his head cushioned by a pillow. He instantly awoke as he heard the door open. "What is it?" Michel asked. "I was uh… just going to get a glass of water," James stammered. Michel nodded. "Go back to your room. I'll get it for you." "I'm not a kid, Mick. I can get my own water." "James?" Michel said, slowly. "Go back into your room." "Fu—" He never finished the sentence. Michel's massive fist lashed out and punched him in the jaw, knocking him out cold. "Sorry, kid," Michel said. "I'm saving your life." She heard the footsteps behind Her, and She smiled. It had been a long time since She had hunted man, and She was glad that She had not lost her touch. She turned towards him, letting her back arch in a carefully calculated move that framed Her face with her black hair in the most flattering manner possible… and was surprised to see the old man standing there on the garden path. "Good evening," he said. "Lovely moon out tonight." She smiled at him, quickly recovering from Her surprise. Though not the prey She had anticipated, She would make do with this. "It is," She admitted. lowering Her eyes in Her most demure manner, and covering Her bare shoulders with Her long flowing locks. "It reminds me of the moons of my childhood." "You must miss them. The days of long ago. You speak of them with such nostalgia." "It was a different time, back then," She said, letting her hair slip in a perfectly calculated manner to bare the back of Her neck. "Things were simpler. Now times have changed." There was a short pause. "I am seventy years old," the man said. "I am not a young man driven by base lusts. Don't try to seduce me like you did James." This was not going as She had expected. "Even a seventy year old man has needs," She purred, tossing Her hair back and letting him get a good look at Her body. "I could make you feel young agai—." "Why do you do this?" he asked. "It demeans you to carry on like a cheap whore." She hissed in anger, and for a moment, She lost her concentration on the illusion She was spinning. For a bare instant, he saw Her as She truly was, and the sight made him flinch in shock, but only for a moment. "Insult me again, prey-creature, and I will tear your heart out with my claws. I could kill you in an instant." "Yes, you could," he admitted. "But what would that accomplish?" "It would be what you deserve for doing this to me!" She snapped. "Your people have killed the Old. They have bound Myth and Legend in prisons of steel, and eradicated the things of Magic with cold science. Then you mock even our memories, perverting that which you should fear into things of lust and children's fantasies. This cannot be abided. I will NOT abide it! I will die, but I will die fighting, with my claws red with your blood and my teeth in your throat, and I will die knowing that I was feared!" The wind blew, and carried with it the smell of rot and decay. The old man smiled. "Yes," he said. "This is the real you. This is what I was looking for." "What are you talking about?" "You have heard Solomon's plans?" "Idiocy. The man thinks that he can go to war with the world and win. He is useful to me for now, but one of these days, I will taste his blood," She growled. "Sol is… a broken man, but he is also a useful one. He has a talent for inspiring fools and martyrs, and we have need of both in these days. Go along with his plans for now," the old man said. "Help him fight his war." "Why? It is doomed to fail. He has no subtlety. He will push and push, and when he pushes too far, they will strike back with all their might, and destroy him." "Yes," the old man said. "That is exactly what we want." He spoke to her then of plans, of plans within plans, of war and betrayal, and of things to come. He told her of the coming war, of the fire that would cleanse the world clean, and of the new world that would rise from the ashes of the old. He told her of many things, and as She listened, She felt something She had not felt in many years. Respect. At last, She thought. A human who TRULY understands. He finished speaking. She nodded. "I will do as you have said," She admitted. "But I have only one question." "Ask." "Who are you?" "My name is a secret," the old man said, "but most call me The Teacher." They left with the dawn: James holding an icepack to his jaw and arguing with the stoic Michel the whole drive home, while Sandra and the Professor listened on in increasingly uncomfortable silence. Sol watched the drive away, then walked into the backyard, where She was sitting and looking out into the forest. "So," he asked. "What did you think of my friends?" "They seem like decent folk," She said. "But they lack your vision and daring." Sol nodded, and put one hand in his pocket and ran the other along a windowsill. "You know, last night, after everyone had gone to bed, I went to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I walked by this window, when I thought I heard someone talking. I heard an interesting conversation. I don't think they realized this window was open the whole time." She was silent for a moment. "You know I didn't mean anything I said," She purred. "I said what I did to draw him out as a traitor. I would never betray you, not after all you've done for me." "I hear you," Sol sighed. "But I can't take that chance." He shot her twice in the head, saw her fall to the ground dead. He shook his head in regret. "Pity," he whispered. "I thought you, of all people, would understand." "I did," a voice whispered, and Sol knew he was dead. She bit his hand off at the wrist first, and it fell to the ground still holding the gun. That part was fast. The rest went much slower. About the time that she tore open his abdomen and started pulling his guts out of his body, he realized he had an erection. His last thought before dying was that this was what he'd wanted all along. The first thing She did was tear down the decorations and burn them in the back yard along with the uneaten portions of his body. She threw the robes onto the fire as well, feeling a sense of vindictive satisfaction as they curled and blackened. Then She walked back into the house and stood in front of the mirror. Solomon Kidd looked back at Her. She frowned as She noticed a slight imperfection in the shape of his eyes, then fixed it with a small exertion of will. She would have to practice walking, She realized, in order to get just enough arrogance and braggadocio into all Her movements. Then She went upstairs to his office, took the small post-it from the back of his monitor, and used the username and password written there to log on to his account. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading through his emails and correspondence, learning how to become Solomon Kidd. It was shortly after the sun had set that She read one that made Her smile. Re: Stepping Sideways From: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim To: ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS I'll help you on this, but just this once. After this, you're on your own. Come by the Library and I'll show you how to use the Ways. Midnight

I was led into the room by two men in black, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Maybe they felt pity for what was about to happen to me, maybe they didn't. One of them shoved me down into a chair. Did I feel a tremble in his hand, or was it just me lying to myself, trying to fool myself into thinking there was some regret in this godforsaken place. I knew why I was there. The murder of my wife. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. For that one moment where my hands were around her neck, I was God. I knew I wasn't the Devil, as I saw him looking at the new arrivals to that place. Our new prison. A great new opportunity to serve our country. Freedom in a month! It was Hell. A doctor walked into the room and sat on the other side of the cold, metal table. “Hello, D-839229,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. He had seen this before, the bastard, and was probably looking forward to seeing what hell I would go through. He placed a small bronze ring on the stainless steel table. The initials H.T. shone from the light reflected on them. It didn't look like anything special. “Please wear this ring, D-839229,” the doctor said, and leaned back. I'd seen people shot for refusing to do what the doctors said, so I reached forward and tried to put the ring on one of my fingers. It refused to fit no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, I just put it on my pinkie finger. “How are you feeling, D-839229?” asked the doctor. I looked up. Goddamnit, this jerk was playing with me, making me put on some dirty old ring. “Fuckin' hungry,” I replied sarcastically. Then the pain began. I jerked forward, blood trickling out of my mouth. Oh god, what was happening? One of my teeth fell out. It landed on the table and started shaking, as if it were trying to get away. Within a few seconds, all my other teeth joined it. As I watched them in horror, they began to squirm and writhe and change shape. Soon, I was looking at a dozen miniature…sharks? As I was taken away by security, my fingers fell off. As I was thrown into a cell, my toes. As they explain to me I'm in observation, the hammerheads that were once my eyes rip apart my sockets. As I sit in the cold, my only company a single security camera, organ-sized sharks come up my throat, their eyes flicking here and there. They all come out, my liver, my lungs, my hea

And so, at last, it had come to this. Day after day, week after week, they had come to him. Talking to him. Telling him their lies, trying to see where he broke. They'd never realized how much they had told him instead. When you hear enough lies, you get a feeling for the truth. You can see the shape of the truth, by how the lies outline it. He had everything in place. He'd had it in place for quite some time. Plans, plots, and schemes, all ready to go, when everything was right. In the end, all it took to spark it off was a simple cold. The old lady had already been quite weak, refusing to indulge in treatments like the others. An illness introduced into her system by a well-placed cough, and she passed away in her sleep. The numbers above and below her had came to him and offered him her numbers. He accepted, with a show of reluctance. Those who are shown to desire power are those least likely to be trusted with it. And now O5-4 sat in his office. He had been given his mark of office. A foot-long length of bone, polished smooth. His name had been erased, not just from Foundation databanks, but from the minds of all who had known him. He was sure the other numbers knew his name, but soon enough, they wouldn't matter. He let his fingers drift towards the keyboard before him, and a half smile rose to his lips. Alone, with no one watching, he still felt the need to say, well, something. For posterity. "I feel like a super villain. Like Lex Luthor, or Adrian Veidt. Heh. 'Do it, Dr. Bright? I did it 35 minutes ago.'" As good a set of words as any. Four touched a series of buttons, setting into motion the events that would place the entirety of the Foundation into his hands. Then he sat back and waited. Fifteen minutes, and everything would be his. 13 Thirteen was easiest. Mainly because O5-13 didn't really exist. Oh, the Senior Staff were told he did. There were memos, handed down by 'O5-13,' but it was just one more lie. Thirteen's vote was rotated to the other O5's, moving up a step any time there was a tie vote and the tie breaker was needed. But there was a power there. Knowledge, that only those who held Thirteen's vote could access. A simple (actually quite complex) computer virus snuck past the Overseers' firewalls, and bestowed the power of Thirteen to Four. Easy as that. 12 A large African man sat in his chair, behind an expensive desk. The room he used as his office could also quite easily be described as 'expensive.' The man himself could be described the same. Silk tie. Gold cufflinks. Armani suit. Shoes made from the skin of a very rare reptile. He wore dark wrap-around glasses, smoked glass framed in ivory, perhaps to hide his eyes, perhaps to keep him from looking too closely at the things he had to. Although he had once borne another name, these days he was known to one and all as O5-12. He was the accountant for the Overseer council, making sure the numbers added up, everywhere. His assistant entered the office on schedule. Everything Twelve did was on schedule. From the moment he woke up, to the moment he went to sleep, and perhaps even his dreams, followed a precise, practical order. To do things otherwise invited chaos, and with chaos came death. The assistant walked calmly to the drink cabinet, opening it as he had done every day for years. Somewhere in his head, things were turning. A thing had been planted in his head, before he became Twelve's right-hand man. And now, this thing made him pick a different bottle than the one he normally did. The glass was poured, and it looked like whiskey. It even smelled like whiskey. When the brainwashed assistant dropped an ice cube in it, it even bubbled a little, like whiskey. But, when O5-12 raised it to his lips and gulped it down, it didn't act like whiskey. Contact with the soft, wet flesh of his tongue and throat resulted in a chemical reaction. Instead of the sweet soothing burn of alcohol, Twelve was rewarded with the swift, horrible burn of acid. He was dead before the glass left his lips. 11 The two men sat across from each other, separated only by a chessboard. It was an old board, but they were old men. O5-11 was a pleasant enough looking Caucasian gentlemen, one of those old men who sit on their porch and offer candy to little children. Not the creepy kind. Eleven fiddled with a bracelet made from human teeth as he considered both the board, and his opponent. "It's still your move, 'Leven," Agent Alto Clef teased his superior. Maybe the Devil, maybe a reality bender, one thing could be said for certain: Clef enjoyed these monthly games with Eleven. When his phone beeped to alert him to an incoming text, he almost ignored it. Almost. But he'd expected this. Sure enough, the text merely read 'Now.' "Check." "Where? You don't have check anywhere!" O5-11 leaned across the chessboard, searching for his opponent's move, his hands touching both sides of the board. A sad smile on his face, Clef spoke. "There." He calmly tipped over his own king, and 300 amps of electricity charged into Eleven's body, frying his brain to a crisp. "Checkmate." 10 O5-10 didn't notice when the air conditioning kicked on. It was just another distraction from the endless paperwork that filled her life these days. She was a strong, capable woman, a brunette, dressed in a functional long skirt and jacket. Every five minutes she'd raise her hand to the necklace around her throat, a carved marble eyeball, dangling to stare at her paperwork with the same disgust she felt for it. Her first indication that anything was wrong was when she realized she'd read the same page 4 times without comprehending it. By then it was too late. She could hear the clicking and hissing sounds being made by her body. Her hand refused to let go of the paper. Her hand refused to let go of the paper. Her hand refused to let go. Her hand refused. Her hand. Her. 9 He always claimed he was the unluckiest O5. The only one who didn't get to be a world-traveling jetsetter. Oh no. Nine was stuck deep in the middle of the ocean. Sure, he could travel to any of the water Sites, all couple dozen of them, but most of the time, he ended up here, deep beneath the sea, where no natural light could find its way. He was a pale man, small, always looking lost in the suits he tried to make look good. A bone-handled knife rested in his hands at this moment in time, as he stared into the abyss. It would have been poetic to say something gazed back, but the only thing outside the window in his office was water, lots and lots of water. Several seconds later, the only thing inside his office was lots and lots of water. Between the water in his lungs, and the pressure so deep, O5-9 was the unluckiest O5. 8 A shower could never make her feel clean. No matter how many times she washed, she could still feel those things crawling across her skin, could still see all the people she'd condemned to death. Eight was not a pretty woman. Despite being one of a handful of all-powerful Overseers, she'd never gotten any work done, no surgery to fix her sloped forehead, her craggy brow, no lap band to cut back on her weight. Somehow, despite having no appetite, she'd still gained weight. Even naked under the water, she still wore a braided ring of sinew on her left ring finger. She turned the water up hotter, trying to blast away the horrible memories, boil them off. The heat felt very nice. Until there was nothing but heat. She didn't even manage a scream when her flesh boiled away. In fact, she may have smiled, because the memories, at last, were gone. 7 "I'm sorry, driver, I don't think I've seen you before. What did you say your name was?" Seven asked absently, fiddling with the ivory chopstick in her hair. "Oh, it's Rodney. But most people call me Dr. Gerald." 6 He had been an Agent, once upon a time. When he worked the field, they called him Cowboy. People still remembered the agent, even if no one knew he was now the Overseer known as Six. He had been the best. And now, he was an old man. Dressed as always in an immaculate white suit, his long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, his trademark Stetson tilted at an angle on his head. Between his gnarled old hands he held a white cane, the handle carved into the shape of a howling wolf. At his back were his two trusted bodyguards, Thompson and Black. They were almost as good as him. One day, they'd be better. When they were, well, one of them could take his number, and he could retire. Maybe spend some time with his granddaughter. He didn't look back when Black got a text. He never knew that O5-4 had once been Agent Black's personal physician. Or, if he had known, it wouldn't have mattered. He did, however, feel it when Black drew his guns. He began to turn, but, no, too slow. As he fell to the floor, he noticed Thompson falling beside him. But the hole in the back of his head prevented him from noticing any more. 5 "It's an emergency, sir! We have to get you out of here!" The security guard hurried O5-5 and his secretary into the nearest airlock, and slammed the door shut behind the three of them. The guard leaned against the door, panting. "Keter, sir. It sounds bad." The secretary sniffed, but then, she always had pneumonia, or some other sinus problem. O5-5 was nondescript. He dressed nice, but not well. His hair was… enh. His face was… blah. He didn't stand out. In fact, the only thing that was noticeable about him was the leather shoes. A nice, tanned leather. His secretary was an African-American woman, about 51 years old, quiet, with a rather large nose. She had always been his emergency escape, even if she didn't know it. As the room proceeded to move upwards, the guard frowned, turning to look at the two of them. "Do either of you hear a hissing sound?" The gas was fast-acting, invisible, unscented. It poured out of 108's nose at a furious pace, killing them all as they rode to safety. 3 "Well hey guys, how are you today? It's fantastic to see you!" Three looked like a teenage boy, late teens, blond hair down to his collar, jean jacket filled with patches, geek-style glasses. O5-3 never let himself be seen in person, or, at least, not for many years. He always showed up on a monitor, broadcasting from a white room, a fancy desk and old-fashioned computer beside him. While he always had a prop or two at hand, it was never anything real. In fact, O5-3 wasn't real. He'd died, decades ago, plugged into a prototype computer he'd invented. He just didn't go away. The Overseer council took a vote, and decided they didn't care. He was still their best coder. He could still do the job. So, they set his bone earring on the mainframe, installed some safety programs, and let him work. An electromagnetic pulse set off inside the hardware that carried him removed him from this world at last. 2 60 km west of Astrakhan, a garden was in bloom. O5-2 took great pride in her garden. Of course, she was cheating, a little. She didn't mind. Once you get old enough, you don't mind using a few cheat codes to get things done. Two was the type of woman you pictured when you heard the word 'Grandma.' She always had a blonde shawl on, no matter the weather, and usually a pair of gardening gloves. She had a fantastic gardening hat a friend had made for her, pushed down tightly on her grey curls. Her helper was an old friend, a man old well before his time, and maybe after it as well. He glanced up, a slight frown on his face, and pointed, looking uncomfortable. He wasn't used to this much attention on him. Two had the time to look up and smile at the Russian satellite that was screaming down through the sky at her. She could have moved. She could have run. She noticed the 'rogue' satellite too early, and she could have made it to the spring, saved herself. But she didn't. If anyone had been around to hear her last words, they might have been confused that what she chose to say was "It's about time." 1 And One. The first. Once upon a time, he had been known as the Administrator. All the power in the Foundation had been his. But he didn't trust himself. He knew that absolute power corrupts absolutely. So, he parceled off his power. Handed out badges of responsibility. Numbered them, and made sure they could balance each other. Set up a system, so that if one died, the authority, the votes, were passed to another, so the balance would never be uneven for long. And then he retreated from the world. Buried himself down deep, with only electronic means to keep him in touch with the outside. Which means that O5-1, still looking like a 13-year-old boy, still clad in the rags and bones that hadn't been used to mark the other 12, was completely alone. When his systems shut down, he didn't panic. When the liquid concrete began seeping out of the air vents, he didn't panic. He just lay down, and accepted it. After all, he'd been expecting it. 4 O5-4 stared at the screen before him, as the 13 lights shifted, back and forth, here and there. One dies a little ahead of another, so the vote goes to her, then she dies, so vote travels here… until, finally, at last, the votes were all his. The power was all his. The Foundation was all his. Dr. Everett Mann, the Administrator, allowed himself one appreciative cackle. Just one. No sense going all maniacal about it. Besides, he had so much work to do. His fingers flew across the keyboards, as he prepared to change everything. As he typed, he muttered to himself. "Good evening, Doctor. No, no, don't stand up…" ...

Hey, pal, nice costume. Yeah. I like the way it's just your face with a couple of strings attached. Okay, that's far enough. Yeah, it's a real piece, so why don't you come along quiet-like? That's the ticket. Just over here, an' we can have a little talk. So, the reason I'm here is—stop that. It ain't gonna work. We had plenty of time t'figure out what it was you did, an' we got a fix for it. So you can just relax. You're collared, so you might as well find out who by. Anyway, the reason I'm here is that I'm part of a group what contains objects or people what are of an unusual nature. Yeah, like yerself. Sucks t'be you, I know. Now, you could try t'run, but this gun'll stop you before you get too far. Won't kill ya, but you'll get a helluva headache when you wake up. This'd drop a horse, an' you weigh a helluva lot less than a horse. So, I came here t'find out if the rumors were true, an' there really was somethin' here matchin' your description. We saw you a couple days ago, but I figured we'd see you out on the town t'night. I always liked Halloween. I could have any face I wanted. You got a face like mine, you look forward to wearin' a mask. So I sympathize. Only time of the year you get to come out an' mingle. Anyway, we just been waitin' fer you to come out where we could nab ya. My partner's watchin' us, an' pretty soon we'll go for a ride in our van to yer new home. Ain't fair? Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. An' yer right, it ain't. This were an ideal world, we could all live in peace. Unfortunately, you an' me were born in a cold bastard of a universe what doesn't give a fuck about fairness or justice. All we got is the best we can do. Yer ma? I'm sorry, kid. We can't go back to see her. I'll make sure to get someone t'talk to her so she don't worry too much. Honestly, she's probably not gonna remember a whole lot of this. It's one of the things we do. But we'll make sure she's okay. You got my word. Hell, tell you what. We bring you in, we'll say you agreed on condition we get some cash to her, make sure she's nice an' comfy for the rest of her life. The higher-ups will buy it. First lesson for ya. Skips who cooperate have life a hell of a lot easier than the ones who fight back. They'll get what they want no matter what, but you could make things easier on 'em. They ain't stupid. They'll reward good behavior. I can't let you go, kid. Yer in too deep. Yeah, you say you won't hurt nobody, an' I believe ya. But we ain't the only ones out there. There's other folks in this game. Only they don't want to keep you contained. They wanna kill you, or worse, turn you into a weapon. They could make you hurt people. I seen it done. An' they'll hurt people t'get to you. People like yer ma. See, there's a lot of threats out there. Some of 'em are other people. Some of 'em are things that would destroy the world if we let 'em. I've seen what's out there, an' it ain't friendly. Some of it's wonderful, some of it may help us, but some of it sincerely scares the shit outta me, an' I don't scare easy. There are so many things out to get us, someone's gotta be out there on humanity's side. Nobody's on your side? …Yeah, but I'll tell ya what. You have any real problems, you think your bein' treated too cruel, tell yer guard to get word to Max Lombardi. I don't got a whole lotta pull myself, but I could maybe put a word in the ear of someone who does. Ain't gonna promise nothin'. Nobody's gonna make everythin' right, y'know. We just do the best we can.

Please sit down, Dr. Hurst. I am Dr. Roy. Please don't stare. I apologise for the search, but we could not be entirely sure you were genuine. We've had quite a few people over the last few months who sought to cause…problems with us. But enough of that. Our friend in the Foundation gave me quite a bit of information about you, Dr. Hurst. Of course we have people in the Foundation. Your friend, David, I believe. Just last week he sent us information on six possible recruits. David gave you quite the glowing review. 'Just what we need', 'A brilliant mind' and 'Able to do what must be done'. Now, that last one gives me hope. Let's have a look at this file, shall we? Oh, you were involved with the Alaska incident? That was magnificent, you should be proud. The research data alone was extremely useful, as I can see. A few casualties, but these cannot be avoided in our line of work, can they? And you used another item to stop it? You've been wasting your time at the Foundation, doctor, you obviously belong with us! Perhaps it's time I tell you what it is we do here. In essence, we're very similar to the organization you just left. We're not as big, I admit, but I feel that our very nature means we achieve more. Much more, as you will see during your career with us. We have three hundred and twenty six items currently in our possession. Actually, with your welcome gift we now have three hundred and twenty seven. Take for example the ‘human serum'. Inject it into any animal and it will morph and twist into the approximate shape of a human. The samples they had, they locked away. But we had better ideas. We injected it into a human. Oh, the results. This is what you will do. Do what it is not right to do, because nobody else is able to do it. It's for the good of the world, doctor! We have many more test subjects than the Foundation. The officials in the countries we place our facilities pay us to take their poor, their destitute, their useless. The people we use have nothing. They are nothing. But we can take them, use them, and then they are something, aren't they? They're the future. I hope that in the future, wars will not be fought with guns. They will be fought with impossible things; wars will be ended in an instant. They could be ended before they began. I'm not evil. But the things we do have to be done. We'll give you thirty test subjects for your first two months and access to two Vertigo items. You would call those Safe items, we don't. Bright new ideas, doctor, for a bright new future! Haha. Impress me, doctor. I'm sure you will exceed all of our expectations. You are to use the items on the subjects, as I'm sure you know how to. Keep trying and trying until you find that moment where it all clicks and you're not holding something that should not be in your hands. When you find you're holding a weapon, you've done it. It's another small step, doctor. Another small step. Oh, the name? We are a small force against the tide of impossibility, and this small force seeks to create logic out of illogic. What better name than the Chaos Insurgency?

Harken watched the rain sheet the windows, leaning his head on the cool glass in the hopes it would make his headache go away. Down the hall, a couple was fighting, the rise and fall of argument punctuated by the occasional thud of either a slap or a door slamming. The sound of traffic was at least muffled by the rain, and the Agent sighed at the thought of actually being able to get some sleep. The safe house was a pit. A cruddy apartment in a small, broken-down town, and they'd been lucky to score even this. The official reason was overextended resources due to the crisis, but Harken was reasonably sure if one of the 05s had been forced out this way, they'd have found a hotel room somewhere. He had to admit it made a kind of grim sense. Why spend the good stuff on a two-time traitor and a washed-out screw up? At least it beat sleeping in the car. A sharp knock on the door made Harken reflexively look to the bedroom doorway and the dimly lit bed beyond. Kramer, normally a hair-trigger, was comatose. She'd burned out on the last mission and would be mostly useless until tomorrow while she recuperated. Harken pushed off the glass, drawing his gun as he walked to the door. He ducked behind the wall for cover, swallowed, and opened the door quickly. The Agent outside fell back a step with a start, nearly dropping the file folder clenched in his hand. Harken sighed, holstering his gun and pushing the door open all the way. “Jesus, Scud, identify yourself next time! I could have shot you.” “Yeah right, Harken. I've seen your range scores. The day you manage to shoot me is the day I retire," Scud laughed. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" "Message from the top," Scud said. "Didn't trust it to anything but hand delivery." "Give it here." Harken took the folder from the younger Agent, let out a low "hm" as he saw the stamp on the cover of the manila folder. "Well, come on inside. You might as well have a cup of coffee before you go." Agent Scud chuckled, following him in and shutting the door. He put his soaked overcoat over a chair as Harken moved quietly into the tiny kitchen. "Where's Kramer?” Harken waved to the bedroom. “She's in there… fuck, don't go in there, you moron! The hell is wrong with you?” Scud stepped away from the bedroom door, grinning. “Hey, I'm just interested, you know.” “I swear to god, if you do the 'are all her parts in tune?' gag, I will beat you to death with this coffee pot," Harken said. He poured two mugs of lukewarm coffee and handed one to Agent Scud. Scud laughed, shaking his head. “Naw, already got my jollies out. Just curious. What's her deal, anyway? I've never really heard much about her, besides jokes and the whole supersoldier bit.” Harken stared, then shook his head. “Supersoldier, huh? She's not a supersoldier, she's a…” He paused, put an ear to the door. The only sound was the low buzzing noise of Kramer's cybernetic components undergoing their usual regenerative cycle. Harken leaned in, lowering his voice. “Ok, here's the deal. She's not a supersoldier, or a war machine, or anything like that… not exactly. She grew up in the Church of The Broken God. Her parents were supposed to be some big so-and-sos in their clergy. They did things to her. I don't really know what: she doesn't talk about it much, but whatever it was, she almost died a few times. She lost her right eye, most of her right hand, her ears and most of her teeth.” “You're bullshitting me.” Scud said, a nervous laugh in his voice. Harken sipped his coffee, staring into the oily liquid. “No bullshit. Most likely they were coaching her to become a Crusader: one of their "holy knights of the machine." Or maybe they were just seeing what they could do. Anyway, they changed her body chemistry, did stuff to her brain to make her totally compliant and loyal to the higher ups in the Church.. It was working great until some goons hired by Marshall, Carter and Dark raided them. One of their members wanted some 'relic' they had in the basement, so they hired out some people to go and trash them.” “It was a nightmare, from what she said.” Harken continued. "You know how she's all cold as ice and stuff? Well, even she gets the shakes talking about that night. They came right in the middle of a service. Shot some people, rounded up everyone else, all black masks and guns. They stole a bunch of stuff out of the vault, then lit the place on fire. She saw her parents, dead and bleeding on the steps to the podium. She never saw who shot them.” He looked up, catching Scud's eyes. “She did see them get stacked up like cordwood near the door to make it look like they died trying to escape. Saw them start to burn as they dragged her out.” Scud stared in silence. Harken lit another cigarette. “Kramer was…twelve, maybe thirteen? Barely a kid, but she saw the writing on the wall, did what she needed to do to survive. The mercs found her hiding in the sacristy. They almost put a bullet in her head, but then she told them she knew where the good stuff was, and how to get past the locks and traps and other shit like that. Mercs decided to take her back with them. They got a bonus for bringing her in." "MC&D loved her, it was like getting a blank check for them. They started adding things. Subdermal armour, ocular implants, amputated and replaced her legs below the knee, tweaked organs, a real overhaul. They made it so she could change her facial bone structure at will. It apparently feels like having a truck run over your face. She had to practice twice daily." “So she worked for richie-rich for a while, lots of combat stuff, and some… ” Harken coughed, checking the dim bedroom again. “… well. She's never been hard on the eyes, you know, and you know what they say: if it exists, someone will want to fuck it. Sometimes she mixed the two. A few very rich blokes who somehow pissed off MC&D got a razor in the neck while they were on the fly. Anyway, she did that for a while, then bumped into The Foundation during a breach event. She shot her handlers and turned herself over to the recovery Agents.” Harken laughed, shaking his head. “Those assholes came home feeling like they won the Super Bowl. Promotions all around. Almost lost her right off the bat: she had a stroke when they started to question her, some failsafe the richies had put in her brain. They got her working again, pumped her for information. After they squeezed her, they really didn't know what to do. Eggheads talked about listing her under SCP, and they had a cell ready for her, nice and warm. Wrote up containment procedures and everything. Then Dr. Gears submitted a report, saying how her system was 'inefficient,' and 'had room for improvement.' Motherfucker." Scud started nodding quickly, tapping the table. “Shit, I remember that!" the younger Agent interjected. "They were all worked up, brain-machine interface research or something. They kept feeding her to 212, then working on her in the lab, crossing her with every mechanical or cybernetic SCP they could think of.” He rubbed his face, trying to remember. “God, how many times did they do that?” “Twelve. They fed her to 212 twelve times. Not counting all the 'regular' surgery stuff they did as well. 212 did less and less every time. Finally, it wouldn't trigger anymore. It… it didn't see her as human. She had a bit of a breakdown when that happened. It took God knows how many sessions with Glass before she stabilized from her suicidal tendencies. After that, there wasn't much more to do. They'd hit the limit with what they could do with her. We kept thinking they'd end up just dissecting her. Maybe they would have. But then that whole thing with Able went pear-shaped.” "Able?" Scud asked. "Remember Pandora's Box? Mobile Task Force Omega Seven? Remember how they kept talking about how they were going to use SCPs to fight SCPs?" "I remember it went completely to shit. The idea was fucking stupid," Scud said. "No, it wasn't. The idea was solid. They just chose the wrong SCP to do it with." Scud sipped his coffee in silence as Harken opened the file folder, leafing through the contents and nodding at what he found there. Scud cleared his throat. “So. Where did you figure in?” Harken gave a short, bitter laugh as he carefully examined one of the photos, holding it up to the light to get a better look. “Me? They found me in a bottle at the Site 17 training center. Mental health restriction. My team got carved up by 106. I was the only survivor. I kinda snapped after that, worthless in the field, but I know the spy game inside and out. Some personality profile system decided my skillset meshed well with Kramer. Myself, I think they just wanted to pair her up with someone who wouldn't be missed. Not that they use us much. Maybe the whole Able thing spooked them, but until Site 17 got hit, we weren't doing any work at all. Now, of course, we're busy busy busy.” Scud grinned, rising from his chair and pulling on his still damp coat. “Well, you're doing good work. Word on the street is you've got MC&D running scared. Keep it up.” "Thanks." "No problem. Be seeing you." Harken nodded, leaning back in his chair as Scud walked to the door. He coughed. “Hey, Scud?” “Yeah?” “How long you been on the take?” Scud stopped, one hand on the doorknob, half turning to Harken. “There's a secured message on the sheet," Harken said. He held up one of the photos, revealing a series of small pinholes punched through the eight by ten glossy. "How many of our agents did you sell out since you started taking money from Marshall, Carter and Dark?” “Oh come on,” Scud laughed, “you're pulling my-” Even silenced, Harken's pistol sounded like a firecracker in the still apartment. A gout of blood sprayed from Scud's back. He croaked, falling to the floor, his own pistol falling from nerveless fingers and clattering against the stained hardwood floor. "You were right about one thing," Harken said. "The day I shot you was the day you retired." A semi-truck driving by drowned out the next four shots Harken fired into Scud's chest. "Well, I guess that's done wi—" The bedroom door came off its hinges as Kramer smashed through it like a freight train. She had her sidearm in both hands, eyes glowing as they scanned for threats, her bare musculature twitching and soaked with synthetic adrenaline. “W't the f'k is goin' on?!” she shouted, in a voice still fuzzy with sleep. Harken chuckled, wiping off his gun. “You've never been a morning person. Relax, it was just Scud. He turned traitor a while ago, and they were waiting for a good time to bump him, so they sent him to us.” Kramer nodded, visibly relaxing, her snarled and sweaty hair turning her hyperaggressive pose into a caricature. “I heard you two talking. What was it?” Harken looked at her, then to Scud. "He's dead. What does it matter now?” She nodded absently, already stumbling back to bed. They left Scud there when they rolled out the next day. A little surprise for the next team.

Hi. I'm (sigh) Research Assistant Corbette. I'm gonna be straight here… I kind of had a long night last night aaaand I threw up an Advil this morning. So… yeah. You may be wondering why I'm giving this orientation. That's a good question. Anyways, I'm here to talk to you about properly recording things when you write down containment procedures, or descriptions, or… incident reports, or… yeah… This is, uh, pretty important, I guess. I mean, you can't write shitty reports, or else you'll be, y'know, fired, or… something… Okay, now, before we even get onto writing stuff it's important that you all know what to add as a picture. Now, I know some of these things may be scary to photograph, but I swear to god, if I see one more fucking artist's depiction, I don't… It's just… No. Just… put in a picture or don't put something in at all, okay? So… the first part that everyone sees after the photograph is the item number. Now, I don't even know how many times I've seen some dumb-ass who didn't capitalize, or put in a hyphen, or some shit. Look, okay, that's just… How could you forget that? Honestly? What could possibly have made you forget to put in a FUCKING. HYPHEN. Jesus, I thought you were memetically chosen or some shit. I don't even know how they recruit nowadays. They, like, they do the online thing now, right? Yeah? Oh, okay, yeah. So, yeah, just… remember hyphens, okay? Now, after that comes the object class. Now, I don't care how pants-shittingly terrifying the gigantic blob looks, if all it's gonna do is make the floor slimy, it's NOT. KETER. Do we need to destroy this thing? No. Is it even going to kill any of us? No! Well… unless you're, like, old or some shit and break your hip. Look, just… try the locked room thing. I'm pretty sure you all know it, okay? If it does nothing to escape the room, it's Safe. If you don't know what the fuck, it's Euclid. If it pops out and eats your grandmother who slipped on the slime covered floor and broke her hip, it's Keter. Okay? Okay. The next p- Are you… are you serious? That's not even, like, a good ringtone. And you're a junior anyways, when the fuck did you get phone permissions? Give me that. Oh, look, he was texting somebody else. "This class fucking su-" Fuck you buddy! Get out of my class! No, get out! Jesus Christ. I didn't even want to teach this, ok? Can we just… can we move on, please? Okay, the Containment Procedures. This is the most important part of the document because, y'know, people have to follow these instructions to contain the thing. That means you can't mess up and end up having researchers pour Orange Juice on a Scip instead of Potassium Iodide (and end up teaching some random assholes about proper documentation). And puh-lease do your research beforehand. Listen people, Alchemy died 200 years ago. You can't consult a practitioner of it, ok? If there are any questions, just direct it to the head researcher, ok? What? Well maybe they're blacked out because YOU'RE ALL AMATEURS WHO WE CAN'T TRUST TO DEAL WITH A HIGH-CLEARANCE SCIP! Next up we have the description. This is pretty straight forward. Just… please be clinical, okay? The scip's skin is not pale as the moonlight in colour, okay? It's fucking white. You understand? And don't just insert an expungement willy nilly. I understand sometimes it's been a long day and it's just easier to insert a redacted here and there until tomorrow, but when I'm looking at a document and I see "SCP-4321 is a humanoid that [DATA EXPUNGED]", it's just… It's not fun for anyone. As for the experiment log, you're really free to do anything. But please, for the love of god, be clear in your recording. I'm sure you're all aware of a certain incident involving sharks, and I don't want to see anything like that again. Just… promise me you won't do that. Please? I think that about ends this lecture. You're all free to go. Oh, before you leave, if I see any of you making any HILAROUS comments at the end of reports I will find you and we'll INVENT Keter duty just for you. That's about it. Anybody have a fucking Tylenol? Wow, that lecture sucked. - Junior Researcher James

Audio Log Site 17 PA System The following was taken from backup recordings of Site 17 PA Logs. Due to the circumstance of their retrieval, some of the recordings have been lost or damaged. The timeline of the recordings has been reconstructed based on the events during Incident 234-900-Tempest Night. 1-1143: Wastes of skin, revolting bags of meat. 1-1245: [Electronic noise for 12 seconds] 1-1247: Rankling little piece of shit. 1-1283: Foreign [EXPLETIVE]. 1-1286: [Electronic noise for 33 seconds]ut up. 1-1304: Level of a zoophyte, suited only for pond scum. You are disgusting. 1-1306: [Electronic noise for 23 seconds] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE]. Blackguard Feed 087-104 1-1404 MTF-Ω1 (Blackguards), enters Sublevel-C3 from Stairwell 46. MTF-Ω1-1: Stairwell 46 has become choked with debris. We are unable to proceed further. We will begin sterilizing Sublevel-C3 and head down through this section's sublevels from here. OP-Ω1-1: Operator confirms. 1-1407 MTF-Ω1-4 and MTF-Ω1-5 open the electrical junction box for Sublevel-C3, revealing the interior circuitry, having since been heavily infested by SCP-229 and partially converted into a biological substrate by the effects of SCP-890. MTF-Ω1-4 begins severing SCP-229 using an oxyacetylene torch. 1-1408 Lighting fails in Hallway 67, MTF-Ω1 members activate helmet-mounted maglites. Electrical disturbances in Sublevel-C3 begin increasing in intensity. 1-1410 MTF-Ω1-4 has dislodged roughly 50 percent of the SCP-229 infestation. MTF-Ω1-6: Did you hear that? [Insufficient Audio to Confirm] MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin moving down Hallway 67, using the ignition flame of their XFOF7s to provide additional illumination. MTF-Ω1-7: We got the front, one-five. 1-1411 All electronic systems in Sublevel-C3 fail simultaneously. Wires and cabling begin erupting from the walls around MTF-Ω1, severally wounding MTF-Ω1-4. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 barrage numerous SCP-229 instances with chemical fire propellant. MTF-Ω1-1 engages masses of wires in melee combat with a trench knife, while pulling MTF-Ω1-4 to relative safety. MTF-Ω1-1: [EXPLETIVE] they got the [EXPLETIVE] intel wrong again. Since when has 229 been prehensile?! MTF-Ω1-2 retrieves oxyacetylene torch and continues severing the main junction box. MTF-Ω1-3 covers MTF-Ω1-2's position from the southern flank. 1-1412 Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. Instances are observed to infest each other, however by this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by sustained fire from MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7. 1-1413 Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat ineffective. MTF-Ω1-4 given first-aid, administered painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to the left arm and torso. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Ω1-1 through MTF-Ω1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP objects. 1-1424 MTF-Ω1 exits Sublevel C-3. Recovered Documents from [REDACTED] Memo Advanced Stages of Infection Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment terminated. [Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7]

“Well…” the old man said quietly. “I guess it's time the charade ended then, isn't it?” Director Clef's eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance at being disturbed that quickly faded… “Hello, Konny,” he said in a bare whisper. Kondraki dropped into the chair, bushy eyebrows rising slightly, followed by a smile. “I'm glad you remember me, Clef,” he said. “I was worried that you would forget. It's easy for someone like you to forget things, after all. Are you liking the nice, cushy job? How are your boys?” Clef frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about, Ko—“ “Drop the bullshit, Clef… You keep doing your damnedest to lie yourself out of everything. To lie in circles, keep people guessing… But I finally figured it out. It took me a while—a very long while—but I finally got it. Heh. Clever bastard.” Clef eased himself backwards in the chair. “And?” he asked. Kondraki smiled. “It's easy. You see, I spent years analyzing the records of you… Your exploits here. The things that you were willing and not willing to do. It took me forever to figure out why 682 had that moment of hesitation… Why it didn't kill you. Why reality benders don't fuck you up like they do other people. Why 343 shits his pants at the sight of you.” “And?” Clef asked. “It's simple,” Kondraki said. “You're God.” Clef laughed. Hard. Leaning over, he coughed loudly, struggling to breathe. Minutes passed until he was completely out of breath and had to stop, leaning back in his chair. “Really, Konny? Me? God?” Kondraki smiled, eerily. Madly. “Certainly,” he said. “But not just any God. You're Poopstick McGee… And I… I AM THE FLYING WALRUSES!" Clef smiled slightly. "Yes, Kondraki. Yes, I am. You finally figured me out…" Kondraki laughed hysterically as the orderly came into the room. "Sorry, Docta Clef. He slipped away from me again…" Clef laughed. "No problem, Rodney… Konny and I are old friends." "POOP STICK! POOPSTICK MCGEE!" Clef nodded. "You got it, buddy!" The orderly walked Kondraki out of Clef's office, taking him back to his room and easing him into the bed, waiting for him to relieve himself in a bedpan. He grabbed the orderly's arm… "He's Satan, you know…" he said seriously. The orderly just smiled. "Last week, you said he was Adam," he said. Kondraki's eyes went wide. "That's classified!" he screamed, throwing the full bedpan at the orderly. "EXPUNGED! EXPUNGED!" The orderly ducked out of the room, and down the hall, Alto Clef laughed quietly to himself.

“So how do we do this?” Harken asked, stubbing a cigarette into the growing pile on the console ashtray. Kramer looked around inside the car that had been their mobile home the last few weeks. Not overly flashy to begin with, the interior been rendered a wreck by Harken's chain smoking, snacking, and general disregard for property. Perfect camouflage yes, but even with her olfactory senses dialed all the way down, it still stank of smoke, sweat and nervous tension. “You still in there, cupcake?” he asked, tapping on her nose. Almost before he'd touched her, five scalpel-sharp blades sprung from her thin fingers, the lethal hand poised a hair's breadth from Harken's eyes. He pulled his hand back with a smirk, more amused then afraid. “At least you're still with us. So how are we doing this?” She ignored him, turning to look at the “Open Hands Outreach Center” across the street. A combined thrift store and community outreach center, it was also a cover for one of the largest Church of The Broken God communities in the midwest, with an extensive underground network of rooms and tunnels stretching far and deep. She absently cycled to infrared, watching the vague heat-ghosts wander through the building. "We are not doing anything. You are supporting.” “Oh to hell with that, you can't smash up a church all by-” “YOU can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, and you have all the physical combat skills of toast.” He huffed, throwing up his hands. It was cheap, childish, and absolutely true. “There's a vent beside the air conditioner that leads to the main chamber. I can dislocate my ribs, arms and legs, and slip down almost on top of them.” She smiled with predatory satisfaction. He cringed, looking at her sidelong. “Jesus, do it the hard way, why don't you?” “It's the quickest way in. I can't just crash the front door, and waiting for the bishop to come out and wander into a bullet could take weeks. Quick in, quick out, no time for anyone to really realize we're here… it's sneaky. I thought you'd be pleased.” She grinned at him, radiating the sweetness of a cat with a bloody muzzle. Harken stared at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth a grim line. “You're full of shit, you know that, right?” “My, what ever do you mean, Agent Harken?” Kramer was practically purring now, her voice tinged with a nearly seductive anticipation that had nothing to do with sex. “You just want to watch everyone run in terror.” She smiled, stepping out of the car with a wink. “See you after work, sweety,” she giggled, winking a eye cycling between green, yellow and white, striding across the street with a exaggerated wiggle of her thin hips. Harken smouldered in impotent, frustrated fury, managing to light two cigarettes backwards before letting it go. The brothers walked down the hall slowly, heads bowed, the dull beat of the machinery deep below them like the warm pulse of a mother's heart. The two men stepped in time to the throb, letting it fill their Broken bodies, the richness of the Silent Voice tugging deep inside. Their reverie was so deep, so profound, they didn't hear the wall grate open, the soft sound of scraping flesh as it oozed from the confined space. Brother Cam looked up at a sudden noise, his meditation broken by what sounded like a…a chirp, or a squeal. He looked, then suddenly turned more, searching, trying to find Brother Han. He'd been right there, walking beside him. Brother Cam heard another noise, like a soft tap, and he leaned in to the semi-dark hall, trying to place the sound. A thick metal hook tore his skull open like a rusty can. The bishop Bronzon could feel the devotion like a wind on his face. The sanctuary was filled, every body singing in time to the Great Machine well below them. Since the hated heretics had been silenced, the Church had swollen with faith, initiates, and the most sacred of relics, shards of The Broken itself. He raised his face to the sooty ceiling, lifting his own voice with the throng, feeling the touch of The Broken firmly, for the first time in years. He watched the steam and smoke rise from the vents in the floor, the very Breath of God itself, the taste as hot and coppery as blood. Several brothers and sisters had torn open their robes, exposing their flesh to the fumes, letting them soak inside and out. Others had already swooned, shivering in ecstacy at the feel of the heavy hand of The Broken on their soul. Bronzon felt a thrill of excitement coursing through his body, both from admiration of their burgeoning faith and the more earthly admiration of their young, supple flesh. He was still admiring them when the screaming started. It started from the back, a sudden flurry of activity, spreading like a wave of panic. Soon everyone had recoiled from the door, some still chanting mindlessly, carried by the crush of humanity. A demon stood in the doorway. The jaws hung wide, a mass of jagged death lining them. One hand ended in a spray of glistening points, the other in a smooth, hellish hook. The eyes crackled with a green glow, mouth frozen in a too-wide grin. It glistened with blood like a second skin. Bronzon froze for a moment, paralyzed by fear, replaying every sin, every indulgence he'd taken. He looked in to those glowing eyes, and knew for one shining second, with all that he was, that his time had come. He broke free almost instantly, hitting the button below the podium to summon security and unlocking the hidden panic room behind the wall hanging. Even in those few seconds, people had started dying. The demon slashed and carved like a living meat grinder, limbs and organs falling like leaves to the ground. Brave, strong men, Crusaders in training, threw their fellows before them to spare themselves a few more seconds, the whole mass pushing away like panicked cattle. Really, that's what they were, in the end. The loss would hurt for a time… but cattle could always be replaced. Bronzon shook his head sadly, turning away from the carnage. It was only when he tried to open the panic room, and found it locked, that he felt that fear again, bright and sweet, like biting on a rotten tooth. The screaming had died down, just a few wheezing, bubbling hisses, the odd flapping or brushing sound as some ruined limb tried to drag its dying body away. Bronzon was almost physically unable to turn around, the weight of what he knew was behind him freezing his muscles. He finally did, with great effort, keeping his eyes well away from the floor, still wincing at the sprays of blood and gore coating the walls. The demon stood a few feet away, barely breathing heavy. Her eyes were wide and glistening, blood running around them like tears. “W… who sent you? I deserve that much,” he stammered. She tilted her head like a bird of prey, staring for a few seconds. “The Foundation. We know about your friends. What you did. What you want to do.” He sighed, nodding his head, absently noting the banging against the locked chapel door… security. Finally arrived to help. Far too late to help. He held his arms open, closing his eyes. “Send me on to The Broken. My faith may have waned, but I know The Broken waits to make me whole.” “You talk like I'm about to kill you, bishop. You are mistaken. I have no intention of making you a martyr. My intention is to make you a heretic." His eyes snapped open, a dark glimmer of idea emerging from a nightmare shadow. “No… no, you can't… ” “Let me tell you what will happen. The security men will break in. They will find this room filled with the dead. They will find the room covered in blasphemous symbols. And they will find you, one of the priests of your mechanical God…" "No! You can't!" Bronzon repeated. "… covered in the blood of the faithful… having sacrificed… having slaughtered… the followers of The Broken for the glory of The Grey.” He hisses, teeth bared at the very mention of that twisted sect's “god”. “Blasphemy! They would never…” “Oh, but they will believe… it says so right here, on this note that will be left on the podium, detailing the ritual you were performing. Too bad you had to remove your own hands, tongue and eyes as part of the ritual… I'm sure the other faithful would love to interrogate you before your body is torn to pieces and burned, excommunicated from your mechanical god.” She smiled wider, teeth chattering in excitement as she raised her slaughtering hands. “Oh well.” The last sound his tongue made was a whimper, his last sight her dripping, blood-soaked hair. The sun was going down when she stepped out from the alley, the outreach center closed up and dark nearly three hours before their normal closing. Agent Kramer looked a little rumpled, perhaps a bit dirty even, but still very presentable. She refused to feel her soreness, or reflect on the hard scrubbing she'd had to do after a short break-in at a nearby home. Whoever lived there would have a nasty shock when they went to use the tub…hopefully they'd just assume it was some kind of plumbing back-up. Agent Harken sat in the driver's seat, a small hill of cigarette butts on the street next to the car door, topped with three or four empty crumpled packets. He sat up, a red-tinged twist of tissue paper jutting from one nostril, as he saw Kramer crossing the street. Kramer laughed, leaning into the open window, brushing at a small dried patch of blood on her hand, one of many she'd probably missed. “The hell happened to you?” “I fell asleep in the back. Some kid tried to take our stereo. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me.” “Wow.” He shook his head, tossing the tissue in to the road as she walked around the car. “Hey, don't worry about me, the hell happened in there?” “Don't worry about it.” “Can you think of any reason why I saw two guys come out of the building throwing up?” “No.” Harken sighed, starting the car and pulling out, rolling slow as the last gasp of sun dipped out of sight. “So, everything went ok?” “Yes," Kramer said, her face settled back into its usual expressionless mask. "Like clockwork.”

"You're shivering," he commented, thickly accented voice purring in her ear. She jumped, her shoulder knocking against his chin, and pressed onwards. "A-am not." "I can see you, m'dear, if not with my eyes." He trudged past her. Even hunched over he was a good bit taller than her, the peak of his shoulders a full foot and a half over her head. Not that anyone could see her, to make the indication, the only visible trace of her existence smears of dirt and the leaves crunching. He, on the other hand, would've stood out quite a bit, the horrid thing he was. Some of his skin was peeling off. He had grown unused to dirty environments. He peeled off his shirt, and draped it on her invisible shoulders, where it rested, betraying her shivering. She clutched it around herself, and looked up at the night sky through the branches of trees. "W-we should go back t-towards the town," she stammered, teeth clicking when she spoke. "Nein. We will reach the next city in an hour, I'm certain of it." She whimpered, and followed. Her hair felt tangled, the cold breeze made her skin burn, her feet ached and she couldn't tell if they were just wet and muddy, or bleeding. It was another twenty minutes of walking before she insisted they stop again, and he patiently waited as she sat against a tree and picked at moss. "…We never should'a run," she finally grumbled. He didn't reply, looking up at the stars with mismatched eyes. "Seriously. It seemed like an awesome idea at the time, but right now? I feel like a dumbass kid who ran away from home. All I want is a bed and a blanket and a meal- even if it's that tasteless shit." He nodded, and sighed, a wheezy and squeaking sound. "…I wish I had my books." "Central heating!" she suggested, and he looked at her pitifully before wrapping an arm around her and picking her up, holding her to his fevered chest. She squirmed, but relented after a bit. "…Company." "Aren't I fine company?" "No offense, some of the D-Class are easier on the eyes than you, Frankenstein." They chuckled. And stopped laughing the moment they came to the same realization. "Mein Gott." "Fuck. We're domesticated," Claudia mumbled. "…We gotta go back. I don't wanna be out here… I'm tired of being cold and hungry! And unseen!" "And as much as I hate to admit it, I rather preferred not having to go through the trouble of hunting." He smiled, slightly. "…I rather liked having access to tools, a lab, fresh meat." "Gross." "Speaking of fresh meat, if we're going to take going back seriously, there's one thing we should very much do beforehand." "Yah?" He told her. She grinned. Their peals of hysterical laughter echoed through the forest. The wee hours of dawn found the hostess at a Perkins in a small town looking up boredly from her example menu. Nobody at this ungodly hour but college kids with the munchies and people so old they no longer had any idea what time it was. She stopped being bored when a monster whose his head scraped the ceiling (when he stood at full height) entered, next to… a floating coat. Fuck, thought the hostess. I am so high right now. SCP-542 and SCP-347 recovered in nearby restaurant. No incident except for a request to finish their meals and invitation of SCP-Retrieval Team 87-Sigma ["Windowbreakers"] to join them. Restaurant bill was paid in full, and all individuals administered minor-grade amnestics and preventative interviews. No civilians seemed alarmed at the presence of the SCPs. Foundation "Soap From Corpses Inc." Business Credit Account charged for $25.97 plus a generous $10.00 tip, totaling $35.97

Dr. Ronald Stimson sighed softly to himself, going deeper and deeper into the facility. The heavy briefcase chained to his arm made him wince with every step, the additional weight throwing him off balance enough to put a crick in his back, sending jolts of pain through him again and again. He didn't know why he'd been selected for this duty, only that he had been. An unfortunate case of circumstance, he supposed. After all, he was one of the last ones left alive. He never knew Site-19 ran so deep or so far underground. The elevator had stopped after his ears had popped, and the stairs seemed to keep going forever. Hours seemed to pass before they finally stopped, and he stared at a heavy iron door. His destination. He opened it, wincing slightly as a blast of stale air hit his nose. He walked in, turning on the ventilation and closing the door behind him, hearing it lock with an echoing click of finality. He set the briefcase on the table and sighed heavily, detaching it from his wrist at last and opening it, pulling out a file folder and setting it on the table. He sat down in front of it, knowing the procedure, and closed his eyes, breathing deep. It was a terrible risk. The worst one left. But it was all they had, now. He opened the file and turned the first page. Object Class: Euclid Description: SCP-3245 is a cloud fro— He closed it again, then reopened it. Object Class: Euclid Description: SCP-3246 is a dimension parallel to our own, accessible only by— He closed it, sighing more deeply, shaking his head. "This is wrong… Why did they think this would work?" Object Class: Keter Description: SCP-3247 was first noted in 2046, when it leveled the city of Hiroshi— He slammed it shut, holding his head in his hands. "No, god damn it!" he screamed. "I don't care! I don't care if they won, this isn't right! We can't just do this!" He shoved the file away from himself, getting up and pacing the room. They were dead, of course. All those people now. Every last one mentioned in the report. Just like his friends. His family. Dead. And he'd as good as killed them. He paced the room, wondering how quickly the population on the surface was dropping. How much longer they would last. He closed his eyes, the stress of just breathing making him ache. He walked to the papers, reaching down and picking them up, sitting back down at the table. Object Class: Keter Description: SCP-4474 was first observed in 1864, when an event believed to be the Biblical rapture— He hated himself. Object Class: Euclid Description: SCP-6449 first contacted the Foundation after becoming aware of his omniscience and realizing that he was a danger to the unive— He wanted to die. Object Class: Safe Description: SCP-8140 was captured by the Foundation in 2018 after his production run of Mister Ender caused— He was sure he deserved it by now. Positive of it. Completely positive. He stared at the ceiling. He was sure, sometime in the past, he'd heard screaming somehow. Screaming from the top of the world. Claws scratching at the door at one point. Felt himself choke for an instant. But he was almost done. He closed his eyes, blinking so he could see again, and closed the file, opening it slowly. Object Class: Keter Description: Look what you did, Ronald. They're gone now. All of them. He stared at the short page. He had to be hallucinating. Wasn't there one of these that would make you go crazy if you just knew about it? Had he been infected? Object Class: Keter Description: You ended the world, Ronald. This was a stupid plan when they came up with it, and you knew it. He closed it again, gagging slightly. Then opened it. Object Class: Keter Description: You wanted this. You wanted this almost as much as I did. Things would have been fine, you know? Perfectly fine. But they were too proud. And you were too willing. And now, look at what you did. Your wife. Your family. Everyone and everything you ever loved. Thank you, Ronald. Thank you. Now, there's just one loose end. He closed it, then opened it again, hands shaking. Object Class: Thaumiel Description: It's right next to you, Ronald. Loaded. Waiting. Go ahead. You know what to do. Stimson turned, looking down at the revolver. He reached for it, picking it up and cocking the trigger, his face ashen. Almost automatically, he put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger, ending the last human life on the planet with a sudden thrash, sending the papers flying away from him, landing on the floor near his foot, the first page open again… Object Class: Keter Description...

I began walking along the hall to the briefing room. Another situation had come up, and I was expected to be present. As I walked my secretary Gloria walked alongside, giving me a cup of joe. "What's the sitch, Glor?" I took a sip. "'Nother possible scip. Non-sent RB. Chrono. Might be artificial." "No kiddin'? Big F?" "Nah, not Big F or Dr. Dubya. They're thinking Pro Labs." "Geez, ever since T-kill I haven't heard anything from that place." She shrugged and opened the briefing room door for me. I nodded and thanked her. "Gentlemen." "Heads up boys, it's the SD." "Whuzzat? The suck dick?" We all laughed and I sat down at the head of the table, looking at the men before me. We'd been in and out of this room hundreds of times before. Everything from CBs to possible CI attacks made us cram into this room every day. "What's the story, boys?" "Big one this time Ralph. We're thinkin' a K." "Well shit. I hear there's Pro Labs involvement." "Yeah. Some Gawk guys gave us some intel." "What?" "Non-sent object. RB. Chrono, we're thinkin'. Might also be prob bending." "Some Wie-oo guys actually found it, Ralph. Ran back cryin' all the way to the FBI." I laughed. "We got an MTF on this?" "Yep. A-23. No pro-rep from them yet." "Ok. Big S is done. Big C?" "Containment's goin' well. We got some psyche immunes watchin' it for a while, just in case." "Big P?" "Gawk had intel, so they might come after it. Can't break into here though under the Anom treaty." "Right. Who's testing?" "We got Doc James on the go. Y'know him. Did some work with HTD Rep." "Oh yeah." The radio crackled in at the center of the desk. "Got the dash E in our sites. Ready to big C. Requesting permission." Frank leaned over and pressed a button. "You are go to contain Alpha-23." "Roger that." Frank looked over at me. "Another one in the bag, Ralph." I nodded and watched the map behind him blip for a minute or two. The radio voice crackled on again. "We got a successful contain. Returning to base." "Roger that, over and out." Frank turned off the radio. I looked around. "Good work men. Lunch?" They all nodded and we departed. I got a BLT.

Drip, drip, drip. Blood fell from Harold Jacobs' shattered nose onto the polished, tiled floor. He feebly tried to look up as he heard a rasping cough, but Valley's thugs did their job too well. A ticking noise came from the man restraining Jacobs. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Valley coughed again, and Jacobs saw the old, wizened figure nod to the ticking man. His voice was like his cough, hoarse and sudden, as if every sentence that came out of Valley's mouth could be the last. With his current state, that was probably true. "Show our guest to his seat, Mr. Tick." Jacobs was surprised at Mr. Tick's strength as he slammed him into the wooden chair. He had scoffed when Mr. Carter told him about Valley's manservant. The man was diseased, for god's sake, how could he be a threat? As Jacobs tried to gaze at Valley through the ruined remains of his left eye, he realized how wrong he had been. "Mr. Jacobs." Valley's tone was mocking. Using his stick-like arm, he gently placed one of Mr. Carter's notes on the table. "You are here to cheat me?" Next, he placed a tiny camera in front of him. "Or to spy on me?" As he placed the last item on the table, Jacobs knew that he was as good as dead. "To kill me?" said Valley, inspecting Jacobs' gun. "A good effort, I'm sure, but Mr. Tick does not miss a tick." Then he laughed. It was the most awful sound Jacobs had ever heard. Valley stopped and grinned at him with rotting, yellow teeth. A drop of blood slid down from his cracked lips from the exertion of the act. "Who are you working for?" Jacobs remembered what Mr. Carter had told him to say. His voice was a whisper, it was a miracle he could even talk with the beating he has taken. "Global Occult Coalition…mass liquidation of known threat entity…" "Liar," snapped Valley. Mr. Tick's hand closed around Jacobs'. He had time to look up for a moment before Mr. Tick squeezed. Jacobs screamed in agony as he heard the loud crunching from what used to be his hand. "Who do you really work for?" Jacobs was sobbing now. The pain was unbearable. "Marshall…Carter and Dark!" he screamed. Mr. Tick let go. Valley looked worried. "They know of my operation here?" "Yes." Jacobs struggled not to look at the crushed lump at the end of his arm. "This is…highly unfortunate. We will have to think carefully of our next move, I think. Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. Mr. Tick, you may kill him now." Jacobs opened his mouth to protest, but was cut short as Mr. Tick grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the table. He was killed instantly and the table collapsed from the heavy impact. A cleaner stepped forward and began to wipe Jacobs' brain matter off the wood as two members of security threw his body off the balcony. A few seconds later, there was a far-off splash. "Our old associates have discovered us, it seems," said Valley. "Yes," said Mr. Tick. "Nevertheless, I believe we can continue our operation here. There must be some demand for those things." "Yes." "We'll need to raise security, Mr. Tick. I don't want this happening again. I'll run out of tables." "Yes."

Disclaimer: This is (more or less) a story related to me by a friend a few months ago. He's ok now, if that helps. Not sure if it's really all that creepy…but it's weird as all hell. I was on the roof about two weeks ago, with the full intention of ending my life. My girlfriend of three years had broken up with me, after cheating on me for six months. What's more, she might have given me a STD from that little encounter. I was unemployed, and my meager savings was not going to cover much of anything next week. And to top it off, most of my friends were not in the area, and my immediate family was still rather pissed at me for my decision to start work rather then attempt an associates degree. So, yes, I was not seeing a lot of good reasons to keep going. I sat on the ledge, swinging my feet in to space off the top of my fourteen floor apartment building, feeling that giddy, self-destructive tingle in my feet that I always get when I'm near a steep drop-off. It was cold, and I could see a few cars slipping along the dark streets…oddly, I worried for a second I would hit one on the way down, and thereby go from tragic suicide to an asshole. I was laughing at how dumb that was to worry about when I heard the guy behind me say “The hell you doing?” I whipped around, kind of wobbling for a second, and saw some big guy in a blue suit smoking a cigarette. He had dark hair, was really pale…I hadn't seen him on the way up, and didn't really remember hearing the door open or shut…then again, my mind was kinda elsewhere. He gestured to me, saying “you gonna jump or something?” “uh…I mean…yeah, I guess. Are…you like a cop or something?” I felt stupid asking, but he had that weird aura of authority I always associate with cops. That's all I needed, to get arrested. He kinda chuckled, taking a deep drag. “Naw, just up for the view. Got nobody to live for, nothing to stick around for?” I sighed, and gave him a nutshell of what was going on. It felt somewhat good to tell someone, but at the same time it made me feel like a even bigger loser. He laughed at me. More of a chuckle, but still, it seemed kinda misplaced for the situation. He lit a new cigarette off his old one, and nodded at me. “Ok kiddo, that's pretty bad…but let me make you a deal. You go ahead and jump, and you'll get loose of all this. However, as soon as I finish my smoke, I'm going to go downstairs and wait for you to hit. Before anyone else gets there, I'm going to steal your wallet, and I'm going to use your driver's license to look up who you are. I'm going to hack in to your social networking stuff, and find everyone who you have loved or has ever loved you, and I'm going to hurt them for a while, then kill them.” I just stared, somehow positive I'd just hallucinated that somehow. I didn't even speak, just stared at this psycho. “I'm going to kidnap some, and torture them out in the woods for hours before I gut them and leave them for the wolves. I'm going to shoot others in their cars, letting them roll on in the wreckage as they try to figure out why their lungs won't expand anymore. I will butcher loved ones, class mates, every friend you've known.” He didn't even sound excited while he said this, like he was telling me the time. “W-what the fuck is wrong with you? You can't….you can't do that, you fucking psycho!” I was shaking, and not at ALL from the cold. This guy…I mean, I didn't know him from anyone, it was possible…It was insane, but this guy had a…weird aura around him. As I watched him, I didn't for one second think he was telling a lie. “The hell do you care? You're going to be dead. You're opting out of giving a shit about the world, you don't get to bitch about what happens after you leave.” He just kept staring at me with this blank expression. I freaked out. I jumped back on the roof and just ran like hell for my apartment. I called the cops, saying some guy had been on the roof, threatened my life. When they showed up, he was long gone. Nobody in the apartment knew him, I'd never seen him before or since. I ended up not getting a STD and managed to find a (shitty) job at the local grocery store, but I did have to move to a much smaller apartment. Still not really over my girlfriend, but it will take time. I still think about that night, now and then. It was just so incredibly odd, I don't think I'll ever really forget it. I have no idea if the guy was bullshitting, but I really don't think he was. It looks so dumb on paper, but if you could have seen him…heard him…you wouldn't really question it either. How sick of a person do you have to be, to save them from suicide by threatening them with something so horrible they don't dare leave the world unsupervised. Every time I see a unsolved, horrific murder on the news, I wonder. People ask me what I think happened that night. I tell them I think the devil saved my life.

Good afternoon, Doctor. Sit down. Your schedule has been cleared. Do not attempt to leave the room until you are told that this session is over. The door is already locked, but it is crucial you pay attention. Good. You are now part of the SCP Foundation's Ethics Committee. This is not a demotion. Sit down. Yes, you're terrified. You think you're being punished for some failure, some lapse of judgement, some horrible disaster that you were involved with. You think that your career with the Foundation is over. You might even have thought that 'transferred to the Ethics Committee' is a euphemism for 'killed'. This is not the case. You'll notice I said "killed" instead of "terminated". That's a deliberate choice. On the Ethics Committee, we don't use euphemisms. Because of the work that the SCP Foundation does, a lot of personnel think that the idea of the Foundation having an Ethics Committee is just a bad joke. Or they know that the Committee exists, but they've got the impression that we're an ineffectual laughingstock. A bunch of purposeless seat-fillers who wave a rubber stamp that says APPROVED, and never dare to voice an objection. Yes, I see you've heard the jokes. Here's one - 'how many members of the Ethics Committee does it take to change a lightbulb? None! The Ethics Committee can't change anything!' No, it's all right. You're meant to laugh. We make an effort to sustain the impression that we're useless, because we are the secret power within the SCP Foundation. Sit down. Yes, there are the O5s. They judge what is and isn't safe, and that's a vital and important function. But we are the ones who advise the O5s on what is and is not acceptable. You've done horrible, awful things while working for the Foundation — don't try to deny it, Doctor. We've all done horrible awful things while working for the Foundation. That is one of the unavoidable consequences of working with SCPs. And on occasion, you've wondered if we are the, quote unquote, bad guys. Well… we're not. And that is because of the Ethics Committee. This is your first lesson. Do you understand? Remember this: the Foundation is not evil. We do not torture people "just because". We are against unnecessary cruelty. Which means somebody has to decide when cruelty is necessary. And that somebody is us. Stop trembling. It is important that you remember this. It is your second lesson. The Foundation does not rule the world. The Foundation serves the world. Do you understand what that means? Regardless of what the general population might think it wants, what we do, what the Foundation does, is in the overall best interests of that general population. Yes, I'm sure you did realize that already… but you haven't thought of the deeper implications. You've consoled yourself by thinking that all the torture and murder is for the greater good. This implies that there is a greater good… and a lesser good. It implies that there are multiple distinct goods, and that these can be quantified and compared. This is what we on the Ethics Committee do. We are the ones who balance the moral costs of everything the Foundation does. And in order to balance those costs, we must know those costs. Do you realize what that means, Doctor? It means that we know everything the Foundation does, has done, and will ever do. Everything that has ever been redacted or expunged, we know it. Every last detail. Including Procedure 110-Montauk, yes. Everyone always asks that. Yes, we know exactly what it is. We should. We're the ones who designed it. No, it's quite all right. It's a common reaction. Perhaps we shouldn't schedule these meetings directly after lunch, I suppose. Here, wipe your mouth. You will no longer be participating in active research. You may consider yourself a researcher at large, flitting from one project to another, from one site to another, at will. This is not a secret; you are welcome to tell all your friends that you have been transferred to the Ethics Committee… if you can deal with the jokes and the pity. You will observe what is done, and ask the participants — and yourself — why it is being done. If at any point you feel that something is excessive or unnecessary or wrong, you inform us. We will summon the people involved, and ask them questions, in that meek ineffectual way that your coworkers have mocked. And then, word will filter down from the O5s, through the many levels of our bureaucracy. And those who are unethical will be given reprimands which will be noted on their permanent record. Or their pay will be cut, or they will be demoted, or they will be transferred to another project. Or they will be shot for crimes against humanity. This is your third lesson. Remember it. The 'P' stands for 'Protect'. The Foundation protects humanity from SCPs, and we protect the Foundation from itself. We judge what is and is not acceptable for the Foundation to do. We balance evils so that on the whole, and in the long run, evil is minimized. No, you don't have a choice about being on the Committee. …Yes, the irony is lovely, isn't it.

“I was hoping this could wait, gentlemen,” O5-1 said, sitting back in his chair and sighing heavily. “I was afraid that was what this was…” replied Eleven, running her fingers over her ear, pushing her hair back. “Are we sure we want to do this? There's a good chance that the ramifications could be far further stretching than we originally considered.” “Perhaps, but then, we'd also run the risk of something worse. Stagnation is always better than deterioration. I wake up, look at the notes, and realize that I've got new memories… New things that I've done that I couldn't have. I just… couldn't.” Three glanced up, his face ashen. “I… Do any of you remember me… being Hitler?” he asked. Seven raised his hand, nodding a little bit to the ashen-faced man, then slowly lowered it. “Just as much as I remember recruiting Thirteen,” he said, jerking his head toward the other end of the table. One glanced up at the room, his assembled friends and family, everyone who had meant anything to him for the past century. “We're in agreement then?” he asked. “In spite of the consequences?” Everyone sat silently. “Well,” he said. “Let's update our records…” Additional Information On Protocol ZK-001-Alpha Do Not Attempt To Resist MEMETIC KILL AGENT ENGAGED. THAUMIEL INITIATIVE ACTIVATED.

<< it's been almost three days since i last saw you come on it's not safe here "Up you get, agent." Wight drew a sharp breath as Doctor K thumped her on the forehead with the flat of his hand. "Nngh - what?" "We've landed. Come along." She followed him, her foggy head largely unable to parse the white light of high noon that she had hidden her eyes from during her nap. She climbed off the motorboat as Doctor K was speaking, but she wasn't really listening. Her ears were still filled with indistinct words. The "gate" of Site 78, lined with barbed wire, yawned before them as she presented her badge to the man in the booth. "…a lack of words for certain concepts. At any rate you ought to familiarize yourself with the place." Without waiting for a response, Doctor K strode off towards the largest of the site's watchtowers. Wight rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings. Site 78 surrounded this entire cluster of islands, all of them covered in the crumbling ruins of a dead civilization. She decided her explorations may as well begin from the center. As she approached the foundation of what must have been a very spacious building, she spotted a pair of figures in the distance, standing on a very small island that bore an archway. She crossed the big island, pulled off her boots, and waded to the small one. One of the figures was a scrawny brunette - she crouched on the ground before the arch. Every few seconds there would be a click and a flash as she took photos of the pictograms etched into the worn stone. The other figure, a tall woman in a long red dress, was easily recognizable as SCP-900-1 - she had fairly plain features, aside from lengthy white hair, covered mostly by a thin shawl. She averted her eyes and spoke a few words to the other woman, who stood up and turned quickly. "…Agent Wednesday Wight, yeah? New sniper?" "That's right." She nodded to the boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. "That's Rob. Who are you?" "Liddell. I'm one of the zillion linguists you'll probably meet here. And by zillion I mean three." She gestured to 900-1. "This is 900-1. Required designation, obviously." 900-1 addressed Liddell. The tongue she spoke was smooth and graceful, interrupted every once in a great while with a harsh consonant. "Curious," said Liddell. "What?" She shook her head and spoke to 900-1. Liddell's way of speaking the language, Wight thought, was very obviously an American stumbling over unfamiliarity. "There's a few words she's using I don't recognize," she said, pulling off her shoes, "so I'm going to have to have her repeat herself to Dr. Vanheissen. He's the site head and, uh, our most storied linguist. You can come if you like." The three sloshed across the shallows to the big island. "Our office is kinda small, but there's not a lot of us anyway." Liddell paused to put her shoes back on. "Oh, and we're pretty much completely analog." "'Cause of the electronics disruptions, yeah?" "Mmhm. It's sporadic and usually not that bad, but it's kind of a pain to deal with, so we just avoid using very advanced electronic stuff altogether. Except for our fans, and our lights, and that fence." She gestured to the walls enclosing the islands. "Oh, and we have a radio. Most of the time it's just static but sometimes you can hear indistinct voices." "Neat," Wight said. She hoped she wasn't coming across as a bitch. Her voice just sounded so dead all the time it was hard not to. Liddell opened the door of the office for Wight and 900-1. Wight looked around - the place was dark and cool, tiled in that weird mottled grey that had been ubiquitous in offices a couple decades ago. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt sat at a desk covered in paperwork as he fiddled with an old radio - Wight felt her insides clench reflexively, though when she realized the thing wasn't on, she exhaled with relief. "Ugh, power's out again," Liddell muttered. She started towards a door on the left when she noticed the Hawaiian shirt. "Sup, midget?" he said, nodding to Liddell. "Don't call me that, and don't mess with the radio when there's a blackout. Doc V said." "He also said not to be a sycophant. Midget." Liddell stalked off, 900-1 in tow. He set the radio on the desk and turned to Wight with a grin. When he was looking at her full in the face, she could see that his eyes were of mismatched colors. "Delacroix. Emergency medicine and demolitions." "Er." Wight had checked the report - there was a grand total of 32 people in the whole Site, counting 900-1. "How often do you get work around here?" "Pretty much never. 'S why I'm always listenin' to the radio." He gave the little plastic box a hard thump with a closed fist. "Or I would, if this place didn't keep fuckin' with my stuff." "Oh. I don't like radios anyway." "Bad experience?" "You could say that." She rubbed the back of her head, feeling a little awkward. "Um, where did Doctor K go?" He gestured to the door Liddell had disappeared through. Wight approached it. For a moment, she was almost proud of herself for doing something right for once. The lights flicked on, and so did the radio, and so did the Noise. Rob curled around her arms; only moments later her hands filled with tiny cuts as she brought them up to guard him from an explosion of window glass. She blinked a few times against the warmth that was filling her left eye. "Jesus Chr - " She attempted to respond to Delacroix, but consciousness left her before she could make a sound.

Okay people, sit your asses down and shut your pie holes. I've got places to go and people more important than you to see, because I happen to be a scientist and we scientists have a tendency to be very busy and important people. If you're out there in the folding chairs, that means that you're the new guys. Bottom of the totem pole. But, it also means that you passed the entrance exams. Welcome to the SPC. From this moment onward, your job is very, very simple: you are going to punch sharks. In the face. You will punch sharks. When not punching sharks, you will be planning on punching sharks. You will be developing new ways to punch sharks. You will read about punching sharks. You will write about punching sharks. You will study punching sharks. You will dream about punching sharks. You will jump the shark. You will collect and contain paranormal objects, and then use them to beat up sharks. Punching sharks is your life. You may be asking yourself “Self, how am I to punch these sharks?” With your fists. And you may ask yourself “Self, what if I am bitten by a shark? I am unsure of what to do.” Go see an alchemist. And you may say to yourself “Self, my teeth have become shark-like, in the sense that they have all turned into sharks!” Good, now start punching them. It's an important job, mark my words. There are people out there, many people who just don't understand why. They don't realize how important our job is. You will be challenged, you will be mocked, you will be insulted, but you cannot lose sight of the goal: your fist in a shark's face. Several years ago, a former employee asked me “Why do we punch sharks?” You know what I said to him? “Sir, do you hate science? Are you a science-hating shark-hugger? Do you approve of the non-science shark agenda?" He said no, he wasn't. I punched him in the face anyway, because he was clearly a closet shark. Because that's what we fucking do at the SPC. When you all came in here, there was a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of Punching Sharks on your chair. You are all to have read that by the time you report in tomorrow morning. Now get out of here. Those sharks aren't going to punch themselves. Because they don't have hands.

Everett, my good man. Please… Sit down. No, I insist. It's time we had a chat, the two of us. No, I think this is the perfect time. It's not like we're going to get another. Not with the way things are now. We've got a possible plan, but I don't think Stimson will be successful. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know. Not at all… Not at all… You see, my boy, I understand you. I understand you quite perfectly. All the rest think you're varying levels of sinner and saint, that you somehow understand something special about us, that you might make the next, logical successor for one of us… They're all quite right, to some level. You certainly are passionate. I could see you doing anything to uphold the mission of the Foundation. Anything at all. You should have done it already, Everett. You should have found all thirteen of us, pulled out a gun, and shot us in the head. Don't pretend that you hadn't already considered it. I know that you've got plans for us, for each of us, that would be at least moderately successful. You'd probably have eliminated the bulk of them. Probably. Not me, though. Not that it matters now, anyway. But now, it's too late. Far, far too late. We let things go on too long. Let them snowball. I don't doubt that you'll struggle to the very end. You strike me as the sort to, honestly. Admirable. One of the few admirable things about you, really. Do you know when I realized I wasn't playing God, Everett? I'll tell you. It was when they wouldn't let me bring my son back. Do you know how long it took me to get to this point? This point in my life? I don't age, Mann. I may never die, if all things go well. I wanted a family, though… Silly of me, wasn't it? Wanting a family. I had one. They took them from me, though. One at a time. T.J. Elliot. Jack… Poor Jack. When did you first figure it out, Everett? What we were really doing? Heh. I suppose that makes sense. The Insurgency always was our biggest hole. Could never find a way to explain it away… Agatha tried a few times, but… Ahh, well. Makes sense, I suppose… And when did you find out that we were— Really? Hmm… Well, it's too late for that to matter now. They've done it, whoever they are. Whatever we called forth through that blasted chink in the universe's armor. You want to know the best part, Doctor? I don't regret any of it. None of it, Everett. Not that ridiculous lizard or its brood, not those little crabs that slice and cut like they're nothing, not the madmen or the demons or the cakes—the god damned cakes! We were trying to feed the world, Mann! We didn't realize what we were doing! We never realized what we were doing! NEVER! We just… we didn't realize… We wanted to make the world better, and then… Things fell apart. Things always fall apart… Yes, I know. I'm completely mad. We all were. We'd have to be, for what we did. But we were mad with a purpose. Creation… Blissful, glorious creation. We were God in the garden, Everett. And we wanted you to join us so badly. You had so many fantastic ideas… Why, the Thaumiel initiative you proposed was sheer brilliance… But it's too late, Everett. Far too late. And now… Well, I know you keep the gun in your top, left hand drawer. If you don't mind? On your way out? Thank you, my boy. And try to enjoy the last few moments you have. Rage, my boy! Rage against the dying of the lig—

"Wait in the car. I've got this one," Harken said. Kramer fixed him with a cold, hard gaze from her oscilloscope-green eyes. "I can't back you up from out here," she said. "If I need your brand of backup, it means that I've fucked up badly enough that getting killed would be preferable to telling the O5's what happened. Wait in the damn car. I'll be back in half an hour." Kramer turned away from him and looked out the passenger side window at her reflection in side of the burgundy-red minivan in the next parking space over. Her internal cybernetics whirred and clicked as she moved. Fingers with too many joints flexed and relaxed, inch-long razor-edged blades snapping in and out from under her fingertips. She looked like a tensing cat getting ready to spring. She always did. Harken liked Kramer, he really did, but his partner and fellow agent was a hammer who saw everything around her as a nail. Some situations, like this one, needed a little more finesse. Thankfully, finesse was what he did. "Don't worry about it," he said. "This should be simple." A man in a dark blue uniform, wearing a waist-length cape, opened the front door for him as he approached the front door of the hotel. Harken strode past him straight to the elevators, showed the bellman the black card with the gold lettering and the fractal pattern along the edges. The bellman nodded and touched a control on the sixth elevator, the one that never operated except for a very select few. Though the hotel had thirty floors, there were only two buttons in this elevator. He pressed the top button and checked his pockets for his smokes. They were still there. Thus reassured, he leaned back against the wall and whistled a jaunty tune as the elevator headed to the thirty-first floor. The elevator doors opened, and Harken was faced with a massive man with biceps the size of footballs, who looked like he could pop a man's head like a pimple. The giant waved a scanning wand over the agent's body, frowned when the wand beeped. Harken very carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Zippo. "Just this," he said, flipping the lighter open and igniting the flame. "For my smokes." The giant shook his head and held out a small silver tray. Harken nodded and left his lighter behind. "I'll want it back on my way out," he said, with a small smile. The giant seemed unamused. Past the doors was a dining room with white walls and marble-tiled floors. In the dining room was a cadaverously slender man dressed entirely in white. He held a silver fork and knife in his delicately fingered hands, and he was cutting into a grilled chicken breast: small, precise pieces which he transferred to his mouth and chewed with all the delicacy of a ballet dancer. There was a crystal goblet in front of him which, Harken knew, contained distilled water. Distilled water was the only thing Mister Cutridge ever drank. "Agent Harken," Cutridge said, as he put down his knife and fork and patted his lips with a silk napkin. "I was wondering when I would see you again." "Cutridge," Harken said. He flopped down into one of the high-backed chairs and pulled out his smokes and a book of matches. "How goes it?" "It continues as well as can be expected. My division is expecting to acquire some new merchandise in the near future, for which I believe I have your own people to thank." "Not my division," Harken said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a long drag and blew a big puff of smoke into the air. "No blood off my back. Ask me if I care." "You may not care about the losses suffered by your company, but I do care about you smoking in my home. I dislike…" "Oh, bite me, Cutridge. I've had the shittiest week of my entire life. The least you can do is let me have a smoke while we shoot the shit." Harken took another deep drag of his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Cutridge's face, was gratified to see the man screw up his face trying not to cough at the acrid vapors. "Very well," Cutridge said, in a brittle, angry voice. "I will allow you to indulge this once. But speak quickly and leave even more quickly. My patience is limited tonight." "Then I'll make it simple. My guys have taken a hit. A HARD one. Simply put, there's blood in the water, and the sharks are circling. Now, I know you've been looking at a little warehouse downtown filled with all sorts of fun things that could make a certain Mister Cutridge very popular with his higher-ups at Marshall, Carter, and Dark. I know you've mentioned this to said bosses in the past. I want you to show some prudence. Keep your boys at home for this one. Keep quiet. Don't stir up trouble. The artifacts that got loose are fair game. Don't get greedy and try to set loose a few more." Mister Cutridge was quiet for a long time. "No," he said, curtly. "Seriously? After all I've done for you? After all the times I've pointed you towards artifacts that could make you a tidy profit?" "You've pointed me to trinkets that your organization is unwilling to make the effort to secure for themselves. No, Agent Harken, I believe that this time, it is I who am arguing from a position of strength. Your Foundation cannot even protect themselves from a small group of college students with delusions of grandeur. How can they expect to defend against us?" "Fine," Harken sighed. "In that case, wait three minutes and we'll see who's arguing from a position of strength then." "What?" Harken stubbed his cigarette out onto a tea saucer. "My smokes are laced with a nerve agent. I'm inoculated. You're not. The dose you took should be lethal in minutes." Cutridge's eyes bulged out, and he leaped up from his chair, knocking it over in his haste. "GUA—" There was an explosion on the foyer. Harken smiled. "It's amazing how much plastique you can pack into a cigarette lighter when you really try," he reflected. Cutridge gasped and turned purple, grabbing at his throat and making nasty wheezing noises as Harken leaned over him. The agent pulled a small vial filled with a bright blue liquid from his coat pocket. "Now, there is an antidote," Harken said, "But if you want it, you need to agree to my terms. Stay at home for this one. All right?" Cutridge nodded. Harken handed the man the vial, and he snapped it open and swallowed the blue liquid in one gulp. Harken smiled and patted him on the face. "See you around, Liam," he said. He was walking past the still-smouldering body of the big guy (slumped over the reception desk with a surprised look in his lifeless eyes) when he heard the familiar but unpleasant sound of a handgun being cocked behind him. He sighed. "Can't let it go, huh, Liam?" Harken said. "Can't let you live, not when you've managed to waltz into my home and nearly murder me," Cutridge said, in that cold, reptilian voice. "It's not good for business." "Yeah, I can see that," Harken muttered. "People might think there was blood in the water." Cutridge laughed. Harken laughed too. Cutridge was still laughing when he shit himself and died. "That was blue Kool-Aid, you asshole," Harken said. He tried the elevator button and was surprised to see it was still working. "God bless the Otis company," he murmured. The trip down seemed very long. He forced himself to walk out of the hotel at a measured pace. Kramer was still staring at her reflection in the minivan as he climbed back into the car and started it up. "How did it go?" she asked. "Not well," Harken said. "It's sad how few businesses are willing to do a little charity work nowadays. Who's next?" "A couple of agents from the UIU are investigating a warehouse fire. We need to make sure they don't investigate too much." "Ah, Wolfram and Uecker. Pair of good kids. This should be simple." The car pulled out of the hotel parking lot and drove off to its next destination.

I know my eyes look sunken without actually touching them. They always do, now days. I can feel them—them—both pressed against my chest, just above my heart, and for the first time in eons, I push a smile onto my face. This will be it, then. One last swipe, one last… Ending. But it was worth it, wasn't it? I have to believe that it was. If I didn't, I'd have put a bullet in my head a long time ago. Or a knife in my gut. Or a grith behind my ear. Depends on the universe, after all. As I drum my fingers along the ark, I allow myself to reminisce. I only do it now, at the end. It's the only time I dare to. Because I'm sure that—at any other moment—my conscience would get the better of me. It's odd, I admit, thinking like that. I'd thought it was gone, along with Alyssa, but it's still there. It nags at me. Leaving home was hard, after all. Quite hard. Not just for me emotionally, but… the science there, I couldn't begin to fully comprehend. Imagine, just for a moment, you're floating above the world. Now, imagine it suddenly being stabbed open by some invisible, incomprehensible thing. The world cracking open like a filthy, blue egg—oceans falling down the sides helplessly, the lava generating huge gouts of steam. And an uneven keening sound. You may imagine that it's the sudden steam, but I've lived long enough to know better. It's screaming. Now… imagine falling into that. Falling and falling and falling until you hit the ground. And when you get up… it looks like the same, damned place. The same people. Evolution is, if nothing else, remarkably consistent. Now, do that for a thousand lifetimes. And tell me you don't feel guilt. I feel old. And I am old. But I'm also nearly done. After this one, I should be able to put my work to use… To change things for the better. Which made it so much worse when you walked in my office. And I knew, when you looked at me, what you were about to do. "I can explain," I say. But the gun is leveled at my chest. And I know that I'm out of supplies. I reach into my pocket quietly, pulling out the key card and my diary. "You don't know what this means for you," I say. "It means you aren't going to kill us all," you respond. I stand up. I look at you closely and shake my head. "No. It means that you'll have to. The key code is Thaum—" The shot echoes in the small room, and I feel the hollow point hitting my chest like a sledge hammer, feel ribs splintering and sinking into my lung, my organs being ravaged. And I smile. And I laugh. And through bloody spittle, I manage to barely gasp enough breath to speak. "Good luck," I say. You're not smiling. And I hope, for the millionth time, that all universes share one heaven. And I hope, for the millionth time, that I can see you in it from my special hell.

Timothy Dalton's young hands shook with the exuberance that only a child can feel. It had been two weeks to the day. To the day! And now, it should finally be here! He ran home, grinning the entire way, dragging his backpack behind him. He rushed to the mailbox, opening it and peering inside, his smile falling away. It was empty. He sighed, slowly dragging his bag after himself, walking up the step of his house. He dropped off his backpack on the kitchen table and got a glass of water, sipping it as his mother walked into the room, leaning over to kiss his head. When she stood back up, she frowned gently. "What's wrong, hun?" she asked. She only called him 'hun' when she wanted to be sweet to him. "Did I… get any mail today?" he asked. She shook her head. "Were you expecting something?" she asked. "You didn't sign up for something, did you?" she asked, more sternly. "N-no…" he lied. "I was just… hoping to hear from my penpal…" She didn't believe him, but his disappointment was enough to ease her anger. 'Probably just a stupid mailing list again…' she thought. Already, he'd gotten Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists… Ever since he'd learned his address, they'd been getting mail and fliers. She kissed his head again. "Maybe tomorrow…" she said. "Now, head up to your room and take care of your homework." He nodded, taking his bag and heading up the stairs, tossing it onto his bed. He walked over to his desk and sat at it, turning on the old computer his parents let him have, almost not noticing the box sitting to the left of it. It was wrapped in brown paper, with a string around it. It looked like a package out of a movie. With trembling hands, he reached for it, taking it and pulling off the paper quickly, stopping and tugging at the string, frustrated until it broke with a quick snap, opening it and seeing… It was beautiful. Shining silver—who cared if it was plastic?—with lights running up and down either side. It looked exactly like the picture. He pointed it out the window, pulling the trigger and grinning as all the lights flashed and a high pitched sound, just like from a movie, issued from it. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he slipped it into his pocket, hurrying out of his room and down the stairs again, shouting to his mother as he flew out the door: "I'll be at Johnny's house!" "What about your homework?" she shouted back, but he was already gone, running down the street, eager to show off his new acquisition. When he got there, he found Johnny in the yard, playing with his imagination, running and gunning. Tim smiled, jumping out from behind a tree and shouting loudly, intending to scare as he pulled out his new toy. "I'll fix you, Space Man!" Johnny jumped, turning and then frowning, angry at having been sneaked up on. "That's not funny, Ti—" His voice died away as Tim pulled the trigger. He stopped for a moment, then slumped to the ground, falling in a heap. Tim smiled a little, laughing and running to him. "Johnny! Johnny! Isn't it neat?!" he asked, laughing and smiling. But Johnny didn't respond. Simon Hayden opened the box, smiling and grinning as he took out the toy, eyes wide and expectant. He turned, showing to his little brother who's face practically glowed with envy. "Hey! No fair! Where'd you get that?!" he said. "Isn't it cool!" he said, smiling. "It's free! You just have to go to this website and give them your address and they send you free stuff!" His little brother got a greedy glint in his eye. "What is it?! What is it!?!" Simon smiled, ruffling his hair playfully—and because it annoyed him—and grinned. "Just go to www.thefactory.net…"

The muffled sound reminded her of fireworks. A dull "boom, boom" in the distance that echoed over the landscape. She was half-asleep when it happened, before her phone rang. Groaning, she rolled over, vaguely noting that her husband wasn't in bed, and placed it to her ear. "H'lo?" She grumbled, musing over the cottony mouth she got from sleeping. Gears' voice answered, dead as always. "Doctor Rights, we are requesting that you return to Site 17 for immediate safehouse procedure Gamma-Phi-18." Her brain sluggishly tried to recall what the hell that was. There was a long silence. Fireworks again. Finally, he repeated himself, monotone. "Gather your family, and come to work." He hung up. "…Kay, Gears." Was this a weird dream? She looked at the clock. 4:15. Nope, just really goddamn early. And who the fuck was shooting off fireworks? The dull booming was constant, now, and she struggled to get up and pull on sweatpants, making her way downstairs. The TV was on, her husband before it, and she went to put a hand on his shoulder. "Christopher, hey." She squeezed his shoulder. He didn't look up from the TV. She glanced at it, and froze, instantly awake. It was the local news channel, video of brilliant white fireworks in the sky. The camera panned down, to where the reporter, in a panic, was gesturing and shouting to a perfectly whitewashed sculpture of a human being, frozen in mid-run. It could have been a statue, were it not for the impossible detail. And the many other white-coated items in view. A house, cars, a bird in mid-flight. She hauled Christopher to his feet, snapping him out of his stupor. "Get the kids!" She barked, in his face, and he stared at her. "We….we should stay inside." "Nope!" She released him, and motioned to the kids' rooms, turning to the door. She had to get the car started, dashing upstairs to grab her phone and keys, returning downstairs just as the cries of an interrupted toddler started to go through the house. Christopher stepped out, carrying the little boy, and she nodded to him, hustling to the garage. She waited in the car, checking her phone again. Low signal. Finally, he stepped into the garage, carting the still-bawling toddler and a frightened five-year-old girl behind him. "Ophelia, you get in the front seat. You're riding like a big girl for this!" She shouted out the window, and the girl perked up, a bit, hurrying around. "Christopher, get in the back. You can put Chester in while we're moving." He nodded, and did so, frowning at his wife. "…I promise, I'll explain later," she said, softly, making sure Ophelia was buckled in and Christopher was getting the boy into his carseat before pulling out of the garage. Outside, the neighborhood was a mixture of panic and reserve. Most people were hiding inside. Some, though…were out, sitting on rooftops, standing in yards, frantically packing cars. The second she heard Chester's restraint belt click into place, she floored it, steering the family van wildly around people and cars alike in the street. They came across a massive white splatter on the street, and she curved around it. Out of the neighborhood, out of the suburbs…into the surrounding fields. The little boy fell back asleep. Christopher and Ophelia stared out the windows, uncertain and horrified. There were white items everywhere, splatters over cornfields, perfectly preserved white trees. A few people, here and there, cars, stopped in the street, the people inside frozen perfectly. Rights tried not to look, until she barreled through the gates of the compound, slowing only to roll down the window so the guard could see her. He waved her through, and she pulled into the parking lot, where several others were waiting, being led in. There weren't that many, actually, when she looked over it. Only a dozen or so, but there were several white splatters on the asphalt, a handful of white cars… She skidded to a stop. "Get the kids out!" She shouted at Christopher, hopping out and looking around, finding herself face to face with Gears. He looked at her impassively, and checked her name off of a list. "What the fuck is going on?!" "We believe SCP-7843-1 either breached containment, or was released by a hostile group." Dr. Rights gestured emphatically in the arm, trying to work up words, though now her lack of sleep and preparation were catching up to her. Christopher called from behind her. "Honey!" "One moment!" She shouted back. He must've been struggling with the child restraint, still. Ophelia opened the car door and sat there, legs swinging, looking around uncomfortably. Rights glanced at them, then back to Gears, wincing as several of the booming sounds grew louder, then faded again. She looked up, the white fireworks were starting to leave cracks in the sky, she could see them in the distance. Like cracks on a windshield, centered and spreading. "Please make your way inside, to the designated shelter areas," Gears said. Rights glared at him. "What are we doing?" "I am not certain what you mean by this question." "This is nationwide, isn't it? Worldwide? What the god damn hell are we doing about this?!" "Mom! Mom!" Ophelia shouted, upset. "…There will be a controlled release of SCP-7778 into the upper atmosphere, once the satellites reach optimum height." She stared. "This will occur in thirty-seven minutes, approximately. Please retrieve your family and-" BOOM BOOM BOOM He didn't finish his sentence, and she almost didn't see him react, so focused she was on his impassive, unmoving face, when his hand fisted in her shirt, and dragged her forwards, roughly. She hit the ground at his feet, hard, and cursed, tensing as she saw white splatter here and there, meters away but still too close. A scream was cut off, and she saw one of the splatters hit another researcher, and in a moment he was nothing, a blank white statue of himself, in mid-stride, his coat billowing behind him. Gears looked behind her. She didn't hear anything. She got to her feet slowly, taking in a very, very deep breath. "Doctor Rights, please go indoors." "…" She stared at him. The remaining few in the parking lot were bolting their way inside. "…Please go indoors, to the designated shelter area. Do not turn around." She didn't listen, and turned on her heel. The white had hit the van head-on, and it, and the short area surrounding it, were completely washed. Inside the open doors, she could see Christopher, hunched over Chester's peacefully sleeping face, his hands locked in mid-struggle with a twisted belt. Ophelia's mouth was open, mid-yell, brows low and fingers gripping the edge of her seat with concern. Every last detail of them, down to their eyelashes, perfectly preserved, and washed white. She was not entirely certain what happened next, other than that it was exceedingly rough, and she knew bruises were going to form on her arm where he grabbed her and hauled her inside, ignoring her kicks and screams. It wasn't until she was flung onto a couch that her thoughts seemed to catch up to her, and she decided to stop screaming and fighting and start curling up and crying. Going through the emotional training was not anything like the real thing, she thought in the back of her mind. A quarter-hour passed, and she felt good enough to sit up and look around. One of the lower lounges, re-purposed. The doors were shut, and there were a few dozen individuals waiting around. "…Where is everybody?" "There are nineteen designated safety areas for staff in Site 17." Gears was sitting next to her, looking over a checklist. She stole a glance and rubbed her bleary eyes. Names. Very few of them were checked off. "What about the skips?" "SCP Containment is self-sealed under Emergency Protocols. They should remain unaffected, as us." She sat back against the couch, going over every question in her mind, trying to pick the important ones. "…When is the reset set for?" "The first instance of SCP-7843-1 was detected at Midnight, Central Time. The reset is set to return to one minute before the first detonation occurred, and the phenomenon became self-propagating." She forgot her questions, and another jag of crying hit her. A few of the other researchers looked at her with mixtures of pity and empathy. She caught her breath, and Gears handed her a pen. "…What's this for?" "Do you remember the report you submitted while applying for your current position? It was about the possibility for physical evidence to remain after preternaturally memetic or reality-altering events." She stared at him, blankly, as he stood and pulled more pens from his pocket, handing them out around the room. "We are presented with a unique opportunity here, to retain information of an information-erasure event. While the Foundation already has pre-set means to record these hours, this will serve as a baseline test for the possibility of personal information retention." Everybody else seemed to get it at once, with a collective series of "oh"s and "ah"s and "this is retarded"s. Rights looked down at her hands. "There are four to five minutes remaining until SCP-7778's release. Please take this opportunity to manufacture evidence." Gears announced, and sat back down, all out of pens, looking over his sheet again. Rights stared at her bare arms, still in her pajama top. She looked up. One researcher was frantically scrawling on the walls, another was opening magazines and writing inside of them, on every page, methodically and quick. One of them started writing on the inside of his labcoat. She looked at her arms again…and began to write. Over the next several minutes, many things happened. Most importantly, though, the walls began to fade. They could be seen through, and before long they could see all the way to other saferooms. There was some waving and gesturing back and forth. She looked down, between her feet, and saw SCPs peering back up at her. The furniture went next. Some items were retaining, but many things, including the edge of Rights' slippers, were started to fade as well. She kept writing, they all did. There was little else to do. Dr. Gears' list disappeared out of his hands, and he sat there, eyes closed, arms at his side like a puppet with no strings. Finally, Rights ran out of important things to write. She had started at the elbow of her left arm, and extended down to the back of her hand, with her tiny, neat handwriting. Names, dates, appearances… "Hey, Gears?," Rights asked, looking down at her feet. Her ankles faded, revealing yellow fat and red muscle beneath. Her toes, just rapidly-fading bones, flexed. So weird. He didn't look at her, but opened his eyes. "…what about you?" "Erasure events typically use manipulation of the emotional connection with memories to alter an individual's perception of events, rather than manipulating the events themselves." "Ah…so…will you be affected?" "In the case of an erasure event, I often am not. Other times, I am. It is variable." She sat back. Wait. "Has this happened before?," she asked, suddenly. "Yes." She stared at the ceiling. Maybe it would be okay. "One minute." He said. Everybody sat down, tired…and waited. It was the longest sixty seconds in the whole of her existence. Everything was fading to white. She couldn't feel her arms anymore, and when she glanced down, they were gone. The tip of her nose disappeared. She saw another researcher, fading faster, reduced down to bones and nerves and a cluster of half-there organs, before he vanished altogether. She closed her eyes. The darkness itself faded to white. And then. GOOD MORNING. DO DOO DOOO…BUH BA BOP BAH BA DA DA DA DA BA- GOOD MORNING! DO DOO DOOO…BUH BA BOP BAH BA DA DA- She flopped her arm to the bedside table like it was a dying fish, and managed to knock her alarm clock out of reach before she finally rolled across the empty bed and reached it, jamming on the off button violently. With a soft groan, she checked the time. 5:31. It took considerable effort to get out of bed that morning. Every thought seemed to drag like concrete, every movement ached. She stumbled to the shower, and winced at herself in the mirror after turning on the water. It was only after she stuck her hand under the flow to test the temperature that she noticed the smeared ink rapidly washing off her skin, and quickly pulled her arm back. Weird, had she been writing on herself in her sleep? She looked over the remaining words, smudged from sweat and sleep. "…Ophelia, November 1st, five years old, brown ha….hair? Is that hair?" She read and mused aloud, squinting. "Huh…okay, more…uhm…Topher…October 24, oh, well, that's easy." Her brain chugged to life. She heard her husband stir in the bedroom, and groan, rolling over in his sleep. As if on cue, she could hear her daughter darting around the hallway downstairs, to the TV. Weekend! Time for cartoons! After several minutes of squinting, she realized that there was nothing else decipherable on her arm. Why had she been writing about her husband and kid? There were only other words that didn't make sense. Daysitting? No, Ophelia was in kindergarten…Blonde? No, everybody was Brunette. She shook her head. Probably not important, she rationalized, shuffling into the shower and scrubbing her arm clean. The rest of the morning went featurelessly. She complained to Christopher that the toddler bed was still set up in Ophelia's old room, now relegated to storage, and he asked her why there was a box of diapers in the closet. They didn't think about it. She didn't think about it until she arrived at work, smiling at the guard as she pulled through the gate leisurely. The only thing odd about the day was when they called for a meeting and announced that SCP-7778 had been released last night, and to report any suspicious behavior or items found, as they could be classified as evidence. She was glad she must've slept through that. Sounded like a real clusterfuck.

Hey there, guys. Uh… Right. My name is Lament. Don't call me doctor. I'm not a doctor. I work for a doctor, sometimes. Anyhow, they asked me to come and talk to you guys for a little bit today. Normally, someone else does this, so… just bear with me, I guess. Right? Right. So… Listen. I'm going to do my level best to get this across to you in the nicest way that I can. A lot of you are going to die. And it's going to be your own fault. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. And there's a really good reason for it, too. I hear it in the lunchroom every day. ‘Have you seen 682? Man, that thing will annihilate you!' ‘Dude, I saw 173 snap a guy's neck during the last security breach. Scariest thing I've ever seen…' ‘You hear about 835? Fuck, man, it's disturbing…' You care about the SCPs you guard. You will. It'll happen, because it's what always happens. You get an odd, possessive quality to yourself, something you can't easily describe. When you guard 914, it is yours, damn it. There's pride, there. You'll love your SCP, just don't, you know, love your SCP. Heh… Little… Little joke there… But… uh… but that's a good thing. You get into arguments about what would be the worst one to break free or who would win in a fight. You care about what you guard. You care about what it can do. On some level, you start to love them. And that's how we know how precious all this shit—even that fucking mirror who talks to you—how precious it is. And really… that's where you fuck up. See, the problem is this: we don't really give a damn what an object can do. Essentially, at the root of it all… We don't. We like to know, though. Hell, we have to know. But that's not as important. Containing it is what's important. Doing what we have to do to keep people safe. It's why the containment comes first in all the files. It's the most important thing. You guys can still remember your parents, right? Them. We're keeping them safe. Your grandparents, your old friends… We contain these things to protect them. See, this is where we always fuck it up. The second they make you forget about everyone… Ahh, well… It's not important. Just remember. Right now, remember this feeling. Hold on to it. Because eventually, you're going to slip. Eventually, some of these carefully crafted procedures, something that dozens of people died so we could make sure it worked… You're going to fuck up. People will die. Maybe even you. Don't let that happen, if you can. Remember the feeling of your parents. The emotions that are tied to all those people out there. You can forget memories, but it's hard to forget the emotions tied to it. You ever hear of Little Albert? Same thing. Anyhow, sorry to be such a downer. Doctor… Rights? Is that right? Doctor Rights is going to make sure you're all good and healthy, give you some drinks. Don't bite the pill, just swallow it. And remember, alright? Especially for the next little bit? Try? I… Uh… Yeah. Sorry, Doctor. Your show now. I'll see you guys around the water cooler, right?

"What am I even doing here?" Sol muttered, watching the man in the wolf suit walk by. "I don't have anything in common with these people." "These people happen to be our most faithful customers, man," James said. "It's a big hit among furry audiences." "I know," Sol sighed. "I've seen the fanart. It's not like anyone gives a crap about the writing, anyway, they just want to see the guy who draws the sexy animal girls." "Not true! The comic gets twice the number of hits that my art does. People come back for your writing, man. We're a team, remember?" "Whatever, dude. All I know is I'm down the cost of a plane ticket and hotel room, and no one's buying shit." James rolled his eyes and grinned. "Hey, don't worry, man, we'll at least break even before the con's over. Tell ya what: let's go clubbing after this. Grab a couple of beers and forget about this whole thing. You'll be happy again in no time, man." "Is it going to be a normal club or one where everyone wears fursuits?" Sol griped. "It's going to be a furpile. We'll all yiff and scritch each other, then lick each other's fursuits and die of poisoning like in that one episode of CSI." "Really?" "No." "Damn, you got my hopes up." "Sorry to disappoint you." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got an artist meetup to go to. Hold the fort, try to sell a few books, kay?" "See ya." Sol gave his friend a lazy wave and leaned back to watch the freaks. Most of them were clustered at the other end of the artist's alley, where the more risqué artists were hawking their wares. He sighed and cursed the day that James had ever convinced him that, "We should totally do a comic together, man." On the whole, he would much rather be sleeping in. He was startled to realize that someone was standing at his booth, flipping through Volume 1. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips were pursed together as she scrutinized the pages. "You are the writer?" she asked. "Yeah, that's me. SolKid." "A strange name." "It's my internet handle. My friends call me Sol. My parents call me Solomon." "Mmm." The girl frowned and held the book up to the light, shaking her head. "And so, this is what we've been reduced to," she said. "Masturbatory fantasy fodder." "It's what the people want. You gonna buy that or not?" Sol asked. "No," the girl said, putting the book back down in its wire stand. "I think I shall give you something better." She smiled, revealing long, sharp canine teeth: a feral, animal grin. "I think I shall give you something better to write about." It was only then that Sol realized that the girl was naked. She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her. There was a brief hush. Everyone turned to gawk at her. A few camera flashes here and there. She stood silently, her head tilted back, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly at her sides. Then an overweight man in a red vest ran up, yelling, "HEY HEY HEY, NONE OF THAT, THIS IS A FAMILY CONVENTION!" Her hand flashed out as he reached to grab her, plunged into his abdomen with an unpleasant squelching sound before he even touched her, stepped aside and kicked at his shin, sending him sprawling to the ground screaming and grabbing at his spilling entrails. She opened her mouth unpleasantly wide and swallowed the gory thing clutched in her hand in a single gulp. Then the screaming started. Once, when he was a kid, Sol had taken a trip to the Holocaust museum with his high school class. They had seen an image of the inside of one of the gas chambers, where the prisoners had been executed. There were deep gouges in the walls where the desperate people had clawed at them to try and get out, places where they had trampled each other to death trying to crawl over each other to climb higher, in a blind panic. It had been terrifying enough to imagine that happening to emaciated, shaved-head prisoners in a Nazi death camp. It was even worse when happening to a bunch of brightly dressed fans at a convention. And then the madness began. He saw a skinny girl wearing cat's ears and a bodysuit screaming and pounding at a wall when an unlocked door was a few feet to her left. He saw a big, tough-looking guy wearing a black t-shirt go berserk and beat a teenage boy to death with a steel chair. A chubby girl walked up to him with empty eye sockets, her crushed eyes weeping blood and fluid. "Maggots in my eyes, get them out, maggots in my eyes, get them out," she wailed. And while this happened, the girl with the yellow eyes stalked through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish: never stopping, always killing. Here she tore a man's liver out and ate it whole. There, she tore a girl's throat with her teeth. Then she was no longer eating, just killing in a berserk frenzy, screaming mad, animal cries as she curbstomped a slightly overweight guy with bad acne to death against the concession stand counter. It was the most beautiful thing Sol had ever seen. And then it was still. The doors of the hall swung back and forth on broken hinges where the panicked crowd had smashed them down in their mad, panicked exodus. A few unfortunates, trampled under the crowd, lay groaning in pain on the hard concrete floor. She stood in the center of the circle of gore, skin stained scarlet, and she looked up at the hard, stark light of the fluorescent tubes, and said, in a voice made low and harsh with anger and frustration: "It doesn't help. Nothing helps." She turned to Sol, and there was murder in her eyes. "Go write about this," she said. And then she left. "And that was when I understood the truth," the man said. "Just as humanity has tried to sterilize our cities of wildlife and our lives of germs, we've tried to sterilize our minds from the supernatural. The hard light of science has tried to drive the things of myth out of our lives and into the corners of the world. And just like any cornered creature, they are fighting back." "While this continues, there can be no peace. The only solution is peaceful coexistence with the supernatural, as in the old days before the rise of the worldwide global scientific conspiracy, but as long as organizations like this Foundation exist, there can be no peace. For the sake of peace, they must be destroyed." "The Serpent's Hand tries, but they are bound by the shackles of their own morals: they are useful to us, in a way, but they have not the will to do what needs to be done. The C.I. is content to lord over their Third World backwaters: like Mengele, they are interested only in their own grotesque experimentation. The Church is interested only in rescuing their "Broken God" from this Foundation. Only we of the Freemind Nation are willing to put our lives on the line for the sake of peace." "Will you help us?" The man stared intently at the girl sitting across the table. She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws, which she tapped against the hardwood table, where a plate with a liver from a freshly slaughtered, grass-fed, organically raised cow lay on a clean white plate. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her in a peacock's fan of swaying reddish fur. She reached out one hand and, without a word, swallowed the gory chunk of meat in front of her in one gulp. The man smiled. "Let me tell you about our plan, then…"

Excuse me, please. If you would all just turn your attention… Okay, settle down now, I need to… If I could just have your-quiet! I said quiet! I said-will you all just please-I said-SHUT THE FUCK UP! Ahem. Now that I have your attention, we may begin. I am Junior Assistant Researcher Doc-I SAID SHUT THE HELL UP! Okay, like I was saying, I will be leading your orientation today. Now, you may all be wondering where you are. That's classified. You may be wondering who we are. That is also classified. However, I can tell you that we are a form of a research facility. As you may remember, one of our agents approached each and every one of you and gave you an offer. You could either wait out your term on death row, or you could volunteer to participate in our testing facilities for the span of one month. Obviously, you agreed to cooperate. This entails-what? What do you mean you didn't agree? We told you that if you participate, you're free to go at the end of the month, who wouldn't take a deal like-guard, excuse me, guard, please take him-yeah, that one-to the, yeah, the third door on the left-thank you. Like I said, if you can make it through the testing procedures, we-no, I don't hear any screaming. If you can make it through the testing procedures, we let you go at the end of the month. You know, provided you cooperate fully. Sounds like a good deal, right? Was there anyone else who didn't agree? Okay then, moving on. Like I said, provided you can survive the entire month, you get to go free. No, of course it's not a death sentence. I-no, see, when I said "survive" I meant it like, "cooperate with us" you know? I mean, yeah, it's dangerous stuff, that's why we're using death row inmates. No, no, most of the stuff here is pretty harmless, I meant dangerous like, you know, the way a bomb is dangerous if you fuck around with it. I mean, you will be fucking around with it, but you should be pretty safe if you just do what we tell you. Worst thing that'll happen is your toes will tingle a few minutes afterwards. Last batch of D-Class? Not a single one died, all got to go free at the end of the month. I was there, too. Watched'em scamper back into the wilderness myself. Like a bunch of adorable, homicidal kittens. Just do what we tell you and you'll get to go home to see your loving wife and kids. Well, not you. Says here you killed your wife and kids. Must have been awkward to explain to the in-laws, eh? Heh, no, I really don't want you to tell us how you did it, I can guess. Right. At the end of this orientation you will be directed down the hall where you will get your numerical designation tattooed on your wrist and chest. This will be mostly painless, and once you-Hmm? Why your chest? Well, in the event of an explosion, it's most likely that it'll be the largest intact chunk of meat left. Hahahaha! I'm joking! Of course I'm joking! Yes I'm sure! That is very, very unlikely to happen. We haven't had an explosion for the past two months! Ha, look at him! He thought I was serious! Heh heh, but, ah, no. You will actually be getting your designation tattooed on your chest. I was not joking about that. Well, if you want, you can get it removed at the end of the month. No, no charge at all. It's a pretty painless procedure, actually. Okay, once you get your new tattoo, you will be escorted to D-Block Alpha-6. This will be your new dormitory; you will eat, sleep, and bathe there. No, you were spoiled in prison, you will not be getting your own cell. I don't even have my own office, and you want your own cell? Anyways, you will be under constant video surveillance to ensure no shenanigans. We don't want any of that funny jail-time business here; you shank someone, you will be escorted behind the chemical… back to death row. Pretty much, if you piss us off, you get sent back to death row. Yeah. Seriously. A month of testing, and you go free. Don't screw it up. Okay, that pretty much wraps it up. Any questions? You, with the-good LORD, man, did you take a round of buckshot to the face? Yeah, your question. Sure, we have a fantastic team of doctors here, best in the world. Don't worry about your medical insurance here, it won't matter anyways. Next? Uh… you, second to the back. No, it's too late to choose death row over here, I don't know why you would want to in the first place. Well, you've got a giant swastika carved into your face, so I don't think you're the best at making life decisions. One more… ahh… yes, you, the one missing the ear. That's not really a question. No, phrasing it to ask how many she can fit doesn't count as a question. You-my mother was a saint, if you say one more word-guard, please, if you could-there we go… No no, it's fine, I'll send the janitor down later. See? Just stay in line and cooperate. One month, and you're gone. Never have to see this place again. Really, that simple. Alright, the next batch of D's are coming down now, guards, if you could escort them out please. That's right, Alpha-6. Okay, thank you very much. Really, I don't care what he said, she was a saint. Yeah, let me know when this batch gets released this month, I want to watch. Ahem. Welcome! I am Junior Assistant-really now, please, quiet down…

"Welcome to the Level 1 Research Staff Laboratory Induction. My name is Dr. Eisenberg. Now, all of you are probably asking yourself 'Who the hell is that?' and 'Why isn't someone like Dr. Gears introducing us instead, being that he's head of the research site?' Let me put it this way. That monkey you saw down the hallway? That's Dr. Bright. Like Dr. Gears, he is Level 4 Research Staff, which means he is considered about as important as two-three roomfuls of you here… including myself. It also means they get to ehm, relegate administrative tasks, so do level 3's, the shit falls through… you'll see. But it isn't so bad. "Now, all of you here folks joined the Foundation because we pay off your college debt, pay you a decent salary, and allow you to get your doctorates done. We're kinda like the army, just that we don't make anyone march uphill like an idiot. "Now, good news is, we don't care what college you went into, as long as you have a working head on your shoulders - for one, as you probably heard, what we got here doesn't only fuck with physics, it makes porn of it, so there's hundreds of experiments that need to be run, and that's what we need you for. And for two, you will be working as assistants to other researchers, who will outline your tasks in a way that doesn't require you to go through tons of theory. You carry out the experiments, you write down the findings carefully and anything unexpected even more carefully, and that's pretty much it for 90% of the time. "However, it isn't all that easy, and I'd like to say a few things to help you survive until it pays off. See, you might hear essentially everyone else bitching about how hard and risky their job is, but it's a matter of fact that the researchers aren't any better off. Intel just watches stuff from afar, if an MTF sees something they don't like, they get to 'retreat', but we, not only have nowhere to go if shit hits the fan, we have to take whatever they bring in, and prod it until we find out what exactly does it do, and how to prevent it from doing that without control. So, listen carefully. "Now, first, SCPs… they probably told you the gist of what we do here on the main briefing, with all the other folks there - the supposed House MD's and James Bonds and John Rambos, so I don't need to go through all that shit. Now, if you're in direct contact with a Keter class object you're likely fucked, and well, pure Euclids you'll meet only during initial containment, and there's little advice I can give you for that. What I'll speak about are the 'Safe's'. The bureaucratic cunt who thought up that name probably never seen one. "Do not fuck about with a safe SCP, and mainly, do not let your guard down. The most dangerous times when researching an object isn't the first time you're around it, it's the umpteenth time you've been asked to collect a bunch of data, think you know exactly what it can do, and get careless. Might seem odd now, but you will begin thinking like that, no matter how weird or dangerous the item you work with is. It's human nature, something about psychological baselines but I'm a metallurgist, not a shrink. I guess it's so since in most of the world, if something does A for five hundred times, it won't do B for the five hundredth one time. "Here, not so much - it's how half the stuff in containment gets their 'Euclid'. For example, the two staff that died swilling their own shit because of one nine eight - shapeshifter cup from the devil's mother we thought we had contained. One of them was a researcher like you, and all he did was reach for what he thought was his own thermos on the desk in front of him - turns out the bloody thing teleports every so often. "Second thing. D-Class. Disposables. The folks in orange jumpsuits recruited from death row inmates. Their main official purpose is to manipulate Keter class objects so that we don't have to. That much you heard on the briefing. They are also used for human testing of SCPs. Now, listen well, and you back there, try looking a bit less freaked out - we aren't fucking Schutzstaffel. "Now, the official documents say they are terminated at the end of each month, and so will die anyways. Now, I seriously doubt that, given the amount of them even I use, and since you aren't brain dead, you will probably doubt it too. You might even get reluctant to terminate D-classes that you have run a set of experiments on. "Let me run with a practical example. One of the memetic SCPs we had on site, relatively harmless thing, a jingle or a song of sort. There, with the suspenders? What's a meme? How can I put it… memes are malicious ideas. They break your mind's programming if they are read in, from any source. Sort of like the computer viruses bored Bulgarian youths write - no matter if it's from a floppy or email attachment, it does the same, whether it's displaying a silly message, or making your hard disk plow. Over there? What? That's a cognitohazard, not a meme? You're probably right, I don't work with these… either way, what it does is more important to what it's called. "Either way, researcher who did the testing was 'humanistic' - he didn't know better. Returned the D-class he used to the pool, not even with a note about what's been done. A few days later, we contained another memetic SCP, one that killed people, it was an image. Another researcher who ran tests on that one, by incidence, took in the same D-class. In his mind, the two memes merged somehow. From what the camera feeds show, the man started babbling, then tore his own trachea out, and so did the researcher and the two security staff present. "So yes. There's a reason why their papers contain a short summary of what they were sentenced for, beyond selecting a fitting psychological profile for SCP testing. Read it through. And any time you get the urge of returning a used D-class back to the pool, think to yourself: 'Is prolonging the life of a rapist worth risking the life of my colleagues and friends?'. "Now, that's all of me, really. Questions? "You with that look? Demotion to D-class? Ah fuck, who told you that? I thought so… see, that, and Keter duty is one of the pieces of bullshit we scare the greenhorns with. Now, see… most of the ways you can fuck up here, we'll have no one to punish, and taking out sensitive information, they'd kill you for that everywhere. "Next one. Why do you have to stay on site? Probation period, really. For the next six months. Those who go through it, you'll get your level 1 permanent clearances, and will be able to spend their time off wherever. Those who don't… you'll get class B amnestics and forget everything you ever experienced here. Which isn't as bad as it sounds - we'll still give you the salary. "Guy in polo shirt? Where's the best place to meet women in here? The Internet… Joking. Try Bio section's staff break room, lots of cute girls there, like Rights. "You there, girl with glasses? Why don't we research the objects so they can help mankind? Well, I could say that… Screw it. Know what? You can. If you succeed, and develop a theory that explains and reproduces an object, it'll get reclassified as SCP-EX, leaked to the public, and you might get a promotion out of it. So far, I have heard of about five people succeeding… in the last century. Hell, I'm still trying to work out what triggers structural cancer, and the six of us have been messing with it for two years by now. "Go on. What do you need to get promoted? Ambitious, aren't we? Well, goes like this. You finish your degree, and then you either leave with the civies, or you stay with us, sign a permanent contract, and get level 2 clearance. After that, it's a matter of luck and arseclimbery, and since I have neither, I'm still stuck as a Researcher. "Another girl? A dog somehow got into the on-site showers? That'd be Professor Crow. Next time he does that, steal his glasses. "Anyways, you're all dismissed - in a while, security personnel will escort you to the researchers that you'll be working for. In the meantime there's some coffee and donuts here too, so help yourself."

Travis Brenton was always the one to help a damsel in distress, but this one took the cake. Walking alongside Highway 62 more than fifty miles out of town, and despite the triple digit heat, she was bundled up in a bright red coat. As he pulled up alongside her, she hardly turned to look at him, her coiffed blonde hair bouncing with each labored step she took. Travis rolled down the passenger window on his pickup truck and leaned across the vinyl bench seat, "Hey there, miss, do you need a lift somewhere? Are you hurt?" She stopped walking, wobbling slightly before she turned to look in the window. Her face was painted like porcelain, with a stark set of cherry red lips and little pink swirls painted on her cheeks like peppermint candies. The rest of her face was hidden under a wide brim straw hat and oversized sunglasses. But despite what must have been an inch of makeup on her cheeks and her heavy clothing, she didn't seem to have a bead of sweat on her. She judged him for a few moments before her face lit up with a bright, wide smile revealing a row of perfectly white Chiclet teeth. "Thank you, sir. A ride to the next town would be very nice." Travis pushed the pickup door open and she laboriously climbed into the cabin of the truck, one oversized sleeve completely obscuring her arm. She didn't grunt or wheeze a bit, but she seemed weak as a kitten. No surprise really, given how far she must have walked in this heat. Travis stretched out a hand to help pull her up, and she gripped him with a sticky white palm. Travis' fingers felt like they were covered with syrup. He worked his fingers together curiously before trying to rub them on his jeans, which only caused his sticky hand to be covered with a layer of dirt and lint. "Are you feeling alright, miss? You must be hot, let me turn up the air for you," he offered, leaving a sticky set of prints on the knob as he turned it. "I'm fine, really. It's very kind of you to share your truck with me. Sharing is very important," the mysterious woman cooed, removing her hat and glasses. She fanned herself as the air kicked in, looking straight ahead at the road. Travis tried to get another good look at her as he pulled back onto the road, but she didn't turn towards him again. "Well, I think it's important to lend out a helping hand to people who need it," Travis said with a smile. "Funny you should say that, dear," the woman said mirthlessly, working her coat buttons open with her single exposed hand, the sticky one. Beneath the costume she was wearing some kind of ridiculous lacy candy striper outfit that seemed to be torn and stained brown. A rich maple scent filled the cabin, "Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I think I might be leaking on your seat." Travis whirled to look at his passenger, and she turned to face him with blank, unblinking blue jawbreaker eyes. Her puffy red licorice lips pursed into a pout, "I truly am sorry, sir, I know you are doing me a kind deed by sharing your truck with me but I can't help the syrup. It just doesn't clot like blood does." The truck swerved back off the road, bumping wildly on the bare earth off the highway. A cloud of dust erupted on both sides, obscuring the windows from outside. The woman yelped and her hair became undone as Travis slammed on the brakes and stared at his passenger in horror. "I must look a mess, I know. It's just that I tried to share with him, but he wanted to take so much. He simply took too much, more than his share, and now I need to get back to the kitchen you see. You don't have to take me all the way there, it would probably be best if you didn't." The woman had shrugged off the coat completely, and she was as white as her face from head to toe. She worked to pin her hair back up with a peppermint twist with her one good hand, as her other arm ended just before where her wrist should have been. Her flesh was cracked like a piece of hard candy, and two thickly rolled tubes of paper poked out where the bones should be, like the sticks on a half-eaten lollipop. Her outfit had been torn and chewed upon, and there was a large part of her perfectly shaped torso missing. "I'm sorry if I have frightened you, sir, but I really do need to get back on the road. Maybe if you shared with me a little bit more?" she scooted across the flat bench seat, leaning her face towards Travis as if to kiss him. What happened next was a bit of a blur, but Travis was suddenly aware of the dust all around him and the hard ground against his back. His hand hurt terribly from being twisted in his panicked attempt to open the door and flee the cabin before the strange confection woman could touch him. She looked down at him with a hint of regret in her mask-like visage, and thick coils of red vines spilled from the hole in her side down to the floor of the truck cabin as she reached out over him. "It's probably better this way. Thank you for sharing with me. I will repay your favor when I am back from the kitchen, I promise. You are very, very sweet," the candy woman grasped the open truck door and pulled it shut, leaving Travis scrambling away on his hands and knees as she started the truck back up again and drove away, stranding him on Highway 62 in triple digit heat. Travis slowly pulled himself to his feet and stood in the swirling dust with a stupid look on his face. Had that really just happened? Was he really just carjacked by a half-eaten candy woman? Something squirmed against his boot, and he looked down to see a few strands of the candy woman's innards writhing and pulsing on the ground where they had been pinched off by the slamming of the truck door. He turned on his heels and ran.

"It's beautiful," Dr. Lesley Mause announced, zooming in on the wriggling cells taking up her monitor's screen. Dr. Drake looked over her shoulder, still wearing the same bored expression he'd had for the same half hour. "It's vomit." Across the room, two heads swiveled in unison, hawklike, to stare at Dr. Drake. Agent Rose and Agent Walker, security. They did that every time Dr. Drake opened his mouth, each time tingling with almost animalistic animosity. The two ex-members of the Children of the Sun were objectively creepy as shit, she reflected. The way they did so many things in synchronization. You'd think they were twins, but they didn't even look alike, even if their mannerisms tended to be identical Rose (a man) was pale and androgynous, and Walker (a woman) was attractive in a classical fashion and had skin dark as pitch. She'd been working with them almost two years now, and she felt the same affection for them that she might feel for a pair of cats. A pair of extremely murderous cats, anyway. Plus, they hated Drake almost as much as she did. "Yes," she agreed, "it's vomit. But that doesn't preclude beauty." She zoomed out again. Drake pointed at a structure in the gray-green mess. "Is that a bone?" "Indeed," Mause said. "Alces alces. And they're not the only thing our green friend has been eating. I've found at least three different species of squirrel. And what's probably a squirrel. But most of the bones are Alces alces." Drake leaned back in his chair, propped his legs up on the desk in front of him. "What's an Alces alces?" She rolled her eyes in advance. "One of the cervids, a capreoline. Known in North America, of course, as… the moose." Drake sniggered. "Moose, eh?" Then sniggered again. "Moose." Mause's eyes flicked to Rose and Walker. They wore identical expressions of barely repressed fury. Mause, for her part, only felt mild annoyance. Most people knew better than to make that joke in front of Rose and Walker, but Mause heard the joke about every other day. She'd long gotten over cursing Fate for the timing of her transfer to the Special Reconnaissance-and-Research Task Force M-Omega-773 - or, as it was now so wittily referred to by other members of the Foundation, "the Deadly Moose team". She'd been dumped from Research Team MO3-Gloria with everyone else when the O5s decided they didn't want anyone else poking at 003 and landed her directly in M-Omega-773 just in time for the disaster in which she - and every other member of the team - had stumbled through the corridors of Site 19 crazily warning everyone they came in to "beware the deadly moose". She herself had set up shop in the cafeteria with a shotgun for two hours before security tranquilized her and strapped her to a bed until the effects passed. Memetics. She hated memetics. "Yes," she said. "Alaskan moose, actually. A. a. gigas. Which fits with where we picked it up. Naturally." "No Bigfoot bones in there?" "No." She glared at her monitor. "We're not so sure that this thing has any connection to 1000 after all, I'm sorry to say." Drake looked at the video monitor. "But just look at it. It looks like a big green ape." "SCP-1000 instances are brown, black, red, and white in color," Mause said. "They don't come in green." "Still," Drake said. "My gut tells me there's some connection. Keep looking." Mause stifled her sigh. Technically, Drake did outrank her. Being on the Deadly Moose team meant you got ridiculously high clearance to a few fairly important SCPs, but outside of those small spheres you were left at basic level 1 access. And the respect that went with that. It didn't help that most of the team's assignments sounded inherently mockable. 'The Bloodstone.' (Also known as the bad-trip ruby, even though it wasn't actually a ruby.) The glorified mechanical people-eating fishing worms. Organic motherboard. ('So can 003 run Crysis?' Jesus, you'd think these people never grew out of the 90's.) Bigfoot, for chrissake. And, of course, the goddamn moose… thing. And now, the weird thing pacing about in the temporary containment cell on the monitor, provisionally classified as Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R. The thing whose vomit she was analyzing for the last half hour. TXCD-R was picked up in Alaska only days ago, and had slaughtered half the task force sent to capture it before suddenly going docile and allowing the rattled survivors to bind it in a net and transport it to Site 17's temporary containment auxiliary facility. It really was beautiful vomit, full of living things she'd never seen, in a rainbow array of colors. Even TXCD-R was beautiful in its own way. She watched it pace, a hulking seven-foot-tall thing shaped vaguely like an ape, covered in what might be a living growth of moss, wide teeth like spades sticking out of its mouth like reversed elephant tusks. The "moss" was growing so fast you could actually see it move if you had the patience. Tiny glittering eyes peered out from under the moss curtains - not just from its "head", either. Tiny auxiliary limbs moved and twitched, peeking out now and then to groom the ever-growing moss. As she watched, TXCD-R bent double and vomited for the ninth time that day. "Again?" Mause scratched her head. "It's vomited up almost the entire bodies of everything it's eaten so far. And judging by the bones I see, that would be the last of its meals for the past week." She looked at the screen again. "It's not digesting anything. None of the things in here have been broken down like you'd expect if they'd been in stomach acid for hours. They have signs of chewing, and not much else. Is it sick or something?" "I'm telling you," Drake said. "It's got Bigfoot's fingerprints all over it." "Tomorrow," Mause said. She pushed back her chair. "I'll look more tomorrow." Excerpt from Video Log, Observation Camera 6320945 (Temporary Containment Chamber for Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R): 0700: TXCD-R continues to pace back and forth across chamber. 0756: TXCD-R abruptly ceases pacing and stands perfectly still until 0811. 0811: Power fluctuation related to explosive event at main Site-17. TXCD-R begins to repeatedly charge the walls of its containment chamber. Local alarms set off. 0813: Agent C. Rose and Agent I. Walker open containment chamber left and right ports and shoot TXCD-R repeatedly with tranquilizer darts. TXCD-R does not react to shots except to charge containment chamber ports. 0815: Agents Rose and Walker cease attempting to shoot TXCD-R. TXCD-R continues to charge walls of its containment chamber. 0827: External power lost. Switching to emergency power. TXCD-R continues to charge walls of its containment chamber. Mause stumbled into the main observation chamber, eyes bleary. Rose and Walker were waiting for her. "Wazz going on?" she managed. "Containment breach at Site 17. Unknown insurgent forces. Tempest Night scenario. Assistant Adams currently coordinating personnel," Rose said. "No breaches on this Auxuliary Site. Yet," Walker added. "TXCD-R is going to breach the walls of its containment chamber in approximately ten minutes." "Where's Dr. Drake?" "Gone to help with the Tempest Night scenario," Rose said. "Insurgents," Mause said. "Tempest Night? How long?" "Three hours and eleven minutes," Rose said. "Three hours? Why didn't you wake me?" "Sufficient sleep is required for optimal bodily function," Rose said. "Besides," Walker said. "There's nothing any of us can do. We are not equipped to stop TXCD-R from breaching containment. We are under orders to remain here as long as TXCD-R does. On event of TXCD-R's escape, we will attempt to stop it. When we fail, we will track it." "So you see," Rose said, "there is nothing to be concerned about, for the next nine minutes, until TXCD-R breaches containment. And sleep is very important." Mause shook her head and watched Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R hurl itself at the wall of its containment chamber. And again. And then again. "For now, though," Rose added, "you should put on body armor. In case it's hungry." Excerpt from Video Log, Observation Camera 6320945 (Temporary Containment Chamber for Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R) and Observation Camera 6327641 (Temporary Containment Facility 17-K, Exterior): 1132: TXCD-R breaches containment chamber. 1134: TXCD-R exits Temporary Containment Facility 17-K and heads in the direction of Site-17. 1135: TXCD-R confronted by Agent Charles Rose and Agent Iola Walker, armed with S2-05 shotguns. Agents fire on TXCD-R repeatedly without effect. TXCD-R temporarily incapacitates Agent Rose and Agent Walker via physical impact. 1136: TXCD-R continues heading towards Site-17. 1140: Dr. Lesley Mause exits Temporary Containment Facility 17-K, rouses agents Rose and Walker. Mause, Rose, and Walker enter nearby vehicle and drive after TXCD-R. They'd followed TXCD-R nearly all the way to Site-17. Smoke rose from several of the central buildings. TXCD-R was stopped in the middle of the road, just in front of one of the Site-17 buildings, the side completely blown out by some explosion. Screams drifted out from inside. Walker stopped the car a respectful distance from the creature. TXCD-R kneeled in the road, and seemed to be pantomiming something. "What's it doing?" Mause asked. "It's eating," Rose said. Mause stared at the pale green creature. It did seem to be eating something, except… its jaws were closing on nothing, its hands holding something up to its mouth that wasn't there. "What is it eating?" she asked. "An instance of SCP-870," Rose said. "The monster that only schizophrenics can see?" "The same." "How can you tell?" Rose shrugged. TXCD-R jerked its head up. Blinking eyes became visible everywhere underneath the curtains of moss that covered its body. Then it bounded off. Through the blasted wall, leaping over rubble, and into the Site-17 building. "Great," Mause said. "Just great. Where's it going now?" "Isn't it obvious?" Rose said. "It's hungry." Audio/Visual transcript of SCP-472 containment chamber 1149: Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R breaches containment chamber. TXCD-R does not appear to experience any effects from SCP-472. TXCD-R briefly examines SCP-472 and removes it from its pedestal. 1150: TXCD-R appears to claw the air while holding SCP-472. At the end of its claws, red flesh appears, spurting blood, apparently extruding from midair. TXCD-R bites down on the piece of flesh and pulls. More flesh appears, with an accompanying tearing sound, splattering blood on the walls of the containment chamber. Mause was standing in the brand new, still smoking entrance of Site-17 when she heard the scream. A long, low, inhuman shriek that rose and fell for what seemed like an eternity. "Jesus," she said. "What was that?" She could hear her heart beating - boom-boom, boom-boom - much too loudly, inside her head - Mause looked at Rose and Walker for confirmation. She could tell by the looks on their faces that they were thinking the same thing. "SCP-472 is screaming," she said. Audio/Visual transcript of SCP-472 containment chamber 1151: TXCD-R pulls and rips with its claws and teeth until a two meter length of flesh comes into appearance, detaches from its [still invisible] source, and drops to the ground. The flesh appears to be a collection of organs, including three still-beating hearts. 1152: TXCD-R exits containment chamber, dragging the length of flesh behind it, still holding SCP-472. It tears off a chunk from the length of flesh and consumes it as it exits the chamber. Transcript of Video Surveillance Recording Location: Checkpoint Camera, Service Entrance H-01 1158: TXCD-R passes camera, still carrying SCP-472. Length of flesh no longer visible. It is confronted by the service entrance by Dr. Carl Drake. Dr. Drake shouts a challenge to TXCD-R, telling it that it "shall not pass". Dr. Drake elaborates that he is in possession of an SCP item. He produces a small gold circlet later identified as Anomalous Item 56428609 [previously categorized by Dr. Drake, not known to have any special effect beyond unusual chemical makeup]. Dr. Drake places the circlet on his head while shouting "Crown of Thorns, activate!" Anomalous Item 56428609 emits a nimbus of glowing light. 1159: TXCD-R removes the top of Dr. Drake's head via aggressive mastication. TXCD-R consumes both the top of Dr. Drake's head and Anomalous Item 56428609. TXCD-R exits through the open service entrance. 1200: No further activity. "It's eating SCPs," Rose said, as a group of other agents carried away Dr. Drake's body. "That's why it killed an instance of SCP-870. And took SCP-472. It's a food source." "Quite a theory," Mause said. "Maybe that's why it vomited everything it ate… Maybe it wasn't built to be eating … uh, natural things, for lack of a better word. Of course, why would it be able to keep down SCP items? It's not like 472 and 870 have anything in common. Or that anomalous item. Natural things have much more in common than anomalous things. How could something evolve to eat anomalous items?" "Maybe it didn't evolve," Walker said. "Maybe it was created." Mause shrugged. "I guess we won't know until we get it back." "Then let's get started," Rose said.