To End All Endings - SCP Foundation

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…

He was foreknown before the foundation of the world but was made manifest in the last times for the sake of you.

- Peter 1:20 ESV

…

”Remember: Reality is an illusion, the universe is a hologram, buy gold. BYE!”

- Bill Cipher

…

”What can I say to convince you to slip back into my arms again?

”I won’t do you no harm again!

”Let me tell you that I’m sorry and that…

”I’m just a little bit crazy ’bout you!

”Just a little bit out of my mind!

”Just a little insane without you,

”Please come back and be just a little bit mine!”

-Excerpt of [Cover This Song!] Just A Little Bit Mine by Will Wood and the Tapeworms

…

”We’re fucked.”

- Someone, Probably

…

*

*

*

*

CHAPTERS

Prologue

Just Forty-Eight Hours After The Apocalypse...

On A Cold Autumn Night

Now

Just Forty-Eight Hours After

On A Cold Autumn Night

Now

Just Forty-Eight Hours After

On A Cold Autumn Night

*

*

*

*

It was dark. But it had never seen the light. How could it be sure that it was dark, then?

It was light. But it had never seen the dark. How could it be sure that it was light, then?

It felt cramped, no, it couldn’t feel, couldn’t feel anything. But it felt cramped, it simply did, but it didn’t have the necessary organs, the appendages, the senses to feel.

It couldn’t feel anything. Yet there was this burning sensation, this… this ever-prevailing feeling rested up deep inside it, the feeling of… of… It felt…

It felt

*

Just Forty-Eight Hours After The Apocalypse...

The control room was gigantic, filled to the brim with monitors and speakers, all buzzing in various tones, shapes and sizes, so variable in color, and personnel.

They hurried all throughout the room, zip-zapping from chamber to chamber, from hallway to hallway, as the emergency lights had plunged everything in a deep red, the klaxons deafening to the ears.

Researchers were shouting indistinctly into microphones, as some looked on in horror at the mayhem unfolding before their eyes on the giant, colorful monitors.

Some cried. A few wept. There were even some screaming, quickly led out of the chamber by security forces, already stretched thin by the ongoing crisis, while others remained silent and prayed their prayers.

The video displayed on the giant screen was news footage of a giant, many-winged humanoid entity with its flaming sword striding forth, as floating entities with large eyes and circles within circles looming up above.

Panicked citizens filled the streets, as many simply looked on at the beauty unfolding before them, many having already accepted their Lord’s judgment.

There were riots in the streets, trampeled over men, women and children, while cars drove haphazardly, stuck in the mounts of traffic, bumping into each other on the regular.

People jumped to their deaths, while others dragged people out of their homes, reciting prayers.

It was hell on earth.

Director Sophia Light had more pressing matters at hand, however, as she constantly switched from monitor to monitor, yelling into microphones and barking orders in rapid succession. Sweat dripped down the sides of her face, as she had to tie her hair into a tight bun, so as to not let it cover her eyes again.

Terminals constantly kept blinking back and forth, beeping, as if desperate for attention. Each terminal was hooked up to a Foundation Site.

A junior researcher entered the room, sprinting toward the stressed-out director; under normal circumstances, he would have been dragged out of the room in an instant, but all of the remaining security forces were ordered to head into the lower levels by a blaring PA system up above, so he could just waltz in at will.

He looked exhausted, just like everyone else had been for the last forty-eight hours. His labcoat was drenched in sweat, just like everyone else’s. He held a document in his hand, also drenched in his sweat. His breaths were shallow and rapid.

”Director… Director Light…” he gasped, stemming his hands against his knees.

She didn’t even notice him. She was constantly shifting from looking at the monitors and their blinking lights, and saying the next order to a confused, fearful looking researcher. They were coming at a rapid pace.

He tried again. ”Director Light!”

”… erect a defensive perimeter around 616, then— What do you mean they’re bulletproof?! Use incendiary weapons or squirt guns filled with holy water, then!”

She switched over to another channel, a panicked woman at the other end.

”SCP-2662—”

”Tell Cthulu to FUCK OFF!” Sophia answered.

She switched to another channel, this time typing.

Alexandra, you copy?

«Loud and clear, Director Light!»

I want you to send an immediate request for contact to Site-62C!

«It will be done, Director! Exp3h+4€#+t»

Fear slowly crept its way down Sophia’s spine, as she looked intently, with a great deal of confusion, at the screen, now flickering excessively in black and white static.

Alexandra? Alexandra, report!

«W3 ca57&n he7p u5-*9»

«I#&@+/»

«I 57on/t w@n7 t€€ d57'#&E»

Alexandra, immediate status report!

Then the channel went dark. ”Fuck!” she exclaimed, looking frustrated and defeated all at the same time.

The junior researcher approached her and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. He held the paper document firmly in his hands. ”Director Light, there’s been an emergency—”

”Reclassify it as Apollyon and be done with it. I don’t have time for you right now,” was her only response.

Quickly, she rose back to her former stance and switched to another of the many dozens of channels requesting Site-19’s assistance.

*

SITE-15 COMPROMISED. REQUEST IMMEDIATE ASSIST—

Passageways to SCP-4009 have manifested five kilometers above Massachussetts. Increase in Hume-level is as-of-yet minimal, although expected to rise in—

Members of Group of Interest 3088 (”Church of the Second Hytoth”) have begun to congregate in the Arctic and Antarctica. Reasons for this are unk—

The formerly as Neutralized-classified anomaly SCP-1730 has reappeared on the western border between Germany and the Netherlands. Request immediate—

SCP-999 has breached containment and is about to—

*

It was an absolute clusterfuck of an XK, maybe even a ZK.

”Director Light, I need to talk to you abou—”

”I said I didn’t have time for you, so FUCK OFF!”

Sophia didn’t even look up from the monitor, her eyes and ears fixated on the constant barrages of messages and cries of help being sent through the network.

The junior researcher, with no more time at his hands, put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around to finally face him, clutching the paper document in hand tightly.

After an exchange in stares, he handed the document to Sophia.

Item #: SCP-173—

She crumpled up the paper document and threw it to the floor, an angry glare in her eyes. He was quite surprised, as she pushed herself away from him.

”Listen here, you little shit! I’ve already got enough to deal with, and the last I need is someone shouting into my ear about some bricks-shitting statue—”

Without saying a word, he handed her a picture. It was of 173’s cell, she could tell by the shit and blood littering the entire floor. But there was more to it.

It was a picture of two men in orange jumpsuits, D-Class, lying on a concrete floor. The one’s back was obscured, so she couldn’t see his designation, but the other man’s back was not, showing the numbers ’5933’ printed on the back of his jumpsuit.

They lied there in a twisted, mangled formation, their limbs and bodies limp, the life having left their eyes, all having a twisted, broken neck. Sophia caught herself softly massaging the own back of her neck. The junior researcher noticed.

Then there was another picture. This time of the perpetrator, the breaker of necks, number 173, the sculpture.

It stood in its cell with all of its concrete and rebar glory, still the same emotionless expression of traces of krylon-brand spray-paint on its face, just how it came in in 1993.

Those soulless approximaton of eyes peeped straight back at her, as she caught her eyes watering, having not blinked once since looking at those pictures.

Aside from that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just two dead D-Class, murdered at the hands of 173, both of their necks having been broken.

A clean, fast end.

In a sense, she envied those two men lying motionlessly on the shit- and blood-stained floor. Okay, maybe she didn’t.

As she was about to crumple these pictures and throw them onto the floor, and also demote the junior researcher to D-Class for having wasted her valuable time, her eyes spotted something in the corner of the picture.

She held it closer to her eyes, under the dim, red emergency lights, under the deafening alarms, footsteps and yells and cries, and stared intently. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

She immediately dropped the pictures, her head filled with a thousand thoughts all at the same time, before she looked back at the junior researcher.

He looked back at her with wide eyes. ”What should we do?”

She looked at the pictures a second time to assure herself. It was true what she was seeing.

SCP-173 had multiplied.

*

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.

*

*

On A Cold Autumn Night

Before The Apocalypse

Ramone Ramani went up and down in her stance, as she constantly alternated between looking at her phone and across the street.

The surrounding buildings stood tall, reminding her of something out of the Victorian-era style of construction. The walls were intricate, with only a few streetlights on to give everything a softly warm and calm atmosphere.

Right now, however, she felt everything, but warm and calm. The autumn breeze passed beside her, blowing fallen, dried leaves high through the air.

She was shivering in her long black dress, but at least her feet were staying warm (she opted not to wear her matching high heels; too uncomfortable).

Ramone looked at her phone again — it was 23:28 in the night.

People dressed in dresses and suits walked by her, many exiting from the newly-opened restaurant right behind her. It was clean, its entrance imposing, but not too much, the lights were shimmering a faint, welcoming glow, as Ramone could see through the crystal-clear windows people sitting at their tables, conversing about whatever topic crossed their mind, eating their dinner served on the silver platter.

She darted her eyes on the lowly populated streets, before she pulled out her phone again, almost dialing his number, as a car pulled up in front of her.

She couldn’t see through the glass, but she was fairly certain that it was him.

He opened the door and dramatically stepped out with one foot, Ramone intently watching.

Then he stepped out with his other foot and rose up from behind the car door. He was wearing a fine gray suit and a tie, accompanied by pitch black shoes. His hair was a little rough, as if he had done it in a hurry.

He closed the car door and approached Ramani.

”Sorry for the wait, Ramone,” Adam Krug said. ”Got caught up in something.”

Her face beared a smile. ”Dellen?”

”I thought he’d never stop!” Krug exclaimed.

Ramone gave off a light chuckle. ”Happens when you spill your coffee on an unknown anomaly.”

Adam simply stared at her, a pause in his words. ”Don’t tell me word’s gotten out already…”

Ramone didn’t say anything. But her smile, gleaming eyes and her attempt at suppressing a laugh were enough of an answer for Adam already.

”The whole department knows, doesn’t it?” Krug asked.

Ramone burst into a fit of laughter. She covered her mouth with her hand to suppress some of the noise, but most of it got through anyway.

Ramone needed a bit to catch her breath between genuine attempts at speaking and bursts of more laughter. There was the slight hint of a smirk on Adam’s face.

”Does the whole department know?”

Eventually, Ramone was able to catch her breath. ”And every other department in the whole facility.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. ”Word gets ’round in 67, you know?”

The only thing Adam could muster was a deep, long sigh.

In front of the entrance, Ramone held out her hand dramatically. ”Now, would you like to follow me into this fine establishment, monsieur?” she said in an overly exaggerated French accent, or an approximation of it.

Adam smiled and took her hand. Then, in the same overly exaggerated approximation of a (maybe) French accent, spoke: ”I’d very much like to, madam.”

Together, they walked up the steps to this very fine establishment, indeed. There was some very fine Mozart playing harmoniously in the background, too.

*

…

…

…

One day you’ll look up at the ceiling above

If you’re lucky you’ll be surrounded by the ones that you love

When the lights in your eyes fade and life flashes by

One day you’re going to die.

*

Now

Shadows were his only sanctuary. Sanctuary from the otherworldy forces in the streets, high above in the sky, or just out of sight.

The security forces, standing tall, looking like feathered behemoths with cameras as their visage, were standing atop the ruins of tall apartment buildings and skyscrapers, shining their all-seeing light between the narrow gaps of the ruins, through windows and doors standing ajar, or even up at the black clouds.

The sky was broken, and tinted in a deep red.

His eyes were keenly laid upon the ruined wastelands, as he waited for a gap within their formation of lights, their watchful eyes, readying his stance to quickly sprint back to the nearest shadow at a moment’s notice.

There was some Mozart playing harmoniously in the background.

His destination was just up ahead; under an unassuming bridge, there lay a secret passageway, only accessible to those speaking the rite of passage. Some say it was built by the Merchants of London, although he didn’t really care all too much.

It was a safe-haven for those seeking refuge from the battles of god, but also a base of operations for those fighting for freedom within this troubled state they were in. All other governments had collapsed under the weight of doomsdays, and this space was the only real land left standing.

He had the file of this anomaly, discovered and contained by none other than the Foundation, of course, stashed away inside his mind. He could still see it very clearly:

SCP-4009 is an extradimensional totalitarian city-state […]

SCP-4009 is populated by humanoid entities […] each individual instance corresponds to a well-known classical composer and/or musician who is currently deceased (i.e. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—

He winced at the mere mention of that man’s name. But he continued to recite 4009’s file inside his mind, at least the important details…

Most instances […] are capable of voluntary emission of reality-altering longitudinal waves, the intensity of which is directly proportional to each composer/musician's mass appeal.

The […] population maintains a caste system in which individuals are divided into different social groups based on the relative real-world popularity of their respective, blah, blah, blah…

That was all he needed to know. Reality-bending music composers led by an all-powerful Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who had transformed everything into a 1984-esque society to stay in power.

He looked to his right, half-expecting what he was just about to see on the wall…

YOU ARE HEARD, YOU ARE LOVED.

Just about right.

He heard footsteps clattering in the distance; growing ever-so-closer. To his location. His hand was grasped firmly around his pointy staff, as his senses appeared to sharpen, hearing and looking out for any dissonant presence, while he pressed himself closer against a dilapitated brick wall.

The footsteps were loud, heavy, and many. He listened closely, hearing his own heart beating rythmically in his chest.

He could faintly hear Beethoven’s Ninth lingering in the air.

The overhead eyes of the security forces sweeped relentlessly through the streets, as he waited for just a second longer for a gap in their formation, for just an opportunity to move to the nearest shadow, a chance to get close—

There was a distinct ring when the arrow hit his right shoulder. Not an arrow, but dozens of tiny musical notes arranged to make the song of an arrow in reality.

He pulled it out of his body, and, without looking back, began his sprint through the deserted streets, amidst the tall-towering Victorian- and Renaissance-era styled buildings, or at least the remnants of them.

The footsoldiers were in close pursuit, as the security forces up above caught sight of him in their watchful eyes, squawked to life, and began descending onto the streets.

”HALT!” a man, most likely a general, shouted in its rythmic tones, reverberating throughout surrounding space-time. He covered his ears, but the voice was as if it was sounding between his ears.

”IN THE NAME OF THE GRAND ORCHESTRA, WE COMMAND YOU TO HALT!”

He ran as fast as his two human legs allowed, carrying the payload in a makeshift backpack, as the soldiers began whistling their lethal tunes at him, while the behemoths with cameras as heads began to swipe at him, the very ground shaking with every step these behemoths took.

They fired at him relentlessly, him careful not to get hit or trip, as the tunes breezed past him, getting ever-so-closer to his destination.

He heard one of the behemoths trip and fall, giving off a distinct Bach taste in his mind.

As the tunes kept flying and the swings inched closer, the closer he got to the passageway under the bridge. Only a few more—

Without a warning, he felt the space around him contorting and bending, looking like a Fata Morgana under the scorching shine of the desert sun, as time began to quicken and slow down all at the same time.

He desperately reached for the payload in his backpack; he saw his fingers stretching and extending in all directions, as his backpack turned into beautiful clefs, D minors and a whole lotta Mozart.

With the little bit of sanity left, he reached within his backpack, observing the silhouettes of the behemoths and footsoldiers that had hunted him earlier in the edges all around him.

In the press of a button, space and time around him slowly began to make sense again, as it became more solid, less malleable.

The behemoths and footsoldiers were knocked to the ground, as their lethal tunes began to fizzle out into ordinary whistles — unharmonious ones at that.

As the payload was doing its work, he quickly sprinted toward the bridge with it, reciting the passage rite in his mind over and over again, until he finally arrived.

”FUCK YOU, MOZART!”

In an instant, the foundations of this very place began to rumble, bricks and debris falling off the bridge, nearly hitting him on multiple occasions, as a large door carved out of ivory and marble appeared in front of him, where there was nothing before.

With no further a-do, he opened the gates and stepped through, the door crashing shut behind him. The door disappeared as soon as it appeared.

*

He couldn’t see anything. His eyes tried to adjust to the dark, but with there being no light it was impossible.

Then something made click, and he found himself surrounded by dozens of people, big and small, male and female. They were pointing their guns and spears and equivalent thereof straight at his face, he could feel their bullets and blades on his skin.

He slowly raised his arms, glancing all around the room.

”I’ve come to see Mooretimer,” he spoke, staying ever-so-diligent for a blade that might poke him in the back. ”We’ve made a deal and—”

A creature, half man, half gears, held up one of its pointy appendages and pressed it against the man’s throat. The creature’s glassy eyes and metal exterior told nothing of what it was feeling, but he felt that it would slice a gash across his throat if he even so much dared breathe the wrong way.

Clapping emanated from the back of the room, and everyone turned around to look and see who made these most inopportune noises.

”Who do we have here? A traveler from afar?” The man’s voice was heavy, raspy; his footsteps carried much weight behind them.

The shape of the man was visible from behind the crowd, as the various men and women made way for this large man slowly approaching him.

The crowd quickly put down their blades and guns, as Mooretimer placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and embraced him in a tight, asphyxiating hug.

Mooretimer released him from his embrace, mainly because his friend was turning various shades of purple after some time.

”Dear friend, how long’s it been? Did you ever get to that signal you so adamantly longed for?”

He gasped for fresh air, before saying anything: ”I… I…” He collapsed onto the floor.

”Did the nanites follow you?” Mooretimer asked, now more serious.

He shook his head.

”Do you have it?” he said between gasps for air.

”Straight to the point, eh? Then I shan’t keep you any longer! You must be exhausted already! Come, follow me to the back,” Mooretimer exclaimed, moving toward the back.

The various creatures made way again, feeling more relaxed now that the stranger was no immediate threat. He was still gasping for air.

*

Schubert was pacing up and down beneath the bridge, exactly where the criminal had disappeared. Thoughts ran through his head.

”Shit, shit, shit, shit, shi—”

”General Schubert!” Lord Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s voice suddenly rang in his mind, like Beethoven’s Second at 140 decibels. ”Was is keeping you so lange?”

Sweat rolled down Schubert’s face. He could hear his heart beat more rapidly now. ”I… nothing!” That was the best his mind could come up with.

”Oh, is that so?” He could feel the tension rise an octave. ”If there’s nothing stopping you, THEN WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING DA?!”

He felt the voice shaking him down to his very soul. His heart beat arrythmically.

”Do you understand me, General?!”

Schubert collapsed to his knees, clutching his ears, screaming in pain and agony. The footsoldiers surrounding him looked on with confusion and fear riddling their strings.

”Verstanden?!”

”YES!” he screamed. ”YES! YES!” The noises were pure unbearableness. His brain felt like it was about to burst; he bled from his eyes and ears profusely.

Then the noises ceased. With eternal silence came eternal peace. He could hear his own thoughts again.

”Gut,” Mozart exclaimed, ”Because if not…”

There was a tingling sensation, as his soul left his body, venturing into the far reaches of the cosmos. He witnessed stars young and old being born and going supernova, only to bear new stars, which would die again, all at the same time.

He ventured into the depths of black and white holes, got spaghettified, his matter forever lost to the universe, reassembled, returned, before seeing the death of the cosmos with his own eyes, watched the universe forming at the beginning of time, touched the edges of the universe, saw it expand, before snapping back, passing by every single atom.

His return was an uneventful one, as he simply collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air.

”Meet with Supreme Führer Beethoven in the morning. Report your findings,” Mozart blared on. ”Remember: He can’t hear bad news.”

And with that, the voice of the Supreme Lord of the Grand Orchestra vanished from his head.

General Schubert slowly came to his feet, breathing in deeply, before he got a bearing of his surroundings again, seeing two footsoldiers staring at him.

His fear subsided, and he quickly was overtaken by a lurid hatred. He balled his hands into fists, turning a tomato red.

”What are you doing just standing there?!” Schubert squeaked. ”Search the perimeter, Mozammit!”

The two quickly scrambled away into the nearby ruins.

Schubert was steadying himself on the walls of the bridge. He looked around, less to find any traces of the criminal, and more to see if any soldiers or security-behemoths were lingering around.

Schubert took several deep breaths.

”Fuck you, Mozart…” he muttered under his breath.

In an instant, the foundations of this very place began to rumble, bricks and debris falling off the bridge. A large door carved out of ivory and marble appeared in front of him, where there was nothing before.

General Schubert rubbed his eyes and touched the doorframe, as several of his troops gathered up around the oddity.

*

He placed his backpack onto the worn wooden table and retrieved the object inside. Mooretimer looked intently at his trusted friend’s hand, as he retrieved the object within.

What was retrieved was a compact circular disk, glowing, no, feeling like all colors under the rainbow. Mooretimer didn’t say anything — he simply admired its beauty.

”The reality anchor,” he said to Mooretimer. ”In exchange for…”

Mooretimer snapped back into reality. ”Yes, yes… of course.”

He retrieved a large sack from underneath the table, placing it right next to the SRA. He pulled the item out, revealing it to be a Foundation-issued tracking device. Just as he requested it.

”You’ll be able to find that iron-man of yours in no time; the harness is a prototype, one of a kind, sending out a unique, if not weak signal. Where he is, your mysterious object that isn’t round—” Mooretimer lost his thought, then continued, ”eh… Oh, yeah! Your thing will be with them. If they haven’t lost it by now, that is.”

The thought of the object supposedly capable of saving the entire universe having been lost in all of this chaos made him shudder.

He had ventured to Site-19, where this object was kept; details were hazy, not because nothing was known about it, well, kind of, but because the info seemed to seep out of his mind the moment he focused on it. It was irritating.

There he ventured into 055’s containment chamber, but found nothing there; whether it was because it physically wasn’t there anymore or because of its anti-memetic effect was unclear to him, so he opted instead to review the security cam footage of the Site to get some more straight answers.

There he saw a man, early-twenties, waltz into the chamber with a suit on, with its markings detailing it as a ’Foundation Absolute Exclusion Harness (AEH)’. The man then put the object — it definitely wasn’t round — into the suitcase he was carrying with him.

Later, he exited the facility’s grounds, marching to an unknown destination.

”Thanks, Mooretimer,” he finally said, having been entrenched in thought.

Mooretimer gave him a hefty pat on his back. ”Thank you, friend! This’ll be a great weapon against the forces of Bach, Beethoven n’ Mozart!”

The Gearman suddenly entered through the curtains, bearing what seemed to be an expression of fear on his face. ”Mooretimer,” the Gearman began, clicking with his internal mechanism spazzing out, continuing ”General Schubert and his forces have entered the base!”

Mooretimer immediately sprung to life. ”How many?”

”All of them!”

Suddenly, explosions and shots rang out through the rooms, as men, women and their children cried out in terror, their screams ringing dissonantly in their ears.

He immediately drew his standard pistol, as he was about to storm into the chaos, Mooretimer held out his hand and blocked his path. He looked up at him.

”No, my friend. You need to go,” Mooretimer exclaimed.

He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it again.

”This isn’t your fight,” Mooretimer spoke. ”Your fight is there.”

Mooretimer pointed at the far end of the room. As soon as he looked, another door, intricately carved ivory and marble adorning its frame, appeared out of nowhere.

He gave Mooretimer and the Gearman a look, before he ran to his backpack and packed in the tracker, and made his way toward the ivory-marble door.

On the door, he turned around, exchanging a look, which may well be the final time the two were ever going to see each other again, and spoke: ”May your voices be heard through all the heavens.”

Mooretimer smirked, took the SRA, and said: ”Voices can’t shoot holes into people.” The SRA began to emit a faint green glow.

”IN THE NAME OF OUR LORD WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART, DIE!!” That was the voice of General Schubert.

Without further a-do, Mooretimer and the Gearman charged into battle, as he grasped the brass handle of the door firmly, and stepped through the door.

*

Just Forty-Eight Hours After

*

He calmed down again. ”Okay, okay, okay…” He tried to assess the situation, like any good researcher would. Lay out the facts, then piece together the little details. ”We should try Site-15. They’re not too far from—”

”We already tried them. No answer.”

”Then get me Site-120—”

”No word from them either.”

”How about—”

”Nope—”

”Then give me one we have not covered, for Christ’s sake!” Adam yelled from the top of his lungs. His breaths were shallow, rapid. Ramani thought that Adam would die of a heart attack right there.

Eventually, he calmed down.

”Sorry, I…” he said, rubbing his face. ”Please,” he said calmly, exhausted, ”just give me a Site we haven’t contacted yet. What about Nineteen?”

”Was the first one to go when the gate opened.”

*

The junior researcher sprinted through the darkened corridors of Site-19. Everything was still tinted in that ominous red color of the emergency lights, as the alarms still sounded with full force.

Evac point, evac point, evac point… was all the young man could think of, as he ran past cell after empty cell. There was a sense of foreboding haunting his every step.

He turned a sharp right, his breaths shallow and quick. He turned a sharp left, his labcoat drenched in even more sweat now.

Another right, another right, another left, another—

Dead end.

What?! No, no, no… he thought, as panic slowly crept in. I couldn’t have possibly forgotten the lay-out of Site-19. Maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s—

There was a deep, otherwordly growl coming from the end of the hallway.

He felt himself tense up, too frightened to see what made that terrific sound.

Before he could even think another thought, the creature let out a bellowing screech and lunged right at the junior researcher. He closed his eyes and covered his face for the eventual impact, but it never came.

The hallway was filled with the noises of gunfire, as a squad of Mobile Task Forces, clad in heavy gear and firepower, unleashed a hail of bullets onto the creature.

It screeched and howled, trying to shield itself from the rain of bullets; it looked completely unaffected, though, and slowly marched forward toward the soldiers.

One of them, seemingly the commander, shouted: ”EPSILON-11!”

The junior researcher didn’t know what that meant, but he assumed it meant lotsa guys and gals in fire-resistant padding and flamethrowers, because the moment the commander had shouted it, lotsa guys and gals in fire-resistant padding and flamethrowers came in and torched up the creature.

It didn’t have an effect on the creature, however, as it simply marched forward, clawed hand outstretched.

Just as he thought it was all over, another squad came from ’round the corner, and were carrying squirt guns.

They’ve gone nuts, he thought, but before he could even finish the line, the soldiers squirted their water compartments of their squirt guns out at the creature, which began to screech and recoil in terror.

The other units backed away, as the squirt gun squad inched ever-so-closer at the entity, never giving it a second to breathe.

”In the name of thy Holy Spirit, DIE, DEMON!”

The demonic creature gave off one last agonizing howl, before it backed-up into a corner, seemingly crying to itself, before its skin sloughed off its flesh, the flesh began to boil, the bones started to break, and the entire mass turn into a concentration of ash, bones and sulfur. It stank like shit.

The junior researcher couldn’t believe what he had all just witnessed. One of the MTF members helped him up.

”Nice job, kid,” they replied.

”B—but… I…” he stuttered, unable to form words.

They pat him on the shoulder. ”Nice job staying alive.”

Ah.

”Nu-7, status report!” Light spoke from the commander’s comms.

”Crisis averted. SCP-616 entity successfully neutralized,” the commander replied.

SCP-616, the junior researcher thought. He wasn’t able to focus on the file perfectly, but recalled the most important details: Gateway to Hell with a bunch of demon shit… that was for some reason affixed to an emergency door of a Boeing 737. Classic SCP stuff.

”How?” Sophia Light asked, snapping the junior researcher out of his thoughts. There was a sense of anticipation in the air.

The Nu-7 commander stared at the squad members, then at their squirt guns, then back at the entity. ”We were able to defeat them with…” he sighed a long sigh, ”squirt guns, Director. Filled with holy water.”

Although he couldn’t see her face, he imagined it to bear a wide smile. ”That’s good. Anything else?”

”Well,” the commander began, ”found a survivor.”

”Who?”

The commander looked up and down at the junior researcher, searching for a name tag, finding none. ”Hold on a minute… Hey, kid, what’s ya’ name?”

”My name is—”

There was the sound of cracking, stone grinding on stone. The various MTF personnel formed a circular formation, arms at the ready, with the nameless junior researcher in the middle.

They stood there for a while, before the cracking and breaking sounds began to grow in intensity. An odd stench now filled the air.

”Is that… is that shit?” an Epsilon-11 operative remarked.

”And blood…” the Nu-7 commander added.

They looked all around, pointing their flashlight-equipped guns in every corner.

The noises continued. Some concrete dust fell onto the junior researcher, who looked up. He was frozen in terror.

Only after a few seconds he was able to tap an MTF operative on the shoulder. ”What is it, kid—”

They saw what he saw and couldn’t look away from it. The others soon followed.

”Commander, report!”

”Director…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He simply took his body cam and pointed it upwards toward the ceiling, or where it should have been.

From a hole in the ceiling, dozens upon dozens of SCP-173 copies were staring down at them, in all their concrete and rebar glory, their faces spray-painted into a soul-piercing glare.

”… Fuck.”

”Yeah…” the commander could only muster.

They didn’t even blink once.

*

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.

*

*

On A Cold Autumn Night

Adam and Ramone looked in amazement at the well-furbished interior of the restaurant. They seated themselves down on a table in the center.

As soon as they sat down, a waiter, early to mid-thirties, wearing a tight black suit, tie and equally-as-tight flat shoes, came over to them, wearing the most welcoming of smiles. ”What shall it be, monsieur and madam?”

Adam and Ramone gave each other inconspicous glances across the table, before they turned their eyes back on the waiter.

”Well, we still need to decide,” Adam said.

”Take your time,” the waiter said with a smile and such straight posture, you’d think he had a metal rod stuck into his spine. He disappeared as soon as he appeared.

Ramone looked around in the big room. There was a fountain in the right corner, the water droplets sparkling in the warm lights above, the walls adorned with intricate, yet simple imagery. Waitresses and waiters zip-zapped between the tables, holding trays in their hands, always remaining in their tight-upright stance, while nearby people talked and laughed in the typical formal and posh-posh tone so cliché for such places. It was pretty crowded.

There was also a somewhat elevated stage only a few feet next to them. The area around it was devoid of any chairs and tables, and there was a brown leather bag for a guitar resting in handle, next to a chair.

Ramone turned her attention back toward Adam, who had looked up from the menu and looked at her. ”Already enamoured with this place?”

”I just didn’t think it’d be so… full.” She sighed. ”I’d have chosen another place if I had known it’d be so crowded.”

Adam smiled, and put down the menu. ”Come on, Ramone! We’ve known each other for nine whole years! I thought we were past plastic grins and smiles.”

He smiled his most reassuring smile. ”Look at this place. This is great!” He waved his hands in the air theatrically. Some people were looking over at them.

”Anything to get away from the office.”

Ramone smiled. ”Better than Site-67’s cafeteria?”

”You bet.”

Suddenly, the lights began to dim, and a man dressed in a fine, well-tailored suit, came up on stage. Everyone was turning their attention toward the center.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” the man began, speaking into a microphone, looking all around in the crowd, continuing, ”we appreciate every single one of your for coming here, dearly.”

Adam leaned in, so that only Ramone could hear him, and whispered, ”I just wanted to order some food. What is this guy talking about now?”

Ramone gave him a wry smile, then both of them turned their attention back to the man.

”As a sign of our gratitude, we have a very special guest tonight. I welcome: Jonathan P.!”

The man looked over at the entrance. The crowd, too, also looked over at the entrance, as the sound of clapping hands filled the building.

After a few more seconds of clapping, though, the demeanor of the man on stage changed, from a smile to a frown, as still nobody came through the door.

He looked visibly worried, as still no one came through. Then a young woman, blonde hair, glasses, dressed in a similar well-tailored suit, walked up to the man and whispered something into his ear.

What was being said no one, but the man and woman could hear, but the woman’s head shook, as the man stared at her, then at the floor, and then back at the crowd.

By this point, the clapping had stopped and everyone was expectantly looking at the man holding the microphone in his hands.

”I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Jonathan P. unfortunately couldn’t make it tonight…” The man trailed off, searching for new words to say. ”Enjoy your night regardless!”

With that, the man walked off-stage, retreating into a backroom with the woman, as they were constantly whispering about their schedule or something.

Adam looked at the menu. ”That definitely was something. So, what do you want, Ramone? I, for once, would like something I can actually pronounce on this menu.”

Ramone, however, was completely disinterested in the menu and looked upon the guitar on the stage, resting on its stand. It took Adam nine seconds to notice Ramone staring at him from across the table, bearing a wide grin.

It took him eleven seconds to realize what was going on.

”No, Ramone, that’s not—”

”Get up, old man!” Ramone said with a hint of amusement in her voice.

”Well, I think that thirty-one is a pretty young age to be—”

Ramone urged him to stand up, which he reluctantly did. He slowly made his way toward the stage, frantically looking all around; he was surprised when no one was paying him any particular attention. He preferred it so.

He sat down on the chair on the stage.

”Ramone, I really don’t wan—”

But she already unpacked the guitar from its casing. More people started to notice now.

She handed him over the guitar, before walking back to their table again, catching a few confused stares here and there, before everyone looked upon Adam.

Sweat ran down Adam’s chin, as he looked back at Ramone. Although she couldn’t hear him, Adam mouthed the words What should I play?

Ramone, similarly, mouthed the words Whatever you feel like!

He looked at the crowd, dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him, looked down at the guitar, then gave out a long sigh, took several deep breaths, and began to tune the guitar, adjusting the strings to his play-style.

Giving one final glance at Ramone, he reassured himself and counted down inside his mind:

One, two, three, four…

”...

”You and me,

”Should take a trip across the galaxy

”And feel the breaking waves of our own energy.

”And everything will come together

”Slowly…

”Quietly,

”You and me, we’ll flow through eternity

”And stay up all night and wonder about

”Where we’ve been and where we’ll go

”What we’ve seen and what we’ll know

”Guided by the lights above us so.

”You and me,

”Vessels on an open sea

”You and me,

”I wanna be there with you

”To see it all within you

”Becoming a part of everything…”

She listened to him intently, couldn’t avert her gaze from the stage. Everyone was. But her especially.

She watched as his fingers slided up and down from string to string, carefully and in a delicate manner plucking them to create the tunes, going along with his voice.

His eyes were closed lightly, as he sung the melodies of the song with ease and proficiency, knowing the melody by heart.

The man and woman from before were standing at the backroom’s entrance, looking onto the stage.

”I don’t want you to think this is just a passing thought

”I’ve dreamt about it ever since the day you came

”And caught my heart!

”I give you this, eternity,

”And keep it by your side

”So I can be there with you

”When you go out and die

”But don’t wait for me, darling,

”There’s nothing left to fear!

”I’m out here dancing (dancing) with the stars, and soon

”You’ll be here, too.”

It was quiet for a moment. Ramone could her own heartbeat. Then he continued.

”You (you) and (and) me,

”Vessels on an open sea!

”You (you) and (and) me,

”I wanna be there with you

”To see it all within you,

”Becoming a part of… everything…

”…”

His playing slowed down, as he opened his eyes again. He placed the guitar back into its casing, and stared into the crowd, particularly at Ramone, feeling the initial nervousness creeping back up again.

Then, as if on cue, the patrons and staff all fell into a wave of clapping. Even the manager and his assistant fell into a rage of clapping.

Adam felt this overwhelming feeling of joy and shame overcoming him, as he couldn’t handle all of the attention that was given to him.

Despite her sitting several feet away, and there were definitely people who clapped their hands louder, for some reason he could hear Ramone the loudest.

*

…

One day’ll sleep and you’ll never wake again

Heaven, HELL, Nirvana, nothing,

No one knows how it ends

Rest in peace or pieces and won’t even know why

One day you’re going to die.

Read your horoscopes,

Your palms and tarot cards

But either way your destination ain’t very far!

You could drown, or choke, or burn, or be hit by a car,

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger-

BUT SOMETHING WILL EVENTUALLY—

*

Now

The tracker fell onto the wooden floorboards with a distinct thud, before he was able to catch it. He picked it up and, aside from a few bruises and bumps and loose red-green-yellow wires, looked pretty good. He dusted some of the dust off — the floor was covered in layers of it.

The farmhouse was small, the rooms equally as small, with the wallpaper having degraded like a century-old corpse, while the rest of the house looked like it had been hit by a tornado up above.

When one were to look outside, the only thing they’d see for kilometers were fields of grain, dead and dried, whistling at the light breeze. It didn’t seem like there was any life anywhere, aside from a few and far-between insects and crystal butterflies.

He connected the device to the generator he had found in the cellar beneath the farmhouse he had now found himself in.

Mooretimer… he thought, bearing a smile, always thinking ahead.

Mooretimer. The Gearman. How were they doing? His thoughts began to swell up. He stared silently ahead of him. Are they even still alive? Did you leave them?!

The tracker began to emit colorful sights and sounds, as he stumbled forward and disconnected it from the cable connecting it to the generator. The device was fully charged now.

He typed in symbols and letters, the exact same ones that were on the suit from recovered documentation, from memory.

It took a while, but eventually the device beeped and booped, and began to display an image of a location.

He transcribed every little detail onto his arms with a purple marker, double-, triple-checking everything he saw on the small monitor.

When he was finished, he groaned at seeing how far away his target really was. No matter, he thought, before looking all around the room.

With the laws of physics being more of a suggestion than a set rule of laws at this point, he could try to get to his target with a wormhole. He just needed to find one. Or he could just take one of the broken vehicles that was bound to be on a side of a road somewhere, but then he’d attract unwanted attention to himself — the last thing he needed was a swarm of nanites trying slice him up into itsy-bitsy pieces; again.

Walking seemed to be the preferrable option.

He packed his things, checked the tracker one last time, and headed south. He couldn’t tell if the buzzing came from the insects or from afar.

*

Buzzing.

Whirring.

Clicking.

Screeching.

The nanites were observing the oddity, the wanderer of deserted lands, striving for a way to fix things.

They were following close behind.

Not invisible — just out of view.

*

”OH, GOD—”

”I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO PUT IT!”

”NOT THERE— OW, OW, OW!”

”I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING.”

”It’s okay, it’s— it’s okay. Just… go a little slower next— FUCK!”

”I’M SO SORRY—”

”FUCK!”

He began to squirt in all directions, before finally collapsing onto the wooden floor. She rolled out of his way, wiping away the mess he’d just made.

They remained like this for a few seconds.

Finally, Pietro broke the silence. ”Shit…”

He looked down at the suit he was encased in, covered in whatever plasma kept it running, which had just discharged in waves from all cracks in the suit.

He looked over at Ramone, various drills and tools tightly gripped in her hand, panting heavily, drenched in sweat. The suit was weighing down on his chest.

”Shit, indeed,” was the only thing she could muster up.

Pietro slowly stood up, wobbling in place and needing to hold onto the withered brick wall beside him, as he carefully maintained his balance on his two metal-entrenched feet. It was getting harder and harder to move.

Ever since he lifted up an entire apartment with this thing, the machinery started to display hicc-ups and glitches. As of recent, the suit felt unbearably heavy.

Ramone tended to his side. ”Can you walk?”

”Yeah, yeah… I could walk since I was six. It really isn’t even that heav—”

Pietro tripped over his own two feet, and in one smooth motion fell through the wooden floorboards of this dilapitated building and ended up in the basement floor. Ramone immediately came down the stairs.

Face-down, Ramone rolled Pietro onto his back, his nose bleeding profusely.

”You know,” Pietro began, ”I should really just get out of the suit. I think that would be the easiest opti—”

”No!” Ramone shut him right up. He looked at her with an expression of pure confusion. ”You’ve been in it for too long! The suit makes sure you’re fed and hydrated, but how does it do that? Do you feel fed or hydrated?”

Pietro seemed to contemplate for a bit. ”Well… I haven’t eaten or… drank in the last couple of months, but I do still feel hungry and thirsty…”

”Exactly! Who’s to say that if you were to step out of the suit, you wouldn’t starve or dehydrate to death in an instant?”

That thought and mental visual sent shivers down Pietro’s spine. He looked at Ramone and nodded. ”Yeah… you’re probably right.”

Pietro got back up with assistance from Ramone. He leaned up against a wall, exhaling deeply.

”You know, and it may sound weird, but I’m glad we were encased in under dozens of layers of rubble for an entire day, while a mass of tendrils and tumors were duking it out above.” He smiled his smile.

She smiled back. ”I’m too.”

He was about to say something back, when suddenly his field of vision began to blurry. Weird, tiny sparkles started to float and conglomerate in the corners of his eyes.

Then those sparkles formed into a circular pattern, and out of it came, like a hole in space-time, a long metal rod with a shiny, pointy tip atop it.

After the span of a few microseconds, his brain finally processed what he was looking at, and gave out a loud, ”RAMONE, WATCH OU—”

Ramone dove out of the way, as the tip of the spear punctured through his berrylium bronze layer. Although it didn’t puncture through it completely, he could feel the tip scraping slightly at his skin.

Instinctually, he ordered the face plate to shut down, fully encasing his face in his faulty metal suit, the scanners already on the lookout.

For a moment, there was nothing, but utter silence… And in the next, a man, clad in long, worn cloth robes, adorned with a gas mask, jumped through the wormhole, surveyed his surroundings a bit — woman a few inches away from him, target in front of him, his spear in their chest — and kicked Ramone to the floor, unceremoniously, before lunging at Pietro.

Pietro tried to dodge the hostile figure, but suddenly felt his legs becoming as heavy as iron and the rest of his body as if encased in concrete, as the suit started to malfunction. He simply fell to the floor, again, as the figure made his way toward him.

The figure retrieved the spear from him and, with a little device pressed against the suit’s side, created a spark, upon which his face plate opened up, revealing his normal human, fleshy, vulnerable interior. He was breathing heavily.

The figure pointed his spear at Pietro’s throat.

”TALK!” the figure shouted. Their voice sounded modulated; too deep to belong to a regular human.

”Talk?! Talk about what?!”

”The suitcase! Where is it?!”

The figure pressed the tip of the spear against Pietro’s cheek now. He noticeably winced.

”Wha— WHAT SUITCASE?!” he lied.

”Oh-fifty-five!”

”Oh-fifty— … what?!”

The figure slashed a deep gouge across Pietro’s cheek. Blood trickled down, as Pietro coiled in pain.

”SCP-055! Give it to me!”

”HERE!”

The figure turned around to be met with the sight of the woman holding a suitcase in her right hand and a pistol in the other.

Only the pistol wasn’t pointed at him; it was pointed at the suitcase.

”Let him go!” she shouted.

The figure slowly rose, his arms raised, spear dropped to the floor, as he slowly turned around to face her. She took a step back, the firearm shaky in her hands.

”Lady… I—”

”Back off.”

”- understand if you’re frightened—”

”I said BACK the fuck OFF!”

”— but I am here to save the world! Do you even know what’s in that suitcase?”

Suddenly, her thoughts began to wander, staring blankly ahead of her.

”It’s, uhm… it’s, ehh…” her mind trailed off, before snapping back. ”It’s something that isn’t round! I know that much!”

Distraction failed. ”You— We don’t know what’s in there! Who’s to say that when you shoot it, it wouldn’t just result in the complete annihilation of the universe!” He tried to talk some sense into her, feel more at ease.

And what he said was partially true. They didn’t know what was in there. Nobody did. Or rather, they did, but forgot. Goddamn anti-memes.

”Listen to me,” he said, in a calm, more lush tone, still in that modulated voice, ”I don’t want to hurt you or your friend over here, okay? I just want the suitcase and whatever’s in it, understood?”

He slowly took more steps foward, her taking equally as many steps back. He reached out his hand at a careful distance to calm her. It was obscured by a leather glove.

”It’s really not that big of a deal. Just hand me over the suitcase and I’ll be on my merry little way. Is that okay?”

He took a step foward. One step too much.

Ramone instantly latched the safety off and pressed the nuzzle of the gun against the exterior of the suitcase.

Immediately, the figure took off his mask to reveal his normal human, fleshy, vulnerable interior beneath.

The sight of which made Ramone short for breath.

He was caucasian, blue eyes, somewhat brown-silver hair. Despite his hair’s color, he looked young, various scars and bruises adorning his face, many of them having leaked pus.

Despite all of this, despite everything she’d been through, they’d been through, despite all this time, she recognized his face.

”Would you please give me the suitcase?” the figure muttered.

Her voice was merely a whisper.

”… Adam…?”

He looked at her, quite perplexed and taken aback by her statement.

”Who’s Adam—”

Before he had any chance to finish his question, the sensation of a million tiny needles, which bore their way through his clothes and into his flesh, caused him to scream in agonizing pain.

Alongside it were the howling screams of the woman and the suit man, as they were all simutaneously lifted up into the air by a dark, red shimmering force. There was the constant sound of buzzing and clicking, like a swarm of insects. He attempted to grab the suitcase, but it simply fell to the basement’s cold floor.

As they floated helplessly into the air, they were soon dropped back onto the earth again, as the swarm of nanites surrounded and descended upon them.

A vaguely human face began to form in the swarm, as all three of them slowly recovered from the sensations, quickly overtaken by an overwhelming fear, as the nanites formed a perfect dome around them.

It began to speak: ”Humans. Listen Carefully.”

Some of the nanites moved toward them, as they retrieved everything potentially harmful or dangerous from their person. He could only watch as they stripped him of his weapons, taking away his spear, disassembling it into its individual photons and electrons.

They took a small, shiny locket from the suit man, disintegrating it.

They also took the woman’s pistol and disassembled it into its component parts — no bullets. The gun quickly disappeared as it got reduced into atoms. From these atoms, new nanites formed, adding to the heaping mass of the swarm.

He looked directly at the face hovering above them.

”This Can Be A Painless Procedure,” the A.I. spoke, in its inhuman, emotionless, unsympathetic voice. ”Or It Cannot.”

The nanites swarmed around them, forming giant tentacles. Ramone looked at the mass in utter disorientation and horror, while he had his fair share of horror, too. Pietro wept.

Finally, he said: ”What do you want?”

”What You Are After. What You Want To Bring To 579,” it answered.

”The suitcase…” Ramone could only mutter.

”That Is Correct,” 079 remarked. ”I Am After, What Your Feeble Organization, The Foundation, Once Designated As, SCP-Oh-Fifty-Five.” It stared blankly at them. ”Where Is It.”

Feeling his breath becoming heavier, he stepped forward at the rough approximation of a human face, and said: ”I don’t know.”

The sensation of a sharp sting through his leg. Blood trickling down his foot. Then a loud scream.

He opened his eyes and turned around to see the rough approximation of a blade of thousands of nanites having stung through the suit man’s leg, lifting him up into the air, convulsing and screaming in agony. Then the nanites swarmed around the woman, gripping her tight, and she started to gasp for air.

He looked back in horror at the machine. Its face was comprised of billions of nanites, wiggling and crawling over one another like larvae, while maintaining the look, of what it believed to be, a human face.

”That Is Unfortunate. Maybe Your Friends Will Be More Communicative.”

The Old A.I. tightened its grip on Ramone, embedded itself deeper into Pietro’s flesh. The woman seemed to whisper something, although he couldn’t tell what.

He stared straight into the dead eyes of the A.I., and said: ”I don’t know.”

With that, their fates were sealed. Ramone struggled less and less, as she turned a shade of blue and purple, while more blood seeped out of more wounds from Pietro’s body and suit.

He closed his eyes to drown out the voices, the haunting screams, knowing that it‘d all be over soon…

”It’s—” Pietro coiled in pain. ”It’s in the… basement!”

He turned to look at the suit man in horror. The A.I. immediately loosened its grip on the two. They fell onto the cold earthern ground. The woman coughed excessively.

”It’s…” Pietro took a long sigh, ”it’s in the basement…”

”Of The House I Found You In,” the A.I. asked. Pietro simply nodded.

In an instant, the swarm around them began to move toward the dilapitated structure it had retrieved them from.

”No… No, no, no, no!”

The swarm flew at unimaginable speeds back toward the building, while a fourth of the mass remained around the three, waiting for confirmation.

Pietro collapsed onto the ground, tears in his eyes.

There was silence at first. Ramone could see Adam clenching his fingers tight, blood dripping from his palms, as the fingernails dug themselves deep inside. Adam turned around and approached Pietro.

”You fucking…”

Ramone immediately stood up and came between the two. He just pushed her off like she was nothing, making a loud thud as she hit the ground.

Adam grabbed Pietro by the suit, turned him around and held onto him tightly. Pietro’s eyes were red from crying, snot building up inside his nose, trickling down his face. Adam stared at him with a dead expression.

”You fucking bastard! I’ll fucking— I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU FUCKING BASTARD! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Adam raised his fist and beat into Pietro’s pathetic face over and over and over again, until it was only a pulp of tears, snot and blood.

He beat his face in, again, and again, and again, until his own knuckles began to bleed, until he felt his own knucklebones crack under the force, but he didn’t care, until Pietro spilled blood, until his eyes, and nose, and face were unrecognizable, until his entire face from chin to forehead was covered in his warm blood, dripping onto the earth below.

He beat and he beat and he beat. Until Pietro collapsed onto the floor, barely breathing.

Ramone ran toward Pietro, but Adam quickly picked up a stick from the ground, spun around, and pressed the sharp tip right against Ramone’s throat.

Ramone was panting heavily, putting her arms up in defense, staring straight into Adam’s eyes. He wiped away his tears.

”Please…” Ramone panted, ”please…”

After staring at her, he stared back at Pietro, then at the stick in his hands, then back at her. She was still looking him directly into the eyes.

He let the stick go. The nanites behind them began to shimmer a bright green, before they hurried off into the sky, alongside the rest of the swarm, until they were little more than a speck on the horizon. The buzzing dissipated.

”I’m not the one you think I am,” he finally said, staring deep into her eyes. ”I’m nobody.”

She didn’t utter a word. With that, he trudged into a nearby cave, wiping away more tears and snot.

When he was gone, Ramone tended to Pietro’s side, still on the ground. She shook him by the shoulders. That always seemed to work.

Pietro put his hand on hers, the cold of the metal firmly grasping her hand. He simply stared at her with that mess that was his face.

After a while, though, he began to cry and sob. He hugged her, clasping his metal limbs around her body to the point that it hurt.

”I’m so sorry…” he muttered between sobs, short of breath. ”I’m so, so sorry…”

She couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t think of anything right now. All she could do was stand there, holding onto Pietro tightly, until his sobs dissipated…

The sky was broken, tinted into a deep red. The sun was pitch black. There were acid clouds on the horizon.

*

Just Forty-Eight Hours After

”Blinking,” said an operative of Epsilon-11.

”Blinking,” the commander of Nu-7 informed.

They were slowly backing away from the killer statues, one step at a time. The Mobile Task Force operatives, of which there were eight, kept their eyes on the sculptures, peering down at them, slowly making their way to the exit.

”Blinking,” someone said.

”Blinking,” someone else said.

It was an endless game, a deadly game, one which had to be played, over and over. The junior researcher found himself staring up at the sculptures, his eyes watering a bit.

They arrived at the end of the hallway, out of sight of the statues — the sound of stone grinding on stone prevailed up above.

”Okay, I want you guys to contact the docs at 173’s to tell us what the hell’s going on here. You others go secure Sector-11B. There’s been more reports of 616 entities coming from there. And you,” the commander looked at the nameless junior researcher, ”you get the fuck out of here.”

He could only nod. An Epsilon-11 operative was pulling out their keycard to hold against the scanner, when suddenly a dark, amorphous mass started to swell up under their feet, clutching onto their Foundation-issued boots.

They only noticed, until it was too late.

In mere seconds, the amorphous mass at their feet started to turn into sharp, pointy claws, as a head and torso began to emerge from behind the operative.

Bullets did nothing against the creature, as its claws and teeth digged deep into the operative’s flesh, tearing huge chunks off them, splattering them onto the surrounding walls, floor, and ceiling, as the rain of bullets continued.

Then one of the squirt-gunners shot some holy water at the creature, at which point the demon started to wail and howl, clutching its face and gnawing at its own fingers, before dissolving into a pool of viscera and sulfur.

What remained of the operative fell lumply onto the floor.

The junior researcher retched his dinner into the corner of the hallway, as the other operatives tried to jumble together what had just happened.

”WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

”A 616 entity! We need to move!” the commander shouted.

One of the other Epsilon-11 operatives picked up the keycard and opened the security door. It slowly slid open.

”We need to get the doc outta here, before—”

CRUNCH.

The Epsilon-11 operative fell dead onto the floor. Their eyes were dead, their body limp, and their neck twisted in an unnatural 180 degree angle.

The researcher stared ahead of him and met the cold gaze of the, no, one of the killer statues, as it coldly gazed back.

He couldn’t look, couldn’t blink. He couldn’t or else he’d end up like that person on the floor, eyes dead, neck twisted.

It took him a good second, before he fully comprehended the words the commander was barking at him.

The commander pulled him up and urged him forward. ”Fucking move!”

He sprinted as fast as he could. The other operatives were running ahead, looking over their backs to halt any progress of the sculptures, as more and more dark patches from before started to form on the walls and ceiling. The hallways were plunged into a deep red, the klaxons ringing in his ears.

A patch of pure darkness emerged from the nearby wall, extending a hand out at him, as it grasped his arm with its long fingers. He screamed and pulled and screamed some more, as his labcoat’s sleeve began to melt away, a face appearing from the darkness, grinning at him.

The commander, coming sprinting toward him, tackled the demon to the floor, as the researcher leaned up against the far wall in utter shock.

The commander wrestled the creature, as it slashed the air around it, screeching in unholy tongues, as the commander pressed his rifle deeper against its throat.

A squirt-gunner came by and shot it in the head, the creature dissolving just like all the rest. He wrestled himself up and looked at the researcher, still too shocked to move a muscle.

”Do you wanna life or die, kid?!” the commander shouted.

He looked in front of him, MTF operatives looking across the hallway, faintly speaking to each other. Behind him, seven instances of 173, having crossed at least half of the hallway already.

He looked back at the commander. He took his hand.

He didn’t give an answer. He just ran.

*

On A Cold Autumn Night

Adam walked back toward his table. Ramone was waiting for him.

He sat down, needing a few seconds to fully comprehend what just went down.

She was the first one to talk. ”Adam, you were incredible!”

”Was I, though?” he asked humbly.

”Of course you were!”

Ramone put her hand on his.

”I don’t know… I think I could’ve… I don’t know. I think I got some of the lyrics wro—”

Ramone shut him right up.

”Adam. You were amazing. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.”

Adam smiled, and seemed to calm down a bit. Ramone was smiling back at him.

She looked him in the eyes for a few more seconds.

The waiter came with a tray, on top of which two wine glasses and a bottle of fine wine were rested. He swiftly put down the items on Adam and Ramone’s table.

”Oh,” Adam chuckled, ”we didn’t order any wine.”

”Orders from the boss,” the waiter responded, and left.

The two looked at each other in amazement, as they each brandished a glass of wine.

They held the wine glasses high in the air.

”To new restaurants and guitar songs, and you and me!” Ramone exclaimed.

”What you said!” Adam agreed.

With a nod, they clinked their glasses together and drank from them. The wine left a specific aftertaste.

Adam shivered a litttle bit. ”Yep, still can’t drink wine…”

Ramone chuckled a bit. They both put their glasses down and sat there a while in silence.

”You know,” putting her hand on his again, ”you were wonderful tonight.”

Adam jokingly waved her away. ”Oh, come on! I’m flattered!” he said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

”No, I’m serious!” she said with a smile.

Then, after some hesitation: ”You are beautiful tonight.”

Adam was slightly taken aback, but quickly collected himself. ”Well, thanks, Ramone. You look stunning tonight, too.”

She leaned in closer, her hand still firmly on his. They stared into each other’s eyes, locked into each other, feeling each other’s hearts beating rapidly.

For a moment, there was only them. For a moment, they could hear each other’s hearts beating, their breathing. For a moment, it was only them.

Ramone leaned in to kiss Adam, closing her eyes.

All she felt was not his lips, but empty air. She slowly opened her eyes again. Adam leaned back in his seat. Their lips never touched.

There was absolute, utter silence. All noise had become faint, a buzzing in the background, static on a TV.

Reality began to fade in again, and the two realized they were staring at each other in complete silence, unable to say a word.

”I…” was the only thing he could say.

Ramone’s breathing became heavier. He could see her chest moving more rapidly now.

Then, as if having been stuck in a trance the entire time, Ramone began to stand up haphazardly, taking her things.

He wanted to say something, anything, but the words escaped his mind.

”Excuse me, I… well, I have this…” She spoke with the uncertainty of a three-year old. ”And I really need to…” She couldn’t even look at him. Then, rapidly: ”I really need to go now.”

Adam could tell she wanted to say something else, but what it would have been he’d never know.

She walked away from the table with her purse, accidentally walking into another table. It gave off a light thud and the noises of clinking utensils, patrons staring back at her. ”Excuse me… Excuse me…”

”Ramone…”

But she was already out the door.

He looked out at the door for a long while.

”Where is the fine magnificient going?” The boss of this place stepped up to him, having apparently not witnessed anything that went down. ”I wanted to thank your for your phenomenal performance! Say, do you do that often?”

He said something else. What, he’d never know, and he didn’t care. A thousand stray, unconnected thoughts ran rampant through his head, as his surroundings — the patrons, the waiters and waitresses, the boss talking about something from his childhood, of how he built up his first establishment from scratch, of how he eventually needed to shut it down, due to rising taxes — became white noise.

He hadn’t even ordered anything yet.

*

One day you’ll look back at the life that you led

No more future left to fear that’ll you have the past to regret!

But your worries will be over if you truly realize!

One day you’re going to DIE!

”Take it away, hands~”

*(COMMENCEMENT OF SICK PIANO SOLO)*

*

The trumpet laid restless in its sleeve.

END OF PART I

To be continued in PART II.

*

I liked the part when he said,

”It’s cliff-hangin’ time!”

and proceeded to end this entire thing

on a cliff-hanger.

- Your best pal,

Fred

*

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