Thump-Thump, Tick-Tock - SCP Foundation

Thump-Thump, Tick-Tock

Somewhere in the Golan Heights, Modern-Day Syria

A long time ago

The last rays of a setting sun struggle through the thick canopy of forest, doing their best to illuminate the base of the rocky cliff. Vivian walks alongside the cliff. They have no need for the sunlight, and their heavy steps maintain a constant, perfect rhythm. Their eyes are fixed on the outcropping of stone, and they stop as they see a thin strip of dark shadow amongst the white rock. It is a narrow crevice, barely fifteen centimeters wide, and leads to a place the light does not reach.

Vivian opens their third eye. It is made of glass and its lid is brass, situated at the forefront of their scalp. It sees translucent, crimson veins, pulsating sleepily with a rhythmic beat of their own on the shadowed rock. They reach out a brass arm to touch them. The veins do not react, remaining dormant. They close the eye, and enter the crevice.

The stone presses on them from all sides, scraping skin and metal plating alike. Step by step, they inch their way through it, their pace uniform, almost robotic. The ever-ticking clock in their brain tells them ten minutes have passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty, and finally they reach their destination. The chamber is small and round, barely three meters across. Its smooth, domed ceiling is completely covered by carvings of Yaldabaoth - an incomprehensible mass of flesh devoid of order or reason, its thousand mouths open wide in endless hunger. The walls depict a robed figure on an elevated outcrop of rock, raising his arms to confront the voracious sky. A ritual array has been etched into the floor, six circles connected by a web of curving, asymmetric lines feeding into one another like arteries and veins.

Vivian draws a vial of blood from their pocket. They pour it into the miniature canals, bracing themself as they watch it flow through the channels. When it fills the innermost ring, it flares and the room explodes in hateful red light. A human spine shoots out from the floor, crackling with energy as skeletal limbs and a ribcage form around it. A skull materializes on top as crimson strands of muscle race across the bones and wrap themselves around them. Eyes appear in empty holes, and layers of skin begin to spread over the new body, covering organs which had not existed a moment before. The form of a man is clear now, black hair sprouting from the scalp and falling to the shoulders. Silky red robes weave themselves into being around him. Finally, when his tongue completes itself inside his mouth, he cries out in an ancient language Vivian knows intimately.

“I am Karcist Sorusk, Chosen of Ion! Praise Kalmaktama, the Deathless Empire!” He looks to his summoner. Vivian knows his eyes to be unfocused, still adjusting to the waking world after centuries of slumber. “Why have you woken me? Is it time? Has the Grand Karcist returned to us at last, to tear down the false civilizations and remake the world-”

Three shots ring out, reverberating through the air not as the booming of gunpowder, but as the chiming of metal against metal. Three slugs of beryllium-bronze embed themselves into the Karcist’s brain. He topples backwards, but the clockwork warrior sees his skull already mending, skin knitting itself across the wounds. They fire three more blessed bullets at the fleshcrafter, the sound echoing like the tolls of a bell.

“Your empire is dead, Karcist. All that is left are the seeds of a cancer in remission.” Vivian retrieves a glass bottle from a cavity in their metallic thigh. “I will not allow a single one to finish its gestation.” They hurl it at the Karcist, just as pink tendrils of flesh rip through his robes and reach for them, razor sharp teeth growing on them like spines. The bottle shatters against his body, and he screams as it is instantly engulfed in the jade tongues of Greek Fire. Vivian drops their revolver and throws themself backwards, striking at the closest tentacle with their brass arm.

They see the green flames climb the tendrils, reducing them to ash before their eyes. They hear the Karcist cough and convulse, his vocal cords disintegrating. They smell the horrible stench of burnt meat, amplified a hundredfold in the subterranean chamber. They stand up and open their third eye, watching the spectral veins retreat along the walls into the phantasmal heart within the Karcist’s body. It beats one final time, before slowly fading away into nothing, until all that is left is Vivian, and the ticking of their own clockwork heart.

Moscow, Russia

October, 2021

Vivian sits at the corner of the bar, pretending to drink their glass. They are bundled in thick trousers, gloves, and a heavy coat, its hood obscuring the patchwork texture of their head from mundane eyes. Every thirty seconds, their eyes shift from the wall-mounted television streaming soccer to the black door behind the counter. They watch it carefully, noting the three that had entered the room beyond in the past hour - A bald man with a cyclop’s skull tattoo on his exposed shoulder, a muscular woman with her blonde hair in a ponytail, and a short man with a graying beard. Vivian knows what lies beyond that door - a vile stash of Nectar, most of it still active despite the Impasse. The establishment is owned by the Hunter’s Black Lodge, terror of the Moscow underworld.

“…the formerly clandestine organization known as the SCP Foundation has announced its dissolution and the formation…”

Vivian’s eyes widen and snap to the television. The background chatter of the soccer game is gone, replaced with an emergency news flash. The newswoman appears to be just as stunned as they are, barely managing to relay the world-changing event without a stutter. Narrowing their eyes, they consider if this might be the work of an anartist, or the media company they heard rumors about. But anyone who might still have the power to cause such a thing would not use it to prank a small bar, even a front for the Black Lodge.

“…On the international stage, Vanguard has already been attacked by another secret organization, calling itself the Global Occult Coalition…”

A crowd forms around the television screen, and Vivian finds their view obscured by a wall of heads and coats. They stand up to glance at the black door, and see the three people from before head towards the gathering. Instinctively, Vivian wills their third eye to open, and realizes with a start that, this time, it had obeyed. They observe the ghostly veins wrapped around the three’s bodies - thicker and denser around the tattooed man’s chest, but weaker on the other two. They flex the fingers of their brass hand, feeling the numbness they had felt in it these past few months slowly dissipate. They almost smile.

Vivian closes their third eye and carefully moves behind the Black Lodge grunts, who are still entranced by the ongoing broadcast. They take off the glove from their metallic hand, and in a flash of movement deliver a powerful blow to the tattooed man’s nape. There is a snap of breaking bone, and as he falls with a cry of shock, their other arm snatches the pistol from his belt. The other two spin to face them, reaching for their weapons, but Vivian empties the magazine into the blonde woman’s face while grabbing the short man’s wrist. He tries to fire his own pistol, but Vivian squeezes his wrist until it breaks with a splash of blood, bringing him to his knees as his gun clatters to the floor. For good measure, they pick it up and fire at the three until it clicks dry, leaving them to bleed on the floor.

Around them, people are panicking, but their terrified screams do not bother Vivian. Their senses feel sharper, their objective clear. Their clock ticks steadily again.

Their gaze turns to the counter, where the bartender is desperately trying to load a double-barreled shotgun. They throw the two empty pistols at him, one hitting his chest while the other finds his forehead. He falls over backwards into a chair, which collapses on top of him in turn. Vivian rushes to the counter and vaults over it easily, prying the shotgun from the barman’s hands. They finish loading it and glance back at the grunts, sprawled in various states of pain and regeneration. With a deep breath, Vivian steps over to the black door, and kicks it open.

The storage room beyond is spacious, packed full with wooden crates and cardboard boxes. It also contains a towering, vaguely humanoid construct of flesh, with deathly pale skin and claws of sharpened bone. Its head scrapes against the ceiling as it charges towards the intruder with a guttural howl of animalistic rage. Clutching the shotgun tightly, Vivian ducks to avoid a ravenous swipe to their head and dashes to the side, positioning themself so that an open box full of liquor is behind the sentinel. It turns and lunges at them, claws outstretched. Vivian fires twice, blasting the construct with shotgun shells. It staggers for a moment, and Vivian slams their metal leg against its knee while swinging their weapon like a club at its head. It loses its balance and falls into the boxes behind it. The bottles are instantly crushed under its weight, filling its back with shards of glass and spilling alcohol in a shallow puddle around it.

Vivian draws a zippo lighter from their coat pocket, flicks it open and presses the flame to the growing pool. The ethanol ignites, and the fire spreads quickly along the liquid, reaching for the cardboard and lashing at the goliath’s exposed flesh. As it struggles to rise, Vivian opens their third eye and scans the room. The Nectar is hidden in plain sight - a group of featureless crates amongst the rest - but the phantom veins betray their contents. Vivian discards the shotgun and gathers the drugs in their arms, before casting them into the growing flames.

Much of the beast’s flesh has melted off, exposing the thick bones beneath. New tissue flows from them, desperately trying to repair the damage, but the fire has now grown too large and too strong. Vivian waits until they catch a whiff of burnt Nectar before exiting the room through a back door. The freezing night air caresses their face as they break into a jog down Moscow’s dark alleys. They had completed their mission, just like they had done so many times before, but doubt still creeps into Vivian’s mind when they think of the broadcast. The secretive, mystical world they have been a part of for so long is now laid bare for all to see, and they can’t help but think -

What happens now?

"Karcist Varis, I’m going to address the elephant in the room, so to speak. Your people - the Nälkä - have been accused of performing horrific acts, including ritual cannibalism and human sacrifices, as part of their religious practices. How do you respond to such claims, especially in cases where the evidence is undeniable?”

A wave of murmurs spreads throughout the crowd, but the Karcist does not seem phased, smiling instead. Vanguard's part educational campaign part press conference is drawing to a close - eighty-seven minutes out of ninety - Vivian knows.

“Ah, a fantastic question, and one I have been asked frequently. The Spanish Inquisition tortured and killed countless innocents in the name of God, yet even then, most Christians would not murder their fellow countrymen for being “heretics”. Today, hundreds of thousands of my Nälkä brethren are leading ordinary lives like any other person, simply following a different faith. I speak for these people, Nälkä is not a cult practicing human sacrifice, it is a religion centered on our strength as individuals, and how we can use it to help our community. It is about breaking chains of oppression and abuse. The story of our Grand Karcist Ion is one of humanity finding the strength to rise and face their creator, who views them as nothing more than food."

"But power can corrupt the Nälkä just as it can corrupt any other people. There are still those who believe in the revival of the Deathless Empire, those who have used my faith as an excuse to manipulate, control, and outright kill others. To these I say : Grand Karcist Ion did not dream of a conquered world, brought to its knees. He dreamed of a world united - so come, join us, that we might build a better future in his image!'

Varis finishes his speech, and exits the stage while the crowd erupts with applause. One of the announcers heads to the podium, thanks the Karcist, and begins to give an explanation of the upcoming panels that would be presented later that afternoon. Vivian stands up and walks over to the refreshments table at the corner of the auditorium, stretching their legs.

“I did not expect to find a follower of Mekhane in my audience, but seeing you here gives me hope.” Vivian almost chokes on their water when Varis’s voice comes from behind them. They take a moment to mask their surprise before they turn around to face him. He regards them with a warm smile, and says, “What brings you here?”

“I do not know what to believe in anymore.” The words tumble out of Vivian’s mouth before they realize it. All of their thoughts and emotions of the past months come rushing in in a torrent. “I was brought up to despise you, shown the horrors the likes of Adytum’s Wake and the Lodge had committed. I made it my crusade, to purge the world of the cancers that fester within it. But now…”

They let the words linger in the air, Varis does not interrupt.

“Now, one of the sainted Klavigar, whom I regarded as the greatest evil, is acting like a child on social media. The dormant figurehead of the Black Lodge is awake, and claims to simply want a good fight. Something that claims to be my god’s consciousness is harassing people on the internet. So many things I did not know existed have revealed themselves, things that are in opposition to all I have ever known. Nothing… nothing makes sense anymore.”

Vivian’s voice cracks, and they drink the rest of their glass, rapidly blinking away the tears that had formed in their eyes.

“If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the world rarely behaves rationally. Why not join Vanguard?” Varis reaches into his shirt pocket. Vivian takes a step back. “Help us shape the future? Now, more than ever, we need people like you. People who are willing to accept the new world for what it is, and to discard antiquated worldviews.”

He takes out a green business card, and hands it towards Vivian. “And, of course, we could always use another Mekhanite on board.“ Hesitantly, they take the card, and walk away.

The early morning sunlight shines behind Vivian as they stand in front of the Vanguard Lighthouse. The walls of the first floor are a criss-cross pattern of brass colored beams and glass, allowing them to see inside. Even at this hour, the Lighthouse beats with activity. Dozens of people are moving to and fro, talking to receptionists and disappearing into elevators. Vivian glances at the business card again. Their heart ticks in an unfluctuating rhythm.

They make their decision.