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Content note: This article contains body horror, death, alcohol and various unsanitary stuff. If you notice anything tag-worthy that's not in here, please mention it in a comment.

Provisional Site 14.

Item #: SCP-8906

Object Class: Thaumiel

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-8906 is contained at its location of origin, in the cellar of what is now Provisional Site 14 under the supervision of Acting Director Crowhurst. SCP-8906-1 is to be performed biweekly weekly daily unceasingly.

Description: SCP-8906 is a life form of uncertain origin. It consists of a black fleshy main body, with three thick tendrils supporting its mass on the ground, a smaller fourth on its "back," and an uncertain number having metastasised throughout the structure, having grown into the walls and ceiling. As such, its precise size is unknown. Polyps of the entity protrude from various surfaces in the building, and bear a superficial resemblance to carrion crows.1 Through unknown mechanisms, the growth of SCP-8906 has a clear correlation with efficacy of Foundation operations in the United Kingdom.

SCP-8906-1 is a brief play written by Joseph McIntyre, a former occupant of Provisional Site 14. It is a pastiche of a traditional masque,2 depicting the plight of a group of farmers during a drought, upon which an entity referred to as "Archon" (believed to be a representation of SCP-8906) descends from the heavens and provides them with its favour in exchange for their amusing it. McIntyre believed the performance of this play would encourage growth in SCP-8906, and thus his own wealth and power. Tests to verify are ongoing.

Addendum 1: Transcript of SCP-8906 performance (prologue).

Lead role. He should be mature, virtuous, with a fair complexion and of strong blood, infinite in faculty, a paragon of masculinity. A figure of authority within a powerful body would suffice, perhaps a director. An acting director is undesirable.

Our star clears his throat, and shifts atop the stage.

ARCHON: These are black, hollow times in which we find ourselves. The world tends ever-further towards chaos, as men forget their morals, their places, their hearts, and lose their discipline. This black planet takes and takes and takes, and we can never rest, should it take everything.

And it is for that reason that we are so grateful to you. For that reason that we honour you. For we see what you have done, and we desire that for ourselves, and in your infinite grace you may see fit to grant us it. And it is for that reason that we celebrate you, and all you are, and all you can be. And indeed there will be time for you to bless us so.

Exit ARCHON.

SCENE

Addendum 2: Security feed, cellar.

SCP-8906 is in the centre of the room, forcing its way out of the concrete floor and reaching up to the ceiling. Black tendrils extend from the top of its mass, snaking through the room and twined into the tops of the wine racks. Crow-like polyps grow out of them at irregular intervals, fluttering and shivering, occasionally making groaning noises akin to bird caws.

Crowhurst walks into the room, stopping at the top of the stairs, and looks up at SCP-8906.

Crowhurst: Hi.

The polyps shudder, croaking. Crowhurst starts briefly, but regains his composure and begins to make his way downstairs. As he reaches the concrete he stops, and takes a few seconds to fully survey the room.

Sorry, the other guy won't be coming back. Not his fault, you understand, but it had to be done. Procedure. I'm in charge now, pleased to make your acquaintance.

SCP-8906 pulses, and quivers. Crowhurst hesitates, then starts walking slow laps around its main body.

To be perfectly honest, we don't really know if you're sapient. My predecessor definitely thought you were, but we try to be rather more methodical about these things. It's nothing personal.

He chuckles to himself.

We are trying to figure it out though. Some of the staff've even started a pool. Odds are pretty much even at the moment.

I, uh, put a fiver on you being sentient. Obviously. Mind you, if you, uh, want to give us some pointers either way, we'd very much appreciate it. Not that I'm asking - um.

The fella here before worshipped you, y'know. I suppose you'd like that. I imagine most people would. Whether you're a person or not - I mean, I suppose if you are a god it'd be pretty galling to be considered just a person. Depending on what sort of god you were, maybe.

I suppose the whole point of being a god is that we can't tell if you are or not. Not that it matters, in the end. We all know where Pascal put his money, at any rate.

He shuffles up to SCP-8906's central mass, and raises his hand.

I try not to gamble, to be honest. Best not to mess with things you don't really grasp.

He drops his hand to his side.

Better safe than sorry.

He turns, and leaves.

END LOG

Addendum 3: SCP-8906-1, excerpt 1.

The ballroom must be dark as coal, silent. The floor should be covered in dust and soil, old and dry. Enter five men, ideally played by lowly junior researchers; they should wear ragged suits, and a dark mask, that in the gloom they almost appear headless. None in the play should know any other's countenance.

Their head, a once-proud farmer, takes centre stage. He stands, but low, head bowed, shoulders tight and clenched, while his weak compatriots wail and crawl around him.

█████: Now, this summer, we are disconsolate,

For our fallow fields run barren, fetid

As an old maid, whose late years take cruel tithes

From her diminishing harvest; she is left cold

As are we all in this blackest cursed night.

What can we do? Starve ourselves for family?

Must a man go without to save his own?

I would behead myself to save one hair

But what world is this to bear fatherless?

Would I merely cause them further injury?

No! I do not believe it. We will live.

From this rotted ground, we will grow anew,

For we worship one, kind, gracious and strong,

Who breathes life into rotted, gruesome soil,

Into rotted souls, to purify them.

But will He come here? To us worthless ones?

No, I think not. No!

At this point the other men should moan violently and come together, clutching one another, dragging one another around █████.

Fools, have some dignity!

We are not children, we are all good men

Know your worth! This world is yours, if only

You have the heart and stomach to take it!

Addendum 4: Interview with Wesley McIntyre, former owner of Provisional Site 14.

Foreward: McIntyre was the only person in the building at time of recovery. He was discovered in the cellar, lying across SCP-8906's tendrils.

BEGIN LOG

Crowhurst saunters into the library, repurposed as a detention room. He nods to each of the helmeted guards, then sits at a table between two bookshelves, planting his coffee mug on the table with slightly too much force. On the other side is a handcuffed McIntyre.

Crowhurst: Hello Wes, son. You've gotten yourself into some trouble here, haven't you?

McIntyre: No comment.

Crowhurst: Sorry, that's not gonna fly here. I'm not P.C. Plod, I know who you are, and I know about the thing in the basement. You're not getting out of this, so if you know what's good for you, you'll talk.

McIntyre: Should I be intimidated?

Crowhurst: You can be whatever you like, so long as it's chatty.

McIntyre: And what, pray tell, should I "chat" about?

Crowhurst: Hmm. Let's start with the cellar, I think.

McIntyre: [he snorts] As though you could possibly understand that.

Crowhurst smiles, leaning forward.

Crowhurst: If you're going to call me stupid, you might want to consider your place. I'm not the one chained to a table, and I'm certainly not the one who got caught lying in a puddle of sick on the big fella in the cellar. You might have had some money and power a while back, but all you have right now is the hope I'll take pity on you, so you better start talking.

McIntyre is quiet for a moment, fists clenched.

McIntyre: If you want any information at all, I'll thank you not to be so disrespectful. My fortunes may have temporarily downturned, but my name still carries some weight. Certainly more than yours.

Crowhurst: [he scoffs, folding his arms] And how d'you figure that?

McIntyre: Look at you. No decorum, no name, just a child dressing up as a man, bumbling his way through life's torturous game. And don't think I haven't noticed the accent. Your elocutionist has done a passable job, I suppose, but I know what you really are. You will always be a… Liverpudlian, underneath.

Brief silence. Then Crowhurst sits back in his chair, stretching. He takes a sip of his coffee, puts the mug down and pulls a taut smirk.

Crowhurst: Ah, well. I suppose that'll be of great comfort to you. I guess I'll have to console myself with the thought of you rotting in a holding cell for the rest of your life.

McIntyre: Oh, I'll be living a rich and full life, dear boy. I assure you.

Crowhurst: Come on. You can't blag concrete.

McIntyre: We'll see.

Crowhurst: I'm sure we will.

At that point, a seismic event occurred within Provisional Site 14. The mug of coffee shudders off the table and smashes on the floor.

Crowhurst: The hell?

McIntyre: Oh dear. Not been feeding him, have you?

Crowhurst: Feeding - it's a pigeon with delusions of grandeur, why-

McIntyre: No!

He slams his fist on the table, and Crowhurst jumps. McIntyre takes a second, breathing steadily.

McIntyre: Show some respect.

Crowhurst looks at him for a moment, then leans forward, resting his chin on his fist.

Crowhurst: Respect? For it?

McIntyre flinches.

McIntyre: You don't get to talk about a god like that. Not in his own house.

Crowhurst: Interesting. And I suppose you're the priest? Or maybe the choirboy?

McIntyre: We have an arrangement.

Crowhurst: And who arranged it? You? No, you don't strike me as the type with the nous. Daddy's idea, was it?

McIntyre: My estate has prospered for decades, and it's thanks to his generosity.

Crowhurst: [he scoffs] Your estate is dead in the water. I've seen the accounts. HMRC's been circling for years, and the only thing keeping you from being a national laughing stock is your complete irrelevance. Not that generous, is it?

McIntyre: Because he's been neglected! I can't serve him by myself, but everyone else went their separate ways! Said they were… satisfied.

Crowhurst: And you weren't? Didn't fancy getting a job in the chippy, I guess?

McIntyre breathes evenly.

McIntyre: He provides. He always has. And you may want to ensure he doesn't stop.

Crowhurst: Why? What'll h-it do?

McIntyre looks down, and refuses to answer.

END LOG

Closing statement: No further useful information has been gathered from Wesley McIntyre. He was remanded to a holding cell in Provisional Site 14 for two days, before being transferred to Site 23, where he will remain the charge of Director Genivieve McIntyre.

Addendum 5: Security feed, study.

The house's study has been repurposed as Crowhurst's office, and he sits at his desk. On his secure laptop screen is O5-7. As is traditional for security purposes, he is unlit.

Crowhurst: That's all we've gotten out of him, at any rate. Has Genivieve gotten anywhere?

O5-7: Not yet, but I remain optimistic. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, after all.

Crowhurst: But you get rid of the most with a flyswatter.

O5-7: I think your… approach yielded all the success it was ever likely to.

Crowhurst scowls, then quickly wipes the expression from his face.

Crowhurst: Of course, sorry sir. I may have gotten a little carried away.

O5-7: Hopefully your heavy-handedness hasn't had too negative an impact on him. He always was rather wet, that boy.

Crowhurst: [blinks] You know him?

O5-7: Well. I knew his grandfather. We served in India together. Good man. A better man than that feckless oaf, at any rate. He'd be ashamed.

Crowhurst: Yeah, well. [he takes a sip from his opaque mug, suppressing a grimace] Don't suppose his grandad - uh, grandfather ever mentioned having a god in his basement making him rich?

O5-7: Only when he was drunk.

Crowhurst: Ah, of course. Forgot how insidious O5 interrogation techniques were.

O5-7: [he chuckles] And you'd do well to remember, should you ever get a site permanently. He nearly became an O5 too, you know. Seven, in fact. Wasn't up for it, I'm afraid. Of course, you need a certain je ne sais quoi to be suitable for a role like this. [Crowhurst slides a ballpoint pen into his lap, and begins disassembling it] Some people have it, some just… don't. However much of a "good man" they are.

Crowhurst: Mm.

Brief pause.

O5-7: Do you believe him?

Crowhurst: McIntyre? I don't know. I believe he believes it. I also believe a pigeon believes its little dance is what's getting it the birdseed.

O5-7: Fair comment. Tell me about the play.

Crowhurst: Well… I'm no expert, but I understand it's fairly conventional. A few wretched farmers down on their luck pray to a God, he restores them to their rightful places, everyone has a bit of a dance. Standard fare.

O5-7: How complex is it?

Crowhurst: I don't follow.

O5-7: How much manpower would it require to perform? Rehearsal time?

Crowhurst: I mean… bit of practice and a few liberties, I reckon we could get eighty percent of the way there, but it'd definitely be an amateur production, it'd take serious money to get it anything like it's supposed to be. We're not exactly the RSC, but McIntyre Sr. - with, uh, the greatest of respect, sir, he wasn't exactly Shakespeare.

O5-7: No, that was Geor - Director Yaxley. Joseph was more a Rowley.

Crowhurst: …Mm. Uh, you're not seriously-

The room shakes, and Crowhurst grabs the desk to steady himself. Deep within the house, cawing and flapping wings can be heard.

O5-7: Eighty percent will have to do, I think.

END LOG

Addendum 6: SCP-8906-1, excerpt 2.

The men are stood at equidistant intervals, with shovels and hoes in their hand. They till the soil dramatically, cascading dust all about, trading places with abandon.

ALL TOGETHER, OUT OF SYNC: We are apart, we cannot harmonise

Too many men in each man to make men

Of us; we look to you, O greatest one,

Take from us our differences; make us one!

Let us be what you desire 'bove all!

A blaze of white light fills the air. Enter ARCHON.

Addendum 7: Excerpt from Acting Director Crowhurst's personal log.

Settled in, and things are coming along fairly well so far. Office is kind of a box, but RHIP, I get the master bedroom, a bottle of the good stuff, bit of peace and quiet. Some of the staff aren't getting the "not supposed to see each other" thing, I keep getting emails inviting me to the pub in the town. Not going, not gonna touch that town with a barge pole, and I'm certainly not having anyone cosying up to me. Can't stand careerists.

So, here's the itinerary: modernise the water filters (cheers for that Wes, already sick of boiling it), order in a bunch of props (or some rubbish equivalents, given the budget), learn how to dance for the big tumour in the basement.

Probably should have just told 7 Wes is a loony, should've known he'd fixate on this. Should have known better after the clusterfuck with the moth in Chichester. I just hope I don't embarrass myself here.

Addendum 8: Security feed, cellar.

Music and general commotion can be heard distantly, muffled by the layers of flesh proofing the walls and ceiling. The polyps flutter and caw, a few seconds before Crowhurst bursts in. He grabs the railing and leans over at SCP-8906, nearly toppling over for a second.

Crowhurst: I don't believe it.

Without looking away, he sidles down the stairs, body pressed against the bannister. When he reaches the bottom he stops, keeping his distance.

Crowhurst: Thirteen new anomalies contained in a fortnight. They'd found that many in the last five months. Plus the fronts in the South West are pulling in three times what they normally do, which, uh, is a drop in the ocean but still…

The polyps squawk at him, flapping their protruberances. Black flakes of flesh drift down around Crowhurst; he closes his eyes and tightens his jaw, but does not move.

Crowhurst: I'm sorry, I don't mean any disrespect, I just… I guess there wasn't any real attachment to McIntyre, then? You get what you need, wherever you can get it, and that'll do you?

I suppose if it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me. I certainly wouldn't be that attached to him.

SCP-8906 groans, and the house shudders slightly. Crowhurst coughs and looks down.

Crowhurst: Uh, nothing personal. I get he - uh, well, he was here for a while, I just - well. I guess I'm the new McIntyre now. Guess this is what I'm meant to do with my life. He did it his whole life, right? So. Guess that's me now.

I-I… I suppose what I have to say is, uh…

One of SCP-8906's tendrils slithers around and up a supporting column, patiently pushing its way up into the ceiling. Plaster dust falls onto some of the polyps, painting them grey.

Crowhurst: Thank you.

END LOG

Addendum 9: SCP-8906-1, excerpt 3.

The ballroom is awash in white light3 to sear the eyes. At centre stage stands ARCHON, wearing a deep red robe and a porcelain beaked mask adorned in crow's feathers, holding a rubied sceptre.

The men shield their eyes and groan awfully, clutching onto one another. ARCHON looks upon them and sighs.

ARCHON: How strange that I should find such terror here!

I happen 'pon broken men, full of fear

Unable to help themselves - no, unwilling!

You cannot hear the sun and moon inside sing.

Dearest, faithful followers, why despair?

Do you really think this world so unfair

That good men, with good hearts, should find themselves

In such desolation that their deep delves

Into themselves should provide no fortune?

For you are strong! Come, all you children commune.

I will wash you clean in scalding moonlight,

Burn the rotted flesh from your skin this night

For all that you can be is within you!

ARCHON steps down from the stage, and surveys His men, shaking his head with pity.

You must be willing to be born anew,

Tear yourselves apart, let me reconstruct

You into something worthy from what's tucked

Away, deep. You are not yet worthy, no,

You poor, wasted souls! How unkind, this world,

To punish good men, who's wings ne'er unfurled.

You can live at last; each will wear a crown,

So breathe deep my smoke, and let yourselves drown.

SCENE

Addendum 10: Excerpt from Acting Director Crowhurst's personal log.

Done it 5 times over 35 days now. Apparently 65% of UK sites are reporting at least some increase in anomalies contained, reductions in containment breaches and/or reduction in expenditure. Maybe some of that expenditure can go on doing this place up. The thing's certainly growing, but it's growing into the actual structure of the house, and there's not a lot of room for said structure to go in response. We've completely lost a bathroom at this point, thank fuck the water filters are still holding or we'd have a whole new problem.

Everyone's so damn cheerful. I feel like Santa watching the elves scurry about on Christmas Eve. They're still trying to get me to the pub; I'm still not going to that town. I don't even know why they want me to. They're bloody Foundation VIPs at this point, do they need my approval too?

Christ, I need a drink.

Addendum 11: SCP-8906-1, excerpt 4.

ARCHON takes up a torch4 and lights five coils of incense, placed as points of a pentagram at the far edges of the room. All ten men should be stood in the middle, still for the first time in the performance.

ARCHON: Within you is all that you are, and have been.

The greatest virtues, lechery unseen,

Love and hate and everything inbetween,

Well, no more!

All men cry out and rejoice.

ARCHON: For ten men, howe'er worthy, can harmonise

But ten must become one to sing unison.

You wish for Hermetic harvest? It's yours

For you know what a harvest requires

And you know what I will provide it for!

The men dance joyously around the ballroom, each completing one full circuit before returning to their original positions.

ARCHON: You know what I like, I like what you know,

I must know you; no nuance, no discord!

You must be hollow, must be your fathers,

And your fathers' fathers: men you all know!

And I, father all the while, will help you!

MEN, IN UNISON: We are you, we are us, and no other,

Father, father, son, son, brother, brother.

CROWHURST produces the blade.

CROWHURST: Now, you reshape yourselves in my image!

Only your transformation sets you free!

A seismic event hits Provisional Site 14. Crowhurst yelps, steadying himself on the wall, and all personnel start. One of the incense coils falls to the ground, and Junior Researcher ██████████ hurriedly removes his jacket to try and smother the flames.

Crowhurst: The f- what happened? █████, did you move?

█████: No, I -

Crowhurst: Did you fucking - wait, whose phone is that? Oh, it's - look, just… clean up in here, and for God's sake don't burn the place down.

Crowhurst withdraws his mobile phone from underneath his robe and scurries out of the room.

END LOG

Addendum 12: Security feed, study.

Crowhurst sits at his desk, phone to his ear. His face is ashen, and he stares into the middle distance.

Crowhurst: How many?

Crowhurst: Do we have tabs on any of them?

Crowhurst: Well, I do apologise for expecting you to have some sort of contingency plans, but it's not my fucking site, is it?

He rubs the bridge of his nose as he listens.

Crowhurst: No, I didn't mean - no, I can't imagine. I - I'm… how long were you and her -

Crowhurst: Yeah. I get why -

Crowhurst: No, I don't think so. Oh no, you're not pinning this on me. We were halfway through when it happened! We weren't doing anything differently.

Crowhurst: Look, I get you're upset, but don't you dare - hello? Don't - fuck!

The handset clicks as he slams it down, and he sits back, chair squeaking. He reaches down and pulls open the drawer in his desk, which clinks. Above him, the tendril that has broken through the wall and runs through the centre of the room quivers, as the crows attached to it regard him. He eyes them, slowly and carefully shutting the drawer.

Crowhurst: This you?

One of the crows snaps at another.

Crowhurst: I - when I was on the phone, I didn't… this isn't on me, is it? [brief pause] I'm doing my best, you know. What do you want from me? I - I'm doing my best. You know that right? [brief pause]

Provisional Site 14 shakes gently for a few seconds, and Crowhurst holds his head in his hands.

END LOG

Closing statement: Over the next three weeks, two further containment breaches occurred across the UK, with twenty five casualties and seven anomalies lost. Acting Director Crowhurst has been officially reprimanded, and further resources sent to Provisional Site 14 to aid the performances of SCP-8906-1.

Addendum 13: Provisional Site 14 required stock, 05/09/15:

5 15 ███ extra staff, for SCP-8906-1 (plus assorted costuming)

Use of SCP-████, to allow multiple performances of SCP-8906-1 by each group during the same external time period

1 litre bottle of brandy, Napoleon brand [REDACTED]

Tapestry featuring depictions of SCP-8906 and moments from SCP-8906-1, for exaltation

Scaffolding to reinforce ceiling in ballroom

Addendum 14: Memorandum from Acting Director Crowhurst.

Good folk of 5-5, congratulations! With your sterling work, we're on flying form, and commendations are sure to follow. Profits are soaring, containment surges, 8906 grows. We've the best staff here in the whole country, and I'm sure of that, even if I can't put a face to you! Still, that's as maybe, I still know you well, I praise you with no nuance, no discord, and I do not doubt our further success. End recording. End recording. End the fucking

Addendum 15: SCP-8906-1, excerpt 5.

The twenty-five men in the centre of the room cheer, and CROWHURST approaches, blade held aloft. The nearest man raises his hand, and takes it from Him.

CROWHURST: Your eyes, that you see nothing unknown!

Mime gouging the eyes.

CROWHURST: Your ears, that you hear nothing fearful!

Mime piercing the eardrum.

CROWHURST: Your tongue; that you say naught unrecognised!

Mime removing the tongue.

CROWHURST: Your head; think now only what you have thought!

Mime stabbing the head.

CROWHURST: Your soul, that you may be full once again!

Mime gutting th

I fucking hate tourist traps. Teignmouth gets all the attention, this place is close enough they siphon off all the visitors without being close enough to actually be worth visiting, and it's just as bad. Beaches that promise soaring sun, and just give you oil-slick seas and torrential rain. "Authentic" food that's just overpriced clotted cream and scones, I could get the same dross from the cafe in Tesco. Fascinating history of swashbuckling pirates that's all just nicked from the big cities where actual interesting things happened. I don't know how anyone survives here. All falling down. At least castles look impressive, even if there's nothing left inside. Places like this, you don't even get the facade.

Not sure why I went down there today. Maybe because it's the off-season; nobody goes to a resort in October. I sort of assumed that the place would've shut down, and all the residents switched off until the fairground reopened. Maybe that appealed to me, there's never a moment's quiet nowadays. I just want some quiet.

Anyway I was basically right, it was a ghost town. Well mostly - there's a place, Miranda's Miracles. Farnsworth recommended it before he got transferred, thought I ought to check it out. Trudged in, bell chimed but she Miranda - I assume she was Miranda, but she was on the phone, she didn't notice me. Dumpy thing, sixties I'd guess, I'm not sure, I've never been good with faces.

"Try putting them in something sweet, then? Wrap them in a Winder, or something? No, I know, but it does work on dogs." She massaged her forehead then. I couldn't make a composite for her, but I remember how grey she looked, the bags under her eyes. I see those enough all day every day. "Look, love, you can only do what you can do. It's not your fault, you are - did he just break something? Alright, I'll let you go, caff shuts in an hour, I'll be there as soon as I can, alright? Lots of love."

She hung up and sighed, then, started muttering to herself. I probably should have said something, but I didn't really care, so I just cleared my throat. Scared the shit out of her, which I should feel bad for, but it's the first unscripted emotion I've seen in weeks.

"Oh! Alright, my lover? Sorry, didn't see you there," she chirped up. God I hate Bristol accents. I just said "Clearly," and she sort of shifted. As well she may.

Thankfully she was a bit less chirpy when she apologised again, asked me what I wanted, so I asked for tea and a scone, if she could pay attention long enough, and then she started getting ratty with me and none of this fucking matters, why am I bothering

She was NICE. Nicer than she should have been. I could see she wanted to knock my block off, but she held it together right until she started filling a kettle with bottled water, and I made a crack about not being able to afford a coffee machine. She apologised straight away, but I know "pissed off at a dickhead" and I know "something is wrong," and I could see this was the latter. I work for the Foundation, you need an instinct for the latter, you don't get where I am now without one.

There's something wrong with the water. The tap just spat out this thick white fluid, acrid, it made my eyes water. It's not usually that bad apparently but if it's ever that bad, there's something seriously wrong. I took a sample, stole that water bottle when she wasn't looking, but I didn't need to. We both knew what it was, we just didn't want to; she thought it was impossible, I thought it was too possible.

Because there's a reservoir right near here, just over the hill. And if the water in the town below's turning to bird shit I feel like I know where that's coming from. We've been doing this for MONTHS. They've been drinking it, washing in it. Miranda said she got in touch with the council, said "they're very concerned, they're getting on it by doing up Bitton House." She has a grandson. He's not even old enough to have his jabs.

Got another meeting with 7 tomorrow. Apparently we've contained five new skips since last time, he's sending them over. I've got to talk to him. We can't go on like this.

O5-7: Oh? Whyever not?

He's a reasonable man. A worldly man. He knows what the right thing to do is.

O5-7: [he chuckles] The right thing for whom, dear boy?

We can do this somewhere else. Hell, we can not do it at all. We got on perfectly fine this long without poisoning anyone.

O5-7: I'm afraid that's just the way the cookie crumbles. Unless you'd like to step down? I'm sure some young upstart would be eager to take the position?

I'm knackered. We're doing this 24/7 now. New strangers I'm not allowed to look at flooding in, and I'm the one drowning. Maybe I should step down. Mayb

Did you really think we were finished here?

CROWHURST stands atop the stage, consciously still in the crimson lighting. He steps down the stage to the ballroom floor as he speaks.

CROWHURST: Is this not what you asked for? I'm doing what you wanted. I'm doing my best. You know that, right? The show must go on, and what a show!

Around the ballroom, men act. Over and over, overlapping, into an organised cacophony, beautiful order. Tongues severed, regrown by SCP-████ to be severed and regrown again. All is as it should be, in perfect order, an endless cycle of betterment, worship, profit, to clearly correlate with efficacy of Foundation operations through unknown mechanisms.

CROWHURST: You've seen it before, you'll see it again, you won't see any better! We're all the same, inside and out. Isn't that the point? However fancy the mask is, there's always someone underneath. But there doesn't have to be.

█████ walks in procession to his side, holding the sceptre. CROWHURST smiles.

CROWHURST: We can transcend that. Free ourselves from life's torturous game. That's the point, after all, isn't it? To become something better, more worthy? Something that silly old us could never do? Who needs a soul, after all, when there's so much else to fill up with.

CROWHURST takes the sceptre, and freezes. He lurches forward, once, twice. A thin stream of vomit forces its way through the slit in his mask, and he drops the staff, clutching at his face, but his limp fingers simply brush ineffectually over the strings branding it onto his face, and the vomit forces its way back to burn the rotted flesh from his skin this night. No matter. At this point he isn't really necessary.

He continues to wrestle with himself, drowning in mask and robe, but why is he bothering, none of it fucking matters. And the house shakes violently, throwing him to the ground. A chunk of stone falls from the ceiling, tendrils still attached and spewing ichor, crushing three men; fleshy crows fly from the gap. CROWHURST scrabbles at the floor through the tremors, eventually crawling to the doors, where he grabs onto the handle and is almost swung through the air. He barely pulls himself up and collapses through the doors, as the revels continue behind him. I'm afraid that's just the way the house crumbles.

SCENE

SCENE 16 - INT. CELLAR

The actual structure is barely visible; HE has grown to vast proportions. Tendrils wind through the wine racks, bottles shattered on the ground where they have been forced off, staining the floorboards red.

Enter CROWHURST, dishevelled, the beak of his mask smashed off, his chin coated in his own fluids. He staggers down the stairs, tripping halfway down and barely catching himself, swinging on the bannister as it groans in protest.

Bleary-eyed, he stares at the main body of HIM, wrapped around its pillar, and snorts, a half-smile appearing and vanishing in an instant and a slur in his voice.

CROWHURST: Oh hey. Fancy seeing you here.

He totters down the remaining stairs, shoes squenching on the black meat of HIM, and he sways before it.

CROWHURST: It's all gone to hell. All bloody gone to hell. That's what it is up there. Hell. And it's not gonna stop.

HE twitches, majestic.

CROWHURST: They've all lost their minds, every single one of them. Or I have. Because I just don't get it. I just… There's a town full of people drinking bird shit. A load of people, my people, good people, upstairs, tearing themselves apart. At least I think they're good people. At least I think they're my people. I dunno. I don't recognise any of their faces. Still, at least I'm still here. If I ever was.

The house shakes again, and one of the few remaining bottles crashes from its rack; it should not hit CROWHURST, instead being cushioned by HIS flesh.

CROWHURST: I did everything you wanted. Fucked those people in town over. Danced like a coked up lunatic. I became everything you wanted. But it wasn't enough. Is that where the soul shite came from? We can't have a soul, because you don't?

CROWHURST: I guess you're the sort of god we should have expected.

HE twitches and gurgles; HIS crows flap their wings and scream HIS song. CROWHURST feebly grabs the wine bottle and throws it at them; they squawk and jump to avoid it, before returning their gaze to him.

CROWHURST: Well? Was this what you wanted?

He pauses, and blinks rapidly.

CROWHURST: Did you want anything?

Finally, he stumbles, landing in a heap and splattering ichor around him. With a grunt, he struggles to sit upright, and leans back on HIS gracefully accepting form. After a few moments, he breaks into a genuine smile.

CROWHURST: You haven't understood a word I've been saying, have you?

He begins laughing hysterically, barely holding himself up. Eventually his laughter dies, and he closes his eyes. He is still.

A crow breaks off from a nearby tendril, and flaps over, perching on CROWHURST's shoulder. After an experimental peck at his neck, it eyes him evenly, then caws, and the flock descends.

SCENE

Pyrophobia: Burn With Me

Anthology 2024

Aquaphobia: Surface Tension

Footnotes

1. Corvus corone

2. A form of theatre popular in the 17th century, typically divided into prologue (brief overview, performed out of character), anti-masque (a chaotic pantomine), masque (a more structured dance, to counter or resolve the anti-masque) and revels (a full court dance). Usually it was intended to glorify the court and honour the ruler observing, by depicting in allegory a figure bringing order to a chaotic and unseemly scenario.

3. Floodlights have been installed to this end.

4. Substituted with a barbecue lighter for convenience.