A battle of wits between a folklorist and the folklore she studies.

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PeppersGhost and Uncle Nicolini

SCP-8400 - The Birch Knight and the Game of Three Chestnuts by Uncle Nicolini and PeppersGhost

More by Uncle Nicolini

More by PeppersGhost

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This document has been flagged for possible sentience.

Revisions prohibited. Proceed with caution.

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Item#: 8400

Containment Class: keter

Secondary Class: esoteric

Disruption Class: ekhi

Risk Class: critical

Photograph of SCP-8400 captured by remote camera.

Photograph of SCP-8400 captured by remote camera.

Special Containment Procedures

No new names or designations are to be used in reference to SCP-8400. All names and designations currently and previously applied to SCP-8400 are considered lost.

Physical barriers are ineffective against SCP-8400, as are traditional firearms and other ballistic weaponry. SCP-8400 is not susceptible to damage by heat, but displays an emotional aversion to fire and may be corralled via the use of flamethrowers until its manifestation ends. Once an SCP-8400 manifestation is confirmed, the area is to be immediately evacuated. Standard misinformation protocols are in place to account for loss of life and property damage caused by SCP-8400.

The current whereabouts of SCP-8400 and whether it will continue to manifest are currently unknown. A provisional containment chamber, designed to produce consistent flame along the surface of its walls and ceiling, has been constructed at Site-19 to house SCP-8400 should it ever be successfully captured. A measure to neutralize SCP-8400 via the deliberate extinction of Betula pubescens has been considered and rejected by the O2 Congress.

Description

SCP-8400 is an abstract logomorphic entity which interfaces with baseline reality via avatars composed from scraps of birch1 bark arranged into a humanoid shape. These avatars consistently possess heads resembling the skull of a male deer, sans lower jaw, with a dense cluster of branchlike antlers. Soft tissue organs resembling lidded eyes constantly shift across the surface of these antlers, moving in no discernible pattern.

Vessels under SCP-8400's control take on an extraphysical and/or demiconceptual level of solidity that necessarily supersedes the environment around it; consequently, when a part of SCP-8400's body applies any amount of physical pressure against an object of baseline-reality solidity, the object's mass will warp, collapse, or otherwise be displaced as necessary to accommodate SCP-8400's movement.2

Matter displaced by interaction with SCP-8400 will behave in a manner similar to semi-solids or high-viscosity fluids, irrespective of the affected substance's actual density or material composition, and without causing any actual change to its state of matter. Displacement of mass is not reversed after contact with SCP-8400 has ceased, nor is any damage that the object would naturally incur from an abrupt alteration of its structure.

SCP-8400 manifests once every five years by converting mass from a Betula pubescens tree into a new bodily vessel.3 Once formed, SCP-8400 will seek out populated areas and attempt to destroy any person or structure it encounters through the displacement of matter. This assault will continue until the sun has fully set, at which time SCP-8400's vessel will break down into non-anomalous tree bark. Local flora will often grow at a greatly accelerated rate in the vicinity of SCP-8400; this effect appears to be incidental rather than deliberate.

SCP-8400 bears an ancillary nomenclative abnormality which causes a gradual physio-conceptual degradation of any name or designation applied to it, culminating in the name or designation being completely and irretrievably removed from all physical and conceptual planes. Names and designations lost to SCP-8400 will disappear from written records and recordings, and may lead to aberrant behavior of the medium through which the name or designation was expressed, including (but not limited to) data files, printed documents, and speech organs/orifices.

SCP-8400 has ignored all attempts at communication from civilians and Foundation personnel, with the sole exception Dr. Delaney Martlet.

Encounters with Dr. Martlet

The Kenmare Stone Circle, site of SCP-8400's manifestation shortly before its encounter with Dr. Martlet.

The Kenmare Stone Circle, site of SCP-8400's manifestation shortly before its encounter with Dr. Martlet.

Initial Encounter

INCIDENT LOG 1/3

Transcript assembled from security footage and eyewitness accounts.

[ FOREWORD: Dr. Delaney Martlet, a folklorist under the employ of the Foundation, had unplanned contact with SCP-8400 when it manifested near Kenmare, Ireland in late September. Their subsequent interaction was the first recorded instance of SCP-8400 engaging in conversation, and resulted in an early end to manifestation. ]

[ BEGIN LOG ]

[ A small extrusion appears on a birch tree growing at a park located in Kenmare, Ireland. Individual fingers emerge from the extrusion to form a hand, which further extends into a full arm over the course of a minute. Present civilians begin to gather as SCP-8400 forms. ]

[ The speed of the SCP-8400 manifestation increases as it progresses, and it steps from the tree fully formed in less than five minutes. It briefly cranes its neck side to side before raising its left arm. Branches rapidly extend from the limb, piercing through the chest cavities of 5 nearby civilians. The remaining civilians begin to panic and flee as the branches retract, allowing the corpses of the impaled civilians to drop to the ground. ]

[ SCP-8400 walks out of the park at a steady pace, following the civilians as they attempt to flee. SCP-8400 stops at the entrance of the park, which is decorated with an ornate metal gate. It then proceeds to touch the gate, causing the latter to physically distort and become structurally unstable. Vines with blossoming flowers are observed to grow over the gate as it falls to pieces. SCP-8400 carries forward. ]

[ MTF Chi-12214 is alerted to the SCP-8400 manifestation. Before they can be deployed, Dr. Martlet informs Command that she is already in Kenmare and requests that Chi-1221 stand down. ]

[ As SCP-8400 approaches a road, a vehicle swerves to avoid it, but is unable to do so and impacts against SCP-8400. The vehicle immediately warps and splits in two as vines manifest throughout. SCP-8400 is entirely unfazed by the impact, and continues walking as the remains of the vehicle ignite behind it. ]

[ SCP-8400 continues towards a nearby two-story coffee shop. Multiple civilians are present within, attempting to hide from SCP-8400. The entity moves through the brick and cement which constitute the building as if it were liquid, causing flowering vines to appear along the walls before they fall apart. As the walls continue to crumble, the second storey of the building caves and falls onto the civilians on the first storey. SCP-8400 continues ahead, causing the collapse of two additional buildings. ]

[ Local police and Regional Support Unit officers arrive at the scene and attempt to use their vehicles to halt SCP-8400's advance. They verbally warn SCP-8400 to cease movement under threat of gunfire. SCP-8400 does not respond and proceeds to approach the vehicle barricade. Marksmen open fire on SCP-8400, who remains unfazed and continues towards the barricade. It walks through the vehicles as multiple sharp branches extend from its torso to impale members of law enforcement. SCP-8400 retracts its branches, allowing the corpses to fall before continuing. ]

[ Dr. Martlet approaches SCP-8400. The entity stops its movement. Dr. Martlet assumes a bowed stance, eyes toward the ground, arms extended at either side, and her left foot crossed over her right. She holds this position as SCP-8400 approaches her. ]

SCP-8400: You mock the old customs.

[ Dr. Martlet does not move. ]

MARTLET: My intent was not to provoke.

[ SCP-8400 halts less than a yard from Dr. Martlet. She remains still. ]

SCP-8400: Who instructed you to bow in this way?

[ SCP-8400 raises its right hand, which elongates to a sharpened point. ]

SCP-8400: By my word, you will tell me who betrayed our secrets, and then you will die.

MARTLET: The old ways are neither dead nor forgotten. You once shared your customs freely with our forefathers, and their stories are still heard by those who wish to listen.

[ Dr. Martlet straightens. ]

MARTLET: Now then. As there has been no betrayal, I cannot say who has betrayed you. Therefore, by your word, I will not die. Is this correct?

SCP-8400: You twist my words to shackles!

[ SCP-8400 rests its arm at its side, reverting to its regular shape. It produces a sound similar to bark scraping bark, approximated to be a laugh. ]

SCP-8400: Perhaps, then, you truly do know the old ways. Very well. What business have you with me, child of the sun?

MARTLET: I only wish to challenge you to a game.

[ Dr. Martlet draws three chestnuts from her coat pocket and fans them out between her fingers. ]

SCP-8400: You would stand in my way only to play at Chestnuts? [ It scoffs. ] Save your persiflage and leave me to my work.

MARTLET: I know where your name is.5

[ As soon as Dr. Martlet has said this, a series of sharp prongs burst from SCP-8400's torso, snapping together at straight angles to surround Martlet in a cage-like lattice. She does not move. A number of wild animals cry out at once some distance away. ]

MARTLET: We will play a game of Chestnuts. If you lose, you will sleep. If you win, you will have your name. As long as the game is in play, we are both bound by the rules of Hospitality. How do you answer?

[ Time passes in silence. Finally, SCP-8400 withdraws the cage of branches back into its chest cavity. Flowers crack through the pavement below to line the space between the two. ]

SCP-8400: It has been spoken, so it shall be. By what will we determine our Chestnuts, then? By riddles and word games? By the wisdom of the world and its workings?

MARTLET: By truths of each other. If the chestnut cracks, it's not the truth. I'll even go first. Fair?

[ SCP-8400 nods, and Martlet hands it a chestnut from her pocket. Curiously, the object does not seem to distort in SCP-8400's grasp. The two align themselves back-to-back, march five paces in either direction, and then turn to face each other gain. They both bow in the same manner Dr. Martlet had previously, and when they rise, Martlet crosses her arms. ]

MARTLET: During your crusade this morning, you did not hesitate to shed blood. You fashion yourself as a ruthless warrior, yet I stand here unharmed, all because you hesitated in the face of something you did not understand.

SCP-8400: It would be unwise to question my courage.

MARTLET: Far be it. I merely sense a spirit of curiosity beneath the bloodlust. Thus, here is my chestnut: it is not in your nature to kill.

[ SCP-8400 casts the chestnut into the air, and Dr. Martlet catches it before it hits the ground. ]

SCP-8400: You are bold, child of the sun. And how particular that title sits with you. There's something of the sun itself in your very eyes, and I do not merely mean their color. Where all others have approached me bearing arms, you come with only words. Indeed, much time has passed since I last awakened without being met by the flames of your armies. Where are those armies now, I wonder?

[ Dr. Martlet smiles and shrugs. ]

SCP-8400: Indeed. You are no mere jailer, and no mere scholar either. I return your chestnut with mine: it is in your nature to lead.

[ Dr. Martlet casts the chestnut into the air, and SCP-8400 grabs it at it passes its head. ]

MARTLET: Interesting. I hadn't even known that about myself. Hardly the mindless brute some would paint you as, are you? Perhaps you'd enjoy a story.

[ SCP-8400 says nothing. ]

MARTLET: I'll make it quick, then. There was an anomaly a while back that I was called in to examine. A logomorph such as yourself, I believe. It was covered by an enormous hand-knit afghan, the largest I imagine there's ever been. Big enough to cover a house, and sometimes it needed to be.

You couldn't look underneath the afghan— not without going quite mad, at least— but you could make out the creature's shape from how the fabric draped over its body, and the shape that it cast was constantly changing. Big as a moose one moment, small as a mouse the next. Sometimes it had many legs, sometimes none. Even its voice would change from the start of a sentence to the end. And it only ever said one thing.

SCP-8400: What did it say?

MARTLET: "Please, tell me what I am."

SCP-8400: A truly piteous fate. One too common for my kind.

MARTLET: My point exactly. Most logomorphs can't exist in a single coherent state when robbed of a conceptual identity, but somehow that's not the case for you. You can hold a form, even if only for a day at a time. Such is my second chestnut: you do not possess a name, but you define yourself by your rage.

[ SCP-8400 casts the chestnut into the air. Dr. Martlet steps forward to catch it and falters slightly, but does not stumble. ]

SCP-8400: You're no stranger to stories, I can tell. Not just by how you speak, but how you smell. You reek of stories. You play their shapes against your teeth, and taste their passions against your tongue, and you devour them, because you are starved of shape and passion.

MARTLET: I would say stories are my passion.

[ SCP-8400 makes a noise like scraping bark, possibly analogous to laughter. ]

SCP-8400: Hunger is not passion. You do not love stories any more than one dying of thirst loves a drink of water. Every action you take is determined either by appetite, or by those three cursed letters you've tethered your soul to. You perform functions, but bear no purpose. I return your chestnut with mine: you possess a name, but you do not define yourself.

[ Dr. Martlet casts the chestnut into the air. SCP-8400 catches it easily, and rolls it between its fingers as it speaks. ]

SCP-8400: Are you enjoying your game, child of the sun?

MARTLET: It's— well, it's been enlightening so far, I suppose.

SCP-8400: Speak decisively or not at all.

MARTLET: I am enjoying the game. And you?

SCP-8400: You are fortunate I am bound by Hospitality.

MARTLET: Come, now. If you weren't enjoying this at least a little, you wouldn't be half so smug. As far as our records indicate, I'm the first person you've ever spoken to. That must be worth something.

SCP-8400: I wouldn't stake your chestnut on that. Nor on your records. You claim to know me and my kin, but you place your faith in those who would sooner allow the world to burn than to let it see a glimmer of truth.

MARTLET: Enlighten me, then. What truths am I ignorant of?

SCP-8400: That is not our game. Speak your truth if you know it, else forfeit.

MARTLET: Very well. You seem to think more highly of me than others of my kind, but the bar is set too low for that to really be considered a compliment. When I proposed this game to you, you didn't hesitate. Sure, you're keen on the prize, but I think it goes deeper than that. You never questioned that you would win. Victory is foregone in your mind. So here is my chestnut: you underestimate me.

[ SCP-8400 casts the chestnut into the air. Dr. Martlet has to jump to catch it, but keeps her balance. SCP-8400 steps forward. ]

SCP-8400: Let me see it.

MARTLET: You can see fine from where you are.

[ She holds up the chestnut and turns it to show both sides. ]

MARTLET: Undamaged. Is it so hard to believe you misjudged me?

SCP-8400: Your chestnut speaks more of your own boastfulness than of me.

MARTLET: If you feel I've broken the rules, then say so.

[ The shards of bark composing SCP-8400 shiver and scrape loudly against each other. A mass of thorny vines breaks through the concrete and writhes in circles around its feet. ]

SCP-8400: You are arrogant, even for your kind. You, who discarded your own nature to lap at the heels of tyrants. You, who play games with my birthright. You think your ploy has spared lives, but when this is through, I will strike down twice as many as might have been saved.

MARTLET: Have you forgotten to call out your chestnut, or are you not confident enough in the truth of your words?

SCP-8400: I have your chestnut here: despite your delusions, the two of us are not equals.

[ Dr. Martlet casts the chestnut into the air. SCP-8400 snatches the chestnut in its fist. The shifting bramble at its feet comes to a sudden stop. SCP-8400 opens its palm. The chestnut is cracked. ]

SCP-8400: You provoked me.

MARTLET: Cracked is cracked, whether by your own strength or otherwise.

[ SCP-8400 clutches at its chest and falls to one knee, dropping the chestnut onto the broken concrete. The brambles around its feet rapidly shrivel and die. ]

SCP-8400: You will meet me again, child of the sun. You will meet me again.

MARTLET: I'd like that very much. But until then, I hope you sleep well.

[ SCP-8400 collapses to the ground, its body shattering to splinters upon impact. ]

[End Log]

The Second Encounter

Log 2

An occurrence in Daleport, New England.

Begin Log.

SCP-8400 begins to assemble itself from the regrowth of partially incinerated trees. Following the Battle of Daleport in 1997, the Foundation has continued to actively monitor the vicinity of SCP-1936 for anomalous activity, and the SCP-8400 manifestation is quickly reported. Due to her rapport with SCP-8400 during its previous manifestation, Director Martlet6 is debriefed and prepares for transit to Area-37.7

Once its body has formed, SCP-8400 extends its upper right appendage to a sharpened blade, but slowly retracts its weapon as it wanders the ruins of the town. It comes across one of the few streetlights still upright and waves its fingers through its post, causing it to topple. A sound like the cry of a wounded animal can be heard, but the sound is choked as a thin sapling sprouts from the streetlight's broken base. After this, SCP-8400 displays no further interest in destructive behaviors. Some distance away at Site-12, a team of Foundation thaumaturges is gathered to create a Way8 to Daleport for Dir. Martlet.

A robin lands on SCP-8400's horns. It holds out its finger, which the bird hops down to. They exchange words in a language lost to time, and the little bird flies away.

As it continues to survey the ruins, SCP-8400 finds the remains of Town Hall, taking particular note of the phrase 'PANGLOSS GRANTS YOU SANCTUARY' scorched deep into the stonework above the entrance— the only wall of the structure still standing. A swathe of lit candles rest across the building's steps at SCP-8400's feet, each representing a soul. It kicks at the candles, only for its foot to pass through them. The candles remain undisturbed and intact.

A Way opens a few meters north, appearing amidst a copse of trees that had grown out of the wreckage of a collapsed pharmacy. Martlet's left leg comes through first, then her head, followed in short order by the rest of her. She gestures to signal that she is clear, and the Way is snuffed out just as suddenly as it appeared. SCP-8400 visibly shudders at Martlet's approach, but does not turn around.

MARTLET: "Hello again, old friend."

SCP-8400: "The child of the sun with the sun in her eyes. I should cut you down where you stand."

Martlet smiles and shrugs.

MARTLET: "If you must. Not like there's anyone else here for you maim and kill. Work's already been done for you, I'm afraid."

SCP-8400 casts its his gaze upward. Something small and sad hovers overhead.

SCP-8400: "What happened here?"

Martlet joins him at his side and follows his gaze, cupping a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun. The body of a young girl hovers just a few meters above them, suspended by no visible means. Her dress is ragged from the elements, but her flesh is as fresh as the day she died, legs still swaying slightly in the summer breeze, face composed in restful slumber.

MARTLET: "A fog came, and there was a battle. Well, a massacre, really. There's a lot we don't know."

A silence passes between the two.

MARTLET: "You killed a child last time we met. In that car you cut in half. Doubt you even noticed."

SCP-8400: "Such is war."

Martlet nods to the body above, which SCP-8400 has not yet looked away from.

"So was this," she says.

At that, SCP-8400 finally turns to her, his neck craning to match the difference in their height. It cracks and creaks and groans like old trees in the wind.

SCP-8400: "You owe me my Name, child of the sun."

MARTLET: "Maybe so."

SCP-8400: "And will you give it freely?"

Martlet's mouth flickers open, but she swallows the answer that threatens to come out.

MARTLET: "I don't think it can work like that," she says instead.

"You fail to surprise me," SCP-8400 says softly. Heaving a sigh, he descends the steps of Town Hall, motioning for Martlet to follow. "Come, then, and I will play you at chestnuts."

Martlet nods, for she, too, has had already begun to get a sense for what was taking shape. The invocation of a structure is not easily undone, and its imposition over the two was quickly coming to be as firm and real as the ground beneath.

And so they stood in the ruins of town square, the air thick with a haze that would never lift, the streets stained with blood that would never wash away. An enormous triangle was cut into the ground at the square, shards of brick cracked at such uncanny angles as to suggest the shape had been carved from beneath rather than above. Somewhere barely out of view, a corpse continued to bleed, just as it had been doing for many years prior, and as it would continue to do for many years to come.

SCP-8400: "You seem different since last we met."

MARTLET: "I have you to thank for that. I learned a lot about myself from our encounter. It was enriching."

SCP-8400: "That was not my intention."

MARTLET: "Well, I'm thankful regardless. It turns out I did have some skills that I wasn't fully utilizing. I have a feeling the same may still be true for you."

SCP-8400: "Save your judgements for your game, child of the sun."

No less than expected, Director Delaney Martlet had come prepared. She produced a chestnut from her coat pocket, shiny and round, and extended it to her companion. He shook his head.

SCP-8400: "I think I should like to go first."

MARTLET: "Very well. I'll hold on to this, then. Other than that, same rules?"

It was agreed, and so they stood, backs together. Five paces, a swift turn to face to each other, an exchange of bows in that strange old bow, and the stage was set.

SCP-8400: "You are either very brave to meet me again, or very foolish."

MARTLET: "Why should that be surprising? I met you bravely before, didn't I?"

SCP-8400: "You were courageous, yes, in a way one can only achieve when one is overcoming a great terror. But that terror is gone now, and it's taken your courage with it. I am unsure of what is now in its place."

MARTLET: "Sounds like you regret asking to go first."

SCP-8400: "No. I may have slept since I saw you last, but I walk in my dreams, and even in sleep I do not rest. I've come to realize that there is a deeper truth to you, child, just as there is a deeper truth to games, and to chestnuts. Just the same."

Somewhere barely out of view, layers upon layers of hearty marigolds bloomed in the chest of a long-dead corpse, blocking the flow of blood and rendering the nature of fate slightly less certain.

SCP-8400: "But there are some truths that may not be spoken in mixed company. We are not alone, after all."

MARTLET: "I could have my colleagues stop monitoring us if that makes you more comfortable."

SCP-8400: "It's not just your three letters I'm referring to. This place is… heavy with presence."

Laughter. Very close by. The two could not hear it, but felt it all the same.

SCP-8400: "The creatures here know it to be true."

MARTLET: "Yes, I heard you spoke to a bird before I arrived. Can you speak to all animals?"

SCP-8400: "I speak with things that are alike to me."

He pointed to the freestanding wall nearby, at the words carved in flame between two marble pillars: 'PANGLOSS GRANTS YOU SANCTUARY'.

SCP-8400: "I recognize that name. Not my kin, but known to us. What became of this sanctuary? Did any who lived here survive?"

A line, drawn in words like a finger through sand. Not a barrier, but an arrow, pointing.

MARTLET: "The records suggest that some escaped… elsewhere. Not outside the town, exactly, but outside the world itself. A few dozen of them found their way back. Most haven't been seen since."

The smallest shiver, almost imperceptible, ran through the haze of the fallen town like a ripple in a pond. An atmosphere like a dream with something beneath it.

MARTLET: "I like to think the others lived, though. That they're still out there, waiting for someone to tell them it's safe to come home."

SCP-8400: "If they are safe where they are, they would be wise to remain there. The things that happened in this place will happen again. And again. And again. To you. To me."

MARTLET: "Maybe. But if I'm there when that happens, I want to be like this Pangloss guy."

SCP-8400: "There are very few left who mourn all losses and celebrate none. You're no more fit to compare yourself to him than I."

The haze over the once-town had grown from a morning mist to the full ghost of a fog, and it stirred. The sun, if it still hung overhead, could only cast shadows over the world beneath.

MARTLET: "Is that your chestnut? Is that a truth you're willing to stake your Name on?"

Director Delaney Martlet took a deep breath and steadied herself as the shadows grew closer, shadows reminiscent of human beings in the same way a copse of trees might be reminiscent of a pharmacy.

SCP-8400: "If your lost numbers came home as you claim to wish, but came home changed, bent by hardships into shapes you no longer recognized, you would not open your arms to welcome them. This is my chestnut: you wear a mask of piety, yet offer judgement and violence, same as I. On that, I stake my Name."

Martlet cast her chestnut in the air. Shadows like parodies of hands reached up to grab it, but it passed through them one by one til it found its home in one of birch bark, safe and sound, and the shadows fell to wisps like steam from a kettle.

MARTLET: "We should take our game somewhere else."

"Do you fear the shadows?"

But Martlet was already walking away when she said, over her shoulder, "I'm not overfond of what casts them."

And though she could not see it from where she stood, something like a smile came over SCP-8400's face, if a piece of wood shaped like half a deer skull could be said to smile. Which it can't.

The streets of Daleport had not laid straight for some time. They twisted to and fro at sharp angles, bent by a madness too great to be contained in the mind. But as the two companions walked the crooked streets, flecks of grassy green and flowery pastels began to cut through the crumbling asphalt in their wake, blending the old roads into the surrounding overgrowth, fading them like old scars.

After a time, they came upon a building that had once been a library. While its walls appeared solid, they sagged, drooped, and folded like rolls of flesh, as if the structure had given up so completely that it couldn't even be bothered to fall down properly.

"You said a battle was fought here," SCP-8400 said, inspecting the odd wreck in front of him. "What was the prize, then? Glory? Land? What's worth a town's weight in madness?"

Delaney Martlet placed her hand at the doorway of the once-library. It trembled at her touch.

"I can't speak for the reliability of the source," she said, "but it was written that the 'victor' of the conflict would 'walk from the rubbles of man and restore clarity to those who remain.' I'll let you decide how much that's worth."

"And who then remained to claim that clarity, once the fog had lifted?"

Hours later, in the air above, dark echoes of lives lost would perform a crude pantomime of human suffering. However, for the moment at least, the sky was clear.

"No one," said Martlet.

"Then it was worth nothing."

Up the library steps, Delaney Martlet's fingers thrummed along the rotting wood of the doorway. The doorway thrummed back contentedly. There was a slight glint in Martlet's sunny eyes, the kind that one might explain as a trick of the light.

"And your rampages, are they worth any more?" she asked. "Let's hear your vision. Do you intend to wipe the slate clean, start the world afresh like the good men of Daleport tried to do?"

"I seek only to even the scales."

Martlet looked at him, and did so in such a way that one would be forgiven for thinking they were the exact same height.

"If you knew the exact number of those you lost, and you answered that number once, twice, even three times over, you would not lay down arms. I return your chestnut with my own: your justice is a mask for blind hatred."

This must have come as some surprise to SCP-8400, as it took him a moment to cast the chestnut in kind, and indeed, he had quite forgotten he was even carrying it. But cast it he did, not from the regulation five paces, but a matter of feet. Martlet caught it handily and tucked it into her coat pocket, not bothering to check it for blemishes. The other raised no objection.

"My hatred is earned," he said instead.

The other raised no objection.

A bell tolled somewhere nearby.

"Do you think yourself powerful, child of the sun?" SCP-8400 continued. "You may have bettered yourself since we last met, yet you continue to wear your three little letters like a yoke around your neck."

"I'm given a surprising amount of leeway these days. There are some in the Foundation, people like me, who are trying to change things. The Overseers—"

"Your hierarchies are trivial to me. I speak of Names. You think you've found your purpose, but you are only telling yourself another one of your little stories. You believe your pursuits to be pure, but you make them in the shadow of the Name of blood, of freedom's death."

Martlet's grip on the doorframe tightened. She felt a pulse quicken, and she wasn't sure it was hers.

"Do you know why we call you 'logomorphs'?" she asked. "It's because your very existence is bound to words, to patterns, to rules. Human beings aren't like that. Words and names only have as much meaning as we give them."

SCP-8400 pressed his fingers softly to the library's facade, carving five long thin streaks along its surface as he walked. They bled, but SCP-8400 did not see. He would only look at Martlet.

"You think yourself unbeholden to words, to patterns, to rules?" he asked. "Truly? Child of the sun, you tell yourself such stories! Your three letters are no more than the sum of these things. My kind, when we are named, we determine its meaning for ourselves. You choose to bear the name Foundation, and in doing so, your meaning is determined for you. My chestnut is this: you are a prisoner, and you are content as such."

This time it was Martlet's turn to hesitate, but she cast the chestnut nevertheless. SCP-8400 caught it, fingers still slick with library blood. Scraping the chestnut clean against his chest, he found it perfectly uncracked.

"Interesting," Martlet whispered, but there was a dimness in her tone that rang foreign.

She walked away, and SCP-8400 followed. Somewhere behind them, the quivering of a child began to calm as petals bloomed to seal her wounds.

The church in Daleport, tall and proud at the heart of the town, was the only building for miles that appeared largely intact. Its stained glass still sat peacefully in frame, its shingles clung dutifully to the vaulted roof, and even the hedges along its body seemed naturally inclined to remain in well-kept lines.

Much effort had gone toward the study of the church over the years, but the fact of the matter remains that no matter how many ages pass, no matter how many civilizations rise and fall, the church in Daleport will continue to stand tall and proud at the heart of town, and not a soul will ever coax out enough of its secrets to even say so much as what god it was built to.

Delaney Martlet walked the edge of the church's shadow, but no further.

"You take long turns, child of the sun. Do you mean to waste what little time I have before I must sleep?"

Martlet breathed deep, and spoke, and as she did, walked a broad circle around her companion, never taking her sunny eyes off him for a moment.

"Logomorphs. You wear your hearts on sleeve, so to speak. 'Form follows function according to the function of the form.' The curtains are never just blue. The shape you take is either the naked truth or a wholesale deception, and you don't strike me as the scheming type. So let's take you apart."

SCP-8400 spoke not a word and moved not an inch.

"You're tall," Martlet went on. "Well-built. But your form isn't purely musculature. It's armor. Defensive, but ready for battle. Now what about your head? Deer. Symbol of innocence. Skull, safe to say, innocence lost. No lower jaw— that type of wound isn't self-inflicted. It's rot. Loss, or disuse, maybe. You weren't chatty before we met."

She stopped, heels together, toes apart. Like a dancer.

"But it's your antlers that give you away. Those white bits that move all over the place aren't knots. They're eyes. We've suspected that for a while, but I never stopped to think about what it meant. All those eyes, constantly moving, never focusing on one thing. Drifting along all those branches, never settling. I know that feeling well. You think yourself a knight errant, but the truth is you're more errant than knight. I return your chestnut: you are lost, and you are content as such."

Thus the chestnut was cast. However, at that very moment, the old bell tower atop the older church rang out like a great beast moaning in its sleep. Martlet faltered only for an instant, but an instant was all it took for the chestnut to slip between her fingers. It landed on the cobbles with a gentle but pointed rattle, skittered a bit, and finally came to rest in the shadow of the great church. Martlet ran to it, held it to her eyes, inspected every angle.

She found it unbroken.

"You fear me made whole?" SCP-8400 asked.

Martlet had not noticed how close he had gotten. He was behind her, separated by no more than two or three inches of thin air. She spun around, but could not find the words she reached for.

"You had no such fear when the day began, child of the sun. Perhaps you fear something else. Perhaps you wish our game to never end."

SCP-8400 took Martlet's wrist in his hand, not aggressively, not tenderly, but with a conjurer's flourish. With his other, he cupped his palm over hers, one small chestnut nestled between.

"Perhaps, then, this is the only victory I may steal. This is my chestnut."

He leaned in close til the rough bark of his bony snout grazed Martlet's ear. Three short words were all he whispered, and as he did, the church at the heart of Daleport loomed tall and proud above them, casting a shadow that would hold safe the secrets spoken beneath it.

The chestnut slid from Martlet's fingers. SCP-8400 held it between them, cupped in his hand with all the gentility one might use to cradle a tiny bird.

It split cleanly in two before their eyes.

"This isn't right," said Martlet. "That was the truth."

She received no response to this except that strange wooden laugh as SCP-8400 fell to his knees. His hands searched the earth for support as weakness overcame him, calling forward bursts of new life wherever his touch wandered.

"Bring better stories to tell me when next we play," were his parting words as his body came undone.

Yet for minutes afterward, grass and moss and flowers of all sorts continued to sprout and flourish, forming a perfect outline of the place where he fell.

End of log.

And then, finally, the third encounter:

Chapter 3

In which an invitation is extended and a transformation occurs.

ometimes names are the the most important thing in the world. Names have the power to grant a life of ease, to invoke greater powers, even to bring the dead back to life— if only for an instant.

And yet sometimes a name doesn't matter at all. There are many occasions in which it's infinitely less important to Be Called than it is to simply Be.

So let us dispense with the formalities and ignore the name of the town where our final chapter took place. It happened in the town where you live, in a quiet spot that you pass nearly every day but never really look at.

The first rays of sunlight crept up the bark of the Old Birch Tree, stirring something within. Knotted circles along the trunk blinked open into tired eyes, still half-veiled by sleep. They watched in bleary recognition as birds soared through the rolling clouds and as insects shuffled through dewy springtime grass. In that moment, for only that moment, this was not a world where old blood soaked the earth from crust to core.

And then the moment passed, and SCP-8400 remembered.

Rage overcame slumber. A wooded hand burst from the tree like a strike, like a scream. Then another. He pulled and he clawed and he wrestled himself from his birthing place, sucking in his first breath in moons with a grateful wheeze.

That’s when he noticed the scientist. She sat on a fallen log not far away, whittling the end of a stick into the shape of a strange, footless bird.

“Good morning,” she said, setting aside her handiwork. “And what a fine morning it is! If you only get to live one day every half-decade, you probably couldn’t have picked a better one than this.”

Much to her companion's chagrin, she was correct. He would not concede it aloud, of course, but in his heart he knew the world was made for mornings such as these.

“You’ve come for one last game,” he said instead.

The scientist shook her head. She kept her hair looser these days, it seemed, and her locks bounced with every gentle shake. She dressed brighter, too, but her face had not changed. It was exactly, curiously, the same. The sun shone brightly in her eyes, and she did not shield them.

“We’ll get to that,” she said. “First, I’d like you to come with me. Let me show you where I came from.”

“You ask the impossible. I cannot stray far from the woods, and there can be no forests where your kind dwell. Living things wither in mere anticipation of your wake.”

“Our woods may not be up to your standards, but the ghost of a forest is a forest in itself. Allow me to guide you, and if you feel yourself leaving your element, I won't ask you to go any further.”

And so they began to walk, right beside the road, and that’s when SCP-8400 began to notice the true extent of how special that day might be.

First there was the way the golden morning sun never seemed to move or dim as the hours progressed, always hanging just over the horizon, cutting clear dusty beams through the treetops to create a landscape of strange, shifting patterns on the ground, like shadows dancing in a shallow lakebed. Then there was the birdsong: a bit too constant and harmonious to seem purely accidental, and each note echoed in the air long after its singer had fled the sky.

And strangest of all, SCP-8400 and Martlet seemed to move through the world completely unnoticed. Not a single driver or passerby slowed or turned a head to them as they walked.

“Might I assume this bewitchment is your doing?”

“I’ve been bleeding my dreams a bit,” Martlet confessed with a modest shrug. “Yours too. I apologize for the imposition, but there was no other way to make this possible.”

"I don't dream anymore."

"Sometimes we surprise ourselves."

On and on they journeyed, time and distance slipping away like a stray thought, step blurring into step, all the world a soup of trees and roads and day's first light. A feeling of familiarity nagged at the back of SCP-8400's mind, an itch in the shape of a memory of a place he had never been or seen. It hurt him to think about it, so he didn't.

At last they came upon a large metal gate fixed to an immense wall, which in turn encircled an even more immense conglomeration of grey rectangles. A prison to end all prisons. An injury on the world. An affront.

Martlet motioned for SCP-8400 to stay put, and approached the heavily reinforced booth built into the wall beside the gate, and as she did this, something very odd began to happen.

"In for a penny," said Martlet.

A small man, head too large for his body and nose too large for his head, peered out from beneath the old stone bridge.

"In for a pound," the small man returned, his voice low and hoarse.

A thunderous crack shook over the treeline. The bramble of thorns before them began to unravel and fall away, not withering or dying, but moving like the tentacles of some unearthly leviathan— and they very well may have been— as they retreated and vanished into the same vast darkness beneath the bridge where the small man had already returned.

"Come along," said Martlet.

So along SCP-8400 came, mounting the steps of the grand bridge with greater trepidation than he had felt in an eternal age. Stone beasts, skeletal and unrecognized, were carved into either side of the bridge's forward approach, and their necks creaked and craned to watch over the two as they passed.

"You bleed your dreams too deeply, I think," said SCP-8400.

"To be clear, everything you see is completely real," Martlet assured him, gesturing at the landscape. "More real than the alternative, in most ways."

SCP-8400 moved to the bridge-edge and peered over the side. An inky blackness flowed beneath, painting a broad line as far as the eye could see at either side: a dark river at first glance; something like a void, if a void could be said to pulse and undulate. Then, all at once, SCP-8400 realized he was looking at an enormous quantity of black, wet hair that flowed and squelched like a hateful parody of a babbling brook. He pondered this and moved on.

The bridge came to an end just yards from the treeline of a tall and densely-set forest. The road ahead wound beneath a canopy of trees whose branches reached up to entwine and steeple with one another, giving an impression more akin to the mouth of a cave or an abandoned temple than a collection of living things. Still, Martlet walked ever forward, and SCP-8400 followed resolutely, even as the morning light faded far behind them.

A fat little squirrel watched from its perch above, the blinking red crest on its forehead a mark of its vigilance. Yet no matter how much it cocked its head or adjusted its lens, the tiny creature simply could not detect The Two Somethings in The Nothing-Space before it, and its tiny motors whirred in confusion.

"What manner of creature is that?" asked SCP-8400.

"CCTV, most likely."

As the words left Martlet's mouth, the fat little squirrel scurried from its perch and bounded down the hallway-road, its greedy cheeks stuffed with a bounty of acorns.

"Don't think about it too much," she added. "Really. Don't. The metaphor may break down if you examine it too closely, and I don't know what will happen to us if we're inside it when that happens."

The forest path was dim and dense. Occasionally there would be a break in the closely-set trees alongside them, through which could be seen any number of woodland creatures running around in people-clothes, conducting people-business. They spoke to one another in people-tongues, and paid the two no mind.

"They're not like us," Martlet said. "Some of them know. I've been fortunate so far, but it won't be a secret for much longer."

"Do you trust them?"

"I love them."

"Those are very different things."

"I know."

When the endless path ended, it deposited them in a circular clearing, at the center of which appeared to be a large hole in the ground. As they approached, it became clear that an elaborate spiral staircase was constructed along the perimeter of the pit. Moss and weeds overran the stone, creeping out through veinlike cracks.

"Would you like to go first?" Dr. Martlet asked, gesturing ahead.

He gave a slight nod before continuing on.

And so they descended,

they walked and walked and walked,

down to where trust withers,

where the sun fears to shine,

then deeper down still,

unto the darkest depths,

until eventually

the staircase came to an end.

Before them stretched a long hallway, dimly lit by small motes of light hovering overhead that flickered and shivered as if stirring in restless sleep. SCP-8400 stopped a moment, glancing up at the lights in faint recognition, but saying nothing. Dr. Martlet simply moved ahead, stride unbroken, taking the lead.

"Come," she said, a hint of urgency betraying her otherwise even voice. "We're in the final stretch."

SCP-8400 did not move.

"Your ghost of a forest is repugnant," he said. "It mocks that which I came from."

Martlet stopped, turning around.

"We can return, if that is what you wish. I am, after all, as equally bound to the rules of Hospitality as you are."

"No. I will see this through."

With a nod and smile, Martlet turned once more, continuing down the path. SCP-8400 followed.

The hallway curved left and right like a serpent, walls growing farther apart as they went until the lights above no longer reached them, leaving a dark expanse at either side that seemed to go on forever— and very well may have. Shapes emerged dimly in the distance, squat and square.

Cribs. Wood, every one, all unpainted and unembellished but far from uniform. Each edge of each piece was roughly, uniquely hewn, not a single line falling entirely straight, adding up to the impression of them certainly having been made by hand, if not grown from the earth outright. Each was set on its own curved base as if meant to be rocked, but nonetheless stood dead still. And finally, at the front of each cradle was affixed a wooden plaque.

And here SCP-8400's defenses finally wavered, the ground almost rushing to him, for upon each wooden plaque was embossed a word— not in any particular language, nor even in letters, but in meanings. The essence of things, reserved.

Upon each wooden plaque was embossed a name.

He ran to them.

FLOWERS

GOLD

HEART

CASTLE

GEARS

CHATTER

QUAIL

CLEF

SALLOW

ICEBERG

CROW

There they stood, countless cribs arranged in neat columns and rows like well-kept gravestones, seeming to span forever, or as far as the eye could see. Whichever came first. There were so many. Some he recognized.

And yet, all empty. He ran from one cradle to the next in a frenzy, but all were bare to the last. Marked by signs, yes, but devoid of that which was signified.

SCP-8400 dug his fingers into the earth and let out a long, low reverberation, more akin to the thunderous felling of an old tree than anything resembling a voice.

His form shifted, untethering to a buzzing mound of sharpness and sound and splinters and teeth, but the rage was less than his need to know— for that, as we have learned, is his true nature— and so the storm passed. He moved forward, but still allowed the occasional moment to linger and barely brush his fingertips along a crib's edge, trails of rapidly blossoming daisies tracing every caress.

An hour, or a day, or a forever afterward, it ended. No more cribs, no more light, only darkness.

And yet, amidst the only-darkness, a few paces away in the center of the room, a massive birch tree was visible, unlit from any source and half-shrouded in contradiction, but clear as day all the same. At the base of the tree was a wooden cellar door, shut tight in layers of chains topped by a single, formidable lock. The only sounds to be heard were that of footsteps— their own, presumably— and the distant rush of flowing water.

Delaney Martlet approached the tree, placing her hand on it gently. She stroked it, tender but respectful, then turned to SCP-8400. He watched her closely, every wooden joint tensed in anticipation, like a lion ready to pounce should its prey bolt for safety.

Moving with the decisiveness of someone keenly aware of her every action— though less out of caution than ceremony— Martlet crouched down to the cellar door at her feet, took the cold steel lock in one hand, and produced a humble key from her pocket with the other. A quiet click! followed, and in a single instant the lock crumbled to a fine ash. There wasn't the slightest breeze, yet the ash blew away all the same, leaving nothing but the outline of a memory.

"Now then," Martlet said finally, breaking the silence like a spell. "End of the line."

"Open it," SCP-8400 commanded.

She nodded. The old wooden door gave way with a heavy groan and a burst of dust, revealing a shallow compartment occupied only by a hardwood steamer trunk. It was old, but not ancient; richly ornamented, but stained thick in dirt and mold and tarnish.

"What lies within?" he asked, stepping forward.

"Open it," Martlet echoed in return, now standing straight.

SCP-8400 hesitated. He took a knee and reached towards the trunk, carefully taking the lid beneath his thumb. Slowly, he pried it open.

The trunk was full of heads. Infant heads, pale, still, and calm, as if frozen in an enchanted slumber.

"Dead?" SCP-8400 asked, trembling.

Martlet took his hand.

"Diminished, I think."

Bent and quivering, SCP-8400 raised a hand to the trunk, but pulled it away, every eye along his antlers screwing up tight.

"I don't recognize which one is my own," he whispered, barely above a breath.

When at last he opened his eyes, Martlet was smiling at him, the same sad smile she'd worn for much of their journey: cryptic and knowing, but absent of condescension. The smile of a friend? Not quite. A kindred smile. A smile like a mirror.

And,

raised beside that smile between two fingers of her right hand,

was a chestnut,

looking for all the world like an artifact of a long-forgotten lifetime,

and SCP-8400 remembered the terms of their agreement.

"The final game," said one.

"The final game," said the other.

An exchange of nods. For the first moment in what felt like eons, the mechanisms of time began to creak back into motion. A flicker of walls flashed all around, a flicker of locks and machines and so much steel— but only a flicker, and when it passed, once again all that remained was the tree, the trunk, and the dark, and the two.

Martlet passed on the chestnut, claiming the first turn. Back against back. Five long strides in either direction. A turn of the heels and a locking of eyes, unequal in number as they might have been. SCP-8400 bowed to Delaney Martlet, and Delaney Martlet bowed to SCP-8400, and this time, they meant it.

"It's almost nostalgic at this point, isn't it?" asked Martlet, her golden eyes catching the sunlight in a place where sunlight would never reach.

"You certainly seem to have learned much in the time that has passed."

"It's funny you say that. Before our last meeting, I had thought perhaps we were both meant to teach each other something. And we have. But more than that, I had it in my mind that we were both equally wrong, I suppose. That somehow I'd come out of our little game a better person and it would cost me absolutely nothing. And eventually, painfully, I realized that was impossible."

SCP-8400 nods, his eyes involuntarily drawn to the chest of heads beside them.

"Such is the nature of sacrifice."

"We— I mean, the Foundation likes to act as though we're fighting a losing battle, as if the tide of chaos will wash us away if we let up for even a moment. But that's not true. The truth is we're winning, and we've been winning for a long time. We fight. We suffer losses. But we're winning. We have control. I thought I wanted peace. I wanted to fix you, to stop you being a monster, while I happily remained a part of the thing that made you that way."

"And now?"

"I'm not even sure what monsters are anymore. But I know that peace can't exist on my terms alone. And I know that whatever you are, it is more than just the sum of what you lack. This is my chestnut: you were born from the formless, injured remains of the thing a Name was taken from. But now, you are something new."

The chestnut was cast.

The chestnut was caught.

"You have shown me much on this journey," said SCP-8400, "and I have wrestled with what I've seen. These visions, these bleeding dreams, both true and untrue— they confound and discomfort me. And yet, I believe I have begun to ken the nature of what you've revealed. I confess, when I spoke to you last, I could not have anticipated the extent of this."

"I owe you a lot. After I realized I wasn't fully human, the pieces started to fit into place."

"And a great many pieces there are. So let us speak the truth of you, 'child of the sun', and speak it plainly in the cover of darkness. I return your chestnut: you were molded from the formless, injured remains of a taken Name. But now, you are something new. "

The chestnut was cast.

The chestnut was caught.

Far away, a cradle rocked in the breeze.

"So many stories," Martlet said with a sigh. "We tell tales of your kind stealing our children away and raising them as your own. 'Every accusation is a confession,' as the saying goes. It's hard to articulate how perverse it all is. Not only did we take your names, we raised the few that weren't slain to help lock away the vengeful echoes created by their absence."

"You still speak of as if you are one of them."

"I am. In every way that matters, I've been one of them. Lived with them. Worked for them. Loved them. Devoured their stories and made them my own."

Site-24 Director Delaney Martlet stood in the darkness, and against the darkness she cast a shadow. It had the shape of a bird in flight, one that would never, ever land.

"But I've never really belonged. How could I, living under false pretenses? It's high time I came home. And that is my chestnut: now that we have found each other, we may finally become one again."

The chestnut was cast.

It broke to pieces in the air.

The martlet rushed to the pieces before they even had time to strike the ground. She crawled in a panic wherever they scattered, gathering them in her hands, her pockets, her beak.

Try as she might—

and any could see that she really, truly tried—

the pieces would not fit together.

The other half of her soul came forward, gardens beyond imagination blooming behind every footfall. He held her as she wept.

The final game was won.

"Oh!" Martlet exclaimed, drying her eyes. "Right. Terms of Hospitality. You've earned your name."

"I know where my name is," the other said softly.

"No, that's not enough."

She rose to her feet and returned to the old steamer trunk where the dormant Names lay sound asleep.

"Take one," she instructed.

"But their other halves—"

"They have none. Not anymore. They're orphans now. That's why they sleep."

SCP-8400 approached trunk slowly, his multitude of eyes scanning over the innocent faces inside. He took his time. A choice was made. He turned it over in his hand, observing all its features as the infant's head cooed in its slumber. Finally, he leaned forward and took a bite. When he pulled it away, only apple flesh could be seen beneath the broken skin.

A honeyed liquid oozed from the head, staining the nameless creature's mouth and hand as he tore into it with the voracity of a man starved. It was only a matter of seconds before all that remained were the stains of juice on his fingers.

Beithe.

The hunger of an entire existence finally sated, Beithe reclined himself against the lone birch tree. He held a hand above his face as if to block out the sun, though there was no sun in that place. It was the hand itself he marveled at, taking in the soft contours of his fingers the way one might admire the early morning sky.

"Not at all ill-fitting," said Beithe. "It tastes correct against my tongue."

Indeed, that was another thing he now possessed.

"Glad to hear it, Beithe," said Martlet, perching at his shoulder.

And they rested there together, the two once-half-selves, and considered the new things they found themselves to be. They lingered there for a good while. Not as long as the two might have preferred, but they knew the way home would be much longer still.

"What will you do now?" asked Beithe.

Martlet smiled and shrugged.

"I'm still the Director. And I'm still a leader. Maybe it's time for our branch to break off. Let something new take root."

"I see. What sort of thing would this new thing be?"

The martlet set her chin on her wing thoughtfully.

"There are myths, you know. The Foundation is bursting with myths— that's just what you call a secret you're not supposed to know, really. I've heard stories of a world where none of this happened. Where everyone made the right choices, and we live hand-in-hand and side-by-side."

"But those things did happen here. This is not that world. And it cannot be."

"No, it can't. But perhaps we can still learn from it."

A moment of quiet, and then Martlet rose.

"We are small," she admitted, "but we will survive. Those who choose to go on bearing the name 'Foundation' can suffer under its weight by their own will."

Beithe rose to join her. His joints did not creak. His eyes were set and focused.

"And what will you call yourself instead?" he asked.

"Maybe one day, a very long time from now, we'll earn a name worth aspiring to. Until then? Well. There are worse things than being nameless."

The knight cracked his knuckles, savoring the sensation of his bones and the marrow within them.

"You will be opposed," he told her, a smile concealed beneath his words.

"Then it's fortunate I won't face them alone."

And they walked together, hand-in-hand, out of the endless darkness and into something far less knowable.

❖❖❖