Photo Result: Photograph did not develop. Second and third 
attempts yielded same result. 


Subject: SCP-999 

Photographed Activity: Eating from a bowl of M&M's. 
Photo Result: Enveloping the photographer, who is laughing 
hysterically. 


Subject: An instance of SCP-1000 


Researcher Rose Labelle 

"| do not have a harem." — Researcher Rose Labelle 
"Guys, Bright just sent me an email. | don't want to open 
it. I'm kind of terrified." — Researcher Rose Labelle 
"Okay he's just sent me three emails. No, two more just 
arrived. I'm not opening any of these." — Researcher 
Rose Labelle 

"| can't imagine ever characterizing the writing process 
this way." — Researcher Rose Labelle 

"Wait, Darkblade? What?" — Researcher Rose Labelle 
"| quit." — Researcher Rose Labelle 


Oh, shit, this hasn't met the impossible world count since | started 
an hour before the deadline. Lemme fix that. 


All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. 


All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and 
no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 


makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All 
work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no 
play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes 
Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull 
girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work 
and no play makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play 
makes Rose a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose 
a dull girl. All work and no play makes Rose a dull girl. 


IMPORTANT UPDATE: | just realized | never actually mentioned 
Rose Labelle finding the Lost Tome of the Daevite Empire. That's 


because this story was the Lost Tome of the Daevite Empire al/ 
along. 


"No really, whose work is this? I'm not amused." — 
Researcher Rose Labelle 


This is Where it Begins 


The train cried as its wheels dragged against old rails, a scream that 
told of a new world for those ready to board. A scream that may well 
have said: "It is time. It is time." Those ready for what the world 
would give to them stood and boarded with strides strong and 
confident. Others however, slow and unsure. In the end, they were 
ready all the same. For what the world could throw at them, they 
stood ready. 


All but one. 
One who stood paralyzed by the prospect of just what he faced. 
He'd seen it before. All of it. 


He'd seen the bloodshed as towering eldritch horrors speared 
tendrils dark as charcoal through friends, sometimes family. Muscles 
ripped asunder as blood painted the world red, sinews snapped like 
the strings of a worn out guitar. So easily, they broke. Fragile. Every 
scream that resounded was anguish that he dragged with him, every 
final breath he watched was a note played on a repeating record. 
Each scratch of the needle was a new howl of unadulterated agony. 
A reminder of failure. 


Every life he failed to save stood side-by-side in his mind. For a 
moment, it all echoed. Every voice had its own plea, its own prayer. 


"Please." 
"It can't be today- | can't leave them-" 


The voices were choked, as blood rose to suffocate them. From 
every wound, every severed line of life that trailed through now stark 
white sinew, and every sickly cough crimson was expelled. Slowly, 
what kept them alive began to kill them. Words choked out by 
coughs of blood and anguish still forced their last pleas. 


"| won't die- will 1? They're coming for us, aren't they?" 


"Can you hear us? Please- please send something! Anything! Send 
a team send someone!" 


He almost cried. For a moment- just a moment- he had to fight the 
rise of stinging hot tears. No matter what they'd asked for, every 
plea was left to fade to radio silence. When a desperate plea was 
finally answered, it was too late. They were gone, and their names 
were burned into his brain. 


Samuel Cunningham, a bright young soul who joined a month 
before a bastards bullet tore through a heart native and bright. How 
cruel to place a barrel to a fallen mans chest and... He only was 18. 
Samuel was 18, almost 19 when his smile was wiped from Earth like 
a small child's doodle from the wall. Damned be if maybe the world 
was like an angry father, Samuel was a beautiful sketch in purple 
crayon along the bedroom door. Wiped away with no regard for the 
value behind it. No matter how beautifully drawn, it was gone 
forever. 


Alodie Sinaed, was it all just too much for her? From the time that 
she was 25, she studied the unknown with a profound curiosity. 
Nothing was too much for her. The unknown to her was what made 
it all worth it. Every new discovery made her grey eyes sparkle with 
an intensity that no one could have dreamed of experiencing. Alodie, 
she was of another breed. Dedicated, bright... so why was she 
found vomiting blood at three in the morning? Why was she left 
beneath a white sheet little over an hour later? Why was her office 
cleaned as they made the final call? 


Tennyson Ludvigsen, he wasn't ready to die. Eyes wide like a fawn 
paralyzed by the headlights of an oncoming truck, when silver met 
sinew the world was dyed red. The loudest scream was his silence. 
He left a child, he left a child and a father so old you'd swear the 
reaper was beside him at all hours of the night. No one could say 
why, no one could tell such a young thing that his fathers neck had 
been cut wide open to the point blood muffled what would have 
been the most heartwrenching scream he'd heard. The first sound, 
"Ro-." Everyone knew, he was calling out to a loved one. He was 
calling out to the man he'd loved and left behind because he'd never 


said goodbye. He departed, and like a coward had hid himself away. 


The tears fell. The tears fell and he bent like a bloom whipped 
around by a violent wind. A flower subject to harsh nature. A man 
subject to a wave of regret, it wasn't his job to save them. Despite 
that... after so many long fights, after so much bloodshed, and after 
so many regrets he was forced to bare the weight of it all. He was 
Atlas and the regret of it all was his sky. Damned, the final words of 
every soul were designated his burden. 


"Kieran..." 


The voice was muffled through the anguish. A voice so soft was lost 
to the pieces of jagged glass he called his memories. 


Once again, the soft voice called. 
"Kieran!" 


Louder, louder and stronger as hands gripped his shoulders in an 
attempt to wake him from a nightmare that dared to face him in 
daylight. The hands shook and shook until he was forced to look at 
him. He was forced to look to warm hazel, and a smile he'd seen 
many times before. A smile he knew so well it was burned into his 
memory as a moment of grace from the weight of all he held. 


He looked up, and a smiling man with features familiar looked back 
to him. Long, shaggy black locks were brushed away to see those 
hazel gems shining with tears of their own. Jade returned the look, 
and they wiped away one another's tears. It had been minutes, what 
felt like hours were merely minutes ticked away. 


"Are you ready?" Jeremy asked softly, helping Kieran rise from 
where he had crumbled to the floor. 


Silence. He asked once again in the same soft manner, 
"Kieran, are you ready?" 


He looked up once again. First, he looked to Jeremy. Then, to the 
train. Most had boarded, but few remained to say farewell to loved 
ones. Cover stories were given, pretty lies told to those few who's 


families followed. Lies. Lies that would mean nothing when it came 
time to carry away the corpses some would leave. It was nothing to 
worry of, for those in charge. A fallen soldier was so easily 
replaceable. 


Anyone could replace them with the proper training. Toy soldiers, 
playing a part in a twisted dance. 


"What if the dance had ceased?" That question was the song to 
which toy soldiers danced. 


"What if the illusion was broken?" 
"What if these things were left alone and neglected?" 
"What if these things fell into the wrong hands?" 


A barrage of self induced uncertainty. With every new anxiety raised 
he stood a little taller. He stood and turned to Jeremy one final time. 


What if one day, these things hurt the one person he truly cared for? 


Jeremy Marcon, the one person in the world he could never lose. 
The one person he'd ever been able to save. The only person in the 
world, his world, that mattered. 


He gave him one final look. 
"Goodbye." He whispered. 


The train cried one last time. A final decree, "if you dare this path, 
this is your final chance." The platform was now empty, sans a 
handful of those mulling around as they waited to wave their 
goodbyes. 


"Take care, Kieran." 


The two smiled, and embraced one last time. To them, it was an 
eternity. An eternity was nowhere near enough, but time was down 
to the wire. Now or never, he broke away and ran to board. 


Jeremy stood, and waved as the train called its departure. His hand 


pressed to the window, Kieran mouthed a goodbye to the only man 
to stand by his side through the darkness that he now left to brave 
alone. 


Italy, home of the MTF Psi-7. 


Home Improvement. 


This Isn't a Hospital 


“Ms. Catherine, | understand you may be shocked, but | must insist 
you try your hardest to remember.” 


She looked down at the stark white hospital gown she was wearing, 
the texture felt rough against the skin that was not wrapped up in 
gauze or absorbent patches. Even those were not exactly 
comfortable, and the man sitting beside the bed with the wide plastic 
smile put every hair of hers on edge. She disliked hospitals, the 
ward she sat in was almost blindingly white and sterile. The few 
occupants were her, the interviewer, and four other victims of the 
attack. 


“Ms. Catherine?” 


“| said that this guy leapt out from the hedge and tried to bite off my 
tit,” Catherine repeated, resisting the temptation to rub her wounded 
chest and arms. Even thinking about it made it hurt. “I heard 
something break a bit earlier, but | just thought someone had 
knocked over one of those big flower vase things in the park.” 


“Did this man look drugged, or ill?” The interviewer leaned in, still 
smiling. “Or did he seem perfectly normal besides the aggression? 
Did you say anything that would have offended someone?” 


Catherine moved further over to the side of the bed. “He looked 
really red and he was sweating. | think he was homeless.” She took 
a deep breath, trying to remember each detail of the man. “He had a 
beard and his nails were extremely long.” Her eyes moved over to 
her arms, all bandaged up from where the man had ripped into her. 
“He also was not wearing any shoes.” She nodded, laying back onto 
the stiff pillow. She wriggled slightly, trying to remove the pressure 
on her chest from the bandages. With most of her chest and waist 
covered, she really did not want to think about how bad the wounds 
looked, and was even more thankful she could barely feel them. 


“| see,” the interviewer said, the smile never leaving his face, “so 
perhaps he was just mentally ill-“ 


“George!” Someone called from across the room. “We need to talk.” 


The interviewer got up, nodded in the direction of the person who 
called for him before looking back at Catherine. “Il suggest you rest, 
Ms. Catherine.” 


“Will | get to call my parents soon? They’re probably worried to 
death that | got run over or something.” 


“Tomorrow, Ms. Catherine. Tonight | believe you should rest, we 
have testing we need to do in the morning,” he said while getting up, 
then walking away at a brisk pace. Catherine watched as he quickly 
made his way to the door and disappeared behind it. 


“...Creep,” she muttered underneath her breath. She could not deny 
that he had a point though, she was exhausted and her body hurt. 
Catherine waited for sleep to come, the sound of a hospital bed 
being moved the herald of a dreamless slumber. 


Catherine woke up in a panic, nearly rolling off the bed. Her chest 
felt like it was in a tight vise, squeezing out her organs. She twisted 
and squirmed on the bed in an effort to loosen the hardened 
bandages, instead there was a cracking noise, and as she rolled 
over again the cold touch of air ran over her exposed wounds before 
the itchy hospital gown covered them. 


“Oh shit.” She sat up, the pieces of bandaging falling off behind her 
or into her lap. Catherine reached into her gown to pull out the 
hardened gauze and looked over them for a moment. They were 
soaked in reddish brown, with crusted yellow green making faint 
outlines where she assumed the edges of the bites and scratches to 
be. She looked up first, at the empty ward, then leaned down to sniff 
the bandages. They were scentless, not even a slight metallic whiff 


Photographed Activity: Hiding in a cave, with light provided by a 
bioluminescent creature.