awaiting an exit from this aerial purgatory. 


| checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to landing; land, now, beneath 
us. 


The crewman from earlier rushed down the ladder, mildly injuring 
himself on the way down. 


"Admiral! American fighters have ambushed us!" His faced was filled 
with panic, before rushing past me to gun station located beneath. 


Within less than a minute, | heard bursts of gunfire. The plane began 
to swerve wildly. The initial rapid chkchkchkchkchkchk of our 
defensive guns opening fire marked the beginning of our 
engagement. 


| began to reflect on my odds of survival. Japanese planes, while 
significant feats of engineering, were not known for their durability. 


The rapid THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK of bullets hitting their mark 
sealed our fate. A burst seemed to rip through the left wing - but on 
further examination, the wing appeared mostly intact. Despite this, 
plane pitched steeply down. | could not see from the passenger 
compartment, but | knew the plane would crash any minute, giving 
me precious few seconds to find closure in this rather poignant turn 
of events. | found irony in that a pioneer of naval aviation would die 
in an assassination performed by naval aviators. 


That was the last thought | had before | came to, still strapped into 
the doomed plane. A crewman jostled me awake. The panic that 
had consumed his expression earlier had been replaced entirely 
with professionalism. "That worked better than expected. Come with 
me, we have little time." | followed him out of the plane, which had 
maintained its shape remarkably well. 


Before me, | saw something that | never could have expected, nor 
imagined. 


There was a plane crash, just like mine, but far more catastrophic. 


SCP-937-2 also behave like ants in terms of their aggressive 
behavior toward anything outside of their species, as well as their 
sting. The sting induces necrosis at the site very quickly, and the 
fruit will work together to overwhelm even small mammals. 
Fortunately, while painful, the sting does not endanger humans and 
can be averted with proper precautions. 


Once ripe, SCP-937-2 will climb as high as possible and glide to 
other trees, where they will germinate as a normal hemiepiphyte, 
eventually extending roots to the ground and foliage upward. Like 
other strangler figs, SCP-937 will surround the trees that they 
germinated on and eventually kill them. This combined with the 
aggressive nature of SCP-937-2 makes SCP-937 a particularly 
noxious weed should the species manage to gain a foothold. 


Experiment Log 937-1: 


Date: / /19 , months duration 

Subject: Two SCP-937 specimens, twenty fertilized queens of Atta 
sexdens 

Procedure: A large arboretum was constructed at [REDACTED] in 
Melanesia, where SCP-937 and Atta sexdens were introduced to an 
established ecology. 

Details: Three successful leafcutter ant colonies were founded, and 
began to expand. Both SCP-937 trees matured and bore fruit, which 
began to forage. The two species ignored each other until the 
leafcutter ants attempted to harvest leaves from one of the SCP-937 
instances. New subtypes of SCP-937-2 matured, and the SCP-937 
hives collaborated to eradicate leafcutter colonies and aggressively 
colonize the area. After weeks, the ant colonies had been 
exterminated, and much of the island's ecology had been taken over 
by SCP-937. 


By order of Dr. , senior researcher for SCP-937, the site was 
remotely destroyed and incinerated until nothing viable remained. 


Addendum 937-3: Due to irregularities in soil samples at Site-92, 
[DATA EXPUNGED], a quarantine for all botanical material is now in 
place at the site. — Dr. , 4/937 


« SCP-936 | SCP-937 | SCP-938 » 


The wings had sheared off. The fuselage was crumpled, and smoke 
poured out of the wreck contributing to an ever-growing plume rising 
out of the jungle. 


And right in the middle of all of it, was a body in the passenger 
compartment. | remembered a nightmare | had at one point as a 
child - | looked into a mirror and instead of my own face, | saw 
something that looked like me, but wasn't me. All the way down to 
the officer's sword, the missing fingers on my hand, the stoic facial 
expression | tried to keep. It was an exact copy of me, more exact 
than human hands could craft. This particular duplicate had suffered 
severe bullet wounds. 


| stood awestruck before my own death before reality kicked in - | 
was still very much alive, and this was quite obviously a very 
meticulous, elaborate operation to fake my death. 


The same crew member from before grabbed my shoulder. "Let's 
have a little discussion. Please, take a few minutes to recover - 
plane crashes would shake anyone up, not to mention seeing one's 
own death before them. You seem to be holding up rather well. 
That's good. You have a lot to digest in the next couple of hours." 
He produced a small bottle of sake and offered it to me. 


| declined. "I'd rather remain clearheaded, thank you. What exactly 
is going on?" The past ten minutes of events had blindsided me 
entirely. | may have been panicking internally, but | felt no need to 
show that. 


He returned the bottle to the pocket whence it came, and rewarded 
my restraint with half a smile. "You're taking it better than most. As 
far as the world knows, you died in the plane crash. We've already 
checked this contingency - you will be posthumously promoted to 
Marshal Admiral, receive some significant commendations from 
Japan and Germany, of all places, and given a full state funeral." 
The matter-of-factness in his voice clashed heavily with the ideas he 
was conveying. 


The panic | had been holding back rushed forth like a flood. "Who 
are you? What is this?" 


He held up a hand. "One question at a time please." | tried to calm 
myself a little, but did not meet much success. | didn't even think to 
react to this blatant insubordination with anger. 


"Fine. Continue." 


"| did fail to introduce myself, my apologies. My name is Kenzo Ui. | 
am not affiliated with the Axis nor the Allies, nor the Soviets. It's a 
little difficult to explain who | work for. And this here is the place that 
the history books will recall that you died after a successful 
American ambush." 


| found my stoicism once more. "| do not understand. Who are you?" 


"It's OK, you can have a couple minutes. After that | can explain why 
all of this is occurring.” 


| thought of my family | was leaving behind. | thought of all the 
comrades-in-arms, whether they be the door guard | saw every day 
or those | sent into the Aleuts and had never met, or of Haruto, my 
ever-faithful personal secretary. | thought of the troops | whose 
morale | intended to boost, and that | had in all likelinood shattered it 
instead. | thought of the country | was leaving behind, and whose 
hands | left it in. | took small comfort in that my death would be 
viewed as honorable and tragic, and found some peace with that. | 
could process the ramifications of my ‘death’ later - for now | had to 
piece together exactly what was happening. 


"Before you ask - there is no going back. Not possible." 

| sighed. That question had not even crossed my mind. 

"Explain yourself.” 

"This may take a few moments to process. You are a practical man - 
| will not try to use weasel words and make it seem something that it 
is not." 


Kenzo thought for a few seconds, and then continued. 


"You know, | had a whole speech for this prepared - the occult, 
magic, alchemy exists, etc. You'd have a really hard time believing 


that." 


"That would be a correct assumption." This felt like an elaborate 
prank, aside from the colossal amount of effort required for this 
endeavor. 


"| decided | should bring proof." Reaching into pocket, he withdrew a 
sheathed knife. "Here's a knife. Does it look familiar?" 


| frowned. "That's a traditional Japanese utility knife. So? | thought 
they were standard issue." 


"You're correct. Pick a tree." We were in the jungle after all - 
fortunately the jungle lacked density, but it still gave me plenty of 
trees to pick from. 


"That one over there. What is this leading up to?" | asked, pointing 
to a rather average looking tree perhaps five meters away. 


"That'll work. You may want to stand back." He withdrew the knife. 
He prepared to strike the tree, as if he expected it cut straight 
through, rather than getting stuck in the bark and injuring his arm. 


| watched with incredulity as he felled the tree with one strike. "| 
don't believe you. That was a set up." 


"You're welcome to check the tree, or pick another. If you really want 
to, you can cut the tree yourself. Be careful though, it is quite sharp." 


"Give me the knife." 


| saw a smaller tree adjacent to the first one. | scrutinized it carefully 
- no trace of human tampering whatsoever. 


| found it difficult to strike the tree as Kenzo had - my body struggled 
to understand that this knife differed from every other it had ever 
held, and that it would not injure itself while cutting down this tree. 


After much effort, the tree was felled - exactly as Kenzo had 
demonstrated. A clean cut - not even the master sword-smiths of 
Japan could make something that sharp, or with that much cutting 
ability. 


| returned the knife to Kenzo. "There's a lot more where that came 
from, and most of them are not nearly this mundane. Some are just 
bizarre - radio transmissions with disturbing content, items no 
human hand could have crafted. Others have the capacity to end the 
world, or even reality itself. Understandably, this is a little far- 
fetched, but | can demonstrate far more later." 


| struggled to parse what was demonstrated with what | knew about 
the world. "Why haven't I, nor anyone | have ever met, encountered 
such things? Surely you cannot hide something of such magnitude." 


Kenzo's smiled widened. "We do our best to hide them, and the 
reason you don't believe is primarily my job. | am - and now you are, 
too, whether you like it or not - part of an organization dedicated to 
isolating these sorts of things, whether they be people, places, 
things, or events, from the general population. | realize this may be 
difficult to believe. | can provide all the proof you need once we are 
evacuated to a safe location." A officer's staff car pulled it. It was not 
Japanese, nor American. It had no markings. "That's our ride. It's 
either this or dying in the jungle." 


| obliged. The staff car drove into the jungle. "Why me? What will | 
do? | am an admiral, not a... whatever you are." 


"Usually, we're just called agents. Me, in particular? I'm a 
disinformation specialist. Think somewhere between spy and 
Yakuza cleaner. And your skills are required." 


"What could you possibly need a fleet admiral for?" 


"A second world war rages behind the scenes of the one you fight. 
Our organization has former military men... but skilled tacticians, we 
lack. We've been ‘poaching’, for lack of a better term, from military 
commanders on both sides of this conventional war raging in 
tandem with ours. Why you specifically? William Gott asked for you 
by name. A British Lieutenant-General. He thinks rather highly of 
you. The Americans had already planned this assassination well in 
advance, and we found it to be an excellent opportunity to extract 
your for our own purposes." 


"Why the hell should | work for you, or with him? Our countries are 


at war. You are not my country, nor do | have any other reason to 
assist you at all. Explain yourself." 


"lam afraid | cannot. You will be briefed as fully as possible once we 
reach the ground, and then even further once we remove you from 
the island." The staff car stopped abruptly in front of a bunker that 
was, again, neither Japanese nor American in origin. "Ah, we have 
arrived. That's our safehouse - in a few hours we'll be evacuating 
you by submarine." 


"To o" 


"| could name a few locations, but | would be greatly surprised if you 
recognized them." 


"Do | have any choice in this matter? You said | couldn't go back, 
but can | go anywhere else?" 


"There's always a choice, Admiral. I've been authorized to allow you 
to commit suicide. | see you have your officer's sword at hand - but | 
have cyanide capsules here, if you prefer." 


| scoffed. Hardly a choice. 


"| resent being dragooned into your war, but | fear | must accept 
your offer, and whatever it entails." 


Kenzo bowed. "I hoped as much. Your new designation is O5-10. 
You will be provided with background on the other leaders, including 
the late -10, and whatever other information you desire that we can 
possibly muster. Welcome to the Foundation, Ilsoroku Yamamoto." 


Setting the Stage 


Dear sir or madame, 


It has come to our attention that you have taken some of 
our props, and while we understand why you felt it 
necessary, we politely request you return them. We were 
not intending for the performance to reach the level it did, 
and it can only be seen as the fault of the actors. Some 
people just have to be free spirits, and while that is 
commendable in the long run, it isn't the way you run a 
production. 


Normally we'd let you keep them, but we feel they don't 
quite mesh with the performance we've presented 
thusfar. It isn't really proper to take a drama and throw a 
dash of realistic fiction into it, or vice versa. Performance 
is all about execution, and if we just threw properties at 
people willy nilly it wouldn't be very interesting. In terms 
you might understand, it's like performing an experiment 
with too many variables. The result just doesn't cut it. 


In exchange for the return of our property, we're willing to 
offer you a personal gift: tickets to our next show, "A 
Symphony in Algae" about undersea life and the effect of 
a prop very similar to the one you've stumbled onto. 
There are only two seats left, which we could sell to one 
of those exhibitionist art groups, but we've decided that 
the return of our belongings is worth being deprived of 
new players on the field. 


William Shakespeare once said "All the world's a stage, 
and all the men and women merely players: they have 
their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time 
plays many parts, his acts being seven ages." 


And you know what? He was right. 


Sincerely, 
Wehrner Gillespie 


Red Actors Troupe 


Settling Tabs 


“Hello, Eddies Ice Cream, our special-” 
“Dead men dance.” 

“W-what? Sir, | think you have-” 

“ACC 119998256” 

“Just a moment...” 


“ y 


“..['ll patch you through.” 
“Central Records. Department?” 
“Intelligence.” 

“Transferring.” 


“ ” 


“This is Intelligence, how...oh goddammit, what do you want 
Harken?” 


“A target confirmation, that's all.” 


“.-our records state you have all the mission-critical target 
information you need.” 


“Side-mission, very hush-hush, just came up.” 


“Uh huh. Sure. Next, tell me the dispatch came from Elvis himself. 


“Just gimme a goddamn yes or no, fucking would you?” 


“.. Target?” 

“Subject of Interest #B112674, MC&D operative 'Boomer'.” 
“...Do you have a theorized location?” 

“The former Ford plant closest to my current location.” 

“.. Yes. I'm not even going to ask how or why-” 

“See ya.” 


“Wai- y 


Kramer glared at the note taped to the box sitting on the table. She 
should have been paying more attention, but she'd had to neutralize 
a unexpected incursion of Church operatives, and she'd been so 
gassed out she could barely stand. Now every organic bit felt 
bruised and sore, which didn't help her mood, reading the note. 


Kramer- 

Something came up, had to run out. Coffee's in the pot, 
and there's a danish in the box. Save me an éclair. If | 
don't check in by noon or so, have them pull my 
identichip and send someone. If they can't, then | guess 
there's no real reason to worry. Please don't hurt 
anything important when | get back.