A few lazy eyes turn up to Louis as he starts his speech. 


Brother Perkins attempts to focus on the road ahead of him. The 
four hours of driving he had endured thus far was starting to get to 
him, as his eyes wander to the locked door behind him. 


"Nah, | can't ask them to drive, those dumbassess'll kill us all" He 


thinks to himself as he turned his attention back to the road. An 
unseen pothole bounces the RV sharply, dislodging the glove box 
and revealing its contraband... 


A sharp jump in the RV causes the previously standing congregation 
to fall, the somewhat destroyed facade of a room falling apart as any 
order takes its final breath. Groaning, Louis wobbles to his feet, and 
turns his gaze to the overturned room, spotting a dark stain growing 
on the ratty carpet. Brother Miller's red hair takes on a new shade as 
his blood spills from his head. 


Louis Anna stumbles over to Miller, turning him over. 


"You uhh, you ok?" Louis inquires of his fallen friend, "Open yer 
eyes man, that's an order!" 


Not observing any response, Father Anna moves to wake Brother 
Jones, when a loud gasp interrupts his movements. Turning around, 
Louis Anna sees Miller sitting upright on the floor. Staring at the wall 
in front of him, he stands... 


A dime bag of cocaine, unconsumed by the general congregation, 
sits in the broken glove box atop a sea of maps. 


"| can't do this right now, Father Louis would kill me. ‘Sides, | can be 
strong, | got faith." Perkins thought to himself, attempting, and failing 
to close the glove box, spilling its contents into the passenger side. 
The bag of cocaine lays on top of the stack, standing out like a jewel 
to Brother Perkins. 


Brother Perkins hits himself lightly on the face, refocusing his 
attention on the road, trying to ignore his shaking hands. 


Brother Miller never takes his eyes off the wall, as Louis Anna 
watches incredulously. Stopping just short of ramming into the wall, 
Miller touched his forehead, letting the blood pool in his hands. 
Examining the wall like a painter examining their canvas, Brother 
Miller starts to draw on the wall, using his blood like paint... 


D-639-9: I'm not sure, but | think he was crying. 
<End Log> 


Closing Statement: [D-639-9 kept in solitary 
confinement to determine whether SCP-639 caused any 
sort of memetic or mental effect. None surfaced over the 
course of the quarantine and the subject was terminated 
on schedule.] 


« SCP-638 | SCP-639 | SCP-640 » 


With a freshly powdered nose, Brother Perkins doesn't notice the 
curve in the road in front of him. The crude guard rail falls apart as 
the speeding truck runs into it, falling down the hill, and into a tree. 


The now-unconscious passengers of the RV lay clumped on the 
front wall of the RV, while Brother Perkins lay slumped at the wheel. 
The left wall of the RV was adorned with words that read: 


* 


ONE MORE 


The first to awaken, Louis Anna pans his eyes over the ruined RV, 
his eyes stopping at the bloody mosaic on his wall. 


"The... fuck does that mean?" 


« Recruiting | Hub | Coming Soon! » 


Prologue: Recruiting 


A dreamless night is not a happy night for an aspiring member of the 
Fifth Church. 


Louis Anna is startled from his slumber by a loud rap at the door. 
Slowly peeling his face from his table, he examines the empty bag of 
powder, and for good measure, crudely throws it under his old bed. 


“LOUIS, YOU IN THERE MAN?” exclaims a voice from outside the 
door, “| AINT BEEN SEEIN’ YOU FOR A FEW DAYS AND | 
WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU WERE A-OK!” 


After a brief stumble in the direction of the door, a ray of midday light 
strikes his face as his neighbor falls through the old trailer door. 
Santana Taylor, a large man who consistently manages to have 
more grease on his shirt than the actual cotton, lay on the newly 
broken door a few feet from the stunned Louis. 


“Uhh, sorry ‘bout that” Santana muttered awkwardly, pulling himself 
up from the ground, “I heard you went on some bender and | wanted 
to make sure you ain't dead. Also, you should fix your door, some 
fella is gonna end up stealin’ your provisions and such.” 


“You gonna pay me back for that?” grumbles the hungover Louis, 
moving away from the sun. 


“Wish | could Louie, but | ain’t the one tryin’ to get tax cuts,” mused 
Santana, “besides, during your little bender you pissed in my AC! 
You know | just paid that off and now my whole trailer smells like 
piss.” 


“Sorry, but what the hell are you talkin’ about with them tax cuts? | 
don’t know nothin’ about that.” 


“You barged into my trailer the other night rantin' about how you 
were gonna start up a church. ‘Course, can’t be trustin’ your coked 


up mouth.” 
“Wha-what did | tell you?” 


“Something stupid about your dad and a starfish. You got a whole 
crowd though, your buddies were all cheerin’ you on, making a huge 
noise outside while | was tryin’ to sleep.” 


“Who would | have been with?” 


“The hell is this, The Hangover Part One? Just ask them, they’re all 
outside.” 


Stumbling into the sunlight, Louis sees a rough assembly of four 
men in soiled blue bed sheets laying under a large oak tree. The 
noise of Santana’s yelling stirs a few of the men, who gazed around 
the area blankly. Upon noticing the arrival of Louis, the two 
awakened men awaken the rest. 


One of the men immediately jumped up and ran towards Louis. In an 
attempt to run away from this clearly deranged man, Louis 
attempted to run away, but was caught in a bear hug by the man. 


“Thank God-err, the Starfish-thing that you’re okay! You stumbled 
into your trailer a few days ago and | had to keep these fuckers off 
the congregation crack supply!” the man cries into Louis’ shoulder. 


“Uhh, thank you, but what the hell is going on?” Louis replies, out of 
breath, “and could you please release me, | can’t breathe.” 


“Sorry Father Anna!” the man replies, releasing his hug, “You told 
me this might happen so here’s what I’m to give you.” 


Fumbling around under his robes, the man produces a damp sheet 
of paper. Gingerly picking it up, Louis reads his own sloppy 
handwriting on the paper. 


I’m going to hate this but | accidentally roped these idiots 
along on our little religious escapade. | don’t know if | will 
remember any of this but they might be useful. Hopefully 
by the time I’ve sobered up I’ve finished what | was going 
to write. In a moment of lucidity | am writing this to me 


because | can’t let myself lose the only people who have 
actually believed in our holy mission. I’ve given this note 
to Kevin Jones, the lanky one with the weird teeth is 
John Hines, Frank Miller is the redhead, and Brian 
Perkins is the bigger one. 


Don't fuck this up, 
Louis Anna 


Louis glanced up at the expectant face of the man, Kevin Jones, and 
sighed. 


“What have | gotten myself into this time?” 


"How the hell have y'all fools not finished fifty fundraising flyers yet! 
Y'ain't even done ten!" 


Louis Anna is practically foaming at the mouth. The First Southern 
Fifth Church of Texas huddles in a small mobile home, the smell of 
sweat and permanent marker floating through the air. The mobile 
home has been retrofitted into a small base of operations, with a 
hand-drawn starfish hung up on the wall. Symbols similar to an 
ampersand with five points sticking out of it had been carved into an 
excessive amount of space on the walls. 


"Please be forgivin' us sir, but most of us don't gotta write all too 
much. And these symbols are hard to draw." Brother Hines 
mumbled. Crumpled up beside him are dozens of crumpled up 
pieces of paper. 


"How could you not be gettin’ that symbol memorized yet? You can't 
even look around this room without seeing it." 


“These hicks are too illiterate to write the same few things over and 
over again.” Louis thinks to himself. "How am | supposed to lead 
them?" 


"Alright, fine, let's take a break to read. If y'all want to become 
Fifthists you gotta learn how to write and read for yourself." A 
general cheer arose from the congregation. All eyes turned to Father 


Anna as he retrieved his annotated copy of Seventeen Red Tales. 
"The fruits of my days labor are right here in this book. | got 
somethin’ new for you, my ex-ca-loosive 18th tale." 


A murmur overtakes the congregation as Father Anna retrieves his 
transcript from the back of the book. "SHUT YER TRAPHOLES!" 
Brother Perkins yells to the congregation. "We gotta listen to Father 
Anna!" 


"Thank you Brother Taylor. Now, listen up, | don't want none of y‘all 
missin’ this." Louis Anna boomed, the sound echoing through the 
small mobile home. "For Five nights | slept, for Five nights | 
dreamed, 


and for Five nights | wept. Waiting for a sign, a dream, a 
feeling. In my dreams, | waited for anything that would 
prove my convictions, but nothing came in Fives. When | 
dreamed, it was meaningless, lacking in imagery, 
cohesion, and feeling. When | awoke, | felt no 
compulsion to write, sing, or preach. My faith was 
shaken. "Give me the signs my brethren have received!" 
| cried to the heavens, to no avail. | reread, and reread 
the Seventeen Red Tales, but | felt nothing. Could | have 
been wrong all along? 


No. 


In my despair, | slipped back into my bottle and snow, 
and in my darkest hour | was spoken to. Five bottles and 
| wanted no more. Five lines, and | stopped. It was then 
when | realized my purpose. It wasn't | who was to be 
taken to World 390, but | was to lead others to it. 


My father taught me of The Fifth Church and his 
congregation, though he was called, leaving me behind. | 
realize now that | am to bring others to Georgia, to join 
the congregation and expand the will of the Starfish. If | 
will not be shown in my dreams, then | will show myself, 
making myself a vessel of the will of the Five. While my 
pen is guided, my steps will be my own to take. 


Who will join me on this journey? 


Father Anna stopped speaking and glanced up from his paper. The 
four other men gaze blankly up at Louis. Brother Jones was the first 
to recover, opening his mouth and saying, 


"So, uhhh, when are we leaving?" 


Hub | On the Road Again » 


Five Questions 


Contest has ended! The 
winners are bolded below! 


Five Questions Contest 


Theme: Answers 


So, now that the New Years Contest is done, and Troy has taken 
leave to his Library Contest, your lives are empty, drab things filled 
with sorrow. But enough of your Friday. I'm here with good news. 
There's a new contest in town. This one involves no fancy team- 
building, no organization, just writer against writer. Sadly, my dream 
to have you all flown in by black helicopters and forced to fight to the 
death have been pushed back due to budget cuts (though there's 
always next year). 


This contest will be about answering questions. 


There are always questions. Little mentions of this or that, thrown in 
to add an aura of mystery and a hint of a larger story. No article ever 
addresses everything. And five authors have chosen questions that 
even they don't have answers for. Five questions from five articles. 


Your job is to write a tale that attempts to answer one of these 
questions. 


So how do we win? 


As is so often the case, this will come down to the cold democracy 
of the rating module. If it does well, it will win. If it doesn't, it will not. 
It's really that simple. 


Well, almost that simple. You see, there are going to be five 


winners, the highest rated for each question. 

Can | write more than one entry? 

Sure! But only one per question. 

Wait, if my tale wins, does that mean it's the official answer? 


Nope. Your purpose is to give an answer, not the answer. That's 
why all tales (assuming they remain in the positives) will remain after 
the contest. 


Will there be prizes? 
The thrill of victory plus something | will hopefully announce soon. 
What's the deadline? 


You must have your story written by 2359 PST March 15th. We'll go 
by Pacific time, because I'm nice like that. We'll give it another week 
to give people time to vote, and the scores at 2359 PST on March 
22nd will decide the winner. 


Okay, okay, so give us the questions already. 


Here they are. Post your stories in under the questions. 


What is the purpose of the factory in the Observable 
Time Loop? 


* Iteration 0, by FortuneFavorsBold 
¢ One Must Imagine Him Happy, by Ajoutezen 


What ever happened to Aaron Siegal? 
* The Root of Knowledge by Jekeled 
¢ Playing God, by Rikks 


¢ The Exalted, by Drewbear 
¢ Ina Yellow Wood, by CollegeCop 


What happened to the rest of SCP-884? 


¢ Children Of Doubt, by Roget 


What happens when the green slime touches a dead 
body? 


¢ A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal, by Dmatix 
¢ Mint and Clay, by Esoau 
¢ Fields of Green, by Drewbear 


What was the sequence of events that created the 084 
phenomenon? 


¢ For Elise, by MisterKillam 
¢ Bugs, by Giant Enemy Spycrab 


Iteration O 


In his hands, Dr. Thaddeus Xyank held the future. And that made 
him smile. 


It was a lump of gray metal, cool to the touch, with a laser etched 
serial number, a portrait of George Washington, and a UPC code for 
Bush’s Baked Beans. It took a while to get all of that approved, but 
he needed to be sure. You couldn't spit in the Multi-U division 
without it landing in some parallel world or a seamless wormhole 
that leads directly to a point exactly 2 cm inside your own rectum. 
Xyank wasn't interested in the same-old present in some remote 
reality where people are giant lizards. He was interested in the 
future. And here it was. 


“Melissa?” 


“Yes sir!” she said, beaming like the fresh ones sometimes do when 
things are going according to plan. 


“Was the device active when you found the brick?” 
“Uhh... Mr. Kim?” 


Assistant Researcher Leonard Kim raised his head from the wiring 
panel, blinking. “Hm?” 


“Was the device left on overnight? Dr. Xyank wanted to know its 
status when the sample was retrieved.” Melissa Brooks was always 
doing that, in her own vainglorious attempt to curry favor with 
superiors. Thought there was a promotion in it for her, probably. 
Shame she was such a kiss-ass that no one else trusted her. 


Xyank’s glasses started to fog. His finger tapped. His thumb traced 
Washington's nose. Almost without thinking he grabbed a bit of tape 
from the desk, slapped it on the brick and wrote ‘Retrieved’ in black 
marker. Just in case. 


SCP-640: Lucent Beams 


Item #: SCP-640 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-640 is to be kept inside an 
ellipsoidal room with a uniformly-reflective interior, such as nickel or 
chromium plating. The atmosphere in the room must be maintained 
at a temperature of between 260 and 307 K, at a relative humidity of 
50% or less. Temperatures and humidities outside these limits 
greatly increase the entity's appetite and aggression and will likely 
result in personnel casualties. 


The confinement chamber must be equipped with a light-tight airlock 
fitting equipped with an electronic interlock to prevent both doors 
from being simultaneously opened. Though SCP-640 is not known 
to be able to assume a gaseous form, these doors should be airtight 
and, if possible, watertight to facilitate emergency containment 
measures. 


All personnel entering the containment facility must wear reflective 
suits including anti-IR face shields. Exposure time shall be limited to 
no more than 30 minutes without O5-level consent. All personnel 
shall receive a dose of amphetamine, modafinil, or caffeine prior to 
exposure; resistance, intolerance, or allergy to these drugs is an 
absolute contraindication to assignment to the SCP-640 study team.