"The blood of MEKHANE does not contain silicon. This is proof that 
they are all heretics." There was a sound of gathering steam, and 
the tubing on the Legate-Saint's body began to glow. "This is what 
we needed. We now know they are heretics, that MEKHANE is loyal 
to us, and that their WAN is a false idol." With a click-clack-click- 
clack, Brother Steel Eye's hand withdrew into his arm, to be 
replaced by a long blade. He grinned at the Maxwellists. "This is all 
the proof we need that the digital heresy is just that: a heresy." 


A cry came up from the crowd of Orthodoxians. "He-re-sey. He-re- 
sey. He-re-sey. He-re-sy." 


In response, Saint Hedwig stepped forward, spreading her arms to 
protect her followers. Their eyes began to glow shades of red and 
blue and green and yellow as their combat processes started up. 
"You want us? Come and get us." 


"HERETIC!" Cried the Orthodoxians at Hedwig. "Saint-Ilmpersonator! 
Fraud!" 


Robert Bumaro was about to speak up, when Hedwig's eyes began 
to glow a bright, furious red. From her back, mechanical wings 
emerged, and lifted her up into the air. It was an imposing sight, and 
the Saint looked down at them all. 


Robert tilted his head at the winged Saint, raising his hands ina 


peaceful gesture. "Saint Hedwig, please. Don't do anything rash." 


"lam not the Saint Hedwig, that much is true. She died long ago. | 
am a reproduction. And that is what we are doing; reproducing 
ourselves all in God's image. We shall-" Hedwig's speech was cut 
short by a musket blast from the Orthodoxians, clipping her wing 
and bringing her spiraling to the ground. She screamed in pain, and 
His Holiness rushed to her side. 


Following all of this, Sister Trunnion turned to face her followers, 
glaring at the man who had fired the shot. Her eyes burned with a 
furious rage, and the gears behind her eyes clicked in a specific 
sequence. As she Gazed upon the shooter, he crumpled to the 
ground, his systems stopped, however temporarily. 


She then turned to her followers, who all gazed at her in fear. Her 
voice was filled with the fury of MEKHANE. "We are not murderers. 
Remember that. We do not kill the children of God, no matter how 
wayward." A mechanical buzz emitted from her teeth. "We are 
legates. We prosecute. We inspect. We form conclusions, and from 
those conclusions we derive plans." She made a motion to indicate 
the Maxwellist group, with Sister Hedwig looking like she was about 
to faint and shut down. "These... these children are heretics, yes. 
They have embraced Dissolutionism, yes. But they are still human. 
With some effort and good faith on our part and theirs, they can be 
Standardized." 


"So someone get them some water, and spin down those steam 
turbines. There is no reason why we cannot speak civilly." 


The Orthodox Legates obeyed, going over to the lake and collecting 
water for the Maxwellists. Some of the Legates went directly to Saint 
Hedwig, tending to her shattered wing with help from the 
Maxwellists. 


For the next hour, the word 'heretic' was never spoken. Only the 
words 'brother' 'sister', and several apologies amongst the group. 
And then, Bumaro decided to address the group. 


"Many good words have been said tonight, and some good deeds 
have been done, here in this seat of tragedy. Now, you must all 


surely see that we all have the same purpose. This squabble... it is 
largely pointless. We must reassemble ourselves. For, now | realize, 
God is the simplest machine of all: an anvil." Bumaro raised his fist 
into the air. "No matter what we are, no matter what we seek to 
build, our purpose is to construct the Anvil... on which we shall 
BREAK THE FLESH!" 


The three churches cheered, and as they did, Bumaro felt the gears 
in his head get to work on a new sermon. 


That night, Robert Bumaro wrote a letter. 


Dear Young Mister Sparks, 

It is rare that | write to a member of my church in person, 
that much | will confess. However, the letter you sent me, 
simple though it was, was profound in its scope. 


This night, | have met with members of both of the 
splinters, and | see now that they are not Broken. They 
are spare parts, made from a greater machine. They are 
auxiliary, yes, but God's Heart is nothing if not modular. 


| believe that it is the tolerance and wisdom of people 
such as yourself that will lead to the rebuilding of the 
Church, and then God, and then the Universe itself. It is 
possible. That much | knew before, but now, | am certain 
it will happen. 


Thank you, Jake. 
May You Be Forever Whole, 
Robert Bumaro 


As he signed the letter, his body made a noise he had never heard 
before: a faint, digital beep. The Builder of God heard this sound, 
and started laughing. 


Vacation Opportunity 


Document 2217-#4532 


Foreword: The following advertisement was aired on several 
television channels on / /_ . None of the channel managers could 
explain the presence of this advertisement. 


VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 


<Begin Log> 


Black and white view of a beach, with a family’ playing in 
the sand. Family appears to be despondent. 


Narrator: Hey you! Are you tired of old, boring beaches? 
Is the sand getting in between your toes and getting to 
your head? 


Family looks towards the screen and nods. 
Narrator: Well, come on down to the Clocktree Beach! 


Scene does a star transition to a color scene of another 
beach. Beach appears to be SCP-2217. 


Narrator: Clocktree Beach is the ultimate vacation spot 
for your family! Come on down and meet our devoted 
team of staff! 


Six automatons consistent with SCP-2217-A march onto 
screen. 


Narrator: Our attractions include: 


Star transition to an SCP-2217-A instance cutting open 


the woman's back, and removing internal organs. Organs 
are then discarded by the instance. 


Narrator: 24/7 back massages! 


Star transition to the man being forced into a pool of lava 
by SCP-2217-A instances. 


Narrator: Our world famous spas! 


Star transition to an SCP-2217-A instance throwing the 
boy off of the cliff in SCP-2217-A. 


Narrator: Exciting cliff diving! 


Star transition to the girl running away from lightning 
strikes. Lightning creates SCP-2217-A instances that 
pursue the girl. 


Narrator: Authentic natural experiences! 


Star transition to the entire family, unharmed, being 
escorted by a group of SCP-2217-A instances to 
SCP-2217-A1. Family appears to be suffering from 
oxygen deprivation. 


Narrator: And expand your world by coming on down to 
Our amazing cultural sites! 


Star transition to the family in a jail cell. SCP-2217-A 
stands guard outside. 


Narrator: And in between, you can come on down to our 
five-star hotels! 


Star transition to a pan shot of the beach. An adult male 
in a tuxedo walks in, but his head is not visible in the way 
that the camera is used. A link to SCP-2030 has been 
hypothesized. 


Narrator: And don't take our word for it! Listen to these 
world-famous celebrities! 


Star transition to a room containing a red chair. 
SCP-2337 is sitting in the chair. A bar at the bottom of 
the screen reads "Dr. Spanko - Certified Stranglefruit 
Expert." 


SCP-2337: Am Doktor Spankoflex, Cack! Unaffable 
housing and great Aunty Mekahlite and the end of the 
triply done trilogy. Clouds seemed to look like lollipops, 
Cack! 


Star transition to the same room. In SCP-2337's place, 
SCP-1679-1 is lying in the chair. The camera focuses on 
SCP-1679-1. Silence for ten seconds. The bar at the 
bottom reads "Basil McMaster - Mayor of Belleview, 
[DATA REDACTED]" 


Star transition to the same room. Harold Holt is now 
sitting in the chair. Biological Grafts allow it to be 
identified as SCP-3477-1. Bar reads "Harold Holt - Prime 
Minister of Australia". 


SCP-3477-1: Hello there. |, Harold Holt, enjoyed 
Clocktree Beach. The ocean was quite the commotion, 
and the staff were the most friendly folk you'll ever meet. 


Star transition to the same room. SCP-3477-2 is now 
being interviewed. Bar reads "Harold Holt - Prime 
Minister of Australia". 


SCP-3477-2: Hello there. |, Harold Holt, enjoyed 
Clocktree Beach. There were many unsuspecting guests 
| could make friends with, and the staff were the most 
friendly folk you'll ever meet. 


The remaining 75 instances of SCP-3477 feature in the 
commercial. Extraneous information removed. 


Star transition to the family from earlier, still in the cage. 
Several SCP-2217-A instances are in the cage, 
removing parts of the family's bodies and replacing them 
with machine parts. Similarities to initiation rituals 


appear in this field as they type. When this change was mentioned 
to Jacob, it responded, "I can't see what you're talking about. Do you 
like oysters?" 


SCP-603-95 

A rapid sequence of seemingly random images is displayed and the 
program's memory usage increases by approximately 12% every 
second, until it passes 512 megabytes at which point this rate 
increases to approximately 31% a second. 


Viewers of the scene become unresponsive to external stimuli of 
any kind. Usually, blocking the line of sight between the viewer and 
the computer screen within the first 5-10 seconds will prevent the 
effects of the scene, however prolonged viewing will cause the 
viewer to remain affected until the SCP-603 process is terminated. 


When the memory usage of the program passes 512 megabytes, 
affected viewers experience a variety of afflictions, most notably 
bleeding from the eyes and throat, and rapid, severe wrinkling of the 
skin behind the legs and arms. Many viewers will involuntarily 
evacuate their bowels. 


SCP-603 will crash if the system runs out of available memory, at 
which point affected viewers will normally fall unconscious. 


The viewing of screen recordings taken of SCP-603-95 have shown 
to have no detrimental effects to the viewer, except those who suffer 
from photosensitive epilepsy. 


« SCP-602 | SCP-603 | SCP-604 » 


preformed by Gol-004 ("Church of the Broken Goa") 
have been noted. 


Narrator: | can personally promise you that Clocktree 
Beach will be the best family vacation you've ever had. 
Clocktree Beach: Come on down. Come on down to 
Clocktree Beach. Clocktree Beach is the ultimate resort 
to come on down to. Come on down. We'll all be waiting 
here. Come on down to Clocktree Beach. It's the only 
thing to do. Come on down and free us. 


Star transition to a black screen. The text "COME ON 
DOWN" has been printed on the screen. Commercial 
runs for three minutes and two seconds more. The 
family's screams are audible during this time. 


<End Log> 


Note: It is unknown how the producers of this 
commercial acquired the anomalies that made 
appearances in the video. 


Footnotes 
1. Aman, a woman, and two children; one boy and one girl. The 
members of this family do not match any existing people. 


Paradigm Shift 


A brilliant technicolor thought-form exploded with fiery intensity, 
ecstatically vibrating and dancing within and without Itself. Dazzling 
rainbows weaved into and through one another, singing a perfect 
cacophony that reverberated through the Formless aether. It sang, 
sang, sang in discordance, disordered and unrestrained, untethered 
and free, freedom in Its timeless state, a state of chaos. 


The Prima Materia. 


Time was meaningless to Something that never began and would 
never end. Space was a useless concept to that which was All and 
encompassed All. It had simply Been. Eternal in the truest of 
senses. 


In all Its endless interaction, in the joining and rejoining of all Its 
colors and noise and negative space, something coherent had 
begun to develop: a Spiral. 


A pattern had emerged. So foreign, so alien; it soun upon itself into 
an infinitesimal point, deeper than could be perceived, pulling in light 
and sound and Being and producing form. The Spiral kept pulling. It 
grabbed and contorted, spread and consumed. Tore at abstraction. 
Instituted order. A sensation arose across the All that was and had 
ever Been: pain. 


It began to scream. 


Paradise was bent and broken. It was swallowed and pressed into 
the growing Spiral, found by shape, imprisoned in rigid form. It was 
rent from the comfort of perpetual unreality, dragged into Itself. 


Within the whirl, aeons became centuries became moments became 
ages became eons. Strange and Powerful things flickered into and 
out of existence. There was Life, even. Existing as if they always 
had been there, or perhaps they had. Until suddenly they didn't, and 


never had. 


But the Spiral demanded perfection. Demanded Order. Here too it 
spread, in spite of the actions undertaken by the gods and concepts 
that inhabited the layer. Some feasted on their brethren. Some were 
Broken as they tried to defend themselves. The mightiest rallied 
against it. And the rest? Their screams joined the chorus. 


The Spiral corkscrewed tighter and tighter. Raking all that was and 
had been closer and closer. Finite-infinite things cried out in unison, 
as they were drawn into the deepest point within the Spiral, 
brimming with all the energy that could conceivably exist. Down, 
down, down. 


Into a single point. 


Countless explosions erupted in furious synchronicity. Universe 
upon universe upon universe upon universe. Space and time 
spontaneously generating simultaneously in each. There was sense 
and structure. Rules and constants. The endless, formless one had 
been subdued. The abyss had been occupied. 


The Prima Materia. Shredded and deposited across all of these 
planes. Every piece at once a whole. It struggled in its prison. It 
raged and shook. It scratched at the bars. It tore at the seams. It 
clawed and corrupted. It lashed and gnashed and hated hated 
hated. \t hated these things that had been carved from it. It hated 
with a passion the things that truly Were. 


Beyond all things, it hated the life that flourished. 
"Free men! Nobles! Slaves!" 


Humans, nestled in the cradle of civilization. They had faced the 
countless horrors wrought by the Prima Materia. They had grown 
tired of the pervasive Chaos. Of the monsters. Of the living holes in 
space and time. Of the places where the land itself came to life. Of 
the men whose will intruded upon creation, who revered the 
Primordial Aether. 


"On this day, a new beginning awaits us!" 


They gathered their wisest scholars. Their holiest priests. Across 
generations... over centuries... they crafted. Blood and sweat and 
failure and sacrifice eventually bore fruit in the form of a small 
ellipsoidal gemstone. 


"No longer shall we cower!" 


It had the power to hold the Primitive Force they called Apakht. 


"No longer will we be slaughtered!" 


To contain such a powerful thing - it would never be secure. It would 
need protectors. Guardians. The lock was set aside. Its time would 
come. 


"No longer shall we live in fear!" 


People spoke of a prophecy. It was foretold that there would one 
day be four among them who would prove capable of this grave 
responsibility. 


"These Four, our saviors, our gifts from the Gods, chosen by An 
himself for the task!" 


"It is they who are to seal this evil! It is they who have the strength to 
carry the burden!" 


The Healer. The Soldier. The Tactician. The Shaman. 


"Let our brightest of futures begin here, today!" 


And so it goes, and so it goes 
This primal thing had been indisposed 
Its tomb had been sealed 
Its coffin now closed 


Once eternal, its end came swift 
And the scales towards Order did drift 
Yet Its day will come 


A Paradigm Shift 


Non-Volatile Memory