Mary-Ann Lewitt stood on the sidewalk outside the church. Mass 
had just let out, and so the congregation was dispersing out towards 
the parking lot, with a few people remaining to talk in the vestibule: 
Mary-Ann kept watching the street. The world felt very far away 
then, under the clear, cold sky of March. 


There was another bluster of wind. Mary-Ann bunched her 
shoulders and drove her hands deeper inside the pockets of her 
black sweatshirt. Maybe it would be better to go back inside where it 
was warmer. But then they might get here while she was using the 
bathroom or something and it’d be one of those times where neither 
person could find the other and it'd just be awkward. She’d stay 
outside, then. 


Ten o'clock, that’s what they’d said on the phone. Someone would 
be around to pick her up at ten. Probably a few minutes after ten by 
now: traffic must have gotten in the way. 


And here she was: waiting for a ride from a stranger in the cold, with 
heaven and hell in equal measure on the other side of the trip. 


Part of her mind still balked at all of this, all of this stuff with the 
Initiative. It hadn’t been nearly as hard to believe as it should have 
been, she thought in retrospect. Perhaps that was what made that 
little part of her mind question it all: Everything was too believable. It 
all made too much sense. Or at least, it made the right amount of 
sense for someone who had little more in her life than a cat anda 
little bit of faith. It made enough sense that she wanted a part of it, 
urged on by the itch in her soul, bruised as it was. She had spent the 
last night memorizing exorcism rituals and conjugating Latin verbs 
and reviewing the categorization of the orders of spirits. 


All this did little to undo the knot of unease in her stomach. Unease 
at what was to come, and unease at what was behind her. Today 
would decide if she would be fit to join the Shepherds, and Mary- 


Ann had been second-guessing herself all morning. Book 
knowledge was one thing, practical exercises another: Mary-Ann 
had no doubts with either of those. The doubt that weighed her spirit 
down and twisted up her gut didn’t feel very holy, and that twisted up 
her gut. The Shepherds needed good people, and there were far 
better people in the world than Mary-Ann Lewitt. 


She could still bow out. They gave her that option: Say the word and 
be returned to your old life. They’d find someone else, someone 
better, someone who didn’t sit in the back pew and had fewer “ums” 
and “uhs” in her prayers. 


No...no, she’d stay. She already agreed to this, already decided that 
she wanted to do more. She tamped down her doubting mind and 
barred the door. No. She'd stick through it. 


Time passed. The remnants of the congregation had gone, and 
Mary-Ann was well and truly alone. She checked her watch. 
Seventeen after ten. Should she call? Check to make sure nothing 
had changed? Ten-twenty, she’d give them until ten-twenty. Then 
she'd call. 


At 10:19, a plain red sedan pulled up to the curb. The engine shut 
off, and a man stepped out. He was of average height and build, a 
few inches taller than Mary-Ann. Late thirties, Middle-Eastern. His 
hair was buzzed down, very recently by the looks of it, which made 
his ears stick out a bit. Neatly-trimmed beard. He was wearing a 
blue polo shirt and khakis. 


“Hello!” He walked around the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. 
“Are you Mary-Ann Lewitt?” He had an accent, some fusion of the 
Middle-East and British. 


“Yeah.” Mary-Ann nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.” 
“Salah Zairi.” He smiled and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you.” 


“I’m really sorry that you had to come and pick me up, | would have 
just taken a bus-” 


Salah waved his hand. 


“It’s no trouble at all. I've been needing to go back to the 
chapterhouse for a while now anyway.” He walked back around to 
the other side of the car. “Though it is something of a trip, we should 
probably be going if we want to be reasonable with time.” 


“Right.” 


Mary-Ann opened the door and got inside the car. 


Some time later, the little red sedan pulled out of the toll booth onto 
the interstate. 


“Do you mind if | turn on the radio?” Salah asked. It was the first 
thing that had been said since they had left the church. 


“No, it’s cool.” 
He hit the dial. Smooth jazz crackled out of the speakers. 


“Ah, come on now, work!” He slapped the dashboard and the sound 
cleared up. “There we go. If you want to change it, just go ahead.” 


“Gotcha.” 


There was a pause. Mary-Ann watched a field filled with cows speed 
by outside the window. 


“Are you originally from around here, Mary-Ann?” 
“Hm? Ah, yeah, I’m a local. You?” 


“Well, | was born in Pakistan, then | moved to Birmingham, then | 
moved here. So a local twice removed.” 


It explained the accent, Mary-Ann thought. 
“Ah. Never been to England.” 
“The Queen’s Jubilee is this year, always a good excuse.” 


“And the Olympics.” 


SCP-633: Ghost In The Machine 


Item#: SCP-633 
Object Class: Euclid Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-633's containment 
chamber, located in Site—77, is an underground Faraday cage. 
Access is restricted to Level 3/633 personnel. The network 
controlled by SCP-633 is to be communicated with through an Apple 
Macintosh 520kb computer. In addition, three Apple II+ computers 
with Disc II 5 1/4 floppy disc drives are to be given a monthly 
software rotation. As the original usable software library of the 
machines has been completely used as of 21/2/2014, new software 
is being developed by internal development teams. 


Biohazard gear is required when servicing or interacting with 
SCP-633 in order to prevent infection. Once per week, researchers 
are to enter the SCP-633 containment area to drain it of fluids and 
provide regularly scheduled interactions. An understanding of late 
1970’s technology and cultural references is necessary to prevent 
accidental introduction of banned ideas to SCP-633. 


The proposal to interface additional 8-bit game or computing 
machines is under consideration, however the consequences of 
introducing SCP-633 to the concept of 'newer' computers in a way it 
could fully understand may cause unforeseen consequences. The 
Sector-633 protocol requires all computational devices created 
post-1979 to be checked-in before entering the SCP-633 
containment area. 


Description: SCP-633 is a supernatural phenomenon resembling a 
computer virus, first documented in August 1976 by the Homebrew 
Computer Club. Any device which has interfaced with SCP-633 will 
permanently become a vector for infection down to the constituent 
components. Living matter which comes into physical contact or 
near-contact can also become similarly affected. 


“Bah. Bread and circuses, the lot of it. At the very least it will pull the 
crowds away from the things really worth seeing.” 


Mary-Ann felt herself smile at that. The knot loosened a bit, the 
awkward, lonely feeling dissipated a little bit. Mary-Ann decided to 
keep the small talk going. It felt good to small talk. 


“So...how long have you been working for the Initiative?” 
“Fourteen years.” 

“Are you in a branch, or do you just give rides to people?” 
Salah chuckled. 


“I’m with the Shepherds, though that does involve a lot of driving 
around, all things considered.” 


A co-worker, then. Potentially. 
“Guess you've seen a lot, then.” 


“There’s always more to see. We all run out of time long before God 
runs out of wonders.” 


“Mmm. How’d you get involved?” 
“A friend | met in university.” 


“| just got the phone call. And, you know, it’s weird, how all of this 
makes sense. Like, when | was told over the phone ‘we are secretly 
a secret organization and we want to hire you to shoot demons in 
the face’, | didn’t even blink. You’d think | would be all ‘I can’t even 
handle the revelation’, but the first thing | said was ‘okay, how much 


79 


does it pay’. 
“You're good at adapting to things.” 


“| think it was more ‘I’m broke and | don’t want to eat instant ramen 


aed) 


anymore’. 


Salah laughed, and it was not a small laugh either. It was a big, 


space-filling laugh. 


“You have no idea how refreshing it is to hear something honest that 
after all the false piety and ‘smite the heathens’ we often get. 
Wanting some fresh food in the cupboard is not a bad reason at all 
for joining.” 


“You get a lot of those types?” 


“Regrettably. The nuts get shunted off into the Wolves where they 
can be put on a leash. The others, well, sometimes they take a bit of 
humility, sometimes they don’t. Personally, I’d kick them back out on 
the street. Half of being a Shepherd is service to others, and you 
can’t serve people if you’re constantly reminding them of how holy 
you are in comparison.” 


“Mmm.” The knot tightened itself again around the puckered 
emptiness inside Mary-Ann. These were good people, if they were 
anything like Salah, truly good people, and while she heard the little 
voice in her telling her it was okay, even though she believed, she 
didn’t feel it. The past could be forgiven, but the weight still had to be 
carried. Mary-Ann felt that weight, that weight that anchored her in 
that empty space, the weight that kept the world far away. The 
weight that dragged her down into the empty darkness, where there 
were no friends, where there was no home, where one reached for 
God because there was nothing left, and yet even God felt far away. 


And so she sought God, and carried the weight. 
"Something wrong?" 

“No, I’m okay. Just a bit jittery about the test.” 
“Nonsense. You’re a Shepherd. You'll do fine.” 
“| haven't even taken the test yet.” 


“And | haven't been wrong yet. Except that one time. And that other 
time. And then there was the incident with- no, forget that one. | 
have a good C average. C-plus.” 


“Oh shut up.” 


Mary-Ann paused for a bit. Had she really just said that? She had. 
He was laughing again. Less than an hour in the car and he was 
already acting like they were close friends. Somewhere, Mary-Ann 
felt a little light in the darkness. A friend. 


The laugh petered out. 
“Mary-Ann...” 
“Yeah?” 
“Keep your chin up. You’ve got this.” 
"Thanks, Salah." 
« Hub » 


Shepherds 


Mary-Ann Lewitt re-adjusted her blanket. November night blustered 
outside the window, the cold leaking in through the seams of the 
apartment. Of course, the truth was that the warmth was leaking out 
and the “cold” was not actually anything, but Mary-Ann generally 
thought of that definition as the realm of scientists who had never 
experienced proper cold. 


This cold was a small one, easily fought with a wool blanket and a 
mug of chai tea. Alexander was sleeping on top of the computer 
tower, as he often was. Mary-Ann sipped her tea and went back to 
scrolling through the database of groups. 


Cult of the Wordsmith: Christian-descendant group of 
approximately 250. Language is considered sacrosanct 
in both verbal and written form: destruction of written 
material considered gravely sinful. In possession of the 
Gospel of Bartholomew. Current Status: Integrated. 
Threat Level: None. 


Mary-Ann had, in any sense of the term, lived a rather interesting 
life. She had slammed the door behind her the moment she had the 
chance, sworn off the faith she had grown up with, served several 
tours overseas, saw too many friends die, came back to America 
with a few more cracks than she had shipped out with, picked her 
faith back up while trying to get some peace of mind, went back to 
school, re-adapted to life, found some work. 


Those Who Gaze Deeply: A collection of European 
alchemical practitioners in search of the “God-Element’, 
that is, the material which God consists of. Connections 
with the Church of the Broken God suspected but never 
confirmed. Current Status: Defunct. Last Activity: 1991 


That work happened to, once again, involve shooting at some rather 
fanatic people, except this time the fanatics she had shot at before 


were now her co-workers, and the fanatics she shot at now had a 
tendency to consort with demons in a very literal sense. 


Sons of the Nephilim: Group of approximately 50 
individuals located in a single compound within the Hindu 
Kush. Believe themselves to be the descendants of 
angelic beings: beliefs focus on re-attaining a perfect 
state. Highly violent, and in possession of a dangerous 
artifact, the supposed corpse of an angelic being. 
Integration talks pending. Current Status: Active. Threat 
Level: High. 


Not as literal as it could have been, but at the end of the day there 
wasn’t much difference between a horned and hoofed imp with a 
pitchfork and the talking corpse floating in a septic tank. 


The Bramberly Family and followers: Group of 216 
individuals located in North Dakota, United States. 
Central belief that the head of the Bramberly family was 
in contact with alien life forms, and as such was to serve 
as the liberator of mankind from evil through various 
sexual rituals. Possession of artifacts suspected but 
never confirmed. Compound was raided by agents of the 
Global Occult Coalition. Current Status: Defunct. Last 
Activity: 1982. 


The database entries scrolled by. There were over six hundred 
entries on the list, though a good deal of them were either extinct, or 
only fragments existed. For some, there was enough material stored 
away to publish an entire catechism on the belief. For others, the 
cover blurb was all there was. 


Icthians: A group measuring approximately 700 
practitioners in small cells along the northeastern 
seaboard of the United States. Group worships fish and 
aquatic life. In possession of no known artifacts. Notable 
events include a schism over the admittance of lobsters 
into the Salt Canon (six casualties) and the deaths of 
forty-five individuals inside a single trailer home under 
claims that sardines were the most holy of fish. Current 
Status: Active. Threat Level: Minimal. 


When people heard “counter-cult” what did they jump to? Church of 
the Broken God and the Fifthists. Most of the agents over in Project 
Malleus encouraged that sort of glamorizing of the job. Mary-Ann 
would admit that the stories about fighting off waves of cogboys and 
starminds did wonders for morale throughout the Initiative, but she 
was pretty sure those were exaggerations. In the end the vast 
majority of her job was cleaning up the small stuff. The big cults 
generally fell under the jurisdiction of other groups, the ones with the 
resources and ability to combat them effectively. Very few of the 
cults were more than a couple dozen people, most didn’t have much 
staying power, and eventually, almost all of them devolved into 
some form of violence or sex, or both. If that didn’t say something 
about the fallen nature of man, Mary-Ann couldn't think of anything 
better. 


The Defiled: Buddhist-derived group, consisting of one 
hundred and eight individuals. Group is in possession of 
at least four anomalous artifacts. Primary goal is 
destruction of the physical universe, so as to help the 
entire human race achieve nirvana. Current Status: 
Active. Threat Level: High. 


Ah, here was the one. Mary-Ann began converting her notes from 
that afternoon into the database. Nothing much to these ones: no 
name, no organization, not even a cult, really. Just an enemy group, 
one that managed to build a nice little torture engine in front of a 
church that killed fifteen people very slowly. The artifacts inside the 
church were likewise treated. 


bleep-bloop The chat window opened on her screen. There he was, 
right on schedule. 


Click 
“Hey, Salah.” Mary-Ann continued tapping away at the keyboard. 


“Hello. There has been a change in plans.” She could never place 
his accent. Whenever she thought it was pinned down as Middle- 
Eastern, it would seem more British, more Middle Eastern when it 
seemed British.