Oh God, Joan, what have they done to you? 
Moctezuma is fed molten gold before all his people. 
The Mughals cannot stop the tide of flesh from the sea. 
The rape of the New World is ahead of schedule. 

The Reign of Terror enthrones a Hanged King. 


London fucks its queen mother to death. 


In Flanders’ Fields, the tumor metastasizes. 

The Sarkists feed the Czar to his people. 

The Germans walk out into the fields and forests to lay down. 
Stalin starves himself in his own gulags. 


The Americans build of themselves a great and hateful engine, and 
throw their children before Moloch reborn forever. 


The Veil tears apart. 
They are here. They are now. They are upon us. 


KKK 


The battle is met, across all the world. The camera does not turn 
away. Witness how the world dies. Do not forget these images. 


The battle is met. 
Burning mushrooms, orange-gold, spring up as after soft rain. 


Fields of flesh, clawing up from the frozen soil and crawling upon the 
shores, hateful, hateful. 


The nations of earth hold the gates for a moment, they break 
beneath the horde. 


The Witch of Hope Lake stands beneath a burning Seal of Solomon, 
wind and water tearing at her rainjacket. 


From the depths of the great library Yggdrasil slithers peacock- 
feathered Nahash, the serpent vast as mountains. He rears backs 
with fire upon his fangs; far above, Hakhama-MEKHANE, the 
goddess no longer broken, sits in the sky with her fleets of 
dreadnaut-angels. Brother and sister, guardians of man, reunited at 
last to watch the passing of their wards. 


The Stars seethe with hate. 


The Scarlet King rises from the Pit of Megiddo with all his 


Leviathans and demon lords. 


The gods and all their hosts descend from the heavens and rise 
from the abyss, to make war with each other. 


The good ship Solidarity is rammed into the Scarlet King at 
lightspeed. 


The gates of the Silent Halls swing wide; three brothers in black ride 
three horses of white, and lead behind them a column of the endless 
dead. 


Creation crumbles under the strain. 
The Ways were torn up. 
The Library burns. 


Two sons of Adam meet for the last time, and die at each other’s 
hands. 


Nahash is torn in two. 

Hakhama shatters a second time. 

The flame of all thinking beings, dims, sputters, and goes out. Stars 
are eaten alive. The dead are reduced to dust. The heavens are 


dark, choked with smoke and ash. The abyss is fattened with blood. 
All lights have been extinguished, across a billion, billion worlds. 


Save one. 


Thirty-six saints gather on the mountain slope, and together fulfill 
their ancient destiny. The passing of the world in this cruel and 
horrible fashion could not be helped — they had been waylaid by the 
forces of the world too long to prevent the horrors of the King. 


But they might break the seal upon him. They make the final sign, 
and pass into the mists. 


Upon the ashen firmament of Yesod, the King raises a new throne. 


Episode 213: The End of the World Goes Like This... 


Open upon the dark and starless mists. There is a man there in the 
stillness, wearing the robes of the Thirty-Six. He is praying: lips 
move, there is no sound. He is weeping. At his feet lie two mangled 
bodies. He builds a cairn for each. There is little left to bury. 


“Ah my brothers, you have left young Set alone again,” he says, 
wiping his lined face. 


Around him, the dark mist shifts, and there is soft whalesong. 


A’habbat steps forth, the spear in her hand. The girl Grace is by her 
side, dressed as her patroness. The bastard Empress, veiled in gold 
and red, clasps a trinket of Zhos’ to her chest. Harker the Fist 
chomps on a cigar, dumps the remnants of a great goblin shark on 
the ground. S.D. is last, riding upon the DEER and wearing a 
different body. 


“Fucking little reunion of fools we’ve got here,” he grumbles. 


“Fools we are, but we are the Fool’s fools,” A’habbat says. She taps 
her spear on the ground and it splits it into seven parts. “That will 
have to do, Fawn.” 


S.D. snorts as he takes his fragment of the spear. Set goes to each 
of the six in turn, places his hand upon the weapons; the tips glow 
phosphorous white. The seventh stands embedded in the ground 
and goes unchanged. 


The little Empress asks as she loops her toy’s cord around her 
weapon, and sings a nursery song of long-vanished Antarctica. 


Harker tightens his sandals. 
The DEER paws at the scabbed-over gravel. 
In the distant fog-depths, a glow forms as if a campfire seen faintly 


in the gray of predawn. It grows in brightness and breadth until the 
curtains part... 


KKK 


At the very bottom of the Abyss, the cries of souls in 
torment have ceased. The bloated black sun lies cracked 
and half-sunk in the slurry. The Throne is empty. All the 
dukes and demons of hell left with their master. Not even 
echoes remain. 


A broken body lies curled in a field of ashen sludge. 
Emma. 
The scene lingers. There is no music. 


Feet crunch in the snow. A pair of bright red sneakers 
comes into view. Emma's eyes open, just barely. 


“Easy there, easy there...” comes a voice from off- 
screen, and careful arms lift her up. 


..and Isabel is there, a tottering Emma leaning heavy on her 
shoulder. She waves to the audience with a smile. 


“Hey guys. Sorry I’m late.” 


She eases her assistant to the ground and props her up against a 
rock. Emma’s appearance is terrifying; nobody could look like that 
and still be alive. 


“Thank you, for everything,” Isabel says as she places a hand on 
Emma's shoulder. Emma makes a weak noise of acknowledgment, 
but nothing more. Isabel stands up and turns to the rest of the 


group. 
“Right then!” 


She snaps her fingers and is set alight with fire that has not been 
seen since the beginning. A cascading mantle of stars falls on her 
shoulders. She takes the seventh spear from A’habbat and wreathes 
it in oldest song. Galaxies spring into being and fade away old and 
happy in her footsteps. A Jeremy-shaped fireball jumps out from her 
shoulder, runs around her feet, and returns to the flames. 


“You all ready?” 
“We are,” A’habbat answers. 
“Great. Let’s go say hi to your dad.” 


Isabel waves her hand and the mist flees, as if sucked out of frame 
by a vacuum. They stand before the Throne. 


The King is waiting for them. There is nobody else left. He has eaten 
his servants. 


He flashes forward. His lance plunges through A’habbat’s stomach. 
He laughs. Laughs? Whatever sound is made, it is only the apparent 
glee of its maker that names it so. 


The seventh bride spits blood and dark water in her father’s face. 
She wrenches herself free, blood and plume-smoke pouring out of 
the wound, and stabs him in the stomach. Harker jumps over her 
shoulder for the assist. 


Memory fails at piecing together the exact sequence of events to 
follow. There are too many parts, too many frames put into each 
movement. 


Shattered firmament is thrown about in the razorblade wind. The 
DEER clears a path through the sky, its metallic gaze sweeping 
across the broken skies. The Empress and Grace fight in 
synchronicity. Harker grips his spear in his teeth to free his bloodied 
knuckles. S.D. screams and panics, swinging to and fro. Set and 
A’habbat masterfully counter his blade; Back and forth, back and 
forth, feet dancing, blades singing. Isabel flits about like a lightspeed 
firefly, training streamers of starstuff. She is a sharpened line, a 
cutting edge. The music swells above the corpse of the cosmos, 
calling up emotions that the waking world has deadened in the 
heart. 


Some distance from the battle, the Brothers Three watch. An old 
exiled man plays cards with the youngest and finally, finally loses. 


Watch now as the true blows are made. Hold fast to that hope, do 
not be troubled by what is to come. 


Harker strikes first, piercing the King’s right eye. He is knocked from 
the air and crushed underfoot. S.D. pierces the left eye and is bitten 
in half with the DEER. Set pierces the liver, and is impaled. The 
Empress stabs him through the stomach, and she is smashed to 
pulp. Grace renders his right arm useless and is knocked flying out 
across the dark waters. 


A’habbat drives it through his blackened heart, just as the king 
drives it through her own. He sets a foot on her chest and pulls his 
weapon out of her lifeless body. The goddess has not yet hit the 
ground before Isabel is on him. Blades clash and sing and glow and 
the world fades around them until there is only a great darkness. 
They stand upon black waters among the drifting ashfall of the 
consumed Tree. 


There are now only the two. A good fight is always just two. This 
fight has always been two. 


The fight is all to exist for as time. 


There is a final clash of blades, and the combatants are sent 
spinning away from each other. There is a pause, the sizing-up 
before re-engagement the wolves a-circling each other. The King is 
wounded; Blinded, impaled on six spears, bleeding oceans into the 
deep. Isabel remains afire. Emma stands beside her. She is smiling. 


At no other point in the entire run of this series has Emma 
Aislethorpe-Brown smiled. 


“It’s been fun, ma’am,” she says, patting Isabel on the shoulder. 
“Wouldn’t have been half as good without you.” 
The King roars, charges with blade raised high. 


Emma’s hand darts out. Isabel leaps up on it, balancing on tiptoes. 
Emma rears back. Muscles bunch, tense, strain under the 
pressure... 


Watch and see... 


The Emma Aislethorpe-Brown Fastball Special. 


Isabel is a beam of fire, cutting the cosmos in half, a vapor cone of 
tattered spacetime rippling behind her. 


Emma's broken body turns to ash, starting at the fingers and 
working down. She is still smiling. 


The king’s face is frozen in a contorted moment of realization. 


Isabel lets loose the final note of Creation’s war-song against 
oblivion... 


And punches a hole right through the Scarlet King’s skull. 


The King stumbles. Isabel lands on the darkness. He turns, and in 
turning to face her again he falls to one knee. Blood burning 
sunbeam gold drips from his wound. He lifts his left hand, and his 
shattered weapon, he makes as if to drag himself forward. 


He freezes. His arm falls. The Brothers Three appear behind him, 
dwarfing the King who thought himself so mighty. The Youngest’s 
sickle shines without light. 


“Enough, already.” 


He slits the King’s throat. No wound is left. The corpse of Khahrahk 
the Worm sinks into the deeps below. The Middle Brother spits on 
him for good measure, and makes to do so again when the Eldest 
raises his hand. 


Youngest and Middle appear for a moment startled, but accept the 
sign that has been made. Their duties completed, they fade into 
their own deaths and coalesce back into the dark form of the Eldest. 


There is nothing at all now. Only the Death of All, and the Maker of 
Wonders. 


She holds out her hand. 
“Shall we dance?” 


All-Death takes it gently. 


“As we did in the beginning.” 


They dance there at the end, eldest son of greatest dark and the 
light that was his opposite. They spin and twirl about each other, 
orbiting bodies drawn closer. Their forms brush, intertwine, become 
one. There is no beginning nor end to the light or darkness now, 
only the soft notes of completion. 


Fade to black. 
After a time, Isabel speaks: 


“The end of the world goes like this: Everyone lived happily ever 
after.” 


The Reason Ulysses Doesn't Start With WARNING: IT'S 
GOT A BLOWJOB IN IT 


"You actually have to ask? | can do my job without a 
babysitter." 


"| don't care if he can snap it clean in half. Would you 
have assigned me to catch him if you thought | couldn't 
handle a reality bender?" 


"| thought so. I'll call you when he gets here. And | want 
a raise." 


Andy and Jude are nearly inside The Establishment before Armand 
even leaves his seat — the former because he had parked several 
seconds before they had, and the latter because Jude had wasted 
no time getting out and power-walking over to the door. Armand 
sighs, double-checking that he locked the doors before following 
them inside. 


It takes Armand's eyes a few seconds to adjust as he examines the 
bar's darkened interior, but even before that he can tell that Jude is 
nearby — on a quiet day like this, his rolling wrists easily stand out 
above the indistinguishable rock-sounding music in the background. 


"Okay, so, we're here. Andy's over there talking to his sister, uh, and 
could you get the arrangements or whatever settled with her so | can 
head out and find a dealer? | haven't smoked in like a whole day." 
Jude looks anywhere but at Armand. "Like seriously, I'm just about 
out of my fricken, mind over here." 


"Juuust magggic some upth, there's stuffuff todo." Armand's eyes 
adjust to the darkness, and he spots Andy in a booth towards the 
back, sitting next to a woman who could be his sister and a man 
who is definitely not related to him at all. Armand heads over there, 
and Jude reluctantly follows, hands in his pockets. 


« SCP-969 | SCP-970:| SCP-971 » 


"It doesn't... feel right when | do it. Ugh. Filiooooh heyyyy man 
what's ah fuck this is bad isn't it." Jude's whirlwind of emotion 
corresponds to his identification of the unrelated man, who gives 
Jude a wave and a wink, and his realization that this man's 
presence suggests that things have very much gone off-script. 


"Not exactly." The woman sitting next to Andy sips from a beer 
bottle. "| suppose you're wondering why | gathered you here today." 


"Sssomething gogoood?" Armand pulls up a chair and sits down in 
it; Jude stands by awkwardly. 


"It is definitely not good." Andy sighs. "Amanda, apparently, has a 
contact with the Foundation, who is paying her to keep us all here so 
they can come to lock us up." 


...". Amanda rolls her eyes, putting her phone away. "I suppose 
you're now fully informed of why | gathered you here today." 


This elicits some giggling from the thus-far unnamed individual at 
the table. "You know, | was just saying the same thing in chat, like, 
this morning." He reaches over and snatches Amanda's beer from 
her, taking a swig from it. "The bit about gathering people, | mean. 
Anyways, I'm going to bullshit my way out of this, obviously, and 
chances are | can get everyone else out of it too. Just so you know." 


"JJ, | appreciate it, but this is some kind of... retrocausal, destiny 
bullshit. Is your luck stronger than that? Like, she already got you 
here, why do you think you can leave?" Jude starts pacing. Amanda 
gets partway through gesticulating indignantly at JJ before he starts 
up again. "Like, yes, obviously, | could just Dr. Manhattan this whole 
bar and delete the space between me and the nearest nug, but | bet 
HER bullshit is going to wipe the floor with MY bullshit, because 
that's how things go, and —" 


"And we'll have a few hours before anyone gets here," Andy 
interjects, "so we have time to think of a plan. What we don't have 
time for is you losing your shit because you can't get high." 


"Oohhh, lilighten up Anddy, giiiive hima break." Armand shares a 
look with JJ before looking back to Andy. "It's nonooot his faultw we 


couuuldn't get him rerereehab in thec car ride over!" 


Amanda rests her head on the table and mutters something about a 
fucking drink. 


Five beers (four of which went to Amanda), many raised voices, and 
a half hour later, Amanda is alone at the bar, while the four boys 
have gathered in a corner booth. Jude stares listlessly at the ceiling, 
Armand traces spirals on the table, JJ plays a game on his phone, 
and Andy fiddles nervously.