“Far as we know. We've heard your pal Krause has his hands on it.” 


The bartender looked aghast. “You mean this? Heinrich Krause 
holds an artifact of anomalous nature? This is troubling news.” 


“Why’s that?” 


At this, the man shrunk slightly, fidgeting. “I don’t know if | should 
say.” 


“You should.” 


“All right.” He looked down contritely. “Herr Krause has been 
behaving... oddly, as of late. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he is 
behaving perfectly normally, locked inside a set of catacombs in the 
desert.” 


Brink and Trail both stood up straight. “Sorry?” they chorused. 


“No one has seen him in weeks. He has shut himself inside a 
gargantuan tomb west of here. He may in fact be dead from 
starvation. Or he might not. | suspect the only person who knows for 
sure is the man himself.” 


“Can you take us to him?” Trail inquired tentatively, putting his head 
at a skeptical angle. 


“Of course not,” snapped Brink. “He’s a bartender, not a tour guide.” 


He glowered, then caught himself. “Sadly true. | cannot myself guide 
you to Herr Krause. | can, however, provide you with his 
whereabouts.” He pulled from within the folds of his clothing a piece 
of paper and scrawled a crude map on it hastily, punctuating 
Krause’s location with an enormous X. “I trust the two of you can 
find your own way to this destination?” 


“We just flew from Peru to Egypt in a two-seater, amigo. We can do 
literally anything.” 


The adventurer and his companion left the chamber, and as they 
did, a dark silhouette sprinted away from the obscured outside 
window. 


“So that was the weirdest bartender ever,” Trail huffed, after a 
humbling exit through a cramped and convoluted back alley. The 
mob inside the building had begun banging on the door, and the odd 
little man had swiftly pushed them through a door in the back wall 
that they had overlooked. 

“| liked him,” Brink replied. “I think we really impressed that guy.” 
“Maybe so, but didn’t anything about him... bother you?” 

“Nope,” came the abrupt rebuttal. 

“Maybe the fact that he never told us his name?” 

“Lots of folks get secretive about stuff like that.” 

“About their names?” 

“Why not?” 


“It just seems weird that—* 


Brink whirled in place and pointed accusingly. “His name is his own 
damn business, you understand me? His. His alone. Nobody needs 
to worry about it but him, and that’s the way it oughtta be.” 


“Fine, fine. Caramba. Calm down.” 
He didn’t say a word in response. 
“Are you sulking?” 


“No. Shut your face. I’m gonna get a shawarma. Don’t follow me.” 


The ceiling in the central chamber was fifty feet high and engraved 
with images of a stern Teutonic face. Krause paced beneath it ina 
straight line as his servant entered and dropped to one knee. 


“They are on their way. The two foreigners.” 
He stopped walking. “They have been given my location?” 
“Yes. A bartender in the city pointed it out to them.” 


Krause smiled. “Good. Let them come. | have dealt with far more 
capable men.” 


He glanced up at his latest project, towering above his head, 
tunneling into the ceiling, all metal and mirror and light. “And soon, | 
won't need to deal with any more of them.” 


A red face full of scabs poked mouselike through the doorway. 
“Message for Agent Caraway.” 


Caraway rose to his full, unimpressive height and stretched 
hideously. “Important message,’ or just ‘message’?” 


“Envelope says ‘urgent.” The boy’s voice cracked from anxiety and 
unbalanced hormones. “Are you going somewhere? Should | just 
leave it on your desk?” 


“No, no, give it here,” the agent snapped. He sent the boy away and 
tore at the packaging of the letter. 


"__.Christ." 


TO: AGENT HORACE CARAWAY 
FROM: 05-4 
SUBJECT: SCP-960 


Tracking device 0145-Y9 ceased broadcasting at 2216 hours on 


SCP-598: Sentient Color 


Item #: SCP-598 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-598 is contained in a 
three by three by three (8x3x3) meter room which has been painted 
solidly with Behr brand "Pearly White" paint. The floor is mirrored. 
Three (3) bright lights are positioned on the ceiling in such a way so 
that all the room is lit. These lights are to remain lit for 24 hours 
every day and are attached to a backup generator in case of power 
outage. The room will be examined for mold or stains daily, and 
these will be immediately removed if found. 


Two level-2 guards are to be stationed outside SCP-598’s room at 
all times. Supervised contact with SCP-598 is unrestricted to all 
personnel with Level-2 access. All are subject to searches before 
and after contact, and random psychoanalysis afterwards. 


Unless permission is received from a overseer, tools such as knives, 
scalpels, mirrors, paint-peelers, or cameras are restricted. 


Description: SCP-598 is an intelligent shade of yellow covering the 
whole of the inside of its cell. Attempts to reproduce SCP-598 with 
paints, crayons, etc., have failed. Through experimentation, 
SCP-598's properties have been discovered not to be tint or shade 
dependent (different shades of light, except for total darkness, will 
not affect the item's sentience) but are hue-dependent (a colored 
filter placed over the item's light source will cancel the effect). 


SCP-598 can process audiovisual stimulus in its nearby 
surroundings, but cannot speak nor move autonomously, nor 
communicate using normal senses. SCP-598 is, however, 
telepathic, and capable of holding extended mental conversations, 
enjoying topics like music, art, and science. It displays a slight 
interest in the SCP Foundation, although it is likely this is because of 


July 12. It was last used in a briefcase containing classified 
Foundation documents, and its last signal came from a residential 
section of Cairo, Egypt. We believe it is possible that an unknown 
party has disabled the device and stolen the files. This, if true, is 
unacceptable. 


Tracking device 1248-Y3 continues to broadcast from Cairo. Our 
records indicate that you are using it to trace a man assigned to 
recover SCP-960. Having lost the documents provided him, he has 
proven to be a liability; having already read the documents, he is 
now a liability in the possession of sensitive information. 


You may consider this the last in a sequence of warnings. Failing in 
the following task will result in your immediate discharge from the 
SCP Foundation: 


You are hereby ordered to eliminate the security risk posed by Brink 
Dangerguts. 


previous chapter « « « 


Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 


Broken Light Hub 


Here's a tale of Broken Light. 
A final playground for tonight. 


SCP-1562 
Has claustrophobia for you. 


SCP-2041 
Keeps kids safe but not much fun. 


SCP-2224 
Will launch you through the sky's trap door. 


SCP-2483 
Forgot what happy used to be. 
Prologue: Your Dream Is Not Terribly Marketable 


And He Will Crash Upon the Rocks - This Lighthouse is FUBAR, 
Chael 


Origin: One Day Your Toes May Reach The Trees 
Earth Dander - Angels In The Atmosphere 


The First Failure: Tunnel Slide Gets Dark Reeeeaaal Quick, 
Goddamn 


She Makes The Pitch - An Enchanting Encounter With Iss 
The Second Failure: Merry-Go-View Says You're a Pedo 
The Mad, Part 1 - When You Never Ask Yourself If You Should 


The Third Failure: Teeter-Pult Might Need Some WD-40 


The Mad, Part 2 - Megatron Would Be So Proud 

The Final Failure: How To Be The Worst Swing Set Ever 
The Mad, Part 3 - Rub His Nose In The Carpet 

Life Unlived: My Time With The Emotional Discordance Unit 


The Rigorous Rules of Antagonism - Toph Would Steal Candy From 
A Star Baby 


A Flicker of Hope: The Things We Did While You Slept 
A Luminous Puzzle - Chael, You Do The Border First 


Epilogue: A Happy Never-Ending 


Prologue: Your Dream Is Not Terribly Marketable 


"| just... mean...look at this. How am | supposed to say no to him 
again?" Project Manager Willem Koning lamented. 


Project Director Edvin Jonasson stared hard at his underling, his 
face not betraying the jumble of conflicting thoughts running through 
his mind. He looked at the plastic model on his desk in front of him, 
and resisted the urge to examine it more thoroughly. 


"You're not going to say no to him again," Jonasson finally said. He 
knew his voice sounded stern, but the edge he purposely added to it 
was artificial, though he didn't think Koning could tell. 


"I'm not?" Koning's look of surprise had a hint of optimism to it. 
Jonasson quickly shut it down. 


"No, you're going to fire him. And if you don't think you can do it, 
then /‘l/do it, and | won't hold it against you," Jonasson replied. He 
meant it, too. He knew how everyone felt about Lindahl. Hell, he 
liked the guy as much as anyone else. 


Koning sighed reflexively. They both knew the day had been 
coming, but days like that always arrived quicker than anyone 
wanted. "No. | can do it myself. I'll let you know right now that I'm 
going to hate you for this a little bit. Everyone will." There was no 
anger or bitterness in the manager's voice. 


"| Know. | hate myself a little for this already. But you know as well 
as | do that the time he is wasting by pretending he can just do 
whatever he wants is going to catch up to all of us eventually. The 
VP is already breathing down my neck, simply because breathing 
down people's necks is at the top of her job description. What do 
you think would happen if she heard about Lindahl's little projects?" 


"Well, | imagine your neck would start to smell like mint and 


cabernet. And then you'd start hounding me, and I'd resent you for it. 
Then I'd start hounding Lindahl, and he'd resent me for it, but not 
before giving me that sad puppy dog look he has when he thinks 
you're crushing his dreams. Then I'd resent myself, and then I'd be 
the one drinking wine in my office and trying to cover it up with too 
many breath mints." 


It was Jonasson's turn to sigh reflexively. Lindahl's sad puppy dog 
look truly did make you feel like a bastard, though he supposed that 
was the trade off for his infectious laughter that always cheered up 
the entire department like nitrous oxide was being pumped through 
the AC vents. Morale was going to plummet, he thought. His eyes 
strayed from Koning's distressed grimace, back to the model on his 
desk again. Koning followed his boss's gaze, and this time they 
sighed in unison. They might have laughed at their synchronicity if 
they hadn't been so occupied with hating the circumstances that 
lead to it. 


Jonasson's earlier resistance escaped him, and he found himself 
spinning the small merry-go-round with his finger tip. He ran his 
finger down the slide, pushed the teeter totter up and down, and 
gave an under-duck to the small plastic figure sitting on the swings. 


"It's almost creepy, isn't it?" 


Koning's voice seemed slightly far away, as if he was standing ten 
meters away instead of just one. Jonasson started to feel a strange 
happiness come over him. It was a mild euphoria that reminded him 
of Lindahl's laugh, which reminded him of the sad puppy dog face, 
which reminded him to stop fingering the damn toy and remember 
that his job wasn't the only one at stake. 


"Sorry, what did you say?" 


"| said it's almost creepy. There's just something subtle about it, 
something under the surface that evokes nostalgia and childhood 
and fond memories. Or maybe I'm just a sap." Koning shuffled his 
feet nervously as his boss stared into space, apparently mulling over 
his words. 


Jonasson finally spoke after an uncomfortable 15 seconds. This 


time, the edge in his voice was not artificial. "No, it's not creepy. It's 
sad. It's sad that we can't do something a little different for once, 
because a licensed IP makes more money than anything original 
these days. It's sad that money rules everything, even children's 
toys. It's sad that | understand why it's necessary for things to be 
this way, and that | usually don't give it a second thought. But the 
saddest thing? The thing that just makes me want to tear out what's 
left of my hair? The saddest thing, Willem, is that a grown man can't 
do what he's told long enough to keep the job we all know he 
considers his dream. 


"It would be great if we could do a playground theme, or a park 
theme, or whatever. But it's not in the cards, and everyone gets that 
except Lindahl. We all ignore reality sometimes, Willem. If we didn't, 
he'd have been fired years ago because, and | know nobody likes to 
think about this, we let him get away with behavior that would have 
been cause for termination if it came from anyone else. | don't know 
if it's that damn laugh of his, or his child-like earnestness, or what, 
but I'm breaking that spell. You can't ignore reality forever. We can't 
ignore reality forever. If Lindahl wants to try and ignore it for the rest 
of his life, that's fine by me. But he won't be doing it here, because | 
like my job, Willem. And if you like your job, you'll go tell him he's 
being let go, hate me for it for a little while, and get the fuck over it." 


Jonasson's eyes began to water as he spoke the word "fuck". For 
another man, having to blink back tears might have undermined the 
intensity of the speech, or perhaps even caused a subordinate like 
Koning to lose respect for him. Willem Koning, however, only felt 
shaken at the sight of his 62-year-old boss's glistening eyes. 


"Edvin, you know I'll do it. | think...I think | just need to remember 

that before Lindahl, this place wasn't some dank black hole where 
joy went to die. It's always been a nice workplace with its ups and 

downs. Sometimes it's relaxing, sometimes it's stressful, but we all 
love our jobs here. Lindahl's absence isn't going to ruin that." 


Jonasson dabbed at his eyes with a tissue from his desk. He gave 
himself a mental pat on the back for fighting to save Koning's job 
years ago, during the company's biggest financial struggle of their 
long history. "No, it's not going to ruin anything, of course. I'm sure 
some people will be sour for awhile, and they'll blame me, but 


eventually things will go back to normal." 


"I'm starting to think that we haven't known ‘normal’ in quite some 
time. Do you ever remember feeling like this? Before Lindahl, | 
mean?" Koning didn't wait for an answer. "| mean, I'm actually 
starting to feel pretty gung-ho about showing the door to our resident 
slacker, but then | look down at that little playground..." Koning's 
voice drifted off sleepily. 


Jonasson looked down at the model again. He thought about 
Koning's words, and somewhere in his mind he made a connection. 
He felt the familiar pull to pick up and examine Lindahl's creation, 
and he realized with sudden clarity that it actually frightened him. 
Jonasson picked up the model, and stood up from his chair. Before 
Koning could say anything, the director hurled Lindahl's pet project 
against the far wall of his office. Plastic shrapnel bounced off 
Koning's torso, repelled by his business casual armor, as the 
startled manager attempted to assess what had just taken place. He 
turned to look at the now scratched and dented wall, then back to 
his boss. 


Jonasson sat down in his office chair without a glance at his shaken 
employee. He moused away the screen saver on his computer, 
opened up his email, and began deleting anything containing 
industry buzz words. It was an activity that always calmed him, and 
gave a Surprising amount of satisfaction. He heard his office door 
open and close as Koning left to tell a very nice man that his dream 
was not terribly marketable at this point in time, and that he would 
need to seek employment elsewhere.