Finally, the Man smiled, and extended a hand. "Come, sit with me." 
He unceremoniously pushed a corpse off of one chair and retrieved 
another that had toppled in the brief fight. Walker sat upon one, the 
Man on the other; dimly, Walker realized that the Man's chair made 
a much louder creak as he sat on it, and he wondered just how 
much gear the Man carried to be so heavy. So the two sat; Walker 
listened, and the Man talked. He answered questions that Walker 
never asked, and spun tales that he could hardly believe. 


The Man claimed to have been born somewhere around the year 
8000 B.C.E., a time so long ago that even his immense mind was 
clouded by history, in an area that was now a part of Turkey. He 
knew from the first moments of life what his purpose was; before his 
conception, hundreds - if not thousands - of shamans and other 
mystics from around the world realized their numbers were 
dwindling; the ether was becoming a terrible, twisted place, and their 
cycle of reincarnation was becoming interrupted as more and more 


souls were lost to the warped beasts that began to emerge from this 
spiritual chaos. So, rather than eventually leaving mankind 
rudderless, they committed suicide, almost to the last, and all at the 
same instant. This influx of power overwhelmed the ephemeral 
monsters, long enough for the souls to coalesce and form a new 
entity, not a god or a demon, but a man. 


That was the same Man who was now sitting before the dumbstruck 
Agent. Throughout the millenia, he had at times risen to power as a 
nearly unbeatable warlord or king, at other times he influenced from 
the background. There were times when he started or changed new 
faiths, and times when he lead great crusades to denounce them. 
He was particularly amused about one such attempt two thousand 
years ago, a cause to unite humanity as one through the love of 
their brothers; that even such a pure message could be twisted into 
an excuse for death and destruction finally convinced him that if 
mankind should survive, it would be as a unified and conquering 
army standing atop the world, and then the galaxy. He arose once in 
England, leading a band of peasant-knights with ideals of chivalry 
and honor; the same ideals would be his influence upon ancient 
Japan and China. He spoke of riding horseback across the great 
steppes of Mongolia, and creating an empire that almost stretched 
from the Pacific to the Atlantic, before treacherous poison caused 
injury that even his physiology required much time to heal. He spoke 
of the great leaps in science and reason that he helped usher in, of 
the scientists whose names he concocted for himself, and those 
whom he had touched and given untold insights. 


Once he was done speaking of the past, he spoke of the future, a 
future which his vision and scheming accounted for in the tens of 
thousands of years. He spoke of the way that mankind would spread 
across the stars; slowly at first, of course, launching themselves 
near-blindly like seeds upon the wind. Miracles of science and 
genetics would lead to a way to pierce through that astral sea, that 
ethereal plane beyond even the void of space, and let mankind step 
between the stars in short voyages rather than generations. He 
knew all of this, because his sight pierced the veils of time both 
forward and back, and with his mind he could touch the whole of the 
world. 


Hours before, Agent Walker would have laughed at the Man, spit 
upon him, fired entire magazines worth of ammunition until his 
chatter stopped. Somehow, he knew this Man was right. He knew 
those words were spoken not by one who was headstrong and 
obstinate, but one who knew a Truth, an idea so solid as to be 
inviolate. Sadly, Agent Walker's mind was not so great as the Man's, 
and many things escaped him. One question rose to his lips, well 
after the Man had stopped speaking. "How did you come here? Get 
past the guards?" 


"Ah, yes. | merely showed them the Truth, and they allowed me to 
pass." His smile was as magnanimous as it was handsome. 


"Why are you even here? How did you know?" Walker knew that the 
boys in espionage had worked months to track this cell down. The 
strange, clockwork cube resting in a vestibule in the back of the 
room was what had brought him here in the first place. 


"| know, because it is my business to know. These men and their 
worship of a ‘machine god' may have its place in the future, but it is 
not now. | worked very hard to fell that dragon of the void, and these 
sycophants trying to put it back together do not work well with my 
plans." Walker's eyes widened, the thought that this Man was 
responsible for those Scips being called a ‘broken god' beyond 
belief, had they come from any other mouth. 


"Why are you telling me all this?" 


With that, the Man paused, and seemed thoughtful for a long time. 
Finally he smiled, and stood, placing a hand upon Walker's shoulder 
that seemed to make him sink into his chair. "Because even | feel 
the need for counsel, now and again. You have a very... Inquisitive 
mind, Agent Thomas Walker. And a very special mind as well, with 
very special abilities that | sense even you yourself are not aware 
of." He offered his hand, and Walker was helped out of his seat. 
Yanked, more like it. 


"Come. I'm afraid your comrades are already dead, the cultists laid 
far too many traps down the other hallway." Walker did admit to 
hearing a number of voices over his radio during the Man's long 
soliloquy; the earbud hang off his vest by that point, so he didn't 


know the details. "| must admit, | admire the intent of your 
Foundation, but its aim is too narrow. It wishes to preserve things 
which are, at best, threats which are inimical to life, especially 
human life. Certain items, some creatures, they have their values 
yes. But if it is a threat, then it must be destroyed. | would like you to 
come with me, Walker. | am preparing for the next step in the grand 
destiny of Mankind, and for that | need men like you." 


Walker did not even think about the words that came from his 
mouth, nor the motion which brought his head bowed lowly. "I am 
yours to command, Lord." 


The Man smiled and nodded. "You will have new orders, Thomas. 
Scourge the mutant, that its deviancy not corrupt the purity of our 
species. Crush the heretic, that its blasohemy does not divide 
mankind. Purge the alien, that its kin does not stand between us and 
our destiny. You shall be my spokesman, Thomas. And for that, you 
must Know." 


Thomas' eyes were wide as the light returned, and he saw the Man 
for what he truly was; how he had appeared so simple before defied 
explanation. The Man was so tall that Walker barely came to his 
lower chest; so broad he must have turned himself sideways to fit 
through the small opening to this chamber. The light seemed to 
radiate from the Man's head, a halo that shone with the radiance of 
a thousand suns. It was beautiful, so much so that Walker wept 
bitter tears; tears which mixed with the blood from his ruined eyes, 
burned from the sheer glory, burst from the minute fraction of power 
that the Man had poured into his new agent. 


Despite the loss of his eyes, Walker could still see. The power that 
the Man gave him may have ruined his sight, but awoke senses and 
abilities Walker never imagined. He was able to sense the energy 
around him, and while not perfect, he walked with great assurance 
to the vestibule at the rear of the chamber. The Man nodded with 
pleasure as Walker took all four fragmentation grenades he carried 
and stuffed them into the compartment housing the clockwork cube, 
with its surface of unearthly, living metal. The pins pulled, he ran, 
seeking shelter behind the Man who had revealed to him a great 
and terrible Truth, and the explosion utterly destroyed the would-be 
SCP-1854. His work done, Thomas felt the touch of the Man upon 


his shoulder, and was vitalized. 


"Come Thomas. The stars await, and we have an Imperium to 
found." Walker was too joyous to respond, but without a doubt he 
crossed his hands atop his chest, hooked thumbs forming the shape 
of a double-headed eagle, and bowed his head. 


"As you command, my Emperor." 


The Case of the Missing Hand 


It was upon the morning of the seventeenth of October when | 
encountered my long-term friend and companion Mr. Sherlock 
Holmes knocking upon the door of my residence. As | opened the 
door, | recognized the look of subdued excitement on Holmes' face. 
He was obviously in the middle of a case; one of those periods 
where he would rush from location to location, either unaware of the 
effect such a schedule was having on his body or uncaring, locked 
as he was in the thrill of the chase. 


It was highly peculiar for him to call on me, for it was often his way to 
send a telegram summoning me to his residence at 221B Baker 
Street. | voiced this concern and he looked at me with a sharp eye. 
"My dear Watson!" he exclaimed. "| know that if | were to senda 
telegram it would take at least ten minutes for it to arrive, and at 
least ten minutes for you to arrive at my residence! No, time is of the 
essence, my friend! The hunt is on!" 


He led me outside to a waiting carriage, my feet carrying out the 
exciting routine they had gone through dozens of time before. Once 
we were inside, | turned to Holmes. "I trust you are on a case?" | 
said. 


"You expect anything less of me?" He smiled. "Did you enjoy your 
trip to Scotland?" 


| began to reply in the negative, for my wife had fallen ill on the 
second day of our trip, when | realized | had not told Holmes of my 
holiday at any point before or after the weeks trip. "| can see how 
you would deduce | was on a trip, considering the length of my 
absence," | said. "But however did you work out | went to Scotland?" 


He leaned forward, as if to impart some of his usual wisdom, but 
instead said; "Your wife was leaning out of the window, | simply 
asked her! You must always be aware, my dear Watson, that before 
we come to the world of theories and ideas, we must first make sure 


to find out the facts!" 


| raised a skeptical eyebrow. "This seems to be contrary to the 
priorities you yourself demonstrate, my friend. Oftentimes, you will 
have worked out the solution to the case moments after, or even 
before, the details of it have been imparted to you!" 


He turned to me in mock anger, but his expression quickly lightened 
as if he was speaking to a child, as he no doubt considered himself 
to be. "| must not underestimate you, Watson! You saw through my 
ruse. Facts are cold liars. Oh, they never lie themselves, but they 
throw decoys, red herrings right in front of us! A theory is the lance 
that punches through their shield and allows us access to the truth, 
whether it be good or bad. You have learned a lot, Watson. Who 
knows, perhaps you would be the one to fool Sherlock Holmes!" He 
chuckled lightly, knowing that this could never happen. "Very well, 
enough games. | will tell you of the case. 


"Two years ago, a Mr. Daniel Highman moved to London from his 
previous residence in America after the death of his wife. He brought 
with him his five year old son, Robert Highman, and seventeen year 
old daughter, Elizabeth Highman. He was a recluse and a tinkerer, 
often spending days and days experimenting with his inventions. 
None of them appear to have seen the light of day, so | can imagine 
his efforts were wasted. He does not appear to have achieved 
anything of much interest, and his life appears to have been dull 
and, regrettably, short." 


"He is dead?" 


"It is more often than not the case with our, well, cases, is it not, 
Watson? We are surrounded by death. | would lament this, but it is 
unwise to bite the hand that feeds us! Daniel Highman was found 
dead last week. His hand was missing and it appears that he had 
died of blood loss." 


"A straight cut?" | asked. "The hand, | mean?" 
"No, it had been torn off as if by some savage beast." 


"Good God!" | ejaculated. 


"It is a dreadful affair," Holmes agreed. "He was not a rich man, so | 
do not see either of the children doing it for the inheritance. | have 
searched his quarters before and found nothing of note. | am not 
willing to simply leave this case unsolved, Watson, so | have called 
upon you, as you often are instrumental in our cases. The police 
have no suspects and neither do |. Perhaps with a second search 
we will find something more." 


It was fifteen minutes before our carriage arrived at the Highman 
residence. Holmes got out, leaving me to pay the driver, as was his 
way. Holmes knocked twice before the door opened to reveal Miss 
Highman, staring at us with tear-streaked eyes. "Mr. Holmes?" she 
cried. "You've discovered something more? Who is this man?" She 
turned on me, hostility clear on her expression. "Is he a suspect?!" 
she demanded. 


Holmes lay a pacifying hand upon her shoulder. "No. This is my 
friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. He is here to help me with 
my investigation. Can you please show us to your fathers quarters?" 


"Certainly," she stuttered, leading us down the stairs. "Father was 
often down here for weeks. He was very absorbed in his work. He is 
- he was a very successful inventor," she informed us with 
misguided pride. "Clients would visit him often." 


Given Holmes' short, cold summary of the man's life, | assumed this 
was a lie designed to impress myself and my companion. Holmes 
continued as if he had not heard her speak. 


"Here we are," she said, opening the door. "Would you mind if | left 
you to it? | must comfort my brother." 


"Not at all," replied Holmes. She left the room, her footsteps 
echoing. 


Mr. Highman's chambers consisted of a small writing desk, a few 
cupboards, a wardrobe and a bed. The writing desk was covered in 
blank sheets of paper. The state of the bed showed that it was slept 
in often. | saw nothing else of interest in the cold room where the 


man had died, and appearances suggested that neither had 
Holmes. No inventions, nothing but the evidence of a broken man. 


"Get searching then, Watson," said Holmes. "The game is afoot." He 
said these words sadly, as if utterly defeated by the lack of evidence 
in the room. 


| approached a cupboard and yanked it open. It was full of cutlery, 
knives and forks simply shoved in among the plates. An untidy man, 
no doubt. | lifted my head to see Holmes open the wardrobe with a 
triumphant expression, only to resume his deflated one. And then he 
was triumphant again, and a few seconds later, full of sadness. My 
heart dropped. 


"Holmes?" | asked. "Are you alright?" 


He turned to me. "Watson, what are..." He blinked, as if confused. 
"Watson, what are..." He repeated. Stepping sideways for a better 
look, | noticed the glint of light reflecting off glass. Surmising that this 
was the cause of Holmes' confusion, | lifted my revolver and fired a 
single shot. The glass smashed. Water poured out of the wardrobe, 
followed by a small fish. Holmes came back to himself. 


"A fish?" he said to himself. "Aha! A fish!" 


Miss Highman came rushing into the room, obviously agitated by the 
loud bang. "What happened?" She gasped. "You...! thought that... 
the murderer!" 


Holmes raised a hand to stop her. "No. No murderer. | think it is best 
we gathered in the dining room." 


We sat there, the body of the fish in the middle of the table, the 
water that covered it staining the fine tablecloth. Holmes turned to 
me to begin the proceedings. 


"You received a letter earlier?" he asked. "You have traces of 
envelope paper underneath your fingernails." 


"Yes. It appears my wife's illness is worse than | thought. | will have