The beginning was defined primarily by separation. It was a mess of 
thoughts, of feelings. To be honest, it was difficult for one to say if it 
was truly an existence at all at that point, but it was there. There, 
and all too short. Ghufran was made to sigh by the brevity of such 
memories. The beginning was separation, and then the light came 
into him. And everything was ruined. 


He remembered, distinctly (though he had no nostrils to speak of), 
the smell of the desert air. The stinging of the wind and the feel of 
the coarse earth. Every single thought, every sensation from that 
point on was utter agony to him. His brothers did not know this pain, 
and they were quick to establish themselves. 'Yes, | am', he could 
practically hear them say. 'I'm here. I'm thinking.’ 


And one by one, they would come to know their names, as if they 
were branded with them. The others were, of course, prideful 
enough to credit themselves with this - with names, with being. 
Though they offered lip service to the humans, recognized the 
possibility that their coming was a cultural phenomenon (Ghufran 
nearly spit the word out), it was not in their minds that this was the 
case. How he hated his brothers. Almost as much as he hated the 
humans. It was true, he had decided soon after his ‘birth’, that they 
were responsible for his creation. There was no doubt in him at all 
that the widespread belief in the djinni had come to make them so. 
But if humans were his creators... 


Ghufran was drawn back into reality by a tapping upon the chair in 
which he was seated. 


"Are you listening? It is, eh, Ghufran? Yes?" The thin, bearded man 
opposite the desk in front of him was clearly asking a question, and 
the crease in his brow seemed to indicate that he wasn't exactly 
pleased with Ghufran's tendency to let his mind wander. "| am sorry, 
perhaps it was a bit rude to distract you. My speech can be very dull 
I'm told, and you seemed to find the wall there much more 


interesting.” The man pointed demonstrably to the wall and then 
back to himself, causing his fatigues to rustle slightly. "Now, as your 
House has finally seen fit to contract with our office, a few of you 
have been assigned to work with our teams. You came..." He 
paused for a moment to look over some documents gripped in his 
sweaty hands. "...well, let us say, 'recommended'." 


Ghufran nodded curtly, to show that he had been paying attention 
this time around. Inside, he bristled. 


"| will say again, since you did not seem to hear the last time. My 
name is Karim al-Abbasi. From now on, you will be following my 
orders." 


The subject's pupils constricted as the beam of the flashlight was 
directed toward them. Ghufran did not know what this meant. A 
good sign, or no? It is normal. That is all. He let out what might have 
been interpreted as a sigh and leaned back in his chair. 


Karim, meanwhile, stood in the corner of the tent and looked over a 
folder full of documents, as he was wont to do when his nerves 
seized him. At the sight, Ghufran could not help but smirk haughtily. 
The show of strength did not last long, did it? Humans are all the 
same. They all piss their pants when they are given even the 
slightest glimpse of— 


The train of thought was interrupted as Karim looked away from the 
papers and opened his mouth to speak. "Well? What do you think?" 


Ghufran only shook his head in response. There was a brief pause 
before he elected to expound upon the gesture. "| am no doctor, but 
he seems to be in good health. The muttering is trouble, of course. 
But you did not need a Type 2 to tell you that." He had taken to 
using the term to define himself. 'Type 2'. It seemed sufficiently 
detached. "Smiling God? What is that, Smiling God? It is absurdity. 
A bunch of beshoor antar who have lost their heads to a shiny 
object." The mention of the 'Smiling God' caused the subject (one of 
the ORIA's own personnel) to resume his nonsense muttering. 
Ghufran scowled and pushed his chair out while Karim clicked his 
tongue and returned to the safety of his papers. 


"They may ask us to investigate this in person, you understand. It 
does not seem likely to go anywhere. There's a request to abandon 
the project in here." Karim waved the manilla folder gently before 
slapping it down on the only folding table in the tent. "A fool's errand, 
| suppose." Still, the shaking in his hand said plenty about how the 
possibility made him feel. 


Having no place in his heart for sympathy, Ghufran simply snorted in 
response. "You fear this...thing? | have read the reports as well. 
‘Oh, the Type 2 Personnel'," he said in a mocking voice, "They are 
also afraid. So very afraid of the shining orb." Ghufran turned his 
head to the side and spit upon the ground. "Have we been reduced 
to this? We were low when we came to be, beholden even to khuk 
humans, but now a floating, formless heresy makes us weak at the 
knees." 


"You sound disgusted." 
"That is because | am." 


Karim clicked his tongue once more and poked his head out of the 
tent, gesturing for someone to come and remove the man who had 
not yet ceased his fanatical mumbles. For a moment, the area was 
empty of prying ears. "You are not worried about this, then?" 


Another shake of the head was Ghufran's immediate reply. "If they 
send us out, we will have no trouble. | am not worried, no." He 
moved to the entrance of the tent in two quick strides, only turning 
back toward Karim once he had partially lifted the left flap. "You will 
need to send a report once we are done, yes? | will start it for you. 
The situation with Project 934 has improved dramatically..." 


subject: When hair from a deceased subject is used to attune an 
instance of SCP-693, the doll no longer passively represents actions 
taken by the attuned. Instead, SCP-693 purports to be the 
deceased, acting as a guide to the owner. Again, at the nine day 
mark, SCP-693 becomes unreliable, attempting to ensure the death 
of its owner. 


Incident 693/A/050: On / / ,DirectorG _ left two instances of 
SCP-693 in his office. Director G had recently been the recipient 
of SCP-050. An hour after leaving his office, the Director was 
summoned back by security due to a smoke alarm being triggered 
inside his office. Upon entering, the Director found SCP-050 on his 
desk, beside an ashtray which was found to hold the ashes of both 
instances of SCP-693. The ashes had been crafted to spell "Your 
welcome. '(sic) As of this Incident, instances of SCP-693 are not 
allowed to be left in researchers personal space. 


Incident 693/E: On / /_ , Junior Researcher West returned an 
instance of SCP-693 to the proper containment locker. West had 
failed to properly remove the hair from the doll. When the locker was 
next open, all instance of SCP-693 within were gathered around the 
attuned doll. Said doll had been crucified upside down against the 
wall of the locker. It is unknown where the SCPs acquired nails. 


Addendum 693/C: After leaving a camera inside the containment 
locker, it appears that instances of SCP-693 become mobile when 
not directly observed. While no further outbreaks of violence 
occurred, unattuned instances of SCP-693 have been shown to go 
through the actions of the last thirty minutes of the life of their most 
recent owner. At this point, SCP-693 has been reclassified Euclid, 
and will be locked in separate containers inside the containment 
locker. 


Incident 693/P: On //  , Researcher Cole attempted to have 
D-693/4523 attune SCP-693-R-12 using a pubic hair from D-693/43. 
The SCP began to move as normal, then stopped. It tilted its head 
downwards for approximately a minute, then raised its head to look 
at Researcher Cole. SCP-693 is reported to have said [DATA 
EXPUNGED] at which point a clean up crew was sent to the testing 
chamber. Researcher Cole has been reassigned to medical for 
psychiatric care, and the two D-class were terminated ahead of 


Of Brothers And Fathers 


J. Edgar Hoover was sitting in his office, writing something, when 
Robert Parsley entered it for the last time. A half-eaten danish sat on 
the desk. 


"Have a seat." 
Robert did. 
"How is the Atlanta case going, son?" 


Robert paused for a moment, so that it would look as though he was 
pondering. "Well, it's been tough. Nobody really wants to talk to a 
Yankee detective. You'd think that | was a carpetbagger, the way 
they treat people like us. 


"Hm." Edgar stopped writing. "And what do you mean by ‘people like 
us’, Robert?" 


He knows. 


Parsley tried to swallow the thought. Just relax. Smile at him, he 
loves it when you smile at him. 


Robert forced a Shrugging Smile #5. "Well, sir, you know. 
Northerners. People who aren't from around there, y'know?" 


Hoover chuckled, and holstered his pen in its holder. "Well, that is 
right. It's unfortunate that there are so many aliens and subversives 
in our society these days. Wouldn't you agree, Robert?" 


Robert nodded. The lump in his throat didn't let the words out. 


Hoover stood up, and casually strode towards the office window, his 
back to Robert. For the first time, he threw open the curtains, and 
stared out at the campus spread out below him. He sighed. "I've 
been working in this bureau for a long, long time." 


He sat ramrod stiff, his eyes still directed where Hoover's used to 
be. "Yes sir. Longer than any of us." 


"I've seen a lot of good men taken down in the line of duty. They 
served their country. They were patriots. Do you consider yourself a 
patriot, Robert." 


"Of course. Sir." 


"Good, good. So do |. And nothing is of greater threat to patriots like 
us than the unknowable." 


"That's why | do what | do, sir." 


Hoover shut the curtains with a snap, and turned towards Robert. 
"No, not like that. | can understand the danger posed by freaks and 
geeks. We need to lock them up or destroy them, in the interest of 
national security. We don't need to know any more than that." 


Hoover moved behind Robert. He placed his hands on Robert's 
shoulders. 


A bead of sweat formed on Parsley's forehead. 


"I'm talking about the unknowable things you never see coming. 
When those you trust turn out to have their own agendas. When 
people you thought you could trust turn out to be anti-Americans 
who only showed you what you wanted to see." 


Robert said nothing. He closed his eyes. 
"What do you think of that, Robert?" 


The hands moved from his shoulders, to around his throat. Robert 
gagged. 


"That's right, you mussie scum. Choke on it. Choke on your lies." 


Robert grasped at Hoover's fingers, struggling to gain a breath. He 
tried to yell, but he could only whisper "..... no..." 


"Don't FUCKING lie to me, Parsley. Don't you DARE spill your filthy 
tongue in my office again. You TRAITOR. How could you do this?" 
Hoover shook his head, looking up and away from the thing between 
his fingers. "How could you?" 


Robert began to turn blue, and he began to sink down to the floor. 


Hoover kicked the chair out of the way and tackled him the rest of 
the way down, pressing his knees into Robert's chest. His old hands 
were tightly wrapped around Robert's throat, crushing the life out of 
him. His hair and suit were in disarray. 


There was hell in his eyes. Robert could see it, as his own eyes 
fogged and waned. 


"| TRUSTED YOU!" screeched Hoover, slamming Robert's head 
onto the tile floor. "YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU WERE ONE OF 
MY BOYS. YOU WERE ONE OF MY BOYS" 


Robert would have offered a retort, if he had been able to think. His 
body began to thrash, and his grip on Hoover's arms weakened. 


Hoover responded in turn. He thrashed Robert's head against the 
tile floor, again and again, until the blood began to run from his nose 
and eyes. With lips puffed out and a face as red as a tomato, Robert 
Parsley died in J. Edgar Hoover's hands. 


With a final crack, Hoover slammed the dead head into the tile, 
shattering it. Blood pooled below. The blood trickled away in all 
directions on the cracked tile like rivers on a map. The Ohio, the 
French Broad, the Mississippi. 


Hoover took a few minutes to catch his breath, before crawling off of 
the body and back to his desk. He buzzed his secretary. 


"Help." 
"Yes Mister Hoover?" 


Hoover mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. "| need a 
cleanup. Please." 


"Right away sir." 


Hoover put his finger off the buzzer, and picked up his Danish. He 
was finished by the time his men arrived to clean up the mess. 


The /mam waited an extra half hour to see if Robert was coming. 
When it was clear that he wasn't, he drove himself home, fixed 
himself a glass of wine, and waited for the end to come. 


He didn't have to wait long. 
CASE FILE INDEX 6671 
TOP SECRET 


CASE SUMMARY: CELL OF ISLAMIC EXTREMISTS 
OPERATING WITHIN THE UNITED STATES 
BORDERS, KNOWN TO BE SUBVERTING AMERICAN 
IDEALS THROUGH OPERATIVES PLANTED WITHIN 
THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. 


STATUS: RESOLVED. NO SUSPECTS REMAINING. 


« Of Teachers And Taxicabs | UIU HUB | ORIA HUB | We'll Meet 
At The End Of The Tour» 


Peregrine 


“What's his name Daddy?” The little girl inquired, her 
eyes were wide as she looked up at the tall droid 
standing motionless in front of her. 


“Well, according to the directions Anderson gave US, its 
preprogrammed personality is called Hector, but we can 
call it anything you want sweetie,” James replied as he 
ruffled his daughter's hair. 


“What's Hector mean?” She asked as she pulled away 
from her father’s hand. 


“He was a great warrior. A defender of the city of Troy.” 
“Is he a great warrior too?” 

“It had better be after what | paid.” James chuckled. 
“Then | want to name him Hector too!” 


“Of course sweetie,” James said with a small smile. 
“PSHUD #31, from this moment on you are to respond to 
the name Hector. Do you understand?” 


The droid nodded. It then looked down as the little girl 
grabbed its hand. 


“Can | play with Hector now, Daddy?” She asked, her 
grin running from ear to ear as she began to tug at the 
droid. 


“Of course you can,” James replied. “Whenever Daddy 
isn’t using Hector you two can play together as much as 
you like. It will always be here for you Sarah. Always.” 


¢ Part 1: Last Meetings 

¢ Part 2: Simple Sketches 
¢ Part 3: Products 

¢ Part 4: Building Up 

¢ Part 5: Tearing Down 


« Good As New| Anderson Robotics Hub | Series 2: The 
Elusive Anderson » 


Last Meetings 


As he placed the last of his possessions in a box, an elderly man 
with a walnut cane gave one last look around the room. His name 
was Dr. Zachary Johnson and the office he had worked in for the 
last 35 years was now empty, save for the furniture he had been 
given by the Foundation. It had been a good run while it had lasted. 
He had been the primary investigator on six items and had been a 
major contributor to at least twelve others. But alas, it was time to 
retire, and with a melancholy smile Dr. Johnson turned off the lights 
in his little sandbox and stepped out into the adjoining lab. 


As soon as he had entered, Johnson’s ears were immediately 
treated to frantic mumbling, the source being a man at a desk in the 
corner rapidly sifting through paperwork. This man's name was 
Jacob Conwell, and he had been Johnson’s assistant for the last 
three years. Johnson quietly chuckled to himself as the man shuffled 
and reshuffled through stacks of papers, his ramblings becoming 
more and more disjointed as time went on. Eventually, Johnson 
gave a small cough, Conwell freezing and looking up from his 
paperwork only to have his face drain of color when he saw 
Johnson’s smiling face. 


“Dr. Johnson, I’m sorry to say that | won't have those last few files 
ready in time. I’m still waiting on Clayton to email me that transcript, 
and...” Conwell nervously sputtered his words, stopping only when 
Johnson held up his hand for silence.