Then, they got bored. Jesus Christ the formerly almighty, they got 
bored. First it was sports. Games involving genetically-altered 
insects doing battle with people wielding cold laser weaponry while 
clad in polymer armor. That was harmless enough, | suppose, even 
if we did end up having to neutron-bomb the Sierra Madre 
mountains in order to kill the Radio Ticks. Then there were art- 
murders. So many art-murders. | had to appoint myself the head of a 
new police division, but when the victims came back, they were 
more interested in critique than who had done it. Eventually | just 
legalized that because the hell with it. 


It kept escalating. They would divide up into rival factions and kill 
each other in the streets of Greater Cheyenne for fun. Entire armies 
were assembled, accompanied by orbital munitions and chemical 
weapons, going to war because they could, and because they would 
just show up again somewhere anyway at the end of it. Do you have 
any conception how hard it is to electronically jam a laser-guided 
missile barrage by yourself? How did | end up being an international 
peacekeeping agency in my own country? 


Even that was boring and stupid to them after a few centuries. 


Someone got the bright idea once to weaponize nightmares. 
Technology turned sharply for a couple of decades to the 
development of ever greater stimulants so that nobody had to 
endure the terror of going to sleep. | seriously considered 
constructing a reality-negation device in those years, though mostly | 
attributed that impulse to being edgy from all the super-caffeine 
drinks (at least that's what my therapist, Dr. Me, said one time). In 
the end | was stopped from ending my miserable universe because, 
unfortunately, it is impossible to do. 


On and on it goes. A group of impossibly learned immortals, stuck 
with each other and free from consequence. Through it all, | restore 
sanity each time. | run prisons, | tend public parks, | build libraries. | 
am the adult in a nursery full of psychotic infants, armed with 
probability weaponry and smart enough to have reasoned away their 
consciences, forced to interact with each other by the coffin 
boundaries of the Smallest Universe by Population in the 
Continental United States. Every five years, they appoint me once 
more by a mental convocation as Autarch, entrusted with the 
governance of their hideous regenerating cityscape. They got too far 
ahead of me, gained too much knowledge while | was stuck learning 
the intricacies of managing a geothermal electrical grid, that | will 
never outsmart them and achieve my dream of murdering each and 
every one of them. 


At this moment, while | write my testament, | am guiding the actions 
of an automated fire suppression system in Arena No. 34-Q 
(someone finally learned how to literally shoot atomic fire from their 
eyes), clearing a massive sewer line blockage in the Violet Sector 
caused by someone flushing 3,000 or so fetal dodo birds down a 
toilet, negotiating the labor contract of the Janitorial Robotic 
Consortium for the next eight hundred years, digging a new landfill 
meant exclusively for waste generated by the production of an 
element that | haven't gotten around to naming yet as Minister of 
Science, and rescuing a pet cat from a high tree branch that 
happens to be four miles underground. | have expanded my 
consciousness in ways that the early mystics could never have 
contemplated, that | may hose down the feces in a constellation of 
monkey houses. 


| could stop. | could simply cease doing my countless functions that 
keep this society of the ever-increasingly deranged functioning, such 
as it is. The millions of jobs that | do every moment of every day 
would remain undone. The social order would grind to a halt, their 
unspeakable fun interrupted by real life for once in the poisoned 
existence of this universe. | could do it. | yearn to do it. 


In the end, | am stopped by a thought shared by every single one of 
my selves. 


My God, what would they do next? 


Starch and Cream 


Mae 


-A Silly Dystopian Fiction in Three Parts- 


By djkaktus 


Part One: The Wild Winds 


Book of the Holy Feast, Chapter 4 - Episode 3 - Verse 7 
Oh blessed Cake, first and foremost in our hearts, 
Deliver us now from this foul demon, 

Which doth tread particularly heavily upon our lands. 
Holy Cake, 

Praise be unto you, 


Amen. 


The wild winds whistled through the many small cracks and creases 
in their makeshift stronghold, each piercing cry a testament to a 


great many small mistakes that had been made during its 
construction. But it was hastily designed and even more hastily 
cobbled together, and much could be forgiven about its drab 
appearance and inability to keep out the cold. 


Much could be forgiven, but in the eyes of Sky Martin, it was too 
much. The old man pulled tight at a thick cloak wrapped around his 
neck, cheeks rosy from exposure, and cursed the haste in which 
they had settled into this place. It hadn't helped that they had put it 
on top of a hill, with nary a windblock for miles and miles across the 
Scottish countryside. The vantage point was useful, certainly, but 
the goddamn wind was almost too much. 


Sky adjusted himself slightly, scanning the horizon as the sun rose. 
His shift was the early shift, and he would be returning to the 
barracks as soon as the children arose to take their breakfast. He 
looked down the length of his rifle, nicked and scarred from over-use 
and under-repair, and made sure everything was in order. The 
Marshall was strict about that; all firearms had to be kept functional. 
God knows what good they would be in the situation that would 
require them, but there were few enough to go around and they 
were more than suitable for handling the various hostile stragglers 
and brigands that had populated the highlands in recent years. 


Dawn broke over Havenhall, a town in name only. The collection of 
worn and weathered individuals within were hardly a contingent, 
regardless of their original purpose. When they had come to the hill 
they had been twenty, men and weapons sharp and polished for a 
singular purpose. But as they had waited out the storm and grown 
older doing so, more had joined them. A group of refugees from 
across the channel. A family of pig farmers from West End. Before 
too long, they had a flock, and the flock began settling in. Havenhall 
was not supposed to be a settlement, but in time, they had settled. 
And the twenty still watched. 


Little similarities remained between the twenty brave young men 
who had struck out from Site 76 so many years ago and the 
nineteen old men who protected Havenhall now. Age and fatigue 
had beaten them, bent their spines, threatened to break their backs, 
and now seemed willing to drag out the torment as long as they 
were willing to remain alive. Gerard had finally succumbed years 


ago, when the long winters chill of '48 had frozen his body to the 
parapets. Others, like Harrison, dared not leave the safety of the 
minor warmth afforded in the boilers, but pressed on nonetheless. 


It wasn't just the cold, either. Radiation sickness threatened them, 
looming constantly in their minds like the low-hanging clouds left 
over from the bombs years ago. It would come in waves; the breeze 
would pick up in the middle of the night and the Geiger counters 
would start ringing. The women, children and infirmed would be 
shuttled down into the lower levels, and the men above would don 
their haz-masks and the thick goggles and heavy coats, and would 
continue to watch. When the wave passed, they would drag the 
scrubbers, long past their age of expiry, out to make the complex 
habitable again. When it was done, those below would quietly file 
out and return to their work, detectors strapped to their belts. 


The buzz of the morning alarm signaled for the population of 
Havenhall, no more than three hundred souls, to rise from their beds 
and begin the days work. In the past, the alarm might accompany 
the rising sun. Now, the skies remained dark, with only the 
occasional patch of obscured light to remind them that the star 
hadn't gone out. Behind him and below, Sky could heard the 
masses moving slowly about, preparing for the day's work. Outside 
of the rickety walls were long rows of crop fields, covered in tarps 
and patrolled by guardsmen. He supposed he should feel fortunate, 
to at least have the porous walls between himself and the elements. 
Thomas only had the exposure gear to keep him warm, and like 
everything else in Havenhall, it had stopped functioning at optimal 
levels nearly fifteen years ago. 


A heavy hand found Sky's shoulder, and he turned to see the 
Marshall behind him, no doubt here to relieve him of his duties. He 
was older than Sky, but was unfazed by the stresses of the world 
around him and unrelenting in his duty. The slightest stubble was 
seen as a personal failure, and the Marshall spent nearly an hour 
every morning making himself presentable. In contrast to the 
tattered and ragged masses within Havenhall, he might as well have 
been a golden god, especially considering it was often his iron will 
that stood between life and a slow, icy death. 


"Martin," he said, his voice cutting through the morning air. "Any 


signs of danger?" 


Sky stood slowly, speaking as he rose. "No, and nothing from the 
counters, either. A quiet night." 


The Marshall nodded. "And any word from command?" 


Sky sighed quietly. There had been no word from command in 
twenty years. "No, sir. Nothing on the radio." 


The man stood quietly, gazing at the dim light of the rising sun. Sky 
could read him no better now than he could thirty years previous, 
and sensed nothing from him but resolute determination. "Very well," 
he said. "You are relieved, Martin." 


Sky gave his thanks and gathered his meager belongings in a 
knapsack. He slung it over his shoulder, and began trudging down 
the slope towards the mess hall. In the distance, he could see 
children scurrying about, followed by their mothers and older 
siblings. He smiled. 


As he opened the door and felt the warmth of the hall wash over 
him, he was aware of a hush that had fallen over the gathered mass 
of younglings within the doorway. All were seated in a circle by the 
hearth, and at his arrival all had fallen silent and turned to face him. 
He stood, draped in decaying exposure gear, face hidden behind a 
long-range optical helmet. As they watched, he bent his knees 
slightly and leaned back, before bellowing across the hall. 


"THE WORLD IS FULL OF DARKNESS!" 


The children squealed with delight before shouting back. "WE MUST 
SECURE THE DARKNESS!" 


He grinned behind the mask, and shouted again. "WHO CAN 
STAND BEFORE IT?" 


A few rolled over with laughter. "WE MUST CONTAIN THE 
DARKNESS!" 


Sky stamped his feet, and rolled his torso like a raging bull. "ARE 
THERE ANY BRAVE ENOUGH?" 


Pandemonium reigned in the circle of children. "WE MUST 
PROTECT THE... EARTH!" 


Sky charged towards the circle, arms outstretched. "The Foundation 
lives!" 


The children began chanting. "Secure contain protect! Secure 
contain protect!" 


He took a flying leap into a tumble and sprung to his feet in the 
middle of the circle. His joints reminded him that he had gotten far 
too old for those types of shenanigans, but his mind ignored it. He 
gazed around the circle, which once again had grown hushed. In the 
background, he could hear some of the mothers laughing quietly, 
while the older siblings rolled their eyes and put the memories of 
their own childhoods away. 


"Now," he said, slowly removing his helmet. "Who wants to hear a 
story today?" 


The group exploded once more with approval, and drew quiet again 

when he raised a finger. "One," he said, moving swiftly around within 
the circle. "One of you gets to decide. | will tell you who it'll be, when 
| point-" 


"Tell us about the Bard of Boston!" shouted a chunky child behind 
him. 


Sky spun quickly. "Not you, Hafford! | said | will choose." 


He moved quietly, picking up his pace as he goes, until he stopped 
in front of a young girl with braids in her hair. He went to take a 
single step forwards, stopped mid-stride, and scooted back until he 
was standing square before her. His outstretched index finger 
lowered until it pointed at a spot directly between her eyes. 


"Amelia. What story do you want to hear?" 


There was a hush, greater than any hush previous. All of them sat 
quietly, eyes wide with anticipation. The little girl, no older than 
seven years, furrowed her brow in thought. The silence lasted a 
second, and then five, and then fifteen, before she perked up and 


looked at him with blue eyes, untouched by the ravages of life 
outside of Havenhall. 


"Tell the story about the King's Feast." 


Sky felt his throat catch, but only for a moment. He smiled, and then 
moved slowly to his perch by the fire. The warmth of the flame felt 
good on his back, and he shrugged off the cloak as he sat. 


"The King's Feast, it's been a while, hasn't it? Very well, gather 
around now. Where to begin..." 


Once upon a time the world bathed in the light of the sun and the 
winds were not so cold, and in those days lived a young girl who 
was cursed by fell magic to hold within her the Son of the Left Hand 
of Destruction, a demon from ages past that had spoken ill words 
into the world and planted a seed of despair within it. The demon 
grew slowly within the young girl, watching and waiting for the time 
of his ascension. 


But there was a Foundation set to contain him, a group of brilliant 
scientists and soldiers, who held the demon at bay with ancient 
magics and powerful sorcery. For a time, the demon was silent, 
powerless against the very forces that had first created him. The 
Foundation remained vigilant, never taking their watchful eyes off of 
the demon, prepared for any eventuality. 


Until one night, when another creature in the Foundation's care 
broke free of its bindings and wreaked havoc throughout their 
numbers. The demon heard this, and knew his time was coming 
soon. As the monster outside drew more and more guardians away 
from the young girl, too few remained to protect her and to initiate 
the ritual that contained the demon. When the time for the ritual 
came and went with no sign of the binding magic, the fell beast burst 
forth into the world, strengthened by eons of waiting, and his name 
was the Scarlet King. 


What little remained of the Foundation there was broken quickly by 
the might of the King, for his words were the Fires of Hell and his 
long arms stretched across the world to shatter it and remake it to 


SCP-629: No, wait, doc, one more thing? 
Dr. : Yes? 
SCP-629: Thanks... for saving me there. 
<End Log> 

+ Show Experiment Log 629 

Date: 07/09/1996 


Procedure: SCP-629's left arm was detached, and then 
re-attached to SCP-629's torso. 


Results: SCP-629 showed mild disorientation and 
impairment to its motor skills. SCP-629 was still able to 
control the arm, albeit with reduced general aptitude. 


Date: 07/09/1996 


Procedure: SCP-629's left arm was detached, and then 
re-attached to SCP-629's back. 


Results: As in the previous test, SCP-629 showed mild 
disorientation and impairment to its motor skills. 
Additionally, SCP-629 showed significantly lower 
aptitude when the arm was affixed to SCP-629's torso. 


Date: 07/09/1996 
Procedure: SCP-629's head was removed. 


Results: SCP-629's body and head operated as 
separate entities. The head remained immobile, and was 
shown to be able to vocalize and interact with its 
surroundings. The body behaved as though it had very 
limited perception of its surroundings, and was unable to 
interact with researchers in a meaningful way.