"Look, we don't have time. If we're lucky, this thing hasn't left the 
facility. We need you to tell us where you encountered it." 


"Weapons cache. Level 2." He groaned, barely able to finish his 
sentence before spattering blood on the sheets. 


"We just checked there. Only found Bravo-10." 
"Then | can't help you." 


"Yes, you can." He shook his head somberly. "You're the only SEC 
guy left alive here. That means you're our firepower. If you can get a 
clean shot on it, you take it." 


"| had a clean shot. It shook the bullets off like they were ping pong 
balls." 


"| think you're underestimating what we're capable of." He bent over 
and retrieved a weapon before handing it to Hawthorne. 


"You can't be serious." 
"Try me." 


Hawthorne finally lifted himself off the table, coming to his feet with 
one of his hands still grasping the side of the table. Blood coated his 
uniform. He wasn't sure if it was his. 


"This isn't going to be easy. But if we don't stop this now, I'm not 
entirely sure we'll make it out of this. They're talking about 
Protocol-13. We have maybe an hour before it becomes more than 
talking." 


"Protocol-13?" He inquired. 


"Bombs. Lots of them." Hawthorne continued while tinkering with his 
radio. "They'll flatten this place. I've seen them do it before." 


"The site?" 


O'Connor shook his head. "The country." 
Jesus Christ. 


Hawthorne's eyes drifted across the medical bay. Some were 
unlucky enough to still be alive, screaming inhumanly as they 
desperately tried to grab limbs that no longer existed. Others sat 
lifeless on the floor, nurses quickly covering their expressionless 
faces with black body bags. 


Something inside of Hawthorne screamed out at him. A calling. A 
drive. 


"I'll do my best, sir." 


"You'll need to." O'Connor made a gesture, sending all of the 
researchers out of the room in a flurry. "Wheels up in 20. Let's go." 


The helicopter ride was uneventful. Uneventful, at least, in the sense 
that both Hawthorne and O'Connor had seen it all before. Houses 
were little more than foundations and wooden pillars, family living 
rooms and kitchens exposed to the air like they had always been 
that way. Police sirens flashed through the clouds, but the cars were 
left alone - Hawthorne saw no movement on the ground. It had 
already made its way through the city, and the destruction was like a 
path of breadcrumbs leading him to the being responsible for taking 
Bravo-10's life. He cared about little else. 


"Positive ID on target," O'Connor notified him, pointing towards a 
large black mass with his finger. It was rampaging through what 
looked like a police station, flinging bodies out of windows and 
through the roof like they were action figures. O'Connor could 
almost hear their bones shattering as they returned to Earth and 
collided with the pavement. 


"Feel free to shoot, you know, whenever." 


Hawthorne didn't need any more motivation. His hands clutched the 
side of the minigun, coating the area in a flurry of bullets and 
ricochet noises. A few rounds struck the creature, but it simply 


retreated inside the structure for protection. 
"It's inside the building." Hawthorne uttered. 
"I'm taking us in closer. How many rounds you got left?" 


Hawthorne glanced down at several boxes lying next to his feet. 
"Two thousand." 


"Good." 


The chopper descended until it was level with a window, SCP-6901 
barreling through rooms in desperate search of cover as it heard the 
minigun wind up again. Walls collapsed under the force of hundreds 
of bullets impacting them almost simultaneously - one revealed a 
now vulnerable black creature, roaring at the chopper in vain. 


"Take it down, Hawthorne." 


He depressed the trigger. Like a gust of wind, the bullets sent 
SCP-6901 careening into the wall, crashing down several stories 
until it slammed into the ground with an alien thud. It shook itself free 
of the pain and returned to its feet, leaping and clutching the side of 
the helicopter as its weight began to send it to the dirt. Hawthorne 
found himself sucked out of it a moment before impact, wind 
carrying him for about a hundred feet before he too returned to the 
surface. The pain was enough to shock him into a confused, 
delirious stupor. 


"Mayday, mayday, this is Chopper 19-" O'Connor frantically said 
over his radio as the creature began to tear its way into the cockpit. 
Blood trickled from his nose. Everything felt broken. 


"We need immediate assistance. Repeat, immediate assistance. 
Protocol-13 authorized." 


The creature was inches away now, ripping the last piece of metal 
from the hinges. Hawthorne clumsily found his footing and clutched 
his rifle, raising it towards SCP-6901 with his arms shaking 
sporadically. 


A thought crossed his mind. 


SCP-920: Mr. Lost 


Item #: SCP-920 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Mobile Task Force lota-1 
("Mister Hunters") are currently tracking SCP-920's movements. 
Currently SCP-920's movements are being followed by satellite 
observation. Tracking of SCP-920 by land or air has been 
discontinued. Suggestions on efficient containment of SCP-920 may 
be submitted to Dr. 


Any personnel encountering Mobile Task Force lota-1 are to contact 
O5-4. 


Description: SCP-920 appears to be an Asian male of 
indeterminable age. Transportation, movement, or direction of 
SCP-920 to a certain destination is physically impossible. SCP-920 
shows an inability to control its own movements and will instead 
"wander" about, being unable to choose a destination. 


Attempts at transporting SCP-920 to any destination will result in 
transporters becoming lost. Attempts at directing SCP-920 will result 
in SCP-920 becoming lost. Following SCP-920 will result in 
SCP-920 and the follower becoming lost. 


There is no determinable point at which SCP-920's effects will take 
place. Seemingly random events such as malfunctioning radar 
systems and GPS units, earthquakes, cloud formations, and severe 
human negligence have all been recorded to manifest when 
transportation of SCP-920 has been attempted. 


SCP-920 seems to have a slight psychic pull, causing subjects that 
come in contact with SCP-920 to feel a compulsion to "walk and talk 
with him". Conversing with SCP-920 is not recommended, as 
typically subjects will follow SCP-920 and become lost. 


A good a day as any to die, | suppose. 


Seconds later, O'Connor found his face touched with sunlight, only 
for it to be eclipsed by the face of the Cosmic Hound. It lifted him 
from the pilots seat with its tendrils, maw opening to reveal 
thousands of seemingly endless teeth. Jet engines shrieked from 
above the clouds as the horizon began to fade into a beautiful 
orange. 


As a scorching, blinding wave enveloped the wreckage of the 
helicopter and the creature, Hawthorne collapsed to the ground for 
the last time and controlled his breathing in acceptance. Before he 
could process anything, the world shattered into an impenetrable 
veil of blackness. 


GOR'DUN THE RA'ASH THE Part Three 
CONSUMER COSMIC HOUND 


rabbit here, rabbit there 


Drone in place. Sensors are green. Readings stable. 


ROGER, MOBILE STATION. CONFIRMATION TO 
DRILL. 


Confirmation received. Drilling now. We’re getting more 
resistance than expected. Estimated Mohs coming in 
high. 


ROGER, MOBILE STATION. READ YOUR 
SEISMOLOGY. 


We're running zero. 


ROGER; YOU ARE CONFIRMED TO PROCEED SO 
LONG AS READINGS ARE STABLE. 


Drone is progressing into the object. Drill is optimal. 


Drill has entered the object. Repeat. Object is hollow; 
gas present. Possibly air, reading nontoxic. We have 
minimal spatial distortion. Tether is holding steady. Zero 


pull. 


ROGER THAT. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN 
DISCRETION. 


Activating pulley; lowering drone. 


We have slack on the tether. Drone is on level footing. 
Descent depth approximately 39 meters. Activating low- 
light vision. 


ROGER. DO YOU HAVE VISUAL OF INSIDE THE 
OBJECT? 


Yes. Low-light is returning images of a building at the 
approximate center of the object. 


PLEASE REPEAT MOBILE STATION, DID YOU SAY 
“BUILDING”? 


Affirmative. Two-story, residential appearance, at least 
one tree on either side. Ground is soil, plant, dead plant. 
Likely grass. The entire interior has the appearance of a 
residential building plot. Building, tree, lawn. All plant life 
is dead, building is in disrepair... Are you receiving this 
central command? 


NEGATIVE. IMAGES ARE STILL IN INFOHAZARD 
PROTECTION. STANDBY. 


IMAGES RECEIVED. WE CAN CONFIRM THAT 
DESCRIPTION MOBILE CONTROL 


Roger. Drone to proceed clockwise around the structure. 
PROCEED AT YOUR DISCRETION 


Drone is proceeding without difficulty. Rear left area of 
the house severely damaged. Initial impressions are of 
an explosion; burn marks are present, wall is in pieces... 
We have visual on inside the building. Room contains 
remnants of a couch, cabinet, household furniture. 
Geometry is stable. Room contains a structure in the 
approximate center. 


PLEASE ELABORATE MOBILE STATION 


Structure appears to be a statue, black. Possibly made 
of obsidian, stone. Statue depicts two humanoids, one 
average height, male, the other about half height, likely a 
child. Man holds a stone tablet, child appears to have 


been depicted falling backwards. 


DESCRIPTION RECIEVED. PLEASE CONTINUE 
WHILE IMAGES ARE PROCESSING 


The surface of the structure is smooth, not clearly 
deteriorated or dirty. Stone slab is of a different material, 
apparently just stone. Engraving is visible; it is written in 
English. 


YOU HAVE CONFIRMATION TO REPEAT TEXT: 
ANTI-HAZARDS ARE FUNCTIONING NORMALLY 


Roger. Repeating text: "[DATA EXPUNGED]" 


HAVE YOU DETECTED ANY OTHER 
ABNORMALITIES 


No, Central Control. Readings are stable. 


Do we have confirmation to continue exploring the 
anomaly? 


NEGATIVE, MOBILE CONTROL, INITIATE A FULL 
EXTRACTION 


Roger Central Control. Drone is moving for extraction. 
Pulley is prepped. Removal initiated. Pull is solid, no 
interference, should reach surface in T-1 minute. 


ROGER, OVER AND OUT 
"Yes, and?" 
Agent Carter sat in stunned silence. "And?! What?" 
Agent Henderson was slightly confused. "What?" 


"I'm not getting this." 


Agent Carter compulsively pulled his hair back. "Everything about it 
is wrong!" 


Agent Henderson stood up from the computer monitor. "Well okay, 
it's not strictly by the book, but what do you suggest?" 


Carter paused, almost as if for effect. "I's twenty-fourty-six." 
Henderson paused. "What?" 


"|mean, twenty—four-fourty-six. It's the corpse thing! The 
reality bender!" 


Henderson put his fingers to his lips, processing this information. 
"We don't know that it's a reality bender." 


"It's so obviously a reality bender!" 


Henderson raised a finger. "There is nothing connecting these two 
cases, except the location." 


"Oh, no yeah, totally. Something spontaneously appears in San 
Jose, without warning or alert, inside of the ground. It's connected." 


"Underneath San Jose." 
"Underneath San Jose, yes." 


"Also, based on the description, it was hollow. 2446 manifests inside 
matter without moving it. They're completely different appearances." 


"He could have moved all the dirt and then transported the sphere." 


"So you're suggesting the 'reality bender’ we don't know exists did 
this for... Why?" 


Carter was silent. "| don't know, but it could be anything, and that 
statue and that house definitely have to do with why." 


"It kind of has to." 


"It has to!" 


"Look," Henderson put a hand on Carter's shoulder. "I very much 
appreciate you looking into potentially connected anomalies, but 
you're going to go mad looking for connections that aren't there. 
What does the format of the document even have to do with this? 
Do you think the reality bender took over central?" 


"Halfway through they stop ending with punctuation. I've submitted 
elaboration requests on these docs, but they've been rejected. We 
still don't even know what twenty-four-fourty-six is!" 


"We know what it is." 


"No, we don't. We don't know what the bodies are, but the 
containment procedures have something to do with us!" 


"Is it a conspiracy?" 


Carter was taken aback. "| mean... It has to be. There has to be 
more here, more that we aren't privy to. We haven't been told 
anything." 


"We're being told what we need to know. I'm sure we'll be briefed on 
2446 when we need to be. I'll put in my own request on this doc, but 
for the time being, just don't worry about it." 


Carter sighed. "Okay. I'll try to put it out of my mind." 
"Thank you. Now, go work." 


Carter stepped out of his superior's office. He looked back before 
leaving around a corner in the hall. 


Henderson was disappointed in himself. Sitting behind him was the 
topic of his previous conversation. "That's very upstanding of you, 
agent. Sparing his feelings." 


"Please... Don't talk to me, now." 
"Tut tut tut, how very unladylike." 


Henderson closed his eyes. Every time they talked, he felt ashamed. 
"What did you have to do with that record?" 


"Doesn't matter." 
Henderson gritted his teeth. "It kind of does matter." 


"Don't worry about it. | just... Gave a little hand, in the record 
keeping." 


"Why are you here now?" 
"What? | can't stop by one of my very best friends?" 


Henderson wanted to bite someone's nose off. "Who was it that said 
we don't negotiate with terrorists?" 


"You always say that." 
Henderson turned around. "I've never said that before." 
Charles Hull leaned forward and smiled. "You always say that." 


Then he was gone. Henderson sat down and tried to forget. 


Radiance And Cachinnation 


On a grey horizon, thousands of towering buildings stood, some 
tilted at certain angles, others snapped in half. A great emptiness 
was felt in the air, as sound seemed to bounce endlessly off the 
dense sky. On the ground, creatures, humans, and metal alike 
roamed, not all alive and not at all quite dead. They fought, they hid, 
and barely managed to love. The sky was completely empty, save 
for a dim ball of light that barely counted as a moon. A few sane 
beings wondered what purgatory was like, and how similar it would 
be to this. 


Grace sat at her wooden desk in her wooden shack, as she absent- 
mindlessly stared at the ceiling. A pale fluorescent beamed down on 
her, giving her dark hair and light skin a sour tone. Her grey suit and 
slacks felt stiff, as she wondered why wearing a suit was necessary 
in the middle of nowhere. 


Today, she was imagining an oasis in the middle of a desert. She 
thought about lying down next to the water, being heated by waves 
of light and the gray grains of sand beneath her. It wasn't until a 
shiver took hold of her body, throwing her back into reality. The 
unrelenting, hopeless, and irritating reality that was called 
Antarctica. 


Her workplace was neither impressive nor awful. Several plastic 
boxes of paperwork sat in one corner of the room, a ladder that led 
to a bathroom and bed down below remained in another. Next to her 
desk was a modest bookshelf with mostly informational policies, and 
next to that was the door she couldn't open. On her desk, papers, 
pens, a small CRT, and a large red rotary phone dominated the 
shoddy wooden desk. 


Done with daydreaming, Grace gave the monitor a glance. An 
overhead view of the huge price tag was the only thing present on 


the small television. She noted it had begun to move again, and took 
a few deep breaths of the room's stale air. Getting up from her office 
chair, she walked around the room, stretching a bit in the cold before 
she sat down again. 


It wasn't until the rotary phone began ringing a few minutes later that 
the price tag had stopped moving. For the 48th (49th? 52nd?) time, 
she lifted the phone and began her pitch.