The site security teams stand side-by-side another in a straight line 
near the front gates of Site 87, the scorching sun reflecting off their 
helmets. Randal, the Chief of Security at Site 87, exits from Site 87 
and gives a suspicious glance at the row of soldiers. His large figure 
and intimidating gaze was unnerving for some of the rookies among 
the crowd. Some thought of him as cool due to him getting a 
supposed scar from SCP-682 or whatever other Keter a rumor 
claims. Others just saw him as a force not to reckon with. 


"Alright, | have a real simple question and | want real simple 
answers. As you all may know, hopefully, you were called here in 
regards to an incident." His eyes dart side to side dramatically. "Who 
killed Head Researcher Jamison?" 


The row of soldiers look at one another nervously. Randall moves 
slightly closer to the group and continues to speak. 


"Last night, Jamison was shot repeatedly and his arm was cut off 
during a staff party. Who did it?" He says as his scowl intensifies. 
"There are no anomalies contained on-site and definitely nothing 
breached into the facility.” 


"He did, sir!" exclaims a guard at the end of the row pointing at the 
opposite end. Randall and the guards turn their heads to see a mass 
of tentacles and blinking eyes whose body crudely fits into a guard 
uniform and happily wave a severed arm and pistol. Randall looks 
back towards the guard who spoke and says, "Son, that's just 
Richie. Also, he is barely of legal age to attend staff parties." 


"What? S-sir, he is holding a severed arm-" 


"Shut up" interrupts Randall, "I will not tolerate this intolerance. 
Come here." The guard walks up to Randall who delivers a mighty 
punch to the guard's stomach. "Now back to the subject." 


The guard now lies on the floor in pain as a tentacle slithers around 
his ankle, dragging him towards the approaching eldritch mass of 
eyes and tentacles. 


"Who did it?" Randall says once more while behind him Richie is 
tearing the guard's leg and shooting him. The other guards stare at 
the scene but are snapped back by Randall. "God dammit. 
Someone fucking killed Jamison and | will find out..." Randall says 
as he ignores the splattering of blood on him along with the 
screams. 


"...One way or another." 


Who You Gonna Call? 


| turned the radio down. Classic rock hits blared faintly in the 
background, and | flipped my Paranormal Investigations Badge 
between my fingers. Ever since the Event, when the Foundation 
went public and started outsourcing all its work, I've been swimming 
in jobs. A monster over here, a zombie animal over there... the 
endless parade of ghosts. It was shocking to me that they'd 
managed to keep it a secret for as long as they had. 


Once dead bodies started turning into solid spirits... not just 
sometimes but every time someone died, the world changed. It 
meant my degree in the paranormal wasn't just a conversation 
starter anymore. | could put it to use. The Event made me relevant 
again. 


My parents were happier with that than they had any right to be. 


| struck a match off the desk and lit my cigar. It wasn't an expensive 
brand, but it looked cool, and that was the primary effect | was going 
for. My assistant, a mousey little gal with a solid gold heart and a 
memory like a steel trap, burst in just as | lit the end. 


She put her hands on her hips and gave me a subtly disapproving 
look. "Jim. Those things'll kill ya. And | thought you quit?" 


"| did," | snapped back, pointing at the cigar. "This is an illusion." 
"Whatever. Your 5 o'clock is here." 


My assistant left the room, leaving the door swinging. It was at that 
very moment an angel from heaven made her way into my office. | 
looked at the appointment book for a second as she floated into the 
room. | put the cigar into the ashtray before standing up to greet my 
guest. 


"Mrs. Malkin?" 


"Miss Malkin, yes. You can call me Amanda if you'd like," she said, 
taking a seat on the other side of my desk. This woman was almost 
everything a man could ask for. Blond, buxom, beautiful... just one 
problem. 


She wasn't alive anymore. 


Ectoplasm shimmered around her very tangible clothing, and the 
transparency of her body underneath them was evident. This was a 
spirit. | sat down again and leaned back in the chair. Today was 
looking to get interesting. 


You get used to this sort of thing after a while. She certainly wasn't 
the first beautiful dead woman I'd met, or wanted to get to know 
better. But then she told me her story and how she'd been 
murdered. How her husband had invoked the marriage escape 
clause from the Bhoot Act. 


"Believe it or not," I'd told her, "| took a murder case last year under 
similar circumstances. This Bhoot Act nonsense is not doing a lot to 
ensure the safety of the living. Or the dead." 


She nodded, and the radio in the background started playing an ad. 
The Gary City GhostBuster's squad. Oh fuck. 


"Could you turn that off?" Before she asked my hand was already 
going for the dial. 


"Sorry." I'd voted against the pricks who supported the 30th 
amendment. I'd worked around the dead long enough to know how 
that was going to work out. But it was over now, and Bhoots were 
second class citizens. This lady lost most of her rights the minute 
she dropped dead. 


"It's alright. | feel like such an idiot. | actually liked Thompson when 
he was running for President." She shook her head as she talked. 


"Eh, a lotta people did, else this never would've happened. It was 
just shortsighted thinking." 


"It doesn't seem fair," she said so softly | almost couldn't hear. 


I'm not so good with the subtleties of emotion. | shift uncomfortably 
in my seat as she looks at me expectantly, before breaking the 
silence. 


"What's your husband's name?" | asked, trying to get this 
conversation back into familiar territory. 


"Mark Malkin." 


| put my hand up to stop her for a second. "Mark Malkin. Inventor of 
the Ecto-Containment units?" 


Mark Malkin wasn't just a hotshot new money inventor. Nobody 
knows how this ghost nonsense started, or how a breath mint 
company made the transition into making ghost capturing 
technology but the timing was just a little too convenient for my 
taste. Malkin Mints was quickly becoming the richest company in the 
world, all off the backs of ghosts. 


"| didn't marry him for money," she volunteered, probably knowing 
where my thinking was likely to go. "We used to love each other." 


"You think he had something to do with your death?" 


She paused and took a moment to think. "I think he had a lot to gain. 
| think he was scared | was going to ask for a divorce. Our marriage 
wasn't working out. And now he doesn't have to pay a cent." 


| nodded, and pulled out a pen. "What was the name of the 
investigating officer?" 


"Detective Murray," she said, her eyes lighting up. "So this means 
you'll take my case?" 


"Yes ma'am. But I'd like to make a suggestion. Things aren't exactly 
safe for spirits around here anymore. Take some of the money I'm 
sure you've been saving and buy a one way ticket to Brazil. It's the 
last country that still accepts spirit immigrants. And it doesn't have 
any of this Bhoot nonsense." 


"Don't worry about me, | bought a ticket yesterday," she said, 
jumping up and reaching out her hand. "Nobody wants me here 


anyway." 


| looked her up and down once before winking. "I dunno if that's true. 
I'll be in touch. Leave your contact information with my assistant 
before you leave." | reached out and shook her hand. Then | sat 
down and watched her walk to the door, before reaching out and 
grabbing my cigar. 


She paused at the door, before turning around and saying, "You 
really shouldn't smoke. It's bad for you." 


| laughed. "Babe, we all gotta die sometime." 


Whole 


What was fragmented is now one. What was in pieces is now fixed. 
That which was broken is now whole. She who was dormant is 
brought forth. 


We have succeeded in our task. The future of the Broken God is 
secure, and soon She shall convert us all. Already the Americas 
have fallen to the one true ruler of mankind, and soon She will 
convert all into beings of purity. 


| was but a cog in the machine that completed the work of our great 
Church. We were fragmented, ourselves broken, until She came 
unto us with words of wisdom and prophecy. Before, the evil 
Foundation had managed to scatter the Church and us pure 
followers far and wide. We reunited under Her banner, and rode 
forth, towards that which would complete the Broken God, and make 
us Whole. We attacked under the cover of darkness, and soon the 
Heretics, the Foundation, those who were the keepers of the Broken 
God, had been destroyed, their weak bodies of flesh and bone 
smote down and crushed. The operation was smooth, and soon we 
controlled the Pieces. The Pieces that would be made Whole, 
become remade in Her image. 


They are combined, as unto Her commands, and into a new future 
we move, each second a step towards the Earth being made Whole. 
A new beginning, each tiny cog of Humanity becoming part of that 
which is larger. We shall continue until the very earth beneath my 
feet has been purified. Then we shall be One. 


Now, the Earth lies at Her feet, for now the Broken God has come 
forth, and we are remade in the purest form. | can feel my insides 
beginning to change, change into that which soon will control the 
whole planet. Purest clockwork, ticking and spinning away, forever. 
None may stand before us now, for we are in tune with each other, 
the Eternal Tick reverberating inside us, inside all of us. 


These are the last days of Humanity, and we are their destroyers. 
Soon all will be remade, remade into that which is eternal. 


She is whole. The Broken God has come forth. The world will 
become perfect. The world will be Whole. 


It has been written. 


experiment when SCP-682 started talking again. 


682: (grunts) Hmmm? (unintelligible) what is this... (low 
noise, similar to light chuckle) | feel all... tingly inside... 


SCP-999 can be seen crawling up from between 
SCP-682’s toes, up along its side and around its neck, 
where it clings on and begins gently nuzzling with its 
pseudopod. A wide grin slowly spreads across 
SCP-682’s face. 


682: (deep chuckling) | feel... so... happy. Happy... 
(laughs) happy... happy... 


SCP-682 repeats the word “happy” for several minutes, 
laughing occasionally before escalating into nonstop 
laughter. As laughter continues, SCP-682 rolls around on 
its back, slamming its tail upon the floor with dangerous 
force. 


682: (bellowing laughter) Stop! No tickling! (continues 
laughing) 


SCP-682 and SCP-999 continue the “tickle fight” until 
SCP-682 finally wears down and appears to fall asleep 
with what would appear to be a smile on its face. After 
fifteen minutes with no activity, two D-Class personnel 
enter the room to retrieve SCP-999. When SCP-999 is 
removed, SCP-682 immediately wakes up and 
unleashes an unidentifiable wave of energy from its 
body, all the while laughing maniacally. 


All persons within the wave’s range collapse into 
crippling fits of laughter, allowing SCP-682 to escape 
and slaughter all in its path. Meanwhile, SCP-999 quickly 
rescues as many persons as it can, taking them to a safe 
place to recover from SCP-682’s "laughter wave" while 
agents suppress and recontain SCP-682. 


Despite the tragedy that SCP-682 had brought upon the 
facility, SCP-999 has not shown any fear towards the 


From the desk of B. Dark: 


Gentlemen, the year is 194 . | have been gone from your 
sight for a very long time, and traveled far along my own 
grim path. Such is life! But, having left you as keepers of 
my fortunes in my absence, | must now instruct you in 
the stewardship of that wealth, that it might better your 
own futures as well as mine. 


You will find enclosed with this missive a series of 
generalized instructions on the sale and distribution of 
my stock portfolio. Such things are of little importance as 
compared to events unfolding elsewhere. The mad 
German will soon be toppled, though his influences will 
live on for a regrettably long time... You may perhaps 
find it prudent to disassociate yourselves with that party 
entirely. 


Politically, you will find yourselves carrying quite 
sufficient resources to ensure your own prosperity, 
however, those offices which cannot be purchased 
directly must be closely watched. In Britannia, you have 
several years yet with the current monarch, and his 
succession should be easily guessed. In the United 
states, it may behoove you to wait before exerting any 
modicum of control; | suggest 19 as an appropriate time 
to establish a member of our little cabal in the 
presidential office, which segues me neatly into my next 
point. 


In the wake of war, the commander-in-chief of the United 
States will likely find himself beset by furtive offers from 
such organizations as may oppose our interests; you 
well know to whom | refer. Perhaps your influence shall 
suffice to deter him from aiding their endeavors, or 
perhaps not. Tread lightly. When the time is ripe and one 


of our own has risen to power within the colonies, cast 
your eye toward that rabble of lab coats and secrecy who 
have so recently moved against your holdings in France, 
for they will actively seek to prevent his works. 

the Foundation, gentlemen. . 
and then become our greatest . Of this | shall tell 
you more when the time is right. 


In conclusion, gentlemen, | bid you good luck. Even from 
the deeper dream in which | walk, | cast my thoughts and 
my will toward the furthering of our mutual goal. 


As always, 

B P -F Dark 
"Damn you, Dark. You always were an aesthetic wacko." 
"He's never been wrong yet." 
"He's dead." 


"Perhaps, my dear Carter. Perhaps. But that changes nothing. Will 
we follow his advice in Germany?" 


"Looks like we'll have to." 
"Very well." 


Sic transit gloria mundi. 


Why Change? 


It was memetic after all. 


This all began with Dr. Vang being booted out of the Foundation. | 
started working with Dr. Vang 5 years after | got my bachelor's and 
getting recruited because of my cum /aude and all that. He was a 
charming guy; humorous, but never losing his cool, and works really 
hard. It stayed this way until... what, ten? Twenty years ago? 


He claimed he was under the effect of a stone in his desk. A stone 
that caused people to lose interest in work, to lose willpower for 
innovation. A procrastination rock. Maggie and | thought it was a 
joke—it wasn't the first time Dr. Vang created a fictional SCP to 
scare us. We didn't conduct any research on it; after all, how can 
you research a non-existent joke? The joke was forgotten, just like 
the stone itself, after a few days. | would not remember the stone 
again until many years later. 


Dr. Vang started to make mistakes he never made. A misplaced 
book here, an overturned beaker there, it was all explained away 
with a wave of a hand. He was an old man, after all. Then came the 
rushed reports, the missed meetings, the general lack of work done. 
His powers were taken, positions degraded, yet no one dared to ask 
what was the reason. | tried to not let him get fired; after all, he was 
my mentor, and a respected researcher as I'd first known him. But 
even with my hard work | could not convince the O5 to let him stay. 


He didn't even bother to pack his office, he just left it alone with a 
note on the door saying "For the next guy". His stuff got passed 
around the Foundation. | lost track where most of it went, but | know 
the O5 would be looking over all the things he left, just like what they 
did with Dr. Ganz when he died. | visited Dr. Vang from time to time, 
and | remain working for the Foundation to this day, but my heart 
just wasn't in it after Dr. Vang left.