977 was special. It was indivisible, which was important to his 
people. Not as special as if he had been a mother as well, of course. 
But the people expected great things from him. 


The Creator thought this was nonsense, but was willing to let them 
think what they liked. It made no difference to him. 


He was woken up one morning by the jostling of 936. "Important 
mission," he said. "It could be dangerous." 


He roused himself, got his feet under him, and made his way to the 
Creator's room. 


It was still a fairly ramshackle affair. The other servants of the 
Creator were still building up their new base of operations. 


"Ah, there you are, 977" the Creator said, smiling down at him. He 
arched his legs with pride that the Creator recognized him. Of 
course, they said the Creator knew all of his children by sight. 
"You're here for the special mission?" 


"Here for the special mission," he agreed. 


"It will be dangerous," the Creator warned him. "There is a particular 
individual who has been sighted not far from our encampment. A 
former subject of the dearly departed Foundation. Like so many 
others, he's escaped and could do considerable damage. But he 
could be quite valuable as well." 


"Not far?" he asked. 


"A few days walk or so for you. If you'll look at the wall, I've prepared 
a map. Study it. Also look at the drawing. It's not perfect, but it 
should give you an impression of what you're looking for." 


He looked at the materials hanging on the wall. The map was simple 


enough, just a point north and west of their camp. The drawing 
looked something like the Creator, but cruder. Larger mouth and 
teeth. 


"Now, you must be careful," the creator admonished. "You are only 
to find information and return. Do not fight unless you are in danger. 
This is important. Do you understand?" 


977 repeated it back verbatim. He would not fail the creator. 


"Splendid. | only need to know where he is. Be careful. My control 
over this territory is tenuous as yet. We cannot afford the sort of 
losses he could inflict.” 


977 gave a salute in acknowledgement and hurried away. 


Before he headed out, he stopped in the Mother Hall. The walls and 
ceiling were still rough. They hadn't had much time to prepare their 
new home. It looked primitive, but he knew in time it would be a 
work worthy of his people. 


971 saw him enter. She was beautiful. To his eyes, she was 
everything a mother should be. He hurried over to her. 


"My mission is important!" he told her. "You are to know." 
"You are important,” she said. 


"| only need to find information,” he said. "| understand my important 
mission." 


"You are important," she repeated. "| need my important." 
He touched her gently. "I will be careful," he said. 


She made a small buzzing sound and tapped him gently on the 
head, a gesture of affection. He felt a small rush of elation, and 
knew he would do anything to protect her. 


"| will return," he promised, and left. 


He was soon outside of their encampment with its crude tunnels and 


shelters. The beginnings of something, he hoped, greater than it 
was. The Creator would see them through. He just needed to do his 
part. 


When he reached the water, he waded in and was soon making his 
way slowly from one place of concealment to the next. 


Several times, he was accosted by wildlife. Each time, he was able 
to dissuade or, in one case, disable and kill it. He did lose one leg to 
a small crocodile, but he suffered no serious injuries. 


It was three days before he came across signs of something 
intelligent. A circle of stones filled with ashes. Stakes for setting a 
tent. The crushed and broken skull of a deer. He considered going 
back, but decided to wait until he had sighted the monster. The 
closer he was able to pinpoint the monster, the easier it would be for 
the Creator to find and deal with it. 


He rested nearby in a still pool before venturing on. 


Soon he saw the smoke of a fire. He was excited, but still kept his 
pace slow, deliberate. The monster mustn't see him. He kept to the 
shallows and slowly crept forward. 


He was getting near where he'd seen the smoke when bamboo 
walls closed around him. He tried to escape, but they boxed him in, 
and the frame he hadn't seen was lifted from the water. A colossal 
form, like the Creator but much bigger, stared down at him. The 
picture on the wall hadn't captured the size of the thing or the power. 
Its fleshy body bulged with muscle. 


"Oh, this is a bit much. | have not seen a crayfish this big since New 
Orleans was still a place. Tell me, little one, do you go well with 
butter?" Its accent was strange. Nothing like the clear, crisp diction 
of the Creator. It didn't help that it kept its teeth shut. 


977 thought quickly. He had to find a way to break free, warn the 
Creator, warn the people. "You still have not seen a crayfish," he 
said, trying to buy time. 


"Merde! You're a talkative little one, aren't you?" The monster 
laughed. "Tell me, what is your home?" 


"From New Orleans," he said. His eyes darted back and forth, trying 
to find some escape, some hole he could slip down, if he could only 
escape the cage. 


"Is that so? Then we must have a Mardi Gras. Come, let us dine, 
little one! My food is all well done." The monster moved in large, 
loping steps, its posture hunched. It set the frame on log where the 
butchered remains of a crocodile were set out. Organs and viscera 
were torn and strewn about. 


"Let me go?" he asked. 


"And lose my guest? Non. We must be friends. Do you not know to 
whom you speak? | am the great artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. 
You should be honored." The monster laughed even harder at that. 
More seriously, it added, "| am also King of France. But | am sure 
that you knew." 


"Henri-" 977 began. 
"King Henri," the monster corrected. 


"King Henri, what is your home?" he asked. He needed to stall a bit 
longer. 


"lam from the moon," the monster said. "| rode down on a chariot of 
gold. It was pulled, of course, by the sun." 


"Of course," he said. 


"| landed in a sea of champagne. It was so good! | lie. It was cheap. 
Probably made in California. But the fish were still pretty merry, no?" 
It winked at him, one giant bloodshot eye staring down. 


"Still pretty merry," he agreed. He considered trying to cut his way 
out of the cage, but the bamboo was thick, and he felt it would do 
nothing but dull his blades. Better to save those for the monster, if all 
else failed. 


"But tell me, which way did you go to come here?" the monster 
asked. 


"| rode down on a fish. From the sun," he said. 


"Oh, | think you are telling lies to Fernand. That is not good." The 
monster flicked a finger against his body. It hurt, and there was a 
small cracking sound. Then he felt himself hefted up and set on the 
log. "Now, | have been so terribly patient. But there is nothing | 
would like more than to find others like you to dine with. You 
wouldn't make poor Fernand unhappy, would you?" 


"There are no others," he said. He wondered if he could make it to 
the water. He was sure he was quicker than the monster, but it had 
those great long legs, and it could probably move much faster once 
it got going. 


"You lie!" the monster roared, and slammed a fist on the log. 
Splinters flew up, and he almost fell off. He scrabbled against the 
bark to keep his footing. "Now, you will tell me where they are! 
Fernand grows hungry, little shrimp!" 


977 felt a great burning anger grow inside. This monster, this lump 
of malformed flesh was planning to eat the people. He thought of 
them, of beautiful 971, of the Creator, and he knew this could not 
happen. He spat into the monster's eyes. It blinked, and they were 
sealed shut. 


A fist lashed out at the log, but 977 had already moved out of the 
way. He scuttled forward and off the log, until he was behind the 
monster. He reached out, and made a small cut. A leg collapsed. 
Another cut, and the leg was dead. He danced around a kick, and 
he cut another tendon, and another, and the monster fell, clutching 
the log in a vain effort to remain upright. 


"Arréte ca! Sortez!" the monster bellowed. It twisted and a massive 
fist landed inches from 977's carapace. He cut another tendon, and 
the fingers spasmed, useless. He moved in and cut again, and the 
arm fell limp. 


But the other arm came down, and this time a fist as large as he 


around them, rendering them invisible to the naked eye. The failure 
of the experiment resulted in the loss of nearly the entire crew. As 
they were unable to contain it, the US Navy agreed to turn SCP-595 
over to the Foundation for further study. Unfortunately, information 
relating to the experiment has been made public. Cover-up efforts 
are detailed in an addendum below. 


Document #595-1: SCP-595’'s self-contained devices are 
known to cause varying spikes in radiation levels at regular intervals 
approximately every three to four hours. When the Foundation 
acquired SCP-595 from the United States Navy, little was known of 
the devices’ side effects as the Navy had already destroyed almost 
all relevant documentation. As such, testing commenced in earnest, 
producing the following known results: 


The foremost effect of SCP-595’s tremendous levels of 
electromagnetic radiation is that the ship can exist in one of two 
locations, varying randomly and requiring two teams of researchers 
to fully monitor SCP-595. The vessel has been observed, with lower 
bursts, to appear translucent and in some cases almost completely 
transparent to the naked eye, while remaining in place at its current 
drydock. 


Any personnel located on or within a radius of meters of the vessel 
while it is undergoing a radiation burst can be subjected to the 
following effects: 


Personnel not located aboard the ship but still within its area of 
effect display effects similar to that of SCP-595 itself, sometimes 
reappearing in place but sometimes showing up at the other secure 
facility. There have also been occasions where these personnel 
have disappeared completely and did not reappear in any 
Foundation controlled sector. An incident of this nature occurring in 
19 resulted in the loss of US Navy personnel, prompting the 
current containment agreement. 


Persons in physical contact (either on deck or inside) with SCP-595 
are subject to the effects listed above, but with markedly increased 
danger. These properties were discovered when Agent was 
trapped on the ship, faded out of sight and, upon returning, was 
fused to the bulkhead he had been standing near. Inspections 


struck him. He heard himself crack, could feel fluid leaking out. But 
he wasn't finished just yet. 


"I'll rip you apart and suck out your flesh. | will find you!" the monster 
screamed, thrashing with its only working limb. 


977 reached out and made a few final cuts, and the arm fell limp. 
Now the monster could do little more than bellow and arch his back. 
977 crawled away as best he could, finally lying in a heap nearby, 
out of the monster's reach. Fluids were still seeping slowly from his 
shell, so he spat again, and sealed himself, and rested. 


"Well, what do we have here?" a voice said sometime later. 977 
looked up, and saw the face of the Creator, looking concerned. 


"Here | am," he said. His voice seemed odd. Far away, almost. 


"Oh dear. You did get rather badly dinged up." The Creator reached 
down and touched him gingerly. 


"Well done?" he asked. 


"What? Oh, yes. Yes. Very well done indeed, 977. You have done 
better than | could have hoped. But I'm afraid you may be beyond 
helping." 


"It is well," he said. "Home. Home is well." 


"Yes. Thanks to you." The Creator stood. "And here we have 
Fernand. Splendid." 


"Who is this? Show yourself, coward! Fernand will have your head in 
his belly!" The monster thrashed as best it was able, but it could no 
more reach the Creator than it could the moon. 


"Dr. Mann, at your service. Or rather, you'll soon be at mine. | have 
so wanted to work with you." The Creator placed his hands together 
gleefully as the shapes of New Men emerged from the swamp. 


"No! No! I will not have it! | will not—" He was cut off as another of 
the people spat and sealed his mouth. Others crawled forward and 


finished 977's work as the New Men went to work with ropes and 
chains. 


The Creator reached down and picked 977 up. "Come on, then, 
chap. You might not be done yet. And if you are, it'll be a hero's 
funeral." 


A hero. 977 could live with that. Or not, as the case might be. He 
settled down in his creator's arms and began to dream of 971. 


Prologue: Digital Children 


Elder Gorana kneels on the docks with her head held high and her 
arms spread apart, she seeks the guidance of Grandmother Desert 
and to sate the wrath of Grandfather Storm. Before her lies a large 
brass dish filled with gold, gemstones, and ceremonial food offerings 
to be thrown into the Grey Desert as offerings. Wind picks up as if 
heralding the coming of Grandfather Storm whose buffeting clouds 
of ash and sand now fill the distant horizon. She hopes that her 
meek offerings will be enough to calm Grandfather Storm and spare 
her tribe from annihilation. Bowing her head and bringing her hands 
together, the Elder begins to pray: 


“O’ Grandmother Desert, may your winds sooth the ash of your skin. 
O’ Great Grandmother Desert, may your ash give our ships lift, 

May your winds push us safely to our destinations. 

O’ Grandmother Desert, may you keep Grandfather Storm silent and 
peaceful, 

So our boats and villages may yet see another dawn. 

O’ Grandmother Desert, may your harvest be bountiful along the 
Rim, 

May we take only what is needed for ourselves.” 


Gorana grasps a handful of gold and gemstones and lightly tosses 
them off the edge of the dock, watching them strike the ash desert 
with barely a sound and disappearing with little puffs of grey ash. 
She raises her eyes to the sky while keeping her hands on the dock 
with her elbows stretched outwards. 


“O’ Grandmother Desert, safeguard our explorers. 

Give them passage through your skirts of dune and sand to the 
great forests beyond. 

O’ Grandmother desert, take our tribute within the folds of your ash 
skin, 

May you rest well during the dawn, and sleep peacefully during the 
dusk. 


Keep us, O’ Grandmother Grey, 

O’ Grandmother Ash, 

O’ Grandmother of dust and sand, 
O’ Grandmother of life and Bastion.” 


She bows her head to kiss the ash-covered dock, though she is not 
finished yet. Two handfuls of rich meat and spices are thrown into 
the desert sands, lost in the ash as a final offering. 


“Hateful Grandfather Storm, 

Great Thunderer, 

Fire in the Ash, 

May your sleep be restful and silent. 

May your rage taper and your temper dim. 

Grant us passage to the Rim. 

Vengeful Grandfather Storm, mighty in anger, take these offerings 
and sleep. 

Wrothful Grandfather Storm, with all respect we leave these offering, 
Eternal Grandfather Storm, may these humble offerings satiate your 
rage.” 


A final bow, another kiss to the ash and Gorana’s ritual is done. For 
a moment the Elder allows herself to look into the swirling 
maelstrom that rides the wind towards her village; as she does a 
feeling of apprehension forms at the base of her spine. Leaning 
back to rest on her feet Gorana reflects on the coming storm, 
studying the billowing clouds raked with constant arcs of lightning. A 
storm this large has not been seen for many decades in her village, 
not since the Elder was a young girl, she hazards a silent wish that 
this storm will not erase them from the face of the desert.