Emma stood up to leave, turning back from the door to add, "If you 
change your mind about helping me, let me know. Or | guess | could 
just ask your conspirator." 


As she walked back along the hall, she wondered who it was. 
Probably Dee. 


"| don't trust that bitch." The forend of the pump-action shotgun slid 
back into place with a pronounced clack. 


Hennessy looked over mildly from where he had been checking the 
sub-sonic stun grenades. Careful, Dee. That's our Commander 
you're talking about, he signed. 


"Not my Commander," Dee responded with a snort. She put the 
empty weapon back on the rack and picked up the next to check the 
mechanism. "It's what she did to the Commander that means | don't 
trust her." 


What she did? Richards admitted that he stole 012. 
"And she ratted him out for it." Dee wasn't brooking any argument. 


Hennessy raised both white eyebrows. She worked it out, you mean. 
Mace was the rat. He looked down at the back of his right hand for a 
second, absently curling the fingers into a fist. 


"Since when are you her number one fan?" 


Hardly. Hennessy laughed. That's probably reserved for Mike. 
Anyway, you've only known one Commander for the Beasts. Stark 
won't be the worst we've had. 


Wiping the dust from the noise-amplification rig, Dee leaned forward. 
"| don't know if you noticed, but she's a damn slave-driver." 


Hennessy raised his hands to tease Dee for complaining about a 
little work, but thought the better of it. Not when she was in this 
mood. He made do with a shrug. 


"You can't be that relaxed," she said. "Stark is taking us into a 
spatial anomaly full of hostiles. The task force isn't equipped for 
that." 


We've done okay in the field so far. 


"Jesus! On earth!" Dee slapped the side of the speaker she was 
cleaning. "Against an old man and some shitty robots! Have you 
read the files about Alagadda?" 


It's just about knowing what to look out for. Where's your sense of 
adventure ? he signed back. 


Dee strode around the low shelf, standing right in Hennessy's face. 
"Bullshit! That's bullshit, H, and you know it. I've been here more 
than twenty years, and you never wanted adventure." 


The old man didn't move, didn't reply. 


"What's wrong with you these days?" Dee continued. "You've 
changed, H. Maybe the others don't see it, but you can't fool me. 
You used to be a professional!" 


Hennessy started to respond, but Dee cut him off. 


"You don't care any more. You sit around being a smart-ass, joking 
with Mike instead of helping the Commander, and you go rushing 
into danger like a goddamn cowboy! You don't respect the rules, you 
don't give a shit about the safety of your team, and you sure as hell 
don't care about your own -" 


Sudden undertanding sucked away Dee's breath. 
"H, tell me you aren't - tell me that's not why you - H?" 


For a second she looked at Hennessy, imploring him for a denial. He 
had none. 


All Dee's anger returned at once. "Well fuck you then! You wanna 
die, do it on your own time. Don't put me at risk." 


By the time he had started to reply, she had turned away and was 
storming out. Hennessy couldn't lipread her final retort: "I'm sure 
your precious new Commander would be happy to get you killed!". 
He picked up the dust-cloth from the floor and went back to work. 


It was getting late. Roger Anderson strode the deserted corridors of 
the Site, barely paying attention to his surroundings. He had been 
taken off his Archives shifts, but was yet to move into the MTF 
quarters, and the walks were hell on his joints. But he knew he 
wouldn't sleep until he had shared what he'd learned. 


Before he knew it, he found himself outside the door to the Eta-11 
Commander's office. He could see light seeping from the threshold; 
he wasn't surprised to see Emma was still working. He knocked 
twice and came in. 


"Commander, | need to talk to you about Dr. Reynard. | was looking 
at her history and -" 


Roger cut off in shock. Emma was at her desk, crying. 


He took a step backwards. "I'm so sorry for barging in, Em - 
Commander," he stuttered. 


"No, no - it's okay, Roger. Don't leave." She wiped her eyes. "What 
did you want?" 


"That's not important," said Roger, walking around the desk. "Are 
you all right?" 


"| don't think | can do this." Emma sounded desperate. "Any of it." 


Roger felt alarm, and pity, and a strange kind of relief. "Emma, 
you're doing fine." 


"You don't understand," she replied, shaking her head. "| say these 
things, and make these plans, but all the time, everything feels out 
of control. | don't belong here. What am | doing?" 


"The right thing. You have uncovered more about 012 in the past 
few weeks than in years of study. You've pulled this MTF into shape. 
Hell, | even did a sit-up yesterday." He laughed weakly, to match the 
joke. 


"How do | know I'm making the right decisions?" 


Roger gave a taut smile which he hoped was encouraging. "You 
can't. Not for sure. You just do your homework, take advice from the 
right people, and do your best." 


"But | could be putting the squad in danger," said Emma, although 
her voice sounded more certain now. 


"If danger is what the task requires, then that is what we've signed 
up to. I've been here a long time, and it never gets any easier to put 
people at risk. When you do find it easy, that's when I'll worry." 


Emma straightened her hair, pulling herself together, becoming the 
Commander again. "So | take advice from the right people. What's 
your advice?" 


Roger considered bringing up Dr. Reynard, and decided against it. 
Emma had enough on her plate. He contented himself with a final 
thought on his way out the door. 


"My advice is, don't put too much trust in the Foundation. I've seen a 
lot, and it's taught me that when a place gets too used to keeping 
secrets, you can't ever know for sure what they're hiding.” 


The voice on the other end of the line was insistent. 

"What are your concerns?" 

"I'm not sure whether she represents a liability or an asset." 
"Is she a risk to the mission?" 


"No, | don't think so. But there are other risks." 


"We can take care of them, Director Arora. You should concentrate 


on your role." 
"| understand." 


Site-Director Arora put down the phone and turned his stereo back 
on. The comforting voices of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald 
filled his office. 


Elsewhere, the opening strains of Ligeti's "Requiem" stole out from 
hidden speakers in the darkened warehouse. Stuart Pherson, once 
of the Foundation, bathed in the music and was borne upwards 
upon it. He knew it well, but hearing it again he felt new purpose in 
the twisting voices. 


That purpose was part of him, too. And his fellow thieves, elsewhere 
in the building, preparing in their own ways. They were so different 
from him, yet alike - drawn together like singers joining the song. 
Pherson closed his eyes, breathing deeply as the music swelled. 


And then at once all sound fell into a chasm of silence. 


Pherson opened his eyes, and saw the figure before him. It was 
robed and masked, towering in the dim light. When it spoke, 
Pherson felt he could hear the echoes of cawing crows. 


"You have the baton." It was a demand. 


Pherson gave an almost instinctive bow. "Yes." He pulled it from the 
bag at his feet, passing it to a black-gloved hand. Pherson shivered 
at the touch. 


The baton disappeared within the flowing robes. "More is expected." 


"Yes, my patron." Pherson's understanding was instinctive too. "We 
are ready. But the Foundation -" 


"The Foundation has grown soft," said the figure, implacable. "It 
cannot prevent the tide of history now it has turned. Its actions are 
unimportant. We will bring the Saint's return. You must find the 
score." 


must wear ear protection when any instance of SCP-691 
is being played, regardless of the circumstances. Sound 
recording equipment must not be operated whilst any 
instance of SCP-691 is playing, and only written 
accounts from test subjects are permitted. 


SCP-691-INV-1 
Date: / / 
Time: 1025 
Subject: D-691-1 


Procedure: Standard experimental procedure followed. 
D-1 was to listen to both sides of SCP-691 in their 
entirety, and was to give a verbal account of their 
experience. 


Report: D-1 reports nothing unusual whilst listening to 
SCP-691-0's foreword. Whilst listening to the reverse of 
SCP-691-0, D-1 describes how the colours of the room 
have become more vivid, and likens Dr. to 
"something like out of a cartoon". D-1 reports a feeling of 
complete peace. Subject appeared to take great 
pleasure in how Dr. was always smiling, although 
Dr. reports that this was not the case. D-1 requested 
further access to SCP-691. Request was denied. 


[CLASSIFIED. O5 CLEARANCE REQUIRED] 
SCP-691-INV-10 

Date: / / 

Time: 0951 

Subject: D-691-7 


Procedure: Standard experimental procedure was 
followed. D-7 was allowed free, undisturbed access to 
SCP-691-0. D-7 was asked to record his experiences via 


Pherson looked pained. "The score is lost, stolen from us. The 
Foundation cannot find it and neither can we." 


The black shape before him seemed to grow larger. "Not that score. 
The others. Only two are required, and you will find them." 


"Where, my master?” Pherson asked hungrily. 


"Tune your instruments. Assemble the orchestra. You will go to 
Alagadda." 


Only Game In Town Hub 


"I against my brother, my brothers and | against my 
cousins, then my cousins and | against strangers." 
- Bedouin proverb 


Pieces of Mind by Vivax 


"It was the first Word. There had been many words 
before, too many to count, in fact. But they had simply 
floated along without solid ground. But with the Word, 

there was a patch of earth upon which to build. And from 
that one patch of earth grew a mighty forest." 
- K. Addard, Assistant Archivist, Library, North-by-North- 
Western wing 


The Tale of the Library by Rumetzen 


"Step softly, child. The tiger hungers." 
- Ninhurs, daughter of Sidur, after sunset 


There Was One, There Was Not One by Gaffney 


"As the gates finally began to buckle, the last call to 
prayer was made. For a single perfect moment, the 
hammering of the siege engines was drowned out by the 
cries from a thousand minarets. In every mosque and 
every church, the imams and priests spoke of worlds left 
behind and worlds to come. Baghdad, the city of light, 
jewel of the world, holder of man's knowledge, was at an 
end. 


The next day, the Tigris ran black and red." 


-Asin ibn Ma'riya abd al-Alim, c. 1270 


Interlude - Scenes From the Fall by Vivax 


Ilumilight™ Nightlight System 
$12.99 for 2 pack Limited Time Offer: $9.99 for 2 pack or 
$13.99 for 3 pack! 


° Light Activates at Dusk, Turns Off At Dawn 
° LED Usable for Over One Thousand Hours 
¢« EasyAccess™ Technology Makes Replacing Burnt 
Out LEDS A Snap!" 
Soft Glow Makes It Perfect For Children's 
Bedroom Or Illuminating Hallways 


A Child to Teach by Pixeltasim 


"These scenes included graphic and disturbing imagery, 
inappropriate language, and nihilistic ideas harmful to the 
development of a healthy adolescent mind. Whether or 
not these insertions were deliberate or in error is 
immaterial; many of of these young ladies have suffered 
significant and ongoing psychological distress. We are 
seeking redress not for purposes of material gain, but in 
the interest of justice for these poor girls." 

- Thomas Zimmerman, Esq., quoted in the New York 
Times, November 14th, 2011 


Interlude - The Faraday Girls by Rumetzen 
"every story someday comes to an end." 
- Note in the margins of A Song of the Dry Sea, Vol. XI. 
Date unknown 


The End by Gaffney 


That's cute. But seriously, what's all this about? 


“"Rudie" - The entity that is the focus of this canon (we 
call it "Rudie") is far older than mankind. It is the concept 
of fear of the unknown, of the "other." Once among the 
most powerful thoughts, its influence has begun to wane 
somewhat with the advancement of science and mutual 
understanding. For the most part, it has no way of 
physically interacting with the "real" world; it can only 
attempt to shape the thoughts of man. 


Rudie sees its greatest enemy as the written word. 
Whereas oral tradition can change, creating uncertainty, 
the written word is permanent and affixes the story to 
certain word choices. 


It is in every story of the unknown, whether of triumph 
over the foreign army with strange customs or of defeat 
against the unknowable gods, from multi-volume epics to 
fevered nightmares. Within these stories, it can generally 
only act out the role assigned to it - as Grendel, it will 
always attack the hall of Hereot, as the dragon, it will 
always be slain by St. George. However, there are some 
instances where it has been able to break free of its role 
and move through the tale as it pleases. Relatively 
recently, it has managed to change the stories that it is 
in. Some speculate that this may have to do with its time 
spent in... 


The Library - A meeting place of many worlds, the 
Library holds every written document ever written, and 
many that have never been written. The Library began its 
existence when the first word was written, although it did 
not attain its present form until the events of Tale of the 
Library. Because of its unique creation as both 
something physical and narrative, it is a place where 
both physical and metaphysical entities can interact. It's 
not uncommon to see non-Euclidan geometries or former 
gods wandering the passages of the Library. 


Through committing thoughts and deeds to the page, the 
Library gives order to the world. Stories become 
immutable and fixed rather than changeable. Knowledge 


can be built upon rather than simply preserved. 


Please note: There are many, many theories about the 
Library's origins and nature. The tales in this canon are 
just a few of them. In other words, don't take this as the 
Ultimate Final Word on the Library. 


Footnotes 

1. Replacement LEDs sold separately. For the Illuminight™ 
Nightlight System, use only genuine Illuminight™ LEDs or 
Illuminight™-certified LEDs. For more information, visit 
illuminight.com 


Pieces of Mind 


| remember my birth. There were flashes of life before | was born. 
Self was the first. Quorum was the second. Fight and Flight arrived 
together. | was aware but unaware until the day of my birth. 


| was born at the edge of the jungle just beyond the riot of growth 
that grasped out at the passing sun. The plants below strangled and 
shaded, poisoned and parasitized the bodies of the grasses and 
trees. Time is limited for the plants that cannot withstand the attrition 
of the expanding canopy. Animals take advantage of the tangle; it 
was no different on my day. To this day | thrive at boundaries. 


A family approached the edge of the jungle on a mission. Some 
were in the canopy moving hand over hand, branch over branch. 
Others remained below in the underbrush, tightly grouped and 
cautious. Infants clung to their mothers, wide-eyed and wrinkled. 
They stared out at the world as only infants can. | stared with them. 
Some of the young hooted in excitement but are quickly silenced by 
the body language of the elders. 


They said: 

Here is the edge of the jungle. 
Here is the plain. 

Here the family is exposed. 


A grey-bearded elder changed direction. She had found what they 
sought. 

Just beyond the tree line grew the hill of food, a hill of baked clay 
pock-marked with holes. The ground around the hill was bare for the 
plants could not grow nearby. There would be no canopy, no 
sheltering grass. The family would have to go into the open. 


Some of the elders approached the hill of food, watched by young,