My thoughts drift back, like they always do these days, to Ophelia. 
What the hell went wrong? We went up through training together — 
we were in the cadet program with the Foundation since before uni, 
and we were dating pretty steady until the trip here. | thought we 
were gonna last forever, but | guess forever only counts where the 
air doesn't have to be manufactured or farted out by lichens and 
algae farms. 


Just as I'm losing myself in my thoughts, a gust of cold wind chills 
me through my isolation suit and brings me back to reality. The 
nicotine's mostly numbed my mouth and nose and I'm almost 
positive | got a bit of the local soil in my mouth when | had the mask 
open. The sun's risen over the colony and it won't be too long before 
the sunlight reaches here. The headlights I'd seen earlier didn't roll 
off to one of the more geologically or biologically interesting sites; 
they were rolling right towards me. No idea who'd come looking for 
me, but | guess I'll know in just a few minutes. 


As the new buggy rolls up, | get off the hood of mine and dust myself 
off. Not that anyone's gonna care about a little dust on a spacesulit, 
but it always feels better for me to be doing something other than 
sitting on my ass when | get caught fucking around. The buggy pulls 


up a few meters next to mine before the lights turn off, followed by 
the engine. 


"Freeman, that you?" The respirator mask covers most of Quentin's 
face, but | was able to tell it was him by the way he dismounted the 
buggy, even if | hadn't recognized his voice over the radio. 


"Yeah, Storms, it's me." / try to sound friendly but | know | probably 
sound bitey. | feel bitey. 


"What the hell are you doing out here? I've been looking all over for 
you." He sounds frustrated, but legitimately concerned. | probably 
couldn't ask for a better boss. 


| hold up the package from the vape filter and say, "Just feeding my 
inner demons someplace quiet, sir." 


He nods in understanding briefly, then asks, "How many is that this 
week?" 


"Five. Ophelia quit, so she lets me have her ration." 


Another short nod, awkward in the isolation suit. "You know those 
things will kill you, right?" His voice has the slightest hint of friendly 
sarcasm. 


"No faster than the radiation or the dust storms or the little green 
men." / can't help but crack a smile at my own shitty joke, even if 
Quentin can't see it. But from the look of his eyes through the mask, 
he chuckled a bit, too. 


"Something eating at you?" The same almost-big-sibling frustrated 
concern. 


"Yeah." No point in lying. 
"Wanna talk about it?" At least he seems sincere. 
"Nope." No point in lying. 


"What's the cover story?" 


| point around us. "Lichen samples." 
"All right. You brought bags, right?" 


"Yeah." | point to the small storage compartment at the back of the 
buggy. 


"All right, let's get to it." 


He goes back to his buggy, where he presumably has his own 
equipment. | go back to mine, where the familiar sealed-and- 
sterilized toolsets and unopened sample bags wait for me, turning 
off the engine while I'm at it.. We're done after about an hour and a 
half, so we hop in the buggies and head back West. 


As we're driving, | hear him say over the radio, "When | was a kid, 
back on Earth, my grandpa used to take me hiking. And a lot of 
times, we'd hit rough patches in the trail but there was no real way to 
turn around. And he always used to tell me, 'When you can't go 
back, the only way you've got is forward, no matter how rough it 
gets. Just grit your teeth and hold on tight, you'll get through and find 
your way home.' Not sure if that means anything here, for whatever 
it is you're going through, but it's something to think about." 


| nod for a moment before remembering that he has no way to see 
it."Yeah, thanks. I'll try to remember that." /t isn't too much later that 
we reach Clean Slate Station and | have to tell myself, "One step at 
a time. Just keep moving forward." 


That wasn't the last time | went to that spot, but it turned out to be 
the last for a real long while. 


When Moses Goes Wrong 


David awoke with a splitting headache. Somehow once again, he'd 
fallen asleep at the Library. Either that or a Docent had followed him 
home. A table, a chair and a lot of stacks of books reaching from the 
floor to beyond the ceiling led him to assume it was the former. Still 
though, his headache refused to subside. He couldn't have been 
drinking, there's no alcohol in the Library (not officially anyway) and 
Dave was not suffering from the other hangover-related traits he 
normally gets, that meant only one possible thing. 


"Shitty shitting shit..." he muttered, head in hands and trying really 
hard not to punch the table. 


He'd been warned about it from some other mages he'd met. 
Sometimes if you're magically inclined, you get 'synced up’ with all 
the weird goings on wherever you go and if something big happens, 
you sort of know what it is. Sort of. This was the biggest, angriest 
sort of big thing yet. 


"Bloody prophetic, magic-y bollocking migraines..." 


He sighed, frowned and dug out an Ad sketchbook and an HB. 
Opening to a blank page, he ran his hand over it and began to draw, 
not consciously, not really. His hand dashed across the page, the 
lead skimming the paper and occasionally leaving a mark. As 
construction lines began to form, so did his divination. 


Josie also was awoken. Not by a headache, but a thump from in her 
room. She was confused, who could be up this late at night? It 
couldn't be Santa, he didn't come for a few months yet. Peering 
curiously over the side of her bed, she saw something amazing. Her 
toys were alive! They were alive and moving! Her eyes widened in 
amazement as her dolls and pony figures pulled the door open and 
began to walk out. Josie crept out of her bed as her toys joined her 
brother's robots and army men on a descent down the stairs. She 


switched the light on to get a better look. She continued to gawp as 
her father opened his door to see who left on the landing light. His 
eyes went almost as wide as hers. Quietly, father and daughter 
followed as the toys made their way downstairs and towards the 
door. After witnessing a tower being made of the plastic figures and 
one fashion doll sacrificing her arm to unlock the door to their house, 
Josie and her daddy went outside and stared in awe as her toys 
joined up with an enormous convoy of others walking down the 
street. 


The teddy bears marched, balls rolled or bounced and even Lego 
figures had constructed huge arks to help transport their many 
pieces. There were grand processions of Barbies, Bratz and a billion 
other fashion dolls strutting and staggering as fast as their joints 
would let them. Some looking haggard from the long journey, others 
from being played with too much. Even action figures from years 
ago were making the trek. 


"Daddy, where are the toys going?" Josie asked her father. 


He simply stared and shook his head in disbelief. "| don't know... 
Maybe they're off on Holiday..." 


Josie accepted this and waved them off. 


Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, The Lord Of Toys declared 
Playtime over and every toy to return to the Box. 


It started with a thud. In a simple Graveyard in the dead of night, a 
tombstone had collapsed. Then another fell over. And another. As 
more fell, the first few started to be pulled along. Dragged by some 
unknown force, leaving long trails behind them on a pilgrimage of 
their own. Stone angels and statues pulled themselves free of their 
foundations and supports and began to accompany the tombstones, 
and rocks and pebbles and other broken stones back to their 
quarries. 


The Shopkeeper, wearing a clean white apron, carrying a mop, 
hands covered in price-tags from different countries with a million 


different currencies and a nametag reading nothing walked down an 
empty high street. He was there at every grand opening, watching 
proudly like a father. He was there in boardrooms, not noticed, when 
hands changed and deals were made. Even on the shopfloors, 
guiding the staff and keeping everyone inside, staff and customers 
alike, satisfied. He was the one who kept stocks full, the cash 
registers all working properly, the lighting all bright and the displays 
of offers tempting and more than fair. Like so many times before, 
this man would be there as the shutters shut and the locks locked 
and the lights all went down for the final time. The signs in the 
windows proclaiming ‘Closing Down Sales’ and ‘Everything Must Go' 
fluttered and fell to the floor. And as the world ended, all the shops 
and stores closed for one final time. 


Following behind, was a figure in shadow. He stood tall, proud and 
prepared for his only task. He followed the Shopkeeper everywhere, 
always keeping him safe and sound. As the shops shut down, he 
would be there. Inside every closed down shop, stood the Night 
Watchman. In earlier simpler times, he would have people take care 
of shoplifters according to the laws of the land. Followers who didn't 
realise how important their positions actually were. Now there was 
only him. His final assignment. To be vigilant. To be ever watchful 
and let no man steal from a closed down shop. 


The ground under Sao Paulo, Brazil thundered and shook. The 
earth rose and swelled before a gigantic furred claw burst out. The 
claw was attached to a wing. The wing to a large hairy body. The 
enormous bat, black-brown fur matted with soil and dirt unfurled its 
wings. Huge leathery things with proud patterns of red and gold 
pulsing like veins beneath the surface of them. Trees and dirt were 
scattered in all directions, devastating the landscapes and the 
nearby villages as it took off. It looked into the sky and set off to 
consume the sun. 


That same moment, miles away in Norway. A storm, larger than any 
experienced before, began to reach towards the land. From the 
swirling mass of wind, cloud and lightning came an enormous paw. 
The ground shook as it was joined by another, a snout followed. The 
snout sniffed the air curiously, the wolf who owned it searching for 


something. Another humongous wolf joined it. It too sniffing to catch 
a scent. And another, and another and more emerged from the 
storm. The alpha, the first who emerged, caught something. His ears 
twitched, he sniffed again to make sure it wasn't a false alarm. 
Nope. The alpha threw his head back in a howl which could be 
heard all across Scandinavia, demanding the pack's attention. Fenrir 
knew where the sun was and they set off. 


"Now is the time, Sisters!" The Obsidian Butterfly, Itzpapalotl, ruler 
of Tamoanchan, looked over her assembled army. "The humans 
have neglected their sacrifices! Huitzilopochtli is weak!" The 
Tzitzimimeh, celestial skeletal daughters of the first God, Ometeotl, 
cheered ferocious battle cries. Baying loudly for the sun's blood. 


"Father will now finally see, we are his superior children! We will slay 
Huitzilopochtli! Slay his humans! And break the world!" Her wings 
spread wide. Huge black, flint-edged butterfly wings, glinting in the 
light. 


Meanwhile on Earth, astronomers, professionals and hobbyists 
alike, noticed several discrepancies when they looked up to the 
stars. Aboard Orbital Observation Post-1543-02-J or as it was 
known on board, ‘The Sun Launcher MkII’, the crew asked the same 
question as those on Earth. 


"Did the stars just start moving?" 


Meanwhile, two brothers, Gods both, were arguing. 
"LET'S DO SOME A' THIS END' T'WORLD SHIT, INNIT?" 
"EEH, WHA' SHOULD WE DO?" 


"MEBBE WE SHOULD DROP A LOAD'A BRICKS ON 'EM, 
DACK'AD!" 


"NO! LET'S GET WI' THEM GODS ERRA AND NERGAL OR 
SOMMAT, BELL END! THEY'RE MESOPOTAMIAN AN' SHIT!" 


"ERE, YOU'RE T'BELL END, BELL END!" 


"EEH, YOU STARTIN', BRUV?" 
"YOU STARTIN'? EH? EH?" 


"MR. CRAWLEY!!!" 


The voice shook him from his fevered scribbles. Looking up, Dave 
saw an Archivist looking down at him, unimpressed. 


"Mr. Crawley, if you wish to continue being a member here, we 
would appreciate it if you would not bleed over our texts." 


"What?" 
The archivist glared at him... 


Dave looked down and noticed the blood, which was originating 
from his nose. 


"Ah, bugger. Won't happen again! Honest!" 


He quickly wiped up his mess. Looking around, he noticed the 
Library was much busier than when he'd started. People weren't 
looking at books though. 


There was a lot of people covered in dirt and rubble. Scratches and 
other injuries covered some and most were in tears or close to 
hysterics. Voices which could be heard were combinations of fear, 
loss and some sort of devastation happening. The staff of the 
Library could also be heard, addressing complaints from other 
patrons and the new arrivals as well. Whatever was going on was 
obviously not good. 


"And you're bothered about me bleeding everywhere?" he 
muttered... 


When One Reaches the End 


These were the “Her Majesty’s Finest”? A half-dozen old men 
poking around the mortar holes and dugouts amidst the mist and 
mud and stench of the dead, all in the name of a crone who’d been 
dead for nearly twenty years? 


He didn’t think it possible, but Vladislav’s already abysmal opinion of 
the British had sunk even lower over the last hours as he watched 
them pick up the remains. These were Russian soldiers. What right 
did a bunch of old men and their underlings have to swoop down 
upon the battlefield, upon his own blood-stained homeland, and pick 
apart his countrymen like crows? 


Crows. That was a good word for them. The underlings all wore long 
black coats and gas masks, even when they were unneeded. A red 
crown was stenciled on the sleeves, above the letters HMFSCP. 
The old men had no such coats, no such gas masks, no such crown, 
and as such none of them handled any of the bodies or weapons. 
They only watched, occasionally croaking out an order or inspecting 
what the crows had already gathered and sorted. 


Drizzle tapped on the tarp above his head, and Vladislav wondered 
how much longer he and his comrades would have to be here, and 
how he even came to be in this position, and who had pulled what 
strings in both countries. They were here to guide and translate and 
guard, and precious little else. 


The old man in the wheelchair licked his lips again. Vladislav 
shuffled his feet, inching away from the one other inhabitant of the 
tarp pavilion. The other old men, they were just foolish old men. This 
man though, he was simply unsettling. 


The old man was ancient, well over ninety years old, if not a 
hundred: He appeared less of a man and more of a sack of bones 
wrapped in thin, clammy skin stretched tight over knobbly joints and 
thick blue veins. A thin white wisp on his lip showed where there had 


SCP-997 do not report noticing vermin, they do respond to their 
presence, though they cannot explain the basis for their reaction. 
Subjects will often create fanciful excuses for their reactions and 
refuse to acknowledge the implausibility of these explanations. This 
disconnect seems to have adverse psychological effects, including 
paranoia, distress, and delusions. See Experiment Log 997 for 
further information. 


Experiment Log 997: 


Experiment 997-003: 

Date: / / 

Subject: D-class personnel D-6272 

Researcher: Dr. Das