He had to hold onto this, the Foundation would surely question him 
about it when he hopped back into containment. But how was he 
supposed to defend himself with only a crowbar and a flashlight in 
hostile territory full of surveillance until then? And what does it mean 
to get "turned into a Bobby"? Was that security guard one of them? 
He supposed he could withstand some forced training, but if there 
was something more to the process, he wanted no part in it. There 
had to be a truly safe spot somewhere in this city where he could 
maintain a low profile until he hopped back. Regardless, he had to 
keep moving or else he would be caught for certain. 


The dimension hopper sneaked in alleyways, wore improvised 
disguises and even ventured into sewers, always holding onto his 
discoveries out of some very strange sense of loyalty and duty. Not 
knowing how long he would stay there, he held onto his rations 
despite the constant pitiful pleading of the Wretches. He eventually 
managed to craft a crude slingshot to knock out the surveillance 
drones temporarily and learned many useful shortcuts. He even 
managed to defeat a Bobby by luring it into the front of an oncoming 
train. But eventually he ran out of rations, and had to resort to the 
Wonderfood. He felt something strange inside his stomach after 
eating, something not quite like porridge, but pressed on. All 
throughout his struggle to survive, he could see a shadowy figure 
stalking him, but he had to rest. 


Grabnok woke up with the feeling of someone poking his side with a 
hard, cold object. He jolted upward, reaching for the nearest weapon 
to try and defend himself, but it was only another Wretch with a 
cane. The man in filthy rags looked like someone who had been 
through a dozen lifetimes of pure misery packed into a few years, 
and yet, he was somehow giving him a yellow smile. 


"You found my book. Good. | thought they would have burned it by 
now." 


"Who are you? Why did you write that book?" he paused and then 
put his hands up in a defensive gesture. "I didn't steal it, | swear!" 


The man in rags laughed, and strands of bloody phlegm came out of 
his mouth. "You may call me Leader. It's who | have been trying to 
be, anyways. Hasn't worked out too well, as you can see, 


hahahahaha." 


"Right...say, is there a spot in this city where the surveillance and 
the security guards won't go? | need to keep a low profile for some 
time." 


The Leader suddenly turned grim. "Not so fast. You are an outsider. 
That means it is still possible to get in and out of this hellhole. | ain't 
helping you unless you help me. You are gonna bring me with you 
and tell your surface friends all about what happens here everyday 
so | can free this city, got it?" 


Grabnok swallowed hard and began to sweat. He was a horrible liar. 
"S-s-s-sure thing, Leader! | got some friends in very high places’ 
They'll uh...have everything under control in no time, promise!" he 
offered a nervous handshake, which Leader returned. 


"Excellent. We need to get to the outskirts. Reality is mostly falling 
apart there, but there is one spot that they don't know about which is 
safe. Follow me." 


As they ventured further and further, the less they saw guards and 
drones. The gas lighting became brighter and more vivid, the air and 
streets cleaner, and even plants grew here and there. They 
eventually reached a building that almost seemed like a genuine 
Victorian house. 


"What..how...did you?" blurted out Grabnok. 


"| don't know much more than you, but I'll be damned if | let anyone 
know about this, you hear?" Leader snarled. "Come inside, there's 
tea." 


Once they entered the modest but comparatively wonderful house, 
Leader shared his other plans and notes with Grabnok. 


"For years | suspected they were lying to us, but | didn't do anything 
about it. The others were too sedated and hypnotized by the food 
and the constant messages to do much better. To this day, | still 
don't know how | managed to wake up from all of that, or even get a 
few people to join my cause. But as my luck would have, they were 


SCP-870: The Maybe There Monsters 


Item #: SCP-870 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-870 is to be contained in a 
sealed chamber measuring 8 m x 8 m. Motion sensors are to be 
placed in the containment area and movements of SCP-870 are to 
be monitored at all times. 


A motion activated turret is to be placed directly outside the 
containment area to prevent the escape of SCP-870. One (1) D- 
class personnel suffering from schizophrenia is to observe SCP-870 
via camera at all times. 


SCP-870 is to be provided with one (1) bovine carcass every forty- 
eight (48) hours. 


Description: SCP-870 is an animal species of undetermined 
proportions and appearance, which, for unknown reasons, can only 
be perceived by individuals suffering from schizophrenia. This often 
results in specimens of SCP-870 being dismissed as hallucinations. 
Specimens of SCP-870 are omnivorous and seem to eat nearly all 
kinds of plants and meat, but will typically eat their food in secluded 
areas. 


Notably, two people with the ability to perceive SCP-870 will 
describe its appearance in completely different ways, even when 
looking at the same specimen of SCP-870. Descriptions of SCP-870 
have included: 


¢ An alligator with spider legs and three eyes. 
« Aman made out of smoke. 

¢ A giant ant with a human face. 

¢ A hunchbacked child with a parrot's head. 

¢ A spider with 'too many legs’. 


caught and turned into Bobbies, while | ran away and continued the 
mission." 


"The security guards are the Bobbies, right? How do they turn you 
into one of them?" 


Leader shuddered. "I don't know, and | honestly don't want to." He 
suddenly beamed with exalted joy. "But now | have you here, and 
it's all gonna pay off, | just Know it!" 


Leader's smile dissolved as lightning struck his house, making 
everything dark. Something lit up inside Grabnok's stomach with the 
same color as the eyes of the surveillance drones, and he vomited it 
back up. The spherical thing squirmed on the ground before 
assuming the form of a drone and sealing the fate of both of them 
with its glowing gaze. 


Leader burst into a mad dash to try and destroy the drone but failed, 
and Grabnok was too busy vomiting still. When the drone flew away, 
Leader turned stood still for a few moments, unleashed a shriek of 
defeat and lunged at Grabnok, ready to kill the outsider with his bare 
hands. Before he could land a killing blow with a brick, Grabnok 
hopped outside of UnLondon, along with his backpack full Leader's 
notes and everything else. He tried to escape, but soon enough a 
dozen Bobbies were at his door and he was escorted to Bryson's 
Home For The Poor. 


When Grabnok returned to containment, he shared the secrets he 
had discovered with the Foundation and told the story of what 
happened. He was asked if he would like a reward for his 
cooperation. He simply said: 


"Some decent porridge, and a bright and sunny day." 


Hotline: Eventide 


While Sloth's Pit is one of the more animated Nexuses in the United 
States, greatly distorting the Anomaly Occurrence Value of the 
entire Midwest, Wisconsin is only the second-most anomalous state. 
Thanks to the existence of Roadkill County in Oregon, the Pacific 
Northwest is, from a purely quantitative standpoint, the most 
anomalous area of the United States. Lesser known than Roadkill 
County, but equally important, is the city of Eventide— as of writing, 
it is the largest anomalous population center in the United States. 
The government does not condone Foundation activity within city 
limits, and the constant darkness has lead to several members of 
both its populace and of Foundation personnel becoming somewhat, 
shall we say, unhinged. 


Combined with the wide variety of psychoactive fungus within the 
Nexus zone, it has become a testing ground for many 
parapharmaceuticals. Some members of the task force at Site-51 
are even used as guinea pigs for new medications, a controversial 
practice which, nonetheless, Site-51's administrative staff has 
defended since the late 1960s. 


- Dr. Philip Verhoten, The Crossroads: A Study of Urban Anomalous 
Nexuses in the United States. 


Lieutenant William Stoker looked outside at the 3:00 P.M. sky and 
sighed. Three years living in Eventide, staying in the skyscraper that 
was Site-51 (better known as Wiley Tower), and he was still getting 
used to the fact that the sun would never rise within city limits. The 
city weather was cold, unforgiving, and it was almost constantly 
raining. Over the past one-hundred years, Eventide had 
compensated for the rainfall by building up one of the most robust 
sewer systems in Oregon— but it might not be enough. 


Stoker picked up a sublingual spray and lifted up his tongue, coating 
the underside of it with what the techs had termed "Pepper-Up 


Potion". Eighteen hours of wakefulness, and he was going to need 
all of it. 


Thunder rumbled outside as Stoker made his way to the elevator, an 
assault rifle in his hand, and a ski mask over his head. Today, he — 
and the rest of Sigma-29, AKA "Night Watch" — were going to roba 
bank in the middle of the dark and stormy day. 


He got a salute from one of the researchers exiting the elevator on 
his level. He nodded in return, and then climbed in, hitting the 
override button that would take him straight down to the vehicle bay. 
A fortified parking garage, it held all of the vehicles owned by 
Site-51's staff and task force. And most of his squad was already 
loaded up, with the exception of his superior, Colonel Leah Cibari. 


"You're late," she frowned, taking a sip from a special ‘nutrient 
pouch' she carried at her hip. She was looking less pale than usual, 
which was certainly a good thing— she hadn't been able to take her 
medication as of late, due to the monthly supply truck capsizing in 
the middle of Bend last week. 


"A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives whenever he 
chooses to." Stoker smirked back at her. 


"You're a Grade-2 Warlock, and we're behind schedule." She tugged 
him to the van. "The bank's closing in half an hour, and traffic's 
gonna be godawftul in the storm." 


"Yes, ma'am," Stoker nodded, getting into the back of the van. 
Within were the three other members of his squad: Jacob Wexley, 
former computer scientist who had gotten whammied in such a way 
that his old line of work was no longer feasible; Kathryn Kramer, 
their breacher, a blonde woman with one eye replaced by a 
cybernetic implant; and Susan Smith, ex-ClA, who would normally 
be the face of this op, should any con artistry be required. As it 
stood, she could still make for a good amount of muscle. 


The van — which allegedly belonged to 'Normal Moving Co.' — 
zoomed out of the parking garage, turning the corner sharply 
enough that Wexley hit his head on the van's wall. He growled in 
pain. "This had better be worth the risk," he frowned. "Why can't we 


just buy it?" 


"The item in question is an artifact that can't change hands willingly 
— it always has to be stolen. If it isn't, it reappears in possession of 
the previous owner." Susan frowned. "Honestly, Jacob. We've been 
over this three times." 


"It's almost the full moon, Sue," Kramer chided. "You know how his 
memory gets around this time of month." 


"Is a bank robbery the best way to do it, though?" Jacob asked, 
scratching at his skin. "We could be more discrete." 


Stoker pulled out his syringe kit, and extracted an injector pen with a 
bright red label on it, which simply read 'the Juice’. "For E-4343 to 
count as passing into the possession of a new person, at least five 
other people who aren't the thief have to witness it being stolen." He 
fiddled with the cap on the pen, and handed ones of different colors 
to the other three- K.K. got a green one which read ‘Burst’, Jacob 
got a blue injector which was called 'Man's Bane’, and Susan got a 
yellow injector which read 'You Can't Handle’. 


"Do you always have to name them so weird?" Jacob frowned. 
"Like, | get this is your girlfriend's hobby—" 


"Hobby? She's a parapharmacologist. This is what she does for a 
living, and she loves it." 


Rain pattered on the exterior of the van. The tires screeched on the 
wet concrete as they turned a corner, and then stopped. "We here?" 
Smith asked. 


"Affirmative." Cibari said through the grille at the front of the van, 
putting on her mask— while Stoker preferred to stick to a traditional 
ski mask, everyone else had their own preference. Leah liked her 
chicken mask; Smith, preferring to reflect her CIA roots, had a mask 
on which read "M.K. Badass"; Kramer had a simple clown mask; 
and Jacob had the visage of a wolf on his face. Let it never be said 
that Jacob Wexley was creative. 


"Go in, subdue, get out." Leah popped a liquid gel pill into her 


mouth; her eyes glowed red behind the mask. 


The Bank of Oregon branch in Eventide had a massive skylight 
above, which Smith chose to aim for when she shot her gun at the 
ceiling. As the glass rained down, thankfully not hitting any of 
Eventide's pale populace, rain started flowing into the bank. 
"Everyone be cool!" she called, her voice modulated by the mask. 
"This is a robbery. We don't want any of your belongings, we just 
want to get to the vault." 


"Drop your weapon!" a security guard called. His frame was slender 
and his skin was paper white, not an uncommon sight among the 
sun-starved population of the town. The lack of contrast between his 
white skin and light blue uniform almost made it painful to look at 
him. He was holding a 9mm at them. "Drop it now!" 


Jacob stepped forward, his machine pistol aimed at the guard. "This 
is a MAC-10. It can fire over a thousand rounds per minute, and that 
pea shooter can maybe manage one-hundred, if you reload fast 
enough. You really wanna take that ch-" 


The guard emptied his clip into Jacob's chest; as the ex-computer 
technician stumbled back, he pulled out the blue injector he had 
been given, and stuck it in his neck. The effect was immediate— all 
of the wolfsbane medication he had taken in the past week was 
forced out of his body. He removed the mask, vomiting, and as he 
did so, almost tripled in size, growing fur, and a set of fangs that 
could bite through concrete. The were-dire-wolf lunged at the guard, 
pinning him back against the wall. 


"We don't want to hurt you!" Leah called, licking her teeth. That 
much was a lie, coming from her. The pills made her hungry. "We 
just want to get into the vault. Where's the bank manager?" 


There was silence throughout the bank; everyone had gotten on the 
ground, either kneeling or face-down. Lightning illuminated the bank, 
and the lights within flickered. "Ah, nuts," Kramer muttered to 
herself, cocking her shotgun. She blinked her right eye, activating 
the low-light sensor as the power to the bank was cut off. 


"Shit!" Leah ran towards the teller's booths. "The bank's vault seals 
automatically within five minutes of a power cut. We need to get in 
there now." 


While Jacob kept the lone security guard occupied, the four of them 
ran to the teller's booths. Leah got there first, her form bursting 
through the steel grating, and bringing it down on top of the poor 
bank employees that had hidden under their desks. "The code to the 
vault," she asked a black-haired Eventideian. "Do you know it?" 


"N-no," she insisted. "|—" 


Smith leaped over the counter and stuck her yellow injector into the 
teller's shoulder. She hissed in pain, before becoming transfixed on 
something in the middle distance. Susan knelt by her, and asked, 
"Who knows the vault combination?" 


The serum worked quickly. "Mr. Muldoon knows. He's in his office, 
probably hiding in the panic room."