The Maker of Machines had fixed countless disturbances in the 
clockwork order of the universe, and had built many grand machines 
each perfect in every detail. But even with his great skills and power, 
his task to mend the Great Abyss was impossible to achieve. He 
had concluded his actions to be futile, but was unwilling to give up. It 
was his one and only goal. 


A creature of order and reason, the Maker of Machines once looked 
down upon the beasts and the God Eater in disgust, thinking of them 
as a disease and the crack as a plague. But aeons later, he would 
stare numbly as his webs of laws broke time and again. He would 
then wonder whether chaos is the true natural order and whether he 
is the real disease, as he mended the webs once more like a tireless 
spider. 


As his hopes turned into despair and then indifference, and his 


passionate creation turned into mechanical repetition, the Maker of 
Machines wondered if he was wronged by his own perception. For 
once he looked towards the gods but saw them not as foul beings, 
towards the abyss but saw it not as a wound, but as something 
merely different from himself. He realized that his vision of a 
perfectly ordered universe was never meant to be. 


The Maker of Machines wondered if he should make something 
other than machines. It would be something new: Unlike the 
machines which he planned out every detail before building, and 
unlike the gods who were created chaotic and mindless, but a hybrid 
of both kinds. 


But even with his new goal in mind, all the Maker of Machines 
managed to construct were other kinds of machines. He could not 
break his own limitation of ideas, so he placed his eyes on the God 
Eater. This great beast, consuming millions of gods, would then in 
satisfaction breathe out their remains. And in these ashes of the 
past gods, the Maker saw new hopes. 


Collecting the ashes, the Maker came to a sphere and spread them 
among great waters. And in a bold attempt to imitate the Beast’s 
action, he breathed his own essence and ideas into them. 


Life was then created. The ashes of gods breathed out by the Beast 
grew and prospered in the water, and their minds also sprouted from 
the ideas the Maker had bestowed them. The Maker watched and 
knew that it was not perfect, unlike anything else he had created. 
But the machines he built had no potential, for they were too 
carefully planned out beforehand and all their potential had been 
realized. Life, however, was filled with potential. Machines, he could 
predict; but life, he could not anticipate. 


The Maker watched life grow and felt the great joy he had not felt for 
aeons. A new vision of the universe was unfolded before him. But 
these newly born beings were of flesh, delicate and delicious, which 
gods crave the most. So the Maker weaved webs once more, so the 
hungry beasts could not reach them with their claws. 


But the Maker’s protection was short lived, as the God Eater, the 
greatest beast, came across the small sphere. She came to bring 


doom to the very life she had breathed out. The Beast did not intend 
to prey on them, as they were too small for her taste, but neither did 
she care that her mere existence would shatter this fragile world. 
And the Maker could not let this happen. 


The Maker wished not to fight the Beast, as it was now clear to him 
that neither of their existences were wrong or flawed. And it was 
only because of her that life came to be. The Maker tried to reason 
with the God Eater, and even went so far to beg her to choose 
another route and spare this world. But the God Eater was a beast 
after all. She neither understood nor cared, and came closer and 
closer. 


The Maker had to defend their creation. Life was new and had 
endless possibility, and had become his purpose and meaning. The 
Maker told the Beast that he was sorry, and the Maker of Machines 
made one last grand machine. A cage, forged out of his own 
existence, to house the God Eater and banish her away from life. 


As the last grand machine was made, the Beast screamed and 
cursed, but the Maker could not feel that. He felt only himself 
shattering, descending to the sphere and manifesting into physical 
forms. A broken machine himself, he could no longer protect life, his 
most proud creation, a hybrid of him and the Beast. 


But the Maker was tired, and he closed his eyes. 


the affected areas will be visible at wavelengths ranging from 360 to 
900 nm. 


SCP-966 feed on medium-to-large-sized animals, including humans. 
They hunt either alone or in pairs. Their hunting methods consist of 
emitting a single burst of a previously unknown type of wave 
(dubbed waves, in honor of the late Doctor ), which 
permanently inhibits the ability of the affected creature to enter any 
of the NREM and REM sleep stages. The ability to micro-sleep is 
also lost. The effective range of the waves is up to 20 meters; 
however, tests show that they can be blocked by post-transition 
metals, particularly lead. 


All attempts to make victims of SCP-966 sleep have failed. It is still 
possible to induce other forms of unconsciousness, although these 
will usually prove detrimental to the affected subject as they do not 
provide true rest. 


After depriving their victims of sleep, SCP-966 will stalk their prey 
until the lack of rest incapacitates it. At this point, SCP-966 will 
proceed to consume it. SCP-966 have proved to be very agile and 
silent while stalking their victims. On occasion, they will deliberately 
make threatening noises around the prey in order to further stress it, 
and may even physically assault it if the victim proves to be 
particularly durable. 


Other than the common symptoms caused by sleep deprivation, 
some victims of SCP-966 have shown signs of suffering from 
extremely vivid hallucinations, as well as sudden bouts of rage with 
no apparent external stimuli. It is currently thought that these are the 
effects of prolonged exposure to waves. Why SCP-966 
continually exposes these waves to only some of their victims is 
unknown. One hypothesis is that SCP-966 will only do this when 
starving, since it further degenerates the physical and mental state 
of their prey, incapacitating it at a faster rate. 


Wild instances of SCP-966 are found all over the world. Since their 
discovery in 19 , the Foundation has succeeded in greatly thinning 
their numbers, though they are still found in large quantities in many 
countries, particularly and 


The Man from Maple Street 


Randy Bragg’s arms still hurt from the morning pushups he had 
recently resumed. He had to do something, after all. Even if it meant 
that his food might not last as long, that the precious, life-giving fat 
around his belly and thighs might burn away a little faster, he had to 
do something. 


It had been at least a week since he’d fired the last few rounds out 
of his rifle, killing the last of the invaders he’d found lurking around 
the door to his basement. Their yellow faces and black eyes stared 
at him still, every time he looked through the tiny slit in the wall. 
There were no bacteria left to eat their dying bodies; no crows to 
feast on their eyes. The world was dead and sterile, as far as he 
could tell. 


Bragg knew that the United States had been victorious, though. The 
few stragglers left behind were those who managed to survive the 
initial bombs, hiding in their victims homes and shelters, only 
venturing out when they had depleted the supplies that those 
visionary few Americans had stocked and supplied for so long, so 
hard. It wasn’t fair that these yellow bastards had come here. It 
wasn’t fair that they had killed his wife and his children, that they had 
killed his friends and their families with their “clean” bomb. 


“Oh yes, very clean,” thought Bragg. It had dropped almost directly 
into their suburb, thousands of air based antiseptics. Those who 
breathed it died quickly, while those who ate food it landed on killed 
their digestive bacteria. A bomb that starved you to death! Bragg 
spat at the ground, letting go of the precious little water that 
remained. He knew for sure that- 


“Hello, there!” 


Bragg nearly jumped out of his skin. In the hundreds of times he’d 
paced the basement, his opinions rolling through his mind, he’d 
never seen anyone with him. He was supposed to die down here, 


the food running out, starving. A post-modern tear jerker. But now... 


“’m Dr. Fredrickson,” said the man, extending his hand. “And I’m 
offering you a chance to save the world.” 


“What are you talking about?” sneered Bragg. “The world is over. It’s 
all dead out there. The clean kind of dead, where nothing rots and 
you live with their eyes always watchi- 


“| know they're all dead ‘out there,” interrupted Fredrickson, pointing 
at the door. “I’m talking about further away than that. " 


For a moment, Bragg harbored hope. Washington? New York? Did 
they escape? Fredrickson dashed them quickly. 


"Past the pages, into the real world. I’m going to need as much help 
as | can get, and you’re the only one alive in this book.” 


The blithe comment had utterly shattered Bragg’s composure. You 
were never, EVER, supposed to break character, not where they 
could read you. He rushed forward, grasping Fredrickson’s... he 
wasn't sure what. He didn’t know that it had ever been described. 


“It’s my lab coat,” said Fredrickson, seemingly understanding 
Bragg’s problem. “Listen, I’m very sorry to break your fourth wall, but 
it's kind of an emergency. Will you please come?” 


He didn't know what to say. Other than the occasional flashback, 
this was all he'd ever known. He had the history of his character: the 
Korean War, the family and kids, the quickly lost jobs. And the 
bomb. Of course, the bomb was the focal point of his history. But 
this place, this abandoned basement, was all he'd ever really 
experienced. That was all that was within the pages. 


Bragg shrugged. What else could he do? Sit here and die? He 
regretfully looked up at the doctor. 


“The whole world?” he asked. 
“Oh yes,” said Fredrickson. “Very likely, the whole world.” 


‘The whole world,’ thought Bragg. ‘So much more than Maple 


Street...’ 


“?m in.” 


Cardiforce was listening, with delight. The chants of the faithful filled 
the air around him, exacting in their beauty and cadence. 


"We are His Clockwork Servants! 
We do the work of His hand! 

Those who oppose will forgive us 
when they are made to understand!" 


Their chants filled him with the shriven perfunctory of a man of faith. 
He watched gleefully as they raised the arc-welders to the wall of 
the hanger and struck them against the metal. 


Bragg was staggered by the sight. In front of him, two men who 
looked almost exactly like Rommel and Patton were talking with 
each other, describing the different points of entry they might expect 
and the different prospects for armament they could hope for. Upon 
seeing Fredrickson, the two men smiled and walked forward. 


“Who do we have here, Fred?” asked Patton, his white teeth glinting 
and the ghost of an American flag waving behind him. 


“Randy Bragg,” said Fredrickson, motioning to the still stunned man. 
“He should be the last of the ones we can use. He fought in Korea, 
so he should work out well for you.” 


“Korea?” asked Rommel. “Why would he fight in that little 
backwater? Don’t the Japanese know how to keep order in their own 
country?” 


Fredrickson put one arm around Bragg and whispered in his ear. 
“Ohnay orldway arway Ootay, got it?” 


Bragg nodded, turning to ask Fredrickson what might be a good 
topic, when he found himself suddenly alone. He allowed himself to 
be shepherded off by the two men, asking him of guns and models 
from the next few years. 


"Tell me," asked Rommel. "Who makes the better gun, from your 
time? The Germans or the Americans?" 


Patton seemed patently interested in the same question. Bragg 
stood for a moment, looking from one to the other, unable to really 
answer much of anything. 


So he lied. "The British," he said, calmly. Both men looked 
surprised, looked at each other for a moment, and then broke into 
laughter. 


"This one is funnier than the others, Rommy!" roared Patton. 
"Yes," agreed Rommel, "though he would almost have to be!" 


The two men laughed loudly, turning away from Bragg. As they 
walked away, planning the different points at which they expected 
assault to arrive from, Bragg turned and walked around the 
battlefield, trying to shake off the haunting almost memories of 
Korea, trying to ignore the tickling fear than now began to gnaw at 
him. 


The door to the large hanger was glowing bright orange now, having 
shifted from the earlier red. The heat could be felt even at the other 
side, where the two Foundation Agents were working as quickly as 
possible, going through every book they could find in their small site, 
leafing and discarding them with a speed only seen in those who 
had grown efficient at being panicked. 


“He’s moving quickly,” said Dodridge. “We’ve gone from two 
wounded platoons to a full squad of rangers, a Cavalry, and three 
post-apocalyptic survivors. Are there any left?” 


“Nothing of use, | don’t think,” said Lament. “We've just about run 
ourselves dry. Let’s hope this actually works, huh?” 


“It had better, or I’m pretty sure we won’t be around to care,” said 
Dodridge, hefting and placing the two dragon-shaped bookends on a 
small table, sliding the book between them and turning, both men 
running at breakneck speed. 


Bragg sat in the dirt, next to one of the other men. He looked, Bragg 
thought, like he might have been a banker at one time. 


When the man saw him looking, he turned and smiled at Bragg. 
"You're one of us, aren't you?" he asked. 


"One of what?" replied Bragg. 


"The post-apocers. You look like you've survived the end of the 
world once or twice." The man smiled at Bragg. "My name's Darren 
Palanger. I'm from Fallen Monuments, Fallen Gods. Five atomic 
bombs, one city; which... will... survive!" Palanger laughed, 
hollowly. "How about you?" 


"Randy Bragg, from Maple Street. The clean bomb." 

"Clean bomb?" 

"Kills all the bacteria, including the ones that keep you alive." 
"Does that work?" 

Bragg shrugged. "My author thought so." 

"And do you?" asked another voice. 


Bragg turned around and saw Fredrickson standing there. "Do you 
believe it works?" 


"| guess | must," said Bragg. "It destroyed everything | ever 
remember loving." 


Fredrickson smiled. "Then | have a job for you." 


“We are his Clockwork servants!” sounded the cry. “We do the work 
of his hands!” 


The men in the front were the luckiest, thought Cardiforce, looking 
toward them with envy. “They will be the first. The first to touch His 
heart. The first to become one with His body.” He was regretful that 
he would not be allowed to join them, join in their sacrifice to the true 


god. 


With a crack and snap, he saw the door give way, breaking and 
bucking under its own weight as the flames of His servants blasted 
through it at last. And then came the gun fire. 


“Mow them all down!” shouted the Sergeant, yelling through the 
snapping of shells on metal and flesh. “Kill all the bastards you can!” 


Bragg found it difficult to concentrate, to remake, as Fredrickson 
was telling him, the description from the book. The sky had fallen 
away on one side, with the grim sunlight of earlier being replaced by 
night. Beyond the opening, glinting and turning, he saw their foe 
marching forward. He heard their clicking and turning as the bullets 
scattered some of them backward. 


He had no gun, though. Only a piece of paper. Fredrickson was 
looking at him desperately. “Faster, Bragg. FASTER. You must try to 
remember before the pages. Read into what is implied!”