“How on earth would you know that? You’ve never been here 
before!” 


“It’s my sense of direction, it’s perfect.” 
“Oh you bloody...” 


Henry DeMontfort rubbed his temples for the fourth time in ten 
minutes, and groaned as his subordinates continued to bicker from 
the front seat. This has been a long, long drive. He reached for his 
pocket, searching for his electronic cigarette, when the tiny rented 
Fiat swerved suddenly and knocked the plastic tube from his hand 
and out the opened window. Barely holding back a curse, he turned 
to Lieutenant Levit, who was driving, his enormous hands almost 
completely encompassing the steering wheel. 


“Lieutenant, what was that?” 
“Sheep, Sir.” 

“...Sheep?” 

“Yes Sir, sheep on the road.” 


“Why was there a sheep on the road?” This was asked by Operative 
Raymond of Baskerville, a fairly recent addition to Project Malleus, 
transferred on his request from the Shepherd Corps. Wet around the 
ears, but certainly not lacking in enthusiasm. 


“How should | know?” 
“Didn't you use to herd sheep, Brickjaw?” 


The huge, rough-featured man rubbed his face with both hands, 
leaving Raymond to desperately grab the wheel as the car 
zigzagged on the narrow dirt road. “I herded goats, Raymond, not 
sheep. Entirely different. And don’t call me that.“ 


DeMontfort leaned back in his seat, sighing. Lieutenant Levit was 
usually as trustworthy and capable a man as anyone could wish for, 
but driving.... Well, driving wasn't one of his strong suits. The only 
reason he was at the wheel at all was because Raymond couldn't 
drive, and DeMontfort was too exhausted to trust himself at the task. 


“What's so different about goats? They’re just uglier sheep.” 


“Goats are smart. A sheep goes where you tell it to; a goat goes 
where it wants.” 


“Looks like this sheep didn’t get the memo, because | certainly didn't 
tell it to stand in the middle of the road.” 


“Good one.” 


It was getting dark, and DeMontfort began worrying they wouldn't be 
able to find the school before nightfall. The South Italian countryside 
was almost completely bereft of proper road marks, and the hilly 
terrain was very difficult to get one’s bearing in. DeMontfort began to 
doze, but jerked into wakefulness again as Levit swerved the car 
once more, this time to avoid hitting a pack of wandering wild fowl. 
Levit slammed on the breaks. Wheels screaming in protest, the Fiat 
veered sharply to the left, smashing into roadside shrubbery until 
finally coming to a stop when it struck a wooden signpost, which 
slowly toppled until finally hitting the ground with a loud crash. 
Groaning, and his head hurting even worse than before, DeMontfort 
struggled to open the passenger door, which proved to be stuck. 
After a few futile attempts at hitting it with his shoulder, he was 
unceremoniously pulled out through the window by Levit. Raymond 
was inspecting the damage. 


"Well, we ain't going any further with this one, that's for sure. Nice 
going, Brickjaw." 


"S'not my fault. Couldn't well hit that chicken, now could |?" 
"Better it than us, surely?" 


"| dunno, | can't really think of any advantage you have over a good 
bird, Ray." 


Raymond opened his mouth to reply, when the expression on 
DeMontfort's face made him close it again. In his time in Project 
Malleus Raymond heard many horror stories, and witnessed a few 
himself, but nothing scared him nearly as much as the look. Hell 
hath no fury like that of a jet-lagged, pissed off nicotine addict on 
withdrawal. He was about to apologize, when Levit nearly brained 
him while attempting to straighten the fallen signpost. Apology 
forgotten, he turned to give the huge man a piece of his mind, when 
he noticed what was written on the sign. It seemed DeMontfort 
noticed as well, as his sharp face showed an emotion other than 
annoyance for the first time in days. 


"Looks like we're here." 
"See, Brickjaw, | told you it was to the left!" 
"Shut up, Raymond." 


"Both of you shut up. Raymond, run ahead to let them know we're 
here. Lieutenant, get the crate from the car, we'll be taking it with 
us." 


Raymond nodded and began tracking up the dirt road the broken 
sign was pointing to. Levit watched him go, then turned and lifted the 
crate on one shoulder. 


"What's in there anyway, chief?" 


"A few items that might prove useful sometime in the future, nothing 
major." 


"S'pretty heavy for something not major." 


DeMontfort gave Levit a pointed look, then the two started after 
Raymond, their backs to the golden rays of the setting sun. "Well, 
that's what | have you for." 


"Huh. Not quite what | was expecting, chief." 


"| said it was a school, Lieutenant." 


"Well, yeah, but you never mentioned it was so...er..." 
"Feminine?" 
"That's one word for it." 


As the two men were strolled into the school's foyer, their eyes were 
assaulted with a veritable barrage of all things fluffy, pink, and above 
all, girly. Levit almost dropped his crate on his toes as a group of 
schoolgirls, no older than eight, began circling around him like an 
inquisitive pack of giggling piranhas. They were gone a moment 
later, scampering down an adjacent corridor now pursued by a 
haggard looking nun. 


"| thought this was suppose to be a Catholic school." 


"Unless that was a particular tired penguin, Lieutenant, I'd hazard 
the guess that it is." 


"But it's so...cheerful. | thought these sort of places were all iron 
discipline and rulers." 


"The Mother Superior of the school has a different approach to 
education. Rulers don't feature very heavily. Or any sort of 
discipline, for that matter." 


Walking beneath a severe depiction of Jesus on the cross which 
seemed rather out of place amidst the crayon drawings and floral 
arrangements which surrounded it, the two man spotted a bemused- 
looking Brother Raymond, holding what appeared to be a large slice 
of chocolate cake. Seeing them, Raymond tried to wave, forgot that 
he was holding the cake, and dropped it on his shoes. 


"Sir, Mother Superior says she'll see you in the garden, if you'd be 
so kind as to meet her there." 


"Is that what she said?" 
"Er, not in so many words." 


"And in so many words?" 


"Um. 'l'm having my smoke. If the pup wants to yap at me, he can 
damn well find me himself.’ Unusual language for a nun, if | can so 
bold as to comment. She did give me this cake though." 


To Raymond's surprise, the Director smiled at that. "Very good. 
Raymond, take Levit and find the wine cellar. | want that crate stored 
there. After that, busy yourself until | return. | shouldn't be long. Oh, 
and clean your boots." 


"A wine cellar in a Catholic school, Sir?" 


"Don't you doubt it." 


DeMontfort replaced the handle of his old dial phone and shivered. 
He'd been expecting this day for months now, but that didn't make 
its arrival any easier to bear. More than thirteen years of work, all 
gone in a moment, and the worst part was, he didn't have anyone to 
blame for it but himself. He'd let zeal conquer his better judgment, 
and now came the time to pay the price. Rising from his high-backed 
chair, he strode to the narrow window of what would soon no longer 
be his office. An early summer's thunderstorm has recently passed, 
and the city was washed with the soft, golden light. It smelt of rain. 


"Good afternoon, Mother Superior." 


DeMontfort was standing in a shaded corner of the school's wide, 
well-kept gardens. In front of him, sitting at the base of an old olive 
tree, was a woman that made the tree seem young. Her face was a 
leathery deep-farrowed map of wrinkles, laugh lines and scars, 
made all the more obvious by the huge grin on them. 


"Why, looky here. If it isn't little Henry the pup. Nice of you to take a 
break from your busy burning schedule just to see your old gran." 


"That would have made more sense if you were my grandmother." 
"Well | can hardly be that, can |? I'm a bloody nun! Daft boy." 


Looking around to see no one else was around, DeMontfort 
shimmied down to sit next to the old woman. "I missed you, Mother 


Ursula." 


"Aye, | Know you have. It's good to see you, my boy. Even if you are 
an idiot." 


"Not enough of one to come without tribute." Searching through his 
pockets, DeMontfort pulled a neatly rolled cigar, relieved to see it 
survived the journey intact. 


"Ah, you did always know how to woo a lady. Gimme." Lighting it, 
the old woman gave the cigar a contented puff, then settled down 
further between the tree's gnarled roots. "So, what's your angle?" 


"Can't a man pay an innocent visit to his favorite," he searched for a 
word, "old mentor?" 


"A man can. Henry 'the Weasel’ DeMontfort can't. And don't call me 
old, I'm just seasoned." 


"Hardly anyone calls me that anymore." 
"Well, they're afraid you'd burn them, | suspect. What's your angle?" 


Grimacing, DeMontfort reached for his own smokes. "| came to ask 
for your assistance, Mother Ursula. Your connections, to be 
precise." 


"| suspect this has something to do with your upcoming booting, 
eh?" 


This caught him off-guard. "How did you know?" 


"You come to me for my connection, and you're surprised | know 
things? Silly. That, and | spoke to my brother recently. Bernard could 
never keep that mouth of his shut." 


"To be fair, you're not an easy woman to keep a secret from, not 
even if you're a member of the Tribunal." 


The old woman cackled, a sound DeMontfort was very familiar with. 
"He's been my little brother for a long, long time, my boy. Wouldn't 
be much of a big sister if | didn't know how to give him a proper 


shake. So, what do you need?" 


"A safe place to keep some relics, first among them Samson's 
Locks. | suspect | won't be holding to my position for much longer, 
and, as much as it pains me to say it, | don't trust most of my men 
with these particular artifacts. They've proven to be... indiscreet, 
lately. " 


"You're one to talk." 


Ignoring the remark, DeMontfort continued. "I've stored some less 
sensitive equipment here already, in our usual place. | trust it won't 
be found. The relics, however, are a different matter. | need 
someplace no one but us could ever find them." 


"So it's not just your men you want to hide the relics from, eh? It's 
my brother and his companions too. You're betraying the Initiative." 


"I'm not, | promise you." He shifted uneasily, cigarette dropping from 
his mouth. "Ursula, there's something foul in the air. | can't explain it, 
but something tells me that there will be a desperate need for these 
relics soon, and that even the Tribunal cannot be trusted with them 
until that need is fulfilled." 


"Something tells you? Or do you mean Someone?" 


"|...1 don't know what | mean. Not anymore. I've fallen far, Mother. 
I've become something | used to hate." 


"Well, you can always-" 


"No, you don't understand. | became what | am because that was 
what | needed to be. What He needed me to be. What | feel about it 
is irrelevant. It's simply another test of my faith. Please, Mother. | 
need you to trust me." 


Slowly, the old woman nodded. "| know a man. Never met a harder 
one to find, if he don't want to be found. You won't like him, though." 


The garden became deathly quiet as Ursula explained the details. 
DeMontfort's headache returned with a vengeance, leading a host of 
its kin to storm the last of his patience. 


"You want me to entrust some of the Initiative's most powerful 
artifacts... to him?" 


"You did say you wanted someone who couldn't be found, right? 
Someone who could deliver the relics to you when they are 
needed?" 


"But the man is a lunatic, and a heretic besides! What's to keep him 
from selling the relics, or using them for himself, or doing heaven 
knows what with them once he gets his hands on them?" 


"Don't you worry about him, he owes me one. Not to mention, | have 
some dirt on him. Nasty stuff." 


Despite himself, DeMontfort was curious. "How did you get dirt on 
Saturn Deer?" 


The old woman gave him a crafty look. "| wasn't always a nun, you 
know. Well, what do you say?" 


"Are you sure you can keep him in line?" 
"Positive. Was never as smart as he thought he was, that one." 
"| guess | have no real choice then, now do |?" 


"That's the road you choose for yourself, my boy. There's always a 
choice." 


DeMontfort nodded. 

The phone rang again. Reluctantly drawing himself from the window, 
DeMontfort answered. 

"This is DeMontfort." 

"Henry. It's Salah." 


« The Horizon Blues | Hub | 


The Written God 


Roger Legrand crumpled up the fifth text-filled sheet and rocketed it 
towards the wastebin. 


"Why can't | fucking write today?" 


He bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his hair, resting 
his elbow on top of dozens of discarded brainstorming sheets 
covered with half-formed ideas. 


"What's happening to me? Goddammit, goddammit! | just want to 
write like how | used to." He glanced up at the bookcase in his 
study, the top row completely filled with his novels. 


Frustrated, he grabbed a random piece of paper and began writing 
again. 


"And then the great goddamn Reggravi, the fucking master of 
language | just pulled out of my ass, appeared to Roger Legrand 
and struck him with awe and inspiration. He became his muse! His 
inspiration! His path to better things in this goddamn pitiful existence 
of frustration!!!!" 


"Fuck it all, fuck it all!" He ripped the sheet to shreds and tossed it 
over his shoulder before folding his arms and laying his head down 
on his desk. He stayed like this for a few moments before becoming 
aware of... something watching him. Slowly, he turned to look 
behind him. A tall man-like figure stood there, a featureless face 
visible under its hood and dressed in several heavy layers of a 
coarse, brown fiber. It said nothing, it simply stood there with its 
head angled down towards Roger. 


"Who the hell are you?" he demanded. 


The figure remained silent. 


SCP-637: Viral Cat 


Item #: SCP-637 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: When inactive, SCP-637 is 
contained entirely within the consciousness of SCP-637-2. 
SCP-637-2 is to be held at Site 17 in a low-security room. Anything it 
requests is to be given, as long as it does not violate standard 
procedure. However, any requests for pencils, pens, sketchpads, or 
any marking implement, are to be denied and reported to Dr. 

. (The issue has been raised that if SCP-637-2 wanted 
marking devices, it could use a fluid such as blood or urine, but the 
subject has not displayed a marked interest in drawing. It is agreed, 
however, that it is wise not to tempt fate.) Subject is to be fed 3 
times per day and whenever it requests food. 


Description: SCP-637-2 is an elderly Caucasian woman of 
approximately sixty-five (65) years of age, who calls herself 
“Margie”. “Margie” has been described by staff as “polite and old 
lady-ish, if a little confused". She spends much of her time in a semi- 
catatonic state with occasional lapses of lucidity. SCP-637-2 is the 
host of SCP-637, a psychic organism which subsists entirely in 
SCP-637-2’s mind. SCP-637 is described by its host as “a little black 
cat, skinny fellow, real easy-going”. Although the creature normally 
resides in a “blank space” in a subject’s mind, it is capable of 
residing for several minutes as a drawn item on paper, wood, or 
other substance. If any sapient organism not previously carrying 
SCP-637 sees the reproduction, the image will vanish, and SCP-637 
will take up residence in the new subject's mind. 


Based on information gathered from SCP-637-2 and D-67308 (see 
Document 637-A), the organism behaves exactly as a normal cat, 
and its host is always capable of describing what it is currently doing 
and where it is within their head. SCP-637-2 shows affection for the 
theoretical creature. 


"How did you get in here?"