The next one to experience this strange lack of all things strange 
was D-682-1356, though he couldn't quite appreciate the magnitude 
of the occasion. He didn't know he was supposed to be the bait in 
what most assumed would be just another futile attempt in an 
endless series of failures. D-682-1356 also didn't quite know what to 
feel when he entered the armored vault to discover nothing more 
than a badly mangled skeleton when the acid bath was stopped. 
"So, what do you guys want me to do with that? Do you have a bone 
to pick with me or something? Heh." 


The joke was lost on the assembled researchers, who now had 
more important things to worry about than D-682-1356's poor sense 
of humor. 


So began the end. When SCP-294 was prompted to produce a cup 
of Joe, it made a serviceable cup of cappuccino, which utterly failed 


to contain any D-class flavoring. In SCP-1981, Ronald Reagan 
spoke only of evil empires and managed to keep a perfect 
complexion throughout his speech. SCP-902 was opened and 
discovered to be empty, and no one could quite remember why they 
feared it so much in the first place. SCP-076 was found to be 
similarly empty, though no one forgot what scared them about it. 


When SCP-1867 was asked if it realized it was a slug, it didn't think 
for a second to object, since it very clearly was. Besides, it didn't 
understand the question. SCP-085 was gone from its canvas, and 
its inky plains and fields felt bare and empty without the presence of 
the young woman who once inhabited them. They found the clothes 
which once belonged to SCP-1440 near the top of Mount Everest. 
Next to them, a single word was written in the snow. "Free". 


Around the world, the echos of the end became seismic shocks, and 
no one was spared from their influence: 


The Church of the Broken God was wiped off the face of the earth. It 
isn't easy to maintain a working religious organization when all of 
your artifacts crumble to dust, and it's even more difficult to do so 
when half of those artifacts are inside your head. 


Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd, having lost most of their stock and 
shortly after most of their members, soon faded into obscurity. Their 
once busy clubhouse, a hub for all things mysterious and expensive, 
became a place for elderly gentlemen to read the Sunday paper in 
peace and doze in comfortable leather chairs. 


The Global Occult Coalition, after it became clear that the threats it 
was created to thwart were gone, was soon disbanded. The budget 
once dedicated to fighting the forces of the unknown was allocated 
to some of humanity's more mundane needs, such as the prevention 
of global warming and the development of more advanced nuclear 
weapons. 


No word was heard from Doctor Wondertainment for a long time. A 
year after the end, a new line of Doctor Wondertainment toys was 
released. While "Doctor Wondertainment's Shooty Man's 
Vengeance" was a perfectly decent game, it was clear his/her heart 
wasn't in it. 


When Foundation agents arrived at the current supposed location of 
the Factory, they found nothing more than an ordinary canned 
vegetable factory. The capital F was clearly no longer needed. 


The Serpent's Hand lost a considerable number of its members, and 
with no cause to rally behind, was destroyed by the Chaos 
Insurgency. The Insurgency itself soon tore itself asunder like a mad 
dog biting at its own innards. Very few were left to be caught and 
executed by the Foundation. 


The members of Are We Cool Yet never did become cool. 
Nobody was never heard from again. 


The Unusual Incident Unit continued chasing flying saucers and 
reports of Bigfoot (this time entirely unrelated to SCP-1000). Its 
agents didn't really notice. 


The Foundation, as resilient as ever, was the last one standing. As 
the years passed, however, the reasons for its continued existence 
grew fewer and fewer. With all things anomalous gone, the 
Foundation had lost its purpose. Site after site was closed down, 
personnel were let go or, in the case of the few remaining D-class, 
terminated. Soon, only one part of the organization remained. 


It was the last meeting of the O5 council. There were no heartfelt 
speeches or commemorative plaques, because even at its end, the 
O5 council was a serious body of men and women who didn't muck 
about with nonsense. Instead, there were a few handshakes, a few 
quiet words, and mostly a whole lot of silence. Finally, one at a time, 
the former members began to leave, until only two were left. 


"So, that's that, | suppose,” said O5-04, rolling a cigarette. Smoking 
wasn't allowed in the boardroom, but there was no one left to object. 


"Is... is this it? Everything we worked for, all of our sacrifices... just 
worthless?" asked O5-11, staring glumly at the floor. 


"Now, | wouldn't say that. We kept the peace while we were needed, 
and we did so as best we could. We're simply not needed anymore." 


"Shouldn't | be happy? All of those terrible things we kept locked in 


are gone, after all. Humanity is finally safe." 
"From everything but itself, yes." 


"Then why do | feel like some toy, used and abused then discarded 
when it is no longer useful?" 


"It's just the way things are. We were the jailers, the wardens 
holding back the storm. Now, all of our prisoners are gone. There's 
no need for wardens in quiet days. C'mon, let me buy you a drink." 


"Yeah. A drink would be nice. Or ten." 
"Hey, I'm not made of money, you know." 


The two left, and closed the door behind them. 


Dr. spends 20 minutes trying to talk Agent out 
of SCP-919's range before calling a security team. 


Dr. : , come on. We've got work to do. Don't 
make— 


It is at this point that Agent — draws his firearm and 
points it at Dr. 


Agent _ : You're not going to kill him! 


The sound of gunfire is heard, resulting in the death of 
Agent = and the wounding of one member of the 
security team. 


SCP-919: NO!! Why did you kill him!? He was just trying 
to protect me! But... but you don't need him, right? Why 


are you taking him away? No! He's dead! You don't need 
him anymore! DON'T!! 


SCP-919 responds as it normally does to the removal of 
the subject. 


<End Log> 
(End of Transcription) 


« SCP-918 | SCP-919 | SCP-920 » 


Quota 


Jenkins started as he always did, with the heart. He took it in his 
gloved hands and turned to the small safe, already open. Gently he 
placed it inside and closed the door. 


Second, of course was the brain. Padded clamps lifted it out of the 
sawed off portion of the skull and after a few quick snips Jenkins 
took it over to the safe and spun the combination dial on the far right 
up one digit. The safe opened. He placed the brain in the empty 
compartment and shut it away. 


With the skull empty the eyes could be removed easily, preserving 
connection to the optic nerve. This one had piercing green eyes. 
Jenkins almost wanted to keep them out for a while, before they 
dilated fully. But he was not one to tamper with an established 
routine. 0000334 for the left. 0000335 for the right. 


Then the ventral cavity was emptied, alphabetically, except for the 
troublesome pancreas of course. When that was done and all the 
organs had been secured in the little safe it was time for the real 
work with the bone saw to begin. He hated the sound of a bone saw 
in action and there was always so much to be done with it when the 
time came. 


Before he began, Jenkins looked at the safe, then went over and 
spun the two dials on the right back to 0000334. A single green eye 
caught the light and he smiled. You have to be able to appreciate 
the little things. He gathered it in his medical glove, shut the door 
and thumbed the dial, revealing the other eye. He put them beside 
each other and admired them again, though he knew it couldn't last. 
He had to put them away before the corneas wrinkled. 


Later, as he began to put the parts away, Jenkins realized that 
everything he'd put in the safe last month was gone. Usually he had 
to dispose of a dozen or so unused organs and whatnot. Well, the 
Doctor must be having a field day lately. He turned back to the 


dismembered corpse, an expert by now in using one hand for the 
bloody thing, one for the combination. 


The very last thing were the feet, and Jenkins sighed with relief 
when they were each stowed in their own compartment, knowing 
this might be the last time he'd have to do this. He was up for a 
promotion and anything had to be better than doing this every 
month. 


Two hours later and five thousand miles away, an examination was 
concluding. 


"Well Doctor?" 


"It appears you were right to call. You'll need a transplant right 
away." The doctor went over to a small safe, turned the dials on it 
until it opened. "Good. Mister Jenkins has fulfilled his quota right on 
time. We can begin immediately." he said. 


Tales R 


Ra'ash The Cosmic Hound 


Agent Hawthorne awoke to the sounds of chaos and death. 


He had heard them before. Afghanistan. Iraq. Places and moments 
he had desperately tried to purge from his memory, yet always crept 
their way back into his mind. He remembered the deafening chatter 
of an assault rifle, the anguish of men sent to early deaths because 
they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Agent Hawthorne 
had seen more than any man should ever see. 


He was about to see more. 


"Containment Breach in progress," bellowed a speaker fixed to a 
wall. It was the fifth broadcast of the afternoon - he couldn't exactly 
recall when they began, but it had been at least twenty minutes now. 
Hawthorne shook himself out of his nostalgia, grabbed the rifle off 
his rack, and burst down the door to find a seemingly endless trail of 
blood coating the walls. Gunfire screamed from around each corner, 
security forces desperately trying to contain what had just murdered 
dozens of their former friends and coworkers. 


Contain what? He thought to himself. 


"Echo-4, come in, over." A familiar voice rang through his radio. 
Central Command. 


"Receiving." Hawthorne's voice was gruff; stained by the cost of 
endless conflict. 


"SCP-6901 is three hundred feet from your location. Link up with 
Bravo-9 and Bravo-10 for recontainment." 


Three hundred feet? He glanced down an adjacent hallway, 
catching a security officer's boot as it turned the corner. 


"Possible visual on Bravo-10, over. No sign of Bravo-9." He took a 


moment to catch his breath. 
"Copy that. Proceed as ordered." 


He did so with particular apprehension, awaiting the same fate that 
had fallen upon countless other officers each time he found himself 
in a new hallway. Finally, something changed - a young man, no 
older than 30, sat with his arms clutching a rifle as he shook 
uncontrollably against a wall. 


"We need to get the fuck out of here!" Hawthorne could hear the 
terror in his voice. His fingers fell to his radio once more. 


"Command, positive ID on Bravo-10." He removed his finger. 
"Where's 9, kid?" 


"All over the goddamn place." 


As if on cue, Hawthorne pivoted his head, finding blood and body 
parts staining the walls. Bravo-9 was nothing anymore; a callsign 
and a collection of physical evidence from a man who once had a 
family. A wife. Children. 


Hawthorne grabbed the kid's hand and lifted him to his feet, an 
action that seemed to snap him back to reality somewhat. He 
cleared the chamber of his rifle and removed a fresh magazine from 
his backpack, jamming it into the belly of his M4 with particular 
aggression. After several heavy breaths, Bravo-10 cleared his throat 
and did his best to speak clearly. 


"It was going down there." He gestured towards the end of the 
hallway. "I think we can get it if we lure it.” 


"| don't even know what it /s, man." Hawthorne was telling the truth. 


"Neither do |." The kid stepped forward. "Now let's go. Before this 
gets worse." 


He had to give him some credit - the fear was gone, replaced only 
with vengeance. Hawthorne dusted some dirt off the barrel of his 
rifle and followed Bravo-10 as he began his march towards the 
screaming. They didn't need to wait long. 


The two men kicked open the door to a weapons cache, allowing the 
bodies to distract them for a few seconds. Standing a few feet in 
front of them was a black, faceless creature, idly ripping limbs from 
the corpse of a security officer and chewing them contently. It didn't 
seem to notice them, but Hawthorne was mentally preparing himself 
for when it did. It sniffed the air for a moment, its snout covered in 
glistening crimson before returning to its meal. 


"Jesus fucking Christ," Hawthorne mouthed. The kid made hand 
gestures - military signals. Hawthorne got the gist. He gently raised 
his rifle to face the creature before delicately caressing the trigger 
with his index finger, waiting for the inevitable. Bravo-10 followed 
suit, shifting his weight to accommodate a combat stance. The noise 
was too much. It finally turned to face them, motionless and staring 
with a cosmic malice. The panic was enough to make Bravo-10 
contract nearly every muscle in his body, his finger snapping the 
trigger back as he recoiled. 


Hawthorne recalled misunderstanding guns. Movies didn't serve 
them justice - they were incomprehensibly, almost impossibly loud. 
The cracks of the M4 were enough to deafen him, yet he held 
composure long enough to open fire and strike several rounds into 
the chest of the alien. It strained its vocal chords in an other-worldly 
scream, raising its arms in an attempt to deflect the onslaught of 
searing lead. 


"Keep it suppressed!" Hawthorne ordered. The kid took a moment to 
reload, the creature still recovering from 60 rounds implanted 
directly into its chest. Hawthorne seized the moment and quickly 
relocated to its left side, reloading and continuing to fire in one 
continuous motion. 


It wasn't enough. 


An arm protruded from the black mass, grasping Bravo-10 by his 
throat and instantly breaking through the suppression. It dangled 
him above the ground for a moment, gazing upon him like was a toy, 
before nearly-instantly extending its arm and sending him crashing 
through a thin concrete wall. The force was enough to break every 
bone in his body instantaneously, and Hawthorne felt a twinge of 
anger as his eyes drifted to the sputtering, convulsing man as he lay 


on the floor. A second arm extended towards him as he dove to the 
ground, firing upwards at SCP-6901 without once lifting his finger 
from the trigger. The appendage grazed his head, but his hands did 
not fail him. 


His arms began to give out from the recoil as reality began to fade 
into shades of monochrome gray. Agent Hawthorne recalled 
watching the creature collapse to the ground before finally lying still, 
his eyes drifting towards the body of Bravo-10 as he faded into 
unconsciousness. Alarms continued to blare in the background as 
the familiar clattering of boots on a marble floor became louder and 
more intense. 


"Where is it?" 


Hawthorne awoke to a grizzled, chubby man gazing upon him from 
above. Every fiber of his being ached in agony. 


"Where is what?" 
"SCP-6901. Where is it?" 


Snapshots of the confrontation flooded his mind. The gunfire. The 
creature. Bravo-10. 


"Bravo-10 is KIA." 


"What?" The man's nametag read O'Connor. Hawthorne recalled 
reading that on a report filed long ago. 


"The kid's dead. It killed him." 


O'Connor didn't issue a response. Instead, he looked over to an 
adjacent operating table, a man in a military uniform and face-mask 
lying upon it. 


"Yeah, we know." His tone implied understanding. "And I'm sorry. 
Truly. But our priority right now is recontaining-" 


"Just give me a fucking minute." He unsteadily rose to a sitting 
position, hands clutching the side of the table. A deafening, piercing 


ringing screamed at him internally.