Still, until the Bottleship was completed, she'd be spending her time 
with the other non-engineering members of the Trilobites refreshing 
and retraining her underwater skills. It'd been a while since she'd 
used a harpoon, and the ones they'd be using were rather more 
powerful than what she'd originally trained with. She wasn't looking 
forward to encountering the larger inhabitants of the zone. 


At the heart of it all is what | think of as the Queen. Not in the sense 
of a great mother or a ruler, but rather like the rat-kings of old: the 
maddened result of too many creatures knotted together in too small 
a space until a great horrible vastness forms. In the nature of 
dreams, it is all-encompassing, surrounding without and within like 
the fabric of reality itself, while its single form lays in front of me, 
lazily gliding around me on its finwings. 


Even including the usual construction delays and last-minute 
mission tweaks, Project Bottleship was completed within a 
reasonable amount of time. It was a testament to the dedication of 
the Foundation construction crews that a 50-meter-long submarine 
could be constructed in free ocean while surrounded by a school of 
herring in constant motion. The Trilobite was a pride of engineering, 


and well up to the task set before it. 


It was midday when the last of the crew finally boarded their new 
home and the exploration mission finally officially began. Agent Ortiz 
heard a thin cheer as the captain announced that they were 
descending, and wondered what green researcher thought that any 
exploration assignment was a good excitement. She, like all field 
agents, knew that the best assignments were boring, and sincerely 
hoped that this one would be so dull that she'd be begging to 
surface just so she could see some unfamiliar faces. 


This is the point where you'd expect me to say something dramatic 
like | startle awake, sitting straight up in bed, soaked in a cold sweat. 
But that doesn't happen. 


Or that the Queen whispers dark secrets into my mind that promise 
to drag me into an enlightened insanity. But that doesn't happen. 


What happens is that it flicker-flutters off, utterly uninterested in one 
not of its kingdom or kind. And then the dream resumes a more 
normal surreality, leading to random sparkings and images as my 
mind resumes its nightly housecleaning. 


The submarine moved slowly through the school, as visibility was 
essentially nil due to the fish, and sonar was little better due to the 
same interference. The last thing that the crew wanted was the 
ignomity of crashing into an unexpected seafloor or undersea 
mountain. The slow pace suited some of the more excitable 
ichthyologists just fine, though, as it gave them a chance to get as 
much footage of the fish they passed as possible. 


The first few kilometers were interesting, as the herring veered 
around the intruder into their realm, slowly changing in subtle ways 
into new variations of the base species. The novelty rapidly wore off, 
though, and the next few tens of kilometers quickly subsided into a 
nice boredom. The scientists still noted the slow progression of 
changes, but a subtle coloration change or slightly different fin 
shape were less entertaining than before. 


There was a burst of interest at the end of the first day, when the 
ship officially passed the previously established point of furthest 
exploration and they entered truly uncharted territory. 


The schools of herring that they'd been passing through started to 
thin as the fish diverged into more and more radically different body 
plans and sizes, building into a new, self-contained piscine 
ecosystem. After a few days, they had thinned enough that the 
sonar was able to function more or less unimpeded. This was less of 
a blessing than expected, given that they still couldn't ping a bottom. 


But | still remember the dreams and the intersection that is the 
Queen. A great fish large enough to swallow the sea, yet the size of 
the humblest buzzing bee, emblazzoned in shimmering colors of 
indifference. | know that it waits, deep within a school and opened 
by acomb. It waits, for it has world enough and time to wait. 


After a week more of exploring the widths and depths of the schools, 
the weapons officers had already had to spear several large fish 
which had been getting aggressive with the ship, including one 
almost 10 meters long. But no significant damage had been done 
before the aggressors were either killed or driven off, so the captain 
and lead researcher decided to dive until a bottom was found, or 
until they reached the limit at which they wouldn't have enough fuel 
to return. 


Deeper and deeper the Trilobite sank, discovering a strange 
occurrence: the schools of fish began to get denser again, only this 
time they were composed of larger and larger fish. They seemed to 
accept the submarine as one of their own, though, and the number 
of attacks dwindled to nothing. But an air of expectancy permeated 
the ship as the crew subconsciously felt a sense of impending... 
something. Maybe doom, maybe salvation, maybe just a threshold. 


The appearance of the mountain peak should have been a relief, but 
just increased the feeling of trepidation. It was roughly triangular 
from above, with a tip blunted by water and seemingly scalloped 
trailing slopes. And it extended even farther downwards, past the 
lower limit at which the intervening fish created a confused sonar 


without actually changing their effective size. This allows living 
organisms that pass through SCP-786 to survive without apparent 
harm in their reduced or enlarged state. This includes human test 
subjects, who exhibit no adverse health effects and have no 
detectable degradation of mental capacity despite the significant 
reduction in brain size. The object itself appears to have been 
increased in size by a factor of 12 but it is not known how this 
occurred; there does not seem to be any way for the funnel to pass 
through itself. 


Due to the size constraints of the large and small ends, nothing 
larger than 1.14 meters in diameter can be reduced using SCP-786 
and nothing larger than 9.5 cm in diameter can be enlarged. It is not 
recommended that objects be passed through SCP-786 in the same 
direction more than once, especially not living objects, as this has 
resulted in [REDACTED]. 


SCP-786 was discovered in the basement level of a parking 
structure that had been closed when the retail mall it served had 
gone out of business four months prior. A careful sweep of the 
structure uncovered the crushed remains of a Honda 1989 CB-1 
CB400F motorcycle that had been miniaturized to 1/12 of its normal 
size. The motorcycle was traced to Mr. James __, who had last 
been seen two nights prior and who could not be located. It is not 
known how Mr. came into possession of SCP-786, why he 
apparently chose to ride his motorcycle through it, or what ultimately 
became of him. 


SCP-786 has previously caused an incident with [DATA 
EXPUNGED] cockroaches that must not be repeated. 


« SCP-785 | SCP-786 | SCP-787 » 


signature too dense to read past. 


It wasn't until they were a few hundred meters from the mountain's 
side that it suddenly flexed and the Trilobite was roughly shoved 
away by the massive wall of water. The next few minutes were a 
confusion of alarms and rolling and jumbled feelings of both despair 
and relief as the tense atmosphere finally released. The relief was 
short-lived, however, as the massively broad and scaled body to 
which the mountain was attached rose up to meet the fragile ship. 


And when the men in their armor and the women with their pots 
finally come upon it, it will move and it will lead and it will feed. 


INTERNAL MEMO 


ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE 
L-4/850, L-4/883 


DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE 


re: SCP cross-contamination 


All personnel with clearance to read this memorandum 
have been provided clearance to read the summary 
dossiers for SCP-850 and SCP-883. Please review these 
dossiers prior to continuing to read this memo. 


On 2000-12-12, the Foundation lost contact with the 
deep sea exploratory mission into SCP-850, codename 
"Trilobite". Among the personnel aboard was Agent 
Patricia Ortiz, formerly a member of MTF n-5, which had 
been assigned to SCP-883 prior to its dissolution. 


On 2001-03-01, members of MTF C-9 discovered Agent 
Ortiz in SCP-883, 7.3 kilometers from the entrance to 
SCP-883. She was found unconscious in a fetal position, 
covered with approximately 1700 insects with known 
high levels of aggression, none of which had stung her. 
Agent Ortiz was retrieved and placed in a quarantine unit 


and has not yet regained consciousness. 


Please provide a list of information you wish Agent Ortiz 
to provide once she has awakened. Relevant questions 
will be compiled and incorporated into her debriefing and 
a full, un-redacted transcript will be provided to lead 
researchers. 


And it hungers still. 


Anniversary 


He walked - or maybe glided, for if anyone could see him they would 
say his feet did not touch the ground - through the sterile concrete 
halls of what they had labelled Site-19. They couldn't see him, of 
course. For all their supposed security and expertise, the so-called 
Foundation knew so very little about so very much. Anyone looking 
at him might experience a cold sensation or perhaps a slight feeling 
of nausea, and if they were actually good at their job they might 
report the sensation and trigger a security alert. That had happened 
once or twice; he was no more infallible than the Foundation. But it 
was rare, and he wasn't concerned. 


Today was a special day; the anniversary of the construction of his 
favourite creation. And so, he had decided to pay it a visit. It wasn't 
his only creation, of course. One of the first was a statue of a naked 
woman with no face which, when looked upon, prevented you from 
looking away. Effective, but crude. The removal of choice from the 
observer made it one of his least favourite pieces of work, but it 
gave him an appreciation of statues as a medium. What better way 
to convey the human form. 


Following that were a number of pieces he had long since destroyed 
for being too flashy; idols that demanded attention through colourful 
effects and loud sounds. He ultimately found those more crude than 
the naked woman, a toddler screaming for attention rather than 
attention given willingly. 


And so came his prized piece. The perfect piece of art. No 
compulsions, no gaudy effects, just the pure representation of the 
human condition. Endlessly demanding of attention, and savagely 
violent when ignored, producing nothing but waste. Even the 
instructions he had given it were elegant in their simplicity; don't 
move when observed and, if no one is observing, then kill. He could 
have it do anything - the rules were arbitrary, like rules tend to be - 
but anything more would corrupt the work. 


He'd made other pieces since, of course. Some might say they are 
better, more advanced, possessing of more meaning. As if art 
requires meaning. Manipulating reality to imply one thing or other, to 
send some message or make some kind of statement. Childish 
tantrums thrown by the immature still so convinced of their own 
importance that they can't bare the thought of someone disagreeing 
with their views. 


Art exists simply to exist, just as his prized work did. The Foundation 
named it SCP-173, terrible bores that they are. He'd never named it 
himself. He approached the room in which they kept it, locked away 
from prying eyes. There were rare moments when he didn't blame 
them for locking it up. Ignorant as they were, how could they see 
anything but an engine of destruction. Had they ever truly looked at 
it, he wondered. Were they even capable of seeing it as art? He had 
his doubts. 


He entered the "containment" chamber - as if art could ever truly be 
contained - without issue. Trivialities such as doors and walls had 
long since stopped being concerns for him. And there it was, slowly 
walking around the edge of the room, surrounded by the only things 
humans truly had to offer; blood and shit. 


"Hello," he said out loud. 


The statue froze, and then slowly turned to the source of the voice. It 
wasn't capable of expression, but had it been he liked to believe its 
face would be showing surprise. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that it 
even possessed any true intellect; he found that keeping that a 
mystery even from himself enhanced the work, made it a truer 
representation. 


"It is good to see that you are well." 


That was true; he'd half expected to find it smashed to rubble. It 
wouldn't have been difficult, were the Foundation inclined to do so. 
That was some small point in their favour, he supposed, though he 
doubted they did it for the preservation of art. 


The statue approached him, slowly, as if hesitant. As if it couldn't 
believe what it was seeing before it. It reached an arm outwards, 


and he took it. It was a slightly awkward gesture, as he hadn't give it 
hands. The stone of its body was cold to the touch, but he held it for 
a few seconds before releasing it, a small gesture for an old friend. 
Or perhaps it saw him more like a father-figure - again, he didn't 
know. That thought gave him a slight pause. Perhaps his creation 
truly was intelligent, and felt abandoned by the only being in 
existence to show it anything other than fear. 


Was it sad? Angry? Did it possess any emotion at all? Perhaps it 
was pleased, pleased that it had been remembered after all this 
time. More uncertainties. The one thing he was sure of was that it 
could hear him. 


"lam proud of you, my creation. You have surpassed anything | 
could have ever hoped for." 


The statue seemed to stand a little straighter, if that was possible. 
Perhaps he just imagined it. Again, he was not infallible, and was 
not immune to seeing things in his own work. 


He remained for a while, admiring the piece. Part of him was sad 
that he couldn't bring it with him. But that would draw too much 
attention. 


"It was good to see you. | must leave now, though. The Foundation 
drones will be along shortly to clean your room." 


He raised his hand to its face briefly, before turning and heading to 
leave the room. A thought occurred to him before he left; he paused 
and turned back to it. 


"Why don't we play a little game, just this once. They usually send in 
three people, yes?" 


A vague movement, as close as it could manage to a nod. 

He wasn't sure if it would still respond to different instructions; it had 
been so long, the ones it had might have become ingrained into it. 
But hey, it was worth a try. 


"Well, just this one time, if even one of them is disrespectful enough 
to look away, you may do as you wish. Even if the others are still 


looking." 


The statue resumed its pacing, slightly faster than before, as if 
excited. He smiled to himself as he walked through the door and left 
the Foundation to their work. 


Annon 


Warning: If you enjoyed the way Ecce Perago ended, then read 
no further. If you enjoy the thought of a grimdark Foundation, 
or have a low tolerance for quirkiness, this may not be the story 
you want to be reading. If, on the other hand, you'd like to see 
the New Administrator get what he has coming to him, then, 
read on. 


Fifteen minutes was all it had taken. In fifteen minutes, the world had 
changed, even if no one had noticed. The Administrator looked upon 
his work, and was proud. His seniors had always disliked his ideas. 
They all believed that free will was some grand idea. Only the 
Administrator knew that people were stupid. They needed to be led, 
to be guided. He was the one to do it now, with all this power at his 
fingertips.