A robed creature, viscous fluids leaking from burlap sacks and 
bundles in its hands. The Feastlings, hungrily drinking from the fetid 
pools it left behind it as it paced along a ruined concrete corridor. 
No, one of carved stone. Ivory. Oak. Metal. Always moving towards 
the girl with her face covered, in a hundred different guises. 


Some things never change. Others, change too much. The memory 
of amemory is enough to leave a sea of corpses behind it, and he is 
nothing so vague. Once the Maws are opened again, there will be 
no turning back. Be true. 


This wasn't enough! He had to get to the bottom of this, even if it 


would kill him! Another pool, a dip, a flash of consciousness. 


Rootrel, just a tiny village now, drowned by a black tide of festering 
bodies. Another city, its tall steel and glass towers impaled by the 
thorns of a gargantuan, pulsing plant. The girl, always the girl, where 
did he know her from? She looked just like...no, she was reading, in 
a place he visited once before, and a bearded man was smiling, but 
he had no mouth to smile with. The tar soon swallowed them both. 


Some things cannot be changed. Others are still malleable. This 
memory of a memory is only that, for now. There is still time. Be 
quick. 


He had to go back. It was the girl, the wide-eyed girl, the one who 
reminded him of her so much that it hurt. 


"Snow!" 


And there was the servant, a strangely gentle expression on his 
usually passive face. 


"Yes, Lordship?" 


"We have to go back. She doesn't understand what she's doing! 
Please, Snow, take me back!" 


He expected the servant to argue, in that infuriatingly patient tone of 
his, that the Superior's orders were for them to stay, that they 
couldn't possibly leave, but the servant merely nodded. 


"This way, Lordship." 


Sakarn was so surprised that he found himself arguing for the 
servant. "But what about our orders? What about propriety?" 


And then the servant did something that was very strange even ona 
day like this. He smiled. 


"| suspect that you know best when the time for propriety is over. 
Let's go." 


They did. 


« Hub » 


On the Other Side of the Coin 


A majestic zeppelin, multi-gondola’d, glowing red and gold in the 
light of a sun that will not set for days, drifts lazily through clear skies 
over sparsely vegetated scrubland. It is just as impressive inside as 
out, with walls of polished red wood, hanging tapestries with 
complex and beautiful patterns, and lavish suites for every 
passenger. If ever there was an aircraft that justified having a story 
written about it, it would be this one. 


It is, therefore, unfortunate that these stories do not center on this 
impressive feat of Antarctican engineering. There are about a score 
of servants and attendants on this airship, as well as a flight crew 
and a pilot, but they are likewise not the focus, which is a shame, 
because what the pilot is currently doing with one of the engineers 
on the flight deck certainly deserves some attention. 


However, these stories are in fact about the various humans that are 
sitting in their rooms, looking out of place and out the window at the 
world which they now find themselves in. 


Oh, it appears the pilot is pregnant. So much for keeping her little 
encounter secret. 


Jeremy Remus, a Junior Researcher for the Foundation, was not at 
all sure what he was doing on this gaudy airship. Why are the styles 
so flamboyant? The Empress of 1483 had insisted on at least one... 
well, something long and complicated that boiled down to cultural 
anthropologist. Of the relatively few that the Foundation employed, 
most of them were in Alaska waiting for new villages, or trying to 
negotiate the return of some D-Class from wherever that guy with 
the passports sent them. 


A servant, a member of the... Black Court entered his room with a 
jug of water in his enormous furred hand. Black Court = lower caste. 


System based on resemblance to animals? Do the animals here 
have fur? He thanked him absently in English, then remembered 
where he was and used the Antarctic language. 


There had been an embassy in the Empire for years. What more 
could be learned about the culture at this point? Jeremy had spoken 
to Dr. Bailey over the phone, and he’d been nice, well, nice enough, 
but even he seemed puzzled as to why Jeremy was coming along. 
He hadn't spoken much with the others, but he was sure at least one 
of them was giving him dirty looks before they had boarded. 


He stared gloomily at the observation notebook that he had been 
scribbling in. So far there was nothing but questions. He resolved to 
fix that as he looked out the window. 


Was that Large penguin-like creatures observed biting the heads off 
Antarcticans. Inquire into the effect this has on rural life. 


Jeremy got his first glimpse of Rootrel several hours later. It looked 
a bit like the cities back in his own universe, but more colorful. There 
were huge black tree-like structures on most of the higher roofs, 
which Jeremy had to assume were for collecting solar power. And, 
of course, very few cities had an enormous skeleton surrounded by 
walls at their center. 


The Empress' palace was as opulent as expected, with precious 
metals, statues, stained glass windows, but it was still very clearly 
held together by the bones of a titanic creature. Stairs of some light- 
colored stone, framed by tusks, led to the mouth in a skull the size of 
a mansion, with two teeth removed and replaced with gilded double 
doors. A glass tunnel was built along the hollowed out spine, and the 
outbuildings had very noticeable claws. 


Jeremy was still staring ten minutes later when there was a knock at 
his door. An attendant, looking almost like a dark-skinned human but 
much thicker, came in and spoke. 

"Excuse me, sir, but | have been assigned to help you prepare for 
your party's welcome." The man pulled open what Jeremy had 
thought to be a decorative wall panel to reveal several extremely 
flashy, complicated, and uncomfortable looking outfits. 


It was then that he realized that the ship was not heading for the 
small, relatively unadorned building at the edge of town that was the 
Foundation embassy, but for the palace. 


"Welcome?" he asked, horror starting to grip him as the Antarctican 
began perusing the closet's contents. "But, but, we're just another 
group of Foundation employees, right? There's nothing new about 
us." 


"You are wrong, sir. You and your colleagues have been sent here 
by your Foundation as a part of the Exchange. This is the first time 
that her Imperial Majesty the Empress will be giving such free 
access to the many wonders under her power, and it is Her will that 
she meet the ‘expert specialists’ that will be working alongside the 
Institute in an official capacity," he paused. "You are truly blessed for 
getting such an opportunity." 


A crowd was gathering outside of the palace walls, and a small 
group of very well-dressed women, presumably high-ranking court 
officials, were emerging from other doors in the skull and forming a 
small group by the doors. That's right. This Institute was a public 
arm of the government. There would be red tape, and crowds, and 
officialties, and all of those other things that you rarely needed to 
worry about when you were a low level researcher in a vast, mainly 
secret organization. 


Expert specialists... 


Jeremy dumbly allowed the attendant to help him with the 
complicated robes, and to gather his things to be transported to his 
rooms at the embassy. It was only after the Antarctican had left that 
he allowed himself to raise his sleeve to his mouth, and bite down 
hard. 


The Foundation gratefully accedes to the conditions set forth by the 
Empress Utmai Cjen VI and the Imperial Institute of Paranatural and 
Esoteric Study. A group of specialists will arrive within the week for 
the study of anomalies currently under the IIPES’s control. 

05-1, 05-2, 05-5, 05-7, 05-8, 05-10, 05-12 


attempts to enter the driver's seat of unoccupied vehicles 
fascination by, and then hostility towards, reflective surfaces 
attempts to clasp firearms with its front hooves 

extended periods of aberrant modulated vocalizations; these 
are believed to be SCP-581-2's attempts to speak (audio 
recordings available in archive 581-H-19) 

*« [DATA EXPUNGED] 


To date, all soecimens of SCP-581-2 have been euthanized due to 
multiple limb fractures; no specimen has survived longer than two 
(2) hours. 


« SCP-580 | SCP-581 | SCP-582 » 


« Hub » 


A Merry Fellow 


Thomas Bailey awoke to the sun streaming in through his window. It 
was 25.6 degrees Centigrade outside, which considering the fact 
that he was in the Antarctic Circle in the middle of summer, it had no 
right to be. He rubbed his eyes and went up to the window, opening 
it and looking out at the streets of the Imperial City where his 
apartment was. 


Below him, children from the Summer Court played in one of the 
many lichen gardens in the noble district. A flightless bird the size of 
a German Shepherd, which Tom recognized as an Imperial Auk 
(Pinguinus impennis imperialis) waddled through the streets on a 
leash, alongside a noblewoman who was wearing a robe with large, 
poofy sleeves with a green trim, and a pointed cap with some 
Penguin feathers in the end. Across the street, a courier from the 
Black Court ran along the walls of the apartments, being kept up 
only through sheer momentum (And possibly a Blessing). Couriers 
were only used to deliver eyes-only mail; they would use the 
telephone for anything like saying that his bills needed paying, or 
just send it through traditional mail if it was something like an 
advertisement. So, that meant the mail was for him. 


Sure enough, the courier jumped the gap between the apartments- a 
good 10 meters or so- and sprang right through Tom's open window. 
The Bailey triplet only managed to get out of the way in the nick of 
time as the furred man landed on his bed like some form of panther. 
He was barely visible against the scenery of Tom's apartment, due 
to the fact that he wore Western Chameleon leather, which made 
him almost invisible. 


The courier, a man named Da'ai the Swift, grunted in Antarctican, 
"It's polite to keep your window closed if you're expecting us.1" 


"| like the view from my window in the morning,” Tom replied in the 
same tongue, crossing his arms. "And | wasn't expecting you; what's 


this about?" 


"Directly from the Institute," grunted the Courier, handing him an 
envelope with the seal of the IIPES on it. 


Tom took the letter and set it aside. It was impolite to open mail in 
front of a courier. The man coughed, holding out his hand; sighing, 
Tom surrendered 5 Imperials to the man."Da’'ai, you know that 
you're not supposed to take tips." 


"Think of it as a bribe, Thomas Bailey." The Black Courtsman 
pronounced it "Too-mass Balley". "You give me money, | don't tell 
anyone what was in the letter." 


"...I'llLleave my window closed next time," Tom said, stepping aside. 
Da’ai the Swift climbed out the window, onto the rooftop. Tom heard 
the man's footsteps run away as he sped off. "...showoff," Tom 
muttered, opening the letter. 


Half an hour later, Tom was driving his 484 Saquah Speeder? down 
the streets of the Imperial City, looking around. He drove through the 
market district, where people pedaled next to him on bicycles, trying 
to sell him car insurance. Tom ignored them, and took some lichen 
from his car's snuffbox and chewed on it; it gave a feeling similar to 
tobacco, but it didn't give you cancer if you used it every day for 60 
years. It may make your hair fall out, dye your skin purple and 
negate any Blessings you possess, but it won't give you cancer. 


The radio in Tom's car started playing the Antarctican Anthem as he 
drove near the Palace, which was at the very center of the city. Tom 
never got tired of hearing it, despite the fact that he had lived here 
for the past three years; he suspected that it had a memetic property 
of some kind that kept it from being boring. The palace itself was 
carved from the bones of a giant... something that was called Sanak 
Thiuh, with the skull serving as the entrance. He'd always wanted to 
get a sample of it, but he'd be executed for vandalizing imperial 
property if he so much as touched an exterior wall without 
permission. 


As Tom cleared the Palace, he pulled up to an Institute station, and 


saw a speed bus was pulled up next to it. Exiting it were some more 
‘northern nobility’, or as he knew them, Foundation researchers. He 
recognized a couple of them as being from 87, but other than that, 
they were fresh faces. They had probably just arrived from the 
zeppelin station’, and one of the newbies- a horticulturalist- was 
bending over to inspect a flower. Said flower jumped up at her face 
and clung to her nose, where it began to suck the blood out. She 
flailed around while some Blessed medics tried to pull it off her face, 
one of them stunning it and the other healing the wound on her 
nose. 


Newbies, thought Tom, shaking his head and heading into the 
Institute's main entrance. 


Tom's assistant, the ever-chipper Yu'nai Bitop beamed at Tom, her 
dark skin reflecting the soft electric light of the facility as they walked 
along. The soft lighting was a stark contrast to the bright, harsh 
lights that Sites like 87 and 19 had; all incandescent, all yellow, all 
pleasant. The lighting was one of the first things that Tom noticed 
when he came into an Institute-sanctioned facility. "They're in the 
assembly hall. You have your speech ready?" 


"Yes, Yu." Tom smiled back, holding up some note cards and 
walking along, humming to himself. He emerged onto the stage, 
which was more of a raised platform in the center of the hall, carved 
from the wishbones of one of the last known giant selachimorphic 
cranes.4 


He counted the people out in the hall. There were 40 of them, most 
of them women, which was a welcome change. He started talking. 
"Good morning,” Tom said. "My name is Dr. Thomas Bailey, and | 
regret to inform you that for the next two years, you will not be 
having any coffee. You will not be seeing your significant others. 
You will be under supervision at all times. You will be led by an 
authority that does not understand your species- wait." Tom looked 
at his note cards and frowned, slapping his forehead. "Dammit! | 
mixed up my notes with the Site 19 orientation." 


This drew a laugh from the crowd, particularly a couple of people 
from 19 itself. "Anyway. I'm afraid I'm serious about the no coffee bit, 


but they have lizards here that have caffeinated blood. So just try a 
bit of their meat and it'll wake you up better than any Starbucks ever 
could." Tom actually pulled out a bit of dried lizard from his pocket; 
they were in snack bags like M&Ms or Skittles back home. He ate it 
in front of the crowd, some of whom looked disgusted, but most of 
them just thought 'eh, once you see a man get turned inside-out by 
his own intestines, not much fazes you’.