He decided to take a different approach, and looked up her profile 
on the intranet. HMCL Supervisor. PhD in Theoretical Physics from 
Berkeley with Foundation certificates in Anomalous Materials 
Handling and Temporal Anomalies. E-Mail address, phone number. 
Personalized profile, she had two dogs and liked country music. And 
she was giving an open Level-3 seminar on Safe Handling of 
Temporal Anomalies in October at Site-1 7. 


Dr. Lang clicked the link and registered for the Seminar. 


The flight from Antarctica was long and boring, made a hundred 
times longer by his mind's inability to shut the fuck up and just let 
him sleep. The entire flight, his internal monologue just kept racing 
and going over every little impossible-to-predict detail. He must have 
gone over what he might say to Dr. Schrader six hundred times. Yet 
despite his brain's best effort, his plan was actually very simple. He 
would listen to the seminar, try and pick up on a topic that she felt 
passionate about, then approach her afterwards and ask her some 
questions about it. He wouldn't schmooze her, but he'd be friendly 
and act interested enough in whatever she had to say. Finally he'd 
introduce himself and see if he couldn't persuade her to at least sit 


in on an SCP-1780 experiment. And then, if and when Xyank 
showed up, he'd break protocol, interrupt the experiment, get 
Xyank's attention, and Dr. Who would fix everything. Simple really. 


The seminar was long and boring, made a hundred times longer by 
the boring subject matter and disinterested presenter. 


"Guards are ordered to use lethal force against anyone attempting 
to interrupt a temporal experiment, for obvious reasons. We've 
never had an issue on this site, and this goes without saying, but 
obviously, you are never, ever, to disrupt an active temporal 
experiment except via a certified failsafe." 


A few things had already gone not-quite-according to plan. First was 
that Schrader wasn't putting on this seminar due to any passion for 
Temporal Safety. She was required to put it on as part of her job. 
She admitted as much and apologized to the audience before she 
even began. She didn't even make the slides, they had been passed 
down by her predecessor. Worse, Dr. Lang was one of twelve 
attendees, and most of the others seemed to be from the same 
department as her and were required to be there. Only he and one 
other gentleman seemed out of place. 


"Exploration of temporal anomalies is restricted to D personnel and 
robots only." Dr. Shrader droned, reading almost verbatim from a 
slide. "When in use, anomalies need to be guarded by three Level 3 
security personnel. If you can't schedule a security detail, don't run 
the test. It's as simple as that, people." 


The seminar clearly did not apply to him in the least. 


When the end finally came, Dr. Lang felt the rush of relief followed 
by the nervous knot in his stomach. This had to go right. While the 
audience was clearing the room and chatting, Dr. Lang approached 
the podium. "Dr. Shrader," he said to get her attention, "Great, ah, 
presentation." Shit. Shit! He was as good as useless right now. His 
mind suddenly went blank and he had NO idea what to say. 


"And you are?" she asked. Shit. Shit. Shit. He didn't want to play his 
hand this early! 


Video and data feeds: All visual and audio feeds were lost during the 
test fire, and several recording devices seemed to have been shifted 
up to 10 centimeters from their initial placement. One device 
seemed to have been adhered strongly to the floor during testing. 


Recovered video feeds show heavy damage, consistent with [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. Audio feeds record nothing out of the ordinary, but 
when presented to affected researchers or subjects, feelings of 
dread or suicidal thoughts return. Furthermore, affected subjects 
also claim that the audio feed matches the voices heard, and 
become increasingly agitated when told the feed contains random 
static. 


Note from Dr. 

It looks like this thing actually has a blast effect to it and is not just a 
laser of madness. The audio and video feed disruptions are 
particularly interesting. From now on, researchers are to observe 
remotely and D-Class personnel are to be secured so they can't 
harm themselves. We need them alive for study. 


Intensity: 50 

Response: Identical to the above test. 

Time until recovery: Subjects have not recovered. Restrained 
subjects somehow caused self-injury, as tears and cuts were found 
in their skin, despite still being in full-body restraints. Observers did 
not see anyone else enter or leave the testing area, nor did they see 
the D-Class test subjects escape their bonds. How they managed to 
injure themselves is still unknown. 

Video and Data Feeds: Identical to above test, though the 
displacement was more pronounced. 

Additional note: Researchers recovering the Class D personnel 
reported extreme discomfort when within the test area, and that it 
"felt wrong," but could provide no further details. This suggests 
some sort of lingering after-effect, though no other changes have 
been observed. Perhaps higher level settings will reveal more. 


Intensity: 75 

Response: Target went completely catatonic. A number of D-Class 
personnel within 15 meters of the target were able to break free of 
their restraints and proceeded to kill all D-Class personnel they 
could see by [DATA EXPUNGED] with their teeth before eventually 


"Ahhh... well... I'm Dr. Lang." he smiled. 


"Oh yes! You! You've been trying to schedule time with SCP-1780!" 
Dr. Shrader said, smiling. 


"Yeah, that's me!" Lang responded. Phew! She was being nice and 
not acting suspicious in the least! Maybe everything would work out, 
after all. 


"Well. | guess you must be eager. You came all the way from... 
where, exactly?" 


"Ahhh, Springfield," Dr. Lang lied. She wasn't cleared to know where 
he came from, and the closer his fake location, the less desperate 
he sounded. 


"Oh, | didn't know we had a site there. But who knows anything 
these days, right!?" Dr. Shrader said, laughing, with a "you know 
how it is" tone in her voice. Dr. Lang knew exactly how it was. No 
one really knew anything these days. 


"Yeah! ... so, about 1780... well, I'm very interested. Would it be 
possible for me to, maybe, sit in on one of your experiments?" 


"Absolutely!" Dr. Shrader responded. Dr. Lang had to use every last 
bit of concentration to keep his face from evoking emotion. 


"You've got Level 4 Clearance and, well, you've just had your 
required safety brief, so everything is in order." Was it really that 
easy? Was that all it was? 


"Has your paperwork been sent to Cindy?" Dr. Shrader asked, 
interrupting his thoughts. 


"Sorry?" Uh oh. Maybe there was a hiccup after all. 
"You need to send your paperwork to the front desk here if..." 


"Oh, yes, | have sent it to the Front Desk." Dr. Lang responded. Of 
course he had. How else did he get in the front door past all the 
guards? Some people just had no common sense. 


Two days later Dr. Lang sat with Dr. Shrader and two researchers in 
a little darkened room behind a one way mirror. Cameras and 
sensitive recording equipment covered the rear wall. Three 
disinterested security personnel sat on the far side of the room, 
guarding the door to the test chamber. 


Through the glass, across the chamber, was a nondescript wooden 
door, adorned by a single empty nameplate mount. In the middle of 
the chamber sat a little tracked robot the size of a child's wagon, one 
single mechanical arm folded up on top of it. The arm held a 
nameplate. 


"Doctor Thaddeus Xah-yank," Dr. Lang said aloud. 


"There's a debate over whether it's pronounced 'Xah-yank' or 'Zank' 
or 'Zee-ankh.” 


"Wait, you've never met him?" Dr. Lang asked, trying to hide his 
shock. 


"We've seen him, but we've never been able to detain him or hold 
him for very long. He always manages to get away," the attractive 
young Researcher said. 


"Shut up, we're starting,” the other Researcher said, a grumpy 
balding man in his mid-forties. 


The little robot rolled forward, creeping along slowly. An eternity 
later, it stopped. Its little arm extended slowly. It moved perfectly to 
one side, then back, sliding the nameplate into the template. The 
arm retracted slightly, before slowly grinding towards the doorknob. 
Dr. Lang held his breath as the robotic arm slowly squeezed down, 
then slowly spun counterclockwise... 


The door burst open with a bang, slamming the robot aside like a 
toy. Dr. Lang nearly had a heart attack. 


"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, your timeline 
does NOT get any answers," said the loud, distinct voice coming 
from the odd little man. He quickly paced right up to the one-way 
mirror and began banging on it. "Get that through your heads and 


STOP. TESTING. If | catch you again, I'll be forced to take action!" 
Xyank turned around and started walking back towards the open 
door. 


"Wait!" Dr. Lang shouted. Xyank didn't hear him. Thick glass. Dr. 
Lang banged on it several times, so hard his fist hurt. Xyank 
stopped, and turned slowly toward the mirror. 


"What the heck are you doing?” Shrader shouted at Lang, "You are 
NOT to interrupt the experiment!" 


"Fuck that," Dr. Lang said, lunging toward the door to open it. It was 
locked. "Give me the keys." he said to security, "Open the door right 
now." The security guards hesitated and looked at each other. "I 
said NOW! | am a Level 4 Site Director and | demand you open 
this..." 


"STOP IT!" Shrader yelled. "You are NOT opening that door! Stop 
him if at any cost if he tries," she ordered, her face flushing red with 
anger. 


"Whatever, you fucks, you're NOT stopping this." Dr. Lang had come 
too far. He lunged back towards the mirror, grabbed a metal stool, 
and slammed it against the glass. It bounced off. He hit it again. 


Xyank slowly walked towards the mirror, hearing the quiet thumps, 
confused. 


"STOP IT!" Shrader yelled again. "STOP IT! STOP HIM!" Dr. Lang 
continued to slam the stool against the mirror. A tiny crack started to 
form. 


Dr. Lang did not hear the gunshot. He was dead before the sound 
reached him. 


Relics 


The cleric stepped over the corpse of the treasure hunter, shaking 
his head sadly. Such a waste of life. And those others they had 
found in the ruins, they would have been a welcome addition to the 
fold, had they not let their desire for treasure overcome their 
wisdom. They had attacked as soon as the Protectorate had arrived, 
and had quickly been killed by the Crusadori: Knives and clubs were 
no match against powder and shot. 


The wind whipped at the cleric’s white and red robes. The painted 
mask he wore under his hood filtered the dust from the air with each 
breath, as well as signifying him as a full priest of the Third Order of 
the Protectorate. On his back he bore the symbol of the 
Protectorate: two rings, one inside the other, with three arrows 
pointing inward. A sign of eternity, of strength, a sign that could not 
be broken. 


The cleric motioned for a nearby grey-robed acolyte to follow him. 
Around them, the rest of the group searched through the ruin 
grounds, lorekeepers recording what they could recover, crusadori 
on guard against the savages that lived in the Dust. 


The gaping mouth of the ruins loomed before the cleric, broken and 
decaying. Hardened, gnarled trees plunged their roots deep into the 
ground, though their leaves bore little shade from the sun and the 
burning clouds. Within the gate’s dark depths sat horrible secrets, 
secrets he had been sent to retrieve. In his heart, he felt fear: the 
High Council did not often convene, and when it called one to duty, it 
called with the authority of all eight Orders of the Protectorate. 
Failure would not be appreciated. 


Underneath the ruins, there was much more intact than on the 
surface. Most of the rooms and passages still stood, though the 
contents were well on their way to joining the dust that had fallen in 
a blanket on the floor and walls. That was a job for the lorekeepers. 


Lower and lower the cleric went, guided by the flickering light of his 
lantern. The place was a tomb, but not one of choice: even now the 
burns scarred the walls, as did the holes of age-old gunfire. 
Occasionally, a blackened skeleton could be found, dissolving into 
sand. Some passages had collapsed completely; others were lined 
with the worn carved messages of those who died there, or the faint 
stain of preserved blood splattered on the walls. The cleric could 
read the dying testimony of these men and women, and he felt an 
involuntary shudder up his spine. 


Even lower they went, until they reached a level filled with great 
vaults. Some were still sealed, even after all these years. Most were 
open, empty: many of the relics were destroyed in the Shattering, or 
lost amongst the chaos afterward. 


The cleric stopped in front of one vault. The door had been forcibly 
torn out of the wall, laying dented on the floor. A small metal sign 
was on the wall. The cleric brushed off the dust and read the 
inscription. This was what he sought. 


“Speak nothing upon entering, and do not look away until | begin the 
ritual,” he said to the acolyte. 


Stepping into the barren room, the cleric held up his lantern. On the 
opposite side of the vault stood a thing, a statute. It was the size of a 
man, with an oversized head and grotesque, haunting features. It 
was made of something like stone, with some bits of iron bar sticking 
out of its yellowed skin. Like statues were wont, it did not move. 


The cleric locked eyes with the statue. He knew this demon from the 
holy books: the Sightless Idol, Oon-Shiveen Thar’ie. The Shattering 
of the World had been wrought by this fallen god. The ancients had 
been taken unaware, concerned with other affairs, and it was in that 
moment of weakness that the Sightless Idol wrought its destruction. 
The gods of old, both benevolent and fallen, were cast out from the 
world by Oon-Shiven Thar’ie during the Shattering, now existing ina 
plane far removed from the world that was broken. 


The cleric kept his eyes on the statue. Reaching into his pack, he 
took out a small glass jar. Inside was a single human eye, floating in 
a Clear liquid, attached to a few floating chunks of graying flesh. A 


few nerves wrapped around a palm-sized ruby pendant. Holding the 
remains of the god Barat between him and the Sightless Idol, the 
cleric blinked. 


He opened his eyes unharmed: the unblinking Eye of Barat the Still- 
Living had protected him. He handed the jar to the acolyte and took 
up a thick tome from his pack. The cleric began to read. 


“By S-Cepie and Goc, by Barat and Alcleph, by Ritez and Khan Py 
Tharosk-ro, and by all the gods of old, submit to the holy will of the 
Protectorate and the Third Order of priests, demon who is the 
Sightless Idol. You are hereby bound by the holy will, and shall know 
no mercy in repayment for the evil that has been wrought in your 
path. Never more shall you corrupt and destroy. Never more shall 
men die at your hands. By order of the Protectorate, you shall be 
contained within the foundations of the world in the vaults of the 
temple at Par-Daril, until time itself ends, and the All-Maker returns 
to creation and delivers judgment upon you.” 


The cleric closed the book and took the Eye of Barat back from the 
acolyte. 


“Bring me ten crusadori, loyal men with unbending will. They shall 
be the guardians of Oon-Shiven Tharie until the end of their days. 
Let it be said that they died in glory against the dark forces. No 
others are to know of this. When this is done, | will send for you, and 
you will leave your life to gain a new one in the Order.”