Several species of birds, dubbed SCP-930-1, inhabit SCP-930. 
Although the island is located in the South Pacific, carcasses of 
species native to North America and Australia have been found 
washed onto the shore after presumably expiring mid-flight. Fowl 
introduced to the island become instances of SCP-930-1 if released 
for extended periods, usually 2-56 hours. Studies of social 
interaction between SCP-930-1 and introduced bird species show 
that exhibited behaviour is primarily the species' standard for a 
predation warning, although no fauna has been discovered on 


"Hold it up.” Phillip retrieved it from his belt, uncomfortably aware of 
the number of guns whirring to lock on to the action. He held it up. 


After a period of observation, the eyes said, "Now put it back down." 
He dropped it, and on impulse, his other hand followed suit. The 
latch closed, and the door clicked and clacked as its various 
securities released. The door opened, and he knew he was looking 
at Colonel Dower for the very first time. 


"PHYSICS," the Colonel repeated. 
"In the flesh." Phillip assured him. 


The man sniffed. "You know my daughter? She's in the corps. 
Figure a man like you - you might get around to knowing a girl like 
her." 


"...Mr. Dower, may | please come in?" 


Mrs. Dower wailed from the confines of her bedroom. The living 
room itself was a lovely place; ornate, filled to the brim with carvings 
of fantastic creatures. Mr. Dower sat solemnly in what looked to be a 
hand-carved wooden chair. 


"| didn't raise a psyker." He said. 


Phillip tried to comfort him. "I've been going through the archive. If 
she ever learned what she was, she kept it on the down low. She 
would've gone through - hundred, two hundred C-tests. She couldn't 
slip through that, no-one could. Your daughter was a very special 
woman, Col. Dower. However she did it - it's what we're left with." 


"Is there anything else?" 


"Yes. | need to talk to you about some - specificities." He took out a 
pen and pad from his jacket pocket. 


"Colonel, to be utterly frank, High Command wants me to paint this 
as a murder case. Now, | have nowhere to start, and absolutely 
nothing to go with. If you can give me something, anything that could 
help me build - some kind of dossier, that'd be appreciated." 


"Well what're you lookin’ for?" 


"Anything. Grudges, friendships, sexual...' he stopped himself. 
"Sexual relations, perhaps of a dubious nature." 


"Oh, god." The Colonel exhaled. Phillip searched for the idea that 
would make it acceptable. He failed to find it. 


Time passed. Mr. Dower sighed. "It's why | left the force, you know. 
Shit like this. Pack of shit-heaps and liars." 


"They're just... just trying to keep things together." 


"Where'd you serve, boy?" His voice was urgent and a little bit 
afraid. Phillips was taken aback. "I'm sorry?" 


He repeated, "Where'd you serve? Africa? The Tropics?" 
"Europe. | served in Europe." 

"Infantry? 

"Mobile, yes." 


"Cheating sons of bitches. You ever seen anything like this? Far too 
much, Phillip thought. "Something akin to this situation - yes, once." 


"My daughter wasn't a whore. She did her time, did her service. Just 
as honored as you or me. You get that." 


"Yes sir, | do." 


"Back then, she wrote us - letters -" Dower stood, and with a dazed 
gait he walked to the coffee table at the center of the room, where 
photographs of a girl, flowers, and a small pine box sat in the 
middle. He picked up the box. "High castle wasn't so fond of the 
paper-bound stuff, but she insisted." He removed a small stack of 
yellowed paper from the chest, dropping it on the table and shifting 
through until he found what he was looking for - a single sheet of 
paper - and, with a trembling hand, extended it to Phillip, who took it. 


The print was small. Phillip began to search out his reading glasses. 


"Martin Lawrence." Dowers said. "Don't know who he is, don't know 
where he went. Build your dossier." He stalked off, towards the cries 
of his wife. Phillip stood. "Colonel?" 


Dowers turned to him with tears in his eyes. "Get out of my house. 
Please." 


"Colonel the - could | -" 


"Take it. Take them all. They were hers." Dowers entered the 
bedroom and closed the door. Phillip could still hear them mourn 
through the home-made wall. 


It grew quiet. In the end, Phillip put away his glasses, gathered up 
the letters, and put them in the box. The door did not creak as he 
returned to the sunset. 


That night, he buried himself in stationary. He sipped bourbon 
quietly in the study as he pored over the woman's records - an 
endless collection. He knew that if he was going to find anything, 
there'd be traces of it in the mail. 


2/17/2018 


Mom, Colonel - it's Jennifer. I'm writing to you on your 
orders, and while this command's not altogether 
providing of leisure time, should | fail, and let them take 
me, I'll just have to come back around, so that you can 
set me straight. The post is going pretty well. We're a five 
man group - Leo, Silica, Norm, and Marty. And if you're 
wondering - Leo is just fine where he belongs. Supplies 
are good; the locals keep us in their favor. They've got 
no love for the insurgents, these folk. We met up with a 
FU adjutant a couple miles back. He looked world-weary. 
| almost felt sorry for the guy. Appealing to your rival - I'll 
always remember that lesson, Colonel. 


Love, 
Jennifer 


8/2/2018 


Hey pals. Jen here. We're pushing along the river. The 
bombardment is pretty constant, but we'll hold up yet. 
STRIKE's shooting us some reinforcements from the 
South - we'll win enough time to break out, and then we 
can clear them out of the bush for good. 


Scylla and Leo dispatched their commands yesterday. 
When the troop gets here, they'll bring them out - back 
home. | don't know how's Norm's taking it. He's stable, 
but he keeps interior most of the time. I'll give him a talk 
tonight. Maybe we can mail the ring to her parents. 


Marty's doing worse. We've kept him in sickbay for most 
of our camp. He was always nervous, but I'm not sure 
he'll pull through this time. He took one squad yesterday, 
and it really wore him out. | might just have to keep him 
on probation. One less set of hands, but we can't really 
let him die. 

Love, 

Jennifer 


12/23/2018 
Jen here, 


Berlin is beautiful at night. One day I'll get the money and 
bring you both out here, just for a trip. Marty and | stood 
post and the sky lit up as our Harriers ran the mortars. 
The ejecta - these guinea pigs are easy pickings. I'm 
surprised they've given the Taskers such a beating. 
Perhaps they've just been run down. 


Speaking of Marty, he proposed yesterday. | said ok. 
Norm's been gone for months, and it's been a lonely way 
out here. | think you'd be alright with him, dad. 


We're moving deeper into city-centre tomorrow. 
Providing support for a forward column - it shouldn't be 
much of a stretch. Till then. 

Love, 


Jennifer 


He removed his reading glasses. "Pontus, the time." The Lare lit up 
the room. "5:00, sir. The sun is rising on New York. Would you like 
me to prepare the coffee?" 


"No, Pontus. Thank you. But lay out my clothes, please. And get me 
my pills." 


It was a bright, sunny day outside the archive. The nature lounge 
area they'd set outside was full of couples; he chose a bench, near a 
cluster of pigeons, and decided to call Griffith. He heard the man 
pick up with a sort of primal grunt. "Griff." 


"Phil! What's happening? We on for tonight?" 
"Maybe sooner. Do you still have access to the old network? 


"Network? Uh- what, what network? Phil, look, I'm feedin' my cats 
here - yes, you Sunny - can we do this later?" 


"| don't know. | got a lead last night." "Oh yeah. The parents." Phillip 
heaved a sigh as he heard him set down something heavy over the 
phone. "How'd that one go? You piss in their mouths?" 


"No, no. I've been running through the Coalition's logs, but there's 
nothing on this name - Martin Lawrence. | needed to know if you still 
have access." "To what? Phil?" 


"The network." He tried to let the statement sink in. " 
A voice tinged with melancholy answered him, "...SCiPNet?" 
"Yeah." 


"Well why didn't you just say that? No, Phil, | don't have access. 
Why would you even think about something like that?" 


Phillip took out the letter he'd tucked into his jacket the night before. 
He'd pored over it at least a dozen times. "These are dated pre-war. 
Maybe something was lost." 


He heard Griff groan over the line. "Phil, what was the deal with this 
high castle bitch in the first place? You know? Lay it out for me." He 
thought long and hard. 


"Dower gets booted up the line, dies, and tests positive for soecimen 
L-" He sighed. "Type yellow." 


"Do you hear what you're saying Phil?" 
"...Yellows?" 


"Check em out. Head down to the camp. If you don't get ahold of 
this Lawrence, maybe you'll work something out." 


"Maybe." 


He hung up and looked back towards the archive. The area was full 
of trees, expelling their red-and-orange natural works of art - 
honoring the great, solid structure. 


That evening, before entering the Thaumatic chamber, he entered 
the rough set of coordinates he'd pulled from the library. Once 
again, he fell through a whirlwind of sparks, and a moment later - 
found himself on solid Earth. 


It was not the Quarantine Zone, he could see that well enough. If 
anything, it was a slum on the outskirts. Dumpster and barrel fires lit 
up the streets. Men and women roamed about in a ramshackle 
collections of clothes and he could see the UN building in the 
distance. The Slums. 


He checked the coordinates on his GPS. He was just a mile outside 
the basic perimeter. It'd be a walk, but he could make it. He walked 
through the street, acutely aware of the weapon hanging in his 
shoulder holster. 


As he hiked through the smouldering ruins of his old job, most of the 
vagrants and disposed experiments paid him attention at first - but, 
upon sighting the style of firearm under his bicep, slunk off in fear of 
retribution. While moving over a collapsed overpass, he was privy to 
the fine actions of his new colleagues; STRIKE officers, fully 


outfitted for the hazardous environment preparing to summarily 
dispatch the commands of a number of weak-looking, sickly people. 
Their visors glowed blue and red in the night and while they tracked 
his movement, they too left him mercifully unmolested. 


As he drew closer to the site, he passed down a long avenue - once 
the site of heavy fighting, from the looks of the decaying fissures and 
bullet holes. Winos and wartrash hung about, and eventually, after 
climbing over a half-century old taxi, he happened upon what looked 
like a young girl and her mother. 


Both were clothed in rags. The older woman appeared to be 
sleeping, and the child clutched her chest, whispering and crying. 
He knelt down on the hood of the car, and watched as, slowly, the 
woman brought her hand up to the child's face, brushing away tears 
and dirt, before expiring. As the child began to wail, Phillip decides it 
was his time to depart. There was nothing to be done. 


As he drew farther and farther away from the Pyramid, where the 
glittering lights of the city behind almost faded, he happened upon 
fewer and fewer residents. 


It came as he rounded the corner to a wide, empty Boulevard. His 
muscles ached and he began to consider the possibility the 
Quarantine Zone was, in fact, only a horrible rumor, perpetrated as 
fact for the benefit of naughty children. But before he could convince 
himself of the fantasy, headlights shown in the distance. A real 
vehicle, plowing through car wrecks. He rushed toward it, and 
eventually it became clear that the transport in question was a truck, 
well-emblazoned with Coalition colors. The engine became a roar 
and he rolled out of the way as it ran through his form. A soldier on 
the back of the truck, standing at a large turret swiveled the gun to 
face him. 


"PHYSICS." He cried. "Coalition business." 


The burly form leaped out of the truck and considered him from up 
above. 


A pounding headache and several minutes later, he found himself in 
the back of the very same truck. The tall man stood on a gun at the 


rear of the cabin, scanning a horizon Phillip could not see. Rubbing 
his eyes, he perceived himself to be surrounded by a number of 
other dissidents; rich, poor, crying, stoic. The rumbling of the truck 
shook them all, but if it was bringing him where he thought it was - 
he could live with that. 


Eventually he came to looking over the edge of the truck. They had 
arrived at a grand, walled compound, in a dusty, cleared out area 
smack in the middle of former suburbia. A huge, silver-and-gold UN 
emblem set against the black walls, made him shiver. 


They carried him inside. He got up, and was struck by the vast 
throngs of men, women and children mulling about in the steel- 
fenced yard. The convoy slowed as they passed through the main 
gate. Above the the decrepit populace in tattered jumpsuits, 
quadrotors spun a fine mist of nutrients, water, and neural inhibitor 
into the cells, banishing thoughts of sleep, food or sex from the 
assets. 


It was quite ingenious, Phillip thought. How wise of them to adapt a 
tried-and-true Foundation technique. 


"How special are you?" Turning his head, he found a voice, hosted 
by a ragged-looking man in a torn blue jacket. He considered the 
question. 


"I'm not." 


He looked up at the gunner. "Hey." When the lumbering form turned 
to address him, he removed his badge from his back belt and waved 
it at him. "PHYSICS," he said, "Coalition business. 


The gunner, seeing the double-palm globe on the face of the badge, 
left his post, plucked the parcel from Phillip's hand and examined it 
more closely. After a moment, the gunner looked at him with great 
intensity - all that could really be gleaned from the one-eyed mask 
he wore. A warbled voice replied, 


"ROMEO." 


"...What?" 


The gunner kicked him in the teeth. He groaned, "Uh, countersign, 
wasn't it? It's been a while." The gunner slipped the badge into his 
pocket and turned back to his Browning. Phillip coughed up blood. 
"Wait," he croaked. The gunner glanced back around, "I've got it - 
Echo-Sierra-Baker. With a twist." 


The gunner stared at him. His impenetrable, singular eye bore down 
into Phillip's two own. 


"MEDIC!" 


The lift opened on a long hall, which they dutifully dragged him 
down. Windows on the sides gave a perfect view of the suffering 
below, and the sight at the end of the hall was perhaps one equally 
intimidating. 


The Warden - Phillip presumed the man was the Warden, courtesy 
of his styled black uniform and army of citations planted on his chest 
- was a huge man; even from a distance, Phillip could perceive the 
fat cigar hanging off his lip as being puny compared to his monster 
of a face. A pair of rottweilers growled beside his desk, and to his 
right sat a pleasure spirit, who smiled at him. The guards roughly 
forced him before the man on a mat emblazoned with the same olive 
branches he'd seen outside. 


The Warden peered at him over the equipment. "Hello, Agent 
Torvin. | wish you'd notified us of your visit; I'd've sent a car for you." 


"Sorry." Despite himself, he was. He stood. "! didn't know this place 
was off the map." 


"Well, we can't have people popping in and out of the holdings at 
will. Bad for business." The Warden considered Phillip - perhaps 
measuring him up for the slaughter. "It's two hours until we ship 
them out to the labor districts; | have five minutes." The implication 
was Clear; you have five minutes. 


"I'm looking for someone." After a moment's consideration, he added 
"A man, Martin Lawrence."