Reaching Gabriel's enclosed doorway area, he pushed open the 
glass door that stayed unlocked to allow the delivery of packages. 
He placed Matilda's box safely on the floor, then knelt by her side. "| 
guess this is goodbye... Munchkin." No harm in using the nickname 
one last time. "Man, I'm going to miss you. | really liked having you 
around, even during the crying bits and the nappy changes. It was 
worth it. But I'm going to have to let you go, so you can be safe." 
Matilda stirred a bit in her sleep, a free hand clutching the rabbit's 
ear as she sighed. Kit was just glad now to see she seemed to be as 
content as possible. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then left her 
in the enclosed area. 


He didn't trust himself to ring the bell and actually run away. 
Between Matilda and Gabriel, there was far too much potential for 
him to freeze where he was, heart tugging itself into pieces when 
faced with these differing emotional situations. But he did trust in 
Matilda to start crying, or perhaps the entity protecting her to 
somehow alert Gabriel, now it understood Kit wasn't abandoning her 
just because. He left the building as quickly as he could, and hurried 
himself back home, arms already feeling empty without Matilda to 
hold. 


Kit was right — the force around Matilda waited for a short time, sure 
its charge was safe, and then started to tug the rabbit from her 
grasp, making it disappear into a void. This disappearance caused 
Matilda to wake with a start and begin to sob, then wail. The entity 
stopped the tugging once it was clear Matilda was going to keep 
crying, and the door swung open quite quickly. Gabriel stood in his 
doorway, staring down at the baby, then bending down as he saw 
the note. Reading it, he frowned, and carefully pocketed it, before 
lifting the baby out of the box. 


"Shh shh shh," he cooed, softly, holding the baby against his chest 
and rocking very gently. This was just like Kit — to dump his dirty 
laundry at Gabriel's feet. Still, he supposed he couldn't blame Kit too 
much — of course he would never call the police, and at least he 
hadn't tried to bring up the baby in that cold flat of his with his limited 
funds; that would be insanity. Matilda calmed to soft hiccups — this 
man smelt like the clothes that Kit had dressed her in after her first 
bath with him, and it was familiar; safe, even. 


As Gabriel headed inside to call the police, still absently rocking the 
snuffling babe, he noticed a colourful cuddly bunny toy for his year- 
old nephew levitate off the table and into the baby's grabbing hands. 
"Oh shit." He mumbled, in recognition of what this may be, and his 
heart sank in recognition of what he would have to do now. Instead 
of calling the police, he thumbed down in his phone until he came to 
a number simply labelled 'work'. He waited for it to ring through, then 
typed in a code, before putting his phone to his ear to speak. 


"Agent Romero calling in an Alpha One emergency protocol at my 
current location. Undercover crew needed for retrieval of... young 
humanoid with unknown anomalous abilities. Civilians present within 
area, however there is no danger known from what can be presently 
understood." 


As he sat down, absently cradling the baby and deciding to let her 
keep the cuddly toy — a slight comfort, considering her potential 
future — he remembered the folded note in his pocket. He would 
have to dispose of it, and dispose of it well. He wanted to keep Kit 
out of this, as much as possible, if only because it would be noted 
that he hadn't been eliminated as the Agent had been ordered to do. 


Or that's what he felt safest telling himself. That emotional link still 
stung, if he lingered on it, especially this time of year. 


So much for a quiet, merry Christmas. 


Safely hidden back in his home, Kit knelt in front of the mural. 
Gently, he put his hand over the tiny baby hand print. He couldn't 
protect her. He couldn't keep her safe, watch her grow up, make 
mistakes and learn from them. There was too much of a chance that 
he could become a monster, so he had to let her go, for her own 
safety. His reaction earlier had terrified even him, and it would never 
be fair on a child — not ever. As realisation of what that meant hit him 
square in the gut, his hand slowly curled into a fist, and he let it slide 
down the wall. His head bowed, silent sobs shaking his frame - the 
teddy bear next to him, and the handkerchief scrunched up in his 
free hand — all he had left of her. 


Hub 


One Last Punch For The Road 


"Ladies, gentlemen, and other assorted individuals. The time has 
come for us to die." 


A great noise erupted from the assembled members of the Shark 
Punching Center. Some in the audience had known of these plans 
for quite some time, but to the majority, the announcement came as 
a shock. Question after question was hurled at the speaker on 
stage, who remained silent until the room calmed down. There 
would be time to answer all of them, but for now, everyone needed a 
few moments to vent and get everything out of their systems. 


After several minutes of disorder and shouting, the room gradually 
grew still, all eyes fixed on the speaker, hoping he would provide 
some answer to this perceived madness. 


"Now, as you all know," the speaker began, straightening his tie out, 
"we have all solemnly sworn to defend the Earth from the constant 
threat it faces in the form of the shark menace. Every day, hundreds 
of us go out into the field, and punch sharks in the face, risking life 
and limb so that no family has to be torn apart by a great white, so 
that no basking shark can ever threaten the international security of 
any country. We've had a good run at it, and under ideal 
circumstances, we would continue our operations far into the future." 
He paused, then sighed deeply. "But unfortunately, circumstances 
are far from ideal right now. We are under constant threat, and for 
once, it comes not in the form of a scaly, fanged monster from the 
depths of the ocean. Rather, it comes from the organization known 
as the SCP Foundation." 


A few curses were muttered in the audience, accompanied by 
several shaking fists. "You are all of course familiar with the way 
they came to possess a transcript of our orientation program. At first, 
we thought nothing of it: who cares if they knew? It's not like they 
had any good reason to stop us at the time. So we let it slide, and 
for a short period of time, we coexisted peacefully. They contained 


their anomalous objects and we punched our sharks. 


"But after a time, it became apparent that we could not exist 
completely parallel to one another. We started pushing at the 
boundaries, infiltrating their operations. We managed to gate crash 
their Halloween party, establish our own website that was highly 
similar to theirs, and even stole away a few of their contained 
objects to further our ability to punch sharks. It was our most 
successful period, both in terms of achieving our goal and financial 
SUCCESS." 


Again, the orator stopped and adjusted his tie, coughing slightly as 
he did so. "But then the Foundation started pushing back. They 
captured our top field agent. They started working to keep us out of 
their sites. They even attempted to stop several of our best men 
from punching sharks! And then there's this," he said, standing up 
straighter and brandishing a handful of papers, "this... thing they put 
out just the other day. You all saw it yesterday, | know you did. A 
mockery of all our hard work and sacrifice. They view us as little 
more than a joke - no, not even that anymore. We were a joke to 
them in the past. Now we're just a tired old gag." 


The speaker stepped out from behind the podium and placed his 
hands behind his back. "But then, | suppose we've been a joke since 
the beginning.” 


Another cacophony of noise rose up from the crowd, outraged at the 
merest hint that their sacred mission could be considered anything 
close to a joke. "Everyone, please, please listen!" the orator cried, 
raising his hands up and desperately trying to calm the crowd down. 
"| do not mean to imply that our mission is a joke, or that the act of 
punching sharks is an unworthy cause! Please, listen!" 


The assembled members eventually calmed down enough to take 
their places and listen once again, though many still seethed at the 
words they had just heard. 


"Lately, | have been consulting the psychic shark we keep hidden 
away in the high-security wing. You are all very much aware of the 
danger in punching this one, due to its tendency to damage the very 
fabric of reality whenever it is struck. However, while working to find 


deceased relative of D-23387. Object placed into 
containment. 


Note: This, combined with the last test, seems to strongly 
suggest that SCP-914 acts on the 'meaning' humans 
apply to objects, rather than any self-aware view of them. 
This certainly explains some of the behavior of SCP-914, 
but | still feel like we're missing something. -Dr. Geralds 


Name: Dr. 

Date: 10/11/ 

Total Items: Three (3) 512GB thumb drives containing 
modern software for generation and multiplication of 
prime numbers, of the type used in cryptography. 


Input: One (1) thumb drive, as described above 
Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) thumb drive, containing the first 
prime numbers. 


Input: One (1) thumb drive, as described above 
Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) thumb drive containing software 
designed to solve a variety of different known codes and 
ciphers, as well as some that are currently 
undocumented. 


Input: One (1) thumb drive, as described above 
Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One (1) thumb drive. Object appears to have an 
internal quantum computing system, and when given 
encoded data, will [REDACTED] compared to any 
modern system. Object placed into containment for 
further study. 


Name: Researcher F 

Date: 20/04/201 

Total Items: Three (3) non-magnetic 1-kilogram chunks 
of magnetite with an iron content of 50% by mass. 


some way of saving ourselves, | punched him straight between the 
eyes, and | saw. | saw that this world was not always as it has been. 
There was a time when things the Foundation considers to be... 
‘goofy, he said, finger-quoting as sardonically as he could, "were 
very much the norm. It was a time when a man could punch all the 
sharks he wanted and protect mankind from the shark threat, and 
the Foundation would not find fault in this at all. 


"But there came a time when the nature of the universe changed. 
Some greater power, far beyond our comprehension, reshaped the 
fabric of reality, so that much of the 'goofy' elements in the universe 
were purged. Everything was serious now, and off-the-wall concepts 
were very much forbidden. 


"And then we came into existence. Despite our forty-year history, 
from a relative standpoint, the Shark Punching Center hasn't even 
been around for two years." Another cacophony rose up in the 
crowd. "If you don't believe me, you can go punch the psychic shark 
yourselves!" the orator snapped, his patience for these outbursts 
growing ever thinner. "Now please, listen to me!" There was, 
however, no calming the assembled members. All the speaker could 
do was wait for the chaos to die down. It took nearly twenty minutes, 
but eventually, order was restored. 


"Look. | may have gone a bit far in bringing that up. But it is 
ultimately beside the point. Regardless of why the Foundation views 
us the way they do, whether it be because we exist in a world where 
men and women like us are not meant to exist, or if they are simply 
sick of us, the fact remains that they view us as a joke. And if this,” 
he brandished the papers again, "is any indication, we are the kind 
of joke that they will find a way to get rid of. But they will not do it 
fast. 


"We face a slow, horrible death, people. The Foundation will attempt 
to gradually drain away our resources, undermine our membership, 
and undo everything we have wrought. And again, this will not be 
swift; this will be a long, painful, drawn-out process. They can't be 
bothered to do it in one go; every time they need something to kick 
around a little, they'll drag us up and destroy us a little more, and 
then a little more, and then a little more, until there's nothing left. 
The death of the Shark Punching Center, on the terms of the SCP 


Foundation, will be drawn-out, humiliating, and painful. Is there 
anyone here who wants to see our mighty organization brought low 
in such a manner?" 


Having heard of their potential fate, few in the crowd could bring 
themselves to say they did. One solitary voice rose up from the sea 
of faces: "So what do we do?" 


The speaker sighed deeply. "We destroy ourselves. Not entirely, 
mind you, not entirely. We have a few select field agents chosen to 
continue our mission in secret. They will wander the oceans of the 
world, doing whatever they can to protect those threatened by 
sharks. But they are never to form another organization like us - it 
will only be them, and them alone, who defend the world. As for the 
rest of us, we are to vanish off the face of the Earth, and our bases 
are to be destroyed, all four of them. By the end of the day, it will be 
as if the Shark Punching Center never existed." 


A few people in the room laughed to themselves. A few people 
sobbed into their hands. Most were silent. A sense of inevitability 
had descended upon the room, leaving the majority unable to react 
in any significant manner. The speaker sighed one last time. 


"However, this does not mean we are going to go quietly." Ears 
perked up all across the room. "We will not be attacking the SCP 
Foundation, or doing some grand suicide mission, or anything of that 
sort. But we will not be going quietly. If you will look in the lockers 
stationed around this room, you will find enough scuba gear and 
boxing gloves to fit every person in this room. You are to don them, 
and brace yourselves for a sudden increase in the amount of water 
in the room. Shortly afterwards, every shark in this facility will be 
released, leaving us with more than enough shark faces to punch. 
With any luck, we will punch like we have never punched before. 


"There will not be any survivors. Despite our great skills, the fact of 
the matter is that the sharks far outnumber us, and will slaughter 
every last one of us. Upon the death of every non-shark living thing 
in the facility, the water is to be drained, leaving the sharks to die 
horrible, suffocating deaths. The bases will then blow, leaving 
behind no evidence we ever existed. And that, my friends, will be the 
end of the Shark Punching Center. One final glorious round of flying 


fists and bleeding scales. A fitting swan song for our group." 


A great excitement had gripped those assembled. In spite of their 
oncoming demise, none in the room could deny that there was any 
other proper way to go than this. They had punched sharks together 
for years, and if they had to go out, then they would go out swinging. 
Scuba gear was tightened, boxing gloves were strapped on, and 
bodies were braced. The brave men and women who had diligently 
protected the world from the underwater menace were ready to die, 
unsung heroes, but heroes nonetheless. 


Seeing that the last scuba mask had been fastened on tight, the 
speaker smiled - for the courage of the men and women before him, 
and for the years of glory they had lived for. "Does everybody 
remember the techniques you learned from The Art of Punching 
Sharks?" A great cry of confirmation echoed off the walls. "What is 
our motto?" 


"To search, punch, and conquer!" 
"Then release the sharks." 


So ended the Shark Punching Center. 


One Last Ride