The hand formed a fist and shook left and right. 
“Then what!? What’dya want from me Gram?” 
The hand shook left and right again. No sell. 


“Why not!” Allen pleaded, hands upturned. “I got good goods here 
for yours. Ain't no reason you shouldn't be sellin’ to me. 


Suddenly five other hands joined the party, all grouped together a 
few feet away from Allen’s conversant. The metacarpal actors 
formed wriggly, serpent-like shapes and began wobbling toward the 
conversant hand. The protagonist digit formed a claw-like mouth and 
began bashing the other hands down until they lay in a black 
shadowy pool on the ground. After a second they rose back to eye 
level and glared as well as hands could glare at him. 


“The twiggy people? What’s the big deal? They're a nuisance. 
They're not even aware like us humans are." He paused, taking a 
deep breath. "Listen, what do | have to do so | can trade with you 
again? | ain't got all day.” 


The hands went limp for a moment, and then turned northeast. After 
about five seconds another hand carrying a tiny strip of paper 
appeared. They grabbed Allen’s hands and puppeteered him to read 


it. 

“Hey hey, guys, easy! | can move on my own! Now what’s this say?” 
Two hands clapped together silently as he scanned the words. 

“No!” 


A hand shaped like head nodded slowly. /t had to be done if they 
were to barter. 


“Grammie no!” 


The hands grabbed him by the feet, flipping him onto his back. They 
dragged him kicking and screaming down the parking lot and he 
crashed through the doors of the vacant old department store. 
Luckily this all happened within a few moments, and he would only 
notice the trail of blood from his scraped back and the ensuing pain 
when he was several blows into his whoopin’. 


Allen, his face blue with brusing, and his back fused with the 
congealed blood on his shirt stumbled out of the Smart Mart. He 
would not be able to sit down for a day or two. 


“Never again!" Allen coughed, spitting blood on the pavement. 
"Never again do | do business in this town you ass! Hear me? Cunt! 
Hear me you fu-” 


A hand slapped him hard in the face. He drew blood digging teeth 
into his tongue. 


If he wanted to trade in this town he needed to be good, and that 
meant no cursing. He also needed the alcohol for his rash, and to 
forget this day ever happened. He needed the hard stuff. 


“....fudge faces.” 


How Grammie knew he was cursing or killing more or less friendly 
monsters, he could only guess at. She just seemed to know. 
Sometimes he wondered what she did to really bad people. It 
probably had a lot to do with why the town was always so deserted. 


“What do you want me to do?” Said Allen, softly. 


Five seconds later a hand floated slowly toward him holding a strip 
of paper. Allen grabbed it gently from the things grip, trying not to 
wince as his finger brushed up against the awkward squeezing 
feeling of the shadow finger. 


“Thanks.” 


He held the paper up and squinted at the ridiculously tiny, cursive 
script. 


cee 


Help your neighbors’. What? That’s vague. Grammie. Please 
clarify.” He massaged his temple and looked to the again moving 
conversant hand. It pointed off toward the direction of the sun 
setting. 


“That's opposite the direction of my house! You want me to go that 
way? Can | do it tomorrow?" His eyes were wide in exasperation. 
"Please? You know, being outside, well you don’t know, but being 
outside at night is suicide. I’m not exaggerating, Grammie. | could be 
stung by an ender and shrunk into nothin"! | could get ablated by a 
shadowman!” 


The hand went limp as if exhausted. A delivery hand arrived with 
another strip. 


~Say your prayers. Grammie knows best. 
“Are you serious! Are you f... Freaking serious?” 


The hand gave him a thumbs up. She was. He rubbed his face and 
slowly started toward downtown. An enforcer snuck its way back into 
his skull while it was still throbbing. Grammie sat behind his eyes to 
make sure he wasn't making an ass of himself when he rescued his 
future friend. 


« Old Kansas Sector: Part 3 


| Hub | 


SCP-696: Abyssal Typewriter 


Item #: SCP-696 
Object Class: Neutralized (formerly Safe) 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-696 is currently contained 
within a secure locker within Site-73. 


Description: SCP-696 is a portable mechanical typewriter. No 
manufacturer information, serial number, or other identifying 
features are present on SCP-696. 


SCP-696 is sapient, and is able to move its keys independently. 
However, it has expressed a reluctance to communicate unless 
loaded with paper and a ribbon of red ink. SCP-696 is also capable 
of understanding messages typed into it, allowing two-way 
communication. It is unknown how, as SCP-696 only appears to 
experience tactile sensations, but SCP-696 is able to distinguish 
between individuals it has communicated with. A majority of 
SCP-696 messages are typed in all capital letters in a verbose 
styling, and often include themes and imagery commonly featured in 
dark fantasy media. 


+ Display Interview SCP-696 01 


Foreword: Interview is the result of initial 
testing of SCP-696 using D-Class personnel. 
D-69601 has been equipped with a radio to 
communicate with research staff. 


SCP-696: [YOUR TIME IS NIGH. IF YOU 
HAVE A GOD, PRAY TO IT NOW.] 


D-69601: "Ooh, scary." 
SCP-696: [PREPARE YOURSELF 


Old Kansas Sector: Part 5 » 


Old Kansas Sector ~ 5: Sinopec Dark 


The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD 
Salina, Kansas, USA 


Everyone knew about Sinopec Dark, shopped at one of their stores, 
or had one of their products in their home. By 2100 SinDark, as it 
was often called in shorthand had bought out most other companies 
in the world, save for Wondertainment & Cools. In 2050 they merged 
with the newly public Dark Enterprises, formerly a collectively owned 
business dealing in fine luxury goods and automobiles. Also 
absorbed was Prometheus Factory Inc, formerly known as the 
Factory; the world’s largest producer of medical equipment and 
pharmaceuticals. 


SinDark had a less than sterling reputation, and on 2090 they were 
publicly outed in mass by the Manna Charitable Foundation for their 
natural and human rights abuses. Unfortunately, there was little 
anyone could do to stop a company that virtually owned the world. 


Allen stood now in front of one of their decrepit Mega Centers, each 
a retail colossus with on site manufacturing and food production. 
The three story building and each of its 561,000 square foot floors 
dominated the downtown plaza. 


Here at Sinopec Dark, we Cut Out the middleman. 


Against his better judgement, Allen picked up an old dusty flyer 
underneath a flickering streetlamp. 


Mulhausen Body Butter 2434.99 - You'll Never Feel 
Better! 


He hated the copper smell of that stuff. 


Whole Milk 2%34.99 - PSF CERTIFIED ORGANIC. 


Chuck Round: 2%24.99 per kg - Meat made from real, 
happy cows. Vegan. 


Butterfly Pork Loin: 243.99 per kg - Maggo’s Old 
Fashioned Lab Grown. 


Pink Federal Meat: 21.99 per kg - The ethical choice. 
Federal meat was delicious, even if it was seventh generation. 
Avocado 2%620.99 per kg - Get them while they last! 


Allen was interrupted by a tap on the back of his head. In a jerk 
reaction, he twisted and jumped away, only there was nothing 
behind him. He looked up to see Grammie’s enforcer pointing at the 
back of another enforcer’s wrist. 


It’s getting late. 
“Right, yeah.” 


The sun was just halfway sunken into the horizon. Allen turned 
around and peered into the windows of the foreboding shopping 
center. He could spot figures crawling around in the ceiling mirrors, 
looking back at him. Allen glanced at the doorways of broken glass, 
and caught another in the middle of its peep show. But there was 
nothing to be seen in the hallways, and nothing behind the doors. 


Toms. Stupid, annoying Peeping Toms. The whole place was filled 
with them. 


“What do you even do!” Allen yelled at one as it quickly skittered 
from view. They crawled in his peripheral vision as he made his way 
to the main entrance. Allen ruffled his hair and took the slugger to 
the window. As he chipped away at the stripped glass he was taken 
surprise by a massive, buzzing insect in the corner of his eye. 


He turned around with a start and scanned the sky, but saw nothing. 
Allen grimaced. 


He knew better than to pull his flashlight out. Among the corpses 
and dried bones of the humans and Changed there wasn’t much to 
fear here. He knew that monsters were territorial, and where one 
type tended to group, others wouldn't. The exception to this rule 
were the Shadowmen, who went wherever they pleased. The sharp 
angles of light gave their nebulous forms physical presence, and 
that made you vulnerable to ablation. It was acceptable to avoid 
these things, as fighting them was costly. In addition to this, Allen 
wasn’t devout - he couldn’t execute the Barclay protocol and bless 
his slugger. It was better to accept the dark when he could, and he 
was lucky to only be dealing with the almost peripherally-natured 
Peepers. 


Allen hollered into the store as loud as he could. 
"Honey, I’m home!” 


This survival tactic was hotly contested among new age Survivalists, 
most left it to personal discretion. The lack of a response from 
potential squatters made Allen feel a lot better about taking his first 
steps in. 


He wondered to himself if this person he was rescuing was a 
person, or a Changed. He wondered if he would like them. He 
smiled softly as he threw some bags of Federal Beef into his 
backpack. 


“Anyone home?” He shouted as he made his way along the edge of 
the rotted produce garden. “Anyone at all?” But there was no 
response. Only the dripping of old pipes and the soft buzzing of 
some shy and not quite tangible insect. 


It was too dark to make out the particular shade of the enforcers, but 
he wasn’t quite sure Grammie would help him along every step of 
the way. She was old fashioned like that. A guy needed to learn to 
take care of himself. 


Occasionally Malo would appear in dark corners and behind empty 
shelves, but she was mostly useless. A little creepy, too, and a little 
bit too clingy for Allen’s taste. He thought downloading her through 
the net would make things a little less lonely, but most monsters just 


didn’t know how to interact with humans. 

Malo breathed heavily behind a stalk of long rotted avocado. 

“At least say hi! We’ve known each other for four freakin’ years!” 
Malo disappeared. 


Allen looped the corner and made his way toward the still dim lights 
of the stairwell. He paused for a moment and looked around. Behind 
him and through the aisle he could just barely make out the entrance 
to the store. Night had fallen. 


In the dark he could make out a soft noise... someone was crying. 
He moved toward the bakery and the noise tapered off. “This is 
going to be interesting.” He whispered to himself as he turned back 
toward the elevator lobby. The sobbing was louder as he 
approached the base of the stairs. It sounded like a woman. 


Three floors. He hoped it wasn’t too much of a walk. 


The thought that he could find a computer passed his mind, as well 
as the thought that he had forgotten to pick up some vodka. 


“| should really make a list.” 


He spotted the royal purple and gold plaque, a directory of services 
and a map of SinDark’s floor plan. 


F1 
B1 
B2 
« Old Kansas Sector: Part 4 
| Hub | 


Old Kansas Sector: Part 6 » 


Old Kansas Sector ~ 6: The SCP Foundation 


The Last Era: 13, August, 2119 AD 
Salina, Kansas, USA 


A man who had long forgotten his name was driving down the 
twisting paths of the pinched barrens, his loyal dog at his side. He 
drove east, into the sunset, swerving left and right to avoid the 
spires and cracks of the twisted K-18. He was on a mission, 
following reports of some free radical anomalous jackass terrorizing 
the good people of OKS, and being a general eyesore. 


He cranked down the window and tossed out his cigarette. “How 
‘bout that? It’s not often you see an anomaly in the wild is it, boy?” 


“No, not often at all, and don’t call me boy,” responded the sharply 
dressed canine, his words slurred by his cigar. 


“| thought they had all been all wiped out topside, but | think we got 
ourselves a goddamn dodo.” He smiled and the dog rolled its eyes. 
“God, | think I’m gonna ash on my suit. Ash me, One.” One grabbed 
his cigar and flicked the excess out the window. “There ya go, Nine.” 
Nine panted excitedly. 


Agent One pulled up the PSF report on his PA as they pulled aside 
the recently massacred Walking Stick colony. On the screen was a 
humanoid, appearing to be in his mid twenties. 


One slammed the car door and wiped down his suit before making 
his way toward the Sticks. Nine jumped out of the window and 
galloped happily toward a family of three. 


“Hello there. I’m with the SCP Foundation. We received a report that 
your tribe was attacked,” Nine said in a professional yet sympathetic 
tone. The family responded in a unified, sinking and rising wail as 
they twisted around on themselves. 


“I see,” responded Nine, turning to One. “Did you hear that?” 
One’s eyes narrowed. “Every last word.” 


“We thank you for your time, and will try our best to provide 
assistance and protection for you and your family in the future. If you 
ever need anything else, please give us a call. We are very sorry 
this happened to you, and mark our words,” Nine bared his teeth. 
“He will be stopped. We will not go back to hiding in the dark. We 
will stand in the light.” 


The family gathered around and gave Nine a good pat and belly rub 
as he rolled around the dirt excitedly. 


“Oh for fuck sake, Nine.” 


“Sorry. On my way.” 


The SCP Foundation still existed well into the chaotic Age of Rot. 
Protecting the status quo at all costs and preserving normalcy, 
although it was only a shadow of its former self. 


It's not entirely certain when the Foundation changed its ethos. 
Some argued that they were simply preserving normalcy as it 
currently exists. Some claim the Foundation was already under 
control of something that wasn’t partial to human normalcy to begin 
with, and there’s the chance that the Foundation hadn't changed at 
all. 


Beneath Yellowstone Park, in the fossilized remains of an ancient 
Foundation machine, was a colony of the last few remaining, 
unchanged humans on Earth. The Foundation’s objective of 
containing the anomalous had failed, and their priorities shifted. 
Humanity was contained and sterilized. A containment breach was 
never an issue, only a perimeter breach. 


The chambers of the machine were rusted, and their gears whined. 
The Foundation tried for years to restore their miraculous machine 
to its former glory, but the resources simply weren’t available. It had 
died from overuse, the systems pushed to their limit. Only tertiary 


systems remained, which were not capable of creating life, but 
sustaining it. 


Ten years ago, the last nine of the artificial humans stared in 
confusion at one another in the control room as their memories were 
suddenly lifted in line with the old protocol. By this time the world 
would have been reconstructed if the machine were functioning 
properly, but they did not know what the machine did, or who they 
were. 


In time they learned of the Foundation, and found photographs of 
personnel in the data banks that looked a lot like them. 


One remembered everything, and he decided to keep it that way. 
His colleagues scratched their heads over the man in the archival 
photo with the head of a goldfish. 


Nine was still a dog, but luckily, no one knew what a dog was. 


The backs of Two's forearms were covered in pale pink, raised lines 
of scar tissue, but he couldn't be blamed for not counting them.