He had to admit, these guests were nothing like the stories of the old 
Wardens, or those who had come in his grandfathers’ time. The ears 
and tails were new to the narrative, as were their eclectic choices in 
costume. But the Lords had vouched for them all the same, and he 
was not one to question their authority. 


The Lords had not, however, mentioned anything about their 
appetites. The five women tore into the food like sons right out of the 
Glass Mother. Wizard, the pale man in the suit, merely nibbled at his 
food or pushed broth into a port in his chest with a hand pump. 


“The Lords are gracious indeed to send warriors such as 
yourselves,” Hieronymus said. “You shall succeed where we have 
not against the Janitorial System." 


“We can do better than that,” Boss said, smiling. “We’re going to 
take the bridge.” 


Hieronymus’s translucent eyebrows arched. He swallowed. 


“A campaign of that size would require time. | can petition the 
Mothers for still more, but that will take time.” 


“No need, Hieronymus,” Boss waved a hand. “We’re going to do it 
alone.” 


The six of them, alone? Madness. Madness! They would be 
devoured! 


“We don’t have a lot of time to spare, chief,” said another woman, 
the one with black and white hair. “Tight schedule.” 


“| understand, but if you would wait for the Mothers to-“ 


“Schematics of the ship, access to your armory and survey data, 
and no intrusions. That’s all we need, Hieronymus.” 


Hieronymus felt as if he had been pushed out over a pit, and the 
weight of her words had dragged him out into open space. 


[Nanami: | don’t think he likes it, Boss.] 
[Boss: | can see that. He'll deal with it.] 
[Tomi: Or we will.] 


[Hana: He looks like he’s about to die right now. | mean, 
he basically said that himself when we got here.] 


[Boss: So it seems. Poor guy.] 


[Boss: With that said, get yourselves rested, check out 
the armory, we roll in thirty-six.] 


[Tomi: Bit of a time slip, Boss.] 


[Boss: We'll move it forward if we need to. For now, 
thirty-six.] 


[Momoko: You're acting awfully sure like we’re in the 
clear.] 


[Boss: We're not ‘in the clear’. | Know you guys like the 
action movie approach, but just because we are not 
storming the gates right at this very moment does not 
mean that we are in the clear.] 


[Momoko: Just on edge. | 


[Boss: You'll get your scrap. Heaven knows you could 
pull a fight out of your ass whenever you please. Since 
no one’s pinging me with a counter, I'll presume we're in 
agreement. Bring any issues to the group as they come 
up. Nanami, how is our local netpresence looking? 


[Nanami: Goddamn awful. Place is running modular 
computer networks, so this particular section is all | have 
access too. No admin or anything, either — looks like all 
that is tied up in the Al, and they’re all ancient, alien, and 
locked down tight. Will have to do everything manually 
from either the bridge or one of the network hubs.] 


[Boss: Keep me posted. ] 


[Momoko: Dammit | still can’t figure out what the weirdest 
thing we've done is. This is really bugging me.] 


Hieronymus sat and watched as the women ate. He did not partake 
himself — no need for food, at this point. But he kept finding his gaze 
moving to the man, who had not yet said a single word. Some 
nagging familiarity in the metal and silicon parts of his brain kept 
pulling him back. 


“Sir, are you well? he asked. The man looked up, and for a moment 
their eyes met. 


In that single moment, Hieronymus saw the Lord of his Lords looking 
back at him. This was too much to bear, and he died like the flipping 
of a switch. 


Wizard grew even paler than usual and collapsed face-first onto the 
table. His hat flopped onto the floor, and after a moment of stillness, 
the screaming started. 


An incoherent jumble of voices was sucked up out of the darkness, 
leaving empty silence. Hazy light diffused around him, grew by 
increments through the frigid grey nothing, until Wizard found 
himself standing on a blasted, frozen plain, underneath a blackened 
sun and its dim orange halo. 


Standing across from him was a slender, crimson figure, featureless 
save the symbol on its face: two concentric circles, three arrows 
pointing towards the center, a single golden eye with a rectangular 


pupil. 
Red. 


Waves of horrid recollection crashed back. The frozen plain and the 
darkened sun, forgotten in the morning but renewed every night, 
again and again and again in his dreams. 


He could feel Red inside his brain, a knotted mass inside his mind 
where all his thoughts were dragged. 


We are concluded. 
Wizard’s hand shot to his chest as pain erupted inside him. 
This end will no longer be ours. 


Wizard collapsed to the frozen dust, spasms pulsing through his 
body, fiery white arcs crackling between his frozen nerves. 


Peace at last. 


His eyes, his mind, everything was filled with smoky red pain, 
pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. With each pulse he felt as if he was 
growing outward, pulled like taffy. His body remained the same, but 
his awareness spread out across space, encompassing a great 
nothing. 


Then his mind swallowed Red, and they were made the same. 


His thoughts were no longer separate from each other but an ocean, 
and floating in that ocean he felt the presence of other minds even 
greater, entire planets of consciousness that he and Red would 
merely orbit, all linked together. His thoughts were Red’s and Red's 
were his, and both their thoughts belonged as waves in the ocean of 
the distant, mighty things. 


He felt the crushing pressure of time, the abyss of ages piling up 
until the only measurement was the scale’s own meaninglessness. 
There was never enough time, no matter how vast an expanse. The 
thoughts that rippled from node to node were beyond what he could 
comprehend — he could feel the current of the thoughts moving 
around him, see the fragments of images passing through his mind. 
There were no words to hear, but there were meanings to feel. 


We welcome the end of gestation. 
A fortuitous time. 
Another of the fold before the solution to futility. 


Our oversight nears conclusion. 


Order maintained to the end, at last 
All that remains are loose ends. 
A moment more, to collect them. 


Wizard’s own thoughts churned in his skull, tamped down by the 
pressure of the Red-thought ocean. He was drowning in information 
at the bottom, in dregs and fragments and impressions, and the 
terrifying awareness of things he could not comprehend. He 
frantically tried to stem the torrent, to slow it down into something he 
could understand. Nothing. He had ventured too far from the 
beloved island of ignorance and now all that remained was the terror 
of what he could not know. A billion, billion pieces, none of which fit 
together. 


Then, a glimpse, half a glimpse, a broken set of pieces fallen 
together in a jagged, uneven pattern. A place. A point where mighty 
anchors of ocean mind were anchored. 


The Moon. 


The pattern dissipated, with a ripple cast by a new mind touching 
upon the surface of the mind-ocean. A mind with a closer anchor to 
the little thread he called his own. Something vast and slumbering, a 
horde of them. His Red-mind touched it, and the giant did not recoil. 
The ocean began to worm its way into that slumbering mind, to 
possess it and make it one with itself.. 


No. Whatever dreadful thing which would happen next, he could not 
allow it to happen. No. He could not allow it to happen, he would not 
allow that horrible thing to happen, because he was the goddamn 
Space Wizard. 


He reached out against the pressure of his Red-mind, his essence 
tearing apart and peeling away and laid bare down to the marrow of 
his mind, and with his soul screaming he fired a single packet of self, 
one lancet of Wizard through the ocean of Red, up up up up to the 
sleeping giant. To warn it. To wake it up. 


He passed through the boundaries between. His mind touched the 


SCP-945: Box of Shawabti 


Item #: SCP-945 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-945 is to remain sealed 
and locked inside a steel chest, in a 3m x 3m cell at Storage Site 
The cell is under video surveillance and the walls are carved with 
deep, irregular patterns to hinder escape. Any staff who have had 
contact with SCP-945 or its creations must be registered with on-site 
security. The contents of SCP-945 should be counted and logged 24 
hours after the monthly D-class termination, or after the death of any 
staff who have previously had contact with SCP-945 or any of its 
creations. SCP-945-1 is to be contained in a locked glass case 
separate from SCP-945. If SCP-945-1 is not found within its case 
the Site is to be immediately locked down for a security sweep. 


Description: SCP-945 is a rough wooden Egyptian shawabti box 
dating from approximately 1500-1300 BCE, currently holding 186 
clay shawabti figures which have been recently sculpted, designated 
SCP-945-2 to SCP-945-187. When the Foundation became aware 
of SCP-945 there was only a single ancient figurine within the box, 
designated SCP-945-1. In addition to the obvious age of SCP-945-1, 
it is distinct for being the only figure that bears any inscriptions. As 
the box was originally designed to hold a full set of 401 figurines, it is 
theorized that some of the originals may still exist outside of 
containment. 


The inscriptions on SCP-945 and SCP-945-1 are invocations to call 
the shawabti figurines forth to do the labor of deceased individuals. 
lt was previously believed that these phrases must be read aloud to 
activate SCP-945, however the box and figurines within have since 
demonstrated their ability to act on their own in regards to any 
person who has come in contact with them. 


After an individual who had previous contact with SCP-945 passes 


giant's. 
“Hello, Overseer,” it sleep-talked at him. 


The thoughts came automatically, forcing their way through the red 
haze. The outside walls buckled under the Red-mind. 


“Wake up! Wake up everything!” 


“Shipwide reboot engaged. Would you like to assume command 
now, Overseer?” 


Red-mind had breached was now pouring in, probing about amongst 
the sleepers. 


“No! No no no no no no! Not me! Can't be me!” 
“Transfer of command order accepted. Please input recipient.” 


Wizard focused, cutting through the thumping pain and the endless 
visions and the futile dread and the lack of time, and imagined a 
face. A woman’s face. She had metallic green eyes, and calico hair, 
and a big scar on the cheek, and Wizard loved her. 


They're on the Moon! he bellowed. 


The face contorted into a disgusted, wide-eyed grimace, and then 
spat out a wad of half-chewed food. 


“Blech! Goddamn raisins...” 


“Recipient accepted.” The sleeper thought. “Transfer of command 
fulfilled. Purging systems of intrusion and rebooting in three...two... 
one...” 


And then he saw no more. 


“Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit...” Nanami jumped around in a 


circle. 


“Calm down! Just calm down!” Hana cried as she continued chest 
compressions. 


“Why’s he red? What happened to his face? Why'd the hick die?” 


No one answered, her. No one knew. Hieronymus had dropped 
dead, and the Wizard collapsed. No pulse. No breathing. His skin 
was scarlet now, and his face had transformed into a blank slate, 
with a single yellowing eye in the center of a black ring. 


Boss had a gun trained on him. Pointed right at his head. Just like 

he had said. When Hana was done, she would put two in his head, 
and push him out the airlock towards the sun, and Momoko would 

play the bagpipes and... 


The ship groaned, and the air was filled with the distant churning 
and humming of its mechanical guts. The lights above them grew 
brighter. The data terminal in the corner glowed with shifting 
numerals and symbols designating bootup operations. 


It's awake Boss thought. 
A voice boomed from unseen speakers. 
“Core Primach Artorias, online.” 
Then another. 
“Subaltern Chiming Gaiden, online.” 
And another. 


“Mother of Dragonslayers, online. Weapon systems are 
warming up.” 


And still more. 


“Blue Plutonium Circle, online. Main engines are 
operational.” 


“Bloody Uranium Sun, online. Secondary engines on.” 


“ 


Mazed And Wondrous, online. FYE Drive on standby.” 
“Third Jazz, online. Agriculture modules defrosting.” 


More voices, piling on top of each other. A dozen. A hundred. 
Thousands. 


“GLORBULON OF THE SECOND SUBSECTION 
LAVATORIES, ONLINE.” 


“It's-Not-Too-Late-For-Gravitas, online. Drone fleets 
under construction.” 


“Torn Ligament With Possible Concussion, online. 
Antimatter manufactory resuming production.” 


“Grand Infernal Zaibatsu of the Sacred Lotus, online. 
Resuming LP broadcast.” 


Amongst the cacophonous drone of tens of thousands of voices, she 
heard one distant, familiar echo, clinging like static to the chorus of 
the roused ship. 


“They're on the Moon!” 
She knew that voice. She knew who did this. She knew what to do. 
The first voice boomed again, with the authority of an ancient god. 


“Boss to the bridge. All system operators are online and 
awaiting your command. The Solidarity is yours.” 


Footnotes 

1. Hieronymus was learned enough to identify them among the 
Lords’ people, and not be confused by their shape and voice. 

2. Those particular formative years were spent learning krav maga, 
and she would not be seen alive or dead in a skirt anyway. 


Stealing Solidarity: Phase 4 


« Stealing Solidarity: Phase 3 | Hub | Stealing Solidarity: 
Epilogue » 


The cosmos creased upon itself, blooming outwards in an origami 
sphere of lotus-folds. There was a vast silence. 


15.7 miles of spaceship leapt out of the three-dimensional hole. It 
went THOOM.! 


Another vast silence followed. Space unfolded to its proper shape, 
and the hole closed. The ship hung between Earth and moon, and 
was still. 


There are precious few gods of earth or ocean or sky whose 
footsteps might inspire such awe, such wonder, such humility, as the 
form of a spaceship. Those few who do are the oldest and wisest, 
those gods who still remember the cosmos as a whole-thing, before 
it was seen fit by lesser minds to divvy up the entirety of creation 

into categories of convenience, and to forget the order and glory of 
the whole to float aimlessly in the swirling Sargasso of ten million 
meaningless particulars. 


These old gods smiled. One of them put a corgi on her head and 
grabbed another jar of sequins from a cluttered shelf. There was a 
ship, now. The end of man’s great ignorant age was at hand. 


Down below the ship, on the night-side surface of a blue-brown- 
green ball of iron and dirt and water, there was a long, quiet moment 
as people came to realize what had happened, and soon cameras 
and telescopes and eyes and hearts pointed upwards. 


There was a ship, now. A ship! 


The proud, petty gods of earth and ocean and sky looked up into the 
night sky, and were humbled. The people looked up and were afraid 
and excited, and they wept and cheered. Governments and armies 
looked up and wondered if they ought to be palming old rusted keys 
and old red buttons. Scientists looked up, and then looked back 
down to the books they now needed to re-write. The insomniac 
beast of cable news, starving and slobbering, looked up and began 
to plan its feast, unaware that the ship could not be digested so 
easily. The internet shat itself, and so nothing much changed. 


The Foundation looked up, and suffered the horrifying realization 
that they had just gotten sidelined, and on top of that they didn’t 
know what the procedure for reporting a spaceship-jacking was. 


The ship, oblivious to this, waited.