Bruce was ushered into a large office, with bay windows providing a 
vista of the forest outside and polished furniture made from Brazilian 
rosewood. He felt a pang of jealousy at its luxury and understated 
opulence. It was nicer than his own Lower Manhattan office. The 
scent of tobacco and lemon lingered in the room. Sitting behind a 


massive desk, like a defending soldier ensconced behind the walls 
of a fortress, was a man with more salt than pepper in his hair. Thick 
bifocals hung from a lanyard around his neck. 


He stood when Bruce entered and held out his hand. 


"Mr. Hand," he said. Bruce shook the proffered hand. "So good to 
finally meet you. I'm Dr. Keller. Please sit down, sit down." 


Bruce sat in a Morris chair with fluted woodwork. 


Dr. Keller waited politely before taking his own seat. He stared 
intently at Bruce while his hands explored the topography of the 
desk, probing until they found what they were looking for: an antique 
meerschaum pipe. He removed a pinch of tobacco from a nearby 
tin, packed the chamber and sparked a match, all the while his 
hooded eyes remained focused on Bruce. He took several drags 
from the pipe and shook the match out. "Hand, Hand, Hand,” he 
said. His gaze finally broke as a cloud of smoke occluded his face. 
There was a not entirely unpleasant aroma to the smoke, hinting at 
Asian spices and cloves and citrus. "Hand. That's an interesting 
surname. | don't think I'm familiar with it. May | inquire about the 
origins?" 


Bruce crossed his legs. "It's Jewish. It was Handelsman but was 
shortened when my family emigrated to America." He was tired, had 
gotten only four or five hours of sleep after orientation, and the 
coffee he'd drank earlier that morning had long since worn off. "And 
yours, doctor? What is the origin of Keller?" 


"Ah. | believe I've put my proverbial foot in it." 
"| think you mean you've put your foot in your mouth." 


"Yes, probably. I've never quite grasped American idioms. But 
before we get off on the wrong track — or, if we already have, 
please allow me the opportunity to steer us back onto the right one. 
My name is German, as I'm sure you're aware. | left Dusseldorf in 
nineteen-twenty and came to the United States, probably for many 
of the same reasons as your own family, if | can be presumptuous. | 
have a passing interest in genealogy, which is the only reason | 


asked the question. My maternal grandfather is of Jewish descent, 
and | assure you there is no ulterior motive regarding eugenics, and 
certainly not the Ubermensch or any other nonsensical tripe 
preached by the Third Reich." He leaned back in his chair and 
steepled his fingers over his paunch. The leather made a dull sound 
as he shifted, like crumpling a paper bag. "There. Does that... clear 
the air?" 


Maybe the doctor was telling the truth. It was undeniable that he 
spoke English fluently, albeit with an accent. But after everything 
Bruce had learned in the past twelve hours about the Foundation, he 
wouldn't put it past the shadow organization to forge immigration 
documents in order to get a Nazi scientist on the payroll. He tried to 
remember what he knew about Dr. Keller. What was he a doctor of? 
Bruce racked his brain. Leonard had mentioned it in one of his 
phone calls. 


It came to him like a metaphorical light-bulb going off above his 
head — psychology. 


And what could the Foundation possibly want with a German 
psychologist? 


The explanation was obvious: manipulation. Influence. Propaganda. 
Indoctrination. Proselytization. He could go on and on. The Germans 
had practically invented the field, although if you asked Bruce it was 
more of a pseudoscience. 


"Did | use that correctly? Clear the air?" 


Before he could respond Dr. Keller raised his index finger, 
requesting Bruce wait a moment. He leaned over and rifled through 
the contents of a desk drawer. "That reminds me, the cleaning crew 
found this on the airplane. | believe it's yours?" 


He pulled out Bruce's silver Breitling watch and gave it to him. 
"Thank you," Bruce said, nonplussed. He hadn't expected to ever 
see it again. The time on the watch matched the clocks in the 
building, (Or was it the other way around?) implying that he'd 
remained in the same time zone. 


Doubtful. He'd left New York in the middle of January. Looking out 
Dr. Keller's office windows, evergreen trees soared until their saw- 
toothed peaks were lost in clouds. The ground was hidden under a 
shag rug of moss and lichen. That same moss bearded tree trunks; 
it draped like shawls from branches and bent saplings under its 
weight. 


It didn't look like anyplace Bruce had ever seen. It looked 
prehistoric. Primordial. 


He inspected the clasp on the band of the watch, and to no surprise 
found that the loose pin was still secured in place. That meant they 

were either an incredibly thorough cleaning crew, to find it and put it 
back, or it hadn't fallen off in the first place. 


He realized that the doctor had been speaking to him. He slid the 
watch onto his wrist, fastened the band and looked up. "I'm sorry? | 
didn't catch that." 


"| was just saying that Leonard told me he's caught you up with our 
current predicament." 


"Yes. | mean, as much as possible. It's a lot to take in, and I'm not 
really sure what | can do to help. I'm an account executive with an 
advertising firm.” 


"It's quite simple: we need your expertise, Bruce. May | call you 
Bruce?" 


He nodded his acquiescence. 


"Good. And please, call me Felix. We don't have time for the 
trappings of formalities. We've got work to do." Dr. Keller retrieved a 
manila folder from a cabinet, opened it and thumbed through several 
pages, then slid a sheet of paper over to Bruce. "That came ina 
couple of hours ago." 


Bruce picked it up and read it. 


STATUS REPORT 


DEPARTMENT OF STRATEGIC OPERATIONS AND 
COMMAND 


Foundation Base Camp Mercury, Nevada 
CLASSIFICATION: Top Secret 
MEMORANDUM FOR: Operation Ranger 
Date: 01/25/1951 


From: Robert O'Neill, Col USAF (Ret) 
L4 FD Senior Field Coordinator 


To: Wesley Peebles, S.O.W, C.S.D., 
L4 FD Div Operations and Strategy 


Target: Wintermute is ACTIVE. At current rate it will 
reach LAS VEGAS (POP 50000) no later than 
01/29/1951, and possibly as soon as 01/26/1951. 


Impact: SEVERE. Civilian casualties continue to climb 
and are currently estimated at 75,000 with expected 
fatality rate higher than 99%. DEFENSE CONDITION 3. 
Potential for K-CLASS scenario is SLIGHT to 
MODERATE. 


Resources Deployed: MTF Gamma-5 ("Red Herrings") 
is currently ENGAGED. MTF Epsilon-4 ("Slanted and 
Enchanted") is MIA and PRESUMED DEAD. 


Artillery strike success is VERY LOW. 
SUPERFORTRESS aerial incendiary bombardment 
SUPERFLAMER and BLOCKBUSTER met with LOW 
success. HIGH EXPLOSIVE bombardment was also 
VERY LOW. Target Wintermute is highly mobile and 
evasive. 


Project CHIMNEY SWEEP is a COMPLETE and UTTER 
FAILURE. Target Wintermute failed to arrive at predicted 
location. Schedule unlikely to allow for second attempt 
but CHIMNEY SWEEP II has been implemented and is 


currently underway. 


Project ENKIDU has been implemented and is currently 
underway. 


Project TOPEKA moderate success and continues. 


Resource Update: MTF Eta-8 ("Man-Eaters") has 
replaced MTF Epsilon-4 ("Slanted and Enchanted"). 


Acquisition Request: IMMEDIATE deployment and 
discretionary approval for package ABLE. 


Finished reading, Bruce frowned and tried to figure out what it all 
meant. As far as he was concerned it might as well have been 
written in a foreign language. 


He returned the sheet to the desk. "I'm sorry Dr. Keller — excuse 
me, Felix — but | still don't see why I'm involved." 


Dr. Keller handed him a second slip of paper. Bruce sighed but 
indulged the doctor once more. 


Notes: The below transcript was broadcasted throughout 
the state of Nevada in violation of FCC regulations. 


Source: NOAA Weather Radio 

Project Codename: TOPEKA, Operation Ranger 
Original Broadcast Date: 01/25/1951 

Voice Message: 

... THIS IS THE NEVADA WEATHER SERVICE... 
... THIS IS NOT A TEST... 


... THE NEVADA WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A 
TORNADO EMERGENCY FOR... 


LANDER COUNTY, CENTRAL NEVADA. 


HAZARD...DEADLY TORNADO. 


AT 245 PM CDT...NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE 
ACQUIRED VISUAL CONFIRMATION OF AN 
EXTREMELY LARGE AND DEADLY TORNADO ON 
THE GROUND IN THE TOWN OF RIVELL, MOVING 
SOUTHEAST TOWARD PRISCILLA CITY, LANDER 
COUNTY...THIS IS AN EMERGENCY SITUATION. 
SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY! 


... THE NEVADA STATE EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT 
DEPARTMENT HAS ISSUED MANDATORY 
EVACUATIONS FOR... 

ABBINGTON, LANDER COUNTY 

PRISCILLA CITY, LANDER COUNTY 

SANDY SPRINGS, LANDER COUNTY 


... RESIDENTS OF THESE TOWNSHIPS ARE 
ORDERED TO VACATE THEIR HOMES AND GO 
DIRECTLY TO THE NEAREST MUNICIPAL BUILDING. 
THE NATIONAL GUARD AND NEVADA STATE 
DEFENSE FORCE HAVE BEEN DEPLOYED AND WILL 
TRANSPORT YOU TO A SAFE LOCATION. THIS IS 
NOT A TEST. YOU ARE IN IMMEDIATE AND DEADLY 
PERIL! MOVE DIRECTLY TO THE NEAREST 
MUNICIPAL BUILDING IN YOUR TOWN FOR 
EVACUATION. YOUR LIFE IS AT RISK...YOU ARE IN 
MORTAL DANGER! 


... THIS MESSAGE WILL REPEAT IN FIFTEEN 
SECONDS... 


Topeka, he thought. God, they must think they're so clever. He 
admittedly felt a bit like Dorothy himself, a stranger in a strange land. 
Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. 


He said, "Okay, so | think I'm starting to figure this out." 


During a recent phone conversation with Leonard, Bruce's answer to 
a random question about what he'd do to conceal the deaths of 
thousands of Americans had been to fault a natural disaster. Like an 


activation event. 

Seven black cephalic tentacles approximately 90 cm long and 
about 10 cm in diameter at the base. Attempted to push 
SCP-864 on its side, and take several articles of clothing left 
in the testing chamber. Instance de-manifested on its own. 
Three dark green crustacean pincers, estimated to be 70 cm 
long. Attempted to drown a D-class personnel until 
supervising guards managed to free her. Instance retreated 
after being engaged by Agent Boyd. 

Six segmented mechanical claws, approximately 1 m in 
length. Seized a D-class personnel and a guard trying to pry 
the arm loose. Instances folded into SCP-864. 

Three red cephalic tentacles, estimated to be 3 meters in 
length. Attempted to seize a D-class personnel, but one 
instance was severed by a guard with a knife. The two other 
instances retreated, and the severed portion showed no 
anomalous properties. 


Testing has shown that SCP-864 extends a distance of 2 kilometers 
when manifesting an instance of SCP-864-1, after which it 
terminates in a steel hatch with the words "Black Dragon Co." 
embossed in it. Robotic drones sent inside of SCP-864 have found 
that, while active, the interior is composed entirely of SCP-864-1 
instances handling various garments. As of 1/16/2013, 
approximately 11% of these have been identified as originating from 
Earth. Of those, only 32 appear to originate from after 1900. 


« SCP-863 | SCP-864 | SCP-865 » 


earthquake or a flood. Or a tornado. He'd rationalized that you 
couldn't blame anyone or anything for a tornado, except maybe 
Mother Nature or God. The voice out of the whirlwind and all that. 


Based on the two documents they'd taken his speculative, off-the- 
cuff remark and applied it to the real-world. Real people. Real 
people who were really dead. 


Suddenly Bruce didn't feel so good. 


He still couldn't comprehend what the Foundation expected from 
him, despite Dr. Keller glossing over it with generic flattery. His 
expertise? What the hell was he an expert in that would be remotely 
applicable, that would make him in any way qualified? Didn't they 
realize that he dealt with client acquisition and juggling the 
management of accounts? He spent most of his days triaging 
deadlines and finding work-arounds for budgetary constraints. 


"Look, | think you've got the wrong guy. I'm an account exec, which 
means—" 


"We know exactly what it means. We also know that you didn't start 
off as an account executive and that you graduated with a bachelors 
in design arts. | won't detail the highlights of your career — I'm sure 
you're already familiar with them — and in return I'd ask that you 
don't sit there and tell me with a straight face that you're not the right 
man for the job." 


"The kind of work you're talking about... | haven't done it in a very 
long time." 


"No, but out of all the marketing and advertising specialists we keep 
on retainer your assistance has proved most valuable." 


Bruce clenched his teeth. "What do you want from me?" 


Dr. Keller placed his pipe on the desk. "I'm asking for your help, 
Bruce. | thought | made that clear. I'm asking for your help coming 
up with a story to protect the public from this threat. You've already 
given me one successful cover, which is the reason you're sitting 
across from me today. But we're not out of the woods yet. If this 


thing reaches Las Vegas, we need to be prepared." 
"| don't understand why you didn't just stop it a week ago.” 


"We tried," Dr. Keller said, grimacing. "We didn't have much 
information to go on. We still don't, but we tried. We thought — 
based on certain properties — that it may be the Gerasene demon, 
commonly referred to as ‘Legion’. You may not be familiar with the 
story, it's from the New Testament, but it's no longer relevant. It was 
believed it had to be that or a similar Judaic-Christian entity. The 
Tower of Babel, although not an entity, was also conjectured. We 
deployed a task force to the impacted area, call-sign Slanted and 
Enchanted, which specialized in theological phenomena. 


"The task force was dispatched to exorcise it only if containment 
proved inviable. A Catholic priest was sent along as part of the 
team, and we flew in pigs all the way from lowa so he could cast the 
demon into their bodies — don't laugh, it's worked before. Obviously 
it didn't this time, and so we resorted to burning plants and animals, 
even gave it wine and gold as an offering." Dr. Keller paused and 
tweezed the bridge of his nose as if it pained him. "They're all dead 
now. Slanted and Enchanted, that is. Well, you know, you read the 
report. We didn't... we didn't know about the area of effect it had. 
After that aerial and ground bombardment commenced, but it was 
already too late." 


They were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," said Dr. 
Keller. 


A young man with a buzz cut, dressed in a uniform similar to the one 
Bruce had seen the guard at the gatehouse wearing last night, 
stepped into the office. No rifle, but a pistol was holstered on his hip. 
He crossed the room in four swift strides and handed a letter to Dr. 
Keller, then spun on his heels and left without uttering a word. 


Dr. Keller tamped his pipe and lit another match. He produced a 
letter opener and sliced the envelope open in a single, practiced 
stroke and unfolded the two pages contained within. He put on his 
bifocals and cleared his throat. 


"What?" Bruce said. "What is it?" 


Dr. Keller handed the pages over to Bruce. ""We know what it is," he 
said. 


5 


The anomaly shed body parts like a molting snake shedding its skin. 
Arms and legs, heads and genitals — never a complete body, just 
the parts.