SCP-949-1: Welcome to Wondertainment 
Land! Haha! 


D-94923: Nevermind, | guess...can you 
identify yourself? 


SCP-949-1: I'm Sammy the Salamander! 


D-94923: Where does SCP-949 go when it 
disappears? 


SCP-949-1: The park isn't ready yet, friend! 


Morse broke the embrace, "Thanks man." 

"How'd things turn out with Leslie?" 

Morse took a sudden breath, "I'm just trying not to think about it." 
"| completely understand. How is the new project... 4531 | think?" 


"Yeah. It's pretty cool actually. Still working with stars. Or sort of | 
guess. We've got this ancient computer interface that manages to 
fake some of the stars in the sky." 


"Wait what?" 


"Yeah. It can create these absolutely enormous screens instantly in 
space, and then runs these weird video files on them which fake all 
the data from a star, all from here on earth." 


"That's fucking amazing. Why?" 


"We think it's was created by someone a long long time ago to 
complete some constellations." 


"First of all that's insane. Second, there's no way I'm cleared to know 
about this shit." 


"Eh it's not a big deal. You're a friend of mine. Besides, | didn't just 
call to hang out." 


Malcolm sighed and gave Morse that look again, "Right, what do 
you need?" 


"| need you to keep me up to date on the blueshift data from 1548." 


Now: 
A silence had descended on the entire room. 
"So you lied, then?" his interrogator asked. 


"Basically. After incident SCP-1548-A, | didn't feel it was prudent to 
tell anyone about what | had planned. Me and my team could be 


kept away from a telescope, but the larger the group of people 
involved, the less chance of a deception on this scale of working. | 
told him | needed the data regularly, and secretly, because | thought 
the two skips might be related to each other." 


"How did you justify the secrecy?" 


"| told him that if we were wrong, we didn't want 1548 finding out 
about 4531. Malcolm was already barred as part of his job from 
working with any telescopes, so | considered a conspiracy of two a 
valid risk." 


A woman three chairs down from the center finally spoke up, "Why 
don't you tell us what we all came here to find out: how did this all 
lead to the termination of 1548?" 


January 16th, 2004: 


"There's a chance no one will see it." Morse's research assistant, 
Jared Thomas, mused while stirring his coffee. 


Morse laughed. "We took the time to create a video file for a month 
long supernova. If no one sees it, we'll give it a few more tries and 
then give up on the project." 


"What if we got the file conversion wrong?" Jared said, with a hint of 
fear in his voice. 


"Then it shouldn't play at all. We can't go looking ourselves. You 
know that. The minute anyone on our team goes near a telescope 
this whole thing is going to be blown open, and we'll probably all 
lose our jobs." Morse was trying to think of more things to say to 
buttress his assistant's confidence when another team member 
barged into his office, without knocking. 


"They've got it," 
"The supernova?" Morse asked. 


"Yes sir." 


He'd called together his team to congratulate them. It was full of 
idealistic young men and women, who, with the right push, could 
accomplish some amazing feats. They'd figured out how to reverse 
engineer an interface for 4531 from scratch. They'd figured out how 
to convert an MP4 into a video file the object could play on its giant 
distant screens, and as of two years ago had managed to create a 
new screen two lightyears away from earth to play a custom made 
video file. 


That file was modified to perfection, mimicking a supernova over 11 
million lightyears away. Terrestrial telescopes and their watchers 
were fooled, and due to its distance, type, and location in another 
galaxy, no astronomers would be optimistic about finding the 
originating star. If there was one problem, it was that the video file 
was only a couple of months long and was found late in its life. 


Still, it'd been found, and it would start to diminish before 
disappearing completely. 


"Today we can celebrate," he said to his team in front of the large 
computer screen he used for briefings, "Tomorrow we get back to 
work. We possess the ability to move the heavens. | say we put 
them to use. Thomas has proposed the creation of two new video 
files, one of earth, and one of the black background of space. Both 
on loops. Later this year the hateful star will be passing very close to 
a black hole called 47-AJK-B." 


Morse moved the presentation to the second page, showing the 
black hole approach. "A slight modification of its trajectory is all that 
is required here. All of 1548's changes of velocity have required a 
certain level of ramping up. Our plan is simple: make it appear as 
though the earth is trying to escape." 


Morse pushed another button, displaying a new page. "We will layer 
two video screens utilizing 4531. Both will materialize about two 
lightyears from earth. One will follow the solar system's motion, 
obscuring it from view via 1548's vantage point. 


"The other will move in this direction, appearing to continue on a 


trajectory to quickly escape the galaxy. Either one of two things will 
occur." 


Morse moved the presentation to its last page. "Due to the 
superluminal communication and apparent observational abilities it 
possesses, we believe it will immediately notice the changes, and 
alter course accordingly. 


"Alternatively, the screen will simply provide a shield for the earth 
from 1548's vantage point. While the former is preferable, the latter 
is an acceptable outcome." 


Morse looked at the various team members spread out across the 
room and turned the lights back on. "Any questions?" 


Now: 


The man at the center of the room appeared to have regained his 
control of the room. Or perhaps more likely, Morse had stunned 
them into submission, "How did 1548 respond to the deception?" 


"By now you know the rest; it began to change course to follow what 
it believed was the new trajectory of the Earth, then, once it became 
apparent that 1548 wasn't going to escape the black hole's gravity 
well, we deactivated the special programs we'd created for 4531." 


The man across from him finished writing in his notebook and 
looked up. 


"| think that's all then. We'll be interviewing all of your staff over the 
next few days. You can go home, but | wouldn't suggest you go 
anywhere else until a decision is made about your disciplinary 
inquest." 


"| understand, sir." 


Morse was actually more used to staying at the onsite lodging at this 
point. The apartment was hardly used and it looked it. He walked 
into the kitchen and made a bowl of cereal. The milk in the 


refrigerator wasn't any good, so he ate it dry. He grabbed a glass of 
water and went into his bedroom. 


The place was empty; the florescent light in his room barely flickered 
and the silence was deafening. He stood up, walked to his desk, 
opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the 80's mix tape he'd 
made for her almost 20 years ago. 


He'd loved her, or at least he told himself he did. Today he couldn't 
remember her face, and his memory of her quirks had faded as well. 
She loved 80's fashion and music. He wondered why he never took 
the time to get to know her better than that. Now he was left alone, 
loving an incomplete memory. 


She'd made him feel alive. Still, he'd learned a long time ago, the 
good things in his life were fleeting. His girlfriend, his job, the way 
his friends tried so hard to get close to him, none of that would last 
forever. 


He sat on the edge of his bed and flipped the cassette's case over to 
look at the song titles. 


Duran Duran - Hungry Like A Wolf 
Wham! - Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go 
Bruce Springstein - Dancing In the Dark 
A-Ha - Take on Me 

Fleetwood Mac - Little Lies 

Buggles - Video Killed the Radio Star 


He stopped there. He laughed out loud like a man getting a joke for 
the very first time and it echoed off the bare walls. 


Taking out the Trash 


What a day. And what a way to end it too. 


Another day, another big pile of waste generated by the vast, 
churning machine that was the faculty and staff of Site 17. Every bit 
of detritus the place produced would end up here, from leftover 
pizza, old newspapers, and candy wrappers, to failed experiments 
and human remains. Yes, all that was and ever will be ends up here, 
to be devoured by the incendiary drippings of caterpillars, burned to 
ashes, and reprocessed and shipped off to god knows where. And 
he was the one who got to press the button today. Oh joy. Sure, the 
guy who normally pressed the button was sick, and he did pull the 
short straw for the job. Yes, they’d have a laugh over that, the big 
scary Doc Kondraki relegated to garbage duty. 


Christ, if all his assistants hadn’t conveniently taken a sick day too, 
he’d be doing something important right now. It didn’t matter, it 
wasn’t much of a job, but both he and everyone else in on this knew 
it was the principle of the thing. Get the big boss to take out the 
trash, have a big guffaw, and avoid him for the following week, that 
kind of play. Reaching into his pocket, and further to the box of 
Camels, he drew a smoke out and let it hang on the end of his 
mouth while he examined the labels around the button. Do not press 
when empty, Do not press while personnel are in disposal area, DO 
NOT PRESS TWICE. Got it, right, I'll make sure not to. 


Fuck, how complex could it be? 


Down the halls however, a panicked researcher panted and whined 
as he dashed across the site, grasping several articles of paper in 
his sweaty hands. This was honestly the most exercise he had 
gotten in months, considering his subject. Enough about that, more 
running. Else he might not have anything to study at all, except the 
business end of a termination. 


Lighting the end of the cigarette that had hung in his mouth, Dr. 
Kondraki proceeded to hit the button. It wasn’t more than a few 
moments that the entire chamber was filled with a painfully bright 
fluid, and only half a moment before the entire thing went up like the 
4th of July. He could feel the heat through the 5in thick glass that 
separated him from the disposal unit, and for a moment, he didn’t 
think it was so bad. Not exactly a sight you see everyday, the waste 
of an entire site going out like a dead star. He’d smoke to that. Or, 
he would, if a large sweaty Level 2 hadn’t run headlong into him. 


“Sir, it is imperative that you don’t press that button. Or shoot me in 
the head, so might | ask you to lower the firearm?” the man pleaded. 


After a second of contemplation, the good doctor lowered his 
sidearm. “You've got five fucking seconds to explain what was 
important enough for you to justify your actions, or you’re going in 
with the rest of the garbage,” he said, picking up his still-lit smoke, 
and putting it back where it belonged. 


The researcher composed himself, replacing his glasses. “Someone 
made the mistake of tossing out SCP-153 with the week’s garbage, 
rather than storing it back in Sector 8. Nothing big, just going to take 
a moment or two to sift through the mess. Just open up the box, and 
I'll be out in, say, a day or so." 


With that, Kondraki shrugged and pressed a second button. The 
large pane of reinforced glass slid upwards, and to nobody’s shock 
but the researcher's, there remained nothing but a pile of pitch-black 
ash. “Huh. So that’s where the thing got to,” he said in a bored tone, 
flicking his spent cig into the central pile, leaving the room to the 
shocked and stunned researcher (who began to seriously reconsider 
his choice of career). 


Taking Stock 


A fleet of black SUVs smoothly swept over the blasted plain. Several 
thousand fine Armani suits were carefully swept free of dust, 
imagined or otherwise, and then filthied by the gravel and dust that 
filled a long walk to a building most thought abandoned. Several 
thousand adam's apples bobbed in unison as their owners carefully 
imbibed water and an anti-radiation pill. 


Few would believe that one of the most, if not THE most capitalistic 
organization in the world met in the ass end of the Ukraine for the 
annual stockholder's meeting. 


Security was, as always, tight as a drum. Hard faced men with scars 
checked and double-checked assault rifles and pistols, loaded with 
rounds made illegal decades before. Comm units squawked with 
static and fell silent as their owners checked in, every three minutes 
and ten seconds on the dot. Satellites were re-purposed to scan the 
terrain. 


All the security money could possibly buy. 


And every PMC and hired goon was informed that if anything 
interrupted the meeting, accounts, (significant pause) would be 
balanced (significant look). 


A wrinkled aged throat carefully cleared itself. 


"Jenkins. Tell me, how do you think I'm feeling about Acquisitions? 
Do you think I'm giddy? Do you think the sight of your quotas not 
being met fills me with breathless joy?" 


A rhythmic hissing steadily echoed across the room, from the large 
mahogany table to the steel catwalks. Sunlight gleamed red through 
a cat's cradle of tubes. 


"Sir, you understand as well as | do; we push more into intelligence, 
we lose out on actual obtainment. Frankly, it's becoming hard to find 
any that aren't either intolerably lethal, or boring." 


A hand reached up to straighten a tie. Rneumy eyes glazed over for 
a second, imagining a checkered noose slowly strangling its owner. 
If only. 


"But, as you can imagine, the benefit of our frequent tip-offs is 
working wonders on our relationship to the Foundation. We've been 
experiencing unprecedented geniality from the directors of Sites 54, 
13, and 10. We think we may be able to leverage this into getting 
some intel on the safer, more eccentric artifacts discovered near 
those sites." 


Lips drew back over teeth stained an ugly brown. Jenkins mentally 
compared the expression to that of a tiger, and found the animal 
wanting, at least in pure cruelty. 


"Let me guess. They're sending you the occasional encrypted email 
to a, what do they call it? Ah, an "Anomalous Item". You, meanwhile, 
take this as a sign of good faith and tell them where a-a, | don't 
know, a giant man-eating bug or some such fuckery, you tell them 
where that is located. They gain a new item to study, and you get 
table scraps." 


Jenkins' eyes widened. Harsh, wracking laughter overtook the man 
in front of him. It abruptly cut off. 


"You really are a fucking imbecile aren't you. They've been doing 
this game for how long? Longer than | have. You think they're going 
to be impressed by a song and dance routine, followed by blowjobs? 
Christ. Now | know why Marshall was smiling so hard when he 
appointed you, the fucking prick." 


A nod towards the balconies. 
"M-Mr. Carter, pleas-" 


The shot was deafening, a roar accompanied, however quietly, by 
the noise of Jenkins' leg exploding. He cried out, a shrill animal 


noise. 


"Jenkins, you're going to serve a purpose. You're going to succeed 
Franklin when he's done, just like you did when you took over 
Acquisitions." 


The agony in Jenkins' eyes gave way to horror, then panic. He 
struggled to crawl away, but his hands slipped in the slick of blood 
created by the panicked beating of his own heart. Men walked over 
and grabbed him, dragging him away. 


"Now then..." 


The man known as "Mr. Carter" gazed at the assembled members 
of his organization. They stared back, impassively.