failed, but by a vote of 7 in favour, 6 against (admittedly more out of 
concern for Procedure 110-Montauk's lack of viability as a long term 
containment strategy than out of empathy for the girl), the O5 
council decided to believe that the Seventh Bride still remained 
unbroken and that her child would be an asset to us. At the risk of 
causing an XK-Class End of the World Scenario, SCP-231-7 was 
relieved from Procedure 110-Montauk following the deaths of 
SCP-231-1 through -6, and was allowed to give birth. 


SCP-999 was the result. 


Go ahead and read that again. Be sure you understand it in all its 
preposterous ridiculousness; The Tickle Monster is the child of the 
Scarlet King. 


We've been running a counterintelligence campaign ever since, 
which is why everyone and their mother thinks we’ve still got a 
prepubescent girl strapped to a rape rack in a bunker somewhere. 
Let them think that. Far better for everyone that the Children of the 
Scarlet King believe that they’re playing us for fools then for them to 
know that there is a threat to their King. 


The girl herself is fine, by the way. She was cured of the trauma 
from her ordeal by SCP-999, at which point it was decided she could 
be returned to her family so long as they were all given class F 
amnestics, implanted with new identities, and relocated to a town at 
least 1000 km away from the Children of the Scarlet King's nearest 
known activity. On the insistence of the Ethics Committee, the family 
was also given a seven figure payout as compensation for our 
repeated...misdeeds against their daughter, as were the families of 
the other SCP-231s. | suppose it was technically malpractice on our 
part. In case we have any moles for the Children of the Scarlet King 
in the Foundation, as far as anyone else knows 231-7's family were 
killed in front of her as part of 110-Montauk. 


I’m sure you're skeptical. Are we insane? How could our sweet little 
tickle monster ever hope to dethrone a Lovecraftian Horror of 
unparalleled might? Well, SCP-999 is less than a decade old. It’s 
still just a child, and nowhere near its full strength. Even so, its 
power is incredible. Even brief interaction with SCP-999 can 
permanently cure severe depression and PTSD, and more recent 


experiments have resulted in the complete reformation of D-class 
personnel who were previously unrepentant sociopaths. This effect 
is not chemical, but psychic, and one day it may grow powerful 
enough that not even the Scarlet King himself will be immune. 


The experiment with *SCP-682 was most remarkable. Based on 
multiple Daevite texts, including descriptions from *“SCP-140 itself, 
we are reasonably certain that 682 is the offspring of the Fourth 
Scarlet Bride. If this is true, then SCP-999 is already strong enough 
to temporarily quell the malevolence of its own eldritch siblings. One 
day 999 could very well be strong enough to permanently reform its 
family members just as it reforms human beings. It will not overthrow 
the Scarlet King by force, but with light and love and laughter that 
can brighten the blackest of hearts. 


999 is not in reality a safe class SCP. It is Thaumiel. It is the best 
and really the only weapon we have against some of the most 
powerful hostile entities known to exist. 


By all means doctor, enjoy the relative safety of your new position, 
but do keep in mind that SCP-999 is not a mere pet that we fancy. It 
is one of our most valuable assets and must be safeguarded at all 
costs. Its safety and well-being are paramount, and you are not at 
liberty to share this information to anyone without level 5/999 
security clearance. As per protocol, unauthorized disclosure of level 
5 classified information will result in your termination. This e-mail will 
automatically delete as soon as you leave the terminal, so feel free 
to reread it as many times as necessary to remember all of the 
pertinent information. 


Take good care of our little tickle monster. The fate of the Multiverse 
may well depend on it. 


- Your secret admirer (if anyone asks), O5- 


MESSAGE DELETED. YOU HAVE (0) UNREAD 
MESSAGES. 


Log off 
LOGGING OFF. GOODBYE. 


New Year's (Part 1) 


December 31, 1997 


Alto H. Clef ticked another box off on his bucket list. Specifically the 
one next to the phrase “Have coffee with the Venus of Willendorf’. 


Of course, he had only added it to his bucket list several moments 
beforehand, after deciding that having coffee with the Venus of 
Willendorf was, among other things, something that could be 
considered a major accomplishment in life. Granted, it wasn’t 
entirely accurate. He was the only one drinking for one, and this 
Venus was not a four-inch statuette dug up in lower Austria, but a 
rather rubenesque woman who had slid out of the womb only a few 
minutes before. She was still connected to the primary mass by a 
thick umbilical extending from the back of her head. 


From his vantage point near the edge of the stone precipice, Clef 
had an excellent view of the cavern, the lake of milk, and the 
mountain of wombs and teats that rested in it, all illuminated by the 
soft, source-less glow that filled the place. There was some 
movement down on the lower slopes, faster and choppier than the 
steady in-out of breath. Some of the children had decided to stop 
their suckling, then, or at least decided to move to a better location. 


Clef reconsidered his choice for a brief moment before changing the 
entry to “Have coffee with Shub-Niggurath”. That worked better, 
though it didn’t really have the charm. He finished his rather lengthy 
sip and set his mug down on the worn stone altar that served as a 
table. 


“That’s disappointing. | was hoping that you’d be a bit more flexible 
with the idea.” 


The proxy smiled. It was more genuine than most Clef had seen in 
his line of work, but that meant very little to him. 


“It’s not inflexibility, dear, it’s incompatibility. I'd love to let you all go 
on with your lives, but I’m afraid your kind is too soft to handle the 
old ways. | would help, but a Mother has to look out for her own.” 


Clef nodded in approval. 


“| can respect that. Don’t think anyone else will, though. There’ll be a 
fight.” 


“It's not one you can win.” 
“I know. It won't stop people.” 


The Mother shook her head, a twinge of sadness intruding into the 
smile. 


“Noble fools, every one of you. | appreciate what you're trying to do, 
| really do. | don’t like seeing my children getting hurt as much as 
any, but the seals are fading. Ages come and go, and the Daevas’ 
time has come again, as has my time to bear them. I’m afraid you’re 
too late.” 


“| feel that | work better under pressure. | always end up 
procrastinating anyway, so waiting until the last possible second just 
works out better for me. Cuts out the middle man. Speaking of 
which, | should be going. Only a few hours to prepare for the 
upcoming global catastrophe, and all. Sorry to cut this short, this 
was a delightful conversation. | thank you for your hospitality.” 


“The pleasure was all mine. I'll have Epon see you out.” 
The Venus nodded past Clef’s right shoulder. 


Hooves clopped on stone. Clef turned to see a young woman 
standing behind him. She was somewhere in the indeterminate 
twenties, wearing simple, earth-brown robes and inherited nothing of 
her mother’s looks or size. A cord of braided horse hair hung around 
her neck. 


“Oh, hello there.” Clef waved to her. The girl bowed, but said 
nothing. Clef stood up and made to move towards the exit. 


He paused after a few steps. 
“One last thing...” 


The scene changed: The daughter’s head was locked under Clef’s 
arm, a gun barrel pressed against her head. 


“I’m wondering if your daughter here knows how to recast the seals 
on this place.” There was no anger in his voice. This was business. 
“Or if you’d be so kind as to tell me yourself.” 


The shock on the Mother’s face passed. The smile returned, 
accompanied by a chuckle, which evolved up through the chorus of 
laughs until it was a full-blown guffaw. The smile had lost any 
figment of friendliness it held before. 


“You picked the wrong Mother to fuck with, boy.” 


Rumbling echoed up from the slopes. Five monstrous forms pulled 
themselves over the edge of the promontory: misshapen, headless 
forms with bulbous eyes and slobbering mouths, claws sharp and 
ready for rending. Clef's expression didn’t change. 


“Give my daughter back. Now,” the Mother growled. 
“Hmm...gonna have to think about that...no. My answer is no.” 


With that, Clef hefted Epon over his shoulder and began to run 
towards the cavern’s exit. The howls of the anthropophagi and the 
enraged screams of the Venus faded into the background. They 
were minor details at the moment. He may have been quicker on his 
own compared to the Venus’ misshapen children, but he still had to 
complete a fifty foot sprint with a grown woman, though a small one, 
slung over his shoulder. 


The realization that this may not have been the best idea pushed its 
way through the blockade of bravado. It was then beaten into 
submission by a combined effort of the ego, confidence, and the 
knowledge that everything was going entirely according to plan. 


Seconds passed. However close the other children were didn’t 
matter: they hadn't gotten him. The world was compressed into what 


remained between Clef and the doors. 


A string of indistinct syllables intruded on the edges of Clef’s 
condensed bubble of awareness. Epon was mumbling, a chant of 
some sort. It was ignored. The stone doors loomed, the glyphs 
glowing slightly. Clef grit his teeth and ran through it as if it were little 
more than a suspended sheet of water. 


Stone and warmth gave way to the crunch of snow and the brilliant 
white of a spotlight. Clef let Epon down, only slowing his pace 
slightly. 


“Up the hill! Run!” Clef pointed off to the left as he continued running 
straight ahead. He looked back just long enough to see that she had 
taken off up the hill, and to see her siblings emerge from the stone. 


And...now. 


Gunshots rang out from the hill as the snipers went to work. Clef 
didn’t need to watch to know that they hit their marks: He suspected 
none of the creatures got more than ten feet. 


This was far enough. He closed the remainder of the circle in the 
snow with his foot and scribbled a few extra symbols around it 
before spitting in the trench. Now to see if she had taken the bait... 


She had. A fleshy blob was pushing itself out of the stone block, the 
wards tearing at it with invisible blades. Blood poured out across the 
snow as flabby, amorphous limbs formed and deformed as the mass 
clawed and dragged itself forward, the gashes growing deeper. The 
screaming was an ear-splitting mixture of rage and pain, leaning 
towards the rage end of the spectrum. 


“Come on, ya bitch! This all you can do?” 


He hadn't actually expected the taunting to work: The mass tensed 
for a moment before charging forward with considerable speed. Red 
chunks of flesh sloughed off of the mass, staining the snow. It was 
halfway to Clef now, close enough that he could see the half- 
absorbed face of the Venus cursing at him. 


He smiled and stuck his fingers in his ears. 


Up on the hill, an agent pressed a detonator. 


A thermobaric bomb hidden under a light dusting of snow, 
conveniently located directly underneath where the Mother was 
located received the message and exploded, which was generally 
what bombs did. 


The smoke and dust and ground beef rain eventually settled. Clef, 
still standing in his little circle of snow and completely untouched by 
the blast, glanced at his watch. 


“Midnight already. How about that. Happy new year to me.” 


Command ordered experimentation on SCP-911 to cease without 
clearance from 2 or more O5 level personnel, upon reading a 
transcript of this interview. 


Footnotes 

1. Further descriptions by 911-4 of this "void" are comparably similar 
to descriptions ofSCP-3001 recorded by Dr. Scranton. Investigation 
into possible links between the two anomalies are ongoing. 


« SCP-910 | SCP-911 | SCP-912 » 


New Year's (Part 2) 


January 1, 1998 


Alto H. Clef stepped out of the little circle of snow into the scorched 
dirt and admired his handiwork. There were some large chunks left, 
a few even vehicle-sized, but by and large the Mother had been 
reduced to the residue of a butcher shop with a very low health 
rating. 


A gust of wind blew past him, carrying the stench of raw meat. Clef 
shivered, and made up his mind to buy a warmer jacket at the first 
opportunity. The glow of victory was only a metaphorical warmth, 
and failed utterly at producing actual heat. Nonetheless, he couldn’t 
help but feel impressed as he ascended the hill. What was this, the 
fifth operation this month? Yeah, it was. They’d been working him 
ever since he woke up, which was to be expected. He’d been in the 
coma for over a year, and out in the field within a few days of waking 
up. The recovery had been expedited, in a rather experimental 
manner that most likely required a lot of people waving their arms in 
unison, if not outright flailing them. 


After that he was off to Hillsborough. Fun times. 


Clef passed the descending haz-mat unit and the disposal truck on 
his way up the hill. He waved at them. Cleanup crews were like 
janitors and lunch ladies: it always paid to be nice. 


The crest of the hill was dotted with Coalition agents in military 
dress. Clef recognized most of them: several had been on his old 
strike team, from back before the accident. Their eyes followed him 
as he walked into the group: Maybe for a few of them, it was their 
first time seeing Agent Alto H. Clef. For others it was respect or envy 
or awe. Whatever the case, there were congratulations given, hands 
shaken, shoulders patted. Talk of bars and drinks and some laughs 
among friends. 


A portly, balding man bundled up in winter gear stepped up to the 
group. The discussion faded. Assistant Director Burr had that effect. 
Clef had a good idea what he was going to say before he said it: 
waste of resources, unnecessary self-endangerment, showboating 
on agrand scale, all of the usual complaints. 


“Clef, I've received word from Avalon. You’re to go to Deep Storage 
as soon as possible. It seems Able wishes to speak with you 
personally.” 


This was unexpected. 
“That’s...ridiculous.” 


“It's been approved by the Foundation Overseer Board and the 
Director of Field Operations, though heaven only knows why. 
There’s a car waiting for you.” Burr motioned over his shoulder to 
the vehicle. “Chainsmith and Wicker will go with you.” 


Epon was not sure what “Processing” meant, but her gut told her to 
be wary. Her rear told her that this chair was uncomfortable, though 
she had precious little experience in judging furniture. Still, she had 
been told that she would be safe with them, and the trip over had 
been pleasant enough. 


And then again, she had done this for them. 


The woman on the other side of the table was clearly in a foul mood, 
mostly likely wondering why she was bothering with these 
formalities, or perhaps she was just one of the world’s naturally dour 
people. She was older, though Epon had little skill in determining the 
age of others, with greying blonde hair tied back in a bun and a sour, 
lined face. 


The woman glared over the top of her glasses. 
“You contacted Coalition agents seventeen days ago, revealing the 


location of KTE-9927 and the threat posed by the entity. Why 
exactly did you help us?” 


Epon shifted in her seat. The chair was incredibly uncomfortable. 


“| wished to see my Mother killed,” she said. English. A bastard of a 
language, but she spoke it nonetheless. It was not as if the Romans 
still had their shrines and ceremonies. 


“And why was that?”