"Just stress." 

"We'll have a doctor look at you tomorrow." 


They reached the 10th floor and a group drunk interns got in. The 
elevator continued, sped up even, all the way down to the lobby. 
The workers were pulling the grand Christmas tree down. 


As the other interns got off, KreSimira pried herself off the wall 
farthest from the tall man and moved to the door, just as he did. And 
then she felt the grip on her shoulder. Her ankles burned as the cold 
hand rooted her to the floor. The door closed shut before sense, and 
voice, returned to her. 


The tall man said nothing and pressed the button for one of the 
parking levels. 


The elevator moved too fast. 


"Are you excited?" 
"This doesn’t look like a hospital." 


"This isn’t a medical service, Mardbury. Technically, it’s not even a 
service yet. Right now, it’s beta testing." 


"So there could be glitches?" 


"No. We’re simply testing how appealing the whole process is. So | 
ask again, Mardbury, are you excited?" 


"lam. God, this is surreal. What’ll happen to my old body?" 
"It'll decompose." 


"| want it turned into a tree." 


"Understandable. Never hurts to go green." 
"Do you want to do something after this is all done?" 


"Sure. You know what they say: new year, new you. Dr. Dain, could 
you please put our good friend to sleep while | get his new suit?" 


KreSimira woke up in her hotel room, sweating. She looked down at 
herself: covered in sweat. She looked at the clock: 1:01 in the 
morning. The fireworks were still going off outside and the lamp was 
still on, illuminating the American passport on the table and the shed 
clothes on the floor. She looked to her side and saw that Bojan 
Arthur was still asleep. 


Quietly, she swung herself out of bed and made her way into the 
bathroom. The sudden change in light made her eyelids clamp shut 
for a moment, but she adjusted to it. She leaned into the mirror and 
brought a hand to her face, gently tracing tracing a finger upwards, 
moving from her lips to her cheekbones before coming to rest at the 
bags beneath her eyes. They’d go away with good sleep, the doctor 
told her, and here she was not getting it. She gripped the side of the 
mirror and pulled the cabinet open, pushing her reflection aside to 
reveal two orange bottles. She took the fuller one on the left and 
deposited two tablets into her hand. They were pink, chalky disks, 
each about the size of a quarter. She flicked them into a cup of tap 
water and watched them fizz away into bubbles, before pouring the 
whole thing down her throat. It tasted like juiced peaches. 


She put the bottle away and brought back the mirror. This time she 
leaned close, so that her nose was only a few inches away, and 
brushed some hair away from her forehead. The incision scar was 
healing nicely. Bojan's voice called from the bed, and the thing 
wearing KreSimira curved her lips into a smile and walked out of the 
mirror's sight. 


Like it always did, and always will do, a lonely garbage truck 
lumbered down the roads as the morning sun rose. Workers with 
neon vests hung from the back, talking about the game from last 
night, occasionally shooting waves at the early risers. The truck 


drove past hundreds of homes and gobbled up hundreds of garbage 
bags and boxes. It made its way deep into West Virginia and 
scooped up a bulging plastic bag stinking of rotten flesh. Through 
the white plastic, one could see what looked like fleshy pink blobs all 
crammed inside together. But the worker didn't care, butcher shops 
were on the route too, and there was a stellar touchdown to talk 
about. The truck resumed its winded journey to the landfill, and 
KreSimira Kovacevic could only dream. 


I'll Be Home For Christmas... 


~if only in myy-yy-yy dreeeeeeams~ 
PC-0-01: 


You have [1] unheard message. 


New message [Sunday] [December] [Twenty] [Fourth] at 
[7]:[48] [P]M: 


All right. Probably for the best that this is a voicemail. | 
don't do well with awkward conversations. 


My name's Dr. Isaiah Henderson, and | died earlier this 
year. Long story short, | took a look at Project FAFNIR's 
dossier without proper inoculation, so | had to take the 
quick way out. Though | gotta say, the manner of my 
suicide was probably the most fun I've had in years. 


On to business. 


Unfortunately, | don't have a lot more to report on the 
afterlife than the usual business. Sand's still cold, sky's 
still green, striders still stridin', moon count is still ata 
solid three. Oh, based on what I've heard in the detention 
facility, the Elephant King's thousand-year orgy is cooling 
down. Go figure. Even demigods need a break every 
once in a while, | suppose. 


And... if you're wondering about that "detention facility" 
tidbit, | suppose this is where things get a bit 
complicated. There's not much more | can tell you about 
that. Not without serious legal repercussions. 


So, here are my last orders as the former director of 
Operation Galahad. 


First off, no more trained professionals in the corbenic 
explorations. Use d-class. 


Second, don't lie to them about an extraction procedure 
or whatever that Humbaba thing was. You'd be surprised 
how cooperative a condemned man's going to be if you 
gave them scientific proof of an afterlife and pointers on 
how to navigate it. 


Third. 


Sorry, I'm just. I'm under a lot of pressure here. I'm 
treading a thin line as it is by mentioning the Elephant Ki 
— Ghantouris, his name is Ghantouris, chalices lifted in 
his honor, mea maxima culpa. 


God. I'm... 


Third, if any exploration staff see someone from the 
Three Moons Initiative, they are to obey them 
unquestioningly. They're not as dangerous as the 
Striders or other monsters per se, but... 


I'm sorry. I've made a /ot of people in high places angry 
here. I'm actually starting to prefer the idea of a 
traditional hell. At least Satan doesn't deal with this much 
paperwork. 


Anyway, Merry Christmas. 


Mrs. Martha Henderson, if you're hearing this, / never 
liked your Jell-o salads. 


Dr. Lisle Naismith, you're now in charge of Operation 
Galahad, if you aren't already. You can go ahead and tell 
Penny that Uncle Isey's with God. It's not far off from the 
truth, so long as you don't specify which god. 


And even as I'm screaming here for my crimes, know 


that I'm proud of you. 


...that was directed toward Lisle, not Martha. Eat a dick, 
Martha. 


To repeat this message, press 1. To delete this 
message, press Star. 


As he ended the 2922 transmission, Isaiah sighed, realizing he was 
still in the defendant's stand - a cubicle of carved spider silk in the 
center of Jalakara's! audience room. 


Despite any words of Christmas comfort, Isaiah was still in the 
Impenetrable, Jalakara's web-fortress thousands of lightyears above 
the skies of Corbenic - and on trial for Operation Galahad. 


The 13 Magistrates of the Central Cabal gazed down upon Isaiah 
from their woven podiums, recording notes into tablets of flesh. The 
tablets giggled. 


From the ceiling, the voice of the bearded spider-god creaked out 
from His weary mandibles: "Have... you... finish... ed?" 


"It is as you have commanded, Lord Jalakara," said Isaiah. 
"Operation Galahad is now absolved of its sinful origins.” 


"Hmmmm." Jalakara strung a massive forelimb through his beard, 
twisting it as he had done countless times before. "Then... it 
would... seem... that you... have—" 


"Am | free to go, my lord?" 


In a flash of light, Isaiah's mouth was gone, leaving only a patch of 
skin. 


The 12th Magistrate - some rookie upstart by the name of Janet 
Spiegel - rose from her seat and shouted into the nearest available 
amplification-thread. "Dr. Isaiah Henderson, you have interrupted 
Lord Jalakara during an official meeting, and for this insolence, you 
are hereby sentenced to 4,000 years in the caustic oubliettes at 
Three Moons Base Aleph." 


"Case... clo... sed," said Jalakara. 


The last thing Isaiah remembered before the ogre-bailiffs barged in 
was looking into the seven trillion eyes of the Great Weaver, and 
flipping him off. 


Footnotes ; 
1. GLORY TO JALAKARA OF THE IMPENETRABLE, HOST AND 
BENEFACTOR TO MANKIND 


Experiment Log 876 


Experiment Log 876-A-1 


Date: - - 

Procedure: D-class personnel instructed to swallow one pill from 
SCP-876-1 (hydrogen), followed by one from SCP-876-2 (helium). 
Results: Instant explosive decompression, spreading mass 
amounts of dust. No organic material discovered in the debris, but 
small amounts of graphite and [REDACTED] found. 


Experiment Log 876-A-2 


Date: - - 

Procedure: D-class personnel instructed to swallow one pill from 
SCP-876-2 (helium), followed by one from SCP-876-1 (hydrogen). 
Results: No effect. 


Experiment Log 876-A-3 


Date: - - 

Procedure: D-class personnel instructed to swallow one pill from 
SCP-876-18 (argon), followed by one from SCP-876-1 (hydrogen). 
Results: Subject lapsed into a coughing fit. Hydrogen content of 
surrounding air found to be increased post-experiment. 

Notes: /t apparently treats the contents of the victim's lungs as part 
of the body. -Dr. 


Experiment Log 876-A-4 


Date: - - 

Procedure: D-class personnel instructed to swallow a small, steel 
ball bearing. Following that, D-class was instructed to swallow one 
pill from SCP-876-26 (iron), followed by one from SCP-876-79 
(gold). 

Results: Subject immediately collapsed and expired, as expected. 
Dissection of the stomach revealed the steel ball to have converted 


Immolation 


Does our God love us? He does not love us. But we don't mind. 


We are humble, we are unclean, we are unworthy of His love. But 
He had mercy on us. He lit our path. 


He taught us the meaning of the world, and he told us he was the 
only greatness. He told us that gears and coils began the universe, 
and mechanical steel is the gospel of all things. 


He forgave our filthy forms, and gave us a chance to be reborn from 
these misplaced parts, to let us pay tribute to Him, to know His 
holiness and sublime glory. 


We have to worship a god of metal with our flesh and blood, like a 
lamb sacrificed to the wolf. The sheep do not know their lowliness, 
but we know. We are humble flesh worms, and His salvation is the 
only path to glory. We are His servants, the ones who spread His 
Broken speech. He is all, He is the highest order, neither good nor 
evil, the mechanical operation of the gods, until the end of 
everything. 


So | was baptized in the holy oil, | listened to His gospel, | saw Him 
dance. We pray that we will become His hands, and that we may 
complete His greatest work. | knew | would achieve ascension. 


Our God is broken. We want to fix Him. 


| recalled the teachings of the Book of Movements, | know His heart 
is placed at the bottom of the Seven Seas; | know that His body was 
given to unknown heresy; | know His voice is limited to the wild 
beasts; | know His eyes were abandoned in the mountains; | know 
his face was sent to His greatest enemy; | know His thoughts are 
sown into the most humble of livestock. 


But | know He will be complete. 


When the first gear is set in place, all of this will be set in motion, the 
quiet rhythm of mechanical fate, our goal achieved. God will 
reproduce His glory, so that all may humbly tremble and lie prostrate 
at His feet. 


But some people do not understand. They use their own corrupt 
intent and rotting flesh to prevent the rebirth of God. They do not 
understand. God's machine is not their machine. God is the life and 
soul of the machine. 

They came, they tried to stop our great initiative, and they do not 
know their own insignificance. | hate them, but we can only run, and 
plan for the future. For Him. 


But | can not leave. | want to stay. This is our church, this is His 
church. | am here with Him. | was with Him. 


This place must not fall into the hands of those abominable beasts, 
they must not trample the miracles. So | spread His blood here, the 
flame will light the holy oil, and bring destruction and ashes. Only the 
metal will not perish. 


| know I'm going to die. | would like to obtain His grace, and die 
without regrets. 


| looked at the reflective metal, Knowing it is His misplaced parts. We 
are all His misplaced parts. 


| embraced Him. 
Oozing blood, icy cold 
Ah ah ah pain 

Bone 

Sublimation 

The flesh discarded 
More 


Combine 


Pierced the bone marrow 
| know 

Metal teeth 

His beauty, his greatness 
! am not in pain 

! am but a gear 

Closed teeth 

Not a wound 

Purification 

| pray 

! listen to his songs 
Ultimate 

Endless 

His rage 

His glory 

Dance 

| depart 

| have seen the world 
His kingdom 


Incident Report CotBG- [Excerpt]: 

Upon arrival of Foundation Agents at the stronghold of the Church of 
the Broken God, it was discovered that the entire building was on 
fire. It is suspected that this was intentional, allowing for the 
withdrawal of the Church members in advance. No contact occurred. 


The fire was extinguished without incident, and a lack of valuable 
documents and survivors was noted. A charred body was 
discovered in the center hall, and autopsy revealed it as [DATA 
EXPUNGED] of A TT .His body was found in pieces ona 
rotating gear, presumably a form of ritual sacrifice. 


Imposters 


They stopped giving me water years ago. Food long before that. 
They must have realized my time as an Overseer meant | never was 
in danger of dying. The air feels recycled, just dust drifting through 
stale oxygen. The top of the floor, once solid rock, has eroded into a 
layer of sand. My skin is leather. | can push my fingers into my 
empty eye sockets. 


When they first put me here, there were others in the cells around 
me. Two and Five were nearby, and we spent months formulating 
escape plans before they disappeared. Once, we managed to break 
out by scraping away at the doors with stolen utensils. We made it 
almost 30 meters before being captured and thrown back in. That 
was the last time | saw another human being. 


I'm not sure what happened to Five and Two. Maybe they were 
released. Maybe, like me, they're too weak to move around the cell 
anymore. Whatever the reason, I'm alone now. Even my captors 
have disappeared. Before there was the constant sound of 
movement, of work, just outside my cell. They would bring me food 
and water daily. A few times, Four (though he insisted | call him 
One, the bastard), came to talk. It was the usual trash, about how 
they had done what they did for the good of the planet, how it was 
the only way to bring humanity back to “the true light”. He would 
spend hours ranting about the dangers we faced, and the risks we 
took by using the anomalous to improve the world. | hated him. | still 
do, but now I'd be willing to talk to even him if it would make this 
nothingness go away. 


What could have caused them to leave me like this? One day they 
were here, and the next they were gone. The vindictive part of me 
wants to believe they failed, that their “New Foundation” was nothing 
but wishful thinking. In truth, they probably just forgot about me, like 
we forgot so many other things. I've been exiled to this cell, the only 
thing to verify | ever existed a scrap of paper in a lost file cabinet, or 


a file on a broken computer. | doubt even the O5s remember me. 
The others would have been careful in covering their tracks. All 
history would have been cut out, all evidence that the Foundation 
was once something more than it is now erased. Four explained it all 
to me in one of his talks. The original meaning of SCP has been 
destroyed. Our mission has been destroyed. Once, we worked for 
the betterment of mankind. Now, they “protect” it. As if the world 
needs protecting.