equivalent to unintelligent animals, SCP-967 has been found to 
contain sapient entities, collectively designated SCP-967-2, with 
whom negotiation is possible; see archive 967-M-58 for contact logs 
and anthropological observation notes 


Addendum 2: 


SCP-967-2 has been found to exist in multiple sub-populations, or 
"tribes", which have widely differing behaviors and attitudes. Due to 
the extreme compositional heterogeneity of SCP-967-1 and 
SCP-967-2, no method has yet been devised for determining the 
tribe to which a previously-unencountered individual belongs — or 
whether it is an instance of SCP-967-1 — other than interacting with 
it. The total number of tribes has not been determined; however, 
four have been definitively identified, with tentative identification of a 
fifth (see document 967-HN4-27). 


Document 967-HN4-27: List of sapient sub-populations found 
within SCP-967 


¢ "The Queen's Own 17th Coal-Fired, Newcastle-upon-Tyne" - a 
population claiming to be a "mechano-biological regiment" of 
injured veterans from the "Steam War of 1892", these entities 
also claim to be citizens of the United Kingdom. They are 
largely cooperative and helpful towards Foundation personnel 
(with the exception of certain outdated sociopolitical attitudes), 
but have made repeated requests for the Foundation to 
"restore" them so that they can leave the confines of 
SCP-967. 

¢ "Give Take" - a population of nomadic traders 

« "Assembly Required" - a population of hostile expansionists 
whose goal is the conversion of all external territory into 
SCP-967; members of Assembly Required have been 
responsible for no less than attempts to breach containment 

¢ "Remainder" - a population of religious nihilists who refuse to 
acknowledge the existence of Foundation researchers, or of 
the world outside SCP-967 in general. 

« "The Ballet Academy" - although exploration teams have 
assessed the Ballet Academy as non-sapient due to the 
stereotypy of their behavior, members of The Queen's Own, 
Give Take, and Assembly Required have all repeatedly stated 


striped voices, muttering red clothing, hitting high notes and textured 
ellipses- 


| could see- 


Twelve and Barculo, once it was done, exchanged a glance before 
removing their headphones simultaneously and rising to survey the 
damage. SCP-598 had succeeded admirably, not a trace of the 
hostile entity that they had expended so many men finding and 
restraining remained. Head Agent Eliot Barculo called for a medical 
team and started tending to Hays, while Twelve stepped aside for a 
conversation with the only slightly-damaged surface of 598. 

“Good work, Yellow. Are you injured?” 

Not at all, thank you, good Twelve. The physical damage is 
superficial, and | will be entirely restored with some chromal 
rebuilding. 

“Good to hear. How did you do it?” 

Changing tactics. Miriam aided me near the end as well. 

“Really?” Twelve raised an eyebrow at the stretcher being carried 
out, a Knowing smile writ on the face of the unconscious body on it. 
“Is she dead?” 

No, however, | feel | may have harmed her somehow. This would be 
unfortunate. | did try to avoid it. 

“Collateral damage,” the man said sadly. He turned to face the wall 
again. “Yellow, none the less, you've performed admirably. I'll be 
passing this on to the higher-ups, of course, and | hope you'll 
continue to assist the Foundation when we need it.” 

| look forward to being of service. 


Twelve and the stretchers left, and the lit room was left alone. 
Solitary, SCP-598 glinted and reflected around the walls, in slowed, 
contrite, static thought. Elsewhere, in the Medical Ward, Miriam 
(blood leaking from ears, nose, and throat, limbs still rocking 
spasmodically) grinned like a madman, entertaining thoughts of a 
man whose voice felt like cloves, whose eyes were sweet foggy 
panpipe notes, whose hands were dusky barks sailing in a d-flat 
sea, of everything correlated and a world illuminated. 

A nurse held her still on the gurney as a doctor pushed a needle into 
her arm, and the quiet darkness rushed around, up to meet her. 


The Melody Of Autumn, Passing Into Winter 


Things were falling apart, even though they were finally coming 
together. He watched the world from his high tower, wires coiling 
around the steps to his throne like a thousand serpents. 


The music played, as it had for as long as anyone who could 
remember - anyone who remembered anything else didn't last long. 
The royal ravers danced in the music as they came together to beat 
a man to death in a public execution. The crime was being caught 
playing a violin. 


The scarecrow dimmed the lights of the room as he 
entered. Locked the door. Shut down the cameras. He 
had come here to make a deal, away from the prying 
eyes of the facilities. A rave exploded in the basement of 
the site containing the man he looked for and people 
flocked towards it despite themselves. It would keep 
them distracted while he did his work. 


Before him sat a prophet near-delusional in his fervor. 


Spirit and prophet discussed as two businessmen. The 
god was pleased with the offer and impressed by the 
plan. It was agreed that the god would lend its great 
power for the cause. The prophet's hands shook as they 
clasped straw-filled gloves. 


By way of touch, the eldritch being passed on its 
blessings through its prophet. When the deed was one, 
the prophet's broken body fell to the floor as an empty 
husk. 


The pact was sealed in blood and shattered soul. 


The group of humans below his high tower were his hand-picked 


lords and ladies of the dance. Music flowed through their blood as 
the beats shook the air. Beyond the royal party was the second 
party of servants. Beyond that were the music sellers, merchants, 
and rave fashionistas. Beyond that, and beyond that, and beyond 
that... A sea of writhing humans, pressed against each other to try 
and get closer to their god-emperor The Scravecrow. 


Far into the horizon, a second set of towers scraped the sky. On 
those towers were televisions and sound equipment, lights and 
dispensaries. There, the lowest of them, the tone-deaf, crowded 
around the towers to touch the holy metal. They were below even 
those that could no longer dance. They alone would never see the 
god's face. Cursed with the inability to truly hear the beauty as it 
should be, this lowest caste remained forsaken by all creatures. 


Of the many groups that could aid him, he first went to 
the artists. The difficulty was not in winning them over so 
much as trying to figure out who was cool yet. 


The scarecrow tracked what he could through the avant- 
garde theatres, the post-apocalyptic fashion industry, the 
soft-grunge aesthetic social groups. Through that he 
followed the breadcrumb trail through Lowercase music 
producers, indie art game designers with 
unpronounceable names, and french horror movie 
specialists who spoke no french besides "omlette du 
fromage". 


He searched through a sea of obscure artistic endeavors 
to find the few groups that could help him. He found one 

group in the knit bombers. He found another in the social 
group of human earwax sculptors. He almost missed one 
in the painters that mixed blood with their colors. 


Of them all, he asked for their aid. He promised in the 
new world, art would finally have the recognition it so 
deserved. No artist would go hungry. No creative 
passion would go crushed by the responsibilities of being 
in a society that valued fitting in to standing out. 


It wasn't hard to win them over. Just to find them in order 


to do so. 


The scarecrow spewed glowsticks and drugs into the crowd, howling 
a gale of fluorescent mist from the north. It chilled the marrow of 
their bones, cooling the mass of sweat and flesh and music. 


The Scravecrow watched the body beneath, writhing in a sea of the 
angry ravers. The violinist, a young man, begged towards the 
heavens for a mercy that would not come. He struggled as his limbs 
were twisted out of their sockets, then broken. His body stilled and 
life left him. 


His royal ravers had executed the violinist. The playing of actual 
instruments had long been forbidden by unspoken rule. In these 
days, the only music produced were samples of samples of 
samples, a mottled menagerie of torn pieces. 


The corpse was torn apart, pieces of flesh spread between the 
ravers as proof and reminder that justice would always be served to 
maintain this wonderful, glorious land of fun and lights. Once the 
ritual was over, people dispersed to their own, smaller parties. The 
only ones allowed to remain were the royal lords and ladies of the 
dance floor. They would remain here until they died from overdose, 
exhaustion, or injury. 


The king of his land laid the music to autoplay. He stood and turned 
away from his most loyal and disappeared into his tower. Within the 
tower, he wandered his chambers. Plastic skeletons lined the walls. 
Cotton webbing drifted with real spider webs. Fires danced in 
pumpkin heads, lighting the room. There, he lay down into a bone 
dry bed of autumn leaves to think. 


With a god's might clenched around his soul, the 
scarecrow traveled to the land of the Collective. 


There, he preached his grand plan. A god needed an 
army and here in dreams was the best strategic position. 
The vast majority of his enemies would still need to find 
rest in these lands when they were at their most 
vulnerable. He wanted to take advantage of this 
weakness. 


He claimed in his envisioned future, there would be 
people who were free to dream even when they were 
awake. It would be a perfect permanent home for the 
creatures here, who had lived so long in the inherent 
instability that is waking and sleeping. 


Furthermore, when the world became under his rule, the 
first guests of honor to his land would be every dream 
that cared to visit. 


The agreement was a rush of excitement and gratitude. 
He shook many hands and many more unknown limbs. 


In truth, he knew that he would come to this conclusion the whole 
time. He just didn't want to admit it. Not to the air. Not to his 
reflection. He could not confess it even to this little piece of home he 
carved out for himself. 


The Scravecrow disappeared from his home and touched his hay- 
filled feet upon dirt. This barren, abandoned patch of land brought 
him some memories. This was the last place of the Foundation 
resistance. When he took over the land, that group proved the most 
stubborn in conversion. So desperate to cling to the past they knew, 
the Foundation dug their own grave to meet the ruins below the 
earth. 


His faithful ravers pulled them out of their ruins like rabbits from their 
burrows. They were butchered. Hundreds of bodies were dispersed 
throughout the population as handfuls of flesh, broken badges, 
shattered identification cards and strips of bloodied cloth. He had not 
ordered this act. He had not ordered any of this. He learned then 
that a god is not obeyed. It is worshiped. 


In the present, a fog descended upon him, shielding him as he 
kneeled into the soft earth. He dug himself a shallow depression, 
then fell into it. This was his apology to a people lost to memory. 
Even if he could speak the words, there would be no one left to 
forgive him. 


Time passed as he lay there in the re-imagining of the metaphorical 
burial of the unmarked grave that was the Foundation. 


The chilly night was not unusual for either of them. Fog 
obscured their conversation, though they spoke openly 
on a neighborhood street. On a carefully constructed 
couch of leaves, the scarecrow and his kind friend had 
their discussion. 


"Tell me your thoughts tonight." the friend whispered into 
still air. He leaned back into the leaves, looking up to the 
stars with his perpetually pitying expression. His 
movements were slow, careful. As if everything he 
touched was fragile and precious. 


The scarecrow had no voice of his own. Instead, he 
borrowed the autumn wind to speak on his behalf. "What 
is it like? Is it below? Is it above?" 


"Neither. It's more like stepping out. Seeing the forest 
instead of the trees." The scarecrow's friend lit his 
cigarette with intense nonchalance, exhaling a purple 
smoke into the air. "| would say it is beautiful, but at the 
same time what you must sacrifice to see it is something 
most people won't give up until the moment they have no 
other choice." 


The breeze made a soft, dissatisfied noise. 


The scarecrow was handed a card, with a number and 
location. Another puff of smoke. "Ever possessed 
something?" 


"But of course! The leaves don't snap themselves off, 
you know." The branches rustled in proud response 
around them. 


"Then this'll do you well in your journeys." 


Before they shook hands, one last statement was 
echoed through the fog. "Thanks. | owe you." 


To that, the autumn spirit's companion could only press 
his lips together in a grim smile. 


He would give everything to be called Jack again. Of the lanterns. 
To hear costumed children running from house to house. He could 
almost imagine it now. The children would run from house to house 
before stopping at one who took Halloween a little too seriously. 
There was one in every neighborhood. That house would be filled 
with gravestones in its front yard, carefully sculpted cotton stretched 
thin decorated with plastic spiders. Skeletons would lay in pieces on 
the pavement. 


The children would dare each other to enter the yard and claim the 
sweet treasure within. Eventually, one brave soul would approach. 
For some, it would be their first taste of the base fear that ran 
through all humans. The candy dispensing creature would hulk out 
of the shadows or some bush, previously hidden. Howling and 
screaming would ensue, and those sounds would fill his spirit with 
an addictive euphoria. 


The screams and wild costumes of the parties were similar, but they 
weren't really. The flashing lights and loud music were too different. 
The drugs were not part of the equation. The sex wasn't, either. He 
had once thought, when he first started this, that he could drown the 
longing for his past with the energy of a rave. But nostalgia was a 
persistent beast. A fickle craving remained, dissatisfied with 
anything less than the impossible. 


Once he had gathered all the help he could, the plan was 
set to motion early in the morning. 


The dreams clutched tightly to the Foundation personnel 
sleeping. Swaddled in fantasy and delusions, they would 
not be woken by anyone or anything for a long, long 
while. Those that hadn't slept were met with an explosion 
of artistic expression across most of their sites. That 
morning was one of chaos as the Foundation gathered 
the few men awake to deal with the containment breaks 
as a result. 


In the chaos, the Scarecrow slipped relatively unnoticed 
into the chamber containing a specific disco ball. He 
peeled back the disco ball's metal container, then took 
off his pumpkin head and set it down for the last time. He 


placed his raggedy, straw-filled gloves onto the shiny 
surface as one would caress a lover's cheek. Through 
the touch he felt the energies of the sphere, how it 
ticked, how it didn't tick. 


He placed it onto his shoulders, replacing his old head. 
He rebuilt its unspoken workings, edited it, shaped it, 
possessed it for his own. Instead of spreading radiation, 
it would spread a rave nation. 


The scarecrow began to dance and all was lost. 


The scarecrow found himself on a cold and empty street. Everyone 
had left. Everyone save for one. 


His friend was there, sitting in the fog, exhaling a familiar purple 
smoke. The friend sat beside his old head, welcoming him home 
with a warm blue glow. "Good evening, Jack."