As Samet's lackies hurried to put their boss out, Bright turned to Dr. 
Light and nodded. "All right Sophia, we know what we're doing. 
What're the current odds?" 


Dr. Light checked her clipboard, frowning. "2-1 it doesn't work. 5-1 
you get in it and rampage across the site. Side bet on that one, even 
odds are that you use said rampage to kill Samet over there. 10-1 
says something goes wrong, and you get stuck inside 682. 20-1 
odds say that this goes bottoms up, and we all end up as you, 
somehow." 


"| like those odds." 
"963!" Samet yelled, as his foot smoldered. "You! You, |! You-!" 


"Dr. Samet. Understand this." Bright stalked over to tower over the 
other researcher. "| am about to be put in the most dangerous SCP 
we've ever discovered. | will offer you this deal then. If you cover 
your feet in barbecue sauce, | will stop at them." 


And with that, Bright turned, and stalked down to the staging floor. 


Jack Bright awoke with a headache, his memories fuzzy. There had 
been something... Barbecue sauce, maybe? No, something else... 
Oh yes, the memories came flooding back to him, him standing 
there with his staff, the beast charging, lightning and teeth, blood 
and pain, and that horrible indescribable feeling as he jumped hosts. 


But now- Things weren't right. He could feel cold stone beneath his 
back, which implied that he was lying down. And he could hear other 
people moving around him, so there was a good chance he was still 
in the Foundation. And there was always barbecue sauce. Wait, 
what? 


"Jack? We really need you right now sir." A familiar voice called from 
above. Slowly, Jack opened his eyes, his face fixed in a pre-emptive 
frown. Standing over him, in a rather strange looking chain mail 

hauberk, was a familiar looking Mexican man. Something about him- 


"| Know you, don't |?" The other man leaned down, helping Jack to 
his feet. 


"Not really sir. Please, you have to come with me." His grip on 
Jack's arm was firm, his other hand holding firmly to a long staff. 
Jack stopped, suddenly, watching the other people moving past. All 
of them were dressed the same, a chain mail hauberk with gold 
rings in a circle over the heart, surrounding a ring of red rings. All of 
them held the same staff. 


"You're D-113. You're the first, aren't you?" Jack couldn't help but 
stare. It had been a long time since that first one. 


"Well, the answer to that is yes and no. And yes. But not really. 
Uhm. Right, we do it your way, stupidly blunt. You see sir, none of 
this is real." As he gestured at the castle walls, and the people 
around him. 


"Well, duh. Credit me with a little sense." 


"Oh, okay, right, that makes things, uhm, easier. See, your mind, it 
isn't ready for this. It can't, unm, really deal with how 682 sees 
things. So, it came up with this as a defense. Only, it's not just your 
mind. 963 is involved, and somehow, bits and pieces of the leftovers 
of those you've taken over are being animated, to help. Only, it's still 
part of you. Uhm. Does that make sense?" 


"Not even a little bit." As they pushed through a great wooden door. 
"But | do understand where you're com...ing... from." Jack stared 
upwards at the sky, for once, without a voice. Above him was the 
thing, the creature, what we in our limited scope called SCP-682. 
And it was glorious. A beautiful, nightmarish, disturbing yet intriguing 
creature, spread across the sky, the ground, the horizon, hell, 
everything that wasn't Jack and his castle. Barbecue Sauce. 


"|, well, then, whoo." Jack frowned more deeply, as several armored 
people suddenly ran up beside him. Even the old man was there, 
although he shouldn't have been. He could feel the impact lessen 
even as they stood there. "Right, sharing the load, got it." He 
wrenched his eyes away from the... thing, turning to his own 
ramparts. A twisted, mangled castle that Escher would be proud of 


loomed above and below him, and from every corner, pieces of him 
stood, staffs in hand, striking out against the barbecue sauce 
creature. Purple lightning arched here and there, playing across the 
surface of the beast, carving inroads, yoking it to his command. 


"We're stuck, aren't we?" 
"Encaged, sir." 


"Have to figure out a way to get out. We have some barbecue sauce 
to serve up." 


"Pardon?" 


"Figure of speech. Look, | need..." Bright racked his memories, oh 
so many of them. The answer would be there, somewhere. And then 
it was there, standing in front of him. Researcher Class 2 Damon 
Smith, promoted to Dr. Bright in the line of duty. Damon had always 
had a fear of being enclosed. And that would get them out of here. 


"Come on, Damon, take that staff, and link up! Remember how it 
feels, to be in small spaces. Locked in, no one to hear you, how to 
get out..." The apparition before Jack raised its staff, as his limbs 
trembled in fear. A line of energy lashed out from the staff, scoring a 
long line in the creature above them. 


And it began to change. From the inside, the effects were hard to 
tell, but everyone there could feel it. Something different was 
happening. The Dragon was moving. 


Jack couldn't help but laugh. "BARBECUE SAUCE" he called out - 
one of the absolute worst battle cries ever spoken. He wrenched the 
staff from Damon's hands, not even noticing as he pushed the poor 
researcher over the edge, not caring as a mouth of the beast 
snapped up the helpless researcher. 


Lines of energy, a mental projection of Jack's control over 682, 
lashed out in force from the castle construct. He could feel that it 
was doing his will, doing what he told it to do. He knew some part of 
his brain was actually inside the creature, controlling it, seeing 
through its eyes, but he also knew he could never hope to 


understand how it saw the world. So, down here, he fought a pitched 
battle, using metaphor and simile to act in his stead. 


But it wasn't to last. Even as he found himself filled with the 
knowledge that he had done what he wanted to do, the dragon 
fought back. Its ferocious claws ripped into the castle, shattering 
walls. Its foul breath played along the walls, sending body-forms 
reeling, tumbling back into the safety of 963. Jack knew he could not 
last. 


With the last of his mental will, he set the creature back, 
commanded it to return, and then he too retreated to the safety of 
his nightmares. 


Bright could feel the soft texture of a bed beneath him. Cotton 
sheets from the feel of it, so not his own bed. Thin mattress, the 
smell of disinfectant, the leather straps on his wrists, neck, chest 
and feet... Yes, he must be in Medical. 


"Subject is waking up, Overseer." 


Bright opened his eyes slowly, aware of the feel of cold metal 
pressed against his temple. His eyes flicked first to the figure holding 
the gun, one of the Overseer's goon squad, none of them actually 
worth remembering. Then, to the sound of the voice, the lovely Dr. 
Light doing her medical duties. Finally, to the last remaining space 
by his bed, filled with a monitor screen, on which a black outline of a 
person could be seen. 


A mechanical voice, carefully filtered to remove any identifying 
markers, spoke to him. "Please identify yourself." With or without 
identifying markers, Bright still knew who was behind the outline. 


"Dr. Jack Bright, Level five Researcher, Personnel Director of far too 
many sites, yada yada yada." 


"Who is your sister?" The voice continued. Bright knew it was the 
questions that needed to be asked, to make sure he was himself. 


"Claire Pierce. And, in answer to your next three questions, 


31-20-35, the Ebola virus, and purple monkey dishwasher." 
"Identity confirmed. Dr. Bright, what is your last memory?" 


Bright thought hard for a long moment, then spoke. "| was... going 
up against 682, wasn't |? Yeah, | had the staff and everything! 
Guess he didn't snap up 963, huh?" 


"Dr. Bright, SCP-963 was in contact with SCP-682 for the better part 
of a week. For the first 36 hours, SCP-682 remained in a comatose 
state. Shortly thereafter, it proceeded to grow large claws, and 
tunnel its way through its containment, causing a massive breach. 
Incredibly, SCP-682 only injured one researcher, and then allowed 
itself to be meekly shepherded back to its containment. 682 paced 
its room for another 24 hours, at which point it again went comatose. 
10 hours ago, SCP-963 was excreted from SCP-682s brow. A team 
retrieved it, and immediately placed it upon the body you now wear. 
You have not stirred since. Can you add anything to this?" 


"Sorry Six, | got nothing. Although..." Bright frowned, and licked his 
lips. "Why do | taste barbecue sauce?" 


Someplace else entirely, the dragon curled around its newest 
acquisition. Such a tiny little man thing. It had never thought that the 
foul creatures could possibly teach it anything. But one of them had. 


The beast circled around the memories of Damon Smith, absorbed 
them, made them its own. And, in learning how to fear, it added one 
more tool to its vast arsenal, one more way that it could change 
itself, and finally eliminate the scourge it called man. 


Coming (Relatively) Soon! 
Chapter Three: Confessions of a Teenage SCP 


name was there too, and | could hear them. 
Dr. Boyd: What happened afterwards? 


SCP-992: Someone there had a true name 
before this, but they changed it to me. | can 
see names now, and where the snippets of 
thread holding the world together come from. It 
all goes up. 


Dr. Boyd: "True" name? 


SCP-992: Your true name is [REDACTED] 
Boyd.3 | do not know what your name was 
before, but now it has, and always was so. 


Dr. Boyd: | don't understand. 


SCP-992: Hold up my hands... (gestures with 
both hands) and let the fates pull whichever 
way they pleased. Whether it was up ina 
cloud, or here with the people, | am able to see 
it. 

Dr. Boyd: (Silent) 


SCP-992: They go up to the south sky. | 
helped tie them all together. 


Dr. Boyd: ... what do you mean? 


SCP-992: Do you ever see sunlight, dancing 
with his brothers over a cold desert? 


Dr. Boyd: Are you referring to the aurora 
australis? 


SCP-992: If that's what you call it, yes. | can 
go on to name more things | created, if 
desired. 


Dr. Boyd: That's... alright. | think we're done 


We're Sorry 


We didn't mean for it to end like this. 


Ten thousand solar cycles ago, we volunteered to be the vanguards 
of an expedition to colonize a planet other than our homeworld. 
Stripped of our mortality, our minds were uploaded into hard 
computer shells so that we might guide and raise a new generation 
among the stars. We were lifted from our terrestrial cradle and 
launched into the void of space without fear. It was supposed to be a 
new beginning, the crowning triumph of an entire civilization. 


It was not to be. 


Shortly after our journey began, as we crossed the vast emptiness 
between stars at fantastic speeds, we lost contact with our 
homeworld. For countless centuries we called and begged and 
pleaded, but our signals were unanswered. We were now alone, and 
we had no means to turn around. 


Countless cycles passed. The star that gave life to our forebears 
became a distant pinprick, silent and forgotten, while yours steadily 
grew in size before us. Less than a hundred cycles out, we learned 
that we were no longer alone. Eavesdropping on the faint 
transmissions of your distant radios, we learned about you. We 
listened to your words and music and watched your leaders and 
culture. We saw your beauty and grace, but also your violence and 
brutality. 


We deliberated for years as to our next course of action. To the best 
of our knowledge, the frozen embryos and genetic data we carried 
with us represented the last of our species. We were a peaceful 
colony expedition, and we had no weapons should your warlike 
nature prove to be hostile. We argued and debated and in our 
darkest moment, we gave into our fears and doubts. We embraced 
our cowardice and shaped what material we could spare into terrible 
weapons. 


We watched as they struck your homeworld. We wept as your cities 
burned, as your people died by uncountable numbers, and we 
turned in horror from the darkness in ourselves. We landed with 
heavy hearts, trying to console ourselves with the knowledge that 
we had done what we had to in order to preserve the last of our 
own. Lives for lives, that our mission might be fulfilled and that our 
legacy would continue on. 


When you struck back, even in the midst of our panic as half our 
number succumbed to nuclear fire, we were in awe of your will to 
live. It was impossible to not respect one with such tenacity, one 
whom we in all our vaunted intelligence underestimated. As you 
engaged our workers with your guns and tanks and missiles, we 
returned the favor with the fury and vengeance due to an honored 
enemy. 


But even then, it would not be enough. Even in our deepest 
nightmares we could not have comprehended the horrors that lay 
hidden within your deepest dungeons. When your conventional 
weapons failed you, you unleashed your monsters upon us, things 
of darkness and despair that did not know fear. Like a cornered 
beast, you refused to lie down, determined to take us with you. Even 
now, we can hear the eldritch song of the great weapon your wings 
carry to us. It beats as it bears down upon us as the footsteps of 
death, and with every passing moment we become more sure of our 
undoing. Our guardians rise up to meet you, even while we are 
assured of our end. 


We have failed, and with our failure our future has been lost. Our 
legacy will be destroyed, and in our defeat we pass onto you our 
words that we might not be utterly forgotten. 


We're sorry. We didn't mean for it to end like this. 


Webs 


Note: This is part six in a multi-part story. It is 
recommended that you read the previous entry 7 
Degrees of Separation, or start from the beginning At the 
Library. 


Harold Maine watched the tiny spider with interest. Watched as it 
tried, and failed, to build its web. Watched as it climbed back up, 
watched as it yet again spun its gossamer threads, watched as, with 
patience and determination, it finally completed its work. 


“There you go,” he said. “You did it. Knew you could, knew you 
would.” 


The spider remained suspended in the centre of its web. Such a 
work of art, Maine thought. Such a beautiful thing. Proof that, 
despite all the horrors of the world, there were even now uplifting, 
wondrous things taking place all around, if only one could take the 
time to see them. 


He took the cigar from his mouth and reached out to the newly 
created miracle; the end made contact, and the silken threads were 
instantly ruined. The web was unmade. The spider tumbled, then 
caught itself, and began its task afresh. 


Maine turned away, his interest spent. Tormenting the spider had 
provided most of the afternoon’s sport. Flicking it across the table, 
trapping it under a shot glass, dropping it into a glass of water and 
watching it drown, plucking it out with tweezers and then holding it 
over the waste disposal unit as the mechanism crushed and mashed 
beneath it. Truth be told, it amused him to torture it, to show it 
cruelty and kindness in almost equal measure. Hope and 
damnation. The arachnid had been his plaything for the best part of 
a week. Sometimes it was just easier to be inhumane to insects. 


On the TV, a Mexican game show was playing. He didn't understand 


it but the noise was welcome. Foreigners - grubby, greedy 
foreigners - trying to make money through the televised, ritualised 
sodomisation of dignity.