Ahmad was about a minute away from the door of his home before 
he noticed that the door was hanging open, and he heard the 
protestations of Jasmine, his messenger falcon. He rushed through 
the door, nearly dropping the coffee and cream he had brought 
back, and saw that his room had been torn apart and searched. A 
quick scan of the room after he set the two items in his hand on a 
counter showed that nothing was missing, but the air felt... heavier. 
It was then that he noticed that his laptop was open and the lightning 
elemental that powered it was cowering behind the task bar on the 
bottom of the screen. Something or someone powerful had been 
here, and had broken into his computer to see his current "project." 
He looked over the letter to make sure there were no changes made 
to it. 


He paused in his review to drink his coffee, and began to clean up 
some of the room, attempting to hurry, since the visiting artists were 
going to be there within the hour. Eventually, his age caught up to 
him in the mad dash to make the room presentable, and he was 
forced to rest. Anmad decided to continue re-reading his letter, so 
that he wasn't sitting idly. He skipped ahead slightly. 


... Now, why this attack was executed on a peaceful 
colony, we can only venture to guess, though we have a 
feeling it is because of the extreme views and actions of 
our foreign cousins. We knew that their foolhardy actions 
would bring a disaster like this upon our heads, but we 
had hoped to be able to curb their extremism in time to 
prevent your group, as well as the Holders of the Heart 
and the Cog-breakers, from wishing to take action 
against us. Sadly, it was not to be so. 


The first of several expected knocks on Ahmad's door that day rang 
in his ears, interrupting his observation of the destruction in his room 
and review of the letter. He opened it to find three men standing 
there. One was tall and thin enough to cause the old priest to be 
concerned for the boy's health, and wearing a rather ridiculous outfit 


SCP-638: The Roaring One 


Item #: SCP-638 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-638 is to remain in lock- 
down at Site-33 at all times. Female personnel are not to interact 
with SCP-638 in any way nor come within thirty (30) meters of 
SCP-638's containment cell. SCP-638's cell is ten (10) meters by 
fifteen (15) meters. Ongoing attempts at operant conditioning of 
SCP-638 incorporates rewards and punishments through room 
furnishings. SCP-638 has responded well to this conditioning, 
despite an incident during which it seems SCP-638 discerned the 
nature of the conditioning and became enraged. Any of these items 
may be removed as a result of misbehavior by SCP-638. SCP-638's 
containment cell currently contains: 


Twenty (20) inches of dirt over the concrete floor, covered in grass. 
Three (3) potted Olive trees (Olea europaea). 

One (1) trellis of Common Ivy (Hedera helix). 

Botanical grow lights and automated watering system to maintain 
the grass and other plants. 


SCP-638 has special dietary concerns. SCP-638 seems unwilling or 
unable to ingest any cooked food. Testing determined that raw 
meat, from any mammal, will sustain SCP-638. SCP-638 also 
demands wine constantly, though it is restricted as a special reward. 


Description: SCP-638 appears to be a male human of slim build, 
hairless and extensively scarred. SCP-638 is covered almost 
completely in burn scars resulting from [DATA EXPUNGED]. While 
SCP-638 has been shown to heal at an abnormal rate, directly 
proportional to SCP-638's consumption of raw flesh and wine, the 
scar tissue remains and hair has not regrown. SCP-638 seems to 
understand English and is responsive to commands, but is either 
unable or unwilling to reply. SCP-638 has issued demands, but 


composed of various animal furs and what looked to him like black 
tarpaulin, held together with a length of rope, and crowned off with a 
pair of those ridiculous shutter shades that seemed to be all the rage 
among American children and teens these days. He had a very aloof 
air about him, and refused to meet Ahmad's gaze, instead staring at 
the pile of Anmad's belongings on the floor. The second was 
dressed marginally more normally and looked slightly healthier, 
though with exceptionally tight pants, an utter lack of any color 
coordination, and a shaggy mane of lime-green hair. This one stared 
at the mechanical prosthesis that composed Ahmad's left arm 
briefly, before cocking his head and staring into the older man's 
eyes with a bemused look on his face, searching for... something. 
Ahmad couldn't read the man's emotions as easily as he could most 
other people. His body language was almost robotic, an observation 
which amused the old priest. 


Finally, Anmad came to the one he had hoped to see there that day. 
He was of average height, though a bit skinny, and had close- 
cropped hair and a face framed by thick glasses, large holes in his 
ears where Ahmad presumed earrings rested whenever he wasn't 
engaged in his work for the Broken One. Ahmad noted the intricate 
animated tattoos of gears and other machinery covering his arms 
from the elbows down, and a form-fitting brown robe and pants 
covering the rest of his body. Jahongir ‘Jon’ Ahnkori, a Machinist- 
initiate who was skilled in the Craft... He was almost exactly what 
this situation called for. Anmad supposed that he chose to wear his 
uniform out of respect, though the current setting didn't demand it. 
Jon stared at the older man's feet, and twisted his arms in the 
proper show of deference for his superiors before bowing. 


The man in the shutter-shades spoke first, sliding into the doorway 
around Ahmad. He shook debris off of a chair only to slouch into it 
and lean against the wall. "Damn, Preach. Looks like you pissed 
someone off, huh? You sure this place is as safe as you told us it 
would be?" 


"Oh, this? | suppose someone decided to remodel my home without 
informing me first. Nothing appears to be missing, at any rate. | 
wouldn't mind a bit of assistance cleaning it up, though." He smiled 
and stepped aside, allowing Jon and the green-haired man entry. 


Unsurprisingly, Jon was the first to move to fill his request, 
straightening out the furniture and repairing the damage done to the 
Valley Memorial altar in the corner with a brief touch and a surge of 
energy. After about a minute of awkwardly standing in a corner of 
the room, the green-haired man joined him, and with a flourish of his 
arms, telekinetically lifted all of Anmad's clothing off of the ground, 
and placed them back in the drawers and closet, muttering 
something that to Anmad's ears sounded like "Bibbity boppity boo." 


American mages and their strange customs baffled the elder priest 
of the Broken God. 


Jon and Shutter-shades looked slightly weakened from the green- 
haired man's effort, with Shutter-shades visibly angry at him. 
"Goddamnit, James, why the hell did you do that? You know we 
didn't work up enough energy in..." He paused and briefly flicked his 
eyes to Ahmad before continuing. It was obvious he was attempting 
to hide the source of their talents. "... To do shit like that. Jon fixing 
a broken cabinet is one thing, that's just fucking wasteful." 


‘James' as the man wearing the fur and tarp called him, brushed the 
verdant locks of hair out of his eyes, "Well, Frankie, if you'd gotten 
off of your ass to help, | might not have needed to do it." The man 
looked at Ahmad, and then, in a stage whisper, he added, jerking a 
thumb in the old priest's direction, "Besides, aren't we on the clock 
for this guy? If we show off, we might get a bonus." 


Frankie stood up, heaving his breath. "Fiiiine. Jesus. | just know | 
got asked to come here to meet a priest and see if | wanted to 
accept a contract, not play maid. Should | go get a skirt and apron 
on? Maybe some sexy heels?" 


Ahmad let out a booming laugh, and shook his head, drawing all the 
men's attention. "No, no, | think your..." He looked at the tarp-and- 
fur ensemble, trying to find an appropriate word. "Clothes... are fine 
as they are for the task at hand. Would you gentlemen like coffee 
while we work?" 


A chorus of agreement met his ears, so he dug into the cabinet for a 
few cups and his sugar jar, all of which were thankfully unbroken by 
the mystery invader. He poured coffee for the four of them, and then 


left the cream and sugar for each to add individually. 


Jon approached his elder, and spoke softly in the Broken tongue, 
keeping his eyes averted. "Thank you, Machinist. | apologize for my 
friends’ ignorance and attitude." 


Ahmad smiled, observing the tattoos on Jon's arms whirring and 
spinning. "It isn't your fault they're obnoxious. Besides, you warned 
me that these two bickered like they were married in the reply you 
sent. Ah! Finally, | get a grin out of you!" The old priest paused to sip 
from his coffee and smiled, clapping the younger man on the 
shoulder, noticing him flinching as his hand met Jon's arm. "You 
shouldn't be so serious with me, child. | am not like the others in the 
Council." 


"That much was apparent in your letter. | just... don't wish to 
disrespect you, sir, even accidentally." 


It was then that Ahmad noticed the oil burns on the younger man's 
chest and neck. His eyes softened, and he removed his hand from 
Jon's shoulder. "You don't have to worry about that with me, 
Jahongir. To be quite frank, | am nothing like that bastard you've 
been training under." Jon's eyes widened at his statement, clearly 
put off by Anmad's furious tone and manner of speaking. The older 
priest put the coffee cup down, and began quietly sweeping 
everything in the room into a pile to be sorted out. No one spoke for 
several minutes. Eventually, the room was back into a reasonably 
presentable shape. Frankie spoke up again as the work came to a 
close, brushing some dust off the fur on his shoulders. 


“So, gramps, what, exactly, did you call us here for?” 


Ahmad smiled as he stroked the chest of his falcon, and then turned 
to the three artists. 


“Boys, | asked you here to do something that no one else of this age 
will ever be able to say that they have done.” 


They looked at him inquisitively as he sipped from his coffee cup, 
intentionally building suspense. Anmad knew he needed to play to 
their egos and flair for the dramatic for them to cooperate. The priest 


pressed a button hidden on the perch inside his falcon's cage. The 
rear wall of the room opened. A tangled snarl of gears, metal, and 
chains lay approximately twenty feet from them, deep within a 
hidden alcove, lit by a few overhead spotlights. 


“You're going to be repairing and rebuilding a god.” 


Ahmad briefly showed them around the room, pointing out the 
hidden exits, supplies, tool room, their quarters, and the prayer and 
spell books that he had collected from the Library over the last 
decade, just for an occasion like this. Frankie spoke first, taking off 
his unusual glasses, displaying the kaleidoscopic eyes underneath 
them. "Thank god I'm wearing these reclaimed plastic pants, 
Preach." 


The Machinist looked at the young man. "And why's that?" 


"| think | just came a little." The man traced his fingers over the pile 
of books as Ahmad gagged on his coffee, and stared at the tapestry. 
"Holy fuck, man... If you'd said this in that letter, | would have been 
here by the time | finished reading. This is just perfect to show up 
that little punk-ass Jamal back home." He began pantomiming an 
imagined conversation between himself and this 'Jamal'. "Oh look at 
me, | made an invisible shark, and got those crazy MIB fuckers after 
my ass' 'Yeah? Well Fuck. You. Jamal. /'ve made a GOD, bitch!" 
The man settled into a chair and muttered to himself "Man, I'm 
gonna get so much pussy thrown at me for this. 'Why yes, ladies, | 
did build a god. Wanna see what other heavenly work | can do?’ " 


As soon as Ahmad could find his voice, he turned to James. "What 
about you... James, was it?" 


James ran his fingers through his hair, stretching his back. "I don't 
know about all this ‘Broken God' shit, considering I'm a follower of 
Neo-Paganist Methodic Confucianism, but Frankie's right. This is too 
interesting a project to pass up. I'm gonna get started reading." He 
immediately set himself to it, pulling a book off the top of the pile 
with a flick of his wrist. 


"Of course. Take today to get yourselves acquainted with the books 
and your role to play, and get used to Jahongir leading your rituals." 


"What? Why is he taking the lead on this?" James looked insulted. 
Ahmad returned his gaze, before turning away and observing the 
tapestry showing the Lord in his completed glory. 


"Because | know he is and will be more dedicated to seeing this 
through, no matter the cost, and | trust him. Do you disagree with my 
assessment?" A strange, abrupt thud caused him to turn around. 
"Jahongir, what do you... oh." 


The young priest had fainted. Anmad's face was somewhere 
between amusement and concern. 


"Well, I'm glad to see that someone understands the gravity of the 
task at hand." 


Ahmad grabbed some smelling salts from his room and brought the 
young man back to consciousness. 


"Once you've composed yourself, | expect you to get to work as 
well..." He paused and stood, walking out of the room. "Now, if you'll 
excuse me, | must prepare my room for a visit from an old friend in 
the Office of Reclamation back in my wife's homeland." 


The priest left the three artists behind to prepare their work. As the 
wall shut, he shouted across the hallway. 


"Good luck, gentlemen!" 


After this, Anmad sat at his laptop and continued to work on his 
letter while he waited for the Reclamations Officer to arrive. That 
man was always running behind schedule, so the priest knew he 
would have time. 


With that, | come to the main point of this letter. The 
1500 lives who were taken from Oolzhak Le’an, or as 
you refer to Him, The Broken God. By murdering these 
people through your men, you have forever denied their 
choice to accept the Blessing of our Lord and thus, one 
day, be united with Him. As you can imagine, this is a 
rather large point of contention between myself and the 
other priests of the Broken as far as what the appropriate 


response would be here. Some of us have been 
preparing, since we learned of the attack, to mobilize 
against your organization. This is in fact the favored 
action of He-Who-Is-Most-Whole. 


Others, myself included, think that this is a very foolish 
decision, considering the damage that less than a 
fraction of a percent of your membership caused in a 
single afternoon. 


In short, gentlemen of the Horizon Tribunal, though | 
know you would probably consider it a weight off your 
shoulders if we were all gone, | need your help to 
prevent my people's suicide. | have a proposal that you 
may find interesting and, certainly, mutually beneficial if 
you read on... 


« Et Tam Deum Petivi Hub |The Soldier » 


Facts Concerning Team 15 of Chapterhouse 4 and the 
Black Book 


In other worlds far less queer than our own, the Necronomicon is, to 
some, an everyday part of life. Researchers at Miskatonic University 
in the fictional Arkham, Massachusetts, pore over it almost daily, 
gazing at secrets too obscene or wild to print in reality. In this 
particular universe, the Necronomicon is a work of fiction within a 
work of fiction... or at least it was thought to be.