Looking down, Rasmusen could see a pair of terrified eyes widely 
staring back at her. A human voice called out to her, the first she 
could recall hearing coherently since the world had started ending. 


"Water." 


"| can't." Rasmusen leaned into the nearest clump of rubble, pushing 
it until it cascaded off the top of the pile like an avalanche. The wall 
behind her groaned ominously, but she paid it no mind. She was 
ready to die any day now. It didn't take long for the dusty bricks to 
reveal a similarly pale man. Outlined in blood, he was groaning in 
pain. A piece of rebar had sliced his arm neatly in two at the 
forearm. There was a tourniquet in place, along with a pair of 
deathly white human hands jutting from further beneath the pile. 


"It's all over, it's all over..." Bolland repeated himself, flapping 
ragged lips at thin air. Rasmusen shook her head. "There's no, not 
enough time, doctor. We have to go. We have to go. There's nothing 
left to be done for us. But we can... we have to go, okay?" 


Longing seconds passed as Rasmusen and Bolland stared at one 
another. When she had begun working for the Foundation, he had 
been someone worthy of looking up to. Now he was bleeding and 
broken and incomplete. She didn't remember when the crying had 
started, but her tears were falling on Bolland's face as she pulled 
him to his feet. 


He had wished her well the last time she left Site-88, to head to 
Florida and see her family. Telling her that working together would 
be time he missed, but wishing her well all the same. Giving her 
updates on project progress at night, when she was back in her 
hotel. The picture of a considerate mentor. 


locomotion or intelligence, and displays no hostility. As long as the 
item's activation requirement is not met, the item will remain in this 
state indefinitely. See Addendum 956-a. 


SCP-956 enters its active state when a human under the age of 12 
years enters within meters of it. Approximately to seconds after 
entering the active zone, the child becomes unable to move, holding 
any stance they had at the time. The victim is incapable of motion or 
speech, although it remains alive, and its rapidly moving eyes 
suggest that it retains awareness. SCP-956 moves towards the 
victim and bludgeons him or her, until the torso ruptures. Upon 
breach, the victim's body discharges a large pile of unmarked candy, 
ranging from to _ pieces. Instances of this candy are designated 
as SCP-956-1. SCP-956 repeats this for any other immobilized 
victims before returning to a docile state. 


A victim can be removed from SCP-956's activation range if 
retrieved promptly. Upon moving the victim meters away from it, 
SCP-956 returns to its passive state. The victim, however, shows no 
signs of recovering from its immobilized state, and appears to 
remain in such a state indefinitely. Autopsies of unbroken victims 
show that their body had severely dehydrated, leaving them brittle. 
Autopsies also revealed that pieces of SCP-956-1 had begun to 
grow out of the victim's organs, using the tissue as a component. 
The amount of SCP-956-1 appears to be directly correlated to time 
spent in SCP-956's activation radius. 


SCP-956-1's effects vary depending upon the age of the human 
consuming them. Humans at the age of 12 years or older go into a 
seizure within minutes of consumption, with a % possibility of 
cardiac arrest. There is an approximate % chance of survival for 
such subjects. Animals suffer similar effects, regardless of age. 
Children under the age of 12 undergo a different effect. They first 
enter a similar state to the immobilized victims of SCP-956, although 
they assume a standing stance, with their arms resting in front of 
them. Their body then [DATA REDACTED]. The process takes 
minutes to complete. Upon completion, the victim has transformed 
into another instance of SCP-956. These copies behave identically 
to SCP-956. There is a 0% chance of survival for the victim. 


Addendum 956-a: 


Now, everything had turned to ashes in her mouth. 


The nuclear bunker laid at the end of a tastefully furnished corridor. 
Gunmetal grey walls surrounded Rasmusen's field of vision. Behind 
her, Bolland quietly whimpered as he dragged himself in her wake. 
The end of his arm had turned whiter than printer paper, but with 
similar texture. The stump was covered by a strip of lab coat, 
stained rosy red. All of her memories of him substituted this ghastly 
visage for his healthy, ex-college athlete demeanor. More memory 
ruined. Not that they would be around along anyways. 


Dotting the walls there were cheerful posters, covered with the dust 
shaken loose by the multiple explosions happening elsewhere on- 
site. Each one reminded the reader that nuclear annihilation was a 
last-ditch option, and that they should check with their supervisor, 
conscience and spiritual guide of choice to ensure that it was really 
the only option. 


It had been a few minutes since any dead bodies had shown 
themselves. Rasmusen lost this brief luxury upon approaching the 
end of the line. The walls were lined with thin scratches, terminating 
in a gaggle of the damned. Dead and dying, they had accumulated 
here hoping for some solitary company. Maybe a say in their final 
fate. None of them were saying anything now. 


There were only two key-card slots between them and the last door 
they would ever need to enter. Rasmusen kept trying to put her card 
in the slot, but it wouldn't fit. It kept missing. Tears welled behind her 
eyes as the card nearly succeeded in leaping out of her hand. 
Leaning against her wall, tears began falling on a body below. For a 
few moments she did not even recognize a hand resting on her 
back. They were both shaking just the same. 


A rasping voice emanated behind her, past cracking lips. "Well, 
we're- got in, we're here." 


Nodding, Rasmusen held her breath, before jamming the golden 
card into its appropriate slot. The husk which had once been her 
mentor, dragging himself to the identical mechanism, did the same. 
Before them, the door to their doom began sliding open. Ancient 


gears laboring against time as ages of rust shoring off with a shrill 
moaning. Flaking past them, the rust finally relented and with a final 
shuttering movement, the door was opened. 


For a room which would serve to facilitate the end of days, it was a 
rather drab affair. Field grey walls impeccably utilitarian in their 
construction, dimly illuminated by a green monitor embedded into 
the wall opposite their entry point. It almost looked like an automatic 
teller machine, one which dispensed the end of days instead of a 
quick buck. 


There was a message flashing on the monochromatic screen. 
Researcher Rasmusen took several stumbling steps forward and 
dragged her eyes across the screen. 


DIRECTORIAL APPROVAL REQUIRED TO PROCEED 


Bolland moved from behind, stumbling forward until he draped 
himself over the machine. "Wait, stop, no, fuck- fucking fuck 
fuckfuckgoddamn!" 


Beating his head, his hand and his stump against the 
uncompromising metallic exterior of the screen, he did not have 
sufficient blood to shed in order to satiate the machine. Slumping 
down over the stained glass exterior of the machine, he expired. 


Rasmusen turned around. The Director's complex was not far from 
here. There was still time. Maybe. 


Compared to the rest of the facility, Director Foster's office was the 
picture of order. A few fixtures had been shaken from the walls onto 
the floor, and there were a few gaping holes in the tile, revealing 
cavernous tunnels which belched a foul-smelling odor. Before the 
door leading to the Director's compound, a secretary with 
bubblegum-pink hair sat idly passing the time tending to her 
appearance. 


The secretary was filing her nails aggressively. It was plain to see 
that the cuticles had long since been sufficiently worn down, there 
were now trickles of blood cascading down her fingertips. As 


Rasmusen approached her desk, she did not look up from her all- 
consuming task. 


"| need to see, | need, uh, to see the Director. Immediately." 


The secretary paused to make her vacuous eye contact. "He's in a 
meeting.” 


Rasmusen looked down to where the name plate for this woman 
would have been, but it was on a part of her desk which had 
scorched itself to oblivion. Clenching her fists, she leaned forward 
and whispered a rasping plea. "You need to tell him to... please tell 
him. Come out. It's time to let this thing go." 


"If you want, | can pencil you in for after. But only because it's 
emergency. | know it's emergency." 


Shaking, the secretary's finger circled a point on a dust-encrusted 
calendar, in blood. 


Shoulders slumping, Researcher Rasmussen turned to sit down in 
the waiting room, staring intently at the crooked painting of 
multicolored frogs perched on the wall across from her. Each eye 
seemed to hold a secret, she was determined to unlock them all. 
Joel looking up behind each eye and asking when he was going to 
see her sister next. How to manage retirement funds. What the other 
side of hope was looking like. 


Eventually, the Director was released from his crisis center meeting. 


But by then, the world had ended. 


The Dragon and the Pesterbot 


The wall cracked with the first impact. With the second, an 
enormous lizard burst through it, sending a glass display case 
flying as it shrugged off the copper jacketed lead that impacted its 
back. Almost negligently it turned around and spat acid at the last of 
the team desperately trying - and failing - to contain it. They were no 
threat. 


A tinny, high-pitched voice rang out in the room. 
"Who dares to disturb the Prime Minister Sinister? | shall rip your 
eyes from their sockets and force you to eat them!" 


The lizard turned its attention from the rapidly melting humans 
towards the new voice, perplexed. "What?" 


"You do not know the fury you have unleashed! RoboLord the 
Destructor will end you!" 


The lizard looked down to see where the voice was coming from. It 
was an...odd assortment of parts that looked vaguely humanoid. It 
seemed to be attempting to pick itself up off the floor. "What are 
you? You're not one of the disgusting flesh bags." 


"Do not think to insult Patheticon the Garglemost, creature!" The odd 
little robot finally got to its feet and shook a wrench-fist at it. "| shall 
rip you limb from limb! None can stand before the might of The 
Destructinator!" 


"You are...annoying.” Almost without thought the lizard lazily 
brought its claw down on the irritating little thing, intent on crushing 
it. At the last moment the little robot lost its balance awkwardly 
toppled over backwards and rolled up against the wall. The bit of 
clumsiness had spared it from the reptile's negligent strike. 


"You see! You can not harm the Invincinator! None can defeat me!" 


The lizard tilted its head to the side, oddly amused by the pathetic 
little thing. It took just a moment to indulge in the novelty of the 
experience as the creature teetered up to its claw and latched on 
with one of its ridiculous appendages. 


"Now | have you! Dismembernator shall now tear you to shreds!" 


"You do realize...you are...weak...pathetic" The reptilian lifted his 
claw to get a closer look at the little thing that was hanging onto it as 
the little automaton strained with all its strength - in vain - attempting 
to harm it. 


"Lies and slander! The Mayor of Mayhem is the most powerful being 
in existence!" The little robot hung from the lizard's claw for a 
moment before its grip gave out and it fell, tumbling to the floor and 
rolling till it it was upside down. 


"So, you want to fight dirty, do you? Castratinor can play at that 
game too!" 


The lizard had tired of this thing. It was no longer amusing, just 
irritating. It raised its claw to strike the thing down in earnest, not 
settling for a lazy, negligent strike that could miss. At that moment it 
was struck by a volley of rockets, a half dozen simultaneous 
explosions reducing it to a lump of misshapen flesh. 


Behind it the backup containment team that had stealthily crept up 
while it was distracted by the hostile robot lowered their shoulder 
mounted rocket launchers. 


"You see! Doom-Master Thirteen Seventy Master Of All Doom has 
destroyed you!" 


"Alright, let's get ugly here back to containment. | want it in that acid 
bath yesterday. Don't give it a chance to regenerate. Thompson, 
take Pesterbot here to storage closet 8F till the eggheads figure out 
something better to do with it." 


"Dildotron shall destroy you too!" 


"Dildotron? Oh, for fuck's sake. Who taught it that one?" 


The Duvet Queen 


It was a couple of days after visiting his brother that Blake noticed 
the scrappy note that had been pushed through his postbox, after 
the normal morning mail had been delivered. Rubbing sleep from his 
hopelessly tired eyes and wishing for a coffee, Blake sighed and 
pulled the note free. It had been written on the back of an envelope, 
in pen ink that started off navy, faded, and came back red. Kit didn't 
write often, but when he did, it was always with some confused 
desperation. One day, one of these was going to be his final note. 
One day. But probably not today, Blake considered, as he set to 
actually reading the invasive scrap of paper. 

And the Duvet Queen moved across the room 

Draped in her blankets 

She absently rubs a tear from eye 

And wonders when she started crying 

Before she realised 

“No, stop being silly 

| was yawning, never crying.” 

(Well, whatever you say.) 

The window pane hinders her progress of floating and denial forever 
And she looks out across her kingdom 

Which is actually a car park 


In an okay part of the city 


She squints to a sign that she sure says something about parking 


Or not parking, but still about parking 

And realises she can’t read it 

Not because it’s too far, not because she’s lost it 

But because it’s pixelated like the music videos she used to watch 
Before she lost access to the internet 

When she was younger 

She wonders if she'll ever be able to understand authority again 
As she absently reaches into the gap between her world and their's 
And pulls out a kitten she knows she’s not allowed 

In her tiny council flat 

She looks at the kitten and sees it in every detail 

Its birth, life, and death 

And decides amongst all the name to call it 

‘Peaches’ seems to fit 

And she places the kitten on the floor 

Before going back to the machine that makes her coffee 

And swallowing it hot, 

With a handful of anti-psychotics 

Peaches makes its peace with the flat 

As the Duvet Queen watches curiously 

Despite knowing its every move in advance 


Then she goes to the front door to wait for the letters from authority 


Letters that she knows she won't be able to read 
With their pixalated words and confusing suggestions 
And she reaches into space again 

Not her space, nor ours’ 

And pulls out a Rubix cube 

(The kind she can never solve) 

(Which, come to think of it, is all of them) 

And sits on the dusty floor 

Duvets gathered around her 

And focuses all herself onto the Rubix cube 

And waits, and waits, and waits 

Whilst 16 identical cats and one new kitten 
Explore the space around her 

Disappearing into portals she’s opened before 
But the kind she can’t go into herself 

Because she’s stuck here 

In her blankets 

Ruling over a car park 


Blake snorted disdainfully at the apparent poem. Its form was almost 
as scrappy as the paper it was written on. And, despite the recent 
interaction with his brother, he couldn't imagine who Kit was writing 
about - that this was the 'she' he alluded to in their last meet up. He 
aimed at the nearest bin, and chucked the trash away, returning to 
his trek to the kitchen to make Amber her morning tea.