The jig was up. Something had gone wrong somewhere, and the 
Foundation had failed its final mission. Maybe 343 had got sick of 
the entire mess and decided to sweep the quarrelling apes off his 
planet. Maybe a vial of 008 had smashed, and brought the world to 
a moaning, hungry death. Or maybe nothing unnatural happened, 
and the human race had finally destroyed themselves as the great 
superpowers promised they would. It didn’t matter. 


Nothing did. Not anymore. 


From one pole to the other, only one thing showed any signs of life. 

It was two metres tall, and made of concrete and rebar. It ran on tiny 
little legs, and as it moved its concrete flesh bulged and stretched in 
ways concrete never should. 


Unbound by eye contact, the statue had its way with the planet. 
Entire continents were passed by in minutes. The spindly legs 
worked like pistons, grinding up asphalt and rock. It ran over dying 
oceans and fields of ash. It never stopped. 


Whenever the statue passed through a city, or what remained of a 
city, it would never pass through without first darting through every 
room of every building. The same went for any town, or any type of 
human settlement whatsoever. If any intelligence had remained to 
observe it, they might have theorized that the statue was looking for 
someone. Or anyone. 


Centuries passed, and the statue kept moving. With every empty 
city, it seemed to get just a little bit faster, as if being driven into a 
rage. Its speed uprooted trees, and sent the chassis of ancient cars 
flying. The spray-painted face never faded. Instead the colors simply 
grew brighter, angrier, and more vivid. The black eyes became like 
holes into space; the red lines seem to glisten. 


Maybe in some faraway era, an alien intelligence will find the Earth, 


completely swallowed up by shit and blood. Maybe they'll find the 
statue, or the statue will find them, and the dance will begin again. 


Or maybe nothing will come. Maybe it will just be the statue, 
unstopping, undying. Forever. 


enough repellent to cover exposed skin. Do not use 
under clothing. Do not apply to face or ears. Repeat as 
needed. 

Frequent application and saturation is unnecessary for 
effectiveness. Avoid overexposure. Wipe hands after 
use. After returning indoors, wash treated skin with soap 
and water. Avoid contact with plastics, acetate, spandex, 
and rayon. 


Use of SCP-969 in the recommended manner results in no 
anomalous effects, although researchers note a greater efficacy of 
use of SCP-969 over other brands. 


Use of SCP-969 in a manner not recommended by the packaging 
results in several anomalous effects. 


Recommendation not Immediate Effect Chronic or Lasting 
followed Effect 

SCP-969 applied to | Clothing appears to beNone? 

unexposed skin under repelled from skin of 


clothing subject, expanding 
outwards 
SCP-969 applied to | Irritation in line with | Face of subject is 
face regular effects of found mainly 
insect repellents unattractive, 
regardless of physical 
change 
SCP-969 applied to | Loud buzzing noise | Hearing degradation 
ears heard by subject and eventual deafness 
Frequent application) Extreme alienation by Depression 
resulting in subject of all 
overexposure observers 
Hands not wiped after Expressed struggle of Inability to grasp or 
use holding onto several) handle any object with 
objects hands 
Applied indoors / No; Observers show Condemnation of 


washed off indoors | tendency to avoid shelter 
contact with shelter of 
subject 
SCP-969 applied to | Overcoat began Overcoat remained 


The Person in Rags 


It had been five days since the incident. Eric hadn't spoken more 
than three words since then. 


What was there to say? Sixty-seven people were dead, most of 
them people he knew. He’d gone to the hospital, been asked dozens 
of questions by almost as many people. His body was sore and 
covered in cuts and bruises, and at some point he’d sprained his 
ankle. From what happened to the others who were present that 
night, he’d been profoundly lucky to be in the condition that he was. 
He didn’t feel lucky, though. Had he been lucky, his friends would be 
alive, along with the rest of everyone who died, and he wouldn't be 
lying on top of his bed, staring two-thousand yards past the ceiling. 
He absent-mindedly fingered the ring in his hand. It had been his 
best friend Riley’s class ring. Eric never bothered to order one for 
himself, not seeing the point in it. But now, Riley was gone, and Eric 
never wanted to let that ring go. 


He thought about Tobias and Sherry. He’d just gone to a concert 
with them the month before. He knew that the three of them laughed 
and moshed, and had a wonderful time, but when he tried to picture 
it, all he could see were their bodies lying on stage-right of the 
school auditorium. 


It wasn’t much different when he pictured Oliver, who had been 
hanging from the noose on the other side of the stage. Eric had 
been sitting close enough to see him jerk four times after his neck 
snapped, before going still and swaying gently. For a few moments, 
Eric felt chilled at just how real his performance seemed, before he 
saw Tobias and Sherry stab themselves. 


He realized something was dreadfully wrong right when the first 
screams started. 


He remembered getting up, and feeling a fist connecting with the 
back of his head. He couldn't tell who it belonged to, because as he 


stepped forward and instinctively clutched where the blow had 
landed, he was distracted by the strangled sounds coming from 
Riley, next to him. Someone had their hands wrapped around his 
throat, but Eric didn't know who. He screamed at them to stop, to let 
Riley go, but they didn't listen. Riley choked out a few more noises 
before his airway was constricted completely, and Eric didn't know 
what to do as he watched his friend thrash, fighting as hard as he 
could for a breath of air. 


It was as he turned his head and was about to scream for someone 
to help, when Eric saw the figure standing on stage, right in front of 
Oliver. The tall person in the rags, whose actor Eric was attempting 
to deduce since he first saw them in Act I. Whoever it was, they had 
looked at Eric. He thought they did, anyway. The figure’s head 
turned to face Eric, and he felt eyes that he could not see. He froze, 
and his panic was gradually overtaken by a primal fear, creeping 
into his mind, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, 
and, through it all, he heard a voice from somewhere in the back of 
his mind whisper something to him. He couldn't remember what, but 
he knew it was something important. Something he needed to do. 
Something he needed to stop doing. 


Riley 
He needed to stop strangling Riley. 
He couldn't stop strangling Riley. 


He couldn't remember anything that happened after that point, up 
until the following day, when he was sobbing into his father’s 
shoulder. He smelled like smoke, but couldn't remember any fire. 


Wait... 
It started to come back to him 


He noticed the fire on-stage around the time he had finished 
grappling with Rachael, leaving her on the ground minus an eye and 
two fingers. The flames found the curtains and engulfed them, 
rapidly surrounding the stage and causing the alarm to blare out 
over the hysteria of the audience. Eric saw the fire, and considered 


finding an exit, but dropped this consideration when he saw the 
figure in rags again. He still felt eyes locked with his. Who were 
they? He couldn't figure it out, and that enraged and terrified him 
more than anything else that transpired that night. More than the 
sight of all those dead on-stage. More than the sounds of people 
screaming in pain, panic, and fury. Surrounded by fire and corpses, 
That person, that thing, stared past the crowd and into Eric. 


He shrieked and took a swing at whoever was unfortunate enough 
to be next to him at that moment. 


He would have kept this up had the man in the gray suit not gotten 
him into a nelson and forced him out the nearest exit. 


Eric awoke from his nightmare in a brief panic, before he realized he 
was safe. He wasn't holding the ring anymore, but it didn't take 
much searching for him to find it at the side of his bed. He reached 
down to grab it, but as soon as he did so, he felt it again. The primal 
fear from five days ago flared up in his mind, and he was barely able 
to suppress a shout when he thought he saw the person in rags 
staring at him through his bedroom window. 


His heart pounding in his chest, Eric dropped the ring, and realized 
the person at his window was his grey-suited rescuer. The man said 
nothing, but, oddly enough, for the first time in days, Eric felt 
comforted. They stared at each other for a minute more, before the 
man walked away, and Eric drifted off back to sleep. 


The ring was gone by the time he woke up the next morning. Eric 
didn't mind too much. 


The Physical World 


How many guys have you fucked? 

"More than I'd like to admit." 

And women? 

"There's not a number that would be satisfactory to either of us." 
What do you think is the cap to your life expectancy? 

"Shut up." 

Isn't it a beautiful day in the favela at least? 

"...could have fooled me." 

No? 

"No." 


As long as I've been around, we've shared much of the same 
cameraderie. It's a dynamic that | respect, though Graga has 
different views of the situation than | do. No offense. 


"Sure." 


Can't blame her; I'm insufferable. We always did come off as left- 
and-right-brained and right-brained. Even now, she's trying not to 
talk to me. At least I'm not special; | watch through her eyes as she 
avoids the faces of strangers. It's too bad, because | always like 
feeling vital. 


"You're not." 


But it's a whisper, to avoid others wondering who the crazy is that's 
talking to herself. Can you cross the street already? Pollution is bad 


enough. Please try to avoid accidentally bumping into people. We 
don't need the attention. Move, you crazy bitch. 


We navigate busy sidewalks and back streets, looking each and 
every way for anyone who might be after us. Finally, we arrive at 
Tristao's house. He's sitting outside. What a sight for sore eyes. Red 
baggy eyes. Shaggy hair. Slumping onto the door. That weak smile. 
As good of a friend as he is, he has a ridiculous unhealthy schedule. 
Why, it's almost like he — 


"Didn't get any sleep last night, huh?" 


"Same answer as usual, girl." He stands up and holds his fist out for 
a fistoump. Bump goes the fists, and a connection is born anew. It 
was way too long since we got to jam; a whole four months. 
Pounding the drums is more than just a way to soothe the nerves; 
it's the vibrations sent up one's spine, the arms shaking as the sticks 
are raised, repeating the process all over... it's the closest to fucking 
one can get. Less of a mess, too. 


"You really need to sleep, though. Regular 48-hour all-nighters are 
just gonna make you worse at making music. Promise me you'll 
sleep the moment | leave." 


"| don't see the big deal though, it's not like —" 


"Not like it'll make any difference, when we haven't played in so 
long, shithead?" Bonk goes the palm, right on the head. "Please tell 
me you practiced once between then and now." 


"Well..." He drifts off, pretending to not know the answer. His sly 
smile gave it away. Every time. Our eyes twitch a bit. "Hey, hey! In 
my defense, | had no power for a whole month. That's why | wasn't 
able to contact you or anyone else." 


"Fucker." Tristao's divine punishment is a solid minute of noogieing, 
perhaps the worst possible one for him. His soft head can't handle a 
sustained attack from our worker-like hands and knuckles for too 
long. "Asshole. At least you're fine, and not some shitty imposter." 
We sit down by him and relax for a few minutes. The silence is nice. 


After ten minutes of quietly watching the smoggy clouds drift by, 
Tristao speaks. "I still have your drums in the guest room. I've been 
cleaning them; | know how particular you are with your stuff getting 
dirty." We smile no, grin. Tell him thank you at least, or do you prefer 
not to ruin that real-world image of yours? Nothing? ...nothing? 
Okay. "The only downside is that the toms are a bit detuned, and the 
snare got scratched. | could only do so much maintenance on my 
own time." 


"Eh, it's fine. So long as we're not St. Angering it up, it'll sound fine." 
"Oh come on, that aloum wasn't that bad. Neither were the snares." 
"That's because you're not a drummer." 


"You think Lulu is their best anyway! You don't get to talk." Punch 
him for that! She punches him. Yesss. 


"Let's go play, you fag." 


"Only if you take initiative again this time, dyke." We share a laugh. 
It was good to be back in good company. 


The sounds of percussion blare through the house as we warm up 
and blast our way through every inch of the kit. The air feels vibrant; 
there's a sort of thickness that each drum creates unique to the way 
it is hit. The drumstick bounces up, and each time you are in that 
moment, you are engaged in a battle with the walls of sound. Either 
you win and are able to continue producing a rhythm that others can 
use in order to keep track of the music being produced... or you fuck 
up and people get pissed. 


As for Tristao playing the bass? Eh, it's probably just as simple as 
plucking some strings. 


"God, this rules. It sounds fine to me. How's it on your end?" He 
can't hear me with those earmuffs on, but he can read my lips. He 
gives a thumbs up. That's how we spend the next hour; noodling 
and getting used to being in-sync with one another. It just feels right 
again; we've never been able to click with anyone else ever since 


we started playing instruments. Sometimes, she thinks it's part of 
God's plan that Tristao came into our lives. /n those times, | tell her 
to stop talking nonsense; since when has Christianity ever worked 
out in our favor? 


"Dude, | love playing fills and blast beats and 7/8 funk rhythms, but 
I'm done warming up. Let's try playing one of our old songs and see 
if it still has that touch." 


Tristao groans. "Ugh, but most of that stuff is shit." It's hard to tell if 
he's being genuine or not. 


"Then the ones from earlier this year." 


"Which one? You have to pick." What song would any of us even 
remember how to play? 


"Justificagao’, then. No singing in that one." We nod to each other, 
and the sticks go 


1234 


Blast off. The room starts to shake, unable to contain the distorted 
bass crackling through a broken DIY amplifier and drums that roared 
like Hell itself. God's gift to us all. 


Ten seconds in and the first key change happens, sounding more 
like rumbling beasts than music. Punks could dance to this. 


Twenty seconds in, and a tiny crack forms in the wall behind us. A 
humid energy pulsates from it. Punks could only dare. 


Twenty-five seconds in, Tristao rapidly shifts the key upwards, the 
sound becomes triumphant, and ( 


Tanaka, you still haven't told me how it 
actually works. 


Tanaka, you still haven't told me how it 
actually works. 


KiraQueen: Right, right. | don't totally know how it works, 
but i'm guessing based on conjecture and enough 
incidental... incidents. | don't have access to actual 
information. 


KiraQueen: My sample size is you, Tristao, Thom, 
Yukyu, No-Name, and around... a hundred and some 
people across various concerts. 


meee 


wae 


KiraQueen: You know, Back when Aussie was still a 
thing we were involved in. 


Oh, yeah. 
Oh, yeah. 


KiraQueen: Everyone has a bit of anomalous energy 
lurking in their soul. They have potential to use it, but 
because most people's energy is way too weak, or 
they're unaware it exists at all, they can't really use it. 
Especially when it comes to music. You can, like...