Cron Apostolou particularly hated the interview. Every cog of his 
being was designed to be the perfect poster child of a resurgent 
football program; brash, brave, cool under pressure, easy on the 
eyes, with a keen wit and sharp intellect. But it was all too perfect. In 
early interviews, there had been questions raised, brows furrowed, 
suspicions roused. They could not know they could not know or it 
would be all over. Existential fear was there, as unkind as that was, 
and he felt it every time he had to retract a statement that was too 
accurate, or pull himself back from releasing a thorough answer too 


quickly. They could not know. 


Finally, it was time. He looked up before the door had even opened, 
before the assistant coach had even walked across the room to the 
door, but he heard the footsteps nonetheless. Coach Ragada 
peeked into the locker room, grin wide on his face. 


"Hey chief," he said. "You're up." 


Cron stood, but not too quickly. His sharpened his gaze, but not too 
much. He strode across the room, but slouched slightly and limped 
ever so slightly with each step, remembering that he had been hit 
during the fifth minute of the second quarter just above the kneecap, 
a blow that would usually result in some kind of impediment and that 
he had calculated out to be a two centimeter bend of the knee every 
right step and- 


Then he was in the press room, and the lights were on him. He 
squinted against the lights, although he didn't require it. He took his 
place behind the podium, adjusted his tie and folded back his 
sleeves. In front of him, Ragada explained that they would only be 
taking a few moments for questions, as the quarterback had an 
exam in the early morning and really needed to be getting some rest 
here soon. Cron's servos spun rapidly. The information on the exam 
was already there, already processed. Put a pen in his hand and he 
could've taken it at the podium. But now was not the time for exams. 
He took a pre-programmed breath. 


"Alright, first let me say how excited | am that we were able to pull 
out a victory over those guys, you know, whenever you're playing a 
team like Macedonia State it's going to be tough. They're a tough 
team, but we're a tough team too and tonight really showed that. So, 
let's take some questions... yeah, over there." 


A short student reporter in the second row stood up. "Mario lvalyn 
from the Roman Quarterly. Your stat line tonight was impressive, as 
usual, but there's been some concern about your seemingly 
adamant stance on not using magic during your play. Any comment 
on this?" 


The tips of Cron's fingers tingled ever so slightly, but not with any 


hint of the arcane. No matter how polished his inner workings, no 
matter how flawless the complexion of the skin wrapped around his 
metallic frame, no feat of engineering could put fire in those 
fingertips. He grinned slightly, and his artificial brain found the 
appropriate lie. 


"| just like doing it the old fashioned way," he half-laughed. "Makes it 
more satisfying when it works." 


Another man stood up. "Cron, Olivio Rallut from Alexylva Student 
Gazette. Any chance you could tell us about your immediate 
reaction to seeing Moa in the opposing backfield?" 


Cron nodded. "I've seen Moa once before, during the Meso- 
American College game last year, and it's always a challenge, you 
know. He's got a couple of tells, but when you're face to face with 
world-ending dark powers, you're always going to be a little nervous. 
Just gotta buckle down, keep your eyes on the endzone, and slip 
around a corpse army or two." 


This drew a bit of laughter from the crowd, and Cron smiled. So far, 
nothing too invasive, nothing too telling, no questions he couldn't 
answer. His eyes scanned the crowd, and then he saw somebody 
stand in the back of the room. His facial reactions were controlled by 
an automated system, but if he were capable of spontaneous 
outbursts, his eyes would've widened dramatically. 


"Art Desto, Mediterranean Post. How's that leg doing, Cron? Took 
quite a hit out there." 


Cron's memory servos began to flutter wildly. He went back to the 
moment of the impact, when the Macedonia State defensive end 
had sacked him in the backfield. He hadn't seen the hit, was it his 
left leg or right? He hadn't felt it, he didn't fee/ pain. The gripping 
sensation that had been so unfortunately ingrained into his mind 
began clutching its way back towards the surface. Beneath the flesh 
veneer, the metal was screaming, trying to remember, trying not to 
break the charade. 


"Not too bad right now," he felt his vocal box say. "A little rough out 
on the field, but | shook it off. It'll take more than that to keep me 


SCP-646: Birth Worm 


Item #: SCP-646 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-646 is kept in customized 
Containment Unit 9277 in Bio-Site 66. The floor is to be rinsed daily, 
and drain grates are to be checked weekly for buildup. 


Personnel are to wash SCP-646 once every two weeks with warm 
water and gentle scrubbing tools. Basic Low-Hazard 
decontamination showers are to be performed by personnel after 
this wash. 


Subject does not seem to require sustenance; a daily serving of 10 
kilograms high-quality edible material is allotted to promote (relative) 
activity. 


All species of offspring are to be examined and logged. If any 
presiding researchers identify offspring they deem worthy of further 
research, personnel are to follow appropriate protocols. All 
unwanted offspring are to be immediately destroyed. 


Description: SCP-646 is a large, translucent grey, bloated creature 
measuring roughly 5.6 meters in length, weighing between 3400 and 
3700 kilograms. At one end of its body is the approximation of a 
torso, with a prominent ribcage and a wide, round head. Seven sets 
of three-jointed limbs are located evenly spaced down the front of 
the body; a long series of udder-like organs are located between 
these limbs. The body tapers to a blunt point with a cloaca-like 
orifice, the entire frame heaving and shuddering irregularly. The 
shadows of various internal organs (lungs, hearts, and a digestive 
tract) can be seen through SCP-646's flesh. The flesh is quite 
smooth and malleable, and a clear, harmless mucus constantly 
oozes from its skin. 


down." His facial structures formed a smile, and the room laughed 
again, but the reporter only narrowed his eyes. 


"Big hit, though. And by their five star defensive end, too. That guy 
has to outweigh you by nearly two hundred pounds." The corner of 
his mouth turned up. "It's almost like you've got legs of steel, Cron." 


The room didn't noticeably hush, but in Cron's mind it might as well 
have been an echo chamber / it's an innocent comment, it doesn't 
mean anything / he knows how does he know / just ignore it play it 
off / it will ruin everything / don't react just do what you always do / 
with Cron sitting in the center, consumed with his thoughts. You're a 
robot, his mind shouted at him. There's no love for robots here, it 
shouted back. Then make them believe you're not. 


"Good trainers, really." Cron smiled that devilish smile again. "Plus, | 
might've been warded. Can't remember much, in the heat of the 
moment like that." 


The room murmured with the sounds of agreement, and Cron knew 
the danger had passed. He looked to the back of the room again, 
and the reporter was gone. A few more inquisitive souls asked their 
bit of the star quarterback, who faithfully answered and would smile 
and nod and talk about "teamwork" and "every down counts" and 
"making something out of nothing". At the end of the session, one 
last reporter stood up, the national reporter. 


"So what do you say, Cron? Excited to get your hands on Yale next 
weekend?" 


In his metallic heart, Cron was a disharmonious cacophony of preset 
fear and doubt, made only worse by the pressure put on his mental 
conduits after so much stress throughout the day. He eyed for a 
moment the door to the locker room, where an ice bath was waiting 
for him. A soak to cool his components, and to give him time to 
think. 


But the coded grin of the quarterback was unwavering in its 
optimism. "I can't wait." 


Fourth and Long - Hub - Coach Panagakos, Eldest and Most 
Revered 


Coach Panagakos, Eldest and Most Revered 


The open-aired cafeteria on Alexylva University’s NorthWest Quad 
was a bustling hub of activity throughout the day, but was rarely 
busier than it was at lunch. As classes let out and the students filed 
out the open doors into the fresh autumn air beyond, the wafting 
scent of fresh meat and drink drew flocks to the long tables and 
spacious lawns of the quad. This was no less the case for the 
starting quarterback of the Alexylva Unversity Visigoths, Cron 
Aposiolou. 


He wasn’t much for hunger, though his artificially constructed body 
did have functions in place to convert food to fuel. He mostly 
followed the crowd towards the cafeteria because that’s what the 
crowd was doing, and following the crowd had become his mantra. 
Blend in. Don’t stick out. Act human. As he strode idly towards the 
line of students forming in front of a gyro stand, a towering bulk of a 
man approached him from behind, eagerly throwing a massive hand 
across Cron’s back. 


“Comrade!” Yuri Pato bellowed, his voice sounding through his 
meaty chest like a man shouting in a cave, “it is good to see you. 
How is class? You are finish for today, yes? Join Yuri for the lifting 
the weights, yes?” 


Cron smiled. Yuri was a year older than he, but they shared many of 
the same classes. Yuri had been recruited less for his academic 
prowess, and more for his towering frame and bulky physique. The 
offensive line coaches called him “Hadrian”, and his fellow linemen 
called him “Hoss”. He was the largest man in the region, but was 
about fifty cards short of a full deck. He had just come from the 
Mathematica building, no doubt after leaving Counting 101, a class 
he had taken three times. 


“Yeah, Hoss,” Cron said, “let me get something to eat, and we'll 
head over after we’re done. See if Rosco and JaMarcus want to 
come, too.” He paused. “And see if you can find Peter. | want to 


work on snap counts with him.” 


“| do it!” Yuri shouted, lumbering off to find their friends. The sea of 
people around them parted for Yuri, and promptly closed up as he 
passed. 


Cron worked his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling at the 
occasional well wishing from his fans and classmates. His 
appearance around the quad was not uncommon, but there were 
plenty who could come around just to say a word of appreciation 
after a big win. He picked himself out a gyro, some fresh greens, 
and a sparkling tea before sidling up next to a rock on a hill and 
enjoying his meal. In these few quiet moments, Cron could almost 
block out the noise enough to actually believe he was— 


“Did you hear about that coach at East Byzantium?” Cron heard a 
voice from behind him say. He leaned around the corner of his 
boulder, being careful not to raise undue suspicion. 


“| hadn't,” the other man said. They were two students, definitely not 
players, and one of them clutched a bright blue scroll Cron 
recognized as being the latest edition of the Mediterranean Post. 
“What about him?” 


The first student shook his head slowly. “A righteous shame. Gods 
have mercy. Turns out he was implementing technological 
enhancements into his running back. Steel legs, jet packs, that sort 
of thing. Unnatural business.” 


“Gods,” said the second man, “a cyborg football player? Blasphemy. 
Football is meant to be played the way it was designed, for humans, 
demons, summoned deities, and drunken fans. Next thing you know 
they'll be trying to get actual robots on the field, too.” He spat. 


“It’s because of all these robot apologists nowadays,” said the first 
man. “Letting robots attend schools and live in our cities. | hear 
somebody up north even petitioned the government to let them 
marry their robot.” He shook his head again. “It’s just not right.” 


The second man nodded in agreement. “I saw in the Post the other 
day where that guy from Portlandis, Vincenti Andersopolis, is even 


trying to make human robots. Real sick stuff.” 


“Hard to believe, really,” the first man said. “Almost like something 
out of fiction.” 


“Nah,” said the second, “they’d never make fiction like this. Too 
unbelievable.” 


“Hmm hmm,” said the first man. 
“Mmm hmmm,” said the second. 


They both nodded furiously in masturbatory agreement, before 
wobbling to their feet and leaving for their next class. Cron sat 
silently, the servos in his mind feverishly spinning. East Byzantium? 
His bronze heart shook. Their running back was Bihgus Diqqus, 
that’s right. In his mind’s eye, Cron could see the replay broadcast— 


Diqqus lined up in the slot, lles waits for the snap. Ball is 
to Iles, he looks left, fakes, fakes, tucks to his right, and 
Digqus is open across the field! Iles to Diqqus, and he’s 
got it! He’s got— oh, oh my. Diqqus is down, one of the 
Atlantis defenders had him against a stone-skin, and 
he’s down on the field. My gods, folks, this is not looking 
good... 


—and remembered how many people had said that Bingus would 
never play the game again. He had spent the entire offseason in 
physical therapy, struggling to do even minor tasks. But when he 
made his triumphant return by sprinting onto the field at Constantine 
Stadium, he had made converts of all the nonbelievers. 


Until now. 


Cron sat in silence for the rest of his meal, idly pushing his greens 
around until the bell rang. He stood, deposited his trash, and left for 
his next class. 


That afternoon at practice, the team stood in hushed silence as the 
gathered coaches drew a summoning circle on the ground around a 
small metal folding chair. The smell of incense hung thick in the air, 


and the special teams coordinated lit thirteen green candles to place 
at ordained points around the circle. When the circle was complete, 
all of the coaches, except the offensive and defensive coordinators, 
stepped back to join the team. Coach Demopolous, the offensive 
coordinator, raised his hands. 


“Oh Great and Terrible Champion of the Gridiron,” he said, his voice 
echoing through the practice facility, “we summon you for this, our 
last rehearsal before the conference opener.” 


Coach Christakos, the defensive coordinator, raised his hands as 
well. “Guide us in these times, O Bringer of Touchdowns, Architect 
of Jet Sweeps, Master of the Two Minute Drill. Lead us to victory in 
your name, Coach Panagakos, Eldest and Most Revered!” 


A fierce roar followed, as a rift appeared in space and time before 
the team. Beyond it, they could see twisting seas, endless worlds, a 
dimension that knew no boundaries or limitations. Within this gaping 
maw they saw a grisled, hunched figure, slowly growing closer and 
larger until it was the size of a man. With a sudden thunderclap and 
a flash of light, the rift disappeared. Standing in its place was an old 
man wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants, his hair trimmed close 
to his head and his eyes hidden behind large, dark sunglasses. He 
grimaced around the room, causing the coaches and players to 
cower. 


“You're late, goddammit,” Coach Panagakos said, his voice a 
wolfish growl. “I said practice starts, on the field, at four. It’s three 
goddamn fifty-six; by the time we’re done with warmups it’s going to 
be quarter after.” He peered at his coordinators over his glasses. 
“For fucks sake, get it together.” 


Coach Christakos stepped forward meekly. “I- I- I’m sorry, Coach 
Panagakos—” 


“Eldest and Most Revered,” the team said in unison.