"Don't call me that." Conrad paused. "You fellas do what you want, 
I'm gonna try to ride one of those horses." 


And if you give yourself to the hungry, And satisfy the 
desire of the afflicted, Then your light will rise in 
darkness, And your gloom will become like midday. 


And the Lord will continually guide you, And satisfy your 
desire in scorched places, And give strength to your 
bones; And you will be like a watered garden, And like a 


spring of water whose waters do not fail. 


And those from among you will rebuild the ancient ruins; 
You will raise up the age-old foundations; And you will be 
called the repairer of the breach, The restorer of the 
streets in which to dwell. 


Isaiah 58:10-12 


Joanna stepped out of the telegraph office after filing her report. She 
had already decided to go back to Washington and make her full 
report there minus a few details. As she stepped into the street she 
noticed Phillip the drunk standing awkwardly outside the sheriff's 
office. She ignored him and made her way down the thoroughfare. 


Along her path to the train station she noticed two thefts, a violent 
argument, and at least one dead body in the middle of the street. 
With no law, the town was already eating itself alive. Still, she had 
her job to do. 


She stepped onto the train station platform and noted that Mr. 
Cozen was still present, though he avoided her. As she waited for 
the newly arrived passengers to disembark, she observed them. 
These men and women had no idea what was in store for them 
here. 


The last passenger to leave the train was a tall woman with a 
prosthetic facial plate made of porcelain. She carried a doctor's bag 
with her. She'd seen the prosthetic in the past on soldiers who'd 
received facial wounds in the war. She weighed speaking to the 
doctor about her experiences of if they'd ever fought in the same 
battles, but decided to give the doctor a wide berth. 


As she passed the doctor from a fair distance, Joanna smelled the 
faint odor of rotting flesh. Joanna stepped onto the train and found 
her seat. She looked out the window at the town, sinking into chaos 
and smiled as Mr. Cozen accosted the new arrivals. 


When she closed her eyes she saw the doctor's porcelain face 
instead. Joanna startled awake, stood up from her seat and walked 
onto the train platform with her bag in tow. She looked down the 


thoroughfare, dusted her shirt off, rested her hand on her gun, and 
walked toward the marshal's office. 


Video Killed The Radio Star 


A dozen astronomers and physicists seated in folding metal chairs 
raised their eyebrows in unison. The flat-screen monitor switched 
from the black and white image to an array of numbers and 
equations. 


Dr. Thompson pushed his glasses back up his nose and turned 
around to face the crowd. "SCP-1548 would've reached the earth in 
5400 years." 


Dr. Yan, who sat at a wooden desk with his feet propped up, nodded 
along. "Given the distances involved that meant the object was 
traveling at least 85% of the speed of light." 


Dr. Thompson nodded. "Yes sir. Until recently we just chalked that 
up as part of the anomaly. You have to remember this thing already 
doesn't obey the laws of physics. It was somehow able to 
communicate with the Foundation in real time. It also knew way too 
much about us to be classed as safe." 


"Also it was an anomalous pulsar." 


The entire room erupted into a chuckle as Dr. Thompson continued. 
"Yes. Also that." 


Dr. Yan smiled. "We can talk about what we don't know all day. 
That's what you have to put up with when you're handling 
anomalies. Assume you know nothing until you're wrong." 


"Yes sir. Over the last few years astronomers have gotten a much 
better handle on the behavior of non-anomalous pulsars. They are a 
likely candidate for the origin of fast radio bursts. Almost all of them 
seem to originate from extra-galactic sources, which means they 
must be powerful." 


"| assume this is going to tie into Blitzars?" 


"Yes. With new understanding comes new applications for that 
knowledge. For the folks in here that have a masters degree, I'll 
make it simple for you: A neutron star cannot exceed 1.4 solar 
masses or it will collapse into a black hole. Our friend clocked in 
overweight at 1.41." 


Dr. Yan nodded along. "We always assumed that was a tertiary 
anomalous property.” 


"If we apply some basic physics to the problem we can figure out 
how fast it would need to spin to prevent catastrophic collapse." 


"| get the inclination those numbers aren't going to match up with 
observations?" 


"They do not," Dr. Thompson said. "After our first run through the 
data we threw our hands up and figured 'anomalies' like you said." 


The display on the screen switched to show an elongated streak and 
a few audience members gasped. "After yesterday's events, we ran 
it through a simulation." 


Dr. Yan's eyes went wide, though he still didn't take his feet down 
from the desk. "It survived by being in motion?" 


"The problem is that was never sustainable behavior. It can shift 
directions on a whim, but if it ever shifts opposite the direction of its 
motion the whole thing comes crashing down in a planck second." 


The video screen showed the streak shift and implode. Waves 
pulsed from the center and the screen went black. 


The room went quiet as the project staff realized they no longer had 
an anomaly to study. Dr. Thompson broke the silence. "It was 
sending us hateful messages until the end. Then a single radio 
burst. Then nothing." 


Dr. Yan let his feet slip off the desk and stood up to face the crowd. 
"We've still got wrap-up work for some of you but the project is going 
to be downsized. For the paraphysicists; right now might be a good 
time to use up your vacation days while we figure out what to do 
with you. The astronomers are being reassigned immediately. We've 


got a new anomaly that you're going to find interesting.” 


The scientists began to file out of the room and Dr. Yan walked 
towards Dr. Thompson. He leaned in and whispered. "What did the 
last burst say?" 


Dr. Thompson tilted his head. "| don't want to go." 


Date: //20 
Total items 8 identical copies of the King James Bible 


Input: One King James Bible. 

Setting: Coarse. 

Output: One sheet of leather, one block of wood of 
approximate dimensions 3/4 that of the Bible, one stack 
of ink stained rags, one reel of thread. 


Input: One King James Bible. 
Setting: 1:1 
Output: One copy of the Qur'an. 


Input: One King James Bible. 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: Hand-illustrated copy of the Dead Sea Scrolls 
on new papyri. 


Input: One King James Bible. 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One book with leaden pages and a golden 
cover. Language unknown. 


Input: One King James Bible. 
Setting: 1:1 
Output: One book titled "The Satanic Bible". 


Input: One King James Bible. 

Setting: Fine. 

Output: One DVD containing animated accounts of all 
the Bible stories. 


Input: One King James Bible. 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One statuette, human in form. Quotes Bible 
passages at random, unless prompted either by book, or 
by a short phrase from the Bible, in which case it 
continues from that point. Voices are appropriate to 
persons in Bible, narrator is a neutral voice of ambiguous 
gender unless the book is attributed to a particular 
person, in which case voices is appropriate to that 


Now watch and learn, here's the deal... 


From: Lisle Naismith [pcs.noitadnuof| 
htimsianl#pcs.noitadnuof|htimsian] 
To: Overseer Council 

Subject: Isaiah Henderson 


My colleague (and friend) Dr. Henderson has been 
exposed to a FAFNIR-type infohazard at Site-59. The 
effects will be dormant for the next 72 hours, but their 
severity warrants his termination prior to the "rage state" 
event. Rather than the standard protocol, he has 
requested to be killed by SCP-173. 


Consider this my request for permission. | can say with 
certainty that he always had a particular fascination with 
(Ase 


- Dr. Naismith 


Permission granted. This is an unusual request, but after 
37 years of his loyal service, it's only fair. Take at least 
three D-class with you to maintain the line of sight, 
internally or externally, as you see fit. 


Please understand that the Overseer Council will hold 
you personally accountable for any breach incidents that 
may come of this. - O5-11 


Just outside SCP-173's bulkhead, Dr. Henderson held a cardboard 
box in his sweaty hands. 


"Are you sure you're ready?" said Dr. Naismith. 


"No," said Henderson with a chuckle. "But no one /s ready for this 
type of thing. Like when | was going to the dentist as a kid. My mom 
had a saying for it.” 


"What's that?" 


"She told me that | had to let my brain do the worrying, while the feet 
did something else entirely." 


Naismith grinned. "Sounds like courage in a nutshell." 
The four D-class behind Naismith rolled their eyes. 


"Just one question,” said Naismith, indicating the cardboard box. 
"Why those?" 


"It's something I've always wondered, Lisle. The answer seems 
obvious, but scientists don't deal in seems-obviouses."” 


The fifth D-class, D-42749 next to Henderson, just barely stifled an 
"It's been 15 minutes, jerkass, just let him in or marry him already!" 


Naismith patted Henderson on the shoulder. "Godspeed, Isaiah." 
"You too. Now, if you would be so kind..." 


Naismith threw a switch at the side of the room. "Opening the 
bulkhead. Maintain direct eye contact with the object at all times." A 
buzzer sounded, and the locking mechanisms of the bulkhead 
clicked and whirred. 


"Fucking finally," said D-42749. 


Once the door was locked behind them, D-42749 and Dr. 
Henderson found themselves face-to-face with the good ol’ 
concrete-and-rebar god of destruction itself. Due to a recent 
cleaning operation, the floor was mercifully white for a change. 


Dr. Henderson sighed, and tightened his grip on the box. "Excuse 
me, 42749, would you do me a quick favor?" 


D-42749 grunted. 


"Close your eyes. Give your eyelids a rest." 


"Dr. Naismith said to—" 


"Only one person has to do it, and I'm a seasoned staring contest 
professional. Are they closed?" 


"Yeah." 


Taking in a long, deep breath, Henderson decided to get it over with. 
He blinked... 


...just after he overturned a box of old banana peels at 173's feet. 


CLANG! 


In a fraction of a second, Henderson's eyes opened, and SCP-173 
was face-down on the floor on the other side of the cell. D-42749 let 
out a scream. He never stopped screaming. 


"Now | can die in peace," said Henderson, closing his eyes. 


The last thing he felt was a slab of concrete bitch-slapping him 27 
times. 


Null Space 


“Step forwards, D-0912.” 
My name is Andrew Carter. 


D-0912’s feet carried him on a path, straight and true, across the 
threshold of the door. The bright glare of lights shone into his face. 
Jagged shadows cut across the room’s surfaces, drawing the sharp 
angles of unidentifiable forms. The silhouette of a chair jutted out of 
the floor in the middle of the room. 


Behind him, D-0912 heard the voice of the doctor who had followed 
him into the room. “You will be vaccinated against an anomalous 
pathogen. Later, we will conduct tests of the vaccine’s effectiveness. 
Sit in the chair.” 


Two men with black combat gear hugging tight to their faces flanked 
the door. D-0912 did not turn to look at them. The men with guns 
were routine at this point. He wondered what sort of organization 
would steal its own workers’ faces like this, but it made sense. He 
and they were all brothers in sacrifice. 


In the smoky recesses of his mind, D-0912 had a vision: some great 
god of the wild with the body of a man and the blood of a beast had 
shambled into the human world. On its skin the ways and 
boundaries of the world twisted and split into a sign, and the people 
beheld the sign, and by the sign they knew of the god’s power. The 
people of the world saw that the god at once knew and unmade the 
laws of nature, and they looked upon the god with terror and 
wonder. So when the time of the sacrifice came, necessary because 
the god demanded it, demanded by the god because it was 
necessary, the people became envious of those who would be 
brought into the presence of the god and killed as tribute. There was 
some gargantuan thing moving in the world, sifting through the body 
of humanity, taking what it took and leaving what remained in the 
wake of its passing. D-0912 was but plankton and krill, and the 


whales were descending. 


D-0912 heard the sound of footsteps padding lightly against a forest 
floor as the god moved forth. 


“Sit in the chair, D-0912.” 


D-0912 lowered himself onto the high chair and felt the cold metal of 
its seat press against his flesh. The two guards at the door stepped 
forwards and strapped his limbs to the chair’s arms. D-0912 stared 
into the flat glossy blackness of their visors, placid like a lake’s 
surface, and felt only the lurking presence of some great and 
unknown Leviathan staring back. 


Why was he here? 


His brain dove into the lake, grasping for that Leviathan, until his 
lungs burned and he had to surface. Why was he here? Nothing 
added up. There was this faint memory of a crime that he had 
committed dangling off the end of his mind. Maybe it was murder. 
Who knew? Why did the people without faces even care if he had 
killed a man? The world was large, and the Foundation was larger, 
and a gunshot ringing out on a hot July afternoon was very small. 


So then... 


D-0912’s mind continued to wander. He had no idea who was in his 
family or what life he had once lived. He only knew that he had 
committed a crime. But there was still a nagging incoherency in that 
thought. If he was guilty of some terrible crime, how had the 
Foundation gotten its hands on him? Why him? Supposedly, there 
were very few people in the world with hands as dirty as his, and 
D-0912 was sure that, for some reason, a great many people were 
all very interested in the fates of him and his fellow condemned. So 
why would the Foundation take these conspicuous people for their 
sacrifices? It didn’t add up. 


And why would the Foundation bestow the honor of sacrifice to the 
basest members of society? Surely these were experiments that 
warranted a great level of precision and finesse, and surely the 
question of menial labor could be answered with machines or simply 


ignored. What purpose did thugs and imbeciles have amongst the 
temple of the gods, where the Foundation tried to unravel the 
mysteries of the world? 


D-0912’s mind wandered along the paths of heaven and hell. Who 
had put those thoughts there? Did he learn them in jail? It was 
absurdly impossible. 


The world came back into the focus of D-0912’s consciousness. 
Slowly, he relaxed into the chair. “You're giving me a vaccination?” 


“That’s right,” the man in the lab coat said. He did not make eye 
contact with D-0912. 


D-0912’s mouth curled. He spoke slowly, measuredly, as he stared 
at the doctor’s face. “Good day to give somebody a vaccination, isn’t 
it?” 

The man checked something off his clipboard. 


“Are you sure you can’t make more use of me? Why would you 
throw away a tool for the greater good so easily?” 


Silence. 


D-0912 felt the bitter juice of his words drip down his lips. “Surely 
you will humor a man about to die.” 


The man in the lab coat looked up. “I don’t know what you’re talking 
about.” 


Of course he was going to die. From the guards at the door, to the 
chair that restrained him in the center of the room, to the cold, 
impassive face of the doctor—only an idiot could possibly believe 
that death was not imminent. 


“The straps are loose,” D-0912 said. He wiggled his arms in them to 
demonstrate. “Are you going to fix it?” 


The doctor looked back down at his clipboard again.