On the back of the card, in small print, is a document similar to 
Document 909-a. 


+ Show document 


Wow! You've just found yourself your very 
own Little Mister, a limited edition collection 
from Dr. Wondertainment! 


Find them all and become Mr. Collector!! 


01. Mr. Chameleon 

02. Mr. Headless 

03. Mr. Laugh 

04. Mr. Forgettul 

05. Mr. Shapey 

06. Mr. Soap 

07. Mr. Hungry 

08. Mr. Brass 

09. Mr. Hot ¥ 

10. Ms. Sweetie 

11. Mr. Life and Mr. Death 
12. Mr. Fish 

13. Mr. Moon 

14. Mr. Redd (discontinued) 
15. Mr. Money 

16. Mr. Lost 

17. Mr. Lie 

18. Mr. Mad 

19. Mr. Scary 

20. Mr. Stripes 


SCP-644 was originally found by local police in Racine, Wisconsin, 
where it was found sleeping in the entryway to a local elementary 
school, having broken a window to enter. SCP-644 claimed to have 
done this to escape winter weather conditions. An automatic 
Foundation webcrawler picked up a mention of SCP-644's tattoo in 
the files of the local police department, and it was acquired shortly 
after. Racine, Wisconsin, was later found to contain several 
anomalous objects created by "Doctor Wondertainment", in the 
possession of several local children. 


Then again, it was just operating the machine. After being forced to 
go through several sessions, she got the hang of it. (Dr. Samuels 
was Certainly not a terrible boss, but she had to wonder how come 
he didn't have to sit through those as well, being the head of the 
project.) Furthermore, readings from the tests were all filed for the 
professionals to analyze, along with the footage, so she didn't need 
to be concerned with that. As someone with a legit doctorate, 
Samuels was able to assemble a small team of medical and 
neurological professionals, conducting proper experiments on the D- 
Classes. Her work with Alex was just a bonus, if not something less. 


But she couldn't tell Alex that, suspecting the agent would go from 
being stressed to utter defeat, finding her work largely useless to 
their effort to crack the workings of anart. At least for the time being. 
She did hear Dr. Samuels mention that the undercover job's 
importance would only show in the long run. 


As the coffee ran dry and with her snacks into her stomach, Mendez 
checked her watch again. There was still some time, and she 
decided to move to the testing chamber, and maybe read a few 
papers there on her tablet. There were nothing better to do, and she 
suspected that Samuels’ overenthusiasm over the whole matter was 
affecting her as well. 


Then again, she did wish to get a proper doctorate, and with that, 
maybe a better position than being an assistant. 


Two hours later, as Mendez sat in the testing chamber, half way 
through one of the papers, it was Dr. Samuels that walked in, not the 
agent she was expecting. 


"Jennifer," Samuels stepped into the room, interrupting Medez's 
study plans. "Testing's cancelled, but | have a new job for you." 


"Cancelled?" Mendez burst out in surprise, before quickly correcting 
herself. "Anything wrong, Dr. Samuels?" 


"Oh no, nothing to worry about. Just that Agent Cobalt won't be able 
to participate in tests for the foreseeable future. Schedule changes." 


Mendez couldn't help but become slightly worried with the 
information; didn't seem like good news if there were "schedule 
changes" in an undercover job. But Dr. Sameuls' face showed 
nothing but excitment. 


"No need to be concerned, the testing with her is not essential 
anyways.” Samuels added, having obviously mistaken the source of 
Mendez’ worry. "Cheer up, we are going to work on something much 
more exciting.” 


"Is it the ‘Project Fountain’ you were planning, doctor?" Mendez had 
already put her tablet aside, and started to pack things up. 


Samuels seemed to be in a really good mood today, as he joined 
the researcher in putting things back to their intended places. "Just 
got approved by the Site Command." He said smugly. 


"Congratulations, doctor." Mendez smiled politely. 


"Let me tell you this, Jennifer," Samuels grinned back. "What we had 
was just a warm-up, and this is going to be the real deal. No more 
fake anart and limited testing; closer to the source of it all than ever!" 


That does sound exciting, Mendez thought as she followed Samuels 
out of the testing chamber, door shutting behind them. 


"But first, | need you to make some preprations," Samuels said as 
he led Mendez back to the office building. "| need up to five D- 
Classes with art backgrounds. Well, at least two, that should suffice. 
I'll send the other requirements to you later." 


"Of course." She answered. 


An hour later, Mendez sat once again in her side office in front the 
computer screen, another cup of coffee in hand and a hastily 
assembled meal on the table. As she picked through the seemingly 
endless D-Class bios (still quite a lot even with keyword searches), 
she sighed again. And Dr. Samuels wonders why she is not as 
excited for this as he is. 


« Bring It Back | HUB | » 


Down the Silver River 


Let me take you through sands of crystal, 
and down that silver river. 
And | shall show you, 
we are all beings of His creation. 


The artist has long seen the Flow, but he has never seen something 
like this. 


The Flow, the source of all creations as he knows it, has long been 
guiding him through his artistic path. He knows when to let the Flow 
move from his mind to the tip of his brush, from the void looming 
with white mists to the very reality he resides. He knows how to 
redirect it, how to use its pushing force to make his creations real, or 
even surreal. And he thought that it was the only beautiful thing in 
the world. 


He might have made a bad decision when he decided to enter that 
place, to hear the priest’s preaching and learn about that alien belief. 
A Church of clockwork and metal, so he had heard. He only 
intended to use that as a possible way to let out the Flow, to open 
his eyes to and to start something different. After all, he had always 
liked steampunk pieces, and the things this Church offered seemed 
no different. 


But now, the artist stands in the river, and everything is different. 
The white mists are still there, but are now mixed with hot, surging 
steam. The riverbed he stands on, once of emptiness and void, is 
now made of cogwork and metal. Shining and beautiful, from 
beneath, unlike anything he has ever seen. 


He blinks, and feels as if his senses have cheated him, but as he 
opens his eyes again, the scene shifts and he sees something even 
more unbelievable. 


He is still standing in the Flow, but he also now sees outside of it. He 


witnesses a majestic clockwork machine, all gears grind and fall 
perfectly into lockstep. He sees the Flow too, no longer floating in 
the void as he long knew, but streaming through tunnels in the 
gigantic machinery, twisting and turning as the machine moves. And 
his eyes can hardly capture its movement. The hot steam are rising 
from its surface, as its brass structures boil the river. Cogs hum from 
beneath. 


For a moment there, he is shocked and lost, dazzled by the scene 
he had witnessed. But another moment, as he blinks again, he's 
back at the river, with the Flow rushing endlessly down his knee. 
The mental riverbed, however, is still there, but shines even more, 
and shakes slightly. He bends down to reach for the water. 


But there is no water. 


In the mental riverbed crafted by the grand machine, a river of 
mercury flows endlessly through hot burning steam. 


The artist begins his creation with the new scene he saw lingering in 
his mind and appearing in his dreams. He throws out the brushes 
and paint, and gathers cogs and pipes and wires. He feels a clock 
ticking inside. 


He works as he always works, but not with paper and pencil, but 
with brass, iron and silver. He pieces together the parts in an artistic 
fashion, one gear fitting perfectly into another as the Flow whispers 
and the Machine hums. He has never learnt how to construct 
clockwork, but he works as if he was born with the skill. 


As his hand runs against the shining surface, he sees once again 
the silver river, now rushing and surging and falling through the 
carved lines in brass machine. He speaks soft words with his work, 
and wishes that the grand machine would hear, and one day talk to 
him. 


Yet he fails. 


In an attempt to mimic a god, he has only created monsters. The 
humming machines never fit quite right. The clockwork doesn't tick 


or it sings the songs wrong; the structure collapses or only moves 
clumsily. He aims to capture the beauty of the clockwork in his 
dreams like masters of Renaissance had painted saints and gods, 
only to find his own shallow skills stand in his path. 


The artist stops creating. He puts aside his tools and materials, and 
locks himself in the room alone, with his mind wandering the vast 
silver river. He wanders there for days, until the uneven edges of the 
riverbed penetrate his skin, until the humming sound echoes in his 
ear, until the mercury that flows in the river runs down his veins. 


And then he sees. 


The artist takes a deep breath, and dives into the silver river. The 
riverbed is no longer there, and the river feels like an ocean. The 
Machine hums as if an orchestra. 


It should hurt as the metal pieces pierce through his skin into his 
flesh, but he feels none of it. The Flow pushes him as he picks up 
the gears almost mechanically, and puts them inside of him. 


It is his one piece, his final piece. His blood has tainted the floor, yet 
he sees only the mercury flow; his flesh has been cut open and 
scattered in pieces, yet he sees only the clockwork movement. 


As he puts in the final one gear, there’s a small clicking sound, and 
he knows this is the moment. He stands straight, and feels the 
clockwork move smoothly inside, as if it were natural. The Flow 
rushes even faster, the Machine sings even louder, and he feels that 
he is singing with Him. 


“It is done.” The artist lets out a final breath. “l am art of His 
creation.” 


| HUB | 


Tum-Tum-Tum-TUM-Tum-Tum-Tum-TUM-TUM-TUM 


Iran, 1838. 25 years since the end of the First Russo-Persian War. 
‘Abbas had not expected this. 


There was a cannon sitting in the centre of the hut. It was clearly 
Russian, old, and looked like it had taken more than one battering. 
The quality of the craftsmanship was still excellent after all these 
years. 'Abbas recognised the model; it was the same that he'd faced 
at Ganja and Sultanabad, many years ago. 


‘Abbas had done well from the Russian wars, despite his Iran's 
losses. His aristocratic family had played up his heroism in a 
desperate bid to elevate themselves. He'd gained the favour of 
begs, khans, and now the Shah. He was a provincial governor, rich, 
with beautiful wives and a brilliant villa in the capital. 


But today 'Abbas could not think about that. Today 'Abbas was in 
the countryside, on the outskirts of his family's old holdings. He 
didn't like to come here. It made him think of the old days, the 
penniless days before his rise to fame and fortune. 


But his brother was here, so 'Abbas had to be. His older sibling was 
crouched over the weapon, smeared in grease and mud, his grey 
hair falling around his shoulders, unkempt and lank. 'Abbas 
remembered when it was long, his beard neatly trimmed, 
resplendent in his uniform, alive, awake, alert, funny, the 
handsomest man in the division, laughing and joking at his 
superiors- 


Jamshid stood up, saw his brother, and laughed. "Salaam, brother!" 
he yelled. "Have you come to see my work today?" 


‘Abbas moved closer, out of the doorway. "Salaam, Jamshid. Is this 
what you've been doing here, all these years? It's just a cannon. An 
old one at that." 


Jamshid shook his head. 'Abbas saw a madness in his eyes, the 
kind that he had seen before. Thirty years fighting against Russians 
and rebels and whatever else the world had to throw at him had 
taught him where a man's breaking point is. Jamshid had long 
passed that. 


"It's not just a cannon, brother! It's a message! A plan! It's all- all in 
my head, you see!" 


Jamshid stumbled. 'Abbas caught his brother, and- noting how little 
he weighed- sat him down at the edge of the barn. "It's a cannon, 
Jamshid. It's just a cannon." 


"It isn't!" His brother's voice was a snarl now. He lashed out at 
‘Abbas, pushing his little brother slightly away. His eyes darted 
towards the cannon, looking at it, his lip trembling. 


"| asked around at the embassy for you", said 'Abbas. "They don't 
know of any composer called Tchaikovsky. They didn't know what | 
was talking about. | looked like a fool." 


"Of course not! | told you as much! It's not been written yet! It's in my 
head, brother... tum tum TUM tum tum tum TUM TUM TUM..." 


Jamshid rose unsteadily to his feet, rocking slightly. "You'll see. One 
day, this music will be heard in every concert-hall and rattle in the 
eardrums of every man in Europe and Iran. One day, Tchaikovsky 
will write his piece, and the cannon... the cannon will be perfect..." 


"No." 'Abbas had had enough. He waved towards the door, and 
several uniformed soldiers entered. "I'm taking this away. You've 
laboured over it long enough." 


"No!" Jamshid lunged towards the nearest soldier as he began to lift 
his end of the cannon. The soldier batted him away, sending him 
sprawling. 


"| said not to hurt him!" barked 'Abbas. The soldier looked down, 
ashamed of having forgotten himself, but 'Abbas was already 
running towards his brother. As the cannon was hauled out, the old 
man nursed his elder sibling. 


"You can't take it away, 'Abbas, you can't... it's not ready... the 
timing's all wrong, and | can't, the river, | have to draw more water 
from the river-" 


"It's going to a collector, Jamshid. A Frank | know, interested in old 
weapons. You won't see it again. It's for the best, Jamshid. You'll 
see. We'll find someone to cure your mind." 


But Jamshid just rocked, back and forwards, back and forwards, his 
mind still entranced by the cannons of Ganja and some arcane 
music that only he could hear. 


Item Description: An early 19th century cannon of 
Russian manufacture. Cannon will prime, load and fire 
blanks (with no visible source of powder) if the finale of 
Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture is played within audible 
range of the artillery piece. The timing of the shots is 
slightly off and inconsistent with the music. 

Date of Recovery: - - 

Location of Recovery: Napoleonic Wars exhibit, 
Museum, 

Current Status: Maintained as a lawn ornament in the 
staff garden at Site 12. Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture 
added to Site Blacklist of restricted materials. 


Game Day, Phase 1: Secure 


FoldUnfold 
Table of Contents 
0811 to 0813: Initial Contact 
0813 to 0823: Initial Response. 
0823 to 0915: Breakdown 
0916 to 1103: Disorder 
1104 to 1138: Reestablishment of Control 
1223 to Incident Conclusion: Analysis 
Related Foundation Tales: 


Excerpt from official after-action report compiled by Dr. Alto 
Clef regarding Incident 234-900-Tempest Night. 


0811 to 0813: Initial Contact 


At0811 hours on - - _ , multiple containment breaches 
occured at Humanoid Containment Site-17, caused by 
multiple explosive devices placed at critical points 
throughout the facility, placed by a then-unknown party. 
At this point, the method by which the devices were 
placed in the facility is unknown, as no security breaches 
were reported for several months before the incident. 
The most likely method (internal security breach) may 
never be proven, as any suborned personnel and/or 
evidence of their wrongdoing may have been destroyed 
in the attack.