SCP-749 demonstrates a predilection for hunting during rainstorms, 
and appears to be familiar with urban settings. Its preferred hunting 
methods consist of climbing up the walls of domiciles, using its 
forcipules to gain entry (usually by boring a hole through a wall or 
window), then feeding upon sleeping individuals within. SCP-749 
shows a marked intelligence in evaluating potential prey: in all 
reported SCP-749 attacks, the creature fed upon the smallest 
unaccompanied individual, and its feeding habits in containment 
continue to support this conclusion of intelligence. 


"You okay?" He asked. 
Thorne nodded. "Yeah. Just give me a minute, I'll be alright.” 


They picked up one of the cloth strips and used it to bandage their 
hand, then used the remaining cloth to clean the athame, which 
went back into their jacket. 


Breathing more regularly now, Thorne stood up and said, "The Way 
will stay open as long as the candles are burning. That gives us an 
hour, maybe two tops, to find Dustin and get out. | should be able to 
open the Way again if it closes while we're still in there, but | don't 
really want to chance it." 


Spencer nodded, then looked at Green. "You up for this, skipper?” 


Green smiled fiercely. "Don't you ever doubt it. Let's get this 
bastard." 


Spencer grinned back. "That's what | like to hear." 
Then, as one, the three agents stepped through the Way. 


« Permanent Waves || HUB || Moving Pictures » 


Moving Pictures 


« A Farewell To Kings || HUB || 


March 22nd, 2017 
22? 


There is a burning cold that lurks beyond reality. An encompassing 
void that devours the real and unreal alike, giving birth to the surreal. 
It is a realm of unbound concepts, devoid of mind to conceive them 
or matter to contain them. It is, in the most absolute sense, eternity. 


It is through this vast fullness that the Ways travel, flickering threads 
of reality crisscrossing the void to connect the disparate pocket 
universes that compose the multiverse. In a sea of abstractness, 
they form concrete ties that bind the worlds together. 


Kenneth Spencer was no stranger to Ways. He'd felt the cold of the 
Outside before, and it hadn't fazed him. But the Way he traveled 
now was a far cry from the familiar Ways of Three Portlands, which 
were made strong and steadfast against the void by decades of use. 
This Way was barely more than a sliver, a tattered tunnel that could 
barely hold back the encroaching emptiness. Spencer could feel the 
endless cold grasping for his soul, and he shivered. 


The moment lasted less than an instant before he was dumped out 
of the Way and onto the smooth marble floor of another place. 


He picked himself up off his knees and slowly scanned the room, 
which he immediately realized was an art gallery. The walls were 
covered in paintings, each one demonstrating a different mix of 
impossible colors. Infrablack and deep white, true stygians, 
dichromes, and dozens of others that defied description. It was an 
astonishing display of anart. There were many curators in Three 
Portlands who would likely — and quite literally — kill to have even a 
fraction of the collection. 


However, what Spencer didn't see — and which was quite 
conspicuous by its absence — was either of the two agents who had 
entered the Way with him. 


He tried his earpiece, but got only static. Whatever had separated 
them had also taken out their comms. 


Cursing under his breath, he picked a direction at random and 
started walking. It was just about the worst possible strategy when 
lost in an unknown pocket dimension, but he didn't have any other 
options. If he wanted to get out of here, he needed to find Thorne 
and Green — at the very least, he needed to find Thorne. And he 
needed to do it before Dustin got the drop on any of them. 


Agent Green rolled as he exited the Way, coming up into a kneeling 
position on his uninjured leg. The stun gun which had been his only 
permitted weapon in Backdoor SoHo was held firmly with both 
hands, sweeping back and forth for hostiles. 


When nothing immediately attempted to kill him, Green lowered the 
stun gun slightly and allowed his attention to focus on the statues 
that filled the room. He couldn't see anything overtly anomalous 
about them, but there was still something off-putting that he couldn't 
quite place. 


Rising to his feet, he cautiously approached the nearest statue — a 
piece of marble carved in the representation of something with too 
many tentacles and far too many eyes. As he did so, something 
moved in his peripheral vision. He swiveled to look at it, but saw 
nothing but statues, all of which were still in their same places. 


Frowning, he squinted at the statue directly across the room from 
him. Even though it was facing forwards, the eyes were turned away 
from him. As were the eyes on the one next to it. And the one next 
to that. 


Green turned back to look at the nearest statue again, and just 
caught a glimpse of its marble eyes turning to look the other way. 


He laughed. "Clever." 


Shaking his head in bemusement, Green leaned his back against 
the wall between two of the statues and shoved the stun gun back 
into his holster. Then — pausing to look up and scan the room 
occasionally — he removed his wristwatch and began 
disassembling it. 


The UIU's jurisdiction was accepted in Backdoor SoHo, largely out 
of convenience. Someone had to do basic policing, and nobody 
particularly trusted the city's anartists to do it. The Foundation, on 
the other hand, was barred from the pocket dimension — legally by 
the Hoover Mandate, and physically by the Doorman. It had taken 
significant negotiation on the part of Thorne before Charlie had 
agreed to let Green enter the city, on the condition that he only 
carried a stun gun. 


Green had agreed to these terms immediately, and had broken them 
almost as quickly. 


He laid the pieces of his watch out on the ground, revealing that it 
contained a large number of very unwatchlike components. 
Components like a telescoping magnetic accelerator. 


It took him the work of only a minute to reassemble the pieces into a 
small but functional coilgun. He pulled out his carton of cigarettes 
and removed the last one, unwrapping the paper to reveal that it 
wasn't a cigarette at all, but rather a carefully disguised flechette, 
which he loaded into the accelerator tube. He would only get one 
shot with it, but that wasn't an issue. It was a weapon intended for 
killing reality benders and wizards; if he missed the first shot, he 
probably wouldn't get a second one anyways. 


Green hefted the tiny gun in his hand and set off deeper into the 
museum. He was going to find Dustin, and when he did, he wouldn't 
miss. 


Robin Thorne stepped out of the Way and found themself in a 
darkened atrium. The only source of light was a large amorphous 
glob of what appeared to be molten lava floating in the center of the 
room. 


Thorne put a hand into their jacket and slid one of the defensive 
charms within over their wrist. With the other hand they drew their 
gun. Keeping the weapon pointed at the ground, they cautiously 
approached the floating lava. 


As they approached, the glob of molten rock broke apart, sending 
several glowing blobs drifting upwards. Thorne watched as they 
bounced off the ceiling and started to descend again, only to be 
reabsorbed into the central mass. 


"It's a lava lamp," someone said. 


Startled, Thorne raised their gun to point at the source of the voice 
and spotted Sierra Dustin standing on the opposite side of the lava. 
Gossamer strands of liquid rock partially obscured the view, but they 
easily recognized the anartist. 


"| picked it up from an exhibition in Reykjavik," Sierra said. She 
started walking around the lava, but Thorne matched her 
movements, keeping the molten rock between them. "The 
Foundation were going to destroy it, so | took the liberty of liberating 
it from their custody." 


Thorne remembered something that Green had said earlier. Last 
time this happened, it was a duck sculpture in Reykjavik. 


"Is that why you planted the duck bomb? So you could steal some 
artwork?" 


"Well, yes," she said. "What, did you think | was doing it for fun?" 
She stared at Thorne for a moment, watching their face for a 
reaction. "You did, didn't you. That's so fucking typical of you Suits." 


Thorne kept their gun pointed at the anartist as they continued 
walking, but the lava blocked any clear shots. "So that's it? You go 
around putting lives in jeopardy, all so you can add to your personal 
museum?" 


Sierra pursed her lips and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You 
make it sound so gauche that way. Tell me, do you realize what this 
place is?" 


"Poorly lit?” 


She smiled and spread her arms, gesturing at the works of art 
scattered around the atrium. "Miss Thorne, this is the single largest 
collection of illegal art outside the Library. And not just anart — 
politically motivated works outlawed by repressive regimes, grossly 
offensive pieces banned under obscenity laws, blasohemous and 
heretical religious iconography — anything you jackbooted thugs 
and your ilk seek to suppress. You name it, it's here. | rescue these 
works from destruction because they're the works that most need 
preserving." 


Thorne lowered the gun slightly and stopped walking. "What about 
Three Ports?" 


The anartist stopped and tilted her head in confusion. "What about 
it?" 


"Why plant the memetic bomb there? What were you planning to 
steal?" 


Sierra gave a cheshire grin. "Tell me, do you know what the nearest 
Foundation site to Three Portlands is?" 


Thorne looked at her cautiously. "Do you?" 


"Oh, fine, don't play along,” she said, frowning petulantly. "We both 
know it's 64. Which just so happens to be the largest 
Foundation anart repository in the Western hemisphere." 


Thorne stared at her in disbelief. "Holy shit. You really are crazy if 
you think you could have pulled off a heist from a Foundation site." 


She shrugged. "Maybe. But | bet with all their task forces occupied 
containing the situation in Three Portlands, | would have had a 
decent shot at it. Sadly, Miss Thorne, because of you and your 
partner, we'll never know." The artist raised her hands, clearly 
preparing to cast an evocation or perform an exploit. 


"| hope you aren't expecting an apology." Thorne held their breath 
as the lava started to break apart again, offering a clear line of sight 
on the anartist. "And by the way, it's Agent Thorne." 


They raised the gun and fired. 


Spencer had been walking for several minutes now — following the 
right-hand rule the whole time — and he was starting to suspect that 
the museum might be non-Euclidean. Usually, taking four right turns 
would bring you back to somewhere you'd already been, and he'd 
managed to take seven right turns so far without revisiting any 
rooms. 


His suspicions were confirmed when he turned right for the eighth 
time, entering yet another new room full of unfamiliar displays, and 
noticed Agent Green walking along the ceiling — which was actually 
the floor of another gallery. 


He waved at the Foundation agent. "Hey skipper, what are you 
doing on the ceiling?" 


Green looked up and frowned. "God dammit, | hate unusual 
topographies." 


"That makes two of us then," Spencer said. "You haven't seen 
Thorne anywhere, have you?" 


Green shook his head. "Nope, just you so far. This place is huge." 


"Yeah, well, hopefully that means Dustin's having as hard a time 
finding them as we are." Spencer took his eyes off Green and 
started scanning the room for a way to get up to the other agent. 


"Thorne's a wizard though, surely they can handle her." 


"Maybe. But Dustin has home field advantage, and Thorne's no 
combat thaumaturge. I'd rather not chance it." Spencer spotted a 
hyperspatial statue that seemed particularly suitable for climbing and 
started walking towards it. 


"Maybe we should split up then to increase our odds of finding 
them." 


Spencer shook his head and started climbing up the side of the 
statue. "No way. With the way this place is laid out, that will just 


make it harder for us to find each other again. And personally, I'd 
rather not risk running into a crazy anart witch by myself." 


He pulled himself up onto the flat top of the statue and gauged the 
remaining distance. If the gravity changed directions in the exact 
middle of the room, then he could probably get past the switching 
point by making a running leap. 


Green watched his progress skeptically. "Are you really going to try 
to jump that?" 


Spencer looked back up at him and shrugged. "Do you have any 
better ideas?" 


Green sighed and shook his head. "Just try not to break your neck." 


"Will do." And with that, he leapt off the edge of the statue and threw 
himself at the ground above. 


Fortunately, he had judged things just right. As he neared the top of 
his jump, he felt the gravity suddenly invert and begin pulling him 
down towards what had been the ceiling. Tucking his head in, he 
angled his shoulder forwards and landed with a roll. 


Pulling himself to his feet, he winced and started rubbing his 
shoulder. "| think | sprained something doing that." 


"You did just fall ten feet," Green said unsympathetically. "Maybe try 
landing on your head next time, it might knock some sense into 
you.” 


Spencer opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the 
sound of gunshots from elsewhere in the museum. 


Green swiveled to look towards the source of the noise. "Sounds 
like your partner found trouble." 


"Or trouble found them," Spencer said. He started running as more 
gunshots echoed down the halls. "Come on, this way!" 


The bullet stopped midair in front of Sierra and stayed there. 


"Did you really—" 


Thorne pulled the trigger again, and kept firing until the magazine 
was empty. 


Sierra stared at them scornfully through the cloud of bullets now 
floating in front of her. "Really?" 


Thorne ejected the magazine and started backpedaling away from 
the anartist. "I figured it was worth a shot." 


Sierra waved her hand lazily, causing the bullet cloud to rearrange 
itself into a helix spiraling around her. Slowly, she started walking 
towards Thorne. 


"You know, you really surprised me when you showed up in the 
Backdoor looking for me. | figured you must have been using some 
high-class thaumaturgy to find me there, and | didn't want to risk a 
duel out in the open. If I'd known you were just a featherweight 
sorcerer with a gun, | wouldn't have bothered coming here." 


She flicked a finger, sending one of the bullets whizzing towards 
Thorne, but the defensive charm on their wrist glowed brightly as it 
intercepted the projectile and absorbed its speed. The lump of lead 
bounced harmlessly off their suit and landed on the marble with a 
clink. 


"Still think I'm a featherweight?" Thorne asked, moving to place one 
of the displays between themself and Sierra as they reloaded their 
gun. 


"I'm not impressed by your enchanted baubles, if that's what you're 
asking." She flicked her finger again, sending another bullet towards 
Thorne, which shattered the glass display case they were hiding 
behind before being stopped by their defensive ward. "Although | 
must admit that I'm quite curious how you managed to find me in the 
first place. Obviously it wasn't thaumaturgy, unless you found a 
better wizard to help you." 


"It would hardly take a wizard to find you," Thorne said, retreating 
behind a stone column. They reached into their pocket and slid on