It was also a curse. One morning, after a night of 
drinking and partying, Emily awoke to her house 
riddle in bullets. The walls were covered in deep, 
small holes, with broken items shattered below. 
In one wall, the holes made a smiley face. 
Another read, in small dots, “JIM IS A DICK.” 


Around this time she found that her uncanny 
ability with firearms went beyond that of a 
regular person. Videos she found amazed her 
with recordings of her shooting a gun, only to 
have the bullets go straight backwards. A couple 
of tests on the shooting range proved this 
unnatural power to be real. More nights of 
drinking and bad decisions also proved this 
power to be real. 


So impulse control might not have been her best 
trait. Big deal, right? Though her thoughts rested 
along these lines, the reality of the situation 
proved to be more serious. In a couple years, 
interspersed with more incidents of a similar 
nature, she managed to catch the attention of 
larger powers. 


She had not the slightest idea she’d been 
followed. She may have lived on island, but she 
certainly didn’t know every face. So the new 
ones that appeared meant nothing to her. That 
is, until she found herself woken in the middle of 
the night, surrounded by men in tactical wear. 


Her first reaction was surprise and fear. She was 
taken away before she had time for another 
reaction. Bounded and carried away, her next 
memories involve her waking up in a sterile 
facility. Here she remembers testing, trials 
ranging from inconvenient to excruciating. All 
centered around her abilities. 


It was months before she was returned home. 
She was only freed with the strict promise to 
never touch a firearm or speak of any of her 
experiences to anyone again. For all intents and 
purposes, she had run away for an extended 
vacation. 


They frequently checked up on her. She 
developed a sense of paranoia as she gained a 
better sense of when she was being followed. 
She knew they wouldn’t be done with her. It took 
years until her fear was proven real. 


It was when she woke up bound and gagged in 
the forest that she realized the day had come. 


At that moment, four men dressed just like the 
ones who had kidnapped her years ago stood in 


front of her. She was on the ground, her back to 
a tree. Her hands and feet were tied, and a gag 
covered her mouth. 


They were talking. She screamed. No one 
reacted. She screamed again. The gag hurt her 
jaw and the ties scraped her wrists and ankles. 
One of them pulled out a pistol, and another 
seemed to reprimand him. He put the pistol back 
in its holsters as the first one said some more 
muffled things. The agents finished their chat 
and directed their attention to Emily. 


An agent reached into his backpack and pulled 
out a strange object. It bore a resemblance to a 
large, chrome speed gun made of a shiny metal. 
Rows of fine markings were inscribed down the 
barrel, though Emily couldn’t see what they 
were. The agent brandishing it pulled down the 
dark cloth covering his mouth as he pointed it at 
her head. He spoke for a while in a language 
Emily didn’t know, and the markings on the gun 
glowed a whitish-purple. The end of the gun lit 
up in a reddish hue, almost blinding Emily. 


“Is there anything you wish to say before you 
die?” Another agent said, with a slight Eastern 
European accent. One of the agents cautiously 
approached her, unclipping and removing the 
gag from her mouth. 


“Why...why are you doing this?” She said, her 
jaw sore. 


“To protect the walld.” 
“To protract the wild.” 
Confusion shot across his face. 


“To priddick dawald.” 


One of the soldiers tackled him as another 
shouted orders at the others. 


“Keep him down! Cover his mouth, dammit!” 


One of the agents just looked at the tackled 
soldier, tears running down his eyes. 


“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” He repeated, over and 
over. 


The agent with the glowing gun changed its 
direction towards the grounded soldier. In the 
chaos, Emily wrested with her restraints. Nothing 
came loose, but she managed to struggle away 
from the tree. A pistol lay on the ground, freed of 
its holster after the tackle. Emily inched closer to 
it, twisting her tied arms over head and in front of 
her. She grabbed the pistol. 


An ethereal sound interrupted the process. 
Turning to look, Emily saw the weird gun’s 
glowing lights fade away. The soldier at the 
receiving end of it was frozen with a horrified 
expression. He moved again to scream loudly. 
Parts of his suit seemed to bubble. His whole 
body was squirming and moving. 


A black bubble rose out of the suit, leaving 
behind a patch of bare peach skin. The bubble 
rose and popped, disappearing into air. More 
bubbles followed. More screams also followed. 
After the suit ran out, the bubbles turned peach 
as skin left the body. They went from peach to 
red to white, and there was nothing left after that. 
Just plain ground where the agent once was 


It was time to take action. Emily held the gun’s 
trigger in her struggling fingers. She couldn't 
stand up, but she didn’t need to aim. 


Three loud bangs, one immediately after the 
other, and the remaining agents slumped to the 
ground. Two more, and speeding bullets broke 
Emily’s restraints. Freed, she stood and 
stretched out. Then she vomited. She had never 
killed anyone before. 


Shakily, she walked away from the scene. She 
was safe. She was unharmed. 


The world was in danger, but Emily was safe. 


Establish cooperative relations with allied occult agencies. 


D.C. al Fine stood at the end of a table ina 
nondescript room. Her dark black suit bore the 
marks of being worn for too long without being 
changed. The table stretched across the room, 
allowing ample space for twenty people to take a 
seat on it. 


At this time there were only seven characters 
seated, each one spread as far apart from the 
others as much as possible. 


D.C al Fine turned to one of them, amanina 
cheap three-piece suit lounging behind a plaque 
that read “MANNA CHARITABLE 
FOUNDATION”. 


“Mr. Johnson. Any word from the Serpent’s 
Hand?” 


He looked at her with a weary gaze. 
“I’m afraid they won’t be coming.” 


D.C. al Fine cursed quietly and moved towards 
the head of the table. 


“Hello everyone, I’m glad you could all make it 


for this meeting. Even if your top brass may have 
been busy, we appreciate the representatives.” 


A suited woman, younger than the others in the 
room interrupted. 


“Cut the crap. This is about the countermeme, 
isn’t it?” Her plaque read “CHAOS 
INSURGENCY.” 


“Right. We are in the midst of a crisis. And | don’t 
just mean the Coalition. I’m referring to all of us, 
including the organizations who didn’t appear 
today. | am speaking, of course, about the 
countermeme.” Al Fine stated. 


A dashing man with slicked hair spoke up from 
behind his “UNUSUAL INCIDENT UNIT” plaque. 


“We are aware of the current predicament. 
However, we lack information about this threat. 
Could you please share your knowledge with us 
about the countermeme?” His phrasing made 
the question sound more like a command. 


“That’s why we’re all gathered here, isn’t it? We 
all have different information, different 
resources.” Al Fine continued in a consistently 
formal tone. 


“You’re proposing an alliance?” The man who 
said this emanated an aura of power. His accent 
was Canadian, and though he was forty, he 
appeared ten years younger. “SCP 
FOUNDATION’ was emblazoned the plaque in 
front of him. 


“Like hell you are.” The Insurgency 
representative shot the sentence more at the 
Foundation leader than al Fine. 


“| ask that you all consider the possibilities. This 
threat is more than capable of wiping us all out. 
With limited cooperation, we can all be better off. 
Listen, everything is negotiable at the moment. 
Currently, we need to focus on eliminating this 
countermeme.” 


“That you made.” The Insurgency representative 
added. 


“Culpability is not the most pressing issue at the 
moment. We need to stay focused on the most 
important issue.” Al Fine forcefully said. 


“Well that’s easy for you to say,” said a large 
man in a white button-up shirt in a thick southern 
accent. His plaque read “THE FIFTH CHURCH.” 
“You've got all to gain from this. What are we 
gettin’?” 


“At a minimum, mutual protection. At a 
maximum, well, we’re open to discussion.” Al 
Fine said, with a tinge of irritation. 


“Nope. This won't work. I’m leaving.” The 
Insurgency representative said, as she stood 
from her seat. “You created this mess, you’re 
gonna deal with it.” 


Al Fine turned around, visibly angered. “Oh no, 
you’re not pinning this on us. We destroyed it. 
Sure, we created this thing, but we got rid of it. 
And we’re going to do it again.” 


The Insurgency representative watched al Fine, 
amused. 


Al Fine continued, “It’s this one who let the 
countermeme break out.” She pointed at the 
most unusual figure in the room. The Insurgency 
representative remained standing near the door. 


Clad in a bright blue and red suit reminiscent of 
a bus seat from the 80s, a man with greying hair 
simply smirked. He had brought a plaque that 
matched his suit, reading “ARE WE COOL 
Vien 


“Please. Who broadcast an infected 
transmission to the entire world? That’s not on 
me. | don’t even know why I’m here. You're all 
bureaucrats anyways. I’m leaving too. See ya.” 
The eccentric man stood up and left the room as 
the arguing continued, taking his plaque with 
him. A sharply-dressed man spoke up 
afterwards. 


“I’ve abstained from speaking so far, but | don’t 
find this meeting to be particularly productive. 
Judging from the Coalition’s lack of competency, 
the Insurgency’s lack of agreement, and 
everyone else’s lack of interest, it would seem 
that nothing effective will result from any 
agreement in this meeting. My time would be 
better spent elsewhere.” He left his 
“MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARK LTD.” 
plaque as he departed from the meeting. The 
Insurgency representative followed behind him. 


Al Fine continued her speech, saying, “I already 
knew that not everyone would be agreeing with 
this proposal. We don’t need them. What we do 
need is each other.” 


Al Fine continued, but she knew that she’d 
already lost this battle. In time, she concluded 
her speech and shook hands with the remaining 
four people in the room, each one leaving with 
vague promises. The room seemed especially 
dreary with only al Fine in it. 


None of the representative and leaders 
contacted the Coalition about that proposed 


alliance again. 
They’d fight their own battles. 


Without cooperation, none of them would win. 


A long, silent night was falling. 


mechanical pocket watch, one (1) photo of a bird (Pica 
sericea). 


Note: The previous tests done with mechanical parts and 
code sections by Dr. Hadian and Researcher Mikk 
intrigued me. —Dr. Rook 


Input: One (1) manuscript of a Javascript program (self- 
learning chatbot), one (1) manuscript of a Javascript 
program (Convolutional Neural Network model), one (1) 
mechanical aluminum & silver pocket watch, one (1) 
USB, one (1) photo of a bird (Pica sericea). 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: A mechanical bird roughly the size of a large 
pocket watch. Resembled a Korean Magpie in shape. 
The bird seemed to be made with a mix of clockwork and 
realistic metal plumage. By some unknown mechanism, 
it could hover for brief periods (roughly 45 seconds) in 
the air, though its base material- aluminum and silver- 
should've prohibited it from doing so. It could not speak 
in this form, though it displayed considerable intelligence 
and responded to people speaking to it. When connected 
to a computer via USB cable, the bird was able to speak 
through the computer’s speakers. It was capable of 
speech comparable to an eight-year-old child’s, though 
speech patterns significantly improved after several 
conversations. It acted remarkably similarly to a live 
magpie. Other than the mechanical bird, three (3) folded 
sheets of blank paper were found in the output chamber. 
Close analysis revealed that they had no anomalous 
properties. Placed in item storage. 


Note: I’m keeping the bird for some more research into 
how 914 could be used to create automated objects. 
One of the first tests recorded included a clockwork bird, 
so that’s where this came from. Dr. Hadrian was right! 
Think of the possibilities! —-Dr. Rook. 


Note: No matter how much Dr. Rook's ‘Robbie’ 
resembles a young child during communication, the 
result of this test has not yet been verified to be fully 


Placere Non Trinus 


Sir Ando drew his cloak around him as he prepared to leave the 
monastery. The large, cobblestone building stood behind him, 
towering above him and his horse as he saddled it up. Hastily, he 
threw the scroll and his rations into the pouch on the side of his 
mount, backing it up through the stable until he was in clear sight of 
the road. 


Farther down the path, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might 
bring news to enemies of the Church, he brought the horse to a halt. 
Grabbing the scroll from his pouch, he broke the wax seal bearing 
the signet of Dom Maski of the Abbey of St. Bright. Unrolling the 
document, he read the decree; 


The bearer of this document—Sir Ando Le Roche, Knight 
Errant of the Order of Kondraki—is hereby authorised to 
enlist from within the borders of County Reaforten six 
and twenty knights of the same order, thereby to locate 
and apprehend the person or persons in possession of 
the demonic item known as "the Yellow Book" and any 
persons giving aid and comfort to the same, and to 
deliver them unto the custody of the Holy Foundation for 
judgment and sentence. By decree of the archcanon of 
the Abbey of St. Bright and the Duke of Westmont, in 
accordance with the Groups of Interest Act 437, said 
knight is empowered to... 


Sir Ando rolled the scroll up and slid it back into his pouch and gave 
the horse a nudge to set it on its way. 

"What is the Yellow Book?" 

"| think it was a skip, Cardinal." 


"Why have the Children of the River devoted themselves to finding 


fee" 
"Hell if | know. What do you know about it?" 


The old man sighed uneasily. "Er, Lord, what we know is mostly 
conjecture—bits and pieces from surviving encounters, which are 
rare enough in themselves—but they say the Yellow Book rewrites 
the past." 


The D-Caste's eyes opened wide as the man controlling it made the 
connection. 


"Fuck." 
"| beg pardon, Lord?" 


"Yeah, oh | Know what you're talking about. SCP-140. Don't let 'em 
bleed on it and you'll be fine. Keter class, real nasty thing.” 


The Cardinal rose an eyebrow as he gestured for his servant to find 
the relevant section of the Holy Containment Procedures. Little was 
known of the cult, but the Synod had gathered that they had split off 
from the Seventeenth Chapel after the Great Breach, and had been 
in search of the Yellow Book ever since. The group had proven next 
to impossible to penetrate, but from what descriptions of their secret 
ceremonies had made it to Foundation ears, it seemed inevitable 
that if they found it, they would ‘bleed’ on it profusely. He pondered 
in silence for a long second. 


"Hey, you guys got any booze?" 


It had been four days of riding, and not a single tree had been in 
view for three of them. It would take another two to reach the city of 
Reaforten in order to enlist more knights to aid him in his quest. He 
knew the fables, the stories, the legend of how the Lord Bright had 
addressed the problem over 300 years before. To his dismay, Sir 
Ando also knew about the Children of the River. 


As a knight of the Order of Kondraki, his entire life was training for 
events like these; pre-Breach demons rising again. It was his duty to 
stop them wherever they threatened the Holy Foundation. Though