Despite the rampant destruction that had overtaken their 
organization, protocol demanded that a meeting be called. The 
Council was anything if not creatures of habit, so the meeting had 
been scheduled with those who remained. O5-11 was first, likely 
because his bedroom was just down the hall. Most of the rest should 
have been able to get there, except for 2. She was there when they 
first sent the D-Class cake-eaters home, and had watched and 
waited and protected them until they grew into the demon crushing 
monstrosity they were today. 


His thoughts were broken when he saw a man rush into the room. 
He saluted, his brow sweaty in spite of the chill. 


"O5-11, sir!" the man shouted, unnecessarily loud. 


"Jesus, Conwell, relax." He waved him down. "I told you, it's Hank. 
We don't really need to stand on formalities at this point, | think." 


Jacob Conwell slumped, obviously uncomfortable. "Sorry, sir. Two 
birds inbound, looks like the party is here." 


Hank nodded. "Good. Let's get this show on the road." 


He stood, and followed Conwell to the hangar bay. Thermal gear 
only did so much, to keep out the godless cold, and every one of 
Hank's ninety-five years felt the chill. It was his duty, though, to 
stand watch over Site-01, and even in the face of delectable disaster 
he stood strong. Out of habit, maybe. 


The choppers landed on the pad outside of the building, and their 
cargo unloaded. Twelve other administrators, a number of site 
directors and regional directors, and a researcher from Greece. He 
knew them all by name, and could count those missing from their 
ranks. Harkin was gone, and Torval. Montgomery too, and Aktus, 
Gerald, Kiryu, Lament, Johnson. The group that remained was a 
skeleton crew, but something was better than nothing. 


He walked out to greet them. "Welcome to Overwatch Command, 
everybody." He said, nodding curtly. "Follow me." 


There would be no pleasantries, he figured. Not today, and not with 
the task that awaited them. They all knew what was going on here. 
There was an uncomfortable silence among the group as they 
trudged through the dimly lit lower passages to the main conference 
room. It was a circular room, spacious enough to accommodate a 
large, round wooden table and thirteen chairs, but not spacious 
enough for the mass of tag-alongs that accompanied them. 
Somebody would have to stand in the hall. 


They all took their places in the room, either in the seats or along the 
wall. The other administrators, some young and some old, settled in 
to their usual spots. O5-1, Barry Jameson by another name, 
remained standing. He was not the oldest of the group, but he did 
look the most worn. His eyes sagged and his hair had thinned, the 
jet black of years past now hidden beneath a blanket of grey. As 
silence swept over the room, he panned over them with a tired gaze. 


"Alright. We all know why we're here." He paused, motioning 
towards the middle of the table. A hologram projector flickered on, 
followed by an image of North America, distorted by the copious 
cornucopia of carnivorous cakes. "The issue we ran into with 231 
is... resolved. The Scarlet King is buried somewhere in northern 
Colorado. We're not sure specifically where he met his end, but 
that's sort of moot at this point. The larger problem, I'm sure you're 


Date: 07/21/1996 


Procedure: SCP-629's torso was reassembled to create 
several gaps. 


Results: SCP-629 expressed severe discomfort from 
this area, and refused to cooperate with researchers 
attempting to interview it. Further action may be 
necessary to curb this previously unforeseen behavior 
from SCP-629. 


Date: 08/01/1996 


Preface: This was an unauthorized test, performed by 
staff not normally assigned to work with SCP-629. 


Procedure: The composition of SCP-629's body was 
significantly altered, with many body parts placed 
seemingly at random across the main body. Additionally, 
many internal portions of SCP-629's composition were 
moved to the outside, and vice-versa. 


Results: SCP-629 reported extreme pain from the 
altered portions of its body. In addition, SCP-629 had 
difficulty forming coherent thoughts and communicating 
with researchers. Due to the drastic changes made to 
SCP-629's body, it took over 36 hours to move 
SCP-629's body into a form resembling how it had 
appeared prior to the experiment. Since this test was 
performed, SCP-629 has reported feelings of being 
"broken" and had displayed significantly decreased 
physical and mental faculties. Testing has been 
discontinued until further notice. 


ADDENDUM 629-A: This note was found on SCP-629's person 
during initial containment. 


Wow! You've just found yourself your very own Little 
Mister, a limited edition collection from Dr. 
Wondertainment! Take your Mr. Brass apart, and put it 


all aware," he hesitated, "is that our initial containment plan is 
getting out of hand. SCP-871 was an effective means to contain 
and, in this case, destroy the Scarlet King, but..." The silence was 
awkward. "...yeah. This isn't going well." 


05-7 spoke up. "Current casualty reports are astronomical, as you 
can all imagine. We've lost the entire west coast, midwest, 
southeast, everything. Site 19 is lost, Site 17, 15, 3, 11, all of them. 
Containment of several Keter class objects has been lost, but most 
of them have been demolished, too. We've got leads on a few that 
made it out, but in all reality they're not even close to our biggest 
issue right now." 


O5-1 nodded. "The biggest issue right now is that our original plan 
of nuking the cupcakes into sweet, sugary oblivion didn't work even 
a little bit. Turns out all of the pieces can regenerate, too, which is 
sort of a problem, and... yeah, we didn't think this through." He 
coughed, motioning towards the floating diagram of cupcakes 
pouring into the Grand Canyon. "At this point, the States are a wash. 
We aren't going to be able to do enough to salvage them, and might 
as well rename the continent Cupcake Island for as much good as 
we're going to be able to do there. Same goes for most of Canada, 
Mexico, etc. Our secondary means of containment, freezing the 
cakes in the result of a nuclear winter, also has not worked. 
Cupcakes are freezing, but that mostly just makes them hard and it 
hurts more when they hit your head." 


O5-3 was next. "So we're going to need to come up with a way to 
counteract the cakes, and on a massive scale. Like, we've thrown 
off the orbit of the Earth with these cakes. The only things keeping 
the rest of the world from going under are the oceans on either side 
of the US. Can't imagine it'd take too long to fill those up, though." 


Across the table, 05-9 motioned to her left. "That's why we're 
pleased to introduce you to Dr. Tamara Gates, originally of Area 43. 
Her team was involved with research and containment of SCP-1689, 
and- well, you take it from her, Dr. Gates." 


A woman in a white lab coat, who had taken O5-2's vacant seat at 
the table, stood up and adjusted herself. "Thank you, Margaret. As 
she said, my team was involved in the study of SCP-1689, the Bag 


of Holding Potatoes. Initial investigation of the object returned that 
the bag is the entrance to an extradimensional that, at least at one 
point, was a human civilization... somewhere. The problem with 
exploration of the bag is that it's full of potatoes, and- well- so is that 
entire universe, as far as we can tell. Potatoes everywhere. Infinite 
potatoes, and that might be the answer to our problem." 


She produced a large, burlap sack from beneath the table, tied off at 
the top. Loosening the knot slightly, she produced a single, fat 
potato. "This is a potato," she said, concretely. "If left unchecked, 
this potato would begin to sprout another potato, and that potato 
another, and again and again until all that is left of this universe is 
potatoes as well." She produced another object, a small tupperware 
container. She pried open the lid, drawing from within it a single, 
iced cake. There was an obvious gasp through the room, and at 
least three people vomited while the rest recoiled. "This is a keter 
cake. No worries, it can't hurt us here, I've just brought it for 
demonstrative purposes." 


She set the two down side by side. "You see, the Foundation has 
run into surprisingly few infinite objects in our time, so obviously we 
had to compare the two and note their similarities. The obvious 
difference is that one is a potato, and the other is a cake. BUT, if you 
note here, when | expose the potato to the cake," she poked the 
potato, which rolled over and bumped into the cake. "This begins a 
strange reaction. Observe." 


As they all watched, the potato began to extend tiny little potato 
feelers, which wrapped around the cake. A quiet gurgling sound was 
heard, and then the cake was gone, and all that remained was the 
potato. 


There was a murmur of approval from around the room. A few 
people clapped. O5-9 nodded vigorously. "Good show, that," he 
said, nose bobbing ominously. "But can it be weaponized?" 


Dr. Gates nodded as well. "Indeed it can. By putting the bag of 
potatoes on top of a very tall thing, such as a step ladder or giraffe, 
and turning it upside down, we might be able to release the full 
strength of the potatoes within, stemming the tide of cake once and 
for all." 


There was additional level of nodding from throughout the room, and 
before too long the air was a symphony of rushing air, as everybody 
showed their agreement by violently swinging their heads too and 
fro. 


"In that case," said O5-1, standing once more. "| say we put it to a 
vote. All for holding off the apocalypse with potatoes, say-" 


"Now hang on here, Barry." Hank stood up, motioning towards the 
potato. "Let's not be rash here. What happens when the cakes are 
all gone, and we've got a continent full of potatoes instead?" 


From the back, there was the sound of somebody squirming 
gleefully. All eyes turned, and a short, pudgy, particularly toad-like 
man was bouncing quietly on his heels. Hank eyed him, eyebrow 
raised. "Is there something you'd like to add, Dr. Fourier?" 


The man piggled his way forward. "Yes there is! You all laughed at 
me, then. You laughed at me and mocked me, but my day has 
come! Behold, the plan for our eventual salvation after we get 
through this initial salvation first!" 


He pushed a number of buttons on the edge of the table, and the 
hologram began to display the image of a goat. 


"A goat?" O5-1 was not impressed. 


"Not just a goat, you barbaric clown." Suddenly, the hologram was a 
great many goats. "A great, majestic goat army! All hungry and 
prime for feasting upon the potatoes of our resurgence! You laughed 
at me when | said we could turn SCP-2000 into a goat army 
mobilization device, well who the fuck is laughing now, shitlords?" 


There was a silence, and then another general murmur of approval, 
followed by the standard vigorous nodding. "Yeah, that'll probably 
work," said O5-3. O5-1 shrugged. 


Hank rubbed at his eyes. "Alright, fine. Just so we're straight, let's go 
over this one more time. Potatoes, and then goats. That sound 
alright?" 


One man raised his hand off to the left. "But what about the goat 


excreme-" 


05-1 slapped the table. "Damn it Gableson we'll cross that bridge 
when we get to it. Voting time, all in favor of staving off our doom 
with potatoes and goats?" 


Twelve ayes. 


O5-1 crossed his arms. "Good enough for me. Dr. Gates, it's all you. 
Do what you need to do. Dr. Fourier, you're... free to make a goat 
army, | Suppose." 


Both of them squealed, and began to leave. As everybody trickled 
out, O5-1 turned to his comrades around the table and bid them to 
stay. When the room was empty, he sat down. 


"This is going to be the last time we sit down together, | think." He 
wiped his brow, suddenly looking very much as exhausted as he 
was. "If this works, the Foundation is going to be no more. Cat is out 
of the bag on this one, and there's not much we can do about it. If it 
doesn't work, well... you Know. Cake everywhere." 


"So basically what I'm getting at is, it's been a ride. It's a shame we 
had to go out like this, but might as well go this way than something 
worse." 


There was an awkward silence. "Anyway. As acting leader of this 
council, | hereby release you of your duties. If you have somewhere 
to go, go there and wait. If you don't, you're more than welcome to 
stay here, as long as it will last you. There's beer in the fridge 
downstairs, and | think we've still got some hot pockets in the 
freezer. Help yourself.” 


They all began to leave the room, heading off to whatever doom 
awaited them. O5-1 grabbed Hank by the shoulder as they walked 
out, tailed closely by Conwell, and said, "So hey, you hear about 
that thing down in Samothrace?" 


Part Three: Lord Blackwood and His 


Faithful Manservant Deeds Destroy the 
Behemoth and Save Britain 


It was a blustery day on the Atlantic, and with the task ahead 
looming before them, the crew of the H.M.S. PotatoCake McStabbin 
was reverently silent. Deeds manned the helm, as usual, and 
Blackwood stood bowside, staring at the monstrosity that loomed 
before him on the shores of his beloved England. He wiped a 
solitary tear from his eye. 


"A blasted shame it is, Deeds," he said, patriotism leaking from his 
tear ducts. "| would have liked to have gazed upon her unblemished 
shores once more, | think. When we were taken by the rapscallion 
Foundation scamps, | feared | would not return. This is worse." 


Deeds nodded, his steely eyes fixed on the horizon. "It would 
appear, sir, that our foe is far more formidable than we had 
anticipated." 


Blackwood stamped on the deck. "To hell with our foe, Deeds! The 
foul demon has besmirched the name of our homeland and coated 
her gentle slopes and fertile valleys with wretched potatoes and 
filthy cakes." He turned rapidly and pointed a stiff finger towards 
Deeds. "Do you know that Her Majesty the Queen God rest her soul 
doesn't even like cake, Deeds? She's lactose intolerant, her death 
was likely extremely uncomfortable." He spun back to where the 
distance mountain of foodstuffs sat. "| dare say the demise of this 
creature will be even worse, God help me." 


"Our chances of success are slim, | fear." Deeds did some quick 
math. "Less than a tenth of a percent, it seems. My initial 
calculations did not include the potatoes and cakes falling in love 
and becoming a mammoth, sentient mass of edible death. This has 
changed things, fairly dramatically." 


Blackwood scoffed. "Don't speak to me of odds, Deeds. Where 
we're going, we don't need odds. All we need is good old-fashioned 
British dignity, and that superweapon | won from Tesla in '21." 


Deeds raised an eyebrow. "The anti-entropic device, sir? Our 


chances of success are likely significantly lower, if you're going to 
bring that into the equa-" 


"Nonsense, Deeds. The device is quite harmless in the hands of a 
skilled marksman. Harmless, that is, for the marksman. Our 
opponent will not be so lucky." 


The manservant nodded. "Very well, sir. As it turns out, we're here." 


Blackwood turned around to face the monstrous, wriggling mass of 
cake and potatoes. He squinted against the light, and then pulled 
out a very small megaphone. 


"Now see here, cake-and-potato creature," he said, his voice 
echoing. "This is England you're traipsing around in, and I'm not 
keen on what you've done to the place in my absence." 


The writhing, towering amalgamation of food product replied. 


"What you mean, what oive done wit it? Oi think it looks moighty 
nice, mate, so 'ow bout you fuck roight off and let me be here." 


Deeds scrunched his nose. "Cockneys."