Oh, um... hello. You’re... you’re probably wondering why I’m in your 
office, aren’t you? Sorry, I’ve made a bit of a mess with all these 
papers— er, don’t worry, I'll clean up before | go. Yes, |... | do know 
that that isn’t your greatest concern, | was just making a little joke. 
Sorry. No, no, don’t shout for help. I’m not going to hurt you— no, 
that’s probably a poor choice of phrase. | should say “I won’t do 
anything.” Yes, that’s much less threatening. Close the door, will 
you? It’s getting a little draughty. Of course, you could call for help 
anyway, but what would a little girl like me do to a big strong fella’ 
like you, hmm? 


Thank you. Alright, Dr... Rye, is it? Yes I— oh, that. | wouldn’t be 
worried. If it helps, your name is the only thing | know. Well, that, 
and your work on... “SCP-080”, | think you call it. That’s the whole 
reason I’m here. It’s very interesting, you know? Not like a normal 
bogeyman at all, yet that’s what it’s clearly supposed to be. | mean 
—what? Oh, yes. Well, of course they exist. Why do you think so 
many unconnected children, all who’ve never heard of such a thing, 
always fixate on the term? 


Look, do you understand how gods work? No? Wonderful. Alright, 1’ll 
put this in simple terms: bogeymen are figments of the collective 
child imagination. Yes. Yes, | did say figments. It doesn’t make them 
any less real, but they’re still made-up. They’re arrogant sods too, 
but | couldn’t care. Pretty shamelessly self-promoting, at least the 
ones I’ve met. They get off on fear. 


...anyway, what was | saying? Ah, yes. Well, I’ve gone through all 
the literature — Howe’s Commentary on Domestic Bogeymen, Peri’s 
notes, Arcaon’s Letters on the Subject of Household Gods — and 
you know what? This, this “O80” is completely inconsistent with 
traditional form. Usually, such entities have physical shape, and 
they’re friendly, child-specific fellows; not to mention quite definitely 
male. Definitely indeed. Why, I’ve had a few experiences that even 


fertility gods couldn't... sorry. 


Listen, I’ve even gone over these supplementary documents: 
studies of fae, trolls and whatnot, analyses of child psychology and 
behaviour patterns, Grimms’ tales, Clifford the Big Red Dog. Near 
enough— yes, | think it’s important. | mean, it serves a wonderfully 
direct work on the thought processes of children... no, that one was 
just because | was bored. That one because | like stories about 
horses. Still helped, though. 


| suppose | am kidding. Need | say that children are odd? They’d 
have to be, to create such things. Off the adults run, making deities 
to boil people’s blood and strike down heretics and whatnot, yet 
children, through the same method, bring happy little monsters to life 
— with them wanting only terror from innocent waking nightmares. 
Yes, happy. They have to be. They have the mindset of a human 
aged ten when born. But then socialisation comes into effect and 
they mature quite quickly. After all, other beings don’t usually stand 
for that annoying juvenility. Self-righteousness is by far an 
improvement. 


The young conceive of basic things, since they don’t have the ego to 
raise themselves above it. The dark, the predators, death: simple 
fears, without malice. Well, without complex malice. Not at all like 
their elders. No, fear is something different for them... for us. Er, not 
us specifically, actually. We both have a good deal of things to fear — 
which brings me back to the subject at hand. This thing, something 
which adults shouldn’t experience anymore... 


It's not unnatural, no. “Too natural”... hmm, | suppose that’s a way 
of putting it. It still soeaks to a certain primal thing, fear itself. 
Though it does it in the wrong way, since sleep is the bane of a good 
bogeyman. They aren’t born from dreams, dreams are a different 
matter. Dreams can still terrify, but they can’t please or birth 
bogeymen. In fact, they provide an escape for the child, a 
deprivation to the entity. Oh yes, you have children scream and cry 
in their sleep, but I’m told it’s rather unsatisfying for the created 
monster. Besides, it typically results from something more perverse, 
something which bogeymen tend not to do with. If they did, they 
wouldn’t be bogeymen. They'd be horrors. 


Good god, you’ve certainly got me talking! My point was, I’ve looked 
at everything that could give me some insight into the creation of this 
SCP-080, considered the matter tirelessly, and not one thing would 
imply that it should exist. Not one! This thing couldn’t even be a 
Thosk, far too inorganic... I’m rambling on again, aren’t |? Sorry. 


What I’m trying to say is that this little curiosity, despite what you 
know or suspect, despite how it may seem, most certainly isn’t a 
bogeyman. Good god, | don’t what this is, as fascinatingly curious as 
| find the matter, but it’s just not. No, this is something else entirely. | 
really can’t investigate more, I’m ashamed to admit; although I'd still 
like to know where it came from. 


Don’t call me that. Please, | know you're a nice fellow, but just... 
please. In fact, I’m about to leave, so we may as well keep things 
professional, Doctor - Mrs. Therianthus is my title. That is, Lyta 
Eykos Therianthus, scholar. It’s been a pleasure. 


A Disturbance 


The boardroom, as always, was stuffy. The windows had been 
painted over years ago, and nothing had ever been done about it. 
Though the issue was brought up from time to time at Board 
Meetings, it seemed there was always some other matter more 
pressing than the modulation of the room's environment. 


Such a matter was at hand today, Richard Akeman thought to 
himself. The man sighed, cracked his knuckles, and clapped his pile 
of papers against the conference table, forming a neat pile. 


"Gentlemen, the time is 2:09 pm, and this meeting is called to 
order," Akeman intoned. "Please take your seats, and we'll get 
started." 


There was a muttering and creaking as the various men and women 
present moved their antiquated bodies into slightly more antiquated 
chairs. After a lengthy period of groaning and creaking, silence fell 
over the room. 


"Thank you," Akeman began. "Allow me to explain the reason 
behind this unscheduled meeting." Akeman paused, and cringed 
slightly at the room's complete silence. The esteemed members of 
the Worldtree Corporation's Board of Directors had a certain Order 
to their proceedings, a methodology of consistency and planning in 
which Disturbances were frowned upon. Richard Akeman had 
created a Disturbance, and the room's atmosphere of irritation was 
palpable. The Board wanted an explanation, and it had damned well 
be a good one. 


After a long pause, Akeman continued. "I am afraid that | must 
become a bearer of bad news. The Helping Hands Organization has 
filed for bankruptcy.” 


The room was filled by a collective gasp. For years, the Helping 
Hands Organization had formed an essential branch of the 


Corporation's structure. It was the Corporation's charitable offshoot, 
its primary organizer of projects that, as numerous promotional 
speakers had phrased it, "Giving Back to the Community". More 
importantly, it was the Corporation's primary source of tax 
deductions. With the Organization gone, the Corporation would have 
to find a new target for its charity, and fast. This was a Disturbance 
of monstrous proportions. 


Akeman could feel the Board's panic rising as a hurried muttering 
began to slither its way around the room. He cleared his throat 
slightly, and was met with sixteen pairs of worried eyes. 


As well as one pair of eyes that were decidedly less worried. 


"Fortunately, there is hope for stability yet," he began again. "Almost 
immediately after | was notified of the Helping Hands Organization's 
dissolution, | was contacted by a representative of another, equally 
reliable charity." 


Akeman was lying. He knew nothing of the new charity's reliability. 
In fact, he knew next to nothing about the new charity at all. On the 
Friday following the Thursday in which he had learned of the Helping 
Hands Organization's collapse, an unmarked envelope had 
appeared in Akeman's personal mailbox. The envelope's interior 
was nearly as unhelpful as its exterior, as it bore only a plain white 
postcard printed with a few words. "Charity, when it is needed most", 
read the card's title, followed by a phone number. Desperate, 
Akeman had called the phone number, and was answered by a 
woman's voice. The woman's voice had talked to him in soothing 
tones, and before Akeman could think about what he was doing, he 
had scheduled a meeting with "a very important representative" for 
the upcoming Tuesday. Had he stopped to think about it, Akeman 
might have realized that the voice on the other end of the telephone 
had an oddly detailed understanding of the Worldtree Corportion's 
inner workings. But Richard Akeman was a very busy man, and did 
not have time to stop and think about things. 


"Members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, may | 
present to you..." Akeman's voice trailed off as he gestured towards 
the other end of the boardroom. In that instant, he realized exactly 
how little he knew about the well-dressed man seated at the other 


end of the table. 


All the faces in the room turned to regard the man uneasily. He had 
been seated at the end of the table before most of the board 
members had arrived, and had not stopped smiling for the entirety of 
the time that he had been seated. Smiling rarely occurred in the 
boardroom, especially on such an unsettling day. A few of the older 
board members sniffed condescendingly. Who was this man seated 
at the end of the table, and what right did he have to continue 
smiling in such a manner? Was he not aware that there had been a 
Disturbance? 


"My name is Zachariah Maxwell," the man said, "and I'm here on 
behalf of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The Foundation is very 
interested in providing a charitable outlet for your highly esteemed 
Corporation." 


The man fell silent, as if he believed that he had said enough. The 
room was gripped in an indignant silence. Richard Akeman smiled 
awkwardly. 


"Ah, yes, who can forget the prestigious Mahna Foundation?" 
Akeman mumbled awkwardly. 


"It's Manna," replied Maxwell, the corners of his mouth only turning 
downward for a brief moment. 


"Yes. Manna. Right." AkKeman's brow began to perspire. His 
complete lack of control of the situation was dangerously close to 
becoming exposed. "I'm quite sorry, but | appear to have forgotten. 
What is it, exactly, that you do, again?" 


Maxwell's face twitched slightly as, inside his head, something 
clicked. His smile grew even wider, and he stood up explosively, 
knocking back his chair. Maxwell threw out his arms, eliciting a cry 
of disapproval from one of the board members. 


"Ladies, gentlemen, friends, esteemed board members!" The man 
exclaimed. "Surely we've all heard the stories, yes?" He began to 
stalk energetically around the room. "The Chicago homeless are 
crawling in sludge and depravity!" He placed his hands on his head 


in a display of shock. "Indian citizens have been left without houses 
to call their own! Furthermore," he continued, "there are children 
starving in Africa." 


Suddenly, Maxwell's demeanor changed to one of dismay, and his 
back slumped. "But that's the problem, isn't it? We've all heard the 
stories day in and day out. Nobody cares. These problems, 
tremendous as they might be, are now commonplace." He began to 
move around the room again in a morose shuffle. "People give 
money." He slapped his hand onto the table. "But nothing really gets 
done, does it?" He turned his head to face the bespectacled visage 
of a particularly elderly director, who regarded him with caution. 
"Yes, people give money," Maxwell continued, placing his face 
uncomfortably close to the director's, "and people forget." 


"But what if they didn't forget?” Maxwell's behavior shifted once 
again. He stood up straighter, placed his hands by his sides, and 
assumed an expression of determination. "What if people genuinely 
cared about the issues they donated to? What if we lived in a world 
in which things got done ?' Maxwell's face assumed the familiar folds 
of a smile, and pure enthusiasm once again manifested in his voice. 
"Well, ladies and gentlemen of the esteemed Board of Directors of 
the Worldtree Corporation, that is the world the Manna Charitable 
Foundation strives to create. With your funding, we will utilize the 
very best tools that science, technology, and every other area of 
modern study can provide, and we will make unforgettable changes. 
We will craft ad campaigns that will staunchly refuse people's 
attempts to forget them. We will feed all the hungry. We will clothe 
all the poor. Ladies and gentlemen, with your funding," Maxwell 
pounded on the table, accentuating each of his words, "we will get. 
Things. Done." 


Maxwell looked up expectantly. He was met by a sea of furrowed 
brows. Somebody coughed. 


Akeman's perspiration grew more profuse. He had called in this man 
to fix a Disturbance, and yet here he had turned out to be 
Disturbance's very personification. Prancing around the room, 
selling unattainable goals... Maxwell had made a mockery of the 
Board's proper Order and procedure, and his Manna Charitable 
Foundation promised to make the Worldtree Corporation prominent 


for all the wrong reasons. Akeman had made a grave error. There 
would be hell to pay later, and he knew it. 


Akeman cleared his throat and attempted to smile apologetically. 
"Well, ah, that's certainly quite the pitch you have there," he 
croaked. "And, uh, under ordinary circumstances, I'd hope | wouldn't 
have to say this, but times being what they are, and uh, the 
economy being what it is..." Akeman's voice didn't so much trail off 
as it did drop dead. 


Zachariah Maxwell's face was one of stoic acceptance. "Yes," he 
said simply. "Yes, of course. | understand completely. As an apology 
for taking your valuable time, please accept this." Maxwell reached 
inside his jacket and produced two medium-sized tins. In one swift, 
practiced motion, he opened them and placed them on the table. 


The directors anxiously bent their heads to examine the tins' 
contents. Inside were forty-two perfectly proportioned, perfectly 
delicious truffles. Slowly, one director reached for a chocolate. As he 
bit into it, his eyes widened with sudden pleasure. As the director 
began to reach for a second candy, his compatriots eagerly grabbed 
truffles of their own. A brief flurry of hungry excitement gripped the 
room as most of the chocolates vanished. Zachariah Maxwell 
slipped to the boardroom's door and shut it. 


Suddenly, the room's warmth tripled. A few of the directors looked 
up in surprise. Slowly, Maxwell returned to his seat, his voice 
wavering oddly as he once again addressed the board. "Sorry to 
have caused you to LosE such a valuablE Portion of todAy's Nobly 
scheDule allOtment; my work will Be donE in just a moment, as You 
please..." 


Silence fell over the room. Maxwell returned to his seat and looked 
at the newly docile members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of 
Directors, their heads drooped, a few snoring softly. The corners of 
Maxwell's mouth curled into an entirely new type of smile. 


“All right, listen up," Maxwell growled, his voice taking on an 
imposing timbre, "it's been fun, but let's drop the charades. All of 
them. All this Corporation does is move money around, and you 
know it. Well, it's about God damn time you started making