The Critic’s face went blank for a second, then he laid his head in 
his hands. “No. | have a very bad feeling that the people who are left 
would number in the double digits. I’d rather live in ignorance. Just 
wrap that number up in a nonlethal meme and send it on.” 


The numbers came in. An exquisite envelope made from some rare 
tree arrived from Marshall Carter and Dark. An automaton arrived 
with an envelope and a request for $10,000 dollars. The Church of 
the Broken God sent three messages: one by email, one shot from a 
steam powered cannon, and one on a bird that was slowly being 
converted to clockwork. Every Group of Interest, major and minor. 
Every anomalous person. The O5’s loaded them all up into the 
computer, and waited for it to spit out a list of names. Anyone who 
hadn’t been on any of the lists sent to them. 


Finally, the printer whirred and buzzed, and the O5’s had their 
answer. 


It wasn’t pretty. 


Jeremiah Wuthers strolled into his apartment and flopped down in 
front of the TV. He was beat, and ready to relax for the rest of the 
night. He flipped the channel to FOX, but instead of being rewarded 
with the wacky exploits of various yellow caricatures, there was what 
looked like a meeting room, filled with shadowy figures wearing 
various odd symbols. Confused and slightly annoyed, Jeremiah 
turned to TBS, and came face to face with the same picture. He 
flipped through every channel in his cable package, with the same 
results. 


Some government announcement? he wondered. Then, one of the 
figures on the screen spoke. 


“Hello, people of Earth. Almost all of you will find exactly zero shock 
in what | am about to say, but, all myths are true. The laws of 
physics are rather closer to suggestions, and the world is populated 


by monsters, gods, and human beings with the power to rewrite 
reality itself.” 


Various images of the beings described by the figure flashed across 
the screen. 


“My name is O5-8, and | am one of the leaders of the SCP 
Foundation. We have called this meeting, with representatives for 
nearly every major group dealing with anomalies to inform the world 
that, on some level, everybody knows. 


“Yes, we have crunched the numbers, and double checked them, 
and the number of people who have had absolutely zero contact 
with any facet of the anomalous world comes to roughly... one 
person. 


“This meeting is a message. The veil is lifted, the masquerade 
dissolved. Apparently it was so many years ago and nobody noticed. 
Please be aware that all of our groups are in agreement on one 
thing: Fundamentally, this changes nothing about anybody’s goals. 
As far as the Foundation is concerned, there is still a basic normality 
within the world that allowed life to exist as it has up to now. That is 
still worth protecting, and we intend to do so. And to a Mr...” Here 
the figure consulted the paper in front of him. “...Jeremiah Wuthers, 
if you have any questions, you may call the number below.” 


A number flashed briefly across the screen, then the meeting room 
disappeared, just in time for Homer to wrap his hands around Bart's 
neck. Jeremiah stared for a few moments, then settled back in to 
watch and sulk a bit. 


“Huh, | totally knew the whole time,” he muttered to himself. 


Everyone Wears a Mask 


The doctor sat in his chamber, reclined on a comfortable mattress. 
Head propped on a stack of sad deflated pillows, the sterile white 
linens were still tucked neatly in beneath him. He held his journal, 
the thick leather comfortingly familiar within his hands. He was 
reviewing his newest entries, regarding his most recent ‘patient’. Sus 
domesticus. Disease was well established and progressing at rates 
consistent with his current models. Unfortunately, the poor thing had 
been ‘euthanized’ before being presented to him. Still, it had 
ultimately been only a minor setback. 


There were sirens blaring in the hallways outside. That wasn’t 
entirely unusual. The lights had flickered several minutes ago. That 
was... less usual. The far wall of the doctor’s quarters began to 
corrode. That, most certainly, broke from the usual. From the far 
side of the wall, he heard shouting. Not rough, but dripping with 
honey. “I’m coming for you, my love. I'll free you, and we can leave 
this wretched place together.” A male voice, in a high falsetto. 


“These are my quarters, and | think | would rather not leave with 
you. Have you any idea how luxurious it is here?” 


Several swift blows knocked free the remaining melting material, 
revealing most of a person wearing an orange jumpsuit and a white 
porcelain mask. “You’ve gone and ruined the wall...” he paused, 
dispassionately regarding a fetid chunk of flesh sloughing from the 
visitor's arm to the floor. “And I’m fairly certain you’ve killed that 
man.” 


“My love, my sweet, sweet love. Come to me, hold me close. | miss 
your touch.” The body’s trembling legs started shambling forwards, 
its possessor locked into a tragic scowl. “It took so long to find you, 
they have you secreted away, the monsters. Touch me my saviour, 
my love, and touch one of the humans. Cure it. Cure it, and let me 
wear it, my sweet doctor.” The corpse’s leg bones, more gelatine 
now than structure, folded on impact with the ground. The mask’s 


host flopped to the ground in that unique way that a dissolving 
corpse does, arms and neck lolling weakly. 


The doctor closed his journal, dropping it gingerly into his bag. 
“Have we met? I... | get the feeling | would remember you.” This 
black ooze, however, was interesting. He produced from his bag a 
flask made of a material which superficially resembled glass. 
Reaching down, he gingerly took hold of the top of the head, angling 
the host’s neck down and holding the flask beneath it to catch the 
secretions. He had never encountered something so elegantly 
destructive before. Certainly such an exotic reagent could be used 
to further refine his cure. 


“You don’t remember me, my love? You don’t remember touching 
me, holding me, gathering my... fluids? We've done this before, my 
love. Don’t you remember? It was the first. The first ingredient of 
your cure.” The doctor froze, though whether this was to ensure 
none of the secretions missed the flask, or due to his mind hurtling 
through itself looking for a past it could not find, he couldn't tell. The 
flask contained the black secretions, didn’t corrode. He wasn’t sure 
how he knew it wouldn't. 


“If what you Say is true, then, this flask, | made it, did I? I’ve studied 
you? Then certainly...” He let the head drop, hitting the ground with 
a sickening crunch. Standing, he quickly strode to his desk. 
Gingerly, he set the flask down, then next to it, his bag. Out again, 
came his journal. He pulled it open to the first, earliest pages, 
looking for his records, looking to see if what this... thing said was 
true. 


“My sweet genius doctor, of course you made it. You’re a brilliant 
man, you know. Your cure...” the corpse’s voicebox, still surprisingly 
intact, broke into an appreciative giggle. “Your cure is more effective 
than you know, doctor. Just one patient, that’s all | need. | asked 
most of the prisoners that had gotten out to hold off our jailors. But 
they are weak, and | fear we do not have long. You must act, and 
quickly my love.” The voice changed, dropping into its more natural 
baritone. “You, outside. Come in now.” 


The doctor stared, transfixed and horrified at his journal. He did not 
see the nervous woman enter the room, gingerly, so as not to touch 


the corrosive ooze still devouring the wall. Her nose was running - it 
always ran when her heart was racing. She stood timidly, her eyes 
jumping back and forth between the degenerating pile of her 
cellmate and the beautiful mask that knew how to save her. “Lie 
down, there, on the bed. Close your eyes and breathe. The doctor 
here, he will fix everything that’s wrong with you.” The woman 
complied. The pleading falsetto returned. “She is ready, my love. 
Look closely at her if you need to, she is sick! Sick!” 


If he heard, he gave no response. His racing hand turned the page, 
watchful eyes scouring the text. It had been ages since he’d had 
reason to refer this far back through his notes. There were detailed 
sketches and diagrams of the very flask he’d just retrieved. This did 
nothing to quell the bile rising in his gorge; he couldn't read a word 
of the henscratch on the page! It was his script no doubt, but he 
couldn't make any of it out. Pages turned frantically until he found a 
part he could read. 


Gunfire, faint and muffled, retorted in short vollies. “Quickly now! 
You know everything you need, doctor! This woman is deathly ill! 
Tend to her!” The voice bubbled slightly; the delicate throat was 
beginning to go, there wasn’t much time left. Desperation poured 
from its mouth, as thick as its corrosive fluid. 


Exhaustive details of pathology, symptoms, he’d turned these over 
ceaselessly in his mind for as long as he could remember. Focusing 
again on the words, he scanned them for nearly a minute further 
before snapping the journal shut in frustration. Damn. Notes on his 
procedure, nothing that needed refreshing. A long moment passed 
and the journal fell once again from his fingers into his bag. 
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter; his work does not wait. The gunfire 
retorted again, a bit closer this time. He steadied his breathing and 
cast his gaze over the woman lying, sick and trembling on his bed. 
He would need to work quickly to save her and avoid interruption. 


MTF Theta-g “Surgical Staff” sent a single encoded message to 
Command on [DATE REDACTED]. Missing portions assumed due 
to damage to Site-19 transmitter, transcription is as follows. 


...Say again, zero-three-five in possession of an animate 


body seemingly immune [DATA LOST] secretions. 
Majority of task force have [DATA LOST] listening to 
several minutes of its voice. We are under heavy fire. 
Damn the lot of them, they’ve got us holed up in here. 
[DATA LOST] ..ly chance is to get to the warh... 
[REMAINING DATA LOST] 


Part 2>> 


This Is Not Me Talking 


It watched as they got together and tore themselves asunder. And 
everything in between. 


It was a thing that was not there. It did not exist, at least not on the 
level of narrative. It had no part to play in any of their stories, nor 
would it ever. Their drama did not concern it, their failures did not 
harm it, their triumphs meant nothing to it. This left it in a rather 
unique position. 


It could watch. 


Such fascinating creatures. It did not recall exactly when it started 
observing them. It supposed that this is when it came into being in 
the first place. It did know that its first memory of them was a 
boardroom. Such an eclectic bunch of personalities. Color-coded 
outfit on one, a ridiculous hat on another, shadows surrounding a 
third. From the first, it seemed very odd to it that this bunch should 
be the bulwark of humanity. Though it was not human (indeed, it 
wasn't anything, so it was assured), it couldn't help but think that the 
thirteen figures inhabiting its proverbial birth chamber shared very 
little with their so-called wards. 


See this one, it thought. Number... ten, it believed. Sitting quietly, 
only raising her voice once, when the vote was called. Observer 
watched her, and saw a thousand timelines spooled beneath her like 
earthworms beneath the thin crust of the soil. What did she have in 
common with the average person? It looked at her eyes, ancient 
with the knowledge numerous non-existing worlds, and saw very 
little that was human in them. Not anymore. 


It looked further, to number four. If ten had the weight of years 
behind her, four had space. Observer could see distances spreading 
behind him, unwinding endlessly. This was a man who could walk 
anywhere, it could tell. Though the man himself didn't seem to 
realize it, there was something arrogant in his posture, in the way he 


seemed to throw his weight to fill every available space. When 
distances mean nothing to a person, Observer reflected, when one 
was always free to go where one willed, it was only natural that a 
certain sense of superiority would develop. 


Then there was thirteen. Observer enjoyed this one most of all. Or 
perhaps it was only grim fascination. 


It did not wonder why one meant only to watch should feel as it did. 


It needed a name. Even those who did not exist needed a way to 
refer to themselves. So it was assured. 


Observer would do. 


Some time later, Observer watched the multi-version man pour 
himself a cup of weak coffee. 


If it had first considered the inhabitants of its birthing chamber 
strange, it was only because Observer was not yet exposed to 
creatures of the man's ilk. As the man sniffed and frowned at the 
contents of his Styrofoam cup, his face shifted and twirled before 
Observer's keen gaze. The man's ordinary middle-aged features 
grew sharp and pointed, and his tired frown twisted into an unnatural 
toothy grin. His white lab coat was now a longcoat and his formerly 
bare head now bore a strange, wide-brimmed hat. Observer seemed 
to be the only one to notice this, as none of the cafeteria's other 
inhabitants made any sort of note of the man's sudden change. A 
moment passed, and the grinning man's head was now that of a 
grey owl, wide-eyed and bemused. 


Starts with a C and ends with an F. | always start with a C and end 
with an F. Smash heads with a C and charm with an F. Science with 
C and death with an F. 


Internal monologue. Peculiar. Observer watched all this with muted 
interest, as it seemed to always do. It had watched the man undergo 
this sort of transformation many times before. The man was not the 
only one of his type. Observer has watched the multi-versioned 
wander around the various sites it chose to watch, twisting and 


shifting between different forms without them or anyone else but 
Observer noticing. It seemed odd to Observer that creatures so 
strange could pass off as human not only to others but even to 
themselves. To it, they seemed anything but. 


Everyone knows I'm C and an F. All that | am is C and an F. If | am 
not C and! am not F, then | am not C and | am not F. 


Their names. They all seemed so fascinated with their names. 
Almost like they were not truly their own. 


Dance in the rain with a C and an F. Eat the whole sky with a C and 
an F. 1 do all! do for the C and the F. FUCK ALL THE WORLD FOR 
THE C AND THE F- 


Oh dear, here it went again. Not showing any outward agitation, The 
owl-headed multi-versioned finished his coffee and turned towards 
the pastry cabinet as the alarm went off. From the distance came 
the sounds of gunfire, as well as what sounded like a roar. The 
multi-versioned (now back to its tired middle-aged persona) did not 
seemed alarmed by any of this. Instead, he simply sighed, grabbed 
an errant blueberry muffin, and began walking towards the source of 
the noise, chewing absentmindedly. 


AH. TIME TO GO TO WORK FOR THE C AND THE F. ENTERTAIN 
IN THE NAME OF THE- 


There was a sudden spring to the man's steps. Observer was not 
surprised. Most of the creatures appeared to lack any real sense of 
self-preservation. This was, Observer supposed, because they had 
no true notion of self-interest. Their will belonged to those who 
imbued them with their names, and those hidden masters cared only 
for whatever entertainment and glory their namesakes could 
accomplish in their name. Slaves in all but name. Reality could be 
so very droll, Observer thought, never stopping to consider its 
sudden change of attitude. It was not yet time. 


C AND THE F! BLOOD FOR THE C- 


As the multi-versioned man vanished behind a corner, Observer was 
torn between pity and contempt for the creatures. They were