"Their weapons weren't anything we had encountered before. They 
looked not unlike dowel rods, very thin stick-looking objects. Not 
sure what they were firing, either. We figured them for CBG, maybe 
Serpent's Hand, but their battle tactics were damned odd." 


"Could you elaborate?" 


"Well, again, sir, they didn't have firearms. Whatever those stick- 
looking weapons were, they weren't aiming them at us so much as 
just waving them in our direction, but their accuracy was uncanny. 
They must have been recoilless somehow, whatever they were 
shooting. Looked like tracer rounds more than anything. Sir, can you 
tell me how my men are recovering?" 


"Maybe later on, Samson. What else was odd about their tactics? 
What else can you remember?" 


Samson thought the phrasing there was strange, but continued. 
"Their mobility was extraordinary. They must have been trained 
scouts, because | had ten trained Foundation agents down there 
with M16s, firing at less than ten meters, and I'm not sure if we 


actually hit a single one of them." 


This was a test, and Major Brooks failed. He snorted quietly and 
looked away momentarily. Samson knew what that meant. We 
caught one of them. 


"What was significant about their mobility? | want to know exactly 
what they're capable of." 


"It was almost like they were disappearing and reappearing a few 
feet away. Never saw one of them actually move. | know it was 
nighttime, sir, but...| never saw one of them even budge. They 
would just be here one second, and...over there the next. It seemed 
almost—" 


"Magical, Samson. The word you're looking for is magical." 


Samson looked at his superior. He had suspected as much, but to 
suddenly hear actual confirmation of...of what had to be impossible, 
it was jarring. Even to someone trained in containing SCPs, Samson 
didn't really think he was going to run into this kind of thing anytime 
soon. He put the pieces he knew together. "Sir, does this mean 
that...that the University has magicians on its side?" 


Samson pursed his lips and said nothing. The silence said a great 
deal. "That's for people above your pay grade to think about, 
Samson. | want to know why four of your men have been in a coma 
for the last day. | want to know why you wanted to play cowboy with 
unknown individuals you believed to be unfriendlies without calling in 
backup. | want to know how you then let the unfriendlies escape 
through the portal..." Samson tuned him out. He was already in 
trouble, he didn't need a reminder. 


A similar meeting was happening in another universe. "America?" 
"Yes, some forest in America. Or at least full of American soldiers." 


"They used their Muggle weapons on you, you said?" 


"Yes, but we Apparated around them rather easily. Not the best 
trained soldiers, | warrant." 


"You said they captured one of your Aurors?" The Minister frowned. 
"And the aperture disappeared?" 


"I'm afraid so, sir," the other man said. "I'm having Kingsley inform 
his family now. We...we're not sure if we will ever have the 
opportunity to recover him." 


"Did the Americans open the gateway or did someone on our side 
do it?" 


"Unknown, but neither seems likely. Our end opened in a random 
village in Scotland, theirs in a random forest. It seems to have 
simply been a freak accident." 


"But is there any way of knowing if it was Muggle science or magic?" 


"We had little time to examine the scene, Minister," the other man 
said, "but Kingsley said it didn't feel like either one. Definitely not a 
Portkey. Something else. Something new." 


The Minister paced the room. "Of all the people to have lost over 
there..." 


"| Know, sir," the other man said. "Harry's talking to his wife now." 
"What are the odds looking like of recovering him anytime soon?" 
The other man's expression said all that needed saying. "Damn," the 
minister said. 

Agent Brooks looked through the two-way glass at the prisoner. 
"He's restrained?" 


"And disarmed." Dr. Reed glanced at his clipboard. "He's refusing to 
talk at the moment. We just got his name." 


"Sodium pentathol?" 
"No effect." 


Brooks looked back through the glass. "Well, not much choice, then. 


Could be a threat to the entire Foundation. And we've never 
captured one of these University people before. What's his name?" 


"Believe he said 'Weasley,' sir." 


"Huh, that doesn't sound very Greek. Break his fingers and ask him 
about it." 


Knee-Deep In The Keter 


SCP-076-2, Ablu ben Adam, grandchild of God, was covered in 
blood, charred by acid, burnt by fire, and having the time of his life. 


The Slipgate project, they had told him on his one hour of the day 
not dedicated to killing, when he busied himself tending to his pig 
farm. It opened a wormhole between Foundation sites, conveniently 
placed as far from Earth as feasible - on the tiny moons of Mars. 


"Roughly six hours after Deimos was removed from this realm of 
existence, the Phobos base was overtaken by hostiles. We are 
sending you in to make a report." 


"| will report the shit out of that situation," Able said, feeding a pear 
to one of the pigs. He loved to spoil the little guys. 


And he had gone to Mars' excuse for a moon and personally 
introduced the concept of death to at least twelve different species 
of demoniac beings. Spike-shelled fire-throwing humanoids, floating 
skulls fueled by nuclear rage, hideous naked gorillas, spheres of 
flesh with single baleful eyes - all of them became Phobian mulch. 


His report was nine words long: "Located portal to Deimos. Still 
working. I'm going in." He didn't bother waiting for the reply. 


His path through Deimos was a mirror of the first part of the mission, 
painted in even brighter tones of red, purple, green and black blood. 
Projectile weapons littered the site, and he didn't touch a single one. 
And at the edge of the wrinkled rock, he saw the new focus of 
Deimos' orbit - the place the Serpent had told him about so long 
ago. Hell. 


He dove, and struck the shores of hell like a twice-fallen angel. It 
takes a special kind of soul to make heaven out of hell, but Able 
managed, calling into existence creative new hybrids of chainsaw 
and sword, chopping through demonflesh like Paul Bunyan's sequel. 


And now he stood in front of giant, green marble doors, engraved 
with the inverted pentagram. The door to the throne of the Enemy of 
the World. 


Able inhaled. "This will be almost exciting." 
The doors flew open with his mighty kick. 


"AAAAAAAAABLEEEE," SCP-682 roared from the black throne, 
with a voice that was a scratch on the universe itself, "| FUCKED 
YOUR MOM." 


Able could not summon a sword big enough. 


Containing Creation 


Item #: SCP-9342-X 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-9342-X is to 
be kept in a standard-issue filing cabinet in Containment 
Cell #1994-X. At this time, viewing of SCP-9342-X is 


forbidden to 


s that? One of yours?" 
"Thought it was yours." 


"One of the researchers must have left it here. Hmm. Looks like 
papyrus. Is that writing on it?" 


"Huh, yeah. That's weird. What the hell i-" 


"Frank? Frank? SOMEONE CALL A MEDIC! FRANK! Stay with me, 
buddy. Help's coming. NO, DON'T TOUCH THE DAMNED 


ising % of all subjects attempting to read or 
observe SCP-9342-X have developed full-on mental 
disorders within minutes of exposure. Most commonly, 
these disorders are Axis | disorders, such as generalized 
anxiety disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, manic— 
depressive disorder, and [REDACTED]. As studies 
progress, cases of paranoid schizophrenia have risen 
%, which naturally is highl 


t to ask you, did you hear about Dr. ?" 
"No, what?" 


"Had a great idea recently. Can't look at SCP-9342-X without going 
insane, right? Well, he had the bright idea to take a video of it, then 
watch the video. That way, you aren't reading the actual stuff, just a 
recording of the stuff." 


"That's quite a leap, even for him. How did he get approval?" 


"He didn't. Just decided to do it. As you can guess, it didn't work well 
for him." 


"| should feel bad. But | don't. You'd think that peo 


d SCP-9342-X without any harmful 
effects. After further experimentation, all subjects in this 
alleged ‘immune’ group have increasingly lost their sense 
of vision, culminating in bli 


st, you have to believe me. | can do it." 


"Request denied. You're too valuable to this Foundation, despite 
your... eccentricities." 


"Aww, | bet you say that to all the guys. Look, I'm telling you, what's 
happening here is that you're sending untrained minds. They don't 
know what they are up against. | do. I'm not just saying this shit, this 
shit ts right there in my proposal. 


"And when we decide to reopen the issue, we'll of course provide all 
subjects with your information-" 


"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! To do this, you can't just fucking 
give someone a piece of paper and say 'make a note of this’. You 
need someone who knows this shit back and forth. Someone who 
can live and breathe it, treat it for what it is, and not what you guys 
want to think it is. I'm the only one who can do it, and there ain't 


much of a loss if | get touched by Shiggy so deeply that it'd be 
considered a reach-around." 


"Are you really going to press the issue this strongly?" 


"Yup. I'm the only one who could tell you who Shig 


At this time, Agent "Mister" Bibs has been 
allowed temporary 'ownership' of SCP-9342-X for 
research purposes. The details of his report(s) are 
currently sealed by order of O 


e's already insane. You know, you can't make 
someone more insane." 


ow 


"That's probably true. | mean, remember when he- 


"Okay, seriously folks, knock it the fuck off. First its that goddamned 
Green Lantern story someone found, now it's why | can read 
SCP-9342-X. I'm sick and goddamned tired of hearing about it." 


"But... Bibs, we don't talk about it around you." 


"| know, but I've got all the Sites bugged, and | know you're talking 
about it. So knock it off." 


"Oh, c'mon Bibs. Everyone wants to know. What's the secret of 
SCP-9342-X?" 


"Well, if it gets you folks to shut the fuck up, fine: it turns out I'm 
cosmically important. Or the subject of a prophecy. | don't know the 
specifics, but | figure a few more read-throughs of 9342'll clear it up. 
Oh, and don't call it SCP-9342-X when we're off the clock. It's an 
Elder Scroll, dammit, and if you ignorant fucktar 


SCP-617: Pet Rocks 


Item #: SCP-617 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-617 is to be kept ina 
soundproof container at all times. When in storage, SCP-617 must 
be kept in its soundproof containment cell and its "mouth" kept 
zipped at all times except for experiments and scheduled feeding 
periods. All personnel entering SCP-617's containment area must 
wear hearing protection devices as a precautionary measure. 
SCP-617 cannot be taken from its containment cell without approval 
from a level 4 researcher, and must always be kept within its secure 
container when being moved. 


In the event of a containment breach, SCP-617 must be retrieved by 
personnel with proper hearing protection. The entire sector must be 
locked down and all personnel thoroughly searched until SCP-617 is 
contained. 


Description: SCP-617 has the appearance of a large granite rock, 
except that it possesses a zipper in its side that is fully operational. 
When unzipped, SCP-617 is shown to possess a mouth with teeth 
that appear similar in appearance and construction to human teeth. 
X-Ray and MRI scans of SCP-617 appear to be unable to penetrate 
its stone exterior. Similar tests to try and probe SCP-617's internal 
systems have likewise proven inconclusive. SCP-617's mouth is 
fully functional, and can vocalize sounds as well as be used to 
consume food. SCP-617 is also capable of limited movement, being 
able to roll around under its own power. 


However, SCP-617's most disturbing aspects are its parasitical 
tendencies as well as its ability to influence human behavior. In 
addition to being able to speak, SCP-617 can generate a low 
frequency sound that allows it to exert subliminal control over any 
human that hears it. Humans affected by SCP-617 will become 


The Once And Future Emperor 


Agent Walker always knew when things were about to go south; it 
was this strange tingling sensation he got in the back of his skull, 
like an itch springing up two inches under his skin. He always 
attributed it to the combination of experience and dumb luck, but so 
far he was always right about it. Just now, his skull was itching like 
never before. 


Walker was at the head of the squad of Mobile Task Force members 
clearing out the left-hand branch of the cave. Intel had shown some 
sect of the Church of the Broken God was holed up here, and so far 
it proved to be spot on. "For once," Walker thought to himself. It was 
amazing how loud suppressed MP5's were in an enclosed space, a 
fact that made the popular term of "silencer" a joke in and of itself. 
The group they encountered up top barely had time to reach for their 
own weapons before they were reduced to crumpled heaps, but 
then the cave split, so the team did as well. Six down one pathway, 
five down the other, radio silence the whole way unless there was 
an emergency. Further down, a series of small explosions was 
heard; it took the Agent a moment to realize that it wasn't small 
explosions, but large gunshots. One raised fist brought the team to a 
halt, and Walker advanced slowly to the right-angled turn ahead. 
One peek around the corner showed a door, and Walker could see 
bright light shining through the weathered cracks and around the 
seams. Another silent signal was given to his troops, two fingers 
pointed at his eyes and then a hand covering them. Knowing the drill 
all too well, the Agents lowered their blackout goggles and 
assembled before the door, weapons ready. 


One solid kick was all it took, old wood splintering around the latch, 
a hinge popping completely free to let the door hang at an odd angle 
once it slammed into the far wall. The initial thought in Walker's mind 
was, "The goggles aren't helping." That thought lasted a very small 
fraction of a second as his vision was completely consumed in 
blinding white light. One and a half seconds later the light faded, and 


Walker was equally shocked that he could still see, not even so 
much as a flash-glare left in his vision. He did notice, however, that 
the five men who were with him were collapsed on the ground, 
barely breathing. He also noticed the twelve bodies in the room, 
each with their heads burst open in a pattern indicative of a large- 
caliber bullet meeting one's skull from a short range. 


The final image that his mind actually registered was that of a single 
figure still standing. He was dressed in paramilitary gear not terribly 
unlike those of the MTF members who had burst in upon him, and in 
his hand was a pistol that looked to be chambered for .50 caliber 
ammunition, the undoubted source of the cultists' untimely ends. 
Walker found himself making eye-contact with the Man, barely 
realizing that in the glare he had taken off his useless goggles, and 
soon realized he was transfixed. The face was handsome but not 
beautiful, he was tall but not giant, his build was solid but not bulky. 
All in all the Man was above-average without being enough to attract 
attention; all except for his eyes. Those eyes looked into Walker's, 
and the Agent could almost feel a hand picking through his brain, 
spreading out the wrinkles and brushing neurons as every memory 
and thought was examined individually, all within the span of a few 
heartbeats.