Ogre roared and swung his enormous steel club into the ground, 
splintering the pavement. The mutant defenders behind his red bulk 
cried out with him. 


Norman hovered eldritch and horrible above them all, gazing 
downward with his hundreds of eyes, feeding the Queen the 
commander's innermost plans as he thought them and providing the 
defenders the profound unity of being able to think with one mind. 


And Jake was just behind her, quiet and calculating, his assault rifle 
trained directly upon the Foundation commander's head. 


Monica cried out, letting Norman broadcast her words directly into 
the minds of the Foundation soldiers. 


“We will never submit to your tyranny! We are different, but we are 
still people, and we will die for the right to remain free! Come and 
bring your hate! Bring me your conquest! Push upon us, enemies of 
liberty, and know our defiance! We will turn you back! WE ARE THE 
FREE STATE OF VEGAS, AND WE WILL NOT! BE! MOVED? 


The free men and women thundered their pride, their yearning to 
live, their right to thrive, and stood upon their ground. 


And Monica let herself be wielded by the heart of her people, her 
soul forged into the shape of the tool they needed to defend their 
homes and lives from those that would take them. 


The shape of a gun. 
SCP-3396 
Apotheosis Hub 


A Farewell to Arms 


The Shape of Water is Humanoid 


It was a dark and stormy night at the lake. Not a soul stirred; all the 
lakeside cabins were either abandoned for the winter or their 
occupants were fast asleep. The vermin of the lake were all hiding to 
wait out the storm; the flora stood tall and strong, not giving up their 
ground to the relentless winds and rain. 


Then the Water Man emerged. 


The Water Man looked exactly how his name sounded; a man made 
out of water, sans the face. As he woke up and left the confines of 
the lake, one thought ran through his head. 


Where is everybody? 


Little did the Water Man know everybody was out for the storm. No 
matter how hard he looked, he wouldn't find as much as a mouse, 
let alone another man to share his woes with. But the Water Man so 
badly wanted a friend, and he was ignorant to the fact that he 
couldn't find one, so he went looking. 


The Water Man walked up to a tree and began to knock at its base. 
If he had a mouth, the Water Man might have said "Knock knock, 
Mr. Squirrel! It's time to come out and play!" He also might have said 
"Hello, Mr. Bird! Come down here and talk to me about all of your 
problems!" But he didn't have a mouth, so he just knocked at the 
tree, hoping somebody would come down the tree. 


Nothing came down the tree, save for a few leaves that hadn't been 
disturbed enough by the raging storm. 


It was a dark and stormy night. This was usual for the area that 
encompassed Area-389, which was basically an outpost in the 
region for MTFs to stay at, just in case something anomalous 
happened. But that had never happened, and thus Steven was free 


to stay there by himself. 


Steven was essentially a skeleton crew, somebody to keep the 
place running while it wasn't being used. But it wasn't much work to 
maintain the five-room base, so Steven spent most of his time 
binging Netflix episodes and playing the latest video games. He had 
Level 0 clearance, which wasn't much to work with, so he didn't 
have anything to do. 


Steven might have gotten lonely. But it was actually quite relaxing. 
In two hours, his shift would end, and he would be free to go back to 
his apartment to socialize with his roommates. But it wasn't that time 
yet, so Steven ate Papa John's cheese pizza and watched the latest 
episode of Black Mirror. 


Next, the Water Man went to the bear den to find his bear friends. 
He walked inside the cave, and the Water Man ran into a problem: 
he couldn't see in the dark. Yes, he didn't have a face, let alone 
eyes, but somehow, he could still see. Maybe it was echolocation or 
something. But it probably wasn't. 


So the Water Man came up with an alternate solution. He'd get his 
bear friends to come out. But how? He didn't have a mouth, so he 
couldn't shout into the cave to get the bear's attention. He could 
throw rocks into the cave, but he didn't want to hurt his bear friends. 
And he didn't want to wander around in the cave and get lost. So he 
did the only thing he could do; he waited outside the cave for his 
bear friends to eventually wake up. 


And he waited. 


Steven was halfway through his binge when his fancy new Apple 
Watch beeped, telling him he needed to exercise. Steven hated 
having to exercise, but the last thing he wanted was to have to go 
back to the ER because he had a heart attack. 


Steven got onto the treadmill, and set the speed to an even 4.0. As 
he "ran", Steven felt content. He was on a schedule, and nothing 
was going to get in his way. 


containment procedures. 


Addendum A-3: Following an investigation by the Ethics 
Committee, containment protocols have been adjusted to no longer 
include providing live human prey for SCP-974 as of 01/01/201 . 
Attempts to use SCP-1680 instances as a substitute have failed 
following SCP-974 rejection of all instances it has been presented 
with. An increased stock of small animals typical for the environment 
will be introduced in order to provide sustenance for SCP-974. 


Addendum D-1: On 08/16/201 , during the weekly sweep of 
Zoological Reserve Site 16, patrol teams discovered that all 
previously existing SCP-974-2 structures had been destroyed, 
apparently by brute force methods. No new structures could be 
located, but the teams did locate a roughly oval patch of freshly 
disturbed soil, measuring roughly 1.5 m x 2.2 m. Following 
consultation with the Site supervisors, a geological team was 
dispatched to use ground-penetrating radar to image the patch of 
soil. 


The GPR revealed a humanoid figure curled into a fetal position 1.3 
meters below ground level. Continual scanning over the course of 
10 days revealed no changes in position and supervisory personnel 
decided to exhume SCP-974 in order to more closely examine it. At 
that stage, SCP-974 measured 2.2 m in length and weighed 37.4 kg. 
It did not have any visible orifices or facial features. Its skin was 
white and slightly tacky. Later analysis revealed the presence of 
several previously unknown enzymes in the mucus coating of 
SCP-974. No respirations were detected, although a faint and slow 
heartbeat was detected. After a further 4 weeks of monitoring, 
during which the heartbeats ceased, SCP-974 was dissected. For a 
complete breakdown of its anatomical structure, see Document 
974-F(1a-j). 


Addendum H-11: On 10/03/201 , 7 instances of SCP-974 were 
identified in the greater , area and its surrounding suburbs. 6 of 
the instances were killed during attempts to capture. A cover story 
for the resulting wildfire was disseminated by Foundation counter- 
intelligence, blaming the cause on a confluence of a deliberately set 
fire, improperly extinguished campfire, and lightning strike. 


Little did Steven know he was going to get a visit from the Water 
Man. 


After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the Water Man gave 
up. He was turning around to go back into his lake, when he saw a 
light in the distance. How the Water Man saw that light, nobody 
knew, but he got very, very excited. 


He might have a friend soon. 


Steven's little "workout" was interrupted by a knock at the door. At 
this hour, in this weather? Steven thought to himself? At times, he 
did get the odd lost hiker or geocacher who he just told to fuck off, 
as he was standing on private property. Steven slowed down his 
treadmill, walked off, and went to the door, already mentally 
preparing his script in his head. 


As he opened the door, Steven couldn't be more surprised when he 
saw a man made entirely of water, standing at the door with a rock. 
And he was even more surprised when the man came in for a hug. 


New! Friend! New! Friend! New! Friend! New! Friend! New! Friend! 
New! Friend! New! Friend! New! Friend! New! Friend! 


Water Man hugged the balding, overweight man that had come to 
the door. After a hug that lasted another eternity, the new friend 
managed to struggle out of the Water Man's slippery grip. After 
Steven got over his initial shock, he looked down at his watch, and 
slapped it a few times with his finger. 


"Fuck you." the new friend said "there goes two hundred and fifty 
fucking dollars down the shitter. Get the fuck out of here!" 


But the Water Man had already noticed voices coming from the 
other room. Were there other New Friends in this strange building? 
He began to stumble his way into the other room. 


Steven was still mourning the loss of his Apple Watch when the 


weird water man slipped past him into the next room. 


Hell no. he thought to himself. Ruining his watch was one thing, but 
if he ruined the delicate equipment kept in the next room over, his 
boss would chew him out again. Maybe he'd even get fired. The last 
thing he wanted was to have to go back to working at McDonalds. 


Steven ran into the room, only to find that he was too late. The water 
man already stood there, in love with an episode of Stranger Things. 


As he got closer to the television, Steven looked around for things 
he could use to stop him. But the only non-electronic, non-food 
object he could find was an old wrench he was supposed to use to 
repair pipes. So he held the wrench and lobbed it at the water man. 


The Water Man was about to give his new new friends a great, big 
hug when a solid chunk of metal flew through his stomach. It didn't 
hurt; it was more of a minor annoyance. 


The Water Man turned around to see the man from earlier, his new 
friend, staring at him with focused eyes. After another eternity of a 
staring contest (which the Water Man won, if you were interested), 
the new friend slowly walked over and picked up a long piece of 
plastic with circles all over it. He pressed one of the circles. 


Almost immediately, the voices stopped. The Water Man looked 
over, and saw that his new new friends were suspended in time! The 
Water Man stumbled backwards, amazed at the scene. How had he 
controlled time? 


Steven saw the water man sent aback at him pausing the television, 
so he pressed the "fast forward" button. The characters on the 
screen leaped and ran at incredible speed. The water man seemed 
even more surprised, and began to hide in a corner. 


Steven was kind of amused, so he kept going. At the press of a few 
buttons, he paused Stranger Things and put on an episode of 
Futurama. The Water Man huddled further in the corner. Laughing to 
himself a bit, Steven decided to skip to the middle of the episode, 


then rewind the clip. 


The Water Man was terrified. This man was controlled his new new 
friends with little more than a flick of his wrist, and now he was 
forcing them to move backwards and unlive their lives. 


The Water Man had met this man before. He must have been 
another manifestation of the Time Man. The Time Man was the 
Water Man's brother, and he controlled time. He was a cruel man; 
he had forced entire civilizations to play their lives over and over 
again just for his amusement. Back then, the Water Man tried to 
stop him. But he had paid the price. Oh, how he had dearly paid the 
price. 


So when the Time Man pointed the strange plastic thing towards 
him, the Water Man couldn't have run away faster, back to hide 
again in his pitiful lake. 


Should | report this? Steven asked himself. it was certainly strange, 
to say the least, but then that would give this place unwanted 
attention, and he was getting quite accustomed to his long nights 
alone... 


Nah. Steven said. If the water man gave him more problems, he'd 
deal with them. But for now, Stranger Things and a somewhat soggy 
slice of cheese pizza awaited him. 


Footnotes 
1. Although it was more like 2 minutes 


« | Homaquis » 


The Shark, Pt.1 


The Lion’s Head Hotel was not a hotel. The word “hotel” typically 
evokes the mental image of one of those swanky, New York City 
high-rise hotels, with red velvet carpeting in the lobby and clean- 
shaven, handsome young bellboys. The Lion's Head had none of 
those things. Rather, it had a stuffed lion’s head, which, with a 
Sphinx-like expression of purest serenity, overlooked the bar from its 
fixture on the wall, the Winchester which had brought it down 
mounted just below it. 


More appropriately, the Lion’s Head would be called an inn. In its 
supreme Victorian elegance, it stood proud at the corner of High 
Street and Jackson Avenue, at the very heart of the small town of 
Sloth’s Pit. Despite the building's apparent dignity, however, the 
Lion's Head was infamous to the less-young residents of Sloth's Pit 
as one of those ghastly places where the youth would congregate. 
For, with three private rooms upstairs and readily available alcohol 
below, the Lion's Head was most accommodating for midnight 
dalliances. 


If the Lion’s Head were owned by a corporate franchisee, instead of 
the inexplicably rich Russian migrant who bought the building from 
Jackson Sloth’s penniless grandson, there would have been board 
meetings. Conferences. Conferences with graphs. Graphs that, 
instead of indecipherable squiggles, would have featured thick red 
lines rising across steady gradients, demonstrating the hotel’s rising 
profit margins through its century-and-a-bit of existence. 


There would have been a board meeting last Thursday, as per what 
would have been tradition. It would have had a particularly 
impressive graph. But the exec, who would have stumbled through 
his presentation like a lame giraffe, would umm and ahh and 
nervously tug at his collar. He would keep his arms soldier-straight 
by his side, concealing the slowly spreading sweat patches, and 
pray that nobody noticed the cutoff date — June, Anno Domini 2014 


— beyond which the data plunged terribly. 


It was the... Something. The somethingth of June, and the Lion’s 
Head was empty. The bastard had driven them off. The bastard had 
driven them all off. The men, which on most days circled the bar like 
so many vultures, had been scared away. He’d talked with the 
barman, who'd asserted that though they startled easily, the men 
would be back, and in greater numbers. 


Bellincioni doubted that. Sitting in his booth in the furthest corner, 
sipping his vodka on the rocks dejectedly, he eyed the instigator with 
a malicious glare. Even now he was chatting up women by the bar! 
Bellincioni hated him. No, he despised him, him and his... 
perfection. It was impossible. Quite literally impossible. His hair was 
spun from the golden fleece itself, and his jawline was carved from 
pure granite. His nose sloped at a cute angle. His lips were full and 
luscious, and when they parted they revealed two glittering rows of 
white teeth. Every inch of him shone gold. The sun. 


“So,” Bellincioni heard him say, as he flashed his perfect smile at the 
perky blonde he was seducing. "Your place or mine?” 


The girl swooned, and Bellincioni hated him even more. The way he 
glided from one girl to the next, with the same easy confidence of a 
bird taking to wing... The sun. He had been the sun, at least. But 
then something awful had happened. Something terrible. 


A localised anomaly.