"Shut up!" you snap. He widens his eyes and scowls. "Fucking- look 
at her!" You drag him by the arm to the doorway. "Look at us," you 
tell the D-class. It looks up. "Look at her!" you tell the guard, hissing. 
You gesture to yourself. "Look at me! She's skinnier than | am and 
she's bald, but look at our fucking faces!" Your voice cracks. 
"They're the same!" You put your head in your hands and lean on 
the doorway, but the image of her matching sharp nose and sad 
gray eyes lingers in your mind like it was branded there. You sink to 
your knees against the wall and stare at the floor through your 
shaking tears as the two guards drag your clone down the hallway 
and out of sight. 


April 14, 2069 
"It's a fluke. Nothing more." 


"You're telling me it's a fucking glitch that one of- me- of- this body 
ended up in the D-class ranks? Are you fucking serious?" 


"Remain calm. It's an error. You can be amnesticized." 


"That doesn't make it right!" you screech, standing and pushing your 
chair out from underneath you. You see the Director motion for the 
two guards to come into the room. You don't care. "Don't you see 
how fucking fucked up this is? Don't you? Do you seriously look at 
that and think it's not disturbing?" 


"Director." 


You turn around as much as the guards' grip on your arms allows. 


It's Dr. West. You say his name mindlessly, hoping that it's enough 

to trigger him to speak to you. He ignores you and walks forward to 
the desk. "Director," he repeats, dropping a manila folder down with 
a soft thud, "I'm to blame for this." 


The Director stares through him. "Well? Speak, then." 


West shifts nervously and clears his throat. "The subject - Teresa 
Lockwood. It was removed from stasis two days later than the rest of 
its batch." 


"And why is that relevant?" 


West takes a deep breath and looks at his feet before looking back 
up at the Director. "Because its file wasn't cleared in the second 
round of personnel research. The original Teresa Lockwood was 
demoted from her position as a Level 3 Field Researcher to the rank 
of Class D on September 30th, 2021." 


Your mouth hangs open as your pulse quickens in your chest and 
your throat. 


"As such, Teresa Lockwood was not intended to be in the personnel 
file listings for field operatives. She was meant to be in the D-class 
file ranks. The fact that her file appeared in both locations and was 
thus loaded onto subjects from both pools of personnel was-" 


"A fluke," the Director finishes in a disturbingly nonchalant tone as 
he begins reading through the manila folder. "Hmm. And tell me, 
West, why was the field operative instance of Teresa Lockwood not 
immediately terminated when this information was discovered?" 


West swallows. "That was my doing, sir, and | will accept demotion 
or other forms of punishment as my duty to the Foundation," he 
recites monotonously. "| acted on compassion and emotion instead 
of logic and established policy.” 


"And this situation?” The Director gestures to you with the end of his 
pen, looking over his glasses at you. 


"The two of them meeting was entirely a coincidence. A fluke." 


You feel tears welling in your eyes again. 


"| see. Well, errors happen in this organization," he sighs. He stares 
at his desk for several seconds as the passage of time presses 
down on your head and shoulders and heart with the same weight 
as the miles of earth above you. "Either terminate or fully 
amnesticize Lockwood and remove her file from the database so 
that this does not occur again by accident in future production 
cycles. As for you, West, you can sit at my desk with me. We're 
going to have a talk." 


The guards start guiding you toward the door. You strain against 
them and look at West. "West," you say with a surprisingly stable 
voice despite your panicked sobs. 


"What?" he snaps, upper lip quivering as he turns around in his 
chair. 


You open your mouth, but close it. 
"Come on," one of the guards grumbles. 


"West," you repeat. "Your eyes looking into mine were the first thing 
| saw in this world." 


His eyes widen, slowly. As the guards pull the black bag over your 
head and start marching you away, his face is the last image 
lingering in your mind. 


And as they turn you down hallway after hallway, walking in silence, 
you realize that you could be anyone. You are nothing other than a 
file in a computer loaded into an empty human; a false form taking 
the name of someone long, long dead. 


And as you're laid down on a cold table not unlike that which you 
laid upon seconds from birth, only mere months ago, your last 
conscious thought as the needle pierces your vein is of the clear 
blue sky miles above you and the prospect of a world without the 
Foundation. 


And when you close your eyes and the life and memories drain from 
your body, it is the warmest embrace your soul has ever felt. 


The First, the Last 


The faint lights of distant stars littered the weary sky, redirected ina 
multitude of ways through the stale atmosphere. Down below the 
cloudless heavens was the debris of an underworld. The wrecks of 
sky-piercing towers cast endless shadows across granite plains— 
the graveyards of billions of minds. If those minds could think they 
would be embracing the breeze fleeting around the decayed duds 
and bomb craters, but all the breeze brought was erosion. One of 
the silicon monuments, which rose and split the sunrise in two, was 
impacted by a small gust of wind. The survivor tore its seams apart 
and fell with a thunderous bang. A final echo of a building that held 
the sounds of hundreds. 


Continent-spanning corpses rose up from the debris, ossified limbs 
and hands reaching to the smoke-stained aether. Fractured skulls 
that once released river-carving plasma were now hollow caverns. 
Miles of cylindrical pits—the holders of instruments that tore these 
beasts down—had filled with the ashes of unintended victims. A 
small whirlwind touched the edge of one of the vats and ejected 
plumes of waste into the air. 


Not far from these holes of debris, partially lodged under a 
millennium of dust was a most peculiar sight—a sculpture of 
malformed posture and structure. Its once vibrant markings had 
faded to oblivion, leaving a featureless beige behind. The last flakes 
of blood cracked off its stumps and fluttered into the pale horizon. 
The wind blew on. 


The sounds of ancient air currents were interrupted by a noise that 
had not been heard since the last cell had blown apart and died. A 
soft scraping, which slowly and rhythmically repeated. Two of the 
bumps on the entity's head kept a fixed gaze on the sapphire sun, 
keeping watch for any sign of existence—any being that could look 
upon itself. 


The broken silence would not do. As if to quell this intrusion of 


entity, all power within the facility was lost. The children then allowed 
themselves to be captured and their SCP-958 deactivated and 
confiscated. 


Debriefing of the children revealed no major cognitive changes, and 
none exhibited signs of acting under anomalous compulsion. They 
all claimed they had been playing a game, the rules and location of 
which were suggested by their SCP-958-A. Each were given 
amnestics and returned to their caretakers with suitable cover 
stories without issue. As of 2014, none of the children or their 
families have been detected to be part of any anomalous 
phenomena. While four other instances of SCP-958-A have been 
recovered since, no other assaults on locations held by The Factory 
have been detected to date. 


+ Interview SCP-958-A-1 


<Begin Log> 
Agent Jovahgo: Hello, SCP-958-A. 


SCP-958-A: THAT'S GENERAL-BEEP TO YOU, 
LIEUTENANT. 


Agent Jovahgo: Ah, sorry. Hello, General-Beep. | 
want to ask you some questions. Permission to 
speak freely? 


SCP-958-A: AT EASE. ASK AWAY. 
Agent Jovahgo: Where do you come from? 


SCP-958-A: GENERAL-BEEP IS THE 
INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF DR. 
WONDERTAINMENT. 


Agent Jovahgo: Of course you are. Well, can you 
tell me about the child you were with? 


SCP-958-A: ELLEN WAS A GOOD LITTLE 
SOLDIER, VERY CREATIVE THINKER. | MISS 


discord, a large dust storm, delivering the powder of shattered 
bones and lives, blew in and over the area. The loud whirling wind 
nearly masked all else, but the scraping continued. Blue beams 
flickered and vanished within the storm, and the eyes continued to 
stare through the flashes. The hollow scrapes grew, and the storm 
began to blow more fiercely. Rusted chunks moved from their 
resting places and collided into the statue, shattering rebar lumps. 
And yet it continued. It continued and grew in intensity, grew in 
harshness, and called out across the rotten lands in a shrill 
cacophony. The storm broke the silos in explosive blasts and 
created clouds of ash, but the song went on. 


After several minutes of turmoil, a last sigh escaped the storm, and 
the dust it carried was dropped. The wind stopped blowing. As the 
sun's blaze returned to the silos, no response to the signal was sent, 
and the statue was now submerged under the rubble of its past jail. 
But time would come to pass. The ground and dirt would slowly 
shatter and dissipate, releasing clouds of earth. Like a sungrazing 
comet the planet evaporated until a single relic was released with 
the last specks of matter. And like the specks it would sink into the 
void and drown in the darkness. 


It would see no sights, invisible for the rest of time. 


There would be silence and nothing more. 


The Flesh That Mates 


Hey, guys, just so you know, this fic is, like, totally not safe for 
work and probably not safe for life either, so you probably 
shouldn't read it. Thanks. 


+ show block 


My love has the beauty of primeval life, the beauty of the 
slime mould under the trees, the protean beauty of the 
shapeless, the formless, pure and clean. 


Naked | step into its presence, and naked | bear witness 
to its silent majesty. Skin rippling and twisting over 
musculature without form. Bones ground into powder, 
faceless pores weeping blood and pus and mucus all 
over my upturned face. 


Gently | lay myself down into its embrace, feel the warm 
pulsating throbbing of its gangrene-scented limbs wrap 
around me, caress me, embrace and kiss me. Limbs with 
too many fingers slither over my naked legs, press 
between my legs, cover my skin in slickness and flood 
my nostrils with the sickly-sweet scent of decay and rot. 


My lover is a gentle lover, and it teases at my entrance 
with a member covered in the aqueous humor of a 
thousand dead men's eyes, burst like grapes pressed 
under the feet of a sun-kissed maiden under a warm 
Tuscan sun. It waits until my entrance is slick with its 
fluids, until my every nerve burns with desire and every 
synapse is taut with tension, and only then am | granted 
the sweet release of penetration, feeling its warm, 
keratin-encrusted member slip inside, fill me to bursting, 
sending electricity racing up my spine until | arch my 
back and moan, only to find my mouth filled with flesh. 
Into my mouth, down into my throat, until my vision 


darkens and my heartbeat pounds, only to be granted 
the sweet release of breath just as | feel my mind start to 


go. 


Wrapped in a second womb made of flesh, penetrated 
and caressed and violated from every possible angle, | 
moan and writhe, helpless in my lover's embrace. It 
brings me to fruition, explodes me into a screaming, 
broken husk of a mind, heart pounding in my temples 
and skin burning aflame, and as | finally come down from 
that final, desperate release, the last sensation | know 
before sleep overtakes me is my love wrapping itself 
close, embracing me in its boneless arms, the scent of 
formaldehyde and blood singing me to sleep. 


The Flower Of Battle 


It started with a call. "Area 25b is on fire. We're bringing you in." 


Captain Giancarlo De Luca took a deep breath, and rolled his 
shoulders, easing the tension out of his stiff joints. He set down his 
copy of the original Italian Fior di Battaglia and stood, walking over 
to the locker in the corner. He stripped out of his casual clothing, 
and pulled on the lightweight fatigues within. He took a moment to 
smile at the MTF patch on the shoulder. Beta-4, "Flower of Battle". 
He glanced back at the book, smirking slightly. Fitting, he thought. 


He'd lead the special task force for the past five years, and when the 
possibility of helping with 076-2's containment came up, he'd 
hesitantly agreed after reviewing footage of the violent creature's 
escape attempts. He was confident that he could contain the 
creature, but there was always an element of uncertainty, no matter 
how much practicing he'd done. 


He pulled his arm through the sleeve, and secured the buttons on 
the front of his fatigues, the familiar weight of the reinforcing material 
around his ribs reassuring him. Next came the fitted gloves, made 
from a lightweight kevlar blend with the backing polymer strike 
plates. He'd felt a little silly getting gloves with knuckle 
reinforcements, but all the other MTF guys had bought them, so he 
figured they'd be okay. So far they hadn't done anything to get in the 
way of the fingers that mattered. 


He grabbed the heavy rifle case from the corner, and wheeled it out 
towards the waiting helicopter, trying to keep his breath. He'd faced 

down monsters before, but no one ever wants to be the guy to stand 
before the killing machine. 


SCP-076-2 tore his way through the remaining hallway leading from 
his containment area, into the main area of the containment zone. 
He'd done this so many times before, the defenses were becoming 


rote. The Foundation were getting lazy with the changes to this 
corridor. 


He rounded the corner, and slipped his hand into his cloak, grasping 
the obsidian hilt of his third favorite pattern for a weapon, a drill- 
edged throwing dagger. A smooth snap of his fingers sent the 
spinning head into the electrical emitter which ended his rampage 
twice before. A heavy thunk, and a sputtering of sparks were the 
only utterances this time. 


Two humans slipped out of an alcove, with the boxy automatic 
firearms they always used. Trite. "Do you realize this will not stop 
me?! 1am Able, first blade, and | will be free." 


The Agents, to their credit, didn't hesitate and snapped off a dozen 
rounds each. Suppressing a sigh Able turned a quick circle, ducking 
under the gunfire, drawing a long-handled sword which he'd seen 
being handled by the humans called "samurai" he'd observed in 
documentaries during downtime from Omega-7. Its edge curved, 
and covered in small tooth-like projections, his only addition to the 
beautiful form of the blade. The serrated blade swiped across the 
body armor of both agents as Able completed his spin, bisecting the 
unfortunate Foundation members. The thousands of folds within the 
metal kept the blade sharp enough to cut steel. He'd sliced several 
tanks in half with this type of sword before. 


"Pathetic." He didn't slow his stride as he hurled the katana into the 
mechanism controlling the blast door which would stop him from 
continuing down his path... 


Captain De Luca pulled the headset over his ears, pulling the rifle 
case into the cabin, sitting opposite a Foundation agent wearing a 
suit and tie, holding a tablet. He strapped the rifle case down to the 
proper attachment points, then strapped himself into his seat. He 
slapped the metal wall of the cockpit twice, signaling his readiness. 


The agent tapped a few places on the screen, and clicked his mic 
on, "Are you ready for this, Captain?" 


Captain De Luca nodded clicking his own mic on, "As I'll ever be.