“And not one- will know of the war, not one- will care at last when it 
is done.” A plant dropped into the soil angrily. In the beginning, there 
had been hope: maybe when every last living thing on earth had 
succumbed to the virus, it would die without a host. Then perhaps all 
the animals and humans in hiding could restart everything. But 
Johanna had looked at the microbes in the soil and water, and found 
out that the protozoa at the root of the food chain were succumbing, 
and not surviving the conversion process. 


Copper and bronze content in the soil was rising every day. It no 
longer seemed inconceivable that the beloved green marble of earth 
might one day become a massive clockwork heart. 


“Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, if Mankind perished 
utterly.” Marie raised her hand, and, on cue, a sparrow fluttered 
down from a nearby tree to sit on it. Ketterson watched it- bright, 
sleek. A handful of clean iron blades had become its wings, its feet 
were pristine copper gears and tubes. 


“And spring herself, wnen she woke at dawn, would scarcely know 
that we were gone.” The sparrow leapt and fluttered away. Tears 
sprung to poor Ayala's eyes, then were gone, and she stopped 
digging forlornly. Ketterson hugged and kissed her, overcome for a 
moment by the tragic irony, staring at the spot on her metal hand 
where a ring had once laid. Holding her, he looked out at the tundra, 
at the empty world they were left with. 


Then again, more and more staff were connecting to the Hivenet 
every year. Maybe, at Site Omega, some vestige of humanity 
remained. They would never know. 


The Greenhouse, soft and vibrant, went silent; until Marie bent over 
the dirt once again. 

The tears were gone, in an endless loop. 

The world outside was wide and cold. 


“There will come soft rains, and the smell of the ground...” 


Wings 


It's been a little while since I've last seen my kids. 


That fucking dirtbag, Jerry... at least he got to rot in hell, without this 
pain. Should've shot him in the nuts instead of the head. 


It's been three years since I've been sentenced. Two weeks ago, 
though, a man working for this so-called "Foundation" thingy asked 
me if | wanted to participate in some research study. 


| asked him what | got in return, and he said after a month, | could 
be free. Of course, | would accept such an offer, anything to get me 
out of this piece-of-shit prison cell. 


Whatever these scientist-douchebags injected me with, it's painful. 


They watched behind glass windows as | bled out. | kept bleeding, 
but refused to die. Those men in their white jackets, continuing to 
watch over me. 


Finally, the bleeding stopped. They allowed me to rest, at least for a 
short while, before they injected me with something else... 


... when | woke up, | was already forced into a clear box, and above 
a shaft. Holy shit - that's one long drop down. 


| heard a microphone asking me to "concentrate" on growing wings. 
How the fuck was | supposed to do that? Of course, | told them to go 
fuck themselves. They gave me 15 minutes, and | saw a timer start 
counting down from 15. | didn't know what would happen at 0, but | 
didn't want to find out. 


| felt my body shake, as if something began to tear its way from my 
back. | thought for a short while about what they injected me with, 
and... maybe, | could grow wings. 


With every last bit of my will, | forced my body to grow these "wings". 
It felt like an eternity, forcing these painful shards out of my back. 


And they grew. Ugly, flesh-formed wings like a bat, but they're still 
wings. The timer was at 2 minutes. 


| forced open the lid of the box. Thankfully, it wasn't reinforced or 
locked or anything. 


| spread my wings, and began to fly. Almost fell down the first few 
flaps, but got the hang of this. 


As | began to fly to the surface, | thought of my kids once more. | 
could go see them again! 


| saw some scientists in their ugly orange suits and some military 
guys in black follow me. They can't catch me now! 


I'm almost free! I'm almost- 
EXCERPT: Post-Experiment Log 016-08 - 02/04/ 


"D-11621 was infected with SCP-016 on // , and 
managed to survive the near-total exsanguination. 
D-11621 was placed in an acrylic box suspended above 
a mine shaft, and was told to focus on growing wings, 
and given 15 minutes before the bomb detonated. At the 
two minute mark, it was observed that D-11621 finally 
grew out a fully-formed set of wings, similar to a bat. 
Using these wings, D-11621 was able to escape the 
mine shaft and fly above Testing Area- . Subject was 
terminated by gunshot fired from a Mossberg 500 
shotgun. Autopsy revealed the wings anchored to the 
shoulder blades, and the muscles also attached to the 
shoulder blades and collar bones. Genetic testing of 
D-11621 is underway, to determine if genetic makeup 
affects the outcome of 016 mutation. - Dr. E. K. Sze 


With The Reaper On Retirement 


Joyce Michaels put her headphones on and queued up the same 
song she played every time she made one of these trips: When The 
Sun Sets by James Blunt. It was the same song she listened to 
before her father was supposed to pass away. Joyce set the track 
on repeat. 


She waited at the stop outside of the hospital. The hour or so after 
each operation always felt strange, like some kind of dream. Joyce 
opened and closed her hands a few times. Yeah, they still work. 
They feel wrong, but they work. 


When the bus arrived, Joyce shuffled on and swiped her public 
transit card. She found a nice seat next to the window where she 
leaned her head against the glass. Condensation built up little by 
little, but Joyce was too busy looking outside. It was always cloudy 
on operation days. Never raining, just grey. 


This was Joyce's fourth operation. Usually, they're expensive as 
hell and hosts are near impossible to find, but The Foundation 
worked out all the logistics. Joyce didn't think about where her new 
self came from. She could take some good guesses, but that's a fast 
way to feel uncomfortable in your own skin. 


The bus driver called out "Edeborough and Forbes!" 


Joyce got up and left the bus. It was a short five minute walk to the 
graveyard. She was a few minutes late; Eric was already there. You 
couldn't quite see the pulsing light from the cybernetic 
enhancements under Eric's shirt, but you could tell something wasn't 
quite right when the wind blew and pressed the shirt up against the 
sharp edges and wires. Joyce paused the song and took off her 
headphones. 


"You know, if you didn't wear those headphones everywhere, I'd 
never know it was you,” he remarked. 


"Yeah, they've gone through some repair, but they've outlasted at 
least four bodies by now." 


"Good headphones." 
"Good headphones indeed." 


The two of them just stared at the grave for a few minutes. It was a 
familiar sight. Joyce was a little surprised the tombstone hadn't 
corroded much. You could still read the inscription: 


Here Lies A Hero 
Here Lies Anthony Michaels 


"You ever envious of him?" Eric asked. He asked the same question 
the last three times too. Joyce always gave the same answer. 


"Every time | have one of these operations." 

"You think he's happy for us?" 

"| don't really know. Depends how much he can sympathize." 
"Technically, the dead can't sympathize." 

"Well, if you're going to go there, the dead can't be happy either." 
"You remember the last time you felt happy?" 

"No, but its not like | keep a log." 

"Touché." 

The two stood in silence for another few minutes. 

"You ever worry we're living on repeat?" 


"You've got quite a few questions today, don't you?" Joyce replied. 
She shot Eric a little smile. 


"Eh, you know, just looking at a grave nowadays makes you think. 
It's been a while since anyone's made one in earnest." 


"That's true." 


"| just worry we're dead already. Just haven't really realized it yet. 
Can't really tell if we're still living at all, since there's nothing to 
compare it to." 


"You think this is the afterlife?" 


"Who knows. | could see it. Just a place that perpetually keeps you 
alive because you can't die twice." 


"Sounds a bit too poetic." 


"Probably is. But then again, a lot of things end up being more 
poetic than we expect," Joyce motioned to the tombstone. 


"| don't know if I'd call this poetic." 


"Dying to save ‘countless lives’ ten days before we all become 
immortal? That's ironic at least." 


"What's with the air quotes?" 


"It's what | heard from The Foundation. Can't exactly trust everything 
they tell you." 


"So, | assume you never got any details?" 


"Nope. Not even with my access. | asked Emily a while back, but 
she hasn't responded. I've got quite a few questions for her about 
other things too." 


"Must've been big. Maybe he really did save countless lives." 
"Or doomed them. It could go either way knowing our line of work." 


Another five minutes. These ones felt a bit longer. They lingered like 
bees around flowers. Just trying to suck every last bit of nectar out 
until it was all gone. And then Joyce spoke up again. 


"| hope you're right." 


"About what?" 


"About the afterlife thing. I'd be able to live with myself better if | 
knew we all just died on that day." 


"Well, technically you wouldn't be ali—" 
"You know exactly what | mean." 
"True." 


And then ten minutes of quiet, which was only interrupted by the 
pitter patter of raindrops. Joyce was surprised. It never rained on 
operation days. 


"We should probably get going then,” Eric noted. 
"Probably." 

"| have my car here, | can drive you back." 

"Nah, I'll take the bus. I'm way out of the way for you." 
"You sure?" 

"|'m sure." 

"Ok then. Take care. I'll see you around.” 

"You too." 


Joyce put her headphones back on and restarted the music. She 
focused on the song as her body went into autopilot. She'd adjusted 
to this new one pretty quick. It carried her through the rain, to the 
bus, and back home to the three room flat across the city, where 
Joyce collapsed on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and just kept 
listening to her music. 


My only respite 
Since life haunts me 
Knowing I'm gonna die 
Eventually 


Joyce's phone buzzed. 
You Have Unread Messages (1) 
From: eyoung@foundation.secure.scp 
To: jmichaels@foundation.secure.scp 
Subject: re: A Favor 
Hey Joyce, 


Sorry it's taken so long to get back to you. 
Everything's been kind of slow going ever 
since the incident. You know, they don't give 
you your full security credentials back until 
you've more or less earned them again. | just 
got enough to access all my old projects. 


Anyways, you wanted to know about Project 
Dammerung? Or what happened to Tony? 
How about | give you both at once? You of all 
people deserve to know what Tony did. 


Delete this email after you've safely 
downloaded the files. Don't want someone 
peeping over your shoulder to catch you 
viewing classified documents. 


Regards, 
Emily Young 


SCP_Draft.pdf 
Anthony_Michaels_Interview.pdf 
Notes_Scan.zip 
Imaging_Results.zip 


SURGICAL IDENTITY PERPETUATION 
End of Death 


The Foundation Wants A Robot Army 


SCP-1000 instances are born immune to the effect; those who are 
not born immune quickly die. 


The effect of SCP-1000-f1 is as follows: Any hominid (including 
humans, chimpanzees, bonobos, and non-immune instances of 
SCP-1000) that directly or indirectly observes any instance of 
SCP-1000 has a minimum 2% chance of being instantly killed 
through anomalous means via permanent cessation of brain 
function. This percentage is cumulative, and the longer a human 
views SCP-1000, the higher the chance of instantaneous death 
increases, at a rate of +1% chance per 20 minutes of viewing. This 
effect varies between individual members of SCP-1000's species, 
with some individuals carrying a 'death chance’ of 90%. The effect is 
also produced by dead individuals, though small fur samples do not 
exhibit the effect. 


Known means of preventing this effect are small-scale only and 
include [REDACTED] (see attached documentation; Level 3 
clearance required). 


Because of SCP-1000's close relation to humanity, it is considered 
likely that SCP-1000-f1 could eventually transfer to human carriers. 
Any instance of SCP-1000 finding its way to a major population 
center could constitute an -class end of the world scenario with a 
minimum death toll of [REDACTED] and possible extinction of 
humanity. Fortunately, SCP-1000 appears to instinctively avoid 
human contact. 


It is not currently feasible to exterminate SCP-1000 entirely. 


The highest known population concentrations of SCP-1000 are at 
present located in the Pacific Northwest region of North America and 
the Himalayan Mountain range in Asia. As of / /  , these 
populations remain extant. SCP-1000's presence and [DATA 
EXPUNGED] have also been documented within the past 5 years on 
every continent. All Known significant populations of SCP-1000 
located near human population centers have been eliminated. 


SCP-1000 came to the attention of the Foundation via contact by 
Doctor Franz M in 14 with the Children of the Sun, who 
identified themselves as outcast members of the Serpent's Hand. 


Won't You Be My Neighbour... 


Won't You Be My Neighbor 


He sat alone on the apartment building's stoop, watching people go 
in and out of the building across the street. He was almost certain 
that it contained a Foundation presence and was curious to see if 
his research and tracking were correct. The last Site he'd infiltrated 
had had some unique anti-telepathy gear, which he had of course 
liberated, and he wondered what delights this one might hold. He 
could write entire books about what he'd seen them contain. 


The morning turned to afternoon turned to evening and he still jotted 
down notes in his Moleskine. Such a handy size. Finally, he stood 
from his perch and ambled over to the other building's doorway. A 
buzzer system, but he entered the door code he'd observed. 
Standard issue slightly decaying lobby, wall of mailboxes on one 
side, creaky elevators on the other, flyer-covered corkboard hanging 
on the far wall flanked on one side by a stairwell leading up and on 
the other by a closed door with a plaque reading "Superintendent." 


Most likely the elevator. Either a hidden basement or an otherwise 
inaccessible floor or something. Fairly standard for urban Sites, or 
so he'd found. He called the elevator and waited as it slowly rumbled 
down to the ground floor. Hmm, the mailbox doors all looked dusty. 
The Foundation really ought to pay attention to the little details if 
they were going to hide in plain sight. 


He turned back to the elevator as it groaned to a stop and opened to 
reveal a pair of men carrying handguns, who swept the hallway as 
they exited. Neither paid any attention to the man standing in front of 
them, which wasn't unusual. He brushed past them into the open 
elevator while they finished. 


"Nobody here, Command. Totally empty." 
"Yes, I'm sure." 


"What do you mean tha—" 


The Foundation agents swung around and aimed at the elevator just 
as the doors finished closing. Nobody smirked a little and held down 
the "close door" button while he quickly thought over his options. 
How about choosing— Oh it couldn't be that easy. The floor buttons 
skipped straight from 12 to 14. He pressed both buttons and waited 
as the elevator trundled upwards. 


The Site well and truly knew he was here by now, even if they 
couldn't find him. A shame, but it only made his investigatory 
expedition a /ittle harder. Still, better safe than sorry. He crouched 
down as the elevator dinged past the 12th floor and pressed the stop 
button. The door creaked open and a fusillade of bullets struck the 
back wall.