The clearing had filled back up. A crowd of people gathered around 
one of the shelves, watching an impromptu play. She glanced 
around, taking in faces, watching for anyone standing too close, 
looking too suspicious. Her breath caught as a tall hooded figure 
approached, but it passed by without a glance. She exhaled slowly 
as she watched its exit. Tugging the hood of her jacket over her 
eyes, she slipped into the shelves. 


The area around the Way, when they arrived, was mostly deserted. 
A man covered in butterflies sat in an armchair with a picture book. 
Two woman pored through what looked like a glamor magazine. The 
rest of the clearing was empty, except for the tall mirror leaning 
against a shelf. Amy approached it and placed a hand on the glass. 


She closed her eyes, and an image filled her mind- rolling hills 
covered in trees, shimmering, small metal buildings swollen with 
people. The color and light and noise filled her mind like puzzle 
pieces falling into place, until it was so vivid it was like standing 
there. And when she opened her eyes, she was. 


Without hesitating, she checked Silav’s mental map and began to 
head north-west, uphill. The route was practically drawn out for her- 
every tree, rock, bush. Even shaded by the trees, the sun was 
punishingly hot, and soon her clothes were drenched in sweat. She 
pulled off the hoodie, let it drop to the ground. 


Grey smoke drifted from the trees ahead. Frowning, she pushed 
forward. She could smell the fire now, the sour scent of embers. Her 
mouth had gone dry. She swallowed, and almost felt her throat 
cracking. Between the foliage, up the hill, there was movement. 


She ducked behind a tree just as two men in black body armor 
walked past. They were talking quietly. One laughed. Both held 
guns. 


The town ahead looked like a warzone. Four helicopters were 
perched in the still-smoldering dirt around the buildings. Most of the 
homes had been blown open, the furniture inside scattered and 
burnt. Craters scattered the earth. And everywhere she looked, 
there were bodies. 


Some were from the soldiers. Some. The others were blackened, 
scorched, shredded beyond recognition. The dead soldiers were 
being gently loaded onto helicopters. The bodies of the townsfolk 
were ignored. 


She stood to run, and felt the barrel of a gun against her back. 


“Walk,” said a voice from behind. 


forgery. 

3. Interestingly, Delta Station is the only station in which the 
memories of the pseudo-staff are adjusted in real-time. Once all 
marked locations are growing SCP-684-1, all staff members 
immediately forget ever having been out before. Also, despite not 
knowing the existence of other Stations on SCP-684, Delta crews 
have never scouted areas where they would be detected by other 
stations. 

4. Unofficial title for the nearest central Foundation facility, located in 
[DATA EXPUNGED] 


« SCP-683 | SCP-684 | SCP-685 » 


Amy stepped forward from the trees. The soldiers turned to look at 
her. The rifle pressed deeper into her back. She kept walking. 


The gun-holder guided her to one of the helicopters. A man sat at 
the edge of the fuselage, smoking a cigarette. Rather than the body 
armor and uniform of the soldiers, he wore khaki shorts and a blue 
pollo. His chest bulged slightly beneath it. Thick brown hair covered 
his arms. He looked up as she approached, raised an eyebrow. 
“Would you look at that.” He took a drag of the cigarette then 
extinguished it on the metal. “We’d hoped you’d arrive. Didn't think 
I'd be so lucky though. Good thing our friends in the Library were so 
eager to trade information. 


Her heart slammed against the wall of her chest. This wasn’t 
happening. This couldn’t be happening. 


The man leaned back, propping himself up with his arms, staring at 
the roof of the helicopter. He looked more like someone relaxing at a 
poolside than a leader of a group of soldiers. “Therefore in fierce 
tempest is he coming, in thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove. 
Your buddy put up a hell of a fucking fight, you know that? But we 
got him. Headed to a containment chamber right now.” 


It couldn't end this way. There had to be something she could do. 
She couldn't let them take her back. An idea came to her. The 
Witness’ instructions in magic. Focus. That was the key Forming the 
image in your mind, and releasing it. It had only mentioned the idea 
in the context of the glass-switching trick, but would it apply it here? 
She closed her eyes, clenched her fist, and thought. 


A sphere of wind burst from her in all directions, strong enough to 
rock the helicopter and slam the khaki-wearer against the metal. 
Soldiers around her stumbled and fell. Grass was thrown into in the 
air. 


Before she could regain focus, a shock slammed into her stomach, 
sending her spasming to the ground. A soldier holding a taser 
stepped over her and looked down. 


“Shit,” said the knhaki-wearer. He stood next to the soldier. “Looks 
like you’ve got more bite than we thought.” He wiped blood away 


from his nose. “Doesn’t seem as bad as your counterpart’s, thank 
God.” 


Hands grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet. She closed 
her eyes, tried to bring the image of the wind back, but a fist 
slammed into her gut. 


“Behave,” said the man. 


Amy didn’t respond. She was too busy trying to imagine fire. The 
man slapped her. 


“Come on, don’t keep trying that shit.” 


She mumbled something that sounded scary in her head. It came 
out a gurgle. 


As they lifted her into the fuselage, a thought occurred to her. 
That stone Rupinder gave us. We can use that. 
The response was slow If you think it is wise. 


| think- the thought was interrupted as a soldier tossed her against 
the wall- / think we might be out of options. 


Very well. Take the stone. 


She waited until the khaki-wearer was looking away before snaking 
her hand into her pocket. 


You must break it. 
Break it? 
Yes. 


After checking to make sure nobody was watching, Amy slammed 
the stone against the floor of the chopper. The noise was drowned 
by the sounds from outside. She glanced at the rock. Not even a 
mark. She began slamming it down, and over, a dozen times, until 
she felt the surface crack. 


A funnel of wind burst forth, so strong the frame of the helicopter 
groaned. Soldiers were tossed across the yard. The khaki-wearer 
stumbled, rolled across the grass. Branch and leaves twisted in the 
air, snapped up by the gale. Amy dragged herself to the edge of the 
fuselage and looked out. 


A pillar of smoke leaped up, sending nearby soldiers scrambling 
away. Rupinder stepped out. He wore the same clothes he had in 
the Library and a bored expression.. Seeing the soldiers he stopped, 
looked around. A grin spread across his face. His eyes focused 
Amy, and though he was over a hundred yards away, she heard him 
speak clear as day. “You ARE interesting.” 


Before he could say more, two gunshots rang out. One went through 
his chest. The other sheared away the top half of his head. The 
body stumbled back, still standing. Brain and bone bubbled up in the 
skull cavity. Frothing blood ran down his cheeks and neck. The 
mush erupted like a geyser, fell back down, solidified into a copy of 
the missing skull. Skin formed around it. Rupinder touched a finger 
to his cheeks, brought the tips back red. He stared at them. And 
smiled. 


The battlefield erupted. Three soldiers to his left began to scream as 
their bodies were wrenched back, spines bending like a 
contortionist. Thin branches and vines sprouted from their eyes, 
their nostrils, their mouths, growing until the soldiers were invisible 
under the tangle of leaves. The plants kept growing, rushing towards 
nearby agents, trapping then as well. A soldier dropped to his knees, 
opened his mouth to scream, instead vomited up vines. 


Another group raised their weapons. Before they could fire, the air 
around them smeared, like a blurred photograph. Their skin began 
to warp, pulled, twisted, mashed together like play-doh. When it 
stopped, they were a single, moaning mass. 


Without turning, Rupinder raised his hand, and a soldier behind him 
launched skyward. Amy didn’t see him come down. His buddy 
leaned over, coughing black liquid onto the dirt. He fell to all fours, 
his head resting in the puddle. Grey horns burst up from his 
forehead. His clothes ripped as his body swelled and his skin turned 
red and leathery. Wings sprouted from his back. Soon, an eight-foot 


tall demon stood in his place. It roared and fell upon its former 
comrades, tearing into them like a dog chewing 


Within minutes, every soldier was dead or dying. The moans of the 
injured filled the air. The demon growled and turned to Rupinder. He 
waved a dismissive hand. The beast dissolved into ash. As the 
remains drifted away, he turned to Amy. 


Her jaw fell open. How the FUCK did we ever get away from this 
guy? 
That is an excellent question. 


Rupinder approached her. “I didn’t expect your call quite so soon.” 


Amy glanced at the bodies of the soldiers. She didn’t respond. The 
fused mass of bodies was dragging itself across the ground, 
reaching for the body of one of its fallen comrades. 


“Are you going to object to me killing these people, too?” 
She shook her head, still too stunned to form actual words. 


“Good.” He slid his hands to his pockets, looking around. “Hell of a 
mess. What were you doing here?” 


“That’s... that’s none of your business,” she managed to stammer 
out. 


Rupinder stared at her with what might have been pity. “You seem 
to have made it my business.” 


Amy looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes. Somehow, it felt 
like doing so would be dangerous. “I don’t need any more help.” 


“| doubt that’s true.” He stepped away, walking through the bodies. 
His voice stayed clear. “You’re still not hidden from them. | can tell. If 
you stay, they'll continue the hunt. And next time, | won't be there to 
save you.” Rupinder knelt by a corpse of a villages. Her face had 
been ripped apart by a bullet. He placed a hand on the her shoulder. 
“You were lucky, essentially.” 


Amy stared at the ground. 


“You were looking for the Warden, were you not? A smart idea. He 
would have been able to help.” Rupinder turned and grinned. “Would 
have.” 


“Get to a point,” she said, still not looking at him. 


He stood. “My point is thus. You need protection. And we need a 
guide.” His eyes met hers, and she shuddered. “I think there is an 
agreement to be reached.” He held out a hand. 


After the longest minute of her life, she shook it. 


« Riddles From The Dark | Hub | The Prisoner » 


The Prisoner 


Borrowed books covered the floor of the room. They lay open 
around Amy, and her focus darted from volume to volume. 
Processing the information glut was like trying to isolate melodies 
from twelve songs playing at once, but she found little trouble in it. 
She had never been a reader, never a talented student. But this, 
these books of magic, felt right. More right than anything had before, 
even the swim team. It was so simple, now that she thought about it. 
Instinctive. Like she had gone a lifetime without breathing, and was 
finally tasting air. 


A notebook lay on the floor next to her, used to mark down 
particularly interesting sections of prose. The journal had been 
empty when she begun; now it was % full. It seemed as soon as she 
set the pen down, she would read a reason to pick it up again. 


She turned the page of a worn volume. Its paper crackled between 
her fingers. 


Honestly, how rituals became the multi-universally 
practiced form of spellcraft boggles the mind, considering 
the hundreds of methods available, of which they are, by 
far, one of the most boring and obtuse. Look at the world 
of Kell, with its color-bases systems of casting, or Hyliss, 
home of the God-metal magic, or even O (a world whose 
true name cannot be pronounced, or even inscribed, by 
outsiders), where rites are fueled by expending memory. 
And with all these wonderful, fascinating, glorious paths 
available to us, we have decided to settle for drawing 
pictures and thinking really, really hard at them, which is 
not even the simplest method, when you get down to it, 
or the most efficient, or even the most practical. When 
did spellcraft lose its spark, and what can be done to 
recover it? 


types of magic? kell/hyliss/o She wrote, and turned to the next to 


book. 


“You seem to be grasping the basic idea,” said Snake. 
“This is about balance. Magic is stockbrokery- the 
predictions of value, the risks of trade, the debts of 
failure. How to squeeze the most worth from a limited 
good. The universe does not tolerate inflation.” 


“How can we do that, if we don’t decide the payment 
required?” 


“Simple,” said Snake. “We cheat.” 


The book was a single discussion between wizened Snake and the 
nameless, faceless creature it had taken as an apprentice. The 
lessons started simple, but quickly rose in complexity. The later 
pages were little more than long equations accompanied by dense 
charts and drawings. 


Few of the books contained specific rites or rituals. Most stressed 
that individuality was a key component of spellcraft- castings could 
be replicated, but most effective would always be the ones 
personally developed. 


The room was dark. While reading, almost without thinking, she had 
attempted several simple rites. An orb of conjured light now wavered 
above her head. Rumpled clothes sat on the floor, moved by a poor 
attempt at telekinesis. Black singes marked where a shower of 
sparks had rained onto the carpet. 


In the mountains of a forgotten land | came across a 
curious village. The people within seemed to be the only 
sapient life in the world. And despite their primitive 
nature, they were capable of rites that would turn an 
archivist pale. The villagers had little knowledge of 
spellcrafting theory; they viewed these feats as natural 
gifts from their ancestors. Curious, | decided to study 
with these people. Over the course of three years, | 
learned enough to rewrite the laws of spellcraft entirely, 
the most important lesson being- 


Amy. Your hand. 


She looked up. Rivulets of blood dripped from her arm, hiding the 
skin beneath a slick gleam. 


“Fuck!” Careful not to damage the books, she leaped up and 
snatched a towel from the clothing pile, pressing it to the wound. 
Blood welled back up almost as fast as she could clean it, but 
eventually the flow lessened and she could see the cuts beneath. 
Runes carved into her flesh, large, twisting marks that covered her 
flesh like scales. 


“Jesus,” she muttered. 


You must be more aware of your casting. The Witness had been 
mostly silent during her reading, responding only when she needed 
a question answered or point clarified. 


Yeah. Right. Thanks for the warning. She tiptoed around the books 
and into the hallway. The bright light made her eyes water. She felt 
her way to the bathroom, twisted the faucet handle. As hot water 
soaked the gashes, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Rupinder 
appeared in the mirror, leaning against the doorframe. 


He glanced at the wound. “I could heal that for you.” 
Without looking back, she shut off the water. “Will you?” 


“No. Get packed. We leave tomorrow morning.” He left. The door 
clicked shut. 


She stared down at the wounds. They had already started to scab 
over, forming a gnarled mark that twisted around her arm. “Jesus,” 
she said. 


You pulled too much, too quickly, too forcefully. Reality pulled 
back. 


Yeah, | think I'm beginning to understand that. 


Back in the room, she sorted the books and laid them on the 
dresser. Probably a bad idea to take them, considering where they