You feel something slip down your side and hit the roof. You feel 
when it hits the roof. The tumor is spreading, and you watch it 
bubble outwards, putting forth a tendril here and there, feeling its 
way. It spreads like living molasses, but full of veins and prickling as 
it slips over bumps in the surface. 


There's something gray in the distance, but coming closer. It's 
covering the trees, releasing smoke-like clouds as it does. 


Seven minutes. 


You must be the only one left. The tumor is spreading outwards still, 
coating the whole roof. It's almost like a gigantic cape. You wonder 
why you're still alive. The gray has solidified into a mountain of 
fungus, and you wonder if it will reach the clouds. It's stopped 
coming closer, though- the trees in front of it have become covered 
by what look like spider webs, connecting them all together, catching 
the gray spores and keeping the trees safe. Below you, the roads 
are no longer visible. The grass has taken over, with an occasional 
tree poking up from the tangle. The grass , as far as you can tell, is 
sprouting out and growing connections to nearby stalks. 


How can the song still be playing? There can't be electricity, the 
speakers have surely been in most cases overgrown. It still seems 
to be coming from everywhere, though not like before. Before, it 
came from electronics. Now you can feel the voices as if the choir 
were standing right behind you. 


Eight minutes, and you wonder how long the song can be. 


The grass below has cut down the trees, joined together and 
lacerated the trunks, absorbed them and grown taller. The spider 
webs in the distance begin to cover the mountain of fungus, which 
fights back with irregular bulges and stick-like protrusions. You have 
covered the entire roof, and are working your way down the walls, 
entering windows as you reach them. The people inside have 
disappeared as far as you can tell. You can tell because the tumor 
can tell, not with eyes, but you can feel every minute difference in 
warmth that reaches it, every vibration that passes through the air 
and the building. 


Nine minutes have passed, and you return to your room, slipping in 
through the window. 


Something stabs you when you do. A spike rips through the leathery 
folds of flesh that were once a tumor. The cactus. 

Your skin contracts around the spines, but more keep growing. They 
impale you, sent into a frenzy of growth by the touch. Spikes erupt 
from the top floor of the hospital, too fast to be stopped, too fast to 
be believed. It's odd. You realize, still detached, that you can see it 
happen. You can see every side of the building at once. The cactus 
throws quickly growing green balls of itself outward, seeming to 
double or triple in size before they hit the ground and tear into the 
grass. It hurts, of course, but that's nothing new. 


You try to laugh as you think of a cactus growing here , in autumn 
no less, but you have no mouth anymore. It's grown over. 


The cactus spreads furiously, each mine-like spike ball exploding 
into maturity in a matter of seconds. They begin to throw their own 
children outwards as well, and the grass acts as a single being, 
flowing like water to ice to solidify beneath the baby cacti, not letting 
them touch the ground. It doesn't matter. The spikes go down and 
somehow take root. They come up, as well. 


Ten minutes, and it's time to die. 


Twenty minutes later, and the song abruptly stops. Not that you're 
there to hear it. Not really. Something survived, though your brain 


was impaled by a thousand miniature barbs, your body torn from the 
tumor and used for its nutrients. Some of the flesh survived, 
carpeting the roof. It may live forever. 


It's not a wasteland that you left behind. When the song stopped, so 
did the changes. At least, so did the speed of the changes. They'll 
always be happening. They always have been, really. Where the 
hospital once stood is a world of spikes and thorns, the grass grown 
together with your cactus to give a clear message to whatever 
animals may come. Whatever animals there are. You would not 
recognize them, anyway. 


The fungus still stands like a mountain, and will continue to do so, 
forever. The spider webs grow thick, but no insects will ever be 
caught. There are no humans left. In some strange spots there are 
things that were once human. A tower of bone, with eyes peeking 
out. A hair-covered family of four-armed and legless things, who will 
continue to etch meaningless inscriptions on crumbling masonry 
until they at last die out. A cloth-like, almost fluid mass of flesh that 
wisps through the miles of cacti, parting and reforming around each 
individual spear. 


And the world began with a song. 


And Now, He Is Gone 


“| remember the good old days.” Pat sighed as he dug into his 
cinnamon pancakes, looking at his three friends. “You remember 
Carl, guys?” 


“Carl was a great guy!” affirmed Dwight, taking a swig of his coffee. 
“| don’t know why the Heck he just went away one day... he’s still in 
the source material, after all. Not like he was told to blow off by 
anyone.” 


Warren pointed at Pat accusingly. “And then you took his job. Damn 
upstart. Carl always picked up the bill whenever we ate, you know; 
he was rich enough that he could do that. Came with the territory. All 
the riches of all the conquered lands.” 


“Isn’t that what that one Mediterranean guy does, though?” 
Frederick stuffed the last bit of bacon into his mouth. “You know the 
one. The kind of creepy guy with the hat and the dog.” 


“| Know who you're talking about, but | can’t recall the name.” 
Warren frowned. “Kind of a pity, too; the dog was nice. | think it was 
named Spot or something?” 


“Didn’t you used to be good friends with him, Warren?” asked 
Frederick, trying to sneak a piece of one of Pat’s pancakes. 


“Maybe? | dunno. | was in Greece a lot way back in the day... and 
Rome... and a lot of places.” Warren looked at his friends and 
sighed. “We really don’t have much to talk about, do we?” 


They all sat quietly for quite some time, looking at their plates 
uncomfortably. The waitress looked at them oddly before Pat spoke 
up. “Every minute, five people contract HIV.” 


The other three groaned. “Why did you tell us that, Pat?” 


number was unable to be immediately ascertained owing to the fact 
that they had been piled atop one-another. They were oriented 
head-down, with their arms extending deeper into the pit. 
Furthermore, most of the victims’ limbs had become intertwined or 
knotted around each other, preventing exhumation without the use 
of sawing instruments. 


Researcher Singer elected to extract a tissue sample. During this 
process, the soil beneath him caved and he tumbled into the pit; the 
bodies shifted due to his weight. As he struggled to gain footing, the 
tangle of limbs gave way, and he fell out of sight. 


Agent Collins promptly commandeered a length of rope, and tied it 
around her waist. She tasked several nearby personnel with reeling 
her in upon her signal, and entered the pit. Approximately twenty 
meters-worth of rope was drawn beneath the corpses as Agent 
Collins descended. 


The line became taut after several minutes. She signaled for 
extraction, and was recovered safely. Upon debrief, the agent 
testified to the existence of an anomalous locale - the entrance to 
which is located beneath the victims’ corpses. 


A temporary leave of absence was granted to Agent Collins. 
Field Logs: 


SCP-783-L1 - Initial D-Class exploration for observational purposes; 
retrieval of MIA personnel secondary objective. Data pending review 
and transcription 


SCP-783-L2 - Special Operative dispatched to further ascertain the 
nature of SCP-783. Pending declassification. 


SCP-783-L3 - Mobile Task force deployed to contain SCP-783. 
Pending declassification. 


SCP-783-L4 - [DATA EXPUNGED] 


“Yeah, last thing we want to hear about some monkey plague that 
you thought up. Ruins my appetite.” 


“Statistics are dull, anyway.” Dwight wrinkled his brow. “All | have is 
statistics, now.” 


“That’s pretty much what all of us have, Dwight.” Pat stood up and 
made for the edge of his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, | gotta take 
a leak.” And with that, Pat got up and went to the restroom, leaving 
his three friends behind. Frederick took Pat’s remaining pancake 
and chewed on it. 


Dwight groaned, rubbing his face. “Fucking pathetic.” 
“Language, Dwight!” 


“Warren, shut up.” Frederick looked at him, a bit of cinnamon 
pancake hanging out of his mouth. “I mean it! With Carl gone, Pat is 
supposed to be the one who leads us when it all goes down! If Carl 
were still here, that thing back in the ‘40s would’ve worked...” 


“Are you sure it was the ‘40s?” asked Frederick. “I swore it was the 
‘50s. Russia, remember?” 


“Whatever,” said Dwight, flagging down a waitress. “Is it the right 
time of year for your peppermint hot chocolate?” 


“It is,” said the waitress, smiling slightly. “Il can get you some, if you’d 
like.” 


“Yes, please,” said Dwight. “With whipped cream.” He smiled as the 
waitress walked off, shaking his head. “She'll die on the job, poor 
girl. Slip on a wet rag and break her neck just after New Year’s.” 


“Dwight, don’t be so damn morbid,” said Warren. “You don’t hear me 
spouting off things about bombs or bullets or video games.” 


“| wonder where the hell Carl is, now,” muttered Frederick. “Probably 
in a seedy sports bar in Milwaukee or something making bets on the 
winning teams. That's what | would do.” 


“You think he would do something that petty?” 


Frederick was about to respond when Pat came back. He frowned at 
his ever-hungry friend when he saw a lack of pancake on his plate. 
He then sat down, and picked up a copy of the local paper. “... 
Meteor shower soon. Maybe this'll be the one.” 


“Maybe,” said Warren, nodding in thanks to the waitress that just 
brought him his peppermint cocoa. “We can only hope.” 


And So It ls Now 


April 30, 1998 


Able’s fists were clenched hard enough to draw blood from his 
palms. He couldn’t hear beyond the tomb, but he knew there were 
people outside. 


He had to kill them. His body felt ready to snap from tension. It was 
ready to kill, needing to kill as mortal bodies needed to eat and 
breathe. The urge gnawed at his gut, worse than the hunger of a 
starving man. 


Of late, he had managed to resist for a few minutes each time he 
was summoned to speak with his brother, but now with freedom so 
close... 


He would wait until his body tore itself apart if need be. 


In total, the ritual called for eight greater seals of protection, twenty- 
four minor seals of protection, three Wards of Rath-Ba, and a Matrix 
of Sav connecting a nodal system of forty-four augmented 
summoner’s circles. The tomb sat in the center of the design, its 
own sides coated in more crimson runes. The Directors watched 
from their safe room several hundred feet above. With a button 
press they could activate Ukelele: with another, they could simply 
flood and collapse the chamber. 


The blood had been easy enough to come by: a mandatory blood 
drive easily replaced the ritual slaughter of several hundred slaves. 
More difficult was constructing the actual ritual: it had been cobbled 
together from fragments of ancient texts and reverse-engineered 
spell rites millennia old. Enough material had been found in the last 
four months to triple the number of Daevite artifacts in storage, and 
that didn’t include those items yet to be cataloged, propelling 


knowledge of the Daevas forward near as far as the Rosetta Stone 
propelled understanding of the Egyptians. 


The chanting began. A full tenth of the Coalition’s practicing 
occultists stood in their circles, swaying along with the undulating, 
intermeshing words. The tone was haunting, almost melancholy, 
though tinged with an uglier undercurrent. 


Agent Alto Clef stood in his own protective circle, twenty feet in front 
of the door. His knowledge of Daevic was limited to scraps of the 
lower tongue, and he knew little of magic. He focused on the door. 
When it opened, he would be the one to deal with Able, for better or 
for worse. 


The chanting picked up its pace, the words spilling forth with greater 
power and urgency. A glow filled the chamber, shadows flickering 
wild and rampant against the walls in a wild dance. Wind whistled in 
unmoving air, building up to a roar that filled the cavern. The 
intensity crescendoed into a maddening height, burning and swirling 
and crashing, and then it stopped. The chant, the glow, and the wind 
ended as one, like an extinguished candle. 


It was done. 


It was done. 


The urge was gone. The knot in his stomach untied, the tension in 
his muscles loosened. He felt weak, weaker than he had been for a 
very long time. Confusion roiled in his mind: everything was coming 
back to him, and it was unfamiliar. Cold, hunger, fear...Had he spent 
so much time a tool that he had forgotten what it was like to be a 
man? 


Perhaps. If it was so, he would learn again. 


Able stood up, and for the first time in over ten thousand years his 
steps were unsteady. 


He pushed open the door of his tomb for the last time. 


The door of the tomb swung open. Able stepped out, tottering and 
wobbling like a paralytic learning to walk again. He reached the 
border of the first ward and stopped. 


Clef stepped out of his own circle and walked towards the Neolithic 
man. 


[Looks like we did it.] 


Able nodded. He swung his arm sharply, as if swinging a knife. No 
weapon appeared in his hand. 


[Yes. We did.] 


Able smiled, turned to the men and women standing at the margins 
of the circle, and spread his arms in triumph. 


[Know this, tribe of Clef! Before you stands a man freed! By all the 
gods of the River and the Mountain be blessed, and know that | am 
your kin from this day forward!] 


O5 SPECIAL ORDER 1998-04-30 


In accordance with the original agreement of Project Greenhouse, 
Agent Alto Clef and all materials related therein is to return to the 
Foundation on May the second, 1998. In addition, the remains of 
LTE-9927, custody of KTE-9927-Prime, and custody of KTE-0706 
are likewise handed over to Foundation jurisdiction for further study 
and containment. 


BY THE ORDER OF 

05-1 

05-2 

05-3 

Foundation A4 Advisory Board 


European Field Operations Director LaForte 


European General Operations Director Fontaine 
United Kingdom General Operations Director Cast 
United Kingdom Assistant Director Burr 

American General Operations Director Henderson 
American Assistant Director Zane 


“Zane, | don’t care what the records say. / never signed that order.” 


O5 GENERAL ORDER 1998-04-20 


Due to recent events involving a change of species, Dr. Adam Crow 
has been relieved of his position as Administrator. A new 
Administrator will be appointed by the O5 Board. 


BY ORDER OF: 


05-1 
05-2 
05-3 


Dr. Gerry sat meditating by the Clockwork, letting the metronomic 
ticking and clicking fill his ears and clear his mind. Thoughts settled 
into place in time with the music. He was part of the Machine, the 
Machine was part of him, as Crom and Nala and Grape were of the 
Machine. Man did not create the Machine: man created machines so 
that the Machine might inhabit them. The computers he had created 
with the Clockwork were mere vessels for fragments of the Machine. 


A true vessel, proper for the Machine in its fullness and perfection of 
Logic and Reason, would come in time. 


And So On And So Forth 


March 15, 1994 


Francis tapped his pen against his chin, surveying the great sheet of 
paper pinned to the wall. He had been here longer than he thought: 

great swathes of it were covered in lines of his writing. He selected a 
reasonably-sized blank space and began to print in thin, neat letters.