Yet despite all this, he stood stock still, staring over his high perch 
on the snowy mountain, staring at the large flat plains in front of him, 
his eyes two shards of aged, dirty gray ice, far colder than anything 
that frigid peak could conjure up. 


Stray flakes stuck to his eyelashes, and he blinked them away, 
rolling down his face, tears that were not real. He tightened his grip 
on the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, the material groaning in 
protest, the flecks of dried blood cracking and falling away from his 
wiry fingers. 


He could not say how long he stood there, staring. The moments 
rolled into days, and the hours to seconds. He could have stood 
there for a thousand eternities, or for the scantest of instants. 


All he knew was that eventually, he would return once more. 
And he would fight. 


Able's eyes flickered open slowly, glancing towards the clock nailed 
unceremoniously to the wall with a butcher knife. He had slept for 
only a few hours. 


He did not truly need to sleep, and had not needed to for a very long 
time. But that was not to say that he did not enjoy the action from 

time to time. Still, it had been centuries since he had last dreamt, an 
action he thoroughly relished on the rare occasions that it transpired. 


He rose from the simple metal cot, his muscles and joints pliable 
and supple as if he had not spent several hours inert and 
motionless. He stalked over to the heavy blast door, a slab of 
gargantuan metal two feet thick and weighing three tons. He 
wrenched it aside with ease and a metallic screech of protest from 
its wheels, the weight of the barrier a more effective deterrent to 
invaders than any lock. No one but him could open it, as he had 
ripped the hydraulics out of the sides of it, the little people's fleeting 
strength no match for the sheer burden of his bedroom door. 


Still, they insisted on their inane rules and regulations, two heavily 
armed guards standing watch over the entrance. They did not move 
as he left, the tinted shields of their riot gear helms hiding their 
emotions from Able, had he cared to look. 


As he strode through the corridors, a young, almost mousy woman 
struggled to reach him, the clicking of her high heel shoes 
resounding from behind him. 


"Seventy Six!" she called out plaintively. 


"Seventy Six! Please, wait for a moment. | have to talk to you,"she 
gasped as she ran, nearly out of breath, her cheeks red from 
exertion. 


Able stopped, turning around to face her slowly. 


She caught up quickly, bending over double for a moment to catch 
her breath. 


Able studied her fastidiously as she did so. 


She was a young woman, in her mid twenties, her eyes almost 
hidden behind square, thin rimmed glasses, thick, curly, shoulder 
length, light brown hair framing her small features. She was thin, but 
not overly so, yet everything about her spoke of a certain petiteness, 
as if she really was a smaller than she appeared. Her clothes were 
formal, white blouse, black skirt and tights, and she clutched a old 
brown clipboard, a pen in her other hand. 


"Yes?" asked Able, drawing out the word as languorously as 


possible. It almost sounded like an insult to the woman, one that 
spoke of apathy and indifference. 


"| have to talk to you," she responded plainly. 
"About?" Again, a range of insults in a single word. 


"It's a psychological evaluation." she answered, now beginning to 
sound just a little haughty at his tone. 


He simply turned and began to walk away, but she quickly followed 
suit. 


"The higher ups want another psych evaluation because of what you 
did to Professor Liham," she continued on, hurriedly trying to keep 
up with his merciless, distance eating strides. 


"How is Liham?" chuckled Able, flashing the woman a horrific smile. 
She nearly visibly recoiled in disgust upon seeing his teeth. They 
were thin and angular, the majority of the ones in the front filed to 
grim points, and they crowded his mouth, jostling for space, near 
bursting out of his mouth. 


Still, she carried on, determined not to appear weak to this 
monstrosity that wore human form. 


"He's still in the hospital. His doctors are amazed he's showing brain 
activity," 


Able muttered something unintelligible, and from the ugly expression 
he made, she could tell it was not pleasant. 


"I'm Doctor Angela Langley, and I'll be evaluating you through your 
actions today. Would it be possible for me to ask you some 
questions?" 


He looked at her coldly and began to talk animatedly in a tongue 
that certainly did not sound English. In fact, she had never heard 
anything like it before. While he spoke, he moved his clawlike hands 
in odd stratagems, speaking in a bizarre physical manner. 


He continued like this for several minutes, the gestures he made 


getting more and more strange, until at last, he stopped, a quick 
silence descending before he spoke again, this time in English. 


"And that would be my entire history, from the point of when | was 
born, to right now. Granted | removed some of the unimportant 
things, but the majority of it was there," he told her calmly. 


"But... But | couldn't understand it," she replied worriedly. 


"No... You can't," he answered back, increasing his pace 
exponentially, and leaving her far behind. 


He continued that pace until he was at the stadium where he trained 
with Pandora's Box. They were all already there, waiting for him. 
While Able set them a strict time to arrive there by, he often arrived 
there himself at arbitrary times, either several hours too early or late, 
expecting them to do the same, and woe betide those who were not, 
becoming his personal "whipping boy" for the rest of the session. 


They began with simple exercises, an hour of hard physical labor 
and several sparring matches. He fought in none of them, instead 
opting to watch. Fighting such inferior opponents, especially when 
they were unarmed would only serve to raise his ire, and put him 

into a foul mood. 


Time passed, and soon he decreed they had strained their tiny 
bodies to their limits, dismissing them with an apathetic wave of his 
hand. 


He trudged slowly through the facility, wallowing in his boredom. 
There was nothing to do. 


There was never anything to do. The people here had proven that 
they were a mediocre challenge at best, and there was rarely 
anything that pressed him to his limits anymore. Not like when the 
world was young.... Back then there was- 


"Seventy Six!" came a plaintive call from behind him, causing Able 
to roll his eyes in annoyance. 


"Seventy Six! Please! | still need to talk to you," she yelled, trying to 
run back up to him. 


Output: A DVD depicting Steve Jobs narrating his 
biography. 


Input: One hardcover copy of "Steve Jobs" by Walter 
Isaacson 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: A metallic cube with one button on it. When the 
button is pressed, a holographic image of Steve Jobs 
appears. The image appears to be sapient, capable of 
answering basic questions about Jobs' life, as well as 
about Apple Computers. 


Name: MTF Zeta-9 Commander , Assistant 
Researcher Daniels 

Date: 24/12/2016 

Total Items: Five (5) standard-issue FN P90 assault 
rifles, fully loaded. 


Input: One (1) P90 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) P90 AR. Direct viewing yielded no 
discernible results, but operation of the rifle showed that 
it no longer required ammunition, but fired compressed 
air at 43 billion gigapascals over a maximum distance of 
700m. Considerable damage to Site armory. 


Name: Dr. A Sutherland 
Date: 22/10/2016 
Total Items: One (1) Samsung Galaxy Note 7 


Input: One (1) Samsung Galaxy Note 7 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) M67 fragmentation grenade. Testing 
showed no extra-normal properties. 


Note from Dr. A Sutherland: | did this out of curiosity and 
because | wanted to prevent my phone from exploding in 
my pocket. Apparently SCP-914 has a sense of humour, 
and keeps up with current events. 


"What!?" he growled, clearly losing his patience. 


"U-uh, Well-" she stuttered, afraid now that he showed his irritation 
clearly. 


Angela took a deep breath, calming her nerves before continuing. 


"High Command has said that you must perform a-" she cut off with 
a grunt as she was lifted off her feet, raised into the air by a hideous 
mockery of a human hand, gripping her tightly around her throat. 


"Listen to me you slug of flesh," hissed Able coldly. 


"| have been patient with you because you were not worth my time, 
but should you continue, | will pull you apart, simply to cease your 
incessant nattering. Tell your superiors this," he told her with a 
scowl. 


"The only reason | agreed to this imprisonment is because I, for 
some fleeting moments, believed that you may lead me to 
something worthwhile with which to amuse myself. And if you all 
continue to irritate me with worthless, trivial tests, / will find every 
member of this organization, and everyone ever associated with this 
organization, locate each and every single one of them, and rip 
them limb from limb." 


"Am | clear... Angela?’ he whispered, his face pressed against her 
cheek. 


"Y-y-yes," she stammered out hoarsely, her eyes wide with fear. 


"Good," he spat cruelly, dropping her callously onto the floor, leaving 
her in a sprawled tangle of limbs on the ground. 


He could hear her gasping for breath as he stalked away, a sound 
he had heard countless times, from countless others, often before 
their death. 


Gasping for breath as their lungs filled with blood, their bodies torn 
and destroyed, numbed hands grasping their weapon with ever 
unresponsive fingers. 


And still, they rose up once more... 

Rose up once more... 

As he had... 

As he rose up once more... 

He could remember the sound that raven made... 

scratch 

The sounds it made as it scraped the ground above him... 
scratch scratch 

How he wished it would stop... 
scratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratch 
How he wished the sounds would stop... 

So he rose up... 

He rose up once more... 

He rose up as he would do so many times again... 

He rose up as he had done so many times before... 


He rose up, cold and gasping for breath, his hands still stained with 
dirt and filth and blood his blood, and he felt... 


He felt... 
Rage 


Angela started as Able suddenly started ripping segments of steel 
from the wall as he passed them by, shredding the hardened steel 
with his fingers as a child would a spiderweb, and casting them 
aside with errant, uncaring tosses. 


She could see the muscles on his shoulders stretch and strain 


against his neck, tensing so tightly as if to rip themselves free of his 
body. 


And then he stopped. He turned his head, slowly, enough to look at 
Angela with one crazed, baleful, bloodshot eye and he spoke in the 
most chilling tone she had ever heard. 


"What?" 
She turned and fled. 


He turned back, looking at his torn and shaking hands, gobbets of 
their flesh now decorating the metal he had so casually tossed 
aside. His blood spattered onto the ground with thick wet splashes, 
a morbid trail for others to follow. 


He let them fall to his side, and continued walking, his brows 
furrowed in disgust and irritation at a world that bored him to his very 
core. 


He hated being bored. 
So he intended to do something about it. 


Pulling a sword out of the nothing, he observed its notched and 

serrated edges almost lovingly as they curled across its surface 
slowly, before giving the weapon a few experimental swings and 
burying it into the now exposed concrete of the wall. 


Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he slid his hands beneath the choker 
on his neck, partially crushing his throat in his determination not to 
damage the fragile band of metal. 


Confident that he had enough shielding, he snapped it off as quickly 
as possible. 


It exploded violently, a volatile sunburst that decimated his already 
bleeding hands, shards of shrapnel slicing into his face, neck and 
torso. 


He shrugged off the damage, stretching out his arms as he 
attempted to fix the somewhat pulped bone and muscles in his 


hands. There were a small series of clicks, and he regained some of 
the mobility in the massacred digits, but not much. 


No matter, he thought, retrieving a thin barbed chain out of the 
darkness, spending several minutes wrapping it around his hand, 
clenched around the hilt of the buried sword. 


A few practice tugs to ensure that it was holding, unmindful of the 
way the chain tore into his already desecrated flesh, the lean man 
yanked the sword out of the wall, and set about making his own 
entertainment. 


Within twenty minutes, he had cleaved his way though an entire 
legion of panicked guards, arriving in one of the major containment 
areas. 


Within thirty minutes, there were hordes of skittering crab like 
creatures swarming across the area, shredding the flesh from 
anything in their path, leaving naught but gnawed piles of bone 
behind. One of the corridors had converted itself into the maw of 
some tremendous beast, luring the unwary in and crushing them 
with its enormous mandibles, spitting out the remnants with a belch. 
Occasionally, a strange skeletal human hand would snake out from 
beneath a some fallen debris, out of an air vent, or even out of the 
cracks the floor, and snatch a someone up, mulching them into 
bloody paste as it tried to force them into its hiding spot. 


Personnel ran about in terror, guards trying to contain one threat, 
but falling to another. Some went mad, firing on everything, friend 
and foe alike. Others lost their minds to far more sinister forces, 
going berserk, twisting inside, or simply dying on the spot. 


And at the center of this chaos, was Able, laughing and screaming 
like a madman, fighting anything and everything in his way. All 
around him, blood fell like plentiful rain, the flash of gunfire as 
lightning, and the hail of weapons fire, screams and roars were 
thunder in the storm of madness he had created. 


The monster laughed manically as he danced across a moving 
carpet of the scuttling arachnid creatures, bursting them under his 
weight with errant footfalls, his weapons cutting wide swathes out of 


their ranks and spattering them onto the walls. 


The few people that fell into his way soon fell out again, often in 
pieces if they came too close, but he did not actively pursue them. 
Even the guards were largely ignored, unless they attempted to fire 
at him, in which case retribution was swift, brutal, and deadly. 


Soon, the corridor was clean of all movement, with the exception of 
the odd shuddering corpse. 


Able snorted in derision, disgusted at the weakness of his 
opponents, and how short lived his "entertainment" was. 


Preparing to leave, he paused as he heard the crunch of debris 
being crushed underfoot, and the click of a hammer being cocked 
back. 


Turning to see what fool had come to try and stop him, he rolled his 
eyes in frustration upon seeing exactly who and what had arrived. 


A bloody, trembling Miss Langley, eyes wide with terror, thin hands 
clutching a pistol far too large for her digits to properly grip, slack 
kneed and trying to probe her way through the desolation, 
involuntarily heaving at the sights left behind. 


She turned up, starting as she saw Able glaring at her from the end 
of the corridor, his expression as unamused as hers was fearful. 


Her entire body tensed up, her lip trembling, a mild tic beneath one 
eye. Slowly, she raised the gun, it shaking spastically as she 
attempted to aim it at the man before her. 


"S... S-stop...," she half cried, half mumbled, tears of fear beginning 
to run down her cheeks, clearing paths through the filth and dust.