Gathering two hundred days of concentrated time all at once, and 
leaking time everywhere, Arjmand charged. The moment he left his 
cover, the soldiers spotted him and opened fire, but he was moving 
at such speed the bullets seemed to barely move as they floated 
lazily in the air. He knew he couldn't maintain this speed for very 
long- he already ate through months of speed, and his muscles 
screamed in protest. Luckily, he didn't need to. As he reached the 
first of the soldiers, he placed a finger on the man's forehead. Using 
the time leaking out of him to his advantage, Arjmand forced three 
weeks of wakefulness into the man's brain. Without the Djinn failsafe 
to protect him, the soldier collapsed immediately, suffering the 
equivalent of three weeks without sleep. With blinding speed, 
Arjmand turned and elbowed another soldier in the stomach, 
sending him flying across the hall. 


Arjmand was beginning to enjoy himself, despite the enormous 
temporal pressure his body was under. In less then thirty seconds, 
or several months of concentrated time, ten of the fifteen soldiers 
were down, out cold or dead. Arjmand accelerated the air flow in the 
lungs of one of the survivors, causing the friction to burn the man's 
lunges to cinders. Another had his bladder and intestines explode, 
caving in under the pressure of a month of waste that wasn't there 
moments before. This was true power, Arjmand thought, this was 
glory! He laughed as he ripped the guns from the hands of the 
surviving men, casting them aside. It was time to finish this. He was 
going to enjoy this, oh yes. 


A sudden shock of pain in his back brought his euphoria to a sharp 
end. Turning around, he saw a figure in grey holding one of the 
discarded rifles. He gathered what little remained of his time and 
tried to rush to it, but the figure was somehow too fast, even for him. 


SCP-846: Robo-Dude 


Item #: SCP-846 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-846 is to be contained ina 
reinforced steel safe, located in Storage Unit at Site . SCP-846's 
containment area is to be guarded by three (3) security personnel at 
all times. Any unauthorized personnel attempting to access 
SCP-846 are to be taken into custody and interrogated by on-site 
security. 


Activation of SCP-846 must be authorized by at least three (3) Level 
4 personnel. Any testing of SCP-846 is to take place at an on-site 
firing range. 


Description: SCP-846 is a plastic toy robot measuring twenty (20) 
centimeters in height and five (5) centimeters in width. The bottom of 
SCP-846's right foot bears the text 'Robo-Dude® (Now with Voice 
Command Action), by Dr. Wondertainment!' Signs of paint chipping 
and minor damage to SCP-846 indicate that it is roughly ten (10) 
years old, although attempts to question SCP-846 on this have been 
ignored. (See Interview 846-1) 


SCP-846 is operated using a small 'controller' featuring an 'On/Off' 
button, a 'Speak' button and a small microphone. SCP-846 is 
activated using the 'On/Off' button, and verbal communication can 
be facilitated using the 'Speak' button. SCP-846 appears to be 
extremely well programmed, if not sentient, and will respond to most 
questions posed to it. 


SCP-846 identifies itself as 'Robo-Dude' and claims that it 
possesses three hundred and fifty (850) 'Robo-Accessories’. When 
asked to use one of these accessories, the torso of SCP-846 slides 
open, revealing the desired accessory, which it then proceeds to 
utilize. The interior of SCP-846 appears to change completely each 


Three more shots, and Arjmand felt himself falling, as slow as a 
feather, as heavy as a tombstone. 


"You promised there would be enough time...you said | could kill 
those who attacked me..." 


"And we kept our word. You never mentioned the man hiding behind 
that corner." 


Arjmand would have cursed the traitorous bastards, but he just felt 
so very tired... 


Colonel Abtin Arjmand's time had run out. 


Agent Gladstone, nursing a broken arm, was gazing sullenly at what 
remained of his task force. Over half his men were dead, and of the 
rest, only three were in any sort of fighting condition, including 
himself. Of course, there was also the man in grey, who was at the 
moment checking the dead colonel's body for something, while 
taking care to keep his weapon pointed firmly on Gladstone and his 
men. 


"Huh, would you look at that," the man in grey said, removing a 
silver necklace for the colonel's corpse. "It seems like this trip wasn't 
a complete waste of time after all." 


"Yeah, I'm real happy for you." 
"Come now, no need to be like that. | did just save your lives." 


"Oh yes, and I'm sure you didn't wait until most of my men were 
disposed of before acting on purpose. You must have been busy 
building an orphanage for the blind behind that corner." 


The man in grey just shrugged and turned to leave. "| would advise 
you to wait an hour or so before making your way back to your 
rendezvous point. The good colonel here didn't come alone. Oh, I've 
almost forgotten," he produced what seemed to be an ancient toy. 
"Are you a father, agent?" 


Gladstone shook his head. "Good, then it should be safe for you to 


handle this. | believe this is what the Iranians were looking for." He 
tossed the toy to Gladstone, who awkwardly caught it with his good 
hand. Then, he threw his rifle away and stepped out of the stone 
hall's mirage doors. Gladstone, without a moment hesitation, 
recovered the gun and went after him. He'd be damned if he let the 
smug bastard get away with a possible SCP object. The desert 
sands were blowing outside, as the sun was beginning to set on the 
salt flats. Of the man in grey, there was no sign. 


As the dry and salty desert air began to smell of rain, the man in 
grey knew he was out of harm's way. Passing the corner of what 
seemed to be an abandoned butcher shop, he sank to the floor and 
wiped the sweat from his forehead. He seemed to have misplaced 
his hat, which annoyed him. 


A fortunate turn of events. The talisman of the Djinn could 
speed the growth of the Maker's chainfruit. They are creatures 
of avarice, but they will serve. 


He hated talking to the Breath without his Gem of Aspects. Ever 
since he was forced to give the Gordian Stone away by the Breath's 
own instructions, his ability to discern which of its aspects was 
currently dominant was much reduced. This sounded like the Mind, 
but it could have been the Eye or the Mouth just as easily. The 
Breath was a solid, impenetrable storm front now, and trying to have 
a conversation with it was like trying to fly a kite in a Jovian 
maelstrom. 


The others are stirring. The Pulse has attained powerful tools 
already, and the rest are not far behind. The fruit will be 
needed. Acquire the services of the Djinn. 


He knew there were other Gems out there, like the Pulse's stone, 

but he had no way of knowing where they were. Besides, he knew 
the Breath did everything for a reason, and the blasted thing must 
not have wanted him to have one anymore. 


Do not tarry. 


With a sigh, the man in grey twisted the talisman, and the dirty 


butcher shop was replaced by lavish dining hall, all ivory and gold. 
An enormous man, wearing a hat which could not be described in 
civilized company, rose from a cushion and waddled towards him, a 
wide grin on his face. 


"A new customer, how pleasant! Welcome to the demesne of the 
Djinn, my good man. Are you here to trade? We have such 
marvelous wonders waiting for you, and all for just a humble price of 
time." 


"I'm sorry, but all my time is already in the possession of another. 
No, I'm simply here to take a few years of concentrated time. 
Twenty-five or so should suffice." 


The grin vanished. "If you have no time to trade for it, we have 
nothing further to discuss." 


The Djinn began making his way back to his cushion, and, feeling a 
rush of air at his back, dived just in time to avoid a large stone bust 
colliding with his skull. Turning, he saw the man in grey was 
standing in the midst of a swirling mass of air, which was rapidly 
reducing the dining hall into piles of expensive rubble. The Djinn, 
with surprising agility for a man of his size, accelerated his 
movement and smashed into the interloper with the force of two 
centuries, but found that all of his time simply vanished into the air 
flow around the man. Later the Djinn understood why—the thing was 
so old, two hundred years were nothing more than a quick lunch 
break for it. 


"Who are you?" 


The man in grey felt himself disappearing, fading into the gathering 

storm, and the Breath of the World, sometimes known as the Wind 

in the West, the sum of humanity's secrets, considered the question 
for a moment. 


Nobody. 


Fear Alone 


The two doctors stood side by side in the tiny room, facing the 
locked door on the other side of the one they had just entered 
through. The elder of the two quietly flipped through a number of 
pages in a leather-bound journal, while the younger anxiously 
adjusted and readjusted and made sure not to lock his knees. The 
light here seemed brighter, the younger might have noted, the air 
thick with something foreboding, had his mind not been racing 
through the millions of scenarios that might await him on the other 
side of the door. He had tried at conversation with the elder doctor 
earlier, but his nervousness had broken through and his voice had 
cracked, and the other man had raised an eyebrow and returned to 
his notes. 


It was as if an eternity had passed before they finally heard a voice 
crackle over the speakers in the room. Dr. Vandivier, the elder, 
raised an eyebrow yet again as Dr. Montgomery, the younger, 
jumped at the sound. 


"Please state your name as it appears in the Foundation personnel 
database, and submit your Level 4 Foundation identification number 
and passcode." The voice spoke clearly, its tone indicating a lifetime 
of repetition. 


Dr. Vandivier coughed slightly, and spoke. "Dr. Gregory Arnold 
Vandivier. Identification number 4511-12894-19-055. Passcode, 
18840-12884-19078-00004." 


There was the slightest of hesitations before the voice cut through 
again, asking the same of Montgomery. The elder doctor looked 
over to him, something akin to sympathy momentarily crossing his 
eyes. "Relax," he spoke softly. "Just recite the number." 


Montgomery swallowed, took a deep breath, and recited his own 
information. "Dr. Anderson Dean Montgomery. Identification number 
9280-27112-17-054. Passcode-" A brief instance of doubt struck 


him, but passed when he saw Dr. Vandivier's reassuring nod. 
"16738-17489-13782-00004." 


Both men stood silently again, the last of Montgomery's words 
hanging in the air. Another brief pause, another eternity, and then 
the door in front of them clicked. 


"Enter, Dr. Vandivier and Dr. Montgomery." 


The sliding panel moved quietly into the wall, and a dull wave of 
stale, recycled air passed over them. Montgomery was reminded of 
his time practicing within a prison, where every breath of the men in 
isolation hung around them like a shroud. The memory caused him 
to falter briefly, while Dr. Vandivier moved through the entrance. 


"Come along, now," he said over his shoulder. "We've not much 
further to go." 


The two walked in silence down the long, white hallway. There were 
cameras every 50 feet, or so Montgomery had been told. The floor 
below them was tile, and every step echoed off of the walls around 
them, announcing their arrival like an army of tiny drummers. As the 
temperature dropped slightly, Montgomery could feel beads of sweat 
forming on the back of his neck, persistent in nature despite the chill. 


Ahead of them was a set of double doors. To the side of the doors 
was a brass information plaque, like the dozens of others across the 
site. As they approached it, the etching on the plaque became 
visible, causing Montgomery's throat to catch. 


Item #: SCP-231-7 
Object Class: Keter 


Vandivier was unfazed, and quickly pushed through to the other 
side. Montgomery gave a moment of pause to take a deep breath, 
and then did the same. The scene on other side of the doors was 
fairly quiet, with a number of doctors standing around various 
displays looking at readouts and information that was being 
processed on the machines behind them. There was an air of 
solemnity about all of them, and the gravity of the room struck 


Montgomery like a ton of bricks. A clock on the wall read 19:45 in 
bright red numerals, and another to the side was counting down to 
zero. 


A tall man in a white jacket noticed the two men, and strode quickly 
across to greet them. He shook Vandivier's hand first and 
exchanged some hushed words, then turned to Montgomery to do 
the same. 


"Good evening, Dr. Montgomery," he said, his expression 
unwavering behind a bushy grey mustache. "Oliver Targus, a 
pleasure to meet you." 


Montgomery met the handshake. "The same." 


Dr. Targus walked him over to a series of consoles displaying 
medical information and vitals statistics. "Dr. Montgomery, this is 
your workstation here. I'll give you an opportunity to check out the 
sensors in a little bit, and see if you want to make any adjustments.” 
He pointed over towards a side screen, which showed a video feed 
of an empty white room. "This is the video display for the procedure 
room. We don't keep staff members in the room during the 
procedure, so this will be your eyes and ears throughout. That look 
alright?" 


Montgomery nodded. He peered at the screens, observed the 
information about heart rate and EEG readouts, and for a moment 
felt comfortable. This was his element, his wheelhouse. 


But then his eyes flicked to a screen containing a live ultrasound 
feed, and his own heart rate began to accelerate. He turned quickly 
to avoid letting his nerves show. "This looks just fine. What else am | 
going to be required to do?" 


Dr. Targus smiled briefly, and then led him over to a large 
observation window. The window sat above a white room, the same 
room from the video feed, he imagined. A single door was on the 
side of the room to his right. He looked across the way, and saw 
other doctors and researchers standing on the other side of the 
command room looking in through the observation window on their 
side. Montgomery wondered what they were all here to do. He 


decided it probably wasn't worth thinking about. 


"Here in a few minutes, we're going to begin the procedure. Once it 
gets started, it progresses pretty quickly, so you'll have to keep your 
wits about you with those monitors. If you notice anything out of the 
ordinary, report it to Dr. Brunell, over there." 


He pointed across the room to a female doctor with shoulder length 
blonde hair, who herself was going over a packet of notes with 
another short male doctor. "She's in charge of medical stability, and 
she'll be just outside of the observation room during the procedure. 
You'll be able to page her at your station, and she'll be your primary 
contact for other tasks on this assignment." Montgomery looked up 
after a moment, and noticed Dr. Targus staring at him. 


"| understand your anxiety, Dean." He smiled slightly again. "We 
were all like you at one point. But understand the importance of our 
task, here, and perform your job with the excellence that brought 
you here. Everything will be fine.” 


Montgomery nodded, and swallowed. "Thank you, doctor. Just 
reassignment nerves, you know." He tried to get a weak smile out, 
but felt it falter on his lips. 


Just then, a tone buzzed through the command room, followed by 
the same calm voice from the entrance hall. "Warning: Procedure 
110-Montauk will begin in five minutes. All personnel, please report 
to your stations."