Ford nodded, "Well, in general societies have had ways of dealing 
with the supernatural. Today, we have the Foundation and the GOC, 
containing and destroying things, respectively. In the Middle Ages, 
the Church (both Catholic and Orthodox) worked pretty hard to 
either harness those objects that they could explain in ways to fit 
their theological beliefs or to destroy those which didn't. This 
structure is just an ancient site for some now long-forgotten 
analogue to the Foundation." 


"You said there were five levels," Harper said. 


"Yes," Ford confirmed. He handed Harper a flashlight and hardhat. 
"Be careful when we're down there. There are a lot of traps and 
deadfalls. We think we've located and sprung or cleared them all, 
but I've lost four D-class, two researchers, and a security guard all 
since we initially thought we'd cleared them." 


"Like something out of Raiders of the Lost Ark," Harper remarked 
dryly. 


"Worse," Ford warned. "Not only are these real and not movie 
magic, many of them are far more sophisticated than I've seen in 
any other tombs. Do not touch anything. Spots which are confirmed 
as safe to step have been marked in white tape. Red tape indicates 
spots you should not step." 


"White good, red bad," Harper repeated. "Understood." 


The two men walked down the stairs. Level 5 appeared to be a 
single empty hallway, perhaps fifty meters long. At regular intervals, 
the researcher staff had positioned battery-powered lanterns. The 
floor and wall were dotted with red and white tape. Here and there, 
deep pits in the floor dropped out of sight, invisible to even the most 
attentive observer if not for the red warning tape. Slowly and 
cautiously, Ford and Harper crept forward. 


After an eternity, they reached the end of the corridor. A giant door 
lay in pieces across the end of the hallway, apparently torn down 
and smashed from the inside. "This is the entrance to Room 501," 
Ford explained. "The door was like this when we arrived. It's 
constructed of a variety of metal alloys whose formula | won't bore 
you with, but the metallurgy necessary to make them is something 
that shouldn't have been possible until the middle twentieth century." 


"BC?" Harper asked. 


"No, the middle twentieth century AD," Ford said. "One of the key 
parts of the primary alloy was depleted uranium. And yet this door 
appears to be as old as the structure itself. We have no idea how it 
was made forty-four centuries before it ordinarily could have been. 


In any case, our best estimates suggest the door wasn't broken until 
sometime in the last ten years or so. Whatever was inside - what 
we've designated SCP-557-1 - got out." 


"That can't be good," Harper said. 


"It gets better," Ford said. "That door is, or was, three cubits thick. 
Sorry, about a meter and a half. Ancient Egyptian measurement. 
Anyway. Dr. Morales analyzed the fracture pattern. This thing was 
broken in just one physical blow. There aren't many things that can 
exert that sort of physical force, even today. Colonel El-Hashem has 
a demolition tech who estimates he'd have trouble rigging a charge 
to destroy the door that wouldn't rebound the shock-wave into the 
chamber and kill anything inside." 


Ford ushered the counterintelligence officer inside. Room 501 was 
vast, easily twenty meters on a side and over five meters high. The 
center of the room's floor was covered by a large granite slab 
covered in runes Harper didn't recognize. A smaller stone block 
stood in the room. Metal chains hung broken from the smaller stone. 
"Dash-one was imprisoned here, chained to this stone. The chains 
are the same material as the door." 


Harper let out a low whistle. Whatever SCP-557-1 was, it had been 
both big and incredibly powerful. "So, we have no idea what it was?" 


"Most of the records haven't been translated yet," Ford replied. 
"What we've found so far, including on the walls of Room 501 itself, 
refer to dash-one as simply ‘the prisoner.’ There is one exception. A 
single reference in Egyptian refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep."” 


"Apep?" Harper asked. 


"Apep, or Apophis as he was referred to by the Greeks, was the 
Egyptian deification of darkness and chaos," Ford explained. "He 
was the personification of all that was evil, seen as a giant serpent 
or dragon. He wasn't so much worshiped as worshiped against; the 
ancient Egyptians believed that every night the sun god, Ra, would 
fight Apep, and if Ra ever lost, the sun would fail to rise again." 


"So dash-one is the bastard son of this guy?" Harper asked. 


"We don't know, but that's what the one record we've found with any 
sort elaboration suggests," Ford responded. "Colonel El-Hashem 
has standing orders to locate and secure dash-one, and to assume 
it to be Keter until proven otherwise. No luck so far. And you have 
information that someone has found dash-one? If that's correct, 
that's very troubling.” 


Harper nodded, thinking. "Very troubling indeed." 


Foundation Commanda-02, Washington, D.C. 
Saturday, 24 December 1988, 2200 hours local time 


Muir and Monica huddled around the secure speaker phone. Harper 
was on the line from the middle of nowhere in Oman, just finishing 
up his findings. 


"So, we're on the lookout for the bastard son of the ancient Egyptian 
god of chaos and darkness," Monica asked incredulously. 


"Welcome to the Foundation," Muir sniped. The intern rolled her 
eyes at him. 


Harper ignored him. "So, | presume Seven told you about 1440? 
Have you turned anything up?" 


"Just to make sure we're on the same page, you have the file last 
updated 15 June 1987?" Muir asked. It never hurt to double check 
such things. 


There was a pause on the line, the Harper said, "That is correct." 


Monica read from some notes she had hastily scribbled on a legal 
pad earlier that evening. "Mr. Harper, Site-11 doesn't have an exact 
fix on fourteen-forty's position, but they believe it might be 
somewhere near Mt. Kazbek in the Caucasus Mountains in the 
Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic." 


"Who — local contact — ground?" the transmission from Harper 
asked, fading in and out of static. 


"Say again, Tim, we missed that," Muir instructed. 


"-said, — is the — -tact on the grou-?" came the reply. 


Monica looked at Muir, "He wants to know the contact on the 
ground." 


Muir called into the telephone, "Your contact is Captain Ivan 
Petrovich Gagarin. He'll meet you in Vladikavkaz." 


"Captain — Gagarin — in Vladikavkaz—" crackled the phone, 
dissolving into static. 


"Tim? Harper?!" Muir called, but the connection was dead. 


Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0700 hours local time 


"Troy? Monica?" yelled Harper into the secure radio set. 


The operator looked up apologetically. "Sorry, sir, but we've lost the 
transmission." 


"Looks like a sandstorm is on the way," said another technician on 
the other side of the command tent. "Coming in from the west, ETA 
five minutes." 


Harper looked at El-Hashem and Ford, "How long do these things 
last?" 


"Hard to tell. Could be hours," the Arab colonel replied. 
Harper hoisted his bag. "Is the helo ready to go?" 
"Yes, but it'd be better to ride the storm out here," Ford cautioned. 


Harper started towards the tent's exit. "Can't waste the time," he 
said over his shoulder as he stepped outside. 


To the east, a towering wall of sand rose kilometers high. Harper ran 
to the helicopter pad and gestured to the pilot to spin up the bird's 
engines. Within sixty seconds, they were airborne, racing back 
towards the city as the research site was engulfed by the sandstorm. 


Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED] 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours GMT 


A red light blinked on and off, annoyingly insistent amongst a sea of 
green and blue denoting the status of the Foundation's worldwide 
assets. Probationary Agent Johnson sat up and called up the 
associated status indicator. He'd gotten a bottom of the barrel 
assignment, shipped off to the middle of nowhere straight out of 
training, only arriving the day before. 


PRIORITY 2 ALERT 
Automated Notification: Research Site-29 
communications lost. 


"Uh, Agent Marcus? We have a Priority 2. Research Site-29 just lost 
communications," Johnson said, worried. 


"Calm down, Probie," his superior said. "Satellite IMINT shows a 
sandstorm in that part of Oman. We've had problems every time one 
of those has come through since we set up shop a few months ago. 
Landline's still a work in progress." 


"So you think the storm is disrupting the radio signal?" Johnson 
asked. 


"Third time this week," Marcus replied, sipping his coffee. "The 
system log any danger or distress codes before the signal went 
out?" 


Johnson took a moment to call up the relevant data. "Uh, no," he 
said. 


Marcus smiled, "Well, then, Probie, it's probably nothing. Fire off a 
sitrep and Form CL-287 to HQ and Site-11. As per protocol, if the 
signal doesn't return after the storm clears, they'll send in an MTF." 


Johnson swallowed, and nodded. If Agent Marcus wasn't too 
worried, he decided he shouldn't be either. 


According to the object's documentation (SCP-609-A, as described 
below), SCP-609 is intended to be a literalistic embodiment of 
Plato's theory of form. Researchers have conjectured that SCP-609 
can be controlled through visualization because SCP-609-1 and the 
concept of SCP-609-1 are the same object, and that SCP-609-1 
cannot be damaged or otherwise mutilated because SCP-609-1 is a 
manifestation of an immutable metaphysical form. 


If multiple observers attempt to activate SCP-609-1 simultaneously, 
an additional instance of SCP-609-1 will manifest for each observer. 
As a result of its thought-activated replication, SCP-609 has 
proliferated under Foundation custody. See Document 609-A for 
current estimates. 


When SCP-609-1 is relocated to or generated in an area outside of 
the viewer's visual range, a recovery mission is required to resume 
full containment of SCP-609. Locations from which SCP-609-1 have 
been recovered include: 


« The Research Facility 5 kitchen 
¢ The Research Facility 5 second-floor bathroom 


¢ The apartment of Researcher , on top of a television 
¢« A warehouse in Pasadena where SCP- had been recently 
located 


The set of television series [REDACTED]. Breach occurred 
during a taping; all footage of the event was confiscated and 
amnestics were administered to all witnesses. 

* The frontal lobe of Assistant Researcher 

* The mammary tissue of Researcher 

¢ Earth's moon (currently unrecoverable). 


SCP-609 was recovered with a yellow box believed to be its 
packaging. The box is labeled "DR. WONDERTAINMENT'S 
ONTOLOGICAL 6-BALL™" in large text, although the typography 
differs in comparison to other products recovered from the same 
manufacturer. Smaller graphics below the title depict a marble bust 
of Plato with a speech balloon that says "IT REALLY EXISTS!" and 
an unidentified grinning woman exclaiming "NOW SUBJECT TO 
CAUSALITY!" A green pool ball is visible inside through a 
cellophane window. 


« Part V | HUB | Part VII » 


Conspiracy, Part VII 


Welcome to Vladikavkaz 


Beslan Airport, Viadikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic 
Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1200 hours local time 


Harper stepped off the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-42 passenger jet 
expecting to walk to carry his bag to customs at the one-runway 
airport's tiny terminal building. He did not expect to find himself face- 
to-face with a group of very angry Soviet Airborne soldiers training 
assault rifles on him. A stern-faced captain with a thick mustache 
glared at him. 


"OH - AMEPUKAHCKMH LUNMOH! ApectyiTe ero HemegneHHo!" shouted 
the captain. "He is an American spy! Arrest him immediately!" 
Harper realized the smartest thing to do was say nothing - the 
Foundation would find out soon enough and get him out of this 
mess. Two burly soldiers seized Harper's arms while a bag was 
thrust over his head. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, 
and he was marched to a truck. 


The ride took about half an hour over some very bumpy dirt roads. 
Harper was pulled from the truck and half marched, half dragged 
into a building. He was placed in a rough wooden chair, and the bag 
was whipped off his head. The room was part of a wooden shack, 
dark and damp with a dirt floor. The smell of manure drifted in from 
outside. The mustached captain stood before him. 


"My apologies, Mr. Harper. The subterfuge was necessary to 
preserve appearances for my men, most of whom are conscripts 
who know nothing of the Foundation. Furthermore, O5 gave me 
strict orders that | have never heard of you, and you were never 
here," said the captain in flawless English. "| am Captain Ivan 
Petrovich Gagarin. Welcome to Vladikavkaz." He looked behind 


Harper at a very young lieutenant standing guard. "CHumute 
KaHAjanbi." "Remove the shackles." The guard reached down and 
undid the handcuffs. 


"Glad to be here," Harper replied, massaging his wrists. "What's the 
plan now?" 


"lam interrogating the dangerous American spy along with an 
expert from the GRU," Captain Gagarin explained, pulling out a set 
of Soviet civilian clothes appropriate for a GRU staff officer and 
handing them to Harper. "Once we have finished, | will execute the 
cowardly capitalist pig and have my men bury him out back." He 
pointed at a misshapen bag about the dimensions of a grown man 
lying in the corner of the room. "Junior Lieutenant Strelnikov here 
will then take you, the GRU interrogation expert, back to the airport, 
by way of wherever you need to go." The lieutenant nodded silently. 


Harper nodded and started changing into the offered clothing. He 
asked, "Captain, do you have my bag somewhere?" The lieutenant 
left the room briefly and returned with it. As Harper buttoned his 
Soviet overcoat with one hand, he pulled a file from the bag and 
thumbed through. Finding the picture he was looking for, he asked, 
"Captain, this is SCP-1440. | need to speak with him." 


"Ah, yes, Ctapuk v3 HuoTKyaa, the Old Man from Nowhere,” Gagarin 
said. "He's one of several entities running around the Caucasus right 
now. You're in luck, Mr. Harper. He was last sighted a few days ago 

on the southeastern slopes of Mount Kazbek, just north of Kanobi. It 
is less than an hour drive from here." 


"Perfect," Harper said. 


Gagarin turned to Strelnikov and spoke briefly in hushed and rapid- 
fire Russian, handing over the photograph. The lieutenant nodded. 
Gagarin turned and pulled out his pistol. He fired two quick shots 
followed by a third into the floor. "| have just executed the 
American," he explained. "ToBapvuy mnagwnn nenteHaqt , 
ConpoBognte Halunx rocten 4o asponoptal" He barked loudly for 
the benefit of the soldiers outside. "Escort our guest to the airport, 
Comrade Junior Lieutenant!" 


Strelinikov hustled Harper outside to a waiting jeep. He tossed the 
counterintelligence investigator's bag in the back seat and they sped 
off southward. 


Though paved, the Georgian Military Road along which they 
traveled was in dire need of maintenance. Racing along at well over 
a hundred kilometers per hour, Harper hoped their trip wouldn't end 
ignominiously in a fiery crash after hitting a pothole. The lieutenant's 
driving was only marginally better than that of the infamous Dr. 
Gerald. 


"You Foundation official?" asked Strelinikov in broken English. 


"Yes," Harper replied, also in English. "I'm Harper. | supposed you'd 
call me Timofey Ivanovich, since my dad's name was John." 


"| Dmitri Arkadeyevich," said the soldier. "My English well? | learning 
in my time free." 


"Uh, yes, very," Harper lied. Switching to Russian, he asked, "Do 
you mind if we speak in Russian? | would like to practice."