And the ancient man unmoving in his cot. He is not asleep either, for 
he does not need to. His thoughts are unknowable, nor does he 
process them except as part of a broader knowledge, a pattern, that 
braces - has braced - his existence - his dharma - his reason for 
existence. From this and his silence he derives strength. Today he is 
more mind than matter. But he will recover soon, and be stronger 
when he is needed again. 


Lastly, the acolyte, tossing and turning in dreams, seeing others - 
seeing herself - through the lens afforded by memory. What of her, 
then? What of me? 


| look to the lady for answers, but she thinks that | already know. 
She smiles a memory of a smile and disappears. 


There are no further dreams. 


Transcript of video log retrieved from Provisional Site-2696 
("The Hut") 


Beginning of transcript. 


The video shows a white wall, presumably located in the 
pantry of Provisional Site-2696. On a stool, spray- 
painted blue, sits a woman in her early twenties, with 
brown eyes and shaved brown hair. There is an 
analogue clock behind her, almost out of view; it reads 
1:39. The timestamp of the video shows that it is exactly 
two in the morning. The date is the 1St of July, 1980. 


The woman is holding the video camera close to her 
face. She speaks softly to the video camera, as though 
not wanting to be heard. 


Woman: Hey, you doing okay? 


Woman: Listen, | just wanted to talk this down, on the 
record, in case | forget. 


Woman: I've been talking to the others, and coming to 


terms with what's happened, and | think | kind of 
understand. 


Woman: It's the gesture of it, or the form of it. Or it's just, 
the language of everything, fuck. Point is, it's not so 
scary out there. 


Woman: | don't know if this sounds cliche, but we're all 
each doing our own thing to survive, and, coming all 
together, it's something. Bigger than us, between us, 
whole is more than the sum of our parts, | guess. | don't 
know. 


Woman: Okay, so | lied. It is scary out there. Yeah. And 
we're not always going to be able to grow back one 
hundred percent. But the important thing is that we can 
and do grow, and we try again, and we do good. 


Woman: That's what we do. We keep doing good. 


Woman: Now, | don't know entirely what your deal is. | 
don't know you, you don't know me, I'm just talking to a 
screen here, but what the hey. Maybe you're scared or 
some shit. Of us, or the monster we've got to fight. Hell, 
even Charlie's scared too. 


Woman: Point is, we're all in this together. 


Woman: And even if you don't want to be in, that's okay. 
We all have our levels, and we all got to find them. And | 
understand if you don't want to join, like, that's entirely 
okay. 


Woman: Just wanted to let you know that, um, we'll be 
here if you want to. You're always welcome to join. 


Woman: Does that make sense? | thought it did, in my 
head. 


Woman: Well, that's all | came to say. See you, | guess. 
Molly out. 


The woman reaches behind the camera and squeezes. 
A beep is heard. The recording then ends. 


End of transcript. 


‘daa’, you're too fucking late 


In this world, the sun cannot bear to be too far from the horizon. The 
day lives in perpetual sunrise and sunset. Stars fill the night-time sky 
like spilled glitter, immune to any brightness below. 


The summer breeze wafted through an open window to an empty 
office. A red leather chair spun with no one to sit in it. Papers 
flickered with the wind, unattended. Dr. Wondertainment was not in 
today. He would not be in for a week. 


Only the few employees whom he had tasked with covering his 
absence would know he had disappeared. Fewer would know why 
— that he left for a week every summer in the hopes of reconciling 
his greatest regret as a creator. And, more importantly, a father- 
figure. 


In the noon sunset, Dr. Wondertainment wandered unnoticed 
through the crowded city streets. He danced between the shadows 
of a kissing couple, friends out for bike rides, and children walking 
home from school. Through silhouettes, he arrived at a decrepit 
apartment in the slums. 


Dressed in a pinstripe suit worth more than half the city, the Great 
Toymaker sat in a moldy lobby and waited as he had for the past 
decade. When the sun ducked behind the horizon, he retreated to 
the rooftop to keep company with the stars. 


For two days and three nights, he waited in this manner. On the third 
day, exhaustion claimed him and he slept in a rotting bed. When he 
awoke, he thought he saw a coat as scarlet as blood. 


It was only the sunrise. 


On the fifth day, his hope had lost its battle to despair. Dr. 


Wondertainment wept, bitter and alone. 


On the seventh and final day, he wrote an apology letter in golden 
ink. He confessed his regret for abandoning Mr. Redd to rot in this 
apartment. He expressed his desire to make amends. 


But Mr. Redd was long gone, chasing adventure with all the anger 
and violence of an unloved, lonely child. 


"P.S. I'll be here again next year, on the anniversary | left 
you. If you'll forgive me, we can go back home together." 


The letter was left at the desk of the lobby, among all the other 
untouched apologies. 


To Settle All Accounts of the Butt 


Oi, turn off all your stuff, terminate your bleeps and bloops, we're 
waiting for the show to finally get on the road. 


The audience is cloaked in darkness, and the world feels like 
nothing. 


Silence washes upon them. The honeyed lips of screaming silences. 
It's like, 6AM. | just woke up. 


| kind of walk out onto the stage, rubbing my eyes a bit. Wild, 
raucous applause echoes throughout the chamber. 


"SHUT UP!" 


The applause quiets down, except for a guy in the front row who 
keeps clapping. 


"Fuckin'... just stop, dude." 
Pico grins and rests his hands to the side. 


He looks out at the rows of Redd foes in velvet seats, and through 
the gloom he glimpses a bear with a human face. 


"Wait, what the fuck is that, | never wrote that. Jesus fuck, that's 
weird." 


| look around, confirm that my seat is there. And yet a single lego 
piece rests beneath the cushion. 


A part of my butt is broken. 
The author swears. 


"SNAKESCREWING SARSAPARILLA SKULLING 


SCARABSUCKING SON-OF-A-SEAHORSE! Fucking hell that hurt!" 
The audience laughs. That's good. 


"So yeah, uh, Acidverse, eh? Probably should have been working 
on that for a while, | guess." 


Expectant stares. 


"Yeah, it's... uh... listen, I'm in, like, my last year of University, right? 
| have a lot of shit to do right now. | don't have the time to write, | 
need to finish my Final Year Project, and | need, like, a 77 or more 
to get first class honours in my degree, and... hell, | should have 
finished my degree at the end of 2013, | should have been out of the 
damn tertiary education mill. But you know what | actually ended up 
doing then?" 


The audience nods. 


"Yeah, Cool War, right? Because | broke, or whatever, and that was 
just the sewage that happened to leak out of my mouth. But 
apparently there are a lot of shit-eaters around here, so they 
gobbled up my prose in a weird, disgusting mouth-to-mouth 
creation/consumption Human Centipede." 


The crowd murmurs. The author de-chairs. 


"Anyway, uh, there's this guy. He booked the other room. And he 
thinks... | dunno, there's shackles on all of you? But you look pretty 
damn free to me. | mean, look at that guy with the big ears, you 
know, what's his name... Disney's mouse, the one that fucked up 
copyright in the first place..." 


"MICKEY!", you shout. 


"Yes, | know, | was being facetious, but thank you anyway, reader. | 
don't know why you have to take all these meaningless subtleties 
and make them blatant. Anyway. To all of you, uh... cheers for 
whatever. This is kind of like, I'm trying to draw some parallels here, 
to do a pastiche as tastefully as possible, or something. With as 
much respect as possible, | mean, the guy in the other room, it's 
like... | really liked the guy, he did good things." 


In the seats, the crowd... 


There are a lot of people. I'd rather not do an exhaustive cast list. 
And indeed, the most important people are from the other rooms. 
They wandered in and decided to stick around. And without the 
chains of Disney's mouse, they were allowed to play with me, and | 
with them. And so | made some more people in my room, and the 
other guy made some people in his room, and we let them wander 
around outside. And it makes me glad to know that other people 
considered them enjoyable guests in their own memory palaces 
minds rooms. 


"So if you want, y'know, get in here. | mean, rooms are free, 
provided you're over 15." 


"HEY, THAT LAST BIT WASN'T SPOKEN, WE DON'T 
UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU-" 


"Yeah, you do, this is metafiction. We're all gods here. You know 
what | was thinking." 


Softly, there is a song. 
And there is stillness, in the sense of still being hereness. 


Because we aren't going anywhere, and neither are the people in 
the audience. 


In unison, the crowd stands up and rushes the stage. 
"Wait, stop, don't... ah, whatever." 


A cavalcade of recognisable faces washes over the author. 
Lightning arcs between them all. Nobody is there, because they 
wouldn't miss it - but Everybody is there, too. Aldon and Finnegan. 
Anderson. Ignatius J. Reilly. A bunch of weird fleshy Sarkic gods. 
Dr. Jekel A. Jekeled. Alex and Glacon and a bunch of AlCs, who 
were somehow corporeal in this metafictional narrative. The Turing 
brothers, who | guess broke out of hell somehow. Bright and Clef 
and Kain and all the old guard. Feel free to edit this page if you want 
to. Add your own in. 


Subject: Agent Miller 

Photographed Activity: Preparing equipment for a collection 
mission 

Photo Result: Engaged in a firefight with soldiers wearing Nazi 
insignias 

Note: / watch too many war films, don't 1? - Agent Miller 


Subject: Dr. Weppler 

Photographed Activity: Discussing research regarding SCP-2842 
with Dr. 

Photo Results: a still frame from the music video of the song 'Never 
gonna give you up' by Rick Astley, showing the aforementioned 
singer. 

Note: /'m burning this picture. — Dr. Tonne 


Subject: Dr. Lisle Naismith 

Photographed Activity: Eating lunch in the Site-59 cafeteria. 

Photo Results: Posing for a hunting picture with his daughter, 

Penny, in the Site-59 cafeteria. Both are dressed in orange vests 

and hats. Penny holds a youth-grade hunting rifle, while Dr. 

Naismith gives a thumbs-up as he holds the corpse of Researcher 
, who has sustained at least seven separate bullet wounds to 

the head. 

Note: No hard feelings, | swear, he was just the first guy that came 

to mind. - Dr. Naismith 


Subject: Dr. Clinton 

Photographed Activity: Reading SCP-076-2's psyche profile while 
drinking tea. 

Photo Result: Dr. Clinton and SCP-076-2 engaged in a "lightsaber 
duel", with multiple O5s and Dr. Clef watching. Dr. Clinton appears 
to be winning. 

Note: Completely unrealistic, | know, but | dare anyone other than 
Gears to look me in the eye and tell me they wouldnt like to fight 
Able with a lightsaber and win. —Dr. Clinton 


Subject: Junior Researcher Stevens 

Photographed Activity: Sitting in the cafeteria, waving at the 
camera. 

Photo Result: Subject is using a flamethrower to burn SCP-1048 
and SCP-1048-A. SCP-1048-C is in 4 pieces in the background. 


A LOT MORE PEOPLE BESIDES. 


I'm glad. | didn't make any of these people. But | know them, and 
consider them friends. Many of these people helped make me. As 
sad as it is to see a room disappear, the people don't leave. They 
just get to wander the corridors, and the people in the other rooms 
get to have a chat. I'd like as many people in my room as | can get. 


And the author stood awhile in the stillness and the quiet, but before 
the stage lights went down- 


"SERIOUSLY WRITE MORE ACIDVERSE YOU WANKER" 


Bye, Djoric. Thanks for making people. 
Thanks for letting us meet them. 


To Sleep, Perchance to Dream 


August 3, 200 : 

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. The man at the console, annoyed at being interrupted from 
his nap, sat up in his chair and started tapping commands into his 
console. 


Observation Post 3-02 was one of those little places that only a few 
high-ranking Foundation personnel knew or cared about, but it was 
a vital safeguard against catastrophe. The personnel staffed to 
watch the OPs were not allowed to have knowledge on any other 
Observation Posts, or even know exactly how many there were, but 
these installations kept tabs on every major site in the world, quietly 
monitoring alert systems and backing up data in case of a breach or 
disaster. The personnel that watched the dull banks of monitors 
were some of the most vital links in the Foundation's world wide 
network. Or so they were told. 


In truth, the men and women stuck in these backwater shacks were 
the joke of Foundation Security. While the occasional breach 
warranted notification of their superiors, the job was boring beyond 
comprehension. It was easy to go crazy staring at the endless banks 
of monitors, waiting for something, anything, to happen. 


And so, as Agent Johnson grumbled and rose, he could only think 
about the annoying amount of paperwork that would eventually land 
on his desk after any ‘red-light’ event. But something was different 
about this one. Something he'd never seen before, which was cause 
to take a closer look. 


"PRIORITY 3 ALERT", the status indicator read. "Automated 
Notification: Site 28 - SCP- /SCP- /SCP- containment 
compromised." 


That merited a raised eyebrow. A breach of a single major SCP was 


pretty serious news, but three at once was almost unheard of. While 
a loose Keter was capable of claiming an entire site, it had been 
several years since a breach of that magnitude had occurred, and 
containment security had been seriously upgraded since. But that 
was Of little concern to the man in the OP, for his job was only to 
watch, and report. But as he reached to forward the message, 
another red light came up on his console. 


"PRIORITY 2 ALERT", the new report said. "Automated Notification: 
Site 28 communications lost." 


How unusual, Johnson thought to himself as he reached for another 
folder, yet another preset incident response. It sounded rather dire, 
but the Foundation was ready for anything these days. It was 
probably a simple electronic malfunction (breaches tended to cause 
all sorts of collateral damage), but a mobile task force would be sent 
out to make sure that everything was alright. Ten minutes later, with 
the proper reports filed and notifications sent out, he leaned back 
into his chair and closed his eyes, hoping nothing else would pop up 
and he could catch some more of his nap. 


Half a second later, Johnson sat up again, cursing as he reached for 
his console and then freezing as he scanned the monitor array. 


"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 36 - SCP- / 
SCP- containment compromised." 


"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 31 - SCP- 
containment compromised." 


"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 42 
communications lost." 


His hand was shaking slightly, Agent Johnson noted, as he reached 
for two more folders from the cabinet, wondering what the devil was 
going on. He didn't know why he was so nervous, but something just 
seemed... wrong. On a whim, he checked the logs from the 
Foundation news wire, seeing if any breach drills were scheduled for 
today. 


Nothing. 


But even as he started filling out the reports and initiating response 
protocols, more red lights began flickering on across the board. 


"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 14-SCP- / 
SCP- /SCP- containment compromised."