| screamed at Fred, unleashing the full might of my power. It didn't 
matter. Everything was gone. | was all that was left, the last tattered 
scraps of what might have been a good story. | softly let out a 
breath, my wife/girlfriend/mother/daughter being the last name to 
pass my lips. And then | stopped trying to make it make sense, and 
let myself go. 


And Fred was gone too. 


SCP-981: The Director's Cut 


Item #: SCP-981 
Object Class: Safe (Possible Euclid, awaiting further testing) 


Special Containment Procedures: Having shown no signs of its 
influence spreading further than the recorded distance, as long as 
SCP-981-2 remains within SCP-981-1 it is required only to be stored 
in a standard artifact room in a locked copper box of at least 1cm 
thickness. Access to the SCP is by application for level 3 and above 
only. 


If SCP-981-2 is to be removed from its canister it must be in a room 
at least 4m x 4m containing no physical media of any kind, and care 
must be taken during transport to ensure rooms adjacent, above and 
below are also cleared. Any memory sticks carried by Foundation 
personnel should also be removed before entering the room as a 
precaution. Any media found to contain evidence of potentially 
Keter-class SCPs must be quarantined at once. 


Description: SCP-981 comprises of two parts. SCP-981-1 is a steel 
film canister dating from the late 1920s, with signs of damage 
concomitant with its apparent age. It is labelled in Spanish as having 
been copied by the Buenos Aires Cinematographic Laboratory, with 
the handwritten title ‘236 - Metropolis’. Other writing on the label is 
too worn to read, but appears to be a name and a short note ina 
different handwriting. Inside the canister is SCP-981-2, a reel 
spooled with Kodak Panchromatic nitrate film, on which is a 16mm 
reduction negative of the 1927 Fritz Lang film Metropolis. The film 
and the canister it was found in show no unusual markings or 
indications that they are anything other than a mass-produced stock 
for distribution to cinemas in the late 1920s. 


When both components of SCP-981 are placed in proximity to 
another audiovisual storage medium containing a feature film, the 
data held on the secondary medium shows alterations not in 


“Twas The Night Before Christmas 


‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site 
not a Keter is stirring, to My great delight. 

The paperwork filed in the cabinets with care, 

each one a story of objects most rare, 

Humanoids held firm in ten-meter cubes, 

and Euclids suspended in magnetic tubes. 


But researchers, technicians, D-class and more, 
were hiding in fear from the sounds of a war. 

The East wing had lights flashing warnings in Morse 
about the escape of an anamolous horse, 

Two Keters, three Euclids, one thought Safe but not, 
merging together in one ball of snot, 

were barely but noticed by keen Doctor Bright. 

A crisis at last had now moved him to fright, 

his powers immortal availing him nought 

and expert assistance he went out and sought. 
Grabbing all resources that he could claim, 

Six MTF teams, he called each by name: 

"Now Cleaners! now Gear Deads! now Memetic Fixers! 
On Toasters! On Weirds! On Timeline Deep-Sixers! 
To the Basement L-4, to the site of the breach! 
Don't wait! Get going! To all | must preach, 

the pain of our failure is the end of us all!" 


Rushing they jostled to get to the hall 

containing the Monster, the Doctor's true dread, 

fervently hoping to put Me to bed. 

The snotball had the Cleaners tied up in knots, 

while Toasters and Gear Deads were blocked by some bots 
escaping their quarters and running all round, 

trying to bind all the things that aren't bound. 

Backwards and forwards the scrapping did go, 

until | called Time and their fighting went slow. 


The Weirds did not know that last week had gone wrong, 
an SCP's slow-acting memetic song 

made them ignore the good Doctor's commands, 

as they were all busy staring at hands. 

The Memetic Fixers tried chanting in rhyme 

My True Name in Greek while assaulting a mime, 

which in all fairness really should have worked, 

but instead in my heart | secretly smirked, 

My misinformation had led them astray, 

assaulting a mine is what keeps Me at bay. 


Timeline Deep-Sixers, most suited for this, 

gave it their best but still came up a miss. 

They ran down My hall, they ran with much vigor, 
but too late! and My power did trigger, 

Their forward-most man almost made it to me, 

but now for eternity | get to see 

his eyes frozen wide at the sign on My door 

upon which is written: "BEWARE: CHRONOVORE." 


‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 
‘Twas the night before Christmas. 


- text found printed on the back of Anamolous Object 
173-21-214,which appears to be a large print of a photo overlooking 
Site-19's main administrative area as an explosion is just beginning. 
The photo is impossible to fold or cut in any way and nothing can 
adhere to it, but is otherwise unremarkable. No source for this object 
is recorded in the database. 


Twenty Minutes 


Have you ever stared at a word for so long it lost all meaning? Have 
you ever forgotten how to do something simple, something you do 
every day? Have you ever forgotten the drive to work, the walk to 
the bus stop, the name of that one actor who is in that one film and 
also that one other film? 


Then maybe you've touched the edges of our world and it’s only by 
chance your mind didn’t dissolve into darkness like an aspirin in 
water or like an amazing, adulterated, scientifically- manufactured pill 
that'll make you forget 


forget e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g 
forgetwithhistongueforgetwithhiscockforgetwithyourneedforgetwithyourlust 


Staring down into the alcoholic, dark purple drink, you felt yourself 
slip. Saw yourself as a tiny creature on the edge of the glass, quickly 
losing grip, your breath hot and fogging up the glass. 


A hand on your hand. Concern. Furrowed brow. What was the guy’s 
name? What was your name? 


Led out of the pub, alleyway, darkness, spiralling. See colours. See 
a doorway to another alleyway that wasn’t really there. See graffiti 
that sparkles and shimmers and begs and whines to be read. Letters 
as alive as you. Maybe more alive than you. 


The writer can only write what they know and then the words come alive and they 
come alive and they come alive and they come alive 


Someone alive made them and they pulse with every beat of your 
heart. A heart too big for your chest, a heart that has room for 
everyone, but doors bolted shut, protecting against the zombie 
apocalypse of emotion and trust and exposure and vulnerability. 


Hand in unloveable hand, lyrics float, find their place, and you’re 


humming. He’s begging you to say you’re okay and all you can think 
all you can see is everything humans don’t normally see. 


A thumb threatening to press down on the city. Rain in a colour you 
can’t begin to explain because it’s more of a feeling. More than a 
feeling Graffiti that moves and preys on people who see it so you 
look away and stare at your feet. It feels like a while since you’ve 
done anything human. 


Do that thing 

that thing that thing that thing 
breathing 

thing 


Maybe you were always a robot pretending to be human. Maybe 
everyone is a robot. You sneak a glance at your companion. He 
looks relieved. He looks human. Maybe he’s the only human. You're 
the robot. 


You can’t feel your face and your lips feel ten times sizer than they 
should be. You wish for a mirror but at the same time you don’t want 
to see your new face of metal and bolts which you are sure is there. 


“I’ve n-e-v-e-r seen seen this before.” 


Your companion is talking and you wonder if your ears are broken or 
if it only your brain. It’s snapped in two. Goodbye old you. Friends, 
family, siblings, children, past mistakes, future hopes, fading in and 
out, jostling to wave their farewell. New brain, new part of the brain, 
sees colours, smells emotions, ignore facts and run on emotions. 


Would you believe twenty minutes? Would you believe twenty 
minutes to lose all your old self and come out new, like a butterfly 
from a cocoon? A particularly normal, boring cocoon revealing a 
particularly ugly butterfly moth that will flirt around near flame, 
enticed and reckless. 


Twenty-odd years making you. 


Twenty-odd minutes deleting it all. 
One little pill. 

Not your fault. 

Notyourfault 

His. 

Remember this part. 

It'll be important later on. 

There'll be a quiz. 


« Live Now. Tomorrow, We Die | Hub |An Arm and a Leg » 


Twisted Together 


Rashaun shook his head. What did | just watch? he thought, as he 
opened his laptop. He entered the keycode for a Foundation online 
conference room and waited for the other members of his 
emergency meeting to arrive. He watched his webcam light pop on. 
Who else sees this? 


The first person to appear was a large, heavyset man, black hair 
cropped short, wide spaced eyes, upturned, pursed lips. "Hey," he 
said nonchalantly, lifting his head in a quick jerk in greeting. "Jorge 
Ruiz. Beta-5. Babysitters." 


"Field Agent Rashaun Washington," came the reply. 


The next window opened. Red hair and beard, black glasses, black 
shirt. "Hi. Jason Allen. Mu-4. Debuggers." 


Immediately thereafter, a third appeared. Long, straight black hair, 
bony face, sharp cats-eye spectacles. "Karen Wu. Gamma-5. Red 
Herrings." 


"Please to meet you," Rashaun replied. "Rob'll join us in a bit, but he 
wanted us to start without him. Something about his daughter. Did 
you all get to see the video? Bits, anyway?" 


Jorge looked away from the screen and swallowed. "Um, yeah." 


Karen scowled and clicked her tongue. "Disgusting. Can't blame 
Rob on checking." 


Jason smirked. "Nope! But that's SOP for me. | deal with 
cognitohazards and memetics regularly. I'm more interested with 
how it travels instead of what's on it, anyway. Let me guess, it's 
about a girl and a rope?" 


Rashaun, a bit stunned by the question, replied, "Yeah..." 


"Right, | don't need to see that. But | checked her user page out. 
She's posted 5 videos, none getting more than 50 views. She 
posted this one after school today and got..." Jason tapped away on 
his keyboard. "...3,407 views. Not terrible, but rising fast. Where did 
you get your link from?" 


"Uh, my friend James?" 
"Do you know where he got it from?" 
"No. | better ask." 


"Do that. In the meantime, I'll get it taken down, send out the 
crawlers to track any other postings. I'll check the comments on this 
and other videos, see if there's someone in common who would 
spread this, get the word out." 


"We'll likely need to pick her up, too, Jason. Could you send us her 
address, please?" Jorge asked. His voice was quieter than his frame 
suggested. 


"Absolutely." 


Another window appeared, showing a balding, middle-aged man, 
neat, middle-management corporate. "Sorry I'm late." 


"No problem," Jorge replied. "How's Olivia?" 


Rob smiled. "Doing well, thank you, Jorge. She's writing a new song. 
I'm sure she'll want to share it with you when it's finished." 


"I'd love to hear it," Jorge added brightly. "So | guess that means I'll 
be headed out to debrief and contain Maci?" 


Rob nods. "Once we determine the nature of the anomaly we're 
dealing with. Rashaun, | want you flying out to..." 


"Montclair, New Jersey," Jason responded. 


"Newark Airport first thing tomorrow. Jorge will have a team 
available to complete any extraction necessary, but you'll field 
interview Maci first and make sure she's actually anomalous, and 


also not going to turn into a black hole or anything like that." 
"Actually anomalous, sir? Do you think this might be all some trick?" 
"Well," piped in Karen, "the video is a hoax." 


Rashaun spurted. "A hoax?! You mean we're running in circles over 
nothing?" 


"Sure, just look at the video. There's a region of anti-aliasing 
artifacts just to Maci's left. Someone accepting the rope has been 
edited out of the footage. I'll show you the error level analysis ina 
bit." 


Really? I'm just an overreacting doofus? No, that's not me. Rashaun 
shook his head. "Are you sure? Why would someone spoof this?" 


"Plenty of reasons. People wanting to show off their editing skills. 
Something designed to go viral. Guerrilla marketing for a movie, 
perhaps. Think Occam's Razor, Rashaun. It's far more likely that this 
is fake, anyway." 


Rashaun sighed, disappointed in himself. "If you say so, | guess 
that's that, then." 


Karen grinned impishly. "No, Rashaun, that's just a bunch of image 
forensics technobabble. Truth is, this looks like the genuine article. 
I'm just working on the cover story that we'll release to the public 
should we fail to get this thing out of the web. If we can't get the 
video removed everywhere, we'll replace the YouTube one with our 
version, edited to look like things were erased in the background, 
and then debunk our own work. Legerdemain is still a possibility, but 
it would have to be expertly executed. Considering that she's only 
posted a handful of other videos and doesn't have any growing web 
presence before this event, the chances of guerrilla marketing are 
slim to none. What would they be selling, anyway?" 


Rashaun rolled his eyes. "Why'd you have me going on about the 
whole thing being a hoax, then?" 


"| love my job." 


Rob interrupted. "Well, then, it sounds like we all know what to do, 
then. Rashaun, meet up with Jorge in Newark and track down Maci. 
Jason, clear out any and all repostings you can find." 


Jason sucked in some air and replied, "Easier said than done, this 
will have entered into the dark web a couple times. But hey, we 
Debuggers are the Mole Rats of the Internet. | think I've found who'd 
advertise this video in the first place. Someone hiding his tracks 
called baaasheep. He was suggesting dares to Maci. Might have an 
interest in her." 


Rashaun shuddered, and everyone else went silent for a moment. 
Jorge was first to speak, urgency in his voice. "Get me anything you 
can on baaasheep, Jason. And Karen, if we Herring the video, 
promise me you'll throw in a clause about telling the kids not to try 
this at home? Please?" 


"| and every single investigatory website out there, of course!" 


"Great," Rob concluded. "Thanks, everyone, for signing in on such 
short notice after hours. Protocol for a viral, but we all Know why. 
Good night, everyone!" 


The meeting ended. Rashaun slipped into professional mode and 
purchased his ticket and packed a bag. 


« 100 Feet of ROPE! | » 


Two Falls Out Of Three 


José Vargas (ring name The Nightwatch) stared, unblinking, at the 
abruptly terminated video call. Elianna hadn’t even bothered actually 
pressing the button to hang up, instead physically closing the laptop. 
She had her phone, of course, but Vargas decided against calling 
her. He clicked off the chat window and hovered over his text folder, 
neatly organized between “Work” and work, the latter of which was 
hidden under the conspicuous label of “Family” and encoded behind 
a series of encryption keys that made the Pentagon look like a pillow 
fort. A mixture of sentimentality and preemptive exhaustion washed 
over him when he realized he'd have to leaf through Uchikirou’s 
unkempt research files.