"... You're right." Yanma rubbed his face, trying to relax or freshen 
himself. 


Quinton smiled. He was finally getting Yanma to calm down and 
think properly. "So. To find out where it is, we need to know where it 
has been. Where did it start?" 


"Well, the earliest relation we know of is that Apakht was assumedly 
contained in the Lock at some point. The Lock was found in some 
Sumerian ruins, so the first thing to do would be... to ask a 
Sumerian about it." 


SCP-816: Darwin's Erector Set 


Item #: SCP-816 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-816 is currently contained 
to Provisionary Site- of its own volition. A containment breach is not 
considered likely, and any containment breach would likely end 
without intervention, as SCP-816 requires access to SCP-816-1 in 
order to survive, and is not capable of moving SCP-816-1. 
SCP-816-1 must be re-wound every 50 years to ensure continued 
dependence. In the event that SCP-816 becomes no longer 
dependent upon SCP-816-1, Contingency 816-C must be 
immediately enacted (See document SCP-816- ) Provisionary Site- 
[Site-P/ ] has been established to contain and research SCP-816. 
Site-P/ is a home in , Switzerland, and SCP-816 is confined 
to its basement. 


Description: SCP-816 is the name given to the collection of small 
automata residing in the basement of the house at Street, 

, Switzerland. Journals found in the basement indicate that 

, a local teacher, originally created SCP-816 in 189 . 

Inspired by the works of Charles Darwin and Charles Babbage, he 
designed and built automata capable of reproducing and evolving. 
The mechanics of reproduction are facilitated by a collection of parts 
common to all species; however, most species modify the base 
parts to create specialized parts to fit their ecological niche. 


At the core of each SCP-816 is a rudimentary processor which 
varies little between species. While much less powerful than modern 
processors, they are still far beyond what should be possible for 
1890s level technology. While, as far as research has determined, 
no aspect of SCP-816 violates known principles of science, they are 
still precisely designed to a degree which is not humanly possible. 


SCP-816 receives new energy from SCP-816-1, a grandfather clock 


"Alright, let's get into it." Quinton clicked on the program's play 
button, starting the audio file. Yanma, holding a cup of water and 
feeling significantly fresher than he did yesterday thanks to a proper 
night's sleep, leaned back in his seat and listened. 


"Dianne Cray, speaking to SCP-073. May | call you 
Cain?" 


"Yes, that is ok." 


There was a soft thud, followed by the sound of shuffling 
papers. 


"| have several documents here that | believe you will be 
able to translate. Could you do so for me?" 


The quiet whisper of paper sliding across a surface, 
possibly wood, followed by silence. 


"Pay heed and li-" 
"Hold on, I'll skip to the good bit." 


Taking control of the computer again, Quinton clicked on a fast- 
forward button several times, speeding up the decades old recording 
and blurring the speech into incomprehensible gibberish. An hour's 
worth of dialogue was passed within two minutes, slowing down to 
its usual pace once Quinton was satisfied. 


"-ror Nero." 


"Thank you. This one may be a stretch; translate as 
much of it as you can, if you can.” 


A single sheet of paper slides across a surface. 
"With loss and re- oh." 
Three seconds of silence. 


"Cain?" 


No response. 

"073, what's wrong?" 

"A moment, please." 

Several more seconds of silence pass. 


“... So with loss and regret, |... | of the guardians 
abandon the prison of Apakht on this final hour of hope 
and endless protection, emptied of its contents by its 
Jailors...” 


Faint sobbing, audibly belonging to the rich Arabic voice 
of Cain. 


Quinton paused the recording, turning his seat to face Yanma. 
“He recognized it, didn’t he?” 


Quinton nodded in response. “Dianna claimed he’d stopped looking 
once he’d realized what it was. The fact that Cain filled in several 
large portions of missing text confirmed he was familiar with it.” 


Quinton closed the audio file, having shown what was needed to 
Yanma. He scrolled down a list of audio files, finding the next one he 
wanted to play. 


“Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Cain. Is there 
anything you would like to say before we begin?” 


“Do you still have it?” 
“Could you clarify what you are referring to?” 


“Onyx sphere with gold, this size. Indestructible, always 
warm, has a keyhole on the top.” 


“Yes, we do still have it.” 


“| thought as much. | would have been surprised if you 
had not seen it, where those inscriptions were.” 


“Ah, yes. The inscription that you translated for us — you 
were familiar with it, correct?” 


“Of course. | wrote it.” 

Silence. 

“Well, that... that would explain it, wouldn’t it. Uhh...” 
Papers are nervously shuffled by unsteady hands. 


“In the translation, you said... well, you, had left it there 
because Apakht wasn’t inside it. What is Apakht?” 


The sound of someone shifting in their seat, followed by 
a long silence. 


“It is... difficult. There are words to describe it, but very 
few have analogues in English. It...” 


Another pause. 


“It is a... a concept, a force, of sorts. It is something that 
influences everything within its reach, and is omnipresent 
in scope. It is comparable to gravity; the effects it 
produces can be observed, but it itself cannot.” 


“What are its effects?” 


“| believe you have encountered its offspring first hand. 
Chaos, impossibility, chance... to it, everything is clay 
and malleable. It yields to no rules, no classification. | am 
an example; you cannot harm me, though such is 
unreasonable. | cannot die, nor can the other guardians, 
no matter our age.” 


"... How old are you, exactly?" 


"Older than time." 


« Charon (Part 1: Nekyia) || Charon (Part 2: Katabasis) || 


Charon (Part 3: Asphodel) » 


Charon (Part 3: Asphodel) 


« Charon (Part 2: Katabasis) || Charon (Part 3: 
Asphodel) || ??? » 
«« Charon (Part 1: Nekyia) 


Date Unknown. 


Everything changed. 


Burning, surging forth, the wave blasted outwards as fast as it could 
under its own laws; the fastest speed, the speed of light. A new 
energy — a force, unrivalled — washed through the strings of 
spacetime, strumming a cacophonous melody as it set about its 
work. 


Enforcing its laws, the new laws; the laws of logic, becoming laws of 
reality. 


In the grand epicentre of the scene, sat the cause of it all. In the 
centre, sat the origin of the force. In the centre, the absolute centre 
of the universe, around which the new world revolved, sat the 
architect, the prison, the keep and the keeper; 


In the centre of it all, sat the small, ellipsoidal lock. 


With every moment that lapsed, the wave of the new world rewrote 
existence as it confined the emperor of the old to their new, eternal 
home. Every atom in the sky above and every molecule in the bricks 
below were scrubbed, purified and cleansed of the tainting aura of 
the old one; every second, joule and ounce of it were captured and 
imprisoned, replaced with the laws of the new one. Even now, at its 
smallest size, the sky of the new world blazed with the insignia of 
the architect. Even now, the new banner — of hope, freedom from 
chaos, imprisonment of Apakht — flew proudly above, heralding the 
end of the darkest times. 


And of all the beings, there were four to see it first. 


As the wave washed over them, the four bathed in the glory of the 
new world. Though they would forever be anchored to the old, 
serving as the guardians of hell’s gate, they still felt the impact of 
their labours. Spaced evenly around the gemstone, arms 
outstretched towards their creation, they watched the new world 
come together with new eyes; heard the fury of the old world’s 
screams with new ears; tasted and smelled the new air; felt, with 
new, logical bodies, the heat of the wave as it passed. 


Then it was gone. Within a second, the new world had grown to 
hundreds of thousands of kilometres in size; with each second that 
passed, it grew ever more. Before the four — or the thousands 
behind them, standing at the base of the ziggurat — had even 
blinked, their home had attained a magnitude so stupendously large, 
the units of its measurement would not be conceived for several 
thousand more years. 


Stunned by the weight of what they had attained, the multitudes 
stood. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, nobody dared to shatter the 
newfound sensation that pervaded around them. Minutes passed as 
the congregation revelled in the feelings the new world afforded 
them, feelings that, despite the infinite possibilities of the world 
before, had always been impossible; the feeling of constancy, and 
silence. 


For the first time, nothing changed. 


The thud marked the completion of the gemstone’s labours — even 
within its prison, Apakht strove to cause change. But this was its 
final independent act, its final change, the final, futile resistance it 
could muster. Cautious to not undo their work, the four lifted the 
obsidian from the brickwork of the ziggurat’s peak. The key within its 
northern pole slid out without resistance; the wielder turned, showing 
it to those below. 


There was but another moment’s silence before their cries filled the 
night, as joyful tears rained upon Mesopotamic sands. 


‘How go the fields?’ 


The man’s younger brother, seated beside him on the ziggurat 
steps, shielded his eyes from the emerging sunlight. For the sixty- 
seventh time, the city sprawled around the construct was illuminated 
by the light of the new world. 


‘Many of the crops are wilting. Nothing can be done to stop them.’ 
‘Unadjusted, do you think?’ 


‘| assume so. Whatever survives, thrives; even the weeds, which are 
many in number now. Fortunately, some seem to be edible.’ 


‘| must try them myself.’ 
‘You know you cannot. You must keep away from the fields.’ 


The man clenched his fist. He yearned to return to the practices of 
his youth, to feel the crops and soil within his hands once again — 
but Apakht, ever spiteful of its jailors, had cursed him from it, and 
continued to curse the land he walked. Now, he could only till 
barren, useless soil — if, in his malnourished state, he could till at all. 


‘Even if for a moment, | wish to see one.’ 


‘T'll retrieve you a popular one. Bulbous thing, juices that sting when 
you bite it. Sharp taste.’ 


‘Interesting. Has it been named?’ 

‘Called “onions”, but | believe my name fits better.’ 

‘What, call them “Eabani” because they’re “sharp”?’ 

‘!meant the name | came up with. Name them after their taste.’ 
‘Which is?’ 

‘Shit.’ 


The man grinned, watching as his brother juggled a pure-black 
dagger in his hand. Eabani had never been concerned with 


fieldwork; he left those tasks to Arakur. Instead he focused on 
livestock — herding, feeding, nurturing... slaughtering. Ample to say, 
each brother fulfilled what the other could not. 


The duality of their capabilities translated to their military positions, 
too; though Eabani could never stand the atmosphere nor size of a 
tactician’s tent, Arakur much preferred it — the front lines of a battle 
field were no place for a man such as him, but Eabani was a perfect 
fit in his stead. 


But with each recount he heard, Arakur couldn’t help dreading the 
day when the veil of justification, silk-thin and dangerously taut, 
finally tore apart before Eabani. Just as it almost had in their 
childhood. 


Eabani’s shrill whistle whipped Arakur back to reality. His eyes 
followed the dagger’s edge down the steps of the ziggurat to the 
unmistakeable figure approaching them. It was impossible to 
mistake them for anyone else — ignoring her unique, solidly 
muscular build, she was the only woman in all of Sumer that refused 
to wear clothing appropriate for her gender; rather than cover 
everything below her neck, she proudly wore nothing but the knee- 
length skirt that men wore. 


‘How is she, Ninkigal?’ Arakur asked, sitting up. 


‘How do you think, fool?’ Ninkigal spat. ‘Everything pains her. All the 
water she drinks comes straight back out, one way or another. She’s 
moved her hand though, so the worst must be passing.’ 


‘That is good. The others?’ 

‘Dead.’ She idly scratched her breast. 

‘... all of them? 

‘If they could, they did.’ 

Arakur covered his face with his hand. One would say they were 


lucky, being the only ones still linked to Apakht — the only four 
immortals in the new world. One would be wrong. 


‘Eabani, Arakur,’ said a woman, emerging from the temple atop the 
ziggurat. 


Ninkigal cleared her throat. 
‘And you,’ the woman continued. ‘The council waits.’ 


Arakur couldn’t stand by himself; by the time he and Eabani had 
begun their ascent, Ninkigal had stomped beyond view. 


The temple was far from majestic, but sufficed for its purpose; 
carved into the walls was the story of Sumer, tales of Apakht’s yoke, 
and soon the story of the guardians would be added. In the centre of 
the room was an engraved altar, around which the seven 
councilmen sat. Ninkigal, being the de facto leader of the guardians 
(Arakur was the official one), stood the closest to the altar; Arakur 
and Eabani stood behind her, to either side. 


‘What,’ she snapped. 
‘Do not speak to us like that,’ one of the councilmen said. 
‘| will soeak however | please.’ 


‘There are concerns,’ another councilman interrupted, ‘that 
Giringeme is not improving.’ 


‘| was with her. She is recovering.’ 

‘That is not what | meant.’ 

Arakur shifted. 

‘She will tame her abilities once again, just as Arakur will.’ 


‘They are taking too long,’ snapped the man seated at the far left. 
‘Do you know how long it has been?’ 


‘Sixty-seven days,’ Arakur responded; he was silence by the 
councilman’s glare. 


‘Too long. Sixty-seven days of pestilence and death. And how many 


more days will it take, hmm? Another sixty-seven? Perhaps a 
hundred, or a thousand?’ 


The three councilmen seated beside him nodded. 


‘And Arakur too? Shall it take him another hundred days to stop 
cursing the ground he walks upon?’ 


‘Careful with your words.’ 


7 


| will soeak however | please,” he parroted. ‘The fields he visited 
have yet to recover; for all we know, they never will.’ 


‘And your solution?’ 
‘Sumer has endured them long enough.’ 


Slowly and methodically, Ninkigal cracked each and every joint in 
her beefy hands; the councilmen flinched at each noise. When she 
was done, she leaned over the altar, glaring at the man. 


‘You would banish us, after what we have done? You would give us 
no choice but to leave our home?’ 


‘You already made your choice when you vol-’ 


The pristine surface of the altar gave way beneath Ninkigal’s might; 
large fissures branched out from where her fist, now embedded in a 
crater, had struck it. Like her fist, Ninkigal’s roaring voice shattered 

the man’s confidence. 


‘That godforsaken prophecy chose us — it chose me, by name, 
before | was even born, and you dare — you, dare, to say | hada 
choice in it, before banishing me?’ 


The man, shrinking in his seat, shook his head. 
‘N-not you. J-just Arakur and Giringeme. Y-’ 


Ninkigal’s fist rocketed forward, striking the councilman’s nose and 
breaking it. Had Arakur been any slower in restraining her arm, it 
would have gone much further. Satisfied, Ninkigal returned her