As the buildings turned from brutalist steel and concrete buildings to 
Art Deco factories of brick and brass, | started running through 
conversational simulations in my mind, reprising old regrets and 
trying to find a better way to navigate the social minefield that even 
talking to each other had become in those seven years. Soon 
enough, though, | gave up on the whole enterprise: | could try to find 
social maxima and minima all | liked, but eventually I'd have to step 
out of playing social engineer and actually talk to her. 


My reverie was broken by the pleasing chime of the navcomp as it 
informed me I'd reached my destination. | sighed and forced myself 
out of the car for the day's first social rigmarole. 


Amitha's workshop was a relatively small building amidst the smog- 
clouded factories that lined the roads in the Orthodoxy's 
manufacturing district, tucked away in a deep knot of winding 
alleyways marked out by the conveyor belts that stretched from road 
to road. It was one of the few buildings that bothered to give a lick of 
uniqueness to the nondescript fronts mandated by the scripture, in 
the form of a subtle gold trim on a couple pillars, her name engraved 
neatly on the front door and some tasteful floral decorations hanging 
from the elaborately-styled roof. 


It was tasteful, simple and almost ascetic in comparison to the 
Victorian parodies of Ancient Greece that stood around it and it was 
an almost painful reminder of everything I'd lost with her absence. 


Taking a deep breath to still myself, | reached my hand up 
robotically and rapped on the door with three measured knocks. 


When she opened the door, the familiarity turned my stomach into a 
tight Klein bottle of nerves. Her hair was still done up in that tight 
braid of red held together by resistors woven into the braid in some 
elegant, indecipherable pattern, and her arms were still stained with 
grease and burn marks from a long day of soldering and welding in 
her inherited laboratory. 


Were it not for the assemblage of gears and mechanisms attached 
to her back and the newly-carved scars under my eyes and on my 
arms, we would've been the picture-perfect copy of the couple who'd 
snuck kisses and forbidden literature to one another in that same 


laboratory a decade or so ago. 
"Afternoon, Amitha." 


"Good afternoon, Inquisitor Xiang," she replied evenly. That made it 
five years since she'd called me "Connie". "Just wanted to drop by 
and swap pleasantries, or is there something not to your satisfaction 
here?" 


| sighed. "...Ms. Vikram. You're not in trouble, I'd just like to have 
you on as a consultant." The words felt like | was speaking them 
through a thick gag of formality shoving itself down my mouth. 


With a brief effort of will, Amitha disengaged whatever was plugged 
into her back and took the opportunity to come a couple steps closer 
to me. "And why's it you can't come to someone else for that 
consultancy, Inquisitor?" 


"It's a cross-sect case." Noticing her sharp intake of breath, | cut in 
quickly. "Look, Amitha, gimme the benefit of the doubt here — I'm 
not so stupid as to go after you cause you're the first convert that 
came to mind. Problem is there's a lady on the other side of the Way 
to Alagadda with Legate Trunnion's words drilled into her head via 
mass driver, and if there's a person who'd know where you could get 
something like that done, it'd be you." 


Amitha relaxed and quirked her lip. "Right. So I'm not guilty, | just 
know enough to be." 


"Hey, if you think anyone's gonna convict on that alone, you'd be a) 
right and b) the second person to get dragged to the firing line after 
me." 


"So you're doing this... what, out of some misguided belief you're 
protecting me?" 


"| like to think I'm doing both me and Ms. Allison Chao over there a 
service by getting someone who actually knows their shit on the 
case, but if you want you can think I'm saving both our asses from 
one count of cross-universal hate crime, sure." 


She flinched at the name I'd just dropped. The tactic might've been 


effective for pulling sympathy from civilians when speechifying but | 
hadn't expected it to be quite that effective. "Allison... black hair, 
sleeveless top, tattoo right there?" She pointed at a spot on her 
shoulder. 


"Eye for details, huh. You'd make a decent cop." 


"Xiang, shut up." Amitha began to turn and pace towards the back of 
her workshop. | didn't have a choice but to follow her in. "Are you 
absolutely sure that's the woman you saw?" 


"I can literally project the photos | took onto the wall, if it's so 
important to you. Tell me why." 


And as the faint sound of sirens in the distance began to make itself 
known to me, Amitha's face turned into a mask of confusion. 
"Because she's been waiting right here the entire time." 


Brink Dangerguts Adventures 


Of late, several anonymous manuscripts featuring a protagonist 
named "Brink Dangerguts" have been discovered in numerous SCP 
facilities. The documents include very little in the way of factual 
information, but contain enough sensitive material to engender a 
low-level security breach if found outside Foundation walls. The 
writings have been organized here to assist in identification. 


Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 
¢ Chapter 1: Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It... 


* Chapter 2: How to Hold a Debate while Skydiving 
¢ Chapter 3: Lights, Cairo, Action!! 


* Twenty-seven rats hanging off its front (the wild vermin 
swarms that often horde around it are especially problematic, 
but these are all lab-bred, except for SCP-597-SS-19 and 
SCP-597-SS-24, which refuse to be removed, and are 
clamped too tightly on just to pull off) 


¢ Fifteen bats that cover approximately all of its back, their 
wings flapping spasmodically, creating a slight gust. 


¢ Eight humans (four D-class personnel, three doctors, one 
guard) 


Addendum 02: / / See Document 597-XD-12 
Document 597-XD-12 

[DATA EXPUNGED] 

[DATA EXPUNGED] 


[DATA EXPUNGED] care must be taken not to allow them to 
attempt to rip or tear a hole in 597 for penetration purposes [DATA 
EXPUNGED] 


Addendum 03: / / See Document 597-XX-25 
Document 597- XX-25 


An all female task force has been shown not to be more effective in 
containment, as demonstrated by three events: the development of 
bisexual tendencies in [DATA EXPUNGED], the loss of five women 
guards who after writing "mommy, mommy, how i love my mommy" 
all over the walls of the cell were lost and began suckling, and the 
suicide of Doctor Vanesen, who after circling each and every teat in 
red sharpie marker and writing "life" next to them, shot herself in the 
head. 


Addendum 04: / / See Document 597-XY-C13 
Document 597-XY-C13 


[DATA EXPUNGED] 


Chapter 1: Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept 
It... 


Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 


Several copies of this anonymous manuscript have been 
found scattered across Site 19 over the past month. 
Despite its near-total factual inaccuracy, it contains 
enough truth to warrant a low-level breach of security if 
published. As far as Foundation sources have gathered, 
it has not been sent to any outside publishing company; 
the investigation is ongoing. 


“I tell you, amigo, this is what life’s for.” 


Brink was lounging poolside at the hotel, draped over a lawn chair 
while a pair of bronzed Peruvian women rubbed suntan lotion on his 
imposing chest. A third reclined gracefully against his shoulder and 
ran a hand across his close-cropped brown hair. “If heaven doesn’t 
have this setup right here, I’m not going.” 


“Tal vez no iras alla en absoluto,”! Trail muttered around a mouthful 
of mango nectar, his inflatable seat bobbing lazily in the water. 


Brink looked at the glass on the table beside him and stood up. 
“Yeah, you’re right, buddy,” he replied, “that is looking a little on the 
empty side. Oh, ah... It's Hormiguita, isn’t it? Hormiguita!” 


A fourth woman sauntered sultrily from across the patio carrying a 
whiskey sour in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. She moved 
like a runway model, and wore noticeably less. 


“Is Mercedes,” Mercedes corrected him, scowling. She raised the 
cigarette to her lips and blew smoke at his face. 


“Mer—what? Why would | need a—no, no, Hormiguita, two.” He 
held up two fingers to illustrate his point. “Two drinks. Dos... drinks,” 


he said patiently as she strolled back, rolling her eyes. “Swear to 
God, love lookin’ at ‘em, but the minute you try to get one to do a 
simple task...“ 


“...hablas con ella como tU no crees que tiene cerebro.“2 


“Trail, buddy, you know | can’t understand you when you say things 
fast like that.” 


“Oh. It was nothing. Just talking to myself.” 


There was a sudden rattle at the gate, and a pair of men in black 
suits and reflective sunglasses approached Brink and Trail. The one 
in the lead was short and slight, whereas the one behind was 
roughly twice his partner’s size in both directions. He looked capable 
of pulling apart a car with his hands alone. 


“Burke Dangerous?” spoke the short man, curtly. 


“Brink Dangerguts. My name is Brink Dangerguts,” repeated Brink 
Dangerguts. He proffered his hand to the miniature stranger, who 
ignored it. 


“Brink.” He seemed to turn the name over in his head. “Right. My 
name is Agent Caraway, and this quiet individual—* he gestured to 
his enormous companion, who bowed—“is Agent Toreo. We'd like to 
ask you for a moment of your time.” 


“Sorry, | can’t spare a second right now,” Brink said. “As you can 
probably see, I’ve got several young women to attend to, and I’ve 
really spent enough time out of my chair as it is.” 


“Is that so.” Caraway motioned to the giant, who clapped twice. The 
women turned their heads sharply, like a flock of cockatiels. 


“Por favor,” Toreo said, “regresen a sus cuartos inmediatamente. Es 
de gran importancia.”3 


At once, the three women arose, grabbed their towels, and began 
meandering toward the building. Brink stared at their retreating 
backs in surprise. His luxurious chestnut mustache and left eyelid 
twitched visibly. 


“What the hell did you just do?” he asked, dumbfounded. 


“It looks like your schedule just got a lot lighter, Mr. Dangerguts,” 
said Caraway snidely. “Now, you think we could talk with you for a 
moment?” 


“After that? | ought to send the two of you flying! What’s worth 
sending away all the women? What kind of introduction was that?” 


Caraway sniffed. “The kind that precedes an extremely lucrative job 
offer.” He started up the steps into the hotel. “Come inside.” 


The contents of Toreo’s briefcase covered the rich velour sheets of 
the bed in Brink’s hotel room in much the same way as he had 
hoped a collection of sehoritas was going to. Photographs, interview 
transcripts, clipped headlines, and scientific-looking articles formed 
almost a full layer of paper across the California king-sized mattress, 
with some loose pages falling onto the burgundy carpet. 


“This right here is what you'll be recovering for us,” Caraway said, 
his finger on a photo of a shard of Greek pottery. “It’s an ancient clay 
fragment with some rather unusual properties.” 


“Is it cursed?” 

“Well, no. Not really.” 

“Will it melt your face if you look at it?” 

“Oh, definitely not.” 

Brink was puzzled. “Haunted, then? Possessed somehow?” 
“Nothing like that.“ 

“Well, what’s its deal? Why is it so important?” 

“It was stolen from our employers, and they desperately want it 
back. That is the extent of what you need to know in this regard. 


That, and not to touch it with your bare hands, but that should really 
go without saying.” 


“Hold on, hold on, just a minute. Tell me it at least has some sort of 
catchy, recognizable name.” 


“We call it SCP-960.” 


“You've got to be kidding.” Brink stood and stretched his massive 
arms. “Mysterious—probably mysterious—ancient artifact, and the 
best you goons can come up with is a bunch of gibberish. All right, 
I'll name it.” 


Caraway sighed. “This really isn’t necessary.” 
“The Shard of Thermopylae!” 


“It’s not from Thermopylae,” groaned the squat agent. “Sit back 
down. | wasn’t finished.” Toreo nodded stiffly in Brink’s direction. 


“Now, Mr...." Caraway pretended to fumble for the name. 
“Dangerguts, wasn't it? You were responsible for locating the Adze 
of Maupai, correct?” 


“That was me, yep. Me and my buddy Trail.” He made a move 
toward the window. “Why’d we have to leave him outside, anyway? 
We do all our adventuring as 

a team.” 


“We'll get there. You also went toe-to-toe with the wild cockatrice on 
the Isle of Man, right?” 


“Fought ‘em. Killed ‘em. Tried eating one of ‘em.” 

“Oh? How was that?” 

Brink shrugged. “Not great.” 

“Hm. And Mad Captain Norman’s lost treasure, you found that, too?” 


“With a cut air hose. ...Hang on, we didn’t even go public with that 
yet. We just wrapped that one up a week and a half ago, how did 
you know about it?” 


“My line of work extensively involves knowing things, Mr. 


Dangerguts.” Caraway began to pace around the suite. “As such, | 
have personally conducted a thorough background check on you 
before considering you for this job. Obviously, the fact that we’re 
speaking this instant proves that you’ve passed. Unfortunately, | 
cannot say the same for your partner, hence his current absence.” 


Brink frowned. “Aw, hey, now, look, if you’re talking about what he 
did in Sumatra, | can tell you that was perfectly excusable in 
context.” 


“It’s not just about Sumatra.” He picked up a wax apple and tossed it 
back and forth. “It’s a protracted pattern of misbehavior and 
unreliability in tense situations. Wouldn't you say he has a tendency 
to fly off the handle?” 


“Well, yes, but only when the handle needs to get flown off of! Look, 
sometimes you just gotta do something drastic to get a situation 
under control, and he understands that. He knows exactly what he’s 
doing.” 


Caraway sniffed again. “Be that as it may, our employers have 
decided that he is too much of a risk for a mission as delicate as 
this. Leave him here. Say you're going on vacation.” 


“But this is our vacation.” 


“Then say you've got family business to attend to. Dying 
grandparent or something, | don’t care. Just don’t bring him with 
you. Understand?” 


Brink cast his deep blue eyes downward. “I understand.” 


“Very good. So long as you don’t breathe a word to him of this 
arrangement, you will be extremely well compensated for your 
efforts concerning the artifact. Now, as | was saying, the last we 
heard, it was being flown into Egypt in the custody of a man named 
Heinrich Krause...” 


“Madre de Dios, Brink, there you are. It’s been at least an hour and 
a half. What did those guys want?” 


“Never mind what they want.” His face broke out into a perilous grin. 
“Come on, buddy, we’re going to Cairo.” 


« * «next chapter 
Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 


Footnotes 
1. "Maybe you won't go at all." 
2."...you talk with her like you don't think she's got a brain." 


3. "Please return to your rooms immediately. It is of great 
importance." 


Chapter 2: How to Hold a Debate while Skydiving 


Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 


Several copies of this anonymous manuscript have been 
found scattered across Site 19 over the past month. 
Despite its near-total factual inaccuracy, it contains 
enough truth to warrant a low-level breach of security if 
published. As far as Foundation sources have gathered, 
it has not been sent to any outside publishing company; 
the investigation is ongoing.