"You're going to destroy the greatest discovery in human history, the 
tool by which God spoke to man, and on top of all of that murder 
scores of innocent people, all to preserve the world as you imagine it 
to be! Are you really so fragile of faith that the first challenge drives 
you to murder?” 


Rashid was unmoved. Salah knew that look as well. 


“Innocent? Look at them. They are still idolaters, their brains are still 
filled with clockwork, they still reject their humanity to embrace 
metal, and the Machine still whispers its blasohemies to them. The 
only difference is in the words used, and in how you perceive them.” 
He waved a hand. "Enough of this. Musa, Tahmid, take him." 


Two of the Wolves pinned Salah's arm's behind him. The third took 
hold of Masun. The old man scampered off, out of the cave. Salah 
hoped he would deliver a warning, bring help, do something. 


“Can't you see it? Can't you see it, Rashid?” 


“| see nothing but a false idol. If we cannot stand strong against the 
lies of this world, then we have already lost. Salah, | have great 
respect for you, but you have been misled. | will be merciful, but | 
will not allow you to interfere with God's work here. Bassam, destroy 
the camera. We have no need of it." 


The guard took the camera from Masun's hands and tossed it into 
the lake. 


Later, Salah sat on the rocky ground of that little gully, his knees 
pulled up against his chest. Bassam sat on a rock, his gun in his 
hands, and Salah was certain he would be shot at the first 
movement. Not lethally, but at least in the leg. Rashid had said that 
he would be handed over to the Initiative authorities when they 
returned, and Salah did not particularly care. So long as he went 
home. 


He felt the ground shake, and along with that shaking, a great pain 
in his soul. 


He closed his eyes, and thought of home. Home, where there was 
still some good left. 


“Have you seen them, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk? 
Have you seen the throngs in those cold cities to the 
east, 


Where men wish for the death that will never come 

Upon their heads? 

Do you wish for their curse, the curse laid upon me? 

To live eternally and to endure suffering without ceasing? 
Weep not for the dead, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk. 

Go home, and embrace your son Ur-Nungal whom you 
love. 

It is better that a man live well, than he live forever.” 


Thousands of miles away, Mary-Ann sat on the couch, watching the 
Uruk-hai charge the Deeping Wall. She rested a hand on her belly, 
and the baby kicked underneath, as if to join in the defense of 
Helm's Deep. Mary-Ann chuckled. 


"Easy there, kiddo. Aragorn's got this, don't worry." 


« Crossing The Streams | Hub | Nor Gloom of Night Shall Stay » 


Nor Gloom Of Night Shall Stay 


It was a dark and stormy dawn, with a sky of wet slate. Rain poured 
down the window, as it had for the last six hours. The clock on the 
wall said 7:04. Salah hadn't slept since that time yesterday. 


That cursed clock. It couldn't be digital, something modern and 
sensible. No, it had to have a pendulum, swinging back and forth 
with a loud tick...tock...tick...tock. 


He sat in the little waiting room with his arms resting on his knees, 
holding a half-filled Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee. A half-eaten 
doughnut lay on the table next to him, near a stack of old Time 
magazines. 


When he had prayed fajir that morning, he had felt nothing. Just as 
he had every morning since he had seen the Voice. Nothing but a 
resounding hollowness in his soul as he went through the motions. 
God was gone. He had watched the Voice be destroyed, and he had 
been helpless to do anything. 


Was there any point anymore? Was the Initiative doing more harm 
than good? Why didn’t they realize what they were doing? Why 
couldn’t he have done something? 


Why was it allowed to happen? 
tick...tock...tick...tock... 


He had spoken with Mary-Ann about it, as soon as he had come 
home. She had been through her own dark night of the soul. 
“Nobody else can do it for you, but they can help. You helped me.” 
That was what she had ended with. He knew it was true, and he 
knew she would be right there...and yet he didn't feel like he knew 
much of anything anymore. 


Salah truly wanted to speak to Adnan but...that was easier said than 


done. He was a ghost, here at one moment and gone the next, and 
contacting him was a nightmare in and of itself. 


tick...tock...tick...tock... 
Salah half-expected to see a hook on his hand. 
“Hey. Are you okay?” 


Salah looked up to see Di standing there, arms full of books, as 
usual. 


“Yeah...yeah.” 
“Did she kick you out of the room or something?” 


“She threatened to make me eat the placenta if | didn’t get some 
sleep.” 


Di sat down next to him. 

“And you haven't slept, have you?” 

“Not a wink.” 

“You probably should. You look awful.” 
“Haven't been sleeping well lately anyway.” 
“Because of what happened with the Wolves?” 
“Yeah.” 

“Have you talked to Mary-Ann about it?” 
“Yeah. She cursed up a storm when | told her.” 
“| don’t doubt it.” 


“| Know she believes me, but...| Anew. | Knew what it was. And they 
destroyed it. | might be the only person alive who knows the truth, 
the actual truth...and | can’t prove any of it. Maybe I’m going mad.” 
He sighed. “What do you do, when you can’t see a point in it all?” 


Di held up a book. 
“Right, right.” 
Di put a hand on his shoulder. 


“Salah, you’re going to be a father. If you've got anything right now, 
it's a point." 


So he did. So he did. The little gears of celestial happenings clicked 
into place then, as a doctor now stood at the entrance to the waiting 
room. 


“You can come in now,” he said. 


Wordlessly, Salah stood up and walked down the hall, as if ina 
dream. Here was the hall, here was the door. Here was Mary-Ann, 
sitting in her bed: smiling, exhausted. And there in her arms, a 
bundle of white cloth. 


“Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?” Her voice was a pure, tired joy. 
“Not at all.” Salah stepped over to the bedside. 


Mary-Ann gave him an “are you kidding me | specifically told you to 
go do that” face. 


“You’re lucky | donated it already,” she snarked. “Come on, you can 
hold her: She’s your daughter as much as mine.” Mary-Ann offered 
the bundle to Salah. 


In an instant, Salah’s world became compressed around the little 
bundle now in his arms. His daughter, with her little balled fists and 
clenched-shut eyes and the little tuft of dirty straw hair. His daughter, 
whom he would watch go through diapers and scraped knees and 
homework and first dates and college and jobs and marriage and 
children of her own. A whole life in his hands, and all the more 
precious for how small it was. For a moment, the evils of the world 
seemed insignificant in the face of the smallest of goods. 


His daughter. A little match in the darkness. 


“Hey there, sweet pea. I’m your abbi.” 
And so Naomi Ilbtisam Zairi-Lewitt was welcomed into the world. 


« The Tick Tock Gospel | Hub | Agricola in Insula est Poeta » 


was shown to have no lasting effects. Driver complained of burning 
sensation in right hand; he was treated for mild dehydration and loss 
of flesh on the first two carpals of his right index and middle fingers. 
Due to the effects of SCP-634, driver and officer were released after 
being treated and given cover stories. 


SCP-634 was traced to a local pet store, , where the driver had 
left his wallet. The goldfish in said store were examined and 
determined to be no threat, but were terminated as a precautionary 
measure. Efforts to trace the origins of the shipment containing 
SCP-634 have thus far proved futile. 


SCP-634 affects the short-term memory and attention span of living 
creatures in close proximity to it. The strength of SCP-634's abilities 
appears to be inversely related to the squared distance from 
SCP-634, with negligible results after a radius of approximately 
3.1m. The only noticeable anatomical difference between SCP-634 
and a common goldfish is its small row of sharp teeth. SCP-634's 
bite has a coagulating effect, which minimizes blood loss; it also 
causes a burning sensation at the point of incision. 


SCP-634 does not appear to have any further ability to influence a 
person's mind or otherwise influence him or her to initially put a 
hand in its tank. Its adaptation is generally suited for use in an area 
with predators who would naturally be compelled to reach for it. 


Also note that SCP-634 does not influence a person's or animal's 
natural instincts or wants, only affecting their memory of the current 
context of a situation. Because of this, SCP-634 would be unlikely to 
stop a rampage of an SCP which has a general inclination towards 
violence and a dislike of people, as those behaviors would continue 
regardless of context. SCP-634 may be effective in reducing the 
damage done by a sentient SCP who has been provoked. 


Addendum SCP-634-1: See Experiment Log SCP-634 for further 
details 


Addendum SCP-634-2: Considering the average lifespan of the 
common goldfish and SCP-634's unique abilities, it may be 
advisable to introduce a female goldfish for breeding purposes. 


Agricola In Insula Est Poeta 


The car started. “Trampled Under Foot” blasted from the speakers. 


“Agk, sorry!” Mary-Ann twisted the volume dial down. She waved at 
the figure in the living-room window, put the car in reverse and 
pulled out of the driveway. She was off the property, she could now 
Officially relax. Di had everything under control at home, this was 
now date night. Just her and Salah out for dinner and some well- 
deserved time away from the house. Those months felt like ages 
now. Time to make sure that the night wasn't wasted. 


"So, where are we going, exactly?” Salah asked. 
“Vladimir's.” 
"Oh. Hrm." 


Di looked at the books she had spread out on the dining room table, 
satisfied with the selection. All the proper things for the growing 
toddler. There was Cat in the Hat and Goodnight Moon and the 
Eclectic Diatribes of Duke Grangermont of Upper Ligzenworth. This 
last book weighed more than Naomi did, concerned various political 
topics and the growing patterns of cabbages, and had no pictures. 


Oddly enough, this last one had not been very popular with her 
nieces and nephews. She presumed that Mary-Ann and Salah had 
raised Naomi to have better taste than that. 


The bar was called Vladimir's. Vladimir didn’t call it Viadimir’s, 
though he didn’t call it anything. So it was really a nameless bar 
called Vladimir’s, and Vladimir was fine with that. What was more 
important was the fact that it Existed. It Existed, and if it did not 


Exist, or even if it did exist, the universe would most likely collapse. 
The existence of the universe requires the Existence of places like 
Vladimir's. Something had to fill the holes that formed in the walls. 


It was a converted space, an old warehouse of some long-forgotten 
Cold War bunker, one of those places that could only be found if 
someone looked in the right places. The bar itself was in the center 
of the floor, surrounded by the freestanding tables. The walls were 
lined with booths, or tables on the upper level. Decoration was 
sparse: no tablecloths, scuffs on the tabletops, dim lighting from the 
hanging lamps. The air was thick with tobacco and alcohol fumes, to 
the point where everything seemed coated in a grey, greasy film. 
The hushed conversations and smooth jazz made for a sea of soft 
background noise. The sign by the door said “Seat Yourself” in a 
dozen languages. 


A man in a khaki pea coat tipped his fedora to Mary-Ann and Salah 
as he passed them and exited. Mary-Ann eyed the other clientele as 
they walked to their usual seat. It was always interesting to see who 
had arrived at Vladimirs, because sooner or later, everyone arrived 
at Vladimir's. 


“And this is the first declension.” Di pointed to the noun endings she 
had neatly written out, balancing Naomi on her knee. “Now, most of 
these are feminine nouns, but you can always remember that 
farmers, poets and sailors are always male. Romans were funny like 
that.” 


Mary-Ann and Salah sat down, some distance away from the other 
occupied tables. A quick glance around showed a lot of the regular 
in-fill: GRU-P, Serpent’s Hand, Librarians, Manna Charitable 
Foundation, and those who paid allegiance to none. After only a few 
brief moments a lurching automaton in the form of a young woman 
approached the table. It wore a name tag proclaiming “Welcome to 
Funland! My name is Daisy”. 


“Good evening. Can | get you something to drink?” it asked ina 


tinny voice as it handed them the menus. A redundancy: when 
people came to Vladimir’s, they already knew what they wanted. 
They ordered quickly, and the waitress departed. 


“To be honest, | really don’t see what you see in this place, Mary- 
Ann.” 


“It's got a lot of atmosphere.” 
He waved his hand, smoke rippling about it. 
“Yes, | believe it does.” 


"| mean, if you don't like it we could always go somewhere else next 
time." 


"No, no, it's fine. It's fine. It's not the seediest place I've been too, it's 
just not a favorite of mine, but if you like it here, | am perfectly fine 
with eating here." 


Mary-Ann nodded. 
"So, where was the seediest place you've ever eaten?" 


"A pub in Bromley. The place was positively foul. You could barely 
see through the windows for the grime, there was no ventilation at 
all, | swear | saw a cockroach scuttle into the kitchen, and the toilet 
didn't look like it had been cleaned since the Blitz. And there was a 
hair in my soup, which tasted like donkey piss. At the very least, the 
food here is good." 


“Hold that thought." Mary-Ann stood up. "Have to go use the 
restroom.” 


“The rest of this speech was cut off, as Duke Grangermont came 
down with a serious case of the kittens while arguing his case. No 
one’s really sure how he ended up with nine kittens in his stomach, 
or why they chose that exact moment to burst out of his stomach, 
but that’s history for you.” 


The bathroom was past the bar, which was populated by a bunch of 
grizzled grey GRU-P ex-pats in faded, threadbare uniforms and a 
trio of black-clad police officers with cloth masking their faces. A 
drunken hand swung out, not so much a punch, or even really an 
intended strike, just the exaggerated swinging of hands for 
argumentative emphasis, but it nonetheless hit Mary-Ann in the 
shoulder. She glared at the man in question. 


He was a pallid, overweight man with burnt-out eyes, a few flakes of 
blackened crust lining the sockets around the two orange spheres 
that glowed in their depths. His shaved head was tattooed and 
trepanned, in the fashion of the old Star-Paths, though this particular 
man had botched his eldritch enlightenment. The hole was too big, 
and was misaligned. 


After a moment of mental computation, he slurred something angry 
at Mary-Ann in Russian. 


“He doesn’t like you,” the old Soviet agent sitting next to the star- 
mind translated. 


“| don’t like him either.” 
There was a short, rough exchange in Russian between the two. 


“He says he wishes he could kill you personally, but circumstances 
prevent this. However, he despises you with such utter hatred that 
he will nonetheless take great joy in burning your dust into 
nothingness.” 


Mary-Ann cupped a hand around her ear. 


“What was that? Can’t hear you over all the hot air you’re blowing. 
And by hot air | mean penis. I’m insinuating that you suck cocks.” 


She walked away, nodding to Vladimir as she passed, and that was 
that. 


Di wrinkled her nose as she dropped the diaper in the trash, and 
considered whether The Tale of Desperaux or Jason and the Space- 
Argonauts would be a better bedtime story. 


Mary-Ann sat back down. The drinks were already there: A beer for 
Mary-Ann, tea for Salah. 


“Do we have any idea at all how stars work?”