It was about twenty feet from Totchs’s tower to the Tyrant’s. Too far 
for Rone to jump. However, not too far for him to throw. 


He tossed the hook he’d stolen from the fishing boats. It was made 
for hunting the levyatan eels in the deeper waters. It was nearly too 
heavy for him to throw so far, but he managed it on the second try. 
He set his foot in the loop he’d made, and swung out into space. 


He nearly let go when he slammed into the wall, but he managed to 
keep his grip. Then he began wriggling up the rope until he reached 
the bars. 


He slipped through. An adult could never have made it. Even a boy 
with a slightly heftier build would have had trouble. But Rone was 
just skinny enough to make it. 


The room was ornately decorated. There was filigree artwork, 
statues of marble and jade, and tapestries. He was looking for 
something impressive to steal when he heard a splashing. 


Several women in various states of undress were swimming ina 
shallow pool. He froze, but none of them seemed to see him. They 
were all clinging to a floating green tube. They seemed frightened, 
and their eyes seemed to focus far beyond the walls. He decided 
they must be drugged with something, and made his way around, 
until he came to the Tyrant’s bed. There he found what he was 
looking for. It was an artifact of the old world, one of the strange, 
jeweled rectangles they sometimes found in pleys containers, with 
the gold lines running along its green surface. It was the largest he’d 
ever seen, nearly as wide across as the length of his forearm. It 
must have cost even the Tyrant dearly to buy. He placed it delicately 
into his bag. 


Then he took out the jar of paint. He cracked the seal, and then 
used a bit of the Tyrant’s own bed sheet on the wall behind the bed. 
He'd had to pay a scribe to know what to do, and he copied the 
scratches on the paper slavishly. He had to get it just right. 


When he was satisfied with his work, he went back to the balcony. 
He slipped through the bars, and threw the hook over to Totsch’s 
office. He swung back across, and then clambered up to the 
window. He glanced inside to make sure no one was inside, and 
then made his way back down. This time no one challenged him. 


He walked through the street with his narrow back straight and his 
chin high as any lordling’s son. By the next evening, everyone in the 
city would know his name. 


He woke the next morning when he was shaken by Priestess Gylia. 
"Wake up! Wake up, you little idiot!" 


"Huh? Whuz?" he murmured. 


"There are men all around the city looking for you. You have to get 
dressed immediately!" The silver-haired priestess hauled him to his 
feet, and shoved him in the direction of the hamper where he kept 
his belongings. "No, not that, something with a hood. You can't be 
that daft, and be in all this trouble." 


As he blearily got dressed, her words sank in. Looking for him! The 
deeds of the previous day began to come back to him. He'd stolen 
from the Tyrant himself. 


"Not that | think you did it," Gylia said. "Not even you would be 
stupid enough to paint 'My name is Rone' after stealing the Tyrant's 
favorite treasure. But they'll... Oh. Oh no, Rone. Please, please tell 
me you didn't." 


"Um." Rone began to consider whether or not it had been quite so 
clever as it had seemed when he'd come up with the plan. 


"Oh, good lord. We have to get you out of the city right now." She 
bundled him up, pulling the hood down over his face. "| know a 
caravaneer. He's not leaving until two days from now, but if you get 
out now, you can meet him on the road. But now, we have to get 
you out of the city before someone mentions you to the guard. Now, 
move." 


Rone let himself be guided out of the room and out of the temple, 
pausing only to pick up his bag. Gylia led him down narrow 
alleyways and through busy markets, eyes watchful for the Guard. 
Once, a Guardsman had walked right up to them, but he was just 
asking if Gylia was going to be at the temple later. Money changed 
hands, and she promised she would be, for him. 


When they reached the gate, Gylia put a hand on his shoulder. 
"Now, you must listen to me. Walk alongside the road for the rest of 
the day. That should put you far enough from the city. Hide there, 
and wait for a caravan to pass. Ask for Tenzin, and tell him that 


Gylia sent you. He will help you." 


Rone nodded. "Thank you, Priestess," he said, then considered the 
guards. There were four, two watching the inside, two watching the 
outside. 


Gylia followed his gaze. "You'll need to get past them. | can't help 
you. Priestesses are not allowed out of the city, and they'll be 
suspicious if | approach. Just tell them a different name, and pretend 
you're out to see your uncle or something. You have a clever 
tongue, boy. Use it." 


"Th-thank you, Priestess," he said. He realized suddenly that he 
wasn't going to be able to come back to the city. Not for a long time. 
Maybe not ever. "I..." He didn't know what to say. 


"Oh, Rone," she said softly, and she gathered him to her in a hug. 
"Be brave, be clever, and never stop running while you have breath 
to give." Then she released him, and she turned away, walking back 
to the temple. 


Rone squared his shoulders, and walked up to the guards. 


"Whaddya want, boy?" one asked. He looked suspiciously at the 
boy, his piggy blue eyes vivid against his dark skin. 


"Sir," he began, about to tell him what Gylia suggested, then 
deciding to try something even better. "| know where Rone is!" 


"Where?" the guard asked, standing straighter. The other three 
guards also looked on attentively. 


"Want part of the reward," Rone said. "Otherwise, ain't telling." 


"You'll tell, or I'm gonna black your eyes. Now talk," the guard said, 
leaning in close to Rone. The other three, including the two who 
were supposed to be watching the outside, gathered close. 


"Awright, awright," Rone said, squeezing his eyes until a tear ran 
down his cheek. "I'll talk, just don't hit me. He's planning on escaping 
the city. He's coming here." 


"What's he look like?" the guard asked. "No lies, now." 


"He's short, and has brown hair, and that's him over there!" Rone 
said, pointing to a small figure hurrying through the open square. 


The guards shouted an oath. The two from the inner gate ran toward 
the man Rone had pointed out, while the other two looked on. While 
their attention was focused inward, he slipped past them, and ran 
out the gate. He heard a startled oath behind him, but he knew it 
would take them a minute to run after him, if they even decided to. 
He kept to the road for a moment, then cut off, falling into a ditch 
then scrambling out again. Fields and trees stretched out as far as 
he could see. Which seemed an awfully far way. Was it normal to be 
able to see that far away? 


There was a noticeable lack of alleys to duck into, or thick crowds to 
lose himself in. There were people on the road, and people working 
the fields, but nowhere he could simply vanish. That could be a 
problem very shortly. 


He glanced behind him. There seemed to still be some commotion 
at the gate, but no one running yet. 


"What are you doing in my field?" someone yelled. Rone froze, and 
saw a man in a straw hat running at him. It hadn't occurred to him 
that people owned fields, the way they owned buildings. He figured it 
all belonged to the Tyrant, until you were too far away to care about 
him. 


He decided to take the halfwit approach. "S-sorry. | got c-confused," 
he said. 


The man drew up, and looked Rone up and down. "Who are you?" 
he asked. "Why are you all alone here?" 


"M'name's Hever," he said. "Gon' see m'uncle." He decided this was 
as good a time as any to break out Gylia's lie. It had been a good 
one, all things considered, and it was a shame to waste it 
completely. 


The man's face broke into sympathy. "Your uncle? Whose farm 


does your uncle work at? | know every landowner around here. I'll 
help you find him." 


Rone's face froze. How could the man know everyone? He hadn't 
counted on this. "At, uh, at, uh, Larn's farm," he said, giving the most 
common name he could think of. 


"Hmm. Lots of Larns around here. Where did your parents tell you to 
go?" asked the farmer. 


"East, sir," Rone said, giving the general area area the road 
followed. 


"That doesn't narrow it down much. Can't you think of anything 
else?" the man asked. 


"Not s'good at thinkin’, sir." Rone was beginning to wonder if he 
should just make another run for it. 


"Hmm. Well, | can't take you around to every Larn east of here." The 
man seemed to struggle with a decision for a moment, and then put 
a kindly hand on Rone's shoulder. "All right, you need to listen to me 
carefully, Hever," he said, speaking slowly. "You need to go down 
the road. Walk until you get to the big, wooden bridge. There is a 
farm after it. Go there, and talk to Caswin. He'll help you. Do you 
understand?" 


"Down the road to the big wooden bridge," Rone repeated. "Talk to 
Caswin." 


"Good lad." The farmer gave him a gentle shove toward the road, 
and Rone was off. 


No one coming from the gate. They must have decided he wasn't 
important. He hoped it would be a good, long while before they 
found out how wrong they were. But now, the road was open, the 
sun warm, and the world was his. He hefted his bag over his 
shoulder and whistled as he walked. 


Part Two 


The rain poured down, and Rone shivered in the tree. He'd walked 
about a day's travel when he was chased from the road by a pack of 
wild dogs. After he'd gotten away from them by swimming in a river, 
he'd wandered lost a couple of days before being chased by a giant 
lizard, which was now waiting below, and he had no idea where the 
road was anymore. He was wet, he was miserable, and he was 
pretty sure he was going to die. 


That was when the shouting began. At first, he thought it was 
another pack of wild dogs, with the howls and yipping, but there 
were words mixed in. Hard to understand, but he picked up "left," 
"right," and "closer." 


Kangaroos jumped through the bushes, followed closely by dogs, 
and then men with white-painted faces and dark red hair. They 
threw spears as they ran, and a kangaroo leapt into the lizard, 
before being caught in its massive jaws. It turned to the hunters. 


They scrambled to a stop, but didn't run. Instead, they formed up, 
those still holding spears taking point. The lizard hissed menacingly, 
but turned again, picked up the kangaroo, and waddled off, not 
willing to risk injury from the hunters. 


"Hey, we got a boy in the tree!" said one of the white-faces. He wore 
leather breeches and a simple shirt, both in mottled grey and black. 
Others, dressed similarly, looked up. 


"Strange fruit for a yook tree,” another said, laughing. 
"Is it ripe?" asked one. 


"Go and smell for yourself," said another. "Oy, you in the tree, you 
coming down? Fangface is gone.” 


Rone gently lowered himself to the ground, and nearly fell as his 
much-abused muscles protested. "Th-thanks," he said. 


"You're from the city,” the white-face said. "You running away?" 


Rone nodded cautiously. The nomads sometimes traded with the 
city, but it was said they had little to do with the guards when 
possible. 


"Well, you'll come with us now. We saved you, you're ours now," 
said the white-face. 


"What?" Rone was caught by surprise as two of them grabbed his 
arm. 


"You have rules in the city? We have rules here. That's one. Now 
come. We have a long way to walk tonight." 


They pushed and pulled him along until they met up with other 
hunters. His bag with its treasures was taken from him, and freshly- 
cut pieces of meat, wrapped in leather, were thrust into his arms. 
Hunters chatted amiably around him, occasionally giving him a 
shove or steadying him as he tripped. He wasn't so much dragged 
as he was caught up in a friendly, talkative stampede. 


By the time they reached the camp, the rain had stopped, and the 
moon peeked out from above the clouds. 


There were conical leather tents set up all around several big fires. 
Orange and blue pictures decorated each tent, and bells were 
strung from their tops to jangle in the breeze. Older men, children, 
and women stared at them. Their clothing was more varied than the 
hunters’, with reds and yellows predominant. The older men had 
painted faces like the hunters. 


The meat was taken from Rone's arms, and he collapsed to the 
ground. He'd never walked so much in his life. 


He was hauled back to his feet by the first white-face. "| am Last 
Man. It's been decided that you belong to me." 


"My name is—" Rone began, but was given a sharp rap on the 
head. 


"Your name? Your name is you, or boy, or city brat. Don't talk to me 
about names. You're a boy, not a man." He gestured to one of the 
fires. "Now, sit down, get something to eat, and then go to my 
family's tent. The one with the man standing alone." 


Rone did as he was told. The food was meat, vegetables, and roots 
roasted on sticks over the fire, and spiced lightly. It was delicious 


matrix. 


The sheep are highly aggressive and territorial in nature, and often 
attack unfamiliar personnel without warning or provocation. They will 
continue to behave in this manner until steps are taken to properly 
placate 594-01, which is normally done by giving it “treats” such as 
tobacco or candies. Once this is done, the flock will become docile 
and behave like normal domestic sheep. The exceptions to this 
pacifying behavior are 594-02 and 594-03 as outlined in the 
addendum on each. In contrast to adults, lambs typically are very 
easy to handle and display curiosity towards new objects and people 
in the paddock, often attempting to ‘play’ with personnel but will flee 
if threatened. The sound of a panicked lamb will cause nearby 
adults to attack violently, so caution is to be taken not to 'spook' 
lambs. Lambs also show a tendency to form attachments to certain 
humans, often following them around the paddock and begging for 
food or attention. This is especially noticeable among bottle-reared 
lambs. Such attachments often last even after sheep has reached 
maturity, as seen in the case of 594-02 and Dr. Maryweather. 


At present, the flock numbers 1,314 mature sheep plus 448 lambs 
and immature sheep, with selective culling of unwanted animals 
annually after the rutting season to maintain these numbers. The 
only animals exempt from culling are 594-01, 594-02, and 594-03, or 
any lambs exhibiting similar traits. Deviation from the 1314/448 
pattern for more than a year’s time will cause all mature rams to 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. Failure to follow the pattern for two years 
during preliminary research resulted in the deaths of D-class 
personnel and _ researchers, as well as near breach of containment 
by 594-02. 


The defining characteristic of the sheep is that they are able to 
generate a substantial amount of static electricity simply by the 
friction caused during daily activities. The resultant charge is 
typically discharged at random, with mature specimens producing 
arc flashes that have been recorded at 1000 amps or more. Due to 
the electrocution hazard, personnel interacting with SCP-594 are 
advised to follow guidelines fully outlined in Document 594-4H. 
When faced with a “threat”, the flock will become highly agitated and 
mature ewes will attempt to form a ring around any lambs, rubbing 


after a day of running. When he entered the tent, he found it already 
somewhat crowded with children, dogs, two hunters, and several 
women, including one who introduced herself as Straytaker. She 
fussed over him a moment in a way that reminded him of the 
priestesses, and then sent him to sleep on the blankets with the 
dogs and the other children. Rone gathered she was Last Man's 
wife.