"Michael Magnus. He was killed in the Site-19 incident last night. It 
gives us causality, a traumatic event, and a sufficient causal link to 
shift causality away from the Senior Staff." Dr. Kensington tried not 
to let his voice shake. Medical science was a hell of a thing, but it 
had been far, far too late to save Michael's life. 


If they hurried, they could redirect the entire fact that he died away 
from reality, though. If they timed it right, they could give hima 
second chance. O5-6's voice came out a warbly mix of several 
voices, "So, if I'm reading this all right, we're going to knowingly 
bend reality so that we can turn our research staff in to anomalies? 
Is that about right? And we would use this...Dr. Magnus' body and 
death to do so?" 


O5-2 nodded. "We would have. Why, did you have issue with the 
council's vote?" She looked across at the man in the chair, directly 
through the haze. They held eyes for several seconds, before he 
looked away, and stood. 


"No. You know how | voted. Sorry about it, 2. But that's how it goes." 
O5-6 walked to the door out of O5-2's office, and punched in a six 
digit code, opening the door, and stepping through in the reality 
anchored location in Site-26. 


"Alright then, Dr. Kensington. Have the remains brought here. We'll 
proceed at midnight tomorrow, if that's amenable to you?" 
Kensington hesitated for a moment, then nodded, and followed the 
same exit as O5-6, his eyes set and determined. Fuck the council. 
He was getting his best friend back. 


She paused for a moment, her chin resting on interlaced fingers 
then smiled. She opened her desk drawer, and reached forward 
pressing the button on her phone, "Sal, come in for a moment?" 


The door in front of her opened, and her assistant walked in, reading 
off of a ledger, "The memetic has been distributed. All mentions of 
Dr." His mouth moved, but no sound came out " have been removed 
from this reality. Are we sure that using this memetic agent is a good 
id—" 


She held up a hand to silence him. "Begin Directive: Legends at 
once. We need to get this done before the other council members 
catch wind of this." She looked back down and started to jot notes 
on the file. The large block red letters of "REJECTED BY O5 
COUNCIL VOTE" stood out starkly from the case file. 


Dimensional Site-04, July 19,20 ,11:50 PM 


The blacksite depths of Dimension Site 4 were hardly a pleasant 
place. Cold concrete surrounded the assembled group, flickering 
purple fractals manifesting in the corners of the room, aftereffects of 
the process holding Site 4 in dimensional suspension. 


The only way to access the deeper levels of the site were with the 
direct accompaniment of an overseer. Kensginton's access card 
stopped working after the third basement. Six levels, and four 
elevators later, the concrete rectangle that contained the work of the 
past day stood starkly illuminated by floor lamps and industrial 
lighting. 


A rough hewn altar, with chiseled bismuth crystals in the crude 
shape of a bowl, the lattice of crystals barely supporting the weight 
of the black bodybag inside it stood in the center of the room. 
Around it stood O5-2, Dr. Kensington, Sal, several medical 


assistants, and a man of indeterminate race, and very tired eyes. 
"Want me to shore up the altar a bit?" 


She shook her head, "No. This is exactly how it was supposed to be 
according to the design." She took a step forward, and placed a 
hand on the bodybag in front of her. "You know what you're going to 
do right?" 


He shifted uncomfortably, and the room heated up a fraction of a 
degree. The tie of his suit changed color from red to blue. "Yes. 
We're going to bend the area around this...thing, until it functions, 
right?" He took a step forward, and placed his hand on the body bag 
as well. "This is...an ugly ugly thing you're asking Mel—" 


She looked over with a severe glare, "Don't you dare. And | know 
what I'm asking of you. You owe me." 


Dr. Kensington's eyes were locked on the bag in front of him. This 
would work. He'd have his idiot friend back, and O5-2 would get her 
reality deference matrix. He clicked the pen in his hand a few times 
out of nerves, and looked up at O5-2. "Can we get on with this.” 


"Get out, Kensington. I'll let you Know what happens" He started to 
protest, and she cut him off with a gesture, "| wasn't asking.” Dr. 
Kensington looked at her with smoldering eyes, and stalked out of 
the room. She nodded, and looked over at the man next to her, 
"Whenever you're ready Ch—" He held up a hand, closing his eyes. 


"Since you're insisting on titles, at least call me 343. And after this, 
we're even. This is...wrong. You don't even know what this might—" 
She turned away from him, and nodded her head. "Alright. Fine." 


He held his hands out, concentrating on whatever enigmatic turn of 
fate allowed him to do what he did, and the temperature of the room 
rose. Several minutes passed, as sweat beaded on the rapidly 
reddening face of the nondescript man, the air taking on a faint 
metallic tang. His fingernails cracked as several minutes more 
passed, before the crude altar in front of them started to shake, and 
rattle. His voice croaked out, strained, "Now's the time, if you—" 


05-2 took a step forward, and slapped the body bag, and ina 


confident voice intoned, "Death was too good for you, idiot. It never 
happened." Everything around 05-2 slowed down, and a faint 
crackling sound could be heard, followed by a roaring. Her senses 
were overwhelmed, as her vision faded to white...then black...then 
slowly back to normal. 


As the screams faded away, Michael Magnus lay on the floor 
gasping, the skeletal remains in the bowl of the altar glowing a faint 


purple. 


"Where...what...| don't....?" Magnus' words were slurred. "| don't...| 
was dead, how am | here?! | didn't...oh my fucking god—" he ripped 
open his shirt, looking down at his chest. The stab wounds were 
just...not there. No scar, no line, nothing. "| don't understand." 


05-2 took two long steps to stand in front of Magnus, "Oh Michael. 
Don't you know, legends never die?" He looked up at her with wary 
eyes, as she gestured to several medical staff present. "Get him 
cleaned up, and back to Site-19. He has work to do." 


Sal took a step forward, standing next to O5-2, "The design 
specifies that the effect will get stronger with subsequent breaches 
of the causality. Are we going to—" 


She smirked, and turned to head back to her office, "Don't worry Sal. 
Michael has quite a few "fieldwork" missions planned for the future." 


Dimensional Site-04-a (provisional designation), July 
19,20 ,11:59 Pm 


Dr. Kensington's eyes were locked on the bag in front of him. This 
would work. He'd have his idiot friend back, and O5-2 would get her 
reality deference matrix. He clicked the pen in his hand a few times 
out of nerves, and looked up at O5-2. "Can we get on with this.” 


"Get out, Kensington. I'll let you know what happens" He took two 
steps forward, and squared his jaw. "With all due respect, ma'am, 
fuck off." 


She smiled faintly, then nodded, and looked over at the man next to 


her, "Whenever you're ready Ch—" He held up a hand, closing his 
eyes. 


"Since you're insisting on titles, at least call me 343. And after this, 
we're even. This is...wrong. You don't even know what this might—" 
She turned away from him, and nodded her head. "Alright. Fine." 


He held his hands out, concentrating on whatever enigmatic turn of 
fate allowed him to do what he did, and the temperature of the room 
rose. Several minutes passed, as sweat beaded on the face of the 
reality bending man, the air taking on a faint metallic tang. His lips 
cracked as several minutes more passed, before the crude altar in 
front of them started to shake, and rattle. His voice croaked out, 
strained, "Now's the moment, if you—" 


05-2 took a step forward, and slapped the body bag, and ina 
confident voice intoned, "I've worked too hard to put this much faith 
in this idiot, now get the hell up!." Everything around O5-2 slowed 
down, and a faint crackling sound could be heard, followed by a 
shattering sound. Her senses were overwhelmed, as her vision 
faded to white...then black...then slowly back to normal. 


SCP-343 looked over at O5-2, "I'm sorry, | don't know what you 
were expecting, but that's all." He had returned to his usual 
appearance, all traces of strain gone from his features. "I'm heading 
back to containment now." With no warning, he simply vanished 
without ceremony. 


She looked over at Kensington, and frowned. "Well, that's all?" 


His eyes fell to the floor, gritting his teeth. God dammit. It was 
supposed to work, everything in the notes indicated... Fuck it. At 
least | tried. Rest in peace you old asshole. "| guess that's all." He 
turned, and stalked out of the room, heading back towards the 
dimensional entrance to Site-19. 


A few minutes of strained silence passed. At /east there's no one to 
deal with from the council this way... She thought to herself. From 
the corner, Sal's tablet started to beep. "Ma'am, we have reports of 
Hume levels are spiking off the charts. Something's happening.” His 
phone rang in his pocket, and he lifted it to his ear. Several tense 


moments passed in silence. "We've got a confirmed anomaly in 
Montana. The agents responding report...dogs. Lots, and lots of 
dogs, and some kind of entity leading them." 


O5-2 chewed her lip for a moment, eyes darting from the altar in 
front of her to Sal. "That's just a coincidence." 


Sal looked at her sideline. "Yes. Because there's so many 
coincidences in this world, right?" She made a vague dismissive 
motion, and turned to walk towards her office. "Get me the head of 
the containment team." She took one final look at the burnt body 
bag and the skeletal remains that were all that was left of Michael 
Magnus. "Keep a survey team around the remains. If there is a 
correlation...we..." She paused. "Sal, | don't even know. Just keep a 
team in place." 


He watched her leave the barely lit basement room, and looked 
down at the tablet in his hand. The steady stream of messages was 
coming in regarding Montana. He shrugged, and called in for the 
containment team, his back turned towards the altar, and the faint 
purple light present on the flickering nick in the third rib. 


« Legends Never Die | HUB | » 


Bad Dreams 


Agent Adams walked down the hall of the Lanthanide Hills Task 
Force dorms, swiped her card on the lock, readied her parka around 
her face, and stepped into the cold, Siberian night, manila envelope 
in hand. 


Tonight was not a snowy night, but the cold wind still whipped up 
around the mess hall to her left and blew snow in gusts across the 
pavilion; she saw lights bobbing in the distance, and dogs barking, 
the night patrol wandering in snowshoes and parkas down the road 
to the main facility a mile down the road with a Humvee rattling 
along behind them. The watch lights circled lazily in a long, cold 
circle, waiting for sun that wouldn’t come for another two months. 


She started off, hand on the rope guiding them through the dark, 
carefully watching her step. Snowshoes were tricky; her worst fear 
was having to fight in them one day. High heels she could do. Not 
snowshoes. 


The rope led past the mess to the training facility, the armory, the 
other dorms for the poor saps that were stuck on winter Lanthanide 
training assignment against their will. Finally, she came to the old 
log cabin she was looking for, and trudged up the three steps to the 
door with “FUCK OFF” written in permanent marker on the window, 
both in English and shaky Russian. 


In the few years that Adams had spent at Lanthanide, she had never 
visited Clef’s small house on the edge of the training facility’s 
grounds. Part of her hesitated a moment on the doorstep, like she 
was doing something profoundly wrong; her mentor was not 
necessarily a private man, but also wasn’t one to invite others into 
his life at all. There was no backstory to it; no reasoning or sad 
reason why. It just didn’t happen. 


Because Alto Clef was a fucking repulsive little man. 


She looked at the envelope, wondered if it could wait until morning. 
Maybe it could; she could just leave it here- 


Suddenly, Clef started screaming. 


Clef screamed a lot. One could argue that Adams had heard, 
actually, nearly every possible sound that Alto Clef could make. But 
this one started at a low-pitched whine, and grew into a slow, 
unearthly howl, like a car starting, and increased in pitch and volume 
until she found herself frozen in place on the doorstep, clutching the 
envelope tighter. 


What the fuck? 


She caught herself about thirty seconds into the unholy roar of the 
damned, and pounded on the door. 


“Clef! Are you okay?” 


The house dropped silent. She waited. A few minutes passed. 
Adams considered knocking again, or doing away with chivalry 
altogether and just busting in the door, in case he had hurt himself 
or something- 


CLUNK. 

The sound of a lock unlocking. 
SHHIIICK. 

CLUNK. 

THOCK. 


The sound started at the top of the door, and worked its way down, 
the sound of about ten heavy-duty locks being pulled away 


CLICK 
THOCK 
THOCK 


CLICK 
CLUNK 


The door opened an inch, and Adams found herself with the tip of a 
shotgun in her face. 


“Leave. Don’t tell anyone what you heard.” His voice was cold, and 
broke near the end. 


“Hey, are you oka-“ 

“I’m fine. Go away.” 

“Look, | brought these files-“ 

“It. Can wait. Don’t tell anyone what you heard.” 

“Clef, what was that? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. It happens.” 

“What happens?” 

“Dreaming. I've seen a lot, Adams. Please give me privacy on this." 
There was a pause. The barrel stayed where it was. 

“Okay. | won't tell anyone. Um...I'Il...I’ll see you tomorrow.” 


In a moment, the gun was gone, the door was slammed closed, the 
locks relocked, and Agent Adams was left on the porch, alone. 


Clef watched her go from the window in the other room. Waited until 
she was down the road, back to the main facility and the dorms. 


He grinned, pretty damn proud of himself. That was quite a show! 
God damn. Good cover. Alto Clef, a fucking repulsive little man who 
had been, in fact, enjoying himself immensely for the past few hours, 
took his underwear back off, took a Viagra, and put another waffle in 
the toaster for round number 14. 


« | HUB | » 


(The Engine of A Film)The Fine Game of Nil) 


Once Upon A Time In Site 19... 


"Man, another day, another 096 breach," Researcher Chad Benson 
said, kicking a paperclip across the room. "At least this time it was 
just some dude. Can you imagine how bad it would get if it was like, 
a bunch of dudes?" 


"Dude," Researcher Kyle Sachs raised an eyebrow, "that's already 
happened like... twice." 


"Whoa." 
"Right?" 


The two of them sat at their post, just outside of SCP-096's 
containment cell. It was a slow day, so Kyle had snuck in a six-pack 
and some darts and they had spent their time ineffectively 
acupuncturing the drywall. After a while, and after another case of 
suds had been absconded with from the staff lounge, Chad poached 
an inquiry. 


"Dude," he said, leaning forward precipitously, "what if like, the Shy 
Guy just has like, image issues, you know?" 


Researcher Kyle looked up, one eye casually maintaining its focus 
on the ground. "What?" 


Researcher Chad squinted, racking his brain for intelligent thought. 
"Like, what if the Shy Guy is actually a real bro, but he's just got 
some shit going on, you know? Like he's got some issues with acne 
or some shit." 


Kyle nodded slowly. "Bro, | get that. | knew this guy once who had 
real bad acne issues, messed him up for a long time. Maybe Shy 
Guy just needs some Clearasil or some shit, dawg."