As those of us remaining ventured onward there were more; 
hundreds of the edifices, some all but covered by the shifting dunes, 
others proudly erect a dozen feet or more. They seemed to be 
arrayed in a circular pattern - the circle, if indeed it was such a thing, 
would have to have been dozens of miles wide or more, but it was 
clear that this was the work of the hands of man. On the seventh 
day, as we continued inwards towards what we believed to be the 
heart of the metropolis, we finally espied an edifice of a substantial 
nature - made of stone, standing proud several dozen feet above the 
desert sand. 


There were scarcely a dozen men left besides myself when we 
approached that erection; the rest had either died or turned back, 
many of the horses having met the same fate. Was it true that Lost 
Antigo was cursed? | wondered, as | had begun to feel a malaise 
myself. Surely, | told myself, the risk must be worth the reward - | 
have discovered Lost Antigo! The wealth and history of a nation lay 


before me to claim! | insisted that the others stay a good distance 
behind, ill though | was, that | might be the first to approach that lone 
building, claim it for myself and for my nation and my race, and learn 
what secrets it contained. 


Each step towards the tower was harrowing. | found myself sucking 
in wind as | approached. | ran my hand through my hair to wipe 
away the sweat and found that | tore several strands loose from my 
scalp in the effort. A fit of coughs struck me and | found that a molar 
had been ejected from its socket. | assured myself it was all 
worthwhile as | took the final steps towards that building and, for the 
first time, espied clearly the text emblazoned upon the wall by the 
door to that ancient place. 


| write this now for the benefit of whoever might find my Earthly 
remains, on the last scraps of paper | carried with me as my journey 
reached its end. | hope that you are better prepared than | was to 
resist the ravages of this place, for the curse it carries is real. The 
legend inscribed upon the wall of that ruin was in an ancient and all- 
but-forgotten dialect spoken by the Natives of this land, which | 
taught myself to read years ago when negotiating with their chiefs 
for the sale of hides and gunpowder. It reads as thus; 


CENTRAL MOJAVE NUCLEAR WASTE DEPOSITORY 


This sign is a message of great importance. Sending this 
message was important to us. We considered ourselves 
to be a powerful culture. 


This place is not a place of honor. No highly esteemed 
deed is commemorated here. Nothing of value is here. 


What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. The 
danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours. The 
danger is to the body, and it can kill. The form of the 
danger is an emanation of energy. 


The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb 
this place physically. This place is best shunned and left 
uninhabited. 


| wonder; how long has the legend been told that Lost Antigo was a 
place of riches and wealth beyond compare? How many centuries 
ago did the people of this land first go in search of this treasure? 
How many men have made this pilgrimage before | did - be they 
white men, Spaniards, Indians, Levites, whatever nations came 
before them, and came before them, that thought this was a place of 
honor? 


| can but guess. All | can say to you, dear friend that has found 
these papers beside my bones, if they indeed have remained intact 
and not crumpled into dust by the time your feet have besieged this 
land, is that | pray you have the constitution to make your escape 
now where so many like myself have failed. 


In the Big League 


"Your ID, sir?" 


You nervously present your ID badge to the heavily-armed guard, 
who scans the barcode with a handheld reader, checks the display, 
and hands it back to you with a nod. Whatever this meeting is, it 
must be more important than you had thought. You're under no 
illusions that the Foundation considers your research to be of any 
particular significance, so it was hardly a surprise that you received 
such a sudden summons, but this level of security says that you 
may be getting in over your head. 


Inside, it's a standard teleconference-enabled meeting room - a long 
table with chairs along one side, facing a wall-sized display screen. 
You spot your name in front of the chair at the near end of the table, 
and quickly take a seat, docking your laptop and engaging the 
normal e-meeting software. While that loads, you take the 
opportunity to glance down the table at your fellow attendees, and 
have to fight an urge to run for the door. Many of the men and 
women (and the dog, especially in the Egg Walker) at this table are 
instantly recognizable to anyone in the Foundation, names that 
junior researchers speak only in hushed tones, for fear of 
summoning their owners like some sort of old-world demon. That 
feeling of being in over your head increases by several orders of 
magnitude - what do some of the top researchers in the Foundation 
need with a lowly geophysicist? 


In the table's center seat, Dr. Gears looks down the table at you, 
then back to the laptop in front of him. "If everyone is here, | believe 
it is time we begin." With this, he enters a brief command, and the 
wall display flashes to life, showing a similar room elsewhere, with 
twelve seated figures, all of whose faces are being digitally 
obscured, and whose seats are labeled not with names but with 
numbers. You begin to wonder if someone spiked your coffee with 
some new SCP-grade hallucinogen, when 05-03 speaks up. 


"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sure you're all 
wondering why you've been pulled off your respective projects for an 
emergency meeting. Since some of my colleagues here haven't yet 
finished reading up on the situation, | think a brief summary is in 
order. Doctor Gears, if you would?" 


Gears nods. "Thank you, sir. Approximately one month ago, several 
civilian observatories noted what appeared to be an asteroid whose 
orbit placed it on a trajectory that could lead to an impact with Earth 
in the near future. We picked up on this discovery through the usual 
channels, and have since confirmed that the object is a rocky 
asteroid that will impact Earth in nine days' time." With this, several 
folders appear on your desktop, including photos, reports, pages of 
calculations, and various other data. "I took the liberty of borrowing 
Doctor Philbert's geophysical modeling setup," so that's why you 
couldn't log on yesterday, "and if my interpretation of the results is 
correct, we are facing an IK-class natural disaster, with casualties 
estimated at approximately three billion over the next ten years. 
Doctor Philbert, do you concur?" 


Well, now you know why they wanted you here. You quickly scan 
through the log you've been provided of Dr. Gears's run on GeoMod, 
and everything seems to check out. "I, er... Yes sir, | concur, 
pending a more thorough review of the data," you stammer. You 
quickly log onto GeoMod and begin crunching numbers like there's 
no tomorrow. 


"If this is a natural object,” interjects 05-10, "why are we talking 
about it? It may be tragic, but we are busy dealing with objects and 
creatures far more dangerous than some rock." 


"Given the rather unique resources at our disposal, we are 
particularly well-positioned to avert this disaster. In addition, the 
entire purpose behind the Foundation's acquisition and study of 
anomalous objects and entities is the protection of humanity. Failing 
to use our resources to at least mitigate an event of this scale would 
be contrary to that core purpose." It's impossible to read what Dr. 
Gears is thinking, but you could swear he just /ectured an Overseer. 
Apparently the top brass really do play by different rules. It's at 
about this time that GeoMod returns the results of your new 
inquiries. 


"Um... Sirs?" you nervously butt in, and every head in the room 
swivels in unison to face you. "I've been going over Doctor Gears's 
projections, and just checked the data against Foundation records. 
According to the model, if we don't do something, the geological 
effects of the impact have at least a 40% chance of breaching 
containment at Area 4." THAT got their attention. You don't have 
nearly high enough clearance to know what they actually keep in 
Area 4, but you know that in all likelinood any single SCP there 
could kill millions if released. If a// of them got out... 


There's a few seconds of hushed conversation at both ends of the 
conference, then 05-07 speaks up. "If Doctor Philbert's calculations 
are correct, then we have no choice but to act against this asteroid. 
All that remains is to determine how. Suggestions?" 


What follows could be politely described as a "spirited debate", and 
impolitely described as a "verbal clusterfuck". The various 
researchers propose ideas, only to have them rejected by others. 
Ask 348 to get rid of it? Already tried, he said no. Shoot it with 044? 
No way to boost its range or get it into orbit fast enough. 


The only idea everyone agrees would work is the use of the 
armament of the Mare Imbrium facility. Unfortunately, using a 
warhead powerful enough to deflect the asteroid onto a safe 
trajectory would also produce a flash bright enough to be seen even 
in daylight, with half the planet as witnesses. Given how close the 
object is already, and the time needed to prep the missile, there's 
really only time for one shot. The argument shifts to whether it's 
worth effectively announcing the Foundation's existence to civilians 
worldwide, and neither side appears much inclined to change their 
opinion. As the shouting match continues, an idea occurs to you, 
and you promptly get to work running the numbers to see if it's 
practical. Orbital mechanics aren't your specialty, but compared to 
modeling shockwaves traveling through variable-composition rock 
strata, some basic calculations on a ballistic trajectory are a walk in 
the park. Finally, you have your answer. 


It could work. 


"We could drop it in the ocean," you blurt out. The senior staff relax 
their grip on the various weapons they were fingering, and turn to 


you, with expressions ranging from mild surprise to "what did | just 
step in and why is it talking?". "A low-yield strike could deflect the 
asteroid enough that it'll fall in the ocean instead of hitting land, 
without producing a flash that could be seen from Earth without a 
telescope. It's not a perfect solution, given the size of the tsunami it 
would generate, but at least we'd maintain containment. We wouldn't 
even need to modify the astronomers' memories - an ocean impact 
is well within their margin of uncertainty, since they don't have 
access to our data, so they wouldn't even know anything was 
amiss." 


The looks of surprise fade into contemplation. "Might work," says 
one researcher. "Can't use the Atlantic, don't want to risk waking up 
169," says another, leaving you to wonder what SCP-169 is and 
how an asteroid strike would only wake it up. 


"| believe," says Dr. Gears, "that taking SCP-169 into consideration, 
either the Indian Ocean or the northern Pacific Ocean would be the 
safest areas to bring down the asteroid. Doctor Johns should be 
able to model the tsunami well enough to give us a more precise 
target location. In the meantime, we should have Mare Imbrium 
begin preparing a missile, and send word to the Demeter and the 
Guardian to prepare for emergency relocation, and direct them to 
the safest locations they can reach by time of impact. Is this plan 
acceptable?" 


After most of the researchers present nod their assent, O5-03 
speaks up. "We will need some time to review your 
recommendation, but it would be best if you began preparations as 
soon as possible. The relevant personnel will receive the final order 
to proceed or abort as soon as we have made our decision.” With 
that, the display goes dark, marking the official end of the meeting. 
As you close the meeting software and disconnect your laptop, you 
realize that you may have just personally sent a tsunami towards 
some of the most densely-populated coastal areas in the world. Is 
this what dealing with Keter-level threats is like? The senior staff 
must handle this kind of thing constantly - you can't even imagine 
the kind of emotional baggage - you are cut off mid-thought by a 
simian voice behind you. 


"So, who wants lunch?" 


In The Clutches Of Life 


A woman watched her father's chest rise and fall from the chair next 
to his hospital bed. The heartbeat monitor beeped in time with the 
song she listened to through her headphones. She wished she could 
spend her last visit chatting, but that's difficult to do with the 
unconscious. Besides, she'd end up repeating the same introduction 
from the last twenty three visits. The whole: 

"Hello." 

"Hello, have we met?" 

"Yes, I'm, uh... I'm your daughter." 

"That can't be right, | have two sons!" 

Wait a beat. 

"Well, yes you did also have two sons. But you also had me." 


"Where are they?" 


"Eric is currently working in the field, so he can't make it. And uh... 
well Tony's no longer with us. But I'm still here." 


"Eric and Tony? | thought my boys were named Andrew and 
Joseph." 


"No, but— actually never mind." 

"Can you get the nurse for me? | think my bed needs readjusting." 
"Sure, dad." 

Get up to leave. 


"Wait, what was your name again?" 


"Joyce. You named me Joyce." 


And then get the nurse. Joyce had gone through the motions every 
time she visited. Except this last time. Each of those twenty three 
times, Joyce felt a sting in her chest, and wished her father would 
just go back to sleep. But now Joyce got her wish, and she'd 
realized that twenty four is a nicer number than twenty three. Too 
bad they'll miss the chance. 


Ten trained soldiers approached a dusty warehouse near the docks. 
The crashing of waves against the rocky shoreline washed out any 
noise MTF lota-10 made. The team lined up next to the back 
entrance. 


Captain Eric Michaels held up two fingers and a thumb. An 
instruction. Three. 


His thumb retracted, leaving the fingers. Two. 
One. 


Michaels kicked in the door and Marquez threw a flashbang. The 
team plugged their ears and turned away from the door just long 
enough for the grenade to go off —BANG/— then charged in behind 
it. Guns out. Bullets sprayed. 


Some guards hit the ground. Others dove behind Marshall, Carter 
and Dark branded crates. The rest took lead to the chest. 


As Joyce's song finished, she stood up from her seat. She looked at 
the nurse, politely leaning against the door frame. Joyce couldn't 
remember how long the nurse had been standing there. It could've 
been minutes, it could've been hours. 


"It's about time." 


"Yeah, | know," Joyce replied. She glanced down at her dad again. 
He held one of his pillows close, like a child with a favorite teddy 
bear. 


SCP-877: University Microchips 


Item #: SCP-877 
Object Class: Euclid Keter 


Special Containment Protocols: All copies of SCP-877 are to be 
kept in electromagnetically sealed containers in the Site 19 storage 
vault. Containers are to be fitted with radio receivers set to scan all 
frequencies for incoming or outgoing transmissions. A log of 
previously used frequencies is to be kept on file. Any transmission 
from any copy of SCP-877 is to be reported immediately to Site 19 
command. All efforts are to be made to capture as many specimens 
of SCP-877 as possible, to determine any of the object's other 
abilities.