Suddenly, Sidney stopped in his tracks, stepping to the side. Casey 
couldn't slow down, and his ankles were caught by Sidney's foot. He 
tumbled, catching on his hands in a pile of sludge, skinning his 
palms and dirtying his face. 


When he looked up, Sidney had left the alleyway. He tried to curse 
under his breath, but his breath was too short, and it just came out 
as a squeal. He hoped no-one heard that. Scrambling to his feet 
once more, he rounded the corner. 


Sidney Way was there, stopped in the center of the street. They 
were in Three Portland's tourism district, flanked on both sides by 
pastel hotels, vacant vacation homes, luxury spots for affluent folks 
who, having conquered the material world, sought a more 
challenging locale to gentrify. 


Sidney was holding a gun, some kind of compact revolver. Casey 
stopped in his tracks. 


His voice was even with a tinge of Southern drawl. "Gonna tell me 
why you're following us?" 


Casey heaved for another moment. The body felt like it was still 
moving, pulsing in time with the pounding in his ears. "I think... we're 
both... at risk. There's... been weird goings on. | think you might be 
a target." 


He narrowed his eyes at Casey. "Is that so?" 


contaminated, or mimicking the flavor or something. 
Female 2: Honey, don't whine. 


Male 1: | just mean, how do you know what human flesh 
actually tastes like? This could be completely wrong. Has 
anyone actually tried real- 


Head Server: Don't worry... we have... specialists... 


Male 3: (to women) Besides, all those penises you've 
been eating would taste like cucumbers then! 


(raucous laughter) 
Addendum 03: see Log SCP-604-03 
Log SCP-604-03 
(recovered from a handheld recorder) 


(man wearing cook whites) This is and | am 
performing test 12 on Curio B-26. Several guests find the 
resemblance between the food's original form and its 
final human product repulsive, and | have been tasked to 
find a way to make the flesh look as appealing and 
realistic as possible, avoiding the bloody or red hue that 
it occasionally acquires. To do this, | have chosen 
several foods that can be easily colored and sculpted to 
look like a head. Test 12 will consist of me baking a cake 
and carving into the aforementioned shape, and then 
frosting it with a hairstyle and skin tone- 


[DATA REDACTED] 


Cook: bring it over. (focuses camera on the cake) 
Well, there we go. 


Man in suit: The eyes are especially excellent, 


Cook: Well thank you. | used a dropper to get the blue 
just centered- ahem. Okay, place it on the plate. 


"| don't know what you're doing, but you don't need to. It's not you, 
it's... something in your head. It's making you do things." 


He shook his head. "Might be wrong, but | don't think you have the 
slightest idea what you're talking about." 


Casey couldn't really argue with that. Silence rang for a moment. 


Casey cleared his throat. "Then | guess we're just in a... Mexican 
standoff." 


"What? You're unarmed. It'd only be a Mexican standoff if you had a 
gun." 


"Can-" 
"Not a chance." 


Well, Casey was out of ideas. He could do nothing. He raised his 
hands behind his head- 


It was at this moment that Sidney was tackled. 


Vera flung her weight at him, wrapping her arms around his 
shoulders. He lost his balance and fell backwards, on top of Vera, 
who had fallen onto her back. 


He jabbed blindly at her face, elbow smacking into her nose with an 
ugly thwack. 


Casey charged at the entangled duo. He knelt and grabbed Sidney's 
gun arm, propping it up into the sky. Sidney fired once, then twice, 
the blasts of sound ringing through Casey's skull as he lost his grip. 
Vera drove her knee into Sidney's gut, and his fingers loosened, 
letting the gun come clattering to the pavement. 


Behind them, another voice rang out. "Sidney! It's done!" Casey 
swiveled his head over his shoulder, where he could see the other 
brother waving some small object in the air. At least he wasn't 
tackling Casey this time. 


Sidney could hardly breathe with two people holding him down, but 


he sputtered, "Do it! Now!" 
Two words flashed through Casey's mind. Bomb threats. 


"GET DOWN," he screamed, falling to his knees and covering his 
ears, squeezing his eyes as tight as he could before- 


-the world erupted, a fist of air and displaced earth slamming Casey 
in the chest with such power that the air in his body was forcibly 
expelled, and he was lifted off the ground. 


Instinctively his body curled, and Casey briefly became a human 
cannonball, tumbling end over end until his shoulders smacked into 
the curb. 


He desperately gasped for air, but his lungs filled only with the dust 
of obliterated stone, and he was wrenched into fitful coughing. He 
scrambled over, moving onto his hands and knees. He was 
suffocating. 


With shaking hands he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it 
over his nose, trying to filter the air. He inhaled slowly. That was 
better. 


Gradually, he regained some control over himself. He opened his 
eyes, but the air was stinging them. All he could see was tawny 
debris in the air, and flecks of metal floating down. 


"Vera," he gasped, as strongly as he could muster. "Vera!" No 
response. 


His eyes refocused, gradually sifting through the shades of brown. A 
darkened shape surfaced to his left, a person clambering to their 
feet. 


Across the street he saw what had been a building moments before. 
A teal and green display of garishness assembled into the shape of 
a holiday home. The facade was ripped clean down now, splinters 
littering the street. 


The silhouette started to walk towards the wreck, holding something 


in front of them with both hands. The gun. 


Casey propped himself on his elbows, then his stinging palms, and 
pushed his body to his feet, joints popping with discomfort. He 
followed the figure. They didn't seem to notice. 


They stepped over the threshold and Casey trailed behind, tip-toeing 
into the house. 


The building was in tatters. A living room was covered in shreds of 
what was either destroyed modern art, or fully intact modern art 
appearing as intended. A shriek came from a doorway, and both 
Casey and the figure turned to look. The silhouette moved in. 


It was an ornate bedroom, or it used to be. Half the wall along with 
the remains of an antique dresser was caved out into the street, and 
the ceiling had fallen in. On the bed, an old man was trapped, 
pinned beneath the rafters. 


The silhouette turned, revealing the profile of Sidney's face as he 
raised the gun. 


The reveal of his face was very convenient to Casey, who then knew 
exactly where to aim. 


His suckerpunch smacked into Sidney's ear, sending the already 
wobbly man down against the wall, the gun leaving his grip once 
more. 


Casey leaned over the bed. He could make out the man's features. 
He looked... familiar. 


Cillian Erwan. The man he had seen just days ago. The man who 
had put a gun in Casey's bag without him noticing. 


Evidently, he recognized Casey in kind. He coughed. "What're... 
what're you doing here? What's going on?" 


Casey heard shouting outside. A blasting voice. "FBI, everyone get 
on the ground!" He didn't move. 


Casey tried to keep his voice low. "Why did you... what did you do 


to me? You made me kill him. Why? What did you have to gain?" 
Erwan's face shifted. He moved back. "What're you on about?" 


His breath sped up. "Your android. She gave me a gift for Regent. It 
turned into a gun in my backpack, and I... and I..." 


Erwan interrupted him with a sick laugh. "The robot, huh?" His laugh 
sputtered into coughing as he inhaled dust. "You're asking the 
wrong guy, kid. This is them getting me too, isn't it?" 


Casey furrowed his brow. "No, look, we'll... we'll get you out. | just 
need to find-" 


Someone was at the doorway. Someone that any troublemaker in 
Three Portlands knew very well. Special Agent Kenneth Spencer. 
He was holding a gun, too. 


Casey scrambled away, towards the hole in the wall. 
Erwan coughed again. "About time you got here. I've been-" 


His thought was ended with a bullet from Spencer's gun. Casey's 
eyes widened. Behind him he heard another, identical voice. "FBI, 
everyone get on the ground!" 


Spencer(?) turned to Sidney, still clutching his head against the wall. 
Another gunshot. 


Casey vaulted over the debris, his foot catching as he fell face-first 
back into the street. He shuffled onto his hands and knees and back 
up again. He started to limp across the street again. He stumbled 
down to his knees once more. In the corner of his eye there was 
another Spencer, flanked by uniformed agents and visibly confused. 


"Identify yourself," Spencer said. 
"Special Agent Kenneth Spencer," said Spencer. 


"No..." Spencer said. "You're not. Drop your weapon and exit the 
building with your hands up." 


"No," said Spencer. He was at the collapsed wall of the bedroom 
now. "You're not." He leveled his gun at Casey. 


Casey squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of a gunshot filled his 
ears. 


And then another. And another gunshot. 


But no pain came. He opened his eyes again, and saw only red. He 
blinked. 


There was nothing wrong with his eyes. Standing above him was a 
fair-haired man, arms held out in front of him. One hand drew a thin 
knife straight down the other forearm, and from the wound wine-dark 


sparks spilled, flowing around the both of them in a hollow shell. The 
bullets had bounced harmlessly off the buffer. 


Casey stared up at him. 
Adam Rowe stared back down. 
"We're gonna be fine," he said, with a weak smile. 


Adam knelt down, reaching with the hand that wasn't shooting 
energy and gripping Casey's tightly. 


And then the world around them became a blur. 


« Slow Animals | Hub | The End Has No End » 


The End Has No End 


« Automatic Stop || 


It is very difficult to bandage a wound that is spitting flames. 


Attempting to do so conveys, in rather spectacular fashion, just how 
flammable most bandaging materials are. You start with the official, 
garden-variety bandages. Once those are all cinders, you move on 
to more exotic choices. Tape? That sounds appropriate. Scraps of 
clothing? You've seen movies. You know that has to work. They 
wouldn't put it in movies if it didn't work, right? That would just be 
reckless. 


Casey was just checking if his socks were absorbent enough when 
Adam grabbed his forearm with his good hand. 


Adam grimaced as he pushed himself more upright against the side 
of the porch, his shirt catching several splinters on the damaged 
wood. At the end of his flaming arm, his hand was shaking, fingers 
clasping and unclasping in a stilted succession. He wheezed: 
"Tourniquet." 


Casey mouthed a silent thanks. He fiddled with another scrap of his 
shirt, tied it around Adam's bicep, then tightening it with a pen Adam 
passed from his pocket. "Can you hold that?" 


Adam could. At last, the fire started to die down, replaced by a more 
manageable candlewick of a flame. Casey blew it out, and Adam 
winced. 


"Sorry." 


Adam cleared his throat and clutched his sliced arm to his chest. He 
rasped, "Did you take care of my jacket?" 


Casey blinked. "Oh, yeah, totally. Uhm, how did you get here?" 
"Do you think I'm a spy?" 


"These past few days have not affirmed my naturally trusting 
disposition." 


"We'll be sure to include that in the lawsuit when this is done with. 
Your honor, this murderous conspiracy gave me trust issues." Adam 
laughed, then coughed, then continued. "| went to Erwan's house. 
Place was empty, done up like a crime scene, all blocked off. You 
didn't tell me what to do after, so | came here." 


"| Knew there was a loophole." 


"But you left it anyways. Dad told me you were borrowing my 
clothes, so tracking you was easy." 


"And you say / have trust issues." 


Adam chuckled, then winced. "But, when | got close, something 
went weird. The bomb went off. And | lost track. Check out the 
debris." 


The cloud still consumed the street, even now. Enough soot was 
blown into the air to make the Mayor sneeze. In the sky Casey saw 
the sun, hazy in the dust, occluded by metal shards flitting about on 
the aching breeze. 


Casey squinted, following a metal fragment as it landed on the 
concrete. It wasn't just debris — it was flat, and engraved with an 
image. A twenty-two pointed star — an eicosidyogram, with each 
point marked by unrecognizable symbols. 


Adam nodded. "As soon as the bomb went off, it was like there were 
a thousand of you — total thaumic overload. Had to play it by ear 
after that, but seems | got there just in time. And then everything 
turned out fine, and we lived forever and never died." 


"Don't spoil it for me." 


Gunfire echoed off debris-blasted buildings. Casey peeked around 


the edge of the porch. The twin Spencers were still duking it out in 
what was probably a metaphor, or something. 


Casey sighed. "Any idea how we're getting out of here?" 


Adam shifted to kneel behind Casey. He'd stabilized his afflicted left 
arm as best he could. "Police were trying to find you, after you 
engaged in some kind of wrestling match in the middle of the 
street?" 


"You should have seen the other guy." 
"Where is the other guy?" 
"| don't know, actually." 


Adam reached for Casey's forearm and hoisted himself to a 
standing position. "In any case, they were going to corner you until 
someone set off a bomb. Now their priorities have shifted. So long 
as we avoid town center, we should be okay." 


A loud, rubbery beep came from behind them. Casey spun around. 
Standing there, at the end of the lane with a bike and a dusty coat, 
was Vera Garcia. 


"Finally," she said with a sigh. "Come on. Time to go." 


From the outside, the dust cloud looked like a great, fat hyperbola, 
curved walls trending asymptotically upwards to a stubby point far 
above the city. The cone nearly eclipsed the midday sun. 


It had hung in the sky for too long, the air dead with no wind to 
distort it. A mass of ash people would be sweeping off their porches 
for weeks. 


If they cared about their porches, that is. Most people under the 
cloud were gathering their relatives and belongings and heading 
either directly away from or directly towards the site of the blast, 
seeking safety or entertainment, respectively. 


In either case, the scattered pedestrians were far too preoccupied to 


make any note of the two men limping past. Up ahead, a biker in a 
pantsuit wheeled about, craning her head to peer into side streets 
and alleyways, and waving back when the coast was clear. 


Casey wasn't sure where she got the bike. If he had to guess, she 
either stole it or pulled it out of her bag like Mary Poppins. From 
what he knew about Vera, either were equally probable. 


"So, the brothers were supplied with a bomb," Adam said. 

"Right," Casey replied. 

"And this mysterious benefactor also made a robot Agent Spencer." 
"Presumably." 

"To kill the guy in the house-" 

"Cillian Erwan. An investor in the paratech trade." 

"Right. And also kill one of the bombers? So it was a double-cross?" 
"| guess? Or he knew he was going down?" 

"Regardless." 


"Yeah. So, a bomb gone off, two people dead, and an officer of the 
FBI in Three Ports is apparently responsible." Casey counted off the 
elements on his fingers. 


"Sounds like a scandal. But what about the blockers in the bomb? 
Why go to the trouble of manufacturing thousands of magic flakes 
just on the off chance that a wizard might be scrying the site of the 
blast? What difference would that even make?" 


They trundled onwards. It wouldn't be long until they were back on 
Eustace's steps. 


"What if," Casey started, "they're not trying to hide it from us, but 
someone else? What about the Mayor?" 


"Does that even make sense? Isn't the city to the Mayor, like, a body 


is to a brain?"