| entered a New York police academy the same month those old 
titans gave way from their lofty perchs. Already had my bachelors 
degree, so the training wouldn't take so long. Six months and four 
weeks later, | was dressed in my blues and whites-ready to chew 
into the cesspit that was the city of gold. 


We struck with the speed of a thunderbolt. | can't remember how 
many houses we assaulted, how many doors we kicked in, how 
many people we shot. For some reason, our exploits never even 
made the news. Every time we clicked on the box it was something 
about a big pop musician of the day. 


I'm not sure when | woke up to the lie. Frankly, | can't remember 
anymore. Those drugs they gave me must have really done their 
jobs swell. 


They left me one memory. We were supposedly knocking on the 
door of a terrorist weapons smuggling operation. At least five teams 
showed up at the jumpoff point for the assault. The captain in charge 
of the raid was a massive man, over six feet tall and strong as an ox. 
He had a peculiar tattoo on the dorsal of his left hand, a six sided 
star with the eye of Horus imprinted with impeccable care in the 


along the edge, along with a small sticker on the bottom reading 
"ALEXYLVA UNIVERSITY HISTORY DEPT." No records exist of an 
institution named “Alexylva University,” but the sticker appears to be 
recent. 


When exposed to sunlight and properly aligned, SCP-961 functions 
as a regular sundial without anomalous properties. When sunlight is 
not present, however, a dark discoloration will appear to emerge 
from the center and align itself at twelve o'clock; though taking the 
appearance of a shadow, the discoloration appears to be imprinted 
on the surface of the sundial and cannot be dispelled by light at any 
frequency or intensity. The shape will begin moving 
counterclockwise along the sundial's edge at usual speed, i.e. 
reaching every numeral one hour after the last. 


When the shape's rotation returns to the XII, SCP-961 will manifest 
its primary effect on anyone in a contained space with it. If in an 
enclosed room, the areas around the room will be unaffected. If the 
door is not fully closed, the effect will expand to include the widest 
possible contained area. The effect of giving SCP-961's effect 
access to the outdoors is unknown, but researchers agree that the 
possible risks outweigh any possible gain. 


SCP-961's primary effect takes the form of sudden unconsciousness 
and vivid hallucinations affecting all people in range. All affected 
people will experience the same hallucination during any cycle. The 
hallucination will always take the form of an event in the past, 
usually one of historical importance. The event will play out before 
them for exactly ten minutes, including the event's climax. All details 
about each event as reported by D-class personnel who have 
experienced the effect match precisely with historical records about 
the event. At no point has an event witnessed with SCP-961 
deviated from historical records; this makes the note recovered 
along with SCP-961 particularly odd. See Addendum 961-2. 
Addendum 961-2 classified by order of O5 Command. 


Many hallucinations do end with a single detail that has not been 
previously recorded. One person nearby will play a vital role in the 
unfolding event; during assassinations, they will unlock doors for the 
assassins or distract witnesses; during battles, they will rally isolated 
companies and brigades to successful counterattacks. This entity, 


center. 


When our trucks rolled up, it suddenly occurred to me that we had 
diverged into suburbia. We hummed over to a small, olive green 
house. As we unloaded equipment from the supply van and 
distributed it, a grimy, wide eyed garden gnome eyeballed us with an 
unsettling stare. 


| was part of the rear guard, but, being adjacent to a small window, | 
could see everything going on in the building. 


It was a family, eating supper, laughing around the table. There was 
a girl, probably in her teens, about my age when | first got into the 
business. A somber, surly man with deep pits under his eyes sat at 
the seat closest to me. As he turned for a drink, | got a look at his 
arm. It had been melted off. 


Not ripped off, you understand, or cut off. It had been melted. | could 
see ridges and dark plains of the flesh, an abominable mound where 
the shoulder should have been. A moment later, a bright light filled 
the room. Our captain shot the father instantly, and an officer shot 
the daughter a moment later when she screamed, her blood 
exploding against the window. It's no problem to shoot someone 
who killed your mother with a plane; it's a whole different story when 
you start shooting tired men with ashen arms. 


I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but somehow | ended up in a 
Mexican standoff with my captain and an invisible sniper, the mother 
hysterically sobbing over the shattered body of her dead daughter. | 
could see vast hatred in his eyes, his tattoo angrily glaring at me 
with the force of a raging hurricane. Five seconds later, a bullet went 
through my skull. Another three seconds later, another brain case 
was subjected to the act. 


Miraculously, at least | assume, | got to the emergency room in time. 
Of course, when | woke up, | was handcuffed to my bed and a 
detective was reading me my rights. About three days later, | was 
entering the county jail with a busload of maniacs, disillusioned with 
logic and my mind full of questions. 


Prison came like water to me, surprisingly. It gave me time to think, 


to resign myself to my fate of an inexplicable 30 year sentence, and 
to educate myself. 


About three months later, a man came to visit me. He was dark 
skinned, wearing a small green fedora, along with a beltless trench 
coat. He introduced himself as Charles Moore, small business 
investor. When | asked him what he wanted, he said that his only 
wish was to speak with me. So began our little chats-every day 
between 4 and 5 PM, he would come, and we would talk. It was 
always about my life in the service-how | had been duped into it and 
finally realized the depth of its insanity. He was fascinated by our 
conversations, and |, in turn, was fascinated by him. He was a 
remarkable man-seemingly well read and dignified in every facet, 
and yet he carried a sense of world-wizened, unpretentious 
fatherliness. 


As our relationship grew deeper, | occasionally cracked a joke about 
the ridiculous sentence | had received, how there was a conspiracy 
against me and the one armed man. Each time | did, he nodded, 
completely serious. Whenever | attempted to explain that it was a 
simple joke, he would say, "Old sport, there's truth to every rumour," 
and we would drop the subject. 


| remember our last discussion very clearly. It would be my last day 
in prison, and the opening of my eyes to a world beyond the one | 
had known. 


As light shined through the prison bars that day, | slept late. Later, in 
fact, than | had in my life. My cell door opened with a buzz that 
awakened me from my deep slumber. | stood up and rubbed one 
eye. Warily, | placed a foot outside the cubicle. A number of 
prisoners were being led out of the cellblock and loaded onto a bus, 
jeering to their brethren in the levels above them about reduced 
sentences and the like. To my astonishment, Charles was talking 
with the warden of the prison, a frail, crumpled old woman. Seeing 
my figure, he came over to me, striding with an air of 
professionalism | had not picked up on previously. 


"Charles?" | asked, bewildered. 


His lips stayed neutral. | was beginning to grow afraid at the sight of 


his imposing figure. 


And like ice, his demeanor evaporated. He put a hand on my 
shoulder, and said "My friend, there is nothing to fear." He smiled, a 
sad, painful smile. "The time for deceptions has passed, and i'm 
afraid we still haven't been formally introduced," he said. From the 
depths of his coat, he removed a thick red file with my name on it, 
emblazoned with an odd symbol | am now very familiar with. "We've 
been observing you for quite a while. Since your incarceration, in 
fact." | had nothing to say. The whole situation was overwhelming 
me. Who was this man? Certainly not the same one who came to 
me all those years ago, seeking to give me solace. 


Sensing my discomfort, he continued. "I represent the intelligence 
division of the Foundation for the Containment and Cataloging of 
Anomalous Artifacts and Lifeforms. We're interested in acquiring 
your services. You'll receive a paygrade greater than that of your 
last place of employment, dental, bereavement and health benefits, 
and immediate acquittal from your charges." 


My head was spinning; | couldn't think of what to say. What came 
out of my mouth was, "Why?" He laughed, a funny sound that was 
akin to donkey happily braying. "Because my friend, you have 
integrity, and you've got guts. We look for those characteristics. In 
this field, they're rare. Plus, you were thrown in here for trying to 
prevent the assassination of one of our top researchers. Or so," he 
took a document from his folder. "our profile says." 


He paused for a moment. "I'm not going to lie to you. Many people 
don't come back from a job like this. But it's either that, or you stay 
here for the next twenty six years. The people we're fighting have 
more sway than us in this department. That's how you got here 
under our radar in the first place." 


"Consider it, okay? I'll be outside. Blue Cadillac, on your right." He 
picked up his file and left. 


| stayed silent on my bed for a long time, millions of thoughts racing 
through my head. If | went, | would die. If | stayed, | would live in 
shame. There was a conspiracy. | had gone down protecting 
innocent lives. A bullet had gone through my skull then. Why was | 


afraid of another one now? 


Fifteen minutes later, | was walking out of a New York State 
Penitentiary a freed man. A blue Cadillac sat on my right ina 
handicapped parking space. | opened the passenger seat door and 
closed it behind me. 


The Iron Wolf 


The Iron Wolf lurks in the dark, 
lts teeth pale and sharp. 

To the Flock of Flesh it watches, 
Catching Lambs of Meat by its claws. 
Flesh and blood it swallows, 
Bones and organs it rips out. 
Down the narrow path it takes them, 
To have them become one as itself. 


The lambs screamed as the wolves took them down to their nest. It 
was a stone cave with metal spikes, like teeth, protruding from its 
walls, where moonlight dared not enter. A few candles burnt silently, 
revealing a single brass statue, a snake-like beast, of visible power 
and glory. 


The wolves gathered, quickly drove the lambs to a corner, where 
they trembled in fear. The pack leader, the one with the sharpest 
teeth and claws, picked one from the lost animals and placed it on 
an altar. The lamb struggled, but it was futile, as the wolves applied 
iron spikes to its limbs, nailing it on the altar. It screamed, but the 
wolves did not care. The other lambs retreated further to the corner, 
as they lacked the claws their Shepherd had, nor did they possess 
weapons like the wolves. 


The pack leader spoke in an ancient language as the ceremony 
began. The lamb’s stomach was soon opened, as the wolves tossed 
out its organs to a pit of burning oil in front of the brass statue. The 
fire burnt ever so furiously, as the wolves whispered to each other, 
and those whispers soon became chants and howls. 


For every piece of meat the wolves cut off from their victim, more 
grew in its place in a cancerous fashion. The flesh, ill and corrupted, 
was pulled out, only to be replaced by more deformed parts. The 
lamb no longer resembled a lamb, but a lump of meat, shaking and 
crying, and yet the wolves did not stop. This was no more painful for 


the lamb than when the Shepherd harvested from the herd, but it 
screamed nonetheless. 


It was when the lamb was almost reduced to a skeleton that the 
wolves stopped. Their metal claws were now stained with blood; the 
same red liquid had streamed from the lamb’s body onto the floor. 
The lamb could hardly move, and its breath was almost 
unnoticeable. 


The wolves howled again. The pack leader gestured, and the pack 
took out sharp metal tools with gears, pipes and metal plates, 
instruments only crudely made. It was another set of veins and 
organs, a set they had prepared in particular for the lamb. The lamb 
saw it, but it was in no position to struggle. It watched as the wolves 
thrust the parts into its shell of a body, and listened as they started 
to spinning and clicking. It proceeded to scream, but the voice did 
not come out. The clockwork was now attached to its spine, and 
metal pieces fused and grew under its skin. 


The wolves watched as this happened. After a few moments, the 
sound of clicking and grinding were no longer heard and the 
stomach of the lamb seemed to have sealed on its own. The lamb 
stood up from the altar, as the spikes, formerly nailing it down, were 
now part of its body. It did not look at the wolves, nor at the other 
lambs in the cave, as its eyes were now hollow and void of 
intelligence. It moved in complete silence towards the entrance of 
the cave. The wolves moved aside to let it pass, and watched as it 
disappeared under the moonlight outside. 


“Bring in the next one.” The pack leader said, as another screaming 
animal was placed on the blood-stained altar. 


The Iron Wolf stalks in the dark, 
Its claws long and sharp. 
The Shepherd pays it no attention, 
For he is a beast himself. 

Lost Lambs scream in panic, 
Tamed animals it leaves behind. 
The Iron Wolf came not for the flock, 
It is the Shepherd's throat it wants. 


“The wolves have come.” She said. 


“Pay them no attention. No need to meet their claws for some lost 
lambs. They are but food for us.” The Shepherd replied. 


“| will return to my herd then.” She was not convinced, but decided 
not to argue, as she saw his arrogance. She stretched out her 
wings, and left in silence. 


The Shepherd watched his fellow flesh herder disappear in the night 
sky, then turned back to his flock. It was a night of full moon, and he 
saw glowing eyes deep in the forest. He turned to the lambs, who 
were all in their pens, silent for the night. There was no movement, 
as the animals stared blankly at the night sky. 


He smirked, and returned to his temple. The beasts were of no 
importance, and he had better things to attend to. He would not care 
to lose a lamb or two, and didn’t even bother to find out what the 
wolves wanted with them. Whether they intended to purify the world 
of flesh or make sacrifices to their brass god mattered not to him. He 
could always acquire more lambs from the wild flocks, after all. 


The Shepherd sat down, and proceeded to meditate. For hours, his 
mind swam in a grander place, a place that was lost but would 
eventually return. He was interrupted however, by loud booming of 
thunder striking down. He rushed out, and saw that half the temple 
was burning as the lightning faded away. The scrolls, the materials 
and the supplies were all there, not that they were crucial of course, 
but it was enough for him to be furious. 


He swore to cut off the wolves’ heads as he rushed to the forest to 
revenge. It was their mistake to openly attack him, as their claws 
and teeth were no match for his. Halfway however, he was stopped 
by the lambs, who were somehow out of their pens, and had 
gathered in front of the temple. They stood silently as they watched 
their herder. 


“What are you doing here?” The Shepherd demanded, “Return to 
your place, lowly creatures!” 


But for this once, his tamed flock did not listen to him. In fact, they