"These villains are truly the most ignoble of heathens," scoffed the 
fox. "Would that we had our good sword and shield and a further 
twoscore brave knights: we would show these heathens how good 
Christian men do battle. Nay, we would ask simply for one man: 
Rafaelo, wisest of crows. No doubt he would have contrived some 
infernal machine or clever strategem to make good our escape. But 
in the absence of valor and wisdom, we must instead turn to the 
virtue of fortitude, and endure the manifold indignities heaped upon 
us by our villainous captors." Eugenio the Second (by the Grace of 
God, King of the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir 
and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Warden of All the 
Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Cities of Man, 
Defender of the Faith), paused in his typing, tilted his regal head to 
one side and scratched behind his ear, worrying at a flea that had 
been pestering him for some time. 


"We continue our efforts to ransom your majesty and free him and 
his men from their captivity," Chris lied, "but | have not come here to 
speak of such matters." 


"Then speak, good sir. Let us know how we may be of assistance to 


the Chinese Empress." 


Christopher St. John Smythe-Bromstead winced inwardly. 
Explaining D.C. al Fine's position in the Coalition to Eugenio the 
Second hadn't been easy. Second Mission considerations had 
forbidden him from explaining the exact nature of the Global Occult 
Coalition. The best he'd managed to do was to convince the fox that 
he was an emissary of a foreign Empress. (He still wasn't sure how 
the Fox had drawn the conclusion that the "far-off kingdom" he 
represented was China, of all places.) 


"Her Imperial Majesty faces a dilemma," Chris said through gritted 
teeth. "A dilemma which could easy be solved with the aid of thy 
royal self. The dilemma concerns the Thirteenth Crusade." 


"That was none of my doing," Eugenio the Second retorted, curling 
his tail around his red-furred body. "Twas the doing of Duke Casper 
Bushtail, a knight great in courage but not overly blessed in brains. 
"Twas his decision to gather up his brethren and strike out for the 
Holy Land without the full might of the Forest at his back." 


"A decision he made on the basis of your Majesty's decree..." 


"Our decree was that an army should be gathered for the purposes 
of taking back the Holy Land," Eugenio insisted. "Not that Duke 
Bushtail and his kin should sally forth willy-nilly like cats driven by a 
washer-woman. Often have we regretted this fact, for were that 
brave knight and his cohort by my side, we would not now be 
languishing in captivity." 


... mostly because you'd be dead. The Foundation doesn't put up 
with escape attempts lightly, Chris thought. "Nonetheless," he said, 
"the Duke and his kin are not at thy majesty's side. And now they 
have found themselves in dire straits. They have set up a stronghold 
in a distant land," /f the next city over in Scotland can be considered 
distant, that is, "and they are now besieged on all fronts," / guess 
that's not a bad way of saying that the Coalition and Foundation are 
getting ready to burn down their damned castle for scaring the shit 
out of that Girl Scout troop that found their fence made of severed 
rats' heads on the end of tiny little pikes. "They have sworn to fight 
to the death. | have come on behalf of the Empress to see if a way 


can be found to spare the lives of these brave warriors." And if | had 
it my way, I'd let those MTFs burn the damn castle down with flame 
throwers and thermite. Damn the Scary Lady for trying to get me to 
find a ‘soft kill’ solution to this bloody mess. 


Eugenio the Second, son of Eugenio the Just, Regent of the Granite 
Throne and Ruler of the Forests, sat down on his haunches and laid 
his chin dejectedly atop his forepaws. 


"We are tempted to tell thee nay,” he replied, after a long period of 
contemplation. "We have known the horrors of captivity. We have 
suffered greatly the outrages these heathens have inflicted upon us. 
Did you know that they have... have mutilated the Brothers Douglas, 
and their sister besides? Unmanned them they have, and done 
worse to the lady. "Twas an outrage not to be borne." 


"lam... aware... of those misdeeds. Suffice to say that they shall 
not be repeated,” Chris said carefully. And I'm pretty sure even the 
Foundation isn't going to try to neuter any more of these guys, 
either. Not unless they want another PHYSICS Division Strike Team 
getting ready to blow this place to smithereens. 


".,. then we shall do as you counsel, Sir Christopher. Though it 
sticks in our craws, we shall write a missive to Duke Bushtail and his 
fellows urging them to surrender. But in return, thou must do one 
thing for us, Sir Christopher." 


Here it comes, Chris sighed. 


About an hour later, he finally emerged through the airlock door, 
clutching the rolled-up parchment sealed in red wax in one hand, 
carrying his folding camp chair in the other. The masked guard 
stationed at the door took the document from him as he emerged, 
placing it inside a small plastic tube and sending it up a pneumatic 
pipe to parts unknown. 


"There," Chris growled, to the balding white-coated man standing 
before the bank of computer monitors. "You heard what he wanted. 
Now get it to him." 


"| will have to clear it with my superiors first. This request was 
already made, and it was denied," the balding man replied. 


"Are you going to make me into a liar? | gave my word of honor back 
there. Shook his... paw... and swore on the good name of God and 
all my descendants. You've already got a priest coming by once a 
month. Transfer him to this project full-time. Let them build their 
damn church." 


"You made that promise, not me. The best | can promise is that I'll 
bring it up with my superiors," the balding man insisted. 


"Then do it. Now. And make it very clear to them that failing to do so 
will not put the Foundation in the good graces of the United 
Nations." 


"You sound angry, Mister Bromstead." 


"You're damn right I'm angry!" Chris shouted. "I spent years... over a 
decade, even... building up diplomatic relations with these guys. We 
were on the verge of relocating them without incident. But the 
Foundation just had to come in and do a grab-and-snatch right 
under our noses. And now they're riled up and angry. You're sitting 
on a powder keg here. You heard the way the fox was talking. At 
some point in the near future, they're going to decide they've had 
enough and martyr themselves for Jesus. And your damned 
leadership isn't making it easier by arbitrarily denying them their 
freedom of worship!" 


Chris stormed out of the room, ignoring the other man's loud 
protests and rebuttals: he was in no mood to hear any of it. He 
grabbed the black canvas hood out of the guard's hand and put it on 
over his own head, tying it shut, before letting the guards manhandle 
him into the back of the car. 


He heard the car door slam shut, and the vehicle pulled away into 
parts unknown. It would be another hour before he arrived, give or 
take fifteen minutes, depending on how long the driver wanted to 
drive around in random circles. 


"Sequence" 


« Vigil | Return to GOC Hub | UHEC » 


"Farpoint" 


"You nervous?" Jericho asked. 
"A bit," Callahan admitted. "After all, this is gonna be a long trip." 


"Don't worry about it so much," Jericho said. "It's going to be a 
lonely, exhausting, and stressful job, but you'll be saving the world. 
Besides, it's only seven billion klicks. Practically next door." 


"Yeah, well. I'll miss ya, buddy. Watch the fort." 
"Keep safe." 


The two PHYSICS Division operatives gave each other a high five 
which became a handshake which became a bro-hug which became 
a real hug, because no matter how big of a badass manly PHYSICS 
Division Strike Team operative you were, having one of your best 
friends leave for a ten year shift on the other side of the solar system 
was a bit of an emotional moment. No homo and all that, but 
Callahan admitted that he was going to miss this asshole. Even if he 
did steal all the beers out of the fridge. 


"Operative Callahan?" the man in the white coat said. "I have your 
final mission briefing ready for you." 


"Doc, I've been training for this mission for the past year. | think | 
know what's going to happen," Callahan said. 


"Nonetheless, regulations are that | need to read you these briefings 
before you're allowed onto the apportation pad," Doctor Benjamin 
Flaherty (Ph.Th.D) said. 


"All right, hit me," Callahan sighed. 


"I'll make it fast," Doc Flaherty reassured the agent. "Here goes. Ina 
few minutes, you will be transferred from this ship onto a barge 
located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. That barge will then be 


apported by thaumatological working to Farpoint Forward Operating 
Base. The barge will carry supplies and replacement personnel for 
Farpoint Station. You recognize, by so volunteering for this mission, 
that apportation is a difficult, dangerous, and unpredictable process, 
and that your safe arrival at Farpoint is not guaranteed. You also 
recognize that the process of apportation carries with it the 
possibility that your mind may become affected by a 
cognitohazardous entity. You finally recognize that Farpoint Station 
is located in a dangerous operating area, and that you may suffer 
death, dismemberment, or injury due to the hazardous nature of the 
duty. Finally, you recognize that this assignment is for no less than 
ten years, and that rescue or evacuation from Farpoint Station is 
next to impossible, even by apportation, due to the distances and 
lack of thaumatological personnel at the destination. Do you so 
acknowledge these statements as made to you?" 


"| acknowledge,” Callahan said. 
"Please sign here." 


Then there were another twelve statements to be made, another 
series of documents to sign, one last health checkup, and a final 
reckoning of all of his earthly assets, should he not return from 
where he was going. Finally, Doc Flaherty put all of the papers into a 
manila folder and passed Callahan a portable hard drive. 


"What's this, Doc?" 


"It's got every movie that came out this year on it, plus the full runs 
of a bunch of TV shows, and a bunch of porn,” Doc said. "Those 
guys at Farpoint need some distractions." 


"Sounds like I'm going to be the one needing this," Callahan 
laughed. 


"You're more right than you know. Good luck, Cal." 


Callahan gave the Doc one more handshake, then turned to walk 
down the ramp and onto the LCAC. 


He stepped aside for a bit as a rather large cylinder was loaded onto 


the hovercraft by handtruck. The tech secured the cylinder to the 
cargo compartment wall, then took a seat in the chair opposite. A 
few minutes later, the hovercraft emerged from the cruiser's well 
deck into the morning light, heading towards the pair of barges that 
were floating in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. 


"Everything fitting well?" the technician asked, his voice sounding 
dull and tinny through the helmet faceplate. 


Callahan nodded and gave the man a thumbs up. The technician 
nodded and gave Callahan a handshake, then closed the hatch of 
the capsule, leaving Callahan alone with his thoughts, the sound of 
the air slowly circulating inside his suit his only companion. 


Through the capsule window, he could see the bright blue Pacific 
Ocean stretching to the horizon. Two small ships, (two of the seven 
that formed a circle around the barges) floated in the distance, the 
thaumatological resonators on their decks softly glowing in a dim 
bluish-purple light. Somewhere out there, a literal army of 
thaumatologists were shaping and working the flow of EVE through 
the resonators, forming a working circle around the floating barges. 


"All right," he heard a voice say over his comms loop. "We're at T- 
Minus five minutes. | need a go/no go for launch. Node 1?" 


"Go, sir." 
"Node 2?" 
"Go." 

"Node 3?" 
"We're Go, sir." 
"Node 4?" 
"We're Go." 


"Node 5?" 


"Go." 

"Node 6?" 

"That's Go, sir." 

"Node 7?" 

"All's good. Go." 

"Payload?" 

"Go," Callahan said into his mic. 
"Targeting?" 

"Go," said another voice over the loop. 
"Enviro?" 

"We're Go." 

"Computers?" 

"Go." 


"| have all stations reporting Go for Launch. Resuming the clock at 
T-Minus five minutes and counting." 


"Node One, Energizing." 
"Node Two, Energizing..." 


The next few minutes were a flurry of activity as the thaumatologists 
did their thing. Technical jargon and status reports flowed back and 
forth in a smooth exchange of information. Complications arose and 
were swiftly dealt with. And throughout all of it, the steady, periodic 
calls of, "T-Minus four minutes..." "T-Minus three minutes..." 


And then it was "T minus ten... nine... eight..." 


"Arcing." 


The window of the canopy suddenly darkened as white-hot arcs of 
energy erupted from the resonator's thirty-foot tall antennae, forming 
a giant, glowing star of energy in the middle of the ocean (with the 
barges and Callahan in the center). Callahan felt his hair stand on 
end, saw EVE sparking off of the glass and metal of the capsule 
walls... 


"Seven... Six... nodes at one hundred percent..." 


... the air around him roared and screamed as tremendous amounts 
of magical energy were channeled into the structure of the 
working... 


"_.. three... two... one, cast—" 


The announcer's voice was suddenly cut off, just as the world went 
black, and Callahan suddenly found himself 6.7 light-hours away 
from the rest of his comms loop. 


It was as if someone had turned off the lights on the world. The 
sunny, bright, Pacific Ocean had vanished, leaving Callahan in utter 
darkness, just before a sudden loud thunderclap rocked the capsule. 


Back on Earth, there was a loud, crashing thunderclap as the air 
rushed in to fill the void left by the disappearing barges. All seven 
ships rocked violently as the powerful waves pushed them back and 
forth. The thaumatological backlash was almost worse: a good 
portion of the ocean water turned into blood, staining the ocean 
deep red. Halfway around the world, a volcano that had not existed 
until then suddenly erupted for the ninth time in one hundred years, 
and just as quickly vanished from reality. 


And somewhere on Pluto, two barges appeared in the center of a 
carefully drawn apportation circle, covered in the frost and snow that 
had once been a few hundred cubic meters of air and seawater that 
surrounded the two vessels. 


And then, as Callahan's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the 
most beautiful stars he'd ever seen in his life. 


SCP-654: Thunderhorn 


Item #: SCP-654 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: A habitat has been constructed 
for SCP-654 in Sub-Level 12 of Sector-28. The chamber is to be 
kept at a temperature of approximately -5 °C, and saltwater is to be 
circulated throughout the aquatic enclosure. Chamber walls outside 
of the aquatic enclosure have been plated with insulating ceramic 
composite. 


A staff of handlers, composed of Security Clearance Level 1 
personnel and headed by staff marine biologist Dr. Earles, works in 
shifts of three in eight hour rotations to maintain feeding and medical 
examination schedules. 


Cleaning of the habitat is assigned to standard Sub-Level custodial 
staff, to whom personal Plexiglas shielding is allotted in case of 
incident. 


Description: SCP-654, colloquially referred to as “Thunderhorn” by 
its handlers, is a male narwhal (Monodon monoceros), visually 
disparate from others of its species only in that its characteristic 
spiral tusk has grown in a clockwise helix from the jaw, rather than 
the counterclockwise helix found in all other examined narwhals to 
date.