"Well. Yeah." She looked a little awkward, like she was trying to 
explain something to someone who was being painfully slow. "It's 
not really about you... specifically. Really, | don't think half the, uh, 
world-enders here knew about each other before literally a few 
minutes ago. They can't fight here, but... Most of them aren't happy 
to find out that they've got competition. Not just you." 


He tried to comprehend this. A thought that He was entirely unused 
to having. "Do you think you can stand against the might of the one 
true God? Do you think you can enact your own End of Days?" 


Asherah shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe? I'm not going to try." 


He blinked, momentarily baffled. "You are not going to try to end the 
world?" 


SCP-605: Living Storm Cloud 


Item #: SCP-605 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-605 is impossible to 
contain with currently available resources; all Foundation efforts are 
currently directed at regulating its behavior and suppressing public 
knowledge of its existence. 


Foundation tracking teams are permanently stationed outside a 

15 km radius safe zone from SCP-605, and are equipped with large 
unmanned aerial vehicles that can be used in case SCP-605 enters 
an active state. 


Description: SCP-605 is a large, amorphous, and airborne gaseous 
entity visually similar to a high-altitude cloud formation 
approximately 180 to 260 m in diameter. Its exact appearance varies 
drastically, from being nearly invisible during its "dormant" phase, to 
resembling an enormous storm front while "active". It has been 
observed to move slowly, but has not left the region bounded by the 
US state of Florida, Puerto Rico, and Bermuda Island. 


While "active", SCP-605 exhibits behavior similar to that of a living 
predatory organism and will track ships and aircraft in its territory 
and attempt to engulf them in its body. The "active" state of 
SCP-605 also causes anomalous disruptions of the local magnetic 
field, causing compasses and other navigation systems to 
malfunction or report erroneous readings. 


When a ship or aircraft is completely engulfed by SCP-605, it is 
consumed by a method that is not currently understood, leaving no 
trace. All attempts to study this process to date have failed, as a 
successful "feeding" will cause SCP-605 to revert to a dormant 
state, usually for several years and as long as several decades at a 
time, and during this time no anomalous readings can be detected. 


"Me?" Asherah snorted. "Fuck no." 
"You told me... Then why are you here?" 


"| may have been called here, but not even that Lock can make me 
end the world. Have you ever tried the seafood in Singapore? Have 
you ever used a smartphone? Run through the jungle? Seen Cirque 
du Soleil? Flown on an airplane? Surfed the Internet? Watched 
tentacle porn? Seen Star Wars? Explored the Wanderer's Library? 
Been lost in the concrete mazes of the new human cities? No, | like 
the world the way it is, thanks. It may be fucked up, but tearing it 
apart isn't going to improve anything." 


He stared at her. 


"So no," she said. "| don't plan to end the world. | actually don't plan 
to let you end the world either, or anyone else." She paused. 
"Sorry." 


Divine rage rose up in Yahweh again, and He opened His mouth, 
only to be once again interrupted. 


"Pardon me," another woman's voice said. 


The new woman's voice was not raised, or powerful, but somehow 
everyone in the Valley heard it. And all turned to look. 


She was a dark-skinned woman, African, wearing a gray suit, 
walking into the Valley. Her body language said she was both 
unassuming and confident. Yahweh knew immediately she was an 
ordinary human, not like these alien creatures milling around him, 
but He did not recognize her. 


He did not recognize her. 


That should not have been possible, ever, not even in this limited 
human form. Yahweh knew all, and even if these false gods and 
"world-enders" were able to stymie Him somehow, no human should 


"| come on behalf of the SCP Foundation," the woman said. "Some 
of you know who we are. Some of you do not. The Foundation are 


the protectors of humanity. Some of you we have imprisoned, some 
of you we have bargained with, all in defense of humanity." She sat 
on the ground, cross-legged, formality inherent in her movements, 
some kind of ritual that Yahweh almost recognized... "| have come 
to talk." 


There was a long silence. 
"And what are you?" a crimson-skinned creature asked her. 


"lam a human," she said. "| am the Administrator of the SCP 
Foundation." 


"Impossible," Yahweh said. "I knew all the Administrators. The last 
one died years ago, and you are not he. You are none of them." 


"I'm protected from—" the woman started. 


"You are not human," a panther-shaped entity shouted from the 
crowd. Yahweh seethed at the interruption. "If you were human, we 
would be able to touch you." 


"lam protected," the Administrator said again. "But outside of my 
protection, | really am nothing more than a human. Like all the 
humans you plan to kill in your quest to end the world." 


"Then what do you want, Human?" another world-ender asked. 


"We can open the way to worlds free of sentient life. Many worlds. 
Enough room for all of you. You won't have to end this world. No 
humans will have to die. You will have a hundred others." She 
paused. "| want you to let this world live out the rest of its history in 
peace." 


A clamor of voices broke out. Not all of it was verbal - much was 
broadcast by thought. 


What are you saying— 
Is this supposed to be an insult— 


! come to save the world, | must end it to save it— 


This is not a human's place— 

This is the end of days— 

How did you come here, how did any of you— 

All will burn— 

This age is over, as the ages before it also had an end— 
Who will deny me, certainly not a tiny thing like— 


"What do you offer in exchange, Human?" a massive, fox-furred 
being asked, once the voices started to quiet down. 


"In exchange..." The Administrator hesitated. Though He could not 
read her mind, Yahweh could tell that she was unsure about what 
she was about to say. Uncertain, even afraid. 


"In exchange, we will not destroy you." 


Silence. A few of the entities laughed. Most looked uncaring or 
simply baffled. Many began to move on, apparently losing interest. 


"Will none of you consider my offer?" the Administrator asked. 
No one answered. 
"Very well." The Administrator drew herself up. 


"Why do you not join us, Human?" an amorphous blue form called 
out from the crowd. "Take your Foundation and come end the world 
with us. In the new world, you will have anything you could wish for. 
Anything you could imagine." 


"We are the Foundation," the Administrator said. "We will not 
worship you. We will not join you. We will not go back to hiding in 
fear of you. | hope you will change your minds, but we will stand 
against you, and alone, if we have to." 


She looked at Yahweh, directly, and for a fleeting instant, Yahweh 
thought of Himself as SCP-343. 


"All of you,” the Administrator said. 


Her form flickered, and she vanished from the Valley, leaving no 
trace behind. 


« The Gate Opens (Part 2 of 3) | Canon Hub | Storm Front » 


Storm Front 


The intruder appears to her as she kneels on a sloping, angular 
plane, of waving, waist-high red grass. Her field notebooks flutter, 
their pages fan back, and the grass is blown back in concentric 
circles. The thing itself is awash in glow and flickering shadows, then 
drops like a bird onto the firmament. 


“YOU,” it says. “What the hell are you doing here?” 


“Testing out early retirement options,” says the woman in the grass, 
who hasn't looked up yet. She's petite, pale, with a ropy build. A scar 
running down her face. “There's lots of area for phylogenetic 
research, in the-” 


“Oh sweet Cthulhu. No you're not,” the intruder snaps. “For one, 
you're still, like, a hundred years younger than Garrison. You're not 
retiring now. And whatever's going on, you're going to have to get 
over it, soon. We have business. Your whole world-” 


“You know...” The woman picks herself up, and dusts off the knees 
of her incongruous lab coat. The red blades of grass stand up on 
end, and the intruder can finally see clawed footprints in the muck 
underneath them. “I know I'm dreaming right now. And for part of my 
subconscious, you're being very demanding.” 


She turns around, slowly. Then she notices his suit and bowler hat. 
“Oh,” says Sophia Light. 
“Right,” says 990. 


Sophia looks around. “I would have cleaned up the place if | knew 
you were coming,” she says. “Why are you here?” 


“Well, I'd say we're due for a little calamity. Wouldn't you?” He holds 
out his hand. “I've been blindsided, as of late. What | once saw in 


the future is no longer there at all. Something has changed. Big 
things are moving, Doctor Light. Whole lot of fish, no time to fry. 
Your whole world is about to turn sideways. Need to see?” 


She touches his hand, and their surroundings change. Halfway- 
outdated Foundation architecture, older site, probably an auxiliary 
wing. Not one she's been in, in some time anyways, but the feel of it 
seems familiar. They are several stories underground, but sunlight 
streams in from gaping holes ripped out above them. 


“This, Doctor, is your precious Site Fourteen.” 
“Is it?” She tilts her head all around, pursed her lips. “Was Agent-” 


“Ordinarily, I'd care, but right now this goes beyond your personal 
crap. And you're going to sit back and listen to what | say. It's not 
just Fourteen. It's going to be all of them. Something's changed and 
| can't tell you exactly how it'll play out, but your precious Foundation 
is about to be horribly, hideously, calamitously outmatched.” 


The echoey, almost-silence of the burned-out building is, if you listen 
hard enough, rather calming. 


“How can | stop it?” 
“No one can stop it.” 


Sophia looks up, and studies his face. “You just said you've been 
blindsided by this nonspecific disaster. And | haven't heard Johanna 
or the fivers or anyone getting a visit, so you haven't been working 
down the ladder. So what, this is a social call?” She pauses. “And 
how do you know it's unstoppable?” 


He glares at her. “If this seems unplanned, | didn't expect you to 
work that out in your sleep, but fine- yes, it is, ‘ve been low on time. 
But listen. Here's what you would have done, if | weren't here. You 
would have looked at the information. Talked it over with Garrison 
and Barculo and Vaux, whoever you trust these days. Maybe 
phoned a friend. Then, you would have compared what's happening 
with previous disasters of similar magnitude, looked for anomalous 
causes, then, finally, began preparing for the worst plausible result 


you could extrapolate.” 

“That's what | would have done?” 

“Yes. It would have been smart.” 

“And what are you saying | should do?” 


“I'm saying that this is going to get worse, and if you want to even 
live to have a battle plan, you're going to prepare for the worst- to 
start. Find your resources, gather your armies. Might play out that 
not everyone in the Foundation is your best friend.” 


She nearly laughs. “What armies?” 


“See, that kind of attitude is going to have to change.” 990 flickers in 
place, like a movie still. He checks his watch. 


“| mean,” says Sophia, and then she does laugh. “I think you think 
you're doing me a favor. So thanks for telling me about the 
impending doom and all that jazz. But this is hilariously nonspecific. 
Can you tell me, say, what's going to happen? Or what kind of 
‘preparations’ | should make?” 


The bowler-hatted figure in his outdated suit checks his watch once 
more. “No, | can't, and it's already happened. Welcome to 
Armageddon. This is Day One.” He flickers again, and starts to walk 
away, then pauses. “Oh, and you're right- I'm not working down the 
ladder, and | am doing you a favor. Whenever you get done... 
Remember that.” 


She blinks. “You think somehow I'll help you-” 


And then he is gone. Sophia is alone in the skeletal ruins of Site 14. 
Motes of dust seep gently down from the surface, landing on the 
illuminated surface of an unreadable Object Class designation, 
bolted to the remains of a metal door. Deep in the fallen timber and 
rebar, something begins to stir. 


Sophia sat bolt upright. Someone was pounding on her door. She 
dimly registered darkness, the scent of cleaning fluid, the tight 


sensation of hospital corners on fitted sheets. Her phone ringing and 
ringing. Knocking harder. 


She pulled herself out of bed instantly, nearly falling as the blood in 
her legs caught up to her head, then gathering herself to pull the 
door open. “Yes?” 


Elliot Barculo, Regional Security Director, currently stationed at the 
Svalbard Site, was propped in her doorway. Deep lines in his face. 
“Jesus Christ, Sophia, were you asleep?” 


“I- maybe-” She squinted, confused, and rubbed her eyes. The idea 
of Sophia Light oversleeping was preposterous- “Did something 
happen at Site 14?” 


He scowled. “How the hell did you know that?” 
Oh. 


“It's not just Site 14. Oh Christ.” Barculo sighed and turned his back. 
“No time. Johanna's waiting in the debrief room. Plane's in the 
airfield, if the sky's safe. We need a plan. Come on." 


Sophia grabbed her jacket, and closed the bedroom door behind 
her. “Start talking on the way.” 


Johanna Garrison, perched on the end of the conference table, 
looked older than Light could have ever imagined. Gabriel Bryant, 
personnel and espionage director, stood behind Johanna with an 
arm on her shoulder. Johanna and Sophia shared a look as Sophia 
entered the room, but neither said anything about the timing. 
Sophia's friend and apprentice, Charles Vaux, fixed an 
apprehensive look at her. Alerts were streaming onto Sophia's 
phone- containment breached at sites 14, 16, 19, 23, 40, 41,42 A 
through D. 


“This started at Site 10?” Sophia asked. 


“As best anyone can figure,” said Bryant. “The site itself actually 
suffered no damage, although it teleported entirely to New 
Hampshire shortly before the other breaches.” 


“New Hampshire?” 


“Right. Researcher there- Dr. Yara Mirski- claims to have made 
contact with the responsible entity, says she tried to stop it.” 


“What was the entity?” 
“Actually, we have no idea.” 


More than a handful of breakouts, sites around the world reported 
anomalies and disturbances. On the conference room screen, a 
report came in that SCP-1688 had materialized over its containment 
area and grown to four times the size it had ever been, driving 
arrows of lightning all over a nearby Foundation facility and small 
town. Reportedly the whole town had unilaterally joined together, in 
some kind of engineering project on a massive scale. At the same 
time, a ring-shaped stormcloud had formed several kilometers to the 
east, and was raising pallid spirits from the ground that it passed 
over. Reports showed SCP-460 moving across the sky at impossible 
speeds, with an army of ghosts trailing in its wake. 


The next update was only video: a lightning storm, massive and 
striking ground so frequently that it looked like a comb of jagged 
white lines, and a large, circular, ochre stormcloud, rammed halfway 
into it. Faint white figures on the ground below seemed fixed in 
place, or spun out of shape like molten glass. 


Ten minutes later, the yellow cloud and the ghosts were gone 
completely, and the lightning was still going. 


“Okay.” Sophia stopped pacing, and panned through incoming 
alerts. "The O5 Council has been silent, which makes me think 
we've been attacked. Cl? Maybe the Hand? A lot of the missing 
ones are Sentients. The other anomalies could be... distractions?” 


“But not all. For heaven's sake, Sophia, the duck pond?” Garrison 
was still staring at the screens.