"One of my inmates?" The Warden's tone was cautious, as might be 
expected. | could very well be here to break someone out, he 
thought. Perhaps even now, it's still not so implausible. 


"No, or - maybe. Somebody's dead and I'm looking into it. They're 
my only lead." 


"Is this NERO business?" 


"No sir. I'm empowered by NERO. But | retain my services and 
loyalty - to the Foundation." 


"The Foundation,” the Warden uttered in a stunningly unsuccessful 
attempt to constrain disbelief. 


"Yes sir." The Warden chewed on his cigar. As he waited for reply, 
Phillip's concussion-addled mind began to construct an elaborate 
joke regarding oral fixation. 


"And what is it that drew you to my facilities in particular, Mr. 
Torvin?" 


"You're the primary house for Yellow acquisition in the region. | 
couldn't find anything on him in records. 


"Records is horseshit. Lily." 
The Pleasure spirit stood at attention. "Yes, sweet pea? 


"Escort Mr. Torvin here down to the labs. If he can't find his man, 
have a detachment bring him back to HQ. Right away." 


"Come, darling,” her wispy form carried him along, back down the 
dark hall to the lift. He felt a rough push and he collided with the far 
elevator wall, and the lights flickered as the button for a ‘Level 3' lit 
up near the doors. He dusted himself off, and the latter opened a 
minute later. A smell hit him. The room was full of death. 


He walked forward. Masked, robed figures stood around operating 

tables meticulously spaced out in the periphery of the room, allowing 
a straight corridor through where to a room at the back. Everywhere 
his eyes begged him not to glance bore witness to one atrocity after 


SCP-930 which preys on SCP-930-1. 


Sea-faring vessels, such as boats or personal watercraft, trigger an 
immediate response from SCP-930-1 when approaching SCP-930's 
shore. SCP-930-1 entities will take flight and circle the island. 
Attempts to deter SCP-930-1 have no effect, including the use of 
gunfire and explosives. SCP-930-1 will increase in numbers steadily, 
reaching peak concentration roughly 7.0 minutes after the 
phenomenon is triggered. 


SCP-930-1 activity usually covers between . to . square 
kilometres. Ships that run aground or come to a complete stop at the 
shoreline will cause all active instances of SCP-930-1 to become 
aggressive, targeting the vessel and driving exposed crew to cover. 


SCP-930-1 shows hostility towards humans after they disembark, to 
the extent of inflicting non-lethal wounds. It appears that SCP-930-1 
will not intentionally kill humans. Extensive attacks usually result in 
intruders fleeing from the island. Only then will SCP-930-1 cease its 
activities and return to a passive state. 


Addendum-930-1: On / / EX-Y7 successfully landed on 
SCP-930 and retrieved specimens of SCP-930-1 for Foundation 
study. Upon further investigation of SCP-930, EX-Y7 recovered 
samples from articles of clothing (heavily degraded), discarded 
personal electronic devices (heavily degraded, non-functional), 
Document-930-1 (degraded), human bodies (all showed evidence 
of massive external trauma), cameras ( non-functional, 1 
functional). 


Document-930-1: 
[BEGIN] 


Lesh 
MynameisH W _._ ,and!am the last survivor of the 
USS Kete, out of a crew of 87. Two weeks ago, 19 of us 
were marooned on this island. Our vessel had been hit 
by a mine west of the Ryukyu Islands. We drifted for 
days before the repairs became unmanageable, and we 
were forced to abandon ship. Most of us were lost after 


another; live vivisections, squirming bodies with their innards 
portrayed, a team of the figures working with edged items around 
inside something covered and awful, a hoisted man in the nude, 
receiving limb prosthesis. 


His ears rang and his head swelled from sensory overload. He did 
not vomit; he had stopped when he was 30. Instead, a well of anger 
and frustration inexplicably reared itself from his stomach, stretching 
all the way up through his ribcage. He felt wont to think, and 
comprehend the people around him. 


Years seemed to pass before one such robed figure, overseeing the 
work in the awful thing, extracted itself from the operation and 
walked readily toward him. Phillip blinked at the short, oddly 
unimposing image of a man, which made a grunt of appreciation and 
lifted up its welding goggles. He - it was, in fact, a he - extended a 
hand, with which he grabbed Phillips own digits and shook with 
vigor. "You're the man from NERO, yes?" He didn't respond. The 
figure continued, regardless, "Warden just radioed, said you'd be 
coming along. You wanted information on one of my patients. Come. 
| have the full medical history in my study. Come along, come 
along!" 


The figure, with a starkly surprising gentleness, took hold of Phillip's 
arm and led him through the grisly scene. Symbology he recognized 
from his time with the Fox sprung up from the Awful thing, springing 
around the room in a physical substance, shaping and molding itself 
to the cheers of the onlooking figures. The journey to the back 
ended only after a century had passed in his mind, when the creak 
from the doorknob crept its way into his subconscious. 


The office was as stark white as the morgue and the operating room 
they had departed, and with a nudge the doctor indicated for him to 
seat himself at a chair behind a desk at the center of the wide, 
sterile chamber. The doctor then seated himself; at the desk was a 
terminal, and with a few clicks of a mouse to his side, and some 
clacking from the keyboard, a panel ejected from the side of the 
monitor. The doctor ripped off his glove and tossed it into the waste 
bin, and pressed his thumb hard against a fitted groove in the center 
of the pop-out. A voice proclaimed, Aura recognized. Designated 
user. Full access. 


"And what was the name you required?" 
"Martin Lawrence." His ears were still ringing. 


The keyboard clacked. "Martin Lawrence - any middle name, date of 
birth?" 


"His birthday was in March. March 25th." 


The doctor tapped into the terminal and grinned. "Ah, yes - | have 
three such individuals. One Martin William Joseph Lawrence, 
currently serving in-house as one of our test subjects. Another, 
Martin Daniel Lawrence - deceased. And a third - Martin James 
Lawrence. Missing." 


Phillip's jaw opened. "What- what is he? " 


The doctor continued, "I'm sorry. Martin James Lawrence. Missing. 
An early acquiry. Latent ability. Says here he had military service. 
Coalition work in Europe - classified." 


"Context - what was the context of his escape?" 


The doctor shook his head. "Lost, here. Undetermined. We have 
many pass-throughs. It is difficult to keep track. It is possible he 
would've been picked up again under a different name. Or, he 
might've vanished. Funny case." 


"Sir?" His eyes were dull. He saw nothing. All was glass. 

"Sir, are you all right? Sir?" 

"I'll take those files to go, if you please." 

He slammed them down on the table - the box, a sheaf of data he'd 
picked up from the Quarantine Zone, everything. Tomas had 
insisted on meeting him in the war room, in the highest of Coalition 


offices. Down below, one could see the Empire building - dwindled 
and decrepit, but standing. 


"I've got your picture,” he said. 


Tomas turned from the window at the far end, and walk around the 
edge of the room. "What's all that?" 


He was ready. "Dower was emotionally engaged with a colleague, 
Martin Lawrence. Near the end of their tour in the Union, he passed 
the TYBQ with full confidence, and got remanded to custody in 
Germany and then New York, and then he escaped. She never 
appealed on his behalf and, unless these are to show any different, 
never made to contact or resume relations with him in any way." 


Tomas had cleared the table and stood beside him. "It doesn't 
wholly explain matters, but | suppose it's sufficient." 


"There was a child." 


A silence passed. Tomas walked back over to the window and 
stewed. Phillip began to worry for his health. If he wasn't enhanced, 
he was still so young to be collecting such stress. 


"When?" Tomas asked. 


Phillip shrugged. "Don't know. I'm assuming as early as 2019. 
There's references to it everywhere in her work. So much was 
encoded, though - she must not've trusted the couriers, even with 
their past experience." 


"Anything else?" Tomas' voice edged slightly. 


Phillip thought. "They spent so much time in Germany; maybe she 
got picked up with her father." 


"It's not out of the realm of possibility. Is he still alive?" 


"They couldn't say." Phillip gestured at the papers. "This is all we 
have. It's what you asked me for." He straightened his tie and turned 
to leave. "And if that's all, I'll be heading home." 


"You're not done." Tomas said, sharply. 
Phillip looked back. "I'm sorry?" 


"You're not done. How many more have you spoken to about this?" 


Phillip turned back around and put his hands in his pockets. With a 
sinking feeling, he realized his answer could prove deadly. 


"No-one. Not yet." 


Tomas himself returned; his eyes were not the same fearful ones 
that'd surfaced just moments ago. They were icy, and full of resolve. 
"Colleagues?" 


Phillip suddenly became very aware of the rain pounding the window 
outside. "None." 


The rain pounded further as the two men stared each other down 
across the room. 


Tomas finally opened his mouth. "We cannot allow this to 
germinate." 


"Why?" He asked the question that'd been eating him since he'd left. 
"They had a bastard in wartime. That's nothing uncommon. What is 
the malfunction here?" 


Tomas gritted his teeth. "Nothing you need to know. But | still need 
my impartial observer." He waited before finally concluding, "| want 
the father's body. And the child's, preferably. Ashes would be 
acceptable, if unfortunate. Go out and find them." 


"What if they're alive? I'll need backup to bring them in, he had full 
proficiency with th-" 


Tomas shook his head. "You will have no backup. You will not bring 
them in." 


Phillip heart sank a little further down. "Why me? Send STRIKE." 


"As you fail, | will. But | would prefer this dealt with discreetly. 
Outside the chain of command." Tomas' hard exterior softened. "1 
know you, Phillip. You do good work. You've done better, so far." 


Phillip was frozen. He didn't know what to say. He had a million 
thoughts racing through his mind - he hadn't felt as such but back at 
the old Site. He turned to leave again. As he opened the door, 


Tomas left him with a parting note. 


"| Know | can trust you, Mr. Torvin. If not for your sake - then for 
Griff's.” 


As he left the plaza, he threw his phone down a sewer drain. 


Save Her From Herself 


Priscilla Locke waited all night for her sister to return. The next 
morning, she found Rhiannon's cell phone in the bathroom; it had 
been restored to factory default settings. The SIM card was missing. 


A week passed. More protests started. The city looked to the County 
for help, and the County blinked. What could they do? They were 
already overwhelmed by the flood of refugees coming from land and 
sea. So the city cracked down the only way they knew how; 
repression. Curfews, at first. Then restrictions on public gatherings. 
Protests had to take place downtown, where the police could easily 
contain them, and the worst they could do was briefly disrupt rush 
hour traffic. Priss kept waiting. 


Another week passed. The Key Biscayne massacre, as it was being 
called, was national news, and igniting a political firestorm. No sign 
of Rhiannon Locke. 


"Sheeeeeeeeit," Aurianne Sharpe responded as Priss told her what 
had happened that night, "This is what was keeping you up?" 


Priss sat in her apartment, slouched on the sofa and watching 
Sharpe mash spoonfuls of ice cream into a waffle cone. The 
company was a welcome relief from the loneliness and the worrying. 
And the silence. She hadn't realized how alien the apartment felt 
without her sister bouncing around. She felt like a visitor in her own 
home. 


"| didn't think it was safe to talk about." 


"What happened on the Causeway was exactly the kind of mad, 
slimy shit that comes about when politicians pandering to the lowest 
common denominator aren't paid enough to care about doing 
anything properly," Sharpe pointed at Priss with her ice cream cone, 
"Fat fucking chance that a scrawny little girl like her would make that 


situation any worse." 
"Then where is she?" 


Sharpe dropped onto the couch alongside her, mashing the ice 
cream on her own lips for a moment before answering, "Probably 
dead in an alley somewhere." 


Priss glance sidelong at her; Sharpe's eyes had widened as soon as 
the words left her cream-coated lips. 


"I'm... I'm sorry! | have no idea what got into me." 


"Don't be," Priss grumbled, "That's exactly what | would have said if 
it weren't for... how she acted that night." 


Sharpe shrugged, "She got lucky," She started flattening the ice 
cream down into the cone, "S'not like it's a secret | enjoy anything 
sweet." 


"What should | do?" 


"Report her as a missing person. Ask around for her. Check out her 
usual haunts, her friends. It's been two weeks; the longer you 
wait..." 


Priss lowered her head, clasping her hands behind her bed, 
"Friends. Haunts. Last known associates." She hadn't even thought 
of that. Mostly she'd been worried about Rhiannon's safety if she 
actually said anything to the police. 


As she thought over the idea, she realized she had no idea what 
Rhiannon had been doing every day when she wasn't at home. She 
didn't know who she was seeing, where she was meeting for group 
therapy, if she was even getting therapy. The only friends of 
Rhiannon's that Priss remembered had been from high school. All of 
them had moved out of state. Aside from her former job, as far as 
Priss knew, Rhiannon had no real roots in the community. As far as 
anyone knew, Rhiannon Locke didn't exist. 


Another two weeks passed. Work slowed; Priss found herself 


coming home earlier each day, with more time to endure the 
deafening silence of Rhiannon's absence. 


Jaime Marlowe stared across her desk at Locke, lips fixed in that 
coy smirk that so annoyed her, like she took pleasure delivering bad 
news. 


"It's about your sister." 
Locke's expression didn't change. 


"| felt you should know before it hit the news. This is going to come 
crashing down — on you in particular — and | want you to be ready 
when it does." 


She dropped a manila folder onto the desk at Priss. Priss tilted it on 
the edge of the desk and opened it. Notes, memoranda, 
photocopied police reports. Photos of people, crowds on the 
Causeway. 


Shots of Rhiannon Locke. Shots of Rhiannon Locke laughing and 
smiling. Shots of her at the scene of a small protest somewhere, 
with a stalled car nearby, windshield cracked and back window 
coated in blood. Shots of her on the Causeway, carrying a 
backpack. Shots of her later in the day, without it. 


The notes all involved Rhiannon in some way. Police reports 
involved arrests made of self-described 'cultists' who all described 
Rhiannon as the leader of their 'pack'. They always used the same 
moniker for her; "Subhuman Mongrel". A group of them were 
arrested, caught before they could commit some vaguely described 
“act of terror" on a water treatment plant in Westchester. 


"This is a Cult," one of the suspects had said in one of the 
transcripts, "the way Jesus Christ and his Disciples were a cult. We 
come to bring the good news." 


More notes, from government agencies, Miami police, Miami Beach 
police, even from the Foundation. A long string of "suspicious 
persons", "suspicious gatherings", and "unconfirmed terroristic 


rumblings". All pointed in some way to Rhiannon Locke.