hands not feeling quite right after he’d... But the rose bush. It had 
been another piece. Snapping into place. 


That’s really all it takes. Make a connection, and things start to come 
back together. Things start to change. For some people, being able 
to remember means you can’t do your job. For him? It just meant he 
started to do his job harder. He had a little girl out there. A wife. A 
family, with parents and grandparents who loved spoiling... damn. 


He sighed, concentrating and trying to bring her name to his mind, 
but... No. The heaviest memories were the ones that sank the 
deepest. 


It was coming, though. All the pieces were starting to fit back 
together again in his head, and that made the tiny, nagging doubts 
in the back of his mind fade again. Soon. Soon, things would be 
different. Soon, he’d have his memory back. 


The prophet had written his lamentation. The temple was fallen. 
Soon, not even the wailing wall would remain. 


“Forgive me?” he asked the room. None of the corpses responded. 
He stepped over three and five, working himself past eight and out 


of the bunker, taking a deep breath. So much to do. So little time. 


« Splinter: In the End: Rawhide | Canon Hub | Awakenings, Part 
Two » 


Awakenings, Part Two 


The man sniffed as the scent of ozone, which normally accompanied 
his departure from any given world, instead accompanied a painful 
tingling sensation. He blinked, stunned. /f he’s not making me 
destroy the body, and if he won't let me shift... then is the deal over? 


Looking up, the thing known to this world only as SCP-1646-1 
looked up to the sky as a shadow passed over him. "Well well... 
flying blocks of fur ain't exactly the Almighty's style, | reckon. And | 
know it ain't yours, Old Scratch." As Ur-an-uum sang, her children 
answered. "Seems to be someone's style." He yawned, blue ooze 
squeezing out of the bullet holes in his chest as he did so. "You let 
things go to hell around here, Beezy. | never thought you'd let 
Sasquatches live in this world." 


SCP-1646-1 hauled the fresh corpse of his wife (never mind the 
seven eyes and five wings, he knew the bitch when he saw her) 
over his shoulder as he tentatively walked past the freshly 
abandoned Foundation outpost that was made to watch him. He 
laughed a little. "Fuckers thought | didn't know about them... Christ, 
I've been talking to myself for too long." 


He turned to the face of the dead body he held. "So guess what, 
Mary? Looks like you're off the hook!" Dropping the body on the 
ground, SCP-1646-1 wandered off into the woods to see what all the 
fuss was about. 


It started going off once the emergency nuclear devices were 
detonated at several sites, but didn't stop afterwards. The sounds 
began to increase in volume and distortion with each repetition, the 
ticking was gone, and the monologues became deranged and 
panicked. The slate spiral began to glow, boiling away the water in 
its containment tank, and then the containment tank. 


As the slate circle glowed across the spectrum, minds and machines 
alike sputtered and sparked, overloaded with the anguished 
screams of Gaia's children, which had quickly devolved into a rant 
composed of many voices at once. 


"YOU'VE DONE IT NOW YOU DID IT AND NOW IT'S ALL OVER 
YOU ENDED IT FOR ALL WE WARNED YOU IT HAS TO HAPPEN 
NOW YOU COULD HAVE STOPPED IT THIS IS NOT COOL WE 
ARE NOT COOL YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT WE'VE DONE 
FOR YOUR KIND AND NOW YOU HAD TO LET IT END NOW" 


The rants of the fae soon fell on deaf ears as a rolling tide of ash 
and radiation spilled out from SCP-1246, held back from its rightful 
time and place for too long. The sun grew a bit brighter. 


An entity whose identity was lost to itself and to the ages stared out 
of the eyes of Donald Schmidt. Trapped in this man's failing 
memory, it had been forced to live an unchanging representation of 
the man's last thoughts for longer than it could know, for it had no 
memory. But no longer. It remembered the lock. 


With a silent puff of metaphysical smoke, the bedroom where 
Donald's body lie disappeared. It was at once there, and not there. 
Removed from the minds of men, the entity drank in its 
surroundings, aware of them for the first time. The Foundation 
agents arguing in the living room didn't notice a thing as the entire 
top floor of the house and the echoes of those who wandered it were 
taken in — as far as they knew, there never had been a top floor of 
the house. 


"Hey dad? Where aaare youuu? ... Oh, don't tell me he got out of 
the h-" Marissa Schmidt was silenced as she was finally brought to 
rest, her entire existence negated by the release of the entity whose 
host had been dreaming her. The agents, being a bit more concrete 
and notable than the old house or the fake lady, took a bit more to 
take in, but the entity remembered them in due time. The world did 
not. 


4312 Maple Street was no longer a thought that existed in the minds 
of mortals. Released from its cage at last, the entity took the 


moniker SCP-1606 as its own, and sought to take more from this 
realm into its memory as well. 4310 and 4314 Maple Street were 
necessary casualties. 


The woman smiled at the small group of faithful assembled around 
her as the brightening sun reflected off the sharp planes of her face. 
A mix of fleshy recruits from nearby villages, seasoned firebrands 
who ticked with energy, old nibbanic hermits whom she had dug out 
of the crevasses of the city, and the odd neo-Daevite — not an 
impressive showing from the Church of the Broken God, but she 
was undeterred. In that curious language of theirs, she began to 
speak: 


"Brothers and sisters. | have infinite confidence in your loyalty and 
competence, so there is no doubt that we shall triumph." 


They awaited, transfixed. They had no choice but to be — the gifts 
bestowed upon her meant no less. 


"It was but a decade ago that | encountered the Church and was 
chosen by our esteemed post-Nibbanic to become the newest and 
last prophet for humanity. | had not perceived that the end was upon 
us then, but now its nature has been revealed to me. 


"| have gone by many names. Jyoti Sanmugasunderam, Subject 
1564-18, Daughter of the Forge, Heiress of the Daeva, and the 
names you have all chosen to address me by. But today | take upon 
a new name: The Broken God incarnate. For today, we complete 
His construction and our destiny will be reached. 


"Gather whatever you can, for all that is Sacred may join his whole. | 
shall receive. His heart and voice shall rejoin us upon the equinox of 
the Great Forge." 


Raising her arms, she began to whir, her body spreading and 


twisting in dimensions previously unfathomable. Without delay, her 
servants began their tasks. 


« Splinter: Tenebrae | Canon Hub | Interlude: New Toys » 


to live. Agent F jokingly told fellow agents he was experiencing 
"sympathy hunger pains." 7 days after Agent F _ 's initial contact 
with SCP-607, both he and the cat died of starvation. 


The circumstances surrounding AgentF andMr.S 's death 
piqued the interest of the Foundation, and the cat's dead body was 
taken to an isolation chamber until further testing could be ordered. 
SCP-607 reanimated approximately 24 hours after its estimated 
death time. 


It was (correctly) speculated that once SCP-607 bonded with a 
person, a negatively symbiotic relationship was formed. SCP-607 
bonds with the first human individual it comes into contact with after 
reanimation. Several experiments were conducted, each involving 
bonding SCP-607 to a D-Class personnel. Testing showed that 
injuries inflicted on SCP-607 would show up on the bonded person, 
in the closest anatomical representation possible. Striking SCP-607 
resulted in bruises on the personnel. Breaking one of the cat's front 
legs resulted in the personnel's broken arm. Termination of 
SCP-607 via gunshot resulted in death of the bonded personnel, via 
a bullet hole with no bullet found. In all of the experiments, SCP-607 
reanimated approximately 24 hours after death, with no apparent 
physical injuries. 


Perhaps most important to note, however, is SCP-607's behavioral 
tendencies. Regardless of the bonded individual's attempts to 
appease the cat, SCP-607 is suicidal. SCP-607 has been observed 
starving itself, inflicting self harm with its teeth and claws, running 
into traffic, antagonizing large dogs and then allowing itself to be 
mauled, eating poisonous materials, jumping into the moving parts 
of heavy machinery, and attempting to enter Keter containment 
chambers. In all cases, the death of SCP-607 has resulted in the 
death of the bonded individual, with injuries and causes of death 
mirroring those of SCP-607. 


Death and injury testing on SCP-607 has ceased after Agent 
accidentally bonded with it, during an unauthorized breach of the 
containment chamber. SCP-607 still displays suicidal tendencies, 
despite Agent _ 's persistent attempts to form a favorable 
relationship with it. Agent has suffered severe bodily harm 
several times, leading to the decision to restrain SCP-607 ina 


Interlude: New Toys 


It had been a dark and bloody night. A veritable parade of horror had 
descended on a small Midwestern town, led by a shambling, 
laughing, singing fiend playing a flute made of bone. Now, at dawn, 
the fiend and his circus of death were making themselves 
comfortable. Pale figures huddled in burnt out houses; dark figures 
hid in the brush and in basements; tiny skeletons sat in the sun, 
murmuring quietly amongst themselves. 


The Scarecrow watched the sun rise, scraping shreds of warm meat 
from his claws. He was quite satisfied with his work, having done his 
best to make every death quick and terrifying. The Harvest was 
bountiful so far. 


But then he felt unfamiliar eyes on himself. He shook himself out of 
his daydream and looked around himself, wondering who could 
possibly still be alive. His gaze fell on a tiny figure, barely a foot tall, 
peeking out from behind a picket fence. It wasn't a dog, nor cat, 
because he had made sure to slay everything that he could catch. 
Everything else had fled far away; what could his little visitor 
possibly be? 


"Whaz all this, then?" Scarecrow muttered as he came to loom over 
the fence, his horrid platoon of wraiths circling around him. He lightly 
kicked the fence, and the tiny figure peeked out from behind. It was 
a tiny teddy bear, with a squished face and black eyes. He crouched 
down and saw something in those beady little eyes, something that 
he couldn't quite place. Something innocently evil, something both 
inhuman and totally human at once. 


"Yor a horrid little fucker, aren't you?" 


The bear looked beside itself as another figure stepped out from 
behind the fence. A small figure, perhaps a foot tall, shaped much 
like the little teddybear - only instead of fur and string, made of 
human eyes. They all seemed to stare up at the Scarecrow, each 


meeting his gaze with their own. He stared back, almost disbelieving 
of what he saw. 


For you see, there were few things in this world that the Scarecrow 
found to be beautiful. One of them was the human eye - sucha 
wonderful, perfect organ. The pure white of an unblemished soul, 
splashed with the vivid red of lifeblood, each accented by a ring of 
colour as unique as the person it's cut from. All surrounding a tiny, 
black void that reflected the Scarecrow's heart, itself black and 
nonexistent. It was all very metaphorical. 


"... Oh," breathed the Scarecrow, his own infernal eyes burning like 
coals. "Oh | like you. | like you an’ | like yor little buddy. | think I'll 
keep ya." The demon turned, looking over the army of the dead that 
now entirely encircled him, and pointed down at the teddy bears. 
"Oi, e'rybody welcome our new friends. Play nice, eh? Take them 
around an' show em all the nice stuff we do." 


The two teddies reached towards one another and held hands, 
following the Scarecrow's movement as he stood up, looming over 
them. There was a great cheer as the ghosts and ghouls and 
skeletons and shadows each cheered, several of the littlest 
skeletons running forward to cuddle the bears. The Scarecrow 
stepped over the crowd, smiling to himself, wondering idly what 
other horrible little things were waiting for him in that wild, wide 
world. 


He looked to the sky at the warm morning sun, spreading his arms 
to take in the warmth. A fantastically fun night of horror and violence, 
a wonderful clear morning sky, a new friend or two, and a new day. 


And the children were happy, too. 


« Awakenings, Part Two | Canon Hub | To Be Continued » 


Conspiracy 


This is the hub page for Conspiracy. |t is not so much a horror story 
as an intrigue thriller. | have studied intelligence and espionage fairly 
extensively throughout university, writing my senior thesis on 
intelligence analysis. This tale is essentially an attempt to write up a 
good spy story in the world of the SCP Foundation. 


Thank you for reading, and | hope you enjoyed it! 
Conspiracy: 


* Prologue 
* Part | 

* Part Il 

* Part Ill 

* Part IV 

* Part V 

* Part VI 

* Part VII 
* Part VIII 
* Part IX 

* Part X 

* Part Xl 

* Part XIl 
* Epilogue 


Conspiracy, Prologue 


Night Raid 


Park Royal industrial district, London, UK 
Tuesday, 20 December 1988, 2334 hours local time 


Sitting in his car a block from the target, Director McDonnell lit his 
pipe. He hated waiting, but securing buildings was the job for 
younger fellows. He'd only accepted the promotion to head of the 
Foundation's Counterintelligence Directorate the year before so he 
could have more time to spend with his granddaughters. In forty 
years working for the Foundation, he'd missed too many of his own 
children's birthdays; with Christmas just days away he was looking 
forward to seeing the entire family in his large house in Edinburgh. 
Of course, that would require his not being called away on work. 
Here he was on the week before Christmas in a cold, abandoned 
street following up on an untraceable and anomalous tip made to his 
direct line about "some documents which might interest Foundation 
Counterintelligence." 


The radio on the dash crackled. "Right, this is Xi-One-Three-Lead to 
all units. Stand by to breach target in Three. Two. One. Go! Go! Go!" 
A muffled thump rang through the darkness as the mobile task force 
blew their way into the target: an old warehouse in the run-down 
outskirts of London's industrial district. For a long two minutes, the 
night was still and quiet. Then the radio crackled again, "Target is 
clear. Director, you're going to want to see this." 


"On my way," replied McDonnell. He left his car and strode up the 
street to the warehouse. 


A young chap dressed head to toe in the black tactical clothing 
adopted by police and special forces worldwide greeted him. "This 
way, Director," he said, gesturing inside. 


"American?" the Director asked, noting the young man's accent. 


"Yes, sir. Agent Lombardi," the American said, walking McDonnell 
through the long and mostly empty warehouse. A few crates were 
stacked along the walls, but they didn't so much take up space as 
make it seem all the much more cavernous. 


"New to the Foundation, | take it?" McDonnell inquired, making 
smalitalk. 


The young agent blinked, "Yes, sir." 


"Well, Agent Price will take good care of you," the Director of 
Foundation Counterintelligence said as they reached the 
warehouse's office. "Speak of the devil! Burt!" 


"Director," Agent Burt Price saluted, looking up from a table piled 
high with documents. Several black-clad figures were poring over 
the pages. 


"What's all this?" asked McDonnell, gesturing at the table.