I'm lying on the floor, in more pain than I've ever felt before. | guess 
this is what it feels like to have a bullet in your gut. The pain is a 
constant but everything else is fading: | must be losing blood fast. 


Wait - how did | get here? The last thing | remember was the break- 
in, that little guy turning around as they ran, the gunshot... and 
Angie gasping, clutching her stomach, and collapsing in a pool of 
her own blood. 


ANGIE! Where is my wife?! There, standing where | was when she 
got shot, she looks as shocked as | am. She rushes over to me, not 
even paying attention to the furniture in her way. The old oil lamp 
falls off the end table, hits the floor... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


The pain is gone, and I'm back on my feet. But | was just... oh God, 
Angie's on the floor bleeding, like she was before. I've got to help 
her, | try to get over to her, to help her, stop the bleeding, 
something, ANYTHING. My elbow brushes the old oil lamp, it falls... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


FUCKING OW! I'm back on the floor, but at least Angie's okay. What 
the Hell is going on here? First she's dying, then I'm the one dying, 
then her, then me again - and nothing else is changing at all! Angie 
runs over to me, bumps the table, knocks over that old lamp... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


Switched again? How? It doesn't matter - | have to help Angie. | 
rush over, knocking over a table on the way... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


I'm the one dying again, but Angie doesn't look like she's any 
happier. She looks so confused, so scared. She looks at me, at her 
stomach, at the lamp. Wait a minute - why is that lamp in one piece? 
| remember now, when that little slimebag shot Angie in the first 
place, | ran over to help her, but | knocked that lamp over on the 
way. | didn't see what happened to it, but | heard it break. 


She picks the lamp up off the table, barely able to hold it her hands 
are shaking so badly. She lifts it up above her head, throws it 
down... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


Standing and healthy again. | look out the door, see the two thugs 
running, not ten feet from where they were when they shot Angie. 
The lamp's back, too - does it rewind time or something? What the 
Hell is going on? How does some random oil lamp | bought in a 
store as a decoration somehow rewind time, and how do Angie and | 
keep getting switched? 


No time to think about stuff like that. | know how little time Angie 
has: | could feel it when | was the one on the floor. There's no way 
an ambulance could get here in time, even if somebody else called 
them the instant they heard the shot. The only way to save her now 
is for me to be the one that dies. | grab the lamp and hurl it to the 
floor... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


It worked - I'm back on the floor. | see Angie reaching for the lamp, 
try to tell her that it's all right, tell her to let me go, but it's too late. 
The lamp falls... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


| grab the lamp, look down at my poor Angie, and tell her I'll save 
her... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


We've been married almost twenty years - known each other twice 
that. Childhood friends, highschool sweethearts, always together. 
Everybody pretty much knew we'd end up married. I've sworn to 
myself ever since | was a kid: I'd always protect her, no matter what, 
even if it cost me my life... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


So why won't she let me? 
*shatter* 

FLASH 

*shatter* 


FLASH 


| wonder if this thing ever runs out of juice? If it does, | hope it's 
while I'm the one down... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 


FLASH 


At this point, I'm pretty sure that if wnoever's down dies before the 
lamp breaks, it won't switch us again. | just need to keep it in one 
piece long enough that | die before Angie can take my place... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


| grab the chimney, and wait. Watching her suffer like this, watching 
the life drain out of her without doing anything to stop it, it feels like 
my heart and soul are being ripped apart, but | have to wait as long 
as | can. If | delay the switch, it should put me closer to dying when 
we switch, and maybe Angie won't have time to switch back... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


DAMN. All the way back to when the lamp broke the first time. 
Delaying isn't going to work... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


| apologise to Angie for letting her suffer so long last time, and beg 
her to just let me die, let me save her... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


Angie begs me to let her die, let her save me... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


| think | may actually be starting to get used to the pain - the physical 
part, at least. They say a person can get used to anything, but 
nothing dulls the horror of helplessly watching the woman | love 


dying slowly on the floor. | HAVE to save her... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


By the rest of the world's reckoning, it was only a few minutes ago 
that we were cleaning up after dinner. Then those two thugs, bold as 
brass, just kicked in the front door. The big guy started grabbing 
whatever he could, while the little one ran room to room. He was 
probably looking for us, since he stopped when he found us hiding in 
the kitchen, pointed that gun at us, and ordered us into the living 
room... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


We watched as they tore apart our home, grabbing whatever caught 
their fancy, and smashing a lot of what didn't. While the big guy was 
all business, the short one kept coming back to threaten us. The 
little rat giggled every time he made us flinch by jabbing us with his 
gun. That sick fuck must get off on hurting people - | saw the look on 
his face when he turned, gun in hand... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


Maybe if | could kill myself somehow before Angie could smash the 
chimney again, | could break the cycle on the right side. The 
problem is | only get a couple of seconds... 


*shatter* 


FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


Nope, that didn't work, either. Can't convince Angie to just let me die 
- she's obviously as set on saving me as | am on saving her. I'll find 
some way to kill myself in time... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


How many times have we gone back and forth? | haven't exactly 
been counting, but it must be hundreds. Or thousands... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


| don't remember my name. | don't remember who | am, where | 
grew up, or much of anything else that happened more than a 
minute ago by the rest of the world's time. We've been going back 
and forth for pretty much as far back as | can recall - years, at least. 
All | really remember clearly is that | can't let her die... 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


*shatter* 
FLASH 


by the Site Director, Dr. Kipp. SCP-900-1 was questioned about 
SCP-900. The following is a list of questions asked by Dr. Kipp and 
their answers, written by SCP-900-1. Translations and annotations 
were written by Researcher Liddell. 


Please give a brief history of the city. 

It was built for the people! by the sun2. The others like 
you were jealous that they could not build a fine city 
themselves. The jealousy was a small problem at first. 
Over time it grew into a war. The people were strong, but 
the others numbered more. The others overwhelmed 
them in every battle. 


[DATA EXPUNGED] 


The sun cursed the others with a veil> over their eyes, 
and the sun leapt from the sanctum. The sea swept over 
the ruins. 


Why are you here? 
| have been punished for my lack of faith. 


How long have you lived in the city? 
Many high tides. | do not count them. 


Have you ever left? 
No. 


Are you capable of leaving? 
| have been punished for my lack of faith. 


Did humans look and behave differently from the way 
they do now? 

They wore skins of creatures. They had no gods. They 
wanted to butcher the sun. 


How many people would you estimate lived here at its 
peak? 
There are of us. 


Are you alone on the island? 
There are of us. 


Loose Ends 


Mr. Eric Brashin checked his silver pocket watch, holding it only by 
the chain. The boy was late. Of course. The meeting he had 
scheduled was already bound to prove a waste of time. Lateness 
always reflected badly on a prospective recruit. When the prospect, 
as he was wont to think of them, can't be trusted to handle even the 
simplest of appointments properly, why on Earth should he trust 
them with matters of infinitely greater importance? Misters Marshall, 
Carter, and perhaps even Dark, did not look kindly on a lack of 
professionalism. More personally, he himself had only contempt for 
the kind of idiots who came to him, hat in hand, begging for a 
chance, and then didn't even bother to show up for the introductory 
meeting. 


Mr. Brashin stood stiffly in one of the greeting rooms the club used 
to meet with those not aware of the more exotic aspects of the 
establishment. Barely a minute had passed before he was drawing 
his watch out by its chain again. He examined the face, taking note 
of the time while being careful to not actually touch the watch itself. 
Irritated, he asked himself aloud, “Eight minutes late already, where 
has the punctuality of this new generation gone?" 


Another five minutes passed unremarkably, with his scheduled 
meeting still going unmet. Despite himself, Mr. Brashin began to feel 
a bit annoyed. The young rich these days all felt themselves entitled 
to the world waiting on them, hand and foot. Well, he doubted this 
particular entitled fop would be finding himself favorably received by 
Mr. Marshall. Five minutes late could be explained. Ten minutes 
would get you a polite kick out the door. More than that, and you 
would likely end up as what Mr. Marshall referred to as a "loose 
end." 


Gripped by a sudden suspicion, Mr. Brashin reaching into his coat 
pocket and drew out his pocket watch, this time holding it by the 
actual timepiece, not the chain. The hands spun crazily for a handful 


of moments, before resting on twelve hours, twelve minutes, and 
one second. He knew what it meant, it had been explained to him 
very concisely, all those years ago. He could still hear the oily voice 
of his predecessor, "Twelve means zero, hours mean years, 
minutes mean months, and seconds mean days." Whatever tiny hint 
of color there was in his face drained out of it. Only now did he hear 
the measured footsteps leading towards the room. It was of no use 
to try to run, trying to hide would have been laughable, and fighting 
back would only embarrass him. 


Unexpectedly, Mr. Brashin felt his eyes sting and his vision blurred 
for a moment with tears. He pushed them back sternly. If he had to 
go, he would not go crying. The click of shoe on hardwood stopped 
just outside the stately meeting room door, and the handle turned 
slowly. The door opened, and there was Mr. Marshall, smiling at him 
sadly. A rather large man stood just behind and to the right of him, 
but the brute was unimportant, in the larger scheme of things. Eric 
Brashin only had eyes for his employer. 


His voice was barely controlled, almost cracking as he asked, “If | 
may ask, Mr. Marshall, why?” 


Mr. Marshall's sad smile didn’t change for an instant. He looked the 
man, his faithful employee of nearly twenty years, dead in the eye. 
“Loose ends, Mr. Brashin. Always loose ends. Your last hire was 
more trouble than they were worth, being a spy and all. We simply 
can't allow you to continue, after a horrendous mistake like that. Our 
clients value privacy above all else, and letting in even a single mole 
jeopardizes every last one of them. | had hoped you would be 
eligible for a nice, peaceful, retirement, but you know far too much.” 


He sighed sadly. “I understand, sir.” And he did understand. Working 
for Marshall, Carter, and Dark, one knew that you would likely never 
make retirement. He had known all too well how likely it was that 
precisely this thing would happen, but he had tried to never pay the 
idea much mind. He gently removed the watch from his pocket and 
held it out. “I suppose you'll be wanting this back then. For my-” He 
choked a little on the word, "Replacement." 


Still with that sad smile plastered on his face, Mr. Marshall answered 
while taking the silvery timepiece, “I’m sorry, Eric.” 


The soft thump of a silenced gunshot sounded over Mr. Marshall’s 
shoulder, and Eric Brashin stumbled backwards and fell to the rich 
hardwood, blood staining his crisp grey suit. Darkness swam across 
his vision, and the last thing he heard was Mr. Marshall say softly, 
“Loyalty, Henderson. That is what loyalty looks like.” 


Lord Blackwood and the Great Tarasque Hunt of '83 


May 14, 1883: 


| received a most curious missive in the post this morning. It has 
been four months since | returned to England, having nearly lost my 
life in endeavouring to become the first man to reach the summit of 
the foreboding and deadly Mt. Everest. | have spent the time since 
in research and recovery here in London, nursing my wounds and 
documenting my memoirs of the harrowing trip up the mountain and 
my nearly-fatal encounter with the creature | found there - a tale 
which, | fear, may never be told outside these diaries - and | have 
not planned to embark again for distant shores until after summer 
has past. That has changed, | fear, as the result of today's letter. It 
was a formal affair, written in a folded card like a wedding invitation, 
sealed in the finest envelope, and | present it to you below; 


To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE; 


Col. Joseph D'Enfante, I'Armee de Terre of the Republic 
of France, 


does hereby cordially invite you to participate in 
A HUNT 


of a great and terrible creature that threatens the lives of 
thousands. 


THE TARASQUE, 


a creature great and terrifying, of late believed to be 
legend, 


has arisen and threatens the security of the land of 
Provence and of France itself. 


Col. D'Enfante has been authorised by the President of 


the Republic 

to pay a sum of 

FIVE MILLION ENGLISH POUNDS 

to the man or men who shall slay this infamous beast. 


R.S.V.P. in care of Col. D'Enfante, No. 22, Kensington 
Road, Knightsbridge, London. 


| immediately dashed off an acceptance and sent it out with the 
afternoon post. Though | have hunted foxes and elephants and 
every beast, great and small, in between, | had never heard of such 
a creature as the Tarasque, and certainly never had an opportunity 
to hunt one. | spent my afternoon in the study, pouring over 
encyclopediae and tomes of history and mythology, before | found 
the term in a collection of folk tales regarding St. Martha, sister to 
Mary Magdalene, who had supposedly calmed the beast with her 
song. The text described it as a vicious creature; a massive chimera, 
that breathed fire and whose scaly hide repelled every blade, that 
killed without remorse and seemed only to wreak chaos for its own 
enjoyment. 


When the last delivery of the day came just before tea-time, | had 
received an address and directions to attend a briefing the day after 
tomorrow in the City. | have always been a firm believer in the 
proposition that even in the most preposterous of myths, there lies a 
kernel of truth. Whether an ancient behemoth that breathed fire was 
bringing ruination to the south of France, | knew not; but | knew that 
the army and the president themselves were concerned enough to 
seek out a man such as myself, and were willing to offer a bounty 
that would finance a score of proper expeditions for the killing of a 
single beast. On Wednesday, | will learn why. 


May 16, 1883: 


Today | attended Col. D'Enfante's meeting, held in a private room in 
the City, at the club owned by Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark. 
(Lest the reader question my morality, | assure you that |am no 
member, dues-paying or otherwise, of that association; | find their