Trail wiped frantically at the windscreen of the plane with his sleeve, 
trying his hardest to clear the persistent fog upon it. It had been over 
a day since they left Peru, and it was here in the last leg of the flight 
that things finally had begun to fall apart. The obscured view out of 
the cockpit was becoming less of a nuisance and more of a threat, 
and some heavy turbulence earlier on had caused Trail to empty his 
stomach on the floor of the tiny aircraft. 


“You said you wanted to be the copilot, so do your job!” Brink had 
shouted over the sound of the propeller. “I’m gonna need to land this 
at some point, and we'll be better off if | can see the ground when | 
do!” 


“I’m trying, man, but | can’t reach all the way over there without 
undoing the safety restraints.” 


Trail heard a short clicking sound, and suddenly the pressure on his 
chest vanished. A metal buckle dangled limply by the side of his 
seat. 


“Safety restraints?” Brink brought his hand back to his side of the 
plane. “When has safety ever been something we worried about?” 


An hour passed, and the plane lurched and pitched as it sputtered 
through an embankment of clouds. Night was falling, and the sky 


around them was turning almost opaque. Trail felt his stomach start 
to turn again and braced himself for what he thought was the worst; 
unfortunately, he was not thinking on a large enough scale. 


“Well, probably can’t push our luck any further.” 
Brink’s words snapped him out of his reverie. “What?” 


He had no sooner asked the question than he noticed the low-fuel 
indicator light blinking what he assumed was the beat to their funeral 
march. 


“Has that been on long?” 


“Oh, yeah, a while. Past hour or so, | figured it was just some 
electronics problem, but I’m starting to think we might've sprung a 
leak somewhere... necessary.” 


Trail Mex blanched. “How far out are we from Cairo?” 


“Oh, we're pretty much in Cairo. The distance ain’t the problem. 
Clear a window and look down.” 


He hesitated. “I’d rather not.” 


A tremendous hand gripped him by the top of the head and turned it 
around to look out the side window of the plane. “What-has-gotten- 
into-you-today?”’ Brink said, syllable by gravelly syllable through 
perfect, gritted teeth. 


What lay beneath them was a sprawling city full of buildings and 
people ambling among them, rich with a culture older than history, 
built on land settled millennia ago—a place possibly more vibrant 
and intriguing than anywhere else in the world. What did not lie 
beneath them was a runway. 


“| don’t Suppose you’ve got the yips about using a parachute, too?” 
“| don’t have yips about nothing.” 


“All right, whatever. Long as you don’t mind jumping out of this plane 
in a few minutes.” 


The engine coughed and went still. Brink quietly handed over a 
backpack; Trail began sweating. 


“Or right now.” 


Trail muttered feverish Spanish. “El Dios de dioses, Jehova, ha 
hablado, y convocado la tierra desde el nacimiento—“! 


“Cut that out and get that door open,” Brink barked as the nose of 
the aircraft began to dip. 


Trail reluctantly threw himself out of the plane, mumbling what he 
could remember of Psalm 50. Brink followed a second after, leaving 
the plane to fall to earth at its own preferred pace. With a steadily 
growing sense of unease, Trail started thinking about what would 
happen when it landed. Crashed. “Crashed” was the more suitable 
word. 


“HEY!” he shouted upward. “BRINK!” 


No answer came immediately, but Brink straightened his 
mountainous body into more or less a vertical line and accelerated 
toward his friend. “YOU SAY SOMETHING?” 


“| WAS WONDERING, YOU KNOW, ABOUT THE PLANE.” 


“WHAT ABOUT THE—AW, DAMN IT TO HELL. GOD DAMN 
EVERYTHING.” 


“WHAT?” 

“| LEFT ALL THE STUFF IN THERE.” 

“STUFF?” 

“YEAH. ALL THE FOLDERS AND THE WHATEVER.” 


“YOU MEAN THE CLASSIFIED STUFF THE GOVERNMENT 
GUYS GAVE YOU?” 


“| GUESS.” 


“THAT'S... BAD.” 


“| WAS JUST THINKING THAT. GOOD NEWS IS THAT WHEN IT 
CRASHES IT’LL PROBABLY ALL BURN UP, SO NOBODY ELSE 
GETS TO READ IT.” 


Trail’s mouth opened in shock, and the air rushing into it made him 
cough uncontrollably. “THAT'S THE GOOD NEWS?” 


“RELATIVELY.” 

“AND WHAT’S THE BAD NEWS?” 
“MOSTLY IT’S THAT | HATE SKYDIVING.” 
“REALLY?” 

“YEAH, NOT MY FAVORITE.” 

“REALLY.” 


“| KNOW, | KNOW, GUY AS FEARLESS AS ME HATES 
SKYDIVING, IT’S WEIRD. | GET IT. | THINK IT GOES BACK TO 
WHEN | WAS LITTLE, AND...” 


“YOU DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT THE PEOPLE THAT THE 
THING WE JUST JUMPED OUT OF IS GOING TO HIT?” 


Brink made as pensive a face as he could manage in free fall. 
“MAYBE A LITTLE.” A thought struck him. “WAIT, ARE YOU 
UPSET ABOUT THIS, TOO?” 


“OF COURSE!” 


They deployed their parachutes, drifting slowly toward the rooftops 
of the city beneath them. The winds whipping Trail’s face calmed 
slightly; Trail himself did not. He curled his hands into tight fists 
around the straps of his backpack, staring intently up at the man 
who'd flown him straight into the moral gutter. 


“Brink,” he called up, doing his utmost to keep from sounding as 
furious as he felt, “you and | have done a lot of ridiculous things 


[DATA EXPUNGED] 


Inside the temple, the SCP was found, surrounded by scaffolding 
and staircases, with ladders propped up against the meat to allow as 
many people as possible to partake in the event [DATA 
EXPUNGED] 


« SCP-596 | SCP-597 | SCP-598 » 


together over the past couple years.” 
“Absolutely have,” he replied. “Why d’you mention it?” 


“And a lot of those things have been really stupid and dangerous to 
everybody around us.” 


“| mean, if by that you mean fun.” 


“For example,” he snapped, ignoring the remark, “just now we 
abandoned a plane over a crowded city, where it'll crash and kill 
several innocent people, because YOU ignored the fuel gauge for 
an hour.” 


Brink crossed his arms. “Is this you now? This your new thing? 
You’re gonna, what, summarize everything | do right after | do it? 
What’s the point of that?” 


“That’s not what I—puta madre. We're not speaking until you learn 
to give a damn about this.” 


The adventurer scowled. “About what?” 
Trail looked down at the rooftops growing closer to his feet. “Nope.” 


*Come on, seriously? Don't do this. Just tell me what I’m allegedly 
doing wrong.” 


“No. Not talking.” 


Brink sighed loudly enough for Trail to hear. “Don’t be like that, 
compadro. You’ve at least got to tell me what you think my flaw is 
before you can expect me to do anything about it.” 


“Compaadre. Also, flaws.” 
“Look, |I—“ 

“Also, | told you already.” 
“Don't— 


“Also, not talking.” 


“Fine, okay! We’re not talking. This’ll be fun.” 


Trail didn’t respond. 


“Sure is a good thing we're not talking, isn’t it?” Brink intoned 
nasally. “You didn’t need my help climbing down that building you 
landed on, no sir. You got that all on your own. Good job not almost 
breaking your leg on the way, that was a nice touch.” 


“Shut up.” It was faint, tired, almost a plea. 


Brink pressed his palms to the sides of his head. “He speaks! 
Thought you’d gone mute. Thank God we still have your cheery 
voice to get us through the trip.” 


Mentally beleaguered and physically exhausted, Trail stopped 
walking and looked blankly at a fire that had started a few miles in 
the distance. He grimaced and wrung his hands. His partner broke 
the silence for the hundredth time. 


“Huh,” he said dully. “Didn’t think it'd get that big.” 


Trail sat suddenly on the pavement and buried his face in his arms. 


“What did you find?” 


“Most of the documents inside had been incinerated by the time | 
arrived, unfortunately. | believe the crash may have been intended 
for this exact purpose.” 


“You found nothing, then.” A finger moved toward a beige stone 
button. 


“No! No. Not nothing. Please. I... | managed to recover this from the 
wreckage without being spotted.” 


Into his hands was placed a charred scrap of paper, with an austere 
black heading that read “Secure. Contain. Protect.” He mused upon 
it. 


“So,” said Heinrich Krause. “They know.” 
previous chapter « « « 
* « «next chapter 
Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 


Footnotes 

1. "The Mighty One, God, the Lord, has spoken, and summoned the 
earth from the rising of the sun—" (excerpt from Psalm 50, New 
International Version) 


Chapter 3: Lights, Cairo, Action!! 


Brink Dangerguts and the Shard of Thermopylae 


Several copies of this anonymous manuscript have been 
found scattered across Site 19 over the past month. 
Despite its near-total factual inaccuracy, it contains 
enough truth to warrant a low-level breach of security if 
published. As far as Foundation sources have gathered, 
it has not been sent to any outside publishing company; 
the investigation is ongoing. 


Even for a pair of seasoned travelers, Cairo can be a formidable 
locale. The people rush haphazardly through the streets like diligent, 
purpose-driven cattle, and vehicles do their best to keep some 
semblance of course through the swamp of human movement that 
overwhelms the thoroughfares. Traffic signals are suggestions, and 
sidewalks are driven on as frequently as the roads themselves. 
Despite this, the city is nothing if not a feast for the senses. The 
architecture towers and curves gracefully against itself in pillars and 
pointed arches, with intricate patterns running their lengths; bazaars 
span the widths of entire streets, consuming one’s vision with vivid 
colors and smells; the chatter in the avenues, in a dozen different 
languages, comes from all directions at all times. 


A full twenty-four hours had passed since their unceremonious 
arrival, and neither man’s attitude had changed much from the 
previous night. They walked as nonchalantly as they could past a 
fountain lit from underneath, with a massive mosaic of the ancient 
Egyptian pantheon as a backdrop. Trail stared miserably into it for a 
moment before being pulled along the road toward an unassuming 
brown building on the corner. 


The restaurant—if that’s even the proper word for it, as opposed to 
maybe dive—was crowded, quiet, lit a dim orange against the navy 
of the night sky. Patrons huddled over their tables as though hiding 
something precious from an unseen thief, lending the place a 


foreboding, oppressive ambiance. Roughly half of the people looked 
to be carrying small weapons, which meant that the other half were 
doing a better job of concealing theirs. It was one of those places 
that shouldn't be barged into. 


“Oh, we are absolutely gonna find something in here,” Brink’s voice 
boomed as he barged into the place. Table by table, people started 
to stare at the source of the commotion. “Spot like this, there’s got to 
be somebody who knows something about something. BARKEEP!” 


Trail followed meekly. He did his best to distance himself from the 
gigantic explorer, but getting out of his direct reach proved difficult in 
the little floor space the room offered. The bartender, a lean and 
serious man with a pinched, bespectacled face, set down the pitcher 
he was drying and emphatically exhaled through his long nose. 


“Are you looking for a restroom?” he asked, looking at his hands 
instead of the foreigners. His voice was drawn out, serpentine. “The 
restrooms are for paying customers only.” 


“We ain’t here for the restroom,” Brink belted. He turned to the 
unimpressed crowd he had disturbed. “My name’s Brink 
Dangerguts, and this here—* he held up a grimacing Trail— “is the 
most dangerous man you're likely to meet in your short little lives. 
We're looking for a bastard Hun named Krause and a weird trinket 
he’s got on him. Anybody with information about either...“ 


He trailed off as the bartender tapped his arm and gave him a furtive 
shake of the head. Several of the people who had yet to turn around 
at the duo’s entrance were slowly beginning to look in their direction. 
Their faces portended malice. 


“What, | can’t call Krause a Hun? Really, now.” The crowd’s 
expressions grew angrier. “Let me guess, you're all Germans or 
something? Right, okay, | believe that one. | sure am a big dumb 
idiot who—what?” he cut off abruptly, as the patrons began to stand 
and pile toward him. 


“Through here,” came the same slithering voice. 


Without warning, the barman pulled the two behind the counter and 


through a darkened doorway, closing them off from what was quickly 
becoming a mob. “You are unwise to speak ill of Herr Krause, sirs, 
and especially by way of introduction. He has done remarkable 
things for our community in recent years. He is a popular figure 
around Cairo.” 


Brink faced the door warily. “That true?” 


“Assuredly. He has contributed some astounding works of art. Truly 
irreplaceable. | have to assume you noticed the fountain and mosaic 
around the corner.” 


Trail opened his mouth and lifted a finger. “I—* 


“Sure didn’t. We'll keep an eye out for it.” His eyes narrowed to 
suspicious slits. “Hold on. Why’d you help us get away from the 
crowd? You got some kind of interior motives going on?” He looked 
as though something was gradually dawning on him. “You're puttin’ 
us in your debt, is that it? You damnable slimy conniver. I'd wager 
you’re the kind of guy who would push his own mother in front of a 
truck to win a bet. | mean it. Fifty bucks in front of you, | bet you’d do 
it. Watch.” 


The barman smiled humorlessly and pushed his glasses up the 
bridge of his nose. “No, sir, I’m afraid | take little interest in money.” 
Brink took his hand back out of his pocket. “The trinket—the one that 
you mentioned in your elegant opening remarks—now that is 
something | wish to know more about.” 


“What, that? Why?” Trail considered objecting to the constant use of 
“we,” but changed his mind. 


The stranger's glasses flashed. “To start, it is clear to me, and to 
everyone here, that you two are on some sort of... mission? Is that 
the word? You also mentioned only two things that you are looking 
for: Herr Krause, and the ‘trinket.’ From this, | can deduce that the 
object in question is just as important to you as the man, if not 
indeed more important. And an object with a value equal to that of a 
man’s life sounds extremely interesting.” He grinned, displaying a 
mouthful of impeccable teeth. “As it goes, | happen to have a 
fascination with interesting objects.” 


“Hm.” Brink leaned casually against the wall. “Funny. So do we. 
Ever hear of the Adze of Maupai?” 


“Please do not patronize me. | did just say | have a fascination with 
interesting objects, correct?” 


“| dunno, probably. Did you know it’s been recovered?” 
“Of course. Is there a man who does not?” 


“Any idea who might have done it?” he wheedled smugly, a thumb 
pointed squarely at his own chest. The bartender raised a single 
eyebrow. 


“You?” 
“The very same.” 


“Forgive me if this appears insolent, sir,” he exhaled, “but you'll need 
more than an unfounded claim, however grand it might be, to 
impress me.” 


“Fine by me. Hey!” Trail flinched. “Tell him what that thing said on 
the handle. Trail’s more of the language guy,” he confided, turning to 
the other man. 


Almost shyly, Trail muttered a few words in Sumerian, and the 
bartender’s expression changed. “You know the inscription? Nobody 
has released the inscription to the public.” 


“Well, Trail Knows it, at any rate. | don’t really pay attention to those 
kinds of things. | just take stuff from places.” 


“Do you, now? Intriguing. What is your latest target?” 


“We really can't tell you about that,” Trail began earnestly. Again, he 
was not heard. 


“The Shard of Thermopylae,” Brink said proudly. “An ancient piece 
of pottery said to imbue its possessor with mysterious powers. 
Maybe even immortality.” 


The bartender barely seemed surprised. “Truly? It must be beyond 
valuable. Is it hidden somewhere in Cairo?”