"Oh." It took a few seconds for his brain to start working. "There's a 
portal to another universe, but it's one-way. | was hoping you 
could... magic your way through." 


"And why would | do that?" 


"Make you a deal. Come and help, bring Soldier, and we'll let you kill 
him." 


"Please, |- MERASMUS!- no longer seek the end of you pitiful-" 


"He won't stay dead, so long as you kill him near the respawn room. 
You can kill him a few times if you like." 


"...He told you of my summoning ritual?" 
Dell grinned. "He did." 


"Please hurry." 


Researcher Cassiter stared at SCP-1290-1, as he had for the past 
eight years. He still wasn't sure why the Foundation was so 
interested in it. It had been disassembled and reassembled so many 
times that even the janitorial staff knew how to put the stupid thing 
together. And yet the higher-ups had them repeat the action time 
and again in an effort to understand it. It all was, in fact, Fucking 
Bullshit. At least most of his colleagues, such as Researcher Tyler, 
were good people. 


Cassiter briefly pondered the fate of the D-Class they had blasted off 
to... somewhere. Maybe he would just be in limbo until Dash Two 
was activated, and then appear. And go splat. Cassiter made a 
mental note to tell the Dash Two team to activate it remotely. 


While Cassiter further pondered what they could possibly be missing 
about Twelve Ninety, a wrinkle in spacetime opened up a few 
meters from the main platform. Cassiter didn't notice it until it 
expanded into a purple vortex. Cassiter was about to raise the alarm 
when D-101007 stepped out, his helmet and pads missing, instead 
toting a very large bag. Behind him was a red-clad man with a large 
metal toolbox. The vortex snapped shut with a sound not unlike a 
balloon deflating. 


"Well, I'll be," the man said with a Texan accent. He tipped his 
hardhat toward Cassiter in a friendly way. "Howdy, mister." 


He lowered the toolbox and kicked the top off, and the entire box 
splayed open to reveal a device Cassiter didn't recognize. The 
device began to rotate as its arms unfolded fully, and then little 
metal latches flipped to secure the now still arms in place. The arms 
whirred together and the device was silent for a moment. Then it 


SCP-616: The Vessel and the Gate 


Item #: SCP-616 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-616 is to be kept in Site 
[REDACTED]. While grounded, repair personnel of a clearance level 
of two (2) or above are allowed to enter the craft, and must conduct 
thorough pre-flight inspections to ascertain that SCP-616 is ready for 
flight. However, repair personnel are to maintain a distance of at 
least three (3) meters from SCP-616-1. On flight days, only ordained 
and believing ministers of an Abrahamic faith with security clearance 
of level four or above may enter the aircraft, and must remain at 
least 0.94 m (3 ft 1 in) from the threshold of SCP-616-1 at all times 
whilst the craft is grounded. 


SCP-616-1 should be kept from closing at all costs once activated. 
This necessitates a monthly manned flight. Failure to keep 
SCP-616-1 from closing will require initiation of Procedure 600- 
Shoki. 


Each flight, seven (7) archbishops, ordained and believing in an 
Abrahamic faith, must surround SCP-616-1. Prayer directed at 
SCP-616-1 is to be sustained during the whole duration of the flight, 
usually three (3) to seven (7) hours. Prayer must be sustained by all 
able subjects, but once SCP-616-1 has activated, previously 
established distance restrictions no longer apply; subjects are in fact 
encouraged to try to physically stop SCP-616-1 from closing, though 
extreme caution must be taken to keep any personnel from falling 
through the threshold as that will likely result in [DATA EXPUNGED]. 
In addition, one (1) Foundation agent trained in flying commercial 
aircraft is to pilot SCP-616 through a pre-designed flight path, and 
must be able to maintain radio contact and information of events in 
SCP-616. Under no circumstances is the pilot cleared to approach 
SCP-616-1 once flight has begun. All personnel should be supplied 
with any religious paraphernalia they request before flight time. No 


began to spin again, much faster this time, generating a red disc that 
remained hovering just over the device. Small red rings lifted off the 
disc, disappearing maybe half a meter into the air. Then Cassiter 
pretended to scratch at his stomach as he pressed his personal 
alarm. 


"Now then," the man said. He walked up and offered Cassiter his 
hand, which the researcher took hesitantly. The man's grip was like 
a vice, but Cassiter did his best to not react to the pain. "My name is 
Dell Conagher. I'm an engineer. Just thought I'd stop by to see what 
kinda universe you're workin’ with." 


"Call me Cassiter. So, Mr. Conagher... you're from another 
universe. And you managed to come here, and even bring 
D-101007, in only a matter of hours. May | ask how?" 


"D-wha? That fella in the orange jumpsuit?" 


Cassiter nodded. Conagher did not remove his goggles, but Cassiter 
could tell he was eying him strangely. 


"And your name's Cassiter. Why's his name a number, and yours 
ain't?" 
"lam a researcher, and he is... a test subject, for lack of a better 


term." 


"Ah." Conagher nodded, as if confirming something to himself. "! 
gotcha. He a clone?" 


Cassiter shrugged. "Is that common in your universe?" 


Conaher shrugged. "I'm a clone, you tell me. Anyway, how | got 
here? Magic. No, | ain't pullin’ your leg. We got wizards where I'm 
from. We got a /ot of things where I'm from. How about you? You got 
things?" 


Cassiter nodded. "From our perspective, you are a thing. Your entire 
universe is a thing." 


Conagher nodded. "| guess that makes sense. You're a researcher? 
I'm guessin' you research the weird things of your world? How's 


about you and | swap stories." 
"I'm not at liberty to do that." 


"Oh. Well, that's too bad. We brought a bag of goodies from my 
world. Call it a gift. Or are you not at liberty to do that?" 


..." Cassiter weighed his options. First and foremost the Foundation 
was to contain anything that disrupted normalcy. Bringing in 
anomalies from a different universe was definitely disrupting 
normalcy, but it also presented the opportunity to study this man's 
universe. And if he was willing to bring an entire sack full of them, 
they were available in ready supply. They were made in his world. 
Perhaps they could be made in Cassiter's. An entire bag full of 
possible Dash E Exes were staring him in the face. 


"Before | answer... What is that object you deployed? The disc 
device." 


"Hmm? Oh, that's a teleporter exit. The way we actually got here 
is... costly, but with that little puppy it's as easy as standin’ still. So 
now with however you sent your guinea pig, and my setup, we have 
a full connection between our worlds." 


Where the hell was security? "Mister Conagher, surely as a man of 
science you understand the significance of this conversation. We 
are from different realities, and our actions here carry the weight of 
our respective universes. | cannot-" 


Conagher chuckled, but after a few seconds it broke into a cackle. 
He thumbed his hardhat up and smiled. "Listen, son. This isn't the 
first time we've interacted with other universes. It happens every 
couple months for us. Usually it's just little things, trinkets. Stuff we 
wear around the battlefield, hats and accessories. Sometimes it's 
weapons, but they're usually nothin’ we couldn't a' built ourselves. 
You get what I'm sayin’? Multiverse interaction ain't that big a’ deal, 
we treat it like goin’ shoe shoppin’. We get little gifts, and the worlds 
we cross get some financial compensation." 


Cassiter stood there silently, torn between listening to the offworlder 
and hauling ass until security showed up. 


Conagher lowered his voice and tilted his head forward, his hardhat 
clanking down to rest on his goggles. "| can read you like an open 
book, Cassie. We both work for an employer that doesn't really 
‘exist.’ And judgin' by your reactions, it's cuz your bosses like hidin' 
things. Think they're savin’ the goddamn world by burying whatever 
weirdness comes along. Thing is, my employer has spent its entire 
existence embracing the weirdness. Eggin' it on, seein' where it'll go. 
Amassing our madness in a stockpile and selling it like it's a toy. 
Finding other universes and buyin’ their anomalies. That word, 
anomaly. That's what y'all call it, huh? | could see your face light up, 
just for second." 


Cassiter was now in full on run-the-fuck-away mode, but his legs 
refused to move. 


"Here's how this is gonna work, son. | am going to hand you my 
pistol. If y'all can play nice, you will do nothing to me. You will take 
the bag | brought, | will speak with your superiors and maybe both 
our worlds can benefit. | learn about your world, take some stuff 
home, maybe y'all can have little exploration ventures into my world 
to ask us about stuff. But if you intend on trying to contain me and 
my world, you are going to shoot me in the head. And you better 
pray to whatever gods you worship that it kills me, and then you 
better destroy that teleporter exit and leave my world the hell alone. 
Because if it doesn't? | will personally march my world into yours, 
and then we will take your anomalies." 


Conagher withdrew a pistol from his pocket and handed it to 
Cassiter. Conagher grinned maliciously and lifted his hat to expose 
his forehead. 


"Make your choice, son. Your world hangs in the balance." 


Time And Relative Dimensions In Containment Protocols 


It all started, if anything can ever be said to have a start, when some 
brilliant soul, probably an O5, came up with a fantastic, to them, idea 
for an emergency surveillance station. All you had to do was take 
SCP-184, put it in a small, easily portable structure, and, so long as 
you removed it before any of the weird effects started, you could 
outfit it as you like, have a nice, multiple room, staging area that took 
up very little space. The first thought was to use port-a-johns, but it 
was quickly realized that this was a shitty idea. The next thought 
was phone booths, but those were see through, and the effects 
were... disturbing. The real breakthrough came when a routine 
inventory revealed several hundred blue phone boxes of a variety 
used in England in the Sixties and Seventies. 


Maybe the trouble wouldn't have happened if anyone had bothered 
to ask WHY the Foundation had all these phone boxes, but they 
were listed as 'Non-anomalous, confiscated to prevent anomalous 
activity’ and that was good enough for the head of the project. No 
one bothered to check with the Agent who had had them 
confiscated, one Alto Clef, on his first ever assignment with the 
Foundation. Things would likely have been different if they had 
talked to him, and discussed where he had been those thirteen days 
he vanished for, or his irrational desire to be referred to as agent, 
instead of doctor. 


No, in the grand tradition of the Foundation, they forged ahead, and 
placed 184 inside one of the objects. Exactly 11 hours later, the door 
of the phone box opened from the inside, and out walked the being 
that would come to be known as Anomalous Entity 1322, later 
referred to in Black Box documents as SCP-TDW, and known 
collectively around Site 19 as ‘That British Twit.' 


It started with Doctor Mann. He was performing a routine 
examination, when he was interrupted. 


"Oh, | say, what happened to that poor fellow?" The British Twit 
inquired, peering over Mann's shoulder. 


"An instance of SCP-693, | believe the staff often refer to itasa 
‘Knotty Stalker.’ This one has stopped working, so | was given 
permission to dissect it, see if we can't-" Mann paused, then slowly 
raised his head. He stared at the intruder, as one hand stroked his 
luxurious mustache. "I'm sorry, who are you?" 


The bow-tied Brit held up a piece of what looked like blank paper, 
then tucked it away. "I'm the new Doctor, just assigned, here, let me 
look at that." He pulled a blinky little device from his pocket, and 
scanned the remains of the doll. "Ah, what do you know? Some 
leftover psychic emanations, hmm, a little trace of tech, that's odd, 
clearly mass produced..." He stopped talking as Dr. Mann grabbed 
his arm, his eyes on that odd little device. 


"Didn't quite catch your name, may | see that ID again?" The British 
man blinked, not being used to getting questioned. He fished the 
blank piece of paper out again, holding it in front of Mann. 


"You can just call me Doctor." With a flash of his charming grin. 
Mann did not seem amused as he stared at the paper. 


"That paper is blank." 


"Ah, no, in fact, it says whatever it needs to say... unless of course 
you're a strong enough willed individual to NOT be easily fooled by 
psychic manipulation." Mann wasn't listening. He was too busy 
hitting the security alarm. "Which you clearly are. Toodles!" 


"And what's in here?" The British Twit inquired, as he slid through a 
locked door like it was nothing. A little scan with his handheld device 
made the electric locks they employed sit up and beg. "Hmm, quite 
a large chamber. Takes five by five to a whole new level, doesn't it? 
Or at least a third dimension..." He glances over his shoulder at the 
door, as if he expected someone to respond to that. A brief frown 
crossed his face before he returned to his examination of the room. 
"Awtully thick walls, and those sprayers, hmm, looks like they spray 
some sort of corrosive like..." He sniffed the air. "Acid?" 


"Hu...man..." The voice reverberated through the chamber, a deep, 
grinding noise, from a throat not made to speak human. A form, 
large, vaguely reptilian, began to rise. 


"Ah, no, no, not exactly! Well, not at all, actually, Gallifreyan, to be 
exact, we may look the same on the outside, but the inside is 
completely different. What ARE you?" He stepped forward, holding 
up his sonic tool to try and get a better look at the thing. 


The beast stopped all movement. It simply stared at the man, as if 
shocked. It sniffed, once, twice, its forked tongue flicked out 
between its lips. The creature no longer moved, but still it seemed to 
grow bigger in the shadows, its skin shimmering in the light of the 
tool. "Time... lord?" It questioned. 


The British Twit took a step backwards, taken aback at being 
recognized. "Why, yes, actually, I'm the Doc-" 


"DOCTOR?" The creature roared, as it charged forwards, and took 
the man by surprise, slammed him back against the door with one 

pair of its multiple arms. "So long... So long, here, because of you! 
STRANDED! FORCED to evolve! YOU did this!" 


"Sorry, wasn't me, er, wasn't me yet, that is. Look at the pretty 
birdy?" He held up his gadget, and a bright light flashed in the 
creature's eyes, causing a thick hard film to slide across them, 
protecting it from the light, but also temporarily blinding it. It roared in 
anger... and the man used this as a chance to slip from its grip. He 
had to leave his jacket behind, which was a shame, it was a good 
jacket, but it let him get away with his life, which was easy enough 
once he slipped back through the door, locking it behind him. 


He slapped his hand on the button labeled 'Acid Sprayer’ next to the 
door, in hopes it would lend some control to the beast, then lurched 
off, hoping to find a replacement jacket. Because of that, he wasn't 
nearby to hear the creatures last words as its skin bubbled away... 


"Ex...ex...exterm...inate..." 


"| don't even know what this containment is for." Agent Alto Clef