"You'll be provided with a copy of the schematic when you are 
briefed tomorrow." 


He nods, another wave of nausea overtaking him. When his vision 
blackens and his head reels, he makes the decision to lie back 
down. He's not certain of whether his body's shaking is because of 
temperature or emotional distress, but it's overwhelming and he 
soon finds himself losing consciousness again. The lead researcher 
says something about making sure he has enough protein in his diet 
as the room spins out of view and his head thuds against the steel 
table. 


DIRECTIVE A-42 
Ad Astra Per Aspera 


Part II 


Ave Imperator 


« Ave Imperator | Public Static Void » 


"| can't fucking do this any more, Jon." 


Jonathan Remes looks at his friend, sprawled out on his desk amid 
a mountain of paperwork. Several chipped mugs, all partially full of 
cold coffee, are arranged on the surfaces surrounding him, and a 
long-discarded sandwich appears to be in the process of developing 
sentient life from the confines of its half-buried Tupperware box. A 
soft moan escapes the figure's lips. 


"Look, I'm sure it's not that bad. You've had worse assignments, 
right? Archival work should be a breeze compared to the shit you've 
put up with over the years." 


Agent Donovan raises his head, bloodshot eyes locking with 
Remes'. A post-it note peels slowly down his cheek. He makes a 
sound that may have been a chuckle, but could just have easily 
been the death rattle of a long-suffering member of the special, fina/ 
type of hospital ward. 


"A breeze, Jon? A fucking breeze? Right, of course, how could | 
have been so stupid. Who needs sleep, or a social life or, you know, 
proper meals, when your work is a god damn breeze? Thanks for 
the pep talk Jonny, I'm feeling oh-so-much better now. Cheers." 


"Alright, it's not the easiest job in the world, but other people have-" 


A thump stops Remes in his tracks. Like a zombie emerging from a 
crypt, Donovan stands before him, bony hands buried deep in the 
snowy heaps that blanketed the desk. As he stumbles upright, 
Remes' eyes can't help tracking the movement of his swinging arm, 
which is now noticeably gripping a letter-opener. Who even uses 
letter-openers any more? Jon had always assumed they just sort of 
materialised around old people, like tea cosies and those strange 


patterned slippers that always seemed worn-out, even when new. It 
seemed funny at the time — not so much now. 


"Don't fucking tell me what other people have, Jon. Other people, " 
Swing, swing, slicing through the air. "Don't have to deal with this 
shit. They assume it's magically done by people with crisp white lab- 
coats and acres of free time, on sleek computers with state-of-the 
art word processors. Not by a former MTF commander with a 
penchant for skim reading, shut away in a dingy office with no 
natural light and a serious mould problem. That never even crosses 
their goddamn minds." 


"Listen Donny, I-" 
Swing. 
"Don't fucking call me that." 


"...Fine, Donovan. Someone's got to do it, right? At least you're not 
being shot at, or trapped in some other dimension." 


For a moment, the Agent's face goes blank. His eye twitches, and a 
suspicion of a tear begins to form. 


"| see. When you put it like that, | suppose | should be counting my 
blessings, right? Is that it?" 


"Pretty much, yeah." 


His breathing becomes ragged and deep, gulping great lungfuls of 
air. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him and 
retrieves a stack of tea-stained papers. 


"Do you know what this is?" 


The swinging of the letter-opener coincides with a heartfelt thrust 
towards Remes — he grips the papers instinctively. 


"Don't fucking answer, | know you don't. It's SCP-9611, or rather, all 
three of them. All assigned to the same number, and we haven't 
even opened the 7000-block yet. This", he spits, grasping an 
apparently blank sheet of laminated card, "is URA-0032. An un- 


registered anomaly for which the accuracy of its documentation 
depends on both the predicted life of the medium and the visibility to 
a casual observer. The preliminary report, which | hold before you 
like the motherfucking Mona Lisa, is written in lemon juice and triple- 
coated in high-strength plastic. It's also completely inaccurate. I've 
dealt with anafabulae, antiphysics, and self-referential pictograms. 
I've lost colleagues and friends to window memes, inkwells, 
digitisation and Bad Text Data Dumps. Now it's just me and some 
part-timers who don't know their ass from an appendix." 


"Hey, | Know my ass from a-" 
Donovan waves him into silence. 


"There are things in this pile that would make you turn to stone if you 
read them backwards. | can name nine, anomalies writ, composed 
bit-by-bit, in half-complete rhyme. That wasn't necessary by the way, 
| just felt like letting my fucking creative spirit out." He gestures 
around the room with his non-weaponised hand. "I don't get much 
opportunity to, as you can probably guess. But do you know what 
really gets my goat? What really pushes me over the edge?" 


Remes doesn't, and makes the mistake of saying so. 


"Hah! No, no why would you. Why the fuck would you. Guess !'ll 
have to show you myself. It's above your clearance, probably, but 
it's not like they'll be able to sanction me any more than they're 
already going to." He turns and pulls a particularly thick wad of 
stationery from a nearby shelf, knocking over, as he does, an 
inoffensive potted plant whose thick waxy leaves somehow 
contrived to look more fake than the plastic shrub in the hall outside. 
"Here. Read it. | can wait." 


09/09/1999 
Project Proposal PP-V77R/011 ("Project Zion"): 


Application for increased use of anomalous phenomena 
to facilitate well-being and skill amongst staff. 


Project Lead: 


Additional Staff: [REDACTED] 


Summary: "It is known that certain Foundation assets 
have extremely beneficial properties, and have long 
been available for use in projects, tests, and other such 
activities. Additional anomalies have seen use as a 
method of rejuvenating and instructing staff, to great 
effect — analysis shows that the gain in productivity and 
morale from the Duck Pond alone far outweighs the 
combined damage from all our ‘misguided’ projects." 


"However, in recent years an unfortunate stigma has 
arisen surrounding these practises: namely, that such 
protocols represent a relic of a bygone era, and should 
no longer be considered ‘standard’. We aim to change 
this, utilising, modifying, re-purposing and in some cases 
creating Safe-class anomalies specifically for use by 
personnel. We attach a full specification alongside this 
document, but you can rest assured all members of staff, 
from field agents to archivists, have been taken into 
account. We are certain we can provide training 
regimens to help skill and reskill all positions within the 
Foundation hierarchy." 


Status: APPROVED [7/6] 
"...Oh my god" 


"You see? You see? I've spent two and a half years cleaning up this 
mess, and now, with the masquerade balanced more precariously 
than ever before, they want to create more. More fucking documents 
to file away to rot. Well, I'm not standing for it. I'm getting out, Jon, 
while | still have the will to live. I'm fucking done." 


"Yeah, thatt!-ttay-t#|; . .-. .-. --- .-.//#" 


Donovan's eyes widen and he takes a step back, hands reaching 
out for a now-wireframe table than no longer supports his weight. 
The letter opener begins to drift sideways through the wall before 
flickering out of existence. 


"What the fuck?" 


Remes' head rotates ninety degrees, and his left arm fades out of 
view. The walls of the office shrink and dwindle to nothing, and 
suddenly Donovan is standing, confused and alone, in a large 
sandy... arena? Like something out of a film, except the stands are 
filled with strange figures that seem to jerk and stutter and... oh no. 
Oh dear god, no. What's left of Remes' facsimile begins to recite 
messages in a strange monotonous tone that seems strangley at 
odds with its freakish, distended jaw. 


"Status: FAILED. Loyalty value below acceptable levels. 
Archival proficiency: 56%." 


The agent's vision starts to dim. 


"Recommended action: FULL RESTART. Awaiting 
confirmation." 


Donovan thinks he hears a distant voice echo, but he can't make out 
any words. 


"Confirmation received. Total cycles: [194/256]. Beginning 
restart of archival_duties_proficiency_training(2).slit." 


A pause. Don's vision is too darkened to make out the scene around 
him, and he already feels himself forgetting his three years... 
service? Does it count as service if you spend it locked inside a 
hijacked extradimensional battle programme? Knowing them, the 
bastards probably fed him some real paperwork while he was under. 
You can always trust the bureaucrats to make the most of a horrific 
situation. Not like it matters, really. His muscles all tense at once 
and somehow the darkness seems to come into focus around him. 


"Loop cycle [195/256] commenced. Beginning adversary 
simulation. Sweet dreams." 


The darkness switches off, and he's left in nothing. 


"Don, are you okay?" 


cat (Felis catus) of indeterminate breed, exhibiting two major 
anomalous abilities: 


¢ SCP-795 can change the physical form of any living creature it is 
able to observe, within a range of 30 m. 

* SCP-795 can make telepathic suggestions to humans within the 
above range of effect. 


SCP-795 can transfer its abilities to other cats within its range of 
effect, but this effect on the other cat is temporary and dissipates 
within three hours of separation from SCP-795. 


SCP-795 does not otherwise exhibit any unusual physical or mental 
abilities. Typically, it will transform anything it considers friendly into 
another cat (in order to play with it). Anything considered unfriendly 
or dangerous is transformed into a prey animal and then killed and 
eaten. 


[Use of SCP-795 to terminate recalcitrant D-Class personnel 
approved. — 05-4] 


Telepathic suggestions have consisted of desires typical of cats — 
more/better food, softer bedding, toys, and to be let out of its 
enclosure. [Staff may purchase appropriate items for SCP-795 at 
their own expense. — Dr. ] 


SCP-795’s transformations revert after a period of one hour, after 
removal from SCP-795’s presence. SCP-795 has proven unable to 
transform itself, inanimate objects, or objects that it cannot see. 


Addendum: SCP-795 was originally contained on //20 atthe 
Animal Control Center in , . According to records found there, 
SCP-795 is named “Junior,” was approximately two years old upon 
containment, and had been surrendered by a relative of a deceased 
prior owner. 


[Note from Dr. : We have no idea how she got Junior into the cat 
carrier and down to J 


A number of unusual conditions were found at the Animal Control 
Center: 


"J- Jonny? That's you, right?" 


"Sure is. Looked like you passed out for a moment. Paperwork, am | 
right?" 


"Hah, yeah." He clutches his forehead and frowns. "I know it sounds 
weird, but | just had the strangest dream." 


Avian Anthology | 


Timeless Substrate | The Noosphere 


Thoth peered into the Noosphere with an astute curiosity. He 
glanced down at the ocean of minds: a whirlpool of purple, pink, 
green, and blue specks, laid out across an absurd distance. He 
looked up and he saw the Great Selachian, Akheilos, 
scouring the void for him. The Great Starfish continued to dangle 
from an_ infinitesimal tendril, ominously inching onward from 
extradimensional space. Even now, Thoth feared the Great 
Starfish; it might be the only thing that could interfere with his plans. 


YHWH encompassed what seemed like the entirety of the mind- 
filled expanse. If Thoth executed his plans at the wrong time, 
YHWH would strike him down instantly and bar him from prosperity 
until the end of time. Luckily, YHWH would soon find himself busy 
with something. 


As Thoth sat in his perch, a wave of memories conjured up by the 
Noosphere washed over him. One hundred billion memories tainted 
by 200,000 years of vengeance, dread, euphoria, grief, avarice... 
iridescent crystals of mind-stuff swirling viciously: the void's never- 
ending cycle of fermentation and dispersal. They vibrated him to his 
core. If he was a mortal, like that red speck, Thoth’s perch would be 
shambles. His own mind would be a confluence of rogue 
personalities, thoughts, and concepts, ripping him away piece by 
piece. 


Thoth counted down the ages like seconds. 
Bice ae ere Ves 


At once, the sweet radiance of the Noosphere dimmed. Thoth felt a 
great weight evaporating into the darkness, like a bowling ball being 
removed from a trampoline. He still had Akheilos to worry about, 


but while Akheilos excelled in strength, Thoth was all speed. He 
peered across the Noosphere at his target: a full human that had 
newly manifested itself inside of the Noosphere, susceptible to an 
attack. 


As Thoth extended a singular talon towards him, Akheilos was 
alerted to his position and took pursuit. Thoth soared as fast as he 
could over in a certain direction. Akheilos followed him closely. 


Finally, Thoth came to the pale, bald man in an orange jumpsuit. He 
wasn't merely a speck like the other minds; he was fully immersed 
in the Noosphere, doused in with the unyielding current. Thoth 
directed his weapon into the man’s mind before flying away. In one 
fell swoop, the weapon cocked, then fired into the head of 
humankind. 


Thoth softly cackled to himself as he watched the tsunami of 
orange spread across the planet of minds. As it spread, he 
shuddered, energy flowing into him. The personalities of the billions 
of people below supplied his damaged form with power. He looked 
into the void and saw the blue planetoid that he called home, 
glittering in the sky with its old, tired minds. Thoth had made the 
risky journey into meatspace, across the Noosphere to Earth. He'd 
almost been winked out of existence in the process. 


He'd be back there soon. 


Akheilos was troublesome; Thoth still had to stay wary of a surprise 
attack from the now-weakening shark. However, in a one-on-one 
confrontation, he could still easily overpower Akheilos and 
extinguish him permanently. Thoth kept a glance at the shark on 
the border of the Noosphere. The shark was avoiding Thoth like a 
wild animal avoiding a flame. 


The planet was now more orange than not. Thoth decided that it 
was time to initiate the next part of his plan. The scientists at the 
Foundation had just now started studying a videotape from his 
home planet. In a certain spot, two minds turned red. 


Like turning the key in a car to start the ignition, he ignited the 


crimson fire with a swoop of his wing. It started to radiate, and 
Thoth basked in the warmth of the newly brainwashed human 
populace. He anticipated the cawing. 


What had made it so easy to achieve? The answer is more 
mundane than would be expected for such a complex problem: 
there's a vulnerability implanted in the human mind. A deeply 
ingrained need, woven into society. The need to share, 
communicate, and be heard. Humans have no defence for this. 
Why would they? Never before had acceptance been weaponized. 


With birds as the vector and minds as the medium, that singular 
idea spread so rapidly that nobody could even begin to retaliate. 
More virulent than the common cold, most difficult to cure. Like a 
virus, once it had latched itself deep within, its only directive was to 
spread—anywhere there was camaraderie, there was the bird. 


To not be infected with the bird meme was to be ostracised. 
Everyone, at some basal, guttural level, wanted to be a part of this 
phenomenon. They wanted to fit in. When a single, simple, succinct 
word triggered all humans to join hands as one, what hope did they 
have?