"Well, even if we aren't fictional, we still operate on the rules of it, so 
same difference." Bailey took out his phone and leaned against the 
wall. "Anything else?" 


"Yeah. He said that," She shook her head and let out a soft chuckle. 
"He said that it may be alive." 


"It?" Bailey raised an eyebrow. "The Narrative?" 


"He said that it was ‘a spirit' that was alive in Sloth's Pit. It can... 
react, and be talked to." Sinclair scoffed. "That would explain why 
we can manipulate it." 


"| dunno." Bailey paused and scratched his head. "It can react, but it 
doesn't seem alive; it's more like we say or do things, and it reacts to 
certain phrases. Trying to actually communicate with it is absurd. It'd 
be like trying to have a conversation with hydrochloric acid." 


"I'm skeptical too," Sinclair admitted, continuing to walk on. "You 
have to admit, it does seem to have a sense of humor at times." 


Bailey started walking again, looking at a monitor in the hallway 
displaying an announcement from Director Weiss that testing in the 
biology sublevel was to be halted until E-2913 could be recaptured. 
"Yeah, maybe, but it's always cringe humor, slapstick, and bad 
puns. There's never any irony." 


"And now that you've said that, there probably is." 


"Nah," Bailey said, moving past Sinclair to the coffee machine— not 
the coffee machine, unfortunately ("Friggin' Site 19 gets everything 
good", Bailey muttered to himself.) "What, now that I've said that, am 
| suddenly going to win the lottery? The odds of—" He blinked, his 
hands over the keys to input his order; he glanced behind the 
machine, and saw a stub of paper sticking out from behind it. "The 
fuck?" 


"What?" 


"There's a scratch-off card behind here." 


"Five grand from a random scratch-off ticket created by exploiting 
the narrative. Not bad, Bailey." Pike raised the pot. "Now you have 
some scratch to lose to me. But... you know you're not supposed to 
do that for personal gain, right?" 


"| didn't mean to! It's like it messed with me." Tristan called Pike's 
bet, knowing she had the better hand. "West, | looked over 
Pickman's observations again. | think that... the narrative might be 
selective." 


"Selective?" West snorted. "That implies that it's sentient, if not 
sapient." He looked pointedly at one of the walls in the room. 
"Probably just someone beyond the fourth wall messing with you." 


"Yeah, but— mmmn." Tristan sighed. "It's too responsive to be 
random chance, but too inconsistent to be something like a chemical 
reaction. | dunno." 


"Lines up with what the Goatman said," Sinclair admitted. "The 


Spirit of the Narrative is more alive here than in other places’. 


"You think he meant an actual spirit." Hendricks squinted his eyes. 
"A global... what's it called?" 


"Genius loci," Sinclair nodded, calling Bailey's bet. "Not just global. 
Maybe universal." 


Tristan looked at the rest of the table, then at his junk hand. "You 
gotta admit, there's something here." 


"The way | see it, you're just making my job more complicated," 
West shook his head. "Keep in mind that I'm the one who's actually 
writing this." 


"Verhoten's visiting in three days," Pike chimed in. "I've heard you're 
on good terms with him. Present it to him for feedback?" 


"Harry said | should do that. I'm gonna check." West tapped his 
fingers against the table. "Not a bad idea." 


"This kind of... de-explains the ‘god is a bunch of horror writers’ 
concept that Swann put forth, though." Sinclair shook her head. "Not 
sure how | feel about that." 


"| thought it was bullshit when | read it," Tristan admitted. "Trev told 
me they sometimes put fake 001 instances in the database to throw 
off leaks. | know the Broken God one is mostly accurate, Gate 
Guardian is real, but beyond that, it's all up in the air." 


"We have the remains of the Gears proposals in storage on-Site." 
Pike drew incredulous looks from the rest of the table. "What? It's 
common knowledge. The remains are inert, anyway." 


"So that's what E-0005 is?" Tristan cocked his head upwards. 
"Wondered what a big bunch of demon bones was doing in low- 
value containment." 


"Kinda weird, isn't it?” Hendricks asked, drawing the subject back to 
the original. "| mean, | Know I'm fictional. We all know we're fictional, 
but... nothing's really changed." He raised the pot again. "We know 


we're in a simulation, and there's been no nihilistic crisis, no rage 
against the heavens, nothing." He frowned at his cards— pair of 
twos. "Wonder why that is." 


"Quality of the authors keeping us from going insane? Or maybe... 
we're not fictional?" Sinclair put her cards in the table and pulled out 
a notepad, drawing two crude planet Earths, and a window between 
them. "Like, maybe they can see into our universe and are just 
recording events." 


"Metafiction gives me a headache. | feel sorry for the new 
pataphysics guys. Call." Bailey looked at his cards, then at the turn 
in the center of the table— a pair of twos and a pair of threes. He 
had junk in his hand. "God dammit." 


West had his own notepad out, muttering that he had folded. He 
wrote a few words on it. 


Description: SCP-001: Alive? Narrative conscious? 
World-window? More tests required. 


"Is there any way to test if it is alive?" Pike frowned at her cards— 
King and an Ace weren't gonna help much with a turn like this. "Like 
— malignant narrative isn't all that uncommon. From the tests we 
did, it's actually pretty easy to make." 


"How would this test work?" West asked, scribbling down more. 
Reacts to malignant narrative removal? 


"Well..." Sinclair looked at the scars on her arms, before turning a 
page on the notepad, rolling up her sleeves, and starting to scribble 
on the paper. "If it is alive, then it might be possible to create a spell 
that could make its pain manifest, or otherwise detectable. | can 
have it ready tonight; we just need malignant narrative." 


"How do we achieve that?" Pike was folding now to focus on the 
discussion, much to Hendricks's chagrin. Bailey had just turned over 
an Ace in the river. "One of the easiest ways we found was to 
achieve an anti-climax, but those aren't easy to accomplish— not 
intentionally." 


Bailey himself folded, joining in. "Well, we could—" 


Hendricks threw his pair of twos on the table, and stood. "There's 
your goddamn anticlimax! Four of a kind, and you all fold!" 


The air within the room felt like it had grown denser. Everyone went 
silent, and Sinclair pulled out a portable Narrative Fluctuation 
Detector wand. The lights on it blinked a bright, dangerous red. 


"Hendricks," Sinclair laughed. "| could kiss you." 


"You know, it occurs to me that the narrative may have made itself 
malignant." West frowned as Sinclair finished the circle of chalk on 
the tile floor. "It forced an anticlimax so we could detect it— that's 
assuming that Bailey's hypothesis of it being alive holds true." 


"Egh. Glad | never went into pataphysics." Hendricks rubbed his 
forehead. "| know how to neuter a hodag, but this has got me 
clueless." He looked at the thaumatologist in the room, and asked, 
"Anything | can do to help, Sinclair?" 


"There's an incantation on the back of my notepad | need you to 
read once | finalize the spell vector." 


"It's not in dog Latin, is it?” Hendricks crossed over to the 
abandoned poker table and picked up the notepad, trying to ignore 
the hushed whispers from outside the room. People from throughout 
the site had gathered around to see if the narrative— possibly the 
very fabric of the universe they lived in —was alive. He was fairly 
sure this was being livestreamed to Site-19 as well. 


Cassandra Pike couldn't help but be satisfied at the fact that, over 
six months after his death, Pickman would be vindicated. She'd 
always had a soft spot for the old archivist; when her medication 
failed to be delivered to any pharmacy in town, he'd let her help 
organize the archives. He'd been dead for months, but now he was 
helping the Foundation make a giant leap. 


Tristan was just glad that the chucklefucks at 19, the ones who had 
his brother demoted for daring to do his job and neutralize a Keter- 


class anomaly, were going to eat crow. The family name was mud 
since Trevor did what he did; he was about to wipe that off. 


"Fuck me, is this Sumerian?" Hendricks frowned. "Sinclair, you know 
my cuneiform's rusty. There's a ritual in Old French that can 
accomplish the same thing." 


Sinclair, West, Bailey, Pike, and the rest of the onlookers raised their 
eyebrows at Hendricks. He raised one back. "What? I've attended a 
few cross-discipline seminars.’ 


"Yes, well, the Old French ritual burned with the Plutonic Codex 
back in 2015." Sinclair knelt by the ritual sign and frowned. "Just 
manage it the best you can." 


"All right... hopefully a garbled pronunciation won't do too much 
harm." He looked up from the notepad to Bailey, Pike, and West. 
"How does... one get rid of malignant narrative, anyway?" 


Johnathan West looked towards the crowd; Harold stepped forward, 
holding out a large lampshade. 


"Surely you can’t be serious..." Hendricks groaned. 


"Don’t call me Shirley." Johnathan chuckled at his own joke, and 
took the lampshade. "In all seriousness, we need to, essentially, get 
rid of the anti-climax by looking at it really, really hard and pointing 
out why it's awful." 


"And the lampshade helps that how?" Hendricks frowned, crossing 
his arms. 


Tristan took the lampshade and put the narrow end to his mouth, 
like a megaphone. "The louder you point it out, the more effective it 
is!" He put the shade down. "It was the closest thing on hand when 
we started the tests. It kind of became a tradition." 


Hendricks rolled his eyes, and began reading off the incantation. 
Sinclair knelt by the seal, making sure the ritual remained stable, 
while Pike, West, and Bailey all began a very conspicuous 
discussion. 


"Boy, that was an awful piece of writing!" Bailey bellowed through 
the lampshade. "Poor Hendricks never catches a break. Why do you 
always gotta pick on him, narrative?" 


"Yeah! He deserves better," Pike agreed. "He's been the butt of 
jokes around the site ever since he ate that stupid hallucinogen! It's 
not fair!" 


"Stop picking on Jason Hendricks for the sake of creating conflict! 
It's gotten old!" West pointed out, shouting it through the lampshade. 
"You've turned his life into a cliche!" 


"And anticlimaxes aren't fun! He should have creamed us in that 
poker game!" Pike chimed in. 


Hendricks wasn't sure how to react; on the one hand, they were 
supporting him, but on the other, they were doing it solely for the 
purposes of heckling a universal constant. He just kept reading. 


A bright, red glow emanated from the circle. Sinclair stood, startled, 
but able to keep her concentration as jumble of ethereal red letters 
formed within the air around the circle. 


Sinclair scratched her head as the letters spun around. "Usually, a 
manifestation of pain takes a... different form. More humanoid. This 
is text." 


"Not just any text," Hendricks frowned. "It's what | said. You can 
make out ‘fold’, 'anticlimax', and a few others. But... what does this 
mean?" 


"Well, for this spell to work, the target of the spell has to feel pain. 
For it to feel pain, it needs to be able to interpret that sensation as 
pain. For it to do that..." 


"It... has to be sentient." West looked at the floating words as they 
started to dissipate. "Holy shit. Do you realize what this means?!" 


"That a fundamental part of our universe is a living entity of some 
kind, capable of registering pain and possibly other sensations." 
Pike's eyes went wide. "Holy shit. This is insane." 


West shut his eyes with a soft groan. That, and | need to rewrite the 
entire damn file. 


Phillip Verhoten wore a tweed suit as he walked on stage to the roar 
of the crowd. Almost all of Site-87 had come out to view him talk, 
and this seminar was being streamed to over a hundred Foundation 
sites globally. Seven translators were sitting in the corner, ready to 
transcribe his speech for the international sites. 


"Hello, hello, hello Site-87!" He waved his hand, inadvertently 
triggering the motion sensor on the projector, which caused it to 
advance three slides at once. He looked back at the screen, and 
asked, "Can- can | get a reset on that? Not familiar with the newer 
tech. Just gimme a mouse and a laser pointer." 


Once the glitch was resolved, Verhoten began speaking. "Sloth's Pit, 
Wisconsin. The anomaly capital of the Midwest, Sloth Spit, Home of 
the Best Sponge Candy in the US, Nexus-18, and for many of you, 
home." He clapped his hands together and sighed. "And here | 
stand, credited with discovering it." He shook his head. "That is a 
stupid, stupid term." 


"One does not discover a town that's already inhabited— it was 
discovered by the citizens and civic workers of the town and county 
long before we set foot in here, after the tragic events at Camp 
Krakkow. Since then, we've become an integral part of Sloth's Pit's 
history— and its story." He advanced the slideshow, showing the 
cover of his book: 


S & C Plastics: The Story of Your Life 


A Collection of Anomalous Occurrences in Sloth's Pit, 
Wisconsin, as Told By Those at Site-87 


"| have to admit, my reasons for coming here are partially selfish." 
Verhoten put his hands together. "This new book focuses 
exclusively on Sloth's Pit and the weirdness therein, as recounted by 
you." He waved his hand at the audience, triggering the slide to 
change into a live camera feed of the audience. "All of you. Your 
tales are going to make up the bulk of this book— at least, the first 


edition." 


Verhoten put his hands together. "This town is unique. It's one of the 
few places in the world where the Narrative is so fully on display, 
and | imagine— or at least, | hope —that makes for a few good 
stories." 


"Talking of the Narrative! Is Johnny West in here?" 


Johnathan West hated being put in the spotlight, but stood up, 
raising his hand and looking at the ground. 


"Congratulations to Drs. West, Pike, Bailey, and Sinclair, as well as 
the late Archivist Pickman, for making an actual discovery— finding 
out the Narrative is an actual, physical force. Your story is going to 
be one | definitely want to tell." 

"Dr. Verhoten?" 


As the seminar ended, Johnathan West made his way to the stage. 
Philip Verhoten smiled down at him, and offered a hand up onto the 
platform. "Johnny West, you magnificent man. Congratulations." He 
pulled Johnathan into a hug. 


West returned it, chuckling, holding out sheaf of papers. "Dr. 
Verhoten—" 


"We've known each other for decades now. Call me Phil." 


"Well, Phil, I've... almost finalized the documentation on SCP-001. 
I'm still not sure about it, so | want you to take a look." 


Verhoten took out a pair of reading glasses and began scanning the 
paper given to him. 

Item #: SCP-001 

Object Class: Archon1 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-001 is currently being 


SCP-532: Frost Bug 


Item #: SCP-532 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: Standard bio-hazard 
containment procedures are to be followed for all research samples 
of SCP-532. Samples are to be kept at a constant temperature of 
-8°C. Any personnel encountering instances of SCP-532 outside of 
Foundation custody are to evacuate all outdoor areas immediately 
and contact Dr. 


Description: SCP-532 is a pathogenic bacteria most similar in 
composition to Pseudomonas oryzihabitans. SCP-532 shows an 
increased tolerance for low temperatures, showing peak 
reproductive rates at -25°C. The full tolerance range of SCP-532 is 
approximately -52°C to -5°. Furthermore, SCP-532 shows several 
mechanisms in order to cope with high temperatures.