their words gave him comfort. They gave him chills, knowing that his 
loved ones might be just what they were to him: dead and gone. 


What his father had found weren't empty promises and hollow 
morals, they were the remnants of order in a universe of chaos, the 
frayed ends of a majestic tapestry that could be woven again. Harry 
still wasn't sure how his father had stumbled upon it, but there were 
people out there, people who had learned the truth. And they 
wanted to share with his father. And his father wanted to share with 
him. 


He'd found the blueprints. Or they had found him... 


Spring 2007 


It was almost ready. It didn't look like it, but they felt it. As father and 
son spent all their weekends building their monument to their new 
god, they grew closer together, closer than they'd ever been before. 
They knew they couldn't erase the pain of the past, but perhaps they 
could contain the essence of what was lost. 


"Almost there, son. Are you ready?" 


Fred was sitting on the last remaining chair in the kitchen of the 
abandoned farmhouse he and Harry had claimed for their project. 
Harry meanwhile, was standing facing the kitchen window, staring 
out at the overgrown fields and twisted trees. 


"| don't know, dad. | really don't. In the past few months I've felt 
something | haven't felt before. Like someone is watching over me, 
but it doesn't feel the same." 


"That's him, Harry," Fred answered and smiled. 


"| know. | feel like | know him, but at the same time it feels like | 
don't, does that make sense?" 


His father nodded almost imperceptibly. 


"That's just the way it is, son. To know him is to acknowledge your 
inability to know him. The flesh can only travel so far." 


"| suppose so. Sounds creepy though." 


Fred scratched the full beard he'd been growing since the day he'd 
lowered those caskets into the ground. 


"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?" 


They both burst into laughter, unsure of any other way to relieve 
their tension. 


April 14th, 2007 
"I'm scared, dad." 


Harry stood at the panel marked 'master control switch’. A single 
yellowed light switch stick out from it. Much like most of the machine 
that now filled the one-time living room of this dilapidated farm 
house, it had been scavenged from inside the building. The sheet 
metal had come from an old abandoned combine harvester they'd 
found out in the barn, supplemented with whatever they'd manage to 
find at the local ironmonger's. The wiring had mostly come from the 
farm house, the rest from their hardware store and on-line shops. 
They'd had to make compromises, but somehow that didn't seem to 
matter. Sometimes intent was more important than result. 


His father posed him the same question he'd posed him a few 
weeks before. 


"Are you ready, Harry? There's no going back after this." 
"| know, dad. It's just, I'm not even really sure why I'm doing this." 
Fred put his hand around his son's neck. 


"We're doing this because we have holes in our hearts, son. And 
your life leaks from them, a little bit at a time. All you can do is plug 
them with faith." 


He felt his son beginning to cry, Harry's whole body silently twitching 
as the younger man tried to stay silent. 


Addendum: Agent reported that the store she purchased the 
item from apparently had 'a couple of displays full of the things' and 
many people were interested in them. A recovery team was sent to 
the location provided, but found that the store had been the 
victim of a faulty electric system and had burnt to the ground. All 
records of transactions have proven to be inaccessible (as the store 
was Cash only and had no computer based record of transactions). 
As such, Mobile Task Force Upsilon-2 ("Cattlewranglers") has been 
established, searching for and containing more instances of 
SCP-843-2. 


« SCP-842 | SCP-843 | SCP-844 » 


"It's okay, Harry. You need it." 


He pulled his son closer and held him for awhile, silently staring at 
their creation. 


"Dad...| wish we could save mom and Jenna too." 


"| know son, but they lived their lives. They were too short, but they 
were lived." 


"Yeah." That was all Harry could muster and closed his eyes. 


He turned back to the control panel and flipped the switch. The 
power went out almost immediately, the machine's very improbable 
configuration a most probable drain on the industrial generator 
they'd procured. The machine didn't think much of it. It churned, it 
clanged, it whirred and all they could do was stand back as 
something bigger than them worked at violating the tired laws of the 
universe. 


When it finally stopped producing noise and light, and it died with a 
tired, drawn-out sigh, Harry opened his eyes again. 


"Dad?" 
Fred stood next to him, wide-eyed and still. 
"Did it work, dad?" 


His father didn't reply, his eyes staring into the distance, far beyond 
what the flesh could see. 


From inside the machine came a soft voice. 


"Daddy?" 


Faith of the Foundation 


Mercer checked his watch again. Once again, the digital display 
showed 0154 hours. He tried to think of anything except his own 
racing heartbeat and sweaty palms. Without moving his head, he 
managed a glance across the personnel carrier at the Captain. Her 
face was the same as ever, stony and unfathomable behind her Gl 
glasses. On a lesser person the slightly magnified eyes imparted by 
the lenses would have made the wearer look comical, but on the 
Captain they were just unnerving. Mercer had made the mistake last 
week of asking his commanding officer if she needed a dispensation 
to come on this operation because of her missing left hand. She 
hadn't said a word. Just slowly advanced on him, her eyes locking 
on him like a cobra, backing him down until he tripped over a foot 
locker. 


More than the entire room laughing at him, Mercer hated the feeling 
of being a new recruit all over again. He had twenty combat 
operations, more commendations than that prick Blakely back at 
Fort Benning and had a Distinguished Marksman Badge. And that 
was all before the "Classified Anomalous Event" outside of Ghazni. 
Yet here he was, just another FNG. 


He saw the Captain say a couple of words over her shoulder, but he 
couldn't see at who. The watch mercilessly showed 0202 hours. The 
personnel carrier hit a dip in the road, and his stomach lurched. The 
phrase "remains unidentifiable as human" kept blaring in his head 
like a buzzing red neon sign. All that goddamn report did was ensure 
that he saw his lunch again this afternoon. Why would anyone even 
put something like "appropriate tactics unknown" in a report? 
Useless. Mercer wiped his brow and stuck his hand under his leg. If 
he couldn't see the hand, he could pretend it wasn't trembling. 


Just 29 minutes now. 


Mercer now noticed someone sitting next to him. He was too 


surprised to be grateful for the company. 


"So, Mercer, is it? | don't think I've had the pleasure. My name's 
Rayburn, but you can call me Ray." 


Mercer awkwardly accepted Rayburn's handshake with his left hand; 
it was the least sweaty. 


Rayburn settled into the seat next to Mercer and stretched his legs 
out as far as the personnel carrier would allow. Mercer had seen him 
around the base a couple of times; he looked more like a farmer 
than a Mobile Task Force operative with his ropy arm muscles, 
cornfed physique and tanned, craggy face. He leaned in 
conspiratorily to Mercer. 


"| hear this here's your first op. They sure picked a hell of a date for 
your first dance, Mercer." 


Mercer stared straight ahead, his lips tightening as a fresh bead of 
sweat rolled down his back. 


"Now, | want you to know that the fear? That's normal. | wouldn't 
want to meet the man who weren't afraid of what's in that building." 


Mercer clenched. Rayburn continued. 


"You may not suspect it, but even an MTF has got itself a chaplain. 
Even a rat-bastard outfit like the Repo Men. And son, yer lookin’ at 
him. Now, | ain't sayin’ that we ain't comin’ back from this rodeo. But 
| am sayin’ that maybe gettin’ yourself right with the good lord might 
not be such a bad idea." 


For the first time, Mercer turned to look at Rayburn. 
"What, you're serious?" 


Rayburn nodded gravely. "Like the man says, 'there ain't no atheists 
in 173's pen’. And it says in your dossier that you were raised a 
good 'ol Southern Baptist." 


Mercer lowered his head. 


"That was...before." 


Rayburn sagely rubbed his chin, and a weary smile came to his 
face. "Yep, that's true of a lot of fellers that come to this outfit. Lord 
knows it's hard to keep the faith when you see yer buddies turned 
inside out, or when some godforsaken statue is tellin’ you your 
innermost thoughts through a slide-whistle. Most guys? They lose it 
pretty early. They thought they understood the Lord and his ways, 
and then they signed up for Foundation detail." 


Mercer looked up at Rayburn. "Man, before? | mean, | was scared, 
but | thought I'd be okay if | just remembered...remembered Jesus, 
like my mom said. Even when it was bad, it was like, it's been bad 
before for someone else, and they got through it. And if they didn't, 
well, they had God. But now? What kind of God does stuff like that? 
How can you ask that for protection?" 


The watch beeped. Fifteen minutes now. Mercer sat up straight. 
"What...what do you believe in, Ray?" 


Rayburn's eyes twinkled. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, 
Mercer. These guys in here, these so-called hard cases? They ain't 
as hard as they think. They ain't got the real faith, the battle-tested 
faith that's gotten men through it since the beginnin'. You know what 
| believe, Mercer?" 


Mercer nodded. 


"| believe in Flabgobbatron, the night doorman at the Eau Claire 
Motel 6 and Harvester of Midget's Souls." 


Mercer leaned back, his jaw slackening while he took in Rayburn's 
response. "Wh...What?" 


"Oh yeah, he looks like Yul Brynner, and he sings just like an angel. 
He told me last night 'Ray, you've got some nerve ordering the 
special. The soup's the far better deal’. And when he departed in his 
tuxedo, | knew that everything was gonna be all right." 


Rayburn put his hand on Mercer's shoulder. "And son, do you know 
what the most important part is?” 


"Wh..wait...no, what is it?" 


Rayburn lowered his voice to a whisper. "I stole your kidney last 
night and swapped it to the commissary for an issue of Details." 


Mercer jerked back. "What the fuck, man?!" 


"Heh, that's a joke, son! Though | have been gifted with visions of 
the future by SCP-2093." 


Mercer looked around, seeing if anyone was laughing at him, but no 
one seemed to notice the conversation. Rayburn smiled at him 
beatifically. The personnel carrier seemed to be going faster. 


"What the hell is wrong with you!?" 


Rayburn's expression persisted. "Son, did that conversation go the 
way you thought it would go?" 


Mercer frowned. "...No, no it didn't." 


Rayburn grabbed an overhead strap and stood up. "That's right. 
Think of that when we get in there." 


The passengers all lurched upwards as the personnel carrier hit a 
bump. The Captain began issuing orders to Sergeant Ramirez. 
Mercer realized that his stomach no longer demanded his constant 
attention. He held up his right hand in front of his face. Steady like 
the horizon. Rayburn addressed him over his shoulder as he made 
his way back to the front of the carrier. 


"Check your weapon, soldier. And Flabgobbatron guide you." 


Family Business 


In all great family trees, there is a small and stunted little twig that is 
ill mentioned and highly embarrassing. A stain on the illustrious 
painting of heritage. A black sheep. A brown M&M. The family as a 
whole would prefer that it be trimmed with a nice pair of 
hedgeclippers, but gardening shears for metaphysical 
representations of genealogy were very expensive and surprisingly 
shoddy. Most families survived by very carefully navigating social 
traps and generally ignoring the existence of such a brown M&M. 
The more captivating families preferred exile or banishment. 


The Wondertainment line was one such captivating family. They 
were full of colourful names, from the yet-to-be-born Ivan "The- 
Terribly-Excitable" Aeryn Emthe Remy Wondertainment. Or the 
grand Mehmed Mahlia Prudence Zanna Wondertainment. Or even 
Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V1 ,the distant 
ancestor and the great-great niece of John Wondertainment. 


John. The brown M&M. 


John. Born Johnny Monterey Macarena Kalene Wondertainment, 
known in most documentation as John "I-Don't-Want-A-Bloody- 
Middle-Name" Wondertainment. Further known to the mundane 
people with boring things like houses and well-paying jobs as John 
Unterhaltung.@. John, who coincidentally had a house and a well 
paying job. John, who wanted nothing to do with any of the 
Wondertainments. 


John had a difficult childhood. Being raised by his Wonderparents, 
John always dreamed of doing well in school and perhaps becoming 
a doctor. His parents naturally had wanted him to be a painter, or 
perhaps a sculptor or a bonbon boutiqueist, and were suitably 
horrified that such an innocent child could ever want to do 
something so awful with his life. Little Jonnny Monterey Macarena 
Kalene Wondertainment spent many a night in the Wondertainment 
Sleep Tight Dream Bed™ as punishment. He still has nightmares 


about racecar beds. 


He left as soon as he could. Using words like "emancipation" and 
"constitution", he confused his parents long enough to slip out, 
taking his Way to a nice and respectable college, where he attended 
classes and received high marks. The ultimate shame for his 
parents. 


So yes, every family tree has its issues. Currently, the 
Wondertainment issue was driving a nondescript grey car home 
from the nondescript grey hospital, listening to Steve Reich on the 
very descript pink radio’. It was going to rain, apparently. 


It had been a perfectly wonde- good. Good day, John decided. No 
one had died. In fact, several people were surviving, thanks in large 
part to his own efforts. It didn't occur to him that something could go 
wrong. 


It was about the time that he pulled up in his driveway that John 
realised something was off. His door, for instance, was not designed 
to be hanging uselessly off of one hinge, buckled into his foyer. Ina 
rather polite state of disbelief, he entered the house, awkwardly 
closing then locking the door, more for his own mental security than 
any protection it could currently provide. 


The interior of his house looked like a small tornado had drunkenly 
rampaged about before deciding upon a spontaneous redecoration‘. 
John's heart was in his throat as he tried the nonfunctioning light 
switch, then slunk over to the telephone, preparing to call the police. 
It was all he could do not to panic as he noticed that the line on his 
very new rotary phone had ended prematurely. His hands trembled 
as he put the phone down, stepping quietly over the remains of his 
Magnavox. 


It was the sound of some thing creeping towards him that gave John 
pause. In the dark hall, it looked horrible. A brown M&M with legs. 
Too many legs. The thing froze, raising what might be a head in 
John's direction, tilting it ever so slightly. 


This was when John's nerve broke. He spun around, sprinting to put 
as much distance between him and the M&M. For a moment, he felt 


the thrill of success, but then, the thing propelled itself off the 
ground, throwing John onto his back, dripping some hot, unknown 
liquid from its gaping maw, hot puffs of stinking breath washing over 
his face. He flailed wildly, limbs knocking uselessly into the hairy 
form above him, until he jerked to the right, freeing himself. John 
scrabbled for footing, accelerating wildly into the bathroom, where 
he grabbed the door, tensing to slam it.