She moved faster than he could have thought possible, and he 
gasped in horror as her skin began to extend, covering him, 
suffocating him, drowning him in pure whiteness. He struggled, but 
his heavy form was ill suited for such a fight. The last thing heard 
before he collapsed was "Oh, and thank you for dealing with the 
Double Blades, baby. They were the only ones who could stop me. 
Now, | can finally move on to the big leagues." 


Drip 


Feldspar had no idea why she let him live. Perhaps she still loved 
him, somewhere deep inside. Perhaps she just wanted to see him 
suffer. Feldspar didn't care. He didn't care that he didn't know where 
she was, or that she was much smarter and faster and stronger than 
him. He would find her, and he would kill her, no matter where she 
went. 


Drop 


And now he was here. Tracking her down to this facility wasn't easy, 
but luckily for him, he had several associates in critical positions 
inside. He wasn't sure what she wanted to do there, or how she 
made it in, considering how clever the men in charge of the facility 
were supposed to be. Most likely she used their intelligence against 
them, made them think she was theirs to control, that they were the 
one who created her. It seemed like her style, and she had done it 
before. He wondered what she called herself now. 


He heard that they called her SCP-085. Cassy. That papery bitch 
was so close he could almost touch her, and she had nowhere to 
run now. There was only one issue left to resolve. 


Drip 


How the hell was he going to roll up that hill? 


SCP-968: Tar Baby 


SCP-968 as it digests a meal 


Item #: SCP-968 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-968 is kept in the center 
of large porcelain bowl with a steep curve. The bowl itself is made 
for transport, feeding, and removal of waste from SCP-968. It is 
lined with steel and braces designed to tip the bowl when needed. 
The bowl measures 7 meters across and 4 meters deep. While 
dormant, SCP-968 should be kept in an enclosed environment 
atmosphere at 3% humidity or less, between 30 and 35 degrees 
Celsius. To achieve a maximum state of submission, SCP-968 is to 
be "fed" between 50 and 80 kilograms of protein every 4 days. 


Clean up of waste is achieved by tilting the bowl using the 
mechanical platform. SCP-968 will typically hold to one side of the 
bowl while waste slides down to the lowest point. A drip torch is 
used to ignite particulate waste and ash is removed by using 
blowers. 


Description: Commonly known as the "Tar Baby," SCP-968 
appears as a black, adhesive high-viscosity oil. Current research 
explains SCP-968 as a colony of fibrous protozoa working together 
without any true structure, central nervous system or endocrine 
system, despite observations of cellular coordination. 


Similar to the flexing properties of animal muscle, these fibrous 
protozoa are capable of pulling on one another with a combined 
strength. Specialized flagella along their surfaces allow for the 
gripping of prey and surfaces but without tendons, ligaments or 
skeletal material to support it, SCP-968 is incapable of any 
significant locomotion. The colony "hunts" by mimicking the 
appearance of prey or a wounded animal to lure other predators to 


The News Tonight: Wednesday April 26th 2017 


Hello, and welcome to tonight's news. Broadcasting live from New 
York Complex, I'm Junior Aimact Roger Gallardi, Official 
Newsreader-Scholar of the Church of The Second Hytoth, the only 
sanctioned radio host broadcasting in both English and Ortothan, 
nationwide. 


The top story this evening concerns the ongoing war in the Midwest 
against the Indofranco-Hungarian Alliance. Many of our top soldiers 
gave their lives this evening, passing on their blood to Rakmou- 
leusan, so that he may receive our blood and hold us against these 
retched Voruteut who attack our borders. Praise be to Rakmou- 
leusan. The origami soldiers shredded their paper with grace, torn 
about by the flesh and teeth of the Voruteut. The battle raised the 
town of Blue Earth, Minnesota, and Minister Alison Killian is 
authorizing new aid workers to tend to the surviving civilians. It has 
been suspected that the Alliance had been distributing propaganda 
sausages to civilians within the region, trying to turn and twist their 
minds until there was no empathy left, to get them to reinstate Prime 
Minister Orban to power, but fortunately no sausages were found in 
the aftermath of the battle, and the psychology of all has been 
proven pure. 


The same cannot be said for Plainview, Wisconsin. The official 
Alliance news agency in Budapest has confirmed that they have 
pushed the borders of the empire there, as a distribution was 
successful in turning all the citizens. Steaks laced with samples of 
the blood of Karcist Bashas were delivered the next morning, and 
we are sad to report all noble churchgoers were converted to 
Voruteut. It has been reported by my reporters in the field that 
several Voruteut and Orin-Privates found at the battlefield were 
genetic matches for the citizenry of Plainview. 


In other news, Navy SEAL origami have begun filtering sympathetic 
refugees out of Syria and into Ortothan Europe as the final descent 


on Kythera begins. All rituals performed in the area have made 
significant progress towards the devastation of that unholy place. 
Finally the Aspect of Kornoct will fill the Middle East again as our 
trained soldiers continue their assault at the very heart of that only 
place. Praise Rakmou-leusan! May he shine forever. Defense 
Minister Molinksy, on the other hand, condemns the measures, 
citing vast accomplishments made between Church forces and the 
Alliance in the Pacific Territories, in the wake of the Great Beast's 
escape from Foundation facilities. Molinsky met with Senior 
Researcher Obrov in Paris yesterday. 


A rogue band of bandits and terrorists waged war on the 
Philadelphia Complex yesterday, destroying two statues of Rakmou- 
leusan on Market Street. All good and pious citizens were outraged 
at the sad turn of events which led to the destruction of yet another 
temple complex. Many citizens report the invasion of Dream 
Demons. Four of the terrorists claimed allegiance to the former 
organization known as the Global Occult Coalition. One was what 
official Foundation Science Liasons to the Alliance are calling an 
SK-BIO Organism, but to us is obviously nothing more than a filthy 
Voruteut. Curse the hypocritical Foundation and the wretched 
empire of Karcist Bashas. May their children burn their own souls 
within the genitals of their parents! May their dogs impale 
themselves on a spike! May their— 


Dr. Obrov sighed and turned the device off. Another day, another 
radio broadcast from a batshit crazy universe. And this one 
concerned him too. In that place, he was a senior researcher for 
some sort of totalitarian Sarkic empire. Oh joy. He walked the length 
of the giant computer and grabbed his USB stick from its little port. 
He would have to spend a good twelve, fifteen hours just writing up 
the reports of this broadcast. He didn't even need to listen to the 
whole thing that time to get the gist. 


His coffee was cold. So he grabbed it and quickly plodded to his 
office to nuke it in his microwave. He'd been drinking nuked coffee 
for over five years now, most of it recycled and re-microwaved 
endlessly. And when he was not doing that, he was writing up 
detailed reports of the broadcasts he received so the guys up in 
Sloth's Pit could decide where to send the Bailey brothers. 


This particular one proved to be a cinch. Put simply, there was a war 
between Gol#03088 (those Hytoth nuts) and a big fat Sarkic Alliance 
which had absorbed most of Europe, Asia, and West North America. 
Dr. Obrov vaguely wondered why no one ever talked about Africa 
when these sorts of things happened. It was always some group 
sitting around in Eurasia that tried to stir up trouble. He couldn't at all 
name a single Gol from Gabon or Zimbabwe or anything like that. 


"What in the flying fuck would Site 87 want with this hellhole?" he 
thought as he typed miserably. "There's no diplomatic value." His 
coffee tasted even more bitter than usual. He felt yet another 
caffeine headache come on, so he slugged some more of the 
wretched stuff. 


The words on the page started to swim. He rubbed his eyes and 
turned to look at the clock, wondering exactly how long he had been 
awake. Bad move. His headache stabbed ferociously, suddenly 
getting worse. It was getting difficult to breathe. He wiggled his 
tongue experimentally; all of his teeth felt loose. 


His abdomen suddenly cramped, like a black hole had opened up in 
his bowels and was causing them to implode. He clutched his 
stomach miserably, hoping it would help, but he just vomited all over 
his desk, shorting out his computer terminal and ruining his papers. 
It was near impossible to draw breathe now and he was choking on 
his vomit. His eyes rolled back in his head. 


Dr. Obrov was dead before he fell onto the floor. Blood had formed a 
wide pool around his head before anybody found him. 


To be continued... 


Next: The Undoing 


The Night Beach 


"Let us be in agreement then. Our organization will be the 
foundation for humanity's survival in the coming century, and will be 
named as such." 


O5-1 took a sip of his drink. Orange juice — it was a somewhat 
childish choice, but the taste buds liked what they liked. He leaned 
back in his chair, looking out at the blue moon reflecting off the black 
waters. A golden palm tree fluttered and warped in the breeze, and 
the silver sand of the beach spread out before him on his balcony. 


This place was called the Night Beach. It was a small strip of land, 
the appearance of which had been swapped with that of its 
equivalent in an alternate universe. The moment you stepped on it, 
everything seemed...different. More colourful, more alive. 
Technically, it should be classified as an SCP, but O5-1 felt he 
deserved his indulgences. Didn't he? It wasn't like the beach actually 
did anything, apart from looking interesting. Buying the land it was 
on seemed containment enough. 


O5-1 sighed. He'd grown selfish in his old age. A hundred years 
prior, he wouldn't have even considered exposing himself to an 
anomalous object. None of the Council would have — apart from the 
means they used to extend their lives, of course. The hypocrisy 
started early on, in that case. Nearly from the beginning. Had they 
not been the ones to form the Foundation, the O5 Council would 
most likely be in containment chambers themselves. Perhaps one 
day they would be anyway. 


What year had he been born in? Sometimes he remembered a 
snippet of his own speech, speaking about guarding humanity in the 
next century. Which century was that? There were so many. He 
didn't even remember. His body may not have decayed, but he was 
sure his mind had. A human being was built to handle only so many 
memories, the way he saw it. There was only so much space. 


He'd had grandchildren once, he knew that. Children, for that matter. 
What had happened to them? He had...not memories, but a vague 
framework of them, about children — his children — playing ona 
beach. Watching them and smiling and knowing that all was right 
with the world. That must have been before the Foundation, then, if 
it actually ever happened. Thirteen people, coming together to 
protect the world from what it didn't understand. How noble a goal. 
How many people had his noble hands killed? He couldn't 
remember that either — and worse, he didn't especially care. Was 
that another effect of his long, long life, or had he always been a 
monster? 


He'd had a name once. What had happened to it? They'd taken the 
O5 titles as code-names, to protect their true identities, but those 
identities had faded over time. In his head, he called himself O5-1. 
People weren't meant to live like this — and if they did, they weren't 
people anymore. Simply extensions of the Foundation itself. 


In the universe the Night Beach came from...was there a grave with 
O5-1's name on it? His actual name? Had he lived and died in the 
way a human being should, had he passed in the company of loved 
ones? The grandchildren he was sure he had once had? That man 
would be more real, O5-1 reflected, than the one with a number for a 
name. 


He and the Night Beach were the same. They didn't belong, and yet 
they insisted themselves into the world. No, they intruded. Like a 
cigarette against a photograph. Maybe that was why O5-1 was so 
drawn to this place. Or perhaps he was simply old, and enjoyed the 
sound of waves. 


"Sir?" said CM, walking up quietly behind him. O5-1's personal 
Attendant was holding a phone out to him. "News from Site 16. 
Containment breach of 4392. Fifty-six dead. Your orders?" 


05-1 put his drink down and got up. "4392's too potent a 
cognitohazard for us to allow it to slip through the cracks. We need 
to eliminate all witnesses to prevent the concept spreading further. 
Inform security on-site." 


CM walked off to order the deaths of countless people. After a 


moment, O5-1 went to follow him. He stood up on thin, spindly legs, 
his too-pale and too-soft skin reflecting the moonlight just as easily 
as the water. He tried to close his eyes for a moment, to soak in the 
Night Beach while he had the chance, but his eyelids weren't quite 
big enough for that. They hadn't been for a while. 


Oh, well. There were sacrifices that had to be made for mankind as 
a whole. Besides, O5-1 hadn't felt human for years. 


He walked away. The Night Beach was left behind, and its colours 
were quickly replaced with those of the reality O5-1 lived in. It was a 
reality he'd made for himself, really. He had no choice but to lie in it. 


The other members of the council clapped. "The Foundation, then," 
said 05-13. "That is alright with you, [DATA EXPUNGED]?" 


The man named O5-1 nodded, and eternity began. 


The Night Before [REDACTED] 


Twas the night before Christmas at Site-88, 

And Robert the guard was running quite late, 

All the skips were contained in their cells with such care, 
That everyone hoped, as did Bob, they'd stay there, 

His first order of business was to check on containment, 

He changed channels, instead, to the night's entertainment, 
It's a Wonderful Life, he'd seen it before, 

And fell asleep then, for an hour or more. 


There were those who had hoped, on this night before gifts, 
That Robert would draw the short straw on the shifts, 

And plans were hatched over seven months previous, 

By a group of some interest with conspirators devious, 

To release all the creatures contained at the site, 

To fight the Foundation on Christmas Eve Night, 

They knew that their plan, while courageous, was dumb, 
But worth it, they thought, if it releases just one. 


Gates one, two, and three were as easy as pie, 

But they met resistance at gates four and gates five, 

Bob startled awake at the sound of alarms, 

And shouting, and death, and of course firearms, 

He switched his monitors, checked all of the frequencies, 
Hit the red button for containment emergencies, 

On screens he could see, as they just made it in, 

No one could get out, but inside they could win. 


They'd planned well for that, and taking their chance, 
The first cell on the right, at the placard they glanced, 
And in looking, they saw there, One Seven Three, 

Saw Euclid, and thought, how bad could it be? 

The statue, Bob knew, so easily beaten, 

But these stupid folk hadn't been to that meeting, 

So as the last of their number closed his eyes in assent, 


Bobby blinked once and the last one was bent. 


He panicked then, and fell to the floor, 

Scrambled and made his way outside his door, 

The statue knew that's right where he would be,