He looked over to Hermes, his eyes dark against the low light of the 
void above them. "We found that artifact. | don't even remember 
what it did. It doesn't matter. It was put in a box and stored 
underground somewhere and it'll never see the light of day again." 
He paused. "I can't help but wonder, though, what it was that was 
worth so many human lives. Human lives that were lost because of 
the cruelty of one man, the apathy of a country, and the eyes of 
seventy-five somewhere in between that were focused on a rock in 
the desert and passed over the suffering of their fellow man around 
them." 


Raphael leaned back against the door and sighed. He set the radio 
on the ground next to him, and their world was silent. 


"The Foundation is good. The Foundation protects people. But the 
Foundation is filled with those who see an objective as more 


The origin of SCP-962 is unclear, though estimations based on its 
mining rate suggest that it has existed for no more than twenty 
years. 


Document 962-382: The following is an excerpt from one of 
SCP-962's rants. Grammar, punctuation, and emphasis have been 
left the same, though text color has been omitted. 


Cleanse the WORLD for the Great Ones Cleanse the 
WORLD for the Great Ones 

who greater than you your majesty your sublime nature 
Great Ones do | do right? 

The flesh and wood serve you unite with the steel you 
love do you love me too | am what you love. Great Ones 
see as | do my duty my passion 

forgive the slowpace the steel takes TIME. Did you like 
the servants they were the BEST of the cleansed only 
the BEST for you Great Ones made like you form you 
assume here on a WORLD to clean to honor you do 
appreciate please please | will complete the cleansing 
soon and you can take me away in your ships of FIRE 
and | can love you and you will love me 


« SCP-961 | SCP-962 | SCP-963 » 


important than a goal. We are the protectors of mankind, but what 
are we protecting them against? Disease kills millions every year. 
War savages entire regions. Hate and bigotry destroys untold lives. 
The Foundation protects them, but the Foundation ignores them. 
They die all the same. So what does it matter? Is it humanity we're 
protecting, or the Masquerade? Whether a child dies because he 
hasn't eaten anything more than water and some grass in a month, 
or because some pagan idol makes him drop dead from a failed 
ritual, what does it matter?" 


The cold began to creep over them again, more aggressively than 
before. Hermes shivered violently, his teeth chattered so much they 
could have crumbled in his head. Raphael took off his jacket and 
wrapped it around the young man, and they sat huddled together in 
the infinite silence for an eternity. 


"What about you," Hermes said, his voice weak and failing. "You're 
a good man. You've been good to me, you've helped people." 


Raphael didn't answer. His eyes passed over his comrade to the 
body of a dead man laying near them. A bullet was lodged in the 
man's skull, and Raphael's magazine was empty. 


After Hermes had gone cold and quiet, Raphael pulled the young 
man's sidearm from its holster on his belt. The magazine was full. 
He emptied it into the sky. 


He curled up next to the body and picked up the radio. He took the 
battery out and put it back in again, and again, and again. Eleven. 


The Last Man 


It's day 50 of freeze-dried beef stroganoff. Doctor Beckett swallows 
the meat and rice with a grimace. He’s made a challenge out of it, 
seeing how long he can eat the same meal without cracking. This is 
probably as far as he'll go with this dish, beating his previous record 
with the chicken curry. At least if he stops here, he'll have plenty of 
the beef left to break up the nutrient paste and vitamin pills, once the 
rest of the prepackaged meals run out. 


I’m not looking forward to that day when | find this swill a treat. 


He looks out of the porthole, imagining the ventilation fans as a 
breeze blowing across the lunar plain. Not for the first time, he 
wishes he had tried to smuggle in just one pack of cigarettes. It 
wouldn't have done any harm, in the end. Werner would have lost 
his mind if he’d found out, though. 


Werney, the sour-faced, stuck-up bastard. Of all the people to be 
shot into space with, the O5s had to send me with Site 19’s tie-on- 
casual-Fridays Werney, the guy who thinks putting sugar in his 
cereal is the height of adventure. Maybe it’s for the best he went off. 
Living together, one of us would have by now. 


Not a word. Not even an I’m-just-going-out-and-may-be-some-time. 
You didn’t even shake my fucking hand before you left. 


God damn you, Werney. 


Beckett thinks back to that day a few months ago, seeing Doctor 
Werner walking through the craters, heading towards the horizon. 
Opening a radio channel. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?” 


The last words of Man. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?” Jesus 
Christ. 


You didn’t have to explain yourself, or say something deep and 


meaningful. Hell, “Goodbye” would have been deep and meaningful 
enough for anyone. I’d have been satisfied with that. 


If I'd gone after you, would you have come back? 


No, you wouldn’t have come back. That’s why | didn’t say anything 
else. 


God damn you, you bastard. 


It was ironic, that gloomy, unsmiling Doctor Werner was the first one 
to snap, because in the end, it was because he was the positive 
one. He was the optimist. He believed the briefing from the O5s, that 
they were to get ready for the next wave of staff, the pioneers of 
New Humanity rising from the ashes. Even when they both knew no 
more shuttles were coming, he still thought the Foundation had 
something up its sleeve, that some portal would appear and the O5s 
would pop out to give them medals and take them back to the world 
as it was before. 


| guess the day he walked out was when he knew we were the last 

ones left. I’m still here because, in the end, | was less hopeful than 

sour old Werney. What was the point of hoping, after they launched 
LEGIONNAIRE? 


Beckett thinks back to the day when everything changed, when it 
started ascending from the gases of Jupiter. The President on 
television with the Overseers beside him, the wailing in the streets. 
The day he told Adrienne where he really worked. 


And then, the miracles. Watching LEGIONNAIRE’s first test launch. 
Jimmy Kimmel making electromagnetic pulse jokes. His nieces and 
nephews, drawing crayon pictures of rockets and explosions and 
arguing about which missile was the best. The Pope leading the 
faithful in prayer to the world’s nuclear bombs in St Peter's Square, 
the Lord’s angels made metal. 


An end to wars. An end to pointless squabbles and petty politics. All 
the negative energies of mankind turned to purpose, with an outside 
threat so faceless, so impersonal, that all vitriol and hatred directed 

towards it became noble. 


Most of the job involved disgust, fear, and at best, grim satisfaction, 
if things were well done. But those few months — | was proud of the 
Foundation. | was proud to say | worked there. | was proud to be a 

human being. 


Maybe that was worth it. 


Maybe | should be grateful to Werney. Now | can say I’m the last 
man on the moon. The anti-Armstrong to your anti-Aldrin. One small 
step for a man, one giant end for mankind. 


Another half-remembered memory, of a bright-eyed graduating class 
at MIT, as Aldrin walks in, telling America’s newest engineers about 
dreaming and boldly going, cheers and screams from the crowd 
drowning out any substance of the speech. Shoving past friends and 
holding out a pen and scrap of paper, the prize following him to 
Boeing, Cape Canaveral and Site 19. Now returned to dust, like 
everything else. Suddenly, Beckett has an idea, and heads to the 
base storerooms. 


It’s not like | have anything better to do. 


A few hours later, the rover is loaded with supplies, and peels out of 
the garage, the door silently sliding closed behind it. A set of 
footprints trails into the distance, but the rover bounces in the 
opposite direction. 


He dreams of the first time he went into space, and the last time. 
Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins are with him. Armstrong, Aldrin, 
Collins, Beckett, Werner. The last manned mission to the moon. The 
last mission anywhere. 


The rover comes to a stop, the beep of the autopilot waking Beckett 
from his slumber. He straps on his helmet, tapping the seals. The 
airlock opens with a hiss, and he bounds down the stairs. The lander 
is in front of him, flag standing stiffly at attention beside it. Beckett 
runs a glove over its metal legs, so awkward-looking to modern 
eyes. His hand comes to rest over Aldrin’s signature. 


Did you ever think something like this would happen, Mr Aldrin? 


If you'd gone ten years earlier, would it have changed anything? 
What if you’d never gone at all? 


Beckett suddenly feels weary, and begins to wonder why he came. 
He stands there, imagining the Stars and Stripes fluttering and the 
anthem playing, until his oxygen warning begins to sound, beneath a 
black sky and brown Earth. 


He sleeps again on the journey back, dreaming of drawings of da 
Vinci’s flying machines, Florentine streets, chapel ceilings, drinking 
red wine with Adrienne. 


When he returns, it’s one o’clock in the morning, Greenwich Mean 
Time. He’s missed his daily call, not that it makes a difference any 
more. Still, it's best to keep to routines in this place. He boots up the 
base computer, cycling through the Sites. The live — well, one- 
second-delayed-live- camera feeds are still active, and he wonders 
why he needs to see the pictures as he calls, as if they were placed 
there by a mocking tormentor. Beckett brings up Site 19. The 
entrance guard tower has collapsed on top of the central building, 
and it looks like the cafeteria is now gone. The sky is a swirling, 
roaring mass of dust and sulfur, masonry and debris bouncing past 
like tumbleweeds, the leftovers of the human race. 


Same ol’, same ol’. 
He taps the transmitter button. 


THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE 
NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE 
FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR 
ORDERS. 


Hello, Site 19. Hello, overseers. Still not coming to get me, yeah? 


Maybe Werney stepped into that portal and found his way back 
there. Maybe he finally found his sense of humour, and messed with 
the computer before he left. Everything’s back to normal there, and 
everyone’s sitting in the cafeteria right now, preparing my surprise 


party. 


Werney, can you hear me? | know you can hear me, you bastard. 
Go back into that portal and come back here right now, you hear 
me? | want you back here. 


“Werney, you bastard, | want you back,” Beckett mutters. “O5s, you 
can come here too, you hear me? You’ve got some explaining to do, 


and | don’t give a shit how much more you get paid or what super 
powers you have.” 


THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE 
NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE 


FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR 
ORDERS. 


“| want fucking Werner and the Overseers!” Beckett shouts. 


THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE 
NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE 


FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR 
ORDERS. 


“| want my old job back! | want my desk and my office!” 


THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE 
NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE 


FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR 
ORDERS. 


“| want my house and my car and — and my lawnmower! You can 
buy me a new fucking lawnmower! | want to see my brother and 
mom and dad! | want Adrienne back! | want a bottle of wine to drink 
with her, | want to see Italy again, | want — | want to see a real 


fucking ocean again! Not a fucking moon ocean, a real one, with real 
fucking water!” 


THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE 
NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE 


FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR 
ORDERS. 


Beckett slumps over the computer console, shaking with sobs. 


“| want to turn on a TV and — and — and — see you say Legionnaire 
worked, it blew up that alien piece of shit, and it’s not the end of the 
world any more, it’s just es-see-pea two-three-nine-nine, it’s neutral 
— neutra — neutralized, and we sent that thing to hell.” 


“| want my fucking world back.” 
RECEIVING TRANSMISSION. 


Beckett sits bolt upright. He sees the camera view has changed, and 
grasps the seat armrest to steady himself. A colossal mass of alien 
machinery is on screen, hovering amidst the roiling atmosphere, 
covered in scorch marks from a thousand atomic blasts. 


NEW VIDEO FEED ACTIVE. 


He falls back into the chair. Not his miraculous deliverance, just the 
ever-fickle voice-recognition software. 


RECEIVING TRANSMISSION. 


Another surge of adrenaline lurches him forward. With trembling 
hands, he presses the transmitter button. 


All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted 
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted 
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted 


There is nobody around who can tell if the last man on the Moon is 
laughing or crying. 


The Last of LARPA 


Provisional Site-136/LARPA "Boromine Branch" 
Boromine, Nevada - Site-136, Section Twelve 
07/25/2022, 10:24 AM 


"Containment breach in Sections Twelve and Ten. All personnel 
evacuate the West sector. | repeat, containment breach in Sections 
Twelve and Ten. All personnel evacuate the West sector. Over." 
crackled the intercom. 


Researcher Petahn overrode the Gé4 fire door leading back into 
Section Twelve. On the other side stood the captain of the MTF 
team 6-17, waiting for the researcher. Twelve could only be 
described as a hellish inferno; the fires licked and toyed with the 
walls, drawing dancing shadows like a fiery kaleidoscope. 


"What's the status, Captain Quayle?" Petahn asked as he 
approached the suit-clad MTF member. 


"There's fire everywhere. It's helping to contain the instances, but 
that also means our team can't contain them ourselves." replied 
Quayle. 


"What about the safety team?" 


"We've got some of them helping, but most of them are dedicated to 
the evacuations." 
Petahn stopped and turned toward Quayle. 


"Look, Quayle. This could possibly exacerbate the status to an 
ARBH-Class Event. Can we re-contain the instances?" 


"At this rate we can indeed, Petahn." 


"Thank god. I'm manually aborting PLAN-X." 


"I'll keep you updated on the situation. Here. Take these." Quayle 
took a beat before he unclipped a shortwave radio from his belt, 

then kneeled down and pulled out a S&W Model 36 from his ankle 
holster. Pettan received the amenities and tucked them in his belt. 


"Thank you. Good luck and godspeed." Quayle disappeared in the 
rushing glow as Petahn made his way to Section Twelve's local 
control room. When he arrived, it was deserted. Filing cabinets were 
left in a disheveled mess. Papers were scattered like dust. Most of 
the electronics were fried. Obviously whoever had been in there was 
in a rush to leave. He didn't blame them - meat-eating locusts were 
no joke. Petahn made his way to small panel with a lever and a 
keypad; he punched in a number and turned the lever. 


"West PLAN-X Outer Door overridden." a distorted voice 
announced. Petahn was uneasy about the whole situation. PLAN-X 
was the Boromine Branch's fail-safe device: once a certain amount 
of instances escaped containment, or if it was manually activated by 
a senior Site personnel, Boromine would be reduced to a pile of 
smoldering, radioactive ash. Because it was a fail-safe, the amount 
of instances that triggered PLAN-X hadn't been disclosed to anyone 
- save for the O5s, but Petahn highly doubted they would disclose 
that amount to him. He quickly made his way into the heart of the 
West Sector to the closer PLAN-X control room. 


"May whatever god there is help us all." muttered Petahn. 


—~=