"Her kind is a dying breed — stagnant and obsessed with the old 
ways. We represent the new ways, Mr. Hartliss. A new Sarkite for a 
new century. We apply scientific rigor to rote and ritual, separating 
truth from superstition. We cull the weak from the herd." 


"Alright," Red-Tie interrupts. "Look, boys, you've clearly got some 
issues to work out, so we'll just leave you —" 


Reinhardt laughs. "None of you are going anywhere." He and his 
men smile. Those teeth are no longer white, small, and straight. 
There's also a lot more of them than there ought to be. 


The ground under my feet stirs. 


"That's right," | tell them. "No one's going anywhere. Not until 
everyone's had a chance to speak their peace." 


Everything that's happened up until this point — everything — is 
worth it. Just for that one moment. That one moment when 
Reinhardt's expression goes from smug condescension to 
puzzlement, followed by confusion — followed by dawning horror. 


Reinhardt's used to being the monster. He's used to being the thing 
in the shadows; he's used to being the thing that terrifies you. 


But Wilhelm Reinhardt has never met Richard Chappell. 


Three hours before I'll be standing in the middle of a cemetery 
waiting to die, I'm staring across the bar at a man with a mouth full 
of rusted nails, razor-blades, and broken glass. Each jagged piece 
replaces a tooth; when his mouth closes, their edges lock together 
to form a splintered, horrible whole. 


Another man sits next to me, nursing his drink. Neither he nor his 
companion are armed. For them, carrying a gun would be like 
throwing matches at a forest fire. 


The man ahead grinds his jaw. Sparks flash. The screech is not 
unlike that of a train's brakes squealing across steel. | try not to 
grimace. 


Blood dribbles from his mouth. 
"He's asking what you want to say to Chappell." 


| take a long breath and close my eyes. "Weiss and Capone are 
having a meeting.” 


Corroded iron clashes against glass. | can feel the sound in my 
molars. My fingers squeeze the edge of that bar so hard that | 
expect to leave divots. 


"Regarding?" 


When it comes to men like this, you choose your words very 
carefully. You keep your head down; you play it straight. And you 
never, ever tell a lie. Not to men like this. Not to men who work for 
Chappell. Not to the Chicago Spirit. 


Not unless you know precisely what lie to weave. 


Something in my throat slides up and seizes hold of my tongue. 
When | speak, the words are not my own — but someone else's. 


"They're joining forces," Volodya tells them. "Capone and Weiss 
want to work with Reinhardt to take down the Chicago Spirit." 


The ground erupts beneath us. 


Hands — wet, red hands, glistening like the moistened skin of a 
beached whale — tear their way out from the earth below. Capone's 
men start firing wildly; they scream as the hands grasp and clutch at 
them. | feel a brief pang of pity. 


They might be bastards, but they're not magic bastards. They 
deserve to go out the way they expected. | slide the .45 out of my 
pocket and stride toward them, unloading five shots; one for each 
temple. As their screams are silenced, Red-Tie's slackened face 
looks up at me with something between gratitude and fury. The 
hands drag their corpses down into the splintered, cracked earth. 


One bullet left. | turn to Reinhardt and his men. His flunkies are just 
screaming, but Reinhardt's trying to spit out some sort of spell. 
Won't do him any good — all the magic in the world couldn't stop 
what's coming. His chant is interrupted by viscera-glazed claws 
gouging deep into his flesh. Strip by strip, his outer shell is torn away 
— the expensive suit, the stylish hair, the perfect skin. Until all that's 
left is something wet, pink, and screaming. 


The smell of rancid meat fills the cemetery. 


Wisps of smoke rise from the graves. Several tombstones creak and 
list to the side. As Reinhardt's men go under, the doctor lunges 
forward to grab fistfuls of dirt. He paws frantically at the soil, trying to 
pull himself out. | step forward and aim the pistol at his forehead. For 
just a moment, our eyes meet. 


| see his terror — his desperation — his fear. Silently, he begs me 
for the one thing he's probably never shown a single living soul in 
his long, miserable life. Mercy. Please. 


| point the pistol away and fire. 
He sinks — shrieking — into the spoiled bowels of the earth. 
That final howl is the best goddamn thing I've heard all day. 


The hole closes. The cemetery stills. | can still hear Reinhardt's 
muffled, anguished screams. Five minutes later, the screams are 
just whispers. 


Twenty minutes later, | stop listening. In pace requiescat. 


| pocket my pistol, spit out my finished wad of gum, then help myself 
to the brand new Cadillac waiting for me at the cemetery's gates. 


"Last night, Capone left Chicago in a hurry. Nobody knows why." 
September doesn't bother to mask her annoyance on the other end 
of the phone line. "I'm guessing it might have something to do with 
how twenty six people disappeared in the space of a few hours, 
though. A few doctors, a few public officials, some business owners, 
seven police officers —" 


"Sarkites," | tell her. "Or, | don't know. 'New Sarkites'." 
"New Sarkites'?" 


"Reinhardt was babbling about it right before the end. | didn't stop to 
take notes or see if he had a pamphlet. Anyway, he and Volodya 
had some sort of falling out — | imagine she didn't take kindly to her 
grandson abandoning the old ways. Giving up his face, his accent, 
his culture —" 

"His own grandmother? Are you sure?" 

The lump in the back of my throat throbs. 

"Yeah. Pretty sure." 

"So what happened?" 

"| told them to go to hell." 

"And?" 

"They did." 


"Hartliss —" 


"Look, September. You wanted me to figure out how Weiss was 
pulling off his magic tricks, so | did. Now Reinhardt and his meat- 
mongers are gone. What's left to talk about? Besides where you 
ought to be mailing my check." 


She pauses. "Mr. Gallant would prefer it if you didn't —" 


"Tell Michael Gallant he can go sit on a flagpole and spin." 


She sighs. "Alright, Mr. Hartliss. Thank you for your services." 


| hang up the phone, flip up my collar, and fish around for another 
stick of gum. 


Capone will be back, probably. | doubt the Outfit is done with the 
Windy City. As for Weiss? Without Reinhardt's help, he'll be easy 
pickings for men like Capone. And Chappell? 


Well. The less said about him, the better. 


Allin all, not a bad way to make 350. Ought to keep the landlady 
happy for another month. | make my way down the street, chewing 
away at my gum — trying to ignore the burning lump that lingers in 
the back of my throat. 


Redact Your Life 


Something was following Foster. He was certain of it. 


It was no foul beast, it did not prey on him in bloodlust nor hunger. It 
simply hung from him like a heavy chain on his form, a miasma. It 
plagued him from the background, and although he wasn't sure what 
it was exactly, he knew there was something inherently wrong about 
it. 


He didn't know why it chose him, nor how long it had been following 
him before he caught on. It faded in on a slow gradient, leaking into 
his life and corrupting the very fabric that held him together as a 
human. As he drove back to his dingy hotel room from his nightly 
run for hard liquor and empty carbs, the rolling hills of the Carrizo 
Plain in the distance, Foster felt the cool hand of paranoia on the 
back of his spine. Crawling and itching with restlessness and ants. 
Imaginary ants, just under the skin. He knew the feeling well. 


Ignoring the usual cloud that followed his head on any given day, he 
grew hyperaware of his surroundings, though nothing was there. 
The silence became deafening and oppressive, almost as bad as 
the sense of presence and subsequent doom, so Foster switched on 
the radio and tuned it to a random station, a talk show. He was still 
alone, yet oddly comforted by the company of a disembodied voice, 
listening to him mumble about some conflict or other in whatever 
impoverished, war-torn nation it is nowadays. 


That thing had taken everything from him. It tore him from his family, 
his friends. His children. His home. Now, slowly, it fed on his sanity 
and sense of self, just outside of view, of knowing, and of form. 
Somehow, it was still everywhere; he saw the tracks it left behind as 
it consumed the world. The gaps and the blank pages, things 
between things, gone but for the space they left behind and nobody 
blinks an eye. He was not better for it. Ignorance is bliss. 


Yet this ghost of an idea would not be ignored. Listening to the host 


still, Foster was caught off guard by a sudden change in the quality 
of the broadcast, like artifacts in an image, distorting and decreasing 
in pitch, warping into discordant ugliness, then to nothing. He 
changed the station, but static grew on that one as well, and the 
next, the music detuning and fading as chaos overcame the sound. 


It would not be ignored. 


Foster switched wildly through the stations until there was nothing 
left. Just emptiness and a harsh white noise. He turned it off with a 
sigh. This is how it is. Everything and everyone he ever had ties 
with, it would cut them loose and he would never see them again. 
Nobody would remember except for him, and life seemed to find a 
way to adjust history to fit that definition. Yeah, they didn't believe 
him either, presumably until they too vanished from the world. 


He checked the clock. : . He should be tired, but he isn't. He's 
wired. And confused. 


So confused. 


In fact, it took him a minute to realize that he didn't actually know 

where he was going. He knew he was driving to a hotel, but he 

forgot the name, and how to get there. Pulling off to the side of the 

road, Foster checked his wallet for the room key. After a minute, he 

succeeds, although it looks foreign to him as he studies it closer. 
Hotel. Okay. 


Foster pulls out his phone and searches the name, hands trembling. 
Luckily the place still exists. Relief is a strong word for how he felt, 
but it was a nice change. Glancing around for identifying street 
signs, he is startled to find that they are unreadable. Someone stuck 
tape or something over the words, leaving a white rectangle anda 
very useless landmark. Who does that? 


It would not be ignored. 
Right. 


Punching the address into his GPS, he found that he was close by, 
and breathed another sigh of half-relief. He pulled out onto the now 


unmarked road and sped down the freeway, ignoring speed limit 
signs he was pretty sure he couldn't read anyway. 


The ride, although uneventful, was thick with unease. He couldn't 
help but feel the weight of it on his back. Looming. He didn't believe 
how unrecognizable the area was. It was near the home he lost, or 
where it had been in another life, surely he had gone through this 
area before? 


How did he find the hotel in the first place? He tried not to think too 
hard about it. Even if he did, he would never find the answer. 
Approaching the address, Foster goes to shut off his GPS, only to 
find his phone with a black screen. It wouldn't turn on. How long had 
it been off? How long had he been driving? 


Glancing outside, he realized that he was obviously not in the right 
place. An abandoned strip mall, some empty lots and a restaurant or 
two. No hotel. He couldn't remember the name, or the address. He 
looked for the room key but it too was gone. 


Panic gripping him, sense of direction waning, Foster decided to 
calm himself by heading into a nearby diner for something to eat. He 
wasn't hungry, but it was a distraction and something real. 


The diner was about as run-of-the-mill as you can get, arguably how 
most diners are. It was themed in a half-hearted 50's fashion, and 
Foster was nonplussed by the furnishings but sat at a booth 
regardless. A waitress came over to him shortly afterwards, bushy 
hair and an apron, handing him a menu and offering coffee. He 
declined the caffeine. Probably wouldn't help his paranoia. 


lt wasn't so much paranoia as it is warranted caution now, though, 
wasn't it? He knew it was in the diner, eating the words off the 
menu. Good thing it has pictures. Glancing at the images of platters 
and sandwiches, he was reminded of the many times he ate at an 
establishment like this with his family. His wife, and his kids? He had 
kids, right? He tried to picture them, to envision just one feature he 
remembered, but nothing was there. He wasn't even sure if he had 
had a wife anymore. 


It was all too much. There was bile in his throat, his stomach in 


SCP-923: A Useful Tool 


Item #: SCP-923 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: None. SCP-923 is currently in 
orbit at an altitude of | km. This, combined with its automated 
defenses, makes retrieval impossible. SCP-923 reports that it has 
no control over its defense mechanisms. As such, it cannot be 
contained in the traditional sense. 


Instead, care must be taken to make sure no other satellites enter 
SCP-923’s path, as further damage to the object could cause 
catastrophic results. Furthermore, its defense mechanisms 
destroying another satellite would display its anomalous nature, and 
destroy the cover story of a military spy satellite. 


Since the object ignores all queries and instructions that lack O5- 
level authorization, termination of the object has been suspended 
until it becomes unusable. 


Description: SCP-923 is a satellite that includes a large, parabolic 
dish constructed of unknown alloys. The object is also equipped with 
a reactor, which satisfies the power needs of its "firing 
mechanism." It is unclear how SCP-923 generates the effects of 
firing on a target, but tests have shown that subjects placed between 
SCP-923 and its target are unaffected. 


Much of the information about SCP-923 has been gathered from 
SCP-923 itself. The object reports that it was constructed by the 
Foundation at Site , which was planned to be constructed in ; 

, but cancelled due to logistical concerns. SCP-923 is not to be 
informed of this under any circumstances. The object is semi- 
sentient and capable of basic deductions, but appears to use this 
ability solely for information queries. 


knots. He couldn't eat. The smells that wafted from the kitchen were 
wretched to him, as perfectly mediocre as they may be in reality. 
Getting up swiftly, head spinning, Foster made his way to the 
bathroom and locked the door behind him, buckling in front of the 
toilet and vomiting acid. It burned his throat and nose, making his 
eyes water as he continued to gag. It continued for some time, and 
when it relented, he laid on the filthy, tiled floor and tried to wish 
himself out of existence. It didn't work. 


He didn't have the energy to right himself. Why would he try? Where 
would he go? He had nothing. He could barely remember himself, 
who he was before his mind was broken over the knee of 
uncertainty and terror. Foster reached for his wallet and dug inside 
for his ID. An unfamiliar face looks back at him, laminated and real. 
There was a light in his eyes, a light he was sure had vanished eons 
ago. Even though he couldn't recognize the picture, a Foster 

was indeed there. No address anymore, just a few lines of scratches 
that wore it down to illegibility. Did he do that? No, of course not. 


Touching his face, Foster felt for the features on the photo, still 
laying in defeat. He tried to reassure himself that he is who he is, 
even though he didn't really know what that meant anymore. Sitting 
up, he looked over at the sinks, and the mirror. He could look at 
himself. Would that help him remember who he was, this man on the 
card? He peered back down to find the picture black, no trace of his 
visage was seen.