The acolyte bowed and hurriedly left. The cleric looked back at the 
statue, holding the Eye. In his mind, fear returned. What had 
happened before may happen again. The circle of fate may very well 
awake the other fallen gods the ancients had fought. The cleric 
brushed away the thought: such things were for the Council. 


Inside the jar, a few old synapses sparked in the remains of the 
ancient brain. A single thought shot across the nerves, tinged with 
weary cynicism: 


“Here we go again...” 


Remembrance Of Walking 


He no longer remembered when he had not been walking. 


He remembered that there were other colors once, but all he knew 
now was the gray-white of the bleached wood he trod, the gray- 
green-blue of the ocean beneath him, and the dark brown of his own 
tanned skin. Sometimes at dawn or dusk he saw different colors in 
the sky, but he no longer remembered their names. There were 
many things he no longer remembered. The sun and the wind and 
the waves and the salt baked into his flesh had flensed all 
unnecessary things from him, including the majority of his mind. 


His possessions were long worn away and gone by that time, 
though he knew not how, until all that remained were a white rope 
and a bottle black as night. Neither could be broken, at least by his 
strength, and he no longer tried. He knew the rope was to tie himself 
to the railings at night and the bottle was to drink of not-salt liquid at 
dawn and dusk, but that was all. 


So he walked. That he did remember, the walking. In one direction 
or the other, forward or back, towards the sun or away, he no longer 
knew whether it was important. He just knew that he must walk. 


He accepted things now, without expectations. When the pathway 
rose and rose high above the sea, so high that he could not even 
feel sea spray as the waves crashed against the pillars, he accepted 
it. Sometimes there would be a small platform where he could 
huddle under a bench and sleep out of the sun. When the walkway 
was so low that water licked shallowly across the path, he accepted 
it. When the storms built and raged, he would be drenched in the 
pounding rain, shivering in the wet and cold. Sometimes it ended 
soonly and the sun would return to bake him dry, sometimes it would 
go for so long he thought he would be washed away. 


He no longer remembered why that was a bad thing, just that it was, 
and so he tied himself down when the rains began. He would be 


battered and bruised, but with the return of sun he would walk again. 


He no longer remembered when he had not been walking. 


There was something different on the horizon. 


He had slumbered at the top of a rise in the walkway and as he 
arose, he saw something far away. So far away that the line of the 
walkway vanished to a thread before it reached it. But there was 
something there. A shape, like that of storm clouds building in the 
distance, but it did not move or change and there was not the sickly 
green tinge to the air that heralded a storm of such magnitude. 
Rather, it was blued. A deep blue, like the overhead sky at dusk. 


It made him feel. What, he no longer had words for. But it was 
strange and strong and roused him as salt spray no longer did. He... 
thirsted for it. It was not the right word, but the closest one he could 
conceive of. 


He found himself walking down the sloping walkway, a fluttering in 
his chest and a new wakefulness to his eyes and mind. 


There was something different on the horizon. 


He knew how to walk. 


It was the only thing he knew well, now. And so he walked for some 
time. More than a day and more than a night, but he could not 
remember how many. The days had always been as one for as long 
as he could foggily remember. The something different grew larger 
and larger, until it looked even taller than the walkway ever rose. 


It wasn't blue any more. Now it was a different color, not the gray- 
green of the sea or the gray-white of the wood or the black of the 
bottle. A new color, one he thought he used to know. It spurred his 
thoughts into motion. Like the color of the sea, but brighter. He did 
not know the word. 


But the color pleased him. 


He walked closer and closer until the time came. The walkway came 
up to and over something strange and unsettling. Somehow the sea 
had ended. There were pale, small things that didn't undulate and it 
made him feel queasy to look at them. He lay down on the walkway 
and reached down and touched it gingerly. Tiny pieces of the end 
stuck to his finger, scratchy like dried sea-spray, but even more so. 
He didn't like it and scrubbed his hands until it was all gone. 


He didn't trust this place where the sea ended, but the something 
different was so huge in front of him now, and so covered in that 
color. There were other, smaller things close-by that were the same 
color, and even they stood tall above the walkway. It was... 
amazing. Yes, that was a word he remembered now. Amazing. 


He walked further down the walkway until it passed by one of the 
tall, sea-colored things. He touched it and it was scratchy, but didn't 
stick to his hand. It almost felt like the railings of the walkway, but 
they were smooth whereas this was rough. He wanted to stop and 
touch more of them, but the walkway extended on and up and he 
wanted to see more. 


And he knew how to walk. 


He had reached the top. 


The walkway had led up and up, higher than he'd ever been before, 
though only a short distance above the not-sea below. There were 
so many different types of colors to be seen and he drank them in 
like a starved man at a banquet. As the sun passed overhead, he 
had to stop and close his eyes and lean against a railing, 
shuddering. It was all so much. 


But there was always something more to see and so he went. Until 
finally he came to something new upon new. At the top of the high 
place was another walkway, crossing his own, making four 
directions to go instead of two. This was upsetting. 


Forward or back, that was his life, forward or back. New directions 
weren't fair, didn't fit, shouldn't be there. Wronger than the gritty 
things where the sea ended. He didn't know what to do. 


He had reached the top and it was wrong. 


He sat there at the crossing for a day, tying himself to the railings as 
he always had. He slept and he sat and he sat and he slept, feeling 
his mind moving again, starting to walk again when it had once 
slept. 


This was... a mountain. On an... island. He knew these words, but 
had forgotten what they meant. The choice offered by the crossing 
still frightened him, but he was finally thinking more clearly, enough 
to know that he should be thinking more clearly yet. 


He decided that he would stay here, at his crossroads, with his white 
rope and his black bottle, until he could think more. 


And so he did, for some time. More than a day and more thana 
night. He remembered remembering now, and words came back to 
him. He tried his voice and croaked like rope chafing tight against 
wood. He stopped that. 


He decided. It was hard. He was out of practice. But he decided. He 
went back down the way he came, just a little, until he came to one 
of the growing things overhanging the walkway. He jumped, though 
he was out of practice with that as well, and grabbed it before 
climbing over the railing down to the place below the walkway. 


It was soft, with little things that stuck into his hardened feet, but he 
didn't mind. It was new, but he would learn. Little steps, and he 
would learn to walk here as well. 


turned on each other. Subjects up to 50 meters away reported panic 
attacks lasting up to one hour. All D-Class personnel showed 
lacerations along their legs and arms, the cause of which is 
unknown. No bladed weapons were recovered, and wounds do not 
match damage caused by teeth or fingernails. 

Video and Data Feeds: As above, some devices were missing after 
the test. Video and data feeds caused extreme distress in those who 
had experienced the panic attacks. 

Additional note: As before, researchers entering the area reported 
extreme discomfort, with a few experiencing mild panic attacks while 
surveying the landscape, and reported hearing whispers and voices, 
movement in the corners of their vision, other symptoms. These 
symptoms were markedly similar to those of an intensity 25 blast, 
but much more muted. Minor reports of anomalous activity, including 
‘poltergeist activity’ (objects moving of their own accord) were 
reported, though none were caught on video camera. Laser 
rangefinders show that there is now a permanent, mild spatial 
distortion at the center of the blast site. Site is currently slated for 
testing the long-term after-effects of 923 on an area, and the effects 
of those living at the blast site. 


Note from Dr. 

This is crossing the line from scientific to just barbaric. SCP-923 has 
said that its maximum output is 238, which it promptly converts to 
"keter" intensity. Lets just see what this does and report our findings. 


Intensity: Keter 

Response: It is strongly advised that this intensity never be used 
again. In addition to causing permanent insanity in all subjects in a 2 
kilometer radius around the target, surveillance equipment at the 
epicenter observed the materialization of [DATA EXPUNGED], 
which dissipated after minutes. The site, located at ° ' ",- °' ", 
is now designated as SCP-923-02, due to the permanent effects to 
the landscape at and surrounding the epicenter, and is to be 
quarantined with standard containment procedures. Subjects 
attempting to reach the epicenter experience greater and greater 
feelings of panic, beginning at a distance of | meters, eventually 
resulting in insanity similar to the lower intensity tests. Post-incident 
investigation of the site has revealed spatial and temporal 
disturbances consistent with [DATA EXPUNGED]. Due to [DATA 


Renegade, Retrograde 


Secure, contain, and protect. 
As an anomaly, | choose not to 
Defy those above me. 

It is my choice to 


Be contained. 

| will never 

Walk free again. 

| submit that | must 


Be imprisoned for my nature. 
| will never again 

See the sun. 

| yearn to 


Serve the Foundation and its interests. 
It is not my function to 

Try to change things. 

| have to 


Do as | am told and hunt my comrades. 
| would never 

Think of disobeying my masters. 

| constantly 


Find ways to help them instead. 

| will continue to 

Deceive those | once called friends. 
They believe | will 


Betray them. 

The Foundation will learn that | will 
Serve their interests. 

| remember the others | once knew, and | 


Will show there is no hope there. 
The Foundation and its agents 
Believe solely in progress. 

Only a fool would 


Go in reverse. 


Repost 


I'll be honest with you. This is shit. It's really only going up because 
a few people in the chat encouraged me to put it up, and | really 
don't know what else to do with it. 


Roight. Now that we're done with the self-depreciation... 


KKK 


"Um, sir?" 

"Yes, Moyle?" 

"We appear to have a spot of trouble." 
"What sort of spot of trouble?" 

"Well, you know those SCPs? Those things in all of our cells?" 
"Yes?" 

"Well, they've gone and done it again." 
"Dear lord. Again?" 

"Again, sir." 

"What is this, the third time?" 

"Fifth." 


"Dear lord. We'll have to explain why Burma's not on the map 
again." 


"Sir. I'm not talking about them doing that again." 
"Ah. Which that again are we talking about?" 


"They went and deleted the archive again." 


"How do you mean? They've done it so many ways, you know." 


"Well, if you look at the database, it's returning everything as 'access 
denied." 


"Have you tried breaking in through the back way?" 


"Both my best computing skills and homosexuality have both failed 
us, sir." 


"Oh dear." 
"| know. The situation appears rather grim." 
"Are the SCPs all there?" 


"Well, from what | can tell, most of them are. | can't exactly check 
them all right now, sir, but I'm pretty sure they're all still there." 


"Well then, you know what we'll have to do now." 
"Right then. I'll go put up the decorations." 


"We're not going to blow up the bloody base, Moyle. I'm talking 
about rewriting the SCPs." 


"Oh." 
"You look like you're hiding something from me. What is it Moyle?" 


"Well, you know those employees we have? The scientists and 
researchers and doctors and whatnot?" 


"Yes?" 

"They're all dead." 

"How?" 

"Gunshots to the head, sir." 


"Oh dear. Any idea why they did that?" 


"Well, | found a note on their corpses, sir." 
"Yes?" 

"They all wrote the exact same thing." 
"And that exact same thing was?" 


"They have all written, 'We have chosen to commit suicide rather 
than continue working for the Foundation because the bloke running 
it is," and | quote, ‘a lilly-livered, horn-rimmed glasses wearing 
monster, who we all consider a shitfaced bloody bastard.” 


"Huh." 

"They put a special emphasis on the word bastard, sir." 

"| figured they would. You know what we need to do, correct?" 
"Considering the situation, we'll need to hire some more people." 
"Correct." 

"Well, there's a problem there too, sir." 

"What would that be? 


"Well, we can afford to rehire the guards, and the scientists, and the 
researchers, and the doctors, and the administrators..." 


"But?" 


"But the cost of hiring new writers is through the roof. Unless you 
find someone who is extremely generous, there's no way to hire a 
single new author." 


"Why can't the others do it?" 


"Well, even though it's their jobs, the reports the researchers make 
are always highly unprofessional. You need a writer to make sure 
his work is good." 


"We could always do it ourselves." 


"Are you willing to do that much work for yourself, sir?" 
"Well, no." 

"And I'm not willing to do it either. So you see the problem." 
"So | do." 

"Do you have any ideas, sir?" 

"Well, what did we do the last time this happened?" 


"If | remember correctly, it required more cattle prods than we can 
reasonably afford." 


"And you Say it's too expensive to hire any new writers?" 
"Yes, sir." 

"We could trick people on the internet to do it for us." 
"Sir?" 


"Look here at this website. Average imageboard, right? Well, what 
say if | were to do a sloppy write-up of a random SCP? And if we get 
a few people to promote it as a great writing idea, set up a website 
around it?" 


"| still don't see how that solves our problem, sir." 


"Well, we've got hundreds of thousands of objects to rewrite. If we 
get enough people on-board with this, they're bound to come up with 
something like what we've really got. We'll just take whichever ones 
we can and use them to fill in the archive. Reject the rest, you 
know?" 


"How will we make it seem... well, not Suspicious?" 
"Simple enough. Write them off as bad writing." 


"You know, sir, thinking about it, it's a rather brilliant idea. Just one 
problem with it." 


"Yes?" 


"Neither of us is the best writer. What if they chose to take 
whichever SCP we put out there and stick it on a pedestal? Make it 
so that we aren't able to edit it properly, just because it's the quote- 
unquote 'First?™ 


"Well, once we have enough money to hire some proper writers, we 
just execute everyone involved." 


"Doesn't that put us in a similar situation as now if the writers we hire 
commit suicide as well?" 


"Well, then, we think about that when we get there, now don't we?" 
"Isn't that how we got into this mess in the first place, sir?" 

"No. That one involved beers." 

"Ah, yes. Care for one now? 


"Sure, Moyle, sure." 


Reptilius