And on. 
Sounds beautiful, doesn't it? 
It did. 


He didn't decide right away, of course. Duty and obligation still 
meant something to him, and on the off chance that someone was 
still editing the files, he might be able to make contact with a survivor 
if he could find a working connection to the Foundation's servers. 


But as spring turned into summer, Selvece formed a curious habit. 
After spending the morning and early afternoon hunting the deer that 
were becoming a more and more common sight, he walked to the 
World Financial Center and stared at a boat that was hastily docked 
in the harbor. After a week, he walked towards the boat and began 
clearing out the debris and bodies (mostly skeletons now) inside of 
it. 


By the time July's punishing heat had formed the first rust on the 
cars, it was ready. All it needed was his supplies. Saying goodbye to 
his post-apocalypse apartment left him more sentimental than he 
thought it would, and he made sure to bring his group picture of Site 
68's head researchers as he walked out the door for the final time. 


On July 10th, New York murmured. It was a rumbling that would 
have been faintly audible to most, if anyone had been around to 
hear it. As it was, Doctor Selvece took one last look back at the big 
rotten apple that Fifthism had emptied as the roar of his boat's 
engine filled his ears. He wondered if anyone would ever see the 
skyline again before the decaying power of time eventually brought 
the buildings down. 


He also wondered if SCP-3891 was what he hoped it was. It could 
be a trap, or simply an empty lifeless atoll. Or it could have been 
infected by 3519. 


Or maybe, just maybe, Hong was waiting for him. 


"| don't know," he said aloud. "But it's worth a shot." 


Tales X 


XK 


we took the damned thing 
and wiped the blood and shit and piss and tears from its face 
nothing was beneath 


light shone through the cracks 
reality itself bent to the wills of madmen 
only words remain 


sliced through severed stones 
redundancies enough to keep back a hidden king 
trees in the forest 


deep uncertainty 
undirected hatred fear and loathing shapes it all 
and remains unshaped 


fresh porphyria 
dry and wet and old and new and everything between 
solemnly inept 


a few swift stabbings 
ten thousand steel doors broken down to scraps of concepts 
moderately gnawed 


knowledge lies in parts 
puzzles upon ciphers upon riddles open doors 
revolving in place 


eternity now 
all clocks and time compressed to an instant variance 
cannot change again 


WARNING PERSONNEL 
PENDING XK CLASS END OF THE WORLD SCENARIO 
THANK YOU AND FAREWELL 


Tales Y 


Year Of The Many 


"How long have we got?" Matthew said, his stomach growling. 


Zeke had been looking at his watch almost constantly for the last 
twenty minutes. “Three minutes, ten seconds. Nine seconds.” A 
pause. “Five seconds.” 


“Which way did you Say it is?” Matthew asked. 
“Do you have to keep asking?” 

“What else am | supposed to do?” 

“Have you checked your gun?” 


Matthew gripped the MP7 tight. “I did that an hour ago. And half an 
hour ago. And ten minutes ago. | have ten bullets, and I’d like to 
stop thinking about that. | haven’t eaten in two days, and | don’t 
know what day it was then. Don’t wanna think about those either. 
Which way is the building you saw?” 


Zeke’s face scrunched up. “Um...” 

“Well?” 

“It was Friday. This is Sunday, so that was Friday.” 
“Zeke...” 

“Just follow me when the time comes. | know where it is.” 
Matthew sighed. “How long we got?” 

Zeke lifted his head up. “Can’t you hear? It’s started.” 


Matthew listened. From this close to Braunschweig, he could always 
hear the screaming. Usually the victims, the hunted. Sometimes the 


Perhaps it was just that they fenced us in, unintentionally 
or not. We simply don't know what the truth is. Somehow 
we acquired SCP-1000's own technology, and with it, we 
instigated an SK-class dominance shift in which 
humanity became the dominant species of Earth. 


We wiped out 70% of SCP-1000's population in a single 
day. The Day of Flowers, the Children called it. 
Supposedly every flower bloomed that day, while our 
enemies died in their sleep. Then we hunted the rest 
down. But we went further than just killing them. With a 
few of the more twisted of SCP-1000's devices, we drove 
the survivors mad, even those hiding beyond our reach. 
We trapped them in their own minds, blocking higher 
functions and leaving their bodies to fend for themselves 
like any ordinary ape. We slaughtered their living 
machines and burned their vast shining cities with 
SCP-1000's bioweapons that reduced everything to 
slurry and dust that washed or blew away in spring rain 
and wind. 


We left no traces. Not even our own memory. We turned 
one of the weapons on ourselves, wiped out any 
knowledge of SCP-1000 and the greatest civilization the 
planet had ever seen. Only a few humans protected 
themselves from the effect, kept the forbidden 
knowledge, just in case. The rest of us went back to 
being hunter-gatherers, none the wiser. 


Which brings us to today. 


You're going to read all about this in the level 3 
documentation, but I'll give you the short version here: 
SCP-1000 are somehow regaining their forgotten 
intelligence and knowledge. Maybe they never truly lost 
it. We don't know. 


This is why the ever-increasing number of "Bigfoot 
sightings" is so worrying. Why the attempts at contact, 
however indecipherable, are even more worrying. 


Embracers. It didn’t matter. Twenty-three hours a day, always 
screaming. Screaming until there wasn’t anyone left to scream. 
Twenty-three hours a day. One hour a day... 


The Embracers were quiet because of their ritual. Matthew figured 
the rest were just tired of all the noise. 


The Hour had come. Matthew and Zeke rose from their hole. As 
usual, Zeke led, and Matthew followed. 


Kk 


“Can you at least say how far away it was?” Matthew asked. “It’s 
been twenty minutes. If we need to turn around...” 


“That’s not going to happen,” Zeke said. “Look, | know you don't 
have training, and it wouldn't matter if you did, not now, but that’s 
not the point. It’s...” Zeke thought. Matthew always thought of Sarah 
Palin, a lifetime and a hemisphere ago, whenever Zeke thought 
really hard about something, because he always looked like it took a 
lot more effort than it should have. 


“It’s principle,” Zeke finally said. “You don’t turn around. Not after 
this. Either we find more food, maybe a way west, a way back to the 
States, or we die. No option three.” Zeke huffed with finality. 


“Fine,” Matthew said. “How far?” 
“Ten minutes, fifteen tops. No more.” 


They kept walking in silence. Matthew was often silent around Zeke 
during their “missions.” Anything he said would just make Zeke mad. 
Zeke never wanted to hear that Matthew had “given up hope,” as he 
put it; had given up hope of rescue, had given up hope well before 
they had even met. Zeke didn’t want to hear that the Embracers 
were almost certainly back home, and in Brazil, and Africa, and 
China, and probably fucking Antarctica, if there was someone left 
there who wasn’t one of them. Everywhere. 


Zeke went on because he dreamt of being at home, maybe on the 
cover of Time, famous. “The Man who Survived Europe,” front 
cover. Maybe next to the story about how the war was over, and we 


had won. Matthew kept going because he was too stupid to die 
already. 


Kk 


Zeke’s sense of timing was spot on, for once. They reached the little 
concrete bunker thirty-five minutes after they left. Zeke’s NATO 
training (“brainwashing,” Matthew had called it, back when it had 
only saved his life once or twice) kicked in, and Matthew went to 
open the door for him. Zeke went in point, AR-15 and six rounds 
leading the way. They cleared the first couple of rooms the same 
way. All bedrooms, bare-bones, beds and desks, double occupancy. 
All empty. The mess was like the others they had seen, refrigerator 
full of spoiled food, pantry full of half-edible canned food. Maybe a 
week’s-worth, maybe ten days. They could carry six. A good day’s 
work. 


Matthew wanted to get some sleep, but Zeke was sure he heard 
something. Not Embracers; their ritual wasn’t quite over yet. 
Something else, and something in the bunker. There was one room 
left. 


Matthew was glad Zeke’s boot was in such good shape, a credit to 
the young sergeant major this pair had come from. The wooden 
door splintered around the lock and swung forward. 


Details come very clearly during times of crisis. One man, gun in 
mouth, red face covered in tears. Tag on white lab coat reads “SCP 
Foundation,” then his picture, then “MORGAN, LEVEL 2.” Papers all 
over the floor, the desk, taped to the walls. A copy of the New York 
Times, dated five months earlier (Matthew thought); headline read 


*CHICAGO NOT YET LOST TO ENEMY,’ GENERAL 
SANDUSKY SAYS 

WITHDRAWAL ORDERED, ELECTIONS POSTPONED 
TWO MORE MONTHS 


Matthew hated being right. 


An electric typewriter sat next to a broken computer monitor. The 
draft of some page of a report sat in the cradle, with some revisions. 


The manifestation of Script 82 on / 12 was reported at 
02:01:13 


The procedure for containment was followed, though all 
chanters were not contained. Neurotoxin deployment 
approved by control at 


Neurotoxin initially believed to be effective, but 
confirmation not received from site. Protocol required for 
loss of communication includes 


Failure to activate on-site warhead 


Failure to react quickly to cultist activity, beyond 
suppression in media 


Failure to coordinate when global contamination 
Failure failure failure 

Failure 

Cowardice Failure comes from cowardice 


Researcher Morgan showed cowardice and is a failure 
failure failure failure fAlLure FAllure FAlluRE FAILED 
FAILED YOU FAILED FAILED FAILED TRUSTED YOU 
FAILED YOU FAILED— 


“| couldn’t...1 couldn't...” The man had taken the gun out of his 
mouth. “I couldn’t make the... the...” He kept sobbing. “...couldn’t...” 


Zeke heard it first, of course. The chanting. It was close, very close. 
Too close. They were almost inside. 


“| couldn’t make the tough calls,” the red-faced man said. The 
gunshot blew the top of his head all over the wall behind him. 


The Embracers knew what room to go to now. Matthew and Zeke 
exchanged a quick look, then ran for hiding spots. Matthew got a 
closet, jumped inside, and made his breathing as quiet as possible. 
Zeke dove under the bed. 


Heavy, perfectly coordinated Latin tones rolled down the hallway. No 
opera, no chorus, had ever matched the perfection in those chants. 
You couldn't let yourself think of it as beautiful, or the next step 
would be seeking them out, getting out of hiding, running towards 
them. Some nights, as Matthew lay awake, the only thing that 
drowned out the hunger or terror or pain was the thought that just 
maybe, if he would go towards the sound, if he would embrace— 


Matthew clenched on his empty stomach. You can’t think that. There 
could be a way out. There could be— 


Two of them walked into the room, looking around. The rest 
gathered around the doorway, still chanting. The danger was in how 
normal they looked; no drooling, no hobbling, no blood-covered 
shirts. They could have been insurance salesmen, or kindergarten 
teachers. They glanced around, then looked at the bed. 


Matthew didn’t know how Zeke had given himself away. Surely the 
soldier was better at hiding than the embassy desk clerk, he had 
saved Matthew so many times since Kiev, there was no way... 


They dragged him out and pinned him against the wall. Matthew 
couldn't hear what they said to him (not that he didn’t know the 
words by heart by now), but even over the loud Latin coming from 
the hallway, Zeke’s yelling was audible. 


The Embracers grabbed him by the head and spoke. Zeke 
struggled. “Fuck you, no, it’s, no, no, don’t—“ 


The Embracers spoke again. 

“I’m not gonna do it! You can’t make me! I’m not—“ 
The Embracers spoke again. 

“| won't | won't | won't do it no no no—* 

The Embracers spoke again. 


Zeke screamed the word “I” for two full minutes as Matthew counted 
off the seconds, plugging his ears as well as he could. / should do 
something, he thought, | should do anything, he’s all I’ve got— 


Zeke stopped screaming and looked straight ahead. That was when 
Matthew realized that the difference was in the eyes. It wasn’t 
anything so garish as fangs or wolf ears. The eyes are the windows 
to the soul, and the Embracers didn’t register. No humans present in 
this building. None but Matthew. 


One Embracer spoke again, the same statement as before. Zeke 
answered, quietly but firmly. The Embracer repeated them. Matthew 
half-heard the words. 


“The time...has come...” 

Zeke replied, faintly, “We...many...” 

The Embracer spoke again. “The time of plurality has come.” 
Now the rest joined the chorus. “We embrace the many.” 
Have to do something, he thought... 

“THE TIME OF PLURALITY HAS COME.” 

Have to... 

“WE EMBRACE THE MANY,” they said. 


The Latin chanting resumed. Matthew couldn’t make the tough call 
either, and was almost relieved when the three Embracers turned 
toward the closet, looking at him. 


Yellow 


Jack dropped a handful of change into the mug. A few quarters, a 
dime, mostly pennies. 


"Thank you sir," the beggar replied, "may He bless you." 


Jack had noticed this beggar show up a week ago. He'd been in the 
same place ever since... always spinning a quarter, always marking 
which side it landed on. He had an entire notebook filled with tally 
marks. 


The bus finally pulled up, late as usual. Jack got on and left his 
thoughts of the beggar behind. He listened to some oldies on his 
iPod and let his mind wander, idly counting the yellow cars on the 
boulevard. Taxis didn't count. Fourty-two by the time his stop 
arrived. Jack got off the bus and pretended to get his bearings, 
hesitating a moment to watch a pretty girl walk by. He went into the 
lobby, took the elevator to the twenty-second floor, found his cubicle, 
and began to check his e-mails... and reddit. 


He finally started actually working around 10 o'clock. The login page 
needed some CSS tweaks for Opera compatibility. The profile page 
needed to display a new "gender" field. And some test cases 
needed to be written for some new classes. Easy stuff. Same old 
boring day. Jack speculated idly that he wouldn't remember this 
moment. Two weeks from now he probably wouldn't even remember 
anything about this day. It was an interesting thought, but it didn't 
trouble him. That's just how life is; memories blend together, life 
goes on, you try to enjoy it. 


His desk phone rang. Internal call. Shit, did he remember to turn in 
his timecard last night? Yes, he did. Relief. 


"This is Jack," he answered. 


"It's me," his boss said seriously, "Lock your workstation right now, 


and come to my office right away." 


Shit. Jack's stomach sank with dread. What did he do wrong? He 
didn't do anything wrong. His last evaluation was fine. This 
reassured him a tiny bit as he walked down the cubicle row to the 
Office. 


"Come in, sit down, shut the door," his boss said quickly, "you're not 
in trouble." 


"Okay..." Jack said with relief, sitting down, "What's up?" 


"Listen to me very carefully, Jack. This is going to be the weirdest 
goddamn question you have ever heard, but | need you to give me a 
real, straight answer." 


"Errrrr... absolutely?" Jack replied, confused. 
"How many yellow cars did you count on the way to work today?" 


"What." Jack thought he misheard. He realized he didn't. "The. 
Fuck." 


"Jack," his boss said calmly,"| know this sounds weird and crazy, but 
I'm being absolutely serious. You need to remember right now... | 
need a number. Now."