The way the reddish haze hung over Hong Gai was a vision of hell. 
Po-Yuan Wang could think of no better description as he stepped off 
the truck with the rest of the emergency responders. They had 
stopped on an intersection, with the northern road forking up ahead, 
leading in to a high-end neighborhood which was now on fire. The 
occupying Qing army had arrived first, and were handling the rush of 
people fleeing the inferno. 


Wang stiffened and gasped as he saw figures emerge from the 
smoke in front of the soldiers. They were skinny, wretched things, 
moving jerkily like zombies. Some of them were smoking, having 
walked through fire, their clothes and skin burning away, pustules 
swelling on their flesh, some bursting and weeping sickly yellow. 
Like zombies, they threw themselves at the soldiers. Unlike 
zombies, they didn't claw or bite; they clutched at arms and legs and 
begged for help. 


Heaven help me. He grimaced, but continued to watch. 


One of them, face intact and drenched in sweat, was close enough 
for him to smell. Like burning meat on a barbecue. Wang wretched, 
and jerked his head away, ashamed at his reaction. The sight and 
smell horrified him, and for a moment he saw not a man in blistering, 
mind-numbing pain, but a monster. He forced himself to look, even 
as his throat pressed and he continued to wretch and gag. 


The emergency workers were dressed in full hazmat suits with 
oxygen tanks. The soldiers wore gas masks, and tucked their 
sleeves into their socks and gloves. Who could say if that helped. 


A stocky woman waddled up to him. Despite his heaving, he 
extended a hand and stepped out towards her. As soon as he 


touched her hand, she dropped to the ground, shivering and 
twitching madly. He pulled her up to her feet, and discovered she 
was dead. Her face was caked in soot and sweat, but despite her 
incessant twitching, she was lifeless. 


"Wang! Help me, please!" A voice called out behind him. It was Han 
Songlei. He and another worker were trying to cram two thrashing 
bodies onto a single stretcher. Another naked figure was clutching 
the second worker, gasping dryly for water as he glistened with 
moisture. 


"Wang, take him!" Songlei took the man's hand and pulled him over 
to Wang. He stank of shit and smoke. Wang couldn't help himself; 
he vomited in his mouth, and forcibly swallowed it back down. 


"Water." The dying man croaked at him. 


Wang heaved the man up to his feet, and started to walk him 
towards the truck, "Come with me, | will help. What's your name?" 


"Water." The man gagged. Then he shut his eyes and went limp. 


"You, in the suit!" A soldier was gesticulating at Wang. He gaped 
helplessly at him, holding the dead man like a sack of wheat in his 
arms. The soldier kept shouting at him, and Wang let the dead man 
drop and rushed over to him. 


"We need another man, come with me." The soldier patted Wang on 
the shoulder, and pointed to a soldier, two naked bodies draped 
across his shoulders. Another blackened figure was clutching the 
man's arm, threatening to bring everyone down on top of him. 


He grabbed the man and pulled him away from the soldier. The man 
began to shriek, flailing his arms and legs in front of him and 
screaming, "It burns! I'm burning!" 


Wang looked over the man. He was drenched in sweat, soot, and 
grime, but he appeared unhurt. Veins bulged in the man's arms and 
legs, and he trembled violently as Wang held him steady. 


"Help me, please!" The man grabbed Wang's suit, digging his 
fingers into the slits of his gasmask, wrenching in an attempt to rip 


off the mask. Wang yelped and began to push at the man. The man 
suddenly tensed and let go, falling to the ground. Wang looked up 
and saw the soldier who had gestured to him holding a pistol in 
hand. 


"You killed him!" 


The soldier's eyes weren't visible through the mask, but his voice 
was high and tight, "He was trying to kill you." He muttered 
something after that. 


"What?" Wang yelled. 
"I'm following orders!" 


"What orders?" Wang felt himself becoming hysterical. Were they 
going to exterminate everyone they came across? Why call in the 
emergency workers and try to rescue the victims? Would he be 
killed as well? 


"We kill anyone trying to infect others." He waved his pistol over to a 
pile of bodies. Some were burned beyond recognition, some missing 
limbs, even heads. All of them were moving, writhing and twitching 
like dying insects. 


Wang looked down at the man the soldier had shot. He was moving 
as well, even as his life's blood spewed from his mouth and through 
the hole in his back. 


Wang didn't know what to say, and he continued to stare at him. 
The soldier went back to his work. 


As Wang returned to his group, more trucks were rolling up. Teams 
came with stretchers, foldable chairs and tables to set up an 
emergency triage area close to the trucks. Wang swallowed down 
another wet heave and hurried back to work. 


The Foundation's assets in Southeast Asia were uncharacteristically 
slow to respond following the "Red Cloud" engulfing northern Dai 
Viet and seeping into Guangdong province, China. The precious few 


interactions between the Foundation and the Jinyiwei had been 
downright hostile. The Jinyiwei contacting the Foundation directly 
without a prisoner to exchange just didn't happen. 


50 minutes after Site-141 sent a request to Southeast Asia for 
samples of the "Red Cloud" and information on the ground situation, 
the Qing Empire's Jinyiwei secret police responded in full. "Fix this 
mess undoubtedly started by your government." 


The analyses were dry and technical. Very little Dr. Marlowe could 
comprehend. The cool, detached tone of such write-ups always felt 
excessive to her. This one in particular belied the sense of stress 
and tension that tinged every word Drs. Alton and Kohn jabbered at 
one another across from her desk, voices amplified by the small 
office's acoustics. 


"We've seen this before." Kohn gave a token glance to the sheaf of 
papers before him, but he'd already gone through it enough to know 
the answer, "The exact same bacterial strain taken from soil 
samples IT-334 and 335. Between IT-348 and 400, the genetic 
similarities fade, but they're definitely related." 


Nothing either man said was radically different from what was 
already in the report. Marlowe idly tapped the sheaf of papers before 
her. "Short answer is..." 


"Short answer is this could've been engineered by someone here 
simultaneous with their alternate-universe counterparts from 334, 
335 and so on." 


"Not bloody likely." Alton put in, "The bacteria's cellular reproductive 
cycle is too fast. It won't last more than ten or fifteen years, and the 
atmospheric conditions on Earth aren't suitable for this kind of 
bacterium to grow this large — too much oxygen, it'd kill it." 


"Meaning it came from one of these other ‘iterations’ found via 
Anabasis." 


"Right." Alton put in, leaning forward anxiously. He'd figured it out; 
he just wanted her to say it aloud and validate him. 


"Meaning there's other Anabasis devices out there." 


"As of now, that's our working assumption. May or may not be the 
same kind of device, but the function is the same." 


Marlowe put a hand to her head, and folded back the report, 
glancing at the colored paper at the very bottom. ANABASIS WILL 
SAVE US ALL. 


"Fucking Locke." Marlowe hissed to herself, "It always comes back 
to Priscilla Fucking Locke." 


Edgars fumed as he stormed down the hall, making his way towards 
the exit. Part of him wanted to stop, turn around, and go back to the 
little room to butt heads with that bitch Locke again. Instead he 

nearly bumped headfirst into Dr. Marlowe, emerging from her office. 


"What are you doing, Mr. Edgars?" She asked cooly. 


He clenched his jaw, and tried not to meet her calm gaze, "Nothing. 
Just venting." 


"It's Locke." She said, not inquiringly. 


"Isn't it always?" He sneered, "I mean, that fucking ... | can't even 
say bitch because that /thing/ isn't a—" 


"Mr. Edgars." 


He looked down at her and blinked, feeling an odd chill go through 
him. Had Dr. Marlowe always been here every day? Why would a 
doctor need to remain on-site with a Safe-class anomaly undergoing 
testing? 


"Breathe..." She said. 


He furrowed his brow as she reached out to grasp his shoulders. He 
thought he saw the door open behind her, people filing out, but they 
were alone out in the hall. 


"usin..." 


He drew in a sharp breath, and started to panic. His lungs were 
nearly empty. He tried to breathe again, and again felt out of breath. 


".,.deeply..." 


He stopped, and suddenly air rushed into him, lovingly filling his 
depleted lungs, the air cool and crisp. His tongue felt warm, as if 
he'd bitten through and drawn blood. But he tasted nothing. He felt 
nothing. 


"...slowly..." 
"Dr. Marlowe..." 
"Breathe..." She whispered again, "...us in... deeply..." 


He blinked and stared at her for a long moment, confusion. 
Marlowe's expression shifted to match his. 


"What are you doing, Mr. Edgars?" 


He blinked again, air gently escaping his lips, "Nothing. Just 
venting.” 


"It's Locke." She said, not inquiringly. 
"Isn't it always?" He sneered. 


Marlowe smiled and brushed past him without another word, going 
down the hall and taking a right at the corner. Edgars nodded 
absently, and continued down the hall. At the corner, he took a right 
and grunted, before turning back around to the left, "Bunch of freaks 
in this damn place." 


« Save Her From Herself | The Frail | » 
Anabasis Hub 


The Glorious Revolution 


Note: This is a SCP-1483 tale, so reading it before reading this is 
recommended. 


Soto was beginning to have second thoughts about the concept of 
Democracy. He barely stifled a sigh as his cohorts’ bickering entered 
its second hour, and his headache was getting worse by the minute. 
Gorza Dun Vent was currently on the attack: 


“Hubrus, would you make up your mind already?” 

“Er... | dunno.” 

“Come on already, you stinking sack of wet fur! I’m hungry!” 
“Umm... | vote for the Holey Pantry.” 


“Saqinian food again? We ordered that last night, and you’re the 
only one who actually likes that sodding crud! Where did you even 
get that flier?” 


“Don’t you oppress him, you four-armed bastard! He’s a gentle soul.” 
This came from Uniel Dun Vent, the "Watcher-Upon-All". 


“Oh, I’m sorry! | forgot you needed six arms to properly oppress 
people!” 


Freedom from the tyrannical rule of Utmai Cjen VI and the IIPES, 
building a place where everyone would have a voice, that was what 
they were supposed to be about. The longer Soto had to spend with 
the group currently called The General Independence Troops, the 
more attractive the idea of no one having a voice at all became. 


“Would you two be quiet? Hubrus, is Grey Mountain Country Buffet 
acceptable?” 


. An intricate choreography 

. A painting, drawing, or sculpture 

. A psychological or sociological insight 

. A work of fiction of variable length, or a detailed (and true) 

autobiography 

6. A spiritual revelation 

7. A work of drama 

8. One joke (which the subject typically repeats as often as 
conversations allow) 

9. A scientific breakthrough 


oR WP 


Subjects exposed to SCP-960 will invariably request the materials 
they need to complete these works; if they do not receive them, they 
will become belligerent and uncooperative until their requests are 
satisfied or until they find suitable substitutes. 


It is worth noting that the ideas are never written down in any sort of 
rough copy; they only ever appear as the final product, as if a full- 
fledged idea had entered the subject's head and left it unchanged. 
Subjects also display extraordinary talent in each of the fields listed 
above, but only for as long as they are working on completing their 
tasks. 


After the aforementioned itinerary is exhausted, the inspirations 
become more sinister. All creative energy previously spent on the 
arts and sciences is focused on devising ingenious methods of 
violence. Instead of asking for materials at this stage, the subject will 
begin to seek them out proactively. Records pertaining to the stages 
of exposure are detailed in the Addenda. 


Addendum 960-01: 
¢ Incident 01, est. date 20/07/ 


© SCP-960 found by amateur archaeologist 
south of the city of ; it is unknown exactly when he 
first touched the artifact, but family later reported that he 
began to ask them for a series of artistic and scientific 
supplies, despite his previous lack of interest in either 
field. Created by Mr. were the following: 


The huge man of Black Court shifted uncomfortably. “Err, okay, 
Soto.” 


“Now that the all-important business of takeout is reserved, can we 
finally move on to the urgent business of today?” 


“Fine.” 

“It is acceptable.” 

“Umm, okay." 

"No. | have a issue | want to discuss. It is of burning urgency." 


This time, Soto couldn't stop himself from audibly sighing. This 
whole "Glorious Revolution" business was turning out to be quite a 
bit more difficult than he first imagined. The root of the problem was, 
as ever, that he needed other people for it. And what a choice of 
companions did he end up with: 


First was Hubrus, the dimwit Black Court member. Stupid as the big 
furball was, he was still easily the most tolerable of the four. He was 
basically harmless, except for a strange fascination with some 
outsider creature he called "cats". Currently, he was wearing an 
enormous shirt with two of the mangy things plastered on it in bright 
colors. Soto had no idea how he got his hands on the garish thing. 


Second were the twins, Gorza and Uniel Dun Vent. They were minor 
nobility, and had an ego to match. While they were hard enough to 
deal with individually, together they were completely unbearable, 
mostly due to being in a constant state of one upmanship. Last 
week, Gorza started wearing this ridiculous Mender outfit he got 
from his art school, completed with two gag arms. He thought it 
made him look menacing. Naturally, Uniel came up with an even 
more ludicrous Watcher outfit the very next day. 


And then there was Glun. 
“| want a name change.” 


"Again? Come on, Glun, that’s the sixth name change you 
requested in four meetings! What’s wrong with it this time?” 


The fifth and final member of their company sat huddled on the 
opposite end of the table. Glun was an Eastlander, the only one 
Soto ever met. If all of them were as infuriating as the chubby little 
pyromaniac, he hoped never to see another. 


“It makes us sound like a bunch of pencil pushing bureaucrats.” 
“But you chose that name!” 


“Well it sucks now. | have a much better name: the Soldiers of the 
Oppressed Demographics. Makes us sound legit.” 


"Legit? Legit to whom? The Inquisition?" 
"I'm not going to discuss anything until we change the name." 
"Fine! Now can we please get on with today's agenda? Please?" 


There were no objections this time, to Soto's relief. "Alright then. 
First order of business: does anyone has any plans to overthrow the 
oppressive hierarchy subjecting the common man?" 


"We could burn down an orphanage." 
"...What?" 


"That would show them, you know. Make them understand we mean 
business." 


"| think you misunderstand the meaning of my ‘what’, Glun. It wasn't 
an "Oh please, elaborate" sort of 'what'. It was a "what the hell is 
your problem, you bloody lunatic" sort of 'what'!" 


"You never go with any of my ideas!" 


"That's because all of your ideas involve burning something! Next 
please!" 


Gorza raised his hand- one of the real ones. "I got an idea. I'll 
infiltrate the Shining Order using my disguise, gain the trust of its 
leadership, and organize a coup! The Empress would never expect 
an attack from her loyal Menders, she'll be entirely unprepared for it.