"A break may be taken once our business is concluded." Trevor 
groaned a bit, and looked to the side. There was actually a window 
in this office, for once, and it looked out onto a desert. The sky was 
blue, but a much darker shade than it was back home- the kind of 
blue you would see in a boy's bedroom. Also, there were three 
smaller suns outside. Rubbing his eyes, Tristan managed to tear 
himself away from the sight. 


"Back to business, then. Scrap silicon in exchange for access to 
your lithium mines..." 


The three Baileys stepped out of the presentation hall, laughing to 
themselves. "Dad was a real jackass, wasn't he?" 


Tom and Trev's pockets started shaking simultaneously. With a 
puzzled look, they took out their quintuple-encrypted smartphones, 
undid the codes, and frowned. 


"E-mail. From the top..." Tom opened his, and his jaw dropped. "Dr. 
Thomas Bailey, you are to report to Antarctic Site 1483 for 
reassignment, effective... tomorrow! What?!" 


"| got the same thing! Except I'm being re-assigned to 19!" Trevor 
stared at his phone, his eyes wide. Tom almost looked like he was 
going to cry. 


"Antarctic... that's the Keter-class sites. Jesus..." 


Tristan smiled weakly. "Guess this means we won't be able to do the 


"three of me from different universes" gag anymore, eh?" 


Tom stepped onto the plane to Antarctica, wondering what he had 
done to deserve this. Reassignment to the coldest place on Earth. 
He'd probably be stuck with Edison, cleaning a Keter's cage or 
something. 


With a despondent look on his face, he finally worked up the 
courage to read the dossier he had gotten regarding SCP-1483. He 
frowned at the first line of the description; how could an entire 
continent be a SCP? 


As he read the file, a smile started to grow. It looked like the explorer 
would have a brand new land to visit, now. 


|Hub| 


Attack of the Keter Skeeters! 


The date is April 2nd, 2012. The place: the quaint town of Sloth's Pit, 
Wisconsin. Observe. 


Here, we have a member of the SCP Foundation driving to work 
from his apartment in town. Site 87 is big enough to have all staff 
quartered on-site, but some prefer to live in town. The apartments 
are cheap, the food is good, and the people are friendly. 


The man in the car is Dr. Jason Hendricks. He is 38 years old, has 
greying brown hair, a birthmark on his left cheek in the shape of a 
trout, and is drinking a latte from Dunkin Donuts, despite the fact 
that he is lactose intolerant; he is unaware of that fact at the 
moment. 


He is also deathly afraid of insects. The next few days are going to 
be the worst of his life. 


Site 87, Entomology Department: 

Meet Dr. Mary Churchwell. She is 32 years old and one of the top 
entomologists in her field, but will never be head of the entomology 
department. She is a woman working in a male-dominated field, 
much like gynecology or women's studies. However, that might 
change today. 


On this particular day, Dr. Churchwell is carefully dissecting an 
instance of E-20053, a species of mayfly that is seemingly immortal, 
short of being squashed with a book. E-20053 can survive drowning, 
decapitation, fumigation, and even the cold of winter. 


"Son of a bitch, this thing is hard to cut through." Her scalpel was 
being dulled by the armor-like carapace of the mayfly. "Am | going to 
have to get permission to use a cutting laser again?" No matter how 
much she attempted to cut, it wouldn't budge. Eventually, she got 
the idea to lift up the armored carapace of the still-squirming mayfly, 


and dissect it that way; in the process, however, she ended up 
accidentally crushing it with her hand. "Mother of a Fuck." She 
cradled her face in her hand and sighed. 


Upon its death, the mayfly released a pheromone, similar to what 
wasps do upon being attacked. This pheromone is undetectable to 
humans, but to this species of mayfly, it can be smelled over 5 miles 
away. It was a call to arms, to swarm wherever it was that one of 
their brethren was killed. 


Mary didn't know this as she cleaned up the crushed specimen and 
had it sent to the lab. In less than half an hour, she would get a 
report saying that this mayfly had been erroneously classified; it 
was, in fact, a rather large mosquito. 


The time is now 7:16 PM. It is almost sunset. And with sunset 
comes the mosquitoes. And with those mosquitoes comes... 


DEATH! 


Winged, immortal death swooped down on Site 87. The guards 
outside are sucked dry in a matter of seconds, their bullets useless 
against the oncoming swarm! The greenhouses offer little shelter 
from the winged death, but thankfully, none are in them. 


Site 87 goes into lockdown. It will remain this way indefinitely, until 
assistance arrives from one of the nearby sites. 


Morning dawns on April 3rd. Everything is calm and collected; the 
swarm outside cannot penetrate the shields. The buzzing is 
incessant. Spare earplugs from memetics are sold for 5 dollars a 
pair, and all normal site operations are shut down in light of the 
lockdown. 


MTF-Sigma-10, the on-site MTF, begins to gear up. Codenamed 
Sloth's Arm, they are equipped with specialized pesticide grenades 
developed by entomology. They are also equipped with hand-held 
flamethrowers. 


The plan was to move out of the northern, eastern, and western 
entrances, equipped with full-body bite-proof armor and some 
livestock used for testing as bait. Once the swarm went for the 
livestock, they would let loose with their arsenal. 


They took the wrong bait. E-20053 only feeds on humans. 


Dr. Hendricks could only watch in horror from the monitors. as the 
majority of the task force was... neutralized by what would come to 
be known as the Keter Skeeters. 


On April 4th, tensions began to stir as the coffee ran out in the break 
room. Unable to go to the local doughnut shop for more, Site 87 was 
forced to drink decaf for the duration. This wasn't helped by the fact 
that the saltines had all been eaten, but at least the food in the 
cafeteria was plentiful. 


The first fistfight broke out between Dr. West and Dr. Matterson. 
West was theorizing that he could use a sonic pulse generated by 
E-5991 to kill the Keter Skeeters by liquefying their insides. 
Matterson pointed out that doing so would most likely destroy most 
of the site and kill everyone in it. There were words exchanged such 
as "You have no experience with it, | do!" and "It's unsafe to use 
around humans, look what it did to the test cat last week!" 


Entomology, meanwhile, had barricaded themselves in a laboratory 
to prevent themselves from being lynched. Word had leaked that a 
dead specimen of E-20053 was most likely what had attracted the 
swarm to this site. "Think of it this way!" Dr. Churchwell yelled 
through the door. "If we die, you'll never get rid of these damn 
things!" 


Dr. Hendricks had contented himself with staying locked in his 
quarters, constantly putting on bugspray and carrying a rather large 
flyswatter, just in case they got in. He only went out to fetch food 
and water, and to check security monitors for breaches. He hated 
bugs. He honesily did. 


On April 5th, it came to light that The Keter Skeeters reproduced 


through mitosis. The screams of frustration and horror were 
deafening. 


On April 6th, the chemistry department decided to turn on its fume 
hood for an experiment. Their rationale was that if they wanted to 
live life as normally as possible, they would have to continue 
experimenting. 


Unfortunately, turning on the fume hood meant opening ventilation 
to the outside. Letting toxic gas go out meant letting worse in. The 
last words of one of the poor souls in that lab were reported to be, 
"Argh, what a massive oversight, oh god my skin!" 


The Keter Skeeters spread throughout the site and were at the 
personnel quarters within 5 minutes. The swarm reached Hendrick's 
door, breaking it down through sheer pressure; in reaction, 
Hendricks flailed his flyswatter around madly. The carnage was 
legendary; not one inch of his room wasn't covered in insect 
intestines. 


Lifting his fly swatter into the air, Hendricks let out a roar. "Enough is 
enough! | have had it with these motherfucking skeets in this 
motherfucking site!" He ran out of the room and... 


Director Weiss, for the 8th time that meeting, smacked her forehead. 
She was starting to get a tender spot there. "Dr. Hendricks, enough. 
If you're going to describe your version of events, at least keep the 
genre consistent; you're moving into self-aware comedy territory." 


"B-but Director Weiss! | swear, they were all here! T-they were 
swarming all over the place, outside... there would have been a 
bloodbath if not for me! Or maybe a lack of one; | don't know which 
is worse!" 


"Dr. Hendricks, you ingested a hallucinogenic drug intended for one 
of the test mice in Laboratory 5. You locked yourself in your room for 
three days and ran around Site 87 with a giant novelty flyswatter, 
smacking the walls and the personnel at random. | have the right 
mind to demote you to researcher Level 2 for your actions." Director 


Weiss sighed, rubbing her face. "But | can't. You know why? 
Because god damn if the drug didn't work exactly as intended." She 
shook her head. "Consider this a warning, Dr. Hendricks. Be more 
careful when eating in the lab. In fact, don't eat in the lab at all in the 
future. Understood?" 


"Y-yes madam..." The timid doctor sunk in his seat, wondering why 
a gigantic fly was impersonating the director. "M-may | go now?" 


"Yes. If the hallucinations persist, please give yourself unto the 
swarm." 


"Sorry?" 
"Please report to the trauma center." 


"Right, okay, | will." Dr. Hendricks rose from his seat and ran out of 
the door of the Director's office. 


Director Weiss reclined in her seat and sighed. /t could be worse, 
she thought. At /east I'm not working at Site 19. 


|Hub| 


And | Feel Fine 


Dr. Margaret Reese was awakened by the sound of Joey Tempest's 
voice. Rubbing her face and standing up from her desk, she sighed 
at the loudspeaker outside of her office. Someone had decided to 
blast "The Final Countdown" by Europe on a loop, and it looked like 
administration either was having trouble shutting down the system, 
or just didn't care. "At least it isn't R.E.M.," she sighed. She looked 
at her clock and sighed; 9:00 on 12/20/12. 


She got up and shut her door, before settling back in her chair and 
looking outside; still no snow, despite being only five days to 
Christmas. That was weather in a nexus for you. In the spring it 
would rain Komodo dragon blood, in the summer the little league 
field would spontaneously combust, and in the fall... you got eggs. 
But come winter, not a damn snowflake in sight. 


There was a knock at her door. "Come in." 


Dr. Johnathan West entered the room, carrying a pair of foam coffee 
cups; the smell of hot chocolate wafted from them. He gave Dr. 
Reese a soft smile. "| thought you might like something to drink; 
you've been working non-stop. Everything all right?" 


Margaret Reese shrugged, rubbing her face and taking one of the 
cocoas. "One of the O5's is being paranoid about the 2012 thing. 
You know which one, I'd assume." 


West nodded, rubbing his head. "Anomalous Objects has been 
working on 120 potential XK-Class scenarios involving E-Class 
objects for the past three months; the thing back in October was just 
a nice distraction." 


Reese snorted. "Biology and its various subdepartments are tackling 
at least 400, and that's just at this site... theology's got the biggest 
workload, though, poor bastards. | heard Father Reynolds joke 
about joining the Horizon Initiative if he has to look at another false 


apocalypse thing." 


West looked incredulously at Margaret. "I no longer feel bad for 
Tristan Bailey. He was whining about having to visit fifteen universes 
to negotiate evacuation plans." 


"Meanwhile," Dr. Reese said, "Theology's got to deal with cross- 
referencing Meso-American calendars with Biblical visions of the 
apocalypse, as well as the works of Nostradamus, various 
prophecies of dubious content... oh, and they also have to forget 
how to speak Hebrew, apparently. Just in case." 


West rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, regardless, Happy 
Solstice... if we live to see it." 


"Same to you, John." 


"Dawn of Second Day... 48 hours remain..." Researcher Chris 
Hastings snickered under his breath, and drew odd looks from the 
rest of the staff in the break room. "What? The world's supposed 
end tomorrow. It seemed pertinent..." Hastings brushed his black, 
disorderly hair out of his eyes, while Agent Nicholas Ewell simply 
shook his head. 


"Get real, Hastings. Just because the Foundation's scrambling all of 
its resources trying to find an XK-Class scenario doesn't mean it's 
gonna happen." Ewell slathered some cream cheese on his bagel, 
wondering if he should try some of the fat-free stuff instead; he was 
starting to get, as Jackie from humanoid studies put it, "love 
handles". 


"| know, Nick. I'm jokin'- the stuff that's supposed to happen is way 
too far-fetched for this or any universe." Hastings put several 
packets of sugar in his coffee; he always thought the artificial 
sweetener was worse for you than the real stuff. "You hear about 
the one with the raspberry jam covering the western hemisphere?" 


"| thought it was boysenberry... whatever the hell that is." Ewell 
looked at his watch. "Speaking of berries, isn't the botany 
department starting those tests on E-672?" 


Hastings blinked. "That's today?" He slapped his forehead. "Crap, 
Partridge is gonna have my ass!" Hastings quickly chugged his 
coffee, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his briefcase, and 
ran for the door. 


"Well, it's official. The world is going to end because of Gangnam 
Style!" 


Akio Naguri blinked at Ryan Melbourne's outburst, looking up from 
his guide to memetic hazards and a book on the Aztec Calendar. 
"What are you talking about?" Ryan beckoned Naguri over to his 
cubicle across the aisle from him; on his computer screen was a 
rather disturbing image. 


"...the hell is this?" 


"Nostradamus meets PSY, apparently." Melbourne frowned. "Some 
people on the internet have been joking that Gangnam Style is a 
sign of the apocalypse, but this..." 


Naguri rubbed his face and sighed. "Is it bad that, compared to the 
other shit we're seeing today, this almost makes sense?" 


S & C Plastics went to sleep. 


At least, most of the site did. A few were still up, trying to figure out 
what, if any, potential XK-Class scenarios would play out tomorrow. 
Over 6000 had already been ruled out by the Foundation as a 
whole, most of them religious; all procedures were still in effect, and 
not a single Keter skip was out of place. 


At 23:50, Chris Hastings was observing E-672, a cluster of mistletoe 
growing on a yew tree within Greenhouse 3, in back of the S & C 
Plastics building. He yawned broadly, and looked at his watch. "10 
minutes to the end of the world..." He touched the bark of the tree, 
looking up at the mistletoe. "You aren't going to force me to kiss 
anyone, are you?" E-672 didn't respond because, of course, it was a 
plant. He looked at the placard on the tree underneath, essentially a 
tl:dr of its file. 


« SCP-731 | SCP-732 | SCP-733 » 


E-672 


* Specimen of Viscum album 

« Anomalous behavior first exhibited in 1632 

¢ Long-living- single strand has survived for over 
350 years 

* Shows physical activity only on winter solstice 

¢ Berries can be consumed safely, despite the 
toxicity of anormal Viscum album specimen. 


Chris had never tried the berries. They were supposed to be very 
good.