The Foundation, having kept this scourge of a reality at bay for decades, 
understood their existence. Even though they could not stop their arrival, 
they could drive them back. The Veil shattered, but humanity strengthened. 
United under a common cause, we fought back. 


Two weeks ago, we won. Their effects still haunt us, but we won. 


"Okay, now you see where it attaches to its ass? Rip that piece off." 


"We shouldn't be here, the Foundation quarantined this place for a 
reason." 


"It's just the Bug corpses, dude. I'm friends with one of their MTF 
guys. No plague over here, they just haven't cleaned up the dead 
Bugs." 


"Gary, you don't have friends and none of this looks like it has an 
ass." 


"Dude, right here! There's fuckin' brown goo coming out of there, it's 
obviously an ass." 


"It's obviously disgusting." 

"Fine, you baby. I'll do it myself... There! See? Easy." 
"Congrats, now what do | do with this giant Bug's ass-flap ?" 
"Feel it, do you feel that?" 


"Feel it? Gary, is this a sexual thing? Oh god, this is a sexual thing 
isn't it?" 


"Stu! For the love of god can you stop being such a twat and listen! 
Can you feel it vibrating? Every few minutes it like, wobbles." 


"Holy shit... Is this thing still alive?" 


"Nah, dude. It's wobbling, with the Nexus!" 


The oceans were tainted at the coastlines, marine life was severely crippled. 


The Bugs could not survive with our sea, so they began swapping ours for 
theirs. We managed to stop the spread of the blight, leaving numerous areas 
fit for desalination, but there were no longer any beaches. Only a 
treacherous, caustic deep, which required specialized equipment to 
traverse. 


They stole a part of our humanity that we took for granted. Until we find a 

way to reverse the blight, our future generations will never experience the 

serene beauty of a coasiline, the caressing touch of our mother nature by 
her oceans waves. 


"We're going TOWARDS the Nexus?" 


"Hahaha yeah!" 
"Gary, this is nuts." 


"Totally, but check this out. Hold the flap in front of you with the side 
facing the Nexus." 


"The fuck? It's like, pushing back." 

"Every time the Nexus pulses right?" 

"Yeah..." 

"And the closer you get to the Nexus, the more it pushes back." 
"So how do we— Dude what's the point of all this?" 


"Just keep following me, and hold it to your side, with the tip facing 
forward. See? Almost no resistance at all. Like an arrow through the 
air." 


"What about the Foundation patrols?" 


"Like | said, I've got a friend on the inside, he got us a way in. Plus, 
he's joining us." 


Two friends mourn the loss of their loved one. When she lived, the three of 
them were friends. Since early childhood, they were one another's support. 
There was nobody else. 


Long before she was lost, one became her husband and the other their 
closest friend. The three were inseparable, and together they acquired the 
same love of the ocean. They moved to the coast so they could be by the 

sea. They often said that the three of them felt like an island, three 
individuals nobody understood. So when they found the one thing that loved 
them back, the sea became the fourth member. The mother who always 
comforted, celebrated and loved them, as they caught her tides. 


They were a family. Until she was taken away. 


Not taken away, replaced. Her existence replaced with that of another, 
something not of this world. They had no chance to say goodbye, they had 


no intention of welcoming her distortion. As they watched the invader that 
replaced their loved one die, they hoped it would bring their loved ones 
back. 


It did not. 


"Oh shit, there he is. Yo! We're over here!" 
"Is that the MTF guy? Wait, is he carrying a butt-flap too?" 


"Yeah, that's Marvin, he kind of hates me but | managed to smuggle 
him some good weed so he's chilled." 


"You're still dealing? After the apocalypse ?" 

"SHIT YES I'm still dealing! The end of the world is stressful, bro." 
"Uh, Gary, your new friend has company." 

"Fuck, get down!" 

"Fantastic." 


"Wait... Dude, you see that? Behind his back, he's waving us 
through." 


"This smells like a trap, Gary." 


"No way, | told him I'd rat him out to his captain if | don't get this 
favor." 


"Hey, it looks like they're turning around..." 
"Fuckin Marv! Coming through with the win." 


"Why's he going with them, though? | thought you said he's joining 
us." 


"Damn, looks like he distracted them or some shit... Oh shit 
hahaha." 


"What?" 


"He just mouthed 'YOU OWE ME ASSHOLE' haha. Let's go, we're 
almost there." 


In two highly secured buildings, separated by two hundred miles, 
two people are sitting in empty rooms. 


One is a highly experienced veteran, seasoned by countless 
encounters with the unexplained. The other, a young woman, hastily 
recruited to help save the world. 


The veteran receives a notification on his computer. He has been 
added to a room in his Secure Chat Program. 


The old man types: 


ADDED TO ENCRYPTED 
ROOM BY RESEARCHER 
T CROWLER 


What is it? 


In regards to? 


Researcher Crowler, if it was happening again, I'm sure 


we'd have all known it by now. 


Elaborate. Like an electrical current? 


They're transporting dead Bug parts? For what? Some 


sort of rhino-horn/aphrodesiac/Bug-drug trade thing? 


Tamara, just skip the clinical bullshit and say what you 
need to say. 


Two old friends stand in an abandoned parking lot. One is a joker, taking 
nothing besides his family to heart. The other, a mourner, only wishing to 
lament his loss. Nearby stands the bringer of their tragedy, the Nexus. 
Pulses oscillate from the aperture, making their hair stand on end, 
reverberating through the chitinous remains in their hands. 


The joker jumps, he demonstrates to his mourning companion that the very 
thing that brought them so much pain could help them soothe it. He steps 


August 


September 


October 


November 


December 


Drama 


Science Fiction 


War 


Historical 


Horror 


gangster. 

Upon entering 
SCP-855, researchers 
became highly 
aggressive and began 
insulting and arguing 
with those nearby. 
Entry to SCP-855 was 
strictly forbidden, as 
sensors indicated no 
oxygen was present 
within. 

Sounds of conflict 
were audible from 
within SCP-855. 
Security were called in 
to prevent a repeat of 
the "Action" incident. 
A World War 2 era 
tank subsequently 
emerged from 
SCP-855 and fired 
upon security, killing 
three (3) of them. Said 
tank vanished thirty 
(30) seconds later. 
Recording from 
camera drone sent 
into SCP-855 showed 
a portrayal of Rome at 
the height of the 
Roman Empire. 
Further analysis 
revealed several 
historical inaccuracies, 
as all individuals were 
observed to speak 
clear English, some 
with obvious accents. 
A heavy-set man with 


on his makeshift board, turns it toward the Nexus and is caught by a pulse, 
sending him soaring through the air. 


The mourner watches his friend do the impossible, seemingly surfing on 
reality itself. His friend, carving through the air, laughing and screaming with 
glee. Ironically, it just did not seem real. 


He had barely even noticed himself stand and prepare himself when he 
realized the ebb and flow from the Nexus was familiar, not unlike the gentle 
rocking of the ocean. 


Except, he hated it, he could never grow to love the thing that took his wife 
away. He despised the nostalgia it gave him, but he'd be damned if this 
fucking thing didn't owe him one moment of happiness. 


For the first time in ages, he stood up, stepped on his board and caught a 
wave. 


As Stu ripped through the air, he spotted his friend standing below, smiling. 


He smiled back, and whispered under his breath: 


"Casandra would have loved this." 


And with them being so close to myself and the lost ones, | wish | could tell 
them that | do. 


A Little Chat 


Drip, drip, drip. Blood fell from Harold Jacobs' shattered nose onto 
the polished, tiled floor. He feebly tried to look up as he heard a 
rasping cough, but Valley's thugs did their job too well. A ticking 
noise came from the man restraining Jacobs. Tick, tick, tick, tick, 
tick. Valley coughed again, and Jacobs saw the old, wizened figure 
nod to the ticking man. His voice was like his cough, hoarse and 
sudden, as if every sentence that came out of Valley's mouth could 
be the last. With his current state, that was probably true. 


"Show our guest to his seat, Mr. Tick." 


Jacobs was surprised at Mr. Tick's strength as he slammed him into 
the wooden chair. He had scoffed when Mr. Carter told him about 
Valley's manservant. The man was diseased, for god's sake, how 
could he be a threat? As Jacobs tried to gaze at Valley through the 
ruined remains of his left eye, he realized how wrong he had been. 


"Mr. Jacobs." Valley's tone was mocking. Using his stick-like arm, he 
gently placed one of Mr. Carter's notes on the table. "You are here 
to cheat me?" Next, he placed a tiny camera in front of him. "Or to 
spy on me?" As he placed the last item on the table, Jacobs knew 
that he was as good as dead. 


"To kill me?" said Valley, inspecting Jacobs' gun. "A good effort, I'm 
sure, but Mr. Tick does not miss a tick." Then he laughed. It was the 
most awful sound Jacobs had ever heard. Valley stopped and 
grinned at him with rotting, yellow teeth. A drop of blood slid down 
from his cracked lips from the exertion of the act. "Who are you 
working for?" 


Jacobs remembered what Mr. Carter had told him to say. His voice 
was a whisper, it was a miracle he could even talk with the beating 
he has taken. "Global Occult Coalition... mass liquidation of known 
threat entity..." 


"Liar," snapped Valley. Mr. Tick's hand closed around Jacobs'. He 
had time to look up for a moment before Mr. Tick squeezed. Jacobs 
screamed in agony as he heard the loud crunching from what used 
to be his hand. "Who do you really work for?" 


Jacobs was sobbing now. The pain was unbearable. "Marshall... 
Carter and Dark!" he screamed. Mr. Tick let go. 


Valley looked worried. "They know of my operation here?" 


"Yes." Jacobs struggled not to look at the crushed lump at the end of 
his arm. 


"This is...highly unfortunate. We will have to think carefully of our 
next move, | think. Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. Mr. Tick, you may kill him 
now." 


Jacobs opened his mouth to protest, but was cut short as Mr. Tick 
grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the table. He was 
killed instantly and the table collapsed from the heavy impact. A 
cleaner stepped forward and began to wipe Jacobs' brain matter off 
the wood as two members of security threw his body off the balcony. 
A few seconds later, there was a far-off splash. 


"Our old associates have discovered us, it seems," said Valley. 
"Yes," said Mr. Tick. 


"Nevertheless, | believe we can continue our operation here. There 
must be some demand for those things." 


"Yes," 


"We'll need to raise security, Mr. Tick. | don't want this happening 
again. I'll run out of tables." 


"Yes." 


A Working Lunch 


"Wait in the car. I've got this one," Harken said. 


Kramer fixed him with a cold, hard gaze from her oscilloscope-green 
eyes. "| can't back you up from out here,” she said. 


"If | need your brand of backup, it means that I've fucked up badly 
enough that getting killed would be preferable to telling the O5's 
what happened. Wait in the damn car. I'll be back in half an hour." 


Kramer turned away from him and looked out the passenger side 
window at her reflection in side of the burgundy-red minivan in the 
next parking space over. Her internal cybernetics whirred and 
clicked as she moved. Fingers with too many joints flexed and 
relaxed, inch-long razor-edged blades snapping in and out from 
under her fingertips. She looked like a tensing cat getting ready to 
spring. She always did. 


Harken liked Kramer, he really did, but his partner and fellow agent 
was a hammer who saw everything around her as a nail. Some 
situations, like this one, needed a little more finesse. Thankfully, 
finesse was what he did. "Don't worry about it," he said. "This should 
be simple." 


A man in a dark blue uniform, wearing a waist-length cape, opened 
the front door for him as he approached the front door of the hotel. 
Harken strode past him straight to the elevators, showed the 
bellman the black card with the gold lettering and the fractal pattern 
along the edges. The bellman nodded and touched a control on the 
sixth elevator, the one that never operated except for a very select 
few. 


Though the hotel had thirty floors, there were only two buttons in this 
elevator. He pressed the top button and checked his pockets for his 
smokes. They were still there. Thus reassured, he leaned back 
against the wall and whistled a jaunty tune as the elevator headed to 


the thirty-first floor. 


The elevator doors opened, and Harken was faced with a massive 
man with biceps the size of footballs, who looked like he could pop a 
man's head like a pimple. The giant waved a scanning wand over 
the agent's body, frowned when the wand beeped. Harken very 
carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Zippo. "Just 
this,” he said, flipping the lighter open and igniting the flame. "For 
my smokes." 


The giant shook his head and held out a small silver tray. Harken 
nodded and left his lighter behind. "I'll want it back on my way out," 
he said, with a small smile. The giant seemed unamused. 


Past the doors was a dining room with white walls and marble-tiled 
floors. In the dining room was a cadaverously slender man dressed 
entirely in white. He held a silver fork and knife in his delicately 
fingered hands, and he was cutting into a grilled chicken breast: 
small, precise pieces which he transferred to his mouth and chewed 
with all the delicacy of a ballet dancer. There was a crystal goblet in 
front of him which, Harken knew, contained distilled water. Distilled 
water was the only thing Mister Cutridge ever drank. 


"Agent Harken," Cutridge said, as he put down his knife and fork 
and patted his lips with a silk napkin. "| was wondering when | would 
see you again." 


"Cutridge," Harken said. He flopped down into one of the high- 
backed chairs and pulled out his smokes and a book of matches. 
"How goes it?" 


"It continues as well as can be expected. My division is expecting to 
acquire some new merchandise in the near future, for which | 
believe | have your own people to thank." 


"Not my division," Harken said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a 
long drag and blew a big puff of smoke into the air. "No blood off my 
back. Ask me if | care." 


"You may not care about the losses suffered by your company, but | 
do care about you smoking in my home. | dislike..." 


"Oh, bite me, Cutridge. I've had the shittiest week of my entire life. 
The least you can do is let me have a smoke while we shoot the 
shit." Harken took another deep drag of his cigarette and blew a 
smoke ring at Cutridge's face, was gratified to see the man screw up 
his face trying not to cough at the acrid vapors. 


"Very well," Cutridge said, in a brittle, angry voice. "I will allow you to 
indulge this once. But speak quickly and leave even more quickly. 
My patience is limited tonight." 


"Then I'll make it simple. My guys have taken a hit. A HARD one. 
Simply put, there's blood in the water, and the sharks are circling. 
Now, | know you've been looking at a little warehouse downtown 
filled with all sorts of fun things that could make a certain Mister 
Cutridge very popular with his higher-ups at Marshall, Carter, and 
Dark. | know you've mentioned this to said bosses in the past. | want 
you to show some prudence. Keep your boys at home for this one. 
Keep quiet. Don't stir up trouble. The artifacts that got loose are fair 
game. Don't get greedy and try to set loose a few more."