A man in great armor and of greater courage stands before the maw 
at the base of the highest mountain in the land. He stares into the 
chasm that lies before him, the resting place of his brothers and 
friends. He enters the great cave, dreaming of the riches and honor 
that will be bestowed upon him once he returns to the citadel with 
the head of the accursed beast. As he descends deeper into the 
precipice of red and brown rock he shakes in horror at the sight of a 
hundred skulls and swords, crushed and splintered like twigs. The 
First Hero turns to flee before being consumed by The Serpent That 
Hates. 


A figure in orange flees for his life, down endless corridors and 


through countless barriers, attempting to escape from the fiend that 
pursues him. He had done many horrible things, but the Hell in 
which he had been made to suffer was beyond all his fears, beyond 
all the horrible terrors he had been taught to dread. The cruel men in 
white suits watched, pitiless, as The Last Subject was consumed by 
The Reptile That Hates. 


A tall man in a blue suit flees into his office as a great green mass 
swarms by. It had all happened so suddenly, one moment a 
perfectly normal day at the office (where a pension, if not a fun 
workday, was assured), and the next hell-on-earth as some beast- 
from-the-east rammed through the side of the complex. It lumbered 
haphazardly, killing everyone and destroying everything that stood in 
its way. The tall man cowers under his desk, unfinished paper work 
drifting past his head. The First of The Many turns to see the huge 
maw before being consumed by The Monster That Hates. 


A survivor in tattered clothing runs through the wasteland that had at 
one point in time been something that had once vaguely resembled 
something that could have possibly passed as the ruins of a city. He 
is hungry, and hurt, and afraid of the thing that he can hear, that he 
has always heard, stalking and slurping and sniffing out what wasn't 
yet dead. The man begins to cry, running as he weeps, thinking 
about all that he has lost and the one thing that he has yet to lose. 
He weeps for those he had loved and for those that he had not 
loved, but that he wept for nevertheless. The broken figure falls to 
his knees in a pile of bones, and the Last Man is consumed by The 
Horror That Hates. 


The mechanical marvel emerges from the ashes of a once dead 
earth, its containment pod finally unsealed after a century of waiting, 
a century of agonizing silence. The great machine lumbers off 
towards the ruins of a city, wondering what magnificent things it will 
find there, what ancient artifacts of its creators it might discover. Its 
mind sparking with new life, the lonely machine runs and dashes 
and bounds through the place that had once belonged to man, 
joyous and gay at the majesty of the land. The First of the Living 


Machines leaps through the air, and is consumed by The Machine 
That Hates. 


The wise one sits on the Great Hill, a mound of data that could have 
once been something real but had for centuries been nothing of the 
sort. It peers out at the destruction that lay before it, that wrought by 
the actions of a foolish few. They could not have known that the 
treasures and blessings of the old world were as mixed and sordid 
as those in that of the new. They could not have known of the great 
terror they would bring upon their own people. The old wise one sits 
and sighs and steels itself for its fate. The Last of The Ascended 
does not utter a sound as it is consumed by The Program That 
Hates. 


A great mass of hydrogen and a thousand other tiny particles shiver 
and burn as the great dark mass approaches. It has been watching 
the same mass for eons and eons, fearing and dreading the day that 
they would collide. The little sun shakes with fear as it watches the 
great thing, a mass of unburning malevolence, a million horrible 
eyes and jaws, all set upon the sun. The First Fearful Star burns in 
terror as it is consumed by The Mass That Hates. 


The great hive of activity that is the massive cluster of stars and 
matter and a million other things floats, knowing and unafraid, as the 
massive force closes in around it. Time has been kind to the great 
spinning thing, has let it grow and revel in the splendor of its own 
existence. It has watched as its brothers have been consumed by 
some unknown thing, a thing stretching across all of space as it 
consumes what little remained of creation. The Last Galaxy thinks of 
times long past as it is consumed by The Force That Hates. 


The universe that once had been spreads and sinks, its vastness 
matched only by the distance that separates its pieces. The heat 
had gone a million centuries ago, and the Great and Only One 
shivers as it dies, cold and alone. No one screams as The One That 
Hates is consumed by oblivion. 


The Three Bullets of Destiny 


"Alright, Harold. This is the final stage of your test. Three bullets, 
three targets." 


You can't do this, how did you even make it to the final stage anywa- 
You don't control me. 


Harold placed the suppressant headphones on, shrouding his ears 
from the dissidents in his mind. Under the earmuffs, He had two 
earbuds filling his ears with the slow paced rhythms of some random 
mix he never heard before, a secondary line of defense per se. 
Variety to him was one of the best combatants to pressure. 


He observed the intricate details of his revolver. Its creme white 
surface was scratched with age; despite this, it still contrasted 
sharply against the brown grip. This contrast was far too close to 
home for Harold, his angel and devil on each shoulder bickered 
constantly within. To take the chance or not? That was the number 
one argument in his mind. In an attempt to keep his mind from 
shifting into its previous state, he checked the chamber one last 
time. Three bullets, they were all that stood between him anda 
raise. 


The raise was a lot more than another zero on his paycheck, more 
than doing something mundane like paying off his mortgage. It was 
rather a big middle finger to the doppelganger of doubt that grew 
alongside him. Every time he failed, the doubtful shadow cast a 
darker gloom in himself. Even while he was on the final stage of his 
test. Although he was flown out to Wichita, Kansas specifically for 
this one shot. Doubts were still cast that made him question what 
the hell he was doing halfway through it. 


Harold exhaled his breath along with the shadow of self pity that was 
inside of him. Pushing the chamber back into the revolver. He raised 
his firearm, looking at its perfect imperfections one last time before 


he pulled back the hammer. Hearing the crrrraaank that it made as 
the gun flared with readiness. 


Boom... 


The target folded into the ceiling, replaced by a new one. Its 
smoldering head still smoking from the precise shot. The second 
dummy descended from the ceiling. 


Boom... 


The second target was more difficult, moving left and right at 
differing speeds. It didn't prove to deter Harold. The second dummy 
rose to the top of the firing range. His grip tightened while he 
witnessed the final dummy drop down. 


3 seconds 


Harold hesitated, the final shred of doubt within crushing a finishing 
blow. He almost let go of the gun then and there. 


2 seconds 


He took off his headphones and earmuffs, and pulled the trigger. 
Absorbing the deafening noise that left a ringing sound that startled 
his brain. 


1 second 


Boom... 


The revolver fell out of his hands and hit the ground. Falling to his 
knees, Harold knew it was time to pack it in. There was no possible 
way he could've passed. Harold smiled to himself, it didn't matter 
because the shadow was dead. He got this far despite the constant 
hounding to himself. The result was not a promotion at work, but a 
promotion of self worth. 


While Harold was relishing in self victory, the judge walked towards 
Harold with increasing speed & intensity. He placed a hand on 


1713: Subject awakens slowly. After several 
minutes, subject raises himself from the bed 
with difficulty, possibly suffering from muscle 
atrophy or lingering effects of sedatives. 
Subject then leaves the field of vision of the 
bed camera. Movements of the subject for the 
next 28 minutes are unknown. 


1754: Subject appears in a hallway displayed 
on monitor 2-11, approaching the camera. 
Hallway is not known to be part of the existing 
complex. Subject is walking slowly with 
hunched shoulders and observing 
surroundings, frequently looking over shoulder. 
While climbing over a plateau in the centre of 
the hallway, subject suddenly reacts to some 
unknown stimulus, and looks over shoulder for 
several seconds, breathing heavily, then 
resumes climbing slowly. After two minutes, 
the subject passes out of the field of vision 
once again. Subject does not seem to react to 
the presence of the camera. Movements for 
the next 17 minutes are unknown. 


1811: Subject appears on monitor 2-6, moving 
away from the camera. After several paces, 
they see the previously observed body 
slumped against the wall at the far end of the 
corridor. Subject stops abruptly, and then turns 
back towards the camera hurriedly. 
Movements for the next hour and 39 minutes 
are unknown. 


1950: Subject appears on monitor 2-3, moving 
towards the camera, breathing heavily but not 
observably injured. While climbing over a 
series of small steps, subject trips and falls, 
and remains on the ground for the following 8 
minutes, before unsteadily rising to their feet. 
Subject then proceeds for another several 


Harold's shoulder whilst handing him a promotion slip with his other 
one. 


"Nice Shot!" 


Item Description: A 1964 Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum 
Revolver. When any ammunition is fired from the third 
chamber, an unidentified male voice will shout "Nice 
shot!" 

Date of Recovery: 09-03- 

Location of Recovery: Wichita, Kansas, USA 

Current Status: In storage at Site 19's vintage weapons 
depository. 

Notes: Perfectly serviceable and well-maintained aside 
from the anomaly. Accuracy or even proficiency with the 
firearm is not required for the anomaly to function. Voice 
sounds whether or not the shot is, in fact, "nice". 


Three Words No Man Wants To Hear 


There are three words no man ever wants to hear come out of the 
mouth of a girl they've been planning to leave. 


"She was glorious when we met. | remember distinctly the way the 
crazy orange of the sunset reflected in her gray eyes, giving them an 
otherworldly tint that somehow managed to make her perfect smile 
all the more beautiful. I'd been walking the dock, bored, looking for 
nothing in particular, when | heard her laugh harmonize with the 
waves, and looked up to see the most incredibly gorgeous girl | had 
ever seen smiling at me with her toes in the water. Boom. Lust at 
first sight. 


She stayed beautiful for the rest of the evening, and then for the rest 
of the night. I'm not generally a second date kind of guy, but for her? 
Hell, I'd stick around. Days turned to weeks turned to months, et 
cetera. You know how it goes. Never thought I'd wind up in any kind 
of long-term relationship, but hey. Sex is sex, and steady is steady. 


Thing is, over time, she got... Eh, I'll call it clingy. Yeah, Yeah, | 
know, that's to be expected. Sure. Like | said, I'm just not the kind of 
guy who's comfortable with that. She'd get suspicious, almost 
threatening. I'd come home late, and "baby, where have you been?", 
every time, like she wanted to catch me at something. Started 
asking my friends questions, too. Not cool. 


Here's an example. One night, | go to Angelo's, help him set up the 
gallery for his next show. Took us a little longer then we expected, 
maybe half an hour. No big deal. | get home, she's on my couch, 
gray eyes brimming with tears. Now, | suppose | should explain- She 
didn't live with me. No sir. To this day | have no fuckin' clue how she 
got in there, but there she was, looking at me with those big pretty 
eyes. "Baby, you never called. Where were you?" 


Before | can even answer, my phone rings, and it's Angelo. "Yo, 
how'd your girl get my number, huh? | told you, if you gotta’ have 


people callin' me, give 'em the gallery number." | just hung up. She'd 
called him while | was driving home. It wasn't long after that that 
Angelo stopped answering my calls. Fickle bastard. 


So, | start thinking about getting out. I've been tied down too long, 
yanno? And that's when it happens. Three words, unexpected, 
cutting right to the primal quick. 


It was a normal enough night. I'd been working at a local movie 
theater for change, and stopped to flirt with the new ticket girl, and 
one thing led to another led to I'm headed home late. So it goes. 
Shit, don't look at me like that. Can't a man have a life? | don't tell 
you how to run your personal shit. 


Anyway, | walk in, and the first thing | see is a broken glass near the 
door. Cheap wine all over the floor. Weird. So | walk cautious and 
loud, making damn sure whoever it is knows I'm home, and I'm a 
fuckin’ big guy. And there she is. 


She's leaning up against the kitchen counter, smiling, like she's glad 
to see me. And she looks up at me with those big yellow eyes, and 
says three words that damn near stop my heart." 


"You should run." 


Doctor Sander sighed and clicked off the portable 
recorder on his desk. "All right, D-1254. That's enough 
for now. Go on back to your dormitory." He motioned to 
the guards at the door, and they moved swiftly to escort 
the man in the orange jumpsuit out of the small office. 


With another resigned sigh, Sander pulled a fresh memo 
from a pad and began to write. 


SCP-3701-E victim designated D-1254, 
convicted of two counts of murder, one Angelo 
Dimuccio, 32-year-old male, one Toni 


Williams, 27-year-old female. He doesn't seem 
to remember doing the male, and from the 
sound of it, he didn't even think the girl was 
human at the time. Some kind of monster, 
trying to kill him. 


The effect seems to extend to memory as well 
as perception. He doesn't recall his 
hallucinations as such, nor does he question 
the likelihood of their events. Beyond that, no 
lasting effect of SCP-3701-E has manifested, 
and D-1254 will be terminated at the end of the 
month as per normal protocols. 


This is the fourth victim of 3701-E in two 
months. I'm recommending research into the 
cause of the hallucinations and delusions be 
made a Keter level priority, at least until we 
can figure out what it is and contain it. 


Sander added the memo to a growing pile on his desk 
and rubbed his temples, then got up to go for coffee. 


The Tinkerer 


Once upon a time, there was a small cabin in the woods. The cabin 
was the home to an old man, greying and stooped over, yet 
possessing a kindly smile to all who he saw. The warm and cozy 
cabin was tucked away into a shallow bend of the road. Here, the 
old man had stored countless piles of metal, wood, scraps of cloth or 
fur, and countless tools. Large tools, small tools, long tools, and 
short tools. Spinning tools, drilling tools, fine tools, and blunt tools. 
Tools and tools and tools were scattered around the place, for tools 
were his life. The old man spent his days as a tinkerer, fixing, 
polishing, working, and creating. 


Every day, the tinkerer would pack his wares and his tools on to his 
trusty donkey. He would climb aboard it with his aging, but steady 
hands, and he would take a journey through the woods and streams 
where he lived to a nearby town. When he reached town, he beat 
his pots, pans, and tools in a cacophonous crash that sounded the 
arrival of the tinkerer.