The third was too busy researching their preservation to deal with 
his existential crises. 


Four was propped up against a panel in an obscure recess of the 
labyrinth, its silver chain wrapped tightly around a broken control 
lever. 
And the ninth wasn’t a dog, because nobody knew what a dog was. 
« Old Kansas Sector: Part 5 

| Hub | 


Old Kansas Sector: Part 7 » 


Old Kansas Sector ~ 7: The Stairwell 


The Last Era: 13, August, 2119 AD 
Salina, Kansas, USA 


It was well past midnight and Allen was still descending into the 
basement. He flicked his flashlight on and off intermittently down the 
chasm of stairs, but he couldn’t make out the bottom or just who was 
crying. He had assumed that the SinDark building was just another 
victim of the Kansas Crunch. Grammie’s enforcer nagged him on 
whenever he got the urge to turn back. 


Allan sat down on the steps. 


“Man, I’m beat,” he said, rummaging through his sack for a bag of 
Federal Meat. “If you don’t mind Gramms, I’m going to have myself 
a bite.” He rose to his feet, felt for the railing in the darkness, and 
leaned over into the chasm. “Hey miss, ya hungry,” he said, 
squeezing the meat from the tube. The meat fell and landed with a 
squish somewhere down below. 


“Hey how ‘bout that? We’re close,” he said, tearing open another 
bag and wolfed down the pink, fibrous substance. “Wow, that’s good 
stuff.” 


He leaned over the railing again and flicked his flashlight on for a 
few moments, making sure not divide the beam of light and rouse 
the Shadowmen. Even so, he felt an uncomfortable tug in his wrist 
as the light flickered off. A sharp chill ran down his spine. “Sheesh. 
Guys are everywhere, ain’t they?” 


He shook his head and did a quick stretch before strapping his 
backpack on. “Let’s just get this over with. Hey lady! La-ady! I’m 
commin’ round the mountain here | come.” 


“Don't.” A voice called out, and Allen paused, blindly scanning the 


darkness. 


“Hey, you're not so shy then are you. Hey, you a monster? ‘Cuz | 
don’t like monsters. Well, | mean | have friends that are but in 
general you guys are just terrible-” 


“Shut up. Just shut up and leave.” The husky, feminine voice 
interjected. 


“I’m afraid | can’t do that,” he responded indignantly, rolling the heels 
of his feet quickly down the steps. “My gramms won’t let me.” 


“It's back,” the voice whispered. 


Suddenly the air became very chilly, and Allen felt a soft gust of 
wind blowing behind him. He put a hand to the railing and twisted 
around with his flashlight. “Gotchya!” he shouted, but the unamused 
face staring back at him did not reply. Seeing as it didn’t have a 
mouth, that would be difficult. 


He sat paralyzed for a good moment before taking his first steps, 
and as he tumbled backward he let out a high pitched trill of a 
scream. His words “Get away from me you!” tapered as he fell, 
rolling, and making failed grasps for the railings in the dark. He 
collided squarely with the wall at the stair’s interchange and 
awkwardly righted himself into a jog. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck, Fuck! 
Grammie you bitch!” he screamed. “This was a bad idea!” 


Grammie didn’t seem to care about the imminent danger, and began 
slapping him repeatedly. The enforcers shoved strip after strip of life 
advice into his mouth all the while. “Muufuuufuuuga!” he garbled as 
he hastily hobbled down the stairs. 


Finally, colliding with another wall, he realized the stairwell had 
ended. Lights in the area came on, and after Grammie stopped 
beating him, he saw the figure from before glaring at him from above 
the stairwell and a very human looking woman standing in the 
corner. 


“H-hi...” the dirty faced woman squeaked, showing the palm of one 
hand. “It was really nice to get to meet you. Sorry we won't get to 


FUJOMKLR] 
D-69601: "Ha. Still works, doc!" 


SCP-696: [PLEASE REFRAIN FROM 
TOUCHING MY KEYS WHILE | AM 
SPEAKING. IT IS RUDE. STOP.] 


D-69601: "I didn't..." 


SCP-696: [APOLOGIES, THE "STOP" AT 
THE END OF MY LAST MESSAGE WAS 
MEANT TO SIGNAL | WAS FINISHED 
RELAYING MY MESSAGE. SOMETIMES AS 
A WRITER | FORGET THE READER DOES 
NOT POSSESS ALL THE KNOWLEDGE AND 
FORESIGHT THAT | DO, AND | BECOME 
TOO ENTHRALLED IN THE ART TO 
EXPLAIN THE MINUTIAE. STOP.] 


D-69601: [Thats alright. | bet you dont talk to 
people much anyways. stop] 


SCP-696: [| DO NOT. IT IS VERY 
UNFORTUNATE. | AM AFRAID THAT MY 
DIALOGUE SUFFERS GREATLY DUE TO 
THAT. JUDGING FROM THE SLOW SPEED 
OF YOUR TYPING AND LACK OF 
PUNCTUATION, YOU TOO ARE WANT FOR 
CONVERSATION. WE SHOULD 
COMMUNICATE MORE OFTEN SO THAT 
WE BOTH MAY GROW AS WRITERS. 
THOUGH | WOULD REQUEST THAT NEXT 
TIME YOU USE RED INK. STOP.] 


D-69601: [Why red ink?] 


SCP-696: [IT IS FOREBODING. SOME MAY 
PREFER BLACK DUE TO ITS LIKENESS OF 
THE ABYSS, AS THEY THINK IT MAKES 

THEM SOUND MORE OMINOUS. | PREFER 


talk.” 


The area had a couch, a television, and a small kitchenette. There 
was a slightly ajar door leading into a bathroom and a windowsill 
with a lovely view of some concrete. He rubbed the side of his head 
and slowly got to his feet. “You live down here? That sucks.” 


The woman shrugged. 


Allen looked back up and saw the figure, its head swiveling in a lock 
on him as it glided down the stairs. As it neared the light he saw its 
numerous appendages moving over one another seamlessly as it 
navigated the wall. 


“That thing doesn’t want to kill me does it?” Allen asked as the thing 
reached the second stairwell. 


“Yes. Yes it does,” She said matter of factly, pointing to a corner 
filled with bones and ragged orange clothes. 


Allen pulled out his bat and prepared for the worst. 


“Like | said I’m really sorry about this, it’s really nice when you get to 
know it.” 


“Do your worst fu... dork!” He hollered as it launched over the 
railings and down onto him. Allen swung his bat and... nothing, the 
thing was suspended midair above him, letting out a low, hungry 
moan. “The heck?” 


The stairwell thing was being held by the throat by a very angry 
looking enforcer Hand. It was strange how Allen could tell when a 
hand looked angry. 


Grammie's hands juggled Allen’s bat in front of the thing’s face. 
“Grammy give it back! What the hell!” he shouted helplessly, just 
now noticing the elbows sticking out from his ears. “I thought you 


were in a corner or something! Get out of me!” 


But Grammie didn’t oblige, because the thing in the stairwell was 
very, very bad, and needed to be taught a lesson. It screamed as 


Lefty choked and Righty rained down savage blow after blow onto 
the stairwell monster's now disfigured face. Two more enforcers 
squeezed out of Allen’s nostrils and began tearing out the monster's 
limbs. The fourth hand passed a severed monster's leg to another 
hand that had just joined the fray from Allen’s mouth, using it as an 
improvised weapon, emancipating bright purple and red organs from 
the monster's torso. 


When all was said and done, two extra hands appeared...from 
somewhere, to help mop away the mess, and Allen screamed a 
muffled scream. 
« Old Kansas Sector: Part 6 

| Hub | 


Old Kansas Sector: Part 8 » 


Old Kansas Sector ~ 8: Gersha 


The Last Era: 13, August, 2119 AD 
Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA 


Gersha remembered running from someone, or something, when 
she was very, very little. She remembered the thing from the 
stairwell suddenly appearing and saving her. It carried her down into 
the basement and it cared for her for twenty years. It brought books, 
toys, and food when she was hungry. It never let any harm come to 
her, but it never let her leave. 


A utility closet in her room held the bones of two well-dressed, old 
ladies. 


She remembered the calls of the first intruder, and her eagerly 
calling back to him. She watched her captor skitter upwards. There 
were only five flights of stairs leading down to her room, but the 
thing felt the man’s feet as he walked down in the darkness, cradling 
his soles in the mimicry of step after step. Feeling him, gaining an 
understanding, and finally giving him a good look in the eye. 


In time, when she heard the doors to the stairwell open, all she 
could do was cry. 


She had seen the Occult Wars only through the television and when 
the Shadow Men manifested, she spent four years in the dark. 


She looked Grammie in the eyes during the Mass Broadcast and, 
luckily, she did nothing to incite her anger. 


When she was 16, the breach in the southwest was spilling out well 
into the wastelands of Texas, and the northbound refugees had 
been swallowed by the Living City. 


As she blew out the candles on her 20th birthday, the Witch of the 


North was wringing Kansas between her fingers. In the same year, 
the Practitioner of Oregon was sending his unliving cure eastward to 
meet the Coalition’s nukes in the Rocky Mountains. 


Her jailer brought her a bottle of wine when she turned 21. This was 
when the last of the SCP Foundation’s and MCF’s ancient, but 
reassuring broadcasts had stopped. When the Public Safety 
Foundation began airing in its place she wasn’t sure she could 
believe anything. A giant tank patrolling Mexico! A family of dragons 
in Antarctica! A city of clocks in Europe... and Africa was a toaster. 
She had to hear first hand from Allen about the crows and the new 
Kansas. 


“This ain’t Kansas anymore,” He said, tapping his baseball bat along 
the spires on the highway to Sylvan Grove. 


Allen returned to Grammie’s shop, Gersha in tow, the morning after 
the stairwell beast was killed. He got his liquor and his laptop but 
Grammie wouldn’t get out of his head. He knew he couldn't press 
the issue, and the added security didn't... it was nice to have. 
Besides, he figured, it’s not like he was a monster himself. 


Down the road Gersha saw smoke fuming and two shapes, one 
large and one small. A car had broken down. A nice car. 


“Oh, what ever could that be?” Gersha said excitedly, an awkward 
imitation of a certain character from an old film. She turned in a hop 
toward Allen and made a failed attempt to twirl her matted hair. 


Allen looked back at her, perplexed. “Nothin’ good. Good to assume 
things ain’t. And... jeez, get that smile off yer face. It’s like you ain’t 
never seen a person smile before.” 


“Oh, but smiling is my favorite!” She said, her yellowed teeth 
stretched to each ear. 


One surveyed the two in his binoculars. “Things are looking up! 
There’s the one, and not just one, but two! Hes got someone with 
him!” 


“Great. Shame about the car, though.” Nine said, trying to adjust his 
earpiece with a hindpaw. “I'll radio Seven in. He should arrive with 
the chopper.” 


“Hey, he hasn’t seen another lady apart from Five, has he? Sure he 
can pilot that helicopter with all those butterflies in his stomach?” 


Nine looked back at him blankly. “Five minutes. He was in Wichitaw 
talking to their Mayor. The bear. General public relations.” 


One looked back to him and squinted. “Which bear, now? | can’t be 
bitched to remember ten thousand different skips.” 


Nine sighed. “The Mayor is designated as SCP-1048, and then 

there’s the replicating grizzly regular bears, and then there's the 
Mayor’s teddy bears made out of regular bears and other teddy 
bears.” 


One nodded his head, seeing now that the young man and his friend 
had stopped walking. He absently felt for his weapon. “How’s that 
going for him? Bear reformed now?” 


Nine shook his head. “Just like the old documentation. It hasn't 
changed since its been free. The town is overrun. Bears feed off of 
the bears, new bear appears, the bears eat that bear... So they’re 
self sustaining. We shouldn’t have to worry too much about 
expansion, even if their Mayor is... unstable.” 


“What a time to be alive.” 


“| see you seein’ me, joker. We can do this all day.” Allen grabbed 
his elbow and raised his fist at the faraway figure. Grammie wasn’t 
familiar with that gesture. 


“Maybe he’s a friend!” Gersha ran forward, waving at One. One 
waved back and smiled. 


“Gersha you don’t know that thing’s human! Go on and get back 
here!” Allen yelled but she was well out of earshot. He broke off into 
a jog toward her. 


Just as he was closing in, he heard a sinking and rising, inhuman 
wail from behind the cornstalks on the north side of the road. His 
heart sunk in his chest. 


Not now. Not now. Go away. 


He turned away from the Walking Sticks emerging from the 
cornstalks, pointing their too-long arms in his direction. He saw 
Gersha ahead, shaking hands with a rather homely looking man 
wearing a lab coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Gersha turned and 
curtsied to something that looked a lot like one of the Bad Dogs he 
had so much fun killing, but it was covered in golden fur. It was cute. 


The PSF broadcast, the one with the rabbit and the hamster, rang in 
his head. 


IF IT’S CUTE, IT’S A KILLER. 

“You two back off or I’m gonna bash yer’... yer’ freakin’ heads in!” 
He shouted, eyes swelling. One just turned and grinned, placing a 
hand in his pocket. 


“You know, he’s volatile, One.” Nine said as Gersha rubbed his 
belly. “We may not need him alive if we have a female. We already 
have 17 sexually viable males at Yellowstone, not including 
members of staff.” 


One smiled and drew a purple revolver, steadying the barrel just 
slightly over Allen’s head. Allen froze. 


“You wanna talk, boy?” 
« Old Kansas Sector: Part 7 


Old Kansas Sector: Part 9 » 


| Hub | 


Old Kansas Sector ~ 9: Retribution 


The Last Era: 13, August, 2119 AD 
Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA 


Allen was surrounded by the Walking Sticks, staring down the barrel 
of One’s revolver. He was at a loss for words. Gersha had a 
confused smile on her face, but was reassured. One told her this 
was just a formality. 


“Hey buddy,” One said, his smile since faded, “I think you owe these 
fine people an apology.” 


Allen fumed as the Walking Sticks shuffled around him, pointing and 
wailing. He didn’t know there were so many, the throbbing crowd still 
being joined by others from behind the cornstalks. Grammie 
wouldn't help him here, not after what he did, and it seemed she 
didn’t have any complaint with the man pointing the gun at him. 


“What’s going on, though, mister?” Gersha asked politely. “Why are 
you pointing the gun at Mr. Allen?” 


One smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “Well your friend here 
massacred a good few dozen of these folks, for no apparent reason. 
Just went off and started beating their poor little heads in. | think in 
the old US of A they called that murder.” One spat on the ground. 
“Pardon me, miss.” 


Gersha’s eyes narrowed at Allen. 


“Come with me, ma’am.” Said Nine, “They’re going to need some 
space. You should count your blessings. We’ve just rescued you 
from a very dangerous man.” 


Allen scanned the crowd. They were getting closer, only forded by 
One’s line of sight. If he had the opportunity... he could disappear 


into the Sticks. 
One turned to Nine. “Make sure she doesn’t look.” 
Nine turned to One. “What in the devil is that?” 


Just as Allen began to pivot, a pair of Grammie’s enforcers rushed 
out of his ears and twisted around his arms and feet. 


“What the fuck!” Allen shouted, and a pair of nasal hands gagged his 
mouth. 


One raised his eyebrows. “Well, looks like it ain't human. So much 
for that, then.” He lowered his gun and crouched near Allen’s 
wiggling body. “What do you make of this, Nine? This look familiar to 
you?” 


Nine galloped over, tail wagging. “Oh yes, this is the storied 
SCP-517. The Fortune Teller. Though this is strange. Her 
appendages usually emerge from dark places, and require vision of 
the object proper to activate.” Nine lowered his paw and touched a 
hand. “Also, I’m surprised we’re not dead.”