even any men or boys left, just the girls.” 


"Captain Soldatov, do you remember when we retook 
Berlin?" 


"Yes, sir, | do. | was there when Comrade Volkov planted 
our flag above the Reichstag, remember?" 


"Do you remember there being any survivors, in the 
lowest levels of the Berlin safehouses?" 


"No, | don't — Alexei, you can't mean —" 


"Look at them, Sergei. They aren't even human. Their 
mothers and fathers burned the surface. They forced us 
into this armor, made us into monsters. They stole our 
childhoods, and kept us away from the sun for nearly a 
decade. We have been fighting for nearly all our lives. 
And these are the people who did this to us." 


"No, Alexei, you look at them. These are not soldiers, 
they're civilians. Most of them are children! We can't do 
this.” 


"Captain Soldatov, | would hold my tongue if | were you. 
You are an officer of this army and are sworn to follow 
orders, regardless of cost." 


"Even this cost, sir?" 


"Even this cost." 


St. Thomas Aquinas Hospital and Asylum for the 
Paranormally Disabled, Austin, Texas, March 18, 
2004: 


The old man is wrapping up his story, leaving out the 
least-pleasant details, waiting for the opportunity to 
resume the game. The girl sits, enthralled. 


"Eventually, we reached the lowest level of the bunkers, 
where we found and destroyed their command center." 


AND THAT'S IT? 
"Yes, that's it." 


WILL YOU EVER TELL ME HOW YOU GOT TO THE 
OLD PLACE? WHERE | MET YOU? 


"| honestly couldn't tell you. | just sort of woke up one 
morning, and there | was." 


WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM? THE OTHER 
DOCTORS? THE ONES FROM BEFORE? 


"They're still doing their jobs, little one. But now they 
don't need to keep us locked up inside cells, so those 
doctors don't need to stay in those buildings, either." 


WHY? 


"We used to be a secret. You keep secrets, don't you, 
dorogoy? We were like that. But now we're not." 


WHY? 

"The old doctors felt the world wasn't ready for us. But 
something happened that meant the world would have to 
have us, whether they were ready or not." 


WHAT HAPPENED? 


"| couldn't tell you, dorogoy. Some things are still kept 
secret. Look. The orderly is back from his coffee break." 


Somewhere in Wisconsin, 11 October, 1989: 


Hungry, tired, unsupplied soldiers are being hit with 
mortars again. This time, there is no cover to hide within, 
no trees, no rocks. Their commander is desperate, and 
feels he has no choice. 


"This is the commander of the 112th Infantry Battalion, 
22nd Infantry Division! | am asking the commander of the 
American unit to cease shelling us in exchange for our 
surrender! You have us! We are out of ammunition and 
medical supplies! Please stop the shelling! | repeat, 
please stop the shelling!" 


"Holy shit, Lieutenant! We bagged an entire battalion!" 
"That we did, Sergeant. Have your men go through and 
disarm them. Then find out who the commander is. I'd 
like to know just who we've captured." 


"Yes sir! You heard him, boys. No more fighting for these 
fellas. Pull the guns off." 


"Sergeant Crowley, it looks like this one's a major! | think 
he's the commander!" 


"Brunson, you speak and read Ruskie, don't you? Find 
out what our friend the Major's name is." 


"Uh, the tats say 'Belitrov,' sergeant." 
"Brunson, are you shitting me?! You better not be lying!" 


"No, Sergeant! This guy's name is Major Belitrov, | 
swear!" 


"Brunson, you ignorant son of a bitch, don't you know 
who that is?! We captured the goddamn Terror of 
Toronto, the Jack of Spades! Someone go get the 
Lieutenant, and someone else get the Colonel on the 
radio!" 


"Oooooh boy. A lot of people are going to be happy we 
found you. My colonel tells me that there'll be 
promotions, honors, and most importantly, leave, for us 
when we get back to civilization. Do you know what that's 
like? Civilization? Probably not, you filthy fucking 
commie. Is that why you ordered the execution of over 
200 civilians, why you destroyed one of the last and 
largest safe houses on the entire North American 
continent? Because you don't understand what 
civilization looks like? You know, | was born ten years 
after the war started. My little sister is never going to see 
the sky because your people tried to destroy mine with 
atom bombs. Well, let me tell you something: we 
Americans don't quit, we don't surrender, and we sure as 
hell don't murder innocent civilians!" 


"Lieutenant Finn, Sergeant Crowley was wondering what 
we're gonna do with the other prisoners. We don't have 
enough medical supplies to take care of them." 


"Come with me, you piece of shit. Private, where is 
Sergeant Crowley keeping them?" 


"Over here, sir." 


"What the hell are you doing?! We surrendered! God 
damn it, no!" 


SCP-990: I'm not the bad guy here. 


Dr. : | wasn't aware that there was a "bad guy” 
involved. 


SCP-990: Oh, there is. 
Dr. : Who? 
SCP-990: [another long pause] SCP 


Dr. : There is no SCP with that designation, and 
there won't be for some time. 


SCP-990: Well of course not. She hasn't even been born 
yet, much less classified by your Foundation. 


Dr. : Is this another prediction? 
SCP-990: This is your wake-up call. 


At this point Dr. was awakened by his alarm clock 
and proceeded to transcribe the interview. 


« SCP-989 | SCP-990 | SCP-991 » 


Austin, Texas, March 20, 2004: 


His game and his visit long since finished, an old man 
lays on the bed in his cheap apartment, staring at the 
ceiling, unable to sleep. He can still feel a lump of metal 
next to his heart, hanging where it was when the 
Engineers bound him into his armor. It was meant to 
bring him good luck. He still doesn't know whether it has. 
He wonders if whatever gods there are will forgive him, 
when his time of judgment comes. 


Chapter 2 
"Hey First Sergeant Slate?" 
"Yes?" 


"Sergeant Peridot was saying that you were born before 
the War. Is that true?" 


"Yes, it is." 

"So?" 

"So what, Private Steele?" 
"Can you tell us about it?" 


"Yeah, First Sergeant, tell us what it was like before the 
War." 


The armor prevents First Sergeant Slate from sighing as 
a normal person, a Skinny, would, but the lower-ranked 

soldiers understand the meaning behind the radio static 

their transceivers momentarily pick up anyway. 


"Ok, I'll tell you about the old world, but first, you have to 
answer a question. How loyal are you to me?" 


"First Sergeant, what kind of question is that? You've 
gotten everyone here out of more trouble than | like to 
think about. We'd do anything for you." 


"If you had information that could get me court-martialed, 
information that could get me removed from the Army or 
even executed, would you cover it up?" 


"First Sergeant, what the hell are you talking about?" 


"Corporal Goldman, | want you and Steele to answer that 
question. Would you lie to protect me from a court- 
martial?" 


Their radio silence is almost a physical presense, 
something that can be cut with a knife. Eventually, they 
both speak, almost synchronized. 


"Yes." 


"Very good. How much do you want to know? What do 
you want to know about?" 


"Well, Corporal Cooper was saying that the sky used to 
be blue everywhere, not just way down south, like when 
we were in Texas." 


"Yes, that's true." 


"And there were trees everywhere, and it would rain all 
the time?" 


"Yes, both of those are true, too." 


"Is it true that the trees used to be green, like our 
armor?" 


"Yes. Are you just going to ask trivial questions, or are 
you really going to ask me something, Steele?" 


"What Private Steele is too afraid to ask, First Sergeant, 
is whether its true you volunteered, and why." 


"Is this true?" His hesitation gives it away. "Yes, Private 
Steele, whoever told you that | volunteered is telling the 
truth." 


"Why though, Sarge?" 


"It's a long story, but we've got time..." 


| was born in 1940 to a fisherman and his wife. | never 
knew my father; he was drafted up into the army and 
sent to the War — the War before, not this one — and 
killed on one of the islands as the Americans advanced 
through the Empire. Yes, that's right, I'm Japanese. My 
mother insisted | take my step-father's last name, but | 
will get to that. 


A young girl is listening to her mother tell a bedtime 
story. Bombs are falling on the other side of town, setting 
the town alight. They are already inside the subway, as 
safe as they could be, given the circumstances. 


"You have to be brave like the Onna-Bugeisha, little one. 
The old warrior princesses. When there was threat of 
war at home, they didn't cry. They stood proud, and 
fought, just as their husbands would fight in faraway 
places. They would stand with their sharp naginata and 
fight the enemy as they came. You have to be brave, 
too." 


"Mother, where is father?" 


"Like I've told you, sweet one, he has been taken in by 
the Army. He is a true warrior, like the ones of old. He 
will fight for our Emperor until this war is over and we 
have won." 


"Okay." 


My mother must have been a very forward-thinking 
woman. She didn't tell me the old stories about brave 
Samurai facing great enemies and horrific monsters, or, 
when she did, she changed all the warriors to women. 
Onna-Bugeisha, "warrior princesses," she called them. 
She'd tell me, when American bombers were overhead, 
that | must be a strong little warrior princess as well. | 
think this had a great impact on my later choices. Yes, | 
am a woman. No, women are not allowed in the Army. 
This is why | asked whether | had your complete loyalty, 
Goldman. 


News has just been delivered. A young soldier, formerly 
a fisherman, has given his life honorably for his Emperor. 
The man who delivered the news told the fisherman's 
wife that he fell on a grenade in an effort to save his 
comrades. 


The honorable conditions of his death do nothing to 
prevent nor lessen the sobbing. 


Several months later, the news that the Emperor has 
surrendered, for fear of a Soviet invasion and for fear of 
American atomic weapons, only puts salt on the wound 
of a woman who, progressive as she may have been, 
believed fully in the war. 


In 1949, four years after the war ended, my mother met 
an American Army officer and they fell in love. In 1950, 
they married, and she made me take his name, Slate. 
My baby brother Sean Slate was born in early 1951. It 
was then that my step-father decided to take us to 
America. 


He took us to a city called Seattle. It rained there much 
of the time, but the Engineers had helped to build a 
canopy over the streets. It was green and beautiful, and 
at night, it glowed like the stars. 


"What do you mean, 'What are stars?’ Steele, you were 
with us in Texas, yes? Do you remember how the night 
glowed, but not with these wretched clouds? Those are 
stars. Without the Armor, they look simpler, but still very 
beautiful.” 


To return to the story, my father left the Army to become 
a Guardsman — like a soldier, but only sometimes — so 
he could spend more time with us. He tried to start a 
restaurant in his spare time. My mother taught him 
recipes from the Empire, from home, and they both 
taught me to run tables, before and after school. 


Those were good days. He may have been a harsh man 
at times, but my step-father always meant well. He read 
stories at night, to teach my brother to read and to teach 
me English. He told us stories of brave folk, doing 
courageous things and making sacrifices, always putting 
others before yourself. Those stories reminded me of the 
earlier stories about Onna-Bugeisha, warrior-princesses. 
| imagined that, one day, | would be courageous like that. 


A young girl who barely knows English has just been 
pushed into her locker. The boy who aid it — who is 
three years her elder — just called her a "dirty Jap girl" 
and expressed a desire that she "go home." 


She runs home to her mother, crying. From that day 
forward, she is home-schooled, despite her step-father's 
obvious disapproval. She eventually earns a GED, but 
does not feel comfortable choosing to go to a college 
where she will be subjected to the same treatment as 
before. Instead, she stays at home, working tables. 


When the bombs fell and the sky burned, my step-father 
was able to get us a place inside the Seattle Bunker 
before our part of the surface burned because he had 
been an officer in the Army. 


Her bunk had been fairly close to the door leading to the 
outside. She can still remember the screams of those 
who had been locked out, hammering on the door, 
begging to be let inside. Fortunately, the Engineers had 
been commissioned to clean up the resulting mess long 
before that corridor had to be walked through again. She 
doesn't like to think about how the Engineers had carried 
out that task. 


After about three months, military personnel came to our 
bunker from elsewhere, saying that they needed every 
male over the age of five. My little brother was about ten 
at that time, and he was listed on the roster. 


| asked my step-father to stop them, and he said he 
couldn't. Then | begged my mother to do something — 
Sean was only ten, they couldn't take him! / wouldn't 
allow it. 


That was when | realized what | had to do. | cut my hair 
short, and, when they came to collect my brother the 
next morning, | stood outside our door instead, wearing 
some clothes stolen from my step-father that were much 
too large for me. They knew | had to be older than ten, 
but then my step-father spoke to them, explained that he 
had been an officer, and had served in Germany in the 
War before. He convinced them to take me instead of his 
son. My mother wept as | was escorted away. 


"So that's it, then?" 


"Yes, Corporal, that's it. After | was taken away, | went 
through the same training and same augmentation as 
you two. | was assigned to our artillery unit shortly after. 
That was all over twenty years ago." 


"So why didn't you let them take your brother?" 


"Steele, do you have a little sibling?" 


"| don't know. | was raised in a military training camp. 
They didn't tell us about our families, where we came 
from." 


"Oh. | — I'm sorry. | didn't know." 
"Eh, it's not a big deal. You're just old, First Sergeant." 


The men briefly hear static over the radio again, but this 
time the feeling it conveys is more akin to laughter than 
anything else. They laugh along, too, if only to calm their 
own nerves. Their laughter is quickly interrupted by a 
courier running up to their position. 


"First Sergeant Slate, some of the sensors are going off. 
It looks like there's a platoon of soldiers coming down 
from a few miles north of here, over that ridge." 


"Friendly, or enemy?" 


"Their IFFs are turned off, so there's no way to know for 
sure." 


"Goldman, didn't the last intel packet we get from 
Command tell us that there was a Russian battalion 
headed our way?" 


"Uh, yes ma— Yes, First Sergeant." 


"Then | guess Lieutenant Finn's platoon has been 
overrun." The eldest soldier turned to the courier. "Go tell 
the rest of the company to get ready to fire, then get the 
fire orders from the Captain. And we might as well try out 
these new shells, the 'Tesseractor' shells." 


"Understood, First Sergeant." 


The courier runs away. Later, shells designed to tear 
space-time itself apart begin raining down on a platoon 
of Americans transporting a high-value prisoner. This will 


be remembered as one of the worst cases of Friendly- 
Fire in this stage of the war. 


Chapter 3 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975: 


Two young soldiers are carrying out a dire task. They 
know now that they will not live to see the end of the war 
they've fought their whole lives. The younger, a Private, 
is trying to regain his composure as he walks through the 
cramped, poorly-lit maintenance hallway.