Agent DuMourne kept his gun level, watching Ruslav pant in the 
aftermath of the rapid combat. “Swathi, are you alright? Director, 
status?” 


Ruslav nodded, swallowing hard, as he caught his breath, “I am fine. 
Do you have a containment box?” He reached out a hand, picking 
up his discarded crozier. 


Agent DuMourne slapped a collapsible cube into Ruslav’s hand from 
the pack on his belt. He gingerly folded it around his fingers, and 
drew the jade ring off of Guolao’s finger, snapping the box closed, 
with an electronic hiss of vacuum. A quiet woosh sound could be 
heard, as chemically inert foam filled the interior. The containment 
foam would dissolve on contact with the chemicals back at the lab. 
Ruslav snatched the small wodden box hanging from a string on the 
corpses belt, and wound the snapped thread through the small ring 
in one corner of the cube. He handed the device to Agent 
DuMourne, who clipped the entire assembly to the back of his belt, 
snugging it tight with a bit of nylon webbing. 


“Let’s go, Director. We've already got at least one agent down. I’d 
rather not stick around.” Agent DuMourne stalked forward to the 
prone form of his team member, checking for a pulse, and letting out 
a sigh of relief. “Scratch that. One agent injured. Let’s go.” 


Ruslav stepped forward, and nodded, pulling a heavy cylinder off his 
belt, and handing it to Agent DuMourne. “We shouldn’t leave this 
place intact.” 


Agent DuMourne nodded, slipping the tiny explosive disks out of the 
sleeve, and tossing them to the corners of the office. He lifted the 
downed agent to one shoulder, and spoke quickly into his radio. A 
third agent came jogging up the center aisle, and took the remaining 
charges, distributing them without preamble. 


They made their way back to the entrance, and Ruslav held up a 
hand, “A moment.” He moved his hands in a complicated weaving 
pattern, his fingertips moving as if making a cat’s cradle. His eyes 
closed, and he drew in the fulminous aethers collected in the 
electronics around him. He took in a breath, the flows nearly 
overwhelming him as he gathered together a storm in and around 
himself. His eyes flew open, and forked lightning manifested from 
the drawn aethers a few inches above his hands. He punched his 
right arm forward, hurling forked lightning into the office, frying all of 
the servers and computers in the office. The fulminous aether 
greedily leaped from machine to machine, as Ruslav’s will and 
mastery guided the flows. 


Ruslav nodded, and turned to the agents who stood wide eyed at 
the display of alchemic might. “As | said, Agent. Whatever works. 
We should go.” 


Agent DuMourne snapped out of his trance, and nodded, flicking the 
switch on the top of the cylinder until the display said “0:15”. He 
turned the top a full 360 degrees, as the safety seal clicked. He 
tossed the device forward, and waved them back through the doors, 
“Move people, let’s go.” 


The three Foundation personnel slipped back through the portal to 
Earth. The five of them ran down the hallway, sprinting for the far 
side of the building. 


Agent DuMourne waved at his people in the hallway, one bleeding 
from a wound on his arm. Several stony bodies had joined the first, 
and the other agent was nowhere to be found. “Move! Sliders going 
off in Ten!” 


The agent broke into a limping run, as he cleared the far side and 
took shelter behind the columns leading to a side corridor. The rest 
of the agents ducked around the corner, and huddled together. The 


agents ducked and covered, as Ruslav stood, condensing the 
aethers around the gathered personnel in a near impenetrable 
shield of air, and gravity. 


Several seconds ticked by, and the building was rocked by a 
shockwave as the tiny ultra-compact plastic explosives detonated on 
the far side of the portal. The explosion raced along the office 
towards the assembled team. The moment it touched the threshold 
the portal collapsed leaving nothing but a smoking set of shattered 
glass doors leading to an empty and unoccupied office space. 


Ruslav dropped the shield, and relaxed, cocking his head to one 
side. “Well. Anticlimactic, but I’ll take it. Captain, if you could radio 
our exit?” Ruslav walked over to the panel and clicked the elevator 
call button. 


Agent DuMourne blinked a few times, and shook his head, radioing 
to the team downstairs to prepare for extraction. “Director, one 
question?” 


Ruslav nodded, “Mmmm? What is it?” 


Agent DuMourne thumbed back at the assembled agents, “That 
shield could have protected us, why did we break for cover?” 


Ruslav shrugged, and smiled slightly, “Oh, it wouldn’t have. We 
would probably have been smeared to paste.” 


Agent DuMourne’s mouth fell open, and he leaned in, “Then why the 
hell did you even put up the shield to begin with?” 


Ruslav walked past Agent DuMourne and into the elevator, waving 
for him and the team to get in, “It made you feel better, yes?” 


Captain Agent DuMourne stared for a moment, unsure if he should 
be angry or amused. Alchemists are weird. He thought to himself, as 
he boarded the elevator, descending towards their extraction vehicle 
on the street below. 


“Tell me again, where you found this thing?” Dr. de la Vega held up 
the containment cube in the intake wing at Site-72. 


“Flea market. | got lucky. Walked past a stall, wearing a thaumic 
ring. | think | had it on after the mission in Java. Started buzzing like 
crazy, and | picked it up immediately. “ Agent DuMourne steepled 
his fingers, and rested his chin on the intertwined digits. 


Dr. de la Vega frowned, and placed the cube back down on the 
table, “And where did the seller claim he got it?” 


Agent DuMourne shrugged, “As | said before, he claims his 
grandfather found it in some tomb in China. He was just hawking it 
for extra cash. | didn’t ask too many questions, | figured that’s more 
I&A’s shtick. | slapped it in a cube, and brought it back to the Site. 


aed) 


The only thing he told me was ‘don't wear it’. 


Dr. de la Vega looked Captain Agent DuMourne in the eye, and 
shook his head. “Fine, fine. We'll do a proper investigation once we 
figure out what it is.” 


Agent DuMourne nodded, and stood, exiting the intake lab, and 
heading towards the barracks. He tapped a few buttons on his 
watch, and made a call. “Director? Yessir. Level 4, as requested. 
Yessir. Thank you sir.” 


.-.Sometimes, the information we redact has nothing to do with need to 
know, or protecting the world, or something so grand. Sometimes we’re just 
covering up the mistakes of the past. Guolao was a mistake. | shouldn’t have 
let Flamel do that to him and Qinshi. Maybe they were evil, but even evil 
deserves mercy eventually.... 


-Excerpt, Personal log of Director Diaghilev, January 2018 


« SCP-3622 | An Alchemist Goes To War 


An Angel who has Forsaken Sympathy 


Stars shine down on the first night. The congregation has gathered 
outside to sing joyously to the stars, their voices twisting together in 
acoustic pentamerism. Twenty four joyous bodies sang, young and 
old together, though one was absent from their number. An angel 
from the stars had come to make their bodies right, tended his first 
patient this very night, and so they sang. Gathered around a great 
fire, their limbs twisted in ecstasy cast about a great tentacled 
shadow as though the darkness matched their rapturous dance. 


This is the revelation of the Star Surgeon, which the 
inward-facing eye saw, resonant within my void. The 
forms do not fit inside wordshapes and MUST NOT be 
read if you are growing a soul. Blind is the one who does 
not speak aloud the words of this prophecy. Fumigant is 
the one who listens so that his eyes bleed. It is 
inevitable: It has already happened. 


Stars shine down on the second night. Twenty one happy throats 
matched the happy harmony, and lamented that they had too few 
arms. No one had entered the church but those that the Angel had 
beckoned to be cured, and made right. None had left. A beautiful 
man from the congregation collapsed to his knees as the chorus 
climaxed, clawing at his throat, screaming that he couldn't feel his 
smoke duct. Eyes bloodshot, for the worship had never abated, his 
brothers and sisters drug him near to the church doors - surely the 
surgeon would fix him next; he had it really bad. 


In the day that the door opened to Yellow and to Red, 
and to White, and to Black, the Surgeon was made to 
see the VOID without and with Anguish undertook exile. 
And he dwelled in the lands of Shalmaneser, son of 
Ashur-nasir-pal five and five star-lifes. And all the smoke- 
beacons he there made were 5ive hundred hundred and 
twenty: and the BLIND IDIOT WORLD COLLAPSED. 


And he dwelled in the lands of Zhou Ding Wang, son of 


Zhou Qing Wang. And the stars in the sky numbered 
5555. 


Stars shine down on the third night. Thick black smoke pours from 
the building, but there is no fire hot enough to burn those who live IN 
WITH the stars. Sixteen congregants litter around the fire, their 
bodies exhausted from hauling wood from the nearby forest; their 
lungs ached from singing. A young girl, only 51-75 years old, leads 
the next dirge, her voice honey sweet. She laments with cherubic 
tones as her bleeding fingers compel the wooden guitar to sing. Why 
was her body all wrong? "Soon, soon, the angel will make me right. 
Five arms, five minds, and my inward-facing eye will open." 


And he left from the lands of Zhaoxiang, son of Huiwen. 
And he dwelled among the lands of Ptolemaios 
Philadelphos, son of Ptolemaios Sotér. And no smoke- 
beacons were left to stand: heretics broke them and 
killed them. And he dwelled in the lands of Robert, son of 
Hugh Capet. And the stars in the sky numbered 59959, 


Stars shine down on the fourth night. Starlight and firelight scarcely 
meet through the billowing smoke. The bonfire burns low, three 
congregants remain to stoke the flame, their voices hoarse and 
cracked, eyes straining to remain open as bodies slump, collapsed 
to the cold ground. The doors had stood open since mid day, and 
inside, through the billowing smoke they caught glimpses of their 
brothers and sisters whose bodies had been made right. The grace 
and beauty of it- pulling their forms along on their five grasping, 
writhing hands. They no longer had their outward-facing eyes, and 
their chests had hungry maws, ready to gobble down their deepest 
desires. Out from the church they crawled, arms stitched into 
beautiful pentaradial symmetry. Legs, so obviously extraneous, had 
been cut free and the wounds stitched closed by an expert hand. 
Pitch black smoke streamed perpetually from the distended mouth 
on their faces. Hands with grips of iron pulled another inside. 


And he was removed from the lands of Francois Fillon, 
son of Michel Fillon, to dwell in the captivity of thirteen 
kings. And with Anguish he broke his bonds and dwelt 
among the lands trwoll plr mign thei. And he set five and 


twenty smoke beacons from ready kindling. And their 
smoke occluded him from the eyes of the thirteen kings 
thereafter. And there he dwelt until the stars in the sky 
numbered 599955 and he returned to the land of Yellow 
and of Red and of White and of Black and taught himself 
all that he knew. 


Stars shine down on the fifth night. A black cloud through which the 
stars can see. The doctor, with no work remaining for him, left the 
backwater shanty church. He had thought very little of the place 
when he arrived, and truly thought little of it after. He found it queer, 
only, that so many people having such a similar reaction to the 
Pestilence would willingly quarantine themselves in the wilderness 
like this. 


<<Part 1 


An Arm and a Leg 


Kit lay on his back, staring up at the ever-changing clouds of a 
British Summer afternoon. Maybe it would rain, later, but right now 
he couldn’t smell it — couldn’t sense anything of the weather other 
than the clouds so far above him. 


‘I’m looking at the shape of tiredness,’ he thought, languidly. 


That uneven, rarely repeating pattern of clouds was a herd of 
tiredness threatening to trample the city. 


Well, that would suck. But then again, insomnia for one person 
alone was the very centre of a suckpool. Despite his dragging 
weariness and the sploshed bruise across his face — interestingly, 
itself the colour of tiredness — Kit had a house on fire, that day. 


As he stood, he absently brushed mown grass from his rumpled 
clothing. Upon looking around, he was slightly surprised to find that 
the grassy area had become infested with picnickers — families, 
couples, friends. The smell of BBQs was tangy in the air. 


Kit ignored squealing children and parents protesting as he stepped 
and tripped over picnic blankets, having to make his own pathway 
out of the chaos because the small section in the middle of the city 
wasn't really designed for such things as people trying to enjoy the 
broken summer day. 


Once he was through the maze of picnic-havers, he checked the 
deep pockets of his coat and gently stroked what he found within 
them. Good. They were still there, waiting. 


Stepping into the city proper, Kit took the twisty-turny roads, trying to 
avoid tourist traffic and the more well-trodden streets. A hidden and 
barren junction of alleyways and then exhausting climbs (well, for an 
insomniac, pack-a-day smoker) took him to Muesli Mountain. From 
there, he walked through an old graveyard and into an even older 


own life. Autopsy concluded cause of death due to 
suffocating on tongue, detached via laceration by the 
teeth. 


Case-782-ABJ: Victim is 16 years old, female, of African 
descent. Diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, not 
considered relevant. Checked into local hospital for 
mysterious numbness. Shift progression began in throat. 
Victim would vocally beg for help, claiming to be trapped 
inside a strange body she couldn't control. Victim 
confirmed through written communication that she was 
no longer in control of her speech. Speech would be 
distressed despite a lack of corresponding body 
language. Shift progressed to rest of body; speech 
became less troubled as more body parts came under 
the new consciousness’s control. As the victim's hands 
shifted quickly, the mental condition of the original 
personality for the final year of its existence is unknown. 
Girl administered class A amnestics, returned to family, 
currently living normal life, albeit under Foundation 
observation. 


Case-782-ACB: Victim is 32 years old, male, Asian. No 
history of mental illness. Checked into local hospital due 
to sudden, inexplicable blindness. Victim regained 
eyesight, returned home. Shift very quickly spread to 
hands and arms. Due to unknown reasons, victim did not 
seek medical attention. Shift very quickly spread to legs. 
Victim [DATA EXPUNGED] wife and daughter against 
his will. Begged responding police to kill him. Currently in 
Foundation custody at Site- . Shift is not yet total. 


Document SCP-782-A: For the purposes of research personnel, the 
following is an excerpt from SCP-782. As it is not being read directly 
from SCP-782, reading the following document is harmless. 


"The first step to an All-New You is rejecting the Old You. 
You've got to throw away all your baggage, all your 
hang-ups, discard all the failings of the Old You... The 
second step is to find the New You. The best way to find 
the New You is to look deep inside, find your childhood 


park that was overgrown and smelt musty, of damp wood and 
churned soil.