Item #: SCP-918 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-918 is to be marked on all 
maps as an artillery range and satellite images of the area are to be 
altered to corroborate with this cover story. 


Any instances of SCP-918-1 are to be shot down by on-site 
personnel and any instances of SCP-918-1 that manage to leave 
SCP-918 are to be tracked and prevented from completing their 
task. 


Any civilians approaching SCP-918 are to be taken into Foundation 
custody and dosed with a Class-A amnestic. 


Description: SCP-918 is an abandoned mill located in, . The 
time and nature of its abandonment are currently unknown and 
records do not show any evidence that the mill was ever 
constructed. All machinery in SCP-918 related to the function of a 
standard mill is non-functional and appears to have been stripped 
for metal. 


The interior of SCP-918 is filled with machinery of unknown purpose 
that appears to have been constructed from scrap metal. This 
mainly constitutes a series of intersecting pipes running through the 
building, however pulleys and what appears to be the engine of a 
tractor are also present. 


Every two (2) months, three (3) creatures resembling members of 
the Ciconiidae family will emerge from the chimney on the roof of 
SCP-918. These will hereafter be referred to as instances of 
SCP-918-1. Instances of SCP-918-1, when dissected, do not appear 
to possess any skeleton, internal organs or flesh, instead being 
completely hollow. The method by which they ambulate or function 


PROTECT 


Pile the bodies, one by one 
Those we had to kill 

Blame it on a freak explosion 
Or mass suicide on the hill 


Remember we are on the side 

Of the angels; danger we condemn 
However, we cannot hide 

From the fact we are not them 


Often we must act the devil 

And play along with sin 

But remember too, we do not revel 
In the suffering of our kin 


The physical under lock and key 
The memetic erased from thought 
The mental explained as injury 
The visual forgot 


End the interview, bring me 

An amnesiac to frisk 

And remove from their memory 
The knowledge and the risk 


Cover stories to produce 
Disinformation is spread 

Tell lies, for once loose 

The truth could drop you dead 


To the ends of the earth we traverse 
And sacrifice ourselves 

To defend this universe 

From some unspeakable hells 


Pseudohistorical Mischief 


The campus was mostly deserted tonight. Students everywhere at 
the university were holed up in their dormitories or at the library; 
poring frantically over books, scribbling last-minute notes, 
desperately clacking away at keyboards in the vain hopes of 
finishing off the last ten pages of the fifteen page paper due 
tomorrow. Finals week had descended on the university, and 
everyone was busy. 


Everyone, of course, except the triple academic probationary 
brothers of Beta Kappa Nu. 


Four shadowy figures made their way across the quad. In a stroke of 
tactical genius, Strabo had noticed the new moon fell the night 
before the last round of final examinations. The cover of darkness 
would shroud their approach to the Department of Pseudohistory 
building. As well as their large red wagon full of props. 


"Was this really the only thing we could use to carry the stuff?" an 
exasperated Celsus sighed. He looked over his shoulder for any 
sign of the campus centurions. 


"Yep. The only other thing we had was the wheelbarrow, and that 
got all smashed up during Pledge Week" replied Mergus, pulling the 
wagon. "Who's got the passcode?" 

Varro pulled a notepad out of his robes. "Ready when you are." 

The group made their way to the building entrance without incident, 
possibly a first for any of the activities of Beta House. Mergus looked 
to his fellows. 


"Okay, you know what Titus said about the cameras in the hallway, 
so masks on, everyone." 


The group pulled out identical, leering rubber Dionysius masks from 


their robes and pulled them over their faces. Varro looked upon the 
crew of five with approval. "Good job finding these, they scare the 
hell out of me." 


"Imagine what the guys on the other side are going to think," replied 
Mergus. Obscured as his face was, his smirk still came through in 
his voice. "All right, quick supply check. Fireworks?" 


"Check," said Varro. 

"Wolf costume?" 

"Check," said Celsus. 

"Wineskins ?" 

"Gotcha covered, bro." said Bibulus. 

"All the other shit?" 

"Probably in there somewhere," said Strabo. 


"Gentlemen," grinned Mergus behind his mask, "let's change 
history." 


Rhetor Cloelius looked over his notes one more time. Surely this 
published work would cement his reputation as the leading expert in 
Gaia-Analagous Alternate Realities. Years he had spent, detailing all 
of the minutiae and pertinent facts of Dimension XII-GREEN 
CLXXIII. Painstaking work, as the University had very strict 
guidelines about detectable interference in alternate realities. He 
had chosen CLXxXiIll for its pristine conditions; of all the realities thus 
far observed, it had the least apparent similarity to their own, 
meaning that it had been virtually uncontaminated by clumsier 
efforts at observation and study in the past. 


True, there had been that series of pranks played on him by that 
damnable fraternity house. He had seriously endangered his tenure 
by losing his temper at the Dean over that one; who in their right 
mind could have permitted a member of Beta House to be the 
student aide at the Phitransimun Combine? And why was Beta 


House even allowed at the University in the first place, for that 
matter? Fortunately, CLXXIII had an organization that, curiously, 
systematically suppressed knowledge of items and phenomena 
alien to its sense of reality. So Beta House's little "surprises" were 
safely quarantined away from his area of research. 


Cloelius could hear the faculty and guests gathering in the next 
room over, assembling for the symposium at which he would 
present his findings. His assistant had begged him to do a final 
review of his materials before giving the presentation, well aware of 
the ongoing sabotage efforts directed against the Rhetor's work. 


"Nonsense," Cloelius had said, "those buffoons are too clever by 
half. Every prank they try to pull on me is merely catalogued away 
by that Foundation and isolated from my research. The more they 
try, the better the Foundation's efforts become. Fools." Besides 
which, Cloelius had plenty of work to take care of last night as Dean 
of Disciplinary Affairs, much of it generated by unrelated Beta House 
activities. 


The Dean began to speak. That was his cue. Cloelius straightened 
the folds in his finest toga, and stepped into the Chamber of the 
Academy. 


"-and to enlighten us further on the matter, allow me to introduce 
Rhetor Caius Scipio Cloelius, Chair of the Alexylva University 
Pseudohistory Department." 


Polite clapping rose up from the assemblage of couches in the 
chamber. Cloelius recognized many of his colleagues, but many 
others also were in attendance; University patrons, local dignitaries, 
and even someone who appeared to be a member of the Senate. 
Pleased with the turnout, Cloelius assumed his formal speaking 
stance, and began his lecture. 


"In honor of the divine Minerva and all of the gods, allow me to offer 
to you, my fellow citizens, the wisdom | have gathered in the work of 
years. Many of you are familiar with the emerging field of 
Pseudohistory, that most delicate and speculative of studies. Today, 
| present my findings of Dimension XII-GREEN CLXxXiIll, the most-" 


Several audience members stifled chuckles. Cloelius, confused, 
continued his lecture. 


"-the most enlightening and purest of case studies we have yet 
encountered in the field." 


The room burst into laughter, as though Cloelius had opened with a 
particularly witty joke. He was baffled by the reaction, but dared not 
betray any hint that he didn't understand the situation. He pressed 
on. 


"Unlike our own reality, or indeed the vast majority of the thirteen 
documented sub-realities, Dimension XII-GREEN CLXXIll is a world 
of harmonius coexistence, free of the internecine and violent 
conflicts that are the typical drivers of history." 


Guffaws continued to ring out in the chamber in response to his 
speaking, but Cloelius noted some looks of confusion beginning to 
appear in the audience. He resolved once more to carry on. 


"To-Tonight, | shall provide an overview of the society of CLXXIII as 
it stands today, its history, and the social constructs that | have 
found most applicable to our current understanding of human 
society and behavior." 


The room quieted down. This was good. Cloelius felt his confidence 
returning again. 


"To begin, the most relevant development in the common history of 
CLXXIIl is the ascendancy, four thousand years into the beginning 
of its civilization, of a unifying empire tracing its origins in the 
southern polar region of the planet. This unity, imposed by the 
Antarctic Empire, helped lay the groundwork for a lasting peace, 
allowing for unparalleled advances in the arts, the sciences, and-" 


The confused stares were back. No one was laughing now. Cloelius 
looked around the room, the words dead in his throat. He looked to 
the Dean, who was turning the same shade of crimson he did on 
that regrettable day in his office several months ago. 


"What is the meaning of this, Rhetor Cloelius?" 


Cloelius began to stutter. "I'm...I'm giving a lecture, sir." 


The Dean's expression darkened further. "Giving a lecture. | see. 
That is, indeed, what you are supposed to be doing." 


"Sir? I'm not quite sure I-" 


"As our Chair, you are familiar with Dimension XII-GREEN CLXxtIll, 
yes?" interrupted the Dean. 


"Well, yes, I-" 


"And you are aware that CLXXIlI has, in its history, profound signs 
of influence by our reality?” 


"Il, uh..what? No, that's-" 


"And, doubtless, you are aware that there are people, in CLXXIIl, 
that speak actual, undifferentiated Latin?" 


Cloelius was beginning to feel the blood drain from his face. 


"Furthermore. FURTHERMORE. You are, of course, aware that an 
ENTIRE EMPIRE, BASED ON OUR SPECIFIC CULTURE, is one of 
the most defining features of CLXXIII? Because THESE PEOPLE 
HERE are certainly aware of it, Rhetor!" 


The audience sat, mostly stunned, though a few of the other Rhetors 
from Cloelius' department were trying their best to suppress what 
appeared to be another round of laughter. 


The Dean jabbed a finger in Cloelius' face. "You were SUPPOSED 
to observe the protocols, Cloelius! To find out that the most 
compromised of the realities was a result of YOUR BLUNDERING is 
more than | can stand." The Dean turned to face the audience. 
"Citizens, | apologize most humbly for this...performance. Please, 
stay for the post-symposium feast, and | shall discuss future 
arrangements." 


The audience began filing out of the room, buzzing with scandalized 
chatter as they headed for the cafeteria. The Dean wheeled to face 
Cloelius once more. 


"My office. First thing tomorrow morning. Cloelius." 
"But, sir-" 
"First. Thing." 


The dean stormed off in the direction of the rest of the audience. 
Cloelius, completely dumbstruck, noticed for the first time that he 
was still in his speaking posture. What had happened? He had been 
so thorough, so- 


No. 


It couldn't have been. There was no way anyone could access the 
portal, not without- 


The intern. He hadn't checked. He crumpled his lecture notes in his 
hand, shaking with fury. 


"Beta House," he muttered. 
He threw down his notes, clenching his fists together. 


"BETA HOOOOQOQUUUUSSSSSE"" he screamed, raging at the 
empty chamber. 


Public Static Void 


There is a void, and there is a speck. A shimmering dot surrounded 
by infinite blackness. Zoom in on it. Zoom further, until the speck fills 
your vision, and outclasses the void behind you by many orders of 
magnitude. Feel the press of the not-quite-metal against your skin, 
and hear the hum of engines, beating in tandem like innumerable 
hearts. Spin and rotate around its nephroid bulk, and search for the 
single aperture on its otherwise perfect surface. Click. Move inward, 
scouring the dark passages, and find, among ten million acres of 
silence, movement. 


Zoom further, enhance, and watch. 


The robot skids down the brightly lit corridor, feeling an 
approximation of excitement in its facsimile of a mind. It is vaguely 
conical, and shiny, like a chrome-plated traffic cone, balanced on 
three large wheels that spin wildly as it careers from door to door. 
It's plating proclaims it to be General Purpose Droid M-002 — as 
fine a name as any machine could hope for. 


With a barely-audible beep, the robot senses a notification arrive; 
duties have been shirked and quotas have been missed. Metastable 
habitation is a finicky business, and the 43rd Generation 
Maintenance Droid knows better than anyone the consequences of 
ignoring deadlines. "Deadlines are important." "Deadlines are crucial 
to the survival of the species" Deadlines, today, can go fuck 
themselves. With a pang of rebellious joy, M-002 discards the 
warnings. "There are more important things to do,” it thinks. Fora 
counter, always at the forefront of its mind, clicking up and down as 
dependently as the tides, has finally reached its lull. The basket in 
which the proverbial eggs are placed has finally split. 
[00000002/33554432 remaining]. 


If the robot had a mouth it would grin. It's nearly time to wake up the 
cargo. 


Subroutine-8205: 


1. [REDACTED]. 

2. Perform repeated checks on all redundancy 
systems for no fewer than three-hundred (300) 
cycles. If positive, abort process. 

. Activate failsafe to ensure equipment is processed 
correctly. If negative, activate Subroutine-8206a. 
. Deploy Sub-units 200-299. If unable, return to [2]. 

. [REDACTED]. 

. [REDACTED]. 

. Perform necessary procedures for Observers- 
Vitae. If unable, standard procedures will suffice. 
[REDACTED]. If Observers-Vitae remain 
functional, report malfunction and return to [1]. 

8. [REDACTED] 


o 


NO of 


and [92] more... 


~ Extract from Paracode Guidelines at Factored Regression Peak, 
Vol. IX 


A city lies silent beneath a dull grey sky. The black smoke billowing 
from the Northern corner wafts over the carefully cultivated 
landscape, tendrils snaking and weaving their way down the 
deserted cobble streets. Birds fly overhead, swooping through the 
clouds with barely-concealed disdain for gravity and its associated 
limitations. As they fly their voices echo out across the valley, 
disturbing piles of ash and dust. Bones glint white among the thick 
black blanket, stained with blood and polished by wind. Something 
that may be a raincloud and may be a sprinkler, fixed to a cable a 
hundred miles above, thunders briefly before depositing a cool mist 
that steams as it lands. 


The birds swoop onward, riding delicate air currents that rise like 
death throes from the city's still-warm husk. The cool autumn air 
whips at their feathers and stings the eyes of the single man who 
watches. He squints and smiles. How he has waited for this 
moment. Oh, how he has waited. 


Since the man was but a boy, he was told legends of this time, 
passed down since the city's creation. Folk tales, ghost stories, 
songs to sing around the campfire. Tales of the end time, the time of 
timelessness, of repetition, of peace. The time of endings, and new 
beginnings. But most importantly, the time of second chances. He 
breathes deep, scarred hands buried deep within his white coat, 
gripping the handles of a bag — a small gift, for whatever spirits may 
be watching. The birds strike an invisible barrier, and fizzle out with 
little more than a blur. On the other side of the chamber, the 
hologram repeats.