One of them was different. Today, this man approached him. Pulled 
him aside. And Adrian looked up at his angular face, thin, like skin 
stretched over bones. 


"Look at me," the hawkish man said. "Tell me what you see." 
When Adrian looked at him, he looked into his eyes. 


The irises were grey, like so many pools of silt. Like the eye of a 
storm over a city. Not a city. Every city. 


For a moment the angles of the man's face became right, and 
Adrian saw cars streaming through a grid. The grid grew tight, like a 
coarse strainer. 


The bad blood dripped to the floor, and as the rivers ran they 
became stone. The scars ran deep. Years, centuries. They went 
back forever. And stretched on into the horizon, until they connected 
back again, and made a circle around the world. 


The itch must be scratched. The cursed must be freed. Hate begets 
hate. Can't you see that it's endless? They won't let you go. 


No, no, Adrian thought. There must be an end to it all. There has to 
be. It cannot go on like this forever. 


Right? 
Right you are! 


He snapped out of it, his eyes released from the hawk-man's 
gripping gaze. 


Adrian squinted at the hawk-man. The hawk-man stared back, 
wrinkles around his eyes not matching the rest of his face. There 
was an uncomfortable stillness. 


Adrian broke the silence. "| saw you." 
"Yeah? Yeah? What did you see?" 


"| don't think it'll... look, | don't really know what you're going for with 
all this. I'm just here because... the Coalition is out there." 


The man nodded as if he was being sympathetic, but Adrian saw 
that he was not. "You should see something. Follow." 


sensing their surroundings through a combination of echolocation 
and thermal sensitivity. On the underside of the body is a circular, 
jawless mouth with a rasping tongue, as well as a series of white- 
blue bioluminescent organs. The pattern of these lights is unique to 
the individual, and the actual purpose has yet to be determined, as 
they produce no heat for other instances of SCP-994 to detect. 


SCP-994 are capable of flight, though the exact method is unknown. 
It is Known that they are capable of reaching incredible speeds: the 
highest recorded speed of an SCP-994 specimen was in excess of 
Mach 2, and several individuals have been seen making ninety- 
degree turns in mid-flight. SCP-994 is completely silent during flight, 
even during supersonic acceleration, outside of a soft humming 
exhibited by juvenile specimens. 


SCP-994 behavior is highly social, with a complex hierarchy within 
the flock. Elder females serve as the ruling matriarchs of the group, 
each one leading a smaller sub-division of a dozen or so individuals. 
While the flock as a whole will act as one unit, the various sub-flocks 
will display a shifting network of rivalries and alliances between 
them. SCP-994 communication is carried out at an ultrasonic level. 


Wild SCP-994 will generally avoid humans, fleeing if a human 
comes within a certain distance, usually in the range of 50 to 100 
meters. However, the Foundation flock has become accustomed to 
human contact, allowing staff members to make physical contact. 
The Foundation flock has also naturalized to the containment 
hangars, using them as a roosting area. It should be noted that both 
wild and Foundation-controlled SCP-994 seem to enjoy flying 
alongside aircraft and do so often, many times going unnoticed. 


There are currently twenty-eight juveniles, fourteen adults, and five 
elderly SCP-994 within Foundation control. The current wild 
population is unknown. 


Incident Report 994/ -C4: / /20 : First recorded account of 
violence by SCP-994, due to a nearby breach of SCP-_ . During the 
incident, SCP- broke into Hangar 4, and was promptly attacked by 
five adult SCP-994 (SCP-994-9, SCP-994-11, SCP-994-19, 
SCP-994-20, and SCP-994-21). The remainder of the flock fled the 
site, with the juveniles and elders flying inside a sphere of the 


The hawk-man strode through the basement. Adrian followed, 
struggling to keep up with his uncomfortably rapid pace. He came to 
a concrete wall, and leaned against it. Adrian stopped behind him. 
He knocked on the wall, with both gnarled hands, rhythmically. 


"Uhm. Is that an... exploit?" Adrian couldn't parse him. 


He didn't turn around. "You know where this house came from? We 
built it. All of us. With our own two hands. And the energy coming 
through is just... oh, it's just enormous." 


"Right?" Adrian tilted his head. 


"Right. And it all flows through here, and... it's not without 
consequences, but we're safe." He kept knocking. The wall started 
to change, a craggy outline beginning to form, just wider than Adrian 
was tall. 


At last, the portion of wall was gone. Phased out of existence. And 
behind was a tunnel through concrete and dirt. 


A hole. 


"Get in here." Hawk-man stepped inside, walking into the darkness. 
Adrian followed, minding his step as the ground became uneven. 


They continued through for ten meters or so. The walls were rough, 
and the ground around them felt... dense. 


At the end of the tunnel was a large, sloped shape, concealed by 
dirt. The man stood next to it, brushing away the silt and sediment. 
"Tell me what you saw." 


Adrian shifted his weight on the uncertain ground. "I... | don't think 
this goes well for you. All of this. All of you. Greenwich, the 
Foundation... it's all going to happen over again. You won't like 
where this leads." 


He nodded. This nod felt authentic; Adrian could almost grasp it in 
his hand. "Take a look at this." 


Adrian peered at the shape, dirt brushed off, so he could just make 


out a glint of metal... and the shape of a painted beak. It was the 
van. 


"We need you, Adrian. We just need to make you something good, 
something real good." 


The artist sighed. "Okay, I... okay.” 


The hawkish man nodded again, satisfied. His arms hung limply at 
his sides as he stared into the end of the tunnel, where the 
automobile was embedded in the dirt. 


Adrian turned around, and started to walk out. He didn't look back, 
but he felt the draft emerging from the van whispering along his 
shoulders. 


What would happen, if they were right, and there was no end at all? 
What happened at Greenwich? 
No, no. It can't be true. Can't it? 


Right? 
Right you are! 


And Adrian retreated to sleep. 


A few kilometers away, in another van, this one white, a man in 
overalls sat with a woman in pants. The man could not see the 
house's protective bubble, not without special equipment. But she 
could. 


He was sipping water. "And you're sure about this? If | tell the higher 
ups what you told me, and the anartists get out under our noses... 
there'll be hell to pay. For us both." 


She sat up in the padded seat. Her legs were crossed. A polite 
formality. Her voice felt strong, like it echoed against itself. Like it 
had been hollowed out and filled with steel. "We are positive. And 
with only a few days preparation, the egg can be cracked. And the 
hive will burn." 


He took another drink. This seemed reasonable to him. "You know, 
if this works out... the Coalition always needs people like you. 
Ma'am." 


She smiled. The ripples in the water became still. "Thank you. But 
this is all we need." 


And she really meant it. 


Part I: The Word and The Cool Kids | Part I! | Part III 


What I'm Here For 


Hello, sir. | know what you're here for, but if you’ve got the time, I’d 
like to tell you a story. Now, don’t get that look on your sweet, soft 
face. This story is rather good, if | do say so myself. | can’t make 
promises for the telling — after all, this old man is getting on in his 
years. But if you'll take a seat for a while, and actually listen to me, 
well...who knows? You may learn something. Now, please, sit 
down. 


Now, I'll assume an educated individual like you is familiar with the 
Many-worlds interpretation, yes? A funny old theory that says that 
every action on the planet creates a breaking point — a point where 
possibilities slip from view, only to find themselves in the fertile 
ground of another world. These possibilities go on to lead fulfilling 
lives in this different world, whereas they might've stifled and choked 
in their originating worlds. The universe as you know it is very 
similar, if you'll let me indulge in metaphor for a second, to a 
dandelion. Every hour, every minute, every second, possibilities are 
all collectively being blown from the originating point, floating 
throughout the ether, and taking seed. It’s the difference between a 
live fire and a misfire. The difference between a dead cat and a live 
one. The difference between magic and your science. 


Now unfortunately, these other worlds are drawn behind a curtain 
that your kind does not see, nor fully comprehend is present. 
Thankfully, | was lifting curtains of that nature since before you were 
a twinkle in Adam’s eye. Shall | tell you what’s behind Door Number 
One, doctor? Hah. Don’t bother answering. | can tell by the look on 
your face that you want to know. 


Have faith and patience, doctor. And more importantly: listen. 


Consider a world where the difference was in human thought. Here, 
now, we are present in a world where men disparaged and hated 


the age of myth from the get-go. Let’s call our world the World of 
Reason. In Reason, mankind has turned against his creators and 
betters, calling them folktales, nightmares, and yes, gods. You have 
used Reason’s light to banish the dark from our minds, and you 
succeeded — at least for a while. 


However... 


Mankind is truly incapable of destroying these things. How would 
you wound a god, or destroy a nightmare? You can explain them 
away, put them in a meter by meter cell — but they will always find a 
way out. Myth always finds a way back into the world. All you’ve 
done in the World of Reason is altered the lock and keyhole, slightly. 
You'll find Myth has a great many keys, and a myriad of methods for 
getting his grimy fingers under the door...there were forces at play in 
the universe, doctor, that you cannot even comprehend. Gods, small 
and tall. Things older and greater than even |. 


You'll find that you have a great number of their aspects on file. 
Now, then. Let’s turn to this other world | mentioned. 


In this world...let's call it the World of Myth. In this world, mankind 
has learned its place. It is a world of faith, of subtle belief in things 
that are greater than man. They believe, and it does not dominate 
their lives. Humorously, in their belief, they have obtained the world 
your Foundation so desperately seeks. The primal forces do not 
seek to enforce and patrol such a world, and as such, that world is 
devoid of the supernatural. No Keters, no Type Greens, no Genius 
Loci, no Class Apex Hazards, and no Individuals. It is a world of 
pure irony, and my fondness for it increases every day. 


Now then, doctor - 


Cadwallader, what the hell? Your time with 343 ended 
almost 30 minutes ago! What are you still doing here? 
Get the hell out now, or you'll be on Langley’s shortlist so 
fast your fuckin’ head will spin! 


...Ah. Such language. 


Must you go? | see. 


Do not look at me so sadly. We'll meet and chat again, eventually. 
Whether it is at Eden, Site 19, or Meggido does not matter — I’m 
always ready for your questions, your pleas, and your prayers. 


It’s what I’m here for, after all. 


What if People Were Bees? 


It was the buzzing that got to you. Not the half-converted bodies, not 
the sweet stench of honey, but the buzzing. It filled the air, almost 
tangible in its sound, a static noise that replaced any thought that 
wasn't related to bees. It filled every moment of your life with the 
knowledge that you and your family were dead. That you would 
either turn into a freak, or your corpse would be used to build 
another hive to make more bees. It was the knowledge that 
humanity was breathing it's last. 


The man got on the beekeeping suit, taping chemical tape around 
thick rubber gloves and boots. A precaution when surrounded by 
tiny, deadly bees. He had seen what had happened when one didn't 
tape up a suit. Thousands pouring into a man's mouth, his screams 
drowned out by the buzzing. Either that or they got into your ear, to 
change you. He saw that happen once, a man who couldn't take the 
loneliness, who just wanted to be a part of a species again, so he 
ripped off his helmet and let them pour in. The freaks had 
encouraged it, spewing shit about how the conversion was a good 
thing, how it wouldn't hurt. He had finally got them to shut up about a 
year ago. Speaking of the freaks, it was that time of the month 
again. Trading day. 


"Oh, it's no big deal, the bees are wonderful. Such lovely singers." 
They had all seemed so damn cheerful. 


The last time he had a human was when someone had run into 
town, just wearing a shirt and jeans. The swarm had taken him, 
bees crawling into his ears to go to work. A lot of people did that in 
the final days, not able to take the loneliness and the buzzing. He 
wouldn't though. He could deal with being alone. Hell, he'd done it 
for most of his life. Putting on the hood, he grabbed a handheld 
smoker, putting fuel into the satchel. It was his own mix, pine and 
dried grass from the forest. He gathered up the rest of his things, 
trading goods, some snacks, and extra fuel, and headed out the 


door. 


The door had to be slammed shut to close. He needed to take a 
closer look at it one day, once he had the parts. Leaves crunched 
under his feet as he walked towards the car, the fall air numbing his 
hands. Sliding into the front seat, he turned the ignition, waiting for 
the engine to sputter to life. When it finally did, he pulled out of the 
driveway, glancing at his cabin. Years of work had gone into it, 
major additions being a greenhouse, water collectors, and a windmill 
for extra power. It was his wife, his kids, the only thing he really 
cared about besides his own survival. 


An empty road was all he saw as he drove through the forest, roots 
starting to bust through the asphalt. The occasional husk of a car 
was on the side, looted long ago for parts. No one came out here to 
refurbish the road these days, there not being a point to it. Why 
waste time on a road when you could just fly? It was a hassle 
though, with no way of fixing them. He probably could, if he had any 
supplies. Right now he just had to make do, at least until the roads 
collapsed completely. He'd probably have to walk then, either that or 
find a Jeep or something. Passing the sign for Sheldon, long since 
overgrown with vines and covered in honeycomb, he turned the 
corner, the smell of honey overpowering. The first buildings that he 
saw were covered in beehives, dark clouds surrounding them like 
smog. And then he saw the freaks. 


The freaks watched him with compound eyes, going about their daily 
business. The man was a monthly spectacle, something to see and 
acknowledge, maybe brag to your friends about. He didn't harm any 
of them, bringing in supplies to trade. Mostly apples, surplus from 
his fall harvest. He pulled to the side of the road, getting out. Locking 
it, out of habit more then anything, he stepped onto the sidewalk. 
One of the freaks waved to him, spindly arm in the air. He gave a 
polite wave in return. Turning to the storefront, he glanced up at the 
vine covered sign. "Hanson's General Goods." Taking a breath, he 
went inside. 


"Morning Monthly!" 


The bee was happy, antenna twitching. Monthly was a good man,