Down more halls up some stairs, out away from the hustle and 
bustle of the workshops and up towards the Doctor’s tower. It was 
empty, at least to appearances, but that said only so much. The 
Executive Board was not very good at listening, but they were very 
good at hearing things. Horrible at seeing, but excellent at watching. 


Mr. Merit didn’t trust them, or the little old lady. That alone would 
have been the source of his nervousness, but the note in his pocket 
outdid all of that. 


Miss Emma had given him the note when the Doctor was preparing 
to leave. It read: 


My quarters. 1650. 


It was four-forty-six right now. Mister Merit didn’t question the 
directive: he had no reason to distrust the Doctor’s assistant. One 
didn’t doubt assistants like Miss Emma. 


Four-forty-nine. He had reached the room, just down the hall from 
the Doctor's office. He opened the door. 


Miss Emma’s room was empty. A blank white room. No bed, no 
chair, no desk, no papers, no windows, no carpet, no vents, nothing 
but a tile floor and whitewashed walls and a vague, diffused light. 


That, and a single, lavender note was stuck to the far wall, 
artistically out of place. Mister Merit went over and read it. The 
handwriting was perfect, nearly typewritten. 


Go into the center of the room and say ‘Hello, are you 
there? | need help’ in a loud, clear voice. 


Mister Merit pulled the note off the wall and walked into the center of 
the room. He had no idea what to expect from it. He hoped some 
sort of help, to set things straight. That’s what Miss Emma was there 
for, right? To put things in order. 


“Hello, are you there? | need help,” said Mister Merit in a loud, clear 
voice. 


A nothing sound whispered down the back of Mister Merit’s neck, as 


if someone was standing in the room behind him. That, of course, 
was ridiculous, as there was nobody in the room, and he had closed 
the door behind him. 


He turned around, and saw that he was not actually alone in the 
room. 


The stranger standing there looked to be a miss with very short 
brown hair, wearing a ratty blue t-shirt, jeans with frayed hems and a 
jacket that had faded from black to grey. They smelled of smoke, the 
old, stale kind that soaked into clothes. 


The stranger had their head tilted to the right. 


“You called?” The voice was bright and cheery; a bubblegum and 
lollipops voice. 


“| did.” Mister Merit tugged at his ascot. He had had enough of 
strange people today. “Who are you?” 


The stranger tilted their head to the left. 


“Who's the one person you can always find in an empty room?” The 
voice was rough and gravelly now; a two packs a day voice. 


“No one, | suppose,” Mister Merit said. 
Tilt to the right. 


“No one important, at least! Though since | introduced myself, | 
should be asking you who you are, because you don’t look much 
like Em.” 


“’m Mister Merit. Miss Aislethorp-Brown is not here at the moment.” 
Tilt to the left. 

“Il can see that.” 

“She left a note.” Mister Merit handed it to the stranger. 


Tilt to the right. 


“Oh Em, what have you gotten yourself into now?” 
“What? What’s going on?” 
Nobody sighed, crumpled up the paper, and stuffed it in her pocket. 


“Hope you like the cleanup crew. Em has some leftovers for us to 
mop up.” 


Somewhere 


Isabel Wondertainment looked out over the cliffs craggy edge, at 
the valley choked with ancient pines. Two moons, too big, hung in 
the deepening blue sky above the young bladed mountains. One 

was grey and plain. One was made of clockwork. 


“Jeremy, | don’t think we’re in the workshop any more." 


« Part 2: The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure | Hub | Part 4: 
Memory of Days Long Past » 


Footnotes 

1. Though “around” was a purely subjective term at this point, at 
least anywhere that was not Emma Aislethorp-Brown. 

2. The invention of the Wondertainment Asbestos-Pen™ had cut 
down on this significantly. 


Memory Of Days Long Past 


Hey, have you read the Adventuring Interlude and the 
rest of Adventures in Capitalism? You probably should! 


Isabel’s bright red high-top sneakers crunched through the snow. 
The shadows had grown long in the pines, and night was falling. 
She walked with her arms wrapped around her thin frame, 
attempting to keep warm. Jeremy waddled next to her, less 
enthusiastic than he had been when they had begun their journey 
those hours-days-years...forever ago. 


Truth be told, Isabel felt her spirit fading as well, sapped out by the 
cold wind and the darkening shadows. Emma was gone now, and 
Isabel didn’t know where she was. 


She was, for the first time in her memory, afraid. All she had wanted 
was a fun little adventure with her friend, and now...now she didn’t 
know where she was. She had lost her friend in a very bad place, 
and she kept imagining bad things happening to her. Scraped knees 
and bruises and even a cut, and one image that kept repeating; 
Emma lying on the ground and not moving. 


Isabel kept walking, though she didn’t know where she was going. 
She couldn't feel her toes. She wanted to go home, and for Emma to 
come back, and for everything to be all right again. Let the Factory 
make their games. She just wanted to go home with her friend. 


The sun set, and the forest faded to blue, and slipped into black. In 
glimpses of the sky through the trees, Isabel could see the stars and 
the moons, but their light was weak. She stopped walking. There 
was nothing but darkness around her, save the patch of moonsilver 
snow that she stood in. 


Isabel curled up in a ball and lay down in the snow. Jeremy licked 
her face, and curled up next to her. Being a dog, he did not 
understand why her face tasted saltier than usual. 


The sun was black iron, pocked with craters of sickly fire. A halo of 
ragged smoke drifted from its pores, crackling with aurora bands of 
lightning. Streams of glistening, burning oil poured from its grinding 
mouths, into an eternal, abyssal ocean, its water thick with oil and 
slurried flesh. Shards of bone, the corpses of old gods, rose above 
the water, fashioned into crucifixes for the ones who were spared. 
Icebergs, filled with thousands of bloodied souls, melting slowly. 


The air, cold and empty, hummed with the distant moans of pain. 


Isabel stood on the water, and saw beneath its obsidian sheen the 
pale, bloated faces of hundreds, packed together tight enough that 
each bone had been broken. Jellied eyes spun about in crumpled 
sockets; crushed jaws mouthed without sound. 


She didn’t know how she’d gotten there. Jeremy wasn't there either. 
She tried closing her eyes and opening them again, and she was 
still there. She shut her eyes tighter this time. 


“It's just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream...” 


She felt something wet and slippery wrap itself around her ankle. 
She looked down. 


It was a hand. It yanked down, plunging her foot into the water, and 
Isabel felt it go instantly numb. The hand’s broken owner pulled itself 
above the surface, its wailing joined with Isabel’s screams. 


Isabel beat at the thing’s misshapen head, the flesh and bone 
separating like pudding around her fists. More arms reached up to 
grab her, to pull her down, to pull themselves up, and their grips did 
not loosen. She sank into the numbing murk, up to her shins, up to 
her thighs, up to her waist. 


“Emma!” Isabel screamed as loud as she could. “Emma, please 
help!” 


Emma wasn't there to hear her. 


Lower, lower, colder, colder. To her armpits now. Her struggling 


grew weaker, though not for lack of effort. The things were crawling 
on each other now, attempting to escape, and their weight pushed 
her ever down. Up to her chin. As she gasped for mouthfuls of air, 
Isabel saw, in the distance, a throne. 


Upon the throne sat a King, all adorned in scarlet. The king had 
seven spears, which pierced the brides that lay bloodied at his feet, 
from whose wombs spewed the great Leviathans that teemed 
around the throne. 


The King raised an arm, encrusted with barnacle-gods, and turned 
his thumb down. 


Isabel dropped beneath the surface, and all was cold. 
You will not have her. 
Return to your abyss. 
You will not have her. 
Begone. 
Begone, all you evil spirits. 
Begone, all you ranks of demons. 
Begone, all you inhabitants of the Abyss. 
You will not have her. 
Begone, first of the Fallen Gods. 
Begone, Defiler of Worlds. 
Begone, Rapist King. 
Begone, Usurper. 
Begone, Lord of the Throne of Despair. 


You will not have her. 


| cast you out! 


Isabel woke up, gulping in frigid nighttime air. She could feel the 
snow against her, and hear Jeremy’s whimpering by her. She was 
back in the forest, far away from the horrible place she had seen. 
Her breathing slowed. Just a dream, she thought, the images 
melting away from her mind like snowflakes on skin, leaving only 
impressions. Deep cuts of cold and fear...but just a dream. It wasn’t 
real. 


She sat up, and saw a man standing before her. He was short, 
stocky, draped in furs, with a broad face lost in folds and wrinkles of 
wind-tempered skin, and a wide bulbous nose like some overripe 
fruit. A thick mane of tangled silver hair rested on his head and on 
his chin. In one hand he held a stone-tipped spear. In the other, a 
torch. 


Standing in the flickering shadows behind him was a great grey wolf 
whose shoulders came up to the man’s chin, watching intently with 
yellow eyes. 


Isabel grabbed Jeremy and held him close. The old man smiled 
gently. 


“lam not going to hurt you,” he said. His voice was guttural, 
rumbling and groaning as if he had not spoken in a long time. Yet, 
his words belied a great joy in even their very speaking. So different 
from the vision she had received — his air was of safety, of warmth. 


He knelt down in the snow in front of Isabel, placing his spear to the 
side. “What is your name, child?” 


“Isabel,” she said, letting go of Jeremy. "Who are you? Santa? You 
kinda look like Santa." 


The old man's smile creased his face again. 


“No, no. | am just an old man. And who is this?” he motioned 
towards the dog, who had not barked at all the entire time. 


“Jeremy,” Isabel said. 


“Ah.” He extended his hand, and Jeremy sniffed at it for a moment, 
before licking it. The old man scratched the corgi behind the ears. 
“He is a fitting companion for you. And what are you doing out here 
in the snow, Isabel and Jeremy?” 


“?’m...I’m looking for my friend Emma. | lost her, but now | don’t 
know where | am, and I’m worried about her, and | don’t know if | 
can find her or my way home...could you help me? 


“Would you allow me to help you?” 
“Yes please.” Isabel nodded her head vigorously. 


“Then | will help you.” The man stood up, and Isabel followed suit. 
Jeremy went over and attempted to sniff the wolf's butt. The wolf 
pushed him onto his side with a lazy paw, then grabbed him with its 
mouth and proceeded to carry him, like a pup. 


“Come with me,” the old man said. “I will show you a safe path.” 
Isabel followed him. 


They walked through the dark, passing from the woods to the 
switchbacks up into the mountains. The old man said nothing, but it 
was the good kind of nothing, Isabel had decided. The kind of 
nothing that filled up afternoon naps and cloudwatching. The wolf 
had decided that Jeremy squirmed too much, and now the corgi 
trotted along beside, nipping at the wolf's heels. The wolf ignored 
him. 


When they had risen above the trees, the old man paused, and 
looked out over the valley. 


“What are you looking at?” Isabel asked. 
“Merely where we have been.” 
“Oh.” 


The path rose higher up the cliffside, before levelling off in a shelf 
scattered with snow drifts and banks of pebbles. A cave entrance 
yawned in the mountainside, a trickle of water flowing out of it to 


freeze as it dripped over the edge. 


“This path will lead you homeward. | cannot follow you beyond its 
mouth,” the man said. “You and your companion must walk it alone.” 


Isabel frowned as she gazed into the darkness. She had grown used 
to the old man’s comforting, quiet presence. 


“Is it safe?” 
“It is as safe as you will it.” 
“Can | at least have the torch?” 


There was no answer. She turned to see that the old man and his 
wolf were gone, as was his torch. 


“Oh...well he was a load of help,” she said, and she meant at least 
some of it. “Come on Jeremy. Stick close to me.” 


Isabel placed a hand on the wall of the cave, and slowly began to 
walk. 


The tunnel’s path was at an incline, though it did not wind about. 
Soon removed from the light of the moons, Isabel navigated solely 
by the rough stone wall under her fingertips and the crunch of gravel 
under her feet. Time did not pass at all, and it did not pass in large 
quantities. The trickling of water and Jeremy’s padding steps were 
her only accompaniment. 


The wall ended. The floor flattened out. Isabel stumbled, righted 
herself, moved her hand back to where it ought to be and found only 
open air. She waved an arm in the general direction of where the 
wall had been. Nothing. 


She spun around, feeling out into the blackness. 
“Jeremy? Jeremy!” 


Her voice did not even echo. The trickle of the water was absent. 
The empty space closed around her, choking her heart with long 
fingers. Gouged impressions of that terrible cold, that terrible fear, 


erupted in her mind, and she could not shake them. 


“Jeremy! JEREMY! JEREMY? her voice snapped. “Jeremy...don’t 
leave me alone.” 


She sank into the darkness, and faded. 


And she heard a voice. Two voices. More. A chorus, rising up from 
the dark. 


| know of the names of the stars 
And sung the animals their names 
And discerned the course of the winds 
| hold the heart of all stories within my breast 
And mark the kinship of the beasts of the land 
And know the land as friend 
Who first looked up? 
Who first loved? 
Who held the first child? 
It was I. 
lt was I. 
It was I. 
Who seeks beyond the horizon? (It is I) 
Who makes real the future? (It is I) 
Who carries the past? (It is I) 
By wonders untold, the gift to create wonder 


It was | 


days had passed, the tissue surrounding the strings 
began breaking down, and after 6 days and 7 hours the 
flesh connecting the subjects to SCP-570-1 had 
decomposed and severed the connection. 

Analysis: N/A 


Addendum 2: Notes on SCP-570 Fiber Composition 


Samples taken from the cotton fibers used by SCP-570 to link 
SCP-570-1 and its affected subjects have been shown to match the 
composition of initial samples taken from SCP-2991. Due to the 
possibility that this particular fiber composition may be partially 
responsible for the effects of both anomalies, anomalous materials 
analysis on samples from both objects is currently underway. 


« SCP-569 | SCP-570 | SCP-571 » 


Who was gifted in humility 
In creation | am made 
In creation | am whole 
In creation, | create 
And the span of humanity rests in me 
For | raised up my hand 


“And there was fire...” Isabel whispered. A flame, delicate and small, 
flickered to life in her palm. She picked herself up off the ground, 
and the fire in her hand grew brighter, warmth and light pouring out, 
casting away the darkness. 


She stood in a vast cave, the hollow heart of the mountain, now 
illuminated by the fire in her hand. Statues of stone, plaster, copper, 
steel, wax, clockwork, plastic, wood, refuse, and rubber filled the 
floor, peeked out of alcoves, clung to stalactites, sat carved in 
pillars. Paintings were spread across the walls in oil and ash and 
store-bought tempera, mosaics across the floor in tile and shell and 
bone. Men and women of the whole spectrum of humanity, from 
every age, from every place, from every time, thousands upon 
thousands upon tens of thousands upon more. Among these were 
other figures. Assistants, apprentices, companions, human and 
animal alike, all as varied as their employers.