He added the deer's liver to the coals of his forge: it sizzled and 
smoked as he plunged the ingot into the hot coals. Spider helped 
him to pound the steel into a long, thin blank, raising and slamming 
down the heavy steel hammer until her back ached and her arms felt 
like jelly. Then, with chisel and hammer, he divided the glowing steel 
into three pieces. 


Long days passed. While Guggenheim devoted himself to heating, 
pounding, and shaping the blanks, Spider finished cleaning and 
curing the deer's hide. She chose one of its antlers, and two of its 
ribs, and saved them for handles. The meat she cured, salted, and 
dried into jerky. 


The beast had given its life for her, and she would make use of it to 
the very end. 


The first blade Guggenheim finished was the athame: long and 
slender, double-edged, with slender quillions, a broad fuller inset 
with silver runes. She carved the handle out of good, solid oak, 
stained black, carved runes into them and inlaid them with silver. 
This was the ritual blade, the one that she used to draw circles and 
cut through the ether. 


The second was the boline: curved and short, with a concave edge 
and a blunt tip. She made this handle out of the deer's antler, 
carving and polishing it into a smooth hilt. This was the working 
blade, the one she could use to cut herbs and mistletoe, a tool for 
everyday work. 


Those two blades would never draw blood. But the third was the 
secespita, the killing blade, the knife of sacrifice. This one 
Guggenheim made with a sturdy drop point and a razor-sharp edge. 
She carved the handle out of bone, taken from the deer's ribs, the 
bones that lay close to the heart. 


The night after Guggenheim finished the third knife, she took it with 
her into his rabbit pens and picked out a big, fat one ready to be 
eaten. She held the struggling animal down on the oak stump and 
cut its throat. 


The blood spilled out over her hands once more, and she shivered 
as she raised it to her lips and tasted the life-blood of the dead 
creature. She drew the circle with the point of the athame and 
burned the sage that she had cut with boline. She inhaled the smoke 
and closed her eyes and slept that night under the stars, wrapped in 
the hide of the deer she had killed, with the knives she had crafted 
from its body resting around her at three points of an equilateral 
triangle. 


Three knives. One meant for harm. The second meant for harvest. 
The third for power. The tools of her craft. 


"You happy with them?" Heinrich asked the next morning. He'd put a 
final polish on the blades, and now they lay on a blanket made of 
soft deerskin: the long, slender athame, the short, hawkbilled boline, 
the broad secespita. They shone like rippling water, beautifully 
damascened. Forged from the same steel under the same moon, 
shining like stars. 


"They're perfect," Spider said. She wrapped them in the deerhide 
and bound them in leather cord. She would have the hide tanned 
into hard leather, and would bring it to the Coalition's armorers to 
craft into sheaths for these new knives of hers. 


"Did you find what you were looking for?" Guggenheim asked. 
"... [think so," Spider replied. 


"Then good luck down there, girl," the old man said, and he leaned 
forward to kiss his student on the forehead. "And take care of 
yourself.” 


"| will," Spider whispered. 


Tears welled up in her eyes, and she sat down hard, silent sobs 
shaking her body. 


Guggenheim sat down next to her and put his arm around her 
shoulders. They would sit like that together until the pain stopped 
and she could stand on her own once more. 


"Spider." 


"Bullfrog." She sat down across from her team leader at the 
conference table, nodding to him respectfully. "Kitten. Skunkboy." 


The four of them took their seats around the table as Bullfrog turned 
out the lights and brought up a map of a small coastal town up on 
the projection screen. 


"This is Dunwich, Massachusetts," he said. "It's a neutral zone 
between humanity and the Subpelagics, and one of the few places 
where cross-breeding between the two species takes place. The 


town has been neutral ground for both parties for at least one 
hundred years. And last week, that neutrality was broken..." 


He went over the details of the incident, the rising diplomatic 
tensions, the emergency treaty that narrowly averted all-out war 
between humanity and the dwellers of the deep. "Our mission is to 
find out what's actually going on," he concluded. "We'll be seconded 
to PSYCHE division's investigative team. Our job is basically to be 
on hand if and when they need someone with combat experience. In 
the meantime, we'll assist with the investigation as best we can. Are 
there any questions?" 


No one answered. 


He took a deep breath. "All right, then one last thing." He turned on 
the lights, illuminating the room fully and casting the shadows away. 
"We've been hurt," he said, his voice low and husky. "And this is our 
first time back out in the field. And what makes the hurt worse is that 
it was one of us... it was me... doing a lot of the hurting. | still think 
that our team is solid. | still think we're strong. But... if you need to 
do anything... to say anything... so that we can put that hurting 
behind us and get the job down... I'm here. And I'm ready." 


There was silence, broken only by the sound of the projector's 
cooling fan slowly turning. 


Spider licked her lips and breathed in very slowly, then out just as 
slow. 


"Bullfrog?" she said. 


The big man's mouth twitched once. He turned and looked her in the 
eyes for the first time in over a month. 


"I'll follow you wherever you lead me," she said. Her voice shook a 
bit, and she cleared her throat. "Even into hell." 


Bullfrog nodded at that. For a moment, she thought she could see 
moisture well up in his eyes, but then he blinked and set his 
shoulders, and his eyes had returned to their usual cool, calm, flint- 
like hardness. 


SCP-652: Meteorological Dog 


Item #: SCP-652 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-652 is to be kept in 
standard domestic-animal facilities. The room requires basic 
furnishings for SCP-652 and its handler — bedding, food, water and 
so on. SCP-652 and its handler are permitted to roam the facility 
grounds at will. 


Personnel who come in contact with SCP-652 are not permitted to 
wear heavy boots: SCP-652 is badly frightened by such boots, and 
by anyone wearing them. For the same reason, personnel who 
come in contact with SCP-652 are not permitted to grow beards. 


SCP-652's vocalizations are to be recorded and preserved for 
analysis; special note is to be taken of any mentions of the phrases 
"ash cloud", "hurricane", and/or "radiation". 


Description: SCP-652 presents as a neutered male dog of the 
Basset Hound breed; bone growth analysis indicates that subject is 
approximately three (3) years old. Subject appears to be physically 
normal beyond four (4) significant abnormalities: 


¢ Subject has a tattoo on its belly in the shape of the Marshall, 
Carter and Dark logo. The tattoo was likely applied in the 
dog's infancy. 

X-rays of the subject reveal several poorly-healed skull 
fractures and broken ribs, suggesting extreme physical abuse. 
Subject's jaw muscles are well-developed, above that of a 
normal dog of this breed; however, bite force is in line with 
what is to be expected of a dog this size. This abnormality is 
likely to be a direct result of abnormality 4, below. 

Subject's larynx is grossly distorted. X-ray examination shows 
significant diversion from expected size and shape. It is 


"Then let's move," he said. "Meet up in the hangar at 1800. And 
pack heavy. We may be there for a while." 


"Sequence" 
« Trauma | Return to GOC Hub | Vigil» 


"Scramble Order" 


Skunkboy knocked on the apartment door. There was no response. 
He knocked on the door again. Still no response. 


He very carefully stepped to one side of the door and pressed his 
ear against the wall. He thought he could hear the sound of 
footsteps and a low, muffled, masculine curse. 


Oh. Crap. 


Skunkboy took a deep breath. He pulled his pistol from his 
waistband holster. Checked the chamber for a round. Made sure the 
magazine was seated. Checked the safety. 


He laid the pistol on the ground where he could grab it quickly, then 
rummaged around in his jacket pocket for his breaching kit. 


A moment later, the door opened. 
He froze. 


Spider was standing in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed and 
her hair was disheveled and her eyes were angry. She was wearing 
a black silk nightgown, embroidered with red-and-gold spiders. 


It was immediately obvious to Skunkboy that she wasn't wearing 
underwear. 


Ohhhhh... Skunkboy thought. And then ... crap. 


"Sorry about this," he said cautiously. "We tried to contact you by 
phone, but you weren't picking up." 


"I'm supposed to be off-duty," Spider said coldly. "Couldn't this wait 
until morning?" 


"It seriously can't," Skunkboy said. "Scramble Alert. We need to 
deploy as soon as possible." 


"Fuck," Spider growled. "All right. You may as well wait inside, so 
the neighbors don't freak out about an armed psychopath in the 
hallway." 


She turned away and re-entered her apartment. Skunkboy carefully 
gathered up his weapon and breaching kit and followed her inside. 


"Nice place," he said admiringly. "I like the shoji screens. Adds a bit 
of coziness. Breaks up the big empty space." 


"Also helps the feng shui," Spider explained. "Prevents the positive 
energy from flowing out and breaks up negative energy trying to 
come in." She seemed to be getting grumpy now, which was better 
than pissed off in Skunkboy's book. "There's water in the fridge if 
you need it. Bathroom's down the hall." 


She marched into the next room and closed the door behind her. 
Skunkboy heard muffled conversation coming from within. 


His throat suddenly felt very dry. He decided to avail himself of the 
water and ice dispensers set into the fridge. 


He was just taking a sip when the bedroom door opened and a 
young man walked out, shrugging into a dark blue blazer. Skunkboy 
looked over the newcomer with a discerning eye. Nice cheekbones. 
Strong jawline. Good abs. 


Nice... 


The stranger picked up a half-empty bottle and two champagne 
flutes from the lacquered wood coffee table. He flinched as he 
looked up and saw Skunkboy standing in the kitchen, sipping his 
glass of water. "Um. Hi," the stranger said nervously. 


"You're Flintlock, right?" Skunkboy asked. "From PTOLEMY 
division? Public Relations and Information Concealment?" 


"Yeah. You must be, uhhh..." 


"Skunkboy. Team sharpshooter. I'd offer to shake your hand, but 
you're busy." 


"Oh. Yeah. We were just, uhh... having an evening..." Flint's face 
flushed pink, which he tried to hide by rinsing the champagne flutes 
out in the sink. Skunkboy could smell a whiff of Spider's perfume 
coming off his skin, and noted that the top button of his shirt seemed 
to have come loose. 


He briefly considered one of two courses of action to take and 
settled on the more entertaining one. 


"Did you cut yourself shaving?" he asked. 
"What?" Flint replied. 


"You've got a little red on your collar," Skunkboy said. He pointed at 
a patch of smudged lipstick on Flint's shirt collar and was gratified to 
see the other man start to stammer. 


Bam. Right through the X-Ring on the first shot. 


"Stop harrassing my boyfriend, Skunky," Spider said. She emerged 
from the bedroom wearing a black turtleneck and slacks, her hair 
tied up in a loose bun, her bug-out bag slung over her shoulder. "All 
right, hon, I'm out," she said to Flint. "Just remember to lock up 
when you leave." 


"Come back safe," Flintlock said. 


Spider paused to give Flintlock one of those slow, lingering kisses 
that makes everyone else in the room cough and look at their 
watches, which Skunkboy did. "All right," she said. "Let's get going.” 


Damn. Out-maneuvered. 
Skunkboy ceded this round to Spider. 
"So what the hell is going on that they're issuing a Scramble Alert to 


an Assessment Team, of all things?" Spider asked on the elevator 
ride down. 


"| have no idea. They don't tell me these things," Skunkboy said. "All 
| know is that Bullfrog needs us back at HQ within the hour, no 
questions asked." 


"lam a mushroom," Spider grumbled. 


Kept in the dark and fed bullshit. "Hoorah, Semper Fi, Do or Die, 
and Tennouheika Banzai." Skunkboy said. 


The elevator continued its slow descent down towards the basement 
of the apartment building. 


"So..." Skunkboy said. 

"So..." Spider agreed. 

The elevator continued to descend. 

"You've been dating that guy for a few months now," Skunkboy said. 
"| have," Spider agreed. 


"... [hope | wasn't interrupting, like... you know. THE night," 
Skunkboy said. 


"We've slept together before," Spider said. 

"Oh. Cool." 

The elevator continued to continue to descend. 

"He treating you right?" 

"... dO you mean in bed or in general?" Spider asked. 
"Yes." 


Spider shrugged, and a small, pleased smile appeared on her face. 
"Well, he calls after each date. He picks up the check at dinner, but 
doesn't flip out if | want to pay for half. And he brings me flowers." 


"Nice," Skunkboy said. 


"... plus, he does this thing with his tongue that's like... really good." 


They exchanged high fives, and Skunkboy ruffled the smaller 
woman's hair. "If he ever hurts you," he said, "Let us know." 


"Thanks," Spider said, "but if he hurts me, I'll take care of him 
myself." 


"Really?" 


"Contagion is an interesting thing. You can attack someone through 
their toenail clippings, hair clippings... but bodily fluids have some of 
the strongest links," Spider explained. "That's why a lot of mages are 
celibate." 


"Really. Huh." Skunkboy said thoughtfully. "So after sleeping with 
him..." 


"| could wither his balls into raisins and make his piss feel like glass 
and fire. And that would just be for starters," Spider said. 


"Remind me never to date Type Blues," Skunkboy said, laughing. 
"You mages are scary." 


"Mmm... there are benefits," Spider said smugly. 


"Huh." Skunkboy was about to ask more, but then the elevator 
dinged and the doors slid open. 


"Where are you parked?" Spider asked. 
"Visitor spot number six," Skunkboy said. "This way." 


The two of them continued across the parking structure towards 
visitor parking. 


"So yeah," Spider said. "My focus of study has been on neo- 
traditional thaumaturgy. Studying traditional forms of magic and 
updating them to modern understandings of thaumatology." 


"Yeah. Hence the knives and the mistletoe and stuff." 


"Mm hmm," Spider said. "Well, my current focus of study is O.T.O. 
Ordo Templi Orientis. Aleister Crowley and stuff like that. Most of his 
stuff is bunk, but there's enough info in there that I've been 
researching and refining down into the useful core." 


"... [have no idea what you're talking about. Or how that relates to 
your boyfriend." 


"Crowley did a lot of work in sex magick," Spider explained. "And the 
better the orgasms, the more energy generated." 


"... huh. So basically, you've been spending your research budget 
from ICSUT..." 


"Practicing better ways to fuck my boyfriend," Spider said, sounding 
unbelievably smug. 


"Nice." Skunkboy popped open the trunk of his car, and Spider 
tossed her bag inside. "Found anything useful?" 


"A little bit. Mostly academic, though. Not much there that | can use 
in my day job. | mean, | can't exactly carry a vibrator and scented 
candles into the field." She opened the door of the red sports car 
and climbed into the front passenger's seat. 


"You'd be surprised. I've seen weirder things in the field." Skunkboy 
slid into the driver's seat and buckled up. 


"Oh?"