"No! ... | mean, wait ... what?" 
"__q God?" said one of the voices, "An immortal? A de—" 


"STOP!" yelled the Keterlord, "Yes ... YES ... | AM THE 
KETERLORD!!" He heard feet shuffling nervously around him. "AND 


YOU MUST RELEASE ME! RELEASE ME, OR! WILL... I'LL, 
ummm ... DESTROY YOUR MINDS WITH ... with ... FIRE ... yes, 
WITH FIRE!!" A long silence ensued. 


"Impossible!" yelled one of the voices, "for we are wearing armor 
made from the purest telekill alloy!" 


"Chief, that's not entirely—" 


"Shut up, shut up, shut up! You know what, fuck you guys! Can't 
anybody deal with a little bit of goddam ad-libbing?! Anybody?!" 


"This is embarrassing. Carl, just turn on the lights already." 

The lights flashed on, and the Keterlord realized he was in a room 
full of his coworkers. A large sheet cake sat on the table in front of 
him. 


"SURPRISE!" they yelled, some less enthusiastically than others. 


The Keysmith's Bootstrap 


The smell of salt and the sound of quietly lapping waves suddenly 
appears. | fall, the solid floor previously supporting me now 
vanished, down to the surface of the water | know is below me. | 
should be a moderate distance from the shore, which in turn 
shouldn't be far from my home. | haven't been outside in several 
decades, let alone seen the sea during that time. Faint, cloudy 
memories of me and my mother at a beach emerge, both of us 
sitting alone. We pat down the sand in our bucket before flipping it 
over, creating a featureless, cylindrical sandcastle. "We did it!" she 
says, mere seconds before an all-resounding splash and the 
sensation of emersion yanks me back to reality, the abundance of 
suffocating water forcing me to swim to the surface. 


Behind me is the beach itself; a long smear of yellow sand lightly 
dotted with people all across it, children running and laughing as 
they played tag or competed for toys, their parents lazily soaking up 
the light from the sun. The beach and its inhabitants begin to shrink 
as an unseen tide drags me away from the shore, trying to take me 
to some unknown fate. My attempts to fight against it are futile; 
fatigue has taken hold, preventing me from successfully fighting 
back. 


“Help! Help!” The sound of my voice is drowned out by the ocean 
before it can reach the shore. A man on the beach sitting up on a 
raised chair stirs, hopefully having sighted my dark, waving hand 
and understood it as a cry for help. The strength in my legs drain 
away from the effort to stay afloat and the surface of the water rises 
above my head. Blue waters fade to black as the shallow breath 
within my chest depletes, and my oxygen-deprived mind withdraws 
into itself. The true, physical senses are replaced with simulations as 
| fall into my memories. 


/ /20 , 


09/14/1 


crowded theater in the 
middle of a play, 
production confirmed 
as Our American 
Cousin. Observers 
see the guards around 
the main balcony door 
distracted, led into an 
alley, and beaten 
unconscious. As the 
assailant turned to 
allow another man 
access to the door, 
very distinctive facial 
features are first 
noticed. Entity labeled 
SCP-961-T. 
Observers see a 
battle, find themselves 
near an officer's tent. 
Commanding general 
appears to be under 
the influence of 
multiple narcotics, 
provided to him by an 
unseen doctor. Armies 
dressed in 19th 
century English and 
Prussian uniforms are 
seen breaking through 
defensive lines. The 
doctor emerges, 
confirmed to be 
SCP-961-1, speaks to 
one observer; some 
feet away, a second 
observer hears 
muttering, along with 
"you're welcome." 


“You’re a target," spoke the voice of O5-6, all semblances of any 
identifiable characteristics being masked. "Several undercover 
agents we have within a hostile faction have informed us that an 
attempt to capture or terminate you is being planned, or may already 
be in motion. We are unsure of the motives of these plans, but are 
expecting an attempt at blackmailing the Foundation as a whole. 
You should understand we cannot allow this to happen.” 


Leaning forward in my seat, | took a moment to think about this 
revelation. Why would someone even consider this? Site-17 would 
have been filled with countless items or beings that followed their 
own laws or logic, all of which would have been far more useful than 
me. Only one of the anomalies here had ever crossed paths with me 
in person, admittedly; the others | only heard mumblings of from 
staff working on them, or from the occasional sounds they made as 
they rampaged freely through the building. The staff themselves 
were more valuable than |, having knowledge of how to access 
information known only to my protectors, the Foundation. It was like 
stealing a rotten apple at the bottom of a barrel of grenades — a lot 
of effort for the most worthless thing there. Not waiting for a 
response, the dark outline on the screen continued speaking. 


“Do not tell anyone else about what | am about to tell you to do. It is 
probable that those posted close to you may very well be the ones 
we are attempting to protect you from — informing them of what we 
are doing could prompt them to take action. So under no 
circumstances whatsoever can anyone other than you, me and my 
fellow overseers be made aware of this conversation.” The voice 
made particular emphasis on the last sentence, increasing their 
volume rather than changing their tone. “I will only state this once. 
Effective immediately you are being promoted to E-Class and being 
assigned to an anomaly under our control that you are familiar with; 
SC 


Present Day 
Fading back into consciousness, a feeling of immense nausea 


sweeps through me. Instincts kick in and sit me upright as my lungs 
are purged of seawater, vomiting it all out. Someone sighs, the noise 


explaining the instinctive feeling of not only being watched, but being 
surrounded by an unseen crowd. Finally regaining full control of my 
body, | open my eyes and look about to see my new surroundings. 


The man who had come down from his chair earlier was sitting to 
my right, breathing heavily and smiling. He wears strange clothes 
consisting of only the colours red and yellow, topped with a funny 
little hat that almost makes his head look like a ripe tomato. The 
small crowd around us, consisting entirely of worried adults, begins 
to subside as some of them lose interest. 


"You feeling better?" speaks the man, his Australian origins more 
obvious in his voice than the fact he could speak. A nod satiates his 
curiosity, and he moves onto his next query. 


"Can you tell me your name?" 


The question echoes in the emptiness of my foggy mind. It isn't 
because of an inability to answer the question; my identity is easy to 
recall without effort. The question is whether the truth should be 
provided or not. Just as | am to him, his identity is completely 
unknown to me and by extension, any trust in him could be 
misplaced. Too drowsy to think of a proper response, | just shake 
my head. 


"Alright, just relax mate. The ambulance is on it's way, everything'll 
be alright." A slight hint of concern is now present in his voice. While 
it is a good idea to go to a hospital and get medical attention, the 
more pressing matter of getting home is of much higher importance. 
Besides, there would be plenty of doctors stationed at Site-17. 
Despite his wishes for me to stay and relax, | need to get up and 
leave. 


"Just relax, you're alright." He speaks in response to my motion, 
resting his hands upon my shoulders to try and coerce me to 
comply. "Sir, please just relax, you're ok." 


| shake my head, trying to fight off the lingering fogginess in my 
mind. "Where... ami..." My throat feels dry despite the water that 
had formerly flowed through it, my voice raspy and weak. It hardly 
even sounds like my own, but it surely must be mine. A drink of 


water - that should fix it. 


"| really think you should just relax, sir. You've just been dead for a 
few mi-" Sternly, | repeat my question. He means well, but his 
insistence for me to comply is beginning to become irritating. He 
quietly muffles a sigh before responding, telling me the name of the 
beach and of the nearby city. 


"Thank you." The crowd parts before me as | walk away, pausing 
briefly to address the man again. "| am grateful that you saved me, 
but | am in a rush." Satisfied that the apology should be enough to 
appease him, | follow a nearby path into the city. 


The sounds of countless car horns blaring, of thousands, if not 
millions, of commuters walking and talking throughout the streets, 
quickly becomes deafening within the confines of the city. Around 
me are endless rows of skyscrapers reaching high into the sky, like 
concrete obelisks from the view of an ant. Moving throughout the 
streets is almost as difficult as swimming against the tide that had 
formerly claimed my life, as endless hordes of businessmen and 
tourists alike travel in the opposite direction to me, the minor 
collisions between us slowly driving me back. 


It's too much for me to stand - the silence and solitude of Site-17 is 
what | am accustomed to. There is a side street nearby which | head 
to, hoping it to be a refuge from the overabundant chaos of the city. 
It is certainly much darker, the shadows of the buildings to either 
side blocking out most of the light, and the noise of the street is 
slowly muffled the further | go in. Leaning against a section of wall 
parallel to a particularly foul-smelling dumpster, | take a moment to 
orient my thoughts and catch my breath. 


"Looks like we got a nigger over here!" shouts someone further in 
the alley. A group of seven people emerge from the shadows, all 
visibly the type ready to cause trouble. Jeans, shirts with their 
sleeves torn off or designed to look that way, prominent muscular 
arms... they all sport countless scars and stitches, and are all 
grinning maliciously as they approach, eyes fixed on me. 


Oh shit. 


"What're you fucking doing here, nigger?" shouts one of them, 
picking up speed as he approaches me. My mind is screaming to 
run back out into the street and disappear into the endless crowd. 
My heart is already prepared for this to happen, beating at a rate 
much higher than normal, and yet | cannot move. | can't will myself 
to take the first step, only stare in utter fear as the group surrounds 
me. 


The man grabs my shoulders and turns me around, glaring with fury 
in his eyes and a vicious snarl in his speech. "I said, what the fuck, 
is a nigger like you, doing on our turf?" he barks. His insistence for a 
response coupled with his obvious will for a fight was enough to 
prompt me to speak. 


"|-I didn't know | wasn't allowed here..." Before | can make any 
attempt to leave, the two men standing between me and the street 
step forward to show that | wasn't going to get past them. Cold 
sweat begins to roll down my spine. 


"You niggers think you can just go anywhere you want now, don't 
you? Think you can do whatever you fucking want?" He is riling 
himself up now, finding reasons to make himself angry about my 
presence. I'd been insulted over my African genes before, but not to 
this degree - had racism become fashionable again? Regardless, | 
was in for a fight that | probably won't win. "You niggers should've 
stayed where you belonged, picking cotton o-" 


"Leave him alone!" Everyone turns to see the source of the new 
voice, a man who had turned off the main street. He walks fearlessly 
past the two blocking my escape, apparently unconcerned with the 
violence this gang was capable of and how hopelessly outnumbered 
he would be. Both his arms and his legs are prosthetic, visibly made 
of a polished silver metal, but the silence of their operation and their 
accuracy at mimicking natural movement shows they are of 
exceptional quality. They could easily deflect damage and probably 
break bones, explaining his obvious feeling of safety. 


The man who had been shouting at me backs away as the 
newcomer approaches me, ignoring the presence of the others. “Are 
you ok?” he speaks, his Arabian heritage supported by his prevalent 
accent. He has a strange symbol carved into his forehead, the 


meaning of which is unknown, and his blue eyes are strangely 
piercing. 


“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, just waltzing in here 
uninvited?” The other man sounds significantly angrier, having been 
interrupted and ignored by this new arrival. “Don’t fucking ignore me, 
dune coon!” 


The good Samaritan doesn’t respond to the barking voice. He 
doesn’t respond until | nod my head, indicating | was physically fine 
— albeit emotionally frightened. 


“Go. | will stay in your stead.” Nothing more need be said. As the 
two guards move in to help attack, | run past them and out into the 
street. My instinct of flight rather than fight fully kicks in, rushing 
through the crowds as quickly as | can go, fighting against the tide of 
people. People shout as they are shoved aside, cars beep in 
frustration as | sprint past them, but | don’t stop. It isn’t until the 
buildings start to shorten and the crowds thin do | finally stop, 
tripping over an uneven paver. 


With a light clink, the sole item in my pocket falls out and lands upon 
the pavement. Quickly grabbing it to prevent its loss, | look over it 
while getting up, studying its details. | follow the small carvings 
across its surface, the swirls that twist and shrink beyond my 
observation, but feel only a smooth metal surface. The sensation of 
timelessness emanates from it, yet it shows no signs of ageing as | 
do. Walking north through the city’s streets, memories of how this 
item came into my possession emerge. 


/ /20 , 


The whitewashed halls were both familiar and unfamiliar as | was 
escorted through them by the two guards. Featureless and bland, 
they looked as though the designer had simply copied and pasted 
the same four base components — straight hall, corner, T-junction, 
four-way junction — over and over again. Considering the workings 
of the Foundation that was probably what had happened to minimize 
design costs. | was being escorted through these halls by two 
guards | was unfamiliar with. The revelation from several minutes 


earlier had made me uneasy, being unsure if they were traitors or 
potential friends. Silence was my default. 


“Oy, we’re here.” The sudden gruff voice of the guard was startling, 
speaking as he came to a stop with his accomplice. The two glared 
at me the way you would if someone needed to hurry up. The door 
that was our destination stood alone along its long stretch of hall, the 
sole sentinel holding back the unfathomable chaos held behind it. It 
would only respond to a keycard with high enough clearance, 
otherwise standing firm — fortunately, | was given such a card shortly 
after my conversation with the Overseer. A moment after swiping it, | 
repeated the action but to no response. 


"Must be fuckin’ faulty. You able to open it Frankie?" The gruff- 
voiced guard spoke to the other, turning to face me. 


"Nope. Everyone who can is already inside. We'll have to fetch the 
skeleton key." The voice of the other was much smoother and 
friendlier. | felt more trusting to him than the other, but not enough to 
prevent me from shifting away slightly. They both suddenly turn and 
march down the hall again, leaving me behind. 


"Hurry up!" barks the first, prompting me to sprint and catch up. It 
doesn't take long for us to complete our brief detour, speaking to a 
specific researcher who was assigned to the item we sought. We 
were entrusted with the item, and with it in our possession, returned 
to the door once more. This time upon swiping it, the door slid open.