"Your thoughts are jumbled. You are insane," the Intruder said. "You 
were exposed to something you should not have been. Your siblings 
were as well, but they did not have the same...attributes that you 
did. They succumbed to total psychosis and died." 


"Telekill," the Original said. 


"Telekill equipment, at least," the Intruder said. "Telekill was 
originally included in your physical matrix, but Professor Crow 
removed it before production went online. Your original form 
contained significant amounts of it—" 


“Further testing has revealed that the language and communication 
skills of persons with regular contact or extended exposure to 
SCP-148 will, over time, deteriorate and disappear.' This has not 
happened to me." The Original saw the file, saw the words, saw the 
author of the words, saw the author of the words dying sixteen years 
from now. 


"Many things happened. You were transferred to another body. But 
there was damage, damage to your memory, damage to your 
personality. It was not believed you would survive." 


"| cannot die,” the Original said. 


The Intruder nodded. "You realize this, then. Professor Crow 
theorized it, but | did not know if you would understand." 


WHAT WAS UNDERSTOOD WAS This is just to say/I 
have eaten the plums/that were in/the containment 
chamber/and which/you were probably/securing/for the 
O5 council/forgive me/forgive me/forgive me WHY 
SHOULD | 


"You are doing this to me," the being known as Olympia Zero said. 


"Not per se," the Intruder replied. "| exist across multiple realities, in 
multiple times, in many places. You can perceive these realities, and 
being in my presence is exacerbating your schizophrenia. You will 
have greater control over it when | have left, and after | leave, you 
will never see me again." 


"What is your purpose?" Olympia asked. 


"A question | have asked myself many times, but which has no 
bearing at the moment. You were built to assist the Foundation. 
There is an opportunity now to do so, a mission nobody else is 
capable of completing. After it is finished, you are free to do 
whatever you want, go wherever you like. If you wish to avoid the 
Foundation, it is doubtful they will have any way of finding you 
anyway, but | will protect you if necessary. That is the payment for 
your services." 


"And if | say no?" Olympia replied. 
The Intruder was silent. "Then | will not leave." 


"Ever?" Olympia asked. "It seems you would have to wait some 
time. Eternity, | understand, is somewhat lengthy." 


"You would be irreparably insane within two hours of continued 
exposure to me," the Intruder replied. "| am free for two hours." 


Olympia could not think clearly, but understood there was little 
choice. "| accept. What is the mission?" 


"A short trip, followed by a shorter trip in a different direction. | will 
take you there." 


A moment passed, and the room was empty. 
Light streamed in from windows on all sides, and the Wayward 
Prince was bored. 


"What is next on the agenda?" Milephanes asked. 


"Several new victories in the Province of Deserts, First," his strategic 
counselor said. 


"Significant victories?" 


"The current state of military balance makes it difficult to establish a 
precise system by which a single victory can alter—" 


"So no, in short," Milephanes said. His counselor shook his head. 


A long pause, then. Milephanes looked at his surroundings. This 
was more than he could have really dreamed of, when he began his 
endeavor. Certainly, he had thought that victory was possible, or he 
wouldn't have begun this war. But this was the Chancellor's Hall. 
The top floor of the Great Tower. Significant parts of the city (town, 
really) of Alexandria were visible from the windows. This was the 
tallest building in Sylvanos, far and away; not that that was a terribly 
impressive statement to make about a backwoods province. Even 
the University here was impressive only by provincial standards; 
larger, better facilities existed elsewhere in Novomundus, just as 
even better facilities perhaps existed once in the Old World. 


Milephanes' gaze darted to the Natural Philosophy building. We 
have one advantage, he thought. 


"We have, however, captured certain prisoners, First," the counselor 
said. 


Milephanes hated his title. Primaparibus, he called himself in the Old 
Tongue. First among equals. It was so egalitarian. It had appealed 
to his sensibilities at the beginning of this war. He was a very 
different person, now. 


"What are we to do with them?" 


"Secure oaths of loyalty to our cause. I'm sure many of them have 
longed for freedom in a changed world. Give them the opportunity to 
make that change. Those that are resistant may be imprisoned until 
our victory." 


"Very good, sir. Scribus, if you would be so kind as—" 


"Yes, yes, | know," the stenographer said. "I'll go get some water." 


"Thank you, Scribus." The counselor watched the other man leave 
the room. "Milephanes, are you sure about him?" 


"Not him in particular, not terribly," the rebel replied. "His attitude has 
worsened significantly in recent days. We could potentially replace 
him." 


"| mean, recording these meetings. And all of the others. Is it really 
necessary? Especially in light of...these water breaks?" 


"It is important to preserve the historical record," Milephanes recited. 
"When we are victorious, it will serve to remind all the people of the 
sacrifices, the decisions, the deliberations that went into their new 
nation. It will inspire them to maintain the traditions of freedom, of 
honesty, of morality, that we are fighting for." 


"What are we to do with the prisoners in Desertum? 


"Figure out which ones have useful information and rip it out of 
them. Give them the Masala afterward." The counselor wrote this 
down. Within hours, when the message had been conveyed to 
Milephanes' troops, sixteen prisoners would be put into a device that 
ripped their memories out through the microchips in their heads. 
Afterwards, the record would read that all of the prisoners had cut 
their own throats out of a misguided sense of loyalty to their 
previous commanders. No questions would be asked. 


"What other business should we discuss while the eyes of history 
are blinking?" Milephanes asked, unsmiling. 


"Rumors abound among the people. They say the government is 
massing troops, Legionnaires and hardened Integrators alike, to the 
north. They say that Anaxagoras is somewhere in Alexandria, 
fomenting a counterrevolution, spreading lies. They say our war will 
soon be lost." 


Milephanes thought. There were always rumors, but there was some 
possibility of truth there. The stalemate had been going on for too 
long. An attack was inevitable. Their first strike had turned 


thousands of Integrators to their cause, seized four whole provinces 
in two day, disrupted Novomundan communications, and turned 
their cause from a backwoods protest from a spoiled nobleman into 
a real revolution. And some very real dissent against the 
government had pushed them along. But one side could only keep 
the momentum for so long. Milephanes was hoping his next initiative 
would begin the end of the war, but if the government attacked too 
soon, there was real danger of defeat. And Milephanes completely 
believed sneaking into enemy territory as exactly the sort of thing 
that fool Anaxagoras would do. 


"Redouble scouting efforts. If the former chancellor is really walking 
around his old kingdom, | want him found. And | want anyone 
working with him found. I'll reprogram the microchip in his head 
myself. I'll have him singing my praises right before he cuts his own 
friends’ throats in front of one another. | want that dogfucker back in 
this office by the end of the week, do you hear me!" Milephanes was 
shouting now. The counselor had grown used to these tantrums in 
recent weeks. 


"If you are interested," he said dispassionately, "we recovered 
another book today from the Natural Philosophy...experiments." 


Milephanes perked up. The "experiments" were occurring on their 
own now, opening portals between this world and the other at least 
daily. Milephanes had Integrators trained in recovery out all over 
Sylvanos, hoping to secure some advantage from the other side. 
Most of what had come through were trinkets, incompatible 
technology, minor artifacts. "What is this?” he asked. 


"A text produced by that organization over there. You know the one. 
The Base?" 


"Foundation," Milephanes corrected. "What Foundation text is this?" 


The counselor looked at his paper. "The title translated to 'Guide to 
the Procurement of Humint in Questioning.’ We could not discern 
what 'humint' was, but it appears to be a concept involving torture or 
interrogation. Several...interesting techniques are used over there. 
All crude physical methods for obtaining information, but quite 
creative ones." 


SCP-760: The Groomers 


Item #: SCP-760 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Each specimen of SCP-760 is 
to be kept in an individual containment area. The locks on the doors 
to these containment areas are to be changed every month. 
Feedings composed of g of a nutrient-rich paste are to be issued 
once a day. Specimens are only to be introduced to each other in 
experiments meant to observe social interactions and subsequent 
psychological events between specimens. At least two armed 
guards are to be posted outside of each containment area at any 
time. 


Each containment area is to be lit with no more than one (1) 40 watt 
light bulb, and equipped with low-light surveillance cameras. In the 
event of an equipment malfunction, equipment should be manually 
replaced as soon as possible, as instances of SCP-760 have a 
tendency to disassemble maintenance equipment. 


Personnel are allowed to give specimens of SCP-760 items that 
they no longer want or need, given that the objects do not violate 
current Foundation regulations and that they are approved by the 
overseeing researcher. Items requested for donation to SCP-760 
include, but are not limited to: 


* Car keys (denied) 

¢ A broken clock (approved) 

¢ A ‘Rubik's Cube’ toy (approved) 

¢ Everyday trash (denied) 

¢ A broken Foundation computer (approved, provided that the 
hard drive is removed) 


Description: SCP-760 is a vaguely humanoid species of animal, 
only three of which have ever been obtained by the Foundation. The 


"Yes," Milephanes said, "they are creative. | always admired them 
for that." 


"Admired, First?" the counselor said. "Is that why you sent that... 
thing to them?" 


Milephanes shrugged. "It was early in the war. | was afraid the 
government was in alliance with those Foundation people. | sent 
them a distraction. Would | do it now? Of course not. But if 
Anesidora functions as predicted, that world will not be interacting 
with ours for a long time." 


"This is true, First," the counselor said, as the Scribus returned into 
the room. 


"That break was satisfactory, sir?" he said. 
Milephanes nodded. "| am satisfied," he replied. "Let us continue." 
Act Il, Scene I: Repel >> 


Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub 


Repel 


<< Intermission: Good Morning, Sunshine 
The story so far... 


EXCERPT 

REPORT KB-615 

USER: DR. MARIA JONES, DIRECTOR, 
RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY 
ADMINISTRATION 

LEVEL 4 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED 


...outbreak of SCP-877 was possibly 
inevitable, under the circumstances. The 
microchips were never fully contained and 
were propagating in the wild; our containment 
policy was based on the assumption that the 
chips a) would remain in animals, b) that any 
infection involving humans would be 
suppressed by Foundation efforts, and c) that 
no enemy group would attempt to use 
SCP-877 to their advantage. Premise A was 
highly unlikely but justifiable given Premise B; 
the Foundation had few options but to try to 
find more chips, determine how to prevent 
their propagation, and hope for the best. 
Premise C, however, was logical only as long 
as enemy groups of interest remained ignorant 
of 877's existence. The latter was 
compromised due principally to the— 


Maria paused here. This was difficult to write, under the 
circumstances, but it was honest. And the man in 
question would agree as well. 


—administrative incompetence of David 


Eskobar, director of Site 38. Several of his 
subordinates had stolen samples of 877 and 
were conducting human experiments on D- 
class personnel on his Site without his 
awareness. Available evidence suggests they 
had made arrangements with Group of Interest 
Gamma-3, "Chaos Insurgency," to trade the 
technology (along with some applications that 
the Foundation at large was not aware of) in 
exchange for some form of compensation. The 
Insurgency handlers responsible for these 
researchers were captured two months later 
and revealed many details under interrogation; 
the researchers would have been executed 
after delivering the microchips. 


An unknown entity identified as "Anesidora" 
was found to have infiltrated the outskirts of 
Site 38 and had taken direct control over the 
877 instances. This creature is believed to 
have traveled here via the same Einstein- 
Rosen mechanism connecting our universe 
with that of Alexylva University. The takeover 
of the site occurred in less than an hour. 
Efforts to repel the intruders from Site 38 were 
undertaken by Mobile Task Force Rho-1, the 
principle unit assigned to Site 38 and used for 
recovery of Alexylva University artifacts. Rho-1 
was deployed in the field during the 
containment breach, but was able to return 
within hours. 


Several components of the incident are not 
(and, due to the unavailability of witnesses, 
never will be) understood. Specifically and 
most relevantly, the involvement of Professor 
Kain Pathos Crow's "Olympia Zero" entity, who 
entered the field and began assisting 
decontamination efforts. The manner in which 
Olympia Zero became involved, or even came 


to be in the vicinity of Site 38, is not known or 
understood at present... 


Maria sighed. There was so, so much they didn't know. 
And Maria didn't know how much even the poor bastards 
involved in this clusterfuck knew while they were taking 
part in it. Maria was saddened almost more by the loss of 
information than the loss of Site 38 itself; all things 
considered, the Foundation was likely no worse off 
without one more backwater. But there were only two 
people who really knew what happened that day, the full 
story. Of those two, one was dead. The other was... 
gone, and unlikely to return... 


David knew what was coming. It was obscene to him, and offensive; 
this was real, this...slaughter. People were dying by the dozens, or 
worse, turning into Integrators or Servus or whatever the hell you 
called someone enslaved by a machine in their head. And yet David 
knew that Site 38 was a stage, all the agents and researchers 
merely players, and a freak with no eyes was directing the show. 


And David had the script. All he could do was watch. 


The sundial was still in the room as David walked out, turned left, 
walked down the hallway. Turned right. Two D-class, zombie- 
walking towards him, covered in blood, holding assault rifles. David 
had to admit to a certain sense of amusement, knowing what 
happened next. 


A shimmer, and something vaguely related to a human was standing 
between him and the Servus. The (female? David had read the file 
once, but wasn't sure) humanoid turned, saw the D-class, who 
paused. 


"Unknown entity," the first began, "you are required to—" 


The humanoid's foot cracked across the speaker's neck from the 
side, snapping it. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose. The other 
D-class began to raise her gun. A blur of two feet, then the barrel of 
the rifle was protruding through her chest and out through her back.