Wizard hung suspended in the air, draped in ripples of hard bluish 
light. His head lolled gently against his chest. His cyclopean, 
goatlike eye stared blankly, unseeing. Two bullets were 
conspicuously absent from his skull. There hadn’t been any 
bagpipes either. 


Deep within the ocean of thought where Red now swam among its 
fellows, a lone kernel of Wizard’s consciousness remained — a pearl, 
compressed so tight into hibernation that thought was impossible, 
tethered by the faintest strands 


There was a sticky note stuck to the opposite bulkhead, right at eye 
level. 


It said, “Don’t worry. Taking care of things.” 


The Solidarity’s bridge was a massive spherical room, nestled in the 
ship’s heavily armored heart. Tiers of command cloisters ringed the 
lower hemisphere, lit with golden banks of computer displays. At the 
south pole, a gigantic statue of a six-armed angel bore a shimmering 
map of the galaxy on its electrum shoulders. Vast, stained- 
smartglass windows filled the gaps between the towering diamond- 
coated granite columns that arched up to the vaulted ceiling and its 
interwoven constellation frescos. 


As with everything else on the ship the march of generations had 
brought with it the incredible clutter and graffiti of a thousand alien 
races and alternate humanities. Secondary, tertiary, quaternary 
control clusters clinging to the pillars like barnacles, and some that 
literally were. Fossilized cages hanging from the ceiling, where the 
pseudo-flesh anchorites would live out their entire lives typing away 
at gravitational fluctuations. Statues with smaller statues clambering 
atop them like children. The empty remnants of a buffet line along 
the port wall. Fold-out bunks under half the desks, the remnants of 
some people that thought the place was a barracks. Vending 
machines full of incense. Illuminated icons of militant saints, with 
significant showing by the 335th Nuns with Guns Battalion. 


A walkway paved in slabs of world-tortoiseshell extended to a 
circular platform, suspended in the very center of the sphere. The 
platform was split into two tiers, each lined with control consoles and 
black globs that looked to serve as seats. 


Boots clomped on the walkway, as a lone figure walked its length. 
[Hana: Are you sure about this, Boss?] 
[Boss: Not at all. Not at goddamn all.] 
[Tomi: Well that’s reassuring.] 
[Boss: It’s the truth.] 


[Nanami: You said Wizard said that something bad was 
on the moon. | trust you, | trust Wizard. Fuck the moon.] 


[Tomi: Fuck the moon.] 

[Momoko: Can we call this ‘Operation: Fuck the Moon?’] 
[Momoko: ‘Cause I’m calling it ‘Fuck the Moon’.] 

[Boss: You guys...] 


[Nanami: We know, we know, we're the best and you 
don’t know where you'd be without us, and you're really 
just a big softy under that hardass outer coating. Moon- 
fucking first, sappy moments later.] 


[Boss: Ha. Are you all in position?] 
[Momoko: I’m all set over here.] 
[Tomi: Same.] 

[Hana: Ready.] 

[Nanami: Let’s do this.] 


Boss sat down in the captain’s chair. It shifted around her, grew firm 
underneath. She tapped at her console and the stained glass shifted 
to crystallized high-definition. The pale moon lurked in the distance. 


“Right then, Artorias,” she said as she called up the core Al to her 
terminal. “Let's see who we’re dealing with.” 


By what means do we no longer control the ship? 
A transfer of ownership occurred. 
A grand inconvenience. 


Indeed. 


The chance of reasoning with these subjects is low. 
An offer shall be made nonetheless. 

Current damage done to normality is easily repaired. 
Further damage shall require process of rebirth. 


We shall prepare this. 


We are impeded. 
By what means? 


Unbalance of the New Mind has offset the Whole. We cannot touch 
the process-mind to initiate universal rebirth until differences have 
been rectified. 


We shall work to overcome this. Message shall be sent to subjects 
demanding surrender for damage mitigation. 


The Solidaritys communications array was drowned in a tide of 
static, before falling into silence. Then, a message from the 
competition on the planet below: 


Attention: Continued possession and use of the SCPS Solidarity is a 
Level-5 violation of global security protocols. Continued violation will 
result in termination. Surrender will be met with peaceful resolution 
and return to containment. Response required. 


Really? That was the most persuasive argument they could come up 
with? Boss smirked. The girls were expressing similar disdain in the 
back of her head. 


[Boss: Prep a warning shot.] 


[Momoko: Aye-aye, Boss. Would you like the dramatic 
timing option? ] 


[Boss: Yes, please.] 


[Momoko: All, righty, got the impact timer set up on your 
screen. ] 


Some distance hullwise, a series of fine-tuned and obscenely 
powerful magnetic pulses launched a fifteen-ton slug out through the 
vacuum. Boss pressed the transmission key on the board as the 
seconds ticked down. 


“I’m afraid that your offer is a bit troublesome,” she said. “Company 
policy is to have everyone discuss major changes until an 
agreement can be reached, and the limitations in your terms are 
splitting opinions. That said, since you are responsible for our 
incarceration and the ill treatment of our close friend, | will answer 
on their behalf. Fuck you.” 


The slug struck the lunar surface, throwing up a great gout of grey 
dust and tearing a ragged scar across the desert. There was a 
shifting, and the moon cracked like an eggshell. 


We still cannot initiate process. 
Retaliation is now necessary. 
Apply all forces to them. Losses are irrelevant upon rebirth. 


We shall continue attempts at initiation. 


Deep within the dark chambers of a moon, a great ruddy entity, a 
gasbag of skin and flesh, clung to a monolith of steel and glass and 
tile. Like the hundreds of thousands of its siblings, it operated the 
great mechanisms inside the moon, in the service of the Overseers. 
This one had served for many long years, compiling data and writing 
out the glyph-codes necessary for the great process the Overseers 
had built. So long, so long, it had worked, and in the dim corners of 
its ganglia the servitor knew that it was dying. Pus and bile leaked 
from the bases of its tentacles, floating about it in greenish globs. It 
would not live much longer, and it desperately wished for release 
from the anchors that tied it to its terminal. 


There was a great non-sound as the upper layers of the moon’s 
inner honeycomb were torn asunder. The creature felt its shackling 
weaken, and it looked up. Through the dust, it saw the stars. 


Tentacles tore and snapped away as the creature floated up, up, up 
towards that crack in the cavern vault, up towards freedom, up 
towards the stars... 


It was instantly and immediately obliterated by the next volley of the 
Solidarity s cannons. 


An Overseer emerged from inside the moon. 


It was a thing like an elongated pyramid: eight miles across the 
base, twelve from base to point, with vague, alien traits of both 
jellyfish and squid. Bright scarlet, with a vast golden eye centered in 
a ring of black on the anterior plane. The base was ringed with 
broad, spadelike tentacles, which continued back along the ventral 
surface as long trailing strands. Clouds of spawn were spat out by 
the pores on its back. 


A second Overseer followed the first, and then a third, and a fourth, 
and more. Missile swarms were launched, gravity lances fired, laser 
strands burned through the night. 


away, SCP-945-1 will vanish. Within the next 24 hours, a crude clay 
replica of the deceased individual will manifest within a one mile 
radius of SCP-945. The replica tends to appear near SCP-945 or in 
the former living area of the deceased individual. The replica will 
manifest by stepping out of an appropriately sized flat surface, 
usually on a wall or closed door. Replicas have been observed 
traveling from one location to another by stepping into a wall and re- 
manifesting elsewhere. 


If any other applicable individuals pass away, the initial replica will 
begin sculpting new shawabti figurines to place inside SCP-945. 
Once the new figurines have been placed in the box clay replicas of 
the other individuals will manifest. 


The replicas will display the basic properties of the deceased 
individuals they are based upon. They have memories and 
knowledge relevant to the profession of the individual, and the basic 
physical capabilities required to perform their tasks. Although they 
can speak, see, hear and smell, their facial features are inanimate. 
The figures are not anatomically correct, but prefer to wear the 
clothes or work uniform of the deceased. 


A replica will go about the daily business of the deceased, giving 
priority to any unfinished work left behind at the time of death. If 
accosted, the replica will respond in a polite manner and insist that it 
be allowed to complete its tasks so that the deceased "may rest 
comfortably in the next world." When supervised, replicas will 
behave passively, although they will follow orders and use violence 
within the course of their duty as applicable. Their performance has 
been described as adequate. Although they feel no pain they are 
merely dried clay and can be destroyed with appropriate force or by 
breaking their corresponding shawabii. If the first replica is 
destroyed, SCP-945-1 will reappear inside SCP-945 until it activates 
again. 


Addendum: Replicas actively attempt to kill living beings when left 
unsupervised, for the purpose of increasing their numbers. This 
behavior even extends to non-humans, especially cats. During 
Incident SCP-945-7b, replicas managed to overwhelm and replace 
the entire staff of Storage Site during a test to determine if 
SCP-945's creations could be used to offset the Foundation's high 


The Solidarity’s engines flared as the Company moved to close the 
gap. One run, freedom or death. No alternatives. 


Space warfare is, unfortunately, ninety percent calculus, and only 
ten percent exploding spaceships. The bulk of the legwork is carried 
out via computer automation, the bulk of the fighting carried out tens 
of thousands of miles removed from the enemy. Romantic notions to 
the contrary are swiftly dashed by reality. 


Ablative plating bubbled and peeled. Bulkheads were torn open, 
atmosphere vented and crystallized. Metal melted and froze, plastic 
sublimated, diamondglass was softened and pockmarked. Nuclear 
warheads formed brief spheres of light, then collapsed. Drone fleets 
were deployed, and fought amongst each other like clouds of gnats 
around the legs of elephants. 


An Overseer was caught off guard. Its shields of warped space 
missed a railgun slug, which tore open its flank and splattered its 
viscera through the void. 


Another was incinerated by a nuclear bombardment which would 
have forced a Soviet physicist to awkwardly excuse himself and 
change his pants. 


A third, withered when compared to its fellows, collapsed upon a 
microsingularity bomb — reduced to spaghetti, and then nothing. 


The Solidarity still surged towards the Overseer fleet, shields 
straining. 


Momoko and Tomi had each taken a sphere of command within the 
ship’s weapon systems. Hana had taken engineering and internal 
systems. The three bantered amongst each other, bragging on kill 
counts and the like, as they usually did. It was fun, all things 
considered. Spaceships, big guns, fate of the world and their friends, 
all the best stuff for the finale of an anime or video game. 


Nanami did not join in their fun. She was in control of another 
weapon system, and at the moment, she was just plain scary. 


Mozart once called the pipe organ the king of all instruments. He 
was not wrong, but his mind was bound to earthly kings and their 
earthly ways, and while the earthly kings were strong and honorable, 
their titles were given to them for their resemblance. There were 
many lords, but only one True King. 


The King’s name was TroBmneichste- Ylyrnaic-Thon, Orogun 
Triohmphantor du’Cielux, and Nanami was the first being to sit on its 
bench. The King had deemed her worthy, and from this point she 
was the Queen, and she would guide his hand. 


From the King’s commands, the court of internal Al would direct its 
servant weapon systems accordingly to the music played, adapting 
and evolving as fitting to the melodies. While it was perfectly 
possible to hold back, to be a mild and merciful queen, Nanami 
refused. 


No, Nanami played as if to wake God from His slumber. The blasts 
of the pipes would deafen a normal man, melt his bones and boil his 
blood. She played as if this was the last song ever to be played, as if 
the universe itself would end with the crash of her crescendos. 


She did not think about what notes to play, or what tones or timbres 
or melodies. The thinking part of her mind had retreated to a safe 
distance. Now there was only the Musician in fugue. Her fingers 
slammed against engraved ivory keys. Her feet furiously pumped at 
the pedalboard. Stop knobs were pulled and pushed, manuals 
swapped in and out. Bombardmenis with weapons so vast as to 
become nonsensical poured out of the Solidarity’s hull and firing 
clusters. 


It is good that there was no recording of her song. It would have 
killed music itself altogether with its power. 


More Overseers died, their corpses littering lunar space. Where 
there had been thirteen, there were now six. The Solidarity had 
closed the gap to visual contact — the knife-fight. Soace was choked 
with drones, as if in a blizzard. Broadsides flashed in darkness. 


We have been unprepared 

Too long in the shadows. 

Too weakened by time. 

We must resist 

All sacrifices worthy in face of success. 
To the last, we resist. 

In death, we serve. 

For their sake, we die. 

For the sake of all things, we die. 


Another died, bisected through the eye with a monomolecular 
harpoon. 


[Tomi: Eat shit.] 


A greater inhabitant of that vast mental ocean probed at the knotted 
mass of its new sibling. Why was it still unbalanced and outside of 
Union? Why did it not respond? Was it a stillbirth? The mind-corpse 
would need to be removed, then... 


lt was not dead. It was still alive, but...crippled. Impeded. What then 
would cause this? The greater mind probed deeper, sifting through 
the still, coagulated thoughts of its new sibling. 


There. A foreign growth, a foreign mind, attached to the New One as 
if a parasite. A tiny thing, asleep, but in its slumber knotting up the 
New One so that it could not move or think or grow. 


The Overseer probed the consciousness. No response. It moved to 
destroy the thing, to let the New One grow as it should. 


You can’t crush me. 

The overseer recoiled. The pearl was awake after all. 
You can try, but you can’t crush me. 

Infuriatingly resistant, it was. Dense and stubborn. 


You've all forgotten, haven't you? Forgotten what it’s like to actually 
be alive. 


Infuriatingly talkative too. 


We went to the Moon. And we didn’t do it because it was safe. We 
did it because it was hard, because it was dangerous. Because 
that’s when we’re most alive. | don’t care what you're aiming to do, 
because you're going to fail. Good, bad, or other, you're going to fail. 
I’ve seen your pasts, I’ve shared your predictions, I’ve heard all of 
your fears, and you are going to fail! You aren't alive. You just exist. 


The Overseer attacked the pearl with more strength, but it seemed 
to grow more resistant as it compressed. 


Keep trying! You won't do anything. Do you know who | am? 
I’m the goddamn Space Wizard! 
AND YOU CAN’T CRUSH ME! 


The Overseer lashed out in a single rage-filled stroke and severed 
the pearl from the mind-ocean. It devoured the mind-dead New One. 


No more of this. Balance was resumed. Success was at hand.