Ahlama went on with her description, detailing the classes and the 
daily regimen. Every child was expected to learn a trade by the time 
they graduated, augmented with the rigors of a serious scholastic 
life. Ignorance and superstition were the two great enemies: it was 
no good to make a blacksmith who did not know the workings of the 
body, no good to make an artist who could not handle a gun, no 
good to make an engineer who could not perform an exorcism. The 
world did not allow for that any more. 


The pair meandered for a while, and eventually Jun caught sight of a 
man sitting on a glacial boulder by the pond, fishing rod in hand. His 
entire face was a knotted mass of scar tissue: a long gash on the 
left, burns and a lost eye on the right. 


She prodded Ahlama’s arm. 
“Where’d he get those scars?” 
“Mmm? Oh...Everywhere.” 


Jun nodded. Every community had someone like that, some old 
protector who had been everywhere, seen everything, done 
everything. 


“That’s Hammersmith,” Ahlama continued. “He used to be one of the 
Tribunal, now he’s the head groundskeeper. Spends most of his 
time fishing, now, though apparently he once caved in a demon’s 
skull with his bare hands.” 


“Only apparently?” 
“He usually uses a hammer.” 
“Oh. Well then. Remind me to stay off the grass.” 


Other figures of local note were introduced as they cropped up. 
Some might not have been notable at all, but they stuck out in Jun’s 
memory all the same. 


There were several other golems on the campus, though they all 
looked to be more traditionally golem-like and were far less talkative 
than Ahlama. Though there was the chalk-white one with a simple 
smile who played with the toddlers being dropped off at the daycare. 
Jun watched a pair of parents say their goodbyes: the mother had a 
chemistry textbook curled under her arm. The acne-pocked father 
wore a guard uniform and a scraggly excuse for a beard. 


Ahlama just shrugged, and said “Life happens.” 


They spoke with a very large man whose beard approached the 
waist of his khaki cargo shorts, who was awkwardly climbing a tree, 
butterfly net in hand. He looked like the large, earnest kind of man 
who had a lot of silent Js in his patronymic and was very fond of 
mead, meat, and pillaging. This was, apparently, the Headmistress’ 
husband. 


There was a golden-tan woman with headphones and what looked 
to be a bathrobe embroidered with a constantly scrolling waterfall of 
musical notation conducting music class in the orchard. The choir 
was accompanied by a swirling cloud of humming ghosts. A half 
dozen teens in paint-smeared overalls hauled chunks of scavenged 
masonry past a troop of children with practice rifles. The workshop 
clanked and clunked with the noise of construction, and the alchemy 
shed behind the science building exploded at least twice during the 
tour: Ahlama wasn’t sure if the third time counted, because it might 


have actually just ascended to a higher plane for a minute or two. 
Jun trusted her judgment on that. 


The steady parade of faculty and buildings and courses and little 
details built up into some massive amorphous wad of chewed gum 
in Jun’s head. The really good kind one got as a kid when one 
decided to blow what passed for allowance on treats from a 
caravaneer. A day or two would sort it out proper. 


The tour came to stop at the guest house, and Ahlama saw herself 
off. Jun threw her pack on the chair in her room, lay down on the 
bed, and stared at the ceiling. It was first time in a month and a half 
that she had the opportunity to. A bed with clean sheets, a roof with 
no leaks, a shower with presumably hot water, real food, and toilet 
paper. Put them all together and you had civilization. 


But you’ve got something to look for, remember... 


Yes, yes, she had something to look for. She’d get to the reliquary 
later. 


For now, she just felt like staring at the ceiling for a bit. 


lt was some time later, when the sun was on its winding path down, 
that Ahlama finally caught up with the Headmistress. It was plain to 
her that Naomi Zairi-Lewitt had been through a rather rough day. 


“Are you alright?” 


“Not at all. They’re not going to cut off the caravans to Toledo, thank 
God, but they are going to keep the negotiations up for another day, 
and up the prices on Transit Chits. Again.” She shook her head. “I 
hope your side of things went smoothly.” 


“It did, headmistress.” 


“Good. Thank you.” She yawned. “Sorry. I’ve up since four. I'll see 
you tomorrow.” 


“Right.” 


Naomi passed out of the scene, a man with an eye patch following a 
short distance behind her. He looked as if he had fallen face first 
down a flight of stairs made out of blenders and aged a full thirty or 
forty years beyond his age. Elihayo, the Headmistress’ bodyguard. 
Upon meeting his gaze, Ahlama felt the furnace in her chest burn a 
little hotter, and with this she felt an acute self-consciousness that 
perhaps she was not properly polished, or was too large, and this all 
was accompanied by an incredibly strong desire to hold hands and 
go on a walk with the deformed bodyguard. 


“Shalom, Elihayo,” she said as he passed, wondering if he would 
notice the soft heat blush in her eyes. 


“Shalom.” His voice sounded like his lungs were filled with wet 
gravel. 


Why not ask him? She'd ask him. Ask him right now, if he wanted to 
go on a...a walk. A walk yes, that’s what they would do. A walk 
around the lake. 


“Elihayo, | was wondering...would you like to go out, maybe, and —“ 
“No.” 


The bodyguard shuffled away, and left Ahlama standing in the 
hallway, alone. 


“Oh...okay...bye.” 
« Hub » 


Footnotes 

1. No explanation has yet been found for the spontaneous return of 
the American Bison population during the night of June 24th, 2028, 
though few people complain. 


Tolerance 


At half past five, it began to rain. 


Brother Raymond of Baskerville was trudging his way back from the 
Achrenite compound, his boots sucking on the mud of the fertile 
fields surrounding it. The weather was utterly miserable, but still, he 
was not looking forward to returning to the shelter of the Horizon 
Initiative’s lines, no indeed, and certainly not to reporting his 
humiliating failure at making the Achrenites see reason. It wasn't 
that he was afraid that his superiors would reprimand him for it, 
since he knew they would understand. No, it was that very same 
understanding, so typical of the Shepherd Corps, which infuriated 
him. He could already picture the Abbot’s kindly smile, that look of 
vaguely disguised condescension that would no doubt accompany 
the metaphorical pat on the head he was about to receive, like some 
sort of slow-witted dog. He was well and truly sick of being looked 
down upon, and the fact that his fellow Shepherds didn't even have 
the dignity of doing so to his face only made it worse. He should 
have stayed at the monastery. 


Raymond cursed under his breath as he ducked under the red-tape 
marked lines, and slunk his way to the derelict electric shed that 
served as the command post for the Shepherds. He expected the 
Abbot, maybe a few other high level operatives, but instead he 
found the tiny space occupied by no less than twenty people, most 
of whom Raymond had never seen before. The exceptions were the 
Abbot and his two assistants, relegated to standing dejectedly in a 
musty corner, and the figure in the very center of the room, currently 
peering at a tactical map of the area with a disinterested look on his 
sharp-featured face. While the man wasn't particularly tall, or 
handsome, or otherwise very notable at all, there was a certain aura 
of command about him that Raymond couldn't deny. He had only 
seen him once before, on the day he left his monastery to join the 
Horizon Initiative- Director Henry DeMontfort, head of Project 
Malleus. Seeing Raymond enter, the Abbot waved him to approach 


with as much magnanimity as he could muster while attempting to 
brush an old spider web out of the folds of his robes. 


“Raymond, | am glad to see you returned to us safely. Tell me, how 
fared your mission?” 


Another thing Raymond detested about the Abbot was that flowery 
way he used to talk to his underlings. He wasn't quite sure what 
made the man think that it was anything other than ridiculous, but he 
supposed he had to suffer through it quietly. That was what being a 
Shepherd was all about. 


“Poorly, Sir. The Achernites refused our offer of gradual integration, 
and furthermore rejected any regulation of their preaching or 
expansion within local communities. Sir, if | may ask, what are all 
those people doing here? And why is he here?” 


The Abbot sighed, giving up on the attempts at cleaning his now 
dusty attire, and gave DeMontfort a wary look. “It seems like Project 
Malleus does not approve of the way we conduct our business. He 
said he is taking charge of the situation. | was hoping you’d have 
good news | could use against him, but now...” 


“Honestly, Sir, this really couldn't have gone any other way. The 
Achernites are heretics, and should be treated as such.” 


“That is not for you to decide, my son. We are Shepherds, and our 
role is to guide the lost into the light.” 


“Lost? They’re Neo-Pantheists! Every word that comes out of their 
mouths is filth, besmirching everything we believe in. They spit at 
the face of God, and you're telling me we should turn the other 
cheek?” 


The Abbot was about to reply, when a clear, steely voice interrupted 
him. “You, emissary. A word, if you will.” 


Raymond turned to see DeMontfort exiting the shed, and winced as 
two very large, very scarred, and very well-armed individuals 
grabbed a hold of his shoulders and dragged him after the Director. 
DeMontfort stopped beneath the shadow of a dead pine tree and 


started going through his pockets in a search of something, as his 
lieutenants tossed Raymond on the mud at his feet. He tried getting 
up, but a not-too-gentle prod of a steel-toed boot to his ribs made 
him reconsider. Finally, DeMontfort produced a small paper packet 
from an inner pocket and examined it with a look of vague 
displeasure on his pointed face. 


"Gum?" 
"Er, no thank you?" 


"Smart man. This nicotine stuff is rather terrible. | understand that 
your... peace mission was a failure." That wasn't a question. 


"Um, how did you know?" 


DeMontfort snorted, and began chewing on a rather unappealing 
piece of grey gum. "I read the dossier. The Achernites are the worst 
type of heretics. The Shepherds were fools to even attempt a peace 
mission. No, they must be dealt with more severely." 


Despite being stuck in the mud under the boot of the human 
equivalent of a bull shark, Raymond found himself nodding. "! told 
the Abbot just that. The things | saw them do at their camp, Sir, the 
things they said... no godly man could bear them to live." 


DeMontfort gave him an apprising look, and motioned to his 
lieutenants. The weight of the boot lifted, and Raymond got to his 
feet, gingerly picking globs of greenish mud from his hair. The 
Director began moving again, and Raymond followed, the two 
hulking lieutenants not far behind. 


"You're not as stupid as you look. | half-expected you to weep and 
faint at the mere mention of violence. That's what your Abbot would 
no doubt do." 


"I'm nothing like that doddering old fart!" Raymond was surprised by 
his own outburst, but DeMontfort looked pleased. 


"Hah, that's the spirit! Maybe there's hope for you yet, Brother 
Raymond. Come, walk with me for a while, we have some business 
to attend to." Again, this wasn't a suggestion, as the the two 


documented below. 


SCP-636 came to the Foundation's attention on / /200 following 
the disappearance of two elevator mechanics during routine 
maintenance of the building's elevator systems. A two-man initial 
exploration team was sent into SCP-636 and subsequently lost, after 
which the site was placed on lock down and the owner and all 
witnesses given Class A amnestics. Current containment 
procedures were put into effect shortly afterward. 


Addendum 636-01: Log of Notable Anomalous Events 


Date: / /200 

Description: SCP-636 called to bottom floor for approximately 6 
minutes before returning to ground floor. Upon its return, the fully 
disassembled parts of two (2) helmet-mounted video cameras were 
found on the floor of the elevator car. Analysis of the components 
confirms that they belonged to the members of the initial exploration 
team. Memory cards and recording media of the cameras were 
blank. 


Date: //200 

Description: SCP-636 called for approximately 2 minutes before 
returning to ground floor. According to the testimony of the armed 
guards stationed at ground floor, the walls of the elevator car were 
covered with hundreds of human eyeballs that tracked them for 
several seconds before the doors closed and the elevator was 
recalled to the bottom floor again. Elevator car was found empty 
afterward. 


Date: / /200 

Description: SCP-636 returned after 4 minutes and 17 seconds, 
and contained approximately 11 kg of shredded Egyptian cotton 
fabric soaked with blood. Analysis of the blood samples are 
inconclusive, as recovered DNA does not seem to match that of any 
known terrestrial animal. 


Date: / /201 

Description: SCP-636 returned after 8 minutes and 42 seconds. 

Upon opening, a naked and emaciated male later identified as Agent 
of the initial exploration team began pounding on the buttons 


lieutenants, whom Raymond dubbed Brickjaw and Sawscar after the 
only notable features on the slab of meat they called a face, made 
abundantly clear. For a short while the group walked in silence, until 
Raymond realized with a growing sense of horror he walked this 
way earlier today. 


"Um, Sir, | don't think we should be going this way, we'll wind up 
right in the Achernite camp." 


"| should hope so, since that's where we're going." 
"But...why? | though you said negotiating with them was stupid." 


"I'm not going there to negotiate. I'm going to talk, and they are 
going to listen." 


"And if they don't?" 
"A good question. Lieutenant, what's the ETA on the Gofrit team?" 


This was directed at Sawscar, who checked something on a small 
tablet computer and replied, in an unexpectedly soft voice: "About 
ten minutes, Sir." 


DeMontfort nodded, and continued walking, as if that answered 
Raymond's question. It didn't, but Raymond thought it would be 
unwise to argue. The group continued its track along the wheat 
fields, finally reaching a clearing in front of a small, gated 
community. DeMontfort stopped before the gate and rang a brass 
bell connected to a long piece of rope that hung on a post next to it. 
The sound of other bells came moments later from within the 
community, but all stayed quiet otherwise. Raymond gingerly 
approached the Director, who was tapping his foot impatiently and 
struggling with the packing of another stick of nicotine gum. "They 
wouldn't let me in, at first. | had to wait outside for nearly an hour 
before someone came out to meet me." 


DeMonfort cursed and dropped the gum, instead pulling a silver 
cigarette case from an inner pocket. "Well, | suppose we'll just have 
to attract their attention. Lieutenant?" 


Sawscar nodded, and with one swift movement drew his handgun, 


cocked it, and fired three quick shots into the air. The silence 
following the gunshot was soon punctuated by shouts. The Director 
smiled, and lit a slim cigarette with a match he managed to produce 
without Raymond noticing. "That should do it."