“Oh don't be that way, lad. If something was going to happen to you 
today, it'd have been back around lunch when you popped off at that 
darling little strumpet of a boss. What was it you called her...oh! 
That's right, 'stupid bitch of a whore, who wouldn't be here if daddy 
didn't hand you the job’. A classic, that. More right then you know, 
even, you know she likes it up the rear? Makes that pup of a boy 
who trails along behind her wear ear binders and calls him daddy 
while he does the job. Bleeding idiocy, | swear.” 


“H-how did you-” 


“Know? It doesn't matter, but | can see that's not enough. | know 
everything, love, at least everything that might be worth knowing. 
Might forget the odd empire here and there, but the important things, 
that | keep. Birthdays, who killed who, favorite sweets, the important 
things. How? Now that really doesn't matter. | do, that's enough. 
Fish swim, birds fly, rabbits fuck, | know things, there you are.” 


He held open his hands expansively, eyebrows raised as if he'd 
provided some sort of gift or magic trick. Patrick was starting to reel. 
The man knew, somehow. He'd known as if it was a foregone 
conclusion. It didn't make any sense, and he should have been 
more scared, or upset, but it felt more like a dream then anything 
else. That sludgy feeling of unreality and open acceptance of the 
bizarre seemed to be acting as a buffer. He knew he needed to get 
a handle on this somehow, and seized the chance as the old man 


took another drink. 


“N-now listen, this has gone far enough! What...who the hell are 
you, and why do you know this? Have you been following me?” 


The old man slumped, dropping his glass back to the counter with a 
weary thump. That cadaverous head turned, and glared at Patrick. 
The young man suddenly realized he had no idea what color the 
man's eyes were. They didn't seem to shift, but the color was 
something he couldn't place. A suppressed shiver squirmed through 
his back. 


“You lower your voice when you speak to me, lad. I've shat better 
men then you. You lose your tongue with me again, and I'll drill 
through your teeth and have your tongue sewn to them to make sure 
you keep track. Follow me?” 


He said it with the mild reprimand of a man admonishing a child for 
playing with the wrong toy. Normally, Patrick would have laughed. 
The old man's stare, however, filled him with a horrible certainty. 
He'd do it. Lord help him, he had a sickly suspicion he'd done it 
before. 


“...['m sorry.” 


“Oh stuff it, you're not sorry, you're scared. No point to it...the sorry, 
not the fear, that's valid. Never be sorry for being human, love, 
never. Our passions make us, drive us, the only ones who bring 
shame to it are those who don't understand. Soulless bleeding 
cattle...” 


“Ahh...but...who are you, if | may ask. Sir.” 


The old man laughed, a snorting bark that sent smoke spewing from 
his face, a knobby hand slapping the bar as he chortled. 


“Oh, oh, the sirs now, the politeness! Such a good lad you are, most 
stay snippy for a bit, have to gentle them down, parlor tricks and that 
rot. Good to see a few sons of the Empire still wafting about. Who, 
that's infinitely dull. A rotting soul, born to die, stumbling about like 
idiot, like everyone else. What | am, that's much better. I'ma 


businessman, Patrick. Now you tell me, what's a businessman?” 


He looked at the young man expectantly. Patrick looked about 
briefly, waving his hands as he struggled for a reply. The 
conversation was like trying to ride a spooked horse. 


“Someone...who does business?” 


The old buzzard laughed again, slamming a fist on the bar. The 
barman nodded absently, his monotone bobbing seeming to 
condone the action. 


“There it is! That's it boy, that! A man who does business. What 
business? What the fucking hell does it matter? It's business isn't it? 
Today a shopkeep, tomorrow a banker. Lord, con man, slaver, 
foreman, it doesn't bleeding matter, it's all business. That's what | 
am lad, a businessman. | do a lot of it, in a lot of places, for a lot of 
people and lots of things. Whole world runs on it, don't you know?” 


“But...how do you know me? How did you know about...today? | 
don't...! don't understand. I'm not even sure why I'm here...” 


“Ahh, there we come to it. | could tell you, and it wouldn't mean a 
thing. | Know because | do. You're here because you're supposed to 
be. I'm here to help you, love. At least | would normally. Been an off 
day, you know. Happens to us all, | suppose, turn down the wrong 
corner of the heart and suddenly you're noticing the wrinkles on your 
favorite whore. Terrible thing for a businessman.” 


The man finished his glass, ordering a pint of bitters from the 
barman, who pulled the glass and provided without breaking his 
rhythm or providing even the slightest hint of understanding. Patrick 
finally gripped at least something of a handle on the conversation. 
This was an old man moaning into his drink. The rest was madness, 
but that at least he could follow. At least somewhat. 


“Wait, you said you were here to help me?” 


“| said | would normally help you. Supposed to help you, truthfully. 
Not feeling it today, though, off my game and all that. Gah, but it's 
galling. Get it all, see men tremble, repulse ladies across the globe, 


boil your enemies alive in vats of molten shit, and one little black 
thought can trip you up. Enough to make you want to run away. Had 
a half-brother, did that. Ran all the way to America, joined the circus, 
can you believe it. Lots of good businessmen out that way, lad, 
make no mistake. The kind that lick up pain and find it sweet. Not a 
ounce of class between them, but vigorous.” 


Patrick blinked, watching the man mumble into his glass, taking 
another deep drink. He felt like he'd stepped into some storybook, 
and not a very good one. He considered getting a drink himself, but 
had the powerful feeling that if he did, the whole situation would get 
even less real. Instead he leaned forward, catching the older man's 
gaze and holding it with minimal struggle. 


“Sir, | don't understand anything you're saying. Business and...all 
this, I'm not following. Now, | get that somehow you know me, but... 
I'm just not seeing the point here. The big picture.” 


The man put down his glass, and sighed. He nodded slowly, looking 
back to stare at the bartop. 


“And that's it, isn't it. Trying to find the edges of the puzzle, get it all 
to fit. That's what I'll tell you, lad. It won't help. There's no end to it. 
There's no one truth, no one...anything. Just more and more. You 
get chasing it, and it's the worst kind of addiction. You learn to use it, 
harness it maybe, and it'll help...but eventually you end up on top of 
a heap of everything you wanted, and it doesn't show you a 
goddamn thing. Doesn't fill or help or anything. Just more cozy, 
pretty chains.” 


Patrick shook his head. Yep, an old drunk, moaning away. Put aside 
all the insanity, and that seemed to be the core of it. Still, he was 
interesting. Probably some nutter who used to run something, until 
he got too old to keep up. Sad, but none too rare. 


“Sir, I'm not looking to rule the world. | just want to be happy. Seems 
enough of a struggle just to grab that. Like you said, you get to 
chasing...what?” 


The old man was staring, a slow smile creeping across his face like 
a spreading stain. 


“Just want to be happy? Job's blood, but | didn't know there were 
any left like you. Just say it out plain like that. Too many gussy it up, 
paint it like a slattern whore, instead of just get their hands down in 
the mud like that. Bored, angry, lustful, sure...but unhappy? Never 
hear that these days. Not much, anyway. Is that what you are, lad? 
If you are, say it, clear. Say it.” 


Patrick pulled back involuntarily. The old man's eyes were alight, 
watery from the drink, sure, but there was a burning interest there 
that had been totally absent before. Like a cat hearing his favorite 
treat bag. That drop of concern started to spread. 


“I... don't know if...” 


“Say it, lad. Say it if you mean it, and if you don't, you get the hell out 
of here.” 


He stared, those odd eyes seeming to bore into him. Patrick could 
feel an odd weight in the air, the same pressure he'd felt when his 
parents had called him downstairs to talk about his father's illness. 
He knew somehow that this wasn't just idle conversation. Something 
was tied to this. Yet, he felt a certain reckless curiosity. He'd lost 
nearly everything...why not take a gamble? 


“...['m not happy, sir.” 


He clapped his hands, cackling with glee as he rubbed his palms 
together. He started to rummage in his coat, and produced a small, 
flat leather pouch, quickly grabbing Patrick's hand and pressing it in. 
He quickly stood, and Patrick was a bit shocked at how short the 
man actually was. He was stronger then he seemed, too, as he 
started to all but drag Patrick out of the bar. 


“There we are! Now, you take that and get the hell out of here. 
Going to be a lot to do...so long since we had anything really fresh, 
really new, you know? Hellfire, but | have the spark, lad, | do! What 
the hell is the point of filling a full cup? Why not fill the empty, yeah?” 


“Wait, | don't...what is-” 


“Oh shut up and don't fucking spoil this for me love, | don't like that 


at all. You take that, and you find where it goes. You find that, and 
maybe you find something that might make you happy, yeah? Going 
to be a trick, sure, but it's not like you have a lot to lose for trying, 
yeah?” 


He laughed, clapped the young man on the shoulder, gave him an 
alchohol-sodden kiss on the cheek, and sent him tumbling out the 
door and into the street with a rather stinging swat on his ass. As 
Patrick collected himself after nearly slamming into the 
cobblestones, he could hear a thick lock being shot on the door, 
followed by a roaring shout. 


“Hogwood, you filth, wake the fuck up and get the phone, get the 
board on the line. Yes, that goddamn phone, you overbloated 
homunculus of pork, what other one would we use?” 


The roar trailed to muffled rumbles as the voice seemed to recede 
from the door, Patrick left staring as the lights suddenly went out 
behind the windows. He tried the door, found it locked, and 
shrugged. One more bit of madness to stack on an already mad 
day. Patrick sighed, and resumed walking through the foggy streets, 
wondering if maybe he'd hit his head, or taken something without 
knowing, and just dreamed the whole madness. 


It was nearly an hour later, waiting for a bus, when he remembered 
the leather package. He fished it from his pocket, and found it was a 
rather nice sleeve, like the type that holds credit cards for posh 
gentlemen. It felt oddly heavy, and as he opened it, he quickly found 
out why. Inside was a small sheet of frosted glass, etched with tiny, 
complex patterns. It was the size of a business card, and seemed to 
be one, but it had no actual information. No addresses, no numbers 
or names. Just a image of a somewhat blank coat of arms, with the 
stylized outline of a bat, of all things. 


A small banner along the bottom proclaimed the names Marshall, 
Carter, and Dark, Ltd. 


Patrick stepped onto the bus, turning the glass card over and over. 
Something about it seemed to ring a bell. He almost thought he'd 
seen it before, some office meeting with new investors, but couldn't 


SCP-962: Tower of Babble 


Item #: SCP-962 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Due to its immobility, SCP-962 
is to be left in the valley in which it was found. A kilometer 
perimeter is to be set up around the object. Any civilians seeking to 
pass the perimeter are to be turned away under the premise that a 
nuclear waste containment site is within. Any persons not affiliated 
with the Foundation found within the area are to be interrogated and 
issued Class A amnestics. A no-fly zone is to be enforced for the 
same perimeter. To discourage growth of SCP-962's range, four live 
cattle and two tons of timber are to be airdropped near SCP-962 on 
a weekly basis. 


Any balloons released by SCP-962 are to be shot down, and 
reasonable effort made to recover the manuscripts. Should a balloon 
escape and be found by a civilian, Class A amnestics are to be 
administered, and the balloon and attached writings confiscated. All 
manuscripts are to be stored in a minimal-security vault, with "rants" 
stored in a separate vault. Level two or higher personnel wishing to 
read materials produced by SCP-962 may submit a request to the 
project director. 


Description: SCP-962 is a large metal tower located in a valley in 
the Mountains in [REDACTED]. It is made primarily of steel, 
though other materials are present. The tower is approximately 281 
meters tall, with a 2575 square meter base. It twists and tapers 
somewhat as it rises from the ground. The top third of the tower is 
empty. An inner wall in the lower area renders it opaque to imaging. 
SCP-962 can open an aperture anywhere on its surface. 


SCP-962 produces and controls an estimated 13,500 "servitors", 
collectively designated SCP-962-1. Specimens of SCP-962-1 are 
cybernetically augmented animals. These augmentations usually 


place it for the life of him. He kept puzzling over it as the bus pulled 
away. 


On the street a short distance from the stop, a massive, heavyset 
man wrapped in several thick coats and scarves watched the bus 
with black, beady eyes under a low pulled knit hat. Pedestrians 
avoided him, dismissing him as homeless, crazy, or both. He 
grunted once, then turned, nearly bowling over a young lady as he 
joined the crush of foot traffic. It'd just be time now, just time. He 
was the type that needed to find things for himself. Rare, but not 
impossible. 


Mr. Dark did know his clients, even before they knew they were. 


The kitchen Sink 


At 10 AM on the morning of 10 April 1965, Dr. Thaddeus Xyank was 
swiping a finger through the air in front of him when Agent Bertrand 
"Burt" Tomlin arrived. He guessed Thad was checking his email or 
musing over some interesting equation he'd discovered, or maybe 
trying to understand a theory of predictive history he'd stolen from a 
database that wouldn't exist for another 250 years. Next to him on 
the floor was a device about the size of an era-contemporary living 
room television, which hummed softly in the dimly lit corner office on 
the 25th floor of the New York Times Tower. The glassy look slipped 
away from Thad's face, and his eyes came into focus. "Were you 
followed?" he asked, deathly serious. "And | don't just mean general 
personnel or spies. | mean other At's or Cause and Effectives or 
anyone." 


"No, no one knows I'm here," Tomlin said, and pulled up a ratty 
looking office chair. The door opened behind him, and Researcher 
— Pardon me, Doctor Athena Anastasakos walked in, shaking cold 
and a few flurries off her shoulders. The three colleagues 
exchanged a nod as she hung her coat, locked the door, and took a 
seat. 


"Dr. Xyank, this is really most irregular," Athena said, crossing her 
arms. "| don't understand why | had to leave in the middle of the 
SCP-614 briefing. Marcus was about to present his hypothesis 
regarding the ‘Future Perfect’ when you grabbed me." 


"...Attie that meeting was..." A few days ago? It hadn't happened 
yet, and wouldn't for 30 years. "Erm... what day did he pull you?" 
Tomlin asked. 
"5 June 1999." 


"That briefing was on 4 June 1999," Tomlin said. "| was just there 


myself.” 


"You're mistaken," Athena asserted, pulling the 442/ off of her wrist 
and pressing the release. They counted the laps together as Thad 
sat in silence, staring at the light-bulb in the tiny lamp on the desk. 
"There, 12,474 days, just like | said. Fifth of June."