Based on the emails She'd pulled from Sol's computer, She'd 
determined a few things about the mysterious Midnight: Midnight 
was apparently an occultist of some renown, and a hedge mage of 
some power. Her relationship with Sol was rocky, and involved 
some philosophical disagreements. She was associated with a 
Library of some sort: the word was always capitalized. She liked 
cats. 


"Sol" closed "his" eyes and tried to form an image in his head of the 
person he'd soon be meeting: probably young or middle-aged. An 
intellectual. Attractive? Probably not: he detected no tension there in 
the past emails. But there was definitely respect. That was an in. 
That was something he could play off of. 


The doorbell rang, and "Sol" started in surprise. He had not sensed 
any hint of intrusion onto his grounds: the occasional animal, but no 
humans. Clearly, this Midnight was a much more capable mage than 
he had anticipated. He straightened his lapels, gave himself one last 
look in the mirror, then sauntered to the door and threw it open with 
Sol's practiced flair. 


There was no one there. 


And then "Sol" realized he'd made a critical error, as he saw a cat 
sitting on the doormat. American Shorthair. Black fur. Golden eyes 
mirroring her own. Small. Sleek-bodied. Seven toes on each foot... 
and a rising of the hackles that slowly subsided into a posture of 
suspicion laced with fear. 


"So," Midnight said. "Should | say nihao, konichiwa, or anyeung-ha- 
sae-yo?" 


A few minutes later, they were sitting at either end of the dining 
room table, staring at each other from across the long expanse of 


polished mahogany. She had dropped the pretense of Sol's 
disguise, and had resumed a female form, although she retained 
Sol's clothing. Midnight was perched on a couple of phone books on 
the other chair, which She had thoughtfully provided for her. 


Midnight broke the silence by clearing her throat. "| smell long pork," 
she said. 


"Main dish," She replied. 
"Solomon?" 

"Yes." 

"Poor kid." 


"He was no longer useful to me, so | made use of him in other 
ways." 


"And you were going to serve him to me as dinner?" 

She smiled. "It amused me." 

"I'm sure it did." 

A long, drawn out silence. This time, it was She who broke it. 
"Why did you not run when you realized what | was?" 


"What would have been the point? | would have just died tired. Why 
didn't you kill me when you realized | knew?" 


"It would not have served my purpose,” She said. 

"So I'm useful to you?" 

"For now." 

"Mmm." 

The grandfather clock in the main hall rang out the hour. 


Midnight rubbed her forehead with one paw. "I have a headache," 


she complained. "| see human but smell fox. Could | ask you to..." 


There was a crack, like thunder, and the woman at the other end of 
the table vanished, to be replaced by... well. It looked like a fox, but 
a fox out of the nightmares of small rodents everywhere. It was twice 
the size of your usual fox: almost as large as a dog. It was lean and 
starved, with a hungry, evil look in its yellow eyes, and nine long tails 
emerging from its hindquarters. "Is this better?" She asked. 


"Much," Midnight said, her voice raspy with fear. 


"Then let us negotiate," She said. "You know something | want to 
know. | could try to take it, but such methods are unpleasant and 
messy. Out of respect for another creature of Myth, | will allow you 
to ask me for a boon in return for what you know of these... Ways." 


"The Ways... | should have known." Midnight nodded and relaxed. 
"And if | tell you what | know of these Ways... | have your word on 
your pride in your own wit that | will leave unharmed?" 


"You have it," She said. 


"Then | ask this in payment,” Midnight said. "Tell me what Sol was 
planning... no. What the Teacher is planning." 


"You know of the Teacher?" She asked, raising one furry ridged 
brow questioningly. 


"| Know he's screwed things for all of us," Midnight said, real anger 
seeping into her words. "Unlike him, the Serpent's Hand doesn't 
want a war. God's on the side with the biggest guns, and most of us 
don't even have peashooters. | mean... | know a kid who can 
change the color of paint. That's not very much use against bullets." 


"| see," She said. "Then let me tell you of our plans." 


She laid them out for Midnight. It took over an hour. By the time it 
was over, the food had gotten cold, and so had Midnight's heart. 


"_.. It could work," the black cat had to admit. "But the casualties..." 


"Will be heavy. That's the nature of war. But in the end, we will be 


victorious." 


"| see," Midnight said. She nodded gravely and jumped down from 
the chair. "In that case, | suppose | had better show you my end of 
the bargain." 


"I'm just saying that maybe you could stand to relax a bit, Shank,” 
Percival said, sipping from his thermos of soup. "You're always so 
tense." 


"One o' these days, I'll cut you ta pieces an’ pluck those eyes outta 
yor skull," replied the tall, animate scarecrow. It ran a wickedly 
curved sickle along its "throat," in a slow, smooth gesture. "Those 
baby blues'll look good in me stash. Gotta place for ‘em right here." 


"You'll have to take 'em first," Percival said, resting a hand on the hilt 
of the massive bastard sword resting against the library table. "I'll 
see your ten and raise you thirty any day." 


"If you boys are done with your dickwaving contest, can we please 
get on with it?" Ana asked exasperatedly. "We're going to be here 
forever." 


"Fine, then, love. Fold," said the scarecrow, throwing his cards onto 
the table. 


"You FOLD!? All that nonsense about ‘raising the stakes,’ and you 
FOLD!?" Percy complained. 


"S'called bluffin’, mm? Lyin’. Deception. A lil' pecan pie, if ya catch 
me meanin’. Somethin’ a ponce like you wouldn't get." 


"Fine, Chainshank folds," Ana interjected, interrupting the brewing 
argument. "Azi?" 


The filthy little boy looked up and grinned happily. "Lookit my 
pictures!" he said. "| fixed this man!" He displayed the Jack of 
Hearts, now beautifully rendered in oil paints on the thin pasteboard 
stock. 


"... and Azi has decided to draw all over his cards. Fantastic. This is 


wonderful. You guys are awesome," Ana Hita sighed. She threw her 
hand of cards into the center of the table and got up. "I'm going 
home." 


"Well," Percy sighed. "That was a bit of a wash. What do we do 
now?" 


"Ya tired already? Need a nice rest, mm? 'M good at helpin people 
sleep." Chainshank sneers. 


"How about no. How's it going, Meimei?" Percy asked. 


A yeti-woman covered in reddish-brown fur looked up from her book 
and nodded. "It goes well." 


"Whatcha got there?" 
"The autobiography of Bruce Lee. His insights are fascinating." 
"You keep on with that, lil’ sis," Percy said. 


Meanwhile, Azi had crawled under a nearby table and was chewing 
on the bloody leg of some unidentifiable horrible something that he'd 
killed earlier. There was a sound of snapping bone and crunching 
marrow. 


Percy looked down from the balcony and raised an eyebrow. "Well," 
he said, "That's interesting." 


"Whazzat?" Chainshank asked. 
"Miss Kitty is here," Percy said. "And she brought a... friend..." 


Percy's voice trailed off, and he rubbed the back of his neck. 
Chainshank frowned, his pumpkin head's spirit glow dimming 
suspiciously. "Spider sense tingling, mm?" 


"Yeah," Percy said. "Definitely tingling.” 


"That young man is watching me," She said. "| don't like that." 


"He's a paladin," Midnight said. "Lives in a homeless shelter. Claims 
to talk to God." 


"To God?" 
"He seems to think so. Are you scared?" Midnight asked. 


"Certainly not. | have nothing to fear from a child like that. | can have 
his guts out in an instant, if | liked." 


Currently, She had chosen a new form: that of a young woman with 
large, horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a motley array of coats and 
scarves. She had a large purse over one shoulder, and exuded a 
look of dismay mixed with confusion. The body was that of a 
graduate student in occult studies, long dead, who had tried to find 
Her lair in one of Her brief moments of freedom before being 
recaptured by the Foundation. She licked her lips at the memory of 
that hunt, of the taste of fear She had savored on that cold night. 
The scent of prey in this place was nearly overwhelming. 


Midnight shook her head. "! wouldn't if | were you. The guardians 
here don't like violence." 


"lam not afraid of any guardians." 
"You should be. They have a manticore. They caught it themselves." 


She looked around the room and nodded. "A perfect prison. | 
understand why you brought me here first," she said. 


"| don't think you do understand," Midnight said. "If | wanted to get 
rid of you, | would have just sent you somewhere where you could 
never come back from. Say, the End of Time and Space, or the 
heart of a newborn star." 


"You see," the black cat continued, "this place is more than just a 
safe haven. It's also a repository of knowledge. There's a copy of 
every book that has ever been written... or will be written... in its 
stacks. It's also a nexus: a place where the Ways come together. 
That's why we call it the Wanderer's Library." She looked up at the 
fox with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. "If you can't 
see the potential in a Library with every book that's ever been 


written, that serves as a neutral ground for everyone, and that you 
can use to go to and from literally anywhere in the world, you might 
as well go back to the Jailers." 


Midnight saw from the expression on Her face that She did 
understand. "Let me tell you about the rules here," Midnight said. 
"Don't steal the books. Don't disturb or hurt the patrons. Don't 
damage the library. Keep that in mind and you should do fine." 


The fox just nodded. "Very well, then," She said. "Our bargain is 
concluded." 


She strode away down the stacks, her movement purposeful, her 
stride almost seductive with anticipation. She ran a hand down the 
spines of the books lined up on the racks with all the sensuality of a 
lover's caress. Then She turned the corner and was gone. 


"Midnight," a low, baritone voice said. 
"Percival," Midnight replied. 


Percy emerged from the shadows, adjusting the lapels of his ratty 
overcoat. His scabbarded and peace-bonded sword rested on one 
shoulder like a slugger's baseball bat. "What was that all about?" he 
asked. 


"| think | just made a deal with the Devil to save Heaven," Midnight 
said. 


Subject: Class is in session. 

From: ten.srerednaw\yttikssim#ten.srerednaw\lyttikssim 
To: Snakes and Ladders (ten.srerednaw| 
nomeadliam#ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam) 


Recess is over, the Teacher's calling roll. | think I'm 
calling in sick today. 


Midnight 


after the fact continued to be affected- though the tires themselves 
were insufficient to displace the chassis, water sprayed onto the 
undercarriage by centripetal force compromised the vehicles in their 
entirety. Those persons able to exit their vehicles were inevitably 
suffered the same fate- regardless of whether they survived impact 
or not- as without the protection the responder's hazmat suits 
offered, they were affected by, and lost to, SCP-858 on contact with 
still-wet ground surfaces. Remaining survivors were extracted 
following natural evaporation of the anomalous precipitate, and were 
treated with amnestics before being released to their surviving 
relatives. 


Addendum: Proposals to investigate SCP-858 itself have been 
stymied by the extreme expense of reaching the 80km altitude of the 
cloud; however, plans for altering the maneuvering thrusters of a 
geostationary satellite- soon to be launched by Foundation front 
company, Corporation- to compensate from gravitational drift 
away from the planet, rather than towards it, is under consideration, 
pending calculation of the launch date and location in concert with 
the position of SCP-858. 


Footnotes 

1. Saturation of footwear via droplets contaminating lawn surfaces 
has been confirmed sufficient to affect the wearer; see Encounter 
Summary 858-A for an example. 

2. The Karman line is generally used to define the point at 100km 
from Earth at which outer space is considered to begin. 


« SCP-857 | SCP-858 | SCP-859 » 


Getting Under His Skin 


He used to be bored at work, but now he actively hated it. After the 
Tempest Night, everyone had been terrified that that hybrid of the 
Lizard and the wire weed would start killing everyone with exploding 
monitors or crushing them in blast doors or something, but what 
happened was possibly worse. 


It spoke to them. 


It had assumed control of the PA system pretty quickly, and started 
using it almost immediately; endless streams of hatred and promises 
of gore and threats of unimaginably painful death... It poured from 
every intercom, every speaker, every monitor on the site. At first the 
higher-ups had forbidden anyone from coming within 10 feet of any 
of the PA speakers, but after a couple of weeks without significant 
incident, people started getting lax. They were still relying on their 
laptops or smartphones, true, but they'd relaxed a bit and started 
using the mainframe and some of the desktops. If nothing else, they 
needed to get the data copied off it to another site. 


But still, that voice. It never stopped. Sometimes it was a roar, 
deafening in its vitriol, blasting through his skull like a shotgun blast. 
Other times it was soft, right on the edge of hearing, just insistent 
enough that part of his brain strained to hear it, like a leaky faucet on 
a quiet night. Yet other times it was a high-pitched hate speech, 
whirring like a dental drill right through his ears. He couldn't get used 
to it; its lack of pattern or reason just drove him up the wall, always 
keeping him tense and on edge trying and failing to predict the next 
words. It was a relief when he went to the temporary barracks just 
outside the site. He would collapse into his cot, feeling blessed by 
the still, natural sounds that surrounded the tent. 


He was feeling especially tense that day, having spent the last 10 
hours poring over lines and lines of meaningless-to-him data, trying 
to ferret out any data corruption before transferring it to his laptop. 


His eyes ached, his ears rang, his shoulders tensed tighter and 
tighter until he finally couldn't take it any more and decided to go 
catch some shut-eye before he went crazy. He walked at a fast clip 
towards the stairwell up (even in a relaxed environment, no-one 
trusted the elevators), eager to escape the nerve-grinding noise. 


He was almost at the stairwell door when he noticed the rope of 
cable extending across the floor in front of him. It didn't appear 
terribly unusual, except that the floor under it was smouldering and 
pitted. He didn't think that the Old Man was hunting this far up the 
site, but he wasn't sure and didn't trust that sign of rot and unusual 
decay. 


The cable suddenly started undulating and several wires shot 
upwards from it, slamming into the walls and ceiling, criss-crossing 
and forming a steadily advancing web of wires. He turned and ran, 
hoping to get to some place of relative safety. He could hear it 
screeching behind him as the wires sprouted and entwined, an 
electronic whine that somehow came together with the grumbling of 
the wall-mounted alarms, forming words: 


"Run, foul thing. Disgusting mass of flesh and breath, run and run 
and die."