Sometimes, when he was away from the others and left alone with 
his thoughts, Nikolai imagined that he was dreaming, that the 
movements he made were merely the phantom actions of his 
sleeping mind wandering about in a great, unknown dream-time. He 
looked the part, with his hooded eyes and quiet, deliberate words 
and posture of perpetual lethargy. A sleeper waiting to wake up, 
stuck in that limbo before the dawn where the sleeper is aware of 
their sleep but cannot manage the effort of waking themselves. 


The world he looked out on was likewise a dream: A ridge of jagged 
black mountains reaching up to the clouds, splitting the world in half. 
Misshapen reefs and bars broke the surf, stone melted and twisted 

into bulging shapes. Birds roosted on the distant crags, crowing and 


screeching and flying about. 


And there, towering even over the mountains, was the Center. A 
white cube, kilometers to a side, reaching from the surf to the 
clouds. Windowless, unadorned, monolithic. Even from this 
distance, it looked too big to be real. 


Nikolai was jerked out of his dream back into sleep. Someone was 
standing next to him. He did not break his gaze from the structure in 
the distance. 


“It isn’t right, Nikolai,” a woman’s voice said. Mu. Nikolai swallowed 
his wad of chalk. 


“It’s for the good of the fleet,” he responded. “Or, right and wrong are 
relative concepts with no objective basis. Or, it was predestined by 
fate. Or, it never happened, and | am simply a dreaming god.” 


“Nikolai.” Mu sat down next to him. “No one returns from the Center. 
| don’t even want to think about what they’ll do to you in there.” 


“My choice and my life is my own.” 
“That doesn’t make it right. You’re one of us.” 


Nikolai finally turned to look at Mu. Poor, simple Mu, with her 
splotchy birthmark and yellow teeth and solid black eye and ox horn 
buns. She was not a philosopher: She was a midwife, a whaler, a 
mechanic, a brewer. She knew nothing of the dream that was life. 


“| came to you a stranger, and | must be moving as one. The Center 
was willing to pay a fortune for my safe delivery. By nightfall, you will 
all have enough fuel and food and medicine and machine parts to 
supply the fleet for months.” 


“| still don’t like it.” 


“What's happened has happened,” Nikolai said again, with the 
intonation that this was his final statement. He offered the tin of 
chewing chalk to Mu. “Chew?” 


“No, thank you.” 


Nikolai snapped the tin shut and placed it back in his vest pocket. 


“You have no work to do?” Nikolai said. Mu and the others were 
always busying themselves with things they called work, but they 
never chose to put their minds to the real work of determining who 
they are, why they are here, and what exactly was for lunch. 


“The whole ship’s gone quiet. Now we're all just waiting for the 
Center to come.” She nodded towards the Center. “It doesn’t really 
feel like it’s out there, does it? | can see it, right there in front of my 
face, but it doesn’t feel real.” 


“Reality does not bow to expectations. Expectations merely mask 
what is. This is what it is.” 


“Asshole.” 


Nikolai was not entirely sure why Mu chose his company above that 
of others. It was one of the great questions that he enjoyed 
pondering. She had no interest in philosophy, nor any ability for it, 
she had made no romantic movements towards him, and was not 
subtle enough to hide any secret feelings of that sort. He had no 
interest in the art of brewing or song-weaving, and felt no romantic 
inclinations towards her. Occasionally they would work together, but 
that could be said of any two people on the ship. It was not 
particularly a close friendship even: more of a mutual toleration. 


It was what it was, and what it always had been. 


Wait...Nikolai squinted, peering into the distance. Movement by the 
Center. A tiny patch of wall turned black for a moment before turning 
white again. 


Yes, there it was. A white sphere, dotted in the center by shifting 
concentric rings of black. A ship of sorts. 


One of many, and possibly his last. 


The door opened to the command room. Her command room: a 
wide, open space split into two tiers. A high-backed chair, more of a 


throne, sat on a little extended platform that looked out over the 
banks of computers on the lower level. It had sculptures around the 
base, savages and the beasts of the deep, crushed underfoot. On 
the wall behind the throne was a bright mosaic of the First Punch: a 
great whale shark, struck down and killed by the Great Fist Harker. 
The founding of the Center, in those foggy mythic days. The day 
man fought back first against the selachian menace, when they dove 
into those bottomless oceans and met the enemy at their door, when 
they fought on the beaches, and in the tidepools, and on the reefs 
and in the flooded ruins of the ancient cities laid low by the aquatic 
adversaries. And they succeeded. The Center was founded, and the 
threat was driven back beneath the waves where it belonged. 


“If it must be done, kill the ocean itself,” sooke the Harker so long 
ago. The thought always made her a little teary eyed, though she 
never showed it in public, save in Special Center Patriotism 
Moments. 


But right now, there were more important things to do, such as 
devour the food brought to her by a little mechanical servant. The 
contents of the bowl consisted of gold-leafed rice grown in the backs 
of political prisoners, jellied fetal pandas, sea-vent lychee, and ruby- 
dust tiger testicles with a Chateau Lafite sauce. Apparently, the 
kitchen staff decided to be low-key today. 


“Mmph...mm...computer, make me a reservation for forty in the 
Super-Fun-Time-Room for say...sixteen forty-five. Double dose of 
XLSD. And make sure you bring in those twin bastrodon strippers.” 


“Of course, my Lady.” 
“The savage here yet?” 


“The drone has just docked. A team is prepared to move him to the 
Audience Room as we speak.” 


“Ah. Guess | should get down there, then.” 


Vasvis kicked at the base of her throne, right at the sculpted face of 
a baby that was getting mauled by a mako. The chair began to 
descend on an elevator. 


This entrance called for music, though she couldn’t decide what 
kind. 


The aerobathsyphere drone stopped. A circular section of curved 
wall opened, and Nikolai was greeted by a half-dozen bulky Center 
troopers, bearing shackles. He didn’t complain. The troopers were 
higher-ranking than the grunts and scouts he had seen over the 
years, and all that rank seemed to have gone right into human- 
growth-hormone treatments. In one of the many Center fashions, 
they wore white vests, had their hair bound into four queues, and 
had division insignias tattooed on their arms. One of them either lost 
a bet or was drunk, and had a photorealistic penis tattooed across 
the right side of his face. 


Nikolai was unfazed by their appearance. Thugs, nothing more. A 
thug was no threat to a philosopher. They were a stepping stone 
anyway in the way of his actual goal. He followed them through 
winding white hallways, silent, wandering through his dream. He 
could feel it stronger now, the tug of waking up. Dreams within 
dreams had led him here. Perhaps now he would finally wake up. 


The Center wanted people of certain talents. They could build for 
muscle, plan for smarts, train for sexual prowess, but certain types 
of mind they wanted to get into. They wanted people who could 
dream. Piecing that puzzle together had taken years. Building up the 
nerve to seek them out willingly took several more. Dreams within 
dreams had guided his hand in the end. They revealed secrets of 
the foundations of the world to him, foggy and faded as they were. 
He had found the philosopher's goal: the truth. 


That truth was thus: Things had always been, and they had not 
always been. 


Now all that was needed was to wake up from the dream and find 
out what was behind the truth. 


The group came to a set of doors, which in turn led to a large, well-lit 
room. The walls were all decorated with brightly painted bas reliefs, 
mostly depicting the butchery of sea life or various sexual acts, or 


sometimes a combination thereof, and lined with massive gold- 
plated statues of people doing those very same things. 


There were two chairs. One was small and bolted to the floor. The 
other was a throne. A woman lay sprawled across the arms of the 
throne, stuffing her face with something Nikolai did not care to know 
about. 


The guards fastened Nikolai into the chair, and once again, he did 
not complain. They could kill him, but if he didn’t make much of a 
fuss about it, they probably wouldn't. Not entertaining enough. And 
even if they did decide to kill him, which they probably would, Nikolai 
was beyond the point of truly caring. 


“Holy fucking sharktits, that’s good stuff,” the woman said. She 
glanced over at Nikolai. “Oh, yeah. You’re the savage who wants to 
get things stabbed in his brain. That’s a kink | can respect. | mean, 
that’s why you're here, and not already getting shit stabbed in your 
brain, because | want to congratulate you on having a good taste in 
fetishes for a shit-eating savage.” 


“So you Say.” 


“| mean, you got some balls on you. If you weren’t some sorta fish- 
shitting savage, I’d fuck you.” 


Nikolai’s mind shifted. New thoughts flowed through long-empty 
neurons. 


“Veronica...” 
Dreams within dreams. 


“Wait, what?” the woman righted herself in her seat and squinted at 
Nikolai. Nikolai himself had no idea where the word had come from, 
but he could feel more on their way, unbidden, worming around in 
his head like leeches in the bloodstream. The haze was wearing 
down, breaking apart. 


“What are you mumbling about, fish-shitter?” 


More thoughts, words, images, feelings, everything bubbling up 


without any sort of reason or logic, without definition or order. 


The shark! Remember the shark, Nikolai! Dreams within dreams! 
Truths locked away within dreams within dreams until in his sleeping 
state could not tell one from the other! 


Nikolai woke up. 


“| Know you, Veronica! You were in charge of...of...goddammit you 
were in charge of the pictish badgers... we worked together, and 
you said the same thing to me when-” 


“Wait, what?” 


“Back then! The world has always been like this and it has not 
always been like this!” The words were flowing freely now. He was 
awake, awake! “Listen, Veronica, something has gone wrong, 
something has gone horribly wrong, we broke the universe and | ...| 
know...argh | know what it is but | can’t find the words to say it! But 
we can fix it! We can undo it all! You just have to trust me, please.” 


The woman stood up from her chair. Fright, disgust, confusion on 
her face. 


“You’re fucking crazy, fish-shitter.” She snapped her fingers. Two of 
the statues moved from their pedestals, arms splitting into spidery 
masses of sharp, whirring tools. 


“| know you, Veronica! | know you!” 


The woman left the audience room behind her, showing no sign that 
she had heard Nikolai. 


The examination of the man went off without a hitch, or so Vasvis 
was told. The entire thing had put her in a sour mood. Results were 
probably messed up, what with him being even more insane than 
usual. She hadn't actually looked at the test results, but she was 
quite certain that he would have no connection with the Dreamtime. 


Quite certain. 


And to make matters worse, the strippers were unavailable. There 
went the best part of the whole damn orgy. Maybe she should just 
cancel it, hop herself up on Fukkinkawaii and have vicious hate sex 
with whoever she could get her hands on. 


That was a good plan, were it not for the fact that she couldn't get 
the fish-shitter out of her head. He was crazy, she knew that. 
Completely out of his mind, babbling nonsense, nothing to worry 
about. 


So why did she remember his face? 


The ceiling of the Esoteric Reflection Chamber gave her no 
answers, save the crushing existential residue of the worthlessness 
of everyone else in the world. Usually that cheered her up, though 
not as much as vicious drug-fueled hate sex. 


She got up and walked out the door, leaving behind other people’s 
problems. Down the hall towards the elevator, sulking. 


The elevator door opened to reveal a blood-soaked, wide-eyed, and 
thoroughly naked man wearing the freshly severed head of a great 
white around his neck and no small amount of occult symbols 
carved into his flesh. 


“I’m a shark! I’m a shaaaaaaaaaaaark! Suck my dick!” 


Vasvis Ten-Fold Reaper scowled, jabbed him under the sternum 
with her left hand, and tore it out. With her right hand, she made a 
fist and caved in his skull. 


SCP-886: Nanny 


Item #: SCP-886 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-886-A-alpha and 
SCP-886-A-03 are to be kept in dedicated humanoid containment 
suites at Bio-Site 66 and allowed nutritious rations three times daily. 


SCP-886-B-2-01 through SCP-886-B-2-03 are to be kept in 
Containment Chamber 886-Delta, designed as an appropriate 
climate-controlled indoor paddock on-site and provided with 
appropriate feed. 


Additional members of SCP-886 may be bred if appropriate reasons 
for research are presented. If research is not being undertaken, 
offspring of both SCP-886-A and SCP-886-B are to be destroyed 
immediately after birth. 


Description: SCP-886 is the collective designation of unique 
mammals capable of cyclic asexual reproduction. SCP-886-A are 
identical human females (Homo sapiens) of Irish descent and 
SCP-886-B are identical female domestic Irish goats (Capra 
aegagrus hircus). Members of SCP-886-A and 886-B develop and 
behave as expected of ordinary individuals of their species, and are 
completely ordinary outside their shared anomaly. 


SCP-886-A-alpha is the oldest and presumably original instance of 
SCP-886-A. SCP-886-A is a human female, age 37, of average 
intelligence and stature. Once a year during the spring, SCP-886-A- 
alpha will spontaneously become pregnant and carry twin instances 
of SCP-886-B to term. Gestation mirrors that of a standard goat, 
averaging between 140-160 days. 


Instances of SCP-886-B will be female, with white fur and of 
average size. SCP-886-B are friendly and notably docile, having 


What Do You Think Love Feels Like Once You 
Understand It? 


You were never big on dancing, but hobbies have to start 
somewhere, right? Here | am, practicing valsadao, perfecting the 
form while | wait for you to wake. Quiet enough for you not to hear 
me; | know how your ear is tuned to my footsteps by now. 


Hmmmm ba doo-ooh, mmmm doo wooo... Do you still regret it, 
Luis? That miserable, miserable December? You forgot what love 
was supposed to be. Burying yourself deep in dirty liquor and 
construction, thinking nonsense all the while. Maybe it was our 
different outlooks on life. But what fool is raised to believe in God 
and think everything to do with your life on Earth ends at death? 
Maybe | was the lucky one then, growing up in... Nordeste. Mind is 
too addled to remember where anymore. Uh, raised by parents 
harboring a fury against John Paul Il. | either sleep forever in 
nothingness, or live forever on this planet. So let's say it was, ahh, 
the lack of hindsight, that made you think you'd lose me forever. 


Oooh ooh... excuse me for everything spilling out like an 
overwrought telenovela. Ah well. | wish they played music here. The 
kind to dance to. | still remember every melody and every step for 
every version of this dance. That's something mothers don't let their 
kids forget. Always cherish that fiery passion for beauty.