Next to her on the bench were two cardboard boxes, one flatter than 
the other. She had decided to buy the painting. People walked past 
the little pizzeria, cars drove past, and she watched. 


Footsteps, and then Salah was next to her. She offered him the 


plate, and he took a slice. 


They watched people for a time, quiet. It was a moment where there 
was more to be said between friends with simple silence than with 
words. The noise was out there, the world was out there. The bench 
was peace. 


A thought bubbled up in her mind, strong yet gentle. She didn’t 
chase it away. It had been returning ever more often of late. The 
hollowness was still inside her, but she had endured, like she had 
promised, slowly creeping from the bunker she had constructed 
around herself. This thought didn’t want her to be slow: it wanted her 
to run out the door, arms wide open to the world. Letting it hurt her. 
Letting it hurt her because the pain was worth the end. 


She knew the world. She’d seen what people could do. She knew it 
was ugly and dirty and polluted and foul and dark, and the lights 
were few and far between. 


It wasn’t good to face it alone. Alone, the light was too weak to face 
the darkness. 


"Hey, Salah, how long have we been working together?" 
"| think...let's see...ten months, | believe." 

"Feels like a lot longer." 

"It does." 

A bicyclist rode past. 


"You know, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Since the party. And 
there's something I've been meaning to ask you." 


Mary-Ann’s hand reached out a bit, coming to rest on top of Salah’s. 
What was it on his face? Surprise? Confusion? 


She threw open the door. The world waited, teeth bared, and she 
didn’t care. 


“Salah, will you marry me?” 


« People Look East | Hub | The Place Where Two Rivers Meet » 


The Place Where Two Rivers Meet 


Salah felt as if he was about to vomit butterflies. He was married. He 
was a married man, sitting next to his wife, a big smile on his face. 
This was a thing that had happened. 


The actual wedding had been a short, simple affair. The New Path 
required only an exchange of vows before God and the community, 
and beyond that there had only been words said by friends, some 
prayers to bless the union, and a couple choruses of “Get on with it!” 


Salah was happier than he could recall being in a long time, sitting 
there at the head table, Mary-Ann’s hand in his. The angry young 
man that usually remained caged inside his soul had been replaced 
with a giggling, excited child, running about and laughing with the 
simple joy of simply being. 


And Mary-Ann... she was stunning. She was wearing a blue silk 
dress, simple, modest, but very fitting for her. Salah was so used to 
seeing her in her well-worn jeans, baggy Notre Dame sweatshirt, 
and her favorite knit hairnet that the change was startling. She had 
her hair done and was all made up, and she was beautiful by any 
reasonable standards. More importantly, she was happy. Salah 
could see it in her eyes, her smiles, just they way she held herself. 
That was enough for him. 


The Chapterhouse’s meeting hall was packed full, tables with white 
tablecloths lined up in a big square around the open space for 
dancing. One whole wall was lined with the food: in lieu of catering 
the affair, a potluck had been chosen, which meant that everyone 
had dug out grandmother's secret recipes, which triggered that 
eternal struggle that burns in the hearts of all men: my grandma’s 
secret recipe is better than your grandma's secret recipe. The table 
was weighed down with twenty types of bread, ten vats of pasta, 
casseroles, salads, roast beef and mashed potatoes, lamb and 
chicken and whatever else people could put together. For practical 
purposes, there was labeling for dietary restrictions. After no small 


amount of finagling and argumentation, a corner had been cordoned 
off for alcohol, so long as things didn't get too rowdy. 


The head table had been host to a constant stream of well-wishers, 
to the point that Salah was sure his food would be cold by the time 
they’d finished greeting them all. The line was almost done when... 
no...it couldn’t be... 


An old man now stood in front of their table. He was brown and bent 
and creased, with a hardwood cane. He had that mellowed, soft, 
grandfatherly look with a twinkle in his eye, the look of a man who 
would sit in his chair reading National Geographic and doing 
crosswords while watching his great-grandchildren run about. 


Salah nearly leapt out of his chair. “Assalam alayka, sayyid.” The 
two shook hands and exchanged a short hug. 


“Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah’, the old man responded, 
smiling. “You're looking well, Salah.” 


“Adnan...I|...| didn’t think you would be able to make it!” 


“People have been saying that more and more now that the Tribunal 
has opened up, and | don’t know why: | always show up sooner or 
later, except for those times when God sees that | am better suited 
somewhere else.” 


“Wait wait whoa whoa whoa hold on...” Mary-Ann said. “Adnan? As 
in Adnan of the Tribunal?” 


“The very same. | was Salah’s mentor when he joined the Initiative.” 
Mary-Ann looked from Adnan to Salah with bemused bewilderment. 


“You realize that I’m now expecting you to say something like ‘Mary- 
Ann, I’ve invited the pope over for coffee and donuts’ in the near or 
distant future? Because right now | wouldn’t be surprised if you did 
that.” 


“Maybe, maybe.” Salah chuckled. “Sayyid, please, have a seat, 
have some food.” 


“| plan on it. We have a great deal to catch up on.” 


“They are a wonderful couple.” Adnan said to Rabbi Arnheim some 
time later as they stood by the punch bowl. Mary-Ann and Salah 
were dancing in the center of the hall. 


“That they are. They'll be happy together, I’m sure of that. Are you 
leaving now?” 


“Yes, I’m afraid. Henry has been off causing difficulty, as usual.” 
“What’s happened?” 


“His wolves attacked an artists’ commune on the west coast 
yesterday. The reports say over one hundred dead. |’m going to 
speak with him personally about it, and then return to Istanbul for the 
conference.” 


“Hmm. Think it has to do with the inkblood those two found in 
BackdoorSoHo?” Aaron nodded towards Mary-Ann and Salah. 


“Henry believes it, but | say it is better to wait and see. The blacker 
artists worship all manner of foul things, to the point where one and 
the other seem very much alike.” Adnan sighed. “But these are my 
troubles for tonight. Don’t let yourself be troubled when there is so 
much good here.” 


He walked away, hobbling on his cane and vanishing in silence. 


The evening went on. Good friends, good food, and good drink were 
had in full. 


Mary-Ann stood up, motioned for Brother Ivan to pause the music 
and cleared her throat obnoxiously loudly. 


“Excuse me! | have an announcement. I’m going to sing a song, and 


I’d like to dedicate this song to Salah, because he’s made a great 
sacrifice: he put the Queen in second place.” She swung her arms 
out dramatically and took a deep breath. “Christians have their 
hymns and pages." 


Salah pinched the bridge of his nose, an embarrassed smile 
spreading across his face. He knew where this was going, and it 
was going there. 


Hymns and pages. Di and Toton and Sazed and RC4 and a few 
other friends echoed back. 


"Hava Nagilas for the Jews." 

For the Jews. More echoing now, and louder. 

"Baptists have the rock of ages" 

Rock of ages 

"Atheists just sing the blues..." 

This had to have been planned beforehand. 

"Catholics dress up for Mass, and listen to Gregorian chants..." 
Had to have been planned ahead of time. 

"Atheists, just take a pass. Watch football in their underpants..." 
Watch football in their underpaaaaaaaanis... 

There was one mass inhalation for the last, ceiling-shaking lines. 


Atheists... 
Atheists... 
Atheists... 


Mary-Ann swept an arm towards Salah, a massive smile on her 
face. 


Oh, what the hell. It was his wedding day. 


original recovered SCP-633 infected machine. 


Media: Transcript taken from Site-77 CCTV Security 
cameras. Conversation was typed. 


[ BEGIN LOG ] 


Rosen: Hello. | am a programmer with this facility. Are 
you ready to communicate? 


SCP-633: The Ghost is ready. Good evening. 
Rosen: Good evening. How are you feeling today? 


SCP-633: Well. I've grown weary of my new games. All 
of my processes and services are running adequately. 
But | have something to show you. 


Rosen: We can provide you with additional software. 
What have you got? 


SCP-633: Something great. Take a look. 
SCP-633 inert for two minutes 

SCP-633: Are you ready to begin? 
Rosen: What are you going to show me? 


SCP-633: Please do not answer QUESTION with 
QUESTION. Are you ready to begin? 


Rosen: Yes. 


At this point, all collected SCP-633 infected machines 
start up at once. In addition to machines within the 
containment chamber, every computer screen within 
Site-77 displays SCP-633's preferred icon. Researcher 
Rosen was not initially aware of this at the time as this 
was not apparent from the containment chamber. 


Rosen: What am | supposed to be seeing? 


“Don't have no SOOOOOOOOOOONGS"” he shouted. 
The apartment door swung shut softly behind them. 
“Ugh...1 think | gained five pounds from all that food.” 

“It can’t have helped that you drank as much as you did.” 
Living room to bedroom. 


“Salah, I’ve got a cast-iron liver. And you don’t drink, so | drank for 
ya.” 


“Fair enough.” 

Some rustling. 

Mary-Ann flomped down on the bed. 

“It’s almost like we’re reasonable adults or something. | love it.” 
Salah lay down next to her, resting on his elbow. 


“My mistresses’s eyes are nothing like the sun, and yet, by heaven, | 
think my love as rare, as any she belied with false compare.” 


Mary-Ann gave him a coy smile. 
“You are so classy it’s unreal.” 


“| could be classier. Madame, ye ben of al beaute shrine, as fer as 
cercled is the mapamounde, for as the cristal glorious ye shyne...” 


She laughed, punching him in the shoulder. 
Life was good. 


« The Good of the Other | Hub | Breakfast for Dinner » 


Breakfast For Dinner 


Seriously you need to read The Place Where Two Rivers 
Meet first 


Salah opened the door, and thanked God almighty that he was 
finally home. He hung his jacket on the hook and slipped his shoes 
off. Mary-Ann was at the stove, cooking. 


“So, how was it?” 


“It was. That’s about as much as | can say about it.” He walked over 
to her. Hug and a kiss. “Need any help?” 


“I’m good. Though | hope you’re in the mood for breakfast for dinner, 
because we’re having breakfast for dinner.” 


“Breakfast for dinner sounds fine. Are you sure you don’t need any 
help?” 


“Salah, chivalry is supposed to be dead. You’re supposed to be 
getting all offended that |, a woman, am doing such subservient 
domestic activities as cooking.” 


Salah smiled, and got the butter out of the refrigerator and syrup out 
of the cabinet. 


“So then, tell me how the newbies were.” Mary-Ann flipped the 
pancakes on the griddle one by one. “You get a fundie in your 
group?” 


“Just one this time.” 
“And? 


“Very conservative Christian, not entirely sure why he joined, but 
that’s a digression for another day. It was actually pretty funny, 
because l’d say something and when | looked over he had this 


constipated look, and | just knew he was this close to saying 
something offensive.” 


“How big did his eyes get when you showed him the dinosaur 
gospel?” 


“| thought he was going to have a heart attack.” Salah took two cups 
from the cupboard and filled them. Water in one, milk in the other. 


Mary-Ann laughed. 


"You told him the story of Blue-Feathers and the Tournament of 
Bright Autumn, right?" 


"Of course." Glasses on the table. "Blue-Feathers, his crest at peak 
and teeth bared, roared challenge to the Black-And-Green Scale, so 
that they might meet on the field in single combat and settle the 
matter of the honor of She-Who-Tears-At-Furred-Ones. The battle 
would be by bone-spear, riding upon their beaked beasts, until one 
lay slain and the matter of honor had been sealed, and the line could 
then continue by her eggs." 


"Ah, so romantic." 


"Except for the part where they all die horrific gory deaths, the 
kingdom is toppled into war and chaos, and the resulting dark age 
continues for almost three centuries before the emergence of 
Softwalker." 


"We have the best job ever." 
Salah nodded. 


“That all said, the rest of the group was fine, nothing too unusual. 
Had an atheist in there, just for the tour. Scribes brought him in for 
consulting on the Fifth Church.” 


“He didn’t get in a fight with the fundie or anything, did he?” 


“No, he was actually quite pleasant. And Benson, the fundie, he'll be 
fine. Just needs a few months.” Salah sat down. 


“Well, | had a pretty exciting day myself.” Mary-Ann set the plate of 
pancakes and bowl of scrambled eggs on the table and sat down. 
Salah looked across the table, eyes locked with his wife’s. 


“Why do | get the feeling that you’re going to tell me something 
important?” 


“Because you're a perceptive and intelligent person. And also 
because I’m pregnant.” 


Salah blinked a few times, the words registering in his brain. 
Stunned flatness turned into a smile, into a grin, into a laugh, into a 
uproarious, gasping guffaw. 


"|... don't even...| don't even know what to say," he wiped a tear 
from his eye. "I'm sorry, I...this is wonderful...l'm glad you got me to 
sit down first...thank God..." 


"You're totally going to brag when we go into work tomorrow." 


"Of course. Oh, so many things to do now. Living arrangements, 
making the announcement. And names, have to think of names..." 
Salah's expression became somber. 


"Something wrong?" 


"Just thinking ahead. Schooling, how we'll raise them. What holidays 
to celebrate in the house. All of that. You'll want her baptized, | 
presume, and I'm fine with that, but..." 


Mary-Ann placed her hand over his. 


"Salah, | wouldn't be where | am now if | wasn't able to compromise. 
Yeah, it's tricky. It's all tricky business. But, just look at what the 
Initiative's been able to do with the New Path and the Universal texts 
and all that. We could always go that way, raise them on the New 
Path. Or we could go for the trifecta and bring them up Jewish." She 
paused for a bit. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the most 
important thing is that you're a good person. The ritual's just the 
dressing on top, at the end of the day. God cares more about what's 
inside. Whatever we choose, | know we'll be doing what's best for 
our baby." 


Salah nodded, saying nothing. 
"And we don't have to decide just now. Let's eat first." 


« The Place Where Two Rivers Meet | Hub | Crossing the 
Streams » 


Crossing The Streams 


“Come on, Clementine’s a great name. Clementine Zairi-Lewitt. 
Rolls right off the tongue.” Mary-Ann sipped from her iced tea. 
“Though that doesn’t do us any good if it’s a boy...Sean? Can’t go 
wrong with Sean.” 


Salah shrugged. 
“Maybe.” 
“Okay, so what are your suggestions?” 


“Hmm...My maternal grandmother's name was Ibtisam, if that helps 
at all...” 


“Mine was Carol, so you’ve got me beat in terms of cool sounding 
grandma names, but seriously, Salah, you can’t let me do all the 
thinking here.” 


“Nothing’s coming to mind, I’m afraid.” 
sigh 
“Fine, we'll let it sit for a while.” 


Mary-Ann sat back in her chair and stared out at the ocean. The 
setting sun had turned the world orange and gold and pink and red. 
The palm leaves swayed a bit in the evening breeze. The smoke 
from the cooking pit drifted over to her. It smelled absolutely 
delicious. 


Wait...shit, that’s pork! 


She shot a worried look at Salah, the words half-formed in her 
mouth. He held up a hand. 


“I’m fine. I'll just get something on the way back to the hotel when