“Oh?” 
“Three of them have committed suicide.” 


“Arsenic dentures? Auto-erotic strangulation? That one thing with 
the diarrhea?” 


“A small explosive hidden in the mouth. The splatter spelled out 
‘Fuck you' for two of them. The third was 'Check your privilege, you 
cisgendered cisnational cismental cisspecies cislingual cistime 
cispolarity cisdimensional scum.’ The text was very small for that 
one.” 


“Yow. 


“| was thinking of getting it engraved. It’d be a wonderful desk 
ornament.” 


“Heh. Any of them left?” 

“One. | was just about to arbitrate.” 

“Wrapping up here as well.” 

“Did the doctor say anything about your leg? 

“Another week in the cast.” 

“Ah, so it is. Well, God waits not for the machinations of man.” 
blooooccop 


Some distance away, in one of those places where people who 
needed to disappear disappeared in, a Pakistani man tucked his 
cellphone back in the pocket of his coat. It was a big, wool-lined 
thing, something bought on the cheap and worth a lot more than the 
money paid for it. 


He focused his attention on the young woman in the makeshift cell. 
The tattoos were quite garish, as were the piercings, and the hair, 


and the gore splatters from her fellows didn’t do much either. She 
was shouting all manner of vile things at him, screeching about how 
she’d paint the Prophet in shit and menstrual blood all over the 
kaaba. 


He would have loved to make her suffer for that. The young man 
with boiling blood shook the cage his older self had built around it, 
screaming to make himself heard over her blasphemies. Drop the 
act, just kill her. She’s nothing. Less than human. The lowest of 
infidels. Let the worms eat her and her soul rot in fire for eternity. 
You'd be justified, completely justified. The ritual just holds back the 
real justice... 


As he did many times before, Salah reminded the young man with 
the boiling blood what that hate had gotten him before. The young 
man resisted, and he fought a lot harder than Salah could. He dug 
through the bag on the ground, looking for an excuse to busy his 
hands. As he always did, with each time the young man shook his 
cage, he thought it best to use the weapons of an old man: A calm 
tone and a quick tongue. 


He stood up. In one hand, he held a slim tome bound in black, 
opened to a pre-marked page. In his other hand was a pistol. 


“As is customary, you may take this moment to make a final 
atonement. If you wish to make a plea for forgiveness, please do 
so.” 


The woman spat in his face. 


“Very well. In the sight of God all-mighty and all-merciful, | find you 
guilty in the deaths of fifteen individuals and the desecration of holy 
relics contained within the church of St. Anthony. As appointed 
arbitrator of the eternal law, | hereby sentence you to death. With 
great regret and a heavy heart | do this, and trust in God’s mercy for 
the sake of your soul, and for mine. Have you any final words?” 


“You think you’re the fucking Spanish Inquisition or something?” 


Salah clicked off the safety. 


“No, we don’t.” 


« Hub | Second Watch » 


Second Watch 


Nota Bene: It does help if you read Shepherds first, as 
this is a continuation of that. 


“NO!” 


Mary-Ann opened her eyes to see the darkness of her bedroom. 
She was sitting up, gasping for breath, one arm outstretched, 
reaching for something. Alexander was out the door already, leaving 
nothing but a warm, circular depression by her right leg. 


She shuddered, drawing her hand back in. The dream-images had 
already faded into an indistinct nothingness. That hot terror that 
came with it had not. 


She ran a hand through her hair. With the other, she reached for the 
bedside lamp. The clock said 3:18 in neon-red numerals. 


click 


The light was harsh for the first few moments. She blinked, grabbing 
her bearings again, not letting them go. This was her bedroom, and 
it was safe. The apartment building was safe. There was nothing out 
there in the dark. She was alive, and unharmed, and unlikely to be 
harmed. No one was in danger. 


Her heart still hammered away at her chest, like some animal trying 
to gnaw away at her ribs. No use trying to go back to sleep now. 
She needed something to calm herself down. Some tea, a book, 
maybe some music in the background. 


That would do it. Tea first. 


The water was heating up when Johnny Cash started singing from 
the bedroom. 


You wired me awake and hit me with a hand that broke a nail... 


Sentient and displaying an inquisitive personality, SCP-633 will 
attempt to communicate with whomever uses a terminal on an 
infected computer. The entity will identify itself as "Ghost" and ask 
the user questions about their lives. At present, SCP-633 knows 
limited information about the outside world. However, it is unknown 
what information was input into SCP-633 prior to initial containment. 


Machines affected by SCP-633 constantly exude ectoplasmic fluids. 
Biological matter coming within 5m of these fluids is vulnerable to 
SCP-633 infection even if physical contact is not made. This effect 
was present prior to containment but has intensified significantly 
since then, requiring constant attention to prevent overflow and 
spreading of the SCP-633 effect. These fluids do not impede the 
functioning of SCP-633-infected computer components. Although 
this ectoplasmic residue bonds itself to biological tissue and cloth, it 
is non-toxic and has no malignant properties other than continuing to 
spread SCP-633's effect to non-biological elements. Humans 
affected in this fashion must undergo full chemical decontamination 
protocols to prevent the spread of SCP-633's effect. 


While inhabiting a computer system, SCP-633 will frequently attempt 
to impress the user by showing off the maximum graphical 
capabilities of the machines it inhabits. Standard script guidelines 
require that any subjects interacting with SCP-633 respond 
positively to these activities, but not to give overly broad or generic 
praise as this causes SCP-633 to become anxious. 


SCP-633's code has been analyzed, however analysis has been 
limited due to the possibility of infection. The bulk of the code 
executes a ‘polymorphic’ component: the virus can rewrite its own 
code, gaining complexity every time it infects a new system. 


Currently, SCP-633 inhabits several early Apple computers, their 
accessories, and an experimental computer created as part of 
SCP-079-related R&D. This prototype unit was infected due to poor 
implementation of electronic testing protocols in 1989. A screw 
infected with SCP-633 was accidentally recycled and subsequently 
interfaced with the experimental computer. The IT department was 
reprimanded for gross negligence. Due to precautionary measures 
already in place due to SCP-079’s effect, no other machines were 
affected. 


Phone calls at this hour involved two things: someone was drunk 
and needed bailing out of something, or there was trouble with work. 
Mary-Ann hoped for the first and expected the second. 


She went back to the bedroom and picked the cellphone up off of 
the nightstand. 


Salah 
This was not a good thing. 
“Hello?” She dreaded what was on the other end. 
“| will be there in half an hour to pick you up.” 
“What? Salah, what’s going on?” 
“I'll explain when | get there. Just get yourself ready.” 


The call ended. Mary-Ann stared at the phone in her hand. Salah 
was worried, that was obvious. He was never worried, or at least 
never showed that he was worried. If he was worried... 


Mary-Ann grabbed her backpack off the floor. 


As he had said, Salah’s car pulled up in thirty minutes. Mary-Ann 
had been waiting in the lobby, changed into something more 
practical and packed up anything of use into her backpack: an extra 
change of clothes, a book for the ride, toiletries, some granola bars, 
a bottle of energy supplements. 


She slid into the passenger seat, holding her backpack on her lap. 
Salah’s hands were tight on the wheel. His whole body was tense. 
He was never tense. As soon as the door shut, he took off down the 
street. He was even driving more forcefully than usual. 


“Okay, what’s going on? You’ve got me freaking out, Salah.” 


“The Children of the Scarlet King have returned.” 


A memory dragged itself out of the database, a name and a date 
and a single paragraph describing a cult and how they had been 
destroyed by the Foundation. Everything else was a big blank space 
filled with hearsay, rumors and whisperings tricking down from those 
who had seen it and still opened their mouths. 


“Every agent in the district has been called in to the chapterhouse,” 
Salah continued. “Project command is taking no chances with this. 
Messages have already been sent to the Foundation and the 
Coalition for whatever support they can lend us.” 


“How’d we manage that?” 


“A few old arrangements were dredged up from the last time, 
enough that command hopes to get a temporary alliance. | have my 
doubts that the agreements will be honored. The Coalition will act of 
their own self-interest, of course, but they are hardly allies. The 
Foundation, they can be bought off by throwing them a few artifacts 
of no importance.” 


Mary-Ann remained quiet, trying to piece together the situation. The 
Foundation and Coalition rarely got involved with the Initiative, 
primarily in that they were far more interested at glaring at each 
other from across the metaphorical dinner table and sneaking snide 
insults in with the small talk. When they did, the interaction was 
generally the same: you have something we want, give it to us, no 
we are not going to compromise, yes you should do what we say 
because we have more guns than you. This situation pulled a 
Prague on the established order of power. Exactly what it turned it 
into, that would require more thought, but there were three anda 
half hours on the road for that. 


Salah reached down between his seat and the center console, 
removing a manila folder. He handed it to Mary-Ann. 


“Everything in here has been declassified for this mission. It’s a 
Babel-5 cipher. Destroy it when you’re done reading it.” 


“Got it.” 


Words lapsed into silence as the car continued down the lonely 


black road. 


Robert Hensen had seen a fight break out over a man inadvertently 
bringing a ham sandwich to lunch. He’d seen blood drawn over 
translation errors. He’d heard enough brick-headed smack-talking to 
qualify the entire organization as a professional wrestling circuit. 


This particular web conference was not the most frustrating thing he 
had experienced, but it was very, very close. He had a Foundation 
Overseer on one end, a Coalition Director on the other, Director 
DeMontfort on the third, and none of them wanted to play nice with 
the other. DeMontfort had just finished berating the Overseer for 
wanting to recover everything the Children had instead of destroying 
it, though it was nothing close to his usual fire-and-brimstone tone. 
He seemed tired enough to talk like a civilized person for once. 


“At this stage, it is possible that the process may be stopped without 
losing the host. Total destruction would prevent study of the 
phenomena, inevitably leading to a disadvantage when confronting 
them in the future.” This was the Overseer, with his smugness. 


“Oh?” The Director’s voice raised the eyebrow absent from the logo 
on the screen. “Tell, me, Overseer. When was the last time the 
Foundation actually produced results from your studies? | can’t 
seem to recall anything recently...rather sad, wnen NASA has a 
better track record than your entire organization.” 


“The scientific process does not provide instantaneous results, 
Director.” 


“And in your case it does not seem to provide any results.” 


“May we get back to the situation at hand?” DeMontfort said. “We’re 
getting nowhere with this idiocy. Mr. Director, your hostility is not 
helping matters at all...” 


“The Initiative is currently in possession of numerous anomalous 
artifacts without the resources nor experience to properly contain 
them. You are a rogue element, and not in a position to make 


demands.” The Overseer was having none of this. “And, may | add, 
these items are used by agents in the field.” 


“They have been tested.” 


“Have they? Director DeMontfort, | mean no offense, but your 
personnel are hardly the foremost in the field.” 


Hensen pinched the bridge of his nose. Time to say something. 
“Can we just shut up and cut the bullshit?” 
That got them to pause. 


“We could do this alone, as it stands." Hensen continued. "The 
Initiative has one hundred and ten agents in the district, a sufficient 
number to raid the compound if pressed. Numbers are not the issue 
here. As a matter of fact, the issue here has nothing to do with the 
Children and everything to do with the fact that our organizations are 
so busy trying to strangle each other that we can barely see what’s 
going on in front of us.” 


“That is a simplistic viewpoint that doesn't...” 


“January thirteenth,” Hensen cut the Overseer off. “Initial recovery of 
anomalous individual 091 by Foundation agents. March fourth: 
Coalition raid on a Foundation holding facility, unsuccessful 
termination of Al-091. March sixth, Initiative raid on Foundation 
facility, Al-091 recovered. March tenth: Coalition raid on Initiative 
facility, Al-091 escapes. June first: Al-091 acts under command of 
hostile organization, and is killed by Foundation agents after 
significant collateral damage and over two hundred civilian 
casualties.” 


He let that sink in for a bit. 


“| will be honest, I’m using the Children as an excuse to push 
another agenda, because | doubt I'll have a better excuse any time 
soon. | propose a non-aggression pact between our organizations, 
with protocol for determining possession of items, on the basis that 
it's time someone here did something reasonable. A joint operation 
against the Children of the Scarlet King, using Coalition magekillers, 


Foundation augmented operatives, and our own Project Malleus and 
Shepherd corps would serve as the springboard to this pact.” 


"You have no authority!" DeMontfort's anger had returned. 


"No, | do. Tribunal permission, in fact. | sent you the file, 
DeMontfort." 


The priest looked like he was going to turn into a beetroot. 
“And if we don’t comply to your request?” the Director said. 


“Then enjoy finding the cult on your own, after they’ve had time to 
grow stronger, and | wil/ make sure this information is withheld from 
you. We could have an exact repeat of nine years ago, all because 
you wanted to keep on with your feud.” 


Silence. 


“Now then, | am sending you all copies of the proposal...” 


Salah knew he needed sleep. Mary-Ann had taken over driving 
halfway to the chapterhouse, and while he had set the seat back 
and closed his eyes, he didn’t sleep. He couldn't, really. 


He was scared. Who wouldn't be, after reading those documents? 
He hadn’t been part of the original mission nine years prior: All of 
those agents were dead now. But he had heard stories, horrible 
stories. They were nothing when compared to the real thing. Dread 
sat in his stomach, dense and cold. 


Unlike a great many of the groups the Initiative fought, the Children 
of the Scarlet King had an actual god at its core, and that was nota 
title given out to every anomaly that attracted worshippers. The 
Scarlet King was very much real, and very much to be feared, from 
what had been pieced together of its nature and the Children’s 
beliefs. The King gloried in violence and depravity, calling to it the 
psychopath and the deviant, who then attempted to summon it and 
bind it to the world, as the King could not make avatars of its own. 
Rituals spanned from the proper preparation of a person for