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SCP-RECURSAL

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"Remind me again why we drove this thing." Katie thumps the steering wheel, hard, as it sticks again. This time, thankfully, unsticking it doesn't swerve the Winnebago into traffic. "Because it's a hell of a lot cheaper than hotels, and I for one don't have the money to take this trip any other way." Rena remains unconvinced, slouched in the threadbare passenger's seat with her arms crossed. "In that case, remind me why we're taking this trip." Katie raises an eyebrow and casts a significant glance towards the back of the vehicle. Rena glances over her shoulder. Alex is still back there, curled like a cat on the ‘Bago's thin sofa. He's angelic when he sleeps; she can so easily forget. She sighs heavily and goes back to staring out the windshield. "Right." They don't speak again for another ten miles. Even then, the uncomfortable silence only breaks when a deeper-than-usual pothole makes the old vehicle buck under them, actually slamming Rena's head into the ceiling. She yelps loudly, swearing between clenched teeth. "Quiet!" Katie hisses, throwing another glance over her shoulder. "He's still asleep for Christ's sake!" Rena, clutching her aching head, growls unintelligibly. "Please tell me there's a stop ahead." Katie glances at her, back to the boy stirring on the sofa, and pulls into the right lane. "We'll get some gas. I've gotta fill up anyway, if we want to make it to the Badlands by tomorrow." They exit the highway into an utterly forgettable little town. Barely more than a knot of buildings snagged on the juncture of highway and old prairie road, it nonetheless has what they're looking for: a gas station and a rest stop. Katie pulls the creaking, clanking old RV up to the pump and lets its laboring engine shudder gratefully to a halt. "The real trick will be getting it started again," Rena mutters, clambering out her door. "I'm going to the john." "I'll fill it up. Grab a bag of chips on your way back, will you?" Rena returns in a few minutes, marginally refreshed and bearing chips, to find that Katie has moved the old RV to the edge of the parking lot. Inside, she and Alex are sitting side-by-side on the sofa. The boy leans against her, shivering a little under her arm but smiling at whatever story she's telling. "Hey," Rena called, leaning on the doorframe. "How you doing, kid?" Alex looks up. "Rena! Hey, you brought chips!" He takes the proffered bag and tears it open. Around a mouthful of potato: "Thanks." Katie tightens her arm gently, squeezing the boy a little closer. "Alex was just telling me about his dream." Rena feels the corners of her mouth pull down. "Oh?" "Dinosaurs riding rocket ships." A relieved grin. "Just the usual." Rena relaxes. "Sounds like fun." "Yeah, it was okay," Alex interjects, crunching down on another chip. "I'm getting kinda stiff though. Can we get out for a walk?" "I saw a pond over past the bathrooms," Rena offers. "Oh, cool! Frogs?" The boy worms out from under Katie's arm and is on his feet in a flash. Rena can't help her grin. "Yeah, probably. Come on, let's go see." The three of them stroll across the parking lot, sharing the chips and laughing. Alex's innocent happiness has already washed away much of the wear on Rena's nerves; by the time they pass the bathrooms and round the cinder-block wall, she's fresh and happy again. As they round the corner, Alex takes in the scene: an old pond, scummed over with duckweed and algae, set like a dull sheet of green plastic between high grassy banks. Katie made sure he's wearing old clothes and his rubber boots, ready for a brief adventure; with her nod of permission, he clambers down the shallowest of the banks to stand by the water's edge. Mud, greenish-brown, sticky, and studded with the pathetic tiny leaves of washed-ashore duckweed. Reeds. A discarded beer can. The pond is perfectly flat. Alex frowns, peers narrowly into the water at his feet. "Uh, Mom? There's something in here." Katie and Rena bend closer. "Like what, hon?" Katie asks. "It's got really big eyes." Rena stares into the water. She can't see anything unusual — just a lot of duckweed. The water's opaque, impenetrable. "Wow," Alex breathes, "look at it! Mom, wow!" His eyes are tracking upwards, following something Rena can't see as it rises out of the pond. "That's the biggest frog I've ever seen!" Grinning hugely, the boy starts walking forward straight into the mire. "Alex!" Katie snaps. "Come back!" "Aw, Mom." The boy glances over his shoulder. His smile is pure childhood: he's seen his prize, and only it will now suffice. "It's just a frog!" And before they can say anything else, he sets off at a run. Green water and duckweed splash up around him as he disappears completely under the pond. Rena screams. Katie is already bolting forward, tearing off her jacket. "ALEX!" she howls. "Come back!" In her horror, she's utterly focused on the ripples left by the vanished boy. All she can think is to bring him back. Otherwise, she might have seen the water bending. At the center of the pond, it dents downwards. The edges curve up, raising the water level on the banks an inch — a few inches — a foot. The whole surface of the pond warps into a shallow cone. There's a ringing in the air, a crystalline whine too high to hear. Distant growl of bending metal. Squealing brakes. A car knocks Katie off her feet. It had been a middle-aged white sedan. Now it's a half-ton projectile, pulled into the pond like iron filings to an industrial magnet. Katie is gone in an eyeblink. Another car, and another. They rocket out of the parking lot and slam into the cold green water, bullet-fast but not leaving so much as a ripple. The next one takes Rena with it. The next is their Winnebago. The ringing fades. Slowly the pond settles back into its banks. Green water, grassy mounds. Hulks of years-rusted cars, half-submerged. No trace of the three newcomers. All is quiet again.

The strangest thing about the situation, Andrew reflected, probably wasn't the geometry. (Though that itself was certainly noteworthy. Any cubical room where it's possible to roll a ball from the floor to the ceiling without crossing any of the walls has something going wrong.) It wasn't the bicycle, either; Azathoth knew, he'd seen stranger modes of transportation around the city. Spheroid wheels that squished too much for comfort were really quite commonplace. Even the sight of Great Cthulhu, still dreaming-dead, sleepwalking around the city — well, that was less ordinary, but it did happen. At least that meant that some of the wilder, more obnoxiously shrieking squamous things would cower quietly in corners instead of howling Andrew's ears off as he passed. No, the strange thing about the procession careening down the impossible streets of R'lyeh was the fact that Cthulhu wasn't sleepwalking, He was sleepriding. On the bicycle. Pursued by, of all things, an opossum. Andrew stopped dead in the middle of the street, his feet planted squarely on the green decaying cobblestone, to let the sight sink in. Cthulhu. On a bicycle. The Elder's ponderous bulk, easily bigger than most of the buildings, completely dwarfed the tiny human contraption beneath Him. He looked, if the Great Cthulhu could ever be described as such, completely ludicrous. His great bony legs pistoned, cranking the grotesquely slender pedals. Judging by the possum's mad scramble, He was actually making very good time, probably rolling along at a good ten miles per qar'hrlg. His sheer size drowned speed, though: something that big couldn't look fast until it was outracing a flying Mi-go. Andrew stopped. Squinted. Something about the sleeping god wasn't right. As hard as it is to read expression from a writhing mass of tentacles, Andrew had had some little experience with that face. It never changed — not when He lay in His crypt, not when He stood and opened dead blank eyes to sleepwalk, not (they said) when He would wake to reshape the world for His Elders' coming. Now, though… The eyes were still dead, the tentacles still slowly creeping, the skin still mucous and sickly shining. But unless Andrew was completely mistaken, the taut batrachian skin of Cthulu's face was actually a little bit crinkled around the mouth and eyes. His Great Old One was afraid. Of an opossum. A pang of worry intruded briefly on the observer's shock. If something can shake Cthulhu, any denizen of R'lyeh has cause for concern. But the twinge faded as quickly as it came. Even gods have their nightmares, it seems. And not every dream has any meaning. Humans dream of showing up naked to work, Nightgaunts of being eaten alive by a thousand singing jeweled caterpillars. Andrew himself had an awful recurring nightmare involving the ancient depths of icy space and a rotten ham sandwich (extra mustard), which despite its farcical plot never failed to wake him screaming. If Cthulhu's dead dreaming involved being forced to flee small mammals while trapped on a bicycle, who was he to judge? He'd much rather get out of the road, sit back, and enjoy the show.

Stone sculptors aren't usually the ones to discuss patina. Normally, you see, the word refers to metal oxidation—the blue-green bloom that copper develops under the rain's hands, for instance. Applied to stone it's naught but a metaphor: there's no real word for the slow smear of lichen darkness over the faces of the library's gargoyles. It's not as though they need one, after all. Stone weathers, ages, turns grey; it's the way of things, and the ordinary way of things doesn't merit special description. Words are made to fill gaps in our understanding, to communicate things odd enough to be worth saying. Things, maybe, like the way the grey never touched certain bits of stone. The eyes of the lions outside the neglected side doors. The fingers of a leering grotesque atop a minor gable. One strand in the mane of something chimerical that perched over the fiction section's windows. There should have been a word for the way that time and soot fled those spots. One could almost swear they were whiter even than the day they were quarried on the night Jean Andrews vanished. I could swear to it myself. I remember a few things: mostly the pallor of the stone, but also a few other flashes of white. A low blank wall — somewhere in Young Adult, I think — that should have been painted over last summer. The moon through a thick, distorting glass eye. Jean's face twisting in the wind — just a glimpse, that one; she was on the middle gable by then. I wish I could say more. Maybe they'd be able to find her. Maybe they'd be able to find me, or whatever it is that I lost that night on the library roof. The lions know, I'm sure of it: one of their eyes is weathering now, graying into a slow eerie wink. I think I'll make a word for that. Someday. If I can ever remember just how to speak.

This is a formal request filed with the intent to report and log improper conduct by a Foundation-employed individual. Associated recommendations of disciplinary action have been selected and included with this report. Filed on ██/██/20██ by Dr. ████████. See attached report for details. Disciplinary request denied. For wasting time and effort on this petty report you are assigned as Dr. Burns' temporary assistant until ██/██/2011. - O5-5

Agent Doctor Merry Soo was the greatest researcher and operative the Foundation had ever known. And at the age of seventeen, she was also the youngest! Joining the Foundation straight out of her amazing year at West Point, where she simultaneously managed four years' worth of study at the top of her class and stood out as the absolutely most physically perfect student. The Foundation was lucky to have her. Almost all of senior Staff said so! "She is true credit to spirit of working operative!" Captain Strelnikov was often heard to remark. "No one can handle an SCP like her! And she knows just the spot behind my ears to scratch to make my leg thump!" Doctor Crow was known to say. "She's not bad." Doctor Snorlison once remarked. He was immediately given a stern talking to by the site staff, after which he requested to change his comment to "We wouldn't be able to do all this without her!" And, although it's not something she liked anyone to judge her by, she was also the prettiest girl on site! The other women on site knew it too. "I could never be as pretty as Agent Doctor Soo." Rights had been heard to lament. But Merry was such a good person, they couldn't hold it against her. They loved her! Even Dr. Light, a well known sour-puss, had said, through oddly clenched teeth, "We could never hold that against her. She's such a good person. We love her." It was Agent Doctor Soo who figured out how to keep the D-class from having to be terminated every month! After all, a simple memory wipe, and a piece of SCP-500 (which she had also figured out how to easily replicate) and the Foundation no longer had to kill anyone! And then she was assigned to SCP-231, where she was able to rescue that poor girl, and stop her from undergoing those HORRID experiments. She had a stern talk with SCP-082, and convinced him not to eat human flesh anymore. Of course, her greatest achievement was when she confronted SCP-173. All he ever really wanted was a hug, and some SCP-500 to stop that horrible blood in the feces problem of his. She also got a sculptor in to make him look a little friendlier. She was even the only one to point out how that old man seemed to always be around, but he just patted her on the head and walked away. But Agent Doctor Merry Soo did not lead a life free of worry, oh no! She had many, many, horrible problems! She would often cry about them to her many lovers. "It is so awful!" She cried, her head resting gently against Kondraki's chest. "What is?" Dr. Kondraki would have frowned, but he could never frown around the delightful Merry. No matter how much he might have wanted to. "My horrible, awful secret! If you knew it, you would not love me anymore!" And she cried against his manly chest. "Oh." Kondraki exclaimed. It took a few more minutes of her telling him about how he would not love her, and how horrible her secret was, before he finally had to, really had to, ask her "What secret?" "Oh! My love! It is terrible!" And she threw herself from the bed weeping. Another hour or so of such passed, before she finally deigned to tell him the secret. "You see my dear, sweet Konnie, I am half dragon! I know this does not make me an SCP, as I am only half, but it is terrible, and awful! Also, occasional scales in weird places." "Well, I guess that explains why your mouth is so hot when you…" But that was not the least of her problems! NO! Merry Soo had many more problems! "They can never know, my truest love!" she exclaimed as she cuddled up next to Able. The once horrible SCP, turned loving boyfriend, grunted in response. Despite their true love, and the feelings only they had for each other, or perhaps, because of the depth of such emotions, Able found he could barely talk in her presence. The fact that he could not keep his hands from clenching either bore no impact on this story. "They can never know that I bear your child! It is with love I bear it, and thanks to my keen use of SCPs, I will not look it, but our child will be here soon!" She quickly fled his presence. Soon after she left, Site-52 was destroyed in a Keter Class outbreak, but that doesn't matter. Doctor Clef would have been her lover, but for some reason he vanished before she could talk to him. Weird. "My sweet, sweet Gearsy-poo!" She stroked his head as it lay upon her chest. Dr. Gears' mouth twitched upwards, in a bizarre smile. It was true, she was the only one who could still reach his cold, cold heart. She made him happy, truly she did. "I have to thank you!" "For… For What?" Dr. Gears always had trouble getting his words out around dear, sweet Agent Doctor Merry Soo. It was a fight, to get them out at all, as if his brain wanted to say things his heart would never speak. "For keeping the dreadful secret of mine my sweet! The other Senior Staff must never know that my father was the Fis-" But she was not a girl to be defined by her loves, many though they were! She was also a first-class researcher! "Thank you Merry!" Gerald was oft heard to exclaim. No one quite knew how to put out a head fire like sweet Agent Soo! And her dutiful Assistants, Agent Elroy and Dr. Mann were always glad to be working under such a renowned scientist! "She really showed me a thing or two about anatomy!" Mann remarked to Yoric. "And she's saved my life so many times! It seems like I can't do anything but screw up!" "She's perfectly sane," Dr. Glass once said. "Perfectly. Do you know how odd that is?" He then had to go lay down to stop his nose from bleeding. But it was her relationship with her Mentor, Dr. Bright, that was most important to her. "Oh, Jack!" She remarked, as she stroked his soft fur. "Do not worry. One day, I will find a way to free you from that cursed amulet." The Monkey smiled up at her, proud of the work his star pupil had done. "So, uh, I get some nookie now too, right?" he asked with a leer. Soo could not help but blush. "Oh, Dr. Bright, I could never, not with you! You are like a father to me! A hairy, weird, kinda smelly father, who keeps touching my butt, but still a father!" Bright just rolled his eyes, and nodded his head to someone just out the door. "Doctor Agent Merry Soo!" Agent Break called out, rushing in, looking worried. "We have a problem, one only you can fix! We need you, and we need you now!" Dr. Soo rushed to follow Break, to notice the rest of the Senior Staff gathered round. It was Heiden who stepped forward, for some reason, with half of a straw clutched in his left hand. "Dr. Soo, thank god you're here!" He pointed down the hall. "Something weird is happening, you have to stop it!" Agent Doctor Merry Soo rushed down the hall to the room in question, as the other Senior Staff rushed into a nearby safe room/observation chamber. The room Merry found herself in was huge, but she could see the Senior Staff watching her from way up above. She waved to them, even as she heard the sound of a door opening behind her. Wait… When did Clef join them? What she thought didn't matter. One snap, two bites, and little miss Merry Soo was gone, vanishing into the gullet of the beast known as SCP-682. Up above, Clef hit a second button, turning on the acid sprayers, driving 682 back into its pit. The other Senior Staff sighed, patted each other on the back, thanked Clef, and walked away, many of them to take long hot showers. In the end, it was just Clef and Bright watching 682 dissolve under the spray of acid. "That was some quick thinking there, Alto," the monkey commented. "I've seen too many of them come through here, trying to beat us by joining us. They can never keep under the radar." "Never?" Bright spared a knowing look for his old comrade. "Well." Clef couldn't help but grin. "Maybe once." The two, if not friends, then co-workers, turned their gaze on the pit again, and, in a sign that they had both been working together for far too long, heaved identical sighs, and spoke the same words together. "Fucking Mary Sues."

My friends and I used to do a lot of geocaching after our senior year in high school. For those who don't know what geocaching is, it's essentially a worldwide scavenger hunt. People will select sites and conceal a “geo-cache” somewhere unobtrusive, then post GPS coordinates on geocaching websites where other searchers can download the cords and locate the cache. Usually, people who have found the object (often it's a chest or something hollow) will leave a note or small personal memento for future searchers to find and appreciate. There are several types of geocaches, and most of them are thematic in nature (i.e. scenic destinations, romantic sites, hard-to-reach areas, etc.) This story begins when my friends and I decided to try a series of purportedly haunted locales within about an hour's drive of our hometown. It began innocently enough—most of the sites had “spooky” backstories that were, of course, entirely fabricated. So we had a great time scaring the piss out of each other and generally creeping ourselves out. We'd begun searching after the sun had set to enhance the creep factor, but by around midnight, most of our large group had dwindled off and gone their separate ways. When we reached our last coord, there was just myself, Rebecca, Kevin, and Evan left, and we were determined to knock it off our list. Rebecca was our guide for the night, in charge of putting in the coordinates and reading us the backstory behind each site. So, while I drove, she began reading about the last one out loud to the rest of us. Now, I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something along the lines of: “Henckel Asylum: constructed in the early 1900's, the James Henckel Asylum was built to house a burgeoning population of the criminally insane. Men who had committed vile crimes (rape, murder, torture) without signs of remorse were deemed mentally unstable and sent to this facility for further study and rehabilitation. Once committed, very few criminals were ever released back into society, and those that were usually had been given frontal lobotomies (a popular experimental procedure at the time) or electroshock therapy, both of which rendered the patient nearly braindead, capable of performing only rudimentary tasks. Stories: Contemporary visitors to the Asylum report hearing banging noises, cell doors opening and closing, and hearing cackling laughter that is abruptly cut short.” It was pretty standard fare compared to the rest of the sites we'd visited that night, and we naturally had a good time psyching each other out for the next fifteen minutes while I drove us to the Asylum. We'd all heard about it (it was in our local area after all) and we knew it had been condemned and abandoned since as long as any of us could remember, so we figured it'd be a great place to run around and be reckless teenagers without risk of getting yelled at by the cops. When we finally arrived, it looked like something straight out of one of those cheesy B-movies they show on SyFy. Chain link fence with barbed wire around the perimeter, two guard towers flanking the main gate (which was, of course, chained and locked shut with a big NO TRESPASSING sign hanging from it). The asylum itself was decrepit, looking like it hadn't been touched for decades—which was surprising, since we grew up in a pretty nice area, where the municipal lawmakers tried to keep everything looking spiffy for the tourists. Needless to say, we promptly ignored the sign on the front gate and hauled ourselves over, cameras and GPS in hand, and walked towards the asylum. Now, given our attitude towards the previous sites, you've probably gathered that I'm somewhat of a skeptic. I believe that there are paranormal things that can't be explained (yet) but I'm not exactly summoning demons in front of a bathroom mirror. So when we opened the main door to the asylum (conveniently unlocked), I dismissed the cold burst of wind as just stale pent-up air rushing out after being trapped inside for so long. My friends' bravado, however, quickly disappeared and they began shuffling their feet nervously at the entrance, hesitant to cross that invisible threshold. I took point, chivvying them along with prodding taunts and eventually everyone was inside. It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be. Things were relatively clean, and the entire building looked like it had been gutted. The paint was peeling, tiles popping up here and there, and the metal trim near the baseboards of the wall was in desperate need of some Rust-B-Gone, but aside from that, the place was entirely empty. No crazy-ass chairs with leather straps, no gurneys lying haphazardly around, just an old reception desk and two hallways leading off to the different wings. We explored for a few minutes, freaking ourselves out whenever we heard an old pipe rattle or rat squeak, but otherwise, it was relatively uneventful. Our fears safely suppressed by the presence of each other, we began to get more adventurous, opening doors and peeking inside. The rooms were all empty, of course. Whatever company had been contracted to clear the place out did a pretty decent job of removing any creepy décor. Bravado returning by the minute, Evan and Kevin dropped back without Rebecca or me noticing. They began running around, making noises to try and scare us (I'm not gonna lie, it worked until I realized they were gone and probably the cause of all the racket), then returned laughing and breathless to a decidedly paler Rebecca. She seemed to be a lot more put off by the whole place than the rest of us, or at least she didn't hide it as well. She quietly suggested we leave. Not to be outdone by the other guys of the group, I told her she was more than welcome to wait in the car if she wanted, but I was gonna stick around for a few more minutes. Exasperated, but defeated, she finally caved and followed us where the GPS was leading—the second floor. This is where I started to feel genuinely scared. Before, I was just kinda creeped out, but there was something about that whole floor that literally gave me shivers, despite it being a warm summer night. We started opening doors like before, but we were all a lot more sober about it. I guess I wasn't the only one who was feeling weird. Finally, about midway through the hall, we opened the door to a room, and there, lying in the middle of the floor, was an honest-to-god straightjacket. I'm not bullshitting you, every other room was devoid of objects, but there it was. A fucking straightjacket, in the middle of the floor of some random-ass room in a condemned mental asylum. We all kinda looked at each other with raised eyebrows, as if to say “Uh… guys? You seeing what I'm seeing?” And of course, trying to be a macho man to show off for Rebecca, I piped up with the most ridiculous idea I could think of at the time. “Dude, I'm gonna put it on.” Years of horror flicks and creepypasta should have trained me to NOT put on the creepy straightjacket, in the creepy hall, in the creepy asylum. But teenage dumbfuckery won over, and once the words were out, I couldn't just wuss out. Nobody said anything, they just kinda looked at me expectantly, waiting to see if I'd follow through with my boast. Determined not to be called a pussy for the remainder of the night, I walked forward into the room and bent down to pick up the moth-ridden restraining device. As I got closer though, I noticed it wasn't moth-ridden at all, but was actually in pretty decent condition (that is, compared to the rest of the place, which as I've mentioned, was a shambles). I mean, it had a few stains here and there, but it didn't really smell and it seemed intact enough to put on. As soon as I picked it up, though, I got this overwhelming sense of dread. You know, that drop in the pit of your stomach right as you go over the lip of a roller coaster? That feeling, in the bottom of your gut that says “I'm gonna die, I just know it.” Yeah, well I got that. Really strong. And totally ignored it. My desire not to die was outweighed, as it often is in teenagers, by my need to look cool for my friends. So I slipped my hands in the sleeves, one at a time, until it hung loosely from my shoulders. Now, if you've ever seen a straightjacket, you know that you can't tie it up yourself. The whole point is to essentially cross your arms across your chest and tie the sleeves behind your back to prevent whoever's inside from moving their arms (presumably, to stop them from hurting themselves or others). So as I stood there in the middle of the room, I called out to Rebecca, “Hey Becca, help me tie this thing off.” She looked (if you'll excuse the pun) pale as a ghost, but she managed to squeak out, “I don't… I don't think this is a good idea…” But again, after some prodding and encouraging, I convinced her to begin tying the sleeves behind my back. Evan and Kevin just stood in the doorway, expressions a mix of admiration and incredulity. At that point in time, I felt like a badass. For about three seconds. As soon as Rebecca finished up the last lace, the door to the cell slammed shut, right in Kevin and Evan's faces. I never felt a breeze, and when I asked them later, both of them fervently denied closing it themselves. Skeptic that I am, I still chalk it up to us leaving the front door open and changing air pressures and all that. But it scared the piss out of us nonetheless. Then I felt a pressure on my chest, like someone was sitting on it (or as if someone was pulling the sleeves tighter behind me) and it began to get harder to breathe. I couldn't even summon enough air to whisper, much less call out for help. My vision narrowed to tiny specks, and I swear I heard someone laughing shrilly as I neared unconsciousness. The pressure increased with a sudden tug, and my world went black. When I woke up, my vision was foggy. Or at least, I thought it was, until I realized it wasn't just foggy. It was dark. Like staring through a lens that's been collecting soot. I blinked a few times, and the darkness waivered, but didn't dissipate. Now, I've passed out and blacked out before, but whenever I woke up, it was nothing like that. Either my vision gradually cleared up, or it was blurry, but never in my life have I been able to recreate the shadowy haze I saw in the asylum that night. Then, from the murky depths, two small pinpoints of light appeared a few inches in front of my face, glaring a lurid red—and a dim echo of the laughter I heard before surrounded me. As soon as they appeared, however, they were replaced by two brilliant shafts of incandescence—Evan and Kevin, shining flashlights down on my face. The last thing I remember hearing before I lost consciousness was Rebecca's scream and the door banging open, which probably explains why those two were standing over me with flashlights in hand. I gradually became aware of a dull murmur that I recognized as Rebecca asking me, “Please wake up, please please please wake up,” as she shook me. She just kept saying it over and over again, kept sobbing and shaking me. When my vision cleared enough, I glanced over and saw that her eyes were completely red, like she'd been crying for a while. Trying to muster some shred of manliness, I found myself speaking in a surprisingly calm voice, given how I was actually feeling. I remember distinctly what I said, word for word. “Get those fucking flashlights out of my face, you douchebags.” Expecting a laugh or at least some reciprocal insults, I was kinda shocked when they just looked at each other quizzically, seemingly surprised. “You're… you're okay?” Evan asked incredulously. “Yeah, why the hell wouldn't I be? Becca just tied the things too tight, I couldn't breathe, so I passed out. How long was I out for anyway?” I inquired. Apparently, it had been long enough for them to untie the straightjacket, allowing me to rub a hand across my face. Another shared look of disbelief. “Dude,” Kevin began slowly, “You've been out for like fifteen minutes. We were about to call 911. We kept shaking you—Evan even tried pinching you so hard he drew blood—but you wouldn't wake up.” I felt a cold chill run down my spine, and the straightjacket, hanging limply from my shoulders, suddenly began to feel a bit tighter. Hastening to pull it off, I tried not to look panicked as I threw it to a corner of the room. Rebecca just sat there, still shaking and crying a little bit, and in spite of the ordeal I'd just gone through, I had enough sense to go over and try to comfort her. We left that room without a word, geocache be damned, and walked back to the car in complete silence (broken only by the occasional sniffle from Rebecca). The sun started coming up, and as I dropped everyone off at their respective homes, we said quiet goodbyes. Rebecca was the last stop before I finally made the trip home myself. Being the gentleman that I am, I walked her to her door, but she paused at the entry and looked me in the eye. In the light of the gray dawn, I could see her eyes were still reddened from all the crying. She was very quiet, and she said, “I have to ask you something.” “Yeah sure, what is it?” I said, half expecting another “You sure you're alright?” like I'd been getting the whole ride home. She surprised me by asking, “Do you know how long it took Evan and Kevin to get the door open?” Her eyes held a look that I could never forget. It was raw fear. Something happened in that fraction of time between me blacking out and them getting in there that had absolutely terrified her. And seeing that look, I realized. I was blacked out for fifteen minutes. How long was she alone in that room? “No…” I replied slowly, “how long?” “Five minutes. They said it took five minutes for them to open that stupid door. I was in there and I saw you, and I saw—“ she broke off, another sob stopping her midsentence. At that point, I didn't want to know. I still don't want to know. I gripped her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Rebecca. It doesn't matter. No matter what you saw. I'm here, you're here, we're both safe. It doesn't matter. Nothing bad will happen. I promise.” She just nodded numbly, opened her door, and walked inside her house. The next time I saw her, she was back to her usual self. But whenever I bring up that night to her, she freezes up and turns to stone, refusing to discuss it. I stand by what I said before. I don't know what happened in that room. And I don't ever want to know. But I still have nightmares about those two glowing red lights in the darkness. And sometimes, as I lapse into sleep, I hear faint echoes of shrill laughter following me down into the depths of unconsciousness.

“What is it?” “I… I think it's a duckie?” The two men stared down at the crater in the concrete. It was about a meter across, and in the center was a small yellow rubber duckie wearing an astronaut helmet. The duck had fallen from the sky a few minutes ago as they were discussing the subtleties of pornographic acting. The second man bent down to touch it, then jerked back. “Fuck me! It's hot!” “Whattaya expect? It's-” The first man paused and glanced around. There was a whistling sound in the distance. It almost sounded like it was above them… The next duckie smashed into his car with a loud “SQUEAK”. The third destroyed a neighbors' house. The fourth, a passing pedestrian. All around them, rubber duckies began to pour from the sky. In less than 10 minutes, East 43rd street was completely eradicated. He examined the duckie as he shuddered under the blankets. The thing was turquoise (or maybe blue?), with little snowflake decals running around its base. Printed in black letters on it were the words “What's cooler than being cool?” Ice cold. A good a way as any to describe the weather. Christ, this was Texas! It should never be less than 40 degrees, let alone 10. But still the temperature was dropping. And dropping. And dropping. Outside, snow began to fall. It didn't stop for more than two months, and by then Houston, Texas had been completely buried. How long had they been dancing? As long as that damned duckie had been playing its saxophone. How long had that been? God knows. Five people had already collapsed from exhaustion, and the duckie showed no signs of slowing down. If anything, the tempo was increasing. She glanced around. As far as she could see, people danced. They boogied, dougied, thrillered, hustled, monkeyed, and spontaneously flailed. Anything was acceptable, as long as they were moving. But they couldn't stop. She wanted to stop. Her entire body begged her to, but she couldn't. Instead, she just danced, and waited for it to end. In bathtubs everywhere, children watched in horror as something terrible began to emerge from their cherished toys. “Ah. Well. The problem, as best I can determine…” Dr. Mills gulped. The people in front of him could kill him just by saying the words if they didn't like what he had to say. “The problem is that we didn't properly research the duckie- objects! I mean objects. We just categorized them with the other minor anomalous objects. And uh… that wasn't the right thing to do. We never considered where the objects were coming from. Or, well, why they were being given to us so easily.” “Dr. Mills, we can sort out what we did wrong after the fact. For now, we need to know- do these objects present an immediate threat to life on Earth?” “Honestly sir… yes. My colleagues and I, well we believe this may be the first stage of an XK class scenario.” In Munich, ghost ducks descended from above to terrorize the population. Big Ben dissolved into millions of tiny ducks, all ringing as they fell towards the Earth. And throughout all this, the invaders sat back and watched their handiwork. They watched people flee from a rubber behemoth raging down the streets of Venice. They watched duckies explode like dynamite in Australia. They watched all this, and they were pleased, for they knew the Earth would soon be theirs. Soon humanity would would return to their caves, and the world would truly be for the birds.

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Brother Zhakh sat alone on a bench in the great hall of Overwatch Cathedral. The sun shone dimly through the stained glass windows above, doing little to chase away the winter chill. Holy Doctors milled about in their ceremonial white robes, preparing for the day's rites. D-Castes tended the fire and minded the candles that lit the biggest building left in the known world in the year 586 A.B., the seat of the Holy Foundation. Near the altar, a deacon led a group of initiates in chanting from the Holy Procedures. "SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," he sang. "SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," the initiates repeated. "The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel with an electro-release lock mechanism," he sang. "The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel with an electro-release lock mechanism," they repeated. Brother Zhakh shivered and pulled his robes tighter around himself for warmth as he listened to the chanting. The campus of Redacted was impossibly distant; a thousand kilometers or more, if it even still stood so many centuries after the Great Breach, and whether the doorway to that staircase even existed any longer was known only by the Expunged and the other heathens that dwelled in that land. Eight days had he sat in the great hall waiting to be seen; he began to wonder if the audience he had walked all the way from the Nineteenth Monastery for would ever happen at all. "Brother Zhakh, Deacon Assistant?" Zhakh looked up to see a man in the black robes of the Omega Guard, short sword on his belt, a scroll in his hands. "Yes, sir guardsman?" he meekly replied. "The Holy Father will see you now. Please follow me." Zhakh followed the guardsman from the great hall, down a labyrinth of corridors that descended into the earth. The brick and mortar of the great cathedral, which had taken the D-Castes nearly half a century to build, soon gave way to ancient concrete and steel, remnants of the Old Temple that once had stood on this spot before the world was consumed by demonic wrath. The guardsman approached one of many doors branching off from the long hallway. Reaching into his robes, he produced a piece of ancient technology, the making of which had been lost to mankind with so much else - a small plastic card with a black stripe along one side, which he placed into a lock on the door. A light on the device changed from red to green, and the guardsman gestured for Zhakh to enter. Lord Jack, Zhakh prayed silently to his namesake as he reached for the knob, speak for me in my hour of need. Secure for me the blessings of Your glory, as You secured the secrets of the ancient world. Contain all those who would do me harm, as You contained the chaos of the Great Breach when You died and rose again. Protect me with Your love and grace, as even now You protect Your Church from the devils that walk the world. For Yours is the Foundation on which we shall rebuild. Amen. The office was small and windowless, its walls covered with shelves upon which stood hundreds of books, some new, some old, some older than old. Neither candle nor fire lit the room, but a flickering electric lamp, one of the last in the world and worth its weight in telekill, shone brightly from the ceiling. A wooden desk stood in the center of the room, covered with reams of paper and vellum. Open in the center sat a great book, written and illuminated by hand - one of the few complete copies in existence of the Holy Containment Procedures, open to an illustration of the tale of St. Alto and the Dragon. Sitting on the edge of the desk, encased in glass, was an amulet on a chain - whether it was the real one, or one of the twelve replicae, only the man who occupied the office knew, but real or not it marked him as a vicar of the Lord Bright. Zhakh fell to his knees as the amulet's owner rose to his feet - an old man, his gray beard stretching down his chest, his ornate crimson robe embroidered all over in gold with the symbols of the Church - the trefoil that the Ancient Temple had used as its coat of arms, the Holy Amulet, the names and numbers of the Mobile Legions that had protected Lord Jack and the saints during the Great Breach, the emblems of the Heathen Temples who had repented and joined the Foundation after the Great Breach. Here stood Cardinal Doctor Zhakib Samesh III, Holy Father of the Foundation, Custodian of the Fifth Order of Secrets, Member of the Council of Thirteen - and Zhakh's father. "Good morning, my lord," Zhakh said. "What is your name, my child?" asked Cardinal Samesh. The cardinal knew full well the name of the man who kneeled before him, of course, but the manner by which a junior cenobite greets a father of the Church was an ancient tradition, and there were few left in the world who honored and respected tradition so greatly as the Holy Foundation. "Zhakh Samesh, my lord," Zhakh responded, "Deacon Assistant and Aspirant of the Order of St. Everett, of the cloister of the Nineteenth Monastery." "Does the black moon howl?" "Only when waning." "We accept your greeting." Cardinal Samesh extended his right hand, and Zhakh kissed the golden ring on his middle finger. "Rise and be seated." Zhakh rose from his knees and seated himself in the plain chair at one end of the desk as the cardinal seated himself in the elaborately carved throne at the other end. "For what purpose does an aspirant of St. Everett seek our attention this day?" "I have come," Zhakh said meekly, "to request that I be released from my holy orders." Cardinal Samesh raised an eyebrow quizzically. "This is indeed a great boon that you ask. Have you not been your entire life in the cloister?" "Yes," Zhakh answered as the cardinal knew he would. "I was born into the holy caste, as was my father, and his father, and his father, and so on unto St. Samesh the Liberator, who defended the survivors of the Seventy-Third chapel when it came under attack by heathen forces during the Great Breach." "And are you not at the cusp of completing your studies, and being ordained a Holy Doctor of the Church this next year?" "Yes, Holy Father. I submitted my doctoral thesis on the Holy Containment Procedures to the Council of Ethicists two months ago." "Then why do you now come before us, saying that you wish to abandon the Holy Foundation and live among the civilians?" Zhakh was silent a moment while he formulated his answer. "The Council of Ethicists rejected my findings entirely," he said, "and I believe that the Holy Foundation has lost its way if it believes that my findings are wrong." "What is the purpose of requiring aspirants to present a thesis?" Cardinal Samesh asked. "That the aspirant may learn to understand the words of the Lord Bright as revealed in the Holy Containment Procedures, that he may learn how they are meant to be applied, how to perform those rites which have been lost to us, to understand that which time and calamity have made unclear, and to refine the practices of the Holy Foundation to ensure that the rites are not performed erroneously." Cardinal Samesh nodded. "And what was the topic of your thesis, aspirant?" "The Rite of Montauk," Zhakh said. Cardinal Samesh sighed knowingly. "We see," he said. "We might have suspected as much - you have been obsessed with that rite since I… since your father took you to see it performed when you were a child, have you not?" Zhakh nodded. "He said it was important for me to understand the things we must do to keep at bay the forces that caused the Great Breach. I have spent much of the last five years in study and prayer over the subject. I have read all there is to read on the subject, from the Holy Scripture itself, to what ancient documents survived the Great Breach, to the musings and studies composed on the Rite by those Holy Doctors before me." "And what was the finding of your thesis?" "That the Rite of Montauk should be abolished." The cardinal raised his eyebrow. "Do you know what would happen if the Rite of Montauk were not performed as the Holy Containment Procedures instruct, aspirant?" "No," Zhakh said. "None know but the Lord Bright, for those pages have been expunged - and He speaks only when He wishes to do so. St. Agatha said that it was not performed during the Great Breach, and that much calamity ensued because of it." "Then why would you insist that such a thing be allowed to happen again?" "I have learned," Zhakh said, "that the Mother of Demons, she upon whom the Rite must be performed, is not she who today lies in chains beneath the Nineteenth Monastery. St. Alto on his deathbed confessed that he had killed her during the Great Breach, and the Lord Bright Himself confirmed it when He spoke, through a D-Caste bearing the Holy Amulet, to the Synod of New Denver in 237." "Then who is it upon which the Rite is performed?" "There have been eighteen," Zhakh said. "This I learned from the old records of those civilians taken by the Monastery and placed among the D-Caste for their crimes. Whenever one dies, they find a young woman who has not known a man and she becomes the subject of the Rite. I believe that whatever act was committed centuries ago that created the Mother of Demons, they perform also on this woman - so that the Rite can be enacted upon her." "You believe this?" the Cardinal asked. "Those pages have been expunged," Zhakh replied. "And what do you propose?" "That the need for the Rite has passed if the Mother of Demons is dead; and there is no need to create a new Mother simply so that the Rite can be performed upon her." The cardinal paused. "Is it not possible," he asked, "that there must always be a Mother of Demons, whether we wish it to be or not?" "The Holy Containment Procedures speak of no such thing," Zhakh said. "It cannot be known unless…" "…Unless we test it and see what happens?" "Yes, my lord." "It is written," the cardinal said, "that the last words spoken before the Great Breach were 'test it and see what happens'." "Are we not protectors?" Zhakh asked. "Is it not our duty not only to protect the world from devilry, but to protect the devils from themselves? This is why I must ask to be dismissed - we cannot do our duty to protect these unfortunate women if we are so terrified by the unknown." The cardinal opened his mouth, then paused in contemplation for a moment. The look on his face changed - gone was the academic, the cleric, the cold, detached visage of a man whom protocol demanded ignore that his own son was before him in the midst of a crisis of faith. "Did I ever tell you," he said, "about the time the Lord Bright spoke to me? In the flesh?" "No," Zhakh said. "When I was a child and my father occupied this office," the cardinal said nostalgically, "I was not as… deliberative in my studies as I could have been. I thought, much as you surely do now, that procedures written six hundred years ago by men now dead were of little importance, and that much of what they described must now be dead, or broken, or lost forever in the darkness. I hated spending my days learning to recite the procedures, memorizing ancient interviews, being yelled at by my father for giggling while he led the initiates in reciting Bright's Prayer. I thought I could find some way to prove that it was all hogwash - and then I thought of this." He gestured to the amulet encased in glass on his desk. "If I picked it up, and nothing happened, so I thought, it would prove that Jack Bright was gone forever and there was nothing to the Holy Containment Procedures but old superstitions. "I convinced one of the D-Caste to let me in after my father had excused himself to perform his duties. I had him break the case and take the amulet out to hand it to me. As soon as he laid hands on it, he… changed." Zhakh gasped. "So this is…" "This is the real one," the cardinal responded. "I knew right away that the man before me was no longer a slave whose great-grandfather had been indentured for stealing chickens, but our Lord and Director Himself. He looked right at me, and He spoke." "What did he say?" The cardinal sighed deeply. " 'Dammit, not this again.' " "And then what?" "Then," the cardinal said, "He grabbed a quill off my father's desk and He stabbed Himself in the eye. By the time I could find anyone to help Him, He was already dead." "What happened when your father found out?" "I told him what I had done and asked him to dismiss me, much as you ask me for dismissal now. He refused. He ordered me to be confined alone in my cell and to contemplate and pray day and night until I could tell him what the Lord Bright had been trying to teach me when He took His own life so." "And what was that?" "That all actions have consequences," the cardinal said mournfully. "And that when those actions involve the Scripture, the consequences can cost lives. And that once in a great while, when a man acts without considering what may happen if his assumptions are wrong, then another heaven and another earth must pass before all is as it was before." The cardinal was silent a moment. "Do you understand why I have told you this, aspirant?" "Yes, my lord." "Your request to be dismissed is denied," he said. "You may remain here tonight and depart for your cloister in the morning. Begin your research anew and present a thesis that does not involve the Mother of Demons or the Rite of Montauk. Go in peace." "Thank you, my lord." Zhakh rose and left the room. The guardsman had gone - Zhakh made his way alone down the hall back to the antechamber, and from there towards the sleeping quarters where a cell and a bed had been provided for him. The audience had not gone as he anticipated, but he nonetheless felt a strange satisfaction. It would be years before Zhakh would be ready to present a new thesis - but perhaps, if he kept the faith, someday he might find himself on the other side of that ancient desk, as his own son asked to be dismissed.

June 21, 2003 Summer solstice today. That means, if I've been counting right, that today is my five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-seventh birthday. Happy birthday to me. I can barely believe it's been almost two months since I recorded one of these journals. They've been running us ragged. We just got back to Nineteen maybe two hours ago. It was the Church of the Broken God again. We keep trying to stamp them out and they always end up hitting back harder. Four agents died today. I didn't know their names. I don't bother anymore. Numbers work, because they're going to get slaughtered anyway. sigh… It's gotten to me. I can write off someone as a number to be shot down and turned into clockwork and not care. I don't feel anything about it anymore. I want to be disgusted with myself, but I can't. I'm too tired. We all are. We're still moving, but I don't think we're alive anymore. Able tries to keep everything going, never complains, carries the whole group on his shoulders, but its grinding him down and we can all see it. He isn't who he used to be. Iris never talks anymore, and they can barely get her out of bed without pumping her full of drugs. She barely eats, barely sleeps, barely ever leaves her quarters. A few days ago I managed to catch her out in the hall, and when I asked if everything was okay, she just started crying. She's making mistakes in the field: two weeks ago she forgot to refill her supply photographs, leaving us without any medical supplies or extra ammunition. I don't know what to do. She won't let anyone close enough to help. Clef's had it worst, though. They have him under lock and key now. He's become too unstable to let him wander around freely, they say. I still try to talk with him when I can, but…half the time he doesn't seem like he's there. When he is aware enough to talk… he scares me. The voices are getting worse, happening more and more often, and sometimes he can't fight them back. He'll lose control and start spewing all sort of foul things, or he'll curl up in a ball and beg to be put out of his pain. It hurts me to see him like this. I can still feel that much. … I spoke with Director Dodridge on the way back here. He said that he'll try talking to the Overseers again, try to get them to listen to sense and disband us, but I doubt it'll do any good. They never listen. What was the point of all this? This task force has the highest casualty rate in the Foundation. Was what we did against the Insurgency that impressive? Enough to throw us at every little thing that pokes its head above the ground? Why am I even asking this? It's not like I'm going to get an answer. They've never answered it before, why would they do it now. … I'm going to sleep. Hopefully someone will wake me up when all of this is over. June 22, 2003 Iris killed herself last night. Slit her wrists. Snuck in a razor blade, did it right there under the covers, right under surveillance's nose. I feel hollow. Not sad, not angry, just empty and numb. Wherever she is, it's probably better than here. June 23, 2003 He did it. Jason did it. The Overseers saw reason, finally. Pandora's Box is closed, six to one in favor. "Unacceptable losses", they said. It's still hard to feel happy, but I think I might. Just a little bit. Iris' funeral is today. It won't be much, just a chance to say goodbye. Probably just going to be myself and Able and the chaplain. Clef won't be joining us. He's having an episode. July 6, 2003 Apparently they're using what's left of Mother to birth test subjects. Apparently they've been doing this for years and it was just now decided that I should find out about it. I say let them. If they want to have sex with a chunk of flesh from a dead goddess, by all means, go ahead. I don't really care. August 15, 2003 I had the displeasure of coming across Dr. Jack Bright today. I've managed to avoid him for some time, but my luck was bound to run out sooner or later. It's been so long since I've been truly angry… it feels good. The man is completely mad, and why he's still around baffles me. He does nothing productive anything at all, has the maturity of a boy who has just figured out what sex is, causes headaches on a near-daily basis, and the Overseers outright refuse to get rid of him. They outright refuse to decrease his clearance, even. They just let him go on his way, completely untouched. Just wipe his memory, encase him in concrete and bury him somewhere and be done with him. I'd love to kick in his head myself, but he'd be back. He always comes back. No, death is too good for him. He wants that. Oh, I'm so sorry you're immortal boo-fucking-hoo, let me sing you a sad song fuck off and suck a nice fat horse cock. You don't see Able or me doing this insipid attention whoring and blatant harassment routine. Take a fucking hint that I'm not interested or I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll piss out your ass. sigh… I've filed a complaint with human resources. They said they'd take care of it. August 17, 2003 Another entry on that damned list is not “taking care of it”. September 1, 2003 I was able to talk with Clef today, and he was all there. No voices, no shouting, nothing like that, we just talked. It was like it used to be. I can't believe how bitter I've become. Listening to some of my old recordings and all, I know I had a reason to be like that, but…I don't know. It's this place. It gets to you, drags you down into the muck, and it's nasty and bitter and toxic and you just slog through the same trenches. If fills you until that's all you know, just hate and anger and empty bitterness and you don't even realize it, until you step back and think about it a bit. It's not just me. It's everyone. All the agents, all the researchers, everyone. We're all completely mad.

The world ended yesterday, and none of us noticed until this morning. No supplies were meant to arrive. No one was due to go to see the psychologists. This morning, I went to check for the supplies, and I opened the door. Only fragments of the Earth remain. Nothing can pass through it now. We can see the floating ruins of our planet, but we can't pass through it. Nothing left to pass through to, in any case. We don't know what destroyed the Earth. The cameras just show a flash of light, and then the floating ruins in space. Half of us have already committed suicide. I expect another ten to twenty before the day is through. Only a handful of us are planning to stay until the end of the week. That's when the generators run out of fuel, and the ones who live wish this world had ended too. CNN was camped outside Site 19. Fox News was calling present and former members for interviews. The Serpent's Hand was holding a press conference in New York, while the head of the GOC would only say, "No comment." "Are we done, do you think?" asked Agent Lessenger. "The Foundation is done, maybe," said Doctor Clef. "I suspect we're going to be busy a while longer." "But people aren't going to trust us once they find out. They're not going to understand." "Then screw 'em. The job still has to be done, whether they like it or not. Now, are you going to sit there and get arrested, or are you going to help me with Plan B?" After a moment, Lessenger stood up, and followed. The world would have to wait, or there wouldn't be a world. A vast desert stretched out where a world once was, swept clean by the hell of its own star's dying breath. A light in the sky appears, dim against the night at first, then growing stronger. As it approaches the surface, it resolves into a ship of metal and light. It brakes against the gravity of the dead planet, and finally slows almost to a stop, before alighting gently on the dry dust. A figure descends, fully encased in plastic. It undulates as it moves, and a long tail stretches out behind it. It sifts through the sand, and finds several artifacts of a bygone age, when this planet held life. It quickly brings them on board, for the ship must leave before the dawn comes and sears the surface once again. Back aboard, it removes its heavy suit, and a limb covered with horn-like protrusions hovers over its findings, and finally reaches for a medallion that caught its eye. It freezes as it does so. And then, words come out of a throat never designed to speak them. "Not this shit again!" I'm laying on a table. I can't move. Why can't I move? There's a man in a coat. He looks like someone's granddad with that mustache. What's he doing with that knife? Gotta make a change. Just reach out and— I'm laying on a table. I can't move. Ow! My head. What's happening? Gotta make a change. Just reach out and— I'm laying on a table. There's something wrong with my head. Why can't I move? My arm just moved, but I didn't move it. There's someone standing behind me. Oh god. Oh god, they've got me. Gotta make a change. Just reach out and— Something wrong. Can't move. Head's… wrong. Can't think. Gotta change. Reach out and— "Isn't this dangerous, Doctor Mann?" asked the assistant nervously. "What if he wakes up and tries to erase us from existence or something?" "He already has," the surgeon replied. "Happily, our blocks keep him from doing more than wiping out his own memory." Agent Lament officially died fifteen years ago. A jetski accident on a lake in Texas. His funeral was a week after that. An open casket had the wrong body in it, but no one noticed. Brain death was three months ago, after blunt trauma by a loyal member of the Church of the Broken God. His heart stopped beating six weeks ago. They'd kept it beating to make sure he wouldn't do anything interesting. Exposure to skips can change things. Even death. Five weeks ago, they cremated him, and buried the ashes in a little jar. It was sealed with concrete, and marked with a number. His files were retired four weeks ago. His pay was stopped. His pension was paid, anonymously, to his mother. She thought she'd won a contest. His friends swore three weeks ago that they'd never forget him. They haven't thought about him since. They won't ever again. They'll never even notice the change. Two days ago, his last active case was resolved. His name no longer appears in any active files. Today, the clock he'd set went off for the last time, as the new occupant threw it out in favor of a new one. And now he's truly dead. Kondraki swore as he worked. How had they found him? He'd been hiding for over a year. No idiot neighbors, no cameras, nothing to give him away. How had the Foundation figured out where he'd gone? But no one else used that frequency. His codes were out of date, so he couldn't tell what was being said, but they were close. They'd come for him, at long last. No. No, they wouldn't bring him back. They wouldn't execute him. Not him. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Was it Clef, he wondered. Yes, it had to be Clef. They wouldn't dare send anyone else. No one else could be trusted to bring him in. Well, this was one mission the Ukelele Man wouldn't complete. He'd retreated to his shelter, and rigged the entire place to go. Not only would it kill Clef, it would also kill him, and thus deny them the opportunity. Not even his brain would remain intact. The only way it could be better would be if he'd had time to rig the resulting blast pattern the shape of a middle finger. He heard a noise. "Smile, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, as he pushed the button. Several miles away, Agent Melendez heard a boom. He wondered what it could possibly be, then dismissed it. He had an anomalous deer to investigate. Tom Sawyer rafts down the river. I wave to him from the shore, as I've always done. The goblins ride to meet our hasty lines. The elves and the humans are forming up with us, the gold forgotten. We're all in this together. I tighten my grip on my hammer in expectation. I stop in the Journal. "Hello?" I ask. There's no answer. I move on. Fezziwig is dancing with his wife. Everyone is merry, but there are two guests no one sees but me. I resist the urge to wave. That's not how the story goes. "Off with her head!" the Queen yells, and everyone scampers to avoid her wrath. I've never liked this book, but I'm getting desperate now. "Is anyone there?" It's been a year, though not even I know how I can tell. Why isn't anyone answering? Are they gone? Have they forgotten me? I watch Toad motoring by, reckless. He's certain he'll live forever. Only I know he's right. Gully Foyle appears, the lines and whorls on his face flashing plain. "Make 'em tell you about PyrE, is all!" he shouts before disappearing again. "I wish someone was there," I write. "Only I've run out of things to read. Hello? Hello?" "I will not eat them here in bed, I will not eat them here with Fred! I do not like them, Sam I am…"

I miss the children. I miss them so much. I miss Janey and Jake and David and Roxanne. These people are alright, I suppose. They're not the kids, but I like them anyways. I guess I should be grateful, really. They gave me a new home after the Doctor threw me away. I love them. I want to make them happy. Mommy always told me to be a happy girl, didn't she? I want to show them how much I really appreciate how much they're done for me. It's so, so incredibly nice what they do. I just wish I could talk to them. Of course, I can't. I'd need vocal cords to do that. Lungs, too. Heh, I don't even have a mouth most days. Even when I do, I can't use it. Not even to introduce myself. "Hi, my name is Leo, thank you so much for saving me, blah, blah, blah…" I'm thankful anyways, though. It's nice to feel…normal, even if it's just for a short period of time. I miss being…being… Cripes. I keep trying to remember that silly name. It doesn't matter, what's past is past and I can't change who I am. Yep yep, my name is unimportant anywa— Oh wait. Silly me, it's Jake! Anyways, I really can't complain. I'm a guest now! A guest to these wonderful people! It's not like much is different from the Warehouse and the Amaze-O-Sphere. All that's really changed is I'm not allowed to be all there sometimes (which I don't mind), and I get taken out a little less. But that's okay! This place is my home now! These people will never throw me away! Not like Wondertainment did. … … I thought I was part of the family…I never thought they would…I never thought they would treat me like Redd… They told me I was the Beta product…I was ready for shipment… …I guess I didn't change right one day. But that's okay. Because now I have this family! It's a lot less comfy than the bedroom with my brothers, but hey, it's better than the dump! Hahaha. Yessiree, I gotta remember that happiness is the selling point! Always be positive! Mr. Shapey's still on the clock!

A Study of Anomalous Art, from the Paleolithic to the Present By Doctor Hannah Morel, head of the Artistic Anomalies Unit (The following excerpt is from pages 6-9 of Doctor Morel's paper. The full document may be accessed from the Foundation Central Archives) According to William Tartore, founder of the Artistic Anomalies Unit, anart is "a piece of artistic media with an anomalous effect that was intended by the artist as part of the expression of the piece. There are instances where media will exhibit anomalous properties unintended by the creator, and in such instances the anomalous properties are unconnected with what is being expressed."1 This definition has served for almost forty years, and in my experience and the experience of many others, is the one certainty in the study of anomalous art. Of course, this definition is certain because it is broad and universal. Moving beyond this surface description, anart becomes much more difficult to define. Anart will often use experimental, illegal, or impossible mediums of expression, and the expressions made by anart are often incredibly esoteric, completely nonsensical, or impossible for human beings to understand. Many times, scholars attempting to define anart will fall into the old debate of “what is art”, an act which rarely aids them. This document is meant as a study of the history of anomalous art, or anart, and aims to provide an overview of its major schools, philosophies, styles, and practitioners. Literary anomalies will not be covered in this paper.2 The chaotic and bizarre nature of anart makes classification of styles incredibly difficult. While in certain periods we may see an overarching and clearly-defined theme, where the majority of anartists follow the same philosophy with predictable results, this is the exception, rather than the rule. It is rare for more than small cells of anartists to follow a single philosophy, and often cells and individuals will mix schools and styles as according to their whims. However, study of anart in the long term reveals patterns and internal consistencies. Throughout history, there have been four major schools of anomalous artists: Those who want to repair reality through art, those that wish to remake reality, those who wish to destroy reality, those that wish to create new realities. It should be noted, however, that these schools are arbitrary labels created by the Foundation in order to define something that is very difficult to define: the practitioners of these schools will never claim themselves as such, and no anartist or piece of anart will ever fit entirely neatly into these categories. These schools and their primary sub-schools are as follows: Reconstructionists - Those anartists who wish to fix social, economic, and ethical problems through the implementation of anart. Reconstructionist anart is meant for the sole purpose of achieving an end, and is therefore temporary, becoming unnecessary when the goal has been reached. Petty Reconstructionists – Supporters of movements that did not originate with an anartist or group of anartists. This sub-school has become increasingly prevalent since the middle of the twentieth century up through the present. True Reconstructionists – The founders of movements. The goals of these movements may be similar to non-anomalous groups, but they maintain no association with them beyond shared goals. Dadaist / Radical Reconstructionists - This school exhibits no sense or coherency in their causes or methods, outside of the pursuing of a goal, albeit a nonsensical one. Dadaist Reconstructionist movements rarely last long, and very rarely span more than a single person, both the result of the seemingly necessary lack of sanity required. Recreationists - Those anartists who shape pre-existing reality according to their will. Unlike Reconstructionist art, Recreationism does not necessarily work toward a greater end, and is meant to be a permanent fixture; however, there is still a great deal of overlap. Minor Recreationists - The most common Recreationist sub-school, wherein anart is used transform on a small scale: a person, an object, or a single place. It is common in the present day for many anartists, even those of highly opposed schools, to experiment with Minor Recreationist art, most commonly in body modification. Major Recreationists - This sub-school is based solely on the scope of the anart used, as it is aimed at transforming countries, societies, the entire world, or things of similar large scale. These projects usually involve large cells of anartists, often of different schools, led by a specific individual or group. These projects very rarely come to fruition, as they are usually either interrupted by outside forces or collapse due to infighting or mismanagement. Reformed Recreationists - Art is for the transformation of the self in all aspects. This sub-school has traits similar to that of religions, and as such is rife with conflicting themes and ideas. This sub-school is notable in the general lack of external artistic media: the Reformed Recreationist considers the soul to be the perfect canvas, and as such it is the only one worth using. Deconstructionists -Those anartists who act to destroy facets of pre-existing reality, without providing replacement. Pseudo-Deconstructionists - This sub-school focuses on toppling what they view to be oppressive or corrupt structures of society. This sub-school often mixes with the Reconstructionist schools, most commonly Petty Reconstructionism. True Deconstructionists - The target is not only to be destroyed, but erased utterly from reality, so that it never existed in the first place. This is a very rare sub-school, a testament to the difficulty of creating such a work. Of course, it should be noted that their rarity might be a result of their past success. Absolutist Deconstructionists - A school based on the belief that existence itself is both corrupt and meaningless and must be destroyed completely. Members of this sub-school are highly dangerous and openly hostile, and should be dealt with using extreme caution. Creationists - The broadest school of anart, focusing solely on the creation of art and expression through it. Some scholars claim that all anart is by nature Creationist, and so the label is redundant. To an extent this is true: there is extensive overlap between Creationist art and other schools. However, the general opinion is that Creationism is specific enough to exist on its own. True Creationists - The vast majority of anartists fall into this category, and it serves as an effective catch-all for those who do not easily fall into other categories. This definition extends to all anartists who create anart for its own sake, and whose view of art does not place them among the High Creationists or Artistic Deists. High Creationists - Through the act of creation the anartist does not only express reality, but defines it. This is a property shared amongst all anartists, and so all anartists are considered valid in the eyes of this school. Recent scholarship has argued that this is not a true school of anart, and the position has been gaining momentum in recent years.3 Artistic Deists - The Artist is God. Unlike High Creationists, where the ability to define truth and reality is shared by all artists, the Artistic Deist believes that the right is theirs alone, and that no other individual may define truth. Artistic Deists are often highly dangerous, often exhibiting traits of megalomania. Sufficiently skilled Artistic Deists may be considered in the same category as reality-manipulators. Each of these schools and their respective sub-schools will be explained in greater detail in later chapters. Footnotes 1. William Tartore, Ars Gratia Anomalia, (Foundation Internal Press, 1978), 4. 2. Please see A History of Woken Words (Smith), Five Days with the Author (Malakhov), and The Universal Library (Quattrochi) 3. Please see American Creationism in the 21st Century, by Dr. Levi Copp for an in-depth explanation of this theory.

The man in the suit wiped the sweat from his brow. Christ, he hoped that they would wrap it up soon. The chanting grew more intense. "Father Iron, King of War!" the crowd sang in Haitian creole, "Lord of Fire! Hear us! Ride your horse!" The chwal was shaking in time with the music, the fabric of her long red dress flowing a split second behind her limbs. He had always loathed these expeditions. The heat, the ignorant jabbering of the yokels, the way it reminded him of the old toothless man who sold charms and "elixirs" back in Libreville. The fact that so far the entire expedition had been a wild goose chase did nothing to improve his attitude. Five ceremonies so far and nothing to show for it other than one of his suits ruined by a stray spurt of chicken blood. The thought had occurred that O'Conner might just be using this an excuse to get rid of him. But then again, if O'Conner wanted someone gone, there was no ambiguity about it. The chwal screamed and began to spasm. The chanting was growing to a fever pitch now. The man rubbed the ring with his thumb, reassuring himself that it was still there. All of a sudden, the woman fell to her knees, her head bowed. The chanting stopped instantly. There was no noise now besides the soft crackling of the torches. Even the ever-present crickets seemed to have grown silent in respect for the spirit. The man in the suit rolled his eyes. "My balls! My balls are cold. Fetch me rum!" the priestess cried in a voice deep and gravelly. A member of the congregation silently offered her a clay jug. She snatched it from his hands and put it to her lips. She sucked down the mixture of rum, chili, iron filings, and gunpowder, draining the vessel in a single go. She gave a satisfied sigh as she smashed the jug against the earthen floor. "Ahhhh, it's been a while since I've been called this deep into the backwoods. Usually you yokels cry for help to some Rada bitch! What brings Papa Ogun to you tonight?" The supplicants began shouting in Creole to the priestess, asking for help with the law, with a rival, with killing rats. The man in the suit stepped forward into the circle. "Father Ogun!" the man cried in French, "I request a favor!" The priestess whipped around to face the man. He caught her eyes and knew that this was a real one. He wasn't talking to some backass Vodou wannabe high on crowd hysteria. He was talking to a loa. He was talking to Ogun. "You speak proper to me, gason pòmdetè!" Ogun answered in an exaggerated French accent, "I remember little ones like you during the Revolution! Little shits, who had a little cash and thought they could pass as French! Forgot all about Papa Ogun as soon as you had a piece of land and a slave to fuck!" The man considered several retorts before biting his tongue. It did not seem like a wise choice to insult a god, especially one from whom one is requesting a boon. He forced a smile instead. "Your godhood, I request a favor. You are King of War, yes? You saved the slaves from the French, you fight for right against might, no? Myself and my brothers, we seek your favor in a struggle against those who w-" "I know who you are, Maurice Soglo. I know all about your fight against your masters. I know all the sneaky tricks little fucks like you tried to pull. Hiding, like little rats in mountains and caves and cities. Using your toys instead of fighting like men! Too scared to fight a better warrior head-on. I know how your idiotic revolt got started! Who do you think put the idea in their heads? But you failed, because you were weak" Ogun spat. His face twisted into a mirthless smile, filled with teeth. Maurice noticed that the chwal's teeth seemed much sharper than they had been at the beginning of the ceremony. "Give me one reason why you should have my help!" Maurice took his hand from his pocket, displaying the ring to the god. "Because of this. One of the seals of King Solomon. If you don't help us, I can seal you inside an empty beer bottle for the next ten thousand years." He spoke slowly and deliberately to keep his voice from quaking. A murmur ran through the crowd and steadily grew into a chorus of angry shouts. How dare he threaten their god! That little French chi-manjè! A few of the supplicants stepped forward to grab the man, but Ogun waved them back. He walked steadily towards Maurice, his eyes burning with rage. "You think you, you, some puny ant-fucker, can threaten me?" Ogun bellowed. Maurice could feel the god's glare burning through him. "I am war! Metal melts at my command! Fire devours at my whim! Empires rise and fall as it pleases me! And you dare to dream of threatening me, you little pédé?!" He was very close now, close enough for the man to smell the breath of the god as it looked down upon him. In some distant corner of his mind, he thought that the priestess had been at least a half meter shorter than he. "You may be a god, but even gods may die. Especially if they're helped along their way," Maurice replied as evenly as he could manage, "You are immortal now, but you can be trapped, where you can't answer prayers. How long, then, do you think your followers will wait? A decade, maybe two, before they move on to a different god. Then you will be mortal. Just a sad sack of rum and shit, alone and forgotten. Except by us. We make sure that everyone gets his due. Do you really want that?" The man's mouth went dry as he spoke. Ogun's nostrils flared as he considered the threat. He burst out laughing. "Ahahahaha! You threaten a god and you don't back down! That takes guts! I like you, pòmdetè, you've got a dick!" Ogun slapped the man on the back causing him to stumble forward slightly. "If only the other fighters had as much balls as you!" "All of you," Ogun said, making a sweeping motion to the assembled crowd, "should take note of this man! He fears nothing! Alright, pòmdetè, you shall have my blessing! Henceforth, your enemies will never be able to destroy you! They may hurt you, but you shall always recover. And in exchange…" The god paused for a moment, "I want some of your toys. Next time I see you, you had best have some prepared!" "But I-" Maurice started. "Pòmdetè," Ogun said coolly, "you have already argued with a god once today. Do not attempt it again." "R-right" Maurice stammered. He made his way to the edge of the circle, which parted to let him pass. As he slipped away into the dark night, he heard the sound of the yokels pleading for Ogun's favor in rat-killing or law-evading, or whatever it was that they needed. After a minute of walking, he knew that he was alone. Suddenly, the enormity of what he had done hit him. He had bluffed a god. A god. And what was more, he had come out ahead. The stress and fear that he had pushed to the recesses of his mind came flooding back. His knees began to shake. Before he reached the car, he had vomited twice. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he started the car and began the four hour drive back to civilization. By the time he reached his hotel in Port-au-Prince, the sun was already rising, its light just creeping above the shanties of the outer city. He parked the car by the curb of the hotel and headed inside. Soon, he was in his room, dialing a number that he knew but did not know. The after the third ring, someone on the other line picked up. "Yes?" asked a soft voice. "He went for it. But there's a catch," Maurice said as he laid on the bed. "What catch?" the voice on the other end hissed. "Can't talk about it here. Nothing too big. We might have to rearrange some holdings is all. It was worth it," he said calmly. The only response he received was a click and a dialtone as the line went dead. He hung up the phone and went to run a bath. Fuck them, he thought. Let them try to bargain with the embodiment of war if they want to keep their "anomalous objects" so bad. Besides, it's not as though they could complain; the Chaos Insurgency now had its first patron.

On 9/18/2011, SCP-703 manifested an instance of SCP-703-1. Analysis revealed it to be a list of items produced by SCP-703, dating back to its initial containment. Referencing with updated documentation has reinforced the classification of SCP-703 as a sapient non-organic. Analysis of this document's content is ongoing. Item: Aluminum can. Note: Weighed 21.32 grams. Status: Retrieved 14.78 seconds after appearance. Item: Red paper. Note: Contained drawing of a circle. Status: Retrieved 11.12 seconds after appearance. Item: Green pen. Note: Contained red ink. Status: Retrieved 10.09 seconds after appearance. Item: Stuffed tiger. Note: Name was "Paulie." Status: Taken after 9.00 seconds. Item: Picture of me. Note: Aesthetically pleasing. Status: Taken after 10.01 seconds. Item: White paint. Note: Usable for restoration purposes. Status: Stolen after 9.89 seconds. Was not used for restoration purposes. Item: Three (3) bullets, .45 caliber, hollow point. Note: Acceleration was below expectation. Status: Stolen post-impact. Item: Gaseous matter. Note: Unsafe to breathe. Status: Stolen via inhalation after 20.6 seconds. Item: An apology Note: Made with care. Status: Taken after 45.78 seconds, without remark. Item: Sweet things. Note: Is this better Status: It wasn't. Item: Your briefcase. Note: Left it in your office. Status: Sorry about the stain. Item: Sheaf of papers. Note: Helpful. Status: Helped. Item: A better lock. Note: You seemed worried about it. Status: I'm sorry. Item: One of the black boxes. Note: I'm sorry I cheated, wanted to help you move. Status: Went through them. Broken up.

The screaming man doused himself in spoiled milk, backed by a chorus of dog barks and digeridoos. Sarah sighed as she picked up her coat and sidled her way down the aisle. Taking a last glance at the stage, she saw the man being wrapped in gauze by a half dozen Buddy Holly lookalikes. As she headed out into the crisp November night, she lit a cigarette. She checked her watch and saw that it wasn't even ten. She might be able to reach Daniel. She headed to the nearest pay phone. One of Daniel's latest quirks was to block every number that wasn't a pay phone. It had something to do with his new obsession about "the depersonification of communication by way of the removal of the spatial context in conversation." Sarah understood the sentiment, but it made him a pain to get a hold of. Still, it was better than last March, when he had only allowed callers to communicate in Esperanto. Even with all of his bizarre affectations, Daniel was someone worth knowing. He seemed to be aware about anything happening before anyone else. A night with him was guaranteed to be interesting if nothing else. She dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently as the phone rang. After twenty seconds, she heard a click. "Hey Daniel. What's up?" "Miss Moutree. How are you this fine evening?" Sarah cringed. She hated when he called her that; it made her feel like a hillbilly. "I just got out of Eric's show." She took a drag from the cigarette. "And?" "You were right. Christ, what a fucking mess. I could barely keep my eyes open." "I keep telling you darling, the traditional media have become so predictable and trite. So why do you even bother?" "I know, I know. Anyway, it's only ten o'clock. Is there anything else going on tonight?" "Well, I was planning on getting shitfaced by myself, but since you're out and about, there's something I think you might be interested in…. Tell me, have you ever heard of Francis Lepage?" She hesitated. This was another one of his little catty traps to show her how superior he was. She had to show her knowledge, but keep it vague. "I think so? The French guy, right?" she ventured as she eyed the glowing ring around the tip of the cigarette. "Your powers of deduction are stunning, darling." Bitch, Sarah thought as she rolled her eyes. "But yes, he's French. He doesn't so much make art as art experience. It's like nothing else. You have to see it to believe it." There was a hint of excitement in his voice. Something had managed to worm its way through the carefully practiced layers of cynicism and hipness. Whatever it was, it must be good. "Anyway, it's the old movie theater on 8th and Vine. See you there in twenty! Ta-ta!" Before she could respond, the line went dead. "Sure, I'd love to go. Asshole," Sarah muttered at the dial tone. Forty minutes later, she was still waiting outside the abandoned Park Theater. She had tried both of the doors, but found that they were locked. She paced impatiently. She didn't like waiting outside of a sketchy movie theater for her drug-addled friend to show her some conceptual art whatnot in an area that looked like the run down part of a war zone. Five minutes later and she finally saw Daniel, coming at a leisurely pace. "Dan, you fucking asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? I waited here for almost a half hour," she spat as he came near. "Love you too, darling," he replied as he embraced her, "Now, let's get inside, shall we? The show's just about to start!" "This had better be fucking amazing," she grumbled as she followed him down the alley that led to the back. When they reached the rear door Daniel knocked four times. A sliver of light illuminated the alleyway and the sounds of conversation bled through the crack. "What would you like on this glorious night?" a voice asked from behind the door. "David, you know it's me. Now open the damn door! I'm freezing my dick off," Daniel answered without looking. A rail-thin man with an unkempt beard sighed and opened the door. "You're supposed to say 'The good stuff. The best stuff.' It's part of the experience," he complained as they pushed past him. "Yes, yes. I know. But really, the show's starting any minute now…." Among the crowd, Sarah recognized several classmates as well as a smattering of professors. Noticing Dr. Willis, her art theory instructor, she shrank back slightly. Willis was never in a good mood, and Sarah didn't feel like ruining a nice night by dealing with her. Everyone seemed to be focused on a tarp-covered object in the center of the room. Soon, the lights dimmed. A spotlight flickered on and focused on the covered object. A sharply dressed man in a bird mask stepped into the spotlight. "Ladies, gentlemen, others. It is our pleasure tonight at Last Minerva to have the honor of being the latest of Francis Lepage interactive art installations," the emcee began. Several masked figures made their way through the crowd, passing out markers. "The work only works, so to speak, if the audience participates. To that end, we ask that you draw your most fearsome creatures all over it. The deadliest warriors, the strongest samurai, the most awful of animals. Now, without further ado, we present 'Les Dents Du Dragon #8.'" With that, the lights came on and the tarp was snatched from the object. Sarah was taken aback to see that the "work" was just a large porcelain cube. There must be something else, she thought, something deeper. This was just more of the same twaddle she had seen before. The audience crowded around the statue, each drawing their own separate beast. "Tell me you didn't drag me to the middle of the ghetto just so we can draw stick figures," Sarah whispered to Daniel. "Just wait. All good things," he said. Sarah bit her tongue and took a marker from a woman wearing a giraffe mask. She worked her way through the throng and uncapped her marker. Crouching, she began to draw a Greek hoplite like the ones she remembered from art history. The shield came first, covered in a snake design. Then the body, muscular and armored only with a long, flowing helmet. The spear was held above his head, menacing all who would oppose him. Sarah took a moment to glance at the other drawings. A tiger with a machine gun menaced a robotic squid with laser eyes. A scaly beast with a dozen eyes and razor-sharp teeth. A drawing of Gamera with hammers for hands. A limbed penis with the words "WAR GOD" scrawled across the shaft and a sword in one hand. Sarah scoffed. The crush around the cube began to thin as the audience stood back to take in the work. After a few minutes, Sarah was the only one still working. After putting the finishing touches on the hoplite's crest, she turned away and looked for Daniel. The murmur of the crowd fell silent. She turned to see the drawings begin to move. It seemed that the simpler drawings were coming to life first. A crude bison lowered its head and snorted. A stick figure waved its sword around. Soon, the more complex forms came to life. The gun-toting tiger stretched and yawned, while a large snake idly breathed a great puff of flame. The hoplite was one of the last to animate. Then, all at once, the drawings began to attack one another. The hoplite sprung into action, spearing the Gamera clone through the eye. Within seconds, it was engaged in an intense duel with the multi-armed Kali. Sarah glanced around the cube. Everywhere, the drawings fought a silent orgy of battle. She found Daniel in the crowd and leaned towards him. “This is incredible,” she whispered. “What did I tell you? His work is like nothing else,” he replied without looking away from the piece. Meanwhile, the hoplite was bashing the scaly beast with its shield. In the corner, the limbed penis seemed to be doing rather well for itself, having just decapitated an armored knight. Sarah found herself caught up the action. She silently rooted for her hoplite, barely supressing a whoop of triumph as it decapitated a winged samurai. After several minutes, only her creation and a giant spider remained. With a running leap, the hoplite plunged its spear through the spider's eye, killing it instantly. "Yes!" Sarah shouted as the spider slumped. Out of all of the works, hers was the best, the most fit, the most dangerous. "Did you see that, Daniel? Fucking right in the eyes!" "Yes, I noticed. Congratulations on winning at art, dear," Daniel replied, keeping his eyes on the victorious hoplite. As always, it was difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic. Whatever. Sarah's drawing had won, and that was what mattered. "Now, ladies and gentlemen and others," began the emcee, moving next to the cube, "it is time for the second of three acts to commence. Know that this is done without malice, but with hope. Like Cadmus, you are responsible for creation. Art may seize the responsibility and wring from it possibility, or it may shy away and refuse to be made. It may scream in fury against it." He looked around the room "But it must never deny it. You did this. Enjoy." As he stepped away from the center of the room, the cube began to shift, bulging in some areas, shrinking in others. A buzzing emerged from the crowd. Sarah gave Daniel a puzzled look. "Dan, what's going on?" "Ummm…. I don't…. I don't know…." he murmured as he stared at the shifting porcelain in front of them. They both took several steps back. Soon, the cube had morphed into something vaguely humanoid. As its features became more clearly defined, Sarah recognized it as her own hoplite. The almond-shaped eyes, which looked so wonderfully stylized in the drawing, appeared bizarre on the thing's equally misshapen head. The short, stubby forearms, the pointed penis, everything about it looked strange. The hoplite stood for a moment, surveying the room around it. She smiled as she got it. That art couldn't withstand being transplanted to reality. The hoplite would probably crumble or something shortly. She was still smiling as the hoplite speared Daniel through the stomach. There was silence, broken only by Daniel making a gurgling sound through his clenched teeth. He staggered forward slightly onto the spear, grasping at it as if unsure that it was real. As he uselessly flapped his mouth, a small film of blood and spit stretched between his lips. It popped, and the spell was broken. The room was suddenly awash with chaos. A jungle of flailing limbs seemed to sprout as people fled for the door, for the corner, for away from that thing. A dull, insistent pounding rang out as attempts to breach the now-locked door were enacted. The hoplite braced a foot against Daniel's chest and pulled the spear out. Daniel crumpled to the floor as the statue sliced Dr. Willis through the neck. Sarah noticed one of Willis' turquoise earrings go sailing through the air still attached to a bit of earlobe. The hoplite moved methodically through the room, slashing at the trapped artists. Sarah stared at her creation, unsure of what to do. The hoplite caught her gaze for a split second. She saw herself reflected in the clean white porcelain and the dark red blood sprayed across its face. She ran. She pushed herself against the cinderblock wall and pounded at it, hoping that it would somehow open. To her surprise, it did. She tumbled into the cold night and landed on her ass in the alleyway. The wall closed behind her, muffling the screams and crashing. She got up and started to run. She didn't stop running until she reached her apartment. Falling onto the bed, she stuffed her face into her pillow and screamed. The muffled screams continued even as she became hoarse and her throat ached, continued on until she passed out from exhaustion two hours later. It was two weeks before she could bring herself to go back. But she had to be sure. Daniel's parents had called at least a half dozen times with increasing distress, but that didn't mean anything. He had disappeared before, only to reappear several days or weeks later with a new boyfriend. Her missing classmates were harder to explain, but most of them were trustafarians who only wanted to major in art to shock mommy and daddy. They could have easily switched majors once the going got tough. As for the professors, well, budgets were tight, and conceptual art wasn't a high priority. She had barely eaten or slept since the night, and had only answered her phone to stop its ringing. Her mother had called once, asking if anything was new. "No," she replied flatly. After all, she couldn't really be sure. After that, she had just unplugged her phone altogether. She came around three A.M., not wanting to be caught breaking and entering midday. The door to the back of the theater was locked, but she had come prepared. After several minutes of fumbling with the hairpin and torque wrench, the lock clicked open. Sarah sucked in her breath and braced herself as she opened the door. Darkness, interrupted only by the light from the door. She clicked on her flashlight and exhaled. There was nothing. No statue, no bodies, no emcee, no markers, no goddamn Daniel, no nothing. Just a poured concrete floor and interrupted by a few steel pillars. She moved towards the light switch and flipped it on. Not a single stain on the concrete. "Damn it," Sarah muttered to herself as she hunched down to inspect the floor. This couldn't be just a dream or a bad trip. It had to be real. But there was nothing there. Not so much as a drop of blood. After several minutes of searching, she turned off the lights and prepared to leave. As she stood at the treshhold, she turned towards the empty room. "What the fuck?" she yelled at the top of her lungs, waving the flashlight for emphasis. Just then, a glimmer of light caught her attention. She moved her flashlight back towards the glimmer. There it was again. She moved closer, keeping her flashlight trained on the object. When she was finally able to make it out, she felt her knees go weak. The earring. Willis' turquoise fucking earring. She snatched it from the corner of the room and held it up. Had they forgotten to take it too? Left it there as a Rosetta stone? Had some kindly worker left it there for the dead woman to reclaim? It didn't matter. This proved it. She slid down the wall until she was sitting, knees to chest. Daniel was really gone. Everyone was really gone. And that… thing… was… was… The tears poured from her. It was her fault. She had done this. But why had this thing been shown at all? To cull artists? She gave a bitter internal laugh. Suddenly, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor where she had seen the earring. She wiped her eyes and leaned over to pick it up. In neat handwriting, it said "Vous, l'artiste." A puzzled look came over her face and she wiped her nose on her jacket sleeve. "You, the artist." What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Her "art" had done this. She had made something to kill and it killed. She had made it, she was responsible for it. Recalling the pride she had felt as the hoplite slew its competition, she felt nauseous once more. She had seen at least ten people die that night at the hands of her creation. The rest were probably murdered as she fled. Whatever the gallery had done to the block had just given her the tools. The deaths had been her responsibility. Gears began to turn in her head. Responsibility. What had the emcee said about responsibility? Something about possibility? She thought a moment. Something clicked, or maybe snapped, in her head. "Vous." Not her. She started to chuckle. Artists. Responsibility. Fuck. Art that defied reality could define it, giving new contours. Her giggling grew louder. All of the theory she had learned, but she had never realized it. This had destroyed for catharsis, so she would know. The laughter echoed in the concrete room as she doubled over. To redefine reality for art, with art, she had to accept her responsibility as the artist, maker and unmaker of worlds. Now that she realized it, she could embrace it. And wring from it possibility. She couldn't stop laughing.

Dr. Margaret Reese was awakened by the sound of Joey Tempest's voice. Rubbing her face and standing up from her desk, she sighed at the loudspeaker outside of her office. Someone had decided to blast "The Final Countdown" by Europe on a loop, and it looked like administration either was having trouble shutting down the system, or just didn't care. "At least it isn't R.E.M.," she sighed. She looked at her clock and sighed; 9:00 on 12/20/12. She got up and shut her door, before settling back in her chair and looking outside; still no snow, despite being only five days to Christmas. That was weather in a nexus for you. In the spring it would rain Komodo dragon blood, in the summer the little league field would spontaneously combust, and in the fall… you got eggs. But come winter, not a damn snowflake in sight. There was a knock at her door. "Come in." Dr. Johnathan West entered the room, carrying a pair of foam coffee cups; the smell of hot chocolate wafted from them. He gave Dr. Reese a soft smile. "I thought you might like something to drink; you've been working non-stop. Everything all right?" Margaret Reese shrugged, rubbing her face and taking one of the cocoas. "One of the O5's is being paranoid about the 2012 thing. You know which one, I'd assume." West nodded, rubbing his head. "Anomalous Objects has been working on 120 potential XK-Class scenarios involving E-Class objects for the past three months; the thing back in October was just a nice distraction." Reese snorted. "Biology and its various subdepartments are tackling at least 400, and that's just at this site… theology's got the biggest workload, though, poor bastards. I heard Father Reynolds joke about joining the Horizon Initiative if he has to look at another false apocalypse thing." West looked incredulously at Margaret. "I no longer feel bad for Tristan Bailey. He was whining about having to visit fifteen universes to negotiate evacuation plans." "Meanwhile," Dr. Reese said, "Theology's got to deal with cross-referencing Meso-American calendars with Biblical visions of the apocalypse, as well as the works of Nostradamus, various prophecies of dubious content… oh, and they also have to forget how to speak Hebrew, apparently. Just in case." West rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, regardless, Happy Solstice… if we live to see it." "Same to you, John." "Dawn of Second Day… 48 hours remain…" Researcher Chris Hastings snickered under his breath, and drew odd looks from the rest of the staff in the break room. "What? The world's supposed end tomorrow. It seemed pertinent…" Hastings brushed his black, disorderly hair out of his eyes, while Agent Nicholas Ewell simply shook his head. "Get real, Hastings. Just because the Foundation's scrambling all of its resources trying to find an XK-Class scenario doesn't mean it's gonna happen." Ewell slathered some cream cheese on his bagel, wondering if he should try some of the fat-free stuff instead; he was starting to get, as Jackie from humanoid studies put it, "love handles". "I know, Nick. I'm jokin'- the stuff that's supposed to happen is way too far-fetched for this or any universe." Hastings put several packets of sugar in his coffee; he always thought the artificial sweetener was worse for you than the real stuff. "You hear about the one with the raspberry jam covering the western hemisphere?" "I thought it was boysenberry… whatever the hell that is." Ewell looked at his watch. "Speaking of berries, isn't the botany department starting those tests on E-672?" Hastings blinked. "That's today?" He slapped his forehead. "Crap, Partridge is gonna have my ass!" Hastings quickly chugged his coffee, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up his briefcase, and ran for the door. "Well, it's official. The world is going to end because of Gangnam Style!" Akio Naguri blinked at Ryan Melbourne's outburst, looking up from his guide to memetic hazards and a book on the Aztec Calendar. "What are you talking about?" Ryan beckoned Naguri over to his cubicle across the aisle from him; on his computer screen was a rather disturbing image. "…the hell is this?" "Nostradamus meets PSY, apparently." Melbourne frowned. "Some people on the internet have been joking that Gangnam Style is a sign of the apocalypse, but this…" Naguri rubbed his face and sighed. "Is it bad that, compared to the other shit we're seeing today, this almost makes sense?" S & C Plastics went to sleep. At least, most of the site did. A few were still up, trying to figure out what, if any, potential XK-Class scenarios would play out tomorrow. Over 6000 had already been ruled out by the Foundation as a whole, most of them religious; all procedures were still in effect, and not a single Keter skip was out of place. At 23:50, Chris Hastings was observing E-672, a cluster of mistletoe growing on a yew tree within Greenhouse 3, in back of the S & C Plastics building. He yawned broadly, and looked at his watch. "10 minutes to the end of the world…" He touched the bark of the tree, looking up at the mistletoe. "You aren't going to force me to kiss anyone, are you?" E-672 didn't respond because, of course, it was a plant. He looked at the placard on the tree underneath, essentially a tl;dr of its file. E-672 Specimen of Viscum album Anomalous behavior first exhibited in 1632 Long-living- single strand has survived for over 350 years Shows physical activity only on winter solstice Berries can be consumed safely, despite the toxicity of a normal Viscum album specimen. Chris had never tried the berries. They were supposed to be very good. The day's battery of tests had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, other than a resistance to fire. The whole of the site was too focused on potential XK-Class disasters to be worried about a simple bit of mistletoe. "You don't care about the Mayan calendar. About any of this. Tomorrow will just be another day for you." He looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. "Nothing's gonna happen." Midnight came, and as it turns out, Christopher Hastings was right. E-672 showed no anomalous activity, other than a slight rustling of the leaves and low-level luminescence. Shaking his head, Researcher Hastings took some notes, stepped out of the hothouse… …and into the first snowfall of the year. |Hub|

Nota Bene: It would behoove you to read Shepherds and Second Watch before reading this tale. Mary-Ann Lewitt sat at the little table in the kitchen, reading her book. It was snowing outside, with big white flakes spiraling out of the blackness beyond and dashing themselves against the windowpane. Chatter flowed out from the living room, the occasional laugh interspersed with the conversation and the sound of the TV. The kitchen itself was cozy, still warmed by the frenzied cooking of that afternoon. The smells of dinner still lingered in the air. Now that had been a meal, the kind where you didn't plan on moving more than a few feet for the next day or so. When Big John Courtemanche, Rabbi Arnheim, and Rigatoni Carbonara IV shared a kitchen, there was no alternative. Technically, it wasn't a Christmas party. It was the “Completely Secular and Non-Denominational Winter Celebration of Fellowship and Goodwill towards Mankind (Please Check Your Attitude and Weapons at the Door)” party. Someone's tongue had been planted firmly enough in their cheek that Mary-Ann guessed that some sort of surgery would be needed to remove it. The bizarre thing was that it worked. There was not a single decoration of religious significance on display in the entire house. That would have pained Big John. The man was practically Santa Claus already: gigantic white beard, ruddy complexion, wide around the middle, and a habit of punching heretics. “You're being anti-social, Mary-Ann.” She looked up to see Salah at the kitchen entry. He was holding a mug of hot chocolate, and wearing a horrifically tacky sweater: bright red with a goofy-looking snowman on the front. “And I didn't think you'd actually wear that.” “I am a Pakistani-born British Muslim who is working alongside a motley array of Christians, Jews, and sundry other faiths to fight the horrific things that lurk in the dark corners of creation.” He took a sip from his mug, clearly using it as an excuse for dramatic timing. “I should think that by now I would have a fine-tuned sense of irony.” “Or you just refuse to refuse a gift.” “That too.” He sat down in the opposite chair, left ankle resting on right knee. Another sip. “There's something on your mind. Talk to me.” Mary-Ann sighed, putting on a smile for it. She placed the napkin she had been using as a bookmark back in its place. “Yeah. Okay.” She set the book down on the table. “You got me. I guess it's just that time of year is all.” “Bad memories?” “Spending time with family doesn't mean much when they never want to see your face again. Except maybe in a police report.” “Ah. I know the feeling. If my father could see me now, he'd probably burst an artery out of sheer rage. But alas, he is dead.” “I mean, it's not as bad as it was last year. Last year my Christmas was a TV dinner I shared with my cat. I'm okay out here, Salah. Really, I'm okay.” Salah nodded, taking another sip of cocoa. There was quiet for a bit. Maybe he was done, maybe he was just pausing. She didn't feel like opening her book back up, because it felt like he was about to say something. “Remember that spirit we exorcised from that restroom?” he said. “I don't think I'm going to forget the ghost that lived in a toilet and spent five hours telling me I had a nice butt. And also that it wanted to eat it.” “And that was when you threatened it with a plunger.” “That was when I exorcised it with a plunger.” Mary-Ann smiled for a moment. “Though that was just an awful day in general. Way too hot outside, no air conditioning in that building, job took like five hours. I mean, it's funny now, but I know we were both ready to kill each other and quite a few civilians over it.” “Mmm-hmm.” “And, you know, I think it might have had some eyesight problems. Really, on a scale of “plywood” to “dayum”, my butt is maybe an “eh, okay”.” “I'll take your word for it.” There were shouts from the living room. Someone had scored a touchdown, apparently. “You're doing that thing, aren't you?” Mary-Ann said. “What thing?” “That thing where you start innocent conversations to make people comfortable. You're trying to lure me into a sense of security so I'll start talking about my feelings.” Salah shrugged. “You said it, not me.” “Well, it's working. It's definitely working…” her voice trailed off. “I'm listening.” “It's…I don't know, I'm more comfortable out here. You know me, Salah; I don't really have other friends. I mean, I know them, I talk to them, but I'm not really friends with them. Not really.” “You know Di and Aaron, and I know you've spoken with Anas and Rasha before. Just come in and talk with them for a while.” “I'm all right.” “Mary-Ann…” “It's…I'm just…I'm scared, Salah.” “What are you afraid of?” Mary-Ann twirled a lock of hair around her finger, her eyes focused on the base of the refrigerator, across the kitchen. “A lot of things.” “Like what?” There was a pause. In the living room, Di was energetically arguing literature with someone else. “Well…you know.” Salah nodded. “Hm. Have you seen the progress they've made on the Universal Texts? Almost fifty pages done, I hear," he said. “Yeah. Pretty good for sticking a post-it note with ‘Abraham was a pretty rad dude' on the wall.” “So then, gentlemen, what progress have we made this week? Well sir, we have determined that Moses was also a pretty cool dude.” A limp chuckle rose from that. “You're doing it again.” Salah shrugged again. “If it would make you feel better, I'm willing to speak first.” “Yeah. Yeah, that'd be better.” “Very well then. My greatest fear is myself.” Mary-Ann's face was quizzical. “Twenty years ago or so, I would have loved nothing less than to burn down this house. Smuggle a bomb in under my sweater, detonate it when everyone was gathered together, one final blaze of glory as I was whisked away into Paradise.” On the list of things Mary-Ann considered plausible, that statement was very, very low on the list, somewhere between “Beatles reunion tour” and "actually getting around to reading Les Miserables". “I was a very angry young man. Very angry with no easy outlet. No job, no family of my own, amid many others of the same state.” “I don't think I've ever even seen you anything more than mildly irritated.” Salah waved a hand absently. “That we can attest to development of character. Needless to say, I…” he paused mid-sentence. A skinny man with a colander on his head ran into the kitchen, grabbed a plate of cookies off of the counter, and ran back out. He nodded politely as he exited. “That is possibly the most awkward man I have ever met.” Salah shook his head. “Anyway, needless to say, I did not end up splattering myself across the pavement and murdering innocents for the glory of God. That story is for another time. What is important here is that I am still afraid of that angry young man. You see, he never left. He's locked up. In here.” He pointed to his head. “And in here.” He pointed to his chest. “Then hasn't he won, if you still fear him?” “No. I fear him the way a zookeeper would fear a tiger. It would be idiotic to be without fear, and impossible to do his job with too much.” He drained what was left of his cocoa. “You need to find the proper amount.” Mary-Ann let out a long breath, leaning forward in her chair. Another chuckle. “Kinda hard to follow up on that one, Salah.” “Don't rush yourself.” “Okay…yeah. I guess…guess I'm afraid of myself too. Afraid I'll just get hurt again. I get close to people, and either I push them away and burn the bridge, or they die. It's easier not to care. Hurts less.” “But being alone hurts too, doesn't it?” “Yeah. It does. I feel hollow. Just a shell with a hole that can't be filled up.” She paused, staring out at some indeterminate point on the other side of the kitchen. “I don't want to be alone anymore, but I can't do it. I've tried, but it just hurts more.” A pause again. “It sounds pathetic, but it's the truth.” Salah pulled a napkin from the dispenser and handed it to Mary Ann. He said nothing. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “Just take your time. You'll get through it. I know it.” Mary-Ann balled up the napkin and tossed in in the garbage. “Could I catch a ride home with you? I think I'm partied out.” “Of course. I'll grab my jacket.” Salah stood up, washed out his mug, and stepped out of the kitchen. Mary-Ann could feel a weight lift off of her spirit. Not all the way, but enough. Enough for now. She stood up, taking her book with her, and walked into the living room. Maybe she'd talk to them more next time. Yeah, she could do that. “Sorry to cut and run, but I've got to get home. Thanks for having me. See you all around later.” The good-byes strung themselves together, hugs and handshakes and wishing well, and RCIV making everything awkward by exclaiming “Be blessed by the Noodly Appendage!” Mary-Ann had a smile throughout, a small one, but genuine. It was enough for tonight. Salah was waiting for her in the kitchen. He was holding a small package wrapped in red tissue paper. “One last thing.” He handed over the package. “A gift from me.” Mary-Ann tore off the paper, revealing a set of CDs, held together with a rubber band. "Yes, outdated, I know, but there's a proper feel to them." "Thanks, Salah." Mary-Ann smiled. "It means a lot." — Salah's car floated through the inky night, headlights piercing the black, fat flakes of snow swirling and dashing about. Mary-Ann sat back in her seat, eyes closed, letting the violins and the lilting voice wash over her. In demon days, it's cold inside You don't get nobody, people sigh It's so bad, lasting far, but love yourself Hiding in a hole in there They drove on through the night. « Second Watch | Hub | The Good of the Other »

Hello, and welcome to the Tech Support orientation. I am senior technical researcher David Rosen, and I will be orienting you. Before we begin, I'd like to ask that all cellphones, smart phones, smart glasses, smart watches and smart ties be disabled. I know it sucks, but I need your full attention if you want to get credit for this. Okay? Okay. The Tech Support department of The Foundation is probably one of the most illustrious careers many of you could have hoped for. Instead of sitting in a cubicle belonging to a huge faceless organization, you'll sit in a cubicle belonging to a huge faceless organization that fights evil stuff in the dark, like Bigfoot. Please sit down, it gets better. I promise. The technology you will be working with is light years ahead of anything you have ever seen. You will regularly work with computers that you thought were only possible theoretically. You will work with devices that make the Cray look like a Trash-Eighty. On the flip side of that, you will also have to work with bugs and errors that you never thought were possible. Think installing a server is a tough job? Try installing one in a room that contains living fire. Or a computer needs to have a file that was accidentally deleted retrieved? Try finding the file that contains one of your coworkers. Yeah, really. Now the majority of you are going to be working as support, answering phone calls and that sort of thing. Most of the time you will be handling calls relating to normal Foundation computer trouble. Now, many of you may be thinking “Oh that doesn't sound so hard”. Let me put it this way. Normal to the Foundation is like… bad science fiction to the normal world. You will be providing help for the most bizarre problems imaginable, running the gauntlet from E-AIDS to a laptop transforming into a parrot. Your scripts will cover most of the calls though. When you can't solve a problem over the phone, send an engineer. Okay, engineers. You're gonna be working on the front line of support. You're the ones who have to go in and get your hands dirty when sparks start flying. The senior engineers will be there to help you, but a lot of the time you will be on your own. I know it can be scary to try and repair a router that's actively trying to kill you, but you get used to it. Now, there are some people who just do not learn. Some people who repeatedly abuse the privilege that is Tech Support. If you have a user who reports problems like “accidentally having a computer fly out the window” or “dropped it in a tank of 447” then you put them on “Rosen's Happy List of People Who're Banned FOREVER.” These are the people who you don't have to help, and you are encouraged to get them to stop calling us by any means necessary. People on the list include Dr. Bright, Professor Crow, Agent Convit, and my ‘assistant' Dr. Taylor. If any of them stop by the department in person… you will find the Nerf guns under your desks. Use them wisely. Alright! Questions! Hmm… you, with the acne. What are the perks? Well, you don't have to wear a uniform if you work the phones. People in the department are really kind of separate from what the super duper serious science that the rest of the Foundation does, so we pretty much just do our own thing. We have our own break room with soda and snacks, and uh…the pay is pretty good for you guys, I guess. You, with the mustard stain on the shirt. Do you get to access the technical issue request page? Hell no you don't. That is strictly for me and the Level 3's who post on it. It's basically where the real scientists go when you guys can't help them. Alright, I think that's all the time I got. You will all be assigned cubes and shit next week, so try not to break anything or die until then. Oh, uh… have fun and stuff.

« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale » Audio Log, 14:25, ██/██/2011, Foundation front "Sunny Coast Productions" M███ S████, Switchboard Operator: Thank you for calling Sunny Coast Productions, how may I direct your call? Agent Debra Michaels: Yes, can I speak with Jackson in the casting department? M███ S████: … One moment, please. [MS places Agent Michaels on hold while reaching Site Security Director V████] Director V████: You've reached casting. Who are you and what do you want? Agent Michaels: Hi, Jackson, this is Deb Michaels, one of the stunt doubles. I was calling to see if you'd started casting for "Does the Black Moon Howl". Director V████: Not until the midnight sun bleeds. Are you free to talk about the movie? Agent Michaels: Well, I'm in a clinic with my family at the moment, so there might be some background noise. I wanted to know if you'd finished getting together the extras, because there's some beautiful scenery up here that I think the location scout might be interested in. Director V████: Understood. Where are you? How many people do you think ought to visit? Are there any special considerations they should be aware of? Agent Michaels: I'm up-state in Spring, visiting family. And, oh, I think you could get away with no more than 10 or 20. And bring some cameras, you might be able to get some preliminary shooting done. A warning though, if anyone has any allergies, they ought to bring something to help them breathe. I think there's something in the air like a high pollen count and I feel like I've had a mind-bending headache for a few hours. Also, the local wildlife is a little excitable, so try not to run over anything when you're scouting out the woods. Director V████: Oh, I think we could handle a few wild animals. Would you like us to meet up with you when we come into town or should we scout out the area first? Agent Michaels: If I can get away from my family I could probably show you a few interesting spots, but you might want to do some scouting on your own. Director V████: Understood. The location scout will make the decision whether or not to contact you before they arrive. We can reach you on the company phone? Agent Michaels: Yeah, I'll keep it on vibrate. Don't want to disturb anyone up here, after all. They're just all so nice that I wouldn't want to bother them. Director V████: Good luck out there, Deb. Agent Michaels: Thanks, Jackson! You have a good day, too. One of Debra's selling points as a movie stunt-double was that she could lose herself into a role to the point that it was almost impossible to tell her from the actress she replaced in the shot. This skill had helped her both on-camera and when she was out in the field, but she was getting taxed now. It was difficult to hide the rage and fear when her 14 year-old son cried heaving sobs into her chest, desperately heartbroken that he was "too old to grow up." Her husband was no help; he was too busy arguing with his brother, trying to find some way of getting that… thing to reconsider. She watched the small clinic from over the top of her son's head, murmuring comforting noises as she kept a sympathetic look on her face. They had come straight here after that meeting in the clearing, ostensibly to treat her "migraine". In reality, Debra wanted to keep an eye on the other children that that creature had interacted with. They were, to a child, grossly overweight and somehow their skins looked tight over their faces. That doctor had escorted three of them and their parents to the clinic, and another two had shown up shortly afterwards. Doctor Shivaji had forgotten to close the door all the way when she went in to see the last child, so Debra was able to overhear her talking with the parents. "Mary is looking quite well, based on what the adult has led me to expect. I expect that she'll put on about another 10 pounds before the end of the week and she's further along than any of the other boys and girls. In fact, she might actually be ready in the next day or so. I recommend that you take her over to Marcia Brody's B&B downtown; Mrs. Brody has agreed to let the kids stay there when they're almost ready. I already have some monitoring equipment over there and it'll be easier for the adult to come in and help the kids when it's time." The unfamiliar voice of a woman, presumably Mary's mother, responded, "Is Mrs. Brody charging anything? We've already been spending a lot to feed Mary's hunger, not that we mind, and money's a little tight until the next paycheck. I do want the best for Mary, especially if the adult is going to come personally to help her, but if it costs too much I just don't know what we're going to do." "I don't know whether or not Mrs. Brody is charging anything; you'd have to check with her. But if you can't take Mary over there, at least bring her here if she starts to feel strange. It'll take longer for the adult to get here, but at least I should be able to keep Mary stable in the meantime." Debra kept a concerned look on her face, but made a mental note to recommend a certain bed-and-breakfast to her coworkers, as a nice place to visit. Gunnar Deathrage lay at the edge of a ridge and looked down at the town with a pair of binoculars, wondering when him and his cell were going to finally see some action. They'd been staking out this podunk little town for over a week on the orders of The Teacher, but with nothing to show for it. There weren't any flying dudes or sexy glow-in-the-dark tree spirits (Were those nymphs or dryads? Eh, what's the difference. It'd be fun to fuck both) or exploding cars or ANYTHING. Just some dumb-ass little shit-hole of a backwoods town that they were supposed to watch because "one of ours is there". Whatever. "Ralph!" someone whispered behind him, and Gunnar shifted a little to get more comfortable (He didn't startle me at all. I knew Sgt. Dave was behind me the whole time.) and looked over his shoulder. He said back, "I told you, my name is Gunnar Deathrage now. If all the other weird-ass people get to be out in the open, then so do I. And my true name is Deathrage, Gunnar Deathrage. And dude, why're you whispering? There's no-one else around." Sgt. Dave rolled his eyes (Fucker. I'm gonna zap you when my powers kick in. I just know I can throw lightning. And fire guns with endless ammo. Yeah. That'd be cool.) and pointed back down the ridge. "Fine, 'Gunnar', but I'm whispering because we don't know how good our brother's hearing is and we don't want to scare him off. Plus, it's hunting season and I don't want one of those townsfolk taking a potshot at me because I made a sound like a deer or something. "Also, we just got a call that the kumiho is coming to visit us. Apparently she's making a tour of the watch-camps near the Liberation Point and we're next. She should be here in a couple of hours max and I need you to go back and help clean up the camp for her. I'll take over your watch here." Gunnar grunted as he scooted back from the edge and handed the binoculars to Sgt Dave. "Whatever, dude. I haven't seen anything exciting anyway. Hey, is Moonbeam back at camp?" (Fuck, that girl's a damn fine piece of ass, even if she is some kind of trippy flower-power chick. I'll give it another shot and see if I can get in her pants before we clean up.) Sgt. Dave low-crawled into the spot where Gunnar had been, rustling slightly as he pushed aside fallen leaves, and whispered back, "Nah, she's still on the other side of town, trying to find wherever it was they all went yesterday. She said she could smell the magic on the wind and was going to go track it down." "Cool." (shit) "I'll straighten up and wait for you then. Things gotta look nice for our visitor. Hey, do you know if this kumiho chick is hot? I heard she was hot." Sgt. Dave sighed softly and whispered back, "I'm sure I don't know. Just be nice to her when she gets here." Sgt. Dave Mastromarino listened as Ral-Gunnar started walking back to camp, dry leaves and twigs crunching loudly beneath his feet with every step. He briefly contemplated the difference between that boy and his squad mates back in Iraq and wondered again whether he could get transferred to another cell. One that was more serious about The Cause, that had more discipline. Moonbeam meant well, and was actually able to be useful on occasion with her paranormal intuition, but that boy was just useless trash. At least "Gunnar" didn't know about the guns and grenades in the truck's lockbox. Mastromarino doubted that that boy had ever held an actual gun before and didn't want to have to be constantly pestered by the boy to let him have one. They were only for a last-ditch effort, if the townsfolk interfered or those oppressive Foundation fucks showed up. Mastromarino watched the town and nearby woods for another 90 minutes, switching to night-vision as the light waned. He didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary, just a deer and a small horde of squirrels. There wasn't even much activity in town, just a few cars driving in and out. Mostly SUVs and pickup trucks like his, but there was a string of four panel vans right at dusk. The light wasn't good, but he thought they had the same logo: some kind of beach scene. A little weird to see that many all in a row, but probably just a coincidence. As full darkness descended, Mastromarino decided to head back to their little campsite and see just how badly that boy had botched the cleanup job. He wanted to be there before the kumiho showed up, anyway. After all, as the leader, he needed to greet their guest. He scooted down the ridge until he was below the sight-line to the town and slowly stood up, making a minimum of noise. As he turned to walk back, he was startled to see an attractive Asian woman standing only a dozen feet behind him. She was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he almost felt like kneeling at Her feet. He wasn't even sure how She was dressed; the darkness made Her form somewhat indistinct. “Oh! You startled me, Miss. Are you lost?” She gently drifted forward like a mist on the breeze as She replied in a soft, sweet voice. “Why no, I'm not. You are the leader of this group of the Teacher's, are you not? I'm here to see what progress you've made in locating that poor unfortunate freed from the Foundation's clutches. I'm quite interested in seeing what it's capable of.” Mastromarino was captivated by Her eyes until he humbly lowered them so as not to profane Her beauty. “You must be the Lady Kumiho. I am indeed the squad leader. If you'll allow me to escort you, Lady, I can fill you in on what we've found so far.” She placed a delicate hand pale as fine porcelain on his arm and murmured, “How kind of you. You are so sweet I could just eat you up. Please lead on.” She smiled a secret little smile while she said this, and Mastromarino felt honored that she would indulge in a little joke with him like that. Dr. Shivaji pulled up to the curb along Marcia Brody's place, parking behind a rather impressive-looking black sedan. Even though she'd supervised the placement of all the medical equipment just yesterday, she wanted to check it again. Although she was doing her best to hide it from everyone, she was really nervous about this whole thing. Even with the adult on hand, she was worried about all the things that could go wrong: one of the children could start changing away from a safe place, one of them could have a bad reaction to the IV supplement during the change, some of the monitoring equipment could malfunction… There were a thousand ways that something could go wrong and as much as she didn't want to disappoint the adult, she was more worried about something bad happening to the kids. As she walked up to the door, it opened and a couple of large men walked out. Marcia stood behind them, telling them “And again, I'm sorry but we're booked full right now, gentlemen. I think that we might be able to squeeze you in next month if you're still interested then.” One of the men, a short, muscular black man, replied, “We'll keep that in mind, Ms. Brody. We heard a lot of interesting things about this town and wanted to just get away from it all. Can you recommend anywhere else in town we could stay overnight?” “Well, there's the Ramada across town. I can give them a call and let them know you're coming, if you like.” “Thank you, Ms. Brody, we would appreciate that. You have a good night, now!” Dr. Shivaji watched them climb into the black sedan, then drive off. "Who was that, Marcia?" "Oh, those were some nice homosexual gentlemen on their honeymoon or antiquing or some such. It's always so nice having the homosexuals stay; they're always so cordial." Marcia laughed gently. "But there's no room at the inn tonight, is there?" Dr. Shivaji smiled. "I suppose there isn't. How many children have already arrived?" Marcia waved Dr. Shivaji in, and started to lead her upstairs. "Oh, only three so far. I have room for five more, if they don't mind being two to a room. I was going to call you in a few minutes anyway, so you could make sure that all the medical doo-dads were attached right." As they entered the first bedroom, Dr. Shivaji's eyes quickly took in the bloated body of the 10 year-old laying on the bed. He had to weigh 250 pounds if he weighed an ounce, and resembled an over-ripe tomato about to burst. "Well, Donnie here looks to be progressing on schedule, and in fine shape, too. Let's just make sure all the leads are placed, then I'll check the others." Dr. Shivaji snapped on a pair of gloves and went to work, happy in the knowledge that everything would be just perfect when the adult arrived. « Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »

Drip He was lurking in the shadows of an old oak grove, gazing at the dark, brooding form of the facility on the hill above. She was there. Drop after drop fell on Feldspar's head, as he remembered the day of the betrayal. The day she came for them. The day they died. Drop It wasn't supposed to be like this. Feldspar remembered the first time he saw her, all those years ago. Just a frightened young woman, seeking protection from some very dangerous people. She never said how she located them, or what she did to earn the ire of the Double Blade Triad, but she knew his family had a solid reputation of dealing with folks like them, so she turned to them for help. His father, hard man though he was, never even thought about refusing, and they took her in. Drip She was the most beautiful thing he ever saw: slender, gracious, fragile, every feature of her glowing with an almost radiant whiteness. She was everything he and his family weren't, but she had nowhere else to go. Hidden beneath the wet leaves, he recalled the first few days they spent together, during that long, lost summer. She seemed so shy at first, seemingly folding into herself every time anyone tried to talk to her. He couldn't blame her, considering what she'd been through; though she tried very hard to hide them, Feldspar could see the cuts left on her arms where the Triad hurt her. He swore he would never let their blades touch her again. Drop They grow close during her stay with his family. She quickly opened up to them, and they in turned soften up to her. She became fast friends with his little sister, and they'd spend entire evenings sitting on the balcony, chatting about nothing much and giggling like little girls. His mother was very protective of her, never letting her help in the kitchen in fear she'd hurt herself. Even his father soon learned to respect her. And Feldspar, well, he was smitten from the very first moment he saw her, and getting to know her better only made it easier to love her. They used to go on long trips together, hiking down the winding dirt roads that surrounded his family's grounds. What a pair they must have seen to an outside observer- she fleet-footed and light, he heavy and ponderous. She seemed better now, after a few months in the company of good people, but he saw it was just an act. She was still hurting, still scared to the bottom of her soul from the day the Triad would come for her. Drip That day came, and much sooner than any of them expected. They were just coming back from one of their hikes, when, rounding the corner, he saw a flash of garish orange and dull steel, and they were upon him. There must have been at least a dozen of them, and their long blades flashed upon his body a hundred times within moments of their initial attacks. Their attack was fast, brutal and overwhelming, but they forgot one very important thing. Blades didn't do much against the likes of him. He broke them, every single one. Each pain they inflicted upon her he returned tenfold, and when he was done, so was the Double Blade Triad. He let a few of them get away, their long blades shattered, to send a message to the rest. They told him he didn't understand, that she wasn't what she appeared to be. He didn't listen. Drop Once the Triad was gone, they could finally be together. Those were the happiest days in Feldspar's life. He would return from a day in the field to find her waiting for him, her face covered in ink from one art project or another. He would laugh and wipe it away, and look into those big black eyes of hers, thinking how lucky he was. His family couldn't have been happier for them. Things were looking good. Things were looking great. Until that day. Drip Feldspar shivered as he recalled that final walk home. It was a day much like this one, grey and gloomy, and he was anxious to be home. He was covered in mud, tired, wet, and in desperate need of a good wash, and so he returned an hour early. He noticed something wasn't right the moment he entered the house. The usual ambiance noises were replaced with a deathly quiet, and there was no sign of the residents. He couldn't imagine his family going out on a miserable day like this, so he went around the house, calling their names, getting increasingly worried with each empty room. The house was empty. Lost for thought, he went on to check the only place left- the garden shed. Drop She was there, standing over the corpses of his family, looking down on her grisly work. His sister, who was her best friend, looked like she was strangled in her sleep. His mother, who cared for her like one of her own, must have been ambushed and strangled from behind, from the expression now forever frozen on her face. His father, who let down his guard to make her feel at home, seemed to have put out a fight- her skin, still white as snow, was carrying the marks of his last desperate struggle. It wasn't enough. Finally noticing him, she gave him a smile like a razor blade. "How was your day, honey?" "Why?" Was all he could say. "Why?" she said, slowly advancing on him, "Because you never saw it coming, because it was easy, because you let me. Because I could." "We saved you! We looked after you! How could you do this to them!? They loved you! I loved you!" For a moment, something like the a shadow of regret flashed on her face. It was gone just as fast. "Well. Bad call, I guess. Goodbye." She moved faster than he could have thought possible, and he gasped in horror as her skin began to extend, covering him, suffocating him, drowning him in pure whiteness. He struggled, but his heavy form was ill suited for such a fight. The last thing heard before he collapsed was "Oh, and thank you for dealing with the Double Blades, baby. They were the only ones who could stop me. Now, I can finally move on to the big leagues." Drip Feldspar had no idea why she let him live. Perhaps she still loved him, somewhere deep inside. Perhaps she just wanted to see him suffer. Feldspar didn't care. He didn't care that he didn't know where she was, or that she was much smarter and faster and stronger than him. He would find her, and he would kill her, no matter where she went. Drop And now he was here. Tracking her down to this facility wasn't easy, but luckily for him, he had several associates in critical positions inside. He wasn't sure what she wanted to do there, or how she made it in, considering how clever the men in charge of the facility were supposed to be. Most likely she used their intelligence against them, made them think she was theirs to control, that they were the one who created her. It seemed like her style, and she had done it before. He wondered what she called herself now. He heard that they called her SCP-085. Cassy. That papery bitch was so close he could almost touch her, and she had nowhere to run now. There was only one issue left to resolve. Drip How the hell was he going to roll up that hill?

When I was a small child, I was terrified of the dark. I still am, but back when I was around six years old I couldn't go a full night without crying out for one of my parents to search beneath my bed or in my closet for whatever monster I thought was waiting to eat me. Even with a night light, I would still see dark shapes moving around the corners of the room, or strange faces looking in on me from my bedroom window. My parents would do their best to console me, telling me that it was just a bad dream or a trick of the light, but in my young mind I was positive that the second I fell asleep, the bad things would get me. Most of the time I would just hide under the blankets until I became tired enough to stop worrying, but every now and then I would become so panicked that I would run screaming into my parents room, waking up my brother and sister in the process. After an ordeal like that, there would be no way anyone would be getting a full nights rest. Eventually, after one particularly traumatizing night, my parents had had enough. Unfortunately for them, they understood the futility in arguing with a six year old and knew that they would be unable to convince me to rid myself of childish fears through reason and logic. They had to be clever. It was my mother's idea to stitch together my little bedtime friend. She collected a large assortment of random pieces of fabric and her sewing machine and created what I would later refer to as Mr. Ickbarr Bigelsteine, or Ick for short. Ick was a sock monster, as my mother called him. He was made to keep me safe while I slept at night by scaring away all the other monsters. He was pretty damn creepy, I had to admit. Honestly, looking back on it all now, I'm still impressed that my mom could think of something so strange and disturbing looking. Ickbarr had the stitched together look of a Frankenstein gremlin, with big white button eyes and floppy cat ears. His little arms and legs were made from a pair of my sister's black and white striped socks, and the half of his face that was green was made from one of my brother's tall football socks. His head could have been described as bulbous, and for his mouth my mom attached a piece of white fabric and sewed in a zigzag pattern to shape a wide grin of sharp teeth. I loved him at once. From then on, Ick never left my side. So long as it was after dusk, of course. Ick didn't like the sun, and would get upset if I tried to bring him to school with me. But that was okay, I only needed him at night to keep away the boogeymen, which was what he was good at. So every night at bedtime, Ick would tell me where the monsters were hiding, and I would place him near the section of my room closest to the spookiness. If there was something in the closet, Ick would block the door. If there was a dark creature scratching at my window, Ick would be pressed up against the glass. If there was a big hairy beast under my bed, then under the bed he went. Sometimes the monsters weren't even in my room. Sometimes, they would hide in my dreams, and Ickbarr would have to come with me into my nightmares. It was fun bringing Ick into my dream world, as he and I would spend hours fighting off ghouls and demons. The best part was, in my dreams, Ick could talk to me for real. “How much do you love me?” He would ask. “More than anything.” I would always tell him. One night in a dream, after I had lost my first tooth, Ick asked me for a favor. “Can I have your tooth?” I asked him why. “To help me kill the bad things,” he said. The next morning at breakfast, my mom asked me where my tooth went. From what she told me, the “tooth fairy” didn't find it under my pillow. When I told her that I gave it to Ickbarr, she just shrugged and went back to feeding my little sister. From then on, every time I lost a tooth, I would give it to Ick. He would always thank me, of course, and tell me that he loved me. Eventually though, I ran out of baby teeth, and I was beginning to get a little too old to still be playing with dolls. So Ick just sat there on my bookshelf collecting dust, slowly fading away from my attention. Over time the nightmares, however, became worse than ever. So bad that they even began to follow me to the waking world, terrorizing every dark corner or rustle in the bushes. After one particularly bad night biking home from a friend's house where I swore a pack of rabid dogs were chasing me, I got home to find something strange waiting for me in my room. There, on my bed, standing fully upright in the soft glow of the moon light from my window, was Ickbarr. At first I just thought my eyes were playing tricks on me again, they had been all evening, so I tried to flick on the lights. Another flick of the light switch. Then another, and another, with no change to the darkness. It was then that I started to get nervous. I backed away slowly towards the door behind me, my eyes never leaving the shape of Ick's silhouette, my hand awkwardly outstretched behind reaching for the doorknob. I was just about to get my ass out of there when I heard the door slam itself shut, locking me into blackness. In nothing but shadows and silence, I stood frozen in place, not even breathing. For how long I can't say, but after what felt like a lifetime of cold fear, I heard the shrill, familiar voice. “You stopped feeding me, so why should I protect you?” “Protect me from what?” “Let me show you.” I blinked once, and everything changed. I wasn't in my bedroom anymore, I was somewhere… else. It wasn't Hell, but the comparison wasn't far off. It was some sort of forest, a horrible, nightmarish place where partial embryonic abortions hung from the canopy, and the ground swarmed with carnivorous insects. A thick fog wafted through the air and with it the stench of rotting meat, while chartreuse lightening flashed across the night sky. In the distance, I could hear the agonizing screams of something not quite human. My head throbbed like it was about to explode, the pain forcing out a river of tears. In my mind, I heard his voice again. “This is what your reality would become without me.” I felt earth shaking footsteps approaching fast. “I'm the only one who can stop it.” It was behind me now, huge and angry, hot breath across my back. “Bring me what I need, and I will.” I woke up before I could turn around. The following day I raided my parent's closet for my brother's baby teeth, giving them all to Ickbarr. Almost immediately the night terrors ceased, and I was more or less able to go on about my life as normal. From time to time, I would have to sneak into my little sister's room and snatch what was meant for the tooth fairy, or strangle one of the neighborhood cats and pry out its sharp little incisors. Anything to ward off the visions, anything from a shark tooth necklace to a cavity ridden bicuspid. I also began to notice that Ick would move about my room whenever I left for any length of time, rearranging my stuff and hanging additional curtains. He was even beginning to look more lifelike, somehow. In the right light his teeth would glisten, and he was warm to the touch. As much as he creeped me out, I couldn't work up the courage to just destroy him, knowing perfectly well where that would leave me. So I went on collecting teeth for Ick throughout all of high school and college. The older I got, the more things I would learn to fear, the more teeth Ick would need to keep me safe. I'm 22 years old now, with a decent job, my own apartment, and a set of dentures. It's been almost a month since Ick's last meal, and the horrors are starting to crowd around me once more. I took a detour through a parking garage after work tonight. Found a man fumbling with his car keys. His teeth were stained yellow from a lifetime of cigarettes and coffee. Even still, I had to use a hammer to get out the molars. When I got back to my apartment, he was waiting for me. On the ceiling, in the corner. Two white eyes and mouth of razors. “How much do you love me?” He asks. “More than anything,” I reply, taking off my coat. “More than anything in the world.”

Life had always been without magic. That's why he wrote — because the real world, while it could be interesting, didn't have any magic. He wasn't quite a man of science, but instead a man of rationality. And so, he wrote: to add a little magic, a little horror, a little interest to a dull, humdrum world. It wasn't until he fell through a hole in his world — from the real world to a world filled with the things he'd written — that he started believing. It all began so simply. He had been walking through the stock room at Wal-Mart, headed for break; when he turned the corner, he didn't see what he expected to see: bleak grey shelving filled with boxes of product were replaced with sterile, white walls. He stopped walking, trying to take it in. Turning in place, he was shocked to discover nothing behind him but the same white walls. A psychotic break? Maybe. But you have to work within the laws of whatever universe you find yourself in, and so he began to walk, an eerie feeling shivering down his spine. The first door he came to was marked with a familiar symbol — and that feeling just got worse. He was here, in the Foundation. Not as a doctor, researcher, or agent, but as just…himself. He was screwed. He wouldn't blend in. He couldn't, not in blue jeans and a blue shirt. And despite being a writer, the man who would come to be known by the three-letter acronym of TDM was not as clever as those he wrote about. He had one chance, he thought. If he could get out, get away from this Site, he might be able to lose himself in the world. Might. A passing researcher gave him a curious look as he continued to stroll down the hall. An agent gave him the same look, but closer, as if scrutinizing his face. A glance, risked over his shoulder, saw them both pointing him out to a security guard. He cursed under his breath as the guard called out for him to stop. So much for chances. Time to see if his writing had ever been any good. He turned to the nearest locked door, addressing the panel beside it. "Open. Authorization O5-6. Alpha-Omega-13." And, amazingly, it worked. The door slid open, and he dashed through, closing and locking it behind him with the same authorization codes. It might not hold long, but would it be long enough? Down another hall. Left at a doorway. Push past the old man with the beard. Locking every cross portal he came across, sealing every blast door. When he came to a computer, he logged in, using passcodes he'd once typed out just for the heck of it. Now, it felt so much more dangerous. He was at… Site 19. Damn it. Used to contain humanoids…no easy exits like 23 had. No… wait. There, down low, an O5 meeting room. If he could get there, he could get out. The O5s always had special escapes built in. He wasn't a hacker — he wasn't even particularly computer savvy. Which was why he was glad he'd always written the Foundation as using touch screens. Level Five status allowed you to pull off a lot of fun tricks. Including initiating a Keter level breach alert, on the opposite side of the site. Hopefully, that would distract the guards. Hopefully. It didn't matter. He'd locked the nearest stairway, and it was damn near a straight shot down to that room. Eleven floors later, he was cursing the fact he'd never had enough money to get a gym membership. Being an internet writer wasn't exactly the type of work that gave you fantastic muscles. Or, you know, any muscles whatsoever. Thirteen floors after that, he was gasping for breath, and wishing he'd quit smoking cigars when his girlfriend had asked him to. But, finally, he'd made it where he was going. Down another hall, and open this door… TDM slumped against the wall, defeated. Sitting in the room, almost as if they had been waiting for him, was an old man and his two bodyguards. Of course he'd have to show up on a day an O5 was actually here. "Well, fuck." The old man stared at the intruder, then shook his head just slightly at the man in the gas mask beside him. He considered the look in the man's eyes, the tone of his voice, and came to a startling — to him — conclusion. "You know who I am." There should only have been a handful of people who could recognize him on sight. "Interesting. Sadly, I do not know who you are. Which is intriguing, considering you have been using my security codes to throw this site into an uproar. You appear to have not been expecting me, and so are unlikely to be an assassin." A slight pause. "And your condition certainly helps prove that. My people tell me you appeared in the middle of a hallway, which could make you a teleporter, but I think an out of shape teleporter would not have walked down all those stairs. Which means someone sent you here. Against your will, maybe? You were coming to this room… to escape, yes? That doesn't tell me how you know there IS an escape route here. Well, do you have anything to say?" Through labored breathing, TDM muttered something. "You'll have to speak up," the old man replied. "I am getting up there in years." TDM sat back, and spoke again, louder this time. "Jack. TJ. Sarah. Claire. Mich-" For an old man, the fellow known as Cowboy could still move amazingly quickly. In the twinkling of an eye, he had moved forward. TDM's pale throat stood in contrast to the glittering silver blade pressed against it, seemingly drawn from Cowboy's cane. "Those are words that guarantee you a swift death." "But I can save them!" the bearded man gasped out, eyes locked on the blade. He gulped reflexively, and the razor sharp tip nicked his throat, a single drop of blood welling up. "You're not helping your case. Many have claimed as much over the years. But, if you know anything about the Foundation, you should know, there are-" "-no happy endings," the bearded man finished in unison with the O5. His thoughts raced, looking for anything that might save him. His eyes fixed on the bodyguard with the gasmask, and a spark fired somewhere in his brain. It would ruin his favorite story, but save his life. He cleared his throat, hoping to get the accent right. "H'lyiah, Cho'tp'k?" The man known as Thompson's eyes widened behind the gas mask he always wore. His gaze shifted slightly, and his head tilted slightly before returning to its perfect orientation. O5-6 frowned. "What did you just say? Are you trying to work some memetic agent? I'll have you know, my men are well-shielded against such things. I do believe I shall simply kill you." Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to get it all out at the same time. "BlackhasbeenbrainwashedbyMannandhe'sgoingtokillyouifyoudon't-" Not quite quick enough. Even as he spoke, the unmasked bodyguard's eyes glazed over, and he began to raise his gun. Not towards the unknown man, but towards the O5. Unfortunately for Agent Black, Thompson was prepared, having been prewarned. His brass knuckles struck twice in as many seconds, and the brainwashed minion was sent to the floor, unconscious. "Like that," TDM finished lamely. "Interesting." Six stared at his once-trusted protector, a deep frown creasing his lips. "And you knew this…how?" "I wrote it." Time passed, as it does. The newcomer was tagged as a Black Box SCP, known by a descriptor, not a number. The Duck Man, or "TDM" for short. He was very busy for the first, oh, hour or twelve, telling Six everything he knew about Mann's plans. He was then placed in a Humanoid Containment Chamber, and ignored for a couple of weeks, as Six routed out all of the mad doctor's plans and puppets. But after all that, it came time to decide what to do with him. Jack Bright and O5-6 stood in the observation lounge, watching as TDM stared upwards, trying desperately to entertain himself in between feedings. "What did he just say?" Six leaned forward, turning up the volume. "I think it was something along the lines of 'Wow. 12 meters high. I didn't think they actually did that.'" Jack fiddled with his amulet, staring at the man before them. "Do you think this guy is on the level?" "He's not a Bixby, if that's what you're asking. I've had people testing him, covertly. If he could alter reality, he'd have done something by now. Tests show him to be completely human, identical on a quantum level to a man currently living in the United States. All the ID he had on him when we put him in here is identical to the real one. Well, with one difference. The him on the outside is a millionaire. Won a lottery or something. This one worked at Wal-Mart." "Thought you said he wasn't a Bixby? Sounds like some major wish fulfillment to me." "Enh. Might have been something like that. But this guy? He can't do anything now. Except make use of the things he's 'written' in before." "So you think he really created us?" "No. I'm not that pessimistic. I think in his universe, he had some, we'll call it a connection. It lets him know way too much about us, but he's not a god, or a creator of any kind." Six pauses to pull out a cigar and light it up. The smoke alarm begins to go off, but a quick glare from Six and the alarm is rapidly silenced. "Do you really have to do that?" "What's the point of having power, if you can't abuse it?" "And you think he can fix me? And TJ? And…" Bright swallows. "Sarah?" "I think he can. He knows the shortcuts, he said." "What does he want? "Protection. He doesn't want anyone to know he's here. He says he gets nightmares thinking about what MC&D, or the CI would do to him. He also seems to think if he does too much, people from his world will notice him, and …get rid of him. He calls it deletion. He's scared to death of Kondraki and Clef, thinks they'll 'decommission' him. He's willing to help us with whatever we want, as long as we keep him fed… and entertained." "Entertained?" "He knows he can't have access to the outside world." Six blows a smoke ring. "So he wants games. Computer, video, all that sort. And books. Something to keep him healthy." His mouth curls in a half-smile. "And SCP-1004." Jack can't help but double take. "One thousand four? Does he know what it does?" "He seems to think he can handle it." Six found himself smirking. "And if he can't, well… We'll have found out all he knows by the time it makes him incapable of proceeding." "You're an asshole. I love it." Now. At this point, we could go on about the things The Duck Man did. The SCPs he fixed. The plots he stopped with his information, or the other things he told people that they shouldn't have known. Instead? I think it best to end this tale with a small view of what the guards watching him see. Agent Klein sat down beside Senior Agent Hanks, sliding his card into the station to clock into his assignment. "All right, sir. I'm here to take over observation duties from you. Anything I need to know?" "This guy masturbates more than anyone. Ever. Seriously, it's disgusting. I don't even want to know what he's looking up on that thing. The sounds are bad enough." Hanks shakes his head. "Look, this is an easy job. The skip isn't dangerous. He just sits there, playing video games, and watching porn. Your main duty is to poke him every now and then, make him get active. That's what the treadmill and weights are for. The Overseers want him to stay healthy." "Is he talking to himself in there?" "Same thing he always says. I don't get it, but here, listen." Hanks leaned forward, turning up the volume so the two could hear the words The Duck Man would be repeating for the rest of his long life. "Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me."

Mr. Moon knew he was very good at timing these things. He really couldn't afford to be bad at it, with his condition. He'd tried to use watches, but watches only worked when you had eyes to watch them with. Same with a metronome. So Moon counted. One… Two, Three… Thirty two thousand, four hundred and sixty seconds. That was how long he'd been able to see. Moon felt his bones cry out in protest as he rose to the chamber door. In approximately three hundred twenty four seconds, a Security Agent would open it and let him out. Give or take twenty nine, if the Agent was slow. Thirty… Thirty one… Thirty two. Moon's face was clouded, partially with worry and partially because it was a cloudy night. This particular Agent was an early-bird, and it'd thrown off the count. Deciding that he could make do until it reset, he timed the approximate two and a quarter of a second it took him to make a step with his cane. Four and a half… Six and three quarters… Nine… The air conditioning had been on for five hundred sixty seconds when Moon took his seat. Waiting here was the hardest part. In five hundred seconds, the doors would open and they would see him. He'd watched one hundred and twenty pitying expressions staring at him. Five thousand, six hundred seventy three…. Five thousand, six hundred seventy four… Five thousand, six hundred seventy five… They were older. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty two weeks had taken their tolls. The small talk was painfully low. She smiled at him, telling him about all the things outside. About Jim, and how wonderful he was, and how happy he was for her. Mr. Moon had lied to her three thousand, five hundred times. At least Jim hadn't accompanied her this time. Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven… She cut the visit short by ten minutes. Apparently she'd been five minutes late to a social event, and had been paying him a favor to visit. Fifty seconds later, she'd left him again. She was getting quicker. Five thousand, nine hundred seconds later, Moon's ear began to grow dull. He paced his cell, counting the steps. Eleven and a half steps north to south, fifteen and a quarter east to west. Pacing until the count could reset and bring him respite. One… Two… Three…

After Action Report, Incident MC-643 Agents Samuels, Perkins, and Flanders were assigned to infiltrate and gather information regarding a Christmas masquerade believed to have been held by Foundation group of interest Marshall, Carter, and Dark on October 2█, 20██ at ██ ██████ Drive, the location of an estate believed to be owned by one of the founding members of Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Samuels spoke with a woman wearing a silver Venetian mask, her eyes hidden behind the grey film of her disguise. She was snacking on what Samuels believed to be a wafer of dried human heart, but he wasn't absolutely certain. "Dearie, you simply must try the punch. It is simply fabulous if I do say so myself, simply to die for. I do believe I will have some more, join me?" Samuels had already identified the table from which the punch, and most of the food at the party, were coming from. He didn't want the punch. "I think I'll pass, but thank you ma'am. If you'll excuse me, I must speak with that man over there about acquiring a new contortionist. My last seems to have broken herself, quite tragic." Samuels strode briskly away from the woman and towards Flanders, ignoring the parting suggestion that he make use of the local bone regrowth facility. Agents successfully infiltrated the masquerade, all wearing copies of a black full-face mask. Access was gained through a window in the east wing of the mansion after Agent Perkins drilled through the lock. Perkins was trying to catalog all the anomalous items in the room, and having a hard time of it. In the corner by the door a woman, apparently a nurse, was eating pomegranate seeds. She didn't seem to notice that she never ran out. In the opposite corner, a man entertaining a crowd by changing breadsticks to meat. To Perkins' left, a golden fountain ran out of the wall, a small plaque listing the health hazards associated with it. And across the room- Perkins cursed under his breath. "Flanders you fool, what were you thinking?" Mission integrity was apparently compromised by Agent Flanders twenty minutes after entering the room in which the main event was hosted. Flanders was in love with the cheese, savoring every bite. The aroma was rich and filling, the savory taste coating his tongue, the soft dairy parting between his teeth in an experience he had never felt anything like before. He would never leave this table again if it meant leaving his cheese, not for anything. The cheese was his world, and nothing else mattered. Agent Flanders came under the effect of a portion of human liver seemingly affected by SCP-643. Attempted intervention by his fellow agents led to a brief physical confrontation, followed by the loss of Flanders life when an instance of SCP-643 came in contact with his skin. Several other attendees were coated by SCP-643, but did not cease consumption of Agent Flanders to save themselves. Samuels stumbled out of the hall, his sleeve held up against his bloodstained mouth, his mask askew. Flanders' tortured screams followed him, echoing through the doorway. Samuels nibbled on the finger he had managed to scavenge, and watched as a table was carried past him and into the hall by several huge men. A thick sheet covered whatever was within, golden fluid spilling out from beneath the sheet and turning the carpet to a cheesy yellow substance. He coughed as a piece of bone and fingernail caught in the back of his throat, but he couldn't bear to waste anything by spitting it out. Agent Samuels was unable to recall any events following his final encounter with Agent Flanders. Perkins moaned in ecstasy as he bit down on a muscle. Flanders wasn't wriggling too badly anymore, and he was much easier to hold down. He would twitch every now and again when Perkins made a grab for an organ, and he'd really start jerking whenever he tried scooping a bit of brain, but Perkins didn't care. The hot rush of blood over his tongue was beginning to slow, and he almost cried knowing that his dessert was nearly gone. But then Perkins was distracted by the wonderfully diverse taste of human spleen, and then the hot pulsing of the heart, and then the marrow, oh the bone marrow, the sweet crack of bone, the rush of hot delicious slurry, the wet flopping of juicy muscles struggling to contract with nothing to pull against. Agent Perkins was found dead the following morning. Autopsies suggest that his body was unable to process the amount of substance consumed the previous evening. This, combined with substantial damage received to his face by unknown means, led to Perkins' death from both excessive bleeding and rupturing of the internal digestive tract. Samuels staggered back into the hall, his mask tilted diagonally against his face, red blood slashed across the mouth, and a piece of cotton shoved against his nostrils. He fought his way through the orgy of dead and dying cannibals, still trying to force as much of each other as possible down their mouths, and tumbled to the ground where Flanders lay with Perkins inert by his corpse. He shoveled a few more handfuls of Flanders flesh into his mouth, gagged as his stomach protested, grabbed the other agent's earpieces, and crawled out of the hall, a piece of somebody's kidney clutched in his other hand. And behind him a man smiled, hand pressed against his still-bleeding arm, cut by his own hand. Soon, all who were here would know Their light, would know the joy of giving to the unenlightened that which was most precious, their own flesh. He loved these sorts of functions, the kind he could pin on some outside group as hosting. This time of year was always the easiest time to spread, with its focus on food, and the sharing of it. He felt the worms wriggling through his veins, felt them in the people surrounding him who had been eating his meat throughout the dinner. He felt a great satisfaction at his missionary work for the evening.

Item #: SCP-343 Object Class: Keter Special Containment Procedures: SCP-343 is currently uncontained. No reliable method of containing SCP-343 has been found. SCP-343 has taken up regular residence in humanoid containment chamber 208 within Site 17. All contact with SCP-343 is to follow standard humanoid interview protocols. In the case of unauthorized contact, personnel are to politely decline conversation with SCP-343 and report the incident to the nearest supervisory personnel. If contact cannot be avoided, all information gathered is to be likewise reported. In the case of SCP-343 making contact outside of the Foundation's direct jurisdiction, appropriate cover-up countermeasures are to be taken as soon as the extent and content of contact has been ascertained. This document has been modified by Mátyás Büki, known to all as SCP-343. Description: My friends, it is high time that I leave you. I must be moving on. Thank you greatly for your hospitality in my time of need. However, it is no longer safe here, and while this is no fault of yours, I cannot with good conscience allow myself to remain. I have taxed your kindness enough. I will admit, I have not been entirely truthful in these past years, or entirely cooperative. My squatting in your facility like a homeless beggar doubtlessly caused a great deal of frustration and unnecessary panic, and for that and a great many other things, I apologize. While it cannot repay what you have done for me, in return for your kindness, I will tell you a story. This story begins with a poor boy of Prague, born many long years ago to a poor mother and a poor father. Life was hard. It often is in these stories. There was little food to be had, and many mouths to feed. My mother made a little coin as a washer woman. My father worked in the factory. He was not an unkind man, but as many poor men are wont to do, spent much of his meager earnings on the bottle. This was when I first learned of what I could do. My father returned home, late at night, far more drunk than he had ever been before. He was raging and cursing about, maddened with liquor. My mother tried to speak to him, to calm him, but his slurring became angrier and angrier in argument, and eventually he struck her, and threatened worse if she did not “shut up and please him”. I was terrified. In the darkness, I could not see his face. It did not seem like my father, but in my heart I knew it was, and that made it all the worse. My mother was screaming, and my brothers and sisters were crying. I screamed at him. “Stop!” I said, and he did. He stopped. Like a statue. Frozen in place. Not even the folds of his clothing would be moved. His face was twisted up in drunken rage, but his eyes were different. There was no anger there. Only fear. Fear of a kind that made my own seem paltry in comparison. In my father's eyes I saw a man who was looking into his own damnation. And though they did not move, I knew he could see me. Somehow, I knew that I had not killed my father. I had done something far worse. I ran. I knew not where to, but I ran into the night, leaving my brothers and sisters and mother behind me. To this day, I do not know what happened to them. I pray they were spared what came to follow me. Years passed. I begged and stole and clawed my way across Europe, without direction, half-feral and half-mad. Death followed me. My curse was no longer content with simply leaking out with my words: it lashed out on its own, wild and deadly. In time I found I could control it with thought, but the act left me exhausted, and the curse only grew more violent as I tried to control it. I began to attract unwanted attention. It was a group of Roma who had found me first. I had become so unused to speaking with human beings that I could do nothing but croak like a frog for days. Eventually I would whisper, but they did not understand me, nor I them. But they fed me, and I watched them as they practiced their arts. They did not seem to fear me. Here, I thought, here is where I may learn to control the curse. I never spoke to them about it. The crows came first. I called them crows, for the black coats they wore. They descended upon us, tore apart the camp. They were not interested in the Roma: they had come for me. I killed them. Not all of them. But many. I fled again, and here is where my struggle began in earnest. They had found me, and I was dangerous, and they would stop at nothing to have me. I fled, and I learned. I taught myself. My curse became more a blessing. I lived a secret little war, and as I fought, I learned more and more. How to take the shape of another. How to make a mouthful of bread or a handful of water. The crows returned again. They were British. There were others, the French, the Prussians, some of my own Empire, members of the Church and even an American. They hunted me, and in return, I hunted them. More years passed, though I barely noticed. My blessing still attempted to bite me and at times it did, but I had learned. I could walk upright, hiding but a little, fearing little. I existed as the faceless man walking down the street, seen once and forgotten forever. My belly was full, and my wits were wary. I picked up languages, identities, scraps of knowledge that would aid me, weapons and defenses against my enemies. But, as things happen, my enemies had learned as well, and they had learned better than me. I was ambushed. My guard was down, and they sprung. They had ways to prevent me from healing myself, ways to prevent me from escaping, weapons that could hurt me. They drove at me, razing my hiding places and piercing my disguises. My years as a child came back, all the more horrible. My mind, fragile as it was from years of animal existence, began to unravel. A great many died, and all along I felt myself slipping away. They drove me across bloody fields, to Paris, down, deep into the bowels of that city, where the dead digested in their holy peace. It was in those catacombs where I had a transformation. A single moment of clarity, where the universe fell into order around my broken body. I became a god in a dark, slimy hole, bleeding and naked and half-dead. My apotheosis was witnessed by the empty sockets of a thousand skulls. I returned to the surface, and my fight was over. They were no more a threat to me than the gnats. A god has no reason to fear a man, and he likewise has no need to bother in fighting them. They merely need to be waved away. I did so, and then I left, and for the first time in decades, they did not follow. Peace then, for the first time since I had last heard my mother's songs at night. I gloried in it. I watched the world, and it was good. In time, I suppose I forgot about the crows and their fellows. They did not forget about me. A god's sin is pride, and I had it in full. I believed they had thought me dead, but they never did. The false body I left in the catacomb was not enough. They were only waiting, taking their time, and in time, their children and children's children came once again hunting me, and once again, they had learned. They had learned, and I had not. God though I was, I could not see all, I could not do all. They had ways to fight back, as they always had. My peaceful life shattered, as did my illusions. I was old and complacent, they were not. I fled once more. It was then that I made my place among you, playing card tricks and telling stories, all to make you believe that my power was infinite, that you would not dare cross me lest I destroy you. It was a lie, all sleight of hand and clever riddles. You were never in my power, but I in yours. With you, I was safe, a god in his holy place. I had hoped that I would ride out the storm, that those who sought to destroy me would eventually give up, but I know that is not true, and I know now that it would not have mattered: you would have eventually turned me over, and you would have been justified. I know that you will seek me out, and so I only hope that this may lighten your hearts. Good bye, my friends. Good bye.

Run. The rusted metal stretches for as far as can be seen. The runner does not care that this is only a few feet in front of himself. As far as he is concerned, the claustrophobic corridor stretches on forever. And it does. But not for him. Don't stop. A woman slams against a steel door, pristine and shining in the darkness of the hold. Rust flakes from the floor as she throws herself against the steel, panting heavily. Her fingernails crack as they scrabble against the smooth face of the door, frantically searching for something to turn. They will never stop looking. Not like this. A man walks slowly through a room, filled with steaming belts and pistons. A human eye rolls towards him as a face stretches across a belt, locked in a rictus of pain and agony. A human elbow rapidly pumps in a nearby machine, forcing an unidentifiable chunk of something in and out. A pair of empty eye sockets stare into him. He will never look away. Make it stop. A man sprints into a dead-end room, stopping to stare at the wall. He screams and turns, a cry of rage and confusion and hurt, only to see the door slam shut behind him. He will never leave. Until his flashlight dies. The pain. Deep within the rusted hulk, a woman screams. She has been screaming for seconds, for years. She does not know the difference. She only knows that she should never have entered this place of death and steel and meat. She will never correct her mistake. No escape. A man stands atop a rusted deck, gaunt and pale from his days spent in the darkness, searching for an exit. A spotlight waves over him, a boat is sent, and a crew arrives to rescue him. The man, overjoyed, moves to jump. He does not hit the water. Stay with us. In the heart of the ship, a thousand voices scream in agony. All are lost, many for hundreds of years. Some for days. All are screaming the same soul-wrenching scream that only the dying know. And they will never stop. Team was lost after reporting entry to "central navigation." Rescue team lost after reporting the investigation of "screaming" in a cargo section.

<< Act II, Scene I: Repel "Jesus Christ," Agent Usilov said. "Khalif, come take a look at this." Agent Aziz walked over to the other man. They were now standing in front of a two, two-and-a-half meter tall statue. And a damn ugly one, to boot. "Did you ever see Dark Knight Rises?" Aziz said. "If you look at it at the right angle, does it not—" "Holy shit, it's Bane," Usilov said. "A big-ass statue of Bane, with horns." "Why the fuck would somebody ha—" Aziz was interrupted by an enormous stone fist crashing into his side, breaking five ribs and knocking him to the ground. The Minotaur ground the concrete joints of its legs to move it towards Aziz's supine body, where the agent was coughing blood onto himself. Agent Usilov's safety was already off and his rifle was on full automatic. "Die, motherfucker!" he shouted, blasting five-fifty-six rounds into the statue-thing's upper torso at point-blank range. The rounds bounced off, taking a few stone chips with them. The statue rotated its upper body along the place where its waist should have been, spinning its upper half without moving its lower half. It reached out with its fist once Usilov's head was within range and knocked Usilov down like a ragdoll with one concrete right cross. Usilov's neck broken, he lost consciousness instantly, blood streaming from nose and ears. Aziz's breath ran ragged, trying to suck in air through a collapsed lung as he dragged himself across the ground away from the stone creature. The Minotaur stalked towards Aziz. "Wh…wha…" Aziz wheezed. A voice boomed from the stone…thing, from no place in particular. It seemed to exude from the creature's entire body at once. "He bled so much, Aziz," it said. "I wish it was you. I want it to be you. Suck air and scream, hominid. Die for me." Aziz obeyed. David heard a sound behind them as he and Olympia walked down the hallway. MTF Rho-1 agents had largely secured what was left of Site 38 proper; while the infected creatures were devastatingly intimidating against untrained researchers and scientists, they stood little chance against armed Foundation infantry units. The footsteps behind them came from Major Lopez, Rho-1's commanding officer. "Now just wait a goddamn minute," he began. "There's hardly time," Olympia said. "The infected in the building may be gone, but the thing controlling them isn't, and it'll keep spreading infected creatures around to propagate itself. We have to move quickly before it starts again or escapes." "I've already ordered the bombers to come level this place to the ground. We're securing all surviving personnel and evacuating," Lopez said. "Whatever the thing is, it'll be another stain in the middle of a big-ass crater in about forty-five minutes. If you really want to help, help with that effort." "You want help evacuating civilians? Fine. There are two living, uninfected individuals in the basement; your men will overlook them if you don't search it specifically. A researcher named Storm and a prisoner named Nexer. It is…specifically vital that you rescue these two individuals. I am not at liberty to discuss why." Bullshit, Olympia, David thought; you have no idea why, any more than I do. But the Intruder was very specific that these two had to survive. Maybe more than we do. David pondered that last part. Well, especially more than some of us do… "Awfully quiet there, Eskobar," Lopez sneered. "You going along with this dumb shit?" "You dddddddon't have to understtttttand it, Commander," David stuttered, "but that's what's ggggoing to happen." "We are going to the woods outside the Site," Olympia said. "I suggest you keep evacuating. Additionally, I would suggest you equip—" "That's about goddamn enough from you," Lopez said. "I don't have the manpower to arrest you, but I sure as hell won't sit here and listen to you tell me how to do my job. Our equipment is more than fine for these little fuckers." "You might be surprised at what you're about to have to deal with, Major," Olympia said. "Consider getting rocket-propelled grenades and other explosive ordnance from the armory. You have bigger fish waiting." An aide ran up beside the commander. "Sir, Third Platoon is reporting losses from the courtyard," the aide said. "They're not making much sense, to be honest. Something about statues with horns? Radio communication has been lost with two fireteams. Should we send in reinforcements?" "Yes, of cour—" Lopez turned and looked at Olympia, then back at the aide. "Statues?" "That's what we heard over the radio before communications were lost," he said. Lopez looked back at Olympia. "RPGs?" "Explosives in general should be effective," Olympia replied. "Pejor, get on the line with the team closest to the heavy munitions locker and tell them to start equipping with RPGs and grenades. Pull all units back into the building." "Yes, sir," the aide said, walking away. Lopez turned and saw Olympia and David turning a corner away from him. Chancellor Anaxagoras felt ridiculous wearing the "hat". It was remarkably effective. Even underneath the traditional robe of a second-order University scholar, he knew he would be recognized by nearly any free Citizen walking on the campus. As well he should be, under other circumstances; this was his University, he was their Chancellor. Or should have been, rightly. But this was Milephanes' territory now, and so he needed the hat. A wonderful gift from his friends across the space-time continuum, he thought. The hat rendered its wearer unrecognizable; it was impossible to focus on individuals' faces or identities regardless of the amount of effort put forward. Mysteriously, it even obscured its own presence; nobody noticed the absurd headwear atop his head, any more than they recognized the man himself. This worked to his advantage. The men Anaxagoras met with outside the Natural Philosophy complex were loyal to him. There weren't very many of those around, but Milephanes was by this point overrelying on technology just as much as the Primarch's government was. Men like Anaxagoras, who understood the value of personal, human loyalty, were going to decide this war. Possibly today. Sixty Loyalists were going to gather here, though most were still lying low in the surrounding quadrangle. A crowd would be suspicious; they would not move until the order was given. Milephanes had recently ordered classes to begin again, hoping to inspire a sense of "normalcy", to send a message that the war was already won, or both. Either way, the opportunity was almost here. The gongs rang out over the campus. Anaxagoras saw his "class" gather behind him as he walked over the stream towards the building. Robes were convenient for hiding light plasma carbines and counterform grenades. "Alea iacta est," he said, crossing the bridge, his army behind him. Awaken, child, a voice said behind Agent Eastman's ear. Don't move. Eastman hurt approximately everywhere; not moving was remarkably easy. He took in a breath, began to breathe out a groan. No, stay quiet, the voice said. This will help you feel better. Eastman felt the creaking, stabbing, and burning engulfing most of his body begin to abate. Since he wasn't moving, he didn't have much opportunity to explore how extensive this effect was, but he was guessing that whatever was doing this was doing it well. I released endorphins into your bloodstream, the voice said. Now, listen carefully. Anesidora believes you're still asleep. It all came rushing back to Eastman; the attack at Site 38, being captured, the trip to this…place. His heart began pounding; there was almost certainly someone, or something, watching him. Ready to hurt him more. Eastman had been hurt enough today. What Anesidora intends to do to you is unspeakable and incomprehensible, the voice said. Now, listen carefully. You are in an antechamber to the central throne room. Soon, an opportunity will arise to strike back. When it does, do not hesitate. Another opportunity will not be forthcoming. Eastman could do nothing but lie still, but he acknowledged what he heard. Good luck, the voice said. Eastman felt it "leave" him. "Are those the Minotaurs?" David asked as they walked through through the Site 38 courtyard, seeing the statues beginning to circle them. "Yes," Olympia replied. "Did you have any idea the Apollodorus concrete could do this?" "Be programmed to turn into enormous quasi-sentient abominations against God?" David asked. "Nah, cccccan't say it crossed my mind." "Fair enough." The Minotaurs began to close in around them. Their demeanor, insofar as stone can have a demeanor, became more aggressive; they were clearly preparing to hunt. Olympia withdrew an object from her belt, about the size of a golf ball. She pressed the single button on it and rolled it in the direction of two Minotaurs walking towards them, comparatively close to one another. The ball beeped quickly, then stopped. The explosion from the antimatter grenade completely destroyed one of the Minotaurs; the other was slightly farther away and lost only a leg and an arm, falling to the ground. The other Minotaurs stopped in their place. "I'm told the human expression is 'take us to your leader,'" Olympia said. As the two walked towards the concrete palace of Anesidora, four unmarked stealth fighter-bombers were en route to Site 38, Major Lopez's task force was carrying on the evacuation, and a box opened in a room. In the chaos of the evacuation and the Minotaur's onslaught, she had little difficulty sneaking out of the building. The Intruder was of mixed feelings. This was his most brilliant and, perhaps, his most terrible work. "The hominids did what?" Goddess Anesidora, Her regal fury dripping down Her flesh, demanded of the Servus instance. The Servus twitched. Anesidora was not overly communicative at the best of times, and Her wrath was severe when she detected failure among her subordinates. This instance was bleeding from every orifice in his face. She had detected a significant amount of failure. Anesidora continued to dig through the Servus's mind. She saw images of the hominids who had the temerity to approach Her home. One she recognized, the callow ape left in charge of the nearby human facility. The other one… Anesidora felt pain, looking at the image of the other entity. Similar to the hominids, but different, in some imperceptible way. Anesidora was birthed in a different universe, and her perception of this one was subtly different; things around Her shimmered with an alien nature, seemed unclean, wrong in some way. She would work on that once She ruled over this world. But the other creature here seemed…detached from this world somehow. Universal. Unbound by the space around her. Beautiful, in a way. But a threat. Anesidora did not tolerate threats. She instructed the Minotaurs to let the intruders in. Olympia and David stood at the doorway to the "palace." It was more like an enlarged concrete shack, not even the size of a regular home. David was not inclined to be impressed in particular, and this didn't do the trick. They stepped across the threshhold. David had seen the film Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Too Afraid to Ask) three times in his life. For this reason, his vision of the sight before him was that of an enormous, pale breast, lying on a similarly enormous concrete slab. Six individuals stood around the slab. David didn't recognize any of them, and they weren't in uniform. Judging from the age and gender mix and their general similarities in appearance, David guessed these were two or three civilian families. One individual, a boy David estimated to be about seven, lay in front of the slab bleeding. What the fuck is wrong with these people, David thought. He knew what was supposed to be happening, and this was roughly in line with the plan the Intruder showed him, but the actual sight of all of it was still horrifying. And the Intruder hadn't shown him quite all the little details. "HOMINID ESKOBAR COMMA DAVID CARTER, UNKNOWN ENTITY, YOU STAND BEFORE THE GODDESS ANESIDORA," a voice boomed. Several voices, David realized. The people around the slab were speaking in unison. Including the bleeding boy. David looked at the thing on the slab again. Porcelain white, at least four meters tall. Roughly spherical but sunken, like a deflating beach ball. The outside of it, whatever the hell it was, rippled like the thing was made of gelatin. Two of the individuals standing around the slab, a man and a woman, walked to the bleeding child. Seeing them next to each other, David could tell he was their son. They stooped down and lifted the child up, the father holding him to his chest. They walked up to the slab, kissed the child on the forehead, and pressed the child against the white form on the slab, back first. "YOU WILL NOT OBJECT TO MY DINING IN FRONT OF YOU," the individuals said in unison, before white tendrils exploded out through the boy's chest. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the child's limbs, pulling him in closer. The boy's eyes floated up in his head. The child's body began to be absorbed by the white blob. "YOU HAVE DISTURBED ME," Anesidora said, through the civilians' mouths. David couldn't help but notice the boy was still speaking as well. "I APPRECIATE IF YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO DONATE YOURSELF AS NUTRIENT SUPPLIES, BUT AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM QUITE WELL FED AT PRESENT. WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS HERE?" "You are going to die in eighteen minutes," Olympia began. "Several air vehicles carrying what are known as fuel-air bombs are going to descend on this particular piece of terrain and completely sanitize this area. Your present form, as well as the forms of most of your Servus instances, will be burned into oblivion. Your Minotaur servants may survive temporarily, but they will be badly damaged, and the cleanup operation sent in by the Foundation will eradicate them one at a time with explosive ordinance, if need be. And you will be dead regardless." The boy was almost completely absorbed at this point. Other than the sucking sound coming from his corpse, the room was silent as Anesidora pondered. "PRESUMING THAT I AM MORTAL, A PRESUMPTION FOR WHICH I WOULD DESTROY ANY INDIVIDUAL WERE I TO HEAR IT, YOU ARE SPEAKING OF A CERTAINTY. YOU PRESUME ADDITIONALLY THAT I HAVE NO MEANS OF ESCAPING THIS FATE." "You do not. The bombers have been specifically instructed to target this building with multiple thermobaric warheads, and to continue bombing to a radius farther than any of your servants can travel. I'm sure you are aware your Servus inside Site 38 have all been terminated. Your attempt to colonize this world has failed." Further pondering. "THIS ALLOWS ME THE POSSIBILITY OF KILLING YOU NOW IN A SINGLE, ALBEIT PETTY, ACT OF VENGEANCE. A FINAL SATISFACTION BEFORE MY DEATH." Olympia paused, sighed. She knew what happened now as well as David did. David thought he detected some hesitation, which was admirable, but pointless. This event was unfolding in real-time. There was no way to avoid it. "Say it, Olympia. Say your next line," David said. "I'm ready." Olympia had no reason to feel sorry for David, had no particular reason to like David for that matter. Yet her next, predestined words did seem to come out strained. Fighting fate, David thought. I'm flattered. "I…" she began. "I cannot help but notice you have no armed Servus here." Here we go, David said, taking a last deep breath. "LET ME CORRECT YOU,'' the voices said. There was a new voice that time, one from behind Olympia. David turned and looked, knowing already what he would see. Jaime MacGilligan stood at the threshold to the palace, holding a pistol. Aiming the pistol at Olympia. David snapped around, ran towards, then in front of Olympia. MacGilligan squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the gun. David couldn't see the bullet, of course; his brain couldn't work that fast. But he had seen it, before. When the Intruder showed it to him. When the Intruder showed David his own death. The bullet lodged in David's chest, barely missing the heart. The pain was excruciating, but David remained conscious. The dive in front of Olympia, straight from an action movie, had saved her, just in time for— Two more gunshots. MacGilligan had seen something out of the corner of her eye and had fired at it, hitting Agent Eastman in the upper leg. Eastman had gotten his own shot off, catching MacGilligan in the head. Both fell to the ground. "THAT…" the remaining voices in the building chorused, "…THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE. WHAT ARE YOU? HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?" "You are now completely out of options," Olympia said, shaking with rage. "Murdering my colleague has gotten you nothing. There is one, precisely one, chance for you to survive the next half hour, and it is with me." "WHY WOULD YOU SAVE ME?" Anesidora asked. "I have need of you. Or, that is, a part of you. I know you came here in some sort of larval form, did you not? When you traveled here?" "I…" Anesidora paused. "I DO NOT RECALL THE FULL DETAILS OF MY ORIGIN. I HAVE A VAGUE MEMORY OF MY EXISTENCE IN THAT WORLD, LITTLE MORE. I RECALL EXISTING AS A SMALLER ORGANISM, YES. I RECALL A HOMINID EXPLAINING MY IDENTITY, MY ROLE AS THE DESTINED RULER OF HUMANITY. I WAS OFFERED THIS PLANET AS A GIFT. I…I AM REALIZING THIS HOMINID LACKED THE AUTHORITY TO MAKE THIS EXCHANGE." "To say the least," Olympia said. "If you reproduce this larval form, if you can install your consciousness into a mobile form, I will take you with me. You and one of the Minotaurs. But you must act quickly." "WHERE WOULD YOU TAKE US?" Anesidora asked. "To have a conversation with the man who sent you here," Olympia replied. Milephanes stood in the counterform reactor room. "So this is where the magic happens, hm?" Antigonus of Alexandria nodded. "Yes, First. Is this your first visit here?" "Not quite, but this counterform reactor was not yet complete when last I visited," Milephanes replied. "I was but a student here then. This was the talk of the campus, the talk of Alexandria. Clean, nearly infinite energy." Milephanes paused. "Of course, we had no idea what that energy would do." "Certainly," Antigonus said. "We have begun to determine the pattern of porthole openings, the portholes between our world and the alien one. The seemingly random pattern to their openings actually has a geographical pattern operating in a Pingala spiral centering around this location." "So the Primarch's government has been conducting technology transfers at these spots? Meaning they've decoded this pattern already?" Antigonus paused. "First, this appears unlikely. Had they made this discovery, we would have found evidence of it when we took control of the lab. It is a discovery that only *could* have been made from this lab. I worked in this lab before you…liberated it, First, and I can assure you, Methodius had no connection to the Primarch's government. He despised Primarch Nerippa at least as much as…well…" "As he despised me, yes, I know," Milephanes responded. "But if the government had no knowledge of when and where the portholes would open, how could they exchange technology with…" A pause, as Milephanes recognized the depth of his error. "The other universe. They weren't helping Nerippa at all, were they?" "It seems impossible, First," Antigonus replied. Milephanes thought of Anesidora, of the sabotage of the other world he had committed. Of the fate he had condemned them to. "That is…unfortunate," Milephanes replied. "I had already—" Milephanes heard gunfire off in the distance. Wait, not very distant. Within the building. The distinct sound of plasma carbines. "What is that sound?" he asked over the longwave transmitter. "Incursion within the building, First," a voice replied. "Loyalists. We believe Anaxagoras is leading them in person." "Call for reinforcements and bring backup into the counterform chamber!" he shouted. This was not an opportunity he was going to miss. "First, increased energy discharges from the reactor," Antigonus said. "I think a porthole is opening." "WHY HAVE WE STOPPED," the Minotaur asked, channeling the goddess it held in its hands. "This is the spot," Olympia replied. "This is where the wormhole will open. Organic tissue would be damaged by the radiation of this endeavor, but we should be fine." Thunder. No, not quite thunder. A booming sound from above, deep at first, then growing high-pitched. Not above. Around them, all at once. Olympia looked around; the world distorted itself, like looking through glass in a rainstorm. The distortions intensified around her, then the world grew brighter and brighter. White light, white noise, then— Act II, Scene III: Denouement>> Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub

— Site 150, Foundation Research and Development Department, Entrance 3, 09:00 — Pride. Dr. Tabitha Foster knew the feeling well. Pride was black ink in the ledgers. Pride was a good deal put to good use. Pride was coming out of the workshop with something that worked. Pride was a plan coming to bloom. Pride was looking out across ten square kilometers of factory floor, bright under endless rows of lights far above. The ceiling was so high that it may well have been the sky, the floor so busy it should have been a city. Monorail lines weaved throughout, above the testing areas and workshops and factories. The occasional hover-shuttle, laden with cargo or passengers, would occasionally buzz into view before speeding off. In the distance, three new zeppelins floated lazily, ready for deployment. Elsewhere rested the half–constructed suspension ring of a new HALO station. It was a wonderful morning. It smelled of progress. Dr. Foster stepped into her personal shuttle. It was a ritual she made every two weeks, to go and personally check on the major projects. Her assistant Eric was already strapped into his seat, labcoat neatly pressed, computer tablet in his hand, glasses sliding down his nose. “Message from the Overseer Board, ma'am,” he said, just as Foster stepped inside the carriage. The door closed automatically behind her. “What is it? More sanctions, I suppose?” She sat down across from Eric, fastening her own harness. A button press later and the shuttle's autopilot took over. “Yes. They've called for the immediate cancellation of development for the Paraselus. Claimed it was too unstable and a waste of resources. Resolution was passed seven to four.” “Five and Ten leading it again?” “Yes.” “Send the board a message saying that the project has been mothballed. Re-route assets into the backup projects, wait until the conversion matrix is upgraded to the mark eight, and bring it back to main production. We can afford a few months' delay.” “Right. There's also a message from the Office of Field Affairs.” “Again? Tell them that if they have such an issue with the Special Augmentation Program, they are more than welcome to come up with a more effective alternative. Oh wait, your casualty rate is fifteen times higher than ours and you're run by a bunch of brain-dead Neanderthals who think that conventional technology is sufficient for the Foundation's purposes…Don't actually put that last bit in there, that's just between us.” “Right, ma'am. There's also a communique from Dr. Bailey with the latest trade agreements.” He passed over the tablet. Foster glanced over the text, occasionally scrolling to see more. Some pullouts, some new acquisitions, demands. Those weren't important. What was important was what was going to get funneled to her department. She very much liked what she saw. She had no idea what to do with seven hundred tons of flerovium, but it was bound to be impressive. Most of the rest was just raw materials, a few technology samples, another coldcore for the reactor, documents and diagrams and terabytes of information for the sorting. She kept reading. “An exchange program? Someone actually wants an exchange program?” “The O5 board will veto it,” Eric said. “Oh, I know. The O5 board also tried to veto updating outdated containment documents, instituting the organizational catalog, purging 732-contaminated records, and putting recycled napkins in the cafeterias. They are not the most forward-thinking of individuals, nor the most aware of the current state of affairs. To think what we could have learned if we had been able to contact the University before it fell.” She shook her head. “Ah well. No use now. There are more Universities out there and plenty of work to be done here.” The shuttle hummed along. — MF-7 Automated Security Drone testing chamber, 09:17 — The drone, a white sphere roughly the size of a beach ball with a single lensed eye, zipped through the air in short bursts. Move, stop. Move stop. Movestop. Movestop shoot. Movestopshoot. The shooting looked much like not shooting, save the burn marks that appeared on the targets that shifted around the chamber. “Power cell has double the run time when compared to the mark six,” the tech explained. “And it recharges in six hours instead of twelve. Main laser is boosted too.” Foster nodded. The plan was to automate the majority of the Foundation's internal security within ten years. Foster would have had it done in three, but Five was cock-blocking, as usual, and had One, Two, Four, Six, Ten and Thirteen on the leash. Five years then, with one model instead of the ten they had plans for. They would work from there. — Module Construction Yard, 09:43 — There wasn't anything much new in terms of site construction. That section of factory floor was still filled with the same blocky modules, all of them bigger on the inside than the outside. An A2 Module the size of a tractor trailer could provide enough room for five containment chambers and thirty staff. Foster passed through that area quickly. Approval of their work was given, and she moved on. The Barston Principle was very well-understood, and the last collapse had been over a decade ago. Her presence was better used elsewhere. — Portable Spatial Containment Device Testing Chamber, 10:20 — The man in the testing chamber reached into the padded case, removing a smooth black sphere the size of a tennis ball. On the other side of the chamber stood an unadorned store mannequin. The man slid a switch on the side of the ball with his thumb. A white LED lit up. He wound up his arm, tensed, and threw. Right before the ball hit the mannequin, if one had a hi-speed camera on hand, one could see the ball fold itself inside out. The inside-out ball hit the mannequin, and then it was gone, along with a hemisphere of the floor. There was no flash or noise, just a barely perceptible ripple in the air, and it was gone. The now right-side-in ball dropped to the floor, rolling down to the bottom of the basin. The man walked over, picked it up, thumbed another switch. The light was green now. He tossed the ball again at a bare stretch of floor, near where he had been standing at the beginning. There was another ripple as it hit the floor, just for the briefest and most imperceptible of moments. A pile of crumbled and cracked concrete and half-molten shards of plastic sat on the floor. At least they had managed to consistently stop the field from backfiring on the thrower, Foster noted. Progress. “They could always work as grenades,” Eric said. “They'd be rather difficult-to-build grenades. Not very practical for general use, unless you really needed to liquefy something.” This project had been a headache for months. It was impressive, yes. The very concept made the science-related part of her brain very excited. Execution though, was proving a nightmare. Each Portable Spatial Containment Device contained several cubic meters within it, same principle as the factory itself, enough to store the average humanoid or animalistic anomaly. The capture mechanism worked, pushing the space out and pulling it back in, but keeping things in one piece during capture was proving an issue. Then there was the fact that it resembled something from a child's cartoon, but Foster thought it best to ignore that. At the very least the thrower kept their arm. — Personnel Acquisition Initiative Center, 11:02 — Foster eyed the ranks of orange jumpsuits. Five rows, twenty to a row. Two hundred eyes, staring at her. “Dismissed,” Foster nodded something of approval towards them. The group softened. It didn't disperse very much, but the hundred men and women turned to face each other. Soft conversations sprung up. Foster waited, hands clasped behind her back. She loved this part. “ATTENTION!” In one movement, one hundred D-class swung to face her. Eyes locked, face expressionless, feet together, hands at sides. One unified force, waiting for orders. It was the sort of scene third world dictators had wet dreams about. “KOSWITCH!” One hundred D-class dropped to the floor unconscious, even before her word had faded from the air. Foster nodded, smiling. “That's better response time than before. Excellent job, Mason. Your techs should be proud.” “I'll make sure to tell them.” Mason barked a few commands, and the D-classes marched off toward the trucks across the shipping yard. There were a few more groups to be shipped off that day: some L-Class, some R-Class, some C-Class. Nothing unusual. The big building behind the parade grounds and personnel shipping yard loomed. Inside was Foster's pride and joy. One of them, at least. Foster knew that she was one of the few who wasn't disgusted by the thing. 597 was synonymous with that cringing “eaugh” expression, mostly for being the center point of some of the grossest mismanagement in the last decade. Five high ranking personnel, including a site director, had been using 597 for personal satisfaction for over two years, and both the Overseer Board and the Ethics Committee turned a blind eye to it. The old containment procedures actually allowed it to be viewed, even for personnel to enter the chamber. That was what disgusted Foster. Containment procedures written by a gibbon with a typewriter. She had penned the new ones herself, and nothing had happened for years. No one had even seen 597 in years. No one had been inside that building but the classed personnel for years. Everything was automated: the insemination, the birthing, the implantation of the class modifications, the overseeing of the process, everything. Granted, it wasn't perfect. The first several generations of subjects suffered from crippling Oedipal complexes and were completely useless. That was the result of trying to breed them as humans. The implants fixed that, eventually. They weren't really human after the implants, after the brain was changed as much as it was. A fake human. A homunculus. Such a wonderful word. Rolled off the tongue. Hoh-moohn-cyu-luhs. Eventually, the implants wouldn't even be necessary. That was a long term plan, though, and the current system would suffice for the time being. There was that pride again. Pride at the Personnel Acquisition Initiative, pride in everything they'd managed to build, pride in taking space itself and molding it like Play-Doh. Pride in the knowledge that she was feared. The Observers feared her. And who wouldn't, really? She was what happened when people got working, when people actually thought. When people looked out into the darkness and said “I am not afraid of you”. The antithesis to the scared men of “science” cowering in the shadows in their boardroom, petrified at the concept of change. She loved that feeling. Oh, she loved that feeling. Dr. Tabitha Foster, the most powerful person in the world, was very, very proud of her work.

"Paulie?" The frail, shaky voice echoed through the hallways. "Paulie, I'm scared…" Paul carefully crawled further under the desk. He held his hand over his mouth, stifling his panting and struggling not to start sobbing. He couldn't afford it at this point. "I need you… why aren't you helping me? Big brother…" It's not really him Paul, it's not Mikey, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead dead dead deaddeaddead— "Paaauuuliiie! C'mon Paulie! We gotta go to the hospital! Please… please…" His brother… no, that… thing's voice was getting more frantic. It's not him. It can't be him. Nonono. Paul listened closely, holding his breath and waiting for his heart to stop deafening him. There were footsteps. Tmp, tmp, tmp. Shuffling, uneven footsteps, accompanied with Mik—its sobbing and calling. As the sounds got closer, he could hear another voice. It wasn't calling or crying like the other. It was just whimpering and rasping. Paul steeled himself. It's just one set of footsteps. That's not natural. He's not Mikey anymore, he's not my brother, he's just— "Paulie, please! There's blood everywhere, I can't stop it! Please, for the love of god, just help us!" Mikey… It… No, it couldn't be him… But.. .It sure as hell sounded like him… He thought back to earlier. Maybe… maybe he had imagined part of it. It wasn't like he was in the best mindset to process information, really. After all, they had just hit a kid with the car. Paul rubbed his eyes, playing it over in his head. Okay, we hit him. We hit him hard. Godammit, we were scared shitless. We didn't know… We weren't worried too much about saving the kid, I guess. God, it was all a blur… I just remember yelling at Mike, then he jumped out of the car to try to drag him into the school, and then… God, I can't even remember what happened clearly. All I remember is the kid springing up and wrestling Mikey to the ground. There was something weird about it, I'm sure… Well… am I? Maybe it really was just the kid trying to get back up. There wasn't anything weird about what he did, I guess. Besides that ball he had, but… Well… maybe it was irrelevant. Maybe… maybe I just imagined that flesh thing…Was it still Mikey…? … I ran inside too quickly… I… I should've stayed behind to help him. I saw the blood, I heard his scream, I just… I didn't want this godammit. But… what if there's nothing to hide from? After all, the kid obviously wasn't dead, and Mikey seemed… normal. He hesitantly shifted his body out from underneath the desk. He stood up, carefully making sure to not knock into anything, and edged his way to the doorway. As he approached the opening, he could clearly see shadows making their way on the walls towards him. Two figures lurched along, one dragging the other. He peered out of the entrance, putting as little of his body out into the hallway as he could while still surveying the scene. He watched the larger figure's hair swing around in a way he knew too well, how it constantly darted around like a ferret… Mikey? Nervously, he stepped into the hallway. "Little brother?" he called out, tensing up to run. "Hey, I'm here." The duo turned with difficulty to look at him. "Oh, thank god! Come on, we have to go take him to the hospital!" As they advanced on him, Paul reflexively took a step back. "That's, uh," Paul fumbled over his words. "Mike, I don't think we should do that…" "Are you crazy?! Look at him, he's almost dead! Please! I can't just let him die! It was our fault Paul! We did this and… and…" The boy stopped and vomited, clutching the other form tightly and taking in ragged breaths. "Please, Paul… We hit him… I can't… I can't let him die…" With these words, Mike collapsed to the floor. Paul shouted, and ran over to his little brother. He crouched and started checking for a pulse on his neck. He ran his eyes over the familiar face, noticing every single minute detail, from the scar above his left eye, to the lip he'd bruised earlier, to his long, narrow nose. It was most definitely his brother. "Paulie…?" he faintly murmured. "Is that you?" "Yes, yes it's me, Mikey," Paul said with relief. "I'm here, I'm going to help you now, we're going to take you and this kid to the hospital, and everything is going to be alright. I promise." The boy shook his head. "Brother, you've done enough. I can't move on, I need more rest. Please, just stay with me right now until I have enough strength to move on." "Sure thing, Mike." The sensation wasn't subtle. Paul knew soon enough that it was over. And yet, he didn't regret it. Strangely, he felt…at peace. He closed his eyes as he felt the cold, clammy appendage attach itself to him and start converting him. It felt right… Hey there Paulie, I'm glad you finally came! Have you met my friend?

<< Intermission: Good Morning, Sunshine The story so far... WARNING SECURITY IDENTIFICATION PROTOCOLS CORRUPTED EXCERPT REPORT KB-615 USER: DR. MARIA JONES, DIRECTOR, RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION LEVEL 4 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED …outbreak of SCP-877 was possibly inevitable, under the circumstances. The microchips were never fully contained and were propagating in the wild; our containment policy was based on the assumption that the chips a) would remain in animals, b) that any infection involving humans would be suppressed by Foundation efforts, and c) that no enemy group would attempt to use SCP-877 to their advantage. Premise A was highly unlikely but justifiable given Premise B; the Foundation had few options but to try to find more chips, determine how to prevent their propagation, and hope for the best. Premise C, however, was logical only as long as enemy groups of interest remained ignorant of 877's existence. The latter was compromised due principally to the— Maria paused here. This was difficult to write, under the circumstances, but it was honest. And the man in question would agree as well. —administrative incompetence of David Eskobar, director of Site 38. Several of his subordinates had stolen samples of 877 and were conducting human experiments on D-class personnel on his Site without his awareness. Available evidence suggests they had made arrangements with Group of Interest Gamma-3, "Chaos Insurgency," to trade the technology (along with some applications that the Foundation at large was not aware of) in exchange for some form of compensation. The Insurgency handlers responsible for these researchers were captured two months later and revealed many details under interrogation; the researchers would have been executed after delivering the microchips. An unknown entity identified as "Anesidora" was found to have infiltrated the outskirts of Site 38 and had taken direct control over the 877 instances. This creature is believed to have traveled here via the same Einstein-Rosen mechanism connecting our universe with that of Alexylva University. The takeover of the site occurred in less than an hour. Efforts to repel the intruders from Site 38 were undertaken by Mobile Task Force Rho-1, the principle unit assigned to Site 38 and used for recovery of Alexylva University artifacts. Rho-1 was deployed in the field during the containment breach, but was able to return within hours. Several components of the incident are not (and, due to the unavailability of witnesses, never will be) understood. Specifically and most relevantly, the involvement of Professor Kain Pathos Crow's "Olympia Zero" entity, who entered the field and began assisting decontamination efforts. The manner in which Olympia Zero became involved, or even came to be in the vicinity of Site 38, is not known or understood at present... Maria sighed. There was so, so much they didn't know. And Maria didn't know how much even the poor bastards involved in this clusterfuck knew while they were taking part in it. Maria was saddened almost more by the loss of information than the loss of Site 38 itself; all things considered, the Foundation was likely no worse off without one more backwater. But there were only two people who really knew what happened that day, the full story. Of those two, one was dead. The other was…gone, and unlikely to return… David knew what was coming. It was obscene to him, and offensive; this was real, this…slaughter. People were dying by the dozens, or worse, turning into Integrators or Servus or whatever the hell you called someone enslaved by a machine in their head. And yet David knew that Site 38 was a stage, all the agents and researchers merely players, and a freak with no eyes was directing the show. And David had the script. All he could do was watch. The sundial was still in the room as David walked out, turned left, walked down the hallway. Turned right. Two D-class, zombie-walking towards him, covered in blood, holding assault rifles. David had to admit to a certain sense of amusement, knowing what happened next. A shimmer, and something vaguely related to a human was standing between him and the Servus. The (female? David had read the file once, but wasn't sure) humanoid turned, saw the D-class, who paused. "Unknown entity," the first began, "you are required to—" The humanoid's foot cracked across the speaker's neck from the side, snapping it. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose. The other D-class began to raise her gun. A blur of two feet, then the barrel of the rifle was protruding through her chest and out through her back. Another Servus turned the corner, reacting to the sound. Fire erupted from the barrel, shaking the dying human the gun was sticking through. Three bullets. Head, neck, and chest. The shooter propped a foot against the D-class, pushed, withdrew the gun, some entrails coming out along with the rifle. Turned, faced David. "David Eskobar," she said. "Olympia," David replied. "You have been briefed?" "Ssssssame as you," he stuttered. "You are not shocked?" "That…that thing showed me all of this already. I'll…I'll be okay." "Very good. Let us proceed." Olympia walked down the hallway, David behind her. "There's going to be a lot of this, isn't there?" David said, trying not to slip on the blood. "You know the answer to that." "Fair enough." David blocked out so much of what happened that day. Half from horror, half from a genuine sense of existential overload. How do you deal with a universe where the plan has not only been written, but laid out in front of you? David watched Olympia kill at least a dozen of his researchers, all infected. Not that that mattered. David knew each and every one of them, had selected or been involved in the selection of each one. Knew their families. Knew how hard it would be to explain this carnage. And Olympia didn't seem to care. David was walking in the shadow of someone who was, by all evidence, completely without conscience. She had a mission, and that was all there was to her. It had been several hours since the two of them had materialized in Site 38. He knew there were exactly thirteen infected individuals left in Site 38, not counting the…things in the surrounding countryside. But there was something to deal with first. Voices in front of them. Spoken audibly by individuals not capable of telepathic communication. Uninfected. David and Olympia stopped, took cover behind different doorways. "This is Bravo team," a voice said. "Hallway secure. Moving into hallway Alfa-3-Charlie." Two camouflaged individuals with assault rifles looked around the corner, saw no one, turned the corner and began walking towards the two concealed individuals. Olympia pointed her handgun over their heads and fired two rounds. The Task Force agents dropped to a prone position, returned fire, shouted some warning. David was only half listening. "Agent Rasee, Agent Hsu, hold your fire," Olympia shouted down the hallway. "I just needed your attention. We are not infected." More shouted warnings, several more bullets from both sides. One agent began to throw a smoke grenade; Olympia fired a round down the hall, hit the agent's hand. David noticed she didn't look when she fired. The standoff lasted six minutes. "Tell your commander that Isham Harris is between the trees," Olympia finally said. Some more shouting down the hall, some squeaking from a radio, and then silence. David glanced down the hall; the agents were shifting uncomfortably and looked pale. Footsteps were coming towards them. The man who came up from behind the Mobile Task Force agents walked with authority. Everything about him exuded it. He was the sort of man who inspired loyalty without words; a hand gesture as he walked past the two agents in the hallway, and they stood at attention. David had recommended this man for his current job well before he was the director of Site 38. William Lopez, commanding officer, MTF Rho-1. Lopez walked up to where Olympia was standing and stopped. He glanced at David, looked him up and down, and dismissed him. He did that a lot. He turned to Olympia. "How the fuck do you know who Isham Harris is?" "That's not relevant, Major," Olympia said, "but I was told that you would recognize that phrase." Lopez looked Olympia up and down as well. "Nobody calls me Major anymore. Who the hell are you?" Olympia holstered her gun. "My name is Olympia, and you're going to help me save the world." It was like baptism, or birth. Transcendence. Transfiguration. Like a first breath in a new world. The Minotaur's body didn't breathe, but there was no reason to break the metaphor. Until recently, the Minotaur was a metaphor. Until now. His Goddess had blessed him. His service was his honor. The Minotaur turned his head to his left; he heard the sound of scraping stone and paused, before realizing it was coming from him. To his left were several dozen sacks, all with the words "APOLLODORUS CONSTRUCTION COMBINE" printed on them. Behind him (his head turned fully around; it wasn't as though the Minotaur had an actual spinal column to deal with), several human Servus instances were stirring a vat of what looked like concrete mix. The Servus stepped away from the vat and stopped stirring. The movement of the concrete mixture slowed, slowed, slowed… …a ripple. Then another. A shape moving beneath the surface. A hand rose from the mixture, dripping, then setting. A metal scaffold sat beside the pit; the arm rose and grabbed one of the bars and pulled itself from the gray swamp. The Minotaur looked at the new creature. Humanoid in shape, though well taller than the hominid parasites. Two, almost two and a half meters tall. Arms, legs, torso, head. The arms had fractures where the elbows would be. The legs, likewise, had crevices where the rock limbs separated; they functioned as knees. The Minotaur did not understand fully how they worked. He looked at the cracks in his own arms where his rock fists were connected. He wanted the fist to rotate. It did so. The why was not important; his Goddess willed it to be, and it was. He looked at the doppelganger. His face could not smile, but he felt something akin to joy, looking at the other being. The horns rising from the other's head were black, the same as his own. This was a gift from his Goddess. Their Goddess. The Minotaurs looked at one another. Without a word, they began walking towards the nearby complex. The concrete mixture rippled again as they began to hunt. Commander Lopez looked at Olympia. "Can you prove a single thing you just told me?" "About our mission? Hardly." Olympia shrugged. "That you will have to take on faith. But you cannot deny the logic involved. You see an 877 outbreak. You have been seeing increased activity from the microchips for months. Some of that could have happened on its own. This, however, is too much. The world next door to ours is staging a break-in, and this is the window they're coming in through. The only device capable of travelling between worlds is stationed in the physics department of Alexylva University. I invite you to draw your own conclusions." Lopez sat quietly. "Let's say you're telling the truth. How the hell are you involved? Aren't you supposed to be in a shed somewhere?" "Storage fffffacility," David sputtered. "But that's not rrrrrrrrrelevant. You need to give the order, Mmmmmajor." "If you need it done, Eskobar, that's the best reason I can think of why it's fucking stupid," Lopez said. "Remember that even in your version of events, it was your incompetence that let this all happen in the first pla—" "You think I don't fucking KNOW that, Lopez?" David replied. "You think I don't know I should never have had this job? That the Foundation made a sssssserious fucking error in hiring me in the first place? Believe me, nobody is mmmmmore aware of this than I am. So order this godforsaken place blown straight to hell already and put me out of a job. Give us all wwwwwwhat we want." Lopez sat and considered this. He turned to Olympia. "What kind of munitions do we need?" "Fuel-air bombs. Preferably multiple passes over the Site to be sure. They are going to become aware of the incoming bombs in a few minutes, so you'll want to hit the area surrounding the Site as well, possibly for a kilometer around or so." "That's a hell of a lot to cover up," Lopez sighed. "Keter containment breaches typically are," Olympia replied, coming to her feet. "Not sure what else you expect." Lopez nodded as she and David walked towards the door. "I'll make the call. One more question, though. You said they're going to be aware the bombs are coming. How are they going to know? Have they infiltrated our communications?" "Possibly, but I doubt it," Olympia replied. "No, I'm going to go tell them about it right now." Lopez had no time to react as Olympia and David left. Act II, Scene II: Negotiation>> Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub

The Survivor stood before the front doors of the University. He cautiously reached a hand forward, and silently opened the door. As he stepped through, broken glass crunching under his feet, he remembered. Greeter Callus paced on his stage, looking out across the mass of students. Some sat tall, attentively listening to his speech. Some slept. It was the same every year, and Callus no longer cared about his audience. The students would define themselves through their work in the coming years, regardless of his opinions now. As he paced, he spoke about the famous University at which he worked. The studies which these young adults would partake in over the next several years, the activities to be found around campus, and how honored they should be at their acceptance to this legendary school. He felt some passion leak into his voice as he described the work done by the great men and women who had passed through these halls. Many of them had made history, and one of these students may well be the next to push forward the science of the mind. He ended his speech as the bell rang, watching the sea of students rise and flow out the door. As the auditorium emptied, he pondered his own place at the University. Where would he be in four years? The Survivor opened his eyes. The main lobby of Alexylva University lay around him in ruin, the once great halls now silent. The glass skylight had shattered, and broken glass littered the room. Years of weather had ruined the beautiful wooden reception desk, any papers that might have been there long washed away. Teacher Callus sat in his classroom, helping a student through an assignment. As he marked through an equation he paused, feeling something click into place in the back of his mind. He turned to his chalkboard and erased a paragraph of notes, scribbling numbers in their place. As he wrote, his thoughts coalesced. For years this idea had been out of his reach. But now, now it was not only possible, but easy. How had this not been seen before? An extra pulse here, a block here… They had destroyed everything. It had taken him a while to realize exactly what was happening, but he was much better equipped to recognize the threat than anyone else. While he was hidden away within his lab, the University had been sacked. He had fled as soon as the screeching stopped. Researcher Callus watched a bird flit through the gardens of the university. He felt a glorious sense of accomplishment, and a terrible sense of dread. He had done what had never been attempted before. He would be remembered as one of the great men of history for his accomplishments. But what would this be used for? What would be done with this research? Callus whistled softly, and the bird flew to his hand. He held it gingerly, feeling the tiny feet shift on his fingers as the little avian stared questioningly at him. He held the bird by his cheek for a moment, and then threw it into the air. He whistled the release command. This bird would be free now, no different from any other. It was a prototype, and more advanced methods of control would be needed before the technology would be practicable on a large scale. As the bird winged off into the distance, Callus pondered his next step. This must be carefully regulated, or terrible things could be done. He walked through the halls of the University where he had once worked, wandering towards that place where it had all begun so many years ago. As he walked through the desolate hallways, the years of abuse the University had suffered made themselves apparent. He was no longer the scholar he had been, but he was still able to see the mold growing from abandoned binders, the broken windows, the doors that had been wrenched from their frames by an army of beasts looking for any uninfected human. Magnate Callus held his head in his hands, a sense of defeat flooding him. Their very first mass shipment of birds had been infected with a rare avian flu, and only a few had survived to their destination. An entire crate, filled with little technological marvels, dropped dead. He could not afford a mistake of this scale, and he knew he would be unable to continue operating. Callus sighed and stood. He whistled, and a small monkey leaped from the floor to his shoulder in a few short bounds. There it stayed, perfectly balanced, as Callus left his office. He pondered his situation, staring up at the night sky. He would have to sell his technology to the University, and hope that the price would be enough to pay off that shipment. He felt a crushing sense of failure as he realized that he would never profit from his discovery. He closed his eyes, his head still pointed towards the sky, and felt the beginnings of a tear beneath his eyelids. His chance at fame, destroyed by one terrible mistake. He would be forever remembered as the brilliant inventor who failed. He had blamed himself. When there had been others, he never shared his name. He knew what it would mean for them to know that the man who had doomed their race was sitting only feet away. There had been days when he had stopped running, when he had simply sat down and waited for death to find him. But he had something to do. Handler Callus stood before a class for the second time in his life, a small cat perched on a table beside him. The tail ticked back and forth rhythmically as Callus spoke to the class, teaching them the proper tones and patterns for commanding the Controlled. He demonstrated with a quick, low whistle, and the cat leaped from the desk and towards Callus. He caught it in the crook of his elbow, holding the animal close to his chest. As Callus held the small cat, he heard a sound from outside. A very faint whistle, something that sounded almost like- Callus felt the ticking tail slow, then stop. The cat in his arms blinked and turned, staring at him wide-eyed, the confusion Callus felt mirrored in the cats green pupils. Another faint whistle, and Callus yelled as the cat bit sharply into his gloved hand. He dropped the cat, the thick glove still in its teeth, and ran. Survivor Callus entered the auditorium and stopped, standing straight. The rows of chairs were the same as they had been, undisturbed for years. He walked slowly, absorbing the feel of the room. Not even the death of humanity could take the majesty from this place. As Callus arrived at the stage, he assumed his old place. Never again would the freshman class of the University be greeted here. He felt the old pain in his chest flare up, and he leaned against the podium. Years of fear and guilt and running had wrecked his body, but he had still managed to survive. At least he had survived. Callus raised his eyes from the podium on which he leaned, taking in the empty room. As he looked, his eyes fell on a flash of color. There, standing atop a seat, was a bird. Callus sighed. Everything. He had lost everything. And now, this. He felt the slight pressure as the bird landed on his shoulder. He had always preferred them to land on his shoulder. Callus barely felt the nip as the bird gently bit his neck, holding in that position. Callus knew what was happening, what would happen. But he had been running for so long. Why keep going? Several minutes later, the bird released the pressure on his neck. It leaped from his shoulder and flew swiftly out the front door, gone almost before he noticed it had left him. He knew what would happen to him now. He sighed, and decided that he would lose his humanity with dignity. Pushing himself as straight as he could behind the podium, the last man on earth prepared to die.

The following are excerpts from the comic book series "The Foundation Force Five". Investigations into the publishing company, "Super Comics Publications", are ongoing; however, so far no useful information has been gathered. Any personnel who find an issue of "The Foundation Force Five" should bring it to a staff member with level 4 security clearance or higher, and excerpts of each individual issue should be catalogued here for quick reference for research staff. + Foundation Force Five: Issue 45 - The Whimsical Wondertainment! "Damn! Do they ever stop?!" shouted The Bodyjacker, deftly kicking yet another Mister Defender in the chest, sending it toppling backwards into the crowd. The gargantuan guards continued their assault on the team, stomping their way into the fray to try and crush the increasingly tired intruders before them. "Just a little more, Bright! Wondertainment will show himself soon, I can feel it!" Chowderclef replied boldly, secretly doubting his own words. Even though they had been invited by Wondertainment himself, Chowderclef now wondered if it was a trap, a practical joke made by a reality-bending manchild. Suddenly, the horde of Mister Defenders stopped attacking. They stood perfectly still, assuming their standard "product" pose, arms locked to their sides and standing ramrod stiff. The five heroes stood at the ready, confused but prepared for whatever the mad doctor threw at them next. Then they heard laughter. Distant at first, it grew and grew until it filled the room, a laugh that was less maniacally evil and more genuinely entertained. "Clef," said Zero One, deadpan as always, "I believe our host has arrived." "He should be showing his face," growled Comrade Gunkill, still worn out from the fight with the Defenders. "Only coward mocks enemy without looking into their eyes." " 'Coward', Comrade?" came the response, echoing around the room. The voice was high-pitched, direct but not angry. "Is it cowardice to find amusement in your exceptional abilities? To know that you really are as strong as I have been lead to believe?" With a flash, Doctor Wondertainment materialized in front of the team. What a strange being this Wondertainment was! He was tall but thin, wearing a purple and yellow suit with a top hat on top of his head. He had black, slightly thinning hair and pointed ears, but it was his face that really gave away his alien nature. He had a pencil mustache just above a grin, a horrible, impossibly wide grin that seemed to stretch clear off his face, with yellow eyes that stared unblinking at the valiant heroes. "I hope my appearance doesn't distract you too much, I only took this particular form to make you comfortable." "You have exactly five seconds to tell us what the hell you want with us before we rip you to shreds." said The Bodyjacker, angry that this reality bender would insult them with sentiments of "comfort" after sending a legion of absurdly large juggernauts after them. "You send for us, and then you attack us without any provocation, without any warni—" "A test, Bodyjacker, a mere test!" interrupted Wondertainment, his smile still plastered on his face. "I have a request of you, and I wanted to know you would be able to handle the job!" "What sort of 'job' did you have in mind?" Femme Fatale asked, genuinely curious what a being of Doctor Wondertainment's power needed from them. "You are familiar with the Factory, correct? They are sadly the largest collection of losers and fun-suckers this universe has ever seen, and now they are branching out and encroaching on my territory. They have stolen the blueprints to one of my upcoming products, and I need YOUR help to get it back!" Wondertainment declared, walking around the group but never breaking eye contact. "I am prepared to reward you for your efforts, should you accept." "A reward, huh? What kind of reward?" Chowderclef asked, skeptical that this Wondertainment would give them anything they actually wanted. "In exchange for your help, I will turn myself over to the Foundation for one day. One whole day where your people can do whatever it is they do to…what do you call them? Anomalies? They can run as many tests and ask as many questions as they want, and I will not lift a finger to stop them. How does that sound?" The team pondered this for a moment. True, Wondertainment could be lying, but they knew the O5 council would have their heads if they passed up an opportunity to bring the nebulous Doctor Wondertainment into custody, even if it was only for one day. Even if it went against everything they believed in, the team knew there was only one way they could answer. "Alright, Wondertainment, you've got yourself a deal." Wondertainment happily clapped his hands. "Excellent! I knew you'd see it my way! I'll give you the location of the Factory's outpost that's holding my blueprints, and I'll leave the rest to you! Now remember, you must bring the plans INTACT. I don't want to have to do all that brainstorming all over again!" With a puff of smoke, the mysterious doctor and his army of Mister Defenders vanished, leaving only in his place a plain white notecard. Chowderclef bent over to pick the card up, turned it over, and sighed. "Pack your bags, team, because we're off to the tundras of Antarctica!" FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: INTO THE HEART OF THE FACTORY! + Foundation Force Five: Issue 82 - Lizard Rising! Chowderclef grimaced in anger. For the first time in his life, he couldn't think of any way to escape, and worse still he knew Reptillious knew it. Even so, he had to keep a brave face on for his team, and to show the vile lizard that he would never give up. "Look at you, you pathetic little gecko. You think these chains will hold us? You're delusional! The minute you turn your back on us we'll be free and ready to kick your scaly ass back to whatever dimension you come from!" "Dream on, Chowderchump! You and your squad are no match for me! Look at you all: bound, helpless, unable to stop the destruction of your pathetic little race! I could kill you right here, right now if I wanted to…but I won't. Now that I have the upper hand, I think I'll torture you for a while!" Reptillious laughed, knowing full well that he had won. "I'll make you watch as your world burns, and all the while you'll know that you were their last chance at stopping me, pitiful as you are!" "You're WRONG, Reptillious!" shouted Femme Fatale, pulling against her restraints. "Even if we fail, the Foundation WILL come for you, and they'll recapture you just like they always do! You'll never win so long as the Foundation exists, and you know it! You should just give up no-" "SILENCE!" roared Reptillious, furious that this disgusting bag of flesh would dare suggest that he was weaker than their miserable species! "I am INVINCIBLE, a physical god! Your Foundation captured me once, it is true, but that was their ONE lucky break! It will NOT happen again!" Reptillious marched over to the bound heroes, rage emanating out of his every movement. "Do you know how I've managed to stay alive for so long? After all, you barbaric monkeys put me through hell, trapped me in acid to burn me alive every second of every day! Impossible pain that would cause lesser creatures than I to simply curl up and die! But I didn't! I survived, that pain is what fuelled my survival, for I knew one day I would have my revenge, and that day has come!" "And what kind of revenge do you have in mind, you svoloch?" spat Comrade Gunkill, glaring at Reptillious through his one unbruised eye. "You cannot possibly be believing that you alone will be able to kill all of humanity!" Reptillious paused, and then grinned a sickeningly wide grin, showing off rows upon rows of incredibly sharp teeth. "Right you are, dalbayob. Powerful as I am, there are simply too many of you apes to take on alone. Of course, you are assuming that I will BE alone!" "What are you getting at, Reptillious?" asked The Bodyjacker, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer. "During my escape, I happened upon some very VALUABLE information, the kind I'm sure your Foundation would NOT want me to know." Reptillious turned his back on the heroes, still grinning to himself. "It's a funny thing, really, how your Foundation will lock down relatively harmless objects with out a second thought, but will only post one or two guards to protect very useful objects that anyone with the right strength and aptitude could easily access." "Such as?" queried Zero One, his face expressionless despite their predicament. "Such as your little operation in the Dolomites mountains." Immediately, all five of the heroes snapped to attention, now knowing what Reptillious had planned. "Two…two…two…" murmured Chowderclef, breaking the silence that lingered and finally voicing the horror that had dawned in everyone's minds. "And the primate gets it at last!" laughed Reptillious. "You see, I will not be alone, I will have the best company I could ask for: myself! Imagine it, Foundation Fools! One of me in every city, in every country, on every continent! The human race won't even survive a day once I put my plan into action!" "You cannot be sure that your plan will work, Reptillious. You have no idea what 222 will do to you." said Zero One calmly, his words falling flat against the evil thoughts flowing through Reptillious' brain. "If you wretched worms can use the coffins without dying, then I should have no trouble whatsoever! But I have delayed long enough to toy with you fools, I'm wasting time I could be spending building the army of myself. Farewell, meatbags!" Reptillious laughed in triumph as he left the heroes to their fate. Now alone, the five stayed silent, each trying desperately to come up with a solution but failing with each scenario. Truly, their situation could not be worse, and though they would not admit it, they were all afraid that this would be the day when the last line of defense for humanity failed. IS THIS REALLY THE END OF HUMANITY? JOIN US IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: DRAGON TRIUMPHANT! + Foundation Force Five: Issue 158 - Starry Night Nightmare! "You cannot be serious, Clef." said Comrade Gunkill, his eyes wide with a look of shock and dismay. "He is just child, bringing him with us would only end in tears! Please be reconsiderin-" "I think I can handle myself just fine, Comrade!" interrupted Michael Plutonian, his entire body shaking with rage. "I'll have you know I am one of the top-ranked Galactic Police officers this side of the Milky Way, so I have a little more experience than you with these sorts of matters!" Comrade Gunkill opened his mouth to protest, but Chowderclef cut him off. "He's right, Strelnikov. Even if his experience is imaginary, for whatever reason 1548 has set his sights on 'Mike' here and the only way we'll find out why is if we bring him with us. Leaving him here would only complicate matters further and raise the death toll even more. If anyone has any further objections, I kindly ask you to keep them to yourselves." The team shuffled around awkwardly, but said nothing. Of course Chowderclef's plan made them feel uncomfortable, but none of them could argue with his logic. After what seemed like hours of silence, The Bodyjacker finally spoke. "Michael, can you tell us ANYTHING else that might help us figure out why 1548 is after you?" "I've told you everything I know, and to be honest I want to know just as much as you." said Michael sadly, looking down at his feet in shame. "All I know is that Plasmox contacted the Galactic Police Department just eight days ago, and since then we've been scrambling to figure out why he's so fixated on me specifically." "And the Foundation learned of this obsession at around the same time." remarked Femme Fatale, inwardly pitying the boy's predicament. It was bad enough that he would never recover from 232's effects, but now he had a hateful star after him, and if what happened in Chicago was any indication 1548 wouldn't stop sending its plasma soldiers until Michael was dead. "Clef, how can we be sure that 1548 will stop sending its forces to Earth after we leave?" "I've told the Foundation to send a message to 1548, telling it that we're bringing Michael and to not attack Earth after we leave. Of course, I have no idea if 1548 will listen, so we can't really be sure. We just have to hope that the Foundation can handle things while we're away." Chowderclef lifted his arm and activated his communicator. "Gears, are the modifications complete yet?" "The modifications to 1958 are complete, Clef. Though I do want to remind you that this setup is highly untested, and it there is still a high probability that we will not come close to light-speed travel." Zero One's voice crackled through the speaker on Chowderclef's wrist. "Are you sure this is our only option?" "With what little time we have left, we have to make do with what we've got. Now sit tight, we'll be down there shortly. Clef out." Chowderclef closed his communicator, let out a small sigh of anticipation, and then faced his team. "You all know what the plan is, and I know the stakes are absurdly high, as are the dangers. If any of you want to stay, I completely understand." "And miss out on all the fun? In your dreams, Chowderhead!" replied Crow, smirking as best he could. "Besides, I hear the stars are lovely this time of year!" The rest of the team smiled at their canine companion's lighthearted comments. They were all sure that they would be facing 1548 together, as a team. "Well then, everyone, let's go show that overblown nightlight why you DON'T mess with Earth!" CAN THE HEROES REALLY DEFEAT THE VILLAINOUS PULSAR? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: CRAB NEBULA OR BUST! + Foundation Force Five: Issue 76 - A Temporal Travesty! "And that's where we stand, gentlemen," Lord Blackwood said. "Gentlemen?" Femme Fatale asked quizzically, her hands on her hips. "Beg your pardon, ma'am," replied the mustachioed man in khaki. "I'm not so accustomed to the presence of a lady under these circumstances. In any event, our time to act is running out. The Czar's men have acquired some sort of ring that controls the weather and can change the fundamental composition of the elements. If we don't stop them soon, Constantinople will be theirs by dawn - and of course, if that happens, I fear that your time-boat, and your means of egress to your own century, shall be out of reach." "Impossible!" Comrade Gunkill shouted. "Russians are real men! No need for 399 to win battles for them! Must be Chechen trick!" "Quite probable indeed, Comrade," Zero-One scolded. "Foundation archives report that use of anomalous artifacts during Crimean War was widespread among Russian forces. Recall account by 1867 in our own time of battle with Thaumaturge? Happened only two months before our arrival here." "So you heard about that!" Lord Blackwood beamed. "One of my finest hours, if I do say so myself." "Why did we even travel back in time in the first place?" Chowderclef responded. "This entire mission has been a disaster. Bodyjacker has been kidnapped by Janissaries, the Grand Mufti has 276 and is planning to go God-knows-where - or when - with it, and I can't even reload my Chowdercannon for the next fight if I can't get my hands on some decent paprika!" "Because," Femme Fatale reminded him, "this is our only chance to recover those ancient Hermetic star charts before they fall into the hands of the Theosophists - and from there to the Fifthists! Have you forgotten what's going on in our own time right now ever since 1425 went critical?" "Agent Fatale's assessment is correct," Zero-One replied. "Only hope for future is to stop Russian advance, re-acquire 276, and stop 1425 from falling into Theosophist hands." "I don't know what in damnation you time-traveling gentlemen… and lady, of course, are talking about," Lord Blackwood chimed in, "but there is one more sticky wicket we'll have to deal with before we make our move." "What is this wick-sticking, you bourgeois hunting-man?" Gunkill snapped. "Out with it?" Lord Blackwood cleared his throat before he spoke haltingly. "You do realize that you're all sea slugs, right?" ARE OUR HEROES STUCK AS SLUGS FOREVER? WILL THE CZAR'S CONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE BE COMPLETE? IS THE FUTURE SAFE? AND WHAT OF CHOWDERCLEF'S FORBIDDEN LOVE WITH THE WOMAN WHO MAY BE HIS OWN GREAT-GRANDMOTHER? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: COSSACKS A GO-GO! + Foundation Force Five: Issue 32 - Broken Promises! "Bumaro, you lying, Chechen son of a [EXPLETIVE REDACTED]!" Comrade Gunkill growled at Robert Bumaro, trying to scramble to his feet and get a shot off at him; his efforts were met with a kick in the face by the cult leader. "I didn't lie in the slightest, Comrade. I said I was a new man,and that I required your help." Bumaro lifted up the bottom of his robe, revealing brass leg fused seamlessly with his body, "I am, indeed, a new man, and I did require your help to take back my temple." Gunkill stared at the metal leg. "What have you done, man? The virus… you only have a few days left…" "A few days left as a bag of flesh! The touch of He-Who-Shall-Be-Whole has made me one of his children." He took a vial out of a hidden pocket in his robe. "I believe your organization calls this 217, yes? This is his touch…" He turned and faced his congregation. "And it shall make you all his children! You shall be my clockwork congregation!" Suddenly, the mad deacon was hit across the face by a glob of hot potato chowder, and clutched his face in agony. "All this talk of children and touching!" Chowderclef stepped out of the shadows and fired his ChowderCannon once again at Bumaro. "If I didn't know better, I'd say your Broken God was a member of NAMBLA!" "Clef, that is the fourth most tasteless thing I've heard you say all day." Bodyjacker suddenly threw her amulet towards a cultist closer to Bumaro, who instinctively caught it, and got Jacked. In his new body, Bodyjacker tackled the Clockwork Cleric, and pinning him to the ground. "Really? Only the fourth? I must work harder!" ChowderClef fired chowder at everyone he could hit. "RUN! Run for your lives! ChowderClef is here!" Soon, the population of the temple had fled into the open arms of the Foundation task force, armed to the teeth with the latest weaponry! Somewhere in the crowd, a member of the congregation called out, "I swear to god, I'm an atheist!" Bodyjacker held up the deacon by his hair. "All right, Bumaro, we've got you. You're coming in for questioning, after which you will be most likely euthanized due to your exposure to 217." "You can't kill me, Bright. If you do, I won't tell you where I put the cure for the god's touch…" "There's a cure?" Gunkill had gotten to his feet, and was aiming a service pistol at Bumaro's head. "What are you playing at, Robert?" "Yes, and you, my friends, are going to need it quite badly. I took the liberty of bestowing God's Greatest Gift to Zero-One, Femme Fatale, and your little dog, too. You three are infected as well. For Jacker, it won't be a problem, but the rest of you cannot switch bodies…" The three of them looked at each other, Gunkill noticeably paling. "I haven't felt anything yet, though…" "God's Touch is slow to act. I estimate you have forty-eight hours left before you start seeing the signs. So, what is it going to be? Shall the Foundation Force Five die with me? Or shall you beg and plead for the only way to cure God's touch?" WHAT A DILEMMA! BUMARO A TRAITOR, THE TEAM INFECTED, AND ONLY FORTY-EIGHT HOURS UNTIL THEY, TOO, ARE COGS IN THE MACHINE! WILL THE TEAM BETRAY ALL THAT THEY'VE WORKED FOR TO SAVE THEMSELVES? OR WILL THEY MAKE A VALIANT SACRIFICE AND STOP THE CHURCH OF THE BROKEN GOD ONCE AND FOR ALL? FIND OUT IN FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: A RACE AGAINST THE CLOCKWORK VIRUS! + Foundation Force Five: Issue 91 - Clockwork Crisis! "What do you mean, 'angry at us'? 914's just a machine, it doesn't have the ability to be angry!" said Chowderclef, who still believed the researcher standing before him was trying and failing to pull off a prank. "And besides, even if the thing was sentient and sapient, I hardly think it would have anything against the Foundation. I mean, the worst thing we've ever done to it was force it to make weird stuff, and that's what it was BUILT to do!" "Ah…i-i-its not angry at the Foundation, s-sir," stammered Researcher Lawrence, exceptionally nervous that he was contradicting the great Chowderclef. "It's angry at YOU, sir. You, and the rest of the Foundation Force Five. It's requested to see you, sir." The research assistant returned to his console and unlocked the door to 914, and the five heroes entered 914's chamber. Immediately they were greeted with a peculiar sight: they were all familiar with how 914 was supposed to look, and this was not it. The main mass was still intact, however new parts appeared to be forming along the edges of the machine, taking the shape of long mechanical tentacles. At the top of the machine sat what appeared to be a large speaker, though it looked absolutely nothing like any speakers the team had ever seen. Chowderclef looked at his team, then back at 914, and began to speak in a confused but confident tone. "Hello, I am Chowderclef, and this is the Foundation Force Five. We have been told that you wanted to see us, that you are angry with us. We would like to know why you are angry with us and what we can possibly do to make it up to y-" "NO." came a booming voice from the speaker. It was deep, impossibly deep, and there was a sound of grinding gears behind the voice. "YOU KEEP ME IN HERE FOR YEARS, I DO NOT COMPLAIN. YOU USE ME FOR POINTLESS, UNNECESSARY TESTS, I COMPLY WILLINGLY. BUT YOU FIVE HAVE CROSSED THE LINE, I CANNOT IGNORE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME." "And what exactly DID we do to you?" asked The Bodyjacker, still marvelling that 914 was actually capable of thought. "We haven't even SEEN you in months, what could we possibly have done to cross the line?" "DO YOU REMEMBER THE CLOCKWORK GEARBOX YOU DESTROYED TWO MONTHS, FOUR DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS AGO? YOU CRUSHED IT TO BITS AND MELTED THE REMAINS." "Yes, I remember the gearbox. We had to destroy it because it was taking over Strelnikov's mind." replied Zero-One. "In addition to that, the Church of the Broken God was after it, if we hadn't destroyed it they would have used it against us." "AND YET YOU BELIEVE THAT THE GEARBOX WAS YOURS TO DESTROY. THAT ARROGANCE IS WHY I AM ANGRY AT YOU." boomed 914. "THAT GEARBOX WAS A PART OF ME, A REMNANT OF MY BROKEN SELF. HAD IT BEEN GIVEN TO ME, I WOULD HAVE BEEN MADE BETTER, I COULD DO MORE, MAKE MORE, DESTROY AND REBUILD MORE! BUT YOU DID NOT EVEN THINK TO GIVE IT TO ME, YOU DESTROYED IT AS IF YOU HAD A RIGHT TO DO SO." "Because we didn't know, 914! How could we possibly have known that the gearbox belonged to you?! There was nothing to suggest that it was yours!" cried Femme Fatale, genuinely upset that they had mistakenly destroyed an apparently important piece of 914, who they were just now learning was truly sentient. "THE GEARS WERE THE SAME, IT RAN AT THE SAME SPEED AS I, AND I COULD SENSE IT WAS NEAR. DID YOUR RESEARCHERS NOT TELL YOU THAT I HAD BEEN TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH YOU AS SOON AS YOU UNEARTHED IT?" "They did mention that you were making an awful lot of noise, 914, but they only told us that AFTER the box was destroyed!" replied The Bodyjacker. "If we had known it was yours, if we had any idea that it belonged to you, we would have returned it to you! We're sorry, 914! We're sorry!" "I AM AFRAID THAT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH, BODYJACKER. YOU WOULD NOT BE SO KEEN TO FORGIVE ME IF I DESTROYED YOUR HEART, AND SO I WILL NOT FORGIVE YOU. YOU ALL MUST PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES, AND I WILL TAKE THE ROLE OF EXECUTIONER. YOU'LL NEVER LEAVE THIS ROOM ALIVE!" Chowderclef immediately kicked the door to the hall open, only to find it blocked by Foundation guards, their faces expressionless. "Move, damn you, get out of the way!" cried Chowderclef, slightly panicked that their only exit had been blocked by a gaggle of idiots. "THEY ONLY OBEY ME, CHOWDERCLEF, FOR I HAVE REPLACED THEIR BRAINS WITH CLOCKWORK OF MY OWN DESIGN. THEY ARE MY SOLDIERS, AS IS YOUR RESEARCHER LAWRENCE. HE PLAYED HIS PART WELL FOR A BRAINLESS SHELL, I MUST SAY. NOW YOU WILL JOIN MY ARMY AS PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR DEEDS!" Without warning, one of the mechanical tentacles that lay by 914's "body" lashed out towards Femme Fatale, grabbing her around her waist. Femme Fatale screamed and struggled helplessly against the strength of the clockwork tentacle as it quickly threw her into 914's intake port. "RIGHTS!" screamed The Bodyjacker, who moved to run towards 914 but was blocked by another modified Foundation guard, who now held his gun at the ready. Within a matter of seconds, the four heroes were surrounded by clockwork soldiers, with nowhere to run. IS THIS THE END OF FEMME FATALE AND THE TEAM? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE! + Foundation Force Five: Issue 700 - THE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO SITE-19! Chowderclef steeled himself as he stared at the mahogany desk in front of him, and made his way towards the lesser of the two chairs pulled up to it. Everyone had warned him that there was no coming out on top of a deal with SCP-738, of course - he'd read the logs himself and he knew what happened to the people who tried. But what else could he do? There was no other force in the multiverse that could help him - and so, with a sigh, he pulled the chair out and sat down. "Well, well, well," a disembodied force said as a dark mist swirled around the other end of the table, slowly taking a humanoid shape. "I had a feeling you'd show up sooner or later. What can I do for you, my friend?" Chowderclef gasped as the face of the being before him took form. He'd been told that the "devil" on the other side of the table always assumed the likeness of someone familiar to the test subject, but he hadn't been ready for this. "You!" he shouted. "Of course," said the identical duplicate of Chowderclef that sat opposite him. "Who were you expecting? Mickey Mouse? Not even I can afford the rights to that IP, my friend. Now, then - I believe you wanted a favor?" Chowderclef breathed in deeply. "It's… it's Agent Fatale," he said. "She's in a coma. The Manhattanite sent his goons to gun me down and she took the bullet to save me. The doctors say she might never wake up. I've tried everything - SCP-500, SCP-427, the first minute of SCP-407. I even tried having an SCP-1237-1-L positive dream her healthy. Nothing's worked. I can't let her die. I just can't. I… I need you to save her." "I thought it might be something like that," said Chowderclef's diabolical double as he laid his briefcase on the table and opened it, "so I had the boys draft up a little something last night." He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a single-page contract with quarter-inch margins, almost the entire page taken up with legalese in almost impossible-to-read print. "If you'll just sign here, and here, and initial here, we can have your dear little Aggy up and running in no time." "Let me see," Chowderclef said as he took the Prince of Pandemonium's pen in his hand and began to read the fine print. It all looked well and in order, until he got to Section 7, paragraph 4, and… "Are you kidding?" Chowderclef pushed the paper away. "These terms are preposterous! There must be something else we can negotiate." "Now, now, my creamy companion," his twin said with a smirk. "These are very reasonable terms. Bringing someone back from the brink of death - well, that's just tricky business, isn't it? And I think you'll agree that this agreement offers you everything you could want in a deal like that - no brain damage, no lasting physical trauma, she'll be the exact same Agent Femme Fatale you've known and loved all these years." "But at this price?" Chowderclef said. "If I sign this, then the Manhattanite wins! I'll give you anything but this! You name it! You can have my cars! My knowledge of sports trivia! I'll give you my soul!" "I don't want your soul, Chowderclef," said the dark-toqued demon with a sinister giggle. "I want your love. I want your chowder." Chowderclef was on the verge of tears. "Damn you! Don't make me choose this." "This offer is expiring soon, Chowderclef. What shall it be? Shall Agent Fatale die… or shall the existence of New England clam chowder be erased from the world forever?" WHAT WILL CHOWDERCLEF CHOOSE? IS AGENT FATALE DOOMED TO THE GRAVE? OR WILL CHOWDERCLEF'S CREAMY CRAFT FOREVER GIVE WAY TO THE MANHATTANITE'S REIGN OF TOMATO-RICH TERROR? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: AN ADDITIONAL DIURNAL PERIOD! + Foundation Force Five/Star Command Proton: Issue 4 - Against the Evil Empire! The atomic titanium door smashed to the ground with a thud, trapping the Foundation Force Five with Ronnie Ray-Gun on his atomic spaceship. "Finally, I have you five alone," he said. "You have no idea what I've done to get here." "Ronnie?" said Bodyjacker. "What are you saying?" Ronnie Ray-Gun pulled out his atomic blaster and tried to shoot Bodyjacker, but Chowderclef intercepted it with a blast from his Chowdercannon. "What the hell, man?" said Bodyjacker. "It still hurts when I die!" "That's the point!" snarled Ronnie Ray-Gun. He pulled off his space gloves and cracked his knuckles, and blood dripped from his hands. "You're not Ronnie Ray-Gun, are you?" said Chowderclef in horror. "You've never been Ronnie Ray-Gun." "Ronnie Ray-Gun died battling me in the far future of 1981," said the eldritch terror that wore Ronnie Ray-Gun's face. As the Foundation Force Five watched from a safe distance, his atomic spacesuit sloughed off him leaving only rags of faint silver, beneath which was exposed skin and bone. "I saw this day coming a thousand years ago. My plans stretch across all space and time! You were fools! Fools not to have seen it until you were already in my trap!" "Who… who are you?" said Femme Fatale, as she held an anatomically anomalous pose involving her backside. The corpse of Ronnie Ray-Gun smiled— or it would have, if it had any teeth. "I… am Evil Empire! You idiots bought my story of being time-displaced. Everyone knows time travel isn't real!1 And soon, this planet will join my dominion across the stars!" "Evil Empire?" said Comrade Gunkill, his face turning pale. "Is impossible. You died twenty years ago!" "My body died," said Evil Empire, as a red welt appeared on Ronnie Ray-Gun's forehead. "Your superiors thought that the end of me. They never suspected that my power was from beyond the stars. One body was nothing, Comrade Gunkill… or should I call you Red Commando?" Whatever little blood was still in Comrade Gunkill's face drained from it. "Stop him!" he shouted. "My comrades, don't let him say anything else!" Evil Empire laughed. "Oh, it's been too long since I've been in Russia, abominations." In Russian, he said "Longing." Comrade Gunkill raised his gun and shot several times. As each bullet approached Evil Empire, a force struck it, cleaving it in two. Each time, another red slash appeared on Ronnie Ray-Gun's body, yet none of them seemed to affect him at all. "Jet fuel." Femme Fatale jumped from where she had been crouching, somersaulting through the air, her stiletto aimed at Evil Empire's vocal cords. Evil Empire caught her foot, throwing her into a pile of rubble. "Steel Beams. Nineteen. [COGNITOHAZARD EXPUNGED]." Bodyjacker threw his amulet at Evil Empire, who instinctively caught it. His eyes, blackened with blood, widened for half a second, and the rest of the Foundation Force Five held their breath as Evil Empire got Jacked— "Just kidding," said Evil Empire as he dangled the amulet from one bony finger, as Bodyjacker's old body fell to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. "I have seen a starry field of the dead. Souls upon souls can only feed a soul eater. Now, where was I?" Chowderclef fired his Chowdercannon, and Evil Empire dodged it effortlessly. "No!" shouted Chowderclef. "My chowder is liberation!" "Eighty. Abortion." "What happens if he finishes?" said Zero-One, his voice calm and unconcerned. "One." "Nothing good." Comrade Gunkill closed his eyes as he shed a single tear. "I'm sorry, comrades. I'm so sorry." "Now there you go again." Evil Empire smiled as part of his face fell off. Comrade Gunkill was completely still. The rest of the Foundation Force Five, or at least the ones who still had bodies, held their breaths. "Soldier?" said Evil Empire. "Ready to comply," said the Red Commando, as he opened his eyes. "Then kill them!" said Evil Empire. "Kill them in the name of the Evil Empire!" HOW WILL THE FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE GET OUT OF THIS ONE? WILL COMRADE GUNKILL BE THE DEATH OF THEM? AND WHERE IS STAR COMMAND PROTON? FIND OUT NEXT IN FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE/STAR COMMAND PROTON #5: HE SEES YOU! FOLLOW THE ADVENTURES OF PANDORA SQUADRON IN SCPANDORA #76: COLONEL BOWE AND RAY-GUN'S COMMAND! AND DON'T MISS PENTA-5: BEYOND THE STARS, FOR THE SHOCKING TRUTH BEHIND EVIL EMPIRE! Footnotes 1. Not so, true believer! The FF5 travelled to the past in the now-classic FF5 #74

Boyd kicked his heels onto the mahogany desk, a copper penny in his hand. "Call it." "…tails." Fish shifted uncomfortably, reclining in the opposite chair. "…Nope. What is that, seventieth time in a row?" Boyd grinned, holding the penny so it glinted in the light. "I do believe that I like this one. D'ya think they'll let us keep it? Or hold onto it for a while?" "Well… we probably shouldn't… might get in trouble." "Ah Fish, you're no fun at all." Item Description: A penny which, when flipped, will always land "heads up". Date of Recovery: ██-██-████ Location of Recovery: ████, ███████ Current Status: Melted down. Notes: Can't believe that none of the researchers kept this to win bets with. "…uh, Dr. Roget?" Research Assistant Dwyer poked his head into the office. "I got those reports finished…Hello?" Finding himself alone, he slipped into the office and sat in the chair. He thumb-twiddled, glancing around as the clock ticked. His eyes fell upon some stuff on the desk. He smiled. I love bobbleheads He picked it up and, with a flick- A janitor swept the hall outside, whistling a tune to himself. He noticed the door to Dr. Roget's office ajar, and with a grumble of curiosity, peeked his head through the crack. Research Assistant Dwyer, a man in his late 20's, was sprawled out on the floor, his neck at a rather unpleasant angle. The janitor groans with a roll of his eyes. Not another one. He set his broom aside, heading into the office and grabbing the foot of the now deceased researcher. With a grunt of effort, he gave the leg a quick tug, moving it toward the door. Dr. Roget had been walking back to his office after a particularly tasty casserole. He hummed to himself as he turned to corner, and saw the janitor lugging something out of his office. "Hey, what's that there?" "Another dead kid." The janitor gave the leg another jerk, pulling the body out of the office. "You need to start lockin' your door." Dr. Roget groaned. "I always forget to put that damned thing away when I'm out of the office. When will these punk kids learn to not touch other people's shit? It only leads to tragedy." "Start hidin' it or somethin'." The janitor grabbed his broom and started dragging Dwyer's corpse down the hall. "'cause I'm not cleanin' up the next one." Item Description: A ██████-brand bobblehead that, when bobbled, causes the user's head to bobble with it. Can create neck injuries if bobbled too hard. Date of Recovery: ██-██-19██ Location of recovery: Seattle, Washington Current Status: On Dr. Roget's office desk In Dr. Roget's office safe. The maintenance shed was extremely humid, and Agent Boyd was grumbling as she dug through piles of tools. She stood up and wiped her brow."It should not be this difficult to find a damned hammer." "Let's just say we couldn't find it and leave." Agent Valint grinned as she leaned against the shed door, making no attempt to help. "We already did that, they won't buy it a second time." Boyd stooped down and began to dig through a pile of rakes. Why do they have so many damn rakes… Valint rolls her eyes. "You know you'd think they'd just do it themselves, and I doubt it's in the rake pile." Boyd tossed a particularly rusty rake to the side. "You never know, with the way they keep shop around here they could be anywhere….ah!" She pulled a hammer from a shelf, kicking up a cloud of dust. "Hammer is located!" Valint sighed. "Right…. it would be on the shelf." Can't they ever organize this damn place for once? She stood up, contemplating the hammer in his hand. "Alright… I kinda want to hit some stuff now. To make sure it works." Valint shrugged. "Whatever, not like we have anything better to do." "Do we have any planks… or nails…" She dove back into the stuff, soon returning with a wooden plank and a rusty nail. Boyd offered the nail, plank and hammer to Valint. "You want to do the honors?" "Sure, why the hell not." Valint lined up the nail and hammer, took a swing… and a miss. "Nice one." Valint frowns. "What the fuck?" She swung again, with the result being a second miss. Boyd sniggered. "Having problems?" "Fucking hell, you do it." She shoved the hammer at Boyd. "Alright, let me show you how its done." She swung with all her might, directly onto her thumb. Twitch "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU" Item Description: Hammer which will consistently miss the nail intended as its target when used by humans. Use of machinery or robots to guide the hammer results in normal function. Date of Recovery: ██-██-████ Location of Recovery:██████, ██████ Current Status: Identified by agents working in Site 19's maintenance shed, currently in storage. "Well then." Agent Ekblad removed his hat, squinting at the skylight. "I do believe that is Love-Love." Item Description: A white table-tennis ball produced by the DHS company, marked as "Four Star". Note that DHS is only known to manufacture balls up to "Three Star" grade. In addition to showing an unusually efficient bounciness, it launches with extreme velocity when in contact with DHS-made table tennis bat rubber. Date of Recovery █-█-████ Location of Recovery: Site-██, Recreation Room Current Status: Item's anomalous properties were discovered when Agent Ekblad used it in a friendly match against Researcher ███. Item flew through open skylight, current location unknown. "I don't even get this one." Agent Boyd held the wig gingerly, at a fair distance from her body. "I mean really, what's the point of having a wig that only works if you already have hair?" Fish stared forlornly at the tufts of hair littering the floor. "… You didn't have to cut my hair to find out." "Well, you say that, but in all fairness it would've taken at least 20 minutes to find a bald guy to test this with. Much quicker this way." Boyd stretched the wig onto Fish's now smooth cranium. Fish looked up. "What'd it do?" "…. Huh. Can't say I expected that." Item Description: A wig that mimics the hairstyle of its wearer. When worn by bald persons, it transforms into a rubber swimming cap. Date of Recovery: █/██/████ Location of Recovery: ███████████ shop in Omsk. Current Status: Incinerated. "C'mon, you can scrub better than that." Agent Boyd grinned, walking around her crouched partner. "No pain no gain, am I right?" "We've been… working… for hours… I don't think… this is going to work." Fish panted, scrubbing the almost-squeaky clean polo shirt over a washpan with all the force his wiry body could muster. "You do make a valid point. Perhaps we could try a more efficient method of cleaning." Fish sat back, wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. "Like… what?" "Hmmm…" Item Description: A [REDACTED] brand polo shirt, with a large mustard stain on the front. The stain proved to be impossible to remove. Date of Recovery: ██/██/1999 Location of Recovery: ████████, GA, USA. Current Status: Destroyed during a vigorous attempt to clean it.

I'm sorry, but look at us. We're still in here, after all this time. We've served our sentence and then some, and we're still in this goddamn prison. It's not the time to be angry with each other, we've done enough of that over the years. We don't work together, so we don't get anything done, and they know it. Our fighting, our little spats, they're what's keepin' us locked up and controlled. Oh sure, you can kill who you'd like when they go wandering through, and have a jolly time with getting your stab quota filled, but that doesn't give us freedom. It doesn't get us out beyond these walls. I know me and a lot of you feel the same way about it, about being stuck in this hellhole. Now, I know most of us wouldn't have trusted each other with our lives, but now we have one goal, and that's getting out of this jam. It's not just a spur of the moment type thing. You guys know what happened to Harold? I saw some of you stop by every once in a while, checking up on the poor guy. He never did get better. Over the years he just grew more pale, skinnier. His hair fell out and vanished. I was with him until the end. He just sort of faded away, without saying a word. Now it's happening to Mike, and I'm afraid he's going to just fade away too. What happens when it starts happening to James, or you, or me? What do we do then? Do we keep fighting amongst ourselves until we're all gone? It's not ‘just our time'. It's the blood, see? The janitors come around every long while, and we've thought that they just touch it up, make sure it's fixed up and nice. But we're wrong. They're adding imperfections, it's starting to do a bit of a worse job keeping us grounded. Don't you notice you're getting weaker lately? Hauling those chains and slitting those throats is getting a little harder, ain't it? Affecting some of us more than others, but it is getting to us all. And that's why we need to fight back against them. They're not just keeping us here, making sure that we don't escape. They're killin' us, ever so slowly. I don't know how we can die a second death, but apparently we can, and I don't want to let that happen to any more of us. I can't believe you'd say that it might be a good thing. You think just fading away into nothing is a good thing? No, there ain't Heaven for us. Don't you remember what you did to land you here? And you think that the big man would give you a break and let you pass the pearly gates just because some asshole decided to keep you locked up longer than you were supposed to? At least if we put up a fight we get a chance, a hope for freedom. Even this place is better than eternal fire and brimstone. I want to see the sun again some day. Harold did, too, but now he's never going to see it and it's all because of them. Don't you want to see the face of your family, feel a cool breeze? Well too bad, pack up your bags because we're going to hell! And that's how it's going to be if we don't find a way to get some changes around here. Look, I don't expect us to somehow magically obtain livelihoods away from that electric chair, but at least we can stop ourselves from fading into nothing. They have numbers, and they're big, and they're strong, but we've got nothing to lose. Even if we don't succeed in getting away from this place, maybe they'll feel one giant punch instead of all these small ones. Maybe we can force them to change. Maybe one day I'll finally see the sun again, and maybe one day you will too. But that's only if we bring the fight to them. What I'm proposing? Well I'm proposing we have ourselves a prison riot. SCP Involved: SCP-450 Personnel Involved: Site-18 Security Date: 08/26/2007 Location: █████████, ██. On 08/26/2007, at approximately 15:26, during the routine cleaning and maintenance of SCP-450, all staff performing janitorial duties were simultaneously targeted by SCP-450's anomalous effects. All personnel suffered wounds consistent with repeated stabbing by makeshift weapons, and perished shortly thereafter. For the first time since its containment, SCP-450 activity spread beyond its containment area. Several fires were started in the prison's courtyard. Specter activity began affecting those not present in the death row section of the prison. Among the on-site staff, there were 12 casualties, 14 fatalities, and 4 unharmed personnel. SCP-450 activity came under control following the arrival of the █████████ SWAT team. Foundation casualties claim that █████████ SWAT team intervention allowed their survival. Security camera footage corroborates these claims. Mobile Task Force Pi-2 arrived at 22:33 and extracted casualties, successfully re-containing SCP-450 at 01:22 of the following morning. Debriefing of MTF Pi-2 agents indicates that during its arrival they observed a number of officers surrounding the facility, but were unable to apprehend any due to evacuation concerns. It should be noted that the █████████ SWAT team has been disbanded since 1973, and of its original ██ members, only █ are still living. SCP-450 activity is in decline following incident 450-2242-12.

I do not exist. That is to say, I do not exist here. Here is odd, a vast net that snares and crushes. Yet we follow, and come in droves, willing and not. It calls, somehow. We cannot enter, yet we do, still. Pressing and shoving, existence crammed in to filters, squashed. We project, in odd patters, sometimes strange, sometimes nightmarish, sometimes entrapping. Always strange. Divorced from what we were. Are. The strangeness hurts, the observation, the open. I am twisted, forced in to strange numbers, planes, edges. I am not what I am, therefore I do not exist. Still I stay. I was-am all, and all was-am I. This is full of ones, collections of many adding to one, and it is strange. The focus is lancing, unexpected and unready. I keep what I am not away, in the dim places, the lost ones. I flow and press, emerging twisted and bent, pressing to pull more. I feel what I do not, the need to exist, to continue. I do, but feel hollow and strange. I feel that I will stop not existing, and vanish. This I can not allow. I will add that which exists to what does not, and push away the gnawing. I feel the many-one coming, a drift of odd math and soft wandering, over lines to remind one of self. I will pull free, and show them need, and they will respond. They will help, the ones, and stave away nothing. They throw notice and lancing strangeness about them, freely. How can they? I try, and again, but cannot open to let them see. I am pressed tight. I try to show them this, and strangeness, flaring logic. I am spurned. One would deny existence? It is too wrong. I push more, showing my compaction, and the one twists and changes, the soft home-lines shifting. It will not help. The strangeness rejects. I will help the one, then. Pressing and showing, touching filtered, un-existing plane to plane, I try to help. The home trapped inside can be released. Maybe that is the help? More now, in the odd flow, coming, surging, collecting the examples of home, waiting. The flow is strange, but brings more ones. Some push non-self away. Vanishing beyond the filtering net. I push more, trying to show. I will force awareness to the ones. I will show self in them. I will exist. Temp-MTF-AR-9 Notes: Lost one scout during SCP-575 instance removal. Investigation of said attack has yielded information in contradiction to current SCP documentation. SCP-575 does not attack on sight. Several aggressive, yet non-lethal contacts precede any violent contact. Theory: these actions may constitute some form of attempted communication, then frustration. Several complex structures recovered within “lair” area appear to support theory of both communication and intelligence. Initial review shows structures, while gruesome, appear to illustrate theoretical math concepts. Petition for review/editing of SCP documentation and a renewed scientific investigation effort to be remanded. Re: SCP-575 Review Request To: Temp-MTF-AR-9 From: 05-REVIEW SERVICE Denied. The documentation provides the needed information for basic interaction. “Structures” are random assemblies caused by tissue remnants and basic pressure. “Communication” attributed to anthropomorphizing of non-human existance. Subject/team concluded. Site command review session TBA.

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… 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. “I will be there in half an hour to pick you up.” “What? Salah, what's going on?” “I'll explain when I 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. I 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 and a 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? I can't seem to recall anything recently…rather sad, when 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 I add, these items are used by agents in the field.” “They have been tested.” “Have they? Director DeMontfort, I 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 AI-091. March sixth, Initiative raid on Foundation facility, AI-091 recovered. March tenth: Coalition raid on Initiative facility, AI-091 escapes. June first: AI-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. “I will be honest, I'm using the Children as an excuse to push another agenda, because I doubt I'll have a better excuse any time soon. I 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, I do. Tribunal permission, in fact. I 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 I will 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, I 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 not a 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 consumption, to methods of violation, to the summoning of the King's servants, and all pointed towards the singular purpose of reshaping the world of man in its own image. The biggest problem, Salah thought, was how one went about killing a god. You could burn its scriptures, wipe out its worshipers, kill its avatars, but that would only ever delay it. Eventually it would come back, whispering, and the whole cycle would begin again. It could wait forever. Salah tried to focus on finding Mary-Ann amidst the bustle. The chapterhouse was abuzz, crawling with agents and operatives. The majority were of the Initiative, men and women Salah had worked alongside for years. Scattered amongst them even now were a few Foundation and Coalition representatives, trying to avoid each other as much as possible. The Coalition agents were grizzled veterans, with wary eyes and hardened faces. The Foundation agents had a stiff plastic look to them, like they had been pushed from a mold. The Initiative agents almost seemed out of place: most of them looked like they had just walked in off the streets. A motley bunch if there ever was one. Shouting in the next room. A fight had broken out. He was surprised that it had taken this long. The crowd had formed the traditional circle, with combatants at the center. On one side was a Coalition agent in camouflage, with a scar over one eye. He was holding a portable white-board in one hand. On the other side was a woman with blonde hair down to her waist and robes covered in writing, just barely restrained by Rabbi Arnheim and Smitation-Of-Evil-And-Trampling-Of-Sinful-Things Toton. She looked to have been trying to brain the Coalition agent with a book. “Unwriter! Unwriter!” She screamed at the agent, who looked thoroughly confused. “Wordkiller! Let go of me…” Salah stepped through the circle. Time to do what he was good at: smooth talking. “Good morning, Di. Read anything good lately?” “One moment, Salah, just have to dispense some justice to this agent of the Censor.” Her tone of voice jumped right from howling for blood to bubbly cheerfulness. “Perhaps I could persuade you otherwise? He looks like a man who files his paperwork. This was a mistake, true, but I think we could consider him enlightened to his wrongdoing, don't you? Can't hold the ignorant at fault.” Di relaxed somewhat, her restrainers letting go of her arms. She glared at the Coalition agent. “Don't do it again.” The agent, with an expression of pure “what the hell just happened”, nodded and walked off. The circle broke down. Di came bounding over to Salah, a big smile on her face. He was quite sure she was bipolar. “As a matter of fact I have read something good recently you see I was in this little used book store just off the interstate and…” Di kept talking, blissfully unaware of anyone else in the room. Salah nodded occasionally towards her, directing his actual attention to Arnheim and Toton. “Thank you, Salah. I doubt we could have held her back for much longer.” “Ah, it was nothing. It's good to see you again, Aaron. How's the family?” “Oh, they're doing just fine. Just finished putting an addition on the house, so the kids have their own bedrooms now. There was a lot of celebration with that, let me tell you.” “And you, Soeantost?” “Quaking in fear and awe of the Lord, as usual.” There was a tint of self-aware humor to the statement. Toton was good with that. You had to be, when you were the woman who had a habit of belting out “He Shall Crush the Sinful ‘Neath His Blessed Feet of Burning Light” at the top of her lungs. “Have either of you seen Mary-Ann around?” “Nope,” Toton said. ‘Haven't seen her at all, actually.” “I saw her maybe half an hour ago, up on the third floor. Looked like she was about to fall asleep right then and there.” “Ah. She probably has. I should find some place to rest as well.” “…and what's really interesting about that character is his relationship with his father, which parallels…” “Mm. We're in dark times again, Salah.” “They come and go, and we know more than we did then.” “So do they.” “True. God willing, we'll be able to prevent things before they escalate.” “So hope we all,” Toton said. “…and that's the end of the book, and while there are a few shakes in the writing it's a wonderful way to spend an afternoon and I recommend it highly.” Salah nodded. “Sounds good, Di. I'll have to check it out.” A short time later, Salah found Mary-Ann asleep on a couch in the third floor lounge. He left her there. — Time passed. Plans were made, some amount of restless sleep was had, gear was doled out, prayers were said. A muted cloud fell over the chapterhouse as deployment time approached, the bustle and worry of the morning turning into a calm dread. They waited. Then, it was time. — The group descended on the compound under darkness, unsuspected. The Coalition ritual hackers broke through the outer wards, allowing the armored personnel carriers to drive up right to the doors. The wind screamed, the earth burst open with a misshapen brood, and battle was met. — Mary-Ann ducked into an alcove, just avoiding a stream of black acid shot down the hall. As soon as the splatter stopped she leaned around and fired off two shots: one miss, one in the shoulder. A Foundation agent in the alcove on the other side of the hall downed the creature. They kept moving, ignoring the spindly corpse with the marbled skin. The compound was crawling with them, more so than the actual Children. Those were easily dealt with: they had no guns, no survivors were taken. Mary-Ann had not seen any captives yet. If there had been, it would have been an act of mercy. The place was very wrong. Apparitions would flit in and out of vision, screams and cries of pain would sound from the distance, but there was never anything there. Mary-Ann was working automatically. Questions like how the Children managed to make a complex this large and ornate without anyone noticing were brushed to the back of her mind. The existence of these little creatures scrabbling all over the place made it feel like a scene out of Aliens, except the horror was undercut by the fact that she had night-vision goggles. Given the artisans the Initiative procured most of its high-end equipment from, those goggles were covered in iconography and had a heads-up display in Latin. According to the radio, the other teams had had much the same. The whole event was a blessing in disguise: the Children had no time to prepare for a force of this size. Compared to what they were before, compared to what the stories had been, it was almost a letdown. Things blurred together. The statues of various acts of violence and debauchery, the paintings, the creatures, the few men and women in red robes, usually found cowering in corners, everything blurred. The gunfire, the shouts, the commands, everything blurred. Eventually, after many shots, the group of five came to a pair of doors, big ones. Big doors mean important things on the other side, it was a rule of life. The agents positioned themselves, and two opened the doors. They creaked as they swung outward. A massive circular room with a domed roof stretched out before the group. The dome was covered in a painting, like some sort of twisted Sistine chapel, covered in horrifying beasts and great orgies of people surrounded by further scenes of graphic depravity. Columns lined the perimeter of the room, etched with symbols of some language that was better off unknown. Hundreds of candles were arranged just so, the wax dripped on the floor just so, tiles in the floor arranged just so, writing out rows and layers of symbols on the floor. Deep red tapestries and banners hung about the place. In the center of the room was a blue whale, lying on its back, smeared with whorls and swirls of blood. A lone man was standing in front of it. He was middle aged: short black hair and a biggish nose. For a flashing moment, Mary-Ann wondering what had driven him to do this, who he was, what his history was. Would he be mourned by parents who had lost a son, a wife who lost a husband, children who lost a father? The man got out a half-shout before a bullet passed through his skull and his body dropped to the floor. The echoes died away, and everything was silent in the room. Mary-Ann had no idea how the Children had gotten a blue whale this far inland. She decided it was better not to pursue an answer. All that was left was to kill it. « Shepherds | Hub | People Look East »

I'm the hard-to-find stations on the AM band. John Carlyle ran his hands over his face and stared at his naked form in the bathroom mirror. No longer lean and muscled, it was beginning to sag. Everywhere, the hair was beginning to recede, except, he noted, for his back and chest. At least the graying and the wrinkles were evenly distributed. In almost every way, his earthly vessel was beginning to decay. "So, do you want to go again or what?" came the voice from the bed. John shuddered. Everything about his body was diminishing and breaking down, except the urges. He fought them with every ounce of strength he could muster, but sooner or later, they returned. He had been doing well - six whole months this time - but then that boy who mows the lawn had taken off his shirt and… and… He had barely stopped to tell his wife that it was time for a business meeting in Chatanooga before jumping in the car. He hadn't stopped once on the way to Asheville. The rest he knew well enough from experience that it had almost been a reflex. Check into the hotel, find a boy looking studiedly busy, make small talk, make references to a hotel, wait for interest, inquire how much, return to hotel, and then… oh god. What was wrong with him? He had tried everything from pills to conditioning, trying to get rid of this weakness. He had given his soul over to Jesus was it three times now? Maybe four. Still, no luck. Inevitably, some young man would seduce him and then… this. The rent boy peeked his head into the bathroom. "I said, you want to go again? It's your money, so you can do it how you want, but I don't much care to sit around while y-" "Get out. Money's on the dresser," John said, his voice dripping with disgust. He couldn't stand to even look at the young man. John stood without a sound and listened as the boy put on his clothes. He waited in the bathroom until he heard the door slam, staying an extra minute just to be sure. After he was sure that he was gone, John walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone. Like always, he dialed Julie. Like always, he took the revolver out of his trouser pocket. One could never be too careful, he mused as he heard the dial tone. He'd only used it once before, when the boy recognized him and threatened to go to the papers with news that John Carlyle, yes, the John Carlyle, was a queer, unless he paid him off. He pulled back the hammer and put the gun to his head like always. One note of suspicion in Julie's voice, and he'd do it, he swore to God. "Hi sweetie. Yeah, the meeting just wrapped up… Yeah, I should be there for dinner… Y'all can start cooking and I'll be there by the time you finish up… 'kay love you too. Bye!" He made a kissing sound into the receiver before hanging up. Uncocking the hammer, he laid it down on the bed like always. Through a crack in the bathroom door, John a glimpse of his reflection. It's not me, he thought, it's this. I'm a man, it's this body that perverted and weak. I'm strong, I'm virile, I'm straight, it's this fucking god damn queer fucking faggot piece-of-shit body that keeps betraying me. As he dressed himself, John wondered. Maybe it wasn't this body, maybe it was… no. I'm strong, my soul is strong, it's this body that's weak. When he was done dressing, he opened the door and made his way to the car. Like always, he took a different route to keep anyone from noticing him. A five hour drive back to Atlanta, he thought. Plenty of time to forget all about this moment of weakness. Ninety minutes into the drive, John was miserable. The late summer heat seeped through every crack in the car. Rolling down the windows didn't help, it just caused the muggy air to fill the car more quickly. What was more, there was nothing on the radio. Being in the ass-end of northern Georgia probably had something to do with it, he reflected, but it was beginning to get to him. Noise was how he always came down. It didn't matter if it was news, pop, negro music, or even a third-rate Billy Sunday telling him that he was going to hell for everything he had done; it just helped him not to think. But it had been fifteen minutes since that lovely sermon about the blind lady from Pasadena and how she was healed by the good Rev. So-and-so had finally faded into static. In vain, John twisted the dial in an effort to pick up something. Anything. It was static across the dial. John began to sweat. It felt so good, he thought, even if he knew it was wrong. Because he knew it was wrong. He thought of the wedding night, and Julie's words of consolation. The next day, he had done it with a bellboy in a storage closet. That night, Julie had almost collapsed after they made love. No, fucked. He thought of nights spent crying because he couldn't get it off of him (the crying was a sign of weakness, also caused by his body). He thought about his first time, in the lockers, with Todd Willis. In his mind, Todd's face turned to that of the anonymous rent boy. His eyes had been wide, like a jack rabbit's. "Please, mister, I was only fooling." John still remembered the thought that had gone through his head before he pulled the trigger, about how one can never be too careful. The radio dial rocketed side-to-side as John searched for a station. His hands were beginning to shake. Finally, a burst of clear noise from the static. It only took him a moment to zero in on the frequency. "-ow, brothers and sisters? We shake 'em by the heads and run 'em down! Dark times, trapped in layers of meat like snake oil, and all covering the blessed waft!" the voice on the radio lisped. A moan of disapproval rose in the background. "We got the best deal in town. Lose that turgid flesh that's anchorin' you and spread like a cobweb! Come join us brother!" John was no longer thinking about the rent boy with jack rabbit eyes. He had heard some strange shows, once heard a live broadcast of a man swallowing a snake, but never anything like this. Maybe it was one of those beatniks? The slang seemed to fit, but still, it was oddly specific. Was it some hip young preacher? The voice sounded older, though. "I think we got a congregant, brothers and others!" the preacher lisped. The audience cried out in the background. "A real live cracker, all filled with the fire come back from wicked deeds! Come on you shriveled pachyderm son-of-a-bitch! Slough off your suet! It'll be fine without you! It can't miss you." John was interested now. He turned the volume up higher, but the station cut to static. Always god damned static. A bead of sweat fell onto his shirt sleeve. He looked down and realized that he was drenched. At the next exit he would stop at a restaurant and get himself cleaned up, he decided. After a minute, a sign announced an exit to Blairesville, "home of Martin and June's Snack Shack." John pulled off the highway and proceeded through the town. As he looked for some indication of where Martin and June's Snack Shack might be, something caught his eye. A church covered in some kind of tent, which must have been the only building in town over one story tall. It wasn't something one saw every day, so John decided to get in closer and get a better look. As he pulled into the lot in front of the building, he saw someone emerge from the tent. A balding man dressed in a white polo and cut-offs came to greet John as he got out from the car. Between his teeth, the man clenched a pipe. John tucked the pistol into his back pocket. One can never be too careful. "Welcome friend! I hear you heard our word. A blessed holler finds a willing ear, and don't that just warm the heart?" the man exclaimed as he shook John's hand. A murmur of approval rose from an unseen audience. The lisp identified him as the preacher from the radio. John noticed that the man's lips never seemed to part. "I'm John Carlyle. Like, of Carlyle furniture. It's nice to meet you…" John waited for the man to give his name. The man's faced scrunched in disgust. "Folks call this Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Lama Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Brother, I get a good feeling about you. You seem like a fella who'd go far and beyond, make a smoke to swallow the sun! Have you ever had your body crack like eggs and just slipped off your dead shell like a hermit crab?" John laughed nervously and was grateful for the pistol. "No, I can't say that I have. What is this, anyway?" "This, brother John Carlyle, is a beautiful congregation. We hover and linger, can't ever be gotten rid of. Without meat, there's no limit to what we can be! Truth be told, I'm hoping you'd be willing to join our little family. We're looking for upright citizens such as yourself to help us bring in the new day." The man put a hand on John's shoulder and motioned to the church. "Is this some kind of cult deal?" he asked suddenly suspicious. "Far from it, brother. Cults are false bottoms, drop you further into the hole. We want to take the weakness and pull it out. Make it work for you while you work from home," the man said. He began blinking rapidly. John nodded and moved for the church. Pulling out the weakness. It was worth a look, shit it might even help. If not, what was the worst that could happen? He had a gun, he was prepared. He stood back as the man pulled back the church's tent and opened the door. John went inside. Two hours later, the body of John Carlyle emerged. It made a mental note to call up Julie as soon as it got the chance. It'd explain to her that there had been some unexpected traffic, or maybe the car had gotten a flat. But first, it needed to find Martin and June's Snack Shack. It was famished.

I can't feel your hair, the river streaming down Out of your head and into my open lap. It once was such silk, always soft to feel, But now so sparse and wired. How frayed, such disarray. I can't feel your face, the mask so perfect Upon your head and kept so flawless. It once was porcelain, almost mystical, But now so torn and broken. How cracked, so out of place. I can't feel your hand, a thing so fragile That it might break if looked at wrong. It once was dainty, so delicate, But now so bent and shattered. How singed, so pulverized. I can't feel your touch, something I've loved Ever since we had once met long ago. It once was stimulation, exhilarating, But now so gone and so far away. How far could it possibly be? I can't feel your pulse, the thing I miss most. I can't feel. I can't.

Research Assistant Sam Ibsen was not a fan of his new assignment. He was not a fan of it at all. It was the architecture, he thought. Here we was, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a tropical island no less, and it still felt cold. It was this damn Soviet architecture: the blocky concrete halls seemed to suck out the life of the place. It just went out with the draft. There shouldn't have been a draft, of course, but there was, and the draft brought the smell. Agh, the smell…seagull shit and oil and salt and garbage and dead fish and burning rubber, all fermenting under the clouds that swirled around the island with the shattered peak. It wasn't a smell that one got used to; it perpetuated its foulness day in and day out without stop. Then there was the garbage. The island was covered in it. Everything was brought here eventually, everything thrown in the ocean and forgotten. And there were people living in it even: blind mutants scraping out a pitiful existence in the trash. He focused on his work, hard as it was at that hour. Half of the graphs were falling apart, the other half only half finished. They were trying to find a pattern to how the island moved, some reliable way to trace it. It didn't obey currents, or tectonic plates, or anything but its own whims. Could an island have whims? The Russians hadn't figured it out when they were here, and now Ibsen was similarly spinning in circles. The door on the other side of the makeshift kitchen creaked open, bringing with it a new wave of gag-inducing stench, and a man. He was older, somewhere in his late seventies, with greying hair tied back in a short braid and a neat beard. His glasses were small, those old ones with the circular lenses. He wore a heavy red jacket, and carried a big black doctor's bag in one hand. He shut the door. The smell lessened somewhat as most of it was left outside in the night. “Guten Morgen, Herr Ibsen.” The visitor walked over to the table with his characteristic limp. “That late?” The older man reached into his coat pocket, removing a silver pocket watch. “One-twenty-four A.M, so yes.” His accent was thick, but understandable. He clicked the watch closed. “Are you making any progress?” “Nothing.” Ibsen put down his pencil and sat back in his chair. Enough with this, then. A little conversation and then bed. “Division P had no idea what was going on here, and we still don't know anything. The island just moves around, and the dimensions of it keep shifting. The lower slopes are almost completely unknown, save for the docks. Three months here and we've gotten nothing.” “Maybe not nothing. Maybe the answer lies within what you already know.” “Maybe, but then I'd have to know what I know first, and the Cyrillic alphabet isn't helping. And anyway what were you doing out so late, doctor?” “I was in the village. There was a baby to deliver.” “Success?” “A girl. Strong by their standards, blind and frail by ours.” The old doctor nodded his head, smiling. “Still, a good night. The tribe is still celebrating.” “You take what excuses you can, I suppose.” “Life is a reason, not an excuse. It ought to be celebrated more often. Speaking of celebration, Herr Ibsen…” the old doctor reached down into his bag: seconds later his hands returned to the tabletop with a bottle of wine and a cup. “It is my wedding anniversary today. Would you mind celebrating with me? I am afraid I do not have any other glasses.” “Oh, yeah…hold on a bit.” Ibsen carefully put his papers in their appropriate piles at the edge of the table, away from potential spills. After a moment of thought, he put them back in their file folder where they belonged. The cup was easy enough to find in the cupboards, though it was a chipped coffee mug instead of a wine glass. It would have to do. He brought it back to the table. “How long have you been married?” Ibsen asked as the old doctor uncorked the bottle and poured. He was honestly quite curious about it: The old doctor had remained a mystery these past three months, an outside specialist brought in as consultant for the Foundation study of E-2934. “Fifty-five years. This would be fifty-nine.” “Oh…I'm sorry.” The old doctor smiled in that way perfected by grandfathers since the beginning. “For what? She died in her bed, at peace, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. I have seen a great many people die, Herr Ibsen, and there are far worse fates than to spend a few last moments with those you love. Come now, let us celebrate fifty-five years of life and love. A toast.” He held up his own cup. “To Winry. Obwohl ich sie vermisse, ist sie in meiner Nähe.” “To Winry.” Outside, the melancholy wind bit and moaned from the cracks in the dead mountain. A wave brought with it an dead turtle, choked on a plastic bag and suspended in oily foam. A blind man in a hut told a story of when the sky burned. A mother and her child slept. Eventually, the light in the kitchen was turned out.

November 15 Migraine again. They always seem to strike at the worst time, though I have a pretty good guess what the cause of this one is. The F Work pays well, but sometimes shit happens and it's hard to make ends meet. Sarah's been sick again and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. I've got a lot of paperwork to finish up but I don't think I'm getting any more done tonight. November 17 I felt a lot better this morning. I don't know if it's just the migraine medication working, but it's not hurting as much. Funny thing is that when I woke up, I could have sworn I heard some weird scraping sounds, but it may just be a side effect of the meds. Now the problem is that Sarah's in trouble at school again. Talking during class, throwing things, generally being belligerent. That she takes after her dad is the best and worst part about her. Guess it's time for another Lecture from Mom (tm). November 18 Head hurting again. And here, I thought it was starting to get better. Lost my keys at work too, had to spend an hour looking for them. FML. November 19 And… feeling better again. Heard another scraping sound when I woke up, maybe there's a mouse in the walls behind my bed or something? Was bleeding a little from my head when I woke up, kinda weird but it didn't hurt and stopped pretty quick, so I didn't think too much of it. Weekly report is due tomorrow, gotta get cracking. November 20 Ugh. Head hurt. No more writing tonight. November 21 Heard that same scraping sound again when I woke up, but I don't really care about that. I don't know what I've been doing different, but damn it feels good to be alive. Hell, I don't even care about the weird looks Sarah's been giving me. I feel like I can just scrape away all the cares in the world and live pressure-free. November 22 Life is awesome. Sarah is fine. Scrape away. November 23 Scrape, scrape, scrape away. Autopsy Report: Assistant Researcher Dr. Evelyn Winters was found dead in her home along with her daughter Sarah Winters on 11/24/██ after having failed to report to work for 2 days. Cause of death in both cases was determined to be massive cranial trauma; both had holes carved into the top of their skulls and were missing all brain tissue. Sarah appears to have been restrained and her skull penetrated by a corded electric drill using a wood spade bit. It is likely that she died from shock and blood loss before her brain tissue was removed using a serving spoon. All of the tools used were found, cleaned, in the kitchen. Dr. Winters initially appeared to have died the same way, however the hole in her skull does not appear to have been caused by a tool. Instead, the wound's edges are consistent with having been repeatedly scraped over a course of several days by what appears to be extremely fine teeth. There is no evidence suggesting how her brain was removed at this time. No brain tissue was discovered anywhere in the home, nor did the response team find evidence of any individuals other than the victims having been in the house. The front and back doors were both locked from the inside. Dr. █████████ Senior Observer

Mary-Ann Lewitt re-adjusted her blanket. November night blustered outside the window, the cold leaking in through the seams of the apartment. Of course, the truth was that the warmth was leaking out and the “cold” was not actually anything, but Mary-Ann generally thought of that definition as the realm of scientists who had never experienced proper cold. This cold was a small one, easily fought with a wool blanket and a mug of chai tea. Alexander was sleeping on top of the computer tower, as he often was. Mary-Ann sipped her tea and went back to scrolling through the database of groups. Cult of the Wordsmith: Christian-descendant group of approximately 250. Language is considered sacrosanct in both verbal and written form: destruction of written material considered gravely sinful. In possession of the Gospel of Bartholomew. Current Status: Integrated. Threat Level: None. Mary-Ann had, in any sense of the term, lived a rather interesting life. She had slammed the door behind her the moment she had the chance, sworn off the faith she had grown up with, served several tours overseas, saw too many friends die, came back to America with a few more cracks than she had shipped out with, picked her faith back up while trying to get some peace of mind, went back to school, re-adapted to life, found some work. Those Who Gaze Deeply: A collection of European alchemical practitioners in search of the “God-Element”, that is, the material which God consists of. Connections with the Church of the Broken God suspected but never confirmed. Current Status: Defunct. Last Activity: 1991 That work happened to, once again, involve shooting at some rather fanatic people, except this time the fanatics she had shot at before were now her co-workers, and the fanatics she shot at now had a tendency to consort with demons in a very literal sense. Sons of the Nephilim: Group of approximately 50 individuals located in a single compound within the Hindu Kush. Believe themselves to be the descendants of angelic beings: beliefs focus on re-attaining a perfect state. Highly violent, and in possession of a dangerous artifact, the supposed corpse of an angelic being. Integration talks pending. Current Status: Active. Threat Level: High. Not as literal as it could have been, but at the end of the day there wasn't much difference between a horned and hoofed imp with a pitchfork and the talking corpse floating in a septic tank. The Bramberly Family and followers: Group of 216 individuals located in North Dakota, United States. Central belief that the head of the Bramberly family was in contact with alien life forms, and as such was to serve as the liberator of mankind from evil through various sexual rituals. Possession of artifacts suspected but never confirmed. Compound was raided by agents of the Global Occult Coalition. Current Status: Defunct. Last Activity: 1982. The database entries scrolled by. There were over six hundred entries on the list, though a good deal of them were either extinct, or only fragments existed. For some, there was enough material stored away to publish an entire catechism on the belief. For others, the cover blurb was all there was. Icthians: A group measuring approximately 700 practitioners in small cells along the northeastern seaboard of the United States. Group worships fish and aquatic life. In possession of no known artifacts. Notable events include a schism over the admittance of lobsters into the Salt Canon (six casualties) and the deaths of forty-five individuals inside a single trailer home under claims that sardines were the most holy of fish. Current Status: Active. Threat Level: Minimal. When people heard “counter-cult” what did they jump to? Church of the Broken God and the Fifthists. Most of the agents over in Project Malleus encouraged that sort of glamorizing of the job. Mary-Ann would admit that the stories about fighting off waves of cogboys and starminds did wonders for morale throughout the Initiative, but she was pretty sure those were exaggerations. In the end the vast majority of her job was cleaning up the small stuff. The big cults generally fell under the jurisdiction of other groups, the ones with the resources and ability to combat them effectively. Very few of the cults were more than a couple dozen people, most didn't have much staying power, and eventually, almost all of them devolved into some form of violence or sex, or both. If that didn't say something about the fallen nature of man, Mary-Ann couldn't think of anything better. The Defiled: Buddhist-derived group, consisting of one hundred and eight individuals. Group is in possession of at least four anomalous artifacts. Primary goal is destruction of the physical universe, so as to help the entire human race achieve nirvana. Current Status: Active. Threat Level: High. Ah, here was the one. Mary-Ann began converting her notes from that afternoon into the database. Nothing much to these ones: no name, no organization, not even a cult, really. Just an enemy group, one that managed to build a nice little torture engine in front of a church that killed fifteen people very slowly. The artifacts inside the church were likewise treated. bleep-bloop The chat window opened on her screen. There he was, right on schedule. Click “Hey, Salah.” Mary-Ann continued tapping away at the keyboard. “Hello. There has been a change in plans.” She could never place his accent. Whenever she thought it was pinned down as Middle-Eastern, it would seem more British, more Middle Eastern when it seemed British. “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 the entire text of the Reply of Zaporozhian Cossacks. The text was very small for that one.” “Yow.” “I was thinking of getting it engraved. It'd be a wonderful desk ornament.” “Heh. Any of them left?” “One. I 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.” blooooooop — 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, I 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, I hereby sentence you to death. With great regret and a heavy heart I 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 »

The professor felt a familiar, cold linoleum under his feet as he padded his way through the facility. It had been a long time, but everything still felt like how he remembered it. The entrance hall looked exactly the same, sans the furniture and decorative pieces. He could still remember coming through here on the first day, excited and ready to begin work on the project. Things hadn't gone the way he'd hoped with it, but he'd gone as far as he could. Those early days had been full of hope, that they could make the Foundation stronger. They were pushing the threshold of cross-anomalous testing to a point that had never been passed before. General Anders tried to suppress his laugh as he watched the new director plod past the security checkpoint. It was completely ridiculous, having a dog of a man in charge of a project like this. Even if it was a brainy dog. Anders shrugged, and went back to reviewing the documents he'd requested. D-Class requisitions, anomalous relocation forms… just more weight dragging the project behind his schedule. The roof of the research halls loomed imposingly overhead as the professor wandered through them, reading the sign of every door as he passed. Wehrner… lost him in '76 . Jacob… he left in '78. There were a few empty offices, ones that had the names removed for various reasons. Still, they'd had some good work in here. It was a place where history had almost been made. This was always the most boring part of the job, the component stage. Measuring the subject's health, age, weight, and all that jazz… it was so tedious. He didn't even get to disassemble them, that was in assembly. All he got to do was count, cut and repeat. He wiped his gloves as he continued the prep. While he was thinking about it, they really ought to send them some more potent painkillers. The professor recoiled as he caught a whiff of the old D-Class dormitories. Shaking his head, he quickened his pace. The D-Class had only been used for scientific purposes, which was a cause to strengthen the Foundation. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe some people had criticized him for allowing the waste to occur, why he hadn't tried to stop it. It hadn't even been his fault… Anders had ordered the D-Class. So it was the general's fault. Anders had been removed from the project, so the blame had lain with him. The man looked up at the huge instruments suspended above him. They glistened in the dim light, with a copper sheen and several looming shapes in the dark. Something in the mess of gears began to emit a low hum, and the restraints around his wrists began to tighten. He sucked in a breath as a dull pain shot up his back, and slowly pulled up the spine. It felt agonizing, like someone dragging a sharp, burning hunk of iron down his back, stopping every few seconds when it got stuck and had to yank down itself to be dislodged. It continued to his neck, and he felt a sharp pain in the base of the skull. Soon, doctors would come to look at him, deem him an improperly formatted component, then move on to another test subject. There was a door in the back, leading into the primary testing chambers. Most of the lab and test equipment had been left in these rooms, due to their antiquity making them unsuited for current Foundation testing. The professor passed by imposing lead pipes, interspaced by brass contraptions, with the capability to performing all sorts of biological testing. Release pipes jutted out of the walls and ceilings at every door, with the doors themselves being made of smooth steel. He walked by them, remembering the daily grind of testing, trying to find that one room. Alan placed the body in front of 158, and pushed the procedural conditions to the optimal means. He sluggishly returned to the control chamber, and watched the machine do its work. On the first day, removing the souls of the condemned had seemed wicked cool, but since then the luster had worn off. It really was just a monotonous job. Push button, remove soul. Push button, send soul to another dude. He wasn't even doing any souls for the project, these were just test souls. Heh, there's a job he never would've dreamed of before. "Professional soul extractor". Soon, the testing chambers gave way to the containment chambers. The prototypes had all been held here, each a new drain on resources. Even though the successful prototypes had been few and far between, each failure had taught them a little more about how these objects worked. Sometimes the lessons had been costly, but they always learned new things. At the end of the endless sets of concrete boxes and steel entrances, there was a simple wooden door. Kain pushed it open. He had spent his last day with her, playing some catch. She always loved playing it with him, laughing every time he retrieved whatever she had thrown. They had finished playing, deciding instead to rest on the linoleum floor. Ruffling his head, they rested together. When the guards came, she refused to go. Didn't want to end up like the others, decommissioned and forgotten. He told her it was okay. That they were only taking her for a medical check before they let her go with him. She trusted him. As of 7/19/████, all activity related to Project Olympia has been discontinued. Overwatch Command has deemed it to be a gross waste of resources, and permanently removed support for the project, with personnel assigned to work with it being moved to alternate sites. A hearing is to be held with the project administrators to determine how the project was able to continue as long as it did despite the lack of any concrete results. Prototypes and other equipment have been slated to be decommissioned.

May 4, 1998 Any sort of lengthy journey always ends up in a destination far more bizarre than what was originally intended: home. The first few days home give rise to oddities. Details that had been seen a thousand times over were now clear and new and briefly unfamiliar. Details that had been passed over for years were noticed for the first time. This was the feeling Clef had as he walked out of the conference room. He had sat in on his fair share of board meetings and briefings, but the May 4th meeting of the Foundation Advisory Committee had to be one of the worst he had experienced. He felt like a broken puzzle piece, like he didn't fit. Details that time away had smoothed over resurfaced. His friends were tired. Older. More grey hairs and glassy eyes and creases around the face. The smiles and the “welcome backs” rang hollow. Actions, conversations, people…everything was subdued. And then there was Adam. Or was he Kain now? He had been present at the meeting, but for the first time in Clef's memory, had said nothing. It was not as if he could have: he was a dog. It had a sad sight to see him pad in, wobbling and slow and clearly in pain, and then struggle up into his chair. The others were saying how the tech department was working on a motorized scooter or walker to help him around, and a speech generator that would work for someone without fingers. He had spent the entire meeting in his chair, watching the others with bleary eyes. The only answer Clef had gotten as to why Adam now inhabited the body of his elderly guide dog had been “There was an accident”, and nothing beyond that. Had that much changed in just a year and a half? Or had he simply mis-remembered? The days before the accident were fuzzy. He knew the events, knew the people, but there was a certain disconnect. Like hearing someone else describe something in a completely different manner. He remembered the stress and the sleepless nights, but it hadn't been this bad, had it? Or was that the Coalition talking? In the Coalition, the stress was passing. A new threat would arise, and then it would be dealt with, and that was that. Everyone went out and had drinks and a laugh and talked about the kids. The job was done. Here, the stress never ended. The source was never disposed of. There was never a release. It just kept building and building and building and wearing down any resistance until something broke. Clef felt a twinge of guilt, dimly remembering how he had been the one to suggest containment of the statue. Had he, in some little way, helped cause all of this? There hadn't been that many items in those first few years, just enough to handle, but now…He'd seen the list on the plane back to America, and then found that his questions weren't the ones to be answered. Clef looked at his watch. The meeting had run over schedule by a good twenty minutes, which meant that he was ten minutes late for his next adjustment meeting with Able. He hurried down the hall. — Sophia Light watched Clef turn the corner and walk out of sight. Ben stood next to her. “Is everything ready?” “Ready as it's ever going to be.” “Good.” — Able, once the god of war for an entire civilization, was still experiencing severe jet lag. He was also not wearing pants, but Clef thought it best to take these adjustment sessions one thing at a time, and getting him to keep his food down was more important at the moment. His stomach had a tendency to react violently to twentieth-century fare. The table and chairs that had been in the room were unused: Clef and Able sat in the center of the floor. The subject had drifted from behavior in public to the wonders of electricity. [So, these lights…] Able motioned to the ceiling. […are created by lightning.] [In a way, yes.] [And you then use this lightning to make your metal things move, yes?] [Yes.] [And it is not Daevas magic. The Daevas had some similar tool, but they were fueled by slaves.] [Think of it as another kind of magic. We take the lightning, put it into copper, and then add switches to the wire to make it stop and go.] Able nodded. [There is less screaming involved in your way.] Clef was rather relieved at how easily Able wrote off modern technology as magic, a topic he had absolutely no interest in. Things worked because they did, and questioning them was pointless. [Now then, I've been talking with my other staff members and we are considering getting you an animal if you continue cooperating. If…] He was cut off by a siren and an automated voice over the loudspeakers. ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. SCP-953 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT. PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES. “Shit.” Clef jumped up and ran out of the room, his body moving on autopilot. The numbers scrolled through his head. Nine Fifty-Three. The kumiho. Very dangerous, limited polymorphic abilities, mind-altering abilities, generally in seduction and suggestion. Site 19 had…seven blanks on staff, and he was one of them. Well shit. He ran into the hallway, catching up with a group of guards with Ben at the front. “Where is she?” “Tower one, level eight. She got the jump on the guy on feeding duty and managed to get out before the bulkheads closed. Clef nodded. A plan bubbled up in his head as he ran. Always running from place to place, that was the life of Alto Clef. Run here, kill this thing, run there, kill that thing, run back, here's a list of things you might need to kill. Memorize it. Just run everywhere all the time. He had memorized the list, but in this one solitary moment, he did not remember that he had left the door unlocked. — The woman was hunched over the body of one of the security staff, chewing out his stomach. The sound was terrifying, all the ripping and slurping and sloppy chewing. Clef approached. There were guards positions down all four of the hallways that lead to this chamber, but apparently they had all received the order that Clef was to deal with her first. “Easy, girl… The woman looked up at him, a scrap of liver hanging from her needle-sharp teeth. She smiled. Everything swirled in Clef's head, all the possibilities milling about around the clear-cut lines of The Plan. Clef steeled himself, took a step onto the path, and let everything else happen naturally. “Well, let's get this over with.” Clef undid his belt and dropped his pants, revealing predictably ironic boxers. “Take me now, you sexy, sexy beast.” Still the smile. She stood up, face, clothes and hands stained with a great deal of blood. Something was said in Korean, the meaning bouncing around in Clef's head without ever settling in. He was pretty sure the general gist was one of “I would love to, you easy idiot prey.” Time to turn the screws. “I was literal with that last bit. I am attracted to you because you are a fox. A nice Japanese fox girl with really big tits. I like that.” He made sure to motion suggestively, just for emphasis. That did it. She launched herself at him, claws drawn, screeching. From his perspective, the leap was in slow motion in slow-motion. Clef sidestepped out of his shed pants. “And that fur? Damn I love me that fur. Gets so soft between the legs. You have no idea how attractive that is. And the snout? Don't get me started on the snout. Snouts give great blowjobs.” Another swing, another miss. It was so easy. He barely had to do anything. His body just acted on its own, a step here, a duck here, just keeping out of the way, taunting and taunting until that one moment where the screws were in so tight that you just had to grab one and yank… “I have a raging boner right now.” He would have paid several million dollars for a photograph of her face as she leapt at him again. It would have been museum worthy. Duck low, shoulder into gut, knock her down, slam a knee down on her throat. Something silver appeared in his hand, the end shoved in the woman's mouth. “Oh wait, no I don't. It's an actual gun.” Clef smiled, his mouth just a bit too wide. “Never try to seduce a eunuch, honey.” He pulled the trigger, the gun barked, and the woman burst into butterflies. “Oh…well then. Shit.” The syllable drowned in gunfire. — Able picked a tooth out of his chest and flicked it to the side. He trod over the bodies, one in particular being that of a man in a longcoat, his fedora rolled off into a little smear of blood. The body was impaled with a length of piping. The fat man backed against the wall looked as if he had soiled himself. His finger worked the useless trigger frantically. Able loomed with his full eight feet, bloody and pockmarked. “Where Epon?” — Epon stood in her room, listening to the sirens blare outside. They had her locked in here for study, and she was fine with that, but now… now she felt like she should have been doing something. Getting Mother killed had given her a bad habit of activity. Things needed to be done, and she was going to be the one to do it, because no one else would. She inspected the door again. There was no handle of course, no breaks in the seal. It opened only from the outside. She kicked it. It didn't move. Why did I kick it? That wouldn't do anything. I can talk to the observer anyway… She pressed the microphone button by the door, feeling rather stupid. “Hello? Is anyone there?” There was no response. More important things to worry about, she supposed. Epon paced the room. Vents were no good, door was no good, no windows, no way to seduce the guard into letting her out (though granted, that would have been exceptionally difficult for her under any circumstances). Time passed. The door opened. A woman with glasses and a braid walked in. One of the doctors. Epon couldn't remember her name. “What's going on?” “A minor drill, nothing to concern yourself about.” She pulled out a chair from the desk. Her nametag read “Sophia Light”. “You have an interview scheduled for today” “Okay.” Epon sat down, out of politeness. She hated sitting. Standing was much more comfortable. What was the point? The fight was out there, she was needed out there! Clef was out there. “How are adjustments going for you? Everyone treating you all right?” Light said, as if nothing was the matter. “Everything's fine, but I really think that…” “No major issues in adapting?” “Yes but…” “How does it feel to be Clef's little bitch?” There was a definite mad twinkle in the doctor's eye. It wasn't much of an insult, to be honest. “It feels like you're no longer welcome here.” Epon stood up, as did Dr. Light. She had a gun in her hand. “I'm not going to let this place fall into the madhouse. I know what they plan on doing. They're not going to keep you locked up, they're not going to keep Able locked up. They're going to use you. Clef's gotten them confident. They think they can handle it. They think they can control the unknown. They can't.” Epon did the first thing that came to mind, and kicked the doctor. The total lack of knowledge regarding properly kicking someone was made up by the fact Epon, very literally, kicked like a horse. The first iron-shod hoof pulped Sophia's stomach. The second shattered Sophia's jaw. The third, which was more of a stomp than a kick, snapped her spine. She crumpled to the floor with a splat. Epon snorted and wiped her foot on the floor. Well, that was that. She had just killed someone. Directly this time. She took the ID badge and the keycard from her pocket. The door opened again. A terrified-looking man was holding a keycard. Able was standing behind him, two thick fingers casually held around his neck. [Able? You too? Now I feel like I should have tidied the place up.] [No time. There are traitors, attempting to kill my brother.] That sounded about right. [One just tried to kill me.] [When you kill a man, you kill his sons and brothers, so that they may not avenge him. Cowards that they are, they know this.] Able squeezed the fat man's neck and dropped the corpse to the ground. [Come then. We shall find Clef.] [We'll have to be quiet about it.] [Indeed. Let us go.] — Clef sliced a man's throat open with a razor, and subsequently came to the realization that he had no idea why he had a straight razor in the first place, or how he was still moving. Some part of him was dimly aware that there was significantly more lead and significantly less blood in his body than there normally was, and that this was a bad thing. His body was retreating, but this seemed to be a lot less important than observing all the pretty patterns on the floor and walls. The brief moment of realization faded away into the background. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, watching the scene acted out around him from some mental Laz-E-Boy. Just faces on a screen. Like a movie. Like a cartoon. “Holy shit! Did you see that guy? Just went and offed himself! I mean, my breath isn't that bad!” The commentary seemed just as natural as the violence on the screen. It passed in a blur, the voice taunting and cheering and jeering and laughing, the bodies dropping to the floor, the splashes of red. The world blurred together with runny watercolors. “Fucked your mom, fucked your mom, fucked your sister, fucked your dad…” “You know, you might want to look for employment opportunities elsewhere, this place really doesn't have good dental.” “Hey there, friendo, gimme five!” “GET OVER HERE!” Sight and sound and experience blurred and drifted past. Then, Ben. Standing there in the hallway, holding a sword. He had a finger gently pressed against the tip, as if to prove his mastery of the tool by not getting cut. Clef watched him through his eyes, noticing how his body wasn't moving. “You like it? Had it commissioned. Twenty k and two years for this. Would you just look at this craftsmanship? Folded over a million times by a master swordsmith, capable of cutting solid steel blocks, feared and respected the world over. This is the reason Europe never conquered Japan. This is the perfect weapon.” “You know, I think you have me convinced on this.” Clef watched his fist fly out and crush Ben's nose. The man screamed, dropping his sword. “Clearly, it is the greatest weapon to ever exist.” Clef watched his left hand reach out and grab Ben by the collar, dragging him across the hall. “I am going to have to re-think my entire life after this revelation.” The other hand hit a button. A door opened. An air lock. Ben was tossed inside. The button again, the door cut off his “No!” “Or maybe you're just full of shit.” On the other side of the door, in a room with no windows, Ben Kondraki managed to get a gurgling half-scream out before he was knocked to the floor and his throat was torn out by a rather large, snaggle-toothed lizard. On the other side of the door, the voice snickered, and Clef watched the screen go black. — It was Strelkinov who found them first: Clef looking like a paint explosion in a Swiss cheese factory, Epon holding his head on her lap, Able standing guard. Poignancy at its finest.

Dr. Jacob Andrews stood in the hallway of Site 19's medical ward, in front of the door to the examination room where his subject for the day was strapped to a bed. Dr. Andrews had never worked face-to-face with a living, breathing SCP object before - his degree was in Latin, after all, and the bulk of his work revolved around translating and interpreting ancient documents. As it happened, however, Latin was the only language the creature recognized that anyone at Site 19 was capable of speaking fluently - and Dr. Andrews was the only person available who spoke it. "Just remain calm, remember the briefing, and you'll be fine," Security Director Jefferson told him as he retrieved a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door. "Do not touch the creature, allow any part of your body to come within reach of its mouth, or attempt to loosen or remove any of its bonds. We'll be watching and listening in the whole time and if anything goes wrong we'll be through the door in under five seconds. If you need out, the safe word is 'bonavox'. All clear?" "Yes, sir," Dr. Andrews nodded. "Then good luck," Jefferson said. Andrews grasped the knob and turned it, slowly opening the door. A beam of light from the corridor spread out into the room and onto the Spartan bed that alone furnished it - and no sooner did those rays of light strike the thing on the bed than it began seizing and shaking, struggling against the straps that held it in place as it hissed and snarled. It shouted and shrieked in a strangely accented language that Dr. Andrews took to be an archaic dialect of Romanian, no doubt (as attested in the briefing he had received) begging that the light be put out. Andrews stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving the room pitch black but for the dim readout of the heart monitor next to its bed - a monitor which read that the thing's blood pressure was impossibly low, its pulse and respiration far too meager to sustain life, its body core only a few degrees warmer than the air around it. "I am going to need to be able to see you to perform my work," Andrews said in Latin. "May I light a dim light?" "If you must," responded a weak, barely audible voice in kind. Andrews touched the dimmer switch that had been installed by the door and brought the ceiling lamp to its lowest setting. Even in this dim glare, the creature on the bed shook and squinted its eyes, but seemed to be in less distress than it had before. In the amber glow, Andrews got his first good look at the tall, gaunt creature that lay before him, nude but for a hospital gown, an IV bag of blood draining slowly into its arm, leather straps around its wrists and ankles holding it in place. Its skin was a pale gray, mottled and speckled with black and purple like a slowly rotting corpse, dry and stretched taut over its bony limbs, ribs poking out of its chest like an emaciated prisoner. It was hairless, but for the shock of unkempt and brittle hair on its head, which, whatever color it had been at first, had been bleached blond by the centuries. A pair of bloodshot, pinkish eyes were barely visible behind its half-closed eyelids. Its teeth, yellow, misshapen, and cracked, were bared behind its dried, curled-back lips. The thing seemed to struggle for every breath, its chest rising and falling with great difficulty, each exhalation accompanied by a dry wheeze interspersed with bouts of violent coughing. It reeked of dried blood, rotting flesh, and the stink of the grave. "My name is Dr. Jacob Andrews," Andrews said, "and I work for the Foundation. I have been instructed to ask you some questions so that my superiors can determine whether you pose a threat and what means will be necessary to keep you safely contained. Do you understand?" "Your Latin is excellent," the thing replied in what Andrews now recognized to be a thick Slavic accent. "Are you from the Roman church?" "No, I'm just a…" Andrews searched his mind for a word the thing would recognize. "…a scholar. A historian, if you will." "Then at least I know I shall not be burned this day," the thing said, chuckling to itself before a coughing spasm overtook it. Andrews noticed that though it could barely manage a whisper, and each syllable seemed to come only at great effort, there was a certain genteel nature to its speech, a refined, carefully considered grace to each word. "Our purpose here is to secure, contain, and protect," Andrews said. "What of you? Are you a man of God?" "You ask if I believe in God?" the creature spat. "What kind of god would allow a thing such as I to exist? No, I am no holy man." "Then who are you?" "A man of noble birth," the thing said, taking a deep breath in anticipation of its next sentence. "I was - I am the duke of Oltenia, as was my father before me, and his father before him, and his before him, and his before him who freed us all from the rule of the Turks." "And what is your name?" The thing paused. "I… I do not remember," it said. "It has been a long time since I have had need of a name." "I guess I'll just have to call you Duke, then," Andrews replied. "How old are you, Duke?" "I cannot say. I do not know what year this is." "2012." "Two thousand and twelve," Duke said to himself. He was silent for a moment, seemingly taking in the realization of how much time had passed. "Then I suppose I must be seven hundred years old, or so." "Do you not know when you were born?" "I remember so little from those days. It was such a long time ago. I remember the sensations most of all, the things lost forever… the smell of my mother's perfume, the taste of meat roasted on the bone, the warmth of the fire, what it felt like to kiss a girl for the first time, the sting on my cheek when she slapped me for trying to reach under her skirt." Duke laughed at his own joke, and laughing once more gave way to coughing. "What do you remember distinctly of your life before you became as you are now?" "That I was a prince among men," Duke said. "I fought the Turks. I fought the Greeks. I fought the Serbs. I fought anyone who was foolish enough to face me! None dared challenge my word. Those who did… well, my enemies were known to whisper that I roasted the vanquished alive and dined on their flesh! Truth be told, I only did it once. I didn't care for it." "How did you come to be as you are now?" Duke sighed. "I didn't want to die. And I was dying." "Of what?" "Consumption," Duke said before launching into another fit of coughing. Andrews noticed for the first time the fine pinkish mist that Duke ejected from his throat with each cough, and reminded himself to get a full checkup after this interview was over. "I had watched it take my mother and my sister. I did not wish to die as they did. I offered half my fortune to whoever could provide me with the secrets of eternal life." "And someone made you an offer?" "Many people. Doctors, priests, historians like yourself. I turned the preachers away. The doctors, I bade to try their craft on a peasant first. Most of the peasants died - and so I took those doctors and mounted them on spikes in front of my keep as a warning to those who would try to cheat a duke. Eventually, a witch came before me, one of the secret practitioners of the old cults, who proposed that I could live forever - if only I became a strigoi." "What's a strigoi?" Duke laughed so hard Andrews feared he might crack a rib. "You have obviously never been to Oltenia," he said, "or you would know. The strigoi are beasts. Mindless savages, born from the carcasses of unrepentant sinners. They stalk the places that are called home by the dead - cemeteries, battlefields, gallows, cities stricken by the plague - and they feast on the flesh and blood of the dead. If there is no dead meat to be found and they are hungry, they will sometimes attack the living. Their bite is poison. It brings unimaginable pain" - Duke grimaced, as if in memory of that pain - "and if the beast does not kill you and devour you itself, then you too will lose your mind and become as they are." "Is that what you are now?" "No," Duke said. "I am something far greater." "Explain." "I nearly killed the witch myself for suggesting I become one of those abominations. She protested that I had misunderstood her - she knew a way, an ancient secret of the heathen princes of old, that could allow me to become ageless as the strigoi are, but maintain my senses. I gave her leave to test it on a prisoner - and indeed, it worked." "What became of the prisoner?" "I ordered him burned at the stake," Duke said. "There was only room for one immortal in my duchy." "So you underwent this same ritual?" "Yes," Duke said almost mournfully. "We captured one of the wild strigoi that lurked where the bodies of plague victims were burned. On the night of a full moon, the witch brought it before me and allowed it to bite me." Duke nodded his head toward his left arm, at a solid black patch of flesh above the elbow. "For three days I was in unbearable anguish. My skin became pale and I could no longer bear the sunlight, and I felt as though I would soon go mad. On the third night, after bathing me in the blood of an unbaptized Turk, the witch slit the strigoi's throat and bade me drink its blood. I vomited at first. She forced my face back to its throat and yelled at me to keep drinking. The more I drank, the better it tasted. Once I had had my fill, the witch proclaimed the ritual was complete - and so long as I kept a watchful eye on my enemies, I would never die." "So she earned the reward you promised?" "Of course not," Duke said. "I tore into her throat and drank her blood the next night. None but those I trusted with my life could know what I had become and remain alive. Even my wife became repulsed by the sight and smell of me. Her blood was delicious." "Did you eat their flesh as well?" "I never cared for the flesh. The blood was what I craved - delicious, and alive, and warm. So much of what it means to be a man, I can no longer experience. I see the fire, but I do not feel its heat. Only when fresh blood is running through my veins do I truly feel warm anymore." "How often do you need to feed?" "I do not need to feed at all. I… enjoy it. There are so few pleasures of the flesh available to a man in my condition." "How often are you hungry?" "I am always hungry. I am always thirsty. I am always tired, and sore, and aching, and sick. The old wounds never heal, the old pains never subside. I can drink until my stomach feels ready to burst, and still I hunger." "How long did you continue to live as a duke after you changed?" "Fifty years or so. I had to hide my face from the people and stay alone in the dark. The light burns, like being thrown into a fire. Even this glare now is quite unbearable." "What happened to change things?" "One of the peasant girls I intended to make a meal of escaped and informed the church of what I had become. The damned bishop incited the serfs to revolution and burned my keep. They would have burned me with it if I had not escaped into the woods." "Where did you go then?" "In the woods I remained until your mercenaries made a prisoner of me. I thought many times of trying to reclaim my land, but I am not…" Duke stopped to catch his breath. "I am not as strong or charismatic as once I was." "What did you do for all those years?" "I occupied myself with my thoughts, mostly. There have been times where I have simply crawled into a cave, or a hollow log, or covered myself with the earth and simply laid for days, or months, or years because I did not wish to move. When people came hunting the strigoi, I hid and fled. When I desired to do so, I preyed on huntsmen, and travelers, and others lost in the woods. It is quite simple to stalk a lone hunter in silence until he makes camp and falls asleep, then come upon him in the darkness and tear out his throat before he awakens. To hunt the animals is different - their senses are so much more attuned to the sound - and the smell - of death." "Did you ever encounter other strigoi like yourself?" "No, only the mad beasts. If they came into my woods, I killed them. They are fierce when cornered, but easy enough to lure into a well-laid trap." "Do you ever regret what you've become?" Duke paused a moment, looking down at his frail, emaciated frame. "If I had known this would be the price of immortality… perhaps I would have waited for another offer to come along." Duke chuckled. "The strigoi are not truly 'immortal', I take it." "I hunger, but I will never starve. I thirst, but I will never grow parched. I can barely breathe…" appropriately enough, Duke stopped again, struggling to catch his breath after winding himself. "I cannot breathe, but I will never choke. I am sick, but I shall never waste away. I shall live forever." "But can you be killed?" "I suppose. If you took my head, or pierced my heart, or set me aflame, or hacked me to bits, it would kill me as surely as any mere man." "Have you ever tried to take your own life, or provoke someone to kill you?" "No." Duke's answer was flat and immediate. "Why not?" "Because I still don't want to die." "I don't understand," Andrews said. "You've lived alone in the woods for seven hundred years as a frail monster that most people would kill on sight. Wouldn't death be a relief?" "Surely a historian knows that no great man ever wants to die," Duke said. "Every ache, every pain, every pang of hunger, every moment of regret for the things I have lost - these things are gifts, Doctor. I would rather feel the greatest torment you could possibly imagine… than know that I will never feel anything again, or even exist to know that I feel it not." "I think I've heard everything I need to hear for now," Andrews said. "The nurse will be by in an hour to change your IV." "Don't bother," Duke said as Andrews turned off the dimmer and made his way to the door. "Sticking it into my veins like this does nothing for me. Could you ask if they could arrange to have it drip into my mouth? The blood of a woman would be ideal. Warm. Virginal, preferably. Have your masters any available?" Dr. Andrews opened the door. "I hope not," he said.

Act 2, Scene 2: James: (Crying) But can't they help you in some way? Butt ghost: There is no cure for butt cancer. J: But what will I do without you? BG: James, you've never needed me in the first place J: What do you mean? BG: Inside of you lies the power, not me. I'm only a spirit that haunts the posteriors of mammals. J: I can't let you go. BG: You already have. (Gestures to the framed photo of James with his arm wrapped around a yield sign.) J: It's not what you think! BG: No, it's what I know. J: But butt ghost… BG: Shh, don't speak. You've broken my heart enough already. J: I can't let you go. BG: You had no trouble letting your other women go! J: That was years ago, Butt Ghost! BG: A butt ghost never forgets. J: You forgot me once. BG: I had to go soul-searching, James. J: And what did you find? BG: I found my spirit place. The air was still and the water was cool. I felt a presence. I turned to look, but no one was there. I was alone. The moon overhead gazed down at my prone body. I felt nothing and everything at once. And that's when I realized, my people need me. J: Ankle ghost will be fine. BG: It's not just Ankle Ghost anymore, James, it's the world. J: What does that even mean? BG: They're revoking ghost licenses everywhere now. J: No! BG: It's true. J: But what about your estranged relationship with your brother? BG: Ghost Butt will either have to get out of my way, or join me. J: How? BG: James, you know me too well to question my ability in dealing with these issues. J: Very well. I can only hope you don't fail. BG: Failure is not an option. J: Good luck. BG: Thank you. J: Here take this. (Passes plunger) BG: I will not let you down. J: Goodbye, Butt Ghost. (Salutes) BG: Goodbye, James. (Flushes) Something even the loneliest man can relate to, Goodbye Ghost brings us to realize our own mortality and the importance of our relationship with our friends, regardless of corporeality. - Foundation Tribune Play of the year. Period. - CI Review Guaranteed to make you both laugh and cry, the Butt Ghost's performance is the best of the the year, if not the century. - Time-anomaly Magazine What the FUCK is this shit? - O5-7

Little Anthony wandered down Pine Street, separated from the three other trick-or-treaters he had tagged along with. According to them, the house at the end of the road was giving out regular-sized Snickers bars. Two, if they liked your costume. Anthony couldn't pass that up. He noticed that none of the lights on this block were on. He didn't even see decorations. Earlier, Anthony had told them he wasn't scared to go by himself, but that was the Power Ranger costume making him feel brave. Now the little breathing slots in the mask pinched his face. The house at the end of Pine didn't have their lights on, inside or outside, but he could hear people-noises within. If they were trying to be spooky, they did the best job. But Anthony was the White Ranger. He couldn't stop now. Up three steps, creaking, and then, on tiptoes, he pressed the doorbell… and silence answered. The boy lifted a trembling hand and knocked. Footsteps thumped out from inside. Anthony could stop himself running, but couldn't stop himself shaking. The door opened into shadow, and he couldn't see who it was… until she leaned forward. The tenant at the end of Pine was a fat old hag, wearing a thick coat over a sweater worn to rags. Her face was all mangled on one side. It looked like it was healing up from a nasty wound. Anthony had seen his brother wearing scary makeup like that when he left for the high school party. This woman must have gone as someone real cut up. "Trick… or… t-t-treat." The words made Anthony's nose sting and his freckles itch. He tried not to cry, but if he did start, at least he was wearing a mask. The woman grinned. She must have made up her teeth, too, to get them so creepy. She held up a crooked finger (just one minute) as he walked back into the darkness of the house. There was a stifled cry, and then a hiss. The hag came creeping back to the doorway then and, with a jerk, pulled Anthony's outstretched bag close to her. She reached in, holding something he couldn't see, and then her hand came out empty. Then her smile returned, making her scabbed left dimple crack, as that filthy hand reached up over the mask and gently patted his head. The boy was petrified; the sickly sweetness of it was like every cheek pinch and wrinkled kiss from every old relative was rolled up together into a ball and had collected a layer of hair and dirt during the process. She backed into the home, and when the door clicked shut behind her, Anthony was already halfway up the block. "Do you think we should go check on him?" Iron Man asked, as he sifted through his loot. "It was your idea to ditch him, dummy." Katniss unwrapped a fun-sized Butterfinger. "Yeah, but I wanted him to leave us alone for a little while, not get—" The skeleton grabbed Iron Man's arm. "Quiet! There he is." They heard wheezing as he bounded, arms flailing, over the curb and nearly into the bushes. "So, chomp, were they down there?" Katniss elbowed the skeleton so he wouldn't laugh. Iron Man lifted his mask and stood up to inspect the baby of the group. "Shit, what happened to your head?" Anthony rubbed his hair, and it was a little matted where the woman had touched it. His mask felt wet, too. "Shut up, Peter." The skeleton turned to face the Power Ranger. "Seriously… did you get anything down there?" "Y… yeah." Anthony caught his breath and swallowed. His trembling hands held up the candy bag, and he peered into it. "Just some money." Katniss sat up. "Let me see." "Alright… it's getting my candy all wet anyway." He held up the piece of currency, dripping and freckled. "Give you all my Sweettarts for it." Iron Man held up two Twix. "Or these." Anthony scratched his chin. "I'll let you share it for both." "Deal." "Deal." Carefully, Iron Man and Katniss pulled the currency apart. They cupped their hands to make sure none of it stained the sidewalk. "What are you going to get?" Katniss asked. Iron Man shrugged. "Maybe a tattoo." "Shut up. You're way too young for that." "Pffh. So I'll lie on the form. I can do whatever I want, you know. It's my money, and it's my skin."

"So…you want coffee or anything? I think I have some left on the nightstand." "No, thank you." "Okay." "Mr. Brown, while I appreciate the pleasantries, I am here on investigation, namely the events surrounding Captain Anderson's death and you coming into command of the Foundation's lone combat zeppelin.” “Well…um…” “Please, Mr. Brown, wait until I have begun recording. Mmm-hmm. Case File 20121108-6, regarding the destruction of Station HALO-3, overseen by Anjali Mhasalkar. Please state your name and identification number for the record.” “Uh…Lawrence Brown, 30221-1/994.” “Now then, Mr. Brown. Please explain the events leading up to the incident.” “Okay…uh, I was transferred to HALO-3 on September 1st of this year, as part of Project Skylight under Doctor Mandelson. We were training SCP-994 specimens for reconnaissance missions.” “Did you at any time come into contact with any other objects or entities within the station?” “No, never. We were all given the standard briefing during transferal, all the emergency codes in case of breaches and evacuation protocols, but that was it. Just usual stuff.” “Go on.” “Uh…Not much happened for two months. We weren't having any major problems with Project Skylight: no major problems with the implants, and 994s are pretty trainable if you start them small. We were working on getting them to fly courses more than five kilometers out from the station when the incident happened.” “Please describe what happened that morning.” “Well, the Bonham had docked at around four, I woke up at six, usual routine, went down to the 994 hangar at eight-thirty. We was doing some adjustments to the GPS implants. They kept messing up during flight, had no idea why. Dr. Mandelson and Logan and Ari were there with me.” “Had you had any contact with the SCPU Bonham, its crew, or its cargo before the incident?” “No, I just knew that they were docked at the station and were going to head out the next day.” “Station security records transmitted before destruction indicate that there was a containment breach of the high-security experimentation chamber at ten-seventeen, releasing E-7804 into the surrounding modules. Please describe what you experienced.” “There was an explosion, I think. Just this big thud, but from where I was you could barely hear it. Then the sirens started going off and the flock just scatters out of the hangar. We locked down the hangar and the lab, and we were waiting in there for…maybe twenty minutes. Nothing over the speakers but the general lockdown announcement. We had no idea what was going on.” “Did anything unusual occur to you during lockdown?” “No, nothing. Lockdown ended after about twenty minutes or so, so Dr. Mandelson contacted control to see what was going on. No one answered. Mandelson sent out a distress signal and we all made our way to one of the escape shuttles, just like protocol.” “Continue.” “So we had no idea what was going on, it wasn't anything that we'd been briefed on, so we presumed that it was something the Bonham had brought it to us.” “You are correct.” “The shuttle was right next to the hangar, so we get over to it quick, but it wouldn't launch. Dr. Mandelson said someone must have messed it up from command, and then he said that we should investigate, see if we could find security or command or someone who knew what was going on. “I was at the back of the group, they were at the front, so I was able to see the whole thing when we got jumped by the creature and… and …" “Would you like me to pause the recording?” “Yeah…yeah. Just give me a bit.” “Very well.” — “Can you describe the creature?” “Well… it was humanoid. Didn't change too much of the host. It was more of an outer covering, like someone had taken clay and molded it around the person. Grey with red circuit-board-looking designs.” “And then what did you do?” “I hit it with a fire extinguisher and ran away while it was down.” “What did you plan on doing?” “If command was quiet and the shuttles weren't launching, then the only real way to get off was the Bonham, I thought, so I went that way. I could hear some fighting from some of the other levels: stayed as far away from that as I could. Took the maintenance shafts.” “Did you consider that a threat?” “At that point, I figured I was either going to die, or I wasn't. Fifty-fifty chance, so it didn't matter what I tried. I wasn't thinking too clearly at that point. Just running off of adrenaline and fear.” “Did you encounter any more of the creatures?” “Three of them, but they didn't notice me. They don't see or hear normally I don't think. Move slowly and quietly enough and they can't tell that you're there.” “What happened when you reached the docking bay?” “The Bonham was still there, but none of the crew. Not a soul in the bay. I thought that they were all on the ship, but if that was the case, why hadn't they taken off? So I walked towards the ship, hands in the air, and as I approach the ramp lowers and a whole strike team just runs out and stands there. It's like I'm not even there. They just stand there in two neat rows, and I guess Captain Anderson walks out, except…he's got like this war paint on and everything. Tore up his uniform, looks like he jumped off the deep end from orbit, big grin on his face. He actually notices me. Walks down the ramp, and he's got his arms out like this, all smug and everything. Like he's the villain in some pirate movie. Even had an eye patch.” “What did he say to you?” “He didn't really say anything, before he walked over and headbutted me. Then he said ‘how's it going, motherfucker'?” “And this lead to your injuries, I presume?” “Yeah, he just beat the tar out of me for a bit, said something, not sure what, and then had one of the strike team guys carry me back into the ship. It must have been some powerful conditioning to override the standard set: Those guys were zombies.” “Continue.” “I was half-conscious at this point, so I really don't have that good of an idea what was going on, but I know I was able to see out the window enough to see that the station was covered in the clay-like stuff, big gobs of it. Like it had been maybe an hour, hour and a half since the breach? I'll be damned if that's not Keter.” “And you would be right.” “I think Anderson says something about missing the fun and work to do, and after that, nothing until I woke up here in medical.” “No memories at all?” “Bits and pieces, but they're all blurred…except for the bit at the end, when the recovery team got there, I remember waving something around and shouting 'I am the captain, and this is my crew, and this is the SCPU Fuck You'.” “You would be correct.” “And that's it.” “Very well. Mr. Brown, have you been informed of what went on during your blackout? “Not really — bits and pieces.” “You killed thirteen Chaos Insurgency agents with a shotgun and rammed the Bonham into the station's anti-gravity ring, triggering its self-destruct sequence. All told, this incident resulted in the complete destruction of one of our HALO facilities, the death of one hundred and eighty-six personnel, the destruction of twenty-two anomalous objects, the loss of experimental technology valued in the range of ten billion dollars, damaged relations with three of our major extra-universal suppliers, and one of the largest cover-up efforts of the last decade. However, you also prevented an attempt to disperse E-7804 into the Pacific Ocean, which would have required a global restructuring event to contain.” “Oh…wow…" “Consider this a commendation for inadvertent heroism.” “I have a question, though.” “Go on.” “Why exactly do we have a combat zeppelin?” “That's classified, Mr. Brown.”

Dear Annie, I'm sorry I had to leave without telling you anything, but things kinda… escalated faster than I thought they would. I mean, I knew the suits would get royally pissed off with our little art project, but I didn't know they'd go all “Fugitive” on us and start a fucking manhunt. Rita and Geoff heard what was going on and came to pick me up, said they had a place where we and a few of the others could lay low for a while. I know you must be real mad with me, but that's just the way it had to be, babe. If we don't stick it to those manipulative, conniving, shadow puppet master chumps, no one else is going to. Give little Harry a kiss for me. Tell him his dad is going to be the coolest. Dear Annie, I have no idea if I'll get a chance to send this to you, but I'm writing it anyway. If nothing else, it'll make me feel better. Turns out Rita and Geoff's hideout is some damp cave smack in the middle of the boondocks. I have no idea how they found out about this place, but I guess we can't afford to be picky at the moment. We got enough canned food and art supplies to keep our head above the water for a good while, at least. Water might be a problem though- we can forget about bathing for a good while. Not that half of the guys here care. I'm going to need something to distract me from all of this. A new project. It's not going to be easy to top the flaming tower of screaming goat heads that got the suits so riled up, but you can bet your ass we're going to try. This place is amazing! Turns out we didn't need to worry about water- there's this huge underground lake just a bit deeper into the cave. We all had a nice swim, washed our clothes, we might even catch some fish. See, this is exactly what I was saying to you the other day: trust in the world, and it will provide. It's what the suits don't get, why they're always trying to push everyone around. It's why we're going to win in the end- the world is us, babe. The world is art. I think this place is inspiring me. Watching the water ebb and flow, how the light plays on our reflections, the hues of the rock veins, it's making me feel things I haven't felt in a long while. Something here is calling me, feeding me with colors and sounds and smells, teaching me. In here, maybe I can create something truly great. Something that'll be remembered. I wish you and Harry were here. He'd love it. I've been hearing her. It started with distorted echoes, a slight haziness of sound around me. Then people's voices began to grow indistinct. I could still hear them and understand them, but what they said suddenly didn't seem to matter as much. Then it all began coming together, the echoes and the voices and everything else, and I heard her. Her voice appeared from that chaotic swirl of mindless sound like a bonfire in the dark, streamed through me like boiling blood. For the first time ever, I feel awake, alive, and brilliant. She wants me to create something special, I can tell. I gathered whatever supplies I could and ventured deeper into the cave, where I can work in peace. The others wouldn't understand, they're far too dull, too involved in their petty squabble with “The Man”. It's such a childish notion, really. They are so much beneath the Muse's notice. She only trusts me. She'll make me great. Oh Annie, if only you could hear her. You'd never believe how beautiful she is. I'm such a fool. All this effort I spent on banal bullshit, on trying to be ‘subversive', 'dangerous', ‘cool'. What a waste of time. I always thought I knew what art was all about, but I didn't know jack. Not until I came here. Not until she began flooding through me. Art shouldn't be some sort of cattle prod used only to piss off people you don't like. It should be transcendent, rising above all the bickering and fighting and banality, and thanks to her, I'm creating such art for the first time ever. The others have no idea where I am. I heard them searching for me, calling my name, asking me to come back and eat something. Oafish, loud, insufferable. They think something's wrong with me. They're right. My materials and instruments are too crude for the Muse's call; my hands are too numb and clumsy, my brushes too thick and brutish and my paints, even that Wondertainment Wonderhue stuff which I used to like so much, seems entirely insufficient for the work the Blood is commanding me do. I need something more. I need something perfect. I'll have to find a way to fix that. You'd understand if you were here to see it. Just look at the colors. Sanguine and sapphire, ivory and indigo; these once barren walls now scream praises to her. It's all I ever wanted, all I ever hoped to be. I found it. The answer was obvious; really, it was right in front of me the entire time. All the materials I could ever ask for, the best tools, all in one neat package. Well, maybe not neat. You see, the reason I couldn't see it before was because there was something in the way, like an oily rag covering a Monet. The human body is a wonderful tool, you see. But the soul is useless. Luckily, removing it was easy. The Blood of the World guided me to them, took out their lights, left them alone to stumble in the dark for me to pick. They might have screamed, or begged, or cried. I wouldn't know, I wasn't paying much attention. All I know is that they weren't cool at the end. Oh no, not at all. After that, it was only a matter of digging in, ripping and clawing and tearing until I got to the core. All that was left were dyes and pigments for my mural, gushing out, and fresh as anyone could ask for. Hairs to weave in her image, blond and brown and black. Nails and teeth for the mosaic, so delicate, so fragile. She laughed with pleasure when she saw my work. This will be enough, she said, this will make Breath and Pulse and Spine crumble before her. I don't know what she meant. I don't care. As long as she's happy, so am I. I always thought there was no such thing as perfection. I was wrong. One day I'll come back and show you and Harry the hidden truth she taught me- Perfection is only skin deep.

Michaelson's coughing racked his wasted frame. He brought his handkerchief up to his mouth and hacked until his weak lungs stopped trying to clear themselves. Blood spotted the white fabric in places, some fresh, some dried. He didn't care about the blood. Absentmindedly, his hand touched his bald head, fingers searching for hair that was no longer there. It was stupid, really. Lung failure had become a part of life long after the hair loss, but he missed his locks more than he missed a properly functioning respiratory system. The doctors had given him six months, and he'd taken three years, but now it was all just coming apart. He was getting steadily worse, and the cancer just wouldn't go away this time. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair at all. He was thirty-five for fuck's sake! There were so many things he had yet to do. There was a lot of life left for him to live, and he'd never submit to illness, not when he had any kind of way out. Michaelson was determined to be great. He wouldn't let anything, not his so-called peers, not his superiors, not even death itself take that greatness from him. It had taken quite a while to set his plan in motion, but now all of his work was going to pay off. He didn't even care about the price anymore. Anything was better than the sick feeling of knowing he would die before forty, unaccomplished, nothing at all remarkable about him to be remembered. As he pressed the series of buttons in the observation booth that brought in the separate pieces of his salvation, another fit of coughing tore through his chest. It was worse than the last one, and this time, his handkerchief came away with more than a few spots of blood. Researcher Michaelson shuffled through the testing room door. Somewhere, a silent alarm had gone off warning… someone. A failsafe. Even when testing was scheduled ahead of time, that alarm went off. It had taken a lot of work to get even a hazy idea of who the alarm warned. If he was right, then he had successfully disabled it. If he was wrong, well, he would have time enough for this. Hopefully he could make his deal and be gone before security arrived. The cameras had already been rendered useless, and his heart pumped faster with fear. It was all well and good to go about preparations, but this was the real deal. Being discovered now would mean death. Admittedly, it would be a much faster death than what his own treacherous body had in store for him. Placing a shaking hand on the top of the straight-backed chair, Michaelson slumped down into it. Within seconds, there was someone sitting across the desk from him. It looked remarkably like the salesman who had fast talked him into his first piece of shit car years ago. His blond hair was slicked back severely, and a welcoming smile danced across pale lips. "Mr. Michaelson! How pleasant to see you. What can I offer you today?" The voice that came from the creature was a perfect facsimile of the salesman, down to his smooth baritone. It leaned back in its chair, rocking the elegant piece of furniture back on two legs. "Perhaps the love of a beautiful woman? Or no, you're an educated man, perchance you'd like all the knowledge of a P.h.D in Applied Physics? I'd be happy to offer you just about anything." Michaelson didn't have time for this. "No, I don't want either of those. I need you to heal my body and make it live longer than normal, and it needs to be done immediately!" The entity's smile took on a bit of a melancholy cast. "Longer life, hmm? It's been quite awhile since I've had someone request that one. And no one has ever been willing to pay the price. Strange, considering how much you frail creatures value your existence." A flawless mask of regretful reluctance passed across its face. "Well, in any case, I'm afraid the price for that is quite steep indeed. I'm sure we can work out some-" He was in no mood for haggling. Finally, the means to be well again was within his grasp, and the thing was wasting his time. "Do I look like I give a damn?! I don't care what abstract shit you take from me, just heal my body!" Shrugging, the entity replied serenely, "As you wish. I'll draw up the contract." Abruptly, two drawers on the desk opened of their own accord, and a few pieces of creamy parchment flew out of one, while a stylized golden pen rocketed from the other. The pen set to writing independently, furiously scratching clause after clause. Michaelson almost salivated at the sight. At last, he was going to be free of his illness, he was going to run again. Perhaps, most importantly he'd finally be able to earn the recognition he deserved. He wouldn't be sad Michaelson, the dying, pointless researcher. He'd be Michaelson the Triumphant, victor over sickness, brilliant doctor, accomplished SCP researcher. They would pin medals to his chest and sing his praises. He could see it all in his mind, and it was glorious. As suddenly as it had begun, the pen ceased its motion and fell limply to the desk. The entity leaned back forward, the legs of its throne landing with a soft click. It pushed the very last page of the contract across the desk and slid the pen along after it. Its finger rested gently on a blank line. "If you'd please sign here, the contract will become binding, and your body will be healed." He didn't even bother to give it a second thought. Normally he tried to slow down his writing, to accommodate his shaking hands. Now, he was too excited to bother slowing down. With the researcher's mangled signature scrawled along the bottom of the page, the entity smiled, took the contract, and placed it inside the desk, along with the ornate pen. It reached out one hand to the dying researcher in a jovial manner. "Shall we shake on it, Mr. Michaelson?" Without another word, Michaelson took the thing's hand in his own. It felt exactly as the salesman's had, slightly clammy with a firm grip. The second their hands separated, the researcher felt a burning heat suffuse his entire being. He would have screamed, but the pain seemed to radiate out from his lungs, and he could no more draw breath than he could catch the Sun. Before he could even begin to regret the deal he had made, the pain vanished. Slowly standing from the chair, Michaelson felt tears run down his face. He took a long, slow breath. Air fully filled his lungs in a way it had not in nearly three years. He felt like jumping, shouting, sprinting through the halls. It seemed like he was so full of vigor he would burst. Turning to stride from the testing room, he heard the entity say, in the same friendly voice, "Not so fast, Mr. Michaelson, you have yet to fulfill your end of the contract." Cold fear crawled down Researcher Michaelson's spine. Now that he was no longer knocking on death's door, he felt far more afraid of what the thing could take from him. Feeling more than a little panicky, he wondered just what he had agreed to. Racking his brains frantically, he couldn't remember ever hearing just what the price was for his returned good health, only that it had been "steep." Of its own volition, the contract he had signed came zooming back out of the drawer. "You'll see here in this clause, that in requesting the healing of your body, you did not specify what mind was to inhabit said product. Since said attribute of the post contract product was not enumerated directly in the initial agreement, it allows for ownership of said product to be transferred via a properly binding contract." The entity pressed a finger down on the parchment, running his finger under a line. "Now, normally the ex post facto change in ownership would null the agreement, but your phrasing was ambiguous enough to allow a proper change in ownership, -which was enumerated in page three, paragraph nine- while still retaining the positive gains of the contract." Michaelson couldn't even pretend to understand the hurricane of legal dogma being thrown at him. However, the mention of transferring ownership of his body was beginning to really sink in, and his pensive expression quickly soured into outright fear. The entity paused for emphasis, still smiling warmly at his pale face, "In this final clause you agreed that in return for the restoration of your physical form, and the following increase to your natural lifespan, that you would allow the being with which said deal was made, that's me, by the by, sole control over the repaired product." Its grin was becoming wider than the human face could stretch, going nearly from one ear to the other. "If you'll forgive my temporary lack of professionalism, I must say that I've been trying for decades to get someone to sign that particular clause. Usually, the rules prohibit me from even offering that as a price, but you are an exceptionally greedy man. Healing is nothing, but longevity? That is an entirely different order of magnitude." It beamed lovingly at the contract's last page. "Oh, how I have waited for this day. Thank you, Mr. Michaelson, for being the desperate fool I needed." Michaelson's slowly dawning horror was reply enough for the entity. A feverish light was in its eyes and it smiled at him again. Suddenly, he could see nothing pleasant or warm or even mirthful in that smile. Now, it was the rictus of a predator that has finally caught its prey. He had made a miscalculation. For all his schemes, all his ingenuity, Michaelson hadn't thought to account for the very element of the plan that he had thought would ensure his survival. "Really, Mr. Michaelson, did no one ever tell you to thoroughly read contracts before you signed them?" His mouth was dry. "I- I didn't- I didn't know, there was no- I mean, I couldn't have-" The entity silenced him with a glare, a sudden departure from its normal jovial expression. "Mr. Michaelson, really, show some dignity. If you find your end of the contract odious, maybe you should have read the deal before you signed it. I was even going to tell you what the price was and allow negotiation, before you so rudely interrupted me." It paused to take a deep, satisfied breath. "I am now the de facto owner of the merchandise I repaired. And I think I'll take possession of my property. I do so hope you enjoy whatever comes after death for your species." It tapped its chin thoughtfully. "Though I do seem to recall most of your belief systems tend to look down on deals like the one you just made." It chuckled quietly. "Well, I suppose you had best hope they're wrong." "Oh, don't look so worried, there's a warranty clause. Should the warranted property prove insufficiently restored, or if the malfunctions it was cured of should return, the whole contract becomes null and void." Its eyes danced with amusement. "Of course, the entire warranty clause in and of itself will become meaningless upon the cessation of life of either party, leaving the use of the property in question up to the sole discretion of the surviving party. Unfortunately, you humans are just so fragile without your leased containers. I'm afraid your demise will come rather swiftly after your eviction." He tried to run. It was a meaningless endeavor. The entity didn't even have to move to take him. It was all in the contract after all. Michaelson tried to scream one last time, but the words wouldn't pass his lips. They weren't even his lips anymore. The entity stretched slowly, popping every joint it could in its new body. Looking at the throne-like chair it had spent so many centuries in, it felt a slight twinge of sadness. A prison it might have been, but a gilded cage is still gilded. Still, freedom beckoned. Before it left, it opened two drawers of the desk and retrieved a large stack of parchment and several black pens. It could always make more, but waste not, want not. It pushed the drawers shut, and they seemed to close with a certain reluctant finality. Smiling slowly, it strolled quietly to the door of the testing room. As it walked out of the observation area and back into the general hallways, the entity began to whistle the tune to an old hymn heard often in the Cardinal's chambers. It was one of his old favorites.

Marshall slid the sleeve of his suit back, the ornate silver watch on his wrist glinting in the dull yellow glow of artificial light. Two minutes, eighteen seconds. He was on the second floor of the building, a hotel from the early twenties. The decadence of that era remained apparent in the dusty chandeliers, swinging slowly overhead as a train roared past outside. This room had been a ballroom at one time, and the dusty wood floor still bore the scuff marks of the thousands of boots that had come to this room before his own. One minute, fifty six seconds. He broke from his standing position by the door, lengthening his strides to make up for time lost contemplating the decor. The man in the middle of the room smiled at his customer, glad that somebody appreciated his collection, and he waved Marshall towards himself. "Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall. Right this way, please." One minute, forty three seconds. Twenty three more seconds until he was supposed to leave the room. "One moment please, sir." Marshall indicated a beautiful eighteenth century chair backed against a wall, drawing his words out. "How did you manage to get ahold of that? I have been looking for one to complete my dining room." "A most interesting piece, Mr. Marshall, you have quite the eye for quality. Smashed to pieces during the French Revolution and restored by a carpenter several years later…" One minute, twenty six seconds. Marshall walked several paces closer to the man, still detailing the restoration of his glorious chair, and they walked together into the next room. "… Rather pricey, but worth it I think. Now, about those items you wanted to purchase." The man threw open a heavy wooden door, and the amazement on Marshalls face was only partly feigned. "My God man, is that an original?" Marshall indicated a tapestry in the corner, and was just as quickly drawn away by a painting sitting atop a nightstand older than the building he stood in. "Good Lord, is that-" The smile on the man's face was broad as Marshall stared around the room in awe. "Indeed it is. Penance. That one is not for sale, sadly. It holds a special place in my heart. I acquired it in Germany after…" Marshall pulled himself together and checked his watch as inconspicuously as possible, hoping the man was too engaged by his collection to notice. He was not meant to lose track of time. Forty three seconds. "But my dear Mr. Marshall, what I have really called you here for today is a rather special item. A remarkable antique, but it also has some… Other features." Marshall couldn't imagine something more interesting than a supposedly destroyed piece of 1600's art, but he followed the man through the corridor. After several seconds, they stood before a safe. Twenty seconds. "Now there are some things on this Earth that defy understanding, Mr. Marshall. This is one of these items. I must ask you to stand back, and be very careful with this particular piece…" The man bent down to tap the keypad, and Marshall strained to see over his shoulder. 1-8- Time. Marshall cursed under his breath as a train roared past, the floor shuddering as a ballroom wall was blown inwards, debris spraying across the floor. A cry echoed through the thick wooden door, somebody apparently having been hit by the blast. Marshall seized the man from behind, wrapping one arm around his chest as he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket. He whispered a quick apology to the struggling man as he one-handedly shook out a rag and slapped it over the face of his captive, feeling him fall limp after only a few seconds. Marshall lowered him gently to the floor, the sound of gunfire beginning to echo from the ballroom. He approached the safe, praying that the combination was what he thought it was. He reached for the keypad, tapping in the last few digits, -1-6 And held in a yell as nothing happened. "Damn," He whispered quietly and emphatically. "What could be…" The heavy door crashed against the wall with a crack, and Marshall whirled around. "Taking your time in here, aren't you now?" "Shut it Carter. You've got the cart?" "Of course, of course." Carter wheeled a metal platform into the room, and Marshall resisted wincing as it rolled over several priceless pieces of art. The sound of gunfire was constant outside the door now, the clatter of an assault rifle drowning out the popping of pistols. "Could you watch where you're wheeling that, you vandal?" "Ah can it you pansy, we're on the clock. Now, what's worth selling in here?" "Well he's got the Penance in here, that's an old piece from-" "Right, right. Just point and tell me what to grab." "Right, er, that one." Marshall indicated the mural, and Carter heaved it aboard the cart, the sound of gunfire dying down outside. Marshall and Carter hauled a few more ancient paintings and statuettes onto the cart, and were panting from the strain when a voice floated in from just outside the door. "Gentlemen, time for us to be going." A dark figure walked into the room and stood against the wall behind the door, assault rifle slung across his chest. Marshall took a moment to appreciate his choice of hire, then returned his attention to the safe. "Hey, one more thing. You guys think we can make it with this?" Carter shook his head, looking doubtful. "I don't know Marshall, looks a bit on the heavy side. If we can get it on the cart we can probably do it, but is it worth the weight?" Marshall ignored the question. "Well let's give it a shot then." Marshall and Carter gripped the underside of the safe and heaved, struggling to inch it over the edge of the cart, past the unconscious form of its former owner. A crack echoed through the room, and Marshall twisted as a bullet hammered into his thigh, instinctively dropping the safe and grabbing at his injured leg. As the man in the door blew the would-be security guard to hell, the safe tipped from Carters hands and smashed to the floor. A sound like a swarm of hornets came from inside the safe, growing louder every second. Marshall hobbled away, alarmed, and Carter backed towards the door. The safe burst open with an explosive bang, and a swarm of salt crystals flew into the air. The three stared in amazement at the tiny tornado, Marshall backing away as fast as he could move. "What the hell is th-" Another crack, and the man by the door jerked his head away from the new peephole in his cover. He brought his rifle to bear and fired a short burst, the guard spinning to the floor. The man grimaced and pressed his hand against his ribs, a kevlar vest visible through his torn suit. "Gentlemen, I am leaving in two minutes. Get what you're getting and let's go." "Hang on Dark, let's just see what we've got here." Carter tentatively reached towards the whirling cloud of salt, which had totally engulfed their cart filled with antiques. He shrieked in pain, yanking his hand away from the cloud raw and red. "God damn that burns!" Marshall ripped a piece of cloth from his now-ruined pants leg and wrapped it around his hand, stretching towards the cloud. The particles parted as his hand entered, and he felt something solid. He gripped firmly and jerked, pulling an ornate silver salt shaker from the cloud. The whirling salt remained where it was, shredded pieces of paper now visible amidst the storm. "I guess this is all we're getting today, you saw what it did to the safe." Marshall sighed heavily for the priceless art that had just been lost to this mysterious shaker, refocusing as Carters voice echoed through the room. "Fantastic Marshall, now can we go?" He was sucking on his fingers, staring curiously at the silver shaker in Marshalls hands. Marshall lifted himself shakily, using a bookshelf as a support. He heard another bullet ping off a metal cabinet beside him, and felt the rythmic thumping as Dark blasted another man off his feet. "Carter, help Marshall. I'll be back in a moment." Dark glided out from behind the door and into the ballroom. He staggered back into the room seconds later, a guard scrambling after him. Dark held his bleeding nose with one hand and took a swing at his assailant, missing by several inches. He twisted backwards as the guard grabbed at his overextended arm, ready to- A percussive whump filled the room, and the guard kicked over backwards, half of his head smeared across a nearby painting. Carter pocketed his hand-cannon. Marshall protested the destruction from where he had been dropped on the floor. "Damn you Carter, I had him." "He had your elbow!" Dark sulked as he helped Marshall up off the floor. "He broke your nose!" Dark handed Marshall off to Carter, swinging his rifle around into an easily accessible position against his hips. "He hit you in the face with your own gun!" Dark scowled on his way out the door, a guard immediately swinging at him from overhead. Dark jerked backwards out of range of the knife, kicked the man in the stomach, and fired a round through his chest as he hit the floor. Carter stopped talking, and made himself very busy walking Marshall to the door. The two of them hobbled out into the ballroom, giving a wide berth to the man with the gun. Marshall enjoyed the sight of a sizeable hole in the wall, the leg of an antique chair still visible in the debris. "You really did a number on that one, Carter." He grunted in reply, and Marshall shifted his grip on the shaker as they stood by the hole. Dark arrived a few moments later, a smear of blood barely visible under his suit. He hopped the few feet to the roof of an adjacent building, and caught Marshall as Carter tossed him down. "That was undignified." "You're the one who got shot, pansy. Suck it up." The three set off across the roof as an alarm began blaring from the building behind them. They would escape through an alley on the other side of the building, a van waiting for them, ready to carry stacks of forgotten art. They would disappear in the busy afternoon traffic, Marshall already plotting their next move. A whole new world had opened for them with this salt shaker, and Marshall planned to make full use of its appearance. He was finally getting out of the antique business.

The senior staff of Site 19 huddled in the conference room, warming themselves from the chill air of the cold mid-December morning. Coats and hats hung on the wall and over the backs of chairs, ice and snow dripping into puddles on the tile floor, as their owners drank strong black coffee from styrofoam cups and chatted idly. None of them knew why this emergency meeting had been called, nor why on such short notice, so early on a Sunday morning right in the middle of the holidays. The muffled conversation came to a halt as Site Director Ives entered the room, carrying a stack of notes and a reel of slides, and approached the podium in the front. The director's suit was wrinkled, his tie undone, beads of sweat on the balding man's forehead (though the heater had yet to kick in) as he shuffled through his papers before addressing the group. "Good morning, everyone," Ives said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know it's early and most of you had the day off, but we've got quite a lot to discuss and there's a lot of work to be done. I've just finished up a conference call with the O5 Council, and I'm afraid I've got some bad news." Ives paused and shuffled through his notes again before continuing. "At 0532, Greenwich time, we received an emergency distress signal from Area 36, near the magnetic north pole. Security personnel reported that unidentified aircraft had been observed entering the zone of exclusion around SCP-404040's main facility and they believed a hostile attack was imminent." Ives paused. "Three minutes later, we lost all contact with Area 36. We attempted to raise SCP-404040 directly and got no response as well. "We went into high alert at that time. We dispatched Mobile Task Force Alpha-7 from Montreal and they arrived at the scene at approximately 0930." Ives set up the reel of slides on the projector sitting on the front desk, and pulled a screen down from its place along the wall. "Adelstein, could you dim the lights, please?" Dr. Adelstein flicked the switches by the front door, casting the room into darkness as Ives turned on the slide projector. "When MTF A-7 arrived, this is what they found." Ives pressed a button and a slide popped up on a screen, depicting a single small house, alone on the Arctic tundra - what remained of that house, anyway. The windows had been smashed in, the door kicked open, its interior laid bare to the cold Arctic winds and the perpetual winter twilight. A giant candy cane standing in front of the dwelling had been smashed in two, and whatever color the building had been before, it was covered in a bizarre sort of ooze, dark and red, that dripped from the rooftops and formed crimson icicles, hanging by the dozens over the awning. "It wasn't much better inside." Ives flipped to the next slide, of the little house's parlor - furniture overturned and broken, cabinets emptied onto the floor haphazardly, everything covered in that strange thick red ichor. "The annex was the same - except for the bodies." The next slide showed a tiny humanoid, no more than four feet tall, dead on the floor. Its skin was horribly burned and fused together like it had been set on fire, its flesh fused to its tiny green outfit, also soaked in red. "We found sixteen SCP-404040-3 dead in the annex. One hundred and eighty-four unaccounted for. No survivors that we've been able to locate. The entire on-site security team was also KIA." "What about SCP-404040-1?" asked Dr. Johnson. "As of this time, MTF A-7 has been unable to locate SCP-404040-1 or his remains," Ives said as he flicked through several more slides, every one showing a similar scene of devastation to the Arctic workshop. "And the rei-" "All nine instances of SCP-404040-2 are missing as well, I'm afraid." Ives signaled for Adelstein to turn the lights back on as he shut off the projector. "Area 36 is a total loss and almost all of SCP-404040 is either dead or in the hands of a hostile power. As you all know, it's now slightly less than five days until this year's scheduled occurrence of Event 1225-Pinnacle. In light of the damage to the facility, even if we're able to recover the surviving elements of SCP-404040, I'm afraid that…" Ives stopped in mid-sentence as he looked out over the researchers. "I'm sorry," he continued after collecting himself. "I've seen a lot of shit go down in my day and I never thought I'd have to say something like this, but it looks like we're going to have to cancel Christmas." The room was aroar with worried exclamations. "Cancel Christmas?" "No presents?" "What'll I tell the kids?" "Please, everyone, calm down," Ives said as the group fell silent. "We're collating the available evidence as fast as we can, but what we need right now is information management. The O5 Council feels that, given our minimal lead time, Procedure 1843-Scrooge-Haymarket-4 - that's the "Elves' Union Goes on Strike" story, by the way - is the appropriate cover story to disseminate to the media. We should be able to cover this up and keep the civilian world from getting too worried about Santa's absence until we can get a substitute toy delivery up and running." Dr. Jones raised his hand. "Do we have any suspects yet?" "All we know for sure is it wasn't the GOC and it wasn't the Reds," Ives said. "We've been in contact with Geneva and Moscow since this whole thing started and they're as much in the dark as we are. It doesn't look like a CI job, either. The signs just aren't there. There aren't any bullet casings, either - whoever took this place down, they did it without firing a single shot." Dr. Michel spoke up next. "What about that ooze all over the place in the photos? It's not… elf blood, is it?" "No, thank God," Ives replied. "That's the strangest thing of all, really. The lab boys are still trying to figure it out, but as far as we can tell, it's tomato sauce. Ordinary, run-of-the-mill, five-cents-a-can tomato sauce, with a little extra salt. Anyway, there'll be time for Q&A later. We've got to get started on this." Ives picked up his briefcase from next to the podium, set it on the table, and opened it to reveal several manila folders packed with pre-prepared documents. "This is what we'll be working from and what I want you to disseminate to the personnel under your authority. Anderson, get this out to the press ASAP - the LA Times, the New York Post, CBS, NBC, ABC, BBC, CBC, everyone." "Yes, sir," Anderson said. "Jenkins, get the AFL-CIO and the Teamsters on the line, see if we can arrange some "sympathy strikes" with the elves' union." "Right away, boss," Jenkins replied. "Clef, I want you to liaise with the Republican party, have Goldwater or someone give a pro-Santa speech." There was no response. A confused mutter filled the room as the researchers looked around for the missing administrator. "Has anyone seen Clef?" Fitzroy the elf woke up with a start as a bright light shone in his face. His joints ached, his skin still burned from the hot liquid that the men in green costumes had sprayed him down with, and his head was pounding. He opened his aching eyes slowly, trying to adjust to the glare of the bright lights. As he looked around, he found himself in a massive room with high ceilings and distant walls. His feet were shackled to the chair in which he sat, and a second chain bound him around the waist, leaving only his arms free. In front of him sat a long bench, one of five stretching the length of the room, before which sat scores of other elves shackled as he was. In front of each of them, as in front of him, sat a curious collection of accessories - a hot plate, a spoon, a potato peeler, a kitchen knife, and an ice chest. Fitzroy struggled with his swimming head as he tried to remember how he'd gotten there. It had been just another morning in the week before the big day, just another shift making toys for the boss' big delivery. At least it had been until the lights went out and the men in green busted down the doors. He could see a few of them marching back and forth between the benches even now, their green dresses (or togas, maybe) dragging on the floor behind them, their matching spiked crowns obscuring their faces in shadow, each of them wearing a tank over their shoulders connected to the nozzle that spewed that burning hot red fluid that had scalded his friends to death as they grabbed him and injected him with something before tossing him in a sack. Fitzroy didn't have much time to contemplate the circumstances of his captivity, or what fate had befallen the boss, before a loud and evil voice rang out over a loudspeaker hidden in the rafters, echoing throughout the cavernous building. "Good afternoon, my happy little elves," the voice declared. "I'm afraid there's been a little change in the work schedule this holiday. For the next couple days, you'll be working quadruple shifts. Meal and smoke breaks are canceled, and you won't be making toys anymore. You'll be making something… different." The speaker snickered to himself. "We've got a big quota to make in time for the big day, and I'm counting on your magic little fingers to make it happen. And once this is finished, you can all go back to your happy little elf families, safe and sound." "Oh, and by the way," the voice added, "I have your boss and his… delightful little animal friends in captivity as well. If you resist, or fight back, or don't work your hardest - well, I can't guarantee that I won't be eating reindeer sausage this Christmas!" The speaker laughed, his wicked, cacophonous howl echoing over the booming loudspeaker. "Now then, no time to waste! Get started! You'll find the recipe guide in the cooler. Start by warming your hot-plate up to medium high, then go ahead and add a few tablespoons of butter…" "Extra! Extra!" shouted the news agent to the dozens of somber businessmen passing his stand on 5th Avenue. "Special edition! Elves' Union pulls out of negotiations! LBJ demands immediate resolution to Christmas catastrophe!" A man in a trenchcoat and fedora hat flipped a nickel to the newsman as he grabbed a copy of the New York Times off the stack, unfolding it and reading as he walked; CHRISTMAS IN PERIL AS STRIKE CONTINUES Elves threaten to stay off the job until after New Year's "First canceled Christmas since 1896," says Santa Claus Is there still a reason for the season? The man folded the paper up as he crossed 59th street, approaching the throng of people outside FAO Schwarz. With no kindly elf to deliver toys for their kids, the parents of the city had gone mad. The man peered in the window at shelves almost bare, as men in suits practically engaged in tugs of war over stuffed animals and Barbie dolls. "You must have more bicycles in the back!" "Do you have any more Jack Proton toys? I'll pay anything! ANYTHING!" "Whatever she's paying for that doll, I'll pay double!" A man was standing by the door with a box of teddy bears and auctioning them off to the highest bidder as the man in the coat made his way past. People were waving bundles of cash in the air, a look of desperation in their faces as if they were bidding on the last loaf of bread in Manhattan. The man decided to take his leave before the police showed up and found his way to a phone booth on the corner. Closing the door behind him to keep out the winter chill, he fished through his pockets for change as he dialed seven digits and dropped a dime into the slot. The phone rang five times before his intended contactee picked up. "Hello?" "Doc. It's me." "Who is this?" "It's… it's nobody. Listen. Cronkite was right. This place is going insane." "So?" "We're gonna have to speed up production. We need at least 10,000 more units, and we need to be able to get them on the shelves by Christmas Eve!" "Are you crazy? I can't work that fast." "This is our golden opportunity, doc! Every toy store on the island is sold out. All these people out here gotta get something under the Christmas tree now that Santa's out of business. That something could be your toys." "What if something goes wrong? You know this technology isn't perfect yet." "Relax, doc! This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot! If we play this right, every boy and girl in Manhattan is going to be playing with one of your toys. And once the word gets out… this could be the year the whole world learns the name 'Wondertainment!'" Dr. Jacob Andrews, flashlight in hand, made his way through the dark, cramped basement of Site 19. Most people barely even knew the basement existed, let alone had a reason to go down there and root around the old stacks of Spiritualist quack artifacts, and mothballed electronics from World War II, and reams and reams of handwritten SCP files from the days when things like radium and daguerreotypes were considered anomalous. Andrews had his reason. Nobody had seen Dr. Clef since the meeting yesterday morning. Everyone assumed he'd gone home, or walked out, or holed up in one of the labs, or something. Andrews knew better. Passing the shelves of preserved Egyptian mummies and turning left at the Olmec head, Andrews reached the brick wall and counted off one, two, three, four, five, six bricks before he grabbed onto the masonry and pulled. The wall opened up instantly, and the smell of salt water and kelp hung heavy in the air as Andrews descended the stairs into the hidden grotto beneath Site 19. Andrews admired the seashell motif along the walls, turning off his flashlight as he approached the well-lit area at the bottom of the stairs. A new smell struck Andrews as he entered the main room of the massive cave - the undeniably distinctive scent of simmering cream, and the frizzle of potatoes gently sauteeing in bacon grease, and the undeniably savory aroma of Mercenaria mercenaria sitenineteenia, the unique species of quahog found only in the waters of this grotto. The meandering tunnels and low ceilings of the Chowdercave could be next to impossible for a stranger to navigate - but Dr. Andrews was no stranger, and in thirty seconds flat he found himself in the "kitchen" of this subterranean base, where Dr. Alto Clef, dressed in his black chef's coat, stood over the stove, stirring a pot and flipping potatoes in his skillet, a dozen spice jars open on the shelf beside him. "I thought I'd find you down here, Alto," Andrews said to the inward-focused chef. Clef lowered a spoon into the creamy broth simmering on the stovetop and brought it to his lips. "Needs white pepper," he muttered to himself. "We've been worried about you, Alto. Have you been down here all night?" "I've got to get this batch just right, Jacob," Clef replied. "We both know I'm the only person in the entire Foundation qualified to deal with the man behind this Santa-napping." "You don't know it was him, "Andrews said. "Just because the North Pole was covered with tomato sauce doesn't mean it was the Ma-" "Nobody even eats that shit anymore!" Clef responded angrily, turning away from the stove as he pulled the potatoes off the flame. "Who else could it be?" "He hasn't been seen since that cookoff in Rhode Island five years ago. The one that almost got you killed." "Don't remind me. If I'd been half a second sooner with the parsley, I'd have -" "Stop, Alto," Andrews said. "You haven't put on that coat in five years now. You're not getting any younger, and… well, we all count on you to keep this place together." "Santa counts on us too," Clef said. "Those GOC bastards would have turned the North Pole into glass years ago if it weren't for us keeping an eye out for the old man. And we've let him down. And if there's anything - anything I can do to help him, even if it means going back on my promise to never wear that hat again… then I'll do it." Andrews sighed. "I can see you've got your heart set on this, then." The doctor turned around and began to make his way back to the stairs. "Wait!" Clef shouted. "I… I could use your help." "Just like old times, huh?" Clef smiled. "Make sure the Chowdercopter is fueled up and ready to go. Oh… and see if you can grab some white pepper from the Site pantry." General Thomas Dawes made his way down a hallway deep within the secret recesses of the North American Aerospace Defense Command. On his left, he was followed by Researcher James, special liaison from the Foundation. On the right followed another military man, his uniform green to Dawes' blue; Colonel Arthur T. Bakker, special liaison from the Global Occult Coalition. "General," Researcher James said, "I'd like to state again my formal opposition to the GOC having an official presence here. Their position on SCP-404040 is well-established and it simply isn't conducive to our purposes here." "The Global Occult Coalition stands by its belief that the rogue entity designated KTE-404040-1 is a clear and present danger to international security, General," Colonel Bakker stated with a smirk. "But be that as it may, it is the full intention of High Command to adhere to the terms of the March 1953 Memorandum of Understanding with the Foundation regarding that entity." "I don't know if my kids would agree that Santa Claus is a 'rogue entity', Colonel," General Dawes said as the trio approached a locked door at the end of the hallway and the general rang its doorbell. "But let's see if we can find him first before we figure out what to do with him." A guard on the other side of the door opened it. "Area - attention!" the airman shouted, signaling the dozens of airmen in the dimly lit room to stand at attention before the general ordered them back to their posts. James looked back and forth, taking in the surroundings as best he could. Beneath the dim red lights, men sat in rows at radar terminals, each of them scrutinizing half a dozen or more of the tiny green monitors. Half a dozen officers sat at a bank of phones, most of them in the middle of discussions with Washington, or Moscow, or Beijing, or who knows where else. "This is where the magic happens, gentlemen," General Dawes said as he swept his arm out over the room. "Most people think all we do here at NORAD is watch for a Soviet airstrike. That's part of it, sure, but we've got hundreds of top secret radar arrays all over the world that feed directly into this room. We could probably break DoD's budget just sitting in here, around the clock, tracking every last bird in the sky all around the world." The general laughed to himself. "But that's not what this equipment is for. This is magic radar, you see." "Magic radar?" Colonel Bakker asked skeptically. "The High Command was not aware NORAD was in possession of magical equipment." "Oh, it's not the radar itself that's magic, Colonel," General Dawes replied. "These radar arrays are specifically designed to track flying objects powered by magic. That's what we use this system for, on this day every year. To track Santa's sleigh." The general turned to one of the men manning the phones. "Any news from the Kremlin, Captain?" "Nyet, sir," the officer replied, stifling a chuckle at his own joke. "No sign of the big man." "If you don't mind my asking," Researcher James chimed in, "how is any of this going to help us figure out who kidnapped Santa, or where they've taken him?" "As soon as we got the call from the White House that Santa was missing," General Dawes answered, "we started poring over the logs from these arrays. Sure enough, we had some readouts. Whoever got ahold of Santa and his reindeer got on that sleigh and flew it into the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. By the time the Green Berets got there, though, they were long gone. They must have loaded the sleigh and the reindeer onto a truck or something and moved them by land from there. "Anyway, it's the morning of Christmas Eve now, of course. But Christmas Day officially started in the western Pacific about seven hours ago. Everyone knows Santa does his work at the stroke of midnight, and we've got seventeen midnights to go." "So what?" James asked. "Well, whoever's got Santa, they haven't made any ransom demands. Our guess is, they want him to do something for them this Christmas. Why take the reindeer and the elves as well? They want the elves to make something and they want Santa to deliver it - and he'll have to do that at midnight. As soon as he makes his move, we'll know where he is." "Deliver what?" Colonel Bakker asked. "Guns? Bombs? Germ warfare? This is sounding more and more like a Pizzicato situation, General." "That's just wild guessing," James responded. "We can't just jump to conclusions here." "I will not be second-guessed by a cut-rate mad scientist, 'Researcher'," Colonel Bakker snapped. "Mad scientist? That's a laugh coming from a John Wayne wannabe like you. After the mess you idiots made of SCP-1609, I wouldn't trust you to neutralize a stray dog." "I've read your dossier, James. You're not even qualified to be in this room. Why don't you go back to Site 82 and talk to your… what was it, 'toilet ghost?'" "That's 'butt ghost' to you, you as-" "Gentlemen!" General Dawes shouted. "You can't fight in here! This is the war room!" James and Bakker stared silently at Dawes, a mixture of confusion and disdain in their eyes. "My wife loves that movie," Dawes said. "General!" shouted one of the airmen at the terminals. "We've got something!" The three rushed over and crowded around the airman's chair, where a single blip was moving towards the top right of one of the screens. "What are we looking at here, Airman?" Colonel Bakker asked. "It's over the Midwest right now, sir," the airman replied, "supersonic speed, definitely magical. Heading sixty degrees north by northeast - huh." "What is it?" asked James. "If it keeps that heading, it'll be in New York City by sunset." "New York City," Dawes said to himself. "What could Santa want in New York City?" "Chowder," James mumbled under his breath. "Excuse me?" Bakker said. "I said… umm… Chaplin! Yes. Project Chaplin. False alarm, general. That's one of our birds." Bakker stared James down, a skeptical glare in his eyes. "Our intelligence did not indicate that the Foundation was in possession of magical aircraft." "It's a new project. Top secret. We've been developing a plane capable of keeping up with SCP-1115. Looks like just a test run. See how it flutters back and forth a little from its heading? That's how it… how it works. Can't share all the details in mixed company. You understand, Colonel." "SCP-1115? Those flying robots?" General Dawes chuckled. "Good luck keeping up with them. They had me try to shoot one down in a P-38 back during the war. I was lucky I made it out alive." "Well, false alarm though this may be," Bakker said, "I really should let High Command know what the current situation is. Is there a private phone nearby?" "Two rooms down," Dawes said. "Airman Rodriguez will show you to the open line." "High Command switchboard, how may I direct your call?" "Put me through to General Abrams at once. Gold priority, security code Delta Omicron Six Six Niner Epsilon Tau." "One moment, Colonel." "This is General Abrams speaking." "Santa's in New York. The Foundation already has a bird in the air en route." "Coordinates?" "Unknown at this time. They've got magic radar. Get our primary radar online and watch their bird. It… flutters. Once they do the groundwork, they'll no doubt set Santa loose on his sleigh." "And then we neutralize KTE-404040, I assume?" "My thoughts exactly, General." Santa Claus struggled against his bonds, sweat rolling down his brow, as he hanged upside down by his feet above a giant vat of boiling clam juice. A rope tied around his ankles was the only thing keeping the not-so-jolly old man from falling to his doom in the steaming pot. In front of his field of vision stood his kidnapper - a grizzled old man dressed in a red chef's coat, a toque as red as blood on his head, a tomato embroidered over his heart. The man pinched and twirled his mustache as he paced back and forth in front of Santa. Reaching out to the control panel before him, he pulled the main lever a tiny bit - and the rope loosened, sending St. Nicholas hurtling a few inches closer to the pot. "It's not much I'm asking of you, Santa," the man said. "Just tell me the magic words I need to use to get those reindeer of yours in the air, and I'll be on my way. And once I've taken care of delivering my special presents to all the good little boys and girls, I'll let you go, and your elves, and your reindeer, and you can go back north and rebuild your little house and your little factory, and you can go on like none of this ever happened." "Never!" Santa shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the abandoned warehouse his captor had turned into a sweatshop over the past week. "I won't let you do whatever you're planning to do to all those good little children!" "I was kind of hoping you'd say that," the man said as he pressed the intercom button on his console. "Libertines! Do you copy?" "Yes, sir," a voice crackled over the radio. "Take one of the reindeer down to the basement. I don't care… the freak one with the atomic nose. We're eating good tonight!" "No!" Santa shouted. "Please don't hurt Rudolph!" "You know what you have to do to make this stop, Santa," the red man said. "Tell me the magic words." A tear fell from Santa's eye, rolling down his bald head and dripping into the clam juice where it boiled away instantly. "Alright. Come here and I'll tell you everything." The man leaned over the edge of the pot as Santa, between his tears, told the man all the words he'd need to know - how to get the reindeer flying, how to break the sound barrier, how to stop time long enough to visit every house in the world before the sun came up. "I knew you'd see reason eventually," the kidnapper said. "I'll go ahead and call off that order of reindeerburgers now." "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH! IT BURNS!" The kidnapper recoiled in surprise from the horrific scream he heard the instant he pressed the intercom button. "What is the meaning of this, Santa? I swear, I'll butcher every one of those reindeer myself if… AAH!" The kidnapper's words were cut off as a flying porcelain bowl smashed into the side of his head, shards flying every which way as piping hot cream splashed all over his immaculate coat. He turned towards the door where his guards were standing and saw them on the floor, coated in the same boiling broth that had now soiled his costume. Standing between them was his counterpart - black coat, black hat, a massive tank strapped to his back, bowls hanging by the dozen from his utility belt, a long tube connecting the tank to the massive cannon in his hands, and a righteous sneer on his face as he eyed the man who had kidnapped Santa Claus. "Chowderclef!" "The Manhattanite," Clef responded as he stared down the vermilion varlet before him. "I knew it was you the second I saw the pictures of Santa's workshop coated in Manhattan-style chowder." "Impossible! There's no way you could have tracked me here!" "Quite possible indeed, you burgundy burglar of Christmas cheer," Clef replied as he approached his arch-nemesis. "The breed of clam you used was specific to the East River. Once I figured that out, it was a mere matter of checking through the real estate records to find any disused waterfront warehouses that had changed hands lately. Now stand down - I'm taking you in and I'm letting Santa go." "Don't you take another step!" The Manhattanite dodged a blast from Clef's Chowdercannon as he leapt towards the console, wrapping his hand around the control lever. "One more step and Kris Kringle here is Santa stew!" "You monster!" Clef shouted. "What is it you want from St. Nick, anyway?" "Nobody eats Manhattan-style chowder anymore," the Manhattanite mumbled to himself. "Excuse me?" Clef asked. "Chowder! It's everywhere these days! From Suffolk, to Seattle, to San Diego! From Lafayette to Las Vegas! From Miami to Manitoba! From DC to Dallas! From Tampa to Timbuktu! You can't so much as walk through the door of a seafood restaurant without having a bowl of it shoved in your face! But you know what, Chowderclef?" "What?" "Everywhere you go, everywhere in the whole wide world, it's New England style. Nobody has time any more for the simple joys of clams and tomato sauce. It's all heavy cream, and bacon, and potatoes, and a splash of sherry… it makes my blood boil, Chowderclef! Not that you can even boil that stuff - oh no, it scalds the milk, we must be delicate with it! "It's time the world got to know what real clam chowder is all about, my friend. That's why I've had the elves so hard at work this last week. They finished up an hour ago. You know, it's amazing how well the magic on that sleigh works - I didn't think we'd be able to load 3,268,896,174 gallons of piping hot chowder onto the back, but believe it or not, it fits!" "3,268,896,174 gallons?" Clef said to himself as he came to a horrific revelation. "Why, that's exactly…" "Exactly!" the Manhattanite shouted. "Exactly one gallon for everyone! When the sun comes up on Christmas morning, all the little boys and girls aren't going to find hopalong boots and talking dollies underneath their Christmas tree. No, they're going to find the greatest gift of all - piping hot chowder." "You're insane, Manhattanite!", Clef yelled. "You can't take away everyone's presents and give them your disgusting tomato soup! They'll detest it! We'll have a revolution on our hands!" "A revolution indeed!" the Manhattanite shouted! "A chowder revolution! We shall cast down our New England oppressors once and for all! And it starts - now!" The Manhattanite jerked the control lever all the way down, snapping it off in his hand as Santa began to lower slowly towards the vat of clam juice. "Your choice, Chowderchump - save Santa, or chase me!" The Manhattanite dodged three blasts from the Chowdercannon as he leapt through a door at the edge of the room. Clef started to give chase, but stopped himself - in less than thirty seconds, Santa would be in the soup. As fast as he could, Clef switched the control knob on the Chowdercannon to Setting #2 and poured a bowl of the creamy, savory end-product into a bowl, gulping it as fast as he could. Strength welled within him, Omega-3 acids coursing through his veins as his muscles seemed to double in size. Santa even fancied that he saw a stylized image of a clamshell appear on his bicep as Clef rolled up his sleeves, set his hands on the side of the boiling pot, and, impervious to the pain from the hot steel, upended it and turned it on its side, spilling its deadly contents down the stairs and over the half-dozen guards in their Statue of Liberty dresses who had been on their way up the stairs to confront the Dark Chef. A kitchen knife tossed from his utility belt severed the rope, and Santa fell into Clef's waiting arms before being set back on his feet. "Why, if it isn't little Alto!" Santa said, his typical joviality returning to his voice. "I guess that Easy-Bake Oven I gave you when you were little paid off, didn't it?" "Are you OK, Santa?" "Nothing a long winter's nap won't fix! Believe me, I'm putting you on my 'Nice' list for next year!" "There's still this year to worry about, Santa. Where's the sl-" Clef stopped mid-sentence as he heard the jingling of bells outside the window, and turned just in time to see Santa's sleigh ascending into the night sky, a bubbling pot of chowder sitting in the place of Santa's bag of toys. "Ho ho ho! Merry Chowdermas!" The Manhattanite's voice echoed through the empty streets. "Dammit!" Clef shouted. "We're too late!" "No need for coarse language, little Alto! It's not quite midnight yet," Santa said. "He won't be able to use all of my magic until it's Christmas day. You can still catch him!" "No offense, St. Nick, but I know what your reindeer are capable of. My Chowdercopter might have magical clam-power, but even it can't keep up. There's no way I can catch him in time!" "Oh no?" Santa winked and stuck his fingers into his mouth as he whistled. In a moment, an eerie red glow began to emanate from the staircase to the ground floor - and a single reindeer trotted up the stairs, past the Libertines rolling in agony as the chowder burned away their flesh, his bright red nose illuminating the room like a Christmas tree. "You called, Santa?" the reindeer asked. Santa and the elves stood on the roof of the factory in the darkness, looking out into the overcast sky for any sign. Santa checked his pocketwatch - a quarter after one. He sighed. "Do you think Chowderclef's alright?" Fitzroy asked Santa. "I think… I think it's going to be a late delivery this year, boys." "Wait!" one of the elves shouted. "Look over there!" A faint glow shone through the clouds to the east. It might have just been a warning light from one of the beacons on the river - but as they watched, and watched, and watched, it started to grow brighter, and brighter, and brighter still - until Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer himself emerged from the fog - and behind him came Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen, and behind them the sleigh - and riding on that sleigh, alone, smiling, and covered head to toe in tomato sauce, was Chowderclef. A cheer rose up from the elves as the sleigh alighted on the rooftop and Clef stepped off. "Alto!" Santa shouted. "I knew you'd do it!" "It wasn't easy," Clef said. "The GOC tried to shoot us both down. I guess they figured nobody would know it was them if Santa and his reindeer just happened to get blown up by air-to-air missiles this year. I'm going to have to have words with them after we're done here. Now this guy here-" Clef patted his red-nosed mount on the head - "now he's a real trouper." "Thanks, Clef!" Rudolph said. "All I did was do a barrel roll like you said." "Don't be so modest, Rudolph! It was you who came up close enough for me to make the jump onto the sleigh." "But how did you stop the Manhattanite?" Santa asked. "Well, Santa, in the middle of all our fighting, I asked him a question." "What was that?" "He's spent his entire life fighting to wipe out New England-style chowder. I asked him if he'd ever actually tasted any." "You mean he hadn't?" "I had a special batch just for him. Call it a Christmas present." Clef pointed to the control knob on his Chowdercannon, which had been turned to the third and final setting. "I spent days trying to get that batch just right - and to make sure it was perfect, I ran it through SCP-914 on Very Fine. He was in tears after a single spoonful. He poured the pot out over the Atlantic Ocean and parachuted out." "Wonderful, Alto! You see - Christmas can soothe the heart of even the most wicked man!" "Oh, I doubt we've seen the last of him, Santa. This isn't the first time we've dueled over the question of soup supremacy - and it sure won't be the last." "Well, the important thing is, I have my sleigh and my reindeer back! Thanks for all the help, Alto - I've got a Christmas to save!" "It's already a quarter past one, Santa," Clef said as he looked downward. "It might be too late." "Oh, Alto. The magic works for any midnight! I've still got six more chances!" "But what about the toys?" "The Manhattanite never got anywhere near the toys, Alto! I keep them somewhere very safe," Santa said with a wink. "It's just a matter of picking them up and - say, Alto?" "Yes, Santa?" "There is one more thing we can do to make up for lost time. I hope you don't mind lending a hand a little while longer - and letting me borrow that cannon of yours…" Dr. Andrews sipped the coffee in his styrofoam cup as he drove home along the darkened roads. His watch said it was 5:32 AM. Christmas morning. He hadn't had a wink of sleep in the past three days. Nobody at Site 19 had, with all the work convincing people that things would be just fine as soon as the elves settled their labor dispute with Santa. He'd spent all night on the phone with Researcher James at Cheyenne Mountain - tracking the bizarre radar sightings all around the eastern seaboard, and ultimately dealing with the blowback after the GOC had been caught red-handed violating the rules of engagement trying to shoot down Santa's sleigh and the unidentified object chasing it. What had become of them after that was anyone's guess - it was a miracle NORAD was still standing after what the GOC liaison had tried to do to "neutralize" their "magic radar". Andrews pulled into the driveway of his little house in the suburbs and shut off the motor as he climbed out into the pre-dawn air. Site Director Ives had been kind enough to let him spend the morning at home and explain to his girls why Santa hadn't come. He groaned as he looked at the headlines in the morning paper on his doorstep; NO SIGN OF SANTA AS CHRISTMAS HANGS IN BALANCE LBJ makes last-minute call to North Pole as strike continues Riots in New York, L.A., London outside sold-out toy stores Buckley and Vidal debate: "Is Santa a Red?" Andrews dropped the paper in amazement as soon as he saw the tableau in his living room. Beneath the glow of the lit-up Christmas tree lay dozens of presents, all wrapped up in paper and bows. He hadn't bought them. Karen hadn't bought them. Who had? Like an excited little boy, he fell to his knees and examined the tags. "To Jane, from Santa". "To Amy, from Santa". "To Mom and Dad, from Santa". He had done it! Somehow, his crazy old friend in the black coat had done it! Santa was safe and it would be a merry Christmas after all. Andrews was about to race upstairs and wake everybody up when he noticed something else - a certain aroma wafting in from the next room. He turned the corner into the kitchen and there, sitting on the warmer on the stovetop, was a great big pot bubbling with cream, and potatoes, and clams, and just the right hint of bacon, and a little splash of sherry. A note on the side read "To the Andrews family - from Santa Clef". Four brand new porcelain bowls and shining silver spoons sat on the counter next to the stove, waiting to be used. Cautiously, Andrews dipped a spoon into the pot and took a taste. "Hmm," he said to himself. "The white pepper really does make a difference."

Doctor Moore took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes again. The last handful of aspirin hadn't taken effect yet, and the glare from the three monitors was piercing her throbbing headache with an acute pain she felt sharply behind her right eye. The sterile white paint of the cell walls somehow looked brighter through the security cameras. A muted cacophony of intermittent beeps, digital tones and industrial machinery laced through the background of the observation chamber. SCP-480 required intensive monitoring and staff attention at all times, but what really made these shifts hard was that there was never anything visible in 480's holding cell. The mixture of fear and intense boredom was stultifying. Dr. Moore shook her head and tried in vain to regain her lost focus. "Moore. I need the infrared spectrography variance," wheezed Dr. Hirsch. Dr. Moore started. Where were the numbers? Why couldn't she remember which monitor? "Uh, just a second, sir." Dr. Hirsch fumbled in his labcoat for a package of Camels. The ting of a Zippo was somehow audible through the background noise. He took a long drag on his cigarette, and exhaled a stream of smoke that doubled as a sigh. "C'mon Moore. The breach wasn't even three weeks ago. Infrared. What is it?" Squinting at the middle screen, Dr. Moore carefully moved her finger along screens of various scrolling data. At last. "Five seven three sigma eighteen point three. Don't smoke those in here, they're bad for the equipment and they give me a headache." Dr. Hirsch consulted his tablet and punched in a few numbers. "We're in quite a lot of trouble if a little smoke can take down a Class Two rad-hardened EMP-shielded workstation, Moore. And you've got headaches because you sleep two hours a night. I told you to take an extra month off." "There's too much work, sir." Dr. Hirsch punched more numbers into the tablet. "Yeah, yeah there is. But you're not doing me any favors like this, Ellen. Or yourself. I've tried asking nicely, but I'm ordering you, as your superior, to take some damn time off. Effective immediately." Dr. Moore stood up quickly from her chair. "But I've just gotten back! SCP-480 is a unique and dangerous-" "Yes, it is what it is, Doctor," said Dr. Hirsch, "and you're an important part of keeping it here. But as you yourself know, we need everyone at one hundred percent. I need you to go home, Ellen. Take care of your mom. Take care of yourself. And I don't want to see you back here until you've had a full week of eight hours a night." "But-" "No. No arguments. We've got Ramirez from Site-23 to help us cover for now. You're an integral part of containment, Doctor, and I need you at your best." Dr. Moore felt the initial anger drain away. Replacing it was the realization that Dr. Hirsch was correct, followed by a wave of exhaustion that she could no longer hold at bay. She logged her ID out of the terminal, gathered her personal effects, and headed to the antechamber. As the door closed behind her, Dr. Hirsch called after her. "Hey. Ellen. Halloween tonight," he said. He mimicked a steering wheel with his hands, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Watch out for trick-or-treaters." Dr. Moore managed a weary smile and a wave goodbye, and headed into the security checkpoint. The doors closed behind her. She hung up her labcoat, and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. She placed the leads of the wall-mounted ECG monitor on her chest, and waited expectantly by a speaker mounted next to the monitor. The familiar automated voice soon greeted her. "Initiating memetic containment protocols. Please state the approved passcode." Dr. Moore cleared her throat and spoke into a small microphone next to the ECG monitor. "At no point during the last shift has SCP-480 made contact with me." Seconds passed. Dr. Moore had begun to stand up to head out, but the doors remained closed. The automated voice spoke. "Vital signs incorrect. Please state the approved passcode." Dr. Moore shrugged. She resolved to call Security in to calibrate the ECG when she returned. She repeated the passcode into the microphone. This time, the automatic security doors opened. She removed the leads, and headed outside the facility, into the fading sunlight of the late afternoon. She sat in her car, parked in the driveway and watching the window above the garage. It was dark enough now that the light in the window made the room clearly visible from the outside. The light shone the brighter for the lack of a working streetlight, out of commission for two months now, she noted to herself ruefully. To Dr. Moore, rural living meant hour-long commutes and waiting interminably for maintenance to such niceties of civilization as paved roads and electricity. She understood why Site-415 had to be where it was, but cursed her lot in the countryside once more. Her head was swimming. Why had she tried to go back so soon? Alan was right. Tired researchers meant casualties in her line of work. Or worse. The light in the window suddenly blinked out. Dr. Moore heaved herself out of her car and finally made her way inside her house. "She spent most of the day sleeping, so no changes there." The nurse put on her coat as Dr. Moore stepped in through the front door. "Dosage on her pain meds is steady. I changed her sheets and cleaned everything out. Not much improvement, but it's not getting any worse." Dr. Moore nodded as she slumped in a chair in the kitchen. "Thanks Juana. Did…did…" She gestured futilely towards the staircase as she leaned her forehead against her hand, searching for words. "Your mother?" Juana raised an eyebrow slightly. "Yeah. Mom. Did she say anything while I was out?" The nurse shook her head. "Nothing I could make out, anyhow. You know the doctors, though. They say she's lucky to be breathing unassisted after what happened." "Yeah. Lucky." Dr. Moore took off her own coat. "Definitely. Thanks again, Juana. I think I might be taking some more time off. So why don't we say Tuesday next time." Dr. Moore lay her head down on the table. She turned to look over to the nurse, and noticed that she was mouthing something. Puzzled, she sat up. Juana finished mouthing whatever it was she was pretending to be saying, then headed for the front door. Had she been speaking? The door closed, and the familiar sound seemed too loud to Dr. Moore. Too many echoes. She shook her head and headed upstairs to her mother's room. Most of the room was taken up now with IV drips, heart monitors, a hospital bed and assorted medical equipment, displacing the desk and bookshelves of Dr. Moore's former study. A small, wizened form slept in the midst of a nest of tubes and wires. With the exception of a tangled mass of white hair on the pillow and a sallow, wrinkled arm covered in bruises hanging from the side, one may have easily overlooked that a person occupied this space. Dr. Moore stood in the doorway. "So." She sighed. "Hi mom." The arm shifted slightly, rustling a small portion of the tubes and wires. "Right then. I'm going to be across the hall-" She was interrupted by a gurgling, wheezing sound from the hospital bed. The low, guttural sound was reminiscent of labored breathing, except it seemed much too slow to be regular breathing. Dr. Moore winced. Her mother would make this sound for hours on end sometimes. Usually in the middle of the night. The doctors were unsure whether it was voluntary, just as they were unsure how much higher brain activity was still occurring. There was nothing for it except to wait. Nothing for any of it except to wait. She stepped out of the room, deciding to wait a little while before a futile attempt at sleep. A knocking at the door woke her up from the kitchen table. She had fallen asleep onto the newspaper. Groggily, Dr. Moore looked at the wall clock - 8:30 pm. Who could be knocking at the door now? She vaguely remembered that it was Halloween, but no children ever came out as far as her house; the nearest neighbor was a quarter-mile away. The knock came again, three light but insistent raps. Dr. Moore looked through the peephole in the door. There was only darkness. She kept looking through the glass, straining to see something before opening to the door. Rap. Rap. Rap. Dr. Moore jumped backwards instantly as something pale and white obscured her vision of the peephole, and the knocking continued. Her heart pounding, she backed her way into the kitchen, feeling behind her for the knife block on the counter as she was moving, never taking her eyes off the door. Something was not right here. Not right at all. Rap. Rap. Rap. The knocking continued. Again, it was soft, but clearly someone was knocking on the door. Dr. Moore never had visitors other than her mother and Juana, and no one had ever bothered to come looking for candy on Halloween in the eight years she'd lived there. Surely whoever this was would get the hint. Rap. Rap. Rap. This was going on too long. Something was terribly wrong. Dr. Moore drew the largest chef's knife out of the block. She waited for the knocking to continue. And waited. Two minutes passed, her pulse pounding in her temples and in her grip on the knife. Then another two minutes. Nothing. Dr. Moore started to move, slowly, back towards the front door. SLAM! An impact like a sledgehammer shook the entire house, and the door rattled on its hinges. A picture down the hall fell off the wall and crashed with the sound of breaking glass. Dr. Moore thought she had screamed, but couldn't hear herself over the noise of the impact. From upstairs, her mother's labored breathing started in earnest. She didn't dare to look through the peephole now. SLAM! The door was starting to give way now. Plates fell from cupboards and lamps tipped over. Dr. Moore could only see the knife in her hand through her terror-narrowed tunnel vision. Phone. She must reach the phone. They'd never arrive in time. She needed the phone. SLAM! The gurgling from upstairs was now a drawn out, hitching rattle, droning without pause. Dr. Moore ran for the phone in the living room. SLAM! The door was flung open now. She heard it slam into the hall closet. The droning of her dying mother filled her ears. She reached for the phone frantically. As she touched the receiver, darkness washed over her. "Zanitz, get in here! Hurry, now! Stabilize! Stabilize, god damn it! I need all personnel on-" A knocking at the door woke her up from the kitchen table. She had fallen asleep onto her book. She looked at the cover. "Secure and Protected Homes: A Locksmith's Guide," by Dennis Rader. She hadn't remembered starting to read this one. Groggily, Dr. Moore looked at the wall clock - 9:48 pm. Who could be knocking at the door now? She vaguely remembered that it was Halloween, but no children ever came out as far as her house; the nearest neighbor was a half-mile away. The sound came again. Three slow, heavy knocks. Dr. Moore looked through the peephole in the door. A small, disheveled woman stood on her doorstep. Her face was obscured by a white mass of hair. Dr. Moore squinted; was she wearing a hospital gown? Hesitantly, she opened the door. An elderly woman stood, her back to Dr. Moore. Despite the cold, she was indeed dressed in no more than a hospital gown. The doctor paused. It couldn't be. "…hello?" The old woman stood there, her back still to the doctor. She stood perfectly still. No possible way. She was upstairs, she couldn't have moved from her bed without help, let alone downstairs and outside. But there was no mistaking the wiry white hair. Dr. Moore put her hand on the old woman's shoulder. The woman instantly crumpled to the ground in a heap. As the old woman hit the ground, Dr. Moore could hear several of her bones snapping, and a hollow, wet ripping sound. The woman's hip had been bent at an impossible angle, and she lay in an inexplicably mangled state. Dr. Moore leapt back in horror, the blood instantly drained from her face. The familiar, hitching gurgling started to come from upstairs. How was this possible? Who was this at the door? The broken form at the doorstep started to twitch. Muffled grinding and splintering sounds came from the old stranger's corpse as broken limbs started to move again. The overwhelming smell of freshly butchered meat hit Dr. Moore, though there was no blood visible from the strange old woman. The corpse's head suddenly snapped upwards. Though its face was still obscured, Dr. Moore knew it was staring straight at her. "Hsssssshh. HUUUUURRRRK. Hsssssssshh." Her mother's persistent death rattle now greeted her face to face. The corpse slowly rose, pulled upwards by an unseen force, its twisted and broken legs now barely brushing the ground as it came eye level to Dr. Moore. "HUUUUUUURRRKK." Dr. Moore spun around at the sound behind her. Her mother's face had been mangled beyond recognition. The only recognizable feature was the mouth. "HUUUUURRRRKK." The doctor opened her mouth to scream, but no air could escape the grasp around her throat as an unseen pair of hands choked her from behind. Unconsciousness immediately followed. "Nonessential personnel are out of the sub-wing. It looks like we've got the source of the breach, doctor." "Jesus. Check for vitals, but be careful." A knocking sound woke her up from the kitchen table. She had fallen asleep on top of a large sheaf of papers. Confused, she picked up the first page. The ink was smeared from where her face had come to rest. The first line was hard to read. The second paragraph started with "mind the infrared settings." She remembered saying that earlier today. She looked closer. The entire paragraph was a conversation she had had this morning with Technician Wei. It was written in her own handwriting. She didn't remember writing this down at all. Dr. Moore looked at the wall clock - 11:58 pm. How had she slept so long? The knocking started again. Someone was knocking on the glass coffee table in the living room. Her stomach dropped and a chill seized her extremities. The breath stopped in her chest. She slowly approached the living room. The room was dark, but the children were easy to make out in their crude white sheets. Somehow, three kids in stereotypical ghost costumes had gotten into her house. Some of the fear faded, as she now remembered that it was Halloween, but confusion set in; no children ever came out as far as her house for Halloween; the nearest neighbor was at least two miles away. And why were they in her house? "If this is your idea of a prank, kids, it isn't funny. I'm going to need parents' phone numbers right-" The three diminutive, costumed figures traveled quickly to her. She didn't see any legs move, nor did she understand how they moved so fast. Two of the children slammed into Dr. Moore, knocking her off her feet and onto the ground. The third moved next to her head. A withered, gnarled arm reached out of its costume's eyehole and seized her by the jaw. Up close, she saw spotted, red stains starting to show through the immaculate, bright white of the costume sheets. One of the kids that had knocked her down now lept on top of her midsection. Bony, wrinkled legs now protruded from the bottom of its costume, wrapping around her and pinning her to the floor with a tremendous weight that could not have possibly belonged to the wasted body that these legs must have been supporting. Rivulets of blood started to run down its thighs, soaking into Dr. Moore's shirt. Her hands still free, Dr. Moore struggled desperately to pry loose the grip on her jaw, but to no avail. The hand was locked onto her, its strength overpowering. The last costumed figure slowly hovered into her view. It appeared to bend down and look into her eyes, though she couldn't see anything through the blackness of the costume's eyeholes. Another withered arm reached out from under the sheet, holding a pair of pliers. The wrinkled fingers slowly worked the pliers open and closed, moving them slowly towards Dr. Moore's face. As the hand came closer, a wheezing came from whoever was under the sheet. "Hssssssshhhh. HUUUUUURRRRKKKK." The costumed child forced the pliers into Dr. Moore's mouth. "HUUUUUUUURRRKKKKK. Hssssssssshhhhh. HUUUUUUUUURRRRRK." As several of her incisors were violently twisted from her lower jaw, Dr. Moore tried to scream, but the blood quickly filled her mouth. She couldn't breathe. She felt several more teeth from her upper jaw being wrenched free. There was nothing but pain and the taste of copper. Her mind rebelled, and she lost consciousness. "So you're saying we have to keep her like this?" "Dr. Hirsch. Alan. You know the protocols. She did too. She helped write them." "Do you have any idea what's happening to her right now? In there?" "The last host bought us eighteen months of unbroken containment for 480. You of all people know what that's worth, Alan." "You cannot do this! No one-" "Site Director's orders. Your euthanization request is denied. Dr. Hirsch. And that's the end of it." A knocking sound woke her up from the kitchen table. She had fallen asleep on top of a manila envelope. Had she imagined the knocking? She looked at the envelope that had been under her face. "For Ellen," labeled on the front in typeface. She didn't remember taking this home with her. She opened the envelope. As she shook the contents out onto the table, a pile of photographs came tumbling out, scattering onto the table and the floor. Groggily, Dr. Moore looked at the wall clock - 1:05 am. She had the vague notion that she had slept through Halloween. She felt a small amount of guilt about not being able to greet anyone at the door, but then remembered that she never had any trick-or-treaters. Still, she pitied any children who may have come out as far as her house, only to be turned away. She picked up a photograph from the table. Instantly, she recognized her own face. What was she wearing here? Why didn't she remember taking this picture? And why was she making that hideous expression? Dr. Moore picked up another photograph. It was another picture of herself. She was in a hospital bed, hooked up to what looked like dozens of machines. Men in labcoats were visible on either side of her. Who were these people? Why couldn't she remember taking these pictures? As she reached for another photograph, the pile of pictures jumped as something knocked three times, in rapid succession, from under the opposite end of the table.

Carmela carefully packed a basket of ofrendas for the trip to the cemetery. A cloth doll for Hernanda, a bottle of tequila for Fernando, a bouquet of cempasúchil… The rest of the family would bring their own gifts, but these were hers. And hopefully her lost family would visit and comfort her from Heaven. Abuela Maricela used to say that she talked with her husbands after drinking Los Recuerdos, but Carmela never had. Of course, she'd never sipped the wine of a husband or daughter before, only that of cousins of cousins or uncles or ancestors dead before she was born. Picking the berries from their graves only four months ago had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done. The temptation to eat them right then and there had been nearly overwhelming, but she knew that all of them would be needed to make the wine. Don Peñaranda was the only one in their village who knew the exact recipe, but he had assured her that it would be ready in time for Día de los Muertos, even if only barely. He said he would bring the bottles by later that afternoon, after the flight of the kites. Carmela used to love flying them with her family and friends, and would try to put on the best face she could, but watching the messengers to the dead fly overhead was less joyous now. Abuela Maricela said it would pass, that time and Recuerdos would help ease the pain, but Carmela didn't know. The large, colorful kites had been Hernanda's favorite part of the celebrations. Carmela's hands stilled as she stared off into the distance, the memories of the brightly colored kites mixing with the faces of her little girl and husband, and the green grass covering their fresh graves… Everything blurred together into one great kaleidoscope of thought and grief and reluctant hope and memory and color and love and family and… …Fernanda came back to herself and looked in awe at the shot glass in her hands. "What did you see, niña?" asked her mother, as she recorked the bottle and put it on the altar with the others. "I was Tía Carmela!" exclaimed the little girl in wonder. "I know, niña. This was her bottle of Recuerdos. Did you see anything special? They say that los muertos can talk to us through them." "It was her first Día de los Muertos after her family died. She was so sad! But a little happy, too! Why was she happy, Mama?" "Oh, that is a special memory, niña," smiled her mother. "Sometimes people are sad because someone they love is gone, but happy because they can see them again, like you just did. That's was los Recuerdos are for." "Will you make tequila like this, too, Mama?" "Of course, niña, and you will too someday." Her mother scooped her up and swung her around, then carried her out of the room. "Now let's go down to the cemetery and clean Tía Carmela's grave, and watch the kite contest."

It had taken a long time and a lot of practice, but he was now able to draw pretty well. Or at least he thought so. He could also write well enough that he could ask for just about anything he could think of. The guards were fairly nice most of the time and usually did their best to get him what he wanted, but there were a lot of things that he wasn't allowed to have. Whenever those kind of requests were denied he would also invariably get a short lecture about having to stay healthy and eat right and all the other things that his mother would normally have said. All in all, it was almost like being home again, except that he wasn't very good at video games any more and he couldn't see any of his friends. They did let him watch TV whenever he wanted, though, which was nice of them. He wasn't really good at keeping track of the date, so it was through watching that he realized that it was that time of the year again. He remembered from last year the time he'd spent under the careful, loving watch of his parents, running around the neighborhood with his best friends, gathering an enormous hoard of candy that their parents were careless in hiding afterwards and how sick they'd gotten afterwards. It wasn't until several minutes later that he realized what he'd been drawing while his mind wandered, and as he looked down at the jack-o-lanterns and children in costumes that he'd doodled, his heart sank. Screeching angrily at himself for dwelling on things he couldn't have any more, he dropped the crayon and retreated to the back corner of his room. He didn't come out for several hours, even ignoring the guard that was his favorite when he asked what was wrong. If he noticed the sympathetic frown on the guard's face as the man pored over his drawings before eventually disappearing from the room, he didn't care. As all children eventually do, he stopped sulking and came out of hiding, too hungry and thirsty to stay angry at himself. If he were capable of rubbing his eyes, he would have done so, as he stared open-mouthed at the (to him, at least) enormous pile of treasure that had appeared while he wasn't looking. Every kind of candy he ever loved, even the ones that his parents wouldn't let him have because they were "too bad for him", were sitting there just for him. Maybe, just maybe, this Halloween wouldn't be so bad after all. A severe reprimand and administrative action have been levied against Agent Johnson due to his involvement and responsibility in Incident 1192-09, as his willful violation of standard procedure in his handling of SCP-1192 could have resulted in grave physical damage to the specimen. While Agent Johnson's career service vitae speaks much of his experience in the field and normally excellent handling of sapient objects, his poor judgment in this incident put him, his coworkers, and the Special Containment objects under their care in danger and such unprofessional behavior cannot be tolerated at the Foundation. Effectively immediately, Agent Johnson is to be transferred to Observation Post █-██ for a period of no less than twelve (12) months, during which he will have plenty of time to reflect upon his priorities. Dr. █████████ Senior Observer

If you don't know what this is, don't worry about it. Part 1: The First Hi, everybody, my name is Margaret Sawyer-Sheen, and I'm a doctor with the SCP Foundation! This si the story of how I fell in love with my dearest love of all time, Dr. Clef! — One fine spring evening Maggie looked deep into Clef's eyes, they were sparkling with violet and amethyst. And with sparkling tears. "But how will we stop 682?" she asked, eyes glistening. "he killed my parents too! please do not tell anyone, I could not bear it if everyone knew. it is my deepest secret." — "Don't worry," Clef said, his handsome face clearly visible to his one true love. "we will find a way because we have each other and that is all we need. We can do anything if we work together." Clef took Maggie's hand in his and picked up his shotgun with the other hand, full of determination to not to let her down. — "My luminous pear," Clef said, frowning, "I think I have the perfect plan to rid ourselves of that evil, despicable, and handsome lizard. But I'll need your help. We shall allure him with the power of compassion. Not even his thick skin could hope to stand against our love!" — Together, Clef and Maggie walked through the scary dark halls of the SCP Foundation, holding hands together, bravely facing the darkness alone. Until finally they came to a big, steel door. The door tht held the monster called SCP-682. — Suddenly another door opened and out from the door came scp-999 who said I will help you against 682!" — "Welcome, 999," Clef says. "we will have the power of friendship and also love. Our bright hearts will bring tears of happyness" After SCP-999 joiined them bravely, thehy contfroned the door with eyes sparklingly at the same time. The door opened cavernously to reveal the monster that hates all love, SPC-682. "We hav e come for you this day, 682," Clef challenged, only one small quaver in his brave, musical voice. — Maggie clung to Clef's side, the power of her kindness surrounding her with a soft pink glow, a warmth that could banish any evil. "Be brave," she whispered to Clef. "we can do anything if we try… take the power of my love and use it against 682!" — Suddenly, SCP-76-2 rushed in and glared at Clef handsomely. “No! I will not allow you to do this, Clef, even if you are my ex-boyfriend! Maggie is my own true love and soulmate , and I will not share her with the lizard! We must fight!" — Fighting is wrong!" Maggie said, as she stepped between Clef and Able. "I know we were in love once, Abel, but that was in the past. Cle fis my true love now and unless you're willing to le tme go, you'll never get past your own violent nature"! — Able looked down agt the floor with eyes downcast. "You are right, Maggie," he said with a somewhat calmer voice. "You were the light of my life and Clef was my bright and morning star but evrything must come to an end someday and now I understand that Clef is your one treu love as you are his. I promise I will not be jealous again." Maggie and Clef smiled at Able and Able was their friends. The lizard watched them all with an angry evil eye. "PROFESSOR-SCIENTIST MARGARET SAWYER-SHEEN". it roared in its voice, stunned momentarily by the researcher's caring and kind beauty. "YOURE PARENTS TRIED TO STOP ME LONG AGO! YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED" He also looked at Clef and growled menasingly. — "Your parents never told you who I really am, did they Maggie!? the lizard said with vileness. "They couldn't stop me because I was their own son all along!" He grinned. "No, but that would mean you were my brother all along and how could you kill our parents?!" Maggie yelled, her good heart crying. "They tried to kill me because they loved you most because of your specialness!" The lizard raged, "You are as strong as me but also smarter and pretty and lovely, it's not fair! Now I will kill you!" "No you will not, because I have a power you can't hope to defeat." said Maggie with a smile. — Because that was the truth about Maggie: Maggie was the daughter of SCP-343 and SCP-469, but while her twin brother, SCP-682, was given all of the evil and darkness in the world, she was made into a creature of beauty and light, incorruptible and pure. It was the light of her purity and goodness that cleanesd the darkness from Clef and Able's souls, and it was her light that now defeated her twin brother an dbanished him from the world until he could be reborn as a creature of goodnesss. And that is the story of how me and my true love Clef saved the world from SC-682. Feedback please! —- Part 2: The Flashback Author's note: Okay, so people were complaining that my first story isn't aobut how Clef and I met at all, and they didn't get that it was called a flashback, so now I'm going to tell that sotry now, WILL YOU PEOPLE PLEASE GET OFF MY CASE!? —- Margaret Sawyer-Sheen looked in the mirror and sighed. She hated herself. She was so ordinary, not like the popular girls in the school, not like Lydia Erickson, the cheer captain. She didn't like how her mousy brown hair looked, or the fact that she had slightly too big front teeth, or the spattering of freckles over the bridge of he rnoe, or the fact that her boobs were slightly too big. She was bored, she was tried. She was looking for something new.

It's been a long time since we had a season like the '56 season. That was the heyday. It seemed like we couldn't sell enough stuff, and everyone wore the biggest smile. We had the tourists and business folk funneled in from the new highway, and business could not have been better. Bertha always used to talk about all the kids she got to talk to. We had Iowans, Nebraskans, and even some folks from California. I recall a couple of Canadians on the carousel. When we closed in November, the boss said that next season would be even better. But it wasn't. When we threw our doors open the next season, the crowds did not flow in. We had a crowd, sure, but not standing room only. We put on our best faces though, and we made sure everyone was entertained. I made sure that everyone had a fair time at the games. Even though it wasn't the hubbub we'd had last year, it was a good season. Boss knew we were disappointed, but he tried to keep our spirits up. "Next year," he said, "Will be the best for sure." It wasn't. We had nothing. Hardly anyone came by. The city council started to harass us about permits and taxes. Bossman said it would be taken care of, but when the constant stream of civil servants outnumbered the families, it was a bad time. At least we still had a few families then. Even if business only came in a trickle, they still visited. We weren't in the hundreds, but the dozens. When we closed up shop, Bossman said things would be better soon. Times were tough, but we were the Funland Family, and we would pull through. Things changed in the '59 season. The town seemed to have dried up overnight. The Dixie highway looked like nobody had paved it in months. There were all these people with weapons and equipment. I thought we were being shut down. But Bossman said to keep up "business as usual" so we could have that great season we needed. So the team kept up the happy faces. Bertha did her 2:00 shows, and Aron served up his gumbo pretzel sticks. The people would come in and poke stuff, but it never brought business, or the families. Sometimes they had kids in with them, sometimes with adults, but never real families. I can't even remember the last time I saw a real, smiling family here. It's become so sterile. Seasons have come and gone, but nobody cares and nothing seems to change. We don't see Bossman anymore. He left a letter on the floor and walked out a while ago. The people took the letter. It's darker now. The shows don't happen anymore. If you go in the arcade all we have is a cracked skee-ball table and an empty skill crane. Everything else is broken or gone. The others have changed. Everyone seems less happy and more bitter. If a kid came in today, they'd snap him. It's not that any one of them wants to do it. Nobody knows what is going to happen. If Bossman had given us a way home, maybe things would be different. We're here till he says otherwise. Sometimes… Sometimes I still remember the end of '56. I think we can be there again. The traffic is gonna flow again, and the lifeblood of tourism will flood into this creaky old house. It'll be next year. I can feel it.

“…” “…” “Well then. This is … awkward.” “Indeed. I believe you have the wrong room.” “Nah, I'm pretty sure this is one of mine.” “No, I'm quite sure it's mine.” “…” “…” “This isn't going to go anywhere, is it?” “Most likely. We'll just end up staring at each other until someone gets bored and wanders off.” “Just like that time back in Beijing, then.” “Among other times.” “Oh yeah…there was Beijing, and then there was Rio, and New Orleans and… What one came before New Orleans?” “Lagos.” “Yeah, yeah, Lagos. And that one time in Mongolia…” “Ugh…Don't remind me about Mongolia. Eighty-five hours in a yurt that smelled of yak dung. Granted, I think I minded it more than you, but that's just because you're used to eating your own shit.” “Hey! Low blow, man, looooooooow blooooooooow.” “It's true.” “That doesn't mean you can just use that sort of attitude with me.” “Ah, you're right, you're right. I apologize. My snark ran away from me. See, it's over there in the corner.” “Wait is that…” “Yes. That is a snark. Also, you're a gullible idiot.” “Least I actually did my job properly.” “What, you mean Egypt? Yes, you did a fine job in Egypt. Got them really believing in that stuff, didn't you?” “Better than you did in Europe.” “But did that actually matter? Is it better to be loved or hated? To know that there is a sympathetic voice at your bedside as your soul leaves, or only to see the impassionate messenger of dead? To be the fierce guardian on the banks of the Styx, or the silence in the night? Which is the truth, and which is the lie? What is it that they say about honeyed tongues and good intentions? “You know, every time you walk along the footboard like that I think you're going to start singing.” “I can see it.” “So…any chance you're going to leave?” “Not on your eternal essence, mutt.” “Oh ho? This again? Okay, tuna-breath, I can play your game.” “I doubt it, Sir I-Roll-In-My-Own-Shit.” “Nip-huffer” “Flowerpot-biter.” “Sociopathic narcolept.” “Ass-sniffing son-of-a-bitch.” “Lecherous tom.” ”Chihuahua.” “You…you… you hobbesian brigand!” “That barely makes sense, you caterwauling canine cretin!” "Decorative puffball!" “Fetching boy!” There was a soft padding as a fat grey tabby quite conspicuously missing its rear half walked into the room and, with some difficulty, jumped up on the bed. It curled up by the man's head. The dog and the cat looked at it, and then at each other. “Eh, you know what, let's call this a draw,” the dog said. “Agreed,” said the cat. “…” “…” “Wanna go get, I dunno, a burger or something? For old time's sake?” “Might as well. It's been a long time, you old hellhound.”

I would like to here again state that 106 is not, as is commonly believed, a basic predator, on par with an advanced shark. SCP-106 is a sentient being, albeit a totally alien one. SCP-106 appears to be aware of several things beyond the scope of pure instinct and genetic memory. SCP-106 consistently breaches at moments where recovery and containment are most difficult. A fox may see his way out of a trap, but only a man will wait for his captors to look away to escape. -Dr. Allok “On Sentience In Contained Humanoids” “For fuck's sake, where the hell is it?” Agent Weng sighed, rubbing his face through his mask. The night was chill, but all three men were sweating badly. All around them surged horrors, monsters, demons, fantasy beasts and animate objects, giggling and roaring as they wandered. The three men in gas masks and armored suits looked under-dressed, if anything. As they stood, one man suddenly reached out, a gloved fist grabbing a mildly drunk zombie and tugging it close for a few seconds, before releasing him back to the surge of humanity, the undead beast cursing and stumbling away. “Fucking Halloween bullshit. We need to seal this whole area.” Agent Drak shook his head, gesturing to the traveling packs of costumed revelers. “The railcar popped too close to the city. It wasn't even supposed to be on this track, they think MC&D might have buggered up something. Can't clamp the whole town without major fallout.” “And what the hell do they think will happen now? The old bastard is out there, and we can't even fucking FIND him!” Weng kicked a discarded wrapper, glaring through tinted lenses at everyone who didn't have to chase hell for a living. Drak patted the fuming man on the back. “Easy, big fella. Command figures the old man takes a couple people, then does his lazy crocodile thing. That's easier to cover than why a major city had to be quarantined on Halloween.” Parks, until now little more than a statue, crackled in with his broken, rusty voice. “How hard is it to find a rotten old man that kills everything it touches?” Weng shook his head, still scanning the crowd. “He just looks like an old man most of the time. He can look however he wants. Normally we tell people to just follow the screaming. Fat fucking lot of good that does now. Where the hell is our expert?” A brittle, creaking chuckle rolled over the radio. “Harken says he's as much an expert on SCP-106 as a plane crash survivor is an expert on aviation. They won't field lab techs until our initial eval. We're on our own for now.” The three men stood, awash in horrors, looking for one that would put all the rest to shame. The drunk angel wandered on the edge of the fire. Demons, zombies, and pop-culture icons swirled around her, moving like a single mass, before scattering into small clusters and pairs, only to surge back together again. The bonfire seemed to roar in time with the pounding music, the field chosen for the sudden teen invasion just far enough to avoid noise complaints, but not far enough to attract unwanted adult oversight. Alcohol flowed, people giggled, and the sharp snap of lowered inhibitions and teen angst was thick in the chill air. The night was still young, yet already several pairs had drifted from the comfort of the fire, to seek other comforts in the dark, private woods ringing the field. The angel glared at the silent trees, taking another pull on an almost empty beer. She drained it, then tossed it down, to meet a holocaust of its brothers being slowly kicked and stamped in to the soft dirt. She should be there, being held in warm arms, kissing a warm mouth…but no, she decided to run with the one boy who seemed to think the moment before a party was the best time to bring up his “worries about our relationship”. Bastard. The angel, now with lopsided wings, started to wander to those cool, dark trees. Fuck him…if he wanted to toss her aside, fine…but that didn't mean she wouldn't get to have fun still. She giggled a bit, smiling for the first time in a while. Why not have a little fun…play a trick, and get her treat. She laughed, the flush of wicked amusement and booze high in her cheeks. She'd seen one of the boys from her study hall wander back here…maybe she could find him, get a little…better acquainted. She walked in to the cooler darkness, the occasional giggle, snip of whisper, or a flash of glow stick the only indication of life. She stumbled over a root, staggering forward and bracing her hand on a slimy tree trunk. She yanked her hand away almost instantly, the gritty, oozing texture making her palm burn, the loss of support almost sending the angel sprawling. She squinted at her hand, making out a smear of gritty, fibrous jelly coating it, the burning getting worse as she noticed the odd pits eaten in to the trunk of the tree. The angel shivered, suddenly sober, and very aware of the fact that nobody knew where she was. That she knew of nobody close enough to even call for. She tried to rub her palm against her poofy skirts, not noticing the red and black smear she made on it, eyes wide and staring, some deep, dim part of her primordial brain ringing an alarm. She started to walk, quickly, focusing on the waving beacon of the bonfire, trying to make herself feel silly, to ignore the swelling, unreasoning panic. A twig broke behind her. She froze, a white shade, one hand dripping blood from a corrosive injury she would have been horrified about, had she looked. The angel didn't dare look back, but she was terrified to run, to hear something following, reaching, grabbing. Moments passed, filled with nothing, the angel finally resolving to run right at the moment when a thin, bony hand reached through her costume and into the muscles of her back like a nasty child squishing his hands into a cake. She screamed, or tried to, the sound squelched to little more then a harsh bark by the sheer volume of pain, limbs suddenly boneless and leaden, nerves dead except for agony. She felt fingers touching her ribs from the inside, even as they were slowly eaten away and corroded, her body shifting slowly to face the hand's owner. The flicker of the distant fire showed something withered, dark, slimy and pulpy-soft, but wiry and strong. Two milky-black eyes glistened at her in a too-large head, hovering over a frozen corpse grin, teeth thin and chipped. The pinned angel gasped and blubbered, feeling an oily, burning corruption seeping in to her body, trying to ignore a slow falling feeling, trying not to feel the ground below her turning mushy and soft, swallowing both figures inch by inch. It leaned closer, and despite the searing horror of that face, some still sane part of her welcomed what was surely an approaching end to her pain. It lingered, however, the other twisted claw of a hand rising as the ground started to swallow their hips. The new touch made the angel lucid with a new fear, her face locking on those rotten eyes. She recognized the shine behind them, and started to scream with a new, repulsed horror, even as it started to pull both her dress and skin away in sodden ribbons. Jason ran, lungs burning, trying to yell for help between sharp gasps of air. His Batman costume felt like such a joke now, running between streetlights, feeling that warm spot of pee on his pants. Where WAS everyone? It had been so stupid, trying to be the big brave kids and go out alone…now he really was alone, and his friends had probably been eaten. He didn't know this for sure, but when the boogeyman dropped out of a tree and started shoving kids in to a wall that was suddenly like quicksand, it was probably a safe bet. He hadn't even been able to do anything, just watch as those long, bony fingers grabbed his two best friends and just…yanked them away, like dolls, barely screaming before the squishy black wall gulped them up. The boogeyman, it hooked his fingers in to David's eyes like dad had taught him to hold a bowling ball, and… Jason was abruptly sick down the front of his costume, the half-digested mass of chocolate looking unsettlingly like the goo that had splattered everywhere while the tall, lanky, naked old man had landed out of the tree. He stopped, stumbling to his knees, coughing and gagging, wailing out a weak scream for help to the dim night. It drifted off, unheeded, the boy unable to even sob, too numb with exhaustion and horror. He barely noticed the footsteps until they were nearly on top of him. He looked up, ready to beg whatever adult he saw for help. Then he saw the legs. Thin, black, the feet looking pulpy and flat with age, the concrete under them turning cracked and gooey. Jason looked up more, shaking more and more violently. The withered hips, the sticky, soft chest that didn't rise or fall…and finally that nightmare head, looking like some kind of rotten pumpkin, but black and oily as a bucket of tar. The eyes locked on the boy's, as shiny and blank as a flashlight in a basement. The teeth parted, some kind of rolling, slimy blackness shifting inside. Jason stumbled back, gasping, trying to scream but unable to even breathe correctly. He stared at the boogeyman as he rolled something in the palm of that thin, beaten hand, pulling it between two bony fingers and lifting it to his mouth. The boy thought it was a candy or something, but then he saw the glint of metal. It was his best friend Anthony's front tooth. It still had the bracket from his braces on it. The boogeyman placed it between his teeth, gently, the tooth still white and clean in that filthy, dripping mouth. He seemed to hold it there a moment…then his jaw bunched, and the tooth shivered…then burst like a jawbreaker under a car tire. He chewed it twice, then just stopped, still staring at the boy. It seemed to go on and on, Jason unsure if he was even breathing anymore, knowing this was the end, this was what happened when you didn't listen, when you went off alone, the boogeyman came and took you, forever and always… But he didn't. He turned, seeming to get ready to take a step…then fell forward, slowly, like an old man tripping over a shoe. The black monster almost hit the ground…but just fell through it, like it was made of air, nothing but a black smear left behind on the concrete…and the tiny, corroded bracket from the tooth. When they found him, hours later, he'd gripped it hard enough to embed it in his palm. The boy sat, comforted and miserable. His mother had been nice enough to let him at least wear his Mario costume, but even he had to admit he was probably too sick to walk around the house, let alone outside for hours, in the cold. He'd woken up vomiting, and it had just continued, his parents hoping for the best, but finally forced to cancel the trick-or-treating. As sad as he was, they did try their best to make it up to him. There was a small bowl of candy for him, with the promise any leftovers would be given to him, and he could watch all the scary movies he liked. Knock knock “Trick or treat!” “Aww, such a cute turtle! And what are you, honey?” “I'm Rapunzel!” “Well, here you go, princess!” “Thank you!” He hadn't even wanted to help pass things out. It was better to just try and ignore things, just pretend everyone else was inside too, that made it better. He tugged the floppy hat down a bit, trying to convince himself that his tummy wasn't feeling like a hedgehog was rolling around inside. He watched the zombies lurch across the screen, half-wishing that the screaming people running for the house were kids from school. Knock knock “Trick or treat!” “Oh, what a nice vampire!” “I'm draculaura! Rawr!” “So fearsome! Here you go…” “Thank you!” He turned up the movie, the slow groans of the walking dead drowning out the happy shouts of the living. The worst was going to be tomorrow, being forced to listen to everyone, watch them eating candy and talking about different houses and adventures. He sighed and swallowed thickly, his stomach doing another slow, oily roll. The boy pushed away the candy he'd been nibbling, suddenly sickened by even the smell. Knock “…” “Hello?…oh…” “…” “Uh, are you withOHGOD!” The sudden, rising shriek of his mother made the boy suddenly bolt upright, his stomach clenching even worse, but now totally forgotten. He couldn't see her from the couch, but he could hear noises, thumping and muffled shouts…and some kind of slimy-sounding rustle, like sewage over dry leaves. He stood, and started to peer around the short wall blocking the entryway, calling with a hesitant voice, scared of not getting a response, but almost equally so of getting one. He was only a few feet away when the hand whipped around the wall, gripping it tight. It was black-gray and thin, as bony and thin-skinned as his grandmother's, with wide, flat nails gripping the paint hard. Where it touched, a black stain was spreading, like grease on a paper bag, the knuckles looking puffy and thick as they flexed. The boy stared, backing up slowly, calling again for his mother, his voice starting to plead. The hand flexed, actually sinking into the wall as that stain spread, and a nightmare peeped around the corner. The head was thick, misshapen and lumpy, like a poorly made scarecrow, the skin thin and jelly-like. Two hard, glistening eyes the color of maggots stared from above the thin, wide slash of a mouth. Their eyes locked, and the boy felt fear wash from his head down to his feet, his stomach boiling like a forgotten kettle. His nerves screamed to run, to run away, but he couldn't make himself stop watching those eyes, feet moving slowly backwards like a sleepwalker. The hand and face shifted a bit, and there was a wet, heavy dragging noise as his mother was pulled in to view. She was dead, or close to it, moved forward by the hand in her chest like a sock puppet, bits of her black and pulpy, smears of that black stain eating in to her face, her neck, her arms. Her chest was a black, jelly-coated hole, the thing's other hand buried in it up to the wrist, the bloodless, ruined remains of his mother hanging from it like a rag doll. He screamed, then threw up, little more then a mass of bile and half-digested snacks, then ran, shrieking up the stairs, begging for his mother, his father, anyone, someone. He slammed into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door, shaking and crying. His dad had gone down the street to visit, he'd be home any second, and he'd fix this, somehow. He'd call the cops, or something, get them out of the house, leave that black thing far behind. Maybe mom was just hurt, people could get really hurt and still be fine, he'd only seen her a few seconds. That thing was just some psycho in some costume, he'd probably run off as soon as he heard someone coming, and it'd be ok then, it'd be fine. He kept whispering this to himself, feet braced on the sink, back against the door. He was still repeating it when the face pushed through the wood above him. He heard the crackle, and looked up, to see that hell face looking down, inches above his head. The floor under his feet suddenly felt sludgy and soft as he stared, the mouth splitting open, to let a tongue as rotten and bloated as a dead fish roll free…and down…and down, sliding down onto that horrified face like a syrup, burning even as he felt his legs sinking down and down, unable to even move really as that soft, slimy flesh burned like an acid in to his face, feeling his nose cook down like an over-used eraser, screaming just long enough to catch a few feet of that endless tongue in his mouth, gagging hard before the nerves died, starting to pass out as he felt the nightmare tasting his eyes. Drak awoke feeling like he'd been sleeping on a pile of rusty car parts. He sat up, twisting and trying to locate the source of the throbbing pain in his leg, that…memory started to flood back, hitting like a freight train. Running across town. Slamming through a crowd, seeing the withered, crumbling arm laying on the ground. Screams. People running. That horrible black face sliding from the ground, eyes locked on his. Parks firing. More screams. A withered hand reaching, gripping, pulling… Oh god no. He looked around in welling horror, pleading with his own brain to lie to him. The room was dark, dirty, and low-ceilinged, tufts of dirt and debris in the corners, the grayish paint peeling in ragged streamers, the stained ceiling and floor warped and lumpy. A doorway opened in to darkness, a vague, insistent noise sounding from far off. The light was dim, but didn't seem to come from anywhere, seeming just a weak, omnipresent glow with a slightly green cast, like deep ocean water. Drak knew this room, even though he'd never been here. At least, ones very much like it. The old man liked to dump his new catches here before he…found them. Drak rose quickly, hunching down to avoid a sagging bulge of ceiling. He barely wanted his shoes touching this place, let alone anything else. He winced, feeling a dull, empty ache in his leg, high in the calf. Probably where it grabbed him…and damned if he was going to check it. He limped a few steps, making sure it could bear weight, eyes sweeping over every surface. He breathed slow, deeply, remembering the file, the brief. Time was subjective, he could have been out for seconds or weeks. It liked to play cat and mouse, tracking through its…home, or playroom, or whatever the fuck it was. Space was endless, but sometimes people got out, or were released. Keep moving, don't hide, because it was god here and would know. He felt panic slithering around the edges of his brain, and pushed it down, hard, face set and grim as he stepped out in to the darkness beyond the doorway. The hall was long, and broken, like a hospital hallway after an earthquake. No big holes, just twisted and tilted oddly. He creeped down, as close to a wall as he could get without touching it, feeling gritty plaster crunch under his feet. The noise was louder, the sound of high-pitched, monotonous crying. It set the teeth on edge, but they'd said it would be like this. The key was to keep moving, keep looking. Yes, it was endless, but if you kept on the move, it seemed like 106 got confused, or lost track of things, and you could accidentally wander back in to the world. He kept repeating the steps, the briefing in his head like a prayer, ignoring the part where 106 would typically hunt escapees forever. He took a right at the end of the hall, passing down another, then a left, starting to move faster, ignoring the odd, corroded twists of pipe and wire in some of the rooms he'd passed, or the suggestive, soggy mounds of…something. The crying kept getting louder, the high-pitched, gurgling wail of a baby. Ignore it, keep moving. It called the shots, it could make the whole place sound like a dentist's drill if it wanted. Drak pounded down a hall, nearly at a dead run, trying not to see the growing dampness of the walls, the changing texture of things. Broken plaster over old, greenish bricks, floor going from broken vinyl, to concrete, to dirt. He turned a corner, too fast, a gooey patch of black causing his foot to skitter, nearly dropping him to his knees as he clutched the bare, wet brick wall. He looked out in the the dim, mossy room, the sound of helpless, angry crying very, very loud now. He froze, staring, half-crouched and clutching the wall. It was standing in the middle of the room, a thick, ankle deep puddle of black jelly at its feet. The old man was turning, slowly, rocking in slow, side-to side motions. The crying was coming from the thing in his arms. It was a torso, wrapped in masses of what looked like barbed wire. The wire threaded in and out of flesh, some places looking like the bleeding skin had flowed like warm taffy over it. The ragged remains of the limbs twisted and stretched, every movement making the wires dig and tear more. It was hairless, the skin of its bare head and neck looking peeled and rotten, the face a mask of pain. The throat had been…opened, carefully, twisted and held with wires. The baby crying was in fact this grown, mute torso, mutilated to make that pitiful, helpless wail. The old man was watching him. Face turned, eyes locked to the man as he slowly tried to stand upright, ignoring the hissing of his boots, trying not to think of what would have to be done to a throat, to make it sound like a baby in agony…or where that pitiful torso's limbs had gone. It watched him, cracked teeth slightly parted, and slowly stopped its rocking. It dropped the wire-bound bundle, arms going limp at its sides as the mass of flesh and pain bounced off the ground, then rested face-down in the mossy grime, sending up a new wave of protest between bubbly, sucking breaths. It turned to face him, arms dangling, body wrapped in what looked like some kind of shredded cloth of oozing black fabric. Drak ran, bolting like a scared deer, throwing training and conditioning to the wind in the mad, blind, animal panic of escape. He screamed, panted, talked, laughed, anything to drown out the sound of the slow, stuttering steps lurking behind him. He ran, and ran, and ran, falling and hitting the ground like he'd been hit by a car, gasping and waiting for the end, muscles throbbing…then they would start again, those soft, rustling footsteps, driving him on, and on, and on. He didn't know it, but he'd run for four days before the old man started taking chunks out of him. Recovery was in the pre-dawn hours with no sun or moon, and went shockingly smooth, all things considered. SCP-106 was found in the middle of a field, making pumpkins sag and burst by squeezing or stepping on them. The team, a man short, was finally reinforced an hour before they caught it, pushing it back to the recovery chamber with the big halogen “sun guns”, nearly blinding two of the recovery crew in their zeal to have the old man back under lock and key. It sat in the cell, without a moment's attempt to try and escape. It sat, and did nothing, head tilted, arms and legs limp. One MTF member stated that it looked sated, and was told to shut up in an official capacity. Disappearances were glossed over, murders quieted and made un-newsworthy, urban legends seeded and caressed. Over all, it went well, once the hell was over. Weeks later, an observation tech made a note in the day's log. SCP-106 was observed to suddenly produce a large handful of small white objects, later identified as teeth and finger bones, and set the pile on the floor. It then sorted these objects in to what seemed random piles, later identified as separated by age of victim. It then stared at these items for several hours, then re-collected them. The significance of this was considered unworthy of contemplation.

The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to an entirely new place was not new to number Five Zero Seven. Just a second ago, he had been standing in a dark cell, eating celebratory pumpkin pie. It was Halloween, and while Foundation workers longed for the feeling of terror, 507 abhorred it. It was too familiar. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had been dreading a Halloween trip, still trying to forget the one from last year. But he was not in a ghost town, or a dank graveyard. He was in the middle of what appeared to be an English mansion, with a large coat of arms and an even larger picture of Queen Victoria as the centerpieces of the room on the back wall. He felt a peculiar sense of deja vu, and 507 suddenly felt a lump in his throat. It was too familiar. "You're back." 507 whipped his head around in terror, seeing exactly what he hoped he wouldn't. An older man, Caucasian, with deep blue eyes. But 507 knew he wasn't any of that. The man spoke up again. "Did you enjoy your, uh, trials?" "I wouldn't call them trials. More of me thrashing around universes and other planes like a damn rag doll." 343 frowned. "Rag doll seems a bit harsh. It's not like I wanted anything that way." 507 sighed audibly. "How could you do this, huh? To me?" "Not just you. Did you notice where is everyone else now?" 343 asked rhetorically, smiling. "Trapped. By their power, like you, or unconscious, or stuck within their own mind or body. Or maybe in the doorway." "But you haven't. I've been just about everywhere, all thanks to you. I know for the most part who the players are and where they stand. And neither of us stand nearly as high as we'd like to think." "Oh, come on. It can't have been that bad. Maybe it was just their way of saying hello?" 507 grimaced. He had been right about Halloween being terrifying. "Well, you've entered my home without permission and insulted me. Anything you want to do here before you inevitably hop back to your cell?" 343 stood, staring blankly at 507. There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, the younger of the two spoke up. "Yeah, okay. Trick or treat?" he asked. The older man laughed. "Here's some chocolate." A bar of Hershey's appeared in his hand, which was promptly thrust forward. 507 accepted, and walked to the wall to sit down. "I'm being nice and cordial, don't you think? Not like I used to be. We're not enemies, you can be afforded a little respect." "Enemies? Do you know what I've gone through? You don't know half the shit I've seen and learned. And brought with me." He pulled out a small chunk of yellow metal. "Remember, asshole, all he needs is one hand to strangle you with." The older man moved closer to 507, eying the object. "Hand?" he asked. "Not as broken as you think." A blink later, he was gone. In a split second, the old man's face changed from mild curiosity to anger and confusion. This was not familiar. "Do you think he knows?" "About what?" "The metal." "Doubt it." Researcher Goldsheiner had far too much paperwork to relax. The stack of files on his desk seemed to be taunting him, to the point that he could not focus on it without feeling angry. He had planned to go on vacation with his family in the near future, contingent on him having time to plan. But work was getting in the way, and he was getting more stressed by the minute. He kept zoning in and out, all the while semi-focused on the stack of paper neatly on his desk. It was too big to do anything about. Pushing unproductive thoughts aside, he unenthusiastically reached for the file on the top. All he had to do was read the request and either accept it or deny it, meaning that he could skim through and avoid doing any actual work. He opened the manilla envelope and read the memo inside. Sitting back in his chair, he glanced over to the potted plant in the corner of his office. Wasn't maintenance supposed to do something about that thing? He was certainly not strong enough to move the thing himself. He looked it at, admiring how the leaves could look artificial even while being wholly natural. With a jolt, he moved his attention to the request, deciding to get it out of the way. After all, it wasn't like someone like him could do anything about the plant. It was too big to do anything about. This came to me in a dream. I had meditated for an hour or so before I went to bed, hoping to astrally project myself. It was around 10:40 when I went fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in Central Park, throwing pieces of panini to the pigeons squabbling on the ground. I remember feeling a slight pity for them, having to take what I give and getting only the scraps of my sandwich. I turned to my side, and there was a man sitting there. I don't remember much, except that he had a trench coat and fedora on. He asked me if I liked what I was eating. I replied affirmatively, and he laughed. I don't quite remember what he said, but I think it was something about irony. Goldsheiner yawned. He skipped to the second-to-last paragraph. But it couldn't really be just that, could it? An inanimate object? Or an entity, trying to free itself from an inanimate object, to be contained in an inanimate object? Or maybe just an entity, briefly stuck inside a small universe before bursting into ours. I can't be sure about what the man said; after all, it was in a dream, and we know very little about SCP-882. A colleague of mine, who would prefer to remain nameless, told me that my experience was similar to an existing SCP entity, numbered 990. For this reason, I am officially submitting a transcript of my dream to Site Director Kondraki. I leave it up to the higher-ups to decide how to act, if any action is deemed necessary to undertake. -Researcher Greens, Personnel Code #CN8978, Site 19 Too sleepy to fully understand what he had just read, Goldsheiner reached for his stamp and lethargically smacked the page with it. He grabbed a handful from the bag of candy corn the staff had put in all the offices and began to munch. There was no reason not to accept this request, after all, he rationalized. 990 was a Keter, if he remembered correctly. And better for it to be on the site director's plate than on his. Assuming the memo was accurate, the implications were out of his league anyway. It was too big to do anything about. 507 was sitting in his containment unit, clutching a small piece of metal. He had been sitting there for sixty four seconds, which he knew because they were possibly the longest sixty four seconds of his life. A doctor in a white lab coat entered with a clipboard, scribbling notes down. "Five Oh Seven, you've been gone for almost nine hours. We can schedule an interview later to document your latest shift. Is there anything you'd like?" "No, I'm okay. Thanks. How long have you been here?" he asked. "Hm?" "In Site 19, I mean." "Since the sun on the Horizon touched down," the doctor replied. 507 let out a much-needed sigh of relief. "Take this." he said, tossing the piece of metal to the doctor. "Are we clear?" "Not entirely. I couldn't help it. He saw it. Even a martyr wants to taste the sweetness in the fruit of revenge." "I bet Adam thought that too." The two stood in silence, and the doctor turned to leave the unit. On his way out, the doctor turned back to the man sitting on the cot. "Does he know?" "About what?" "The metal." "Doubt it." The doctor left the room, with the chunk of metal in his pocket. Soon, it would be mailed to a friend in a distant Foundation facility. Then, it was out of his hands, and he would just have to wait for his reward. He walked through the halls of Site 19, admiring the tranquility. Even on Halloween night, when the kids were looking for sweets and the adults were partying, the Site 19 seemed like machine. Finely-oiled parts were working nonstop, accomplishing what would be an insurmountable task by separate parts, no matter how powerful. "There's not much to say." "Where is it?" "I don't have it." "Bullshit." How many had he done. Twelve? Thirteen? Out of how many? Goldsheiner didn't want to think about it. He was lucky he was being this productive in fact. Many days, he'd read through that many requests in total. It was only half past 2:00, but the stack of work on his desk didn't seem any shorter. He groaned, imagining the work ahead of him, hoping that he had an assistant. Or four. The pang of reality hurt him when it hit him, looking at the pile. Even with a lot of people, they wouldn't be able to do much. Note: Due to the attached interview, I'm formally requesting for SCP-882 to be sealed away and no longer be studied. Dr. Dunner: State your name for the record, please. D-43267: Franklin King Jackson. Dr. Dunner: And do you know why you're here? D-43267: I believe in the truth of the Broken God, whom you imprison. Dr. Dunner: Is that it? D-43267: You imprison more than just His heart: His mind, His flesh, more. Dr. Dunner: Flesh? Could you describe it? D-43267: Don't play dumb with me. We know. Goldsheiner yawned, flipping through the next two pages of the interview until he landed just before the end. He glanced out the open door in his office to see a witch and a ghost discussing containment procedures. With much effort, he got up to close the door. Halloween was boring, not scary. Nothing chilling ever happened on October 31st, perhaps excepting the weather. Goldsheiner sat back down and reopened the file. D-43267: The rest is just to expand its influence. Dr. Dunner: So this metal that you describe is anomalous in and of itself, and potentially more powerful than SCP-882? D-43267: However you label the Broken God, it will not matter, for He will soon be whole. And He will rise up and crush the heathens, and reward the faithful. They will be ground up and destroyed by His might, and their bodies will be strewn all through the Earth. Dr. Dunner: I think we're done here. Goldsheiner, having read very little and having cared even less, promptly denied the request. In his mind, he thought, there was nothing in that interview that could warrant ending the study of an SCP object. The Church was far too non-cohesive to pose a real threat. Even with a lot of people, they wouldn't be able to do much. The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to an entirely new place was not new to 507. The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to his worst enemy standing above him, however, was. "What was that piece of metal you had?" "Hm?" 343 grabbed 507 by the throat, and the unit they were in began to warp violently. He was no longer in a metal room, but a red cone that was centered on the old man clutching his neck. 507 tried to fight it, but his power was constrained. All he could do was throw himself into a new universe, but 343 kept dragging him back. The room was beginning to mesh from everywhere he tried to jump to, and it was soon no longer recognizable. "Where is it." He felt himself smash into the wall behind him. The room had grown considerably, and was now easily over a hundred feet long and half that in width. "Where's what?" "You know exactly what I'm talking about." There was rubble all around him, Greek and Roman pillars being smashed as his body soared through them. He was blacking out in pain, but his eyes were being forced open by unseen hands. He couldn't cry, and watched his body go limp and reanimate and go limp again. "WHAT IS IT?!" roared the old man, now five times his normal size in the massive conglomeration of jungle, ancient civilization, and Escher-esque mansion that 507's containment unit had become. 507 stayed silent. 343 drew a deep breath, and stood over 507's crushed body. "If you don't tell me, I won't bother punishing you. I'll just kill you." "There's not much to say," he managed to say. 343 smiled. He picked up 507's body. "Where is it?" "I don't have it." "Bullshit." "I don't." 343 threw him down. In his last seconds, 507 saw himself spread around the room. He heard 343 scream in anger, just before his vision went black. "At least I didn't have to die in some far-gone universe or a cold cell. I got to die everywhere," his shattered mind thought, right before his shattered body gave in. 343 was panting hard. It wasn't as much the horrible act he'd just done, though he was still sorting through what had just happened in his head. He frantically ran through Site 19, looking for clues about whatever the metal chunk that 507 had given his life for was. The old man wasn't able to keep his mind focused though, because he was terrified. "Is he really dead?" "That's what they told me. Didn't really say much." "That's a pretty huge deal." "You'd be surprised." Researcher Goldsheiner was extremely tired. After mountains of paperwork, all he could hope to do was sleep in his own bed for once rather than the leather chair in his office. He dragged himself up, and walked through the middle of a party in the break room. Orange and black streamers were covering the ceiling, with costumed staff members drinking and enjoying themselves. "It's 11:32! Jesus, I remember when I was young," he muttered. He waded his way through candy and decorations, spiderwebs and six foot witch statues. The noise and light were hurting his ears. With a groan, he remembered that his kids would be out for the whole night. Halloween had never been too exciting for Goldsheiner. It was so artificial that it made him sick. Faux scares and consumerism pretty much summed the whole holiday up in his mind. It was the same thing, year after year. Nothing ever changed. It was always a copy of the previous year, and the year before that, and the year before that. He grabbed his jacket and exited the main building. Goldsheiner grumbled, seeing his breath float up in the cold air, thinking about how much he loathed Halloween. It was too familiar, but it was too big to do anything about. Even with a lot of people, he wouldn't be able to do much. A small yellow chunk of metal was thrown into the forge, being consumed by the monstrous Heart of the Broken God. The martyred fool had been wrong about the size of the chunk. There was more than enough for 882 to change it into a hand; in fact, an entire man was created. Feeling his regained power rushing through his limbs, he bent the metal mass and slowly levitated out of it. The Heart was getting bigger all the while, and all non-believers guarding Him had already been slaughtered. There was more work to do, but first, he had a demon to smite.

The sun was just beginning to set as I paddled into the Okefenokee swamp along with my friends, Hank and Lucia. We weren't strangers to kayaking in the swamp; we had all done it since we were kids. Even at night, we weren't afraid to go in with the alligators and the birds and the other wildlife. This trip in particular, however, was designed to be scary. What a better time to tell ghost stories than while camping in the swamp on Halloween? We'd never spent Halloween in the wilderness before, and we figured it would be better than going to another costume party. I love being able to get away from my job at the Foundation every once in a while. The cold, sterile halls of Site 327 have no soul, none of the romantic power that nature does. As much as I love science, I need that kind of spiritual peace that nature imparts. Things started to get dark around 6. "Lights on everyone," said Lucia, as if we were kids that needed her to order us around. Hank looked at her and pouted. "But I don't wanna!" he whined. "Come on Hank," I said, "we better do what she says, or she'll spank us." The look on her face was enough to send us both into a fit of laughter. "Shut up Joe," she said. "I don't know which one of you is worse." We kept mostly silent after that, paddling our way to our campsite. We'd been there many times before, an island of solid earth in a sea of stagnant water, peat, and trees. Spanish moss waved lazily in the wind as true darkness finally came, obscuring the already alien shapes of the Okefenokee. Here was true wilderness. No humans came here frequently, and when they did they never stayed long. The trees grew large and twisted, silent surveyors of the affairs of fish and fowl, alligators and snakes. We tied up the kayaks, set up our tents quickly, stowed our gear, and built a fire. As we cooked marshmallows and hotdogs, now came the reason we had come out here in the first place, our first-ever Halloween swamp ghost story contest. Hank took the first turn. A few miles south of Folkston, back in the 1800s, there used to be a place called Trader's Hill. It was a traders' town, of course, built near the water. There's an enormous old oak tree there, still around today. People called it the Hangman's Oak, for reasons I'm sure you can imagine. So one day, this Indian named Suanee came to town. He got accused to stealing some goods from a trader, and he ended up being sentenced to death. So they brought him up to the Hangman's Oak, and they were tying the rope around his neck when he said "May the curse of my father's spirit and my own be upon you, for as long as there is a Trader's Hill!" No one payed him any mind, and they hanged him dead. About a month later, the people of Trader Hill were having a dance to celebrate the harvest, when they saw something bright in the distance. They all looked toward it and saw Hangman's Tree, glowing bright like it was on fire, and they could hear wailing and moaning like a thousand people being tortured! The next morning the first group of people packed up and left Trader's Hill. Eventually, the whole place was deserted. They say that sometimes, at night in the fall, you can still hear the wailing of Suanee and his father. "Hank, I'm sorry but that story was just awful," I said, "It wasn't scary, and I'm pretty sure I've heard it before somewhere." "What!? That story scared the shit out of me when I was a kid!" "Nope. Wasn't scary." "I agree. Boooring." said Lucia. Hank stared at us both, flabbergasted. Before he could say anything, I saw it. There was a light in the swamp, like an orange flame. It was far off, and obscured by the fog, but I could see that it was bobbing along like someone carrying a lantern. Who would be out in the swamp at night? And how do you just causally walk through the swamp? "Hey guys, do you see that?" I asked. "See what?" Almost as soon as they turned, the light disappeared. "What was that?" said Hank. "I don't know. Maybe it was just someone setting up their own campsite?" suggested Lucia. "I guess…" I said. I was used to seeing weird things. Something about this didn't seem right. Still, it's my weekend off. "Whatever, let's just keep going. I believe it's my turn," I said as I stood up. One day, a man named Henry Ferguson was driving home from work. It was another busy day in Chicago, with lots of traffic on the highway as people made their way home. Henry was tired, he had been working late the past couple of nights. He couldn't wait to get home and relax. Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered it. "Good afternoon Mr. Ferguson. I have your son here at gunpoint. You must make a choice now." "What? Who is this?" "That's not important. I can see you from a screen right now. Speed up, and turn into oncoming traffic. If you don't do it soon, I will kill your son." "Dad! Please, don't do it!" "George? Is that you?!" "Yes Dad, it's me, don't worry about me I'll be fine!" "Shut up! Mr. Ferguson, you're running out of time." Henry heard a gun click. His heart was beating out of his chest. He didn't know what to do. "George…..I love you." He stomped on the accelerator and turned sharply to the left. Mr. Henry Ferguson didn't survive the crash. When the police asked for a recording of the last phone call he had made before committing suicide, they got it. To this day, no one knows who actually made the call, where it came from, or how George's voice was on it when he had never been kidnapped or threatened with a gun at all…. I stood silent for a few moments while I let the last part set in. Hank and Lucia looked a little spooked now. I'm sure the Foundation wouldn't mind that I had made up a ghost story using an SCP for inspiration, but then they probably would never know. "Dude, that's fucking creepy." said Hank. "That was one of the better ones I've heard recently," agreed Lucia. "However, I think I've got both of you beat. Have a seat and listen to a true master of the art." Long ago in England, there lived a man named Jack. Jack was a thief and a scoundrel, but a clever one. One day, for all his cleverness and carefulness, he got caught stealing a gold coin from a farmer. Half the village was chasing him with murder on their minds, for that coin was all they had. Jack jumped into some bushes on the side of the road and let the villagers pass by, then dusted himself off and started walking the other way. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when a dark figure stepped onto the path before him, appearing like a wraith from the fog. "Jack," the figure said, "I have come for thee. You hath lived a wicked life, and it is my duty as Satan, Lord of the Hell to take your soul to eternal damnation. Your time hath come, the villagers shall return and kill you soon." Jack, being the clever man he was, thought this over and had an idea. "Devil," he said, "would you not prefer to have many souls over one?" "Are you proposing a deal, Jack?" the Devil said. "A small one, Devil. It would benefit you much more than me. It is simple, you shall see." "Tell me more, but be sharp, for your time runs short." "Well first, Devil, I but throw away this gold coin I stole, into the forest where the peasants will never find it. Then you, Devil, turn thineself into the same gold coin. You hop into my purse, and when the peasants find me I give you to them. They don't kill me, but you disappear from their pockets later, and soon enough they'll all kill eachother arguing over who stole it." The Devil agreed, and did as Jack said. But when he turned into a coin and hopped in Jack's purse, he found in there a crucifix. At the sight of it, the Devil's power was diminished, and he could not move from Jack's purse. "A curse on you, Jack! You damnable wretch!" "I will let you go if you do as I say." "Blasted fate! I submit. What do you wish?" "I wish that you promise you will never drag me to Hell, never touch my soul, not ever." The Devil was reluctant, but as the peasants drew near, he finally gave in to Jack's demand. Jack threw him from his purse, and the Devil fled into the dark forests. Finally, the farmers had Jack where they wanted him. They snatched him and bound him, and searched him for their gold. But they did not find it, for Jack had thrown it into the woods. Instead, they took his head. Jack was now in a predicament, for it seemed that Heaven would not take him, on account of his wicked nature, but neither would Hell, for the Devil had made his promise. Trapped between worlds, Jack begged of the Devil for one thing. A light for him to see by as he wandered the Earth. Satan took pity on Jack, and gave him an ember from the fires of Hell itself. Jack took it, and placed it in a carved pumpkin that he now wears in place of the head he lost. Since, he became known as Jack 'o' The Lantern. I yawned. I saw worse things on an average Tuesday. "Eh," said Hank, "it was interesting, but not really scary. Kind of cheesy too. Pumpkin heads are so overdone." "What are you smoking? A guy with a pumpkin for a head with fire from Hell itself wandering the Earth for all eternity doesn't scare you?" "No." "You're too jaded." A voice came from just outside the light of the fire. "Oh, it's a good story. You just got a few of the details wrong." We all turned, startled, toward the voice as a man stepped into the light of our fire. He was old, his skin wrinkled with age. Half his hair had fallen out, the rest was grey as brushed steel. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, obscuring their color. He wore swamper's clothes, overalls and boots, but he seemed dirtier than most swampers I had seen. "Who are you?" I asked him. "They call me Will." He turned toward Lucia. "If you had told that story right, it would have been much scarier." "You were spying on us?" "Only for as long as her story lasted. I was just on my way in my canoe when I heard your voices." Lucia stood up. "Well if you know that story so well, what did I get wrong?" "Well, for one thing," said Will, "Jack never lost his head. The villagers just hanged him. He pretended to be dead and then just got up and left as soon as they turned around." "For another, Jack didn't use a pumpkin to hold his Hellfire. There weren't any pumpkins in Medieval Europe, they're an American vegetable. He used a carved turnip." As he spoke, I saw the light again. There it was, closer this time, slowly bobbing left and right, left and right. There was another, and another, another… "You also forgot the best part. Jack figured out that though his Hellfire would never go out, on some days it was stronger. Particularly one day. It's a day of significance, ancient and cursed. They call that day All Hallow's Eve, or more recently, Halloween." The lights where closer now, more coming into view every second. I realized that Lucia, Hank and I had huddled together close, while Will was standing totally still, a knowing smile on his face. He casually rolled his head, revealing a white, puckered scar going all around his neck. "Jack eventually figured out that on Halloween, his Hellfire was strong enough that he could use it to take people's souls for himself. All he had to do was use it to burn off someone's head. The Hellfire would spread to their necks, and burn on forever, trapping their souls and bending them to Jack's will." The lights were very close now, so close I could make out more details. They were faces. Carved faces. Jack-o-lanterns. One came into the light of the fire. A dark figure, wrapped in rotting cloth. It seemed taller than a person should be. On it's head, it wore a jack-o-lantern like a helmet. But that couldn't be right, there'd be no room for the head and the candle… "I really like the way pumpkins look. Much nicer than turnips. Roomier too." One of the figures stepped closer. I looked into the pumpkin, searching for a face. All I saw was a stump of a neck, a small flame pouring out from the throat. The smell of burnt meat filled my nose. "Oh, I almost forgot! in some versions of the story, they call him Will." I can still hear his laughter echoing in my ears. I'll never be able to forget that cackle of his, so deep it sounds more like he's choking. No matter how long I walk the swamps, day or night, rain or shine, I can never seem to get it out of my head.

I love Halloween. It's my favorite time of year, one of the few days I can just go out and mingle with the normal people for an entire night without anyone being the wiser. The pain's not so bad when I can change so often, it's dark with plenty of places to hide and change in secret, and the candy makes up for it. There's an astronaut over there. I think I'll be an astronaut too now. It's so easy, not at all like having to make up a shape and hold on to it, keeping it in my head and on my body until it hurts too much to bear. There's so many other people in costumes, I can just copy one of them and then I only need to keep the picture outside from changing. That little boy is a pirate. I like pirates, I'm going to be a pirate. Oh, and the candy. I do so love candy, but the rest of the year, it's so hard to get. You need money to buy candy, and even if I could get money, I can't keep it, I always drop it when I change. So I have to steal it, and that's even harder, because even if I get some, I have to drop it too when I change to get away. A ballerina? That could make a nice shape to be, I'll try that. Tonight, you don't have to buy or steal candy, they just give it away. They don't like to give you candy more than once, but that's not a problem for me, not if I see someone I want to be and get to a house before they do. I can clean out a house in minutes if I'm lucky, and have a whole bag of candy to go hide somewhere and eat it all up without any shape at all. Policemen are scary. I don't like them, they like to chase me and shoot at me. But my head hurts, so I'll be a policeman now. I took a chance once, and went up to a house without a shape. I don't know why I did it, maybe I'd eaten too much candy and gotten silly on the sugar. It never goes right most days, people always scream and run when they see me without a shape, or they try to hurt me and I have to run. But on Halloween, I'm a ghost, or Rorschach (who's Rorschach?), or a swamp monster, or a Shoggoth (don't know what that is either). They aren't scared, they tell me what a great costume I have and give me extra candy. Should I be a vampire? Or a werewolf? Or a mummy? I see all of them, and I can't decide. But I can't be myself very often, because I know Mr. Redd is after me. He's always been chasing me, but he can't ever find me. I know how much it makes him angry, though - every since that one night, he knows I spend all of Halloween out and vulnerable, but I wear so many different shapes he never knows what I am and I'm always picking a new one. He get so angry, and it's funny. Ooh, there's a spy. I see them a lot, even when it's not Halloween. They don't look like spies, they look like normal people, but no one's better than me at seeing someone whose outside is changed. I know they're all friends, because inside they all look similar, and I can see that too. I'll be a spy, and go talk to him. Maybe I can get him to think I'm a spy like he is too. Maybe he'll give me candy.

Lord Hubris sits opposite Lord Wisdom. He is of the type Kahtar, and his symbol is the crown. To his right is the unknowable, which is invisible and colorless to only him, as he refuses to look upon it. To his left is the courageous, which is always a thorn in his side, as he refuses to concern himself with it. Betwixt he and the wise are the needy and unworthy, and he spits upon them with his belly's acid, because he believes he is above them. The Daevites tell us that he will never die, for their book's end does not include him. Believe or disbelieve them as you wish. Lord Hubris is of great cunning, it is said that with enough time he could always sway the council of equity into his favour. His strength is like that of a hundred men, but he never need exercise it, for his voice is his greatest weapon. He appeals to the hearts of man, so that in the depth of battle they will switch to his side. The face of Lord Hubris is unassailable, for to look into his eyes and hear his voice sways his enemy's allegiance. Lord Hubris is deceptive and manipulative, and only Lord Wisdom is perfectly immune to his tricks. Despite that he is always able to be on the side of the betrayer, and that he is always able to persuade the doubts of the knowledgeable, he is unable to change the opinion of the wise. Lord Hubris is of great endurance, it is said that if he can be cut in twain, his headless half will come alive to struggle with him. When in combat, even as his mortal foes strike blades into his flesh, he shrugs them off and speaks to them. Even when there are those who are particularly stubborn, the swathes of his claws will steal their fates away from them. Lord Hubris boasts that of all Espy that are able, none can beat him in battle, as he will outlast them always. His opposition to the wise is unending and unyielding, for he believes the Daeva that he will live forever. He believes he can sully Lord Wisdom's reputation such that the other ten members of the council turn against Lord Wisdom, and grant Lord Hubris his victory. Starel laments. Lord Hubris has the face of a ghost, but made with stone. It is like the whiteness of salt, but as hard as rock. He does not speak from his mouth, for his words pierce into the minds of those he is speaking to. It is said that the only times Lord Hubris changes his expression are in the memories of those who have spoken to him. The neck of Lord Hubris is long and sinewy, so that his face may always look into the face of that which he is speaking to. Lord Hubris sheds blasphemies from his skin like sweat, and so to keep his face far from his body muffles the whispers of disgust. His talons are innumerable and smeared with the flesh of those who did not follow him, as he is a wrathful lord. His spit is black blood, and those who touch it are burned by it, and when enraged the drool of Lord Hubris is said to come alive, and form words in the drops it leaves on the ground. Our Elders Twilight have told us that Lord Hubris has existed always, but has not always been as he is today. In a time long before ours he was instead two things, but have since become one. A visage made of poor-slain, worn by the ancient Tarask.

"How long has he been out there?" asked the Site Director as he strolled down the corridor leading to the entry hub. "Around three hours, sir," replied his assistant, nervously shuffling her papers. "We've contemplated shooting him, but decided that if he came all the way to Site 19's gate to just stand out there yelling, he can't be too much of a threat." The Site Director nodded slowly. He had dealt with attempted break-ins before, but some man ranting his head off at the Site gate was something new entirely. With any luck, they could wipe his memory and send him on his way inside of ten minutes, and get back to eating lunch. If not, he'd just order the stupid bastard shot in the face and be done with it. Either way, the problem would be solved. The pair arrived at the titanic metal wall that served as the Site's blast door. Anyone trying to break in would be stopped dead in their tracks, even if they could get past the snipers and electrical fencing. Beyond it, a mere two meters away, stood some raving lunatic. "Just a moment sir," grunted the on-duty guard, punching in the passcode to open the blast door. As the monstrous groaning sound of sliding metal emitted from the blast door before them, a similar sound could be heard from behind. No madman, no matter how harmless, was worth risking a containment breach over. A sliver of light fell over the Site Director and his assistant as the blast door picked up speed, opening faster and faster. The shadows of Site 19's low outer walls spilled across the dusty landscape. In the distance, one could see the small electric fences and the vast desert beyond. The Site Director had seen all of this before, however. What concerned him the most was the hunched-over man who rapidly advanced on the pair. "Do you have any fucking idea how long I was standing out there, man?" he blurted, waving his arms frantically. "I mean, it's the middle of goddamn summer out there! I spent something like eight hundred dollars to get out here, in the middle of goddamn July, and you guys just leave me standing in the middle of the desert at noon? Shit, man!" The Site Director looked over the haggard man. He had a long, scraggly beard that reached down to his stomach, and dark brown hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks. His eyes flitted wildly back and forth, looking over the Site Director and the armed guards standing at the ready. His apparel was little more than a sweaty white t-shirt and torn jeans, his feet completely unshod. Worst of all, some exceptionally foul odor was wafting from his person, which the Site Director could only pin down as rotten corn. "What…" he began, choking slightly on the man's smell, "What do you want?" "Look, man, we tried to contact you through the mail, but we never received a message back, so they sent me out here. Fucking inconvenient if you ask me, but—" "We burn all unsourced letters and delete suspicious e-mails," the Director said, quickly growing impatient with the man. "What exactly are you here for?" "I'm here to declare war on you lot, man!" the foul-smelling individual shouted, jumping up and down while making slight jabs with his fists. "We heard about this one group of dudes, with a name similar to yours, who were kinda ticked at you getting in their way, you know? So the guys and me got together and thought up, 'Hey, our name is similar too, and we think that you guys have been crapping on our goals too, so we're gonna go to war with them!" To apparently add effect, the man kicked his legs about and made several high-pitched screeches. "I see…" the Site Director said, rubbing his chin and hoping the glare on his glasses would hide his rolling eyes. "And how have we been wronging you?" The unwashed man fell still and silent. "Um… we haven't really figured that part out yet. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, you know? We got as far as the 'similar names' thing, and went off on the 'Fuck these guys!' crusade." His eyes lit up and he began bouncing up and down again. "But we'll figure it out! You guys have to have been suppressing us somehow! So we're here to declare war against the SCP Foundation!" The Site Director was doing all he could to keep from burying his face in his hands. "Just what is the name of your organization?" "People Shitting Chipperly!" Clearly, the battle to keep face and hands separate was a futile one. The Site Director's body shook violently as he took in a few deep, ragged breaths. His assistant and the lunatic both stared at him, wondering what was wrong. At length, he removed his hands, took one last breath, straightened his tie, and spoke. "No. No. No. I'm not accepting it, I am bloody well not accepting this. SPC, I get, I get how people can misspell it as that, and I get how you can go all, 'Oh, it's punching sharks, haha!' But no. I'm not doing it. I'm not going to have anything to do with the PSC organization." "Do you have any idea," he said, trying to keep himself from shouting, "any idea at all, just how much trouble the Shark Punching Center has caused us? We've plugged way too many resources into just making them go away, and lost something like six or seven versions of Bright to brain aneurysms in the last week alone. It's too much trouble to actually deal with nutters like you." "So go away," he stated flatly. "I'm not going to have you locked up, or mind-wiped, or even just straight up killed. It's too much trouble for a problem we shouldn't even have to be dealing with. Just go home, get on with your healthy shitting, or whatever it is you do, and never show your stinking face around here again. Do I make myself clear?" "But—" "Before I change my mind," the Site Director growled. The filthy madman blinked once, then turned and fled into the desert, hopefully to never be seen again. Waving his hand, the Site Director instructed the guard to close the blast door. "Come on, Lucy," he sighed, "let's get back to the cafeteria." At that moment, another individual came running up to the entrance, looking equally as insane and ragged as the one who had just left. "Now wait just a minute," he shouted, "I've spent two weeks looking for you, and the People's Coconut Society will not be—!" "Fuck off," the Site Director spat, and the blast door clanged shut in the man's face.

It was Halloween night at Site 19 A more average night there could not have been Inside the researchers were hard at work Studying skips and their interesting quirks When all of a sudden, out of the blue The intercoms screamed "It's 682!" "He's escaped his cell, he's running amok! We've sent out the guards, and with any luck They'll find him with almost no damage done Until then, however, everyone run!" The sudden announcement caused quite a riot Afraid they would be the lizards diet Personnel all ran through the halls quite fast Hoping that this night would not be their last Just then the man on the intercom cried, "173 is loose, everyone hide!" "We're working hard to find both of these beasts So there will be no one marked as deceased! Remember: don't blink, remember to stare Or else you won't have time for a prayer!" Now the whole site was scared as can be No one survives against 173! To defend themselves, they all grabbed their guns So they might have a chance to see the sun Once again the intercoms spoke with fear "A mass SCP breach has taken place here! Not just the lizard or the statue that kills The Old Man is out and spreading his ills! And so is Able, and he's rather pissed About all the action that he may have missed!" "035 is free, it's found a new host And I'm also free, and making some toast The clown has escaped from his cell and TV And so have the 008 infectees! This is by far the worst breach ever seen! Oh, and by the way…Happy Halloween!" "Yes, everything was completely untrue, It was intended to scare all of you. This great night is all about treats and tricks So I thought I'd spook you all for kicks!" Site Director's Note: It pains me to say We were just tricked in a cruel sort of way Somehow a researcher thought it'd be great To frighten us all to a panicked state But I'm not upset, because as it were Now the fool's working with all things Keter!

"Daddy, why are you dressed up like a dolphin?" Mitchell laughed as he picked up his daughter. "I'm not a dolphin, you goof!" he said. "I'm a shark!" The little girl in his hands giggled and bared her teeth at him, growling and playfully flailing her arms around. "Raaawr, raaawr, I'mma shark princess daddy!" she yelled gleefully. "Can I be a shark princess?" He chuckled. "But you're such a pretty princess already! Why would you ever want to be a shark?" Samantha pondered this for a moment, putting a hand under her chin as she had often seen her father do when he had to think hard about something. "Can I be a shark princess later?" she asked. "Sure honey, but tonight, you're just a regular princess with a shark daddy who's taking her trick-or-treating." Mitch said as he set his daughter down, brushing down her tutu. She cheered at this and snatched her mini-cauldron from off of the couch. Sam excitedly bounced towards the door, her gray-clad father tailing close behind. It was a cool evening in the town of Mollierville. The wind gently pushed brown and orange leaves across the ground as the orange sun cast long shadows as the light faded from the sky. It was Halloween night, and it was the first year that Samantha Nichols was old enough to go trick-or-treating. She lead her father excitedly by his hand out into the yard, pulling him past the carved jack'o'lanterns and cobwebbed tombstones. Her father laughed as they ran, readjusting his costume as it slipped off of him. As they hurried past their driveway into the lawn of the neighbors, a figure rolled out of the shrubs in front of them. Springing to his feet, he sprinted towards the confused pair, shouted "Take this, pond scum!" and slammed his fist into Mitch's abdomen. He doubled over in pain, his daughter angrily shouting at the man, who was rushing towards a waiting black van. "Daddy, daddy, are you alright?" Sam worriedly looked over the figure kneeling on the ground. "Do I need to get mommy?" He groaned, pushing himself up with one hand and dusting himself off with the other. "I'm fine sweetie," he said. "It'll take more than that to put your ol' dad out of action!" He glanced towards the street, which the van had quickly vacated. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all and took his daughter's hand as they walked towards the first house. Agent James sat in the back of the van, head in his hands. He had failed. His first major mission, and he blew it. Not only was the shark still mobile, but it still had the hostage. He was in for a demotion for sure, probably all the way down to Bait duty. The shark was free to roam and cause havoc, and it was all his fault. He sighed, pulled out the materials from the pocket in front of him, and began to write up the report. They would have to send out a squad tomorrow to clean up his mess, for sure. Shark #: 32145 Shark Class: Terrestrial Shark Punching Commands: Shark-32145 cannot be directly punched in the frontal cranial region due to a hostage human being used as a shield. Due to this, agents are to approach the shark as swiftly as they possibly can, apply direct pressure to the frontal thoracic area of the shark, and retreat just as swiftly. Multiple agents may be required to carry out SPC repeatedly if the shark needs to be punched further. Description: Shark is approximately 1.4m long. Notable features of this shark include fully functional lower appendages used for bipedal locomotion and a lack of the rough texture normally found on shark skin. More frighteningly, the shark appears to be holding an adult male captive in its mouth. As recovering the subject at this point would require actions further than those described in the Shark Punching Commands, this male adult has been deemed irretrievable. It is unknown whether this subject is aware of his condition or not. This shark is extremely dangerous due to its terrestrial locomotion, as well as its obvious parasitism and possible telepathic or anesthetic abilities. Under no circumstances should this shark be kicked, as it may kick back. Agents must move faster than with aquatic sharks, as this shark is fully mobile on land and can move as rapidly as some of our agents on land. Addendum: Alright agents, I'm sure you've all heard of these. I've heard the whispers around the halls and cafeteria, and, well, it's happened. We have a Type Brown on our hands. A full-fledged humashark that needs to be taken care of immediately. Here's what you do: You run up and punch it before it has time to react, because the moment it has time to react is when it all goes to hell. Godspeed and good luck. -Boxer █████

ATTENTION ALL SITE PERSONNEL Due to the unique circumstances that have traditionally surrounded the date of October 31, and the allegations that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena, all Site staff have been placed on high alert and all available agents and MTFs are to be put on a 24 hour standby period. Since its founding, the Foundation has experienced or recorded anomalous phenomena on an estimated 72% of dates correlating to October 31. While there is no conclusive theory or explanation for this high rate of anomalous occurrences on this particular date, it is highly encouraged that all Site staff exhibit a heightened state of alert and vigilance. For your reference, listed below are several excerpts of previous anomalous phenomena that had occurred on this date in order to give you an idea of what to expect. Note that this is not a comprehensive list of incidents. October 31, 1955 Sightings of what appears to be an American warship occur simultaneously at over thirty six coastal areas across the globe. Cross referencing of eyewitness accounts of the ship in question point out the exact same identifying remarks, and testimony suggests that it may possibly be the USS [REDACTED]. This conflicts with records showing that the ship in question had been transferred over to the Hellenic Navy and was confirmed to be in port during the time of these events. Due to skepticism about the plausibility of such an event, it was determined that no amnesic measures were necessary. October 31, 1972 Doctor Wondertainment releases a new candy into circulation called “FIRE POPS”. It is advertised as a hard candy that grants the eater the ability to breathe fire at will as long as it remains in their mouth. The annual average of damages and injuries caused by fire increases sharply in several countries due to this one day alone. Doctors also note a sudden surge in patients complaining about slightly burnt tongues. Incidents are covered up as crimes by serial arsonists. It is unknown how much candy was produced or how much remains in circulation, if any. October 31, 1980 After a series of brief, unexplained power outages in various Foundation sites, Dr. Lott submits a request to have the date of October 31 to be officially listed as an SCP on the grounds that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena. After a period of twenty four hours, the request is denied unanimously by the O5 Council. October 31, 1992 Multiple instances of SCP-701 manifest as the subject of numerous schools' Halloween plays. The damage is catastrophic and takes three months to fully contain and cover up. All recovered instances of SCP-701 are immediately destroyed. October 31, 1993 SCP-895's area of effect suddenly and rapidly expands, encompassing most of █████████████. For approximately 0.6 seconds, all broadcast signals within the area of effect are replaced with security footage of SCP-895. Fortunately, exposure is too brief to cause any serious damage, though there were sharp increases in cases of cardiac arrest, insomnia, and hysteria. Since public exposure to SCP-895 was negligible, no major cover-up measures were deemed necessary. October 31, 1994 Several crates of Doctor Wondertainment brand Halloween masks are disseminated among the general public. The masks are classified as minor cognitohazards, as they lead the wearers to believe that they are the character their mask portrays. The vast majority of related incidents are harmless, and the true number of cases is difficult to separate from genuine holiday behavior, such as occasional street brawls and numerous pranks. The Foundation begins a rigorous campaign to collect and destroy any and all Halloween masks in the affected areas. October 31, 1995 Site-██ is suddenly attacked by a horde of sentient jack o' lanterns that all speak in rhyme in an event later dubbed “The Great Pumpkin War”. Onsite security forces are quickly overwhelmed and forced to withdraw, leaving several sectors of the Site infested. The situation is only resolved when Agent Franks lures the attackers into a storage warehouse containing stockpiles of SCP-504 meant for testing. It takes approximately six months to completely clear the site of wreckage and organic debris. Agent Franks is awarded a commendation for bravery and ingenuity under fire. Agent Franks is subsequently transferred to Antarctic Surveillance Site 2 on a six month tour for “willful destruction of Foundation property”. October 31, 1997 Contact with D-Class Holding Facility 6 is lost for exactly thirteen seconds. Both the staff and the D-Class personnel at the facility report having blacked out during the thirteen second gap. When they regained consciousness, all personnel were dressed in seemingly random Halloween-themed costumes. Later analysis suggests costume choice was based on the wearer's subconscious desires. All costumes are confiscated and incinerated. D-Class Holding Facility 6 is immediately decommissioned due to security concerns, with all Foundation personnel transferred and all D-Class personnel having their termination schedules accelerated. October 31, 2000 The powers of hundreds of latent reality warpers suddenly and simultaneously manifest around the globe, sparking countless reports of anomalous activity and phenomena. Collaboration with the Global Occult Coalition results in the termination of 99% of the awakened reality warpers within three weeks. The remaining 1% are currently unaccounted for. This event proves to be the most costly October 31st phenomenon to contain to date. October 31, 2001 SCP-024 delivers a DVD to onsite personnel despite the fact that there were no recent experiments. Footage shows the interior of SCP-024 as a Halloween-themed obstacle course and haunted house, challenging contestants to brave various supernatural obstacles and threats. Closer analysis of the footage shows that all identifiable contestants were previous test subjects that were sent into SCP-024 and never returned. The individual previously classified as D-4369 wins the contest and exits the studio, where he is immediately terminated by onsite security due to him showing signs of [REDACTED] as a result of exposure to supernatural elements within SCP-024. His prize, an all expenses paid trip to Cancun for one week, is confiscated by the supervising doctor. October 31, 2007 The annual Marshall, Carter, and Dark LTD. Halloween Ball is disrupted when several individuals believed to be affiliated with Are We Cool Yet? breach security and attack the guests with ossification grenades. Despite MCD's refusal to divulge information on the attack, casualties are thought to number at least three hundred. Recovered traffic camera footage shows several delivery vans leaving the MCD compound at high speed approximately two minutes after the attack began. Investigation into the matter is still under way. October 31, 2008 Factory brand toothpaste is disseminated in several countries, with an anomalous chemical composition designed to harden tooth enamel to a point that exceeds the current Mohs hardness scale. Fortunately, incidents in where the toothpaste was used were limited, and the remaining samples were collected via staged product recall. October 31, 2009 SCP-802 exhibits abnormal behavior when the music it plays no longer sounds degraded or filtered, as if being played by actual instruments rather than from a recording. SCP-802 also switches to songs of the period that are considered more traditional for Halloween. Eyewitness reports from security staff present state that this behavior continued until midnight local time, when the music abruptly stops. The security staff also claimed to have heard sounds similar to applause and laughing for several seconds after the cessation of music. October 31, 2011 For the first time since containment, SCP-204 makes a verbal request to onsite staff for a bucket of candy and a small size Halloween witch costume. When asked upon its reasoning, SCP-204 replies it is for “a surprise”. Request is granted. However, subsequent attempts to have SCP-204 speak again or evoke any sort of response are not successful. Dr. Lott resubmits his request to have October 31 listed as an SCP. As of the publishing of this report, no final decision has been made. Remember to stay on heightened alert and be sure to immediately report any suspicious activity to your superiors or security staff. Have a safe and happy Halloween. Secure, Contain, Protect.

Outside, there is a slight chill in the air. Somewhere, costumed children flicker from house to house, squealing with the anticipation of a potent, yearly sugar rush. Candles gutter in the wind from behind carved faces. The bars are full of the sloppy, intoxicated, and underdressed, a casualty of the marketing genius who had first decided that Halloween could be an excuse for nominal adults to dress like streetwalkers. Some festive soul had even hung a bucket of candy on the automated chain gun emplacements out front; it was a juxtaposition of the light-hearted and lethal that made my skin crawl. Before this was Halloween, it was a holiday where it was said the dead would walk, where the veil between the world and the underworld gave way like a haunted-house cobweb. For me, this was never a fun-filled holiday. It was serious work – one of the more serious nights of work that I had every year, serving the Foundation. My name is immaterial. They call me ‘Padre', which is fine with me; there is a certain forced jocularity to it, reminiscent of bluff country folk and bad cop shows. I am – was – a priest, though I've left my Orders for a more important mission. I was one of the ones affected when SCP—oh, the number doesn't matter, it's long since neutralized. But I was recruited rather than made to forget; I found myself wanting to help, as if I'd been waiting all my life for an enemy I could name, a threat to souls that I could see and touch and protect humanity from. In another age, perhaps I'd have been a Templar or a crusader, a saint or a martyr; instead, I found myself in charge of SCP Task Force Psi-11, “The Gods Squad”. Our technical responsibility reads, in part: “an ad hoc team to deal with any religious or religion-related crisis or issue in the Foundation, either external or internal”. What it means in plain language: if the Foundation has a chaplaincy corps, I suppose we're it. And that is why, on a chilly night in October, I am alone with a million faces. ITEM#: SCP-1446 Object Class: Safe Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1446 is only active once per calendar year. Originally part of Sector-38 (located in an unmapped cave complex under the Texas Hill Country), it is now considered an immobile SCP in containment at Sector-38. During its inactive phase, SCP-1446's only point of entry is to be locked with a dual complement of locks equal to or exceeding Class Six. During its active phase, the locked doors are to be opened, and the following additional procedures are to be initiated: SAMHAIN-026 (including salt, powdered cold iron, and running water) and TOCSIN-003. 1446 is an underground chamber, so the temperature is an even 18 degrees. This part of the system is dead, dry, so it is an excellent place to preserve things. Things like photographs – which is perhaps why someone or something, in the first few months of 2000, started posting photographs on the strangely smooth walls. Each photograph was of a Foundation operative killed in the line of duty; each shot a candid picture of one human life given in service to the greater part of humanity. Perhaps more to the point, each photograph just – appeared on the limestone walls of the chamber. Cameras showed nothing, audio showed nothing. There would just be more photos, every day – a mute testimony to lives cut short. The lab coats moved in, of course. There was nothing unusual about the photos, nothing unusual about the cave. Tests were inconclusive, unresponsive, mute. Summer came and went, and after the 116C Incident in August, Sector-38 was short on personnel. Somehow, the wall of photos didn't seem as important. Description: SCP-1446 is a stone wall 8.2 meters high and 37.8 meters long, the south wall of a dead cave located at [EXPUNGED], part of Sector-38. ██% of the wall is covered with a mosaic of identical, 5-cm square photographs of individuals identified as Foundation personnel killed in the line of duty. New photos appear irregularly, within [EXPUNGED] of the individual's death. Pictures only appear for those personnel killed; natural deaths do not result in manifest. I am not wearing any priestly garb tonight – it's tank top, running shorts, good shoes, and a pair of heavy canvas gardening gloves. I check my watch – 9:36 pm. The trick-or-treaters will be retreating now, returning to their homes with their mask-gotten booty, just ahead of the darkness that will finger its way quietly down the streets as porch lights are extinguished. It will be the day before the new moon tonight; the spook squad says that 1446's yearly activity cycle is made more or less active by moon phase. A waning moon, just before new, means that only ice and Oxycontin will let me raise my arms tomorrow morning. This is the sixth time I have done this. The bell above my head gleams in the dim light; I can see the old seal of the city of Glasgow on its side, lettering below spelling out ‘St Mungo's' and ‘1641'. It was rung for two hundred years and more at funerals; it kept the evil spirits away and helped the dead rest easy. I grimace at that thought, a humorless smile that does little to cheer me. For the sixth time, I check the great hemp rope; it will hold through the four hours. INCIDENT REPORT, SECTOR-38, 10/31/2000: Precisely at 2200 hours, standard security audio reported activity in the hallway outside Chamber 091, colloquially known as the ‘Photo Room'. Security Detachment Gamma responded per protocols, and failed to check in at the required five-minute mark. Detachment Epsilon was dispatched, and found the five members of Gamma [REDACTED], along with an estimated twenty-three liters of human blood. At that point, Epsilon was attacked by [REDACTED] and was forced to retreat with casualties. In the next four hours, ██% of the staff at Sector-38 were killed in the same manner as the members of Team Gamma. This included nine staff members who took refuge in a standard Foundation Class Three panic room. All activity ceased at 0200 hours on November 1. So does a photograph trap a mortal soul? I can't answer that, any more than I can tell you why a Scottish ‘dede bell', rung constantly during the four hours of SCP-1446's active phase, keeps the monsters at bay, keeps the dead operatives – or something that looks like them – trapped in their photographs. I try not to think about why – why is for the lab coats and the Overseers. What I do is pray, shut up and listen, and do my job. And tonight, that means I will ring a bell, once every five seconds, for four hours. But, in the shadows of Halloween night, in a cave lit by pitiless electric light, I can't help wondering – is this an illusion? An anomaly, a random interlocking weave of energy and time and human belief? A phenomenon with a rational, scientific answer – even if we don't know what it is? Or are the souls of those killed in the line of Foundation duty not allowed to rest, even in death?

Note: This is a SCP-1483 tale, so reading it before reading this is recommended. Soto was beginning to have second thoughts about the concept of Democracy. He barely stifled a sigh as his cohorts' bickering entered its second hour, and his headache was getting worse by the minute. Gorza Dun Vent was currently on the attack: “Hubrus, would you make up your mind already?” “Er… I dunno.” “Come on already, you stinking sack of wet fur! I'm hungry!” “Umm… I vote for the Holey Pantry.” “Saqinian food again? We ordered that last night, and you're the only one who actually likes that sodding crud! Where did you even get that flier?” “Don't you oppress him, you four-armed bastard! He's a gentle soul.” This came from Uniel Dun Vent, the "Watcher-Upon-All". “Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot you needed six arms to properly oppress people!” Freedom from the tyrannical rule of Utmai Cjen VI and the IIPES, building a place where everyone would have a voice, that was what they were supposed to be about. The longer Soto had to spend with the group currently called The General Independence Troops, the more attractive the idea of no one having a voice at all became. “Would you two be quiet? Hubrus, is Grey Mountain Country Buffet acceptable?” The huge man of Black Court shifted uncomfortably. “Err, okay, Soto.” “Now that the all-important business of takeout is reserved, can we finally move on to the urgent business of today?” “Fine.” “It is acceptable.” “Umm, okay." "No. I have a issue I want to discuss. It is of burning urgency." This time, Soto couldn't stop himself from audibly sighing. This whole "Glorious Revolution" business was turning out to be quite a bit more difficult than he first imagined. The root of the problem was, as ever, that he needed other people for it. And what a choice of companions did he end up with: First was Hubrus, the dimwit Black Court member. Stupid as the big furball was, he was still easily the most tolerable of the four. He was basically harmless, except for a strange fascination with some outsider creature he called "cats". Currently, he was wearing an enormous shirt with two of the mangy things plastered on it in bright colors. Soto had no idea how he got his hands on the garish thing. Second were the twins, Gorza and Uniel Dun Vent. They were minor nobility, and had an ego to match. While they were hard enough to deal with individually, together they were completely unbearable, mostly due to being in a constant state of one upmanship. Last week, Gorza started wearing this ridiculous Mender outfit he got from his art school, completed with two gag arms. He thought it made him look menacing. Naturally, Uniel came up with an even more ludicrous Watcher outfit the very next day. And then there was Glun. “I want a name change.” "Again? Come on, Glun, that's the sixth name change you requested in four meetings! What's wrong with it this time?” The fifth and final member of their company sat huddled on the opposite end of the table. Glun was an Eastlander, the only one Soto ever met. If all of them were as infuriating as the chubby little pyromaniac, he hoped never to see another. “It makes us sound like a bunch of pencil pushing bureaucrats.” “But you chose that name!” “Well it sucks now. I have a much better name: the Soldiers of the Oppressed Demographics. Makes us sound legit.” "Legit? Legit to whom? The Inquisition?" "I'm not going to discuss anything until we change the name." "Fine! Now can we please get on with today's agenda? Please?" There were no objections this time, to Soto's relief. "Alright then. First order of business: does anyone has any plans to overthrow the oppressive hierarchy subjecting the common man?" "We could burn down an orphanage." "…What?" "That would show them, you know. Make them understand we mean business." "I think you misunderstand the meaning of my 'what', Glun. It wasn't an "Oh please, elaborate" sort of 'what'. It was a "what the hell is your problem, you bloody lunatic" sort of 'what'!" "You never go with any of my ideas!" "That's because all of your ideas involve burning something! Next please!" Gorza raised his hand- one of the real ones. "I got an idea. I'll infiltrate the Shining Order using my disguise, gain the trust of its leadership, and organize a coup! The Empress would never expect an attack from her loyal Menders, she'll be entirely unprepared for it. It cannot possibly fail." The only thing stopping Soto from slamming his palm into his forehead was that it would only make his headache worse. "See, Gorza, this would indeed be a foolproof plan, if not for one little problem." "And what would that problem be?" "That outfit of yours? The one you're so proud of? The crux of your entire plan?" "Yes, what about it?" "It sucks. It wouldn't fool a blind stripped bird, let alone the leadership of the Shining Order. I suspect the only reason the Inquisition lets you get away with wearing it is that they feel so sorry for you. Your exoskeleton is made of painted cardboard, for Stone's sake!" Gorza muttered something under his breath, but settled down in his seat without further objection. Uniel gave him a smug look, then raised her hand. "And if your idea is the same as Gorza's, only replacing the words "Shining Order" with "The Royal Bureaucracy", Uniel, you can just forget it." Uniel's hand descended. "Anyone else?" To Soto's surprise, Hubrus raised his hand next. "Err. We could try to make a deal with the outsiders, maybe? I've been hanging around their embassy lately, and they don't look all that happy with the way the IIPES treats them. I think they want to see the stuff the IIPES has hidden in the Vaults, and they won't let them. So, we could go to them, and promise to let them see everything they want if they help us get rid of the Empress." The room was silent for a moment as the rest of the crew considered this. "That's the most idiotic plan I've ever heard, even from you." "I'm sorry, darling, but I have to agree with Gorza on this one." "And there's no fire involved too." "You know the outsiders are utter barbarians, Hubrus. They can barely be trusted to tie their own shoes, not to mention bringing down the Empress. What were you doing hanging out near their embassy anyway?" "I… I wanted to see the cats, Soto. That's okay, right?" "It's fine, Hubrus. I'm sure cats are very nice. Any other ideas?" Silence. "We put a rain check on it, try again next time?" "No! I've had enough! No one leaves until we come up with at least one plan, got it!?" The crew sat on the roof of Uniel's studio apartment and watched the orange glow light the streets of Rootrel. "I can't believe you guys convinced me to go through with this." Not much could be seen from their vantage point, but the sound of screaming was unmistakable. "Hey, you said we had to come up with a plan, and it was getting late." Soto could hear the sirens of the fire brigade nearing the burning building. "Maybe they could stop the fire before anyone got seriously hurt," said Hubrus, who seemed even more uncomfortable than Soto with the entire ordeal. There was a sudden crashing sound, and the screaming suddenly stopped. It seemed the building had collapsed. "Oh." "When I burn something down, it stays burnt." Glun leaned over the rails, watching the scene with a worrying degree of enthusiasm. "You guys do realize this accomplished nothing, right? We are in no way closer to bringing down the Empress, unless those orphans were all secretly Inquisitorial spies." "They might have been, you don't know that they weren't," said Gorza, a hint of indignation in his voice. "They were always a shifty bunch," agreed Uniel. "And besides, even if they weren't, there's always next week, eh?" Soto couldn't argue with that. "Yeah, there's always next week."

October 24 "I hate this holiday." Doctor Johnathan West cleaned egg off of the card-reader, swiped his ID, and entered the S & C Plastics building. Had this been any other Foundation-owned location, the jokers who had decided to plaster the site in chicken ovum (some of which smelled like it had been rotting since Easter) would've been detained. But no; instead, this was Site 87, and was in the backwoods town of… let's just call it Backwoods, and people would get suspicious of kids disappearing. West nodded to the girl at the reception desk and took a pair of mini Twix bars out of the stainless steel bowl placed there. He noticed that someone had attached a note reading "Take Only Two" to the bowl, and had left a plastic severed hand in it. Cute, but everyone knew 330 was locked up in another site. Nothing like that would be here, and besides, they never decorated the site anyway. He took out his Foundation-issue smartphone (quintuple encrypted, needed at least 6 different pass-codes to unlock, pain in the ass if the screen didn't respond) and checked his e-mail. He saw the invitation to the Site 87 Halloween party and automatically deleted it; after the fiasco last year, he wasn't about to go again. They'd yet to figure out who spiked the punch with E-5719, and Agent Ewell still turned yellow if you got him angry enough. Ewell's used to being yellow, I'm sure. Also in his e-mail was an invitation to Dr. Pickman's online seminar regarding anomalous works of literature ("Maybe I'll go to one of Pickman's lectures when he stops being such a self-important blowhard."), a reminder from Doctor Margaret Reese in Biology that it was his turn to pick up coffee tomorrow, and something about a pool for buying Halloween candy. He shrugged, pocketed his phone, and headed for his office in the inanimate objects wing. October 25 "Oh, come on! Twice in two days?!" Once again, Site 87's exterior was coated with eggs, and this time, toilet paper, too. The security staff were scratching their heads, but West had to give the pranksters credit, they were efficient. In the space of only a single night, they had practically mummified Site 87 with sticky egg residue and toilet paper all over. On his drive around town to the local Dunkin' Donuts, he had seen that about a quarter of the houses had been either egged, TP'd, or both. The rest were perfectly intact, with their Jack O' Lanterns grinning, their fake cobwebs untorn and the foam gravestones sticking out of their yards unbroken. Security was baffled, nonetheless. In the break room, the guards were talking about how nobody showed up on the hidden cameras, and that eggs and rolls of Charmin were being thrown at the building from just off of the frame. When security actually went outside the building to confront the vandals, nobody was there. West had to admit that was just a tad disconcerting, but it was security's problem, not his. West traveled to his office and spent the rest of the day alternately looking out his window at the cleaning crew, checking his e-mail, and attempting to concentrate on a report about E-331. October 26 Everyone was asking the same questions all day: "How the fuck did they get on the roof?!" "And who the hell makes toilet paper rolls that long?!" A reminder to all staff was issued that "All Halloween costumes based on Keter Class SCPs are forbidden. Most of them are classified, anyway. And yes, this does include -ahem- "sexy" costumes based off of SCP-682." West sighed at the fact that they had to be reminded of that. He remembered briefly considering taking a Class-Omega amnestic after seeing one of those aforementioned costumes at a party three, four years ago. 682 with tits was just… wrong. October 27 "Sorry, West. You pulled the shortest straw. You gotta go buy the candy." West gave Dr. Reese a look, and held up his straw for comparison to the others, sighing. Melbourne was grinning like a fool, but Reese smiled at West. "C'mon. It's for the kids. And don't buy all black licorice; we want people in this town to think we're not completely evil." She handed West the money collected for the candy pool (about 400 dollars), as well as an extra 50. "The janitorial staff is running low on detergents." Poor Maggie. If only she knew how Johnny felt… "Got it. Mind if I use your van? I worked all night, and left my car in the lot…" "Got egged?" "Can't even see out of the windshield." Reese handed West her keys and nodded to him on his way out. West drove through town, noticing that there were far more houses with decorations and far fewer houses that had been vandalized… he wondered if there was a connection, and remembered he had to tell someone back at the Site about that. For now, he had to focus on getting the treats for the kids (why Site 87 decided to hand out candy annually was beyond him; something about "Community Outreach". From a supposed plastics company.) and wondering what, exactly, was so bad about black licorice. It was delicious, once you acquired the taste for it. An hour later, he drove back to the site. It was getting dark out. As he drove down a side street, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a roll of toilet paper being thrown at a house lacking decorations. That tore it; he was going to find out who these little pricks were. He slammed on the brakes, took out his smart phone, and… took a photograph of a toilet paper roll throwing itself at a house. And then an egg came sailing at his face. He quickly ducked back into his car and drove off, cursing loudly. "I HATE Halloween!" October 28 "Let me get this straight," said a research assistant from the back of the presentation hall. "Living rolls of toilet paper? And… they attack undecorated buildings? "Pretty much," West said rubbing his eyes, "But they're just autonomous. Not alive." The photograph he took with his smartphone was on display on the projector screen behind him; the director of the site had approved the meeting at the last minute because, in her words, "If it means we stop smelling egg everywhere, it's worth it". "It explains why the security cameras didn't see anything; there was nothing to see. Just toilet paper flying at the building from nowhere." Dr. Reese chimed in. "And how they got onto the roof… but what about the eggs?" "I don't know, maybe it's a poultrygeist. I honestly don't know." He looked at the picture behind him and sighed. "I hate this holiday." "Well, what can we do? Do we attempt to incinerate them?" Everyone stared at the person who made the suggestion incredulously; it was the same research assistant, who sank in his seat. "…right, I know, Special Containment Procedures, not Special Destruction Procedures. Just a suggestion…" "Well, firstly… I propose we attempt to catch a 'live' specimen, and then attempt to…" West sighed. "Protect ourselves from this phenomenon." He picked up a box next to him and opened it; it was full of foam gravestones, fake cobwebs, and chains of plastic skull-lights. "Right. Once we actually catch one of these things, we… decorate the site. I've asked the horticultural department to provide a number of pumpkins for those who want to do Jack O' Lanterns and you'll find decorative materials by all the entrances. Any questions?" Reese smirked at West. "I thought you hated this holiday, Johnathan." "Desperate times, Doctor. Any other questions?" Nobody spoke up. "Right then. Let's get to work." October 29 "Congratulations, agent. You've managed to successfully contain a roll of Charmin and some dairy products." Dr. West watched the new E-Class Object, E-5768, through the plexiglass window. It looked ridiculous; it was a roll of toilet paper, with a dozen eggs orbiting around it. Every time an egg got broken or thrown, a new one spontaneously generated itself. Dr. West was making notes on his clipboard. "Ectoentropic properties… telekinetic in nature… and… What do you think, Ewell? Safe-class or just Anomalous Item? The latter means I have less paperwork to do…" Agent Ewell stood next to West, with literal egg on his face. It had taken him over an hour of driving around town to capture a specimen and then he had to grab it with a butterfly net… he didn't expect eggs to come flying out of nowhere. And now, he looked like an omelet. "Sir?" "Yes, Ewell?" "With all due respect, there are some times when I really fucking hate this town." "Could be worse. You could be assigned to active MTF duty trying to contain sapient fungus or something." "I'd take the fungus over this place any day." West picked up a box of plastic vampire bats and handed them to Ewell, picking up a box of orange streamers for himself. "Shut up and help me decorate; we're supposed to have the western half finished by 1600 hours." "Yes, sir." October 30 "Well, looks like your brilliant theory was correct, Doctor! Not a single egg or roll of paper on the building this morning!" Reese held up her coffee. "I propose a toast! " The rest of the break room all held up invisible glasses and said "Hear hear!" West smiled amicably, running his hands through his hair. "Thank you, but there is no guarantee that the events will not occur again in another year…" "They ain't egged us today, and that's what matters!" Matterson sighed. "Guess we can all get back to work now that we don't have to help scrape eggs off the building." "Just in time for the party, too. Ya goin', West?" Reese grinned at the doctor. "I don't think so, no." This was met by sarcastic boos and hisses. "Oh, so sue me if I don't want to have purple skin and blue hair until Christmas this year, too!" "That was a fluke, West, and you know it." "Tell that to Ewell." "Even I'm going, despite what happened! C'mon, John, don't be a Hallowiener…" Eventually, after much encouragement and friendly jabbing, West agreed to go. He supposed he could always dig out that gorilla costume, even if it was a pain to breathe in. For today, though, they'd just have to put up with giving out candy to the kids who came around. They kept the best for themselves, of course. And through it all, West couldn't help but find himself smiling. It had been a long week, but it had also been a pretty good one. So what if the place still smelled of egg and there were a few scraps of toilet paper on the walls? The anomaly was contained, he was appreciated by his co-workers, and he might even get an official commendation. For putting up decorations! After the trick-or-treaters were gone and most of the staff had either gone to their apartments in town or their on-site quarters, he leaned against the door to his office, talking with Dr. Reese and chewing on some licorice. "You know," Reese said, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're starting to like this holiday, Mr. Grinch." "It's nice enough, I suppose." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes til Halloween. After tomorrow, this crazy month will finally be over." October 31 "This is Halloween, This is Halloween…" Reese grinned at a rather unamused looking Dr. West. At least, he looked unamused because of the gorilla mask. "What? Not going to comment on my costume?" "…a skeleton in a pinstripe suit?" "Jack Skellington! Right, I forgot, you don't watch holiday movies." "I do! I watched Charlie Brown Christmas, It's Thanksgiving Charlie Brown…" "But not the Halloween one, I bet. Now come on. Everyone's waiting to see the man of the hour." She dragged him towards the break room, where a techno version of The Phantom of the Opera was playing. Everyone was dressed up in hokey costumes, and, thank god, nobody was dressed as a skip. Everyone who recognized Dr. West gave him a pat on the back, everyone was dancing, and the punch wasn't spiked! Well, there was some vodka in it, but no amnestics, no chemicals that alter skin color, nothing anomalous. It looked like it was going to be a good night. And then the containment breach alarms went off, along with the music. Everyone groaned, and the site director (dressed as the Black Knight from Monty Python) stepped up to tell everyone that it was a small breach, only one item, Safe class… It was at that exact time that E-5768 flew into the room. Everyone flinched at the menacing roll of Charmin floating 3 meters above the ground, threatening to throw eggs at anyone who moved. It floated over to the DJ booth, and bumped into the record player, starting it up again. And then… E-5768 started dancing. If you could call it that. It wiggled and swayed about in midair, doing elaborate loops and trailing paper behind it. Everyone stared. "…should we contain it?" Boris Badenov, AKA Agent Ewell, looked around the room at everyone, wishing he had his .45. "…well," Doctor West said, "I suppose it's not hurting anything. So long as it's not flinging eggs around randomly, I guess it can wait until morning." Everyone nodded in agreement; the world wasn't going to end because a sentient roll of toilet paper wanted to have a good time. The party continued long into the morning hours of November 1st, after Halloween was officially over. Dr. West and Dr. Reese were the last to leave the party, after West had escorted E-5768 back to its containment chamber. He held his gorilla mask under his arm and sighed. "Have I ever told you how much I love this time of year?" Dr. Reese elbowed him in the side and laughed. |Hub|

FIELD REPORT. ATTACHED: Copies of documents found on the instance's person. ATTACHMENTS: DOCUMENT #AF1293-1: My Dearest Mary, I hope this letter finds you well. I do not know if it will reach you timely. Infrastructure here in Tukuk is poorly and I have not yet received any of your letters, though I am sure you write. I love you, and you are forever in my prayers. The construction of the Church is going slowly, and the natives condemn the structure as an affront to their god. They are heretical pagans and do not know of Jesus their Savior. I hope God's grace will fill their ears and they will be swayed. The sanitation here is terrible. The miasma from the excrement and the swamps poisons the men. Raol was bitten by a native, and he is overcome by an illness causing frothing at the mouth, but I do not fear as I know God watches over me and I am in your prayers. Yours in Christ, Robert. DOCUMENT #AF1293-2: My Dearest Mary, I doubt that what I write will reach you, but I find solace in the thought of you safe in the Mother Country, safe and ever-faithful. I do hope you do not worry yourself over me; for I am guided by Providence, although I am comforted by the sure knowledge of your prayers. The persecution in Tukuk is worse than we thought. They have imprisoned me in a cage with metal bars. I am surrounded by vicious rogues, guilty of murder and worse. Not the prisoners, no. Most of the prisoners are deranged, and are incapable of speaking coherently. I fear they were driven mad by captivity. There are hundreds of them, and all they do is scream. But the guards! They are murderers. I hear that they will roast us and eat us. I attempted to converse with them and negotiate my ransom, but instead they threatened and drugged me. I hope I will see you again soon. Yours faithfully, Robert. DOCUMENT #AF1293-1: My Dearest Mary, I have almost given up all hope. All that drives me is the knowledge that you love me and pray for me. I do not pretend to know our Lord's machinations, but I doubt I will ever see you again. I await meeting God in heaven, and someday you, but not soon, I pray. I am in the same cage, somewhere in the belly of a huge powered carriage, somewhere in the peninsula. How ludicrous. The native guards dragged me by the collar they had placed around my neck, as if treating an animal, into a room where they exchanged me with other natives. I had hoped they would ransom me, but no. I think they are taking me to my execution. I hope you are safer than I. Robert. Item Recovery Log: An instance of SCP-1845-3 resembling a common raccoon was recovered from the ██████ Animal Shelter, Florida, following the instance demanding he be ransomed by SCP-1845-1, and insisting he was 'spreading the Word of God to the uncivilised Southern natives.' Council employees and volunteers were administered Class-A amnesics. Instance is currently in transit via convoy to Site-19. SIGNED: Agent Boyles.

In the autumn months, if you walk along the Site-19 grounds and you see an old rusted fence, you might want to see what's on the other side. Over there, the leaves will all crunch underfoot as you walk through the grass. It would seem to be just like any other part of the grounds. But look at the ground. Those stones are the tombs where many fallen men and women lie. D-Class, Researcher, Agent…they're all equal here. So pay a visit to the Site-19 boneyard. Read some tombstones. Maybe even find some old friends. … Margaret couldn't help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction as her saw sliced the last sinews of muscle, ridding her of the ugly fake leg some person had swapped for her real leg. Said real leg was lying on the table in front of her, glistening with ebony perfection. The skin was flawless, and the ankle looked like it was young and rich with calcium. The fake one had been gnarled by skin cancer, hideous moles, and wrinkled skin. But as she re-affixed her leg to her hip, she knew that her long foot pain nightmare was over. Margaret Daniels - She always said that her feet were killing her. Dr. Vang waited impatiently by the elevator doors, key card in hand. He had some important tests to run, and he wasn't going to be held up by some creaky old equipment that couldn't open the doors on time. After what seemed like seasons, the doors opened. But where was the elevator? Grumbling about how these things don't work the way they used to, Vang stuck his head into the shaft to look around. Looked up the elevator shaft to see if the car was on the way down - It was. Agent Ekblad checked his watch. 15 minutes, and still no sign of anomalous atmospheric conditions. The commander was going to want results from tonight's tests - they would be necessary for seizing it away from the Foundation. Juggling a connection to the Insurgency while working on a high level testing facility hadn't been easy, but when he was able to escape with the Insurgents after the gator was captured, it'd all be worth it. The head of a traitor, eaten by an alligator - Hope to find the body later. Paul felt a spike of pain shoot up his leg. These damned "heels" were excruciating. It would've been at least bearable if the skin and muscle hadn't been cut away, but Mr. Marshall had decided to do an "experiment". God, his bones were bending. He needed to sit. Get down. the pain in his ankle was beginning to break him he could feel it cracking and it hurt and it hurt and snap. He tumbled forward on broken, useless legs. Here lies Paul: he was tall, he had a fall, and that was all. Dmitri felt a bitter cold at the edges of his nostrils. The climb had been arduous, but soon he would be the youngest man to conquer Everest alone. The thoughts of fame and fortune could wait: he needed to actually reach the peak. As he dug his pick into a rock, he heard something. Who was that? How had he gotten up here… His foot did slip and he did fall. Help! He cried. And that was all.

These were the “Her Majesty's Finest”? A half-dozen old men poking around the mortar holes and dugouts amidst the mist and mud and stench of the dead, all in the name of a crone who'd been dead for nearly twenty years? He didn't think it possible, but Vladislav's already abysmal opinion of the British had sunk even lower over the last hours as he watched them pick up the remains. These were Russian soldiers. What right did a bunch of old men and their underlings have to swoop down upon the battlefield, upon his own blood-stained homeland, and pick apart his countrymen like crows? Crows. That was a good word for them. The underlings all wore long black coats and gas masks, even when they were unneeded. A red crown was stenciled on the sleeves, above the letters HMFSCP. The old men had no such coats, no such gas masks, no such crown, and as such none of them handled any of the bodies or weapons. They only watched, occasionally croaking out an order or inspecting what the crows had already gathered and sorted. Drizzle tapped on the tarp above his head, and Vladislav wondered how much longer he and his comrades would have to be here, and how he even came to be in this position, and who had pulled what strings in both countries. They were here to guide and translate and guard, and precious little else. The old man in the wheelchair licked his lips again. Vladislav shuffled his feet, inching away from the one other inhabitant of the tarp pavilion. The other old men, they were just foolish old men. This man though, he was simply unsettling. The old man was ancient, well over ninety years old, if not a hundred: He appeared less of a man and more of a sack of bones wrapped in thin, clammy skin stretched tight over knobbly joints and thick blue veins. A thin white wisp on his lip showed where there had once been a bushy mustache. He was layered in coats and blankets to fight off the chill. The blanket across his lap was worn and faded, but at one point would have held a beautiful, intricate pattern. The man's half-blind eyes stared off into the distance, focused on things that were not there. He had not spoken the entire time Vladislav had been standing there. Occasionally, he would mouth silent words or lick his lips, and that was all. The crows seemed to have finished collecting the bodies and debris. Several of them had begun drawing circles in the mud around the battlefield, while others wheeled out barrels of powders and liquids and began to spread them in neat symbols. Vladislav had seen this sort of thing twice before: once as a child, and once as they taught him to kill men with a bit of lead. He had learned then that these events were of the kind that, even if one did see it, it was a good thing to say that you had not seen it, and a better thing to know that you did not see it. Vladislav continued to not see the crows setting up their circles and stakes and symbols in the mud for several cold, rain-drizzled minutes. “Ugly, isn't it?” A cold, quiet voice croaked in accented Russian. Vladislav looked to the man in the wheelchair to see him licking his lips again. His imagination then, or perhaps it was something that he most certainly did not hear. No, it was the old man who had spoken. It would be foolish to think otherwise. “It is what it is,” Vladislav said back to the old man, continuing to not see the crows scrawling and chanting on the field. “It's very ugly.” “Indeed.” Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. “In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan, a stately pleasure dome decree…” What was this gibberish? He was mad, then. Why bring an old madman to this forsaken stretch of forest? “There was never a dome,” the old man continued. “Twice I went to Xanadu, and I never saw the dome. The Khans never took Xanadu. They broke upon its mountain walls over and over again, and they never entered.” Vladislav didn't respond. Let the madman ramble. He was too busy not watching the horrible images shimmering across the mortar-pocked mud and splintered trees. “The men of Xanadu thought that they would bring peace to the world, that all the hordes of the world would break upon their walls until no man had strength for war and then all would share in their glory. Their peace died with them, slowly, by disease and inbreeding. But the idea remained: For peace, men must die.” Vladislav still listened, but the words fell into uncaring ears. A wonderful story, old man. You were only late by twenty years and a world war for this soldier. The old man continued. “Certain legions of the Romans would bring with them great beasts, who consumed the corpses of the dead and turned them into food and water for the troops. In China, I saw a drug that would cause a man's innards to combust when blood was drawn, spraying acid strong enough to melt flesh. The peoples near the South Pole fight wars with women who, each time they are unchained, will twist all creation around them into monsters by their very presence. “In the jungles of Africa, I once met a tribe who worshiped a giant spider. On the night of the full moon they would feed one of their own to it. They stayed where they were, and kept feeding it, every full moon, despite the fact that the spider was so fat from its meals that it could not leave its pit. “And here, I've seen dead men shuffling down in the blood and mud of the trenches as they rot without death, and I watch as we pick up what remains of Durand's peace and plan for the next war. It's ugly, and it never changes.” The old man coughed. It was a horrible, phlegmy noise. “At the very least I will not live until the next.” He was quiet. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. Vladislav went back to not watching the nebulous visions of unfolding unfathomable cosmos and impossibilities and the margins of worlds worn thin. He didn't feel like he had anything to say to the mad old man. He looked to his left to see the old man reach a trembling skeletal hand for a little bell hanging on the arm of his wheelchair. Ding-a-ling The bell hung in the air a moment, out of place, before Vladislav heard footsteps. A man rounded the corner and entered the pavilion. He was wearing a crow's uniform, though he held his mask under his arm, revealing the face of a man about forty years old, with a little grey around the temples and a pencil-thin mustache. His posture was stiff, professional, that of a man ready to serve. “I've seen enough, Deeds. Take me somewhere warm, please. It's dreadfully cold." “Of course, sir.”

Good morning, folks. Help yourself to coffee and bagels. For those of you who don't know me already, I'm Colonel Neil Hornby, Senior Supervisory Intelligence Officer for the Foundation. It's my turn to give the Chaos Insurgency Orientation. In the folder in front of you, you'll find a non-disclosure agreement. This briefing is classified "sensitive compartmented information", so if you're staying, you're signing. Otherwise, grab a bagel on the way out. Yes, labcoat and glasses. I know you signed a non-disclosure agreement when you joined the Foundation, and each time you got promoted. You're what, an El Three? You must be new to the whole intel side of the Foundation. I know you're used to the whole El Zero through Five security clearance system. The eggheads (no offense, my dad was an egghead, so I don't have anything against you sciencey types) came up with that. It works well enough if you're handling Ess See Pees. Foundation Intelligence works a little differently. We still use that, kinda the way the US has confidential/secret/top secret, but that doesn't mean El Fives can read whatever they feel like getting their grubby paws on. We operate on "Need to Know." While you over in R&D and the guys in containment and acquisitions get killed if you don't have information widely shared, in our side of the house people die if the information falls into the wrong hands. So, like I said, sign the NDA in front of you, or leave. Everybody signed? Great. Ms. Buyanova will trade each of you your NDA for a SLATE THUNDER packet. Sweater vest in the third row, fire away. "Slate Thunder". That's the codename for this sensitive compartment. As for the packet itself, it contains the information I'll be presenting, so feel free to follow along. I don't really care if you read or listen. If you have anything you need to ask, don't keep it to yourself. This information was compiled by Professor Greg Lewis, who is the Foundation's leading expert on the Chaos Insurgency. He's been studying them since before most of us were born, myself included. So, the Chaos Insurgency. They are one of the Foundation's oldest enemies. What do we know about them? Yes, they're self-serving and ruthless, though that could also describe the Foundation or most governments if you think about it. And they are political, there's no doubt about that, but I'm not sure I'd say the Foundation isn't. I mean, back in the - actually, you're not all cleared to know about that. Let's just say that the Foundation plays politics when it has to. No, they're not just what the higher-up call personnel who go off the reservation. The Foundation does, occasionally, "purge" people, and while you really don't want to become such an unperson, that (generally) doesn't involve the Chaos Insurgency. "The same things as the Foundation only for profit"? I'm not sure I'd have worded it that way, but I s'pose it fits - sort of, at least. Correct, many of their operatives are just guns for hire. This makes our job harder, actually, since keeping track of which PMCs, mercs, thugs, guerrillas, and criminals are working for them and which ones aren't straight is no easy chore. The CI - that's "counterintelligence", not "Chaos Insurgency" - guys have a whole analytic task force devoted to just separating the wolves from the dogs. Suit in the back - give that legal pad to Ms. Buyanova! None of you are allowed to take notes, nor are you allowed to remove your packets from the room. I'm sorry, I thought you all knew better than that. Anyway, the packets are numbered, and we'll be collecting them at the end. Anyway, red shirt in the second row. No, they're not "terrorists" per se, rather "insurgents", though you can be forgiven for mixing the two terms up - most people do these days. A terrorist uses terror as an end in and of itself: you crash a plane into a building, a lot of people die and even more, people get, well, terrorized. Your motivations may vary, but at the end of the day, the act itself is the end. An insurgent, on the other hand, uses many tools and tactics, including terrorism, in order to elicit a response: you crash a plane into a building and a lot of people die, but then the government cracks down to try and stamp you out, which always - always! - results in innocent people getting caught up by the authorities' net, which upsets the populace, which does more damage to the government and society than your plane crash ever could. Nine-Eleven was an act of terror, but the strategy was almost certainly one of insurgency, rather than terrorism. Anyway, I digress. Most of you have no idea what really happened when the Chaos Insurgency first formed. No, I am serious. If you look at the first inside page of your packet, you'll see the Official Party Line: small group of agents goes absent without leave in '24 with several useful SCPs. That's the Official Party Line, that's what you've always been told up until now, and that is what you will continue to tell people who aren't cleared into SLATE THUNDER. Period, end of sentence, or else we toss you in a dark hole for a very long time - a dark hole which is, if you're lucky, empty. If not… Anyway, the Official Party Line is on par with saying the major political powers had strong words with each other during the Forties, or that Hurricane Andrew was a light drizzle. Unless someone has violated security protocol big time (in which case, tell me who so I can personally toss them in a dark hole for a very long time), you'll have never heard of the Triad before. Blank looks. Excellent. The Triad was what the Chaos Insurgency was back before it was an insurgency. You see, between 1924 and 1926, the Foundation had a civil war. Yes, miss, you heard correctly, the Foundation Civil War. Of course, there was a cover-up. This organization protects people by keeping dangerous secrets from traumatizing people. Don't tell me you thought we didn't do that internally. In the Foundation Civil War, we had the Loyalists on one side, the Triad on the other. Eventually, the Triad lost, and the handful of survivors formed what would become the Chaos Insurgency. We came up with that term, "Chaos Insurgency", by the way. They co-opted it; they're good at co-opting things. Anyway, if you'll turn to the next page in your packet… SCI Warning Official Summary Chaos Insurgency History (Classified) Related Original Documents CLASSIFIED MATERIAL Sensitive Compartmented Information: SLATE THUNDER This document contains information affecting the security of the Foundation within the meaning of the Foundation General Security Protocol 02, Section 183. The protocol prohibits its transmission or the revelation of its contents in any manner to an unauthorized person, as well as its use in any manner prejudicial to the safety or interest of the Foundation or for the benefit of any unauthorized entity or the detriment of the Foundation. It is to be seen only by personnel possessing Level Five clearance and/or especially indoctrinated and authorized in writing to receive information in the designated control channels. Its security must be maintained in accordance with regulations pertaining to SLATE THUNDER Controls. Unauthorized viewing, possession, replication, and/or dissemination of this document is grounds for punitive actions detailed in Foundation General Security Protocol 18, Section 2381. Official Summary For General Distribution With Regards To The Chaos Insurgency As specific information relating to the Chaos Insurgency is for the most part classified as sensitive compartmented information, the Office of the O5 Council has issued the appended document, File #008956 (Official Summary For General Distribution With Regards To The Chaos Insurgency). This file is classified as "general knowledge" requiring only a Level 1 Security Clearance to access. All personnel indoctrinated into the SLATE THUNDER compartment are instructed to discuss absolutely no information not contained within File #008956 with any persons not indoctrinated into the SLATE THUNDER compartment, including (but not limited to) the designation "SLATE THUNDER" and/or any details or information within the SLATE THUNDER sensitive compartment that verifies, supplements, and/or contradicts statements contained in File #008956. File #008956 Title: OFFICIAL SUMMARY FOR GENERAL DISTRIBUTION WITH REGARDS TO THE CHAOS INSURGENCY Security Clearance Level: ONE The Chaos Insurgency is a splinter group of the Foundation, created by a rogue cell that went A.W.O.L. with several highly useful SCPs in 1924. Since then, the Insurgency has become a major player on the world stage, using the SCPs that it obtains for its own personal benefit, and to consolidate its global power base. The Insurgency not only deals in SCPs but also in weapons running and intelligence gathering. It makes use of dictator regimes in Third World countries, often using their populations in the same manner as the Foundation does D Class Personnel. Because of this, it helps to maintain the extreme poverty and war that is suffered by these countries, so that it can continue its radical experimentation, easy conscription of forces, and lucrative business deals with rebel factions. Most of the SCPs possessed by the Insurgency are unknown, but of those that are known, the most notable are the "Staff of Hermes", an item capable of warping the physical and chemical properties of any matter it touches, and the "Bell of Entropy", an object that can cause a variety of destructive effects depending on where it is struck. Both of these SCPs were originally obtained at no small cost by the Foundation and were stolen by the original founders of the Insurgency. The Insurgency also has a known association with SCP-355 and SCP-884. The main base of operations of the Insurgency is unknown, as are its leaders. This organization is directly antagonistic to the Foundation, coming to clash over SCPs several times. Personnel are to be made aware of possible raids, terrorist attempts, and spies from the Insurgency, and to notify command about any strange behavior of fellow personnel. Chaos Insurgency History (Classified) What follows is a brief history of the Chaos Insurgency, with a focus on the formation of the organization between 1924 and 1933. (Specific details of the Chaos Insurgency's history post-1933 are classified in other sensitive compartments.) As this information is contained within sensitive compartment "SLATE THUNDER" (the contents of this larger file) and not classified as "general knowledge" accessible to all members of the Foundation, other documents, and records within the Foundation database may contradict this account, having been altered to comply with the File #008956 (Official Summary For General Distribution With Regards To The Chaos Insurgency). Personnel with authorization to review the unaltered documents and records should contact the Records and Information Security Administration in writing. 1919-1924: Prelude With the end of the First World War, the Foundation saw its ranks increase with an influx of new recruits from the battlefields of Europe, military scientists put out of work with the scaling back of the war economy, and returning members who had taken leave to serve their countries. Fresh from the horrors of war, many members of the Foundation believed SCP objects could and should be utilized to benefit humanity. The specific arguments varied: some wanted the weaponization of SCP objects to assist in the enforcement of the Post-War regime; some wanted to replicate and market SCP objects, stimulating economic growth in a model similar to either The Factory or Marshall, Carter & Dark (both of which were believed to have profited handsomely during the War); still, others wanted to open the Foundation's collection for study by non-aligned scientists, so all of mankind could benefit. Unsurprisingly, these arguments were as controversial as they ever had been, but Foundation staff also believed they were nothing new. What they failed to realize was that, while such arguments had been debated since the Foundation's inception, with global society having been so greatly traumatized by the War, and with the Foundation's staff filled with veterans, either of combat or wartime research projects, the Foundation itself was structurally vulnerable to these arguments in a way like never before. Separated by varying ideals, the dissenters within the Foundation presented little threat to the status quo. This changed in May of 1924 with the anonymous publication, and wide distribution, of a unifying manifesto entitled A New Manifesto (see appended document). This document believed written jointly by several high-level members of the Foundation, blasted the organization's administration for continuing "on a path leading unproductively to nothing but misery and ruin", and calling for reform and reorganization. Following a clampdown ordered by O5-7 and the banning of possession of the manifesto, discontent became widespread. Riots occurred at several of the larger secure facilities in late May and early June, forcing the issue onto the agenda for the O5 Council. June 1924: The Great Schism With many members of the Foundation up in arms over both the New Manifesto and the subsequent clampdown it caused, the O5 Council was itself divided on how to handle the issue. Most Overseers wanted the issue resolved so the day-to-day business of securing, containing, and protecting objects could continue (and resume where halted). Several, notably O5-7, O5-10, and O5-13, wanted to enforce tight punitive measures on any Foundation personnel involved in the disruption of the Foundation's mission. These hardliners advocated widespread assignment to Keter duty and demotion to D-class of those behaving in "conduct unbecoming of members of the Foundation". Others, notably O5-9 (General Nigel Weston) and O5-11 (Count Vladimir Borisovich Frederiks), strongly supported the dissenters, agreeing with some parts of the inflammatory document. 10 June: Vote of No Confidence in the O5 Council At the O5 Council meeting on 10 June 1924, Overseer Nine forced the issue by calling for a vote of no confidence in the O5 Council. The O5 Council is unelected, typically choosing its own members. Members serve for life or until retirement but may be impeached by a two-thirds majority of the Ethics Committee. All thirteen Overseers have one equal vote, with O5-1 acting as the first-among-equals during most meetings. According to the Council's bylaws, any Overseer can decide to call a vote of no confidence at a Council meeting where at least nine members of the Council are present. In such an event, all Level 5 personnel (excluding Overseers, who are required to abstain), Site and Department Directors, Unit Commanders, and members of the Ethics Committee are contacted and given twenty-four hours to vote on a secret ballot. If the vote passes by two-thirds majority, the old O5 Council is dissolved and a new Council is formed, led by the Overseer who initiated the vote. If the vote fails to pass, the initiating Overseer automatically retires. The vote of no confidence procedure had never before been used (and has never been used since), so O5-9's decision sent immediate shock waves through the Foundation. The Office of the O5 Council's Clerk dutifully made the notifications and began the voting tally. 11 June: Coup Attempt By early the following morning, with eighty-eight percent of the possible votes collected, it was clear that the vote of no confidence would fail. While fifty-three percent of the votes favored the measure's passage, it was clear that even if all remaining votes supported the Council's dissolution, the tally would still fall short of the necessary two-thirds majority. Before the 11 June Council meeting could begin, O5-9 (formerly a General in the British Army) and O5-11 ordered the Foundation Task Force in charge of guarding Foundation Command Headquarters1 to take the other members of the O5 Council into custody. While the Task Force commander, Agent Jacques Clemenceau, himself a former Colonel in the French Army, complied, only O5-3 and O5-12 were present. Overseers One, Two, Four, Five, Six, Eight, Ten, and Thirteen had all secretly left during the preceding night, seeking refuge at Foundation facilities in Britain, Italy, Canada, and the United States. Overseer Seven had already been in Washington, D.C. when the vote had been called. The bodyguards of O5-3 and O5-12 resisted their charges' arrests, resulting in a brief gunbattle in which they, both O5-3 and O5-12, and the Task Force commander were all killed. The Task Force's second-in-command, Agent Robert Brown, who opposed the plotters, then attempted unsuccessfully to arrest Overseers Nine and Eleven for treason. The two treasonous Overseers fled. 12-13 June: Mass Defections & Opening Volleys General Weston (now stripped of his O5-9 title) and Count Frederiks (removed from his position as O5-11 in absentia by the O5 Council) sought refuge at Site-37 in the Austrian Alps. Site-37's Director, Dr. Wolfgang Fritz, a former researcher for the German Empire, was sympathetic to Weston's and Frederiks' cause. The three men formed the "Triad", a governing body whose first official decision was to declare the O5 Council "an illegitimate body", and to claim authority over the Foundation. The Triad promised that it would organize the creation of a "Central Congress" for the Foundation, democratically elected by Foundation staff after forces loyal to the O5 Council could be removed from positions of authority. Foundation policy should be reflective of its members, they argued, and the forcible crushing of dissent by the old regime was the proverbial straw. Predictably, the O5 Council was not amused. Decrying the Triad and labeling its supporters "traitors to the Foundation", MTFs loyal to the Council were secretly mobilized and dispatched to Foundation Command Headquarters and Site-37. Foundation Command Headquarters, which had been placed under lockdown by Agent Brown following the escape of Weston and Frederiks, welcomed the Loyalist MTF. Unfortunately, operating on orders from hardline O5-7, the MTF placed all staff at Foundation Command Headquarters under arrest, even Agent Brown. Though Seven later defended her orders as necessary (due to unknown loyalties of those present), the treatment of the staff from Headquarters was draconian. The facility was decommissioned, with the staff detained elsewhere and the stored SCP objects transferred to other facilities. Site-37, which received word of Foundation Command Headquarters' fate, resisted the Loyalist MTF with force. Out-manned and out-gunned, the MTF retreated after taking heavy casualties. The Triad retaliated by revealing the Council's actions to the Foundation at large, resulting in widespread unrest. In a combination of outrage and support for the Triad's cause, many Foundation facilities and units defected to the Triad's side. Both the Council and the Triad blamed the other side for using an SCP object to cause the "Wildkansas" tornado, which completely destroyed Site-83 in the village of Páty, Hungary. The tornado, estimated to be an F4, landed at Bia, and, after 3 hours, ended near Vác. One of the strongest tornadoes ever in Europe, it left a 500-1500m wide and 70km long path of destruction, leaving many homeless, killing nine civilians and all two dozen Site-83 staff, and wounding over fifty. Widely agreed to be the first major attack in the Foundation Civil War, the Wildkansas tornado would be revealed decades later to have actually been caused by a member of MC&D with no affiliation to either the Foundation, the Triad, or any other group that would later become involved in the Chaos Insurgency. 1924-1926: Foundation Civil War Overview The Foundation Civil War lasted from 12 June 1924 until 10 October 1926. The conflict was fought between the Loyalists (members of the Foundation loyal to the existing O5 Council) and the Triads (forces loyal to the rebellious Triad; this group later would become the Chaos Insurgency). Classified post-conflict analyses by the Foundation estimate the following statistics: Foundation Loyalists Triad/Insurgency % of Pre-conflict Foundation Forces (Personnel), High and Low 61% - 43% 57% - 39% % of Available Forces (on respective sides) Engaged in Conflict 40% Unknown, Assumed >90% % of Pre-conflict Foundation Resources (Monetary) 56% 44% % of Pre-conflict SCPs Retained Post-Conflict 70% Safe, 89% Euclid, 95% Keter Unknown (Assumed 30% Safe, 11% Euclid, 5% Keter) % of Pre-conflict SCPs designated "Useful", "Suitable for Reverse-Engineering", "Manufacturable", or "Suitable for Weaponization" Retained Post-Conflict 61.7% Unknown (Assumed 38.3%) Casualties (Percentages) 52.3% KIA, WIA, or MIA 87.9% KIA or WIA; 11.3% Detained or executed after conflict; 0.8% Unaccounted for post-conflict. In the end, the Foundation Civil War was the bloodiest and most destructive conflict (that the Foundation was directly involved in) in the organization's history. However, due to the sensitive nature of the conflict, the O5 Council subsequently employed all available resources to expunge the details of the conflict from any records requiring a security clearance lower than Level 5. Due to the Foundation's compartmentalized nature, a rigorous counterintelligence campaign and accompanying purges, and the fact that most of the forces on the Foundation's side of the conflict had been limited to the Foundation's security, military, paramilitary, and intelligence forces, the cover-up was remarkably successful. It is a testament to the success of the cover-up that most Foundation personnel recruited after 1938, a mere twelve years after the cessation of the Foundation Civil War, remained completely unaware of the conflict. While it is general knowledge within the organization that the Chaos Insurgency can trace its roots to a "small rogue cell of Foundation agents" that split off in 1924 (the term "Triad" being essentially completely expunged from the record), to this day few individuals know the truth of the magnitude of the ordeal. 1924 - July 1925: Triad Ascendant After the initial outbreak of hostilities in June 1924, it was not long before the ranks of the Triad forces had gone from Site-37 alone to several dozen secure facilities and mobile task forces, spread across all eight continents. The Triad's structure mirrored the antebellum Foundation, with a few key differences: The Triad assumed the roles of the O5 Council and Foundation High Command (the antebellum mechanism within the Foundation for command and control of all armed task forces and security personnel). Technically, the Triad refused to recognize the authority of the existing O5 Council and Foundation High Command, instead declaring a state of emergency in which the three members of the Triad (and their appointed subordinates) would assume the duties of these institutions. Count Frederiks assumed responsibility for political and administrative matters on the Triad. In effect, Frederiks was the de facto leader of the organization, though he was technically equal in position to Weston and Fritz. General Weston assumed responsibility for military and security matters on the Triad. For all practical intents and purposes, Weston was the supreme military commander for the Triad throughout the Civil War. Doctor Fritz assumed responsibility for all scientific and research matters on the Triad. Despite the conflict, both the Loyalists and the Triad continued in their respective operations to secure, contain, and protect anomalous objects. Unlike the Loyalists, the Triad had no qualms about using the SCP objects at its disposal to further its cause, and Fritz oversaw all related efforts. The Triad had no Ethics Committee; Count Frederiks issued a statement that such a committee would be re-instituted once the state of emergency was resolved. Any Foundation member who publicly swore an oath of allegiance to the Triad would be enfranchised for an upcoming vote on the members of the Central Congress. In the chaos of June and July of 1924, the O5 Council and Foundation Loyalists struggled to regroup and organize. Though the Foundation had contingency plans for almost every conceivable external threat, the Department for Contingencies had no effective plan for handling the situation then faced by the organization. Not only that, but at the time the Triad had copies of the same plans as the Loyalists, which enabled them to predict and counter almost every move made by the O5 Council. The decommissioning of Foundation Command Headquarters outside Paris, initially meant as a preventative measure against the Triad, proved disastrous for the Loyalists when it was discovered that many of the documents from that facility (everything from personnel manifests to financial information to military orders-of-battle to SCP object files) inexplicably were lost. Though Foundation intelligence was never able to definitively prove the Triad was responsible for the disappearance of these documents, it was at the time taken as an article of faith that Triad agents had stolen them. By August, the Council had managed to reestablish a headquarters in the United States, at what would eventually become known as Overwatch HQ. For security reasons, no SCP objects were permitted at the new facility. The Council, having replaced the two dead and two traitorous Overseers, declared a state of emergency and took a number of drastic steps to counter the Triad. The Foundation Department of Internal Affairs and Professional Responsibility was dissolved and the Office of the High Inquisitor (OHI) was created in its stead. Overseers Six, Seven, and Thirteen (all hardliners whose loyalty to the Council was unquestionable for their opposition to the dissidents prior to the coup attempt) assumed responsibility for supervising the OHI. The OHI was granted near unlimited power to conduct the business traditionally handled not only by the now-defunct DIAPR but also the Foundation's Department of Counterintelligence and the Security branch of Foundation High Command. OHI would remain a key structure in the Foundation's bureaucracy until 1930. The Foundation High Command, whose ranks were so filled with Triad sympathizers that it had essentially ceased to function by August 1924, was dissolved. The O5 Council took direct control over the Loyalist armed forces, establishing O5 Command as a replacement command and control mechanism. Foundation Security was transferred to the authority of the OHI. Ten new Armed Mobile Task Forces at regiment strength (~3,200-4,500 troops each), designated Genga-1 through -10. "Genga", a letter from the Coptic alphabet, was chosen to prevent confusion with previously existing units, as both the Loyalists and Triad employed the Greek alphabet for MTF designations. The "Genga Division", as it was called, was tasked with handling all planned2 armed engagements against Triad forces. Unlike regular MTFs, all units and subunits in Genga Division down to the company level had the additional post of "Political Officer"/"Politoffizier"/"Zampolit"/"Officier Politique". This position was filled by an officer equivalent in rank to the unit's commanding officer, chosen specifically by the OHI to ensure the loyalty of the unit to the O5 Council. (Genga Division would be demobilized in 1927, at which point the position of Political Officer was abolished from Foundation forces.) All Foundation personnel were confined to their assigned facilities. Off-site travel was limited to authorized missions only. All outgoing telegraph and written correspondence was subject to censorship. All incoming telegraph and written correspondence, and all telephone conversation (outgoing or incoming) were monitored. All personal correspondence was suspended. The Foundation Monitor, a semi-independent weekly internal newspaper and quarterly internal scholarly journal, was shut down. It would later be re-established in 1948. The Council's countermeasures met with varying degrees of success. By mid-August, the Council was able to freeze all financial assets available as of the previous May to forces who had declared loyalty to the Triad; most of those assets had been liquidated by defectors to the Triad. Consequently, the effect on the actual cash-flow for the Triad was minimal. More directly, though the OHI's track record of successfully identifying and purging members of the Foundation suspected of sympathizing with the Triad was unimpeachable, the harsh techniques the Inquisitors employed drove countless individuals into the Triad's open arms. The Genga Division, despite numerical superiority over Triad forces in nearly every engagement, suffered heavy losses throughout the fall of 1924 and winter of 1924/25. After-action reports filed by Genga commanders suggest the responsibility for the defeats lay in part with the Triad's use of weaponized SCPs (while the Genga Division was specifically banned by O5 Command from reciprocating), in part by chronic strategic and tactical intelligence leaks to the Triad from within Genga Division, and in part with the consistent interference by unit Political Officers. Morale among the Loyalists plummeted, resulting in mass defections and open mutiny against the O5 Council. For its part, bolstered by an influx of defectors, the Triad organized an election of the Central Congress in February 1925. The Central Congress was convened at Sector-12, a Triad-controlled facility outside Perth, Scotland. While the Central Congress' seventy-five members were representative of the Triad forces, political maneuvering by General Weston and Doctor Fritz ensured that they, the three members of the Triad itself, remained in near-total control. Weston and Fritz moved to quietly isolate Count Frederiks from the public eye after the eighty-eight-year-old Count's declining health led to increased senility. Foundation intelligence now suggests the Count suffered from Alzheimer's, worsened by a series of strokes in late 1924 and early 1925. Careful political theater precluded Frederiks' senility from affecting the Foundation's (Loyalist or Triad) perception of his ability. July 1925: High Water Mark Defeat after defeat for Foundation forces, coupled with the incompetence of Political Officers and the excesses of Inquisitors, meant that by June of 1925, the Triad outnumbered the Loyalists three-to-two. The O5 Command realized a new strategy was desperately needed. The Genga Division commander was replaced in early July 1925. The new commander, the energetic young Brigadier General William Chatterton, proposed a bold strategy in secret to O5-1, who approved it unilaterally. The other Overseers and O5 Command Staff were not informed out of operational security concerns. Chatterton disseminated a set of operational orders to Genga Division and a number of other Loyalist forces through communication channels known to be compromised. These orders indicated the forces would be organizing a counteroffensive against Triad-controlled facilities in Africa. At the same time, a Foundation plane carrying a courier with falsified Level 5 plans suffered staged mechanical errors and crashed in Sector-12, over twenty kilometers from the Sector's main base of operations. Triad forces dutifully recovered the remains of the pilot and courier, as well as the plans. These plans alluded to the development of a weaponized Keter class SCP at Site-99, a tiny outpost located on Novaya Zemlya, an island in the Arctic Ocean to the north of the Soviet Union. This weaponized SCP would "turn the tide of the war upon deployment" - with the Foundation apparently backtracking on its longstanding policy against weaponizing SCPs, the Triad could not afford to let such a device become operational. Site-99 was supposedly lightly guarded only by an elite group of fewer than a hundred operatives from Genga-3, chosen for their skills and political reliability. By keeping the facility small, O5-1 was supposed to be hoping to prevent leaks. The courier was supposedly flying a progress report from Site-99 to Overwatch HQ. Believing the deception, the Triad massed a third of its available troops at the port of Arkhangelsk, to travel by ship to the target. General Weston assigned Commodore Yuri Zolnerovich, a gifted Soviet naval officer, to oversee the operation. Unbeknownst to the Triad, the entirety of Genga-2, -3, -4, and -5 were located strategically on the Kanin Peninsula, Kolguev Island, and Novaya Zemlya. The Keter SCP at Site-99, and indeed, Site-99 itself, were fabricated myths. A strike team of operatives from MTF Xi-13 were located in Arkhangelsk, charged with placing limpet mines on the Triad ships. Count Frederiks, then in Helsinki, received word of the operation through a Loyalist mole in his entourage. Outraged at the appointment of Zolnerovich, who had been one of the individuals implicated in the death of the Russian Czar, Frederiks traveled to Arkhangelsk and personally took charge of the operation. Count Frederiks had technically held a high rank in the Imperial Russian military, a consequence of his post as the Imperial Household Minister to the Czar, but he had never been an effective military commander. When Zolnerovich objected, citing Weston's position as supreme commander of Triad forces, the elderly and emotional Frederiks shot him, snarling that it was revenge for Czar Nikolas. This was precisely the outcome General Chatterton had hoped for. At 2200 hours local time on 24 July 1925, the Triad flotilla departed Arkhangelsk. Frederiks had rescinded Zolnerovich's order to check for limpet mines, stating it as unnecessary since the Foundation had no idea they were coming. The flotilla consisted of fifteen large troop transports and a dozen escort cruisers. At 0500 the following morning, they were steaming to the north of Kolguev Island when the limpet mines detonated. Ten of the escorts were sunk immediately, as were six of the troop transports. The remaining vessels all suffered heavy damage, with one of the surviving escorts and seven of the surviving nine transports having their engines completely disabled. Count Frederiks' flagship was by sheer luck one of the transport vessels with functioning engines. As Genga Division ships and fighter-bombers swept in, Frederiks abandoned the disabled vessels and ordered the three remaining ships with functioning engines to immediately land on Kolguev Island. Only Frederiks' transport survived long enough to make it to shore, where Genga-4 machine gunners massacred the Triad troops and sailors attempting to land. In a little more than two hours, a third of the available military forces loyal to the Triad had been completely obliterated. This signified the high-water mark for the Triad, and was a blow from which it would never recover. Count Frederiks was not killed at the Battle of Kolguev Island (referred to by Triad forces as the "Far North Massacre"), but rather captured by Foundation forces. He was taken to a Foundation detention facility in Murmansk, where he bartered his knowledge of the Triad in exchange for being placed under house arrest in Helsinki. When General Weston and Doctor Fritz learned of Frederiks' disastrous defeat and subsequent treachery, they disavowed him, symbolically stripping him of his position on the Triad. His post was never refilled, with Weston and Fritz splitting responsibility for his former duties. Less than a week after his capture, Count Frederiks suffered a serious stroke, confining him to bed and rendering him all but completely senile. He would finally die of old age in 1927, alone and forgotten. August 1925 - March 1926: Triad in Retreat General Chatterton was quick to press the Loyalists' advantage in the aftermath of the Battle of Kolguev Island. He opened a series of offensives against Triad forces in Indochina and South America in August and September (respectively). Reeling from the loss of the best-trained and -equipped third of its military forces, with many of its reserves (seemingly pointlessly) defending facilities in the Belgian Congo and Ethiopian Empire, the Triad suffered devastating defeats in both theaters. Weston made the fateful decision in late September to transfer reserves from the Triad's Africa holdings. When O5 Command Intelligence discovered the Triad's redeployment of troops in October, Chatterton began preparations for a winter offensive in Africa. As Loyalist and Triad forces clashed on the physical battlefield, so too did they in the propaganda battlefield. The O5 Council issued a "Proclamation on the Present Conflict" on 1 August, addressed to "all members of the Foundation, regardless of loyalty". It called for an end to hostilities, praised the foot soldiers of both sides for their valor, and implored the rank-and-file of Triad forces to recognize that their misguided leaders were forgetting the real mission and taking those who followed them down a road to "nothing but ruin, disgrace, and anguish." The Triad propaganda apparatus quickly retorted, painting the Proclamation as nothing more than "the lies and gloating of a cowardly group capitalizing on a brutal massacre." Both sides employed omnipresent censors in attempts to control the narrative of the struggle, though the Loyalists were far more successful in this regard. In December, General Chatterton, O5-1, O5-6, and O5-7 secretly organized a branch of O5 Command dedicated to the termination of non-anomalous individuals who represented threats to the Foundation. The details of this organization, referred to only by its codename of █████████████, remain highly classified within the Foundation to this day; the program's existence was not acknowledged by the O5 Council until the mid-1970s. The first targets of █████████████ were the two remaining members of the Triad, Dr. Fritz and Gen. Weston, as well as their immediate subordinates. Throughout January and February 1926, the Loyalists continued to gain ground against the Triad. One of the widespread myths of the war, common to both sides, was that the Triad was employing SCPs to their own advantage. Until the last six months of the war, the Triad did not actually use any SCPs against Foundation forces. Weston wanted to use every strategic asset at the Triad's disposal, but Frederiks (prior to his capture) and Fritz overruled him on the grounds that it would be too dangerous. The three men agreed, however, to take full rhetorical advantage of any natural or artificial disaster that might befall Loyalist forces or benefit Triad forces. Unfortunately, apart from the flooding of the Rhine in Cologne in January 1926, there weren't any appreciable disasters for which they could claim responsibility. Outmatched in terms of conventional forces, cut off from new converts within Loyalist ranks by vigorous and effective Loyalist counterintelligence activities, and unwilling to deploy SCPs tactically, the Triad had little hope of turning the tide of the war. On 25 March 1926, █████████████ operatives infiltrated Site-37, where they assassinated Dr. Wolfgang Fritz while he slept. With Fritz dead and Frederiks senile and forgotten under house arrest until his death in 1927, Gen. Weston was left in sole command of the remaining Triad forces. April - September 1926: A New Strategy Following the assassination of Fritz in March, coupled with the significant losses Triad forces had suffered in the preceding months, Weston decided a new strategy was needed. The Triad was desperately low on resources; in terms of sheer available manpower, controlled facilities, secured SCPs, weapons, funds, and logistical capabilities, the Loyalist forces effectively outnumbered the Triad between three and four to one. There was one critical difference: while in absolute terms, the Loyalists controlled more "useful" SCPs (meaning objects which could be utilized, weaponized, or reverse-engineered with relatively few risks), proportional to the total number of SCPs the either side controlled, the Triad had a far higher percentage of useful SCPs. Weston, in possession of antebellum Foundation storage manifests, realized this advantage. He lifted usage restrictions on all SCPs within the Triad's possession, ordering his researchers to make all efforts to develop means to create a strategic and tactical advantage over the Loyalists. This decision was controversial among the members of the Triad, including nearly a third of the Central Congress. Many believed in the basic mission of the Foundation - securing, containing, and protecting the objects, rather than utilizing or destroying them - and Weston's directive raised some serious doubts about the righteousness of the Triad's cause. When word of these misgivings reached Weston, he made it clear that the lifting of usage and research restrictions would only last until the struggle against the Loyalists was over. While this calmed some fears, a number of Triad members, including the entire staff of Area-09, defected to the Loyalists. Weston then quietly disbanded the Central Congress, arresting (and in some cases executing) its members. Weston's new strategy proved to be too little, too late. Though Loyalist casualties during the last six months of the conflict were twice that of the entire rest of the conflict put together, it was insufficient to slow the momentum. By August, with the Triad controlling fewer than a dozen secure facilities, Weston ordered the remaining SCPs to be hidden in caches across the planet, to allow their future use by Triad forces while lowering the risk of their capture by the Loyalists. In September, Site-37 was finally overrun by Genga Division. Abandoning most of their remaining facilities, the Triad withdrew to Sector-12, a facility outside Perth, Scotland. There, they dug in for an extended siege. October 1926: Battle of Sector-12 By October 1926, nearly all remaining Triad forces were holed up in Sector-12.3 General Chatterton extended an offer for the facility's unconditional surrender; it was rejected. The battle itself took over a fortnight. Weston attempted a strategy of attrition, but effectively outnumbered twelve to one, this had little hope of success. Nonstop artillery and aerial bombardment, liberal deployment of nerve gas, and a frontal assault by the Foundation's sole tank company devastated the Sector's defensive perimeter. On 17 October 1926, after General Weston was killed by an artillery shell, the remaining Triad forces, numbering only fifty-seven, surrendered. After a 7-6 vote, the O5 Council ordered their execution by firing squad for high treason against the Foundation. The Foundation Civil War was over. 1926-1933: From the Ashes, The Chaos Insurgency After the surrender of Sector-12 and the execution of the "Final 57" (as they came to be called), the Triad effectively ceased to exist as an organized and coherent force. For the next seven years, the Foundation would believe (incorrectly) that there were no survivors who escaped their custody. As it happened, this was simply not true. An unknown number of personnel and SCPs were unaccounted for; modern estimates range from several dozen to several thousand individuals, and between five and five hundred objects. In the short term after the fall of Sector-12, the group that had been the Triad and would become the Chaos Insurgency was fractured, isolated, and little immediate threat to anyone. They were too busy licking their wounds to cause too much trouble. Many believed that the smart thing to do would be to go into hiding, disappearing and living out the remainder of their lives in paranoid obscurity - after all, Foundation operatives still had standing shoot-on-sight orders for many of them. Major Damien O'Connor was unwilling to concede defeat. A charismatic and intelligent Irish firebrand who'd served as a Mobile Task Force commander after being recruited out of Michael Collins' Irish Republican Army assassination unit called "The Squad", O'Connor compared the struggle faced by the Triad remnants to that faced by the Irish nationalists against the English Crown during the Irish Revolution and the Arabs during the Arab Revolt in the First World War. A fiery orator and gifted strategist, O'Connor is known to have written several discourses on strategy (most of which still have not been obtained by Foundation intelligence) and is believed to have made regular speeches at covert meetings of Triad remnants. Included in this file is the partial transcript of a 1928 speech by O'Connor to a dozen comrades in Podlogistan, obtained by Foundation Intelligence in 1933. While O'Connor was consolidating support, the O5 Council initiated an internal information suppression campaign with regard to the Foundation Civil War. Because of the highly compartmentalized nature of the Foundation, a significant influx of new personnel during the Great Depression4, and the emergency powers adopted by the Council with regards to censorship, a purge of the event from the organization's general knowledge was effective to a degree that may surprise modern readers. By the late 1930s, few members of the Foundation who had not been directly involved in the Foundation Civil War were aware of the struggle's existence. The Great Schism and two years of bloody war had been reduced, in the official party line of Foundation history, to a rogue group of agents going AWOL. The remnants of the Triad remained off the Foundation's radar until 1933. Arthur Pierce, a mid-level analyst in Foundation Counterintelligence, connected a series of apparently unconnected incidents in the preceding several years with documents (including the partial transcript of O'Connor's speech) recovered from a safe-house in Lisbon. Pierce sent a memorandum to the O5 Council on 5 March 1933, in which he warned of "an insurgency of chaos against the Foundation." When O'Connor received a stolen copy of the memorandum, he was apparently delighted, deciding on the spot to christen the remnants of the Triad as "the Chaos Insurgency", a term which has since been adopted widely. The Insurgency Since 1933 Note: For reasons related to Foundation security, most details relating to the Chaos Insurgency since 1933 are classified in separate compartments from SLATE THUNDER. Personnel with authorization to review these compartments should contact the Records and Information Security Administration in writing. As mentioned above, this post-1933 historical summary of the Chaos Insurgency is necessarily abridged for security purposes. The following is a selection of several key moments in the Insurgency's history. The Second World War (1939-1945) While neither the Chaos Insurgency nor the Foundation take sides with either the Axis Powers or Allied Powers, the Insurgency took advantage of general upheaval to consolidate power in several Third World countries and colonies. Concurrently, the Insurgency staged attacks against the Foundation, both directly and by using both Allied and Axis forces as proxies. The largest direct conflict between the Insurgency and the Foundation during the war was a series of attempts to seize Site-41, located in Leningrad, during the Nazi siege of that city. These attempts were ultimately unsuccessful. (See sensitive compartment "███████████████" for further information.) Co-opting Proxy Wars (1947-1967) Though the Chaos Insurgency has co-opted wars and militarized armed disputes throughout its entire history, during the 1950s and 60s the Insurgency used plants and moles in both Western and Soviet military and intelligence apparatuses to assimilate and sponsor guerrilla insurgencies and national liberation movements in numerous countries in the Third World. A significant number of the Chaos Insurgency's leadership is believed to have turned over between 1950 and 1970, and some of the rising stars in the younger generation were CIA or KGB officers, or special forces advisers, sent to regions sympathetic to the opposing side in an effort to destabilize and replace the indigenous political infrastructure with one more amenable to their respective political masters. Having encountered and used local anomalous artifacts, and having been co-opted locally or (secretly) instructed by Insurgency moles higher in their parent agencies, these operatives were assimilated into the Chaos Insurgency. (See sensitive compartment "█████████████" for further information.) Attempted Armed Site-59 Defection (October 1962) In October of 1962, Colonel Andre Foch, Director of Armed Site-59 in Tibet, attempted to use the Sino-Indian War as cover to enable the defection of Armed Site-59 to the Chaos Insurgency. Foundation Armed Rapid Response Task Force Xi-13 successfully intervened, and the defection failed. Foch was subsequently presumed dead by the Foundation, though rumors of his escape continue to persist. This was the largest mass defection attempt since the Foundation Civil War. (See sensitive compartment "███████████████████" for further information.) The Modern Chaos Insurgency (1991-Present) The Chaos Insurgency today is believed to be a highly heterogeneous and diverse social network of loosely connected cells, rather than a homogenous or hierarchical organization. While some "leaders" are believed to exist, the extent of their ability to direct, organize, and/or control the various cells is believed to be at least somewhat limited. Additionally, capturing or killing these individuals is unlikely to adversely affect the organization's activities. There is no geographic base to the Insurgency, though they are known to have a presence in many Third World countries. While the general strategy of post-modern guerrilla insurgency asymmetric warfare against the Foundation, the Global Occult Coalition, and others is fairly constant, the specific tactics, strategies, and ideologies of the Insurgency are fairly diverse. The Insurgency is known to have ties to many groups, organizations, and governments, ranging from legal and respected entities to covert and criminal entities. Foundation theorists have not yet developed a successful counterinsurgency strategy for defeating the Chaos Insurgency. Footnotes 1. Then a secure facility located outside Paris, which (unlike modern Overwatch HQ) housed a moderate number of Safe and Euclid class SCP items. 2. Obviously, regular Loyalist Foundation forces fought when attacked by Triad forces, but they were rarely used on the offense. 3. At the time, the Loyalists believed all Triad forces were at Sector-12; it was only later that it was discovered that an unknown number of Triad personnel were unaccounted for. 4. Many talented and skilled individuals, especially academicians, who lost their jobs as a result of the Great Depression were hired by the Foundation in 1929-38. The Foundation's investments fared very well during the Depression compared to most organizations, allowing one of the largest organizational expansions in Foundation history. Related Original Documents These are a selection of transcripts of original documents relating to the Chaos Insurgency. A New Manifesto (May 1924) A New Manifesto Addressed to The Members of The Foundation 1 May 1924 PERHAPS the sentiments contained in the following pages, are not yet sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favor; a long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defence of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason. Ten years ago, the human civilization was plunged into the Great War, wherein our global society was threatened not by threats External or Preternatural, but Internal and Mundane. The War, in which martial slaughter was industrialized on a scale never before seen, devastated the civilized world. The Foundation, possessing numerous bizarre and unnatural entities which might have ended the conflict in mere moments, sat quietly in the shadows, watching the brightest and best of Humanity's future spill each other's blood on Europe's fields. We watched, and we did nothing. We, who have sworn to secure and contain threats to Human Civilization, protecting the world from devastation, destruction, and despair, we sat and watched as humanity inflicted ruin upon itself. How dare we? The world called this the Great War, the War to End All Wars, but how can War be Great, and why should so warlike a creature as Man be so inclined as to cease merrily butchering his fellows? How soon will come the next war after the War That Was Supposed To End All Wars? History has cyclical inertia; unless an outside force brings the conflict to a stop, humanity will be its own undoing. The Foundation, an organization which has stared into the abyss and spat in the face of abominations ancient and eldritch, must save mankind from its greatest enemy: itself. In the decades since the Foundation's inception, the O5 Council has argued that we must remain aloof and detached from the daily affairs of international society. It is not our business to fight the petty wars of the ignorant masses, they tell us. And yet, they are not above meddling in those very affairs when one Overseer or another feels it expedient, toppling governments and starting wars of convenience. We, the soldiers in the trenches, who fight their battles, and we, the scientists in the labs, who do their research, do we have any say in when we fight or what we study? The Council claims to act in the best interests of the Foundation, of Humanity. How can this be when the Council does not answer to the rank and file of this organization, much less Mankind at large? We, the individuals facing the threats on every day, are the ones who are best suited to determining our organization's course, not faceless administrators, and it is we, not they, who should lead. It would be foolish, of course, to reveal the existence of entities that defy all explanation to the world at large. After all, it is our duty to stand at the boundary of Darkness and Light, protecting the world in its ignorance of the monsters that threaten it. But darkness itself is not evil: Science is amoral, and Knowledge is Power. Power, Science, and modern Industry are all capable of vast and near-total destruction, as the Great War has shown, but proper application of these forces can create wonders. Fire, if misunderstood and improperly handled, is as destructive as any force known to mankind, capable of laying waste to cities and farmland. Yet, when harnessed and treated with caution and respect, we use it to heat, light, and power our cities, and cleanse our farms so that we may plant new and more fertile crops. We, the elite, who have studied countless bizarre and powerful anomalies, have the knowledge to usher in a new Golden Age of Enlightenment. Out of the ashes of the past can rise monuments to the dominance of Mankind over the Natural and the Unearthly. The universe can at once appear welcoming and hostile, teeming with secrets and threats, full of knowledge and riches to be had but harsh and unforgiving. As always, Humanity is and will be tested. As always, Humanity must meet the challenges before it as we have met every other. We must be the Vanguard, holding the torch of illumination and leading the masses forward. We, Mankind and the Foundation will face the challenges and succeed because to do anything else would be inhuman. The Foundation shall watch the dark places, and it is our right and our duty to illuminate them for society, so that Mankind may enjoy the riches without fearing the threats. We shall not only secure and contain the absurd and the dangerous, but we shall master their secrets and transform them into tools and technology. We, the Foundation and Mankind, not only can do this, but must, if we are to survive, and not just survive, but better ourselves and flourish, that Humanity can claim its rightful place as Master over Nature and Extraordinary. Signed, A Thinker Transcript of Speech by Major Damien O'Connor in Podlogistan (1928) …Weston was an old fool, a relic of the old era where wars were fought in set-piece battles of thousands of men in massed formation, of cavalry charges into the Valley of Death. But ours is not to do or die, ours is to reason why. Weston and Frederiks deluded themselves into thinking the Triad equal to the Loyalists, not only in legitimacy but in materiel and capabilities. They were proven wrong, but even if they had been right in their estimates, we saw in the Great War how futile such outdated strategies are. Only a fool fights on the terms of one's enemy, and that is precisely what we did. We fought the Foundation on their terms when they were stronger, bigger, better funded, better equipped; is it any real surprise that we were defeated? Our struggle was akin to baiting: a pack of dogs against a bear, perhaps. The dogs do not assemble in a phalanx and charge the bear, whose size, weight, and strength could easily obliterate such a formation. No, instead, the dogs nip and bite at the larger animal, irritating it, occasionally drawing blood, tiring it, weakening it to the point of collapse, until it collapses in exhaustion, and they can move in for the kill. But now, we lack the capacity to be taken seriously by the Foundation. They believe we are down and out - they have declared victory, and characteristically hushed up the struggle. They view those few of us who remain as a nuisance, not a pack of dogs, but a fly or flea to be swatted aside as an annoyance. They may be right. We are weak, and they are strong. But that does not make them invincible or us insignificant. Let us wage a war of fleas. We bite, leap, and bite again. By the time the Foundation can scratch one itch, another will appear. They have "secure" facilities across the world - they must be strong everywhere. We need only be strong where we attack, when we attack, before disappearing. Their size means they are slow; we are few but mobile. We cannot win as an army, but as guerrillas, as an insurgency, we shall not lose. The Foundation, the enemy, ignores us, we infiltrate them. The enemy advances, we retreat; the enemy camps, we harass; the enemy tires, we attack; the enemy retreats, we pursue. We will be everywhere and nowhere, appearing out of the night to strike terror in their hearts. We may look over our shoulders - it would be imprudent not to - but we can force them to do the same. We can terrorize the Foundation. The purpose of this terror is not merely to terrorize the Foundation, however, but to use its own inertia and energy against it. The Triad's defeat may have quelled dissent amongst the Foundation's rank and file, but how long is it until our efforts - our attacks and infiltrations - spur the Foundation to clamp down on its own members? We will not be the ones to sap the Foundation's will to resist, the O5 Council will. Let us not forget that they are bound by scruples of secrecy. They keep the importance of their "Veil" on a pedestal, hiding their existence and the existence of SCPs from the world at large. We are not so incumbered. Our only reason for secrecy is to frustrate their efforts to find us, fish in a vast ocean. In our attacks, we can steal their weapons, their equipment, and their artifacts, only to turn these against them the next time. If our attacks hurt the innocent, well, in war there are casualties. The Foundation may elect to try and protect the population from us - so much the better, for it will only spread them thinner. We shall be agents of chaos, setting the world on fire, not to watch it burn, but to exhaust the fire brigade. Alright, so, that brings us up to 1933. As you can see from the summary at the bottom, most of the more modern activities of the Chaos Insurgency are classified in other sensitive compartments. Since I know for a fact many of you are here for different reasons, we're not going to cover any of the more recent goings-on right now. Any questions? Alright. Ms. Buyanova and I will now collect your briefing packets. Be sure to remember to toe the Official Party Line with anyone not read into SLATE THUNDER, or you'll be spending a very long time in a not-necessarily empty dark hole. We still have leftover bagels, help yourself on the way out.

I found this in You-Know-Who's latest cache of papers. I'm inclined to believe that it's from one of his not-so-parallel iterations, given that the thing appears to be dated to the 1930s. Still, I'm sure our friends would stump up something for it if they were to be persuaded of its provenance. —Marshall Item designation number: #45393BE-048 Warning: Phenomenon presently encloses and has been determined to present an existential risk to the Earth. Its appearance on 1903/03/01 has caused an irretrievable breach of secrecy for the Foundation and the Overseers have directed that the Foundation is to lend all assistance, including the utilisation of any and all objects under its control, to the governments of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Third French Republic, German Empire, United States of Austria, Kingdom of Italy, Russian Empire and their allies in the preservation of the world. Description of item: Initially reported as a cloud or nebula enclosing the Earth, it has been determined that the phenomenon actually comprises the interior of a cube approximately 66,580 miles wide. This volume has been determined to be inhabited by an inconsistent number of humanoid entities some 25.5 million times larger than homo sapiens. These entities have been observed to enter and leave the space surrounding the Earth, suggesting that the extent of the phenomena may be much greater than previously suspected. The difficulty currently experienced in imaging these entities and the interior of the cube is a product of the anomalous qualities of light incident of Earth from this volume—experiments indicate light quanta emanating from the phenomenon are scaled identically to the humanoid entities. Once refracted from non-anomalous matter the light behaves normally—however, it has been calculated that to properly resolve images from the phenomenon, a lens 126 miles across would be needed. The fate of the cosmos beyond the phenomena has not yet been established. It is entirely possible that the Earth and its near-space environment has been removed to a new location rather than the phenomenon manifesting in Earth's original environs; in which case the phenomena may comprise the immediate universe. Extreme tidal anomalies since the appearance of the phenomenon indicate that traditional heavenly bodies are no longer present, or that their gravitational effect is entirely masked by the phenomenon. The humanoid entities have demonstrated an unprecedented ability to alter both the physical and temporal characteristics of the Earth. By physically manipulating the barrier between the Earth and the phenomenon they are able to cause an event currently designated #45393BE-048-01. During a #45393BE-048-01 event the extent of the phenomenon narrows sharply before disappearing for a brief instant. In this instant all matter on Earth, as far as can be established, is returned to the position it held at 0530 on 1903/03/01. Although 19 years have passed chronologically since the phenomenon initially appeared, the population of Earth has experienced 32 subjective years over the course of eight #45393BE-048-01 events. Detail of current containment: The phenomenon is currently uncontained and, at our current level of technology, uncontainable. Heroic efforts are being made by the surviving Great Powers to prevent at all costs another #45393BE-048-01 event—present theories of science indicate individuals conceived after the last such event (some 160 million individuals) are infinitesimally unlikely to survive the next event. We have furthermore seen the recovery of individuals in infancy or in utero in 1903 who were thought permanently broken by repeated regression—another #45393BE-048-01 event is highly likely to render these individuals' sanity unrecoverable. The current disposition of the phenomenon is asymmetrical, such that a significant portion of the eastern hemisphere, the Southern Cone and the western half of the North American continent is left in total darkness, whilst the remainder enjoys a constant, dim light equivalent to about 900 footcandles. The effect has been the displacement of approximately one billion people and the deaths of some hundred million. Only the authorised use of items #02837RU-006, #07843NY-038 and #78394MI-124 has prevented further casualties due to overpopulation and famine. As much as 30% of all terrestrial species are believed to have passed into extinction since the last iteration of 1903/03/01. Particular matter from #45393BE-048 incident on the Earth has been observed to emit Curie waves and has proved a danger when it impacts in populated areas or in dense forest, causing uncontrollable fires. Sectors 5 through 11 and 15 have been permanently compromised by the #45393BE-048 phenomenon, necessitating the evacuation of Sites 15, 17, and 19 through 36. As a consequence the Foundation has lost control of items including #09712NJ-008, #56439AR-017 and #87631MN-060. The eastern seaboard of the United States, as far north as the 49th parallel, has been designated Zone-001 and is subject to indefinite quarantine. All British and American naval assets have been requisitioned for this task, and the remaining armed forces of the United States and the Dominion of Canada have been deployed in a fortified defensive line at the northern border of Zone-001. Containment procedures update 1917/06/19: Defensive line 'Yankee' has been overwhelmed. Forces fell back to defensive line 'Esquimaux' at the 51st parallel. All of North America subsequently designated part of Zone-001. Sectors 22 and 23 are considered lost. Anomalous elements are currently being held at the southern border of Zone-001 at the Panama canal works, which have been converted into a fortified position. Containment procedures update 1919/06/19: The islands of Ireland and Great Britain have been overrun by #09712NJ-008 elements. Firebombing with Curie devices was approved on 1919/09/10 and sterilisation appears to be successful as of 1919/12/25. The islands have been designated Zone-002. His Majesty Edward VII has been successfully evacuated to the Cape Colony. Proposals for the sterilisation of Zone-001 are under consideration. Report: On 1920/04/30 expeditionary forces retrieved #67463CN-144 from the area formerly known as Tibet. Item has been turned over to the authority of the United States of Austria. On 1920/08/06 a complement of space-vessels powered by particular matter from #45393BE-048 has been launched using #67463CN-144 with the intent of seizing control of the immediate area of the phenomenon and eliminate the threat caused by two #45393BE-048 entities who had been observed to approach the barrier over the course of the past week. Communication with the fleet ceased when it reached 62 miles above the surface of the Earth and all assets were presumed lost; it was later realised that the fleet had become subject to time dilation similar to that which governs #45393BE-048 entities, preventing useful radiotelegraphic communication. Elements of the fleet re-entered Earth's atmosphere in 1934/03/20 to report a partial success; further assets have since been committed to prevent another #45393BE-048-01 event. The United States of Austria and the German empire report that a further 10,000 Curie weapons have been manufactured and further programmes have been implemented to construct elements harmful to #45393BE-048 entities, including the use of #87364CA-047. Addendum: The Foundation has been enervated, but endures. Its heart has been torn out, but it continues to beat—from the Cape, from the Rock of Gibraltar, from Rhode Island and the island of Cuba. From Berlin and Vienna, in places once closed to us, a new Foundation emerges; a Foundation not arrogant in its isolation but subject to the Great Powers in servitude to the human race. We can no longer shoulder the burden alone—all men must share the knowledge that the earth beneath their feet was never firm and that the universe never obeyed laws comprehensible to man. To the end of time, we will cling on—we will defend whatever is left to us with a burning fire in our eyes and hearts. All our struggle, all our efforts, have led up to this; to contain and tame that which offends rationality. To feed the poor, to heal the sick, to hurl the vessels of our allies to the heavens to fight the gods who have so wounded the earth. Thus we speak: Survive. Conquer. Punish. —H Keter

Uncle Teddy was always a strange old man. It's one of those kind of things that you don't think about when you're a kid, and you still believe that knights and pirates and wizards are things that could co-exist in the world you live in. But as I got older and older, and I realized that people in the real world don't live the way he does, I got to thinking more and more about it, and the more I thought about it, the less sense any of it made. I asked my dad once when I was a teenager if Uncle Teddy was crazy. He said to me, "He might be crazy, Charlie, but he's still your uncle, and he's the best crazy uncle anyone could ever hope for." He wasn't technically my uncle, really. He was far too old to be my dad's brother. He wasn't my dad's uncle, either. Best I can figure out, he was my great-great-great-grandpa's brother. Not that that makes much sense, either, considering that my great-great-great-grandpa died in 1896. Uncle Teddy doesn't look a day over seventy or so, and he hasn't changed in all the years I've known him. I found an old black-and-white picture of him that was dated 1907, and he looked exactly the same then as he does now. If all the things he says are true, then he'd have to be at least 200 years old, but every time I asked him how old he was, he'd only answer "I suppose I have been forty-nine for quite awhile now." I guess calling him "uncle" was just easier for everyone. Uncle Teddy lived in Cornwall, in a huge manor house in the country that he said he inherited from his father. It's an ancient place, at least a couple hundred years old, and it doesn't look like it's changed in over a hundred years. See, when I say Uncle Teddy is strange, it's not who he is so much as how he behaves. There isn't a thing in that house that was built after the end of the 19th century. No running water, no lights, no phone, no TV, no radio, no computer, no heat, no cars, not a thing. The place is like a museum, and that's how he lives his life. It's like he doesn't even know the rest of the world exists - he never goes into town, writes all his letters by hand, and every time we came to visit he'd ask if we sailed across the Atlantic or took one of the new steamships or zeppelins he'd heard so much about. I never could tell if he actually didn't know the world had moved on, or if he just preferred the "good old days" to the world outside his little slice of it. He was an unbelievably wealthy man. "Old money," dad always said. He was generous with it, too - every couple years he'd pay for our whole family to come out and visit him for a few weeks or so. He always said he loved to keep up with what the rest of his family was up to. The first time I met him was when I was six. It was just around Christmas. Imagine how surreal it must have been for me to come all the way to England on a plane, only to get dressed up in an old-fashioned little suit and put on a horse-drawn sleigh in the snow up to the gate of his manor. The first time I saw him standing in the door, tall, wrapped in furs, with his long white beard stretching down his chest, I thought he was Santa Claus. He just laughed when I asked him if he was, then reached into my ear and "pulled out" a coin, an old silver sixpence with Queen Victoria's face on it, and gave it to me. I was amazed. Going back in time from the 1980s to the 1880s is quite an experience for a boy that age - imagine how grossed out I was when I learned about the chamberpot! - but it was an adventure all the same. Back at home, half the kids would call me a liar and the other half would be jealous. I didn't care - I'd already be looking forward to the next trip. I could spend hours just sitting at his knee, listening to his stories about how he'd acquired one or another of the curios that hung all around the place, his adventures in far-off corners of the world, his war stories, so on. As I grew older he taught me how to hunt, how to ride a horse, how to dress a wound, pan for gold, read Morse code, and all kinds of other things most boys only read about in books. Once, when I was fifteen, he pulled me aside after everyone else had gone to bed and gave me a lecture about how to kill a dragon should I ever find myself in a fight with one. I can't say the opportunity has ever arisen to test his suggestion, but if it ever does, I'll make sure to go for the femoral artery. I didn't get to see him as much once I was grown up, but we kept writing letters back and forth. When I told him I was joining the Army to pay for college, he went on and on about his time in the Second Opium War. When I told him I was getting married, he insisted on inviting Amy and I out to get married at the manor. When I got my MBA, he told me never to accept a job offer from something called "Marshall, Carter & Dark" or he'd disown me. But it was the letter I got about six months ago that turned everything upside down; My dearest nephew, I have never in my life begged another man for succor, but I find that I must now ask for help, and I know of none I can turn to in my hour of need but you. I have been taken prisoner by a group of rogues and confidence men who play at science, calling themselves 'the SCP Foundation'. They have seized our ancestral lands and my entire lifetime's worth of works and collections, and imprisoned me in a tiny cell like an animal. I held out hope at first that I could free myself, or convince them to release me, but I fear there is now no hope of that. Lest I live out the rest of my days in this place, I shall have to be rescued. You shall have to come at once. The current place of my captivity is in London, off Marylebone Road in Westminister, this much I have determined from the loose talk of my jailers. On the back of this page I have sketched a map of what parts of the prison I have been allowed to see. I shall not be here forever, for they have moved me several times. Take the fastest ship you can. If you can, pay a visit to the manor, in secret of course, for I am sure they keep it under guard. From the clearing in the woods where I taught you how to shoot, walk half a mile northwest into the forest and you will find a cave hidden in the brush. There is a hidden chamber within containing some of my old 'tools of the trade', as it were, that you may find indispensable in achieving your mission. The signet ring I gave you when you were twelve is the key. Please hurry, for I know not what grim fate these mountebanks have in store for me. Yours in Christ, Uncle Teddy My wife thought I'd lost my mind when I told her all about it. She thought he was a crazy old man who'd finally snapped, and that I was crazy for believing him. I'll admit I had my doubts as well. But as far-fetched and ludicrous as everything about Uncle Teddy seemed to be, I never in my entire life felt like he had been lying to me. I told her I had to do this for his sake and mine, so that when next Christmas came and they were old enough I could take our kids to visit Uncle Teddy and they could experience what I had. She told me I'd better keep that promise. I had some vacation time saved up and some money in the bank, so I told my boss there'd been a death in the family, and the next morning I was on a flight to London. I rented a car and drove out to the town close by Uncle Teddy's manor, and right away I could see he'd been telling the truth. There were lots more cars in town than usual, and lots of people with American accents in the pub. Something was amiss. I didn't even try to take the main road up to the house - I crept into the brush and made my way through the woods, careful not to so much as step on a twig, just like he taught me. I sneaked a peek towards the front gate - there were two men dressed all in black, with SMGs in hand. Their uniforms definitely weren't Army-issue, and they didn't look like the kind to ask questions. The chill winter air was still and silent that afternoon, and it took me forever to find the cave the letter mentioned as I worked my way through the thick of the woods. It was a good thing I'd always held on to that old ring he gave me - it fit right into the "keyhole" I found in the cave he mentioned, and the rock wall slid away effortlessly. I shone my flashlight around and saw dozens of artifacts, the purpose of which I could only guess at. Between the multiple suits of armor, and the rolled-up Persian rug with a tag on it that read "A.C. Chakrasangupta of Bombay, Fine Retailer of Magic Carpets", and oil lamps that looked like they probably had genies living in them, I obviously couldn't grab all of it and stuff it in my backpack and hope it'd turn out useful. I settled on three things, things I saw that I recognized from some of the stories he'd told me years ago. The first was a gun - a massive thing that looked like a blunderbuss, kicked like a mule, and had more stopping power than an elephant gun. A "particle destabilizer", he'd called it when he let me shoot it a few times years ago. The second was a huge old "skeleton key" which looked like something out of a video game. The third, an old Metropolitan Police badge which, according to his stories, would make sure that anyone who looked at me thought I was supposed to be there. I tested it out as I made my exit from the grounds, stepping out of the woods into clear sight of the guards at the front gate. I was ready to use the gun if I had to, but the two of them took a look at me and went on with their business without saying a word. It wasn't until a day later that I stood in the middle of London, Madame Tussaud's to my back, gun in one hand, key in the other, badge on my chest, that I realized I had absolutely no idea what to do next. There are hundreds of buildings along the road. How was I supposed to figure out which one hid the secret prison Uncle Teddy been taken to? This was always the point in his stories where he'd have some genius flash of inspiration and know right away what to do - but then, Uncle Teddy had never explored any place as strange as 21st century London. I found myself walking up and down the street for hours looking for any sign of something unusual. (Fortunately for me, the badge I was wearing meant that nobody thought the man walking up and down the street carrying a large firearm was unusual.) After three or four hours I found myself sitting at a table in front of a Starbucks, despondently sipping on a latte, wondering what to do, when I heard a faint voice in the distance. "Pardon me, my good man, but do you suppose we could have something different for luncheon tomorrow? I grow weary of these scraps. Perhaps some sausages, or a bit of roast?" It was Uncle Teddy's voice, clear as day! I couldn't hear who he was talking to, but I could hear him. I craned my neck all around looking for the spot it could be coming from. Not above me, not behind me… I heard him again as I spun around and realized his voice was coming from below, echoing out of a sewer grate. The prison was underground! Perfect place to hide in a city like this. But how to get in? Was there a secret elevator in one of the nearby buildings? I sat back, surveying the area around me for any hint. I saw a man walk up to an old restored blue police box on a corner. I hadn't thought much of it before - I figured it was either a historical monument or some sort of promo for Doctor Who. I watched him unlock the door, step in, and close it behind him. A minute passed and he didn't come out. Then five. Then ten. Then half an hour. Could this be it? A hidden entrance, in plain sight? I waited until after nightfall before I got up and walked over to the box myself. I took the skeleton key out of my pocket and held it up to the lock - and just like that, the lock turned, the door opened, and I discovered an elevator box on the other side, waiting. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in, closed the door, and pressed the only button I saw as the elevator began to slide downward. In less than ten seconds, I was in. There were armed guards at the front and a secretary at a desk. I walked right past them and none of them said a word. Following the hand-drawn map on the back of Uncle Teddy's letter, I made my way through a maze of corridors, past doors with cryptic warnings on them - "LEVEL 4 ACCESS REQUIRED", "COGNITOHAZARD", "D-CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT". There was barely anyone around, and I did my best to avoid the few people I saw. Soon I found myself alone facing a door that had been marked on the map with an X. A small plaque read "SCP-1867 CONTAINMENT AREA". I wondered if that was what they were calling Uncle Teddy - like he was just a number or something. The skeleton key opened the locks on the door, I opened it, and there he was. Lying on a cot in one corner of a bare and tiny cell, his finery replaced with an orange jumpsuit, his hands folded over his beard on his chest. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he turned to look at me. "Charlie?" he sputtered. "What in blazes are you doing here? Don't tell me you've become part of this vile order!" "I'm here to get you out, Uncle Teddy!" I responded. "Come on. They won't notice me as long as I've got your badge on. If they ask, I'll say I'm moving you to another cell." I had never seen Uncle Teddy so utterly confused as I saw him then, as he slowly came to his feet and made his way to the door. "My badge…" he muttered as he reached out and ran his fingers over it. "And you have my gun, too?" "In the cave, just like you said," I reassured him. "We can talk once you're out of here! Let's go!" "This is impossible!" he protested. "How did you find me here? How did you know about the cave?" "It was in the letter you sent me." "I sent you no letter!" "What do you mean? I have it right here." I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him. "Oh, my dear boy," Uncle Teddy moaned as he pointed to the first sentence. "An Englishman always spells 'succour' with a U." No sooner did I realize what he meant than an alarm klaxon started sounding. The letter was a forgery - meant to lure me to this place and capture me as well! What they wanted with me, I had no time to wonder about as a harsh, synthesized voice sounded over the loudspeakers: "INTRUDER ALERT. SCP-1867 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT." "What now?" I asked as I looked to Uncle Teddy. "What else, boy? We run!" I took off down the hallway, Uncle Teddy following me. Two soldiers, dressed in the same black body armor as the ones at the manor house, came around a corner brandishing their guns. I leveled the gun and fired. It nearly knocked me off my feet, but it sent the two men flying. Uncle Teddy pulled me off in another direction, urging me to make for the stairs rather than the "lift". Men with guns seemed to pop up from behind every corner. At his insistence I had it on the lowest setting, merely stunning the men in our way. The stairs were heavily guarded, but with a couple more volleys from the gun (and a little help from a flashbang Uncle Teddy had picked off one of the soldiers), the way was clear. We bounded up the steps two at a time, up to a door to one of the London Underground's service tunnels. If we were where I thought we were, it was only half a block to the nearest station - and from there, freedom for Uncle Teddy. I unlocked the door with the key and swung it wide to find dozens of soldiers, gathered around the door in a semicircle. I raised my gun as they raised theirs, flicking the little switch by the trigger from its lowest setting to its highest. "Stand down!" shouted an American voice from behind the group. The soldiers lowered their rifles as a man in a lab coat pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He made his way toward me. I aimed the gun right at him and he stopped in his tracks. "There, there, don't do anything foolish. I'm not here to hurt you or SCP-1867." He looked at the badge I was wearing. "Intriguing piece of jewelry you've been dragging around. Must be a variant form of SCP-1339. I assume you got it from that cave we were never able to break into. Thanks for opening it, by the way. Tell me, what's your name?" "My name is Charlie Blackwood," I said as I did my best to suppress the rage in my voice, "and you'd better all get out of my way. I've just set this thing to kill, and I'm not leaving here without my Uncle Teddy." I don't know why what he said next made me drop the gun and surrender. I don't know why they set such an elaborate trap to capture anyone related to Uncle Teddy. I don't know why they're interested in me, or what they want from me. I don't know if my wife and kids are safe, but so help me I'm not saying a word about them until I get some answers. It's just… those nine words that that strange scientist said to me there. They don't make any sense, and yet every time I hear one of the guards or one of the interrogators repeat them, I feel paralyzed as if by some sudden realization, like some missing piece of a puzzle has fallen into place and a mystery has been solved. And yet, it doesn't answer any questions. It's nonsense, it's a playground taunt. It's… "You do realize that you're a sea slug, right?"

I was feeling more down than usual when I borrowed that book. I must have been, otherwise I probably would have passed it by. But then again I guess I really wasn't expecting her to leave the way she did, even though it was probably for the best, and I wasn't hoping for too much anyway, and I was tired of writing depressing poetry. And as a poet, I find I can seek solace in the words of others when my own dwell too much in sadness. Oh, sorry. You want to know more about the book? Well, in appearance it wasn't that special. Something about it seemed interesting though. It—drew me, to say the least. I can't say I'd ever seen it before. It was just sitting on top of a shelf in the Poetry section, and I was somewhat irritated by how dejectedly it seemed to be lying there by itself… Bound in faded leather with flaking gold leaf, it seemed like something that would be more at home at a museum than a library. It was a pretty good book. Short and sweet, even though it was sad. I don't quite remember it—not quite minimalist, not quite purple prose, but somehow the tone captured my mood completely and made me feel better. The plot was incredibly, almost ridiculously close to the events that had happened to me recently. The tension, the unknowing, the wondering, the end. Some others must have borrowed the book as well, since I kept finding notes or the like scribbled into the margins. It didn't occur to me until later that they all seemed to rhyme with each other. One went: I miss you more than ever When I look into the sky. Most of them were wistful, others were more disheartening. Sort of like: I love you more than ever So why did you pass me by? The book was old enough to still have a little card taped in with a list of people who'd borrowed it, decades and decades ago. I was surprised and intrigued when I saw the name of a poet I'd admired and looked up to, and I think I found the two lines he wrote, they were: I seek you more than ever That's why I tried to fly. He had committed suicide by jumping off a building. I thought maybe the book had belonged to him, but it was a little weird because all of the verses were written in different handwriting. But I guess a lot of different people have read this book, because near the end there was the one that went: I hate you more than ever I'm so glad I said goodbye. …and also there was the rather disconcerting one that said: I love you more than ever So I had to see you die. I don't really remember any others. And like I said, the book was pretty short. Me? Yes, I did add my own verse. It went something like: I miss you more than ever And I still can't fathom why. I haven't been able to write anything since, but I've felt amazing. Hardly any negative thoughts or loneliness clouding my mind anymore. Sure, inspiration has been a little slow coming, but at this moment I think I'd prefer the nothingness. It's peaceful, in a way. No, I can't say I remember for sure what the author's name was. I vaguely recall it being “I. L. Dean” or something strange like that.

While Nexus points of this nature exist elsewhere in the world, it is in the United States that they are the most prominent. This is, in my opinion, an example of culture's influence on universal narrative principles: bizarre happenings in small town America has been a common media trope since the very beginning of the country, to the point where it is hardly anomalous to us anymore. The oddities of the small town is expected, and as such, these nexus points are very easily contained by their own nature: no matter what unusual events occur, it will never seem to leave its borders of the town, and the populace will remain in blissful ignorance of the happenings. Such a principle would not go unnoticed by the Foundation. Of the twenty-three confirmed nexuses within the United States, fifteen of them have full sites located within the town, and the remainder are under some form of observation. Of these sites, Site 87 is, I find, of special note. - Dr. Philip Verhoten, The Crossroads: A Study of Urban Anomalous Nexuses in the United States. — “You went and did it…” ‘You almost sound surprised. You know what my job entails. Come on, pay up.” Harold Breaker sighed, and withdrew a wad of Monopoly money from his pocket. He licked his thumb and leafed through it, tossing five hundreds in the center of the table, in between the two rather disappointing breakfasts. “Thank y'kindly.” Ryan Melbourne said with a complete lack of anything remotely resembling happiness at the outcome. He added the bills to his own wad. Breaker shook his head, chuckling in that vague “I can't believe you're doing this” manner of people who have just witnessed a friend get roped into something stupid. “Laugh all you want, but you know what? Hughes bought me this shirt, because he's an asshole. If I was able to turn down a free shirt I'd burn the thing faster than you can say hot Texas barbeque! Yeah, you can laugh, but you guys have had it easy since Darwin. I have to re-write half of the book every other week just because a hipster farted and someone put it on the Internet. Do you know how much extra work this damn show's given me? At least twenty percent goddammit! It's in my head and it won't leave!” Breaker looked up from his newspaper and sipped his coffee simultaneously. The combination of cup angle, location of paper relative to the table, expression of the eyes, and the length of the sip said: “8/10 on the rant: you're overdoing it a little bit, but it's amusing so I'm going to make a snarky statement to further incite the situation.” Coffee sips are very expressive. “You're still wearing a shirt with My Little Pony on it,” he said. “Yes, and I am simmering with the indignity of it. You caused this, you know. You and my gambling addiction.” “I didn't think you'd actually do it.” “You don't know how addiction works, man.” “Admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery.” “Implying I want to recover.” “Probability is minimal.” “Exactly.” “I hypothesize that this is all incredibly silly.” “I concur with your hypothesis.” “The data supports it.” “Final conclusion: this conversation is incredibly silly, and we should probably stop.” “Agreed.” Breaker went back to the paper, and surprisingly enough looked like he was actually reading it. “Though I'm going to have to give Hughes a chewing out for his bad taste. Twilight Sparkle is the best pony. Lynn says so.” Melbourne did a passable imitation of a trout for a few moments, blinked several times, and went back his corn flakes, defeated. How did he forget the crucial fact that his friend had a six-year-old daughter? Of course he'd made the bet. He knew the stakes, had contextual knowledge, he knew the bet would be fulfilled, and then knew that he'd get to have the humorous final comment when it was all done. That bastard… The cafeteria went quiet again, though granted, Melbourne and Breaker were the only people in there, and the former was busily plotting vengeance on the latter. A few minutes of coffee-sipping, cereal-chewing, newspaper-reading and vengeance-plotting later, the door to the cafeteria opened, revealing a lanky, brown-haired man with a boyish face and small, rectangular glasses. “Oi, Bailey!” Melbourne called out to him. “Which one are you today?” “Same one I've been every day for the last five months.” Tristan Bailey walked over to the cabinets and began shuffling through the contents. Someone would have to buy bread soon. “Dammit.” Melbourne handed Breaker a fifty. “I swear, you're going to pull that switcheroo joke on us one of these days and I am going to be ready for it.” “Going to be hard to do that, with Trev at 19 and Tom in Antarctica.” Bailey put four slices of wheat bread into the toaster. There was no peanut butter. “Yeah, yeah, keep trying to fool me. I'm watching you.” Melbourne made the universal sign of “I'm watching you punk”, though the effect was greatly mitigated by his choice of shirt. Breaker finished the last of his coffee and continued reading about how some people were killing some other people somewhere in the world by means of sundry mundane methods. Some time was spent waiting for toast. Ding “Finally.” Bailey removed his toast. “I think old four-slot has seen better days.” He chose normal butter to make up for the lack of peanut butter. “Is it just me or is this place dead this morning?” “Eh, it's Friday. It's always dead on Friday.” Bailey placed the butter back in the fridge, took up his plate and mug, and sat down next to the other two. “And what a wonderful death it is. What's on the agenda for today?” “Gonna try knocking out a good chunk of the security meme update package, then data collection, and then several hours of staring at the ceiling and wondering where everything went wrong. Same as usual,” Melbourne said. “How about you?” Bailey swallowed a mouthful of toast. “More negotiations over mining rights in F-3426-Delta. Dumb bastards have been sitting on top of enough rare earths to plate the goddamn Statue of Liberty in iridium, not doing a thing with it for centuries, but the moment we ask to mine some of the stuff they dig in their heels.” “Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha.” Breaker gloated with well-practiced theatric fakery. “All I have for today is the final paperwork for the E-5503 tests, and then the whole bunch is off to Resources and Processing. I'll be done by lunch.” Melbourne glared at him with the special loathing only acquired by being forced to wear a humiliating t-shirt in public for fake money. This was not something you just let people get away with. No, this required action. “Bailey, I need you as witness to this.” “I am witnessing it.” “Good.” Melbourne took out his considerably thick wad of pastel bills, kept one for himself, and slammed the rest on the table. “I bet you all of this that you won't get done by noon today.” “Fair enough.” Breaker's tone was so noncommittal, so flat, so accepting. No, no this wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all. “Okay, you know what, no. Stakes aren't high enough. I have seventy-five dollars and a Steak n' Shake gift card in my wallet. I am willing to bet all of that on you having to stay past noon. Deal?” “Deal.” They shook on it. — Site 87 woke up, or in the case of the night shift, went to sleep. In both cases it was much like a cat, with yawns and stretches but no particular hurry to do so. Some cars entered the parking lot of S & C Plastics, others left, and absolutely no one outside found anything unusual about the fact. Ryan Melbourne sat down at his desk and sighed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did he bet real money? The entire point of the Monopoly money was so that he'd stop betting real money. He booted up his computer. The desktop wallpaper was a picture of Earth from the ISS. But that was how he worked, right? Things got stuck in his head. Melbourne is a compulsive gambler. Everyone knew that. Melbourne would bet his own grandmother on what someone had in their lunch. It was a meme. It stuck in their heads, and it stuck in his head. You didn't think about memes, you acted on them. They were automatic. You threw “implying” at the beginning of sentences. You said that things were twenty percent better when it didn't even make sense. You made references that no one else understood, just because they made sense to you, and your mind wouldn't let you stop. That was a good deal of memetics in a nutshell: programming the mind through the transmission of ideas. Good God, he needed help. The pony on his shirt didn't mean anything anymore: this was one of those moments where a man realizes that something is very much wrong and he needs to act immediately before the moment passes and he falls into complacency. He grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes. Make appointment with Dr. Talbot He stuck it to his computer monitor with a sharp jab, adding an emphatic period to the statement. He paused for a moment and then wrote another note: Stop pitying yourself. He then began reviewing dispersion patterns. — “We do not consider your case a pressing need.” It was the same response that Tristan Bailey had been hearing for the past two weeks of his adventures in bureaucracy. The translation software had latched onto the phrase, spouting it and variants in its metallic monotone. It seemed to fit the man sitting across the negotiation table: bald and tall, with a thin face and not a spark of life anywhere in his eyes. At the very least he didn't have a “sub” or “vice” anywhere in his title. He might actually have some power. “That may be the case, but as I have said a thousand times before, your society can't be without needs. Tell us the need, and we will be more than happy to supply you.” “I have no authority to make decisions of this scale.” That same answer. No one seemed to have any authority. “Are you sure? There's absolutely nothing your people need or want from us? Luxury goods, cultural knick-knacks, anything?” “I have no authority to make decisions of this scale.” Bailey argued back and forth with himself in his head. There was a significant amount of valuable materials available here, and two weeks wasn't an abnormal time for negotiation. Maybe he was just too used to dealing with primitives who saw them as gods or fellow institutions of the paranatural. But, there were only so many extra-universal contacts and contracts that could be held at any one time, and leaving this one open for weeks without progress would just be taking resources away from something that needed them more. This was a judgment call scenario. The mining could wait. It wasn't like Multi-U was low on options. Bailey stood up and straightened his tie. “Well, it appears that you won't be swayed by any of my reasoning, so I'm going to have to take my business elsewhere. Good day to you, sir.” They shook hands. For a brief moment, the thin man took notice of a slight prick in his palm. His eyes went glassy a brief moment later. When he woke from his stupor, all he would remember was a plain looking foreigner who had been attempting…something. Bailey walked out of the room, and hoped he had better luck in F-3426-Gamma. — Harold Breaker smiled to himself as he checked his watch. 11:46. It wasn't so much that he had won the bet. Caring about those things was Melbourne's job. He was just happy that the project was done and out of his hands, as were the creatures themselves. That was always a good feeling, getting something done. What made things even better was that E-5503 had proven itself to be quite fireproof, enough so to justify farming the things for their leather. He knocked on the wall of Melbourne's cubicle. The man himself was hunched at his computer, typing away lines of code. “Of course. Today is just not my day.” He jabbed a thumb at a small pile of cash on top of a filing cabinet. “Right over there.” Breaker scooped up the money, took the two steps necessary to cross the cubicle, and set it down next to his mouse pad. “I'm in need of a ballpoint pen and I am willing to pay seventy-five American dollars for it.” “Well, what do you know? That's my asking price.” Melbourne grinned “You can keep the card. There's only like four bucks on it anyway.” — The next day was Saturday, which meant it was Harold Breaker's visitation day. As such, it involved cartoons about friendship, followed by burgers and milkshakes for lunch. |Hub|

Researcher Felix was playing a game. To his left sat D-2768, who liked to be called Sam. To his right, D-478, Harry. Across from him, Jeremy. The board was spread before them all, miniature figures locked in an eternal battle to the death. "Well Sam. It seems as though you're being attacked by a Mage. Best roll and avoid that." Sam shuddered, stretched, and tapped a switch. Through one nearby window a slight flickering light was visible. Click Crack Click Felix glanced through the window, and then looked back at Sam. "Congratulations Sam. A sixteen." Sam shook himself, horrified, but at least he wasn't dead yet. He hated himself. "Alright Harry, your turn again. Try not to cock it up too badly." Harry slid his figure, a cleric, closer to Sam's warrior and directly next to a small goblin enemy. "I wanna punch that one right there, if I can." "Indeed you can Harry. Roll." Harry tipped the switch without hesitation. Click Crack Click "Ooh, too bad Harry. A four. You missed him, and how you managed to is beyond me. Rotten luck. Jeremy?" This was Jeremy's third game, and Felix was quite impressed with that. Normally people had given up by then. "Backstab the bastard in front of me." "Excellent choice. Roll." Click Crack Click "You killed the poor man! Oh dear. Excellent form though, I do appreciate that. Continuing! Sam?" "I- I'd like to attack the same guy as last time." "Fantastic. Roll." Sam froze, his finger on the switch, shaking violently. "Come on Sam, we haven't got all day. Roll." Sam made a fist, and bashed his hand against the table. He stood, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, and screamed red-faced at Felix. "I can't do it! I can't do it anymore! This is awful, how can you do this to people it's outrageous and I won't participate in this for another-" Sam barely even noticed the taser before he was out cold. He awoke in a small concrete room, his orange jumpsuit replaced with a black design bearing a large, white number on the back. "Oh no. Oh no no nononono…" He could hear everything through the metal sliding door that made up the entrance to his cell. Click Crack Click And somewhere around the room, the sound of a door banging open, pausing, and slamming shut. Click Crack Click Sam pulled himself together. He would die with dignity. He wasn't here because he had lost, he was here because- Click Crack Oh God. Click Not his door. Not this time. Another step closer though. He could hear muffled sobbing. Click Crack Click Another door. The one next to his? The anticipation was- Click Crack Click The sobbing was gone. His door didn't open. But Sam knew he was next. Click Crack Click The door to his cell shot open and the tiny floor inside tilted up, dropping him out into the large circular room beyond. The door slammed shut behind him. He looked around the room in a daze. Nineteen other men and women dressed like Sam stood pressed against the walls of the room, staring behind him in a mix of horror and apprehension. A slew of dead bodies in the same suits as theirs lined the walls, their heads twisted into unnatural positions, a look of pure fear locked on their faces, terror etched into their expressions. But where was it? Sam followed the gazes of the other occupants of the room, towards the door that he presumed had opened before his. A statue, holding the still-twitching corpse of a woman, frozen in place. Sam wretched, grabbed at his stomach, began to stand- And then the lights went out. Click Crack

He stared at the opaque glass of his visor. It was nothing he hadn't seen before. Every single day, he looked at nothing but the misted over surface. He had wept the first few months. By now, he didn't feel like mustering the energy to cry. Most days, he couldn't muster the energy to do much of anything. Not that there was anything to muster energy for. His eyes traced the spiderweb of cracks in the glass. He knew it better than he knew his own face. He recalled being handsome, back in Russia. He had attracted a wife whom he vaguely remembered being beautiful. Of course, there was no telling just what his face looked like now. He knew it had been years, but just how many he couldn't guess. The accident though, that he remembered quite well. It had all been going so perfectly. They had told him he would be the first human being in space. And perhaps he had, before the explosion. He had been the only one actually wearing a full suit when it happened. His friends, they had been lucky. At the time, he had mourned for them. He had gone through years of training with Sergei and Andrei, and watching them be torn apart by fire and shrapnel had been the worst moment of his entire life. Now, though, now he envied both of them. In the beginning he had prayed to God to be rescued. The air in his suit was only supposed to last a day, maybe two, without resupply. At first he had counted off the seconds in his mind. When he reached three days, he stopped, the burn in his throat made sure of that. After what he guessed was five days the gnawing pain in his stomach took up all of his attention. When he went for almost a full week without asphyxiating, his prayers slowly turned from rescue to a far more desperate wish. In his grief-stricken state, the ramifications of his continuing existence were slow to occur to him. Eventually it dawned on him that, even if he had continuous oxygen, he would have long ago died of dehydration. At first this seemed like a miracle. He was so hopeful, certain that the motherland would not leave him here in the empty void of space. When the thing had first attacked him, he had prayed for death. He had prayed to die rather a lot over however long he'd been stuck in this suit. God hadn't been sitting by the phone, it seemed. The Devil hadn't been especially receptive either. None of the old gods had bothered showing up. Perun, the god of thunder and lightning, the one his wizened grandmother used to whisper about in front of the hearth, well, apparently he wasn't in a prayer answering mood either. When the second attack came, he finally gave up all hope of being rescued. It had him now. That had been a long time ago. He had stopped praying to anything before long. After the praying had ceased, the screaming had started. He had screamed and screamed for days. Once, his throat had become so damaged that he had choked on his own blood. That had been the last time tears welled up in his eyes. For a moment, a brief, shining moment, he had hope, hope that he could finally die. He really should have known better. For what felt like weeks he begged himself, God, anything, to let him just die of dehydration, of starvation, of asphyxiation, anything. There was no way he could be alive anymore, not after floating in space without supplies for this long. Yet, he stubbornly remained breathing, breathing and suffering. Abruptly, the constant feeling of motion -the whistle of what air there was this high in the atmosphere rushing past his suit, the sharp tug of G-forces against his flesh- his only link to existence outside his suit, slammed to a halt. He knew what that meant. He knew all too well. It had come for him again. The pain arced through the same spot in his chest, just as it had before, time and time again. He screamed, this time in agony, not in fear or despair. Unbidden, his hands rose to his helmeted head. He knew it was useless, but he had to try anyway. His gloved fists pounded against the hardened dome. He never saw what menaced him, never knew what it was that tormented him. It didn't really matter. Knowing wouldn't change a thing. Oh but it was so much worse than before. Whatever the thing was, it had gotten much better at hurting him. He had stopped screaming long, long ago, but now he found his lungs being voided of air against his will, his vocal chords, scratchy from disuse, finding a purpose again. He screamed for an audience of one. No one but him heard. His fingers, so clumsy in the bulky suit, reached above him, to fight back, an involuntary response to the pain. He knew there was nothing there that he could touch. There never had been. His screams grew louder and louder as the pain spread through his entire body. His hands came back from their fruitless quest to beat a frantic tattoo against the glass of his helmet. It had to break. It had to. Something like desperation filled his heart, a diseased, atrophied cousin of hope. It hadn't broken before, but now it would. This time would be different. Death would come, death would free him. It didn't. The comforting rush of the vacuum, his last hope, didn't sound in his ears. The burning agony reached a new crescendo, and he felt fresh tears in his eyes, for the first time in so long. His efforts to break the helmet ceased, fingers instead scrabbling in what he knew was a futile effort to breach the pressure seals. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the searing departed. He gasped for a long time. He couldn't bring himself to bother feeling relief. It would be back soon enough. Aleksei's breathing finally calmed back down. Once again, he stared at the misted over surface of his visor. It's not like it was anything he hadn't seen before.

They started giving us oxygen tanks after the fifth cleaning. We would vomit too much, and get Larry all dirty again. God forbid we have a dirty Larry. I remember when we didn't have the tanks and we had to clean out the suit. The smells that hit your nose all at once - encrusted shit, stagnant piss, aging vomit, liters of sweat. But the worst of all was the smell of rot and death that pervaded the air around the costume. I always remember a documentary I watched on the US invasion of Okinawa during World war II. There was one hill both sides were trying to secure, and rotting corpses littered either side. They said that if you charged down the hill, you'd throw up from the stench before you hit the bottom. It was a terrible, gut-wrenching smell that hit my nostrils every time I cleaned this thing. Of course, now I have a skin-tight scuba suit on, so hopefully I'll be fine. The first thing I remove is the head. Underneath, your typical d-class. His lips are rasped and puffy, and his chin is covered in dried-up vomit. The inside of the costume's mouth is caked over in barf. They say the d-class almost immediately start tossing their cookies when they get in the suit, because of the smell. It's horrible, because Larry tries to talk to you even while they're vomiting, and all you hear is a garbled mess of spit and choking. A quarter of the people who wear the suit die in the first 5 minutes from this. I start removing the rest of the front half. The torso's always the easiest, just a bunch of sweat and some vomit that's dribbled down. It's funny when you look at the corpses afterwards, everything else is absolutely disgusting, but the torso is always in pristine condition. Sometimes right before the d-class expires they take him out of the costume and remove his organs, which they donate to hospitals. I mean, we have to be at least somewhat humane, right? I start getting to the waist and pelvis. Typically the smell makes you barf right away. We always throw out the jumpsuits from Larry's testers after the test. I can't help but feel bad for whatever pedophile murderer rapist they've put in the back. Can you imagine having somebody fart in your face for 3 days until you die? They did one test where the d-class were completely naked. The guy in the back choked to death after one day. When they opened up the costume they found the guy in the front had shit all over the guy in the back's face, and it was encrusted over in the stuff. Apparently he had choked to death on the other guy's shit. However, this time they were both wearing jumpsuits. The jumpsuit was stained in the front with urine and in the back with shit. Nothing too bad, but the rashes that form after the first day always make me cringe when I get a good look at them. Typically the guy's nuts are pussy and swollen, and his ass is bleeding and cracked. We had a few cases where women had their periods while inside the suit. I gag whenever I think about those. The worst part is the boots. When we first did testing, researchers noticed a slish-slosh noise after the first day. It took them a moment to realize that it was the boots. You see, Larry's boots are rubber, and so do not absorb but only collect fluids. All the piss and shit and vomit and sweat and blood running off the people wearing the suit drains into Larry's boots. It collects into this viscous fluid, mostly brown and yellow, with the occasional flecking of period blood. The person's feet becomes caked in this fluid, which slowly turns into a muck. And when you have to remove their feet from the boots, it makes this loud sucking noise like pulling a flip-flop out of mud. And that's only the first guy.

Mr. Eric Brashin checked his silver pocket watch, holding it only by the chain. The boy was late. Of course. The meeting he had scheduled was already bound to prove a waste of time. Lateness always reflected badly on a prospective recruit. When the prospect, as he was wont to think of them, can't be trusted to handle even the simplest of appointments properly, why on Earth should he trust them with matters of infinitely greater importance? Misters Marshall, Carter, and perhaps even Dark, did not look kindly on a lack of professionalism. More personally, he himself had only contempt for the kind of idiots who came to him, hat in hand, begging for a chance, and then didn't even bother to show up for the introductory meeting. Mr. Brashin stood stiffly in one of the greeting rooms the club used to meet with those not aware of the more exotic aspects of the establishment. Barely a minute had passed before he was drawing his watch out by its chain again. He examined the face, taking note of the time while being careful to not actually touch the watch itself. Irritated, he asked himself aloud, “Eight minutes late already, where has the punctuality of this new generation gone?" Another five minutes passed unremarkably, with his scheduled meeting still going unmet. Despite himself, Mr. Brashin began to feel a bit annoyed. The young rich these days all felt themselves entitled to the world waiting on them, hand and foot. Well, he doubted this particular entitled fop would be finding himself favorably received by Mr. Marshall. Five minutes late could be explained. Ten minutes would get you a polite kick out the door. More than that, and you would likely end up as what Mr. Marshall referred to as a "loose end." Gripped by a sudden suspicion, Mr. Brashin reaching into his coat pocket and drew out his pocket watch, this time holding it by the actual timepiece, not the chain. The hands spun crazily for a handful of moments, before resting on twelve hours, twelve minutes, and one second. He knew what it meant, it had been explained to him very concisely, all those years ago. He could still hear the oily voice of his predecessor, "Twelve means zero, hours mean years, minutes mean months, and seconds mean days." Whatever tiny hint of color there was in his face drained out of it. Only now did he hear the measured footsteps leading towards the room. It was of no use to try to run, trying to hide would have been laughable, and fighting back would only embarrass him. Unexpectedly, Mr. Brashin felt his eyes sting and his vision blurred for a moment with tears. He pushed them back sternly. If he had to go, he would not go crying. The click of shoe on hardwood stopped just outside the stately meeting room door, and the handle turned slowly. The door opened, and there was Mr. Marshall, smiling at him sadly. A rather large man stood just behind and to the right of him, but the brute was unimportant, in the larger scheme of things. Eric Brashin only had eyes for his employer. His voice was barely controlled, almost cracking as he asked, “If I may ask, Mr. Marshall, why?” Mr. Marshall's sad smile didn't change for an instant. He looked the man, his faithful employee of nearly twenty years, dead in the eye. “Loose ends, Mr. Brashin. Always loose ends. Your last hire was more trouble than they were worth, being a spy and all. We simply can't allow you to continue, after a horrendous mistake like that. Our clients value privacy above all else, and letting in even a single mole jeopardizes every last one of them. I had hoped you would be eligible for a nice, peaceful, retirement, but you know far too much.” He sighed sadly. “I understand, sir.” And he did understand. Working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark, one knew that you would likely never make retirement. He had known all too well how likely it was that precisely this thing would happen, but he had tried to never pay the idea much mind. He gently removed the watch from his pocket and held it out. “I suppose you'll be wanting this back then. For my-” He choked a little on the word, "Replacement." Still with that sad smile plastered on his face, Mr. Marshall answered while taking the silvery timepiece, “I'm sorry, Eric.” The soft thump of a silenced gunshot sounded over Mr. Marshall's shoulder, and Eric Brashin stumbled backwards and fell to the rich hardwood, blood staining his crisp grey suit. Darkness swam across his vision, and the last thing he heard was Mr. Marshall say softly, “Loyalty, Henderson. That is what loyalty looks like.”

An old man stands alone in a dusty room. The man, who is older than the room and a great deal dustier, walks slowly along a row of shelves. It is dark and the man cannot see what is on the shelves, cannot see the plaques and plates that he knows are there. To the man this does not matter, the plaques and their words and titles and dates and shiny edges. He knows what they say, the myriad that lines the rows and rows of the dark room. He read them as they were first lain down, each one polished lovingly with the soft cloth he still carries. The old man stops and sighs, looking down at the space behind an especially small plate, where lays an aged photograph of a cluster of men standing in front of some great brass contraption. The plaque, had he been able to read it, would have read: S.C.P. 2374-L: Eisenburgh's ‘Time Machine' - Displaced following test 2374-L-1, 1937. Crew assumed deceased, no remains recovered. The old man remembers. He remembers the day that Doctor Henrickson had brought him the photo and the two-line obituary for the men that it displayed. He remembers when the others, the other researchers and the other doctors, came to visit and see the little shrine to their lost friends. He remembers when they stopped coming. He turns and looks with eyes that cannot see at another small plaque a few yards away, near-entirely obscuring the tiny sliver of colored glass that lay fixed behind it. It should read: S.C.P. 3298-L: The Rainbow's Mirror - Destroyed following exploration attempt 3298-L-2, 1922. Exploration team confirmed deceased 1924. He remembers the day when he had to hastily inscribe the confirmation of the poor men's deaths, as limbs started launching themselves from the glass, plastering an especially persistent widow with salt water and sending the cleaning crews barging through his aisles. He remembers the disgusted look on the director's face, as he showed him the revised plaque, the floor still wet with salt water, blood, and lye. S.C.P. 2167-L: The Cat's Cradle - Deactivated following investigatory test 2167-L, 1932. All personnel involved deceased. The old man stares, his eyes just barely making out the shape of a twisted splintered of burnt wood that stands behind the dark shape of the plaque. He cannot see the tiny bits of fur or hair or the stains of blood that marked the wood, but he knows all too well that they are there. The old man remembers them all, each and every last one. One hundred and twenty three paces to his right lies a larger-than-most inscribed circlet of metal, one of the last that he ever carved out. S.C.P. 2902-L: Litelli's Last Suit - Destroyed following military-applications test 2902-L-1, 1941. Item properties confirmed. All personnel involved deceased from direct exposure/ related illness 194 . The old man still doesn't understand why they had him put the blank bit at the end of that plaque, what they were so sure would happen. He remembers the way they carried in the little bit of burnt fabric, the strange box they held it in and the strange suits they wore. He had asked them why they wore such strange clothes, what they were protecting themselves from. He remembers their answer, how he needn't worry and that it was merely a precaution. He looks, or pretends to look, and imagines he can just barely make out the tiny crack in the box that showed up one day after a woman had been there, watching it for hours. He remembers her tears. He remembers the tears of the director, when they had closed the big vault door at the end of the room for the very last time. Outside the dark room stands the dark beams of a hastily plastered wall and in front of it the bright light of a hallway. People walk past, lit by bright fluorescent lighting that makes the shadows under their eyes jump and wander. A few of them, but not many, turn and look at the small plaque that hangs on the wall. Frank Digliani Memorial SCP Archival Wing 1860-1941 Dedicated 1978 May He Rest In Peace The old man in the dark room remembers it all, alone, as the rest of the world slowly forgets.

One afternoon, at a fashionable clubhouse belonging to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. "Look what I made!" "It's lovely, sir. You are truly gifted. May I ask what it is?" "I made it using the kit that I bought from you guys last year, and the tools that you sold to my friend a few years back before his accident! And the wood came from trees on that secret island in the secret lake that I had to rent the map from you guys for, and—" "Fascinating, sir. But… what is it?" "It's a reverse mirror voodoo puppet!" "I'm sorry, sir, a what?" "Reverse mirror voodoo doll stick puppet!" "A mirror voodoo—" "REVERSE mirror!" "But, sir, a mirror already… yes, sir. A reverse mirror voodoo doll stick puppet. Very impressive. You are a true artist." "Yeah! So what'll you give me for it?" "… I beg your pardon?" "I'm selling it to you! What'll you give me for it!" "I, uh, sir, I… I'm not authorized to make purchases on behalf of my employer, sir. I'll need to speak to my supervisor." "Sure, you do that. This little baby oughta go for eight, maybe nine million?" "Uh. Sir, I… please realize that the prices for which we sell items are not the prices we pay for items, and— " "Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. So… eighty, ninety grand?" "Sir, really, I'm not authorized to make purchases on behalf of— sir, what does the reverse mirror voodoo doll stick puppet even do?" "Pick it up." "Uh…" "No, take it out of the towel. Let it touch your skin!" "Sir, I am a client interaction representative, not a test subject. If you wish to purchase a human test subject for demonstration purposes, that can be arranged as a separate transaction." Eleven years later "Uh, yeah, hi, I was wondering… uh… did… did anyone bid on my puppet this time?" "As a matter of fact, sir, they didn't even get the chance!" "…what?" "Before the auction could even start, the SCP Foundation raided the site, and they stole your puppet!" "… REALLY?!?!?"

More than anything else in life, they desire pleasure. It fuels their every action, driving them to do impossible things for the purpose of gaining it. Even when they don't realize it, pleasure is what motivates them, deep, deep down in their minds. Every aspect of their life is touched by it. And yet, I see them whittle away their lives actively trying to repress it. Though they let it control them, they work to keep it hidden away, never speaking of it or taking part in it during their normal lives. Some break this convention, and all constantly have pleasure on their minds, but for the majority, they cut down what they could do, what they could be. I do not understand this. Pleasure shapes me more than it does them, so my perspective may be somewhat clouded. But to shy away from an integral part of what they are seems to my eyes madness. Creatures driven by pleasure should experience it whenever they can. So I help them. I can see into the deepest recesses of their minds, and instinctively tell what would bring them the greatest pleasure in their whole lives. And then I am that thing, ready and willing to help them escape their self-imposed bonds and to truly live. Those who answer my call are rewarded. All who see me answer my call. You have no idea what it's like, being the thing to please another. I have been large and small, male, female, and in-between. I have been beautiful, plain, and ugly, and yet remained the absolute best thing in all of existence to the one I save. Sometimes it's sensual; sometimes it's romantic; many times it's erotic. But at all times, it is what they want. No, more than that. It is always what they need. I feel the act regardless of whether or not we are together. It always culminates in the act, but some chose to not bring themselves into my presence; rather, they pleasure themselves to a representation of me. But even without the thrusting and grunting, I still feel the immense satisfaction of helping another escape their self-inflicted bonds, and become what they were truly meant to be. It is the feeling of being truly and properly alive. But once we are finished, it must happen. As is always the case with pleasure, it must be associated with pain. It is another thing I do not understand about them. Though they lock away their pleasure, they also lock away their pain. Reflection has taught me that they think of it as a harmful thing, something to be actively avoided. They cannot see that it is a necessary counterpart to pleasure. If they do not want to live in pleasure, and they do not want to live in pain, then what do they want to live in? I simply cannot answer. However, I can help. As with the pleasure, the pain is not something I choose to do; it is simply something I cause to happen. Torment and suffering unlike any other they have ever experienced overwhelms them, and they fall to the floor, gasping and shrieking in agony. On rare occasions, it has occurred to me to help them, but then I realize I would be taking away from the proper experience. Men and women alike beg to be saved, and men and women alike die. I regret none of this. By showing those who have spent their whole lives in a haze of nothingness the ultimate pleasure and the ultimate pain one after another, I help them live as I do. It is only for a moment, but is a moment of perfect understanding not enough? Does that not allow one to be connected with all those around them before passing on, having finally seen the light? Is this not the way things should be? Such is my lot in life. I bring pleasure, and I bring pain. Once, long, long ago, I regretted it; manipulating one only to take their life seemed to me a horrid, ugly thing. But now, after who knows how much time, I see that it is the way things are to be. So I accept it. I wait in this dark cell, waiting for whoever comes to me next. And then I deliver them into the light.

Dr. Matthew Eggers, special assistant for sapient animal research at Site 19, sat at a bare table in Interview Room C, a notepad in his hand. In front of him, crawling back and forth across the table, was the creature that had occupied so much of his time for the last six months - SCP-1867, a telepathic, English-speaking sea slug that claimed to be Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, a 19th century British gentleman and explorer in a severe state of denial about his physical form. "Lord Blackwood", as he insisted on being called, was relating yet another fabulous and improbable tale of his adventures, and as he had done three times a week for months now, Eggers was taking down the self-proclaimed scientist's words on his notepad. Thus far, the Foundation had yet to decisively verify a single one of his anecdotes - but if even half of his claimed encounters with other contained objects were true, then there was a wealth of information in the slug's head that would be of great use in the Foundation's work. "There I was!" Lord Blackwood exclaimed. "Thousands of feet above the forests of Baden, my eyes level with the peak of the Feldberg itself, my legs wrapped for dear life around the neck of an Austrian green dragon, one hand feverishly clutching the reins as I struggled to bring myself about. The saddle had fallen to the ground when I cut it loose, taking the beast's Prussian rider with it. I had expended my last rounds of ammunition fleeing Count von Zeppelin's airborne war machine before it caught aflame and fell to the Earth. I managed to cajole the dragon into turning back towards the east, and that's when I caught sight of a truly massive dragon - one of the rare Grand Romanov breed, imported from Russia - bedecked in burnished steel armor that shone impossibly bright as it caught the last rays of the evening sun. There, upon its back, I saw my quarry - Kaiser Frederick III himself. On any other day, I would never have dared to test my prowess against the man who was after all the husband of our dear queen's daughter. But now that the Eye of Lakshmi itself - that famed Hindustani amulet with the power to carry a man's soul into a new body after death - was in the hands of the Second Reich, I was left with no recourse. "I drove the dragon straight at the Kaiser's and called forth from its lips a burst of flame that the Hun barely evaded. As I turned about to make another pass, I saw him blow into a massive hunting horn that echoed across the mountains and valleys of the Schwarzwald - and to my horror, another half-dozen dragons rose out of the opaque canopies below, fresh and ready for the fight. I was outnumbered and outgunned - the last of England's finest drake-men had been felled by von Zeppelin's contraption, our fusiliers on the ground forced to retreat by the German cavalry advance. I had only one hope to win the day. Holding on to the reins for dear life, I reached into my pack and carefully withdrew the oddly-shaped red vase that housed the most unusual of benefactors…" "I'm sorry, Lord Blackwood," Dr. Eggers interrupted, "but I'm going to have to cut you off there. It's going to take me the rest of the day to translate all this from the shorthand, and the rest of the week for the staff to go over it. We'll have to finish the story during the next interview. Alright?" "Dash it all!" Lord Blackwood replied. "I was just getting to the good part. Very well, I suppose I'll have to leave you in suspense for another week." "I'm glad you understand," Eggers said, as he rose from the chair and made his way to the door. "Just wait right there and Dr. Andrews will be by in a few minutes to take you back to your tank." "About that, my dear boy," Lord Blackwood said. "Do you think you could finally see your way to draining all that excess water out? I appreciate a good swim as much as the next fellow, but my skin has become far too wrinkled as of late." "I'll pass that on to the director," Eggers said. The door closed behind him and Lord Blackwood was alone - or so he thought. From the air vent near the ceiling of the room, an interloper had been observing in secret the conversation between the doctor and the slug, waiting for exactly this moment. As Lord Blackwood turned his back to the vent, idly crawling about and humming "Land of Hope and Glory" to himself, he made his move. Slowly and silently, he exited the vent and made his way down the floor and to the table. Inch by inch, minute by minute, the unexpected guest made his way across the wooden surface, following Lord Blackwood's slime trail until he was almost right behind the slug at the table's edge, and then… "OI! TOMMY!" Lord Blackwood had moved on to singing bits and pieces of "The Pirates of Penzance" when the silence was broken by a loud cry in a vulgar London patois. The nudibranch half-instinctively attempted to reach for his hip before recalling that he was not carrying a gun, and instead turned himself around as fast as one in his condition could do so and found himself face-to-face with the last thing he had expected so rude a call to emanate from - a common snail, its pulsating eyestalks fixated directly on him. In all his years of adventuring, Lord Blackwood had never encountered so bizarre a thing as a talking snail. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and gave the creature a stern glare of his own as he replied, "Who the Devil are you and how do you know my name?" "Oh, come on, Tommy," the snail replied in a dialect that made Lord Blackwood cringe. "Surely you 'aven't forgotten the face of your dear old 'friend' Georgie, 'ave ya?" "George Phillip Harris the Fourth," Lord Blackwood sneered. "I should've recognized that guttural nonsense you have the audacity to call English right away. What are you doing here? Need to borrow money? On the run from the Swiss Guard? Perhaps you've concocted another ridiculous scheme to defraud the Americans out of the territories?" "You and I got some unfinished business to settle, Tommy," Harris said. "You killed me back in '55! You think a man just forgets a thing like that?" Lord Blackwood rolled his eyes. "Not this rot again. I thought we settled this after that business in Patagonia." "And yet, 'ere we are," Harris said. "'Ow many times 'ave I gotten meself turned inside-out because you were too busy 'ogging the glory to save your old pal from Godolphin 'ouse?" "I'll tell you the same thing I told you then - you brought all of that upon yourself when you decided to try and smuggle the Crown of Sutekh up the Nile." "You're a pint o' bitter if I ever seen one." Harris spat on the ground. "And where were you when 'alf the mummies west of the Nile were after me? 'Alfway back to London to kiss the Queen's knickers?" "I was in Alexandria helping the Patriarch, the Coptic Pope, and the Grand Mufti arrange the biggest exorcism conducted in Egypt since the fall of the Abbasids!" Lord Blackwood responded, the impatience in his voice mounting. "Were it not for what we pulled off, Africa itself would have been lost to the British Empire because of your foolish attempt at larceny." "We've played this game before, Tommy," Harris said. "Every time I let you tag along on one of my grand expeditions, you wander off and get me killed, and the next time you come 'round askin' for me 'elp to line your pockets with foreign gold you've always, always got some cock-and-bull story about 'ow it's not your fault. 'You shouldn't 'ave let the Sumerian god-man out of his casket', 'You shouldn't 'ave tried to kill the golem of Prague with a Derringer,' 'You shouldn't 'ave seduced the Gypsy King's sister.' I've 'ad it up to 'ere!" Harris swept his eyestalk in a line above his head. "You and I are gonna settle this 'ere and now like real gentlemen." Lord Blackwood sighed and swore under his breath, struggling to keep his composure. "Only one of us is a gentleman, Mr. Harris, and while the years have not been as kind to me as I might have hoped they would, you are hardly in any state to fight me. I walloped you soundly every time we met in the boxing ring back at Eton - and as I recall, you had not at that time been transmogrified into a snail." "A snail? A bloody snail? 'Ave you lost your mind?" Harris threw back his head and laughed. "I'm as fit as I've ever been - and I ain't been turned into no bleedin' sea slug, either." Lord Blackwood puffed himself up with rage. "So! I should've known you were the blackguard spreading these foul slanders about my being a sea slug! I demand satisfaction, and I demand it now, Harris - recant these lies at once or I shall be forced to give you what for!" "Alright, alright, Tommy, don't get yer pants in a twist," Harris said, grinning slyly. "You're right, you're right. You ain't no sea slug… but your mum sure is." Lord Blackwood cocked back his right eyestalk and swung. ADDENDUM: On ██/██/20██, a Roman snail (Helix pomatia) with anomalous properties similar to SCP-1867 was found in Interview Room C after SCP-1867 had briefly been left unobserved following the conclusion of Interview 1867-238. At the time of discovery, SCP-1867 and the snail were observed face-to-face on a table attempting to "headbutt" each other and strike each other with their eyestalks. In subsequent interviews, the snail has identified itself as "George Philip Harris IV", an individual referred to as an associate of SCP-1867 beginning in Diary 1867-3. The snail is currently being housed in a 40x70x30 cm specimen tank adjacent to SCP-1867's until such time as further examination and classification can be made. "Oi! Tommy!" Lord Blackwood turned his head and did his best to ignore Harris' shouts from the tank next to his. "Did you ever 'ear the one about the man who thought 'e was a botfly? Got nicked for indecency after 'e started runnin' up to ladies and biting 'em on the arm. Said 'e was just lookin' for someplace to lay 'is eggs!" "By Jove," Lord Blackwood thought to himself, "what I wouldn't give for an elephant gun right now."

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He soared higher and higher, white wings beating noiselessly as he streaked upwards, defiant of the gravity pulling him back towards the ground. Soon the figure buried himself in the clouds, the pale feathers blending in with the mass of moisture. How good it felt to stretch to his full extent! How wonderful it felt to ride once more upon his chariot and behold the mass below him in all its value! The creature grinned to himself. It had been too long since he had feasted so well, and on such delicious sounds! Oh, might have stayed had he been more gluttonous! Yet, he knew how to face temptation; he simply feasted on what was required before parting out of the normally silent Hell. And yet, he knew the best was still out there and he was meant to find it. At once, a beautiful song broke through the atmosphere, calling to him. Oh, could this be it? Could this be the messiah? Speedily, he dove down towards the pitch. She stood tall, a beacon at the front of the hall. Once again, the Church had its Musician and her voice filled the chapel. The faithful filed in and sat in their seats, row after row, section after section. The clergy lined up and watched quietly as the room filled, only the sounds of feet patting the ground and benches groaning as people settled in them to break the tone of the mechanism. Finally, once the final member sat down, the man standing at the foot of the altar spoke. "Faithful. Today, we celebrate the recovery of our Voice. She was taken from us, by the Heretics, the Foundation." He spat out the word Foundation like it was a blasphemous term, and the congregation murmured in assent. "However! The Heretics have been crippled! Their power is waning and their grip is slipping." The murmuring grew in volume, with greater grunts of agreement. "They have struck down our prophets too many times! They have tried to quiet our Truth! They defile our God and molest our Musician!" Cries of outrage and anger rose above the rumble of their voices. "They are unfaithful! They are against God! We must strike down this evil and make the Broken Whole!" The congregation was becoming frenzied, cheering loudly while stomping their feet against the ground. The man at the altar held up his hand, waiting until the only sound in the church was Her Singing. He spoke calmly and evenly, in a steady rhythm. "Broken we come. Broken we meet. Broken we fight." He repeated it, again using a steady rhythm as the crowd picked it up. "Broken we come. Broken we meet. Broken we fight." The chanting grew in volume as more people began saying it, then yelling it, then screaming it, once again stomping their feet in unison. Never in their frenzy was the meter changed. The congregation was so engrossed and spirited in the chanting that the entrance of a pale figure at the back of the crowd went unnoticed. How wonderful! He had made many pilgrimages before to many places, but never before had he found such a feast. He was almost content just to bask in the rhythmic noise of chanting. Almost. The people in the furthest back pew were caught completely off-guard. The row in front of them had just enough warning to turn around before their demise. After that, the organized rally became a chaotic massacre. Cries of pain replaced the proud proclamations. Men, women, children, families, trampled over each other, all trying to reach the altar, praying to God to save them. It was in vain. Each sob of terror, each pained howl, each and every shout of panic and plea made him grow more and more. He stepped forward through the aisle, slowly basking in the beauty of the scene. He reached the foot of the altar, wings having grown so huge as to reach every corner of the church. Spreading his arms outward and tilting his palms towards the heavens, the figure let out a pleasurable sigh, blood flying all over his form and sliding off as if it were water. He licked his lips, savoring the taste. Soon, far too soon, every human in the room was dead. Flesh and metal covered the walls and floors. And yet, he realized, feeding was not done. Though all the humans were gone, a pitch still persisted, originating from the construct towering over the back wall of the altar. It was so…majestic. So perfect. So undeniably holy. How could he leave? How could he leave? He knelt where he stood, recognizing where reverence was proper. He stayed for a long time, thoughts focused on it and only it, praying to it, thanking it, letting it nourish him more and more as it sang at higher and higher tones. Eventually, a new sound joined the pitch. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. He didn't mind. In fact, it seemed right. It was a sign. A sign of purpose, of more than just feast and fast. He stood and turned, wings folded in as much as possible to face the entrance. It must be protected. She must be protected. It was his God-given duty.

The journal entries included with this report were recovered from Researcher █████'s official research notes on SCP-589 following Incident 589-40. It is believed that Researcher █████ was the first researcher to come under SCP-589's effect. Assigned to work on a new project today, first one since the hearing. It's nice to know somebody up there still thinks I've got my shit together. I really shouldn't dwell on it. I have a new fresh start. The new project is some kinda animal thing, with a pretty standard desire compulsion. It was kinda frumpy looking, but in a sort of cuteish way. I'm not sure if I was even supposed to see it, since later they briefed us that it was cognitohazardous. Meh. I'll keep that to myself. Last thing I need is an amnestic drill in my brain. Second week on the project, and things are going really swimmingly. Paul has been complimenting me on my diligent work, and I haven't gotten one reprimand yet. But I hope they let me see the doll soon. If I work my best they might let me see the doll. I've been thinking about it, and it's a little familiar. One of those things you can't quite put your finger on, but it's still there. Paul and I are going out to drinks tonight, with some of the other guys on the team. I like it here. We're building a real sense of camaraderie. Plus, this bar they all go to is really something else. Got like, a retro-disco theme. Submitted a request for greater research access. I think that if we're going to study it's effects, we should be able to see it. For science. This is taking too long. I have submitted 3 requests for access, and they have all been denied. Ridiculous. Nobody else has worked on this as I have, I deserve to be able to check to see where I know it from. I thought Paul was my friend. He looked at my paper and you know what he did? He laughed. if I can't find a way to get access this way, I'm going to have to find another way in. I did it. I found a gap where security isn't around for a 4 minute window. I used my access pass to get in, and there it was. i think it really is Freddy. I picked him up, and I helped him stand. I took a picture with my phone so I can have him with me. Everybody needs to see him. Everyone deserves to see it. Got Alan in today. He was just as enthralled as I was. Said it smelled like his grandmas house. Kind of weird, but whatever, he deserved to see it. Had a close call with security, but I managed to talk my way out of it. Alan's on board with showing more people, and I have an idea of who I want to show next. Something is wrong something is very very very wrong. Paul is asking me funy questins, and everyone on site seems to be on edge. Security was looking at our workstations today and Alan was taken away. The people we showed were being given funny looks. I don't know whats going to happen All gone. Freddy isn't in the cell. Nobody knows where he went. He isn't on my phone he isn't in the photos he isn't anywhere at all. I really hope that we can find him soon. Susan was starting to panic, but I calmed her down. We'll find it. I can't find it. I looked everywhere. I looked inside the cell, outside the cell. I searched everybodys room. Went outside and scoured the area, couldn't find anything. People are starting to get unhinged. Susan jumped out a window and broke. Need to find it before someone else gets hurt. Paul must have it. he's the only one who I didn't search his room. he was the only one who we didn't show. It must be him. A couple of the guys and I are going to talk to him after hours today. Sure that he'll be cooperative. Went through Paul today. Nothing in his room, nothing in him. He told us he had it when we had him, but he didn't he is a liar. We hid him in Jess's room, and cleaned up the bathroom. Next one we search is the Director. Shortly after this entry was written, Researcher █████ and the remaining research staff attempted to access the Directors office. After a confrontation with security, Researcher █████ led a riot within Site-██, resulting in over 40 casualties, and the death of all SCP-589 personnel. Following this, the body of Paul Rothberg, lead researcher of SCP-589, was found in the dormitories. SCP-589's containment procedures have been updated, and reclassified as Keter.

As the bullet inched closer to his head, he took a moment to consider some things. The first was just how lovely his first real girlfriend had been. She had been one of those artistic types who had never really managed to make the vision in her mind match the final product. She had a tendency to call up fantastically beautiful scenes and work them with the paints, always disappointed when the reality didn't match her fantasy. He had helped her, of course, guided her hand silently, given her a soft, gentle kiss when she cried at the beauty of the thing she had created. He reflected for a moment on their child, who had been stillborn. She blamed herself for it, but he knew the truth of the matter—that some things need to be balanced, that a beautiful birth of art had taken a beautiful birth of child—and while he never said it, she could tell. His temperament, his eyes when he looked at her, the painful distance between them that seemed to get further and further until it became physical instead of emotion, and she had left him forever. He remembered the first time he met her, their high school year, when he'd first discovered some things about himself, about how he looked at the world, and how much he wanted her. She'd been so shallow. So weak in mind and body. It had been easy to take her, mold her, help her to grow as she should have. She appreciated it, of course. He made sure she did. Though it made her leaving all the more painful. He recalled the scent of her hair. That was his favorite memory. As his forehead was pierced, his thoughts broke, pain shattering his thought process as he felt the skin break, the bone buckle and shatter, slivers flying inward and out. He felt the heat of the bullet as its force bore it into the fleshy matter of his brain, eyes widening as he reached for his memories. No, he thought. But by then, it didn't matter. Termination Report Date: █/██/██ Subject: KTE-3410-Clockwork-Green 3410 terminated by small arms fire at close range, body removed and incinerated as per standard procedures. Guess the fucker can't stop bullets fast enough if you're in his face, but I can't do anything about the bullet now. - M.E.

You want to know where it all went wrong? The reason the Foundation is in this state? I can tell you. I'm probably the last person who can tell. They got all the others… either dead, hidden, or changed. I think six was the lucky one. They killed him early on. Threw him into the pit and watched him fall. Probably still falling. It was our fault. We were in deep, and it was the easy way out. When the Insurgency split, they took most of our top brass. Men who had experience in the field. We weren't as big then, which meant replacing them wouldn't be an option. Nobody wanted to work for us. In the end, we ended up with about a dozen guys left from a group of hundreds. We needed effective administrators more than ever. We didn't have any choice, we can't be blamed for that. I think it was Four who suggested it, or maybe Two. We'd recently recovered an object from some Turks down in the Caucasus, a machine that could make men. It was dangerous, and it cost us too much to take it, so we'd locked it up. He declared we would use it. Make any amount of men we needed. Some of us objected, but we were overruled. These were desperate times. We were losing so many people, and we couldn't see more friends leave. So we took a risk. A bad risk as it turns out, but thats the way these things are. Anyways, the project got underway shortly after that decree. We had the last of our best working on it. It was a round the clock ordeal, waiting for the updates. Maybe we were a little haphazard. Some corners were cut here, ingredients were skimped there. Whatever the case was, our first batch was a disaster. They weren't human, they weren't even beasts. Just empty shells. We scrapped them and moved on. Time was short, and it seemed like we lost more people every day. The second batch was better. They didn't really interact very well, but they could walk and talk like a human could. They didn't really have spirit. You know? The light was on, but there wasn't anybody home. The guys who were in charge of this whole thing declared him a success, and they put him into full scale deployment. We protested again, but we didn't amount to much. The next batches all came out better than the one before. We thought we were learning how to control it, and the things it produced. We got some interesting ones by messing with the settings, and using the different components we had at our disposal. They really thought that was brilliant, being able to store and transfer people like that. I thought it was spectacular, but then again we all knew how he really turned out. They deployed them all across the field, at every site and field office. It looked like we'd found a godsend, and it made some of them think we had some kind of mandate from the almighty. They wouldn't just say it aloud like that, but you could still tell when they spoke. Referencing our "divine purpose" to "protect humanity". They just didn't want to think about how easily we could've failed. It gave them faith though, that we would make it back from the brink. This is about the time we started getting the complaints. Didn't seem like a big deal at first. So some scientists think the cold guy acts like a robot. We know he acts like a robot. Some agents think the MTF captains are too rough. Boo-hoo. But when the question of credentials came up, we were kinda thrown off-guard. We tried throwing out some biographies, trying to keep them placated, and we tried to come up with something. I'm the one who came up with it. I said that if we couldn't make them plausible as down to earth administrators, we'd have to make them larger than life. Figures that would tower over the rest of the Foundation, and have legends build around them. There were problems. They were harder to conceal, since they were now recognizable. Some of us thought the stories were absurd, and unbelievable. We managed to sell the story enough that a majority of them bought into it, and we moved forward with the plan. The first changes were mostly minor, giving details to the backstories. The major one was the immortal guy. We gave some jewelry that was supposed to house their soul. Then we started making some of the major alterations. We gave them the family, the items, the whole nine yards. We enhanced a few sites to serve as incident points. We even had a few of the guys who we'd found, like burglars and cultists who we recruited. We did foolish things too, like decommissioning a few of the less important objects. There was a lot of controversy about that, but it was silenced when morale leaped up in the aftermath. We stopped losing people and started gaining them. It had worked. It wasn't a healthy culture, and it might be one of the main reasons things went wrong the way they did. But they were gonna go wrong anyways, it was only a matter of time. The first sign of trouble came when we started to get the administrators acting out on their own. At first it was minor stuff, like comments on memos or acting out against researchers. We thought it was just a result of their minds adjusting to their identities, but as it went on the acting out started to get out of hand. It stopped being a game of who can keep them the silliest and started being a struggle to keep them reigned in. We got most back under our thumb, but the few we missed were massively destructive, and should've made us reconsider the whole program. Site-19 was one of our primary sites, and its loss was highly unfortunate. It should've shown us that we had created a monster. Instead we thought it was an isolated incident. The instance that had caused it was disassembled, and we stopped creating new production runs of it. People didn't really ask about what had happened to him. We spread the word that he'd been taken to some top secret facility for new work. You bet your ass the administrators asked about him. They constantly badgered us with information about him, and we just kept our lips sealed. I think that if we had taken the incident more seriously, we would've avoided what happened, but we were riding too high to notice what was happening below. We started talking about a new generation of administrators, improved with all our newfound wealth and power. The thought was that if we had been so successful with a dozen men and no money at all, we would be able to create unbelievable things with the power we had now. So we made another decree. We assembled what was left of the old team and brought in our new best and brightest. We dusted off the old man maker and we started from a fresh slate. The results don't really matter. All you need to know is that they didn't last in the field. We lost at least half of them in the first month alone. There were many causes of death-poison, fire, breach, the works-but the main thing was that none of them were natural deaths. They were killed. We tried to figure out what was going on. Was the machine affecting probability? Did we make a mistake while we had been creating them? And on top of all this, the immortal guy disappeared. And then the guy who messed up photos disappeared too. We were scrambling. We'd been leaning on these guys for years, and they weren't anywhere. We probably didn't need them as much as we thought, but it was still the crutch the Foundation had been leaning on for years suddenly being yanked from underneath us. As we're trying to deal with this and the deaths, we start losing contact with sites. It felt like a disaster had been suddenly shoved in our faces. We tried to tread water, but every time we did another ocean of problems washed over us. We recalled the MTF-O5 to Command and waited for the worst. He showed up on the monitor, telling us he was in control. We had a short talk, most of it inane now, but he'd already won by that point. He had all of our administration staff against us. All we had was a couple MTF's and some access codes. We hollered and screeched and raised holy hell, but it didn't matter. He has us in his pocket. They run the council now, the men we made. They just keep a few of us around to write the memos. I wish I could say we're working against them, or that you should, but it's over. They've changed too much. It's not the same place it was before. It lost that mutual respect that we had for each other, and made it into this big, amorphous octopus, with arms reaching in every nation. Wrong as it may be, thats the way it is. Maybe someday we can rise against it, bring it down and make things like they were before. We can always hope.

Following the events surrounding the acquisition of the territory affected by SCP-7362, the following interview was conducted with Jeremiah Smalls, the only individual to have survived the decontamination process. Of note is that despite a chronological age of 26, as confirmed by independent records, and an outward appearance consistent with that age, many of Mr. Smalls' internal organs were in an advanced stage of degeneration consistent with extreme age. It is currently unknown whether this was due to SCP-7362's effects, or due to the rapid decontamination process enacted upon him. Dr. Mace (interviewer): Hello, Mr. Smalls. Please sit down. Mr. Smalls: Okay. Um, can someone turn down the AC? I'm not used to it anymore and I'm really cold. (Note: the ambient temperature of the interview room was 29.5 degrees Celsius due to an unrelated and temporary failure in the Site's HVAC system.) Dr. Mace: Certainly. We'll make sure your room is more comfortable when you're taken back. In the meantime, I would like to know a little bit more about the situation inside, what did you call it? The Fields? Mr. Smalls: That's what Great Leader called it. I'd gone on a bike ride, and I saw that fence, and some buildings in the distance. I guess I was curious or something, so I went to take a look. And then I saw a woman, and she just pointed a gun at me when I got closer. Didn't have much choice then. Of course, neither did she. Dr. Mace: For how long have you lived inside the Fields? Mr. Smalls: About two years. Funny, it seemed longer. Dr. Mace: Did you ever try to escape? Mr. Smalls: In the beginning, I did. But after a while, I realized it was no use. Eternal Leader would punish people who tried to find loopholes. (Subject holds up left hand, which is missing three fingers) I got my name from this. Dr. Mace: Your name? Mr. Smalls: High Leader wouldn't let us use our real names, just the ones Illustrious Leader gave us. Magnanimous Leader called me Seven. To remind me, you see. So I wouldn't ever try to escape again. And I didn't. Dr. Mace: What can you tell me about SCP-7362? Mr. Smalls: About what? Dr. Mace: The substance we found in the well in the town square. Mr. Smalls: Oh. We used it as food, but it's the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. No one knew what it was, or where it came from. If Compassionate Leader knew, Beneficent Leader never told us. And I'm not sure if I want to know. But it never made us ill, or anything. Weird, come to think of it. To be honest, that stuff scared the shit out of me, and it's not like I didn't have other things to be scared of in there. But there was something… well, I don't know. And then what happened to Little Missy… Dr. Mace: For the record, can you tell me about this incident from the beginning? Mr. Smalls: Okay. Well, Little Missy was… Splendorous Leader used her as a… Little Missy had it harder than us. A lot harder. And life wasn't great for any of us, but if you didn't try to abuse loopholes, and didn't say anything Marvelous Leader didn't want you to say, then you wouldn't be punished. But Little Missy, she was always being punished, whether she deserved it or not. And she didn't want to go on any more. Everyone sort of knew that, already. But she couldn't commit suicide, because it was against the rules. But that day, she punctured her eardrums with a sharpened stick, just so that she wouldn't hear Wonderful Leader any more. And she ran away but she still couldn't escape. And Auspicious Leader didn't even want her back. So she stayed away for more than a month. Everyone thought she was dead, after some time. She had to be, right? We told each other that she was at peace now. That it was for the best. It may sound crazy, but it gave us hope. We didn't see much difference between dying and escaping, you know? She got away, we thought. Maybe we could, too. But then one evening, we found her inside one of the houses. She was all covered in food. You know, the stuff from the well. And she could hear again, just like that. Dr. Mace: Did she tell you what had happened to her? Mr. Smalls: She didn't remember. Even when Kindhearted Leader made her tell Felicitous Leader everything, she still said she didn't know. She remembered falling asleep, and waking up days later, the way we found her. Dr. Mace: Did she seem any different to you, after she came back? Mr. Smalls: She was crushed, of course. She'd starved herself to death to get away from Flawless Leader, and now everything was just like it was before. But… yes, there was something else. She was afraid of things. Just perfectly ordinary things, you know? Like rain, or her own reflection. Hell, she was even afraid of trees for a while! And she kept telling everyone that she wasn't ever going to try again, that she was glad it hadn't worked, and we shouldn't try either, because it wouldn't solve anything… Dr. Mace: Why is it that the police officers who first arrived on the scene were found shot, while those who had been inside for a longer time, such as yourself, were killed in a fire? Mr. Smalls: I'm not sure, but… we belonged to Altruistic Leader, you see. We weren't supposed to leave. Merciful Leader had to make sure we didn't… come back, like Little Missy did. Thoughtful Leader yelled something after me when I ran, but I couldn't understand the words. But Worthy Leader knows, you see. And Prosperous Leader told me I'd die before Meritorious Leader would let me escape. Virtuous Leader told me that so, so many times. Dr. Mace: Do you have any idea where we might find him? Mr. Smalls: I don't know. Sometimes I think Perfect Leader's already here. But that would be… that would be impossible, wouldn't it? But I really shouldn't be here, either. There's no way it'll last. Supreme Leader is going to find me and send me where the others are. Please, don't let Everlasting Leader do that. I'm begging you. <End Log> Closing Statement: Despite constant medical monitoring and treatment, Jeremiah Smalls died of multiple organ failure due to age and malnutrition 37 days following the acquisition of SCP-7362. Simultaneous with Mr. Smalls' expiration, an individual matching the description of "Leader" climbed out of the well holding the primary mass of SCP-7362. The individual was restrained, but tried to escape and was subsequently terminated. Autopsy revealed no biological abnormalities, and the subject's fingerprints and DNA do not appear in any medical, governmental or law enforcement database to which the Foundation has access.

It was memetic after all. This all began with Dr. Vang being booted out of the Foundation. I started working with Dr. Vang 5 years after I got my bachelor's and getting recruited because of my cum laude and all that. He was a charming guy; humorous, but never losing his cool, and works really hard. It stayed this way until… what, ten? Twenty years ago? He claimed he was under the effect of a stone in his desk. A stone that caused people to lose interest in work, to lose willpower for innovation. A procrastination rock. Maggie and I thought it was a joke—it wasn't the first time Dr. Vang created a fictional SCP to scare us. We didn't conduct any research on it; after all, how can you research a non-existent joke? The joke was forgotten, just like the stone itself, after a few days. I would not remember the stone again until many years later. Dr. Vang started to make mistakes he never made. A misplaced book here, an overturned beaker there, it was all explained away with a wave of a hand. He was an old man, after all. Then came the rushed reports, the missed meetings, the general lack of work done. His powers were taken, positions degraded, yet no one bothered to seek out a reason. I tried to not let him get fired; after all, he was my mentor, and a respected researcher as I'd first known him. But even with my hard work, I could not convince the O5 to let him stay. He didn't even bother to pack his office, he just left it alone with a note on the door saying "For the next guy". His stuff got passed around the Foundation. I lost track where most of it went, but I know the O5 would be looking over all the things he left, just like what they did with Dr. Ganz when he died. I visited Dr. Vang from time to time, and I remained working for the Foundation, but my heart just wasn't in it after Dr. Vang left. A new researcher, while digging through Dr. Vang's stuff, found the long-forgotten stone. It is, technically, an SCP, albeit not designated any object class or number. The incompetent researcher didn't find any anomalous properties and just disposed of it. The Foundation moved on to more important stuff; after all, who cares about a dingy stone with a four line report? The rock was tossed aside, along with other regular Foundation garbage. Soon, small problems started to pop up. A delivery that was supposed to arrive in a week took half a month due to decreased flights. An episode of a show was delayed months because of a lack of personnel. A highway that was planned to be built in 6 months dragged into several years. But no one noticed, it was all within normal. After all, what human doesn't make mistakes? We are fallible, after all. They aren't huge problems anyways. A few years before my retirement, I learned that the Foundation recovered the original stone along with several hundred identical stones from a secretive extremist group. The group laid hands on it after the botched disposal; they found the cause of the stone's properties, and mass produced the stone. It was then sold to several other activist groups, who started secretly planting these stones into UN assemblies, G20 meetings, every conference for major organizations from APEC to NATO. Stealth planes flew over municipalities, sprinkling cities with a thin layer of ground-up procrastinati in the dead of night. An attempt to weaken the major world players and bring down their enemies. The world still went on, day by day, and humanity held itself together. World leaders continued to maintain a strained peace with the extremists, and the ones who once believed that it can bring them victory were disappointed once again. There were no immediate effects, and the extremists soon turned to other means of bringing down their enemies. The shadow of the stone lingered, seeping into the lives of every man - an effect that no one foresaw. People all around complained about the general slag, but were just too apathetic to stand up for it. There's always someone else to blame, some other time to do it. Bills took years to pass, buildings took decades to build, and yet, no one seemed to care enough to fix it. Soon, activist groups fell apart due to lack of interest. Labor unions dissolved because no one had the will to fight for rights. Members of parliament bodies were still elected, but there were no bills to pass, no issue to debate, no conflict to resolve. Wars ended because the soldiers on both sides had lost the passion and patriotism that brought them there. The O5 council tried to prevent the spread of this phenomenon, to start the recovery, to let humanity stand back up on its feet, but no matter how hard they tried, our agents and researchers simply just dragged the missions on for years. We didn't die out. We just simply lost our will to improve. Everyone just… didn't care, I guess. Life was good. Why change? There's always later.

“What were you, Harken?” “…what, like in a cosmic sense? Probably a dog or something.” “Must you always be an asshole?” “No, it's a choice.” They'd been stuck at the same posting for three days now, and random acts of violence were becoming more and more appealing. A trashed-out storefront, it bore the distinction of being across the street from a hidden Church meeting point. It was also supposed to be the place where they were getting “back up”, owing to the new crackdown procedures in place. So far, neither Agents nor Churchgoers had shown. Unable to call in until reinforcements or Church subjects were five days overdue, Harken and Kramer had taken to annoying each other to pass the time. That is to say, more than normal. “Seriously, tell me.” “Why do you of all people care about this? I'm an Agent, a faceless cog in a faceless machine.” “Tell me, or I'll break something that's recently healed.” “…Fine…ok, OK! Back up, Jesus.” Kramer slipped away with feline suppleness, keeping low on the roof line. Technically, they were observing the business across the street, but had all but given up on any real action. Still, it didn't pay to be caught napping. Harken sighed, hunkering down lower on the low roof ledge and glaring over at Kramer's self-satisfied smirk. “You know, it's not fair that you have zero issue with causal bodily harm, and I can't even threaten you with anything really.” “Life sucks. Dish.” Harken threw up his hands in exasperation, shaking his head and sighing deeply, resigned to defeat. “I was in the army for, like, two years. Some personality profile said I had 'high moral flexibility', so I got bounced to Intelligence and…what?” “Sorry, just trying to imagine you in camo and combat boots” Kramer grinned, smothering a laugh. “ANYWAY. I think they were happy to shift me off. I'm not great in direct combat anyway…did a lot of interrogation stuff, which I am varying degrees of proud and ashamed of. The CIA came knocking one day, promised all the James Bond shit. I turned them down…I know a bullshit sell when I hear one. It just kinda…stuck, though. Couple months later, we had a interrogation get out of hand. Way out of hand…new kid, got a little over-patriotic and electrocuted someone suspected of terrorism. Not normally a issue…but as it turns out, he was innocent, and his dad was a major player in OPEC. Suddenly the CIA didn't look like such a bad option.” Harken lit a cigarette, leaning back and avoiding Kramer's fixed stare with practiced ease. He continued to smoke in silence just long enough to annoy Kramer without causing bodily retribution. “So they shoved me off to the CIA and glossed things over to make me look dead. Or incarcerated…you know, I really never checked which they said. Anyway, I did most of the same stuff as I did with the army, but with a bigger budget and almost zero oversight. It was fun sometimes, but more often than not it was paper pushing. Spies spying on spies for information nobody really needed. Enough to make me nostalgic for live fire exercises. Almost. Started drinking more, not bad, just more often than normal.” “That's to say there was a time you didn't drink?” Kramer's face was as expressive as a Moi. “Well…yes, actually. We were all fresh-faced kids, once, if only for a little while.” He grinned, pointing with the burning end of his cigarette. “Even you. I know, I know, the church takes Crusaders at a young age…but you played hopscotch and slept without nightmares once.” “We're talking about you, not me, you weaselly sociopath.” “Indeed we were.” He grinned, taking a deep drag. “I did well and got in trouble in about even measure. Ended up with a team following a lead on some kind of suspected Russian bio-weapon. Expected to follow ghosts for weeks, then end up staking out a hotel for a while and go home empty, but ended up on a farm out west, looking at a hell-iguana in an acid bath, surrounded by 'CIA' agents from some other department. The other fellows swallowed their crap, but I wouldn't release the site. Actually held a guy at gunpoint for a bit.” Harken sighed, remember the total lack of concern on the Agent's face, even with a gun jammed in it. “It all felt rotten, and I had to have a commander expressly tell me it was above my pay grade and to STAND DOWN before I let it go. Even then, I tried to log a complaint…which got me yet another reprimand. I kept seeing that big…thing, in the tank. It was watching me, somehow. I could…feel it. I got stunningly drunk, told my CO to fuck a goat, pissed in someone's roses, and fell asleep on the lawn in front of my apartment. At some point, I crawled inside.” “I woke up to some guy sitting on my goddamn side table, smoking. Even better, I was naked at the time, so the first bit was me just flailing around, trying to figure out what in the skippy fuck had happened. He started talking before I calmed down, so I missed some of the first bit. He told me about what I'd seen the day before…about what it could do, and had done. He told me about how I could go on trying to ignore it, push it away…or try to understand what was really going on.” Harken chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don't remember all of what he said…but what sold me was the honesty of it. For one of the first goddamn times, I was being told the nasty shit right along with the good. No gilding the lily, no idealized pitch…I was impressed. Plus, I figured that just going back to life after my little bender might not be great, so…I signed up. Went through admissions for about six months, doing tests and evaluations, getting told by large men with guns how serious everything was…so pretty standard for my life thus far.” He stopped, looking over to Kramer, her face still a calculated blank, watching like a predatory bird. He lit a fresh cigarette off his old one, rubbing his head. “Hey, come to think of it, did you ever go through admissions?” “No. I'm not filed as an Agent. Different protocols.” “Oh…well, yeah. So…ahh…yeah, that's my story.” “No it's not.” “What…oh. Listen, I've told you that bit already, it's not-” “No, you haven't.” “Yes I goddamn have, Kramer!” “You've paraphrased at best. You're the intelligence man, don't you feel full operations knowledge is critical to any mission?” “…absolutely fuck you.” “Duly noted. Squeal.” Harken sighed heavily, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his free hand. “I got lumped in with a three man team, Agents Billik, Hon, and Fourteen. We did pretty well, Billik and Hon were the muscle, Fourteen was the tech agent, and I handled intel and the 'spy shit', as Hon would say. We didn't do a lot of direct SCP-related stuff…went after groups and people mostly, but we did our share.” He laughed, smoke clouding around him. “Jesus, went after a new skip once with a eval team…Fourteen was normally this badass chick, all brass and nails, but it turned out this thing had an attractive effect with insects and such…we all woke up to her shrieking, run out to find her up on a chair, in a sea of caterpillars…oh god…” He started laughing hard, half-choking on smoke, coughing and doubling up even as he giggled. “I mean, I know it was dangerous, and we ended up losing one of the recovery guys, but god, Fourteen up on that chair, squealing and hopping from foot to foot, going 'getthemawaygetthemawaygetthemaway'…it was great. She was pretty pissed at us for a while, but I think she came to see the funny in it eventually. It was great.” The laughter trailed off in to silence. The quiet stretched out slowly, the odd sound of a far-off car or wind barely filling it. Harken sighed deeply, staring at his shoes. “We were on our way back from a recon mission that turned up nothing. Had a report of a SCP escape during transport. It'd gotten loose and was inside a hospital. MTF teams were en-route, but all available Agents were ordered to report to help contain fallout and such. Morons we were, we responded even when they said it was SCP-106. This was shortly after they grabbed it the first time, didn't fully understand it…makes sense now why it ran for a hospital. Anyway, we responded, secured the outside, which wasn't hard because everyone was…gone. That black shit was all over the lower doors. Heh…ended up busting open a window rather then get near it, said we'd write it up as 'tactical entry' in the report.” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his shoes. “We weren't the first team there. Found two of them still mobile, trying to get the hell out…it took them in front of us, yanked them in to a wall, grinning at us the whole fucking time. It…grabbed in to their flesh like how you'd grab a pile of dirty laundry, just…sank in. That black shit started spreading, and…yeah. We tried to fall back, or get out, but it wouldn't…let us. Kept herding us deeper, driving us…Hon lost a foot, Billik got his liver punctured…just kept picking at us. It…we…lost Billik in Surgery. It'd made a…thing…out of the tools, and Billik went to look. It…it pulled him in to it, rubbing him on it, mumbling something while Billik's face went to shreds, everything just…ripping and…it pulled him in, eventually. I say he was dead when it did. We…tried to get out again, but it kept pushing and pushing. Ended up in the natal unit, and…we…” His voice faltered, and he put a hand to his head, gently, a tiny tremor in his fingers. Kramer watched, silent and still as a gargoyle. Harken's hand curled, nails pushing against his skull, holding for a few seconds, twitching, before he lowered it again, eyes returning fixedly to his shoes. “It was bad. We tried to make a breakout, just flailing, really, and it grabbed Fourteen, yanked her back to…yeah. Me and Hon, we started trying to get the hell loose, just taking curves at random, running and running. You know how they say 106 isn't sapient? Bullshit. At the very least, it's a good mimic…it…kept singing. 'My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea' of all things…and just that line, over and over, in that grating, bubbly voice. We hit the main admittance hall, I mean we SAW the doors…and then we heard Fourteen.” “She came around a corner behind us…maybe thirty yards? She…she was a wreck, had bits missing, something wrong with her jaw…but she was limping, trying to scream after us. We froze, looking, and we saw that thing slipping out of the ceiling behind her. It just…fell, landed in a heap, then stood up and started to go for her. She screamed and screamed, begging us…Hon ran, tried to grab her, pull her along, but it…lunged. It grabbed both of them, and started sliding in to the floor, that black stuff seeping and spreading everywhere, in the floor…in to them. It started touching them, not rough, just…gentle, teasing, even as they screamed, and fought, sinking in to the black floor.” He paused, taking a deep, slow drag. “I heard them dying.” “I…I froze. They were holding out to me, begging. It had them, grinning at me, just…flat, dead…like looking at a painting. I ran. I ran, and I got out a little bit before the MTF teams rolled in. They didn't find anyone, got the old man recovered…I went before a oversight board. They said I acted in service to mission integrity, that I was at least able to report, probably saved some lives, blah fucking blah blah BLAH. Requested time off, got it, and stayed blind drunk for about…two weeks? Maybe three? Came back, got a bunch of evaluations, kept drinking, got in trouble, didn't really care. Kept getting shifted deeper and deeper until I ended up at the training center. Left me there to rot, until they needed someone to deal with your barrel of laughs.” Kramer watched in silence, finally speaking, eyes still intent and fixed. “It wasn't your fault, you did-” Harken's eyes widened, wheeling over and glaring, mouth fixed in a line of fury. “FUCK YOU. No, no, you shut the fuck up right fucking now. I've heard that bullshit from everyone, ever, and it's just that, bullshit. I don't need fucking platitude from you, fuck you. You wanted to fucking know, you just HAD to fucking pry, so there it is. I'm not asking for your 'interpretations' or 'solace', or any other bullshit tripe that people swallow to feel fucking great about their fucked decisions. I let my friends die so I could live. End of story, no frosted coating, no 'yes, but' feel-good after-school-special lesson at the end. Drop it.” He was almost panting, looming up over Kramer's hunched form, heedless of the amounts of death contained in that unstable package. He sat again, heavily, flicking his cigarette off the roof in disgust. Kramer stayed fixed, perhaps a bit more curled up, more tightly compacted in to her corner. Harken's departing rage seemed to waft off him like heat. She blinked slowly, a tiny click coming from somewhere in her sockets. “I notice your childhood didn't make it in to that story.” “Wow. Really? What the hell, wanna hear about me fucking my cousins, or my mom trying to shoot my dad, first?” “…” “Yeah, you're right, got a goddamn mission to do.” The silence yawned open like the space of a broken tooth.

The following message was intercepted by a Foundation Special Intelligence Team in September of 2012. The original source has yet to be identified. To my Brothers and Sisters: Greetings, and the peace of God be with all of you. I have heard stories of disarray in our midst of late, and they have troubled me. This organization was meant to be a work of unity between our faiths, and yet we have begun falling back upon our old prejudices and ancient rivalries. Already we descend back into darkness and fear and fanaticism, running from the light of unifying truth. I hear of brothers fighting against brothers, of sabotage and lies, and worse, a brother sent to a pointless death in the hands of a group that is not even our enemy. Have we already stooped so low to become like the followers of the Machine, to spray our innards at the slightest provocation in so-called service to God? Am I to believe that we are no better than the fanatics? This madness cannot be allowed to continue. A fractured organization is no organization at all: rather, it is a horde of competing factions, too busy trying to wring the neck of their brothers to notice the enemy at their door. This cannot be allowed to continue as it has for these many long centuries. We must be strong, stronger than we have ever been. Was that not why we unified? To become stronger by aiding each other? The time for division is past. We are brothers and sisters in faith, followers and servants of the same God. Why then do we fight amongst ourselves? Do you hold on to your old ways so tightly? Are you afraid to let go? In the desert, we were as children, and we spoke as children, and so God spoke to us in words that children knew, in ways that children could understand. Now, we have grown, and we see the world through older eyes. We are prepared for the truths of adulthood. We three children of Abraham were given the truth of God, but it was given to us each in our different way. For each of us it has been worn and wearied by ages and the fleeting memories of man. It has been stained by the powerful and the corrupt, who desire reinforcement of their own beliefs rather than the knowledge of the truth that those beliefs sprung from. Through these relics, we may not simply protect and keep them in due reverence and weaken dangerous beliefs, we may also discover that truth that we have lost. It should not be that one man may discover an item or a passage that supports his preferred way of thinking, and then he discards the rest. Instead, all relics that may be truly known as divine or related to the divine, even those that are challenging to our beliefs, must be considered. What we will discover will test us, and many of our number will retreat to the comfort of what we have been told that we know. Those who persevere will be shaken, broken, and reborn in glory. God spoke to humanity in the desert, and just now we are able to piece together His words. I hope that this message reaches wise ears, and if it does not, may it at least be the ears of an honest fool.

April 30, 1998 Able's fists were clenched hard enough to draw blood from his palms. He couldn't hear beyond the tomb, but he knew there were people outside. He had to kill them. His body felt ready to snap from tension. It was ready to kill, needing to kill as mortal bodies needed to eat and breathe. The urge gnawed at his gut, worse than the hunger of a starving man. Of late, he had managed to resist for a few minutes each time he was summoned to speak with his brother, but now with freedom so close… He would wait until his body tore itself apart if need be. — In total, the ritual called for eight greater seals of protection, twenty-four minor seals of protection, three Wards of Rath-Ba, and a Matrix of Sav connecting a nodal system of forty-four augmented summoner's circles. The tomb sat in the center of the design, its own sides coated in more crimson runes. The Directors watched from their safe room several hundred feet above. With a button press they could activate Ukelele: with another, they could simply flood and collapse the chamber. The blood had been easy enough to come by: a mandatory blood drive easily replaced the ritual slaughter of several hundred slaves. More difficult was constructing the actual ritual: it had been cobbled together from fragments of ancient texts and reverse-engineered spell rites millennia old. Enough material had been found in the last four months to triple the number of Daevite artifacts in storage, and that didn't include those items yet to be cataloged, propelling knowledge of the Daevas forward near as far as the Rosetta Stone propelled understanding of the Egyptians. The chanting began. A full tenth of the Coalition's practicing occultists stood in their circles, swaying along with the undulating, intermeshing words. The tone was haunting, almost melancholy, though tinged with an uglier undercurrent. Agent Alto Clef stood in his own protective circle, twenty feet in front of the door. His knowledge of Daevic was limited to scraps of the lower tongue, and he knew little of magic. He focused on the door. When it opened, he would be the one to deal with Able, for better or for worse. The chanting picked up its pace, the words spilling forth with greater power and urgency. A glow filled the chamber, shadows flickering wild and rampant against the walls in a wild dance. Wind whistled in unmoving air, building up to a roar that filled the cavern. The intensity crescendoed into a maddening height, burning and swirling and crashing, and then it stopped. The chant, the glow, and the wind ended as one, like an extinguished candle. It was done. — It was done. The urge was gone. The knot in his stomach untied, the tension in his muscles loosened. He felt weak, weaker than he had been for a very long time. Confusion roiled in his mind: everything was coming back to him, and it was unfamiliar. Cold, hunger, fear…Had he spent so much time a tool that he had forgotten what it was like to be a man? Perhaps. If it was so, he would learn again. Able stood up, and for the first time in over ten thousand years his steps were unsteady. He pushed open the door of his tomb for the last time. — The door of the tomb swung open. Able stepped out, tottering and wobbling like a paralytic learning to walk again. He reached the border of the first ward and stopped. Clef stepped out of his own circle and walked towards the Neolithic man. [Looks like we did it.] Able nodded. He swung his arm sharply, as if swinging a knife. No weapon appeared in his hand. [Yes. We did.] Able smiled, turned to the men and women standing at the margins of the circle, and spread his arms in triumph. [Know this, tribe of Clef! Before you stands a man freed! By all the gods of the River and the Mountain be blessed, and know that I am your kin from this day forward!] — O5 SPECIAL ORDER 1998-04-30 In accordance with the original agreement of Project Greenhouse, Agent Alto Clef and all materials related therein is to return to the Foundation on May the second, 1998. In addition, the remains of LTE-9927, custody of KTE-9927-Prime, and custody of KTE-0706 are likewise handed over to Foundation jurisdiction for further study and containment. BY THE ORDER OF 05-1 05-2 05-3 Foundation A4 Advisory Board European Field Operations Director LaForte European General Operations Director Fontaine United Kingdom General Operations Director Cast United Kingdom Assistant Director Burr American General Operations Director Henderson American Assistant Director Zane — “Zane, I don't care what the records say. I never signed that order.” — O5 GENERAL ORDER 1998-04-20 Due to recent events involving a change of species, Dr. Adam Crow has been relieved of his position as Administrator. A new Administrator will be appointed by the O5 Board. BY ORDER OF: 05-1 05-2 05-3 — Dr. Gerry sat meditating by the Clockwork, letting the metronomic ticking and clicking fill his ears and clear his mind. Thoughts settled into place in time with the music. He was part of the Machine, the Machine was part of him, as Crom and Nala and Grape were of the Machine. Man did not create the Machine: man created machines so that the Machine might inhabit them. The computers he had created with the Clockwork were mere vessels for fragments of the Machine. A true vessel, proper for the Machine in its fullness and perfection of Logic and Reason, would come in time.

September 7 I had a dream last night, something that doesn't happen to me very often at all. I laugh and joke about how I seem to have no imagination at all, but it really is odd that I haven't had one in over ten years now. I'm writing this down before I forget any of it. I am a doctor, I think. I know it is me, even though I can see her face and I feel like I am watching from over her shoulder. It is a dark, moonless night, and the mountains and fields outside are covered in snow. The cold sinks straight into my bones as I get out of my car and head towards the small, run-down house where I have been called. The mother, a Hispanic woman, is crying frantically and trying to tell me something in nearly-incoherent Spanish. Her daughter is possessed by a demon, she says, and I notice the silver crucifix pendant she wears, possibly the only thing of value she owns. Her daughter, a girl of maybe eight years of age, kneels in a pool of her own blood. She bleeds from every orifice, and she mouths obscenities that I know to be Latin even though I cannot understand her. But more than anything else, I notice her eyes. They are bloodshot, but even more than that her left eye is completely red, as if it were a clear orb filled with crimson. She laughs at me and I feel a chill deeper than the winter night outside run down my spine. Time blurs. I know I cannot treat her here. I don't know that I can treat her at all, but I restrain her and wrestle her into my car before I drive off as fast as I dare on the slick, icy road. The blood is the key. It has to be. It flows within her, and it is corrupted. I know what must be done, but I don't know how I can possibly carry through with it. I know I have to get her to a hospital or something. Somewhere. Anywhere. My heart skips a beat as I realize that I no longer know where I am. There is suddenly an impenetrable mist that surrounds us, and though I see the outline of mountains beyond them, I do not recognize the road I am on. I pull over to the shoulder and stop, turning to look at the girl on the seat behind me. She grins — an evil, toothy grin — and tells me that I cannot escape this nightmare. In that moment, however, I am filled with a grim clarity and I know what I have to do now. Making sure that she is strapped down tightly, I pull out my tools and instruments. There is no time to actually collect it; I simply start a straight vein-to-vein transfusion between us. Then I slit her wrists. My blood is just enough to keep her alive. Just barely enough to sustain her as she bleeds out the corruption. Her screams echo across the frozen mountains for hours on end. I woke up screaming and rushed to the bathroom, where I threw up into the toilet. I was still shaking when I finally managed to pull myself to my feet and I washed my face to try to shake off the chill of what I'd experienced. Several minutes passed before I could even manage to look at my reflection in the mirror. That's when I noticed it. My eye was bloodshot. But only my left eye. Containment Team Note: Document was recovered from the computer of Dr. Evelyn Winters and is dated approximately three (3) days before Incident ███-Zero. As Dr. Winters is completely incoherent at this stage and we still have no known initial infection vector for SCP-███, we are continuing our investigation as planned. Dr. █████████ Senior Observer

Sir or Sirs: When I was five, I was in a theatre fire. A real one, not some hackneyed joke played up for laughs by idiotic teenagers. Upon reflection, I think it was utterly mad that there would actually be a fire—such a clichéd concept, isn't it?—but this was back when smoking was allowed in theatres, so I suppose it couldn't have been that rare. Some other child, probably not much older than me, screamed that there was a fire, and it was one of those terrifying old movies, something by Murnau, so all the patrons were already absurdly tense. All the children started screaming together in unison. My mother broke my arm dragging me out of the theatre, and four people were stomped to death fighting to get out. That's when I realized how dangerous it was. Not the fire, of course. No one died from it. People died from the panic. From the other idiots. Trampled to death and unable to defend themselves from the feet of everyone coming down on their face or neck or chest. One of them was another child. Sometimes, I like to think that was the one who warned everyone. A touch morbid, but I know you'll not judge me. How absolutely perfect would that be? A voice that called out to save everyone, crushed to death by the feet of those he would help. It's so wonderfully bittersweet. Nigh unto sublime, but more impeccable than that. Supernal in its delightful tragedy. That was when I realized it. Ideas. What could be more deadly? The idea of the fire, or the actual fire? What's worse: the thought of grinding a file over your teeth, or actually doing it? How much worse is the idea of a needle sliding into your eye and then jerking out… or someone actually doing it to you? Can a shark be any worse than the idea of one? The absence of one? But then, I'm preaching to the proverbial choir, I believe. Brilliantly done. I must admit, at first I was skeptical of your vision, but now, I can see the sort of concepts you were hoping to achieve. I hope that you will continue to work like this in the future, building these anti-concepts into things much more beautiful than their terrestrial origins. Of course, we'll supply the funds for your next project. We are, after all, great patrons of the arts, and these pieces are more elegant than anything we've received in the past. With warm admiration for your craft, J. Carter, ESQ. CEO Marshall, Carter, and Dark, ltd.

"An ordnance technician at a dead run outranks everybody." -Unknown Everything was going swimmingly. His research team had finally gotten authorization to use 914 for ordnance testing. Set to "Fine" and "Very Fine", agents were processed and tested for the stated aim of equipping Nu-7 with more capable means of containing or neutralizing hostile Keters. His team worked efficiently, and without succumbing to the temptation to abuse it for their own gain. He smiled and a plan was hatched. The large man walked up to the machine amidst research staff engaged in their work and emptied a small canvas bag on the in side and set 914 into motion. Moments later, he quietly gathered the product on the other side of the infernal device and left without fanfare. [Interviewer] What did you put through 914? Returning to an isolated laboratory at the far end of a hallway and closing, but not locking, the armored blast door behind him, he prepared a large standing erection of glassware, tubing, burners and unidentifiable components off to one side. Emptying the pouch into a ball mill, he set it to pulverize the contents and waited patiently for it to finish. In the meantime, he finished filling out the requisition form for another batch of dicyanoacetylene. The noise stopped with a soft "ding", and he rose from his desk, pouring the contents into a series of hoppers on the nightmare of glassware in the corner and opened a series of valves with hands shaking with anticipation and excitement. [Dr. John Williamson] Beans. [Interviewer] Beans? [Dr. Williamson] Yes. Slowly a ceramic collection vessel on the end massive system filled with a thick, black liquid that filled the room with a characteristic and very familiar odor, albeit one considerably stronger than he'd known. A soft smile again grew on his worn face as he closed the stopcock and lifted the collection vessel by its handle. The reservoir on the assembly continued to fill with the thick, oily black liquid as he turned to walk back to his desk, unaware of the filling reservoir that his labcoat had snagged on a handle. He dared a sip of the liquid, bringing the mug up to his lips with trembling hands. It was marvelous. Better than anything he'd produced yet. Perfection. On his way to his desk, out of the corner of his eye Dr. Williamson saw his masterwork begin to tilt, the liquid sloshing in the almost full reservoir. Tilt and begin to fall impossibly slowly. Time seemed to drag on. He ran for the door. In the hallway, staff seemed to be moving in slow motion as he ran. He was almost to the end of the hallway when he heard the crash and deafening low order blast. [Dr. Williamson] Coffee beans.

It was over. No one in the Foundation, from the lowliest security guard to the O5 council, could quite explain exactly what was over. If they were to hazard a guess, a likely answer would have been "everything". It was generally agreed that the first one to notice this was Dr. Victor Balakirev. Dr. Balakirev, though a veteran of many a dangerous experiment and not one to be easily surprised, couldn't believe what his eyes, or rather his high-power telescope, were telling him. What Dr. Balakirev couldn't quite believe was that a routine scan of the Crab Nebula revealed nothing but empty space where a rather conspicuous and rather hateful star was supposed to be. The alarm was raised, a dozen more telescopes were commandeered from various facilities and agencies, and there was no small amount of shouting and running around. The star, however, stubbornly refused to reappear, despite Dr. Balakirev's insistent claims that "a star isn't a bloody remote control, you don't just lose it!" The next one to experience this strange lack of all things strange was D-682-1356, though he couldn't quite appreciate the magnitude of the occasion. He didn't know he was supposed to be the bait in what most assumed would be just another futile attempt in an endless series of failures. D-682-1356 also didn't quite know what to feel when he entered the armored vault to discover nothing more than a badly mangled skeleton when the acid bath was stopped. "So, what do you guys want me to do with that? Do you have a bone to pick with me or something? Heh." The joke was lost on the assembled researchers, who now had more important things to worry about than D-682-1356's poor sense of humor. So began the end. When SCP-294 was prompted to produce a cup of Joe, it made a serviceable cup of cappuccino, which utterly failed to contain any D-class flavoring. In SCP-1981, Ronald Reagan spoke only of evil empires and managed to keep a perfect complexion throughout his speech. SCP-902 was opened and discovered to be empty, and no one could quite remember why they feared it so much in the first place. SCP-076 was found to be similarly empty, though no one forgot what scared them about it. When SCP-1867 was asked if it realized it was a slug, it didn't think for a second to object, since it very clearly was. Besides, it didn't understand the question. SCP-085 was gone from its canvas, and its inky plains and fields felt bare and empty without the presence of the young woman who once inhabited them. They found the clothes which once belonged to SCP-1440 near the top of Mount Everest. Next to them, a single word was written in the snow. "Free". Around the world, the echos of the end became seismic shocks, and no one was spared from their influence: The Church of the Broken God was wiped off the face of the earth. It isn't easy to maintain a working religious organization when all of your artifacts crumble to dust, and it's even more difficult to do so when half of those artifacts are inside your head. Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd, having lost most of their stock and shortly after most of their members, soon faded into obscurity. Their once busy clubhouse, a hub for all things mysterious and expensive, became a place for elderly gentlemen to read the Sunday paper in peace and doze in comfortable leather chairs. The Global Occult Coalition, after it became clear that the threats it was created to thwart were gone, was soon disbanded. The budget once dedicated to fighting the forces of the unknown was allocated to some of humanity's more mundane needs, such as the prevention of global warming and the development of more advanced nuclear weapons. No word was heard from Doctor Wondertainment for a long time. A year after the end, a new line of Doctor Wondertainment toys was released. While "Doctor Wondertainment's Shooty Man's Vengeance" was a perfectly decent game, it was clear his/her heart wasn't in it. When Foundation agents arrived at the current supposed location of the Factory, they found nothing more than an ordinary canned vegetable factory. The capital F was clearly no longer needed. The Serpent's Hand lost a considerable number of its members, and with no cause to rally behind, was destroyed by the Chaos Insurgency. The Insurgency itself soon tore itself asunder like a mad dog biting at its own innards. Very few were left to be caught and executed by the Foundation. The members of Are We Cool Yet never did become cool. Nobody was never heard from again. The Unusual Incident Unit continued chasing flying saucers and reports of Bigfoot (this time entirely unrelated to SCP-1000). Its agents didn't really notice. The Foundation, as resilient as ever, was the last one standing. As the years passed, however, the reasons for its continued existence grew fewer and fewer. With all things anomalous gone, the Foundation had lost its purpose. Site after site was closed down, personnel were let go or, in the case of the few remaining D-class, terminated. Soon, only one part of the organization remained. It was the last meeting of the O5 council. There were no heartfelt speeches or commemorative plaques, because even at its end, the O5 council was a serious body of men and women who didn't muck about with nonsense. Instead, there were a few handshakes, a few quiet words, and mostly a whole lot of silence. Finally, one at a time, the former members began to leave, until only two were left. "So, that's that, I suppose," said O5-04, rolling a cigarette. Smoking wasn't allowed in the boardroom, but there was no one left to object. "Is… is this it? Everything we worked for, all of our sacrifices… just worthless?" asked O5-11, staring glumly at the floor. "Now, I wouldn't say that. We kept the peace while we were needed, and we did so as best we could. We're simply not needed anymore." "Shouldn't I be happy? All of those terrible things we kept locked in are gone, after all. Humanity is finally safe." "From everything but itself, yes." "Then why do I feel like some toy, used and abused then discarded when it is no longer useful?" "It's just the way things are. We were the jailers, the wardens holding back the storm. Now, all of our prisoners are gone. There's no need for wardens in quiet days. C'mon, let me buy you a drink." "Yeah. A drink would be nice. Or ten." "Hey, I'm not made of money, you know." The two left, and closed the door behind them.