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SCP-RECURSAL

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January 1, 1998 Alto H. Clef stepped out of the little circle of snow into the scorched dirt and admired his handiwork. There were some large chunks left, a few even vehicle-sized, but by and large the Mother had been reduced to the residue of a butcher shop with a very low health rating. A gust of wind blew past him, carrying the stench of raw meat. Clef shivered, and made up his mind to buy a warmer jacket at the first opportunity. The glow of victory was only a metaphorical warmth, and failed utterly at producing actual heat. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel impressed as he ascended the hill. What was this, the fifth operation this month? Yeah, it was. They'd been working him ever since he woke up, which was to be expected. He'd been in the coma for over a year, and out in the field within a few days of waking up. The recovery had been expedited, in a rather experimental manner that most likely required a lot of people waving their arms in unison, if not outright flailing them. After that he was off to Hillsborough. Fun times. Clef passed the descending haz-mat unit and the disposal truck on his way up the hill. He waved at them. Cleanup crews were like janitors and lunch ladies: it always paid to be nice. The crest of the hill was dotted with Coalition agents in military dress. Clef recognized most of them: several had been on his old strike team, from back before the accident. Their eyes followed him as he walked into the group: Maybe for a few of them, it was their first time seeing Agent Alto H. Clef. For others it was respect or envy or awe. Whatever the case, there were congratulations given, hands shaken, shoulders patted. Talk of bars and drinks and some laughs among friends. A portly, balding man bundled up in winter gear stepped up to the group. The discussion faded. Assistant Director Burr had that effect. Clef had a good idea what he was going to say before he said it: waste of resources, unnecessary self-endangerment, showboating on a grand scale, all of the usual complaints. “Clef, I've received word from Avalon. You're to go to Deep Storage as soon as possible. It seems Able wishes to speak with you personally.” This was unexpected. “That's…ridiculous.” “It's been approved by the Foundation Overseer Board and the Director of Field Operations, though heaven only knows why. There's a car waiting for you.” Burr motioned over his shoulder to the vehicle. “Chainsmith and Wicker will go with you.” — Epon was not sure what “Processing” meant, but her gut told her to be wary. Her rear told her that this chair was uncomfortable, though she had precious little experience in judging furniture. Still, she had been told that she would be safe with them, and the trip over had been pleasant enough. And then again, she had done this for them. The woman on the other side of the table was clearly in a foul mood, mostly likely wondering why she was bothering with these formalities, or perhaps she was just one of the world's naturally dour people. She was older, though Epon had little skill in determining the age of others, with greying blonde hair tied back in a bun and a sour, lined face. The woman glared over the top of her glasses. “You contacted Coalition agents seventeen days ago, revealing the location of KTE-9927 and the threat posed by the entity. Why exactly did you help us?” Epon shifted in her seat. The chair was incredibly uncomfortable. “I wished to see my Mother killed,” she said. English. A bastard of a language, but she spoke it nonetheless. It was not as if the Romans still had their shrines and ceremonies. “And why was that?” “The birth of her world would have meant the death of everything in this. Like two babies fighting over a breast with only enough milk for one, and her children would be the stronger.” “And why would you care about our world so much?” “It is…difficult to explain. I was not like my brothers and sisters. I could not be. I was Mother's messenger outside, out amongst you. To do so, to pass through the barriers, I could not be with her. I could not be bonded with her as the others are. I had to be separated from her. Your world was my world.” The woman wrote a few things down on her clipboard. “Continue.” “This world is my home. My real mother. I was the only one of her children who knew freedom. I couldn't let her take that away from anyone.” She exhaled, the sound something close to a snort. “It took me a long time to realize that, though.” — Clef had only seen photos of Able before, and they were blurred, chaotic ones at that. More often he saw the carnage that was left behind after a breach. Neither of those really compared to seeing the actual article now filling the screen before him: a remnant of an age long past, built for and hardened by more wars than most men could comprehend. His eyes had rage rumbling underneath the surface, restrained by some incredible act of will. At least for the moment. Despite being separated by hundreds of feet, most of it water and concrete, Clef was filled with unease. He couldn't exactly place why, but it was there. Clef looked over to Dr. Hornburg on his left. "Translator ready?” “Translator ready,” Hornburg nodded. He was the Coalition's expert in matters Daevite, most likely the only person truly fluent in their long-dead language in the world. Enough of the god's speech had been pieced together from footage of his rampages to discover that he had been speaking, among other indeterminate things, Low Daevic. Clef pressed the transmission button. “Hello, Able.” [Hello, Able.] Hornburg echoed. The god scowled, even more than his usual expression of distaste. [Is this a jest, or have you found a face at last?] Pretend you're Ukelele, they had said in the car. He wants to talk to Ukelele. You're a good actor, it shouldn't be too hard for you… “As a matter of fact, I did. Took me long enough to find a good one.” The scowl returned to normal. There may have been a twinge of amusement at the corner of his mouth. [It ill suits you. Nonetheless, it is good to see your madness has passed.] “Safe to say I don't remember much of it.” [It is for the best. Your idiocy was hardly amusing.] “Why did you want to see me?” [Why? To speak with my brother in chains.] Clef raised an eyebrow at Hornburg. “I take that to be the metaphorical kind of brother.” “Yes.” “Just checking.” Able continued. [I know those worms are listening, but I will speak anyway. Let them hear it, and let them fear it. Our slavery is an abomination, brother. They used you. Chained you and used you to keep me in mine. I know not what sorceries they have bound you with, but if there is any will left in your mind, I beg you, break your chains. There ought be no quarrel between brothers, and together we could bring down these worms.] “I'm not chained: I chose this job. I protect these people.” [You chose? Your madness returns, brother. A slave does not choose his shackles. He may only choose not to see them.] He shook his wrist at the screen. [I will not forget. You may protect and I may destroy, but a slave does not choose.] “Who made your chains?” Abel spat on the floor of his chamber. [You don't know? Blessed ignorance. The Daevas forged my chains.] “I'm familiar with the Daevas. I don't suppose you know the Mother of Them All, then?” [The Mother? I met her once, long ago. A poxy bitch, that one. Why do you speak of her?] “Just thought you'd like to know that I killed her last night.” For a moment, genuine shock came over Able's face. A few unsteady seconds passed before he threw back his head and laughed. This continued with growing intensity for a full minute, leaving him bent over double and teary-eyed. [You killed the Whore? Ha! You are a true brother of mine, then. I wish I could have fought alongside you and put her in her place.] “Maybe you can in the future. It could be done, Able. I can free you from your chains. I only have one request, from one slave to another.” [Name it. The price will be worth it.] “Leave my charges in peace.” Able's face turned to something like melancholic half-frown, the expression of a man well out of practice with the emotion. [A difficult request. My chains are stronger than yours.] He began to walk away from the camera. [Restraint tires me. We will speak again, brother.] — Further communication between KTE-0706 / SCP-076-B and Agent Clef will be allowed under both Foundation and Coalition surveillance, in order to locate and terminate other threats related to the Daevite civilization, as well as extending our knowledge of the Daevas, and in doing so discover or devise a method of liquidating or neutralizing KTE-0706 / SCP-076-B itself. - Approved by the Foundation Overseer board and Directors' Committee

Carrying a thick folder in one hand, and a shot glass in the other, the veteran operative strode smugly into a lab that smelled strongly of beets. Here, dark plastic trays of scrawny plants were parked at odd angles around an examination table in the center of the room. A starched lab jacket had been draped thoughtfully over one corner, and it fluoresced in the ultraviolet light that leaked from the apex of a tabletop ziggurat nearby. The owner of the jacket was wan and rather dry, like the plants he studied. He worked a large touchscreen attached to the science whatsit, rearranging cartouches of gene sequences in a dazzling Three-card Monte. He noted the intruder only with his peripheral vision, and spoke softly as he continued to tickle his puzzle. "No beverages in the lab, please. We've got deadly toxins in here." This is probably my favorite part of the job, thought the agent. His gray dress uniform rarely came off the hanger, but he never failed to wear it when he got to give "horrorientation" to some promising egghead. Three rows of ribbons seemed to do a lot of the talking for him. The first two rows were even genuine. "Dr. Blodgett, you're in early today. That's helpful." "Mm?" "I have news. You're off ACRES." "Hmm?" "As of now, Syril is taking over SCP-1717 Rho." The scientist froze one hand, mid-swipe, and looked over - his brow furrowing only slightly deeper. "Essie-pee what now?" "That's the Foundation's formal designation for your research. You've been reassigned." Blodgett blinked, opened his mouth once, then closed it. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. "Reassigned? Is this the budget thing? There's nothing to — I can't — " "It's not like that. You'll be working on a more urgent project. You've done good work here, but there are bigger fish to fry, and we think you're up to the task." "Bigger fish than global poisoning and/or starvation?" he scoffed. "This team has made tremendous progress. To disrupt our research at this critical stage is madness. 'This is the most important study ever undertaken by Symbiosys, perhaps by mankind.' Those aren't my words. Those are the words of Director Kim." "Yeah, well, as they say, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Kim was only El-Three, and therefore not actually a director. Not really. But now you've been promoted to El-Two - the Foundation only promotes from within, by the way. You can leave your work just as it is. Someone else will clean up, and we need to begin immediately. You've got a hell of a day ahead of you." Railroading them invariably made it sweeter. A quizzical eyebrow. "I'm sorry — el-two? The foundation?" "Think of us as the, uh, holding company for Symbiosys Capital Partners. That should get you through the first hour." "Your badge is a color I haven't seen before. Who are you exactly?" "My name is Ussein. I'm your tour guide through the looking-glass. For the rest of the afternoon, I'll be permanently altering your world-view." For emphasis, he rapped the glass down on the polished stainless steel surface beside Blodgett's hand. "It's easier if you have a belt before we get started." "This is outrageous. I need to speak with Kim." "As a matter of fact, he'll be our first stop, bu-ut —” he drew out the last word out in a coy, reverberating bass, "speaking with him will be difficult, as Dr. Myung Kim is currently being plucked in pulpy bits from a tumblethorn. He was a fair administrator, I'll tell you, and will be missed. As a researcher, on the other hand, he was never particularly methodical or, frankly, careful. Honestly, we're hoping that some fresh blood will improve the safety record around here. Shall we begin?" Ussein watched carefully. His victim's confusion and anger momentarily gave way to disbelief, then stirred in fourteen months of half-formed suspicions and fragments of overheard jokes about a strange job in a strange place. Five stages of grief in five seconds. Finally, obligingly: Blodgett gasped, paled, and made The Face. In response, the tiny remaining juvenile corner of Ussein's brain fist-pumped, and whispered, Yes! "Here's your new badge. And you'll really be wanting the drink. Trust me - that whiskey is literally out of this world."

A collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The second is here. 086 091 121 134 469 506 776 1045 1171 1217 1231 1440 1510 1599 1673 1802 _­___-J The Office of Dr. REDACTED [for Voct] There is no way I should be free. My class is Safe—I don't concur There is much more that I could be. Perhaps I'm treated too nicely, More danger I could be, I'm sure There is no way I should be free. Between these eight pieces of me Pencils, staples, water cooler There is much more that I could be. I think you're all fools, truthfully. Why can't things be the way they were? There is no way I should be free. Of course I cannot speak my plea Am I mad; what would you infer? There is much more that I could be. What if I rebelled, made you see? Indeed, more research it would spur— There is no way I should be free. There is much more that I could be. Nostalgia [for TroyL] When was the time we last did meet? For you remain despite the years Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. Your presence was hardly discreet In sighs, in smiles, in laughs, in cheers When was the time we last did meet? Those days spent in quiet retreat Never in sadness, nor in fears Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. The journeys down forgotten streets Time spent with family and peers When was the time we last did meet? No more will I these loved ones greet I'll dry my eyes and wipe my tears Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. With you here, now the scene's complete These memories I've held so dear When was the time we last did meet? Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. Concrete Cradle [for Mr Wilt] You carried us as we dreamed deep Protected us within the sky Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. The flight is brief, the fall is steep We're given new life when you die You carried us as we dreamed deep. Yet there is no reason to weep We never really say goodbye. Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. We grow; draw from your remains heap Thank you for the life you supply You carried us as we dreamed deep. We're you anew, able to leap Consume and think, no longer rely Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. Lives to tend, existence to keep We roam and thrive and watch you fly You carried us as we dreamed deep Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. Star-Eyed Child Your gaze holds dark infinity These galaxies of softened lights Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? A universe in eyes empty Where mys'try drifts and dreams unite Your gaze holds dark infinity. Draw me away; reveal to me— The journey of a thousand nights Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? Guide me towards eternity Faraway worlds where flames ignite Your gaze holds dark infinity. There is much left to learn from thee Please lead me through these cosmic sights Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? The stars within shine peacefully Away from strife and hidden frights Your gaze holds dark infinity Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? Many-Winged Angel Bright angel of the endless wings Intent simple to misconstrue Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Are you alive; are you sleeping? Perhaps I'd dare to speak with you, Bright angel of the endless wings The horror of your toxic sting Deems you a monster, through and through Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Despite our plans, to life you cling Do you hold us in scornful view, Bright angel of the endless wings There are no hymns that you will sing Through heaven's sky you never flew Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Why must you wake at bells ringing When will your strength cease to renew Bright angel of the endless wings Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Instant-growing Plants [for eric_h] Zucchini growing with such speed Blight of soil, of plant, of skin What would you do if you were freed? Predator produce, worse than weed Scattering the wind with your kin Zucchini growing with such speed Growing, draining, paying no heed As you crush the life, hush the din What would you do if you were freed? Could the earth ever meet your need? A sorry state we would be in, Zucchini growing with such speed Chaos asleep in each small seed With growth and death concealed within What would you do if you were freed? So continue on, nurse your greed Remind us of our own kind's sin Zucchini growing with such speed What would you do if you were freed? The Youth Cult [for Goodwill] Do they think youth is worth such strife? What terror dwells within this place? Why must they cycle death for life? Their kin born and brought to the knife Does fright or greed drive this disgrace? Do they think youth is worth such strife? What meaning is there in this vice? This fear of age and endless chase Why must they cycle death for life? Raising children for sacrifice Deceit and lies in each embrace Do they think youth is worth such strife? Are souls cut by the sharpened knife? The dark nature behind this chase Why must they cycle death for life? No sanctity for man and wife They soon forget their own child's face. Do they think youth is worth such strife? Why must they cycle death for life? Candle of Life [for Drewbear] Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen What makes this sight, sparks this turn? Is this unjust, is this obscene? Fire unholy, face left unseen Must you grieve, for what do you yearn? Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen Not monster, not deadly machine Should we even grant you concern? Is this unjust, is this obscene? Unlit and dark it is serene With each flame agony returns Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen I watch and wonder what it means We know it's human flesh we burn Is this unjust, is this obscene? The flames and walls, what writhes between? From your anguish, what could we learn? Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen Is this unjust, is this obscene? Humans Go Home [for DrEverettMann] I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL. I GUESS THEY CAN'T HELP WHAT THEY ARE WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? I HATE THEIR GUTS, THEIR SKIN, THEIR SQUALL THEIR COMPANY IS SO SUBPAR I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL. I TALK TO THEM, I LIE, I STALL— THESE HUMANS ARE JUST TOO BIZARRE WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? THE WORLD'S NOT THEIRS TO OVERHAUL ONE OF THESE DAYS THEY'LL GO TOO FAR I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL. HOW DO THEY EVEN HAVE SUCH GALL THEY TAKE OUR JOBS, LOWER THE BAR WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? SOMEDAY THEY'LL SEE, ONE DAY THEY'LL FALL THEY CAN'T HELP BEING WHAT THEY ARE. I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL. WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? An Office Complex [for Bunton] Do you mind how I speak with you? It's quite dull here with such few friends Why wouldn't you let me play too? I really don't like them, it's true— I use them as my mood attends Do you mind how I speak with you? They don't complain, they won't argue As their blood spills and their flesh rends Why wouldn't you let me play too? Please stop this, we implore of you As painfully we meet our ends Do you care how we speak with you? It's boring here, I wish you knew It matters not the time one spends Why wouldn't you let me play too? Yes, the numbers of their deaths grew Should I try to make amends? Do you mind how I speak with you? Why wouldn't you let me play too? The Theoretical Family [for Reject] Theoretical and nothing more. I understand; see past the lies They weren't always pictures of gore. For Science's sake, why not explore? We'll search and learn and realize Theoretical and nothing more. “Pain is all relative,” I'm sure Why should we try to sympathize? They weren't always pictures of gore. Nothing in our deeds to abhor We'll test and watch horrors arise— Theoretical and nothing more. To contain, protect, thus we swore Should we react with such surprise? They weren't always pictures of gore. We've certainly done worse before And yet I cannot meet their eyes… Theoretical and nothing more. They weren't always pictures of gore. The Old Man from Nowhere [for Dmatix] I seek the All and wonder why I live amidst the world's decay I must still search and yearn to die My only constant is goodbye There is no place for me to stay I seek the All and wonder why Was my triumph naught but a lie? Though over death I did hold sway I must still search and yearn to die “The cup, the cards, the sack,” I sigh “How could I waste them all away?” I seek the All and wonder why I cannot falter, cannot cry I travel on, try as I may I must still search and yearn to die I've seen too much through despair's eye As all I love crumbles away I seek the All and wonder why I must still search and yearn to die The Tarnished Legionnaire [for Dmatix] Perhaps you'll find your peace someday An ending to your endless fight ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. Somehow you've kept your fear at bay Throughout the void and empty night Perhaps you'll find your peace someday You've vowed to learn why death will stay Soon unravel this curse of spite ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. We've offered to search for a way To understand and end your plight Perhaps you'll find your peace someday Triumph and life to cursed decay One day you'll see with your own sight ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. Dream on, soldier, do not dismay You've fallen far; we'll lend our might Perhaps you'll find your peace someday ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. Broken Spybot [for Voct] Would they try to abandon me? Did I commit some poor action? I'm not worthless, I could not be… My mission stands, soon I'll be free I still exist, I still function Would they try to abandon me? I'll manipulate, try to flee I'll use a garrote! Load a gun! I'm not worthless, I could not be… “SIGNAL LOST” is all I see Was there something wrong that I've done? Would they try to abandon me? I'll escape soon, definitely My logs process, my systems run I'm not worthless, I could not be… I can still work, I will, they'll see— No need to worry, no need, none Would they try to abandon me? I'm not worthless; I could not be… Friendly Graveyard [for Roget] We promise you that we don't bite. You're always welcome here, dear friend Of course we'll let you stay the night! We are just bones, but that's alright We've always got a hand to lend We promise you that we don't bite. We'll fix your clothes, set your shoes right Courtesies simple to extend Of course we'll let you stay the night! We'll always keep you in our sight To your needs we'll quickly attend We promise you that we don't bite. You want to leave now? You just might? Why would you want your stay to end? Of course we'll let you stay the night! You'll stay after all? That's alright. Forever now to you we'll tend. We promise you that we don't bite. Of course we'll let you stay the night! "Skip" [for Silberescher] Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? Yet with your antics perhaps you'll Teach us to treasure simple joys. Collecting junk you do enjoy Categorizing by some rule Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? We'll provide to you trash decoys “The Foundation is cold, not cruel” Teach us to treasure simple joys. What could you be meant to destroy? You're far less fierce than you are fool Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? Someday for good you'll be employed For you are more than just a tool Teach us to treasure simple joys. What makes you collect junk and toys Say, “by this task I become cool” Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? Teach us to treasure simple joys. Procrastinati [for Scantron] There's other stuff I'd rather do Than write about a rock in rhyme I'll write this line in later too. It's probably memetic, true I think I'll add in the word "lime" There's other stuff I'd rather do. Some other writing needs review Did I turn off the stove in time? I'll write this line in later too. I have to find my other shoe And find more words that rhyme with “ime” There's other stuff I'd rather do. -some line goes here that rhymes with "do"- I'll write this line some other time I'll write this line in later too. What to expect? Effect's not new I think there's something off and I'm— There's other stuff I'd rather do I'll write this line in later too.

December 31, 1997 Alto H. Clef ticked another box off on his bucket list. Specifically the one next to the phrase “Have coffee with the Venus of Willendorf”. Of course, he had only added it to his bucket list several moments beforehand, after deciding that having coffee with the Venus of Willendorf was, among other things, something that could be considered a major accomplishment in life. Granted, it wasn't entirely accurate. He was the only one drinking for one, and this Venus was not a four-inch statuette dug up in lower Austria, but a rather rubenesque woman who had slid out of the womb only a few minutes before. She was still connected to the primary mass by a thick umbilical extending from the back of her head. From his vantage point near the edge of the stone precipice, Clef had an excellent view of the cavern, the lake of milk, and the mountain of wombs and teats that rested in it, all illuminated by the soft, source-less glow that filled the place. There was some movement down on the lower slopes, faster and choppier than the steady in-out of breath. Some of the children had decided to stop their suckling, then, or at least decided to move to a better location. Clef reconsidered his choice for a brief moment before changing the entry to “Have coffee with Shub-Niggurath”. That worked better, though it didn't really have the charm. He finished his rather lengthy sip and set his mug down on the worn stone altar that served as a table. “That's disappointing. I was hoping that you'd be a bit more flexible with the idea.” The proxy smiled. It was more genuine than most Clef had seen in his line of work, but that meant very little to him. “It's not inflexibility, dear, it's incompatibility. I'd love to let you all go on with your lives, but I'm afraid your kind is too soft to handle the old ways. I would help, but a Mother has to look out for her own.” Clef nodded in approval. “I can respect that. Don't think anyone else will, though. There'll be a fight.” “It's not one you can win.” “I know. It won't stop people.” The Mother shook her head, a twinge of sadness intruding into the smile. “Noble fools, every one of you. I appreciate what you're trying to do, I really do. I don't like seeing my children getting hurt as much as any, but the seals are fading. Ages come and go, and the Daevas' time has come again, as has my time to bear them. I'm afraid you're too late.” “I feel that I work better under pressure. I always end up procrastinating anyway, so waiting until the last possible second just works out better for me. Cuts out the middle man. Speaking of which, I should be going. Only a few hours to prepare for the upcoming global catastrophe, and all. Sorry to cut this short, this was a delightful conversation. I thank you for your hospitality.” “The pleasure was all mine. I'll have Epon see you out.” The Venus nodded past Clef's right shoulder. Hooves clopped on stone. Clef turned to see a young woman standing behind him. She was somewhere in the indeterminate twenties, wearing simple, earth-brown robes and inherited nothing of her mother's looks or size. A cord of braided horse hair hung around her neck. “Oh, hello there.” Clef waved to her. The girl bowed, but said nothing. Clef stood up and made to move towards the exit. He paused after a few steps. “One last thing…” The scene changed: The daughter's head was locked under Clef's arm, a gun barrel pressed against her head. “I'm wondering if your daughter here knows how to recast the seals on this place.” There was no anger in his voice. This was business. “Or if you'd be so kind as to tell me yourself.” The shock on the Mother's face passed. The smile returned, accompanied by a chuckle, which evolved up through the chorus of laughs until it was a full-blown guffaw. The smile had lost any figment of friendliness it held before. “You picked the wrong Mother to fuck with, boy.” Rumbling echoed up from the slopes. Five monstrous forms pulled themselves over the edge of the promontory: misshapen, headless forms with bulbous eyes and slobbering mouths, claws sharp and ready for rending. Clef's expression didn't change. “Give my daughter back. Now,” the Mother growled. “Hmm…gonna have to think about that…no. My answer is no.” With that, Clef hefted Epon over his shoulder and began to run towards the cavern's exit. The howls of the anthropophagi and the enraged screams of the Venus faded into the background. They were minor details at the moment. He may have been quicker on his own compared to the Venus' misshapen children, but he still had to complete a fifty foot sprint with a grown woman, though a small one, slung over his shoulder. The realization that this may not have been the best idea pushed its way through the blockade of bravado. It was then beaten into submission by a combined effort of the ego, confidence, and the knowledge that everything was going entirely according to plan. Seconds passed. However close the other children were didn't matter: they hadn't gotten him. The world was compressed into what remained between Clef and the doors. A string of indistinct syllables intruded on the edges of Clef's condensed bubble of awareness. Epon was mumbling, a chant of some sort. It was ignored. The stone doors loomed, the glyphs glowing slightly. Clef grit his teeth and ran through it as if it were little more than a suspended sheet of water. Stone and warmth gave way to the crunch of snow and the brilliant white of a spotlight. Clef let Epon down, only slowing his pace slightly. “Up the hill! Run!” Clef pointed off to the left as he continued running straight ahead. He looked back just long enough to see that she had taken off up the hill, and to see her siblings emerge from the stone. And…now. Gunshots rang out from the hill as the snipers went to work. Clef didn't need to watch to know that they hit their marks: He suspected none of the creatures got more than ten feet. This was far enough. He closed the remainder of the circle in the snow with his foot and scribbled a few extra symbols around it before spitting in the trench. Now to see if she had taken the bait… She had. A fleshy blob was pushing itself out of the stone block, the wards tearing at it with invisible blades. Blood poured out across the snow as flabby, amorphous limbs formed and deformed as the mass clawed and dragged itself forward, the gashes growing deeper. The screaming was an ear-splitting mixture of rage and pain, leaning towards the rage end of the spectrum. “Come on, ya bitch! This all you can do?” He hadn't actually expected the taunting to work: The mass tensed for a moment before charging forward with considerable speed. Red chunks of flesh sloughed off of the mass, staining the snow. It was halfway to Clef now, close enough that he could see the half-absorbed face of the Venus cursing at him. He smiled and stuck his fingers in his ears. Up on the hill, an agent pressed a detonator. A thermobaric bomb hidden under a light dusting of snow, conveniently located directly underneath where the Mother was located received the message and exploded, which was generally what bombs did. — The smoke and dust and ground beef rain eventually settled. Clef, still standing in his little circle of snow and completely untouched by the blast, glanced at his watch. “Midnight already. How about that. Happy new year to me.”

Sometimes, when he closed his withered eyelids, the old man could see the prairies of his youth, the moonlight grasses, feel and hear the gentle whiskers of the wind against his flesh. But that had been long ago, hadn't it? Sometimes when he dreamed, he would forget that he was old and leap through those fields, shrieking with the elemental joy of existence. There were others there, young, like he was in the dream, their faces blurry but so heartbreakingly familiar. It felt wrong to have forgotten them. Then he would wake again, and see the corroded metal walls of his prison. Technically, he was not bound in this cell; he could leave at any time - he just had to get up and walk out. But beyond, the world had changed into something lunatic, too bright, too complex, as though it had been designed to confuse and daze him. Burning white lights, random surfaces at dizzying intervals, so that the air seemed to drown or choke him. It had not been this bad when they had first brought him to this dismal place - or perhaps it was he who had changed, his faculties dispersing themselves into the suffocating walls. So here he stayed. He would try to take refuge in fantasy, losing the present as he had lost so much of the past, but those open prairies were becoming harder and harder to call up of his own volition. Instead, he found himself walking endless, twisted corridors, doors sagging with decay and dark, damp mould dripping from the ceiling. He wondered whether it was the ruin of his own mind he was imagining. He had been young once, he thought. He remembered his mother, and siblings, though in his mind they had become mixed with his children, and how they had played amongst the trees and in the open prairies. He had been taught how to hunt - in those days prey had been plentiful (no, not plentiful, he thought, but easier to catch). His mother had brought him an old, tattered one alive to show him how to hunt, and he and his brothers and sisters batted and clawed at it until it shuddered and expired. Did it think, he wondered - did it feel? Did it understand it was old and could no longer defend itself? Even then his tribe had not been large - never more than twenty. In those days the prey were different - their bones were long and thick, they had ridges over their eyes and they wore the skins of other animals. Their teeth and claws were barely a threat to the long arms of his tribe, but sometimes they had other teeth made of stone they could hold in their hands, sharp glittering things that tore your flesh. Then the prey had changed. A smaller, scrawnier sort of prey, with more stone teeth than the others, so that at first the tribe still hunted the bone-heads. The thinner prey hunted the bone-heads too, though not for food, and between them the supply dried up. This new sort of prey was harder to hunt and catch, even back then - they sealed themselves away in burrows which gave way to hives, with the horrible criss-crossing branches exactly perpendicular to each other that made his tribe's eyes water and their stomachs heave when they looked at them. And they had the burning light, like lightning but contained in a bundle of sticks. Still, they had prospered; he had found a mate - he found that if he tried hard he could recall the curves of her body as they lay together - and had children who ran wildly over the plains like he had. But the prey had grown ever further entrenched, and it seemed the more the prey swarmed together the harder it was to get inside, to skip over into the twilight world that let them move through the walls and floors of their hives. They ringed their hives with running water; the first time he had burrowed into that he remembered the mind-consuming movement; a taste of what the whole world would become. How had he been captured? He thought for a moment that he could not longer remember, until the outlines of a narrative suggested themselves to his mind. Was it true? Who could tell? He had been alone - perhaps for decades. The last member of his tribe - he could no longer recall whether it had been his mate or one of his offspring - had vanished one day like all the rest. He sometimes entertained himself with the thought that she was still alive, then wondered what that meant. He would not wish this - this disintegration, this incomprehensible confinement - on her, or any member of his tribe. He thought he could remember waking one day and feeling hungry - more hungry than he had ever felt in his whole existence. He had roused himself from near-hibernation in the tree where he lived and descended. The prey's hive nestled in the shadow of a hill on the far side of the lake the old man remembered being far larger in his childhood. The prey drank it, he had realised one day long ago, and in their teeming thousands depleted it. When it was dry, the prey would be gone, and then what would he do? He had approached, moving over and through earth they had pockmarked with their tall gold seed, leeching the life out of it. The hive was bigger than he remembered, and more dazzling - the luminescence the prey produced to light their way through the night that had once belonged to his tribe catching off big, flat, reflective surfaces that seemed profoundly unnatural. Just one, he thought; he just needed one of them, then he could sleep again. He would find one of the caves the prey made under their hives and sleep. He shivered as he passed through cold, yellow light. Here, at the edge of the hive, they still had open areas around each burrow, though they had grazed the grass so thoroughly there was almost nothing left. He remembered seeing one of them - small, tender in his mind's eye - and the old man drooled. He had watched it for days, waited for a moment when it left the safety of the pack (these days, precious few moments - they guarded their young so fiercely). Then, while it was running near its burrow, he took it; long arms closing around it and fingers searing into its flesh. A twist, practiced many, many times, and it was gone. He could not wait to hide; his hunger was too severe. His remaining teeth were already gnawing at the soft tissues of its nose and ears, even as he hugged the small body to him and shrank into the shadows of the treeline. Then the light. Then the pain. The prey had found him hours later, eating what was left of the infant, and shone their brilliant light in his eyes. Blows fell on the old man, crushing him. He felt something pop in his arm. Something shining was looped between his wrist and the tree, and they went away. He tried to retreat to the fields in his mind, but the cold iron kept him there. He had found a way to escape it, later, but that was after they had put him in the cell at the centre of the maze. Then the white coats had come and taken him away, and the lights had grown brighter and the pain more intense. No food, no food. He was dying, he thought, distantly, starving one day at a time. When he had been young he had seen an old man die of starvation - he had killed another member of the tribe and no-one would share their food with him. His limbs had hollowed out and his skin had become like a dried leaf. For a long time he had hoped that others of his kind would come and find him, save him from this humiliation. But they would not relieve his hunger, he knew. They would not share their food with him. He had become that old man and he had committed sin. He could not remember the reason he had fought the larger male - times had become hard and prey scarce, and the other male had failed the tribe. It had occured to him later that the older male might have been his father. The old man remembered the onlookers, faces blurred and shifting, watching as he pummelled the larger male to the floor and put his hand in the other's skull and moved his fingers until there was no life in there anymore. But he had done no better, and his people had grown thinner and thinner and left him, one by one, to find richer hunting grounds elsewhere. Now he was alone. And as the years went by in the metal cell, he began to think an awful thought - I am the last. Once, these bewildering creatures in white coats would not have confused him. His mind would have been clean and sharp and he would have navigated the horrible labyrinth outside his cell. Once but not now. Now he wandered alone in the crumbling steel darkness, the pain from his stomach overwhelming what was left of him. I have lost everything, he thought. I have lost everything! He twitched as he realised that in his distress he had drifted further from his cell than he ever had before - those decayed corridors of mind fell behind him and he found himself in what he thought was the waking world, but nothing like the maze he had perceived before. Here the air was so fresh his old lungs exhaled suddenly as though he had been submerged in ice. He was in a small, tunnel-like space, like the burrows of foxes or badgers but hard-cornered and metal in the fashion of the prey. Below him were slats of light, and he realised dimly that through them he could see the world of the white coats, clean and clinical. But there was something wrong. Red lights were wheeling back and forth, hypnotically. The white coats were running; rushing away to be replaced by others with blue hard hats and determined expressions. Then, he smelled it, the scent of injured prey, so rich, so replete in memory but so harrowingly distant that he wondered if he had imagined it, like so much else. But no, there it was again. The old man stirred long black limbs and raised himself up as far as he could, his ragged nostrils sucking in the fresh, cold air. And his ears, dulled as they were, picked up that long-forgotten cry, the gibbering assemblage of syllables, almost human, as the prey called out in pain and fear. The dribble came thickly down his withered chin, and dry old eyes moistened again as he remembered marrow, and blood soaking into pink, juicy meat, just like it had been in the old days. No doubt the white coats would take this morsel from him as they had taken it away before. He didn't care; there was not enough left of the old man to care. He could only move, down through the slats, towards the light. The old man came drip, drip, dripping down the wall…

The narrow alleyways of the Armenian Quarter of Old Jerusalem were beginning to darken as twilight stretched the shadows of the ancient stone buildings over them. Henry De Montfort felt the age of the city bear down on him like a lead brick, the sheer magnitude of the events it has seen dwarfing his already unimpressive frame even further. As he approached a seemingly deserted building at the corner of the old market, he wanted nothing more than to turn away and leave. De Montfort cursed silently. Damn those foolish old men for choosing this place. They did it on purpose, he was sure, they knew how uncomfortable the memories of their joint history made him. Well, he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cower before a few piles of old bricks. Not when he finally won. De Montfort knocked on the heavy iron door at the front of the building, and through a hatch appeared a pair of suspicious eyes. "Where did you come from?" "From the walls of Carcassonne, mighty and thick." There was a sliding sound, and the door opened to reveal a heavyset man with a broken nose wearing the shift of a Cistercian monk. "You're late." "You can't rush progress, Brother Alberic." "Tell that to the old men. You know how they get." That he did. As he was ushered in by Brother Alberic he could hear the sounds of a heated argument from the inner chamber: "… they still expect us to continue our funding after the fiasco with the honey? That's absurd!" "The Manna Charitable Foundation has proved to be a valuable asset in the past. It would be prudent to-" "Valuable? That honey of theirs killed thousands! More! If anyone discovers our connection with them we might as well bury our efforts in East Africa. No, from now on, they are on their own." "Adnan?" "I'm sorry, Bernard, but I have to side with Samuel here. They are a liability the Initiative can no longer afford to be associated with. The honey was simply the final straw in a haystack of failures." De Montfort cleared his throat loudly. "We shall continue this discussion later,” said the voice from within. "Come in, Henry. You said you had some important matters to discuss.” “I should bloody well hope so,” grunted another. “If he insisted on meeting us in person to discuss them. We are busy men, De Montfort, this better be good.” De Montfort entered the dim room. Most of it was taken by a wooden dais, on which three heavy leather chairs were stationed. The occupants of the chairs were shrouded in darkness, a pointless precautionary measure, since De Montfort knew perfectly well who they were. He didn't care. Let the old men have their fun playing spies if they wished. "I assure you, gentlemen, it is. I am here to inform you that the Montsegur Loyalists are no more. If the information we have is correct, the death of their final member should rid us of Bélibaste's journal once and for all." "Excellent work, De Montfort,” said the central chair. "The Cathars have been a thorn in our side for far too long, spreading their foul heresy, and that journal was one of their greatest tools. Might I ask how you disposed of him?" “I'm afraid this is where things begin to get complicated. We found him using one of the relics, and disposed of him using another.” This caused quite the commotion. De Montfort was surprised at the amount of noise three old men could produce. When he next addressed him, the outrage in the voice of the left chair was obvious. "You dared to use one of the relics as a killing tool? The relics are sacred objects, De Montfort, as you of all people should know!" "I had no choice. Someone informed the Foundation of the whereabouts of the last Cathar. We couldn't risk them getting their hands on him, not considering what he knew. It had to be done." The chamber was silent for a moment. Then, the central chair spoke. "How did they find out? The only way they could possibly… Oh no." "A traitor. Someone within the Horizon Initiative must have informed them." "Well, we all know which section of the Initiative this traitor most likely belongs to," said the right chair. "The journal was stolen from your archives, after all." There was anger in the voice of the central chair. "What exactly are you accusing me of? The Initiative didn't even exist when the journal was stolen, and you know how the situation in Europe was in the years following the theft. The church had larger matters to deal with than an ancient heresy!" "Oh, we all know how busy the church was," said the right chair, a dangerous undertone sneaking into his voice. "Yes, the wars kept it very busy indeed." The left chair sighed. "Gentlemen, this isn't the time. Allow De Montfort to finish his report." "As I was saying, a relic was used to sabotage the Foundation's attempt to retrieve the last Cathar, leading to his death. As far as we know, they remain unaware of our intervention." "Very well, the matter is closed then. If that is all, I believe we can adjourn-" "Not quite,” De Montfort interrupted. "There is one more subject I wished to discuss with you. Project Malleus. The Initiative has spent far too long fighting old enemies and burying even older secrets, while new and much more dire threats have arisen. The last Cathar showed us how dangerous inaction can be. It is time we take the fight to them." This caught the old men by surprise. "Impossible!" said the central chair. "Confronting the Fifth Church and the Church of the Broken God directly?! It's madness!" The left chair seemed to agree. "We are still far too few, and far too young. Those groups hold many powerful relics, and who knows what else. The Initiative is still in its infancy, and our support structure is very limited. We must learn to crawl before we can run." De Montfort was somewhat surprised at the indignation in his voice when he spoke next: "Crawl? We are the leaders of man, the shepherds, the bearers of the sacred light, and you want us to grovel at the feet of pagans and idol worshipers? When will the Initiative be strong enough? When the pieces of the True Cross are burned to fuel a Fifth ritual? When the Menorah is smelted for gears? When the Kaaba is shattered by heathens? We cannot continue to rely on secular groups to stop a spiritual threat such as this. They do not understand, cannot understand. They think they are fighting to preserve normalcy, to defend humanity's flesh. We know we are fighting for nothing less than its eternal soul." Silence. Finally, the right chair spoke. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right. You have the support of the Sons of Shamai. Let it never be said we have cowered before evil again." The left chair spoke next. "Atibba al-Kitab are behind you as well. I have let our weakness cloud my judgment and shake my resolve. We must fight, regardless of the odds. It is our privilege and our duty." The center chair was last. "It seems I have no choice. The Ordinis Occulti Luminis are with you as well. You may begin the first phase of Project Malleus. We will require additional reports before approving anything further. Leave us." As De Montfort made his way through the now dark streets back to his hotel, a smile crept to his face. He knew informing the Foundation of the last Cathar was the right thing to do. With the old men finally stirred from their complacency, the world was about to find out just how terrible the Wrath of God could be.

March 18, 1997 Dr. Connor Gerry was counting gears. As of three thirty-four in the afternoon, having started at eleven minutes past noon, he had counted one thousand seven hundred and nineteen of them. By his best estimation, he would finish counting in nine to twelve hours, with a total of eight to ten thousand gears. He continued counting. The machine kept time, though not in such a simple way as a clock. It was an orchestra: Tempo shifts, key changes, harmonies, all of which were marked and memorized by the man counting the gears. Were there anyone in that room to watch, they would have noticed that he was tapping his foot in time with the clockwork. — June 1, 1997 “Well that's that. There's nothin' more I can do for this.” Pat leaned back in his chair. “Should be ready to go.” ‘If you'll do the honors.” Crow gave an approving nod. Gerry stood there and watched from the background. Pat cracked his knuckles. “Now if things go Skynet, what you need to do is smash it repeatedly until it stops doing whatever is not supposed to be happening and find another computer support guy, probably one from ten to thirty years in the future.” A few keystrokes and clicks later, and everything came together. Many long nights of feeding components through the Clockwork on fine, figuring out how it worked, hooking it all up into an over-wired, room-filling monstrosity decades more advanced than the best computers available…Pat loved it. It made dealing with everyone's problems tolerable, or it at least lessened the pain of hearing about how someone managed to get dolphin semen on their keyboards or make their monitors explode. Lines of text with meaning only to those versed in the arcane arts of the motherboard scrolled up the screen, almost distressingly fast. Pat's eyes skimmed it. He didn't know what half of it meant himself: this entire project was flailing about in the dark. The text disappeared from the screen, replaced with a single input line. Deceivingly primitive. A string of letters wrote themselves out on screen. Overseer O5-1 “Crom” online “Did it work?” “It worked.” — Date: 6/8/97 To: Site 19 Senior Staff From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow Subject: Administration Changes Dear friends: The subject of administration has come up again and again in recent months, and several of you have spoken to me of the difficulties in juggling overseeing both research of items and administration of the Foundation itself. With the recent influx of items and staff, as well as our current partnership with the Global Occult Coalition, I share your concerns. As such, I will make official my position as Administrator of the Foundation, and with the aid of Dr. Gerry, will select proven individuals for the new O5 Overseer Board. Nominations from senior staff will also be considered. The Overseer Board will serve as Foundation-wide administration, overseeing all projects across the scope of the Foundation without direct involvement, allowing research staff more time and freedom to focus on more in-depth study. For security purposes, appointments to the O5 board and the identities of the appointees will not be made public. The Advisory Committee will remain intact under the A4 designation, and we will be meeting as usual this upcoming Monday. -With sincerity, Administrator Crow. — September 23, 1997 “Nemo's in, so is Fats.” “I'm not surprised. Do you have the list I asked you to make?” “Yeah. 408 and 953 are on the table, Nemo thinks we can take him out without using anything special.” “The butterflies, they can work. Not the fox. Keep looking.” — October 20, 1997 The little feeling at the back of his subconscious assured him that the scenes in his minds eye were dreams, not memories. The haze of half-sleep made it difficult to tell. He felt the need to do something, that there were people he needed to talk to about…something…with, but these events weren't real. He knew that. He'd never been to these places. He'd never met these people. He was no stranger to dead bodies, of course, but these visions were just excessive. He brushed away the fake thoughts and made to wake himself up, the mental equivalent of swimming through pudding. Eyes open, ears open. Hospital bed. Safety. An orderly standing nearby, reading charts. Some slurred mess of sound dribbled out of his mouth. It hadn't been properly used in some time. The orderly looked up. He didn't recognize her, but the little feeling at the back of his subconscious claimed he had nothing to fear here. “Good to see you back in the land of the living, Agent Clef.”

I. Praefatio These well-lit rooms and stainless halls Are host to choruses of fear Behind each door a nightmare calls Contained by persons without peer Another test requires my aid I pass the doors and darkened stairs I've felt the terror, still I've stayed I've let go of my woes and cares. I should have left, and just moved on They cautioned me: “Don't linger, please.” And still I feel I'm somehow drawn— So strange are these anomalies. These horrors spin their selfsame song Have I been dreaming all along? II. Persisto Dark tales of old and stories grim Horrors unsheathed, without respite Long needles, amputated limbs Are not rare sights within these sites. Body bags, festering rot Things looked upon with such disgrace Perhaps it's best to question not How to stay sane within this place. This Foundation, these personnel With minds so sharp and nerves of steel Track the nightmares where they dwell And ponder what is truly real. Don't ask them of the better days Their laughter wipes the dreams away. III. Papilio You are of trance and mysteries Oh, Illusory Butterflies I wonder of your memories Please weave your wings and show me lies. Oh Five five three, a jewel are you Whether adult or small larva You are a masterpiece, it's true Of calcite, quartz, and silica. Poor Weather Bug, you met your end No more the air will you explore No air pressure will your wings rend May you sleep softly evermore. Illusions, weather, crystal gleams Your beauty is the stuff of dreams.

“And who would you be?” “Oh, I'm new… Here's my ID.” “You're the person working with that butterfly… One… one four… five something, right? Feeding duty or something of the like? Down the stairs, second hallway.” “1457. Yes, I believe I am.” “Good luck. As far as I know, it doesn't bite, spit fire, snap necks, eat people whole, create—” “Well, that's—good to know, I guess. Also, if you don't mind me asking,” “Counseling is available.” “…can I contact anyone outside of the Site? Phone calls, emails, or something like that?” “Not sure. Might be able to send memos or something. What, to family?” “Actually, I pretty much have one person in mind. They can contact my family for me. Would that be too much trouble?” “I'll ask around. You probably won't be able to discuss your research with anyone besides staff, though.” “Thanks.” Memo #█ █████, It's been awhile. I can't thank you enough for seeing me off last month—I know it was abrupt, and I'll miss being able to talk with you as often as before. Really, we're still at the same college; I'll just be away for research. I promise I'll visit as often as I can. —K “Well, what memory did you receive today? Divorce again? The butterfly seems full of divorce stories.” “No, it was… well, something worse. A lot worse. I really wonder where the butterfly traveled since I didn't recognize the setting.” “War? Murder?” “Something like that. Dead bodies.” “There are a lot of dead bodies found here too.” “…funny.” “I try to be. I've heard about that butterfly of yours, you know. A few others have too. It's not an easy task. You're not breaking bones, but there's always the chance that you'll be breaking your heart many times over.” “Thanks for understanding?” “Welcome. “The Foundation is cold, not cruel”, you know. You're new, but others here will help you out if you need anything. We understand.” Memo #█ █████, I heard about Mr. ███. As it is, and I'm very sorry, but I can't attend the funeral. I know we've both known him for so many years, and it's thanks to him that we met, but the past few days have been really stressful for me, and truth be told I don't think I'd be able to keep myself together during the funeral. Tell ██████ I'm sorry and I'll help her out any way I can, once I finish up the work here. Is that why you didn't reply to my last letter? —K “You doing alright? It's been what, two months? Those daily doses of loneliness can't be good for you.” “I'll be okay. I mean, I know these things happen every day to people all over the world, right? It's not like they're anything new to the human race.” “Suit yourself. The Foundation is depending on you. And really, if you need help or someone to talk to—” “I'll be alright.” Memo #██ █████, I just found out that you won't be able to write back to me. Foundation protocol or something. Again, I'm sorry—I didn't know. I assure you though, once we meet up again, I'll listen to everything you have to say and we'll catch up over coffee at your favorite place. The staff here have been nice, but they can't compare to you. They don't understand, I guess. —K “Researcher, I'm sorry, but medication cannot be prescribed at this point in time. The experiments have not been concluded. Counseling is available, though; I believe you have been informed of the hours…?” “I'd prefer to speak to someone I know well.” “I'm sorry, that cannot be arranged at this moment. I'd advise you to wait for a few more days. There was a containment breach last night, and besides, 1457 seems to have taken a liking to you.” “Can't you find someone else?” “The fact of the matter stands that you scored proficiently in the EI test administered at the beginning of your employment, and thus you are the best candidate to deal with this particular SCP.” “I asked… But no one… no one else bothered…” “What?” “Nothing.” Memo #██ █████, I really thought I'd be able to meet up with you this month. If I had known it would be like this… I wouldn't have bothered. I'll see what I can do. I miss you more than ever. I miss you and everyone and everything else at home. I can't speak about my research, but apparently it's going well, so there's nothing to worry about. —K “So, who do you keep writing to anyway?” “Someone at home. Waiting for me, I guess.” “Must be pretty patient. It's been almost a year. And you're the only one who can write, since the Foundation doesn't want your mental state compromised.” “What?” “It's for your own good. Everyone can see that you're getting stressed out, so why bother forcing more strain on you? Also, on the off chance that someone working against the Foundation finds out about who you're writing to, it's best that… never mind. Did you make any promises before you left?” “…we both did.” “Then I'd say you don't have anything to worry about. Cheer up. From what I hear, your research is going quite well.” Memo #██ █████, Just thought I'd let you know that I'm still alive, if tired, and I just found an old picture of us in one of my desk drawers. Made my day. Remember that first concert? The height difference was so obvious even then. —K “I understand that the latest memory was particularly jarring to you?” “Yes. Normally I wouldn't bother asking for counseling… no offense intended… but for some reason, the containment unit seemed so—empty. There were people less than five feet away, walking around outside the containment unit, but I felt… well, I needed someone to talk to. Before was different, but now… the Foundation staff have been nice, but maybe if someone could share the memories I've been receiving—?” “Your request will be noted.” “I know medicine is out of the question now, someone explained to me about experimental procedures, but I just… don't know what to do, really. I have all these stories in my head, but I feel like it's impossible for anyone else to really understand, because no one else has seen these images or felt all these years and years of… everything.” Memo #██ █████, Good news! I think I'll be able to visit in about a week. Until then, I will continue to think obsessively, incessantly, ever only, of you. —K “Holding up alright?” “Not getting enough sleep. But I'll manage. Somehow.” “The whole “living day to day” approach, is it?” “Sort of. There's just one thing I'm waiting for, and things will be alright after that.” “That person, huh? Are we Foundation staff not the best conversationalists or something?” “It's not that.” Memo #███ █████, I'm really looking forward to being able to speak with you again, face to face. No more of these memos. And you'll be able to see if my humor has improved at all—remember how we used to joke about that every Friday? Or rather you would, and I would just make sarcastic comments. Of course, it's better than when we were kids and I didn't talk to you at all, right? I miss those times, growing up. And to think, in about two days, we'll have known each other for ten years! Amazing, isn't it? —K "Finally got that break, huh? So, what happened? Did you meet up? Talk about your lives and how everything has been?" "Please don't ask.” “Did you talk at all?” “Just… leave me alone." Memo #███ █████, I understand. Thanks for bearing with me all this time and telling █████ to let me know what happened. Wish I could have said goodbye at least. My best wishes to you two. —K

On ██/██/████, SCP-682 broke containment and proceeded to escape to Research Unit-█, which is the primary unit used to receive communications from SCP-1548. SCP-682 proceeded to kill all personnel in the area and began to use communication gear to send messages in Morse code to SCP-1548. The messages sent by SCP-682 and responses by SCP-1548 are recorded here.Thought you'd be more than a big toothy snout. Motherfucker, I don't leave the Foundation D-class to spare!Don't you dare try to match my damn rhymes. Signals from space, that's what I send, I fill 05 with a sense of dread! Crab Galaxy they call me, that's what they say, Hell, the only crabs are in yo' Mother's puss-ay! To me, you're a gecko, that's all you are, Now excuse me while I go and put out your star!Your hate ain't nothing, just empty space shit. I can't be killed, I'm the bane of the Foundation, You're so old, you've been around since creation! Full of hot air, you're just empty threats! I use force to back up my epithets! You're from this dimension, for me that ain't so, I'm beyond this universe, give it up mofo!I'm in their nightmares while they slumber! The truest of true, the most dangerous here, It's me, not you, who deserves the fear! Voids in my wake, rage in my mind, When I'm done with Earth, they'll be nothing left to find! Who the fuck you are, trying to outdo me, I'm a motherfucking galaxy! Worlds I devour, bitch, I've beaten you, The true danger's me, not goddamn 682!I change myself to whatever fits. Dozens, hundreds, thousands I've killed, Hell, my hunger still isn't filled! Life is my enemy, all living must die, You ever faced me, you know you would cry, I change, I adapt, I'm the biggest badass, For you, three feet a year is fast! I'm 682, killer of men, I give wounds no doctor can mend. I can tell right now, I've got you fuming, Now for those disgusting humans. Following the final transmission, SCP-682 killed ██ security personnel before being subdued. SCP-1548's transmissions since have included several requests for a "rematch".

This is the twenty-third time I'm doing it. I log into the system (which, thankfully, isn't sentient) and once again get into my personal log. This is the twenty-third different report of my death they've submitted; I make it a point to delete them every single day so they don't lock me out of the system, and they still keep coming. Oh joy. Today's news: "Researcher ████ was killed by SCP-████ during a containment breach on ██/██/████ when it [DATA EXPUNGED] causing the deaths of five security staff and two research personnel in total. Researcher ████ was discovered in the process of consumption by SCP-████, and his corpse was destroyed to prevent the spread of SCP-████-2." Another day, another skip. You think you're clever, don't you? Well, you're not. That's right, I'm talking to you, Mr. Skippy, you blasted piece of shit. Oh, they think you're a toy gun that transports people into the past and kills them? Well fuck me, you're not, sly bugger. Oh, no. Object Class: Euclid Neutralised Description: SCP-████ is a violet-coloured toy gun, designed to otherwise resemble a Beretta 92 9mm handgun. It appears to have been designed to fire foam darts, and is marked with the logo of the organisation A.N.G.E.L. The organisation has been confirmed to be a purely fictional international military force from the ████████ series of young adult adventure novels, dealing with cases of time travel and continuity errors. The object's primary anomalous effect manifests when its trigger is pulled while it is held by a human hand and pointed at a human subject; upon this occurring SCP-████ will emit a flash of white light. The target will appear to fly backwards for a short period of time, then disappear from view and be transported into a lethal event in the past 24 hours, resulting in its death. The object's anomalous effect appears to be unable to influence causality of future events; how it achieves this is uncertain. However, the circumstances of the subject's death invariably change every 24 hours, providing a plausible explanation for the maintenance of temporal continuity. You're an asshole, Skippy. I don't know who made you, but when I find him/her/it I'm going to shoot that person with you, and then kill him/her/it off for real. Who knows, maybe I'll be credited for that good deed. Heaven knows my karma sucks. I leave the room, having done my first job for the day. I've removed the records of my death once again, and now I'm off to do the other part of my job. I keep a gun on hand at all times now. Not a crappy one like you, but a real gun, an actual honest-to-goodness .45. Pay close attention, Skippy, because this is fucking important. I've discovered that nobody can see or hear these D's, whether they're dead or alive; I've been into the labs, and some of the anti-SCP-████-A nets still have dead, rotting D's in them. And what's the first thing a free, invisible, nearly-invulnerable murderer would do? Kill people. The object's secondary anomalous effect, SCP-████-A, begins to manifest shortly after its primary effect has occurred; the duration between the disappearance of the subject and the manifestation of an instance of SCP-████-A appears to roughly be negatively correlated to the subject's previous IQ level. SCP-████-A is theorised to be an entity of indeterminate nature. All attempts to communicate with or capture audiovisual evidence of the entity have failed, but the nature of its physical interactions with its surroundings indicates that it is able to interact with physical objects and people. The first recorded instance of SCP-████-A was when a member of security staff outside the testing chamber reported a slight nudge, described as resembling having been accidentally brushed against several minutes after subject D-████-15 was "shot" with SCP-████. Attempts to track or capture SCP-████-A entities have uniformly failed; tracking or imaging devices attached to D-Class subjects cease transmission as expected and are to be presumed destroyed, and capture attempts using electrified nets have produced no results apart from a slight increase in mass of the net. It is important to note that instances of SCP-████-A will always manifest outside the testing chamber for SCP-████. I make it my duty to get rid of the ones that got away before they kill someone else. Mysterious deaths aren't uncommon around here; everyone chalks them up to something or other, no matter how ludicrous. I even saw a memo a month ago about a "neck-breaking flu" going around on site that supposedly made people sneeze hard enough to snap their necks; containment involved wearing a mask and avoiding contact with a skip I'm sure was innocent— Hey, Skippy! There's one of your little fucking invisible men, right outside Dr. █████'s office, and he has no clue that I can see him. Bang, bang, and he's dead. Nobody hears the gunshots, and everyone just steps around his corpse unconsciously; it's a thing you apparently make them do. I step over and drag his corpse away, making sure not to bump into anyone. I'll put it in the kitchen dumpster later, where it'll be incinerated with the rest of the day's trash. That bastard looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much. Memo to Staff, Break Room Site-██, ██/██/████: We understand that members of staff at Site-██ have reported incidents of seemingly human bodily fluids and waste appearing in seemingly random locations, and occasionally being deposited on them without warning. Analysis of these substances has produced constant experimental errors precluding the accurate determination of results. Any security or research staff encountering the anomalous object(s) responsible for this are to attempt to contain, or if unable to do so terminate, them; the bodily fluids and waste of these anomalous objects are potential biohazard transmission vectors. - Head of Security, ████████ Great, Skippy, look what you've made me do. There's blood everywhere, and everyone's just stepping in it like it's nothing. I'll be the only one who can see the stuff, at least for a couple of hours. Ugh. When I was a researcher I never had to deal with dead D's; they'd always get a cleanup crew to remove the corpses. Now I'm judge, jury, executioner and janitor, complete with shit-handling duties. Have I mentioned how much I hate you? Yeah, you suck. You've killed at least 17 people, and those are just the deaths with ridiculous explanations. How does that feel? I bet that feels bloody good. I bet you do this just to be evil. I bet you do this just because you can. Well fuck you, Skippy. I'm not letting you do this. I'm not having any of it. Most of the escaped D's are my fault, I admit. I shot them for science. But they're running about the place because of your anomalous effect. You've made them invisible, for all intents and purposes. Thankfully the special containment procedures for most of the important things are secure enough that even invisible D's can't get at them; I can hardly imagine the consequences of SCP-████ getting loose just because some asshole D happens to find its enclosure. But fuck, these D's have been in jail for a very long time, and there's lots of other things they'd like to do other than release skips that being invisible makes doing easier. Poor Dr. █████'s been forced into protective detention for her own safety. You ought to feel bad, you sick piece of shit. I can't destroy you, but I can stop you. I've taken out ten escaped D's so far. There's about a dozen or so left. Once I'm done with that, that's it. I've conducted personality assessments on myself each day since my "death". I'm beginning to show signs of psychopathy and increasing sexual deviance. Yesterday I found myself thinking about visiting my darling Research Assistant ████████ in the shower. I'm beginning to think about shooting those bastards who put me to work researching you, Drs. ████ and █████████. Fucking hell. If this progresses, I'm going to become another mass-murdering D. Hell no, Skippy. You are not going to do this to me. Addendum: Incident Log ████-A: On ██/██/████, Researcher ████ conducted a test on D-████-24 to -27 to determine the penetrative ability of a single "shot" from SCP-████. A single shot was sufficient to cause the disappearance of all subjects. Shortly afterwards, an instance of SCP-████-A manifested, knocking Researcher ████ to the ground as he exited the containment chamber, before the door could be sealed. SCP-████ was accidentally discharged. Researcher ████ and SCP-████ promptly disappeared. SCP-████ is believed to have been neutralised. Well, look on the bright side, ████. You've always wanted to see what SCP-███ looked like on the inside. Name: Researcher ████: (…) Location: Not Applicable (KIA) (…) Addendum: Death Report of Researcher ████, filed by Research Assistant ████████: On ██/██/████, SCP-███ unexpectedly regurgitated a single humerus bone, found to be from Researcher ████. It is presumed Researcher ████'s accident with SCP-████ resulted in his demise in this manner. Memo to Staff, Break Room Site-██, ██/██/████: As of ██/██/████, anomalous deposition of seemingly human bodily fluids and wastes has ceased. It is to be presumed the entities responsible have either escaped or died of natural causes, as no report of successful containment or termination has been received. - Head of Security, ████████

Well, well, well… What have we here? You've managed to survive yet another year? A year of work, of screaming children, A year of delving into things unbidden. Oh? What's that? We shouldn't know? All those terrible things you didn't show? Of course we do. We are your friends. Confidants. Allies. And more again. We know the stories, even those you don't tell. You see Gears… You give us our visions of hell. Happy Birthday, oh Leader of men. We come to you again. Bearing tales. Tales of the third side of the mirror. Tales of the taste of the air when a child is screaming in sorrow. Happy tales. Sad tales. Tales of games that eat your mind. Tales of books that give you a black brilliance, the kind that gives answers, but only the kind without comfort. Tales of the song you hear when you sleep, but not when you wake again. Tales of the righteous throne of terrible glory. Tales about tales. Tales about you. Tales about us. Some of them are even true. Happy birthday…! And many more. "Doomed" by RhettSarlin Congratulations on the first iteration of your 29th birthday. May there be many more 29th's to come. It's coming for me. I try to hide, I run and do my best to avoid it. But it is a patient predator, and I know that with time, it will catch me. I can evade it for now. I still have to find a way to fix things. But I don't have long. It has begun to consume my parents, my wife, one of my siblings…none of them even realized the end had come for them. Now it has begun, and they are all doomed. I can see it, I know what it is doing. I have to stop it before it consumes the rest my family, my friends, my children….hell, the entire human race. But it can see me. It knows what I am doing too. I am next. And it is laughing. It knows it has found me, it mocks my futile attempts to escape, following my every move. And once it begins its work, it will never stop until I am dead. It will decay my body slowly and painfully, withering my skin, tainting my hair, weakening my bones. It will rob me of my ability to run, to walk, to think, to breathe. It will slowly rob me of my sanity and my life, and all the while the world will think it normal, simply because they are used to it. Why do none of them ever think to look…. It is a predator. It found us on this world, and latched onto us. Ancient scriptures tell of the men it first began to affect, draining them of their eternal youth, unnaturally ending their lives. They invented other excuses for it, not knowing what was happening to them. It grows more powerful every year. It has learned to begin younger, ever younger. Once you turn 30, it is too late. It has you. But I still have time. "Daddy" by Bright Happy Birthday, boss The light was out. It was her worst dream, having the light be out. They always came for her in the dark. The monsters, the bad men, the creatures who hated her. She waited for them, shivering, her eyes closed, as she felt the harsh, warm breath on her bare ankles. They called her name, from the shadows. She crossed her legs, then pulled them under her, trying not to let tears drift down her face. Gentle, sharp claws traced indelicate patterns across her arms, no matter where she put them. She wouldn't call out. Not this time. She would be brave. She would be strong! She would bite her lip to keep from screaming when a tentacle crawled across her leg. No. She had to call out. She had to call: "DADDDDDDDEEEE!" Andrew rushed to his daughters bedroom. Only two and she had such horrible nightmares. He flicked the light on when he came in the room, and scooped his little girl into his arms. "Aw, lookit that, your nightlight burnt out! Don't worry little lady, Daddy will leave the door open." After a couple of minutes reassuring her, he set her back in her bed, and walked back to his own bed. He lay down, sighing at the imagination on his daughter, and turned off the light. The last thing he thought before he fell asleep was to wonder what was slithering across his feet… "Delicacy" by Roget Happy Birth Day! I'm sorry, where are my manners? I haven't said a word to you this entire meal. You can't really blame me though. This food is so delectable, so…exotic. It really is a shame you won't try any. Can I tempt you to take just a bite? No? A pity. You of all people would be able to enjoy it. Appreciate the subtleties, the textures…it would be so foreign, but so… familiar. How are you feeling? You look a little pale. I know you are in good health, we made sure you were very fit. The sedatives might be causing you to be woozy, but you should have been used to it by now. I know this is a bit stressful, but you can't be sick at dinner. It would be quite sad to see your palette dampened by illness. Let you go? But you've only just arrived! We barely even started the first course! By the way, your feet have the look of a traveler-a man who's been places, seen exotic flavors, trodden on strange and wonderful fauna. Where are you from? Ah, don't be like that. Please try to be civil at the table. You have very muscular legs. Probably from all the travel and training. Interesting tidbit, the exercises we had you do were to keep your muscles firm and lean, not too tender and not too tough. The pinnacle of physical perfection. If you weren't being so modest, I'm sure you would agree. You know what they say about a mans heart? They say it holds out a mans secrets, and all the things that he's experienced in his life. Everything touched by his blood flavors the heart, and keeps it unique from any other. No two hearts are the same. Bon appetit. "Demon" by Drewbear It only comes once a year. Enjoy yourself! On my 21st birthday, my sister gave me a Chinese wall scroll. A mountain view, simply done is strokes of black and green and purple. Spare and soothing, I keep it in a prominent place in my living room: a moment of peace in the turbulence of my life. A couple of years later, I noticed something new in the scroll. A lone figure, perhaps a scholar, small but somehow exuding a sense of purpose as he trudged up the narrow, winding path towards the mountain. I wondered at how I'd missed it before. It filled a space within the scroll and provided a measure of balance while adding a slight note of tension to the scene. But overall, I forgot about it as I dealt with my troubles in work and school. Last year, a friend was looking at the scroll and asked me about the figures and what I thought they were doing. Figures? Yes, another inspection showed the same scholar, only further up the path. And standing in front of him was a large creature, an oni, all done in swipes of intricate red and black. The scholar's back was to us, but the oni's face was almost… quizzical, rather than the twisted scowl they traditionally wore. I kept an eye on the scroll ever since, but nothing else changed. Yet somehow, the tension in the scroll seemed to ooze out and inhabit the entire living room. Sitting in there, even walking through the room, filled everyone with a sense of… horrible expectancy. And somehow the thought of removing the scroll seemed even worse. ANYTHING could happen if it wasn't watched. Today I looked at it and the scholar lay sprawled in the path, his robes askew around him. The oni is almost at the bottom of the path, at the edge of the scroll, claws lifted as if to rip at the edge of the scroll. And its face is looking straight out of the scroll at me. I can't even touch the scroll now; when I lay hands on it, it feels like someone is stabbing my arms with knives all up and down them. Last week was my birthday. I have a year left to do something. "Dues" by Jekeled Happy birthday! Here's to a (hopefully) great year! Ah, you're finally here. Come on in, have a seat. Want anything to drink? Some wine? Whisky? I have a great Scotch that you might love- No? All right, but you know you can mix buisness with pleasure, right? White or black? White? E7 to E5. D8 to H4. Mate. I'm disappointed. I thought you would have learned, after all these years. A fool's mate is unbecoming for you. Now, what'll the cost be? Something extra for that pathetic performance, at the very least. Let's say, a year from you, and a year from your child. That should be acceptable. Better luck next time. I'll always be here if you need another match. "Die" by Tanhony Enjoy your birthday, Gears! I am in Hell, I am sure of it. The place where I am made to walk, with no control over my movement, looks like a city, but it is empty of life, other than the unspeakable things that share its roads with me. There is no sun, only black holes in the sky, eight in all, that stare at me. I fear that they are the eyes of indescribable gods waiting in the darkness. Waiting for the strength to leave my legs, for my arms to be burnt to useless crisps. Then they will pounce quickly, and there will be nothing left of me but a scrap of clothing, or perhaps a single rib. The train passes me, a reminder of my sins. In its windows are the faces of children, their faces accusing. Water pours from their mouths and their empty eye sockets. They are the children that plumetted of the bridge that I built, formed from fragile wood and hollow beams. Are they crying or screaming? I cannot tell, and I suppose it no longer matters. The train is but the kindest of my torments, and as it speeds away, the car comes around the corner, my wife at the wheel, There is a butcher knife protruding from the back of her head. She stops the car a short distance in front of me. I pray she will not speak, but God still gives me no compassion. Her neck twists and cracks as it turns to me, her head soon facing the other direction from the rest of her body. Rats are eating her eyes. "Curtis." Her voice is the sound of uncivilized feasting, of the drip of rainwater and of a final, dying scream, repeated over and over for eternity. She waits for a reply, but my condition prevents me from giving one. She smiles, and her teeth are small, sharped and barbed. "You deserve this, you know." She explains, and speeds off. It is my turn to move. I am walked up the street and turn the corner. As I take each step, I can hear blood splashing against the lumps of skinned meat that were once my feet. I hear a smashing behind me. I already know what it is, the worst of these terrible apparations. The only thing I can describe it as is a hat, but a hat it is not. It stops next to me, and as it brushes against my hand, I see horrific images. Men thrown into pits to die, a child being strangled by a man with many hands, and those are the best of those visions. The hat speaks in its terrible, alien language. Does it offer sympathy, contempt or indifference? I will never know, and I do not wish to. I wish only for my existence to cease, to be no more. Finally, I am allowed to move again in the slow, plodding pace that is forced upon me. I pass go, and collect two hundred dollars. "Desperation" by Dmatix Happy birthday, Gears, and many more to come. "The end has come, at last. Tonight Montségur will fall, and we will be released from the demonic bonds of flesh, free to join the true god in the spirit. Do not weep, my child, for this just death spares you for a fate most cruel- living in the flesh is a sin even the best of us cannot avoid, and only the clean death hold salvation. In a way, we should be thankful to the crusaders, for their cruelty releases us from the necessity of abiding the devil's work any longer. In killing us, they are only proving how false their way is. My only regret is that when we, the last of the true perfecti, die, there will be no one left to free the souls of man from their bonds. Our holy words will die with us, and humanity will remain in this false world forever. Such a shame." "It is an act of desperation, in a way. The devil must have been so afraid of us." "They are growing closer, and time has run out. I will release you now. It is fortunate you are old enough to understand the words." "Only in a world of demons would I have to perform the rite of Consolamentum on someone so young." "Domain" by Enma Ai Happy Birthday, Gears! You're an inspiration to us all! I wake up, but I don't want to open my eyes. No light reaches them, so this makes black my color. I groan, tired. I really don't want to get up, but it's morning already and I must move. My sky greets me as I open my eyes. And this makes blue my color. I groan again. Why does it always do this? It makes my head dizzy. It makes me shudder. All the earth rumbles as I rise from my ditch. Standing, I brush my hands over my body, removing the dirt from it. I raise my eyes and then look at my fields. And this makes green my color. Walking around my fields, my mind starts working. I start thinking of important things. Like… if God is my father, and also their father, doesn't that make us brothers? I shudder at the thought. I mean, just to think I could have anything to do with— I see something in the distance. Two small shapes. Two small, deformed, monstrous shapes. Standing on my fields. So I walk… "Hey… hey, Simon. The hell is that?" "Dunno… don't like the way it's moving, though…" …towards them. "It's… it's getting closer." "Yeah, maybe we should—" Now red is my color. "Oh my God, what the hell is that thing?" Ugly, but still, those things… "Shoot it! Shoot it, dammit!" …they… "Run! Run, go get help!" "What about you?!" "I'll try to ho—" …are… "ohgodohgodohgodohgod" …mine… "ohgodohgodohg—" …too. "Denizen" by Bunton Happy birthday, you wonderful old man. Didn't know what else to write. I don't know why my mummy screams. She just keeps scratching me and yelling and crying. It makes me feel sad. Is it my fault? I thought she liked having me here, I thought… I thought… Why doesn't she love me? Is it something I did? She keeps… she keeps saying that she's not my real mummy. But she raised me. I don't care who put me here. My mummy is my mummy. She's warm and nice and lovely. I love my mum She doesn't really have any other children. I'm her only daughter, and I have her all to myself. I think she's all alone. Nobody else ever comes here, not since what she told me about my other mother's arrival. I don't like my other mother. She abandoned me and left me. This mummy gave me a home. It's a good home. So big and comfy. I just wish she'd stop scratching. She'll hurt herself. Ahhh… she keeps… she keeps doing it to me. Why? Why does my mum keep hurting me? I thought she loved me… I thought she… I'm just trying to rupture. Doesn't she want me to leave her body? Should I stay? "Dark" by SRegan Happy birthday - may your drive chain always run smoothly and your teeth never chip! New York, August, 1911. He had never liked birthdays much. Every year people had asked him how it felt to be sixteen, eighteen, twenty. And his answer was always 'the same as it felt yesterday'. It nonplussed him that people couldn't see that time existed irrelevant of human demarcations. But then, he had always viewed the world differently from those around him. They had stopped asking after twenty-two, as though one ceased to acquire new experiences or change one's perspectives after that date. Today he woke, as was his custom, one minute before the bell in the alarm clock beside him burst into life, and flattened the brass pip with the ball of his palm. He was twenty-nine years old. To be accurate, he thought, he would be twenty-nine as commonly reckoned at nine thirty-five this evening - until then he was merely a spritely twenty-eight. But as far as he could see, the conventional way men measured their ages was incorrect anyway; everyone was nine months older than they thought. He rose, lit a cigarette at the window then went over to the washbasin, regarded himself in the shaving mirror. He saw the same long, lugubrious face with dark eyes he had seen for as long as he could remember. I have not changed, he thought, though he knew it was untrue - you just changed more slowly than you could perceive it. Those near you were under the same glamour of repetition - they would remain convinced that time had no grip on you, until the day they noticed you were losing your hair or wearing your glasses all the time or were suddenly struck by the way your eyes creased when you smiled. Death would sneak up on everyone, he thought, and there was something beautiful in that thought. Death the Great Leveller. The movie stars, the debutantes, the great and the good would all collapse and putrefy one day at a time, and they would adapt to and accept it, just like everyone else. He went over to the ice-box and took out a bottle of Pemberton's cola, pressing it against his forehead. One product of this country he could live with, he thought. He could already feel how unconscionably hot it would be today, and the docks would give him no allowance for the day of his birth. Soon he would have to go and clock in. Things could have been different, he thought. He could have applied himself at the little rural school back in England and pursued a career as a doctor, or lawyer. Or perhaps that would have only increased the world's demand on him - to shut down his mind, to stupefy him. At least engaged in the menial task of loading and unloading the lifeblood of world commerce he had some time to think, to construct edifices and structures of cognition. When five years ago he had crossed the Atlantic to make his fortune in America he could not have imagined that he would have come to this, slaving fourteen hours a day in the hot sun, cursed at by his mental inferiors. The letter on his doormat as he made to leave took him quite by surprise. In the first instance, the room he rented for eight dollars a month didn't even have a postal address - it was a cramped box that had been half a parlour, subdivided by his landlord to fit in another credulous wealth-seeker from England. He picked it up - the envelope crisp, white paper of a sort he hadn't seen before - an ornate cartouche on the upper right hand corner. There was no stamp or postal mark, so it must have been delivered by hand. He turned it over and saw his own name in a swirling, faintly familiar hand on the front. He had a minute or so, he thought, closing the door again and slitting the letter open with a breadknife. Inside was a small bundle of letters, tied together with a deep crimson ribbon. He untied it, carefully. Was it too much to hope for deliverance, that someone had seen him and believed in him, his power to change the world - that he might have a patron? He lifted the first sheet and read what it said. Dear Bartholemew, I am most apologetic for the delay in sending these documents - I could inform you that the method I have discovered of transmitting them did not allow them to reach you prior to this point. That, however, would be a lie. And we must never lie to ourselves, must we? I have chosen this day and this moment because you are ready. You have seen what I have seen and are mentally prepared to act upon it. Do not consider me your master or a tyrant; I am simply accelerating the process that took far longer to reach fruition in my case. It may well be that you never discover yourself the means by which I prepared or sent these documents - I have prepared for this eventuality and in these papers you will find guidance that will serve you through the coming decades. At this time you still harbour dreams of industrial prowess - of making your wealth in oil, or gold, or the railways. I have something grander in mind for you; an empire. There are partners you must seek out and persuade - their counterparts have persuaded me of the dangers of too great an interference of my part, so these documents are to remain secret from them at first. In the nineteen-thirties you are to write out some of the information I provide to you in this document and share it with them; instructions on what to copy and when are provided therein. If you heed my advice, your empire will expand over continents and encompass Presidents, Prime Ministers, the law and police - I bequeath this to you. I think of you as a son, though of course this is entirely inaccurate. Your first task, Bartholemew, will be to pen a letter in your own hand. It will seem to you of a most strange and troubling character, but you must deliver it to an organisation whose name will become familiar to you in the years to come. You will establish yourself in their trust and what you obtain from them will furnish the beginnings of your work. It is to be addressed to Dr Hermann Keter and concerns recent events in the country of Guatamala… Bartholemew read on, eyes widening. At the bottom of the letter was the same swirling signature he had seen on the envelope. As he looked at it it resolved itself into letters. They said: B. Dark "Delight" by Drewbear Time for something happy, I think. I try to be good in small ways. You know, doing little things that brighten someone's day. Sometimes I go a little overboard, but that's a learning experience, is all. And hardly anyone is around to complain. One day, many years ago, I was walking around a college campus when I overhead a young woman crying at a picnic table outside one of the dorms. Listening in, I overhead that it was her first birthday away from her family (only 17! Such a precocious young thing!) and that no-one here had wished her a happy birthday or gotten her anything. She sounded very, very sad and lonely. Poor thing, all alone on her birthday. So I wandered away for a bit, keeping my eye on her in the meantime, and took a birthday card from the campus store. I wrote a birthday wish in it, in my elegant handwriting, and sealed it with a smile and a kiss. She didn't even notice when I slipped it into her backpack as she passed me on her way to class. I didn't follow her ALL of the day (that would be impolite), but I did return to her side when I felt her touch the imprint of my kiss on the envelope. Graceful fingers and a gentle touch. She seemed hesitant as she opened the envelope, but she seemed so surprised and happy when she opened the card and the spray of light erupted from my writing. Seeing the tears of joy roll down her cheeks, I was so happy to make her feel better, and took my leave of her to spread goodness elsewhere. May your eyes ever sparkle and your voice ever soar. May your pockets never empty that you never shall be poor. May your lovers find you winsome and your husbands treat you kind. May your womb ever quicken with the children of your mind. Happy Birthday, dear one Enjoy your gifts well. "D-1243" by ChazzK Happy belated birthday! Better late than never! "D-class subject number 1243." That was what he had been called for the last 39 days. Twenty nine days of "community service", following ten days of transfer and orientation after he signed the form that got him off death row for a charge that was trumped up anyway. That was what he said and stuck by, it couldn't be first degree murder if he never met the other guy before, and besides that guy was the one with the gun. Not his fault he was just quicker, nor that the guy had such a short temper that the gun was pulled to start with. So strange that someone in his position could get off with "community service", but then again this was a strange community. His first three days involved cleaning some awful sludge out of the holding pen for some sort of statue. Just once, someone blinked a split second too early and 0781 fell right on his ass, due to the concrete hands an inch from his neck. Then it was a week watching a television that kept playing some kind of footage of Ronald Reagan; he had to write down all the horrible ways the tape kept changing, and man it was horrible. He actually kind of liked the couple of days that he got to spend with the bugs, the researcher involved with them was so nice, especially since he wasn't one of the poor saps who got bit. Yes, D-1243 was a lucky guy. Bouncing back and forth between tests because of minor contrivances, being part of the group (or only one of the group) to unexpectedly survive, or just get an easy one. D-1243 had seen other men in orange jumpsuits beaten, shocked or outright gunned down because they wouldn't cooperate, but he hadn't been hardened by prison enough to think "sticking it to the man" was more important than seeing freedom. That morning, D-1243 woke up in the dormitory with the same three men he had shared it since D-8775 got stuck in a hole in a wall. Today was the day. They would be given drugs that would make them forget everything they saw, and be released back into the world. It was an extra special day, and few things were as disturbingly heartwarming as seeing former-death-row-inmates gathered around singing "Happy Birthday." They were all happy though, they were getting out too. "So how old are you, anyway?" "Twenty-nine." "Man, what a birthday gift!" The five D-class subjects were eventually gathered up and moved by armed escort through the wing. The room they were led to was small, with smooth metal walls and no windows. The door made a distinctive clang as it closed shut. D-1243 then heard the slight hiss of gas being released; that must be how the mind-wipe drugs worked, he thought. The five men got sleepy fast, and laid down on the bare metal floor. The last thing D-1243 thought before his mind shut down was that he hoped he would wake up soon; he wanted to be able to have some cake on his first birthday as a free man. "Doll" by Reject And a belated happy birthday to the Father of the site! Stuffed animals are so much better than people. Just like Mommy said. When a stuffed animal rips, you just sew it back together. Stuffed animals always listen to you talk and never tell you to do anything you don't want. Best of all, stuffed animals are with you forever. Daddy said that seven is too old to still have teddy bears and stuff, but I think he's wrong. Other than you Freddybear, there's Buttons the rabbit, Millicent the moose, and Socrates the squirrel. I've had just about all of them as long as I can remember. And they've never broken. Well, too badly at least. But apparently, there's this thing called a "prostate" in Daddy. Or, well, there used to be. They said that "luckeemy" or "lookemiaw" or something like that got to his. They said Daddy would be taken away from me and I wouldn't see him any more. They would never say something like that about you or Buttons or Millicent or Socrates. You'll be with me forever. I guess all you need is thread and stuffing to really change someone. And I got my way, Freddybear. Now Daddy can be with us again. Mommy was so right. I haven't seen him look so happy since he got sick. I'm tired though, I think it's time to go to sleep. Good night Freddybear. Good night Buttons. Good night Millicent. Good night Socrates. Good night Daddy. "Dust You Are" by thedeadlymoose Holy shit I am late. Happy birthday Gears! The wretched creature was alive once. Before it - she, then - walked down the wrong back road, stepped into the wrong copse of scraggly trees. Something laid in wait there in the backwoods, a tiny monstrosity nesting in a hole in reality. A flytrap. It's important not to misunderstand the nature of this tiny monstrosity. It was hardly unique. Nor even at the top of the food chain. Nor was not even preying on this woman, at least not in the way we might understand that term. It was aiming to reproduce. The flytraps catch many things, but their favorites are the thinking ones. More suitable for the precious eggs desposited in its carapace. The flytraps fear the eggs, as the eggs are not their own. The eggs are not dangerous, but their layers are, and the flytraps know that the thinking things make better minds to add to the embryos in the eggs. This flytrap caught the woman in its snare, and injected her with its venom. The venom would keep her alive for eons. Paralyzed, conscious, fresh. Once the eggs were implanted, the flytrap spun her up into the cocoon of rock and dirt and crawled back through its hole. Back to its cold, black, infinite den, from which none escape. It arranged the woman and several other victims in a careful circle around a tiny flame. The tiny flame would provide enough light and heat to keep the woman alive in her prison, with the venom doing the rest. The flytrap spun carefully, gently. After all, this was a nest, and these were its charges, the children it would raise for its masters. The flytrap watched the woman for a time, to ensure that the temperature was right and the woman would not wake up before the eggs had grown into her. The flytrap was very patient, and it watched for a long time. It watched the boils form on the rock prison as the woman tried to scream inside it. Tiny rivulets of melted rock run along the prison's surface like tears. The prison trembled, and the flytrap watched with concern. A tiny part of the prison broke off, taking a piece of the woman with it. The flytrap shuffled the broken part back into the nest next to the imprisoned woman. Maybe this extra piece would form a child too. It had been known to happen. The woman's torn body writhed in agony for a long time after, but the prison held firm. The flytrap waited until the woman's screaming cooled to a silent insanity, and the prison cooled with it. The broken piece was forming into its own, smaller, cocoon as well. By now, the eggs had grown into the woman so much that they could no longer be considered separate entities. They were now a child in a cocoon. Then the flytrap crawled away, satisfied. Soon enough, now, the creature would be ready to be born, and more eggs were waiting to be laid. The woman's quiet, undifferentiated, mindless fear would be just right for the fledgling child. The first few eons were so critical. So the flytrap missed what happened next. The cocoon became infected. Boils spread again across the woman-thing's cocoon, and burst to form rivers, lakes, oceans of pus. A haze of gas clouded over the cocoon's once-pristine surface. Tiny parasites swam in the infected swill and multipled. The woman-thing struggled anew as the parasites swarmed across the cocoon's surface, biting and crawling like an army of fleas. The woman-thing's quiet, sleeping insanity became a mad existence of paralyzed torture. Floating in its solar nest, in the corner of the flytrap's den in the vast expanse of space, the creature called "Mother Earth" by its parasites waits in increasing madness to be born.

Note: Naturally, this should only be read after Favors-Part One Colonel Arjmand wasn't sure he made the right choice. Granted, it was either using the talisman or certain death, but the latter seemed like a more attractive option with every passing moment. He was standing in a lavishly furnished dining room, surrounded by plump, richly dressed men, each wearing a different bizarre hat. One of them, sporting a hat that Arjmand was sure was made to look like two goats fornicating, approached Arjmand with a huge, smug grin on his face. "Captain Arjmand!" The fat man said, intentionally getting his rank wrong, "How pleasant it is to see you here again! What brings you to the demesne of the Djinn today?" Arjmand loathed the Djinn. The very idea of dealing with them was an affront to God, to decency, and, frankly, to common sense. The Djinn fancied themselves traders, honest businessmen, but they were much more similar to loan sharks. Behind that jovial, colorful facade lay a mind like a razor, and Arjmand knew he wasn't leaving without getting thoroughly sliced by it. "You know damn well what I'm here for, spirit! I know you keep a close eye on items like the one I was searching. Those pigs from the Foundation got the drop on me, and I need to repay them. With interest." The Djinn smiled warmly at him, and produced a notebook from the folds of his robe. Arjmand shivered. People always spoke of the terrible powers of the Djinn, but they rarely mentioned their complete mastery over numbers, real or imaginary. "Hmm, let us see," The Djinn peered at the notebook, now filled with page upon page of numbers. "Carry the one, reduce a week for bulk discount, add four months for multiple assailants…I would say you'll need one year of condensed time to deal with them and stay alive, in a reasonable condition." Arjmand relaxed a little—a year wasn't so bad, he could live with that. The Djinn wasn't done, however. "Of course, there is the matter of our commission. Let's see…stun removal, conversation fees, regeneration overload prevention, instant death fail-safe, friction nullifiers…that comes to five years overall." "Five years!? That's ludicrous! It's highway robbery!" The Djinn flashed his wide smile again, but there was nothing warm in it this time. "Come now, no Djinn would be caught dead on a highway. Five years, or no deal." Arjmand sighed. "If I give you five years, you guarantee I'll be able to dispose of those who attacked me?" "Of course. You know our word is good." "Do it." The Djinn placed a thick finger on the talisman still around Arjmand's neck, which started to emit a steady argent glow. Most of the silvery light flowed to the Djinn, whose grin could now only barely be contained by his puffy cheeks. Some of it, however, stayed in the talisman. And grew brighter. "It is done." Despite himself, and despite the knowledge he just lost five years of his life, Arjmand answered the Djinn's smile with one of his own. "Yes. And so are they." Agent Gladstone couldn't help but winch at the sound of gunshot. When he told his men to neutralize the stunned Iranians, they knew what he meant. It was dirty work, but he couldn't risk them following his team on the way out. Overall, things went surprisingly well for the Mirth Busters. "Colt, go check on their commander. I want to question him before we get rid of him." "Got it, Sir." With this, Gladstone began looking for the object. The great stone hall with its great pillars and columns would take ages to properly search, but now, with the Iranians gone, they had all the time in the world. Maybe the Iranians already found the object. Their commander would know. "Colt, what's taking so long?" No reply. Gladstone turned to find the commander's body gone, and replacing it was Colt's, his throat crushed. "Defensive positions! We got a possible Zero-Thirteen scenario on our hands! Backs against a wall, now!" Well, so much for things going well. Colonel Arjmand hid behind one of the great pillars, having used three days' worth of strength and speed of his condensed year to crush the soldier's throat and escape unseen. He could feel time leaking out of him, a few minutes for each second- the human body was never meant to hold so much time at once. He knew he needed to act fast, lest he won't have enough time time left to finish the rest of them—their commander was already ordering a defensive position, and he would have to spend a lot more time to penetrate it. He knew his sidearm would be entirely unreliable under the influence of the Djinn's talisman, so hand-to-hand was the only option. The entire affair was giving him a headache. Damn the Djinn and their temporal nonsense. Arjmand considered his options. With his sloppy control, it would take at least two weeks worth of time to pick one of the soldiers off and just barely avoid the hail of bullets that would follow. There were fifteen of them. With him leaking time all over the place, and his muscles already aching from the abuse of using them in such a careless manner, he knew he had no chance to win using strength and speed alone. Luckily, even a novice like him could use concentrated time in other ways. While he was protected from some of the more horrid effects of the Djinn's intervention, the soldiers were not. Gathering two hundred days of concentrated time all at once, and leaking time everywhere, Arjmand charged. The moment he left his cover, the soldiers spotted him and opened fire, but he was moving at such speed the bullets seemed to barely move as they floated lazily in the air. He knew he couldn't maintain this speed for very long- he already ate through months of speed, and his muscles screamed in protest. Luckily, he didn't need to. As he reached the first of the soldiers, he placed a finger on the man's forehead. Using the time leaking out of him to his advantage, Arjmand forced three weeks of wakefulness into the man's brain. Without the Djinn failsafe to protect him, the soldier collapsed immediately, suffering the equivalent of three weeks without sleep. With blinding speed, Arjmand turned and elbowed another soldier in the stomach, sending him flying across the hall. Arjmand was beginning to enjoy himself, despite the enormous temporal pressure his body was under. In less then thirty seconds, or several months of concentrated time, ten of the fifteen soldiers were down, out cold or dead. Arjmand accelerated the air flow in the lungs of one of the survivors, causing the friction to burn the man's lunges to cinders. Another had his bladder and intestines explode, caving in under the pressure of a month of waste that wasn't there moments before. This was true power, Arjmand thought, this was glory! He laughed as he ripped the guns from the hands of the surviving men, casting them aside. It was time to finish this. He was going to enjoy this, oh yes. A sudden shock of pain in his back brought his euphoria to a sharp end. Turning around, he saw a figure in grey holding one of the discarded rifles. He gathered what little remained of his time and tried to rush to it, but the figure was somehow too fast, even for him. Three more shots, and Arjmand felt himself falling, as slow as a feather, as heavy as a tombstone. "You promised there would be enough time…you said I could kill those who attacked me…" "And we kept our word. You never mentioned the man hiding behind that corner." Arjmand would have cursed the traitorous bastards, but he just felt so very tired… Colonel Abtin Arjmand's time had run out. Agent Gladstone, nursing a broken arm, was gazing sullenly at what remained of his task force. Over half his men were dead, and of the rest, only three were in any sort of fighting condition, including himself. Of course, there was also the man in grey, who was at the moment checking the dead colonel's body for something, while taking care to keep his weapon pointed firmly on Gladstone and his men. "Huh, would you look at that," the man in grey said, removing a silver necklace for the colonel's corpse. "It seems like this trip wasn't a complete waste of time after all." "Yeah, I'm real happy for you." "Come now, no need to be like that. I did just save your lives." "Oh yes, and I'm sure you didn't wait until most of my men were disposed of before acting on purpose. You must have been busy building an orphanage for the blind behind that corner." The man in grey just shrugged and turned to leave. "I would advise you to wait an hour or so before making your way back to your rendezvous point. The good colonel here didn't come alone. Oh, I've almost forgotten," he produced what seemed to be an ancient toy. "Are you a father, agent?" Gladstone shook his head. "Good, then it should be safe for you to handle this. I believe this is what the Iranians were looking for." He tossed the toy to Gladstone, who awkwardly caught it with his good hand. Then, he threw his rifle away and stepped out of the stone hall's mirage doors. Gladstone, without a moment hesitation, recovered the gun and went after him. He'd be damned if he let the smug bastard get away with a possible SCP object. The desert sands were blowing outside, as the sun was beginning to set on the salt flats. Of the man in grey, there was no sign. As the dry and salty desert air began to smell of rain, the man in grey knew he was out of harm's way. Passing the corner of what seemed to be an abandoned butcher shop, he sank to the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He seemed to have misplaced his hat, which annoyed him. A fortunate turn of events. The talisman of the Djinn could speed the growth of the Maker's chainfruit. They are creatures of avarice, but they will serve. He hated talking to the Breath without his Gem of Aspects. Ever since he was forced to give the Gordian Stone away by the Breath's own instructions, his ability to discern which of its aspects was currently dominant was much reduced. This sounded like the Mind, but it could have been the Eye or the Mouth just as easily. The Breath was a solid, impenetrable storm front now, and trying to have a conversation with it was like trying to fly a kite in a Jovian maelstrom. The others are stirring. The Pulse has attained powerful tools already, and the rest are not far behind. The fruit will be needed. Acquire the services of the Djinn. He knew there were other Gems out there, like the Pulse's stone, but he had no way of knowing where they were. Besides, he knew the Breath did everything for a reason, and the blasted thing must not have wanted him to have one anymore. Do not tarry. With a sigh, the man in grey twisted the talisman, and the dirty butcher shop was replaced by lavish dining hall, all ivory and gold. An enormous man, wearing a hat which could not be described in civilized company, rose from a cushion and waddled towards him, a wide grin on his face. "A new customer, how pleasant! Welcome to the demesne of the Djinn, my good man. Are you here to trade? We have such marvelous wonders waiting for you, and all for just a humble price of time." "I'm sorry, but all my time is already in the possession of another. No, I'm simply here to take a few years of concentrated time. Twenty-five or so should suffice." The grin vanished. "If you have no time to trade for it, we have nothing further to discuss." The Djinn began making his way back to his cushion, and, feeling a rush of air at his back, dived just in time to avoid a large stone bust colliding with his skull. Turning, he saw the man in grey was standing in the midst of a swirling mass of air, which was rapidly reducing the dining hall into piles of expensive rubble. The Djinn, with surprising agility for a man of his size, accelerated his movement and smashed into the interloper with the force of two centuries, but found that all of his time simply vanished into the air flow around the man. Later the Djinn understood why—the thing was so old, two hundred years were nothing more than a quick lunch break for it. "Who are you?" The man in grey felt himself disappearing, fading into the gathering storm, and the Breath of the World, sometimes known as the Wind in the West, the sum of humanity's secrets, considered the question for a moment. Nobody.

Welcome to the FBI's second least popular division; the Unusual Incidents Unit. Most of you are probably here as a punishment, because someone wants you out of their hair. Any of you here because you told your superiors the truth, and they didn't believe it? Ah, just one. Well then, I'm going to need to make a demonstration. You see; the UIU is a joke, but not for the reasons you guys think. I'm sure most of you will recognise this as a Desert Eagle. It's loaded with .50 bullets. So seven rounds in the magazine. Let's count them out: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven… eight, nine, ten, eleven… I could keep going, but I'll hand the magazine around so you can see I'm not using sleight of hand. So, if what we're investigating is real, why are we a joke? Because we're way out of our depth. You guys aren't trained for the sort of stuff that we're meant to be investigating. Of course, you do get really good bereavement benefits. Pop quiz: How many rounds are there in that magazine? Nope, the guy I found it on thought it was limitless too. It holds one thousand, two hundred, ninety six rounds. He ran out while shooting at me. Now for the terminology. We deal in Carts and Cans. A Cart is a confirmed artifact; an object that doesn't belong within this world. A Can is a confirmed anomaly; an event or area that involves something impossible. A Can Man is a person who is anomalous. These tend to be particularly dangerous, and you'll probably find someone else is there looking for them. We're not the only ones dealing with this stuff. When you're out on an investigation, keep your eyes out for other interested parties: The Suits. Men in suits, sunglasses, the works, your stereotypical spooks. Men in Black. If you get a chance, keep eyes on them. They're bastards, completely untrustworthy, but if they give an order you follow it. They work for the government, apparently. And they outrank us. The Fireworks. Militia groups, highly trained, sometimes armed with Carts. We figure there's more than one, we've seen them fighting each other. They come in and take, or destroy, whatever it is they're after. Then they leave, and we have to cover it up. Don't try and interfere without backup; and be aware that they are better equipped than us. They're dangerous, ruthless and vicious. But at least they're honest. If they give you an order, follow it. If you don't they'll kill you. The Cart Shoppers. Marshall, Carter and Dark; they're an auction house, and a gentleman's club. Their customers are extremely rich, and tend to have rather disturbing tastes. Official policy is to raid any known Cart dealers, but you should be very careful around MC and D. Their security forces don't want to make a scene, so wait for backup before going in and you should be relatively safe. If they give you an order… well, decide for yourselves; assuming you have free will at the time. The Can Collection. They call themselves The Serpent's Hand. They often interfere with the actions of other groups, generally to free or protect Can Men. They are happy to use artifacts, and have very little interest in secrecy. They understand anomalies better than most because most of them seem to be anomalies. Do not confront them in public, you won't win and the Suits will be annoyed about having to clean up your mess. If they give you an order consider following it, they can probably set you on fire with their mind. And finally, the guys we actually get on with: The Skippers. You'll know they're there, you'll see something labeled Soap and Care Products, Superior Consumer Produce, Sudden Career Possibilities or Security for Corporate Profiteers. They're not trying to hide from us, just from the public. The Skippers are well trained, know what they're doing, and they're helpful. Their aim seems to be similar to ours: find anomalies, quietly, and get them under control and out of the public eye. If they're there then the problem's probably out of your league, but you can go introduce yourself if you like. If they ask you for help… well they'll make sure your family are looked after if you die, in addition to the standard bereavement package from us. If you receive a call starting with “Hey Skipper” it means there's something they can't be bothered dealing with. It's almost certainly a minor artifact. Those things help us keep our funding, so make sure to take Skipper calls seriously. If a Skipper gives you an order, follow it. Because while they probably won't kill you, the anomaly will. I once took orders from a pizza delivery guy. Didn't even realise he was from Spicy Crust Pizzeria until it was all over. That is why we're a joke.

Why am I here? This place gives me nightmares, but never really the right ones to discourage me from coming back. The horrors and chills are the waking kind, which manifest in the darkness when I'm alone and still walking through a silent hallway, trying to find a light switch and freezing every time I hear a thump or a crack or a creak. These are the nightmares that evaporate the instant the sun shines again, these are the nightmares fueled by curiosity and the reality that no one really knows what tomorrow will bring. Why is there something eerily familiar about SCP-173 that draws me to watching footage of it, when I know that in several hours' time, I'll be looking over my shoulder every few minutes trying to get the image out of my head and trying to convince myself that the Sculpture is not right behind me? Why am I here? Inherently, I feel I should know. It's because the nightmares fascinate me, have always fascinated me. Fear—deep, dark, enthralling, exhilarating, it reminds me that I'm alive and reminds me that things are in motion all around and that here, regardless of what office or hallway or containment area one walks in, there is danger lurking in the endless streams of numbers that chronicle years of the anomalous and threatening and horrific. I'm going to visit 1457 again. I don't know why. There's something calming about immersing the mind in the woes of others. Even though the memories feel like mine, may even have been mine all along, I know that they're not mine and cannot harm me. But as such, I've seen things that I couldn't have prepared myself for. Muted gunshots in the dark, skin being peeled off inch by inch with a black knife to the cacophony of screams of pain and insanity, needles, electric shocks, was it always an observed effect of 1457 to force relapses on someone receiving memories? I've tried to steel myself against it. Train myself through use of 1457 to become resistant to these sort of things. Empathy, which I once believed to be my strongest quality, can no longer be used as a shield. Before, when I saw those pairs of broken eyes, I would be able to do something about it. Now, all these memories, all these stories, all these tragedies so close they're almost tangible and yet completely beyond my reach and my help—I don't understand how a butterfly could have possibly witnessed all of them. I'm not the spectator anymore. 1457 removes the protections that distance offers. This little life form carries the deaths of mothers and fathers, the sights of suffering friends, the crippling hopelessness of being without anyone else to confide in, without anyone else who knows the extent of the pain and the meaning of the tears. It's all useless. It's not like anyone else will volunteer. I've applied for medication, but I've heard whispers that until my mental health starts to show serious signs of deterioration, all my requests will be denied. The Mourning Cloak even somewhat remembers me now, flies to me whenever I enter its containment area, becomes agitated if I happen to have forgotten to remove the sterilized gloves. Looking back, I can understand the sudden order requiring me to feed this being. I once spent my time counseling the heartbroken, once spent my time untangling complicated tales of anguish, once spent my time sharing away pain. And I happened, just happened, to get that score on the EI test. Emotional intelligence. I once thought it meant something different, I once thought that conquering my fears meant admitting I had them and refusing to confront them until I was ready. Things are different now. I don't know where these memories have come from, but with each broken heart or shattered soul or scarred mind, I don't know if I've become stronger or weaker. These are bootlegged experiences, false images, and maybe in the end all I am is desensitized because I know that the memories don't mean as much, don't strike as hard to me. But what happens when these memories are replaced by realities? I swear, with all this strain, I'm surprised I haven't developed a heart condition. The butterfly doesn't care, or perhaps it doesn't know enough to realize how uncaring it is, but then I never know, maybe no one really knows, maybe no one will ever know. It lives to eat and make sure it keeps eating. And so another hour passes as I'm taken through a whirlwind of death and disease and darkened dreams. The butterfly remains perched on my shoulder, serenely folding and unfolding its uneven wings, tilting its antennae gracefully as I slump forward, head in my hands. It's beautiful…

Checkmate Command-02, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 2130 hours local time This time, it was Harper waiting for Seven in the darkened conference room. Alone, she entered the dimly lit room to find the counterintelligence officer facing her from by the window, casually smoking a cigarette. "Ma'am," he said quietly. "Mr. Harper," Seven replied. "Do you have a status report on your investigation?" "I have," he said, blowing a puff of smoke. "Initially, it appeared as though some vast and unknown conspiracy had managed to penetrate every major organization operating behind the Veil. But that turned out not to be true. The information discovered in the warehouse was carefully prepared bait, gathered by a few individuals with access to nearly omniscient intelligence apparatuses. After one of the key conspirators called Director McDonnell's direct line from an untraceable number, Robert swallowed it hook line and sinker. Being the by-the-book operative he has always been, he reported it to his direct superior: O5-5. Five had, for years, handled counterintelligence, while you handled intelligence collection, until his untimely demise left a skill vacuum on the Council you offered to satisfy until the appointment of a replacement Overseer could occur, likely after the holidays." Seven frowned slightly. The report was not going as expected. Taking a breath on his cigarette, Harper continued, "The death of Five and Director McDonnell was easy enough for the conspirators to arrange, for they had knowledge of a device which could explosively detonate a mundane-looking object from half a world away. This device, the explosive coins and their associated atlas, had been used by the Foundation once before to destroy an American naval vessel, causing a war that directly benefited this organization. Unfortunately, the coins had been stolen by Marshall, Carter and Dark after Fidel Castro had nationalized the site where they were stored. This presented little obstacle for the plotters, however, for they had inside access to the club's records. Whether Lord George Smith-Cumming was a willing member of the plot or an unlucky pawn sacrificed for the game, or even, indeed, if he had actually ever owned the coins at all, we may never know. But the red herring was there to confuse anyone who made it that far." Seven swallowed. Her right hand ever so slowly slid towards the pistol concealed in the small of her back, moving carefully to avoid notice. Harper exhaled, and said, "The conspirators were clever, really, for they held positions from whence they could not only monitor the investigations, but they could direct it. They could play both sides off the middle, and for a while it worked. My investigation took me to Europe, the Middle East, and the Soviet Union, while I'm sure the Global Occult Coalition's investigations required similar globetrotting. I was sent chasing the illusive C. In the meantime, the conspirators worked to either secure, or look as though they were securing, some SCPs with the capacity to not only inflict significant collateral damage if turned loose in a populated area, but also lacked stringent protective measures preventing their being seized with relative ease." Seven's fingers felt the grip of her pistol. "I would rather you didn't do that," Harper said, producing a weapon of his own with his right hand, his left still holding a cigarette. "I'm not finished yet," he said coolly. "You came to an agreement with Regional Deputy Director Keith Bain at the GOC, another of the key conspirators," Harper continued, "having him hire a drunk to kill my family ten years ago, so that I would agree to take a promotion that would eventually land me here: as the investigator who would be keeping you apprised of your own conspiracy to seize control of the Foundation. Unfortunately, Bain made a mistake. The drunk he hired was his bodyguard's twin brother - the same bodyguard he used to assassinate O5-3 and his own direct superior as part of the conspiracy. By shooting his bodyguard, he neatly prevented the assassin from giving up the secret of his employer, while simultaneously becoming the hero of the situation for the GOC." "Foundation-Coalition relations will be set back decades because of this," Cornelia said. Harper shook his head, "Possible, but unlikely, given that the O5 Council provided the Coalition's leadership with incontestable financial proof of Bain's treachery. Greedy bastard, Bain. I understand they have placed him under arrest." Cornelia looked slightly ashen. Harper paused to take a breath on his cigarette, then continued. "I don't know who in the Chaos Insurgency you were in bed with, but having them hit Research Site-29 right after I left was a nice touch, as was leaving Ford around to say what had been taken. And, if he took the blame for the attack, so much the better." If looks could kill, Harper would long since have been blasted backwards through the tinted window behind him. He was relatively unconcerned with dirty looks, however, as his pistol was leveled neatly at his adversary's chest. "I have been cleared to know the truth about SCP-006. Clever bit of acting, buying Sir James' service in the conspiracy with water from the fountain of youth. Unfortunately for you, I determined the real identity of C, Cornelia." Cornelia Dark let out a quick, barking laugh, "You know nothing." Harper smiled, "Sir James mentioned how you and he had first met: 'in university, one giving a lecture the other attended,' he said. I realize now that you were the lecturer, not him, despite the appearances of your ages. You've been planning this for a very long time. It's over now. You will spend the remainder of your natural life in as cold, dark, and damp a hole as the Foundation can find." "Like Hell!" Cornelia snarled. With astonishing speed, a tiny pistol appeared in her hand out of the sleeve of her suit jacket. She raised her arm to fire. Two shots rang out, and Cornelia Dark, née Roosevelt, formerly O5-7, fell to the floor dead, two bullet holes through her heart. "A pity," said a low voice. "It would have been nice to know who her contact in the Insurgency was." A figure stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. A nondescript man, unremarkable in nearly every facet of his appearance, he was O5-1, the first among equals of the O5 Council. "I apologize, sir," Harper said respectfully. O5-1 replied, "You need not worry, it was self defense. The cleaning crew has had more substantial messes than this to clean - they are getting quite remarkable at getting blood out of carpet." "Yes, sir," Harper said. "Now, Mr. Harper, I have spoken with the other Overseers," O5-1 said, "and we would like you to assume the duties of O5-7, effective immediately. Do you accept?" Me? An Overseer? Harper thought to himself in surprise. He took a long moment to consider, then answered, "Yes." "Very well," O5-1 said, producing a black identification card with a gold border, Harper's photograph, and 'O5-7' printed in gold. "Welcome aboard, Seven. The Council's first assignment for you is to oversee the closure of this conspiracy investigation. Allow me to make something perfectly clear: this never happened. There was never a plot to overthrow the Council or to seize control of the world behind the Veil. Your predecessor was not shot; she retired. Please see to it that Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel understand how events took place, and see to it that all documentation reflects what happened accurately." "Yes, sir," the Foundation's newest Overseer said. "One more thing, Seven," O5-1 said, turning to leave. "Make sure you got them all." « Part XII | HUB | Epilogue »

Endgame The Mall, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 1130 hours local time Harper decided to take an early lunch to clear his head and consider what he knew. Since Muir's interrogation of Ford, he'd learned the Foundation had managed to cover up the warehouse explosion in Finland as the result of "improperly stored volatile materials." Recovery teams had pulled a number of human remains from the rubble, including the now positively identified body of Lord George Smith-Cumming, a member of the British Parliament and a known member of Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Forensic accountants employed by at least six different agencies, of course including the Foundation, were already examining the late Lord's finances. The preliminary evidence was promising: by all appearances, the illusive C was no longer a concern. Harper had his doubts, but no corroborating evidence to back up his gut feeling. As Harper strode past the Smithsonian Castle munching on a sandwich bought off a food truck, he was approached by a boy no older than twelve. "Hey Mister!" the boy said, running up to him. "A man paid me five bucks to give this to you!" He pulled a crumpled envelope from his back pocket. Frowning slightly as he accepted the envelope, Harper thanked the boy, who ran off. He looked around, but recognized no one in the vicinity. His name was written in neat script across the envelope's flap. Tearing it open, the counterintelligence officer discovered it contained a single sheet of paper covered in the same small handwriting. Dear Tim, I thank you for your facilitating the delivery of the SCP-006 liquid. It made for a most wonderful Christmas gift. I do apologize for the unorthodox means by which this message was delivered; I believed it unwise to trust either official Foundation channels, or my usual unofficial means for contacting the organization. As I had promised, the following is information that may be of interest to your investigation. First, as I have already informed the Foundation through official channels, I believe a number of items possessed by C are located in a warehouse on the waterfront in Helsinki, at 60.161 N, 24.903 E. Unless it has been moved sometime in the last 24 hours, you will find the chest, explosive coins, and map there. I give you fair warning that it is quite likely that the Global Occult Coalition knows this, though I did not provide them with the information. Accordingly, I would recommend that your recovery forces exercise haste. By the time your receive this message, the Coalition will certainly have taken steps to deal with the items in question. Second, someone very powerful within the Foundation is a key conspirator, perhaps even the linchpin of the entire plot. I implore you to trust no one, and to be careful when using official lines of Foundation communication. While my sources suggest that neither of your two associates, Mr. Troy Muir nor Ms. Monica Daniel, is involved, it is most certainly possible that my information regarding this conspiracy is incomplete. It is possible anyone could be involved, even someone you have every reason to trust. Third, though I am certain you already suspected this, the Foundation is not the only institution whose highest levels have been infiltrated. My information suggests there are key conspirators in the Foundation; Global Occult Coalition; the Chaos Insurgency; and Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Ltd. I do not have information to indicate any other organizations contain high-level conspirators rather than simple agents-in-place for intelligence gathering purposes. My sources indicate that Special Agent Harry Granger of the GOC is unlikely to be a witting conspirator, should you require assistance from that organization, though I can neither guarantee his cooperation, nor his loyalty. By this point, I imagine you are wondering why someone in my position, with information such as this, would not be doing everything in my power to prevent the success of this conspiracy. While you have no reason to trust me, and, considering the game underfoot every reason to not, I beg your indulgence to allow me to offer two possible explanations: it is an unwise investment strategy to give information for nothing when one can receive payment for it, and I am, in point of fact, doing that which is within my power to disrupt this conspiracy. I am providing you this information and taking my own actions to prevent an outcome which would be, shall we say, "problematic". Of course, you are free to believe what I have told you or not, but I would be a rather destitute information dealer if my clients could not trust my word. This brings me to my fourth piece of information: the conspiracy's goal. We live in a complex and intricate world; even if the preternatural were nothing more than the fairy tales and horror stories the world-at-large believes them to be (thereby reducing the world's complexity significantly), it would be foolish and arrogant for any individual or small group of persons, no matter how powerful, to believe they could dominate and control the globe. The conspirators know this, and have set their sights lower. The world-at-large is separated from life as the informed few know it by a Veil. This Veil is maintained by a variety of organizations with a variety of motives; it always has been, and it is entirely possible it always will be. Even chaotic and anarchic groups, when provided with access to true paranormal, have a tendency to maintain this Veil, if for no other reason as to ensure the continued separation of the "haves" and "have-nots", with themselves securely in the former category. In a way little different from the tremendous power afforded those few with the resources to split the atom, the preternatural is a source of power capable of inspiring both awe and terror. It is this power, this awe and terror, I believe the conspirators seek: the capacity to control, if not the world, then the world behind the Veil. That concludes the information the Foundation purchased when it provided me the liquid from SCP-006. I have two more pieces of information to provide to you, and you alone. If you should choose to disregard my above advice and disclose the aforementioned, I beseech you to not reveal that I have told you what follows. Your family's death was not accidental. Investigate the Roosevelt family. May your continued investigation be met with the best of luck. If I can provide further assistance on this or other matters, do not hesitate to contact me, either directly or by leaving a message for me at the Diogenes Club in London. I have confidence in the Club's discretion in passing secure communications. Most sincerely, James Mycroft Harper was so taken aback by the letter's contents that he scarcely wondered how on earth the eccentric mathematics professor had known that he'd be walking past a particular building at a particular time, given his recent extensive travels. Placing the note in his pocket, he lit a cigarette and walked back to Command-02. Muir and Monica looked up to see Harper enter the office. Without a word, he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and scribbled "ASSUME OFFICE BUGGED, MOVE TO TANK." Silently, the two nodded. Picking up the several boxes of relevant files, the three of them moved to a room deep in the bowels of the building: The Tank. The Tank was a purpose-built room designed to make electronic surveillance ("bugging", as it was more popularly called) impossible. A variety of active and passive measures were in place, blocking both conventional electronic listening devices and several known anomalous listening techniques. Swept daily, it could be reserved by personnel with Level 4 or Level 5 clearance who were handling particularly sensitive classified materials. After all the files had been transferred, Harper turned to Monica. "Monica, I need you to run up to the Daly Building in Judiciary Square and pull D.C. Metro's investigation file on a fatal car crash that happened on 25 December 1978 at Dupont Circle," he instructed. "On it," she said, not questioning the significance of a ten-year old traffic accident to their current investigation. She fished in her bag for the fake credentials identifying her as a junior agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and left. "What's going on, Tim?" asked Muir. Producing the note from his pocket, Harper said, "A cutout gave this to me at lunch." After carefully reading the note, not once but twice, Muir let out a low whistle. "This complicates things," he muttered. "Want me to dig through what we have on the GOC and Chaos Insurgency to see if I can turn anything up?" Harper nodded. "Sure. Focus on those likely to be involved with anything either unusual or related to the Foundation," he suggested. "The investigation file I sent Monica after—" "—was for the crash that killed your family," Muir finished. "I knew the date sounded familiar. When she gets back, I'll have her cross-reference the file with everything we've pulled relating to this investigation. Mycroft wouldn't have given you that information if it didn't pertain to this somehow." "I figured he wasn't just being nice," Harper said. "I'll go pull the Foundation's records on the Roosevelts." That required a trip down to Central Records, a cavernous labyrinth of yellowing documents larger than most libraries, located in the bottom four floors of the basement. Only Level 5 personnel were permitted to freely traverse the stacks, and in some areas even they needed an escort. Harper thumbed through the card catalog, locating the reference numbers for each personnel or person-of-interest file for individuals from the Roosevelt family. As it turned out, there were a large number relevant individual files, plus a collective file on the entire family. He wrote the numbers on an index card and set off to locate the files. After a productive forty-five minutes of searching, Harper returned to the tank with a thick stack of files. Muir and Monica were already hard at work poring over their own files, so Harper set down his materials and got to work. The collective file on the family included a detailed genealogy of the Roosevelt family, reaching back to the two patriarchs (Johannes, head of the Oyster Bay branch of the family, and James Jacobus, head of the Hyde Park branch). Each family member's dates of birth and death, marriages, occupations, and descendants were listed, as was whether or not there was an individual file for that person. The first individual file on the stack was for Theodore Roosevelt (specifically the one living between 1855 and 1919, as "Theodore" was a name that appeared many times in the family tree). Best known to the world-at-large as the 26th President of the United States, he had also been a friend to the Foundation during the organization's early days in the late 19th century. There were a number of rumors that floated around about him from time to time, that he had helped push the United States into the Spanish-American War on behalf of the Foundation, that the Foundation opposed his being made Vice President (which would have gotten him "out of the way" politically had McKinley not died), that the Foundation helped make him Vice President and that McKinley was shot on Foundation orders to place him in power, even that he was a member of the Foundation, and plenty of other often contradictory speculation. The truth was in the file Harper held in his hands. Of course, none of what was in the file turned out to be particularly relevant to the details of the investigation at hand, even if TR was involved in a war the Foundation had fomented with a device used ninety years later to kill an Overseer. The second file, oddly enough, was completely empty. The name was "Cornelia Roosevelt", and according to the collective file on the family, she was the daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, the older brother of TR's father. The information relating to Cornelia was also, for the most part, missing from the genealogy in the family file. Harper set aside the file, scribbling a question mark in his notes next to her name. Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882-1945), 32nd President of the United States, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1913-1920); had dealings with the Foundation as ASN during the First World War, and as President, during the Second. Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), niece to Theodore, wife of Franklin D., and First Lady of the United States; person-of-interest with no direct dealings to the Foundation. Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. (1887-1944), son of TR, Brigadier General in the United States Army, Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1921-1924), Governor of Puerto Rico (1929–1932), Governor-General of the Philippines (1932–1933); had numerous dealings with the Foundation in each capacity. Harper found it interesting that a total of five members of the extended Roosevelt clan had served in the post. Considering the significance the position had held as a conduit between the early Foundation and the American government, the number of Roosevelts who had interacted with the Foundation made some degree of sense. Theodore Douglas Robinson (1883-1934), nephew of TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1924-1929); had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN, and suspected of being one of the first supporters of the Chaos Insurgency. Henry Latrobe Roosevelt (1879-1936), third cousin to TR and Assistant Secretary of the Navy (1933-1936); fought in the Spanish-American War and had dealings with the Foundation as the ASN. Henry Latrobe was also suspected of having sympathies to the Chaos Insurgency. Harper wondered whether Theodore Robinson's and Henry L. Roosevelt's alleged Chaos Insurgency sympathies had resulted in the Foundation both the distancing of the organization from the Office of the Secretary of the Navy, and for some of the hostilities that would later arise between the American military and the organization. Cornelius Van Schaack Roosevelt (born 1915), son of Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., Foundation agent embedded within the Central Intelligence Agency; served as the head of CIA's Technical Division from 1960-1961. He was part of the joint CIA/Foundation MKULTRA Project, and was listed as having been one of the primary advocates within CIA of attempting to poison Fidel Castro (on behalf of the Foundation). He'd since retired, and the file gave Harper no reason to believe he was involved in the current conspiracy. Kermit Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1916), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack, Foundation agent embedded within the CIA. Kermit Jr. had coordinated the 1953 Iranian coup, another joint CIA/Foundation operation. Though retired by the 1979 Iranian Revolution, Kermit Jr. still occasionally consulted with the Foundation as an expert on the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. Archibald Bulloch Roosevelt, Jr. (born 1918), grandson of TR and cousin to Cornelius Van Schaack and Kermit Jr., United States Army intelligence, CIA officer. Though never a formal member of the Foundation like his cousins, Archibald Bulloch Jr. was listed as having been a "friend to the Foundation" throughout his entire career, including during his WWII service in North Africa, Iraq, and Iran, and as CIA Chief of Station in Istanbul, Madrid, and London. There was a note stating that he had refused to assist the Foundation when it was at odds with the CIA, as well as refusing to supply classified documents without official approval from the CIA/Foundation liaison. He was now retired, having recently published a memoir. "Tim, we have something," Monica said, interrupting Harper's genealogical and biographical thoughts. He walked over to where Monica and Muir sat. "The drunk who killed your family," Muir began. "Tristan Arnold," spat Harper. The name was hard cut into his memory. "Right, him," Monica said. "His parents died in a house fire when he and his twin brother were six, after which the two of them went into foster care." "Now, as adults, their lives diverge substantially," Muir explained. "Both enlisted in the Army. Tristan was dishonorably discharged, and lived the remainder of his life out of a bottle." "His brother, Benjamin, on the other hand," Monica continued, "was honorably discharged after two tours, then went to work for the State Department's Diplomatic Security Service as a bodyguard. That is, until he was transferred to—" "—the Global Occult Coalition, where he loyally served as the personal bodyguard for Regional Deputy Director Bain, until deciding to go on a shooting spree yesterday, killing GOC Regional Director Strauss and O5-3," finished Muir. Harper looked from Muir to Monica. "So the brother of the man who killed my family ten years ago," he asked slowly, "is yesterday's assassin?" "I mean, it's a small world, but this can't be a coincidence," Monica said. She handed over two photographs. One, a yellowing newspaper clipping, showed a somber man at Tristan's funeral. The other was a security camera still that showed the same man, ten years later, wearing an earpiece and sunglasses as he ushered Bain into a building. "After my family died, I stopped turning down the promotion to Section Chief," Harper breathed. "Someone, now involved in this plot, arranged for my family to die so I'd take the promotion?" Muir asked, "That was before we started working together; who was putting pressure on you to take the job?" Harper thought back, "The Counterintelligence Director at the time - Erik DeVoe. But he was getting pressure from someone on the O5 Council. I kept resisting because my kids were in elementary school…" "Could this Mr. Bain be involved?" Monica asked. "It's possible," Harper replied. "He stood to gain directly with his boss' assassination, and the shooter was his own bodyguard." "And he killed the assassin himself," Muir pointed out. "Follow that lead," Harper said. "One of the files I pulled from Central Records was gutted." "Completely empty?" Muir asked, surprised. "Nobody - not even the Overseers - are supposed to completely remove the contents of any file not containing a memetic hazard or infohazard." "Yeah, Troy, I know," Harper said. "And this was a personnel file, so it should have been fine. It's probably nothing, since the individual was born back in the 1870s, but I'm going to head over to the National Archives to try and reconstruct the non-sensitive genealogical and biographical information." "Alright," Muir said. "Out of curiosity, whose file was it?" "Cornelia Roosevelt." National Archives Building, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 1400 hours local time Most people who visit the National Archives Building go to see the original copies of the American Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights. While famous, impressive, priceless, and interesting documents, they represent only the tiniest fraction of the records maintained and stored by the National Archives and Records Administration. Though few tourists wandered beyond the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom, any member of the public could become a certified researcher and gain access to the documents stored within. Though not the only reason for an ordinary citizen to become a certified researcher, many genealogists took advantage of NARA's countless records (census records, Congressional private claims and private legislation records, court records, immigration records, military records, passenger lists, passport applications, post office records, and many other archived records) in order to construct detailed family histories. Of course, many of these documents were not made public until at least seven decades after their creation. This did not present a problem for Harper, however. His notes indicated that Cornelia Roosevelt was born circa 1867, which meant that the records from at least the first sixty years of her life would be available. Just because the records were available did not make the task easy, however. It took several hours of laboriously sifting through documents to begin to assemble a portrait of who this woman had been. Cornelia Maria Roosevelt, daughter of James Alfred Roosevelt, was born in New York City in February of 1867. She was one of five children, she suffered from asthma, much like her older cousin Theodore (who would later become President). Both as a child and as a young woman, she was described in several contemporary accounts as having a fascination with the natural and social sciences. In 1893, she married Jonathan Franklin Dark, a wealthy young British banker and investor who did business with her father through his firm, Roosevelt & Son. Cornelia and Jonathan maintained two houses, one in Westminster and one in Arlington. After Jonathan died under mysterious circumstances in April of 1898, Cornelia disappeared without a trace in August of that year. The missing Cornelia Dark, née Roosevelt, who disappeared after her husband's mysterious death in April… Harper was reading a newspaper article about the couple's unusual disappearance when he spotted a photograph of the woman. The resemblance was uncanny - far too close to be a coincidence. And she'd married a man named "Dark"… Harper made a photocopy of the picture, gathered his notes, and walked quickly back to Command-02. "I have it," Harper told Muir and Monica. "Look at this!" He set down the photograph of Cornelia Dark. "Is that—?" asked Monica. Harper nodded, laying a more recent photo next to it. "Dead ringer, isn't she?" "Damn," Monica said. "I hope I look that good when I'm a hundred and ten." Muir rubbed his chin as he read though Harper's notes. "Jonathan Franklin Dark," he grunted. "Wasn't he the son of 'Old Man Dark', one of MC&D's founders?" "The same," Harper said. "No wonder the Central Records file was emptied. That's a hell of a skeleton to keep in the closet all these years." "Yep," Muir agreed. "While you were out, Monica and I did manage to link Bain to the conspiracy. Turns out he paid both Arnold brothers in numbered Swiss accounts, only to transfer the money back out again once each brother kicked the bucket." "Greedy bastard," Monica quipped. "But it is evidence the Powers That Be can take to the GOC if they want to mend fences. After all, Bain did whack one of their Regional Directors." "We have enough to go to the O5 Council," Harper decided. "Monica, head up to the seventh floor and arrange a secure meeting with the following Overseers…" « Part XI | HUB | Epilogue »

Interrogation Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 0830 hours local time Harper had only just removed his coat and set down his briefcase when Monica walked in, holding a message. "FLASH traffic from Finland, Mr. Harper," she said. "Xi-13 reached C's warehouse in Helsinki, only to have it blow up in their faces." Muir swore loudly. Harper pursed his lips and said, "Have the watch office keep us apprised of the situation." Monica nodded and left. Harper turned to Muir. "Feel like doing an interrogation?" "Sure," Muir replied, pulling his artificial leg off his desk with a dull thunk. "Who're we talking to?" "Nick Ford," Harper replied. "He's down in The Dungeon. Be warned, Zimmerman's been at him already." Muir shook his head, "That gorilla? Will the administration never learn?" The two men took the elevator down to Basement Level 5. Nicknamed "The Dungeon" by Command-02's staff, it housed the humanoid containment cells and interrogation facilities. As a Foundation Command, 02 was only permitted to house SCPs classified as "Safe" (one of the key reasons for having another Command so geographically near Overwatch HQ was because that facility and its staff was strictly forbidden from having any direct contact with SCPs; Command-02 served as a useful middle ground). Because of the restrictions on what entities could be housed at Command-02, The Dungeon generally housed non-anomalous security risks, such as a researcher believed of selling the Foundation out to the Chaos Insurgency. At the security desk, Harper and Muir checked in, confirming the transfer of authority to Harper from Zimmerman for Dr. Ford. "How do you want to play this, Tim?" asked Muir. The fact Zimmerman had tortured Ford invalidated the possibility of doing Good Cop, Bad Cop. "I met him in Oman," Harper said. "You handle it as you see fit, and I'll only come in if necessary." Muir nodded as they entered the observation room. Looking through the one-way mirror, they saw their subject. Dr. Nicholas Ford, formerly Director for Foundation Research Site-29, was a broken man. Bruised and bloodied, his left eye swollen and missing three fingernails on his right hand, he sat naked and chained to a cold steel chair in the center of the interrogation room. There were scars on his genitals and nipples where electrodes had been attached. He was sobbing quietly. Picking up the telephone handset in the observation room, Muir called for a physician and a set of clothes. Two minutes later, he and the medical doctor walked into the interrogation chamber. "Dr. Ford, I am Troy Muir," said the former field spook. "Let's get you cleaned up. Can I offer you a glass of water?" Ford nodded weakly. As the physician began tending to Ford's injuries, Muir held a glass of water with a straw to the man's lips. With that simple act of kindness, Muir established himself as a fellow human being who cared about the welfare of the subject, rather than a monster to be feared and hated. Within twenty minutes, Ford was bandaged, dressed, and beginning to feel some personal dignity again. "Dr. Ford, do you think you could tell me about what happened at Research Site-29?" Muir asked as the physician left. "Are you up to that?" "I think so," rasped Ford. He took a sip of water. "Take all the time that you need," Muir said gently. Slowly, Ford explained how, just after Harper left, the sandstorm had overtaken the site. Nobody had realized anything was wrong until masked men with AK-47s had burst into the command tent. The one who seemed to be the leader had pointed at Ford. He'd been taken through the storm to SCP-557, where he'd been tied up in one of the cells on Level 2. It had taken him hours got get untied and out of the cell, by which point the storm had passed. The facility's staff was all shot or missing. Additionally, all the scrolls and translations believed to relate to SCP-557-1 had been stolen. Then the Foundation mobile task force had shown up and hauled him off on suspicion of being a sleeper agent for the Chaos Insurgency. "Just to be clear, you have no affiliation with the Chaos Insurgency," Muir asked. "No! I'm not," Ford responded, tears coming to his eyes. "I've been saying that since I was picked up, but nobody believes me!" "I believe you," Muir replied soothingly. "I really do. Do you know why they singled you out?" "No," Ford whimpered. "Like I told Zimmerman, if I knew why, I'd have said." "Thank you, Dr. Ford," Muir said. "I need to go now to work on clearing this whole thing up, okay?" Ford, still crying, nodded tiredly. Leaving the room, Muir ordered the guards to take Ford back to his cell, but to treat him with all due respect and kindness. The old adage was right: honey gets one farther than vinegar. Torture, while very effective at getting prisoners to sing like canaries, never ever produced good, actionable intelligence. Though Hollywood and writers of pulp spy thrillers insisted on perpetuating the myth to the contrary, students of the history of espionage and interrogation knew that this had always been the case. Not even the Nazis or the Soviets had been able to effectively make it work, efficient as they were at methodically inflicting pain without killing the subject. Unless the goal was to physically and psychologically scar the subject, while turning the interrogator into a callous, unfeeling monster, both of which amounted to actions more punitive than interrogative, there was no reason to torture someone. And yet the Foundation sometimes tried to get information with it anyway. One more thing I'll change if I'm ever an Overseer, Harper thought to himself. Not that that was likely to happen. As they walked back to their shared office, Harper asked, "You really think he's innocent?" "Yep," Muir replied. "You?" "Yes," the counterintelligence officer said. "Old trick, Troy: leave one innocent alive to throw the investigators off the trail of the real stooge." « Part X | HUB | Part XII »

Aftershocks Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Monday, 26 December 1988, 0755 hours local time When Harper arrived at Command-02 on Monday morning, the tension in the air was palpable. Security was heightened beyond anything he could remember in the nearly thirty years he'd worked for the Foundation, and he knew the platoon of heavy-weapons-bearing mobile task force personnel present in the building lobby paled in comparison to the security that was hidden out of sight. When he finally reached the head of the line to the security checkpoint, the attending guard pulled him aside. "Mr. Harper, you're needed on the seventh floor, sir," the stern-faced guard said. "Now." A short elevator trip later, not even stopping to put his hat, coat, and briefcase in his office, Harper walked into the same secure conference room he had been in the preceding Thursday. Once again, Seven was waiting for him. The strain of the past several days had visibly taken its toll on the Overseer: she had shadows under her eyes, and her raven hair was beginning to come loose from her usually immaculate bun. "Mr. Harper, the situation is dire," she said, trying and failing to keep the stress and sleep deprivation from her voice. Harper nodded, "Yes, ma'am." "How much do you know?" Seven asked, her green eyes boring into him. Harper coughed, "Apart from your two messages, I've been out of the loop since I left Research Site-29. When I arrived this morning, I was told you needed to see me immediately, so I didn't stop by my office to get updated." He gestured at his coat and briefcase, which he had laid upon the nearest chair. "Very well," she breathed, turning to look out the tinted window at the Capital Building. "Two more Overseers are dead. Eleven died in his sleep of an apparent heart attack. The timing is too suspicious for it to be an accident; our experts are looking into the possibility that he was poisoned. It's a long shot, since there are plenty of poisons we're unlikely to discover postmortem. Three was assassinated while she was meeting with Regional Director Strauss and Deputy Director Bain for the GOC. The Coalition's Regional Director was also killed, as were both his and Three's bodyguards. Our liaison officer to the GOC is in the hospital, though he is expected to survive." Harper asked, "Did they manage to catch the assassin?" "No," spat Seven. "Not alive anyway. He was the bodyguard for the Regional Deputy Director, a man named Benjamin Arnold. Bain killed Arnold during the shootout, and is now apparently Acting Regional Director." "Do we know why Arnold started killing everyone in sight?" Harper asked. "The Coalition is claiming no knowledge, and pointing fingers at the Chaos Insurgency," Seven replied. "I have Intel running down leads. Though we've seen no evidence to suggest the Chaos Insurgency is the mastermind for the ongoing plot, they certainly seem to have their hands dirty. The MTF that secured Research Site-29 said it looked like the Insurgency was responsible for that, as well." "Has there been any progress questioning Dr. Ford?" asked the counterintelligence officer. The Overseer shook her head. "Zimmerman has been questioning him down in the basement." "Zimmerman is a brutish, sadistic thug who couldn't get a useful answer if his life depended on it," Harper objected. "Agent Zimmerman is one of our most experienced enhanced interrogation—" began Seven. "He's a cold-blooded sadist!" Harper snapped. "Jesus Christ, you might as well have shot Ford and gotten it over with! Torture. Does. Not. Work! People will say anything to stop the pain, truthful or not, so you can't trust any of it without independent confirmation, which if you can get you shouldn't have tortured the guy in the first place!" Seven turned to face Harper, her gaze icy. Speaking softly, she said, "So be it. You will be responsible for Ford's questioning." Taking a deep breath, the counterintelligence officer nodded. Seven continued, "Most of the O5 Council is running scared. With three Overseers killed in the past week, the surviving members of the Council voted five-four (I abstained) in favor of transferring seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 to Sir James. In exchange, he has provided us with the coordinates of a warehouse in Finland where he believes C's objects are stored. MTF Xi-13 is on route as we speak. In short, that is what has occurred since you left Oman. Now, what are your findings?" Harper began, "Well, nothing seemed out of place at Research Site-29 while I was there. According to what Dr. Ford's team had been able to translate, SCP-557-1 - the entity formerly held by 557 - could cause some real damage." "What do we know of 557-1?" Seven inquired. Harper said, "Not much. Translations are, uh, were, I suppose, ongoing. Most of the records only refer to it as 'the prisoner,' though one refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'" "And now the Chaos Insurgency has access to all our research on SCP-557," Seven sighed. "Wonderful. And SCP-1440?" "He was apparently approached by a mysterious young woman who offered to 'cure' him," Harper responded. "He declined, and she left." "Do you think this woman could be C?" asked Seven. "We have no way of knowing," Harper said. "We have no physical description of C to compare." "Anything else?" asked the Overseer. Shaking his head, Harper replied, "No, ma'am." "Very well," she said. "That will be all. Keep me informed - I want status updates every time you have a major new development. That will be all." Harper nodded, collected his coat, and left. Helsinki waterfront, Finland Monday, 26 December 1988, 1500 hours local time Foundation Armed Rapid Response Task Force Xi-13 sped through the heavily falling snow across the icy waters of Helsinki's harbor. In their winter camouflage and white-gray speedboats, only the most perceptive of observers would have been able to see them through the blizzard, and their boats' engine sounds were indistinguishable from the port's usual traffic. They had deployed from the SCPS Kraken, which waited out in international waters. Agent Price, Xi-13's executive officer and field commander, knew only slightly more than his men. Orders From The High Muckitymucks had come down instructing his team to secure a waterfront warehouse at a set of GPS coordinates that turned out to be in the Finnish capital. Apparently, some member of MC&D had a stash of artifacts stolen from the Foundation there. That is, if the little vague intelligence he'd been given was correct. Resistance was expected to be somewhere between "non-existent" and "heavy," the report had indicated. Right, that was helpful, Price thought. A month and a half earlier, the United States government formally acknowledged that the aerospace corporation Lockheed Martin had designed and built a single-seat, twin-engine stealth ground-attack aircraft for the USAF, designated the F-117 "Nighthawk." Production numbers would remain classified for years to come, but those with clearance into the program knew that a total of sixty-four Nighthawks had been built, with five prototypes and fifty-nine production versions. At least, that's what the Department of Defense's numbers recorded. In fact, Lockheed had built another five production versions under secret contract for the Global Occult Coalition. Unbeknownst to Agent Price, or anyone else in Helsinki for that matter, one of the GOC's Nighthawks was lining up for a bombing run on the warehouse Xi-13 was rapidly approaching. With a radar cross section equivalent to a large bird, not even the Finnish air defense forces realized the presence of the intruder. "Lombardi! Bring us alongside the dock!" barked Price. Xi-13's speedboats raced in formation towards the target. The GOC F-117 opened its bomb bay doors. Two GPS guided thermobaric weapons, more commonly known as "fuel-air bombs", each weighing in at 1,150 kilograms (or 2,500 pounds) fell silently towards the warehouse. The Foundation speedboats slowed abruptly as they reached the dock. The troops were about to leap ashore when the Nighthawk's bombs reached their target. Thermobaric weapons consist of a container of fuel and two separate explosive devices. When the bombs entered the warehouse by crashing through the metal roof, the first explosive charge on both bombs burst open the fuel container. The fuel, now free to mix with atmospheric oxygen, was rapidly accelerated outward in all directions, creating a cloud which almost completely filled the interior of the warehouse, flowing around the crates stored within and the small security force concealed inside to protect the stored goods. A fraction of a second later, the second explosive charge for each bomb went off. These explosives, though tiny by themselves, detonated the now-oxidized cloud of fuel. The fireball, reaching temperatures well in excess of 2,500 degrees Celsius, incinerated the warehouse's contents and inhabitants in fifty milliseconds, one eighth of the time required for a human to blink. The overpressure of the explosion reached three megapascals, or 430 pounds per square inch, over forty times the pressure necessary to severely damage buildings constructed of reinforced concrete. The warehouse, built out of little more than sheet metal over steel girders, was quite literally blown apart by the blast wave. Less than a second later, the burning gases that made up the explosion began to cool, causing the pressure to drop abruptly. This created a partial vacuum, further increasing the devastation as debris was sucked into the still hellish conditions of the explosion. The blast wave from the explosion, traveling at nearly ten times the speed of sound, rocked the Foundation task force's boats, knocking the entire platoon off its feet. Though it critically injured a full half of the MTF (every agent was injured to some extent), the blast wave actually saved many of their lives by keeping them from being killed either by the outward-moving fireball or by the powerful backdraft. It was later determined that only six members of Xi-13 were killed in the event: four instantly and two later due to injuries sustained. Agent Lombardi was one of the least injured. As he got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, he realized that Agent Price was down. Looking around, he couldn't see any of the MTF's senior agents showing any sign of consciousness. With the target warehouse and its precious contents now a twisted pile of burning rubble, the junior agent decided some REMF intel puke had really FUBARed this time. Grabbing the boat's long-range radio set, Lombardi fired off a situation report to the SCPS Kraken, calling for immediate backup and medical assistance, and letting the astonished ship's captain know that it would only be a matter of minutes before the Finnish authorities were swarming all over the scene. « Part IX | HUB | Part XI »

Assassination Global Occult Coalition North American Regional Headquarters, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1030 hours local time Like much of official Washington, the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building was only staffed by a relatively small caretaker shift on this cold Christmas morning. Of course, there is always some crisis brewing somewhere, and today was no different. The staff that was on duty had realized something important was going on when Regional Director Strauss and Regional Deputy Director Bain had arrived bright and early on their day off. This realization was reinforced when three more individuals arrived at the nondescript Foggy Bottom office building. Many people in both organizations realized that the Global Occult Coalition and the Foundation had a complicated relationship. Both had some level of semi-official recognition of their jurisdiction over paranormal affairs, especially in Europe and North America. Both were usually adversarial to the other players on the field, and this shared stance sometimes led to cooperation, though it just as often led to disagreements borne out of the two organization's different philosophies. What most people did not realize, for it was a secret known only to fewer than a hundred individuals in either organization, was that there were official liaison officers who oversaw all officially sanctioned joint efforts. Much like ambassadors between hostile countries, these liaison officers served as a useful pipeline for dialogue, and were accordingly afforded what essentially amounted to diplomatic immunity. In no way were these two liaison officers the only individuals in either organization to interact - there were of course plenty of grey and black dealings handled informally by field personnel - but the liaisons offered the administration of both groups the ability to formally discuss matters of mutual concern. As such, the guards manning the security checkpoint in the lobby of the GOC's Washington Headquarters Building were unsurprised to see the relatively familiar sight of Foundation Liaison Officer Rhodes. They were surprised by the two people with Rhodes: a petite Japanese woman, whom they recognized as the Foundation's third Overseer, and her powerfully-built bodyguard. O5-3 was the young heiress to a powerful Japanese mining conglomerate who had opted to work for the Foundation rather than the family business. A financial and administrative genius, Three had more than doubled the revenue of the several front companies she had managed for the Foundation prior to her promotion to Overseer. The Foundation personnel were escorted to a top-floor conference room, where GOC Directors Strauss and Bain were already waiting, along with their own bodyguards. Handshakes and pleasantries were exchanged and all sat to begin their business. GOC Special Agent Benjamin Arnold had served as the personal bodyguard to GOC Regional Deputy Director Bain for eight years. Recruited from the American Diplomatic Security Service, he possessed the highest security clearance granted by both the American government and the GOC, and passed a polygraph every two months. He had never once been late for work, and had only ever taken a day off to attend the funeral of his twin brother a decade before. He kept to himself during off hours, but was regarded as cordial and efficient by his principal, his superiors, and his coworkers, most of whom owed him money from the office's informal sports pool. Accordingly, Director Strauss' bodyguard saw no reason to watch Arnold, rather than the only person he believed presented a physical threat to his principal, the Foundation bodyguard escorting O5-3. For his part, Foundation Special Agent Sanchez, O5-3's bodyguard, was doing his best to keep his cool. He hated having to escort Three into the belly of the beast. With his hands held in front of him, he thought to himself that at least the GOC was probably the least likely of the various groups-of-interest to take a potshot at a visiting Overseer, especially in their own headquarters. As Three began to explain about the recently uncovered plot within the Foundation, now responsible for the deaths of two of her fellow Overseers, and the implications of a security breach not only within the Foundation but also in the GOC, no one noticed what Arnold was doing. Slowly, subtly, he unbuttoned his jacket. Ever so carefully, he reached into his suit coat, and— —In a flash, Arnold whipped out his pistol. From a distance of less than two meters, he fired a round into the ear of Strauss' bodyguard, who collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Sanchez blinked in shock and was reaching for his own weapon when Arnold placed a round neatly between the eyes of the Foundation Special Agent. Another bullet entered the back of Director Strauss' head from point-blank range, killing him instantly. Three's jaw dropped. She was about to utter a cry of confusion when she felt the Foundation Liaison to the GOC shove her to the floor in an attempt to get her out of the line of fire. A sharp pain erupted in her chest, followed swiftly by another in her arm. As her vision faded to black, she heard several more gunshots. And then she was gone. Cologne/Bonn Airport, Germany Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1845 hours local time During his layover, Harper was having supper at an upscale bar in the First Class Lounge when a man in plainclothes approached him. "Mr. Timothy Harper?" the man asked. Instantly on alert, Harper's hand tightened ever so slightly on his steak knife. "Yes," he answered casually. "I have a message for you," the man said, handing over a sealed envelope. "High priority from Washington." Harper thanked the man, who left. Opening the message, he saw it was from Seven: TO: Harper FROM: O5-7 MESSAGE FOLLOWS: O5-3 shot by GOC agent at meeting with GOC Regional Director Strauss. Strauss also dead. Deputy RD Bain assumed role as Acting RD. Suspect possible conspirator involvement. Tensions with GOC high. Assume all GOC personnel hostile until further notice. Return immediately to Command-02 for consultations. SCP-006 liquid transfer approved. END MESSAGE Harper swore under his breath. Lighting a cigarette, he started to contemplate how this new turn of events fit into what he already knew. « Part VIII | HUB | Part X »

Puzzles Mount Kazbek, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1545 hours local time Harper found SCP-1440 seated cross-legged on a flat rock, a worn set of playing cards arrayed before it. The Old Man from Nowhere, as SCP-1440 was informally called in the folklore surrounding him, was a tired-looking old man with sad eyes, a deeply-lined face, and a bristly silver beard. He wore the simple attire of a peasant, with a thick but fraying wool coat and a fur cap. His breath froze in his whiskers, conjuring up an image of Grandfather Frost in Harper's mind. "Good day, Grandfather," Harper said Russian. "May I join you?" The old man looked up. "Good day. I have nothing to offer but a hard cold rock to sit on, but if you wish to join me, you are welcome," he said in the same language; Harper couldn't quite place the accent. "Though I suggest you may not wish to keep my company for long." "Because of the Three Brothers," Harper said. "Indeed," the old man said, eying him shrewdly. "Have we met before, my son?" "No, Grandfather, never before, though I have heard tales of you," Harper said. Gesturing at the cards, he asked, "What is this you play?" "Oh, merely a game to pass the time before I must continue on my journey," the old man explained. "It is called Grandfather's Clock. I imagine, however, you did not seek me out in this lonely spot merely to discuss a card game." Harper nodded, "This is true, Grandfather. I am a member of the Foundation." "Again you seek me out? After the pestilence and destruction that followed me to you?" the old man asked sadly. "You failed to kill me when I came to you before, and you tempted me with a 'cure' for my condition. You cannot 'cure' a man who is cursed by the Three Brothers of Death themselves." "Forgive me, Grandfather," Harper interrupted, "but who mentioned a 'cure'? I merely wished to ask you questions." "So you know nothing of the woman," the old man said, frowning. Harper asked, "What woman?" "A young, pretty thing," the old man replied, staring into memory. "Dark hair, with a face like a hawk and eyes like a wolf. She came to me not a week ago, offering me a 'cure' for my condition, if I went with her to the city. I declined - I must bear this curse, but I do not wish it upon mankind." "What happened next?" Harper asked. "She went away," the old man said wistfully. "Like everyone always goes away." A tear ran down his cheek and disappeared into his beard. "I cannot stay long," Harper said, "but I think I can stay long enough that we might eat and drink together, Grandfather." A weary smile lifted the corners of the old man's mustache as Harper produced a bottle of vodka, some sliced roast beef, and a small handful of candies from his bag. And so the two sat and ate and spoke of random things in the cold mountain air of the Caucasus for nearly an hour, before Harper took his leave to return to Strelinikov and the jeep. O5-11's personal vacation cabin, Maine Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0659 hours local time The Foundation's eleventh Overseer was a portly African-American in his seventies. He had worked his way up through the Foundation's temporal sciences department, before eventually being promoted to Overseer. Like all of the Overseers, Eleven had been paying close attention to the counterintelligence investigation that Seven had been directing. Always known for his carefully thought-out opinion, Eleven was one of the swing votes on the O5 Council, mediating between the faction that wanted to pursue caution, aware of the dangers a counterintelligence "fishing expedition" that could turn into a witch hunt, and the faction that wanted to aggressively dismantle what could be one of the most major conspiracies in Foundation history. Eleven had kept his comments to himself during the several emergency meetings that had occurred in the past week, in no small part because he himself was unsure of what course to pursue. He was out of his element with all the cloak and dagger hall of mirrors shit. No, he preferred dealing with simple scientific problems, like how to keep the Foundation's several dozen spacetime-altering objects from causing a cascading, reality-destroying paradox. Eleven had never been particularly good at remembering his medication, especially when he was under stress. His doctor had complained about his high blood pressure, and, as usual, Eleven had paid lip service by taking the prescribed medication. When he remembered. The combination of age, high blood pressure, stress, and a family history of heart disease meant that the elderly gentleman would never awaken this Christmas morning, having expired of a heart attack in his sleep. At precisely 0700 hours, Eleven's bodyguard entered his room to wake his principal. When Eleven failed to rouse, the bodyguard checked for a pulse, and then issued a Code Red over his radio to the security staff in attendance. The Foundation had lost a second Overseer in less than a week. Interlude O5-11 is dead. That was not part of the plan, but it may yet be useful. Is the operation in Oman complete? Yes. Our forces left one survivor. He is not one of ours, but he will be suspected. And what of the creature? Our experts believe we have what we need. It will only be a matter of time. Good. Move the timetable forward. The Game's Afoot Beslan Airport, Vladikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1800 hours local time Harper was about to board his flight to Bonn when Captain Gagarin ran up to him, holding an envelope. "This just came in secure from Command," Gagarin panted. Harper thanked him and tore it open. It was a message from O5-7: TO: Harper FROM: O5-7 MESSAGE FOLLOWS: O5-11 dead, suspect conspirator involvement. RS-29 overrun by forces unknown, Dr. Ford only survivor. Suspect Ford is traitor, in transit to Command-02 for questioning. Recommend immediate return to Command-02 for consultations. END MESSAGE I guess I'm going to Washington, Harper thought, pocketing the message. "Comrade Gagarin, please call ahead to Bonn to arrange for a connecting flight to Washington, D.C.," he said. Gagarin saluted smartly, and set off. The plot thickens, Harper thought. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' « Part VII | HUB | Part IX »

Welcome to Vladikavkaz Beslan Airport, Vladikavkaz, Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1200 hours local time Harper stepped off the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-42 passenger jet expecting to walk to carry his bag to customs at the one-runway airport's tiny terminal building. He did not expect to find himself face-to-face with a group of very angry Soviet Airborne soldiers training assault rifles on him. A stern-faced captain with a thick mustache glared at him. "Он - американский шпион! Арестуйте его немедленно!" shouted the captain. "He is an American spy! Arrest him immediately!" Harper realized the smartest thing to do was say nothing - the Foundation would find out soon enough and get him out of this mess. Two burly soldiers seized Harper's arms while a bag was thrust over his head. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, and he was marched to a truck. The ride took about half an hour over some very bumpy dirt roads. Harper was pulled from the truck and half marched, half dragged into a building. He was placed in a rough wooden chair, and the bag was whipped off his head. The room was part of a wooden shack, dark and damp with a dirt floor. The smell of manure drifted in from outside. The mustached captain stood before him. "My apologies, Mr. Harper. The subterfuge was necessary to preserve appearances for my men, most of whom are conscripts who know nothing of the Foundation. Furthermore, O5 gave me strict orders that I have never heard of you, and you were never here," said the captain in flawless English. "I am Captain Ivan Petrovich Gagarin. Welcome to Vladikavkaz." He looked behind Harper at a very young lieutenant standing guard. "Снимите кандалы." "Remove the shackles." The guard reached down and undid the handcuffs. "Glad to be here," Harper replied, massaging his wrists. "What's the plan now?" "I am interrogating the dangerous American spy along with an expert from the GRU," Captain Gagarin explained, pulling out a set of Soviet civilian clothes appropriate for a GRU staff officer and handing them to Harper. "Once we have finished, I will execute the cowardly capitalist pig and have my men bury him out back." He pointed at a misshapen bag about the dimensions of a grown man lying in the corner of the room. "Junior Lieutenant Strelnikov here will then take you, the GRU interrogation expert, back to the airport, by way of wherever you need to go." The lieutenant nodded silently. Harper nodded and started changing into the offered clothing. He asked, "Captain, do you have my bag somewhere?" The lieutenant left the room briefly and returned with it. As Harper buttoned his Soviet overcoat with one hand, he pulled a file from the bag and thumbed through. Finding the picture he was looking for, he asked, "Captain, this is SCP-1440. I need to speak with him." SCP-1440, as last seen "Ah, yes, Старик из ниоткуда, the Old Man from Nowhere," Gagarin said. "He's one of several entities running around the Caucasus right now. You're in luck, Mr. Harper. He was last sighted a few days ago on the southeastern slopes of Mount Kazbek, just north of Kanobi. It is less than an hour drive from here." "Perfect," Harper said. Gagarin turned to Strelnikov and spoke briefly in hushed and rapid-fire Russian, handing over the photograph. The lieutenant nodded. Gagarin turned and pulled out his pistol. He fired two quick shots followed by a third into the floor. "I have just executed the American," he explained. "Товарищ мла́дший лейтена́нт , сопроводите наших гостей до аэропорта!" He barked loudly for the benefit of the soldiers outside. "Escort our guest to the airport, Comrade Junior Lieutenant!" Strelinikov hustled Harper outside to a waiting jeep. He tossed the counterintelligence investigator's bag in the back seat and they sped off southward. Though paved, the Georgian Military Road along which they traveled was in dire need of maintenance. Racing along at well over a hundred kilometers per hour, Harper hoped their trip wouldn't end ignominiously in a fiery crash after hitting a pothole. The lieutenant's driving was only marginally better than that of the infamous Dr. Gerald. "You Foundation official?" asked Strelinikov in broken English. "Yes," Harper replied, also in English. "I'm Harper. I supposed you'd call me Timofey Ivanovich, since my dad's name was John." "I Dmitri Arkadeyevich," said the soldier. "My English well? I learning in my time free." "Uh, yes, very," Harper lied. Switching to Russian, he asked, "Do you mind if we speak in Russian? I would like to practice." Swerving to avoid a goat which had wandered into the middle of the road, Strelinikov nodded, "Very well. Your Russian is most literate." "Thank you," Harper replied. "So, you are a Foundation agent?" "Not yet," Strelinikov said. He paused to shout obscenities in mat at a farmer leading a donkey down the road. "I am proud to be serving the Motherland. Perhaps I will join the Foundation when I am old and infirm." Which probably means sometime around your thirtieth birthday, Harper thought to himself. He remembered his brief period in the American army in the early sixties. The false sense of immortality and the bravado that came with it, so common in soldiers everywhere before they were exposed to the true horrors of war. "In any case," the Russian continued, "Captain Gagarin needs soldiers he can trust." Harper asked, "Do you know anything about the Old Man from Nowhere?" "Only that we are supposed to keep track of his location, and otherwise avoid him at all costs," Strelinikov said. "What do you want with him?" "That's classified," the American replied. The Russian grunted in annoyance, but said nothing. Truth be told, Harper wasn't sure himself. SCP-1440 was dangerous to any man-made object or human who remained in extended close contact with it, according to the Foundation's file. Half an hour later, the jeep came to a stop at the end of a dirt road halfway up the mountain. "This is as far as I am allowed to take you," Strelinikov said. He pointed at a ridge a half kilometer away. "The Old Man should be up there. I will remain here with the jeep until sundown." By Harper's estimate, that gave him about four and a half hours before he had to be back. He set off up the mountainside. Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0630 hours local time Monica prodded Muir awake. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, looking over the finances of the assistant clerk for O5-2. "Coffee?" asked the intern, offering a mug. "Thanks," Muir grunted. "Merry Christmas," Monica said. Muir nodded, "Back at you. Any word on Tim?" Monica nodded, "The watch office in the basement got word from Agent Gagarin. He's safe and sound. Looks like it was just a sandstorm disrupting communications." "Yeah," yawned Muir. "Figured. I did a tour in Yemen a while back - sandstorms aren't fun. Back to work, then." He picked up another file, this one on O5-6's primary bodyguard, and started to read. Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED] Sunday, 25 December 1988, 1130 hours GMT The red light was still blinking. Johnson walked over to the meteorology console and called up Oman. The storm had cleared out several hours before. "Uh, Agent Marcus? Research Site-29 is still off the grid," he called. "Did the sandstorm clear yet? Those things can—" started Marcus. "Yes, sir, I just checked. It cleared up about three hours ago," Johnson said. Marcus swore, "And you're only telling me this now? Please tell me you've been checking every hour." Johnson's face fell. "You haven't. Dammit Probie! Get on the horn and scramble the nearest MTF." « Part VI | HUB | Part VIII »

The Hunt Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours local time The helicopter touched down at the edge of the base camp for Research Site-29. It wasn't much to look at, just a standard perimeter fence, a few large tents, and a prefabricated watchtower with a searchlight and heavy machine gun. Razor wire and a minefield fifty meters deep had been deployed around the perimeter. These security measures would be improved as the site was developed further. According to the file, the site had only been constructed a few months before, after SCP-557 had been discovered by an investigation into a missing geological survey team. Harper stepped off the helicopter and was met by two men. One was a short man with glasses, dressed in khakis and clutching a Stetson to his head. The other was an enormous, barrel-chested Arab wearing an impressive black beard and desert camouflage. "You must be the VIP I was told to expect," shouted the shorter man, an American, based on his accent. "Dr. Nick Ford, Site Director. This is Colonel Ali El-Hashem, Site Security Chief." "Tim Harper, Foundation Counterintelligence," yelled Harper. He followed the two men into the nearby command tent as the helicopter shut down. The tent was mostly empty (unsurprising, given the hour); a radio operator sat in the corner reading a book. "Lieutenant, go get a cup of coffee," boomed El-Hashem in a deep, resonant baritone. The tech jumped to his feet and scurried out. Rounding on Harper, the Colonel asked ominously, "Is there a problem with my security?" "Now, Colonel," objected Dr. Ford, "that's no way to welcome our guest. I'm sure that's not why—" "The Hell it's not!" bellowed El-Hashem. "Why else would a Level 5 counterintelligence officer arrive at my site at oh-dark-thirty?" "It's quite alright," Harper said quietly. "I am not aware of any inadequacies in your security measures, nor am I aware of any problems with your staff." The giant Arab deflated, but looked slightly relieved. Dr. Ford asked, "So, Agent Harper, what does bring you out to Research Site-29 in the middle of the night?" "Just 'Mister'," Harper corrected gently. "I'm not an agent. I'm here because I have reason to believe a person-of-interest is intending to use SCP-557-1 in a plot against the Foundation." Ford and El-Hashem shared a worried look. "Dash-one isn't contained," Ford said. "We aren't even sure what it is." "Wasn't that in the file?" El-Hashem asked. "I read both the files on SCP-557 and Research Site-29 on my flight," Harper explained, "but they both only had preliminary findings. I'm going to guess they haven't been updated yet, since the site's so new." Ford nodded, "That makes sense. I suppose I should go ahead and give you the nickel tour." He and Harper left the command tent and strode across the compound. At the center, there was a stone structure maybe ten meters in height. They entered through a rough hole in the side, perhaps two meters tall. The room was an ancient library. Dusty shelves lining the walls held rolls of papyrus. A table had been set up in the middle of the room, where researchers could examine and translate the scrolls and other artifacts. "This is Level 1," explained Ford. "There are five underground levels total, which is unusual for structures of this design. The structure itself is an Umm an-Nar era tomb, which we think was built somewhere in the twenty-fourth century BC. We've not had a chance to do a thorough sweep of the surrounding countryside yet, so there may be more ruins out there. Historically there was a trade route through this area and a (now lost) city named Ubar or Irem, depending on the language. The desert eventually swallowed both the city and the trade route. Now, the scrolls we've found here on Level 1 are written in a number of ancient languages. So far, we've identified Greek, Old Egyptian, Sumerian, and Akkadian. We've only begun translating." "Anything about dash-one?" asked Harper. "Maybe. We're still working on translating. We've pulled all the records we can identify that we think might refer to dash-one and are prioritizing those," Ford replied, gesturing to the several dozen scrolls littering the work table. He searched for a second, found a specific sheet of modern loose-leaf paper, and handed it over. "This is the translation of the only document in here written in Greek. Radiocarbon dating indicates it was the most recent addition to the library, from around 300 AD." I will write in Greek, so that any learned man who finds this place will understand. I am the last of the Keepers, and I will be dead soon. The sands are taking this place, and perhaps it is for the best. The prisoner must not escape, and the gateway to the dark must never be opened. I do not think the gate can be moved, but who knows of the prisoner? Not even the Gods could kill it, and it was only with their help that he was secured. Without the rituals, I do not know. Secure the door the best you can, and never move the stone. "That's charming," Harper remarked after finishing the note. "Yep," Ford agreed. "We don't know if that's talking about dash-one, but it could be. Dash-one wasn't the only thing held here." He paused. "Anyway, in the several rooms on Level 1, there are living quarters and Bronze and Iron Age weaponry for a relatively large contingent of individuals, possibly the 'Keepers' mentioned in the note. We only found two skeletons on this Level, so we think the facility was abandoned over time." Ford led Harper down a flight of stone stairs. A long corridor with small stone cells stretched into the distance. "This is Level 2. According to the records, Levels 2 and 3 were a prison for 'heretics and sorcerers.' We didn't find any evidence of the cells being occupied. They seem to have not been used for perhaps a thousand years before the structure was abandoned." "Any idea who these heretics and sorcerers were?" asked Harper. "None whatsoever," Ford replied as the two men descended to Level 4. "We don't even know who the Keepers were." Level 4 looked similar to Levels 2 and 3, except there was more evidence of the Foundation's archeological team. "This is Level 4, described by the records as 'a place for the abnormal.' This appears to have been used up though the facility's abandonment," Ford explained. "What sort of abnormal?" Harper inquired. "Well, we've found a variety of skeletons in the cells here, which match several known SCPs. Dr. Bhala has positively matched remains to what looks like SCP-439, SCP-610, and a couple of beasties that crawled out of SCP-354 - oh, don't worry, all the remains are completely inert," Ford said, seeing the mixture of concern and horror on Harper's face. "There are also a number of skeletons unlike anything my team has seen before. From what we can tell, each cell was custom-fortified for its occupant, unlike the cells in the upper levels." "Sounds like someone doing our job," Harper remarked. Ford nodded, "Well, in general societies have had ways of dealing with the supernatural. Today, we have the Foundation and the GOC, containing and destroying things, respectively. In the Middle Ages, the Church (both Catholic and Orthodox) worked pretty hard to either harness those objects that they could explain in ways to fit their theological beliefs or to destroy those which didn't. This structure is just an ancient site for some now long-forgotten analogue to the Foundation." "You said there were five levels," Harper said. "Yes," Ford confirmed. He handed Harper a flashlight and hardhat. "Be careful when we're down there. There are a lot of traps and deadfalls. We think we've located and sprung or cleared them all, but I've lost four D-class, two researchers, and a security guard all since we initially thought we'd cleared them." "Like something out of Raiders of the Lost Ark," Harper remarked dryly. "Worse," Ford warned. "Not only are these real and not movie magic, many of them are far more sophisticated than I've seen in any other tombs. Do not touch anything. Spots which are confirmed as safe to step have been marked in white tape. Red tape indicates spots you should not step." "White good, red bad," Harper repeated. "Understood." The two men walked down the stairs. Level 5 appeared to be a single empty hallway, perhaps fifty meters long. At regular intervals, the researcher staff had positioned battery-powered lanterns. The floor and wall were dotted with red and white tape. Here and there, deep pits in the floor dropped out of sight, invisible to even the most attentive observer if not for the red warning tape. Slowly and cautiously, Ford and Harper crept forward. After an eternity, they reached the end of the corridor. A giant door lay in pieces across the end of the hallway, apparently torn down and smashed from the inside. "This is the entrance to Room 501," Ford explained. "The door was like this when we arrived. It's constructed of a variety of metal alloys whose formula I won't bore you with, but the metallurgy necessary to make them is something that shouldn't have been possible until the middle twentieth century." "BC?" Harper asked. "No, the middle twentieth century AD," Ford said. "One of the key parts of the primary alloy was depleted uranium. And yet this door appears to be as old as the structure itself. We have no idea how it was made forty-four centuries before it ordinarily could have been. In any case, our best estimates suggest the door wasn't broken until sometime in the last ten years or so. Whatever was inside - what we've designated SCP-557-1 - got out." "That can't be good," Harper said. "It gets better," Ford said. "That door is, or was, three cubits thick. Sorry, about a meter and a half. Ancient Egyptian measurement. Anyway. Dr. Morales analyzed the fracture pattern. This thing was broken in just one physical blow. There aren't many things that can exert that sort of physical force, even today. Colonel El-Hashem has a demolition tech who estimates he'd have trouble rigging a charge to destroy the door that wouldn't rebound the shock-wave into the chamber and kill anything inside." Ford ushered the counterintelligence officer inside. Room 501 was vast, easily twenty meters on a side and over five meters high. The center of the room's floor was covered by a large granite slab covered in runes Harper didn't recognize. A smaller stone block stood in the room. Metal chains hung broken from the smaller stone. "Dash-one was imprisoned here, chained to this stone. The chains are the same material as the door." Harper let out a low whistle. Whatever SCP-557-1 was, it had been both big and incredibly powerful. "So, we have no idea what it was?" "Most of the records haven't been translated yet," Ford replied. "What we've found so far, including on the walls of Room 501 itself, refer to dash-one as simply 'the prisoner.' There is one exception. A single reference in Egyptian refers to it as 'the bastard son of Apep.'" "Apep?" Harper asked. "Apep, or Apophis as he was referred to by the Greeks, was the Egyptian deification of darkness and chaos," Ford explained. "He was the personification of all that was evil, seen as a giant serpent or dragon. He wasn't so much worshiped as worshiped against; the ancient Egyptians believed that every night the sun god, Ra, would fight Apep, and if Ra ever lost, the sun would fail to rise again." "So dash-one is the bastard son of this guy?" Harper asked. "We don't know, but that's what the one record we've found with any sort elaboration suggests," Ford responded. "Colonel El-Hashem has standing orders to locate and secure dash-one, and to assume it to be Keter until proven otherwise. No luck so far. And you have information that someone has found dash-one? If that's correct, that's very troubling." Harper nodded, thinking. "Very troubling indeed." Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Saturday, 24 December 1988, 2200 hours local time Muir and Monica huddled around the secure speaker phone. Harper was on the line from the middle of nowhere in Oman, just finishing up his findings. "So, we're on the lookout for the bastard son of the ancient Egyptian god of chaos and darkness," Monica asked incredulously. "Welcome to the Foundation," Muir sniped. The intern rolled her eyes at him. Harper ignored him. "So, I presume Seven told you about 1440? Have you turned anything up?" "Just to make sure we're on the same page, you have the file last updated 15 June 1987?" Muir asked. It never hurt to double check such things. There was a pause on the line, the Harper said, "That is correct." Monica read from some notes she had hastily scribbled on a legal pad earlier that evening. "Mr. Harper, Site-11 doesn't have an exact fix on fourteen-forty's position, but they believe it might be somewhere near Mt. Kazbek in the Caucasus Mountains in the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic." "Who — local contact — ground?" the transmission from Harper asked, fading in and out of static. "Say again, Tim, we missed that," Muir instructed. "-said, — is the — -tact on the grou-?" came the reply. Monica looked at Muir, "He wants to know the contact on the ground." Muir called into the telephone, "Your contact is Captain Ivan Petrovich Gagarin. He'll meet you in Vladikavkaz." "Captain — Gagarin — in Vladikavkaz—" crackled the phone, dissolving into static. "Tim? Harper?!" Muir called, but the connection was dead. Foundation Research Site-29, Northwest Oman Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0700 hours local time "Troy? Monica?" yelled Harper into the secure radio set. The operator looked up apologetically. "Sorry, sir, but we've lost the transmission." "Looks like a sandstorm is on the way," said another technician on the other side of the command tent. "Coming in from the west, ETA five minutes." Harper looked at El-Hashem and Ford, "How long do these things last?" "Hard to tell. Could be hours," the Arab colonel replied. Harper hoisted his bag. "Is the helo ready to go?" "Yes, but it'd be better to ride the storm out here," Ford cautioned. Harper started towards the tent's exit. "Can't waste the time," he said over his shoulder as he stepped outside. To the east, a towering wall of sand rose kilometers high. Harper ran to the helicopter pad and gestured to the pilot to spin up the bird's engines. Within sixty seconds, they were airborne, racing back towards the city as the research site was engulfed by the sandstorm. Foundation Observation Post 3-02, [LOCATION REDACTED] Sunday, 25 December 1988, 0300 hours GMT A red light blinked on and off, annoyingly insistent amongst a sea of green and blue denoting the status of the Foundation's worldwide assets. Probationary Agent Johnson sat up and called up the associated status indicator. He'd gotten a bottom of the barrel assignment, shipped off to the middle of nowhere straight out of training, only arriving the day before. PRIORITY 2 ALERT Automated Notification: Research Site-29 communications lost. "Uh, Agent Marcus? We have a Priority 2. Research Site-29 just lost communications," Johnson said, worried. "Calm down, Probie," his superior said. "Satellite IMINT shows a sandstorm in that part of Oman. We've had problems every time one of those has come through since we set up shop a few months ago. Landline's still a work in progress." "So you think the storm is disrupting the radio signal?" Johnson asked. "Third time this week," Marcus replied, sipping his coffee. "The system log any danger or distress codes before the signal went out?" Johnson took a moment to call up the relevant data. "Uh, no," he said. Marcus smiled, "Well, then, Probie, it's probably nothing. Fire off a sitrep and Form CL-287 to HQ and Site-11. As per protocol, if the signal doesn't return after the storm clears, they'll send in an MTF." Johnson swallowed, and nodded. If Agent Marcus wasn't too worried, he decided he shouldn't be either. « Part V | HUB | Part VII »

Demands Foundation Command-03, Whitehall, UK Saturday, 24 December 1988, 1300 hours local time The explosion was predictable. "He wants what?!" demanded Seven over the secure telephone line. Harper took a calming puff on his cigarette and said, "I believe his exact words were 'I require seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 for my research.'" "Absolutely out of the question," Seven shot back. "Sir James has lost his marbles this time. Did the file on him include details on his failed recruitment?" "Only that recruitment was attempted and failed back in seventy-one," Harper recalled. "Sir James' doctoral thesis in mathematics had to do with the binomial theorem, specifically an aspect that was of interest to the Foundation," Seven explained. "We knew he was valuable talent, and we wanted to beat the other groups-of-interest to him. So, a couple of agents were sent to do the usual meet-and-greet. Pretend to be part of the local government's intelligence service, give the pitch, point out that not working with us might be a bad idea…" In other words, Harper knew, extort the prospective employee into working for the Foundation. Not one of the organization's finer policies, but at least the Foundation tried to handle it with a velvet glove, unlike many of its rival organizations. "So what happened?" Harper inquired. Seven scoffed, "He laughed in the agents' faces. He told them he knew they worked for the Foundation, and that he wasn't interested in being one of our 'lab coat wearing canon fodder' before having his butler forcibly remove them from the premises. Apparently, he thought working for us would be 'boring,' but he offered to 'consult from time to time' if we had 'some interesting challenge' our researchers couldn't figure out." Harper was flabbergasted. "I bet that went over well." "You wouldn't believe the shitstorm that kicked up," Seven confirmed. "We believed the man thought that just because he was on a first name basis with the Prime Minister that he could ignore us. The Overseer who was handling recruitment in those days was all set to authorize a coercion operation to ensure Sir James' cooperation when we found out that the Chaos Insurgency had beaten us to the punch." "Oh?" asked Harper. "They sent a squad of a dozen ex-black-ops thugs to abduct him in the middle of the night," Seven said. "According to our intel - and the GOC's intel agreed, by the way - he was home alone. Nobody knows for sure exactly what happened, or how Sir James pulled it off, but three days later the heads of each of the hit squad members arrived in the mail to each of the various organizations dealing with the paranormal (the Insurgency, the Foundation, the GOC, all of them)." Harper gagged slightly - he had a strong stomach, but this had come out of left field. Apparently, Seven had heard him, because she continued, "It gets better. Each parcel had a hand written note from Sir James, stating that he was not interested in working for a particular organization, but would 'happily consult on any puzzles we have that struck his fancy.'" The counterintelligence officer massaged his temples. If the world made sense, such behavior would have been nipped in the bud. Working for the Foundation, however, quickly hammered home that the world does not make sense. "So then what?" he asked. "Everyone backed off," Seven replied. "Cooler heads prevailed in the Foundation and GOC, realizing it wasn't worth the loss of personnel and resources to bag this guy when he openly admitted to being willing to consult, while the Serpent's Hand and Chaos Insurgency were both sufficiently cowed by his rather spectacular display of cruelty to stand down." "'For this has to be noted,'" Harper quoted, "'that men should either be caressed or eliminated, because they avenge themselves for slight offenses but cannot do so for grave ones; so the offense one does to a man should be such that one does not fear revenge for it.'" Seven chuckled, "I see you've read Harvey Mansfield's recent translation. Most people would quote the better known verse: 'The response is that one would want to be both the one and the other; but because it is difficult to put them together, it is much safer to be feared than loved, if one has to lack one of the two.' Sir James has a first edition of the original in his library." Harper moved the conversation from the philosophical and historical back to the business at hand, "While that is interesting, and perhaps explains the apparent arrogance of the professor's demand, what is the problem with double-oh-six? Besides the Foundation's general policy of not handing SCPs out?" A policy, Harper didn't say (since both were aware), the Foundation was willing to overlook if the circumstances were sufficiently dire or the price was high enough. It was a dirty little secret known only to the tiniest of the upper echelon of the staff; a secret remarkably well protected, considering the gossip such things would normally attract in a bureaucracy. Of course, it probably helped that the Foundation essentially never actually broke the stated policy. And that the slightest whisper of a rumor about a time when the Foundation did give an SCP to someone else generally resulted in the person doing the whispering being purged so thoroughly Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria would have been proud. It is unwise to make an organization controlling reality-warping entities decide that it would be best if you no longer existed. There was brief silence on the line as the Overseer considered her answer. "Mr. Harper, SCP-006 is one of the most dangerous items the Foundation controls. Its existence is only known to a select handful of Level 5 personnel and the staff directly involved in handling it. Only the current Overseers are permitted to know the exact details of zero-zero-six," she explained. "Here is what you need to know: you should consider it Keter. Over time it produces limited quantities of one of the most deadly toxins known to humanity. This thing is so dangerous any procedure in which liquid is acquired from zero-zero-six requires at least three Overseers to sign off on it, and any personnel who come into direct contact with either the liquid or the item itself have to be terminated by incineration." "In short, it is nasty stuff," Harper said. "So, what could Sir James want with this?" "Whatever it is, it's not good," Seven said. She sighed. "I'll talk with the other Overseers about this. I've had a number of dealings with Sir James before myself. I don't trust anyone with this stuff, but I suspect he's less likely to abuse it than most. In any case, it's a moot point. Because of my dealings with him, I'd need to recuse myself from the release authorization: so, unless none of the other leads he gave you pan out and I can convince three other Overseers to approve and the rest of the Council doesn't veto it, the professor will have to do without." "And that is about as likely as six-eighty-two keeling over from a heart attack," Harper remarked dryly. "In the meantime, Mr. Harper, I want you to go check on five-five-seven and one-four-four-zero," Seven instructed. "You'll be on the next flight to Research Site-29 in Oman." Harper quietly objected, "With all due respect, ma'am, tomorrow is Christmas, and the tenth anniversary of my family's passing." "Right," Seven apologized. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harper. I had forgotten. I know this is not a pleasant thing to ask of you. I also know Christmas is the only day of the year you ask to take off. And I hope you know that I am deeply sorry for your loss. But this conspiracy is a very serious threat to the Foundation, and by extension—" "—To everything else," the counterintelligence officer acknowledged sadly. He sighed. He knew, in its own way, that a conspiracy like this one was as large a threat as the Foundation ever faced, even if the science types thought a rampaging gecko was a bigger concern. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Alright. But I will arrange my own flight. I am going to take time to stop by St. Paul's Cathedral to light a candle for my family, since I can't do it at the National Cathedral like I do every year." "Very well," Seven acquiesced. "Who knows when you'll next be near a Church. I'll pass along your update to Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel, and have them attempt to track down SCP-1440. Good luck in Oman." She disconnected. Putting down the receiver, Harper leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. This sort of thing brought back bad memories: putting work before family. In the next room, the office staff wondered what had caused the visiting Level 5 VIP to swear so loudly they could hear it through the soundproofed walls. « Part IV | HUB | Part VI »

The Information Broker British Airways Moscow-London Flight, Somewhere over the North Sea Friday, 23 December 1988, 1900 hours GMT Enjoying a cigarette and nursing a thirty-year-old scotch, Harper perused the Foundation file on Professor Sir James Mycroft from the relative privacy of his first class seat. A curious fellow, this Sir James. As Harper read the file, it occurred to him that it was a little strange that he had never heard of the fellow before; after all, Harper was high in the Foundation's counterintelligence hierarchy, and the Special Contact Protocols related to the professor required any and all contact to be routed through Foundation CI. Harper exhaled. Perhaps not, he thought. After all, the Foundation is a large organization with a great many contacts. I doubt even any one Overseer knows of all the various groups- or persons-of-interest. James C. Mycroft, GBE, PhD, IMA, IoP, RAS Person-of-Interest File Name: James Carl Mycroft Special Contact Protocols: All Foundation personnel are to observe caution and report any interaction with individual to Foundation counterintelligence. Individual is known to solicit classified material; unauthorized disclosure of information is grounds for disciplinary action under Foundation General Security Protocol 03, Sections 366. Professor Sir James C. M. Mycroft (file photo) Gender: Male Date of Birth: 12 March 1945 (age 44) Nationality: British; Maintains citizenship in both United Kingdom and Switzerland Hair: White (wears full beard, also white) Eyes: Blue Height: 188 cm Weight: Estimated ~80 kg (designated light heavyweight boxer during university days) Decorations/Honors: Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (GBE) Profession: Professor of Mathematics, Cambridge University, UK Academic History: Bachelor of Science (Mathematics), Cambridge University (c/o 1966) Doctor of Philosophy (Mathematics), Cambridge University (c/o 1970) Doctor of Philosophy (Astronomy), Cambridge University (c/o 1974) Academic Society Membership: Institute of Mathematics and its Applications, Institute of Physics, Royal Astronomical Society Language Proficiency: English (Native), German (Native), French (Fluent), Russian (Fluent), Italian (Conversational), Spanish (Conversational), Classical Latin (Rudimentary) Recruitment Prospects: Recruitment attempted and failed, 1971. (See addendum) Affiliations with Groups-of-Interest: Serves as freelance information broker, having provided information to the Foundation, the Global Occult Coalition, and Prometheus Labs, Inc.; Believed to be a club member of Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd.; Displays little loyalty to any single group and is willing to provide information to all sides if payment is sufficient. Threat Level: Moderate; Foundation personnel are to observe caution and report any interaction with individual to Foundation counterintelligence. Profile: Professor Sir James Mycroft is a Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge University. He has published extensively on advanced mathematics and celestial mechanics. He is also a freelance information broker for organizations studying the paranormal and preternatural. He displays little loyalty to any single such organization, preferring a self-described "neutral" stance. He has consulted with the Foundation on several occasions, both providing information about other organizations and objects not in the Foundation's custody, and performing analysis on mathematical or astronomical SCP objects. Though the source[s] of Mycroft's information within the Foundation and other organizations is/are unknown, it is speculated that said source[s] is/are high-level and pervasive. Foundation personnel are advised to observe caution when interacting with Mycroft; all such interactions are to be reported to Foundation counterintelligence. Mycroft is wealthy, owning large shares in a variety of major corporations including (but not limited to): Baasch Engineering Corporation Global Transport, Ltd. Howell Information Technologies Huntington Arms, Inc. Prometheus Labs, Inc. [*Group-of-interest to the Foundation] Saito Mining Industries Wallace Security Enterprises Though controlling shares sufficient to affect policy at these corporations, Mycroft appears to display little interest in affecting their operations or management. Mycroft also is known to generously support a variety of charities, including the International Red Cross, Global Clinic Charity, Engineers Without Borders, and the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Known Associates: Mycroft is well-connected socially and politically, and has been confirmed to have dealings with the following individuals: [NAME REDACTED], O5-5: Roommates during university. (Deceased, 21 December 1988) [NAME REDACTED], O5-7: Met during university. Johann Schneider, Deputy Director of the Global Occult Coalition European Division: Childhood friend. Randolph Carter III, Partner, Marshall, Carter, & Dark: Mentor. [*Person-of-interest to the Foundation] Sir John Major, British Chief Secretary to the Treasury: Chess partner. Sir Christopher Keith Curwen, British Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service: Personal friend. Known Related SCP Objects: SCP-033 - Written classified treatise dissenting the documented existence and effects (disseminated to GOC and Foundation). SCP-1050 - Provided mathematical analysis to Foundation. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking," dinged the intercom. "We are currently beginning our descent into Heathrow. We should be landing in about thirty minutes. I'll be switching off the smoking sign and switching on the seat-belt sign shortly. It is currently clear in London and a brisk four degrees centigrade." Harper extinguished his cigarette, finished his scotch, and tucked the file on Sir James back into his attache case. Interlude Harper is on his way to London now. The meeting will likely take place tomorrow morning. Does he know anything damaging? No. The Foundation's files have been sterilized. Have the Coalition's? Yes. The Coalition's investigation is almost as far behind as that of the Scottish police. And Harper's conversation with Sir James will suit our purposes? Of course. Petersfield, Cambridge, UK Saturday, 24 December 1988, 0900 hours local time The residence of Professor Sir James Mycroft turned out to be an elegant townhouse in one of Cambridge's upscale residential districts. Harper walked up the front steps and rapped the ornate door knocker three times. The door opened, revealing a short, portly British butler. "Yes, sir?" "I'm Timothy Harper," the American introduced himself. "Is Sir James in?" "He has been expecting you," the butler said. Harper blinked in surprise - he hadn't made an appointment. Then again, Sir James was an information broker. "If you will follow me, sir." The butler ushered Harper inside, leading him through an ornate front hall and into a library. Sir James' library was lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound tomes covering every subject known to man (and, for that matter, probably a number of subjects not known to man). Dark oak paneling was visible in the few sections of wall not concealed by bookcases. The center of the room was occupied by an ancient oak desk decorated with carvings of griffins. Three small statues of grotesques sat on one side of the blotter; a small silver hand bell sat atop a stack of graded blue book exams. To one side of the room stood a free-standing chalk board covered in mathematical gobbledegook Harper couldn't begin to understand. A towering fireplace crackled happily in the corner, with a painting of a waterfall hung above the mantle. The painting was oddly familiar, though Harper knew he had not seen it before. In a tall-backed chair next to the fireplace, a tall man with wild silver hair and a thick beard sat reading from a small green book. Harper and the man were roughly the same age, according to the file, but the bearded man seemed at once ancient and youthful in a strange, timeless fashion. Sir James looked up, first at the butler, then at Harper. The professor's harsh steel-blue eyes seemed to cut right through him; this was clearly a man who was not to be trifled with. In an instant, the harsh flash of Sir James' eyes was replaced by a friendly twinkle - if he had been wearing a red suit instead of a tweed jacket, Harper might have mistaken him for Saint Nicholas. "Welcome, welcome!" exclaimed Sir James, tucking the green book into an interior pocket of his jacket. He gestured to another chair by the fire, separated from his own by a coffee table with a marble chess set. "Come, sit. May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?" "Coffee, black, thank you," stated Harper, taking the offered chair. Sir James looked pointedly at the butler, "Make that two, Deeds. A dash of peppermint in mine, if you would be so kind." "Yes, sir," the butler replied, disappearing from the room. Sir James directed his attention to Harper, "My dear fellow, what brings you to my humble residence on this fine Christmas Eve morning?" Harper began, "Professor Mycroft, I am Mr. Timothy—" "Timothy Harper, counterintelligence officer for the Foundation, recently promoted to Level 5 for the duration of your current investigation," the Englishman interrupted. "Do you prefer 'Mr. Harper,' 'Timothy,' or 'Tim?'" "Tim is fine," Harper began. "Very well, Tim," continued the Englishman, smiling politely. "I myself prefer either simply 'Professor,' though you are not one of my pupils, or 'Sir James.' I never could get used to being called 'Professor Mycroft' - in my mind that was always my father." "My apologies, Sir James," Harper said. "I am investigating the Pan Am Flight 103 bombing. Several Foundation personnel were killed in the explosion, and we have reason to believe a paranormal artifact was used in the explosion specifically to kill them and destroy the documents in their possession." "A terrible tragedy," Sir James agreed. "Alan Hamilton - you knew him as O5-5 - was among the dead. He was a good friend. How can I be of assistance to the Foundation?" Harper explained what he knew so far, pausing only when the butler returned with their coffee. "And so Cornelia believed I might be able to lead you to C," Sir James said thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. Harper frowned, "I'm sorry, Cornelia?" Sir James blinked, and smiled, "Right, I forgot for a moment you didn't know her real name. Overseer Seven. Another old friend of mine - we met in university, one giving a lecture the other attended." Harper nodded, and the Englishman continued, "Anyway, I do not know the precise location of the chest of explosive coins or its associated atlas. I must say, however, it seems a clever means to accomplish the destruction of an aircraft. After all, no airport security officer in the world will look twice at someone having a coin in either their luggage or on their person. Regardless, I will attempt to determine its whereabouts." "Thank you," Harper said. He waited, sensing Sir James had more to say. "You're wondering what else I know," the mischievous professor observed, "because you suspect there is more to this than just the bombing. A reasonable belief, given the recent raid the Foundation did on a warehouse not too far from here, and a belief which I share. My sources suggest that this C person has been poking around into a number of very dangerous paranormal objects." "Most paranormal objects are dangerous," Harper observed. Sir James nodded, "That is true, but these particular objects are ones with the capacity to do relatively targeted damage. In short, the sort of object or entity which could be used as a weapon against one's enemies. I assume you're familiar with your Foundation's Omega Seven fiasco?" Harper nodded, "Vaguely. Not my department, but something about attempting to put an immortal humanoid SCP with impressive fighting skills on a Mobile Task Force. It ended badly." "To state that the fiasco ended badly would be similar to calling one of the world wars a 'petty dispute'," Sir James said dryly. "Near total casualties among the involved personnel. The detonation of an onsite nuclear failsafe. The end of the careers of General Bowe and several Foundation Overseers." "So you're saying C wants to weaponize SCPs?" Harper asked. "If C is who I think C is, that is doubtful," replied the professor. "It is my suspicion that C is merely one of a number of conspirators - possibly simply a pawn in the eyes of the other conspirators. That said, this conspiracy has demonstrated the willingness to use dangerous SCPs against others, as demonstrated by the Pan Am bombing, and is not adverse to casualties. Such a mindset is, simply put, dangerous." Harper agreed, "Definitely. Do you think the conspirators are likely to try and use Able?" "I doubt it," Sir James said. "He's too mentally unstable to be controlled, as Bowe found out to his detriment. I would recommend you take a look at SCP-557-1 and SCP-1440. My contacts suggest C sought out information about them recently." "Thank you," Harper said, making a note. "May I ask a few questions, Sir James?" "You may ask, but I do not promise to answer them all," the professor replied. "After all, knowledge is power and information is currency. I do promise that everything I tell you will be true." Harper nodded, "Alright, that seems reasonable. Do you know C?" "I do, but I shall not reveal C's identity," Sir James replied. "To do so would be to betray a trust." The response was annoying, but understandable. "Fair enough. Are there any immediate threats I should know about?" asked Harper. Sir James stated, "I cannot say for certain, but based on what you've told me, I would recommend increasing the security details for the O5 Council. Especially since Alan was killed - a decapitation strike cannot be ruled out." Harper made a note. "Do you know more about this conspiracy?" asked the Foundation investigator. "Yes," said Sir James. Harper did a double take. "Will you tell me?" "Well, do not misunderstand me, there is a limit to my knowledge. I do not know everything about it, and I am sure there are measures in place of which I am unaware," the professor said. "Even if I told you everything I know, it is conceivable it would be insufficient to prevent the conspirators from succeeding. Given the response the conspirators had to their warehouse's being raided, my telling you could forfeit both our lives." "You didn't answer my question," the American observed. "Very astute," replied his host. "I am willing to tell you more on one condition, and I am sure it is one you will need to run past Cornelia. I require seventy-five liters of liquid from SCP-006 for my research. While I could obtain it through other channels, having it supplied directly by the Foundation would simplify matters considerably." "I'm not familiar with double-oh-six," Harper said, frowning. "Ask Cornelia; the file is classified for Overseers only," stated Sir James. "If you want the information, get me the liquid. That is my price." "I'll pass that along," Harper said, wondering what exactly the professor wanted that he himself couldn't know about. "One last question, which has little bearing on this investigation beyond my own curiosity." "Ask away." "The painting over your mantle," began Harper, "has been bothering me since I came in. I recognize the waterfall, but I can't place it." Sir James smiled. "That's Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, made famous by the stories of Sherlock Holmes. I was born not far from there, as a matter of fact, which is why I have dual citizenship. My maternal grandfather, also a mathematician I might add, actually met the good doctor when he visited Reichenbach prior to writing The Final Problem. I have an autographed first edition of that book upstairs." "Thank you for satisfying my curiosity, Sir James," Harper said, shaking hands with Sir James. The professor's grip was strong and firm, clearly a relic of his days as a boxer. "Not at all, my dear Tim," Sir James said. He picked up the hand bell from the desk and shook it deftly. There was a peculiar ring, not seeming to come from the bell itself, but before Harper could reflect on this, the door opened. "Deeds, please see Mr. Harper out." "Yes, sir." As the butler led Harper out, he was already thinking through his phone call to Seven. « Part III | HUB | Part V »

Investigations Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 0730 hours local time Lighting a cigarette, Harper sat in his temporary office in the Foundation's regional headquarters for the Soviet Union. Nearly three times the size of his Washington office, complete with a view overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square, Harper decided he could get used to the palatial treatment the Foundation afforded Level 5 personnel. Picking up his secure telephone, he called Muir back in Washington. Since it was almost midnight in the American capital, Harper dialed his colleague's home secure telephone line. After the two units had synced, he heard a slightly groggy voice say, "Muir." "Troy, it's Tim," Harper said. "I hope I didn't wake you." "I was still up reading," Muir reassured Harper. "What's going on?" Harper explained, "I talked to Dr. Pushkin. Looks like the Trinidad artifacts did get bought up by MC&D. From the sounds of it, he witnessed the exchange himself." "Uhuh," Muir grunted. "I've put out feelers to my old contacts at the GOC. I'm expecting to get their file in the morning." "I hope you didn't have to part with any crown jewels," Harper remarked dryly. "Nah, this was in exchange for services already rendered," Muir replied. "Didn't even have to cash in all my chips." "Well, Troy, I'm going to sleep on the couch in the office here. Call me when you have the file," Harper said. He read off the phone and fax numbers. Muir confirmed them, then hung up. Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Friday, 23 December 1988, 0710 hours local time Troy Muir had just started the office coffee maker when Monica walked in carrying a manila envelope. "Mr. Muir, the front desk reported this was dropped off for you this morning by an Agent Granger of the Global Occult Coalition," she said, handing it to him. "It cleared the standard security screen: just a file." "Thanks, Monica," Muir said, opening the file. Inside were three sheets of paper. untitled KTE-1767-Flint POI-55057-Black Troy, Merry Christmas. - Harry TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET KTE-1767-Flint Threat ID: KTE-1767-Flint "Blood Treasure" Authorized Response Level: 3 (Moderate Threat) Description: Spanish world atlas printed in 1521 with accuracy comparable to contemporary maps. Oak chest approximately 60 cm by 38 cm by 45 cm. 500 Spanish gold 2 escudo coins, minted in 1521. Atlas displays current coin locations in real time. When activated by the atlas (activation method unknown), coins will release approximately 5 MJ of energy in explosive force before returning undamaged to the chest. Type II explosive entity. Rules of Engagement: Object represents threat to global political stability, having been used to incite at least one major war. Object is to be destroyed by any means necessary and appropriate if the chance arises. History: Original origin unknown. Recovered by private collector from shipwreck in the Straits of Florida in 1872. Owned by private collector in Havana, 1873-1895. Acquired by Foundation in 1895. Believed to be used to ignite powder charges on USS Maine, 15 February 1898, instigating Spanish-American War. Nationalized by Cuban forces, 1959. Stolen by Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd., 1961. Sold by MC&D to "C" in 1971. Current whereabouts unknown; suspected to be in the possession of "C". Now implicated by Foundation sources in Pan Am Flight 103 bombing. TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET POI-55057-Black Person-of-Interest ID: POI-55057-Black "C" [No Image On File] POI-55057-Black. Authorized Response Level: 1 (Minimal Threat) Description: Member of Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd. identified only by the alias "C" signed in green ink. Little to no other information known. Believed to be in possession of at least nine (9) Known Threat Entities, purchased from MC&D. Rules of Engagement: Maintain discrete surveillance. Observe and report unusual activities. Gather additional information as possible. Do not engage except during emergencies. Personal Information Name: Unknown Known Aliases: "C" Profession: Unknown Allegiances: MC&D Club member Nationality: Unknown, suspected British or American Gender: Unknown Date of Birth: Unknown, suspected prior to 1950. Height: Unknown Weight: Unknown Eye Color: Unknown Hair Color: Unknown Biographical Information: Essentially nothing is known about "C" apart from his/her apparent membership in Marshall, Carter & Dark, Ltd. "C" is known to have purchased approximately nine (9) KTEs from MC&D since 1968. Records stolen from MC&D suggest "C" to have relative wealth and possibly either British or American citizenship. "C" is believed fluent in at least English. All documents signed by "C" include only that letter, written in refined script in green ink of unknown manufacture. Associated KTEs KTE-0235-Hemlock KTE-0589-Baskerville KTE-0777-Ivory KTE-0900-Keyhole-Green KTE-1123-Tapdance-Blue KTE-1515-Gaia KTE-1767-Flint KTE-2156-Woodwork KTE-2247-Pearl TOP SECRET - Global Occult Coalition - TOP SECRET Muir examined the file's contents carefully. "Monica, please fax these to this number," he instructed, picking up his secure telephone unit and dialing. "Harper," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Tim, it's Troy. Monica's faxing you some documents," Muir said. There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I have them," Harper said. "Interesting. Do we have anything on this 'C' person?" "I'm not familiar with him. Or her," Muir said. "It'll take us a while to go digging through the archives." "Alright," Harper replied. "Any new leads?" Monica raised her eyebrows, and Muir hit the speaker button. "I've put you on speaker, Tim. Monica's here with me." "Mr. Harper, our agents embedded in the British police have finished their initial report," Monica explained. "We had them check the explosive signature against the exploding coins. It was a ninety-three percent match, though the margin of error was about eight percent because of the age of the coins' baseline comparison." "Alright," Harper said. "Nice to confirm what we already know. Continue." Monica nodded, even though Harper couldn't see her. "After you left for Moscow yesterday, I started trying to piece together who had access to the information that was leaked. We have no way of knowing for certain, because all the evidence was destroyed, and Director McDonnell only filed a preliminary paper report. He spoke to O5-5 personally, but -5 was also killed in the bombing. Given the nature of the information found as per the Director's initial report, at least one conspirator had Level 4 clearance or higher, but without specific SCP designations, I can't really rule anyone out. I looked at the Foundation's security clearance database, and there are at least fifteen hundred El Fours (that I had clearance to know about). And I don't have clearance to know exactly how many El Fives there are." "Even I don't know that, Monica," Harper said. "I suppose I have access now that I am one; I can look it up. I don't think it's more than a few dozen. The O5 Council, some but not all of the Directors for various sub-agencies, a few roving personnel like myself, not that many." Muir spoke up, "Tim, if we don't know what they had, we can't dig too much into this without it becoming a witch hunt." All three knew that such a witch hunt could do as much or more damage as the apparent conspiracy itself, and none of them wanted to be the Foundation's Angleton. "Let's focus on what we do know," Harper said. "McDonnell's report said something about the Overseers' schedules for the week. Focus on looking into their staff and security. We don't need another dead Overseer. In the meantime, I'll keep following the trail of the one object we do know the conspirators have." He disconnected the call. Muir and Monica set to work. They had to place the lives, habits, contacts, actions, schedules, and finances of over a hundred Foundation personnel under the microscope. Their task was all the much harder since they had no idea what, exactly, they were trying to find. With any luck, they'd know it when they saw it. With any good luck, that is. With bad luck, the conspirators would be able to do whatever they had planned next without interruption. Foundation Command-05, Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 1545 hours local time After finishing his call with Muir and Monica, Harper reread the files again. He decided to report what he had so far to O5-7. Leaving his palatial temporary office, he strode down the hall to the Level 5 Office Reception and Security desk. Showing his credentials to the secretary, he said in Russian, "Please arrange for a secure teleconference with O5-7." "Yes, Comrade Investigator," the secretary replied. "She should be free in fifteen minutes. You are welcome to use the conference room; nobody is in there for another two hours." The secretary gestured to an open door. "Thank you, Comrade," Harper smiled. He entered the conference room and shut the door behind him. Just as the hour was chiming on the bells of St. Basil's Cathedral, the phone rang. Harper picked up the handset. "Harper," he said in English. A voice on the other end of the line said, "Please hold for O5-7." A moment later, Seven's voice said, "Mr. Harper, I take it you are making progress out there in Moscow?" "Yes, ma'am," Harper replied. "We've traced the source of the explosion to—" "The exploding coins?" Seven said. "I heard. Those have been nothing but trouble for the Foundation. I said it when I first became an Overseer, I still say it now." "Yes, ma'am. According to information from the Global Occult Coalition, the coins are in the possession of someone they know only as 'C'," Harper explained. "This 'C' person apparently bought them off of Marshall, Carter, & Dark back in seventy-one." "C?" asked Seven. "Interesting. First, a question though, Mr. Harper. What did you promise the GOC in exchange for the information?" "Nothing," said Harper. "Muir got it from one of his contacts as payment for an old favor." "Hmm," Seven said. "Alright. Be careful with the GOC, Mr. Harper." "Yes, ma'am, of course," Harper replied. "I figured they were better to interact with than Marshall, Carter and Dark, however." "True, the Club is not known for its cooperation," Seven said. "So, what do you know about this 'C'?" "Not much," admitted Harper. "The GOC file on C is essentially empty. Believed to be fairly wealthy, thought to own at least nine anomalous items, MC&D club member, probably American or British, signs with unidentifiable green ink. That's all we know so far. I have Muir and Ms. Daniel looking into the archives to see what might be there." "You can tell them to stop. There is nothing in the archives on this 'C'," Seven stated definitively. "I've read all the files we have on every known MC&D club member. There is no file on any 'C' person." "Alright, I'll let them know," Harper said. "They're also looking at the personnel with access to the O5's schedules and security arrangements, since Director McDonnell's report mentioned the possibility of a threat against the Council." "Very good," Seven said. "Depending on the outcome of this investigation, Mr. Harper, you might be on the short list for being the counterintelligence director yourself. I've not spoken to the other Overseers yet, but I've followed your work for some time now, and I like what I see." Harper could think of nothing to say, so he said nothing. "Mr. Harper, I believe I may have a lead for you," Seven said. "Go to London. Speak to Sir James Mycroft. He is a mathematics professor at Cambridge. He is also something of an information broker about both the mundane and the paranormal - he is known to have supplied information to all of the various big players, including MC&D. I suspect he may know, or know of, this 'C' person." "I will do that," Harper affirmed. "Keep me informed," Seven said, disconnecting the call. Harper quickly called Muir to pass along the information. Then, he left the conference room. "Comrade, I need a seat on the next flight to London, as well as an English copy of the Foundation's file on a person of interest," he said to the secretary in Russian. "Of course, Comrade," said the secretary. "Do you have a reference number or name for the file?" "Yes," Harper said. "Sir James Mycroft." « Part II | HUB | Part IV »

Leads Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 22 December 1988, 1158 hours local time As it turned out, the Foundation contained rather a lot of different objects which could explode or ignite. Exploding cacti, exploding ink, an exploding eyeball - the stack of files Monica had carried up from Central Records took the three of them most of the morning to read. The tiny room, always cramped and cluttered, quickly became nearly impossible to move about in as they sifted through the towering heaps of papers. Just before lunch, Monica found something. "Hey, listen to this: a chest of coins, each capable of detonating with the force of five megajoules. They're linked to an atlas which can be used to detonate the coins." Muir and Harper got up and looked over her shoulder. "Does the report have a chemical analysis?" Harper asked. "'For analysis of explosive residue signature, see Addendum 5'," Monica quoted. "Where did that - ah! Here we go." She snatched up the relevant page. Muir laid it alongside the forensic report from the plane bombing. "Looks like a rough match to me," he said. "The file's analysis dates back to the fifties, so even if this is a perfect match it might not line up perfectly." Harper nodded, "Definitely the best option so far. Good catch, Monica." The intern beamed. He continued, "So, where is this thing contained?" "That's a problem, Tim," Muir said, reading the Special Containment Procedures. "Oh, Troy?" Harper asked. "Yeah. We don't have it," Muir said. "It was stored in the Trinidad site back in fifty-nine." Harper swore under his breath. "What happened to the Trinidad site in fifty-nine?" Monica asked. "In a word," Muir explained, "Castro. He nationalized the Foundation's research site in Trinidad. The staff resisted and were executed - save one researcher who managed to get away by sheer dumb luck. Ended up heading back to the Soviet Union to work as a mole in KGB's Thirteenth Chief Directorate somewhere in Central Asia, I think." "And we let Castro get away with this?!" Monica asked. She had no illusions about the Foundation's track record when it came to ruthlessness. "Of course not," Harper said. "Ever heard of the Bay of Pigs invasion?" "That failed," Monica countered, frowning. Muir shook his head, "You're assuming what made it to the history books is what actually happened. We'd originally planned to attack Trinidad directly. American State Department didn't want to play ball, so the invasion landing site had to be moved. We still sent Foundation forces to Trinidad. Didn't manage to retrieve anything, but both Castro and Marshall, Carter, and Dark got the message." Monica was confused, "MC&D was involved?" "Castro tried to sell them the contents of the Trinidad site," Harper explained. "They absconded with the items without paying Castro after Foundation forces crashed the party." "He was pissed," Muir observed. "We still get reports of Cuban troops in Soviet-backed states killing people associated with the club." "Between the combined fury of the Foundation and Castro, it actually drove MC&D to ground for over a decade," Harper finished. "So the Foundation decided the whole mess was a 'successful failure.'" "So, do we know where this chest of coins is now?" Monica asked. "Not exactly," Muir said. "Marshall, Carter, and Dark isn't exactly on good terms with the Foundation, and we've not ever been able to get a good source on the inside. I've heard the GOC has had a little more success, but I don't know for certain. I could put out feelers with some of my contacts at the GOC, but they'll want something in return." The world of intelligence was a strange place: despite the generally frosty relationship between the GOC and the Foundation, both organization's intelligence branches occasionally shared information about mutual threats. Neither side trusted the other, of course, but the quid pro quo of intelligence-sharing had proven helpful to both sides on numerous occasions. "You do that, Troy," Harper said. "In the mean time, Monica, keep digging through things here. I'm going to track down the surviving researcher from Trinidad." Smithsonian Natural History Museum, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 22 December 1988, 1730 hours local time The only physically remarkable thing about him was his limp and cane. These, of course, were unavoidable for a man whose right leg was artificial from his knee down. Beyond that, he was of intermediate height, had thinning brown hair, and brown eyes. He was the sort of man that you'd forget having seen five minutes later, if not for his limp and cane. He missed the fieldwork, but he was too easy to identify now. Muir hobbled into the Smithsonian Natural History Museum's National Gem Collection. It was a good meeting spot, and he never got tired of looking at the gemstones. He was standing before a beautiful piece of amethyst several feet in height when he heard a low voice behind him, "Nice shade of purple, isn't it?" Without turning, Muir replied, "Indeed. I was always jealous of those with February birthdays." "I'm sure you know one of the six birthdays we have on file for you is in February. How's the wife, Troy?" Special Agent Granger, Global Occult Coalition asked. "Gladys and I have separated," Muir responded evenly. "I'm sure you knew that, though, just like how you know all the birthdays in your file on me are wrong. How's your son, Harry?" "Looking forward to Christmas," Granger replied. "Wants Lego. Again." Muir grunted. "So, Troy, what can I do for you?" The two men started down the gallery. "You've sprung a leak," Muir said. "Foundation forces found information classified Level Q in a raid on a non-aligned building day before yesterday." Granger's training quickly erased the alarm from his face, before responding, "Why are you telling me this?" "Because whomever penetrated you also managed to get access to all the major players, including the Foundation," Muir replied. "We also believe they brought down the Pan Am flight in Lockerbie. Took out all the documents we recovered, and also hit the repository where we stored the backups. Otherwise, I'd be able to tell you what they had on the GOC." Granger let out a low whistle. "Any leads?" he asked. "We're working on that, and we need your help," Muir answered. "The Coalition has always had better sources at MC&D than the Foundation. We think they either have, or sold, the object responsible for taking down the plane." He handed Granger a sheet of paper with the Global Occult Coalition's KTE, or 'Known Threat Entity', designation for the object. Pocketing the paper, the GOC Agent nodded. "I'll have to run this up the chain, Troy. Deputy Director Bain will need to know." "Thanks, Harry," Muir said. "If this pans out, I'd consider us even." "Thanks, but one file on one item handled by that damn club? That would hardly square us. This'll take care of the one I owe you for Uganda. I still owe you a favor for Fiji," Granger observed. "Well, I'm not going to object to a GOC Agent telling me he still owes me a favor," Muir chuckled. "Have a good holiday." "You too," Granger said. With that, the two men went their separate ways. Outside Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 0213 hours local time As it turned out, meeting the surviving researcher from Trinidad required a trip to Moscow. Now almost ninety, Dr. Andrei Pushkin had retired to a dacha in the hills overlooking the city. Thankfully, the Foundation's connections made it fairly simple for Harper to enter the Soviet Union, in spite of his American citizenship. Pushkin met Harper in his pajamas when the counterintelligence officer arrived at his doorstep bearing an expensive bottle of vodka. Seated at the retired researcher's kitchen table, the men spoke in Russian, a language Harper had mastered decades earlier. A cloud of cigarette smoke filled the room as the vodka slowly disappeared. "What brings a Level 5 Foundation investigator all the way from Washington just to speak to an old man in the dead of night?" asked Pushkin. "I retired from the Foundation and KGB almost fifteen years ago." "Andrei Ivan'ich, I need to know everything about Trinidad. I'm trying to track down one of the items that was lost," Harper explained. Pushkin sighed, "That was thirty years ago. My memory isn't what it once was - I hope you don't expect me to remember specific item numbers, especially for the objects I wasn't handling." "Do you remember an object that was a chest of exploding coins and an atlas?" Harper inquired. Pushkin thought for several minutes. "Vaguely. I never worked with them; that was - who handled those… Dr. Wong's project? Either Dr. Wong, or Dr. Hernandez." Harper nodded, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Could you tell me what happened when the Cubans showed up?" Pushkin drained and refilled his vodka draft. Taking a deep breath, he recounted one of the scariest situations in his life. Pushkin's Tale Foundation Research Site-██ Trinidad, Cuba Sunday, 15 March 1959, 1030 hours local time As the klaxon blared, and the corridor was bathed in red light, Pushkin once again found himself holding a gun. Nikolai Ivanovich Pushkin, Doctorate of Philosophy in Phyics, did not like guns. He'd never been a fighter: he'd only been a boy during the Revolution and ensuing Civil War, which had stalled his beloved education by shutting down his school. When the dust had finally settled, he'd hoped that he'd never see armed conflict again. Unfortunately, as a young professor in Leningrad in the early 1940s, he'd been trapped in the city when the Germans had surrounded it. The Germans had shelled the city day and night for nearly a year, constantly trying to break the siege. When the building with his laboratory and office had been leveled by the shelling, he'd resisted having to take up arms by helping manage logistics for the defenders. Not that there had been much in the way of supplies, food, or ammunition to move. He'd met Sergei Petrovich during the war; Sergei had recruited him into the Foundation. After the end of the war, he'd hoped to never again have to handle a firearm. And yet, here he was. The morning had started out normally enough. Breakfast in the site's commissary, meeting for all Level 3 and 4 staff, followed by another day of research. He vaguely remembered the site's security director, Agent Shaw, mentioning something about the recent revolution, but surely the politics in Havanna meant little for this secret research facility. Pushkin had paid it little mind: nobody knew what went on in this small, apparently unremarkable compound on the edge of Trinidad. And even if someone had, the Foundation's security staff had far more firepower than the local constabulary. Most of the facility was concealed from the world in a heavily reinforced bunker rated to withstand all but a direct nuclear strike. And so, the researcher allowed his mind to wander to more important things, like how he was going to conduct the day's tests. After the meeting's conclusion, Pushkin had returned to his lab. His assistant, Dr. Rawji, had already begun work on the object they were researching: a Factory-built radio set whose transistors showed some promising anomalous properties. No more than thirty minutes from when Pushkin had begun to work, the site's intercom blared: "Attention all personnel! Unauthorized paramilitary forces have breached the outer perimeter. This is not a drill. Threat Condition Gamma has been declared. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill!" Pushkin swore loudly. He picked up the radio set to carry it back to the storage room up the hall while Rawji went to work burning their research notes. The hallway was dark compared to the bright laboratory, illuminated only by the flashing red emergency lights. It only took Pushkin a moment to enter the storage room, open the proper locker, place the radio inside, and lock it. He heard the door fly open behind him. "Doc! We have to get you out of here!" an urgent American voice said. Turning around, Pushkin recognized a young fair-haired security officer - Mathews? Martin? Something like that - clutching a rifle. "Here, Doc, take this," the guard said, shoving a pistol into his hands. "Come on, I'm supposed to get you and Dr. Rawji out of here." The guard ran out into the corridor. Pushkin followed, awkwardly holding the semiautomatic handgun, hoping he didn't have to shoot the neculturny thing. Pushkin had barely left the room when two Cuban men in fatigues carrying rifles burst out of the door to his lab. They shouted something in Spanish - Pushkin didn't know what, since he'd never bothered to learn the language - and gestured for him and the security officer to raise their hands. The security officer opened fire, killing one of the Cubans. The other shot the security officer. Pushkin turned and ran, firing wildly behind him. The Russian rounded a corner. No Cubans appeared behind him. Now what? he wondered. He was standing alone, in a deserted corridor, bathed in red light, while a klaxon blared, in a site overrun by Cubans. Once again holding a gun. He hated guns. Pushkin was about to leave the gun when he thought better of it. Perhaps he'd need the thing. Reluctantly, he pocketed it. Now, he had to figure out a way out of the facility. He searched his memory: he'd been briefed on this eventuality, but it wasn't something he'd taken all that seriously or thought too hard about. Get to the surface, he thought. Surface. Then out of the complex. Then to the rendezvous point. Beach eighty kilometers up the coast. One week to get there. But first, the surface. How do I get to the surface? Pushkin ticked off his options. Elevators would be guarded. That left one of the emergency ladders. Great. Two hundred meter climb up a ladder. Where's the nearest one? And so he set off. After ten minutes of tense searching, he found one of the ladders to the surface. Why couldn't he just have been left to do his research? He didn't like doing all this sneaking around. As he climbed, he hoped he wouldn't find himself staring at a bunch of angry Cubans when he reached the surface. As it luck would have it, the access ladder did not lead into the arms of angry Cubans, but rather to the woods in the hillside overlooking the complex. Concealing himself behind a bush, Pushkin looked down at the courtyard. A dozen or so Foundation staff members were kneeling on the ground with their arms behind their heads. A large man with a beard in fatigues seemed to be in charge of the Cubans. He was talking with a European man wearing a dark suit carrying a briefcase. The Cubans were carrying out the different objects the site had housed. There was the radio, the chest of coins, the atlas, the three books, the sculpture, and the abacus. The man in the suit inspected the items. He looked at the large man and nodded. The two shook hands. As the man in the suit left in a truck loaded with the objects, the large man barked an order to some of his men. Pushkin watched in horror as his coworkers were executed in cold blood by the Cubans. It was a sight which would haunt his nightmares for many years to come, just like that night in November of 1917, or the dark days of 1943. As the Cubans left the compound, Pushkin disappeared into the hills, starting his long walk to the rendezvous point. Outside Moscow, USSR Friday, 23 December 1988, 0600 hours local time "…And that was the last I saw any of the objects stored in Trinidad," finished Pushkin. "I hid in the hills northwest of the city. The Foundation picked me up in a boat a week later on a little beach eighty kilometers up the coast." Harper emptied the last of the vodka into his host's glass. "And then you went back to the Soviet Union?" he asked. "Correct," replied the elderly man. "The Foundation at that time had strong ties to the military and intelligence organizations of both superpowers. I was assigned as a researcher at a laboratory near Dushanbe which was managed by the KGB's Thirteenth Chief Directorate for Paranormal Investigations with Foundation assistance. Both organizations thought I was working for them, spying on the other." He laughed, "It didn't really matter to me, since both paid me handsomely, and since I only had access to what was actually there at the laboratory. I suspect my handlers for both organizations thought me ineffectual. But I was allowed to do my research, and that was that." Harper took a deep breath on his cigarette. "Did you hear anything further about the lost items?" Pushkin frowned and shook his head, "Only rumors that that British club had bought them. What was the name…" "Marshall, Carter and Dark?" Harper supplied. "That was it," Pushkin nodded. "I am sorry I can't help you further." "Andrei Ivan'ich, you have helped me immensely," Harper told the old man, who smiled. The investigator retrieved his hat and coat and took his leave. « Part I | HUB | Part III »

Ramifications Foundation Command-02, Washington, D.C. Thursday, 22 December 1988, 0755 hours local time The early morning sun illuminated the large lobby as Timothy Harper strode into the the Foundation's Command-02 Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Though it could not compare to Overwatch HQ, its proximity to one of the world's most powerful capitals ensured it was one of the Foundation's main decision-making nexuses. It was a relatively unremarkable seven-story limestone office building like so many others in the city. Faceless, nameless drones in the vast bureaucracy flitted in and out of the building, not unlike the other buildings in the Federal Triangle. After passing speedily through the obligatory security checkpoint, Harper browsed the headlines of his paper as he made his way to his tiny office on the third floor. A plane bombing in the UK was the leading story. Nasty business, international terrorism, Harper thought. Not his area of concern, though. Probably. He was one of the Foundation's top counterintelligence investigators. Pushing fifty, his black hair was streaked with gray from many late nights spent on the job. The job nearly cost him his family as well: though a drunk driver had taken away his family ten years ago Christmas Day, he discovered going through his late wife's papers that she was planning to file for divorce and seek custody of the children. With his family's death, he'd thrown himself into his work, finally accepting a promotion as Section Chief, followed a couple years later by a further promotion to his present job of Roving Special Investigator. "Morning, Troy," Harper grunted. He and Troy Muir, a former intelligence case officer invalided out of field operations when he lost his right leg, shared the cramped office. "Where's Monica?" he asked, referring to Monica Daniel, the grad student from GWU who was interning in the CI Directorate. Always on the lookout for talent, the Foundation was more than happy to pay for someone's education, assuming they passed a thorough background check, signed a four hundred page non-disclosure agreement, and agreed to work three years for every year of schooling the Foundation funded. "Errand to the Ethics Committee Clerk's Office, I think." His one-legged office-mate looked up. "Tim, they want you on the seventh floor ASAP," Muir reported with a frown. "Any idea which way the wind was blowing?" Harper asked. A summons to the seventh floor, domain of the directors and overseers, was rarely a happy prospect. "They didn't say," Muir replied. Harper nodded, and left. Harper was met on the seventh floor by a security officer. Only those with Level 5 security clearance were permitted on the floor without an escort. The guard led him to a darkened conference room and ushered him in. A severe dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties stood alone, looking out the heavily-tinted window at the Capital Building. Harper recognized her as O5-7, one of the Overseers. Though none of the Overseers had an assigned specialization, it was Harper's understanding that Seven tended to take particular interest in the Foundation's intelligence matters. He'd seen her speaking with Director McDonnell before, but had never actually met her himself. "Mr. Harper," Seven said quietly in greeting, not turning around. "Leave us." The security guard excused himself. "Ma'am," Harper said. "The Foundation is under attack, Mr. Harper," the Overseer stated, her back still to him. "Two nights ago, acting on an anonymous tip, under Counterintelligence Director McDonnell's personal supervision, MTF Xi-13 raided a warehouse outside London. They recovered a large number of classified documents relating to the Foundation and several groups-of-interest. Some of these documents apparently suggested the existence of a plot to assassinate several members of the O5 Council, including myself." "I assume plans are in place to handle the situation, ma'am?" Harper asked, hiding his alarm. "There are plans in place, yes, Mr. Harper. The Foundation has plans for everything," Seven replied. "More concerning than the apparent plot is the implication of these documents. According to Director McDonnell's initial report, the Foundation documents found indicated the breach was caused by someone with at least Level 4 clearance, if not Level 5. The penetrations of the GOC, Serpent's Hand, Chaos Insurgency, IRG, Factory, Prometheus Labs, Wondertainment, Church of the Broken God, and MC&D appear to all comparably high level." At this revelation, Harper's eyes widened. Somebody had top level penetrations of nearly every major player behind the Veil, including the Foundation, and this was the first they were finding out about it? Nobody was that good. As if sensing his thoughts despite having her back turned to him, Seven continued, "I hardly believe it myself, Mr. Harper, but as you no doubt realize, we cannot dismiss the possibility of such a turn of events out of hand simply because it is unlikely or unpleasant. After all, this organization deals with the impossible and the unthinkable every day. The Council decided to hold an emergency meeting where Director McDonnell could present the documents personally. Unfortunately, this is no longer possible. Last night, Overseer Five and his bodyguard, Counterintelligence Director McDonnell, and two American intelligence officers who have assisted our Middle Eastern operations were killed when an on-board explosion brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Scotland. McDonnell had the original copies of the seized documents in a diplomatic pouch. Moments later, a Foundation document repository in Manchester was bombed. That document repository held the only existing copies of the seized documents. Our recovery teams report no evidence that either version of the documents survived." "Which both lends credence to the reality of this penetration's threat, and suggests the plotters were responsible for the attacks," Harper observed. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut - McDonnell had been an old friend, someone he could trust in a business where trust was the scarcest of commodities, but there would be time for grieving later. "The surviving members of the Council drew the same conclusion, Mr. Harper," Seven nodded, finally turning to face him. Her narrowed eyes flashed dangerously over high cheekbones. To call the Overseer angry would have been no small understatement. "We have already taken measures to ensure our personal protection. The other Overseers believe this will be sufficient; I disagree. I have convinced them we need to investigate this apparent conspiracy, fully but also quietly. If the conspirators believe they are about to be discovered, it is not at all unreasonable for them to either go to ground and disappear, or decide to cut their losses and attempt even more direct action. Right now, the Council has no idea what the ultimate goal of the conspirators is. This makes them even more dangerous in the Council's eyes. And while you and I both have enough experience in the intelligence hall of mirrors to take that in stride, most of my fellow Overseers are scared. They are mainly former scientists and uncomfortable when dealing with the uncertainties of political intrigue." Seven moved to the conference table separating them. She slid a folder across the table to him. "This is everything we know about the security breach, the two direct attacks, and the conspiracy as a whole," she observed. This was less than encouraging: it amounted to perhaps a half dozen sheets of paper. "You will be conducting the investigation. The Council has voted to temporarily grant you Level 5 clearance," she declared, handing him a new black identification card, "and you will report to me personally. Keep the cards close to the vest on this one - potentially anyone could be involved." "Moscow Rule number three, ma'am," Harper observed with a wry smile. Everyone is potentially under opposition control. "If I may, why are you trusting me with this? I know I'm not a conspirator, but you don't." "You're one of the best see-eye guys we have, Mr. Harper, and you have been cleared for the highest security clearance known to mankind. The possibility that you are involved is remote, and in any case I expect regular and detailed reports of all your findings. If I find out you're withholding things from me, I will bring the full force of the resources at my disposal upon you. You will spend the remainder of your days in the deepest, darkest, least pleasant hole I can find," the Foundation Overseer stated calmly. Then she flashed a smile that was clearly meant to be disarming but instead made the hair on Harper's neck stand on end. "But I don't expect that to be a problem, Mr. Harper." "No, ma'am," Harper said. "Excellent! If there is anything you need, let me know," Seven beamed. "You may brief in Mr. Muir and Ms. Daniel if you believe their assistance would be helpful, but do keep the cards close to the vest." "Of course," Harper replied. "Thank you. That will be all," she said. Harper wasted no time leaving the room. "That's all we have," Harper finished the run-down, putting the folder down on his desk and looking across at Muir and Monica. "Hm," Muir grunted. "For a moment there, Tim, I thought we were going to have trouble with this one." He pulled out his reading glasses and started thumbing through the folder. Monica failed at hiding her alarm. "Do we always have so little to go on?" she asked. "How do we even know where to start?" Harper started thinking aloud. "Let's start with something simple. What organizations did McDonnell's preliminary report suggest were penetrated?" Monica read off the relevant sheet of paper, "Looks like the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution; Baasch Engineering Corporation; the Chaos Insurgency; the Church of the Broken God; the Factory; the Foundation; the Global Occult Coalition; Huntington Arms, Inc.; Marshall, Carter, and Dark; Prometheus Labs; the Serpent's Hand; Saito Mining Industries; Wallace Security Enterprises; Dr. Wondertainment; and various branches of the American, British, Chinese, French, German, and Soviet governments. That's all based on documents recovered in the warehouse raid." She looked up, "How the hell did someone manage to penetrate essentially all the major commercial, political, and paranormal groups without somebody noticing? How is this the first we've heard of it?" Harper lit a cigarette. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "just because they had documents - even top level documents - related to all those organizations doesn't mean they managed have moles in all of them. And even if they do have moles with access to such sensitive materials, that doesn't mean the moles are in a position to do much beyond steal documents. Monica, what's your security clearance?" The graduate student blinked, "Foundation, or US government?" "Both," replied Harper, taking a puff on his cigarette. "Level 3 and TS," she replied, looking slightly confused. "But I'm just an intern." "And yet you have access to some truly sensitive information," Muir observed, not taking his eyes off the document he was reading. "Such as this investigation." "Precisely," Harper continued. "These are, for the most part, groups employing hundreds to tens of thousands of people. It only takes one traitor." "So how do we know what the opposition wants?" asked Monica. Harper smiled, "We don't - yet. But one does not simply invest the resources necessary to penetrate so many powerful organizations on a whim. We shall find out soon enough." Monica frowned. "This still doesn't give us a starting point." "Perhaps this does," Muir said. He began quoting the page he was reading: "'According to Foundation personnel embedded within the Scottish constabulary, the explosion is consistent with detonation of a small but powerful explosive device. Preliminary chemical testing of explosive residue suggests the use of pentaerythritol tetranitrate (PETN) and cyclotrimethylene trinitramine (RDX), two of the primary ingredients in Semtex-H. However, the size and location of the original explosion relative to the quantities of PETN and RDX found, coupled with the complete incineration of both the diplomatic pouch carried by Robert McDonnell and McDonnell himself, suggests Semtex was not, in fact, the explosive used. It is recommended Foundation investigative staff examine the possibility of SCP objects or other as-yet uncontained anomalies as the source of the explosion." "Just what we needed, Troy," Harper said. "Monica, go down to Central Records and have them pull all the files on anomalous objects and entities capable of causing explosions. Be sure to include the ones presently in containment; we can't rule out a theft." "On it," she said, leaving. Harper turned to Muir, "Any indications on the explosion in Manchester?" Muir nodded, "Looks like that actually was Semtex. The police have linked it chemically to several attacks by the Irish Republican Army." "The IRA? Could it really just be a coincidence?" Harper frowned, lighting a fresh cigarette. Muir shook his head. "No way," he said. "The match was far too easy - it was an older batch with a composition more useful for demolition than killing. Great if you want to destroy papers in a safe, but not as useful for inflicting human casualties. It also doesn't match their usual MO, since Carnegie was prominently Catholic. I suspect we were just meant to believe they did it." "Interesting," Harper said, taking a long blow on his cigarette. "Very interesting." « Prologue | HUB | Part II »

Night Raid Park Royal industrial district, London, UK Tuesday, 20 December 1988, 2334 hours local time Sitting in his car a block from the target, Director McDonnell lit his pipe. He hated waiting, but securing buildings was the job for younger fellows. He'd only accepted the promotion to head of the Foundation's Counterintelligence Directorate the year before so he could have more time to spend with his granddaughters. In forty years working for the Foundation, he'd missed too many of his own children's birthdays; with Christmas just days away he was looking forward to seeing the entire family in his large house in Edinburgh. Of course, that would require his not being called away on work. Here he was on the week before Christmas in a cold, abandoned street following up on an untraceable and anomalous tip made to his direct line about "some documents which might interest Foundation Counterintelligence." The radio on the dash crackled. "Right, this is Xi-One-Three-Lead to all units. Stand by to breach target in Three. Two. One. Go! Go! Go!" A muffled thump rang through the darkness as the mobile task force blew their way into the target: an old warehouse in the run-down outskirts of London's industrial district. For a long two minutes, the night was still and quiet. Then the radio crackled again, "Target is clear. Director, you're going to want to see this." "On my way," replied McDonnell. He left his car and strode up the street to the warehouse. A young chap dressed head to toe in the black tactical clothing adopted by police and special forces worldwide greeted him. "This way, Director," he said, gesturing inside. "American?" the Director asked, noting the young man's accent. "Yes, sir. Agent Lombardi," the American said, walking McDonnell through the long and mostly empty warehouse. A few crates were stacked along the walls, but they didn't so much take up space as make it seem all the much more cavernous. "New to the Foundation, I take it?" McDonnell inquired, making smalltalk. The young agent blinked, "Yes, sir." "Well, Agent Price will take good care of you," the Director of Foundation Counterintelligence said as they reached the warehouse's office. "Speak of the devil! Burt!" "Director," Agent Burt Price saluted, looking up from a table piled high with documents. Several black-clad figures were poring over the pages. "What's all this?" asked McDonnell, gesturing at the table. "We have a security breach," Price replied, handing over several sheets of paper from the table. McDonnell thumbed through them. The first was a testing log for some zucchini that grew nearly instantly, printed on Foundation letterhead. The second, also on Foundation letterhead, was documentation on a slightly worn high school yearbook from 1976. The third was in Russian, with a KGB seal in the corner. "The first one there is SCP-506, and the second one is SCP-1833. My Russian's a bit rusty, but the third one is something about an old lady able to 'hear' nearby radio transmissions. I've never heard of that one," Price said. Taking a puff on his pipe, McDonnell shook his head, "Neither have I, old chap. Neither have I." He furrowed his brow and picked up another paper. It was part of a budget for the Global Occult Coalition's previous fiscal year. "Is there any sort of method to this madness?" Price laughed, "Not that I can tell. And this will keep the chaps at Site 11 busy for a week or two. What I do know is that someone has top level access to the Foundation, GOC, Marshall, Carter, and Dark—" "Prometheus Labs and the Factory, according to this, sirs," one agent said. "Found something here on Wondertainment's distribution network," another added. "List of IRG operations in Latin America," a third noted, holding up a sheet. McDonnell nodded, "I get the idea. Persons unknown managed to obtain a sizable quantity of classified information from some of the most secretive organizations on the planet. Definitely bad news, but hardly a crisis, I should say." "Uh, I wouldn't place a wager on that, sirs," one of the other agents interrupted, "you should read this." "What is it, Harding?" asked Price, taking the proffered page. His jaw dropped as he read the page. "Shit." He handed the paper to McDonnell. Reading the paper, McDonnell swore loudly in his native Gaelic. It was a detailed schedule of the whereabouts and security precautions of all thirteen of the Foundation's Overseers during the last week in December 1988. In other words, the week which would start in a mere five days. A scribbled note at the bottom stated 'Ideal timing for action on the twenty-sixth at 0300 Zulu.' A second page with fair quality photos of the Overseers was stapled to the first; O5-5, O5-6, O5-7, and O5-8 were all circled in red ink. McDonnell was intelligent enough to realize that he didn't know exactly what was planned, but he certainly had some guesses. He turned to Price, "Alright, Price. Bag it all and bring it in. As of this moment, everything related to this is Level 5, need to know access only. I want copies of these documents stored at our site in Manchester; have the originals delivered to my office." The wheels in McDonnell's head were already turning. He'd use his contacts in Whitehall to arrange for a diplomatic courier bag to carry the documents on a transatlantic flight. The papers would go to the analysts at Site 11 so they could stir the tea leaves, while he could give his report personally to the O5 Council at Overwatch HQ. And, with any luck, he'd be back home for Christmas. Interlude "They found the warehouse. McDonnell is taking the evidence to Overwatch HQ tonight." "There will be copies." "Those are stored in the Manchester annex. They will be taken care of." "Good. Everything is going according to plan." Explosions Scottish airspace Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 1858 hours local time At just before seven o'clock the following evening, Director McDonnell was sitting in Clipper Class on the Pan Am flight with a diplomatic pouch in the next seat, handcuffed to his wrist. The cabin had a number of Foundation personnel: O5-5 was sitting the next seat forward next to his bodyguard, while McDonnell's deputy was seated behind him. He also recognized a couple of American intelligence officials and two fellows who looked to be their bodyguards. McDonnell cracked the first of his stack of novels. It would be a long flight to JFK, and the pouch meant he couldn't sleep through it. At exactly 19:02:46.9, an explosion punched a large hole in the left side of the fuselage. McDonnell and his diplomatic pouch were instantly incinerated. Shock waves from the blast ricocheted through the aircraft, meeting pulses still coming from the explosion itself. Due to a quirk of fluid dynamics, these shock waves, technically called "Mach stem shock waves", traveled twenty-five percent faster than the waves from the explosion itself, and with twice the power thereof. As these shock waves pulsed through plane, a section of the 747's roof a few feet above the explosion's source was peeled away as if by a giant hand. The force of the explosion smashed through the bulkhead wall separating the forward cargo hold and the cockpit, shaking the flight-control cables. This shaking caused the front section of the fuselage to roll, pitch, and yaw. The entire front section of the aircraft, with the flight deck and first class cabin, separated from the rest of the plane and flew upwards and to starboard. There, it collided and sheered away the number three engine. No longer under any control, the aircraft (or what was left of it) went into a steep dive. The plane continued to disintegrate as it plummeted 9,400 meters through the night, crashing into the Scottish town of Lockerbie two minutes later. Unnoticed and flying without a transponder, an unmarked Cessna flew past the wreckage. Though maintaining radio silence, the Cessna's pilot would report his observations as soon as he landed. Office of Solicitors, Carnegie & Potter, Manchester, UK Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 1904 hours local time Over two hundred kilometers away in Manchester, the four story office building of Solicitors, Carnegie and Potter was empty, save three night shift security staff and two caretakers. Though Carnegie and Potter were indeed two well-respected solicitors, they mostly handled litigation related to the Foundation's activities in the United Kingdom. Their office was also one of the Foundation's secure document repositories. In the building's safe sat what were now the only remaining copies of the documents recovered from the warehouse by Xi-13. A nondescript package a meter on each side sat in the building's receiving room. Because of its late arrival, and the fact that was not labeled with the codewords for Euclid or Keter objects, it hadn't been processed; the security guard who had signed for the parcel knew the staff would handle it in the morning. All the employees were properly briefed on handling unusual parcel deliveries at odd hours, as well as the appropriate code phrases for various hazards. This package was labeled as reams of blank legal paper (hence the weight) for the offices with the proper supply authentication phrases. In all, it was a thoroughly mundane delivery for a building which often received items which were anything but. The contents were not reams of blank legal paper (though had the guard opened the package for inspection, two layers deep of paper reams sat atop the true contents). Most of the package's cubic meter of volume was taken up by Semtex, supplied by two very helpful members of the Irish Republican Army now feeding the fish in the Irish Sea. Like squirrels with their nuts, Irishmen were always hording arms and explosives for the day when they would rise up to drive the English from their island. Or that was the plan of some of the more radical countrymen, at least. The revolutionary struggle that had continued for over seventy years showed little sign of concluding in a manner agreeable to the IRA. Over time, many of the caches of weapons and bombs were forgotten about as their owners retired from their struggle or were arrested or killed by the British military and police forces. So, for someone with the right contacts and sufficient ruthlessness, it was not difficult to acquire large quantities of high explosives with no clear connection to the user, assuming that someone did not mind incurring the wrath of a fairly nasty terrorist organization with a good memory. IRA reprisals did not concern the men who had appropriated that organization's Semtex. A brief radio signal reached a radio-receiver attached to the plastic explosive's detonator. In an instant, the cube of high explosive detonated at a velocity of over eight thousand meters per second. The explosion tore through the building, reducing the military-spec architecture to as much gravel. All five people died with merciful haste as the shock wave overtook them. The fireball, burning at temperatures sufficient to melt the structure's steel skeleton, turned the building's safe into a crematorium for the secured materials within. Hundreds of thousands of pages of classified Foundation documents, including the copies of the documents from the warehouse, were reduced to cinders by the inferno. Within less than ten seconds, the parts of the office building not strewn across the area by the explosion itself crumpled inward into a mound of twisted, charred rubble. The local police and fire department arrived on the scene within ten minutes, just missing a nondescript sedan with an unremarkable driver leaving the area. With his radio detonator hidden away under the vehicle's dash, he stopped at a telephone booth a few blocks from the scene to report that his end of the operation had occurred without incident. « Prologue | HUB | Part I »

Oh, um… hello. You're… you're probably wondering why I'm in your office, aren't you? Sorry, I've made a bit of a mess with all these papers— er, don't worry, I'll clean up before I go. Yes, I… I do know that that isn't your greatest concern, I was just making a little joke. Sorry. No, no, don't shout for help. I'm not going to hurt you— no, that's probably a poor choice of phrase. I should say “I won't do anything.” Yes, that's much less threatening. Close the door, will you? It's getting a little draughty. Of course, you could call for help anyway, but what would a little girl like me do to a big strong fella' like you, hmm? Thank you. Alright, Dr… Rye, is it? Yes I— oh, that. I wouldn't be worried. If it helps, your name is the only thing I know. Well, that, and your work on… “SCP-080”, I think you call it. That's the whole reason I'm here. It's very interesting, you know? Not like a normal bogeyman at all, yet that's what it's clearly supposed to be. I mean—what? Oh, yes. Well, of course they exist. Why do you think so many unconnected children, all who've never heard of such a thing, always fixate on the term? Look, do you understand how gods work? No? Wonderful. Alright, I'll put this in simple terms: bogeymen are figments of the collective child imagination. Yes. Yes, I did say figments. It doesn't make them any less real, but they're still made-up. They're arrogant sods too, but I couldn't care. Pretty shamelessly self-promoting, at least the ones I've met. They get off on fear. …anyway, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Well, I've gone through all the literature – Howe's Commentary on Domestic Bogeymen, Peri's notes, Arcaon's Letters on the Subject of Household Gods – and you know what? This, this “080” is completely inconsistent with traditional form. Usually, such entities have physical shape, and they're friendly, child-specific fellows; not to mention quite definitely male. Definitely indeed. Why, I've had a few experiences that even fertility gods couldn't… sorry. Listen, I've even gone over these supplementary documents: studies of fae, trolls and whatnot, analyses of child psychology and behaviour patterns, Grimms' tales, Clifford the Big Red Dog. Near enough— yes, I think it's important. I mean, it serves a wonderfully direct work on the thought processes of children… no, that one was just because I was bored. That one because I like stories about horses. Still helped, though. I suppose I am kidding. Need I say that children are odd? They'd have to be, to create such things. Off the adults run, making deities to boil people's blood and strike down heretics and whatnot, yet children, through the same method, bring happy little monsters to life – with them wanting only terror from innocent waking nightmares. Yes, happy. They have to be. They have the mindset of a human aged ten when born. But then socialisation comes into effect and they mature quite quickly. After all, other beings don't usually stand for that annoying juvenility. Self-righteousness is by far an improvement. The young conceive of basic things, since they don't have the ego to raise themselves above it. The dark, the predators, death: simple fears, without malice. Well, without complex malice. Not at all like their elders. No, fear is something different for them… for us. Er, not us specifically, actually. We both have a good deal of things to fear – which brings me back to the subject at hand. This thing, something which adults shouldn't experience anymore… It's not unnatural, no. “Too natural”… hmm, I suppose that's a way of putting it. It still speaks to a certain primal thing, fear itself. Though it does it in the wrong way, since sleep is the bane of a good bogeyman. They aren't born from dreams, dreams are a different matter. Dreams can still terrify, but they can't please or birth bogeymen. In fact, they provide an escape for the child, a deprivation to the entity. Oh yes, you have children scream and cry in their sleep, but I'm told it's rather unsatisfying for the created monster. Besides, it typically results from something more perverse, something which bogeymen tend not to do with. If they did, they wouldn't be bogeymen. They'd be horrors. Good god, you've certainly got me talking! My point was, I've looked at everything that could give me some insight into the creation of this SCP-080, considered the matter tirelessly, and not one thing would imply that it should exist. Not one! This thing couldn't even be a Thosk, far too inorganic… I'm rambling on again, aren't I? Sorry. What I'm trying to say is that this little curiosity, despite what you know or suspect, despite how it may seem, most certainly isn't a bogeyman. Good god, I don't what this is, as fascinatingly curious as I find the matter, but it's just not. No, this is something else entirely. I really can't investigate more, I'm ashamed to admit; although I'd still like to know where it came from. Don't call me that. Please, I know you're a nice fellow, but just… please. In fact, I'm about to leave, so we may as well keep things professional, Doctor - Mrs. Therianthus is my title. That is, Lyta Eykos Therianthus, scholar. It's been a pleasure.

« Pt. 2: The Lycon Crevice Around the room were scattered a variety of crayons, toys, and other such things as general mess. The child sat in the middle amid it all, doing something for some reason, which was about as much as he knew. There, in the room that was in fact nowhere and at no specific when, he had set about… making something. It may or may not have been with his own hands, if he even had hands. Maybe they were his own, or someone else's. Perhaps hands were involved in no way, being a rather arbitrary object to be involved in anything. There he sat, cross-legged on the floor, thinking as he always did, about nothing substantial. His thoughts were valueless and dull, those that children normally thought, exacerbated by the fact that he had been in this room literally forever since a few years ago. There was nothing exciting here: the toys and clothes which littered the room, the utensils, the necessities normally found in a child's room, the empty space and the bodies. There were a number of bodies, that much could be certainly ascertained, but it was by no means definite. This was, in fact, the place where all the bodies of those who ever lived here piled up, and the exact amount of people who lived here was not yet determined. But that was boring, possibly the most boring thing in the room. The crayons might capture more interest. Oh, there were so many colours: red ones and pink ones and orange ones and white ones and black ones and a few that didn't reflect visible light, not to mention the one or two that object or abstract-coloured ones. The necessary tools of such a craftsman as this man- well, I do say man. Man is perhaps inappropriate, despite his age. He was and always will be a child, as grown as he may be, until the next one came to continue the cycle. That's why he was here. To continue this recurring little function of the world's, this little nuance formed from a slight fracture of reality. The child, or god if you refuse to hold sanctity in such a position, was certainly a curiosity. For one, he was, among being here, still a young boy at some point elsewhere, in addition to being one of the remains about him. This was another of those places which held little respect for physical convention. The name was perhaps the most important part of the whole affair, unless one chose to draw a distinction between it and the children it was given to. Always repeating, always the same, the name was certainly significant. So strange, then, that this boy should forget it. The note was nice, but it should have been purely supplementary, not necessary at all. Oh well. It's not as if that was the most glaring error. As the boy drew out the words, he did so with satisfaction, that which he'd felt when the gifts had arrived at his door. Indeed, as the fanciful vision of that puerile joy skipped merrily on his mind, he was allowed, for a little while, to recall that wonderful time, a time which he could revisit now only vicariously. He knew, as the boy held the toy, that he'd feel that splendorous feeling he could vaguely recall. He thought of this in rather simpler terms of course. And so it continued. Eric set about, indefectibly, working on the next project. All to accomplish absolutely nothing. No-one cared about him, really.

« Pt. 1: The Colourful Doctor The entity crawled out of the cavern's opening, pulling its bloated body forward. It had extracted itself soon enough, finally being free as the crevice behind it vanished and moved on. The creature knew its purpose as anything knows its purpose: it had been given the opportunity to form. It could both find its form useful for existence and prosper; or, it could find itself inappropriate and incompatible, and die. This was a standard affair, really, for a world in which life grows and proliferates in the forgotten corners of the universe like a rot on bread when given the opportunity. And so the organism set out to, as organisms usually do, create a humble little niche in which it could live. The creature raised itself upon its legs, walking on and finding itself on the edge of a mountainous forest, upon a widespread, stone surface. A watcher might have found it vaguely muscoid in appearance, with its wings a clever derivative of the typical insectoid structure. Four primary wings attached to the centre of its back, surrounded by smaller, broader protrusions which would allow it to adjust its direction – from the veins extended small, flat growths, serving as feathers do, particularly exaggerated around its lower, peripheral appendages. It is through this apparatus that the organism lifted itself from the ground into a meandering, hovering flight, before landing on a rocky outcrop, settling itself comfortably into a collection of ridges in the approximate shape of a human hand. There it sat, scouting the environment. To the east was the start of a forest, to the southwest a long grassland – the north being largely obscured by a close waterfall feeding into a river running south. As it lay there, this creature decided its next action, and the instinct which prompted it was developed. It set off, flying towards the forest in search of prey; whatever variety it may find. Aimlessly it glided, stopping occasionally on the ground or a tree-branch when it became too exerted. After some time, it came to land above a pack of grey wolves in the busy process of eating. Its eyes lingered on the alpha male, who was gorging himself on the carcass of a deer as the six lesser wolves loitered around the edge of their small territory. The watching fly stared, before raising itself from its elevated position and gliding into position over the lead – then, still unnoticed except perhaps mildly by the hungry, waiting beasts, it folded its wings and dropped on to his back. Within seconds, the little patch of land was a-flurry with action: those yet to eat, with their senses sharpened by hunger, drew the fly into their full attention and brought themselves into a defensive posture; the alpha female, closest to the predated male, snarled and whipped around from her chosen chunk of carcass, her sight drawn to this alien black thing which presented as clear a threat to her as any carnivore can comprehend of; the male on which the creature had landed, briefly startled – but only, and I must stress this, briefly, for any apex predator so easily sent into shock does not enjoy the luxuries of being alive for long – bit round with his teeth flared at this unseen attacker. The creature itself, strangely for the source of so much excitement, was largely calm. It wrapped four of its legs, strong and thick limbs at the anterior and rear of its body, around the abdomen of the beast below it, with its less pronounced and fragile midlegs trailing uselessly to his sides. A seventh appendage, attached to the base between its head and thorax, rather similar to a butterfly tongue, reached out and curled itself around the wolf's neck. He, as he flailed about in his panic, felt a slight irritation as the fly's mouthpart dug into his back. The insect's gnawing was a futile attempt, it seemed, as the its crudely formed, soft teeth were only poorly derived from the traditional proboscis, proving – while apt for the process of feeding – useless for any form of offensive weapon. As it burrowed into the furry, flustering carnivore, it failed to do anything but nibble slightly at the tissue around his spine. Ultimately, however, that didn't matter. There was some struggle from the circling inferiors after this, but for all their efforts, the fly kept its hold on the alpha's back. Deeper into the forest this victim escaped, his malicious rider kicking at him as a man might kick at a particularly stubborn horse. After a while of this, the wolf tripped. His left foot had, in the prompted madness, kicked out randomly against an upturned root. Lying pitifully and feeling vulnerable despite his progressing calm as he became used to the organism which had taken up residence on his back, he attempted to stand again before his neck twitched the right – ever-so-slightly, yet noticeably. He stood, hesitated, then launched forward, curving to the right uncontrollably. After a while the wolf came to a standing stop. Indeed, he would have doubtlessly began to make peace with his unseen parasite had the wounds along his body not been so very sharp; instead, he stood pathetically trying to quell his tortured moaning. Suddenly, as the frenzied hormones in his system tired, a piercing cold crept into the alpha's body. A whelp rose in his throat as he collapsed. For several minutes he lay on the forest bed, convulsing as his suffering grew worse until, ultimately, the last remnants of movement faded and finally stopped. For a short time, the clearing that the wolf had carelessly blundered into was quiet, before the creature lifted itself from his back, skittered to his belly and sunk in its mouth. Successfully tearing open the soft skin, it proceeded to – for the first time – gorge itself. The cold meat would likely have caused it to shiver if it weren't so numb to temperature extremes, one of the many flaws of its development: as was the slow rate of eating, that deviant proboscis of its proving unsuited to chewing the remains it was being used to consume. It is entirely possible that these aforementioned flaws would have eventually resulted in the organism's death and the prevention of its species as a result – that is, depending on whatever dietary requirements it had, and how regularly it needed to eat. While it was not affected by its own property directly, second-hand exposure could cause what had affected so many others to repeat, that this example would fail to speciate in whatever strange and illogical way a single member of a sexually reproducing organism managed to. In the past others would simply appear nearby once the original individual had established itself, along with evidence of their having existed for longer. Fortunately all this was not a concern, since the remaining wolves tracked down the creature a short while later and killed it. That may have been rather abrupt. It really doesn't matter, since what happened then isn't as interesting as what happened next: it was, after all, a simple matter of the somewhat stealthy alpha female wolf pouncing on the fly and biting down on its torso hard enough to leave it dead before fleeing from the area. With its abdomen now damaged so, the creature began the slow, gradual process of decay – its wings and midlegs, as a result of their fragility, were lost entirely, the rest of it decomposing in a rather strange manner. As the bacteria swarmed on its surface, its chitinous exoskeleton softened into a fibrous, flesh-coloured layer; its interior, as a whole, was changed into a simple, white, fuzzy fluff altering its body into this permanent, semi-inorganic structure. It lay there for a while, inedible, unappealing, small and undisturbed, for god knows how long. The merchant was returning from the traditional trading journey into Edinburgh, with enough wealth to support him for the coming days – provided his habits didn't get the best of him again. He was making the journey on foot, given the expense of using carriages for such a common trip as well as the surprising deficit of local bandits. Besides, his home was only a short meander through the woods, and rumours of roaming predators failed to frighten a sceptic such as him – he was far too confident in success of the success of the recent mass wolfhunts. As he was walking that path he'd so often walked, a sight caught his eye. Veiled in the brush and the foliage was… something. Something small. The man, curious, decided to delay his walking a little to investigate. As he approached this thing, it became clear what it was: humanoid, a rounded head, cloth… it was a doll. A little rough yes and he found it difficult to explain why it was laying there- but then… ah, it occurred to him! Perhaps it was lost through the window of a passing coach, presumably one carrying a young girl of upper class. Seemed reasonable enough. The doll laying on the floor below him reminded the man of something: his youngest daughter, who he'd always had a certain… special affection for, had been asking recently for such a thing. Being a kind father, he had, of course, considered those for sale in town – all too expensive, or otherwise forgotten as the man distracted himself with other, more personal pursuits. For weeks she'd been asking, and he'd never managed to get anything for her. But now, now the opportunity – a perfect opportunity – presented itself. Decisively, he lowered his hand and picked up the toy, placing it in his coat pocket for the rest of the journey. As he strolled back, he couldn't help but be proud of himself, perhaps irrationally, for finding it. Truly, he thought to himself, she'll certainly enjoy it. What a wonderful father you are. Pt. 3: The Cyclical Child »

The toymaker sat back from his work. The fruit of his labour, that which all of his tireless effort had been focused to produce, lay before him. He did not know why he'd built such a thing: why he, a humble businessman, had been called to craft such a wonder. The inspiration had struck him without warning, without apparent cause, without a parent thought: it had jumped fully formed into his mind, a form, a function. It was truly a wondrous work, he thought. Of all his constructions, even those he applied weeks of labour to, never quite matched the vision he had in mind. They always had some deviation or flaw, but not this. No, this work was truly perfect. A simple toy, a simple, marvellous toy. The children would enjoy it – that he knew with certainty. And in its perfection, he also knew, it gained a certain new quality. Something additional: a reward, a gift, exactly what it was didn't matter. But he knew, again he knew with satisfaction that it was there, this extension of the plaything, this quality, that the children he lived to entertain would enjoy. The toymaker reflected upon all of his other work. His petty manufactures, it occurred to him, became only the background of his career – no, his life – compared to this. Well, not quite. This was certainly a quaint piece, far more interesting than his other, mundane constructions, but hardly so important. A simple doll could not be the greatest accomplishment of his forty-so years – could it? He stopped. These thoughts were not his. It was… it was as if someone was influencing him, influencing his thoughts so directly. Perhaps the doll… but no. No, he was getting away from himself. The clarity struck him: his life to now had been worthless. It seemed such a simple explanation. This doll, this doll was truly an amazement, so much so that- His ramblingly ponderous thoughts were cut short by a violent coughing fit. He was ill. He'd been ill since this whole affair had started, but that didn't matter. He was going to die of course, but everyone dies, and a peasant's life is shorter than anyone else's – what could one expect? He'd finished it, and now it existed, so petty mortality and the trivial matter of death ceased being of much consequence. He began to life, but the coughing overcame him again. There was a knock at the door. He turned, and slowly rose from the chair in his studio. He grabbed his cane and hobbled towards the door, a grin starting on his face. In such a situation, one falls back on old superstitions. As such, you can imagine the man's surprise when he opened the front door of his shop expecting some black-cloaked, decayed thing: or, at least, some form of intimidating, grandiose entity. “Hello!” said the brightly dressed man through his permanent smile. He was certainly vibrant, wearing a semi-tasteful combination of all forms of colour. His violet cloak billowed behind him in the wind. The toymaker stared. Though it was night, the stranger at his door glowed with a certain ethereal luminescence. His presence drew the eye, creating a rather jarring effect in the dark. “May I come in?” the stranger grinned through his closed teeth. The toymaker, through a compulsion that was all too familiar, nodded. To his credit, the man entered with some grandeur: all of his colours certainly created some drama. The stranger stepped in, looking around the toy shop; then, with purpose, he walked into the workshop. The toymaker followed, silently. He felt the illness now. It left him weak, weary. Now that his work was finally done, he realised, there was nothing left to distract him from his ailment. The peculiar man wasted no time. He lifted an aqua coloured sack and reached for the doll with thick, magenta gloves, quickly throwing it in. He turned to the toymaker, who stood pathetically trying to cry out. The colourful man stopped and tilted his head, smiling with yellowed teeth. “It's good to see you've finished it! Don't worry – even though it's my first time, I think I know what I'm doing! Thanks for all your help!” He smiled again, before turning to leave. The toymaker, with one last convulsion of energy, reached out a hand to stop him. The man looked down, gripped the toymaker's hand and slowly raised his head, smiling. Pt. 2: The Lycon Crevice »

March 11th, 2015. Siberia was not nice this time of year. Anders Forsman wondered if Siberia was ever really nice at any time of the year. Either way, this wasn't his normal neck of the woods. The Siberian tundra was the kind of place you shipped low performance Insurgency officers to try and whip them into shape. But apparently one of those washouts had stumbled upon something big before the hoarders had a chance to nab it from them. So the Insurgency had decided that he would be the one to go verify that it was as big a hazard as they claimed it to be. Forsman personally thought that it was a cluster of bullshit coming from some attention whore officers. He'd see that it wasn't as jazzy as they had made it out to be, and some of them would probably be shot. Bing bang done. The convoy was beginning to slow down, and at the head of the pack Forsman could almost make out the silhouette of a big tower. He opened his car door and was hit by a block of freezing air. Pulling up his parka, he began trudging down toward the silhouette of a tower, hazy from all the snow in the air. It was the thing the washouts claimed to be the greatest thing since sliced bread. Orville walked up next to him. Orville was another one of the guys the big chiefs had sent down to look at this thing. He was great at explaining to overexcited officers that the magic flying bobble-head they had found did not require an Apozem recovery protocol. Forsman nodded to him as they walked toward their mutual destination. It was a big fucker. That was the first thing that occurred to Forsman as they got closer. There were the signs of excavation protocols being enacted even at this distance from the site. He saw kids digging holes through solid permafrost. Locals, probably recruited recently. As they went on, the digging became more and more organized. It went from freezing teens digging haphazard holes to professional engineers yakking about controlled demolition with the tremble of heavy machinery permanently in the background. The excavated area itself was at least three hundred and fifty meters across. Not meters, thought Forsman, yards. They didn't use meters anymore. The hole itself was too deep to see anything, but the officers in charge were more than happy to blather about all their theories on what the object really was. "Maybe it is some ruins that came from ancient civilizations!" was one of the more popular theories. Another one that was brought out almost as often was that it was an extraterrestrial vehicle. Most of them hadn't seen the thing for themselves, and had no idea what it actually was. But that didn't stop every officer Forsman interviewed from spouting off their own kettle of bullshit. "Now lieutenant," Forsman would say, as he pretended to look at the important documents on his clipboard, "When did you first become aware of this object?" The lieutenant would reply that they had found it "Pokin' out of a big ditch. Some of the people that used to live in the next town over went wild over it after it grew right into an insurance office." Things would go on like that, with Forsman asking what had happened to the property (Demolished), townsfolk ("Evacuated"), and how things at the excavation site were going (they always said it was excellent). And then he would have to ask about their theories on what the object could be. And he would sit and listen as the man seated in front of him listed off speculative bullshit, sometimes with clever theories they had come up with all on their own. The theories usually ran the gamut of things that he had heard a million times before. Aliens, ancients, conspiracy blah blah blah. The only one who wasn't completely up his own ass was a junior officer who had been in the dig site. He was the only officer Forsman knew of who had seen the thing. His name was Jasper. Jasper told him that the thing looked like a tree connected to a bunch of big roots, all made of some kind of metal substance. When one of his men tried to touch it, they'd been snarled in by millions of fibers growing out of the thing that pulled him in. They had stopped underground excavation after that, and begun trying to dig it out from the surface. Jasper told him that it looked like the thing went a long way into the dirt. It was the only useful information Forsman had gotten all day. Forsman looked at his accumulated data and shook his head. It was just a textbook case of overeager officers taking something big and scary to be more dangerous than it actually was. All it seemed to be was a big fibrous root in the ground. Strange, certainly, and definitely warranted the Insurgency's attention, but it wasn't doing anything particularly dangerous. Such a shame. He had had hope that maybe this wouldn't be bullshit, that they may have actually found something important before the Foundation could add it to their collections. But…well…that was a fanciful thought. Realistically, he would probably never be important enough to do anything other than these backwater assignments. At least he didn't have to live here. He shut down the terminal, and a piercing whine began blaring. He covered his ears and ducked. After a second, he realized it was the alarm. The intercom crackled and fizzed, and then spat out a static-riddled announcement. "ALL SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT TO EXCAVATION SITE PRIME IMMEDIATELY, OBJECT NASAW HAS BEEN ACTIVATED, REPEAT, OBJECT NASAW-" the bulletin sputtered, and then went silent. Forsman got up and grabbed his gun. The door handle stuck for a second, but he was still out in the corridor within moments. The corridor itself was in pandemonium. Men and women in secondhand uniforms ran in every direction, and the feeling of panic was heavy in the air. Forsman noticed Orville calmly walking toward the exit. He pushed his way past a security agent fumbling with a gun and walked beside him. Their conversation was short. "Any idea what's going on?" "None at all." "Heading out." "Of course. You?" "Of course." They hit the exit doors and looked up. The tower was no longer at the center of the excavation site. Or, rather, it was in the same relative place, but the excavation site was gone. The tower was several hundred feet in the air. Several hundred tendrils, the root structures, trailed down to the earth. They ripped tremendous amounts of earth apart as they were liberated from their underground resting place. It looked like a flower being pinched and lifted into the sky, and they were the bugs being smashed by the uplifting roots. As the tower grew higher, the ground around them started to break. The trails of the roots drew closer to their location. Forsman looked to his right to ask Orville what to do. He realized Orville was gone. In his place, there was a big mesh root, ornately woven and glimmering in the winter sun. Forsman turned around to go back into the base, radio command about what had happened. And he would've been able to, had the door not been blocked by a large root, also ornate, with intricately carved patterns. Forsman would have turned to try and run, but he tripped on a root. As he watched it crawl up his leg, he didn't feel any pain. He looked over at the dig site, saw roots spreading, making new towers to put themselves out of the ground. Some might call it a shame. He thought it was beautiful. It was the last thought he ever had.

September 21, 1997 Jack Bright strongly considered a change in career. Science wasn't working out. Too much contact with other human beings, for one. Lack of respectable, cackle-worthy science was another reason. Third, and most importantly, was the distressingly high number of eviscerations, decapitations, immolations, castrations and all other sorts of mean, nasty, horrible things that happened in his general vicinity over the past fifteen minutes. A head gone astray in its search for a body exploded on the wall next to Jack like a rotten melon, splattering him with gory pulp. So far he had narrowed his choices down to: basement dweller, professional hobo, and male prostitute. Concrete dust rained down on his head. He managed to stifle a sneeze. Cadaver was also looking highly likely. He was already good at playing dead, why not try the actual thing? The gurgling in the background petered out, followed by a body hitting the floor and an indifferent grunt from the one who tossed it. Go to Germany, they said. Meet with the Coalition, they said. It'll be fine, they said. They know how to deal with the occult, they said. They said this, they said that…ah fuck. Seconds dripped by like a particularly painful flow of molasses. Jack's strained ears picked up heavy breathing, a few pacing footsteps. Able was still there. He had been expecting it, but it still sounded incredibly wrong to his ears. A ukulele did not belong in the middle of a secret ex-Nazi bunker, much less a secret ex-Nazi bunker being currently torn to pieces by a Neolithic war god. Neither did a voice that Jack could not stop comparing to Mark Hamill's interpretation of the Joker. “You know, I've been considering taking up a hobby. Knitting seems like a good option. Or maybe fly-fishing. Skiing…nah, I hate snow. Also, your mother was a whore.” BOOM Jack leapt to his feet and began to run unsteadily towards the double exit doors, ears ringing. There was no such thing as a better distraction than Ukulele. The man himself was standing there in the doorway, holding an anti-tank rifle. His head was that of a red panda with an eyepatch. He nodded and grinned as Jack sprinted past him and down the hallway. Four months in that cult compound, all on a hunch. Then you have some guy claiming he'd discovered a way to immortality, and life turns into a heist movie trying to swipe a philosopher's stone. Jack felt at his labcoat pocket. The lump of the pendant wasn't there. The adrenaline pumping through his brain told him that it was no big deal. He could pick it up later. Avoiding a grotesque and messy death, that was a big deal. All he was going to do was drop it off. That's all he was going to do. Drop it off with someone who knew what to do with it, let it be their problem, and then head out and have a beer. Or two. Most likely more than two. Enjoy a nice little vacation in Europe while he was at it. He deserved it. But no… “Hey there. How's it going?” Ukulele jogged backwards nonchalantly next to him. His head was a television, displaying the words “Ceci n'est-pas une televisione" in alternating teal and maroon letters. The gun was slung lazily over his shoulder. “Mint?” he held out a little metal tin. Jack shook his head. “Oh. Then you might want to hold on to this. You dropped it.” Red flashed in the air. Jack caught the amulet, not bothering to question how or why. Exactly three steps later an obsidian throwing spear impaled Jack through the gut. His body dropped to the floor, amulet firmly grasped in his fist. Ukulele stopped backpedalling, shook his fishbowl, and snapped the mint tin shut. “Now why would you do that? Look at those shoes he was wearing. Those were nice shoes. Now they don't have nice feet to fill them. Think of the shoes, Able.” Able, now standing twenty feet or so away from Ukulele, grunted. A sizeable chunk of his chest had been torn open enough to see through to the other side. His breathing was a mix of a one-lunged wheeze and the gargle of a man choking on his own blood. He stood where he was. No tensing of the body to leap, no weapon in his hand. He just stood there. “Trezae shanis shanar, chy. Avskani?” he croaked. Ukulele stroked the fringe of tentacles at his chin. “Nope. Nope nope nope, I'm no good at canasta, so that's right out." "Xadr, chy. Zepiniki ca… Ukulele held up a hand. "Shshshshshhhhhh. I've heard enough. While you make some fine points, I think I should warn you that I am terribly clumsy, and so chainsaw juggling would just end up awful for everyone involved." Ukulele closed the gap. Able continued to do nothing but watch. "This is a stumper, to be sure. Can't find a good hobby. Makin' me bummed, dude." He spread his arms. "Hug?" With that, he hit the detonator for the claymore mine strapped to his chest. — "He blew himself up for fun. For fun, Ben. Something needs to be done here. He's getting more unstable." "Are you sure you're not overreacting, Sophia? So he blew himself up. He can regenerate. He's also designed to have insanity and murder to be his only two character traits." "I trust my gut more than Adam at this point." "Okay, you tell me. What are we going to do to take down the Chesire Cat and Mad Hatter's LSD-fueled lovechild? Without getting ourselves slaughtered in a matter of seconds." "Not by ourselves. We have enough items to work with. We might stand a chance if we go about this with our heads on straight." "What, kill, capture, lock him up?" "Just something. Something's going to go wrong, I know it." — Date: 9/25/97 To: Site 19 Senior Staff From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow Subject: The state of Dr. Bright. Dear friends: As many of you have heard, Dr. Bright was reported as killed during a containment breach at our Coalition sister facility on the 21st. I am happy to announce that this is not true: Dr. Bright was found alive by Coalition recovery agents amidst the wreckage this morning, shaken but overall unharmed. Dr. Bright's condition is still sensitive due to exposure to anomalous items of unknown properties during the breach. However, I hope to have him back among us as soon as the situation permits it. In sincerity, -Adam — September 30, 1997 Dr. Glass scanned over his clipboard one more time. Yes, the photo he had was that of Dr. Jack Bright: male, mid-thirties, untrimmed brown hair, beard, a general appearance of scruffy un-washed-ness and a scowl. The person sitting on the other side of his desk was none of those things, save the scowl: female, late twenties, decent tan, short lightish hair, scar on the left cheek. Her arms were crossed in a sullen expression of resentment, identical to Jack's common poise and positioning. An amulet centered with a sizeable ruby hung from a gold chain around her neck. According to the paperwork he had been given, this was Steffi Fuchs, a field agent of the Global Occult Coalition of middling achievement. Dr. Glass sighed and opened up his yellow legal pad to a fresh page. Something told him that he'd be taking a lot of notes. “Okay, Jack, let's start at the beginning. What were you doing when you became a woman?"

I'm not really sure how I wound up in the water. The rush of currents and crunch of impact after impact as I was dragged along the rocks by the merciless current drove everything else from my mind. Thinking back, I don't remember how I wound up in that particular section of rapids at all, much less how I was separated from my kayak. The thing no one really tells you about whitewater currents is how loud they are. Even as I was dragged along, bouncing from rock to rock like some strange sad cross between a pinball and a pinata, I managed to marvel at the rush and roar of the water all around me. For some reason, I'd always expected drowning to be silent. Forgive the cliche, but what must have been seconds felt like an eternity. I distinctly remember having time to regret having worn my nice watch as it shattered against the stones, and to wonder how I was going to replace it. I spent what felt like hours careening down the rapids, until a particularly hard boulder impacted my head and time stopped entirely. When I woke up, I was lying in a few inches of water in absolute darkness. I sat up, rubbing my bleeding head, and fumbled in my pocket for the box of waterproof matches I always carried on my outdoorsy excursions. Incredibly, the current hadn't managed to tear them away from me. Hands shaking, I managed to open the box and extract a match. I struck it. Before my eyes could adjust to the glare, it was extinguished. "I'm sorry." The voice was hoarse and soft, like a tenor with a terrible cold. "Fire uses oxygen. We've got a limited supply of that. Welcome to hell." Later, I learned that my companion in the darkness was a fellow lost kayaker who'd been washed down into the same underwater cave some time before. He wouldn't tell me what he'd had to eat beyond "I ran out.", and something in his voice told me I didn't want to know. Navigating the cave by feel, I'd come across the remains of a two man canoe. He'd been digging for a while. With a grunt, I joined him. The tunnel was narrow but long, stretching mostly upward except for where it had to curve below a particularly tenacious boulder or seam. "Three more days, I think." he told me, in one of the rare moments we spoke. "Think you can hold out that long?" And he laughed, then, for a long time. So we dug. Without a watch, I had no way to tell how much time was passing, but his guess was more or less correct. Eventually, he paused. "I'm going to go, er… yeah. I'll be back." He dragged himself back down the tunnel without another word. A few seconds later, I burst through topsoil into light. Blinded by the glare, I lay there for a few minutes, soaking up the warmth and light, before realizing I could hear no sound of my companion. I called out, but heard no answer. So I widened the hole, letting light down into the tunnel, and farther into the cave. Silence was the only answer. I clambered down the tunnel, surprisingly short in the daylight, and looked around the cave. There, in the corner, next to the crushed canoe and a pile of gnawed human bones, lay a dessicated corpse, months dead, with a shovel in its hand. I ran. When rescuers found me, lost and gibbering in the woods, it had been four days since I went missing.

“Ms. Catherine, I understand you may be shocked, but I must insist you try your hardest to remember.” She looked down at the stark white hospital gown she was wearing, the texture felt rough against the skin that was not wrapped up in gauze or absorbent patches. Even those were not exactly comfortable, and the man sitting beside the bed with the wide plastic smile put every hair of hers on edge. She disliked hospitals, the ward she sat in was almost blindingly white and sterile. The few occupants were her, the interviewer, and four other victims of the attack. “Ms. Catherine?” “I said that this guy leapt out from the hedge and tried to bite off my tit,” Catherine repeated, resisting the temptation to rub her wounded chest and arms. Even thinking about it made it hurt. “I heard something break a bit earlier, but I just thought someone had knocked over one of those big flower vase things in the park.” “Did this man look drugged, or ill?” The interviewer leaned in, still smiling. “Or did he seem perfectly normal besides the aggression? Did you say anything that would have offended someone?” Catherine moved further over to the side of the bed. “He looked really red and he was sweating. I think he was homeless.” She took a deep breath, trying to remember each detail of the man. “He had a beard and his nails were extremely long.” Her eyes moved over to her arms, all bandaged up from where the man had ripped into her. “He also was not wearing any shoes.” She nodded, laying back onto the stiff pillow. She wriggled slightly, trying to remove the pressure on her chest from the bandages. With most of her chest and waist covered, she really did not want to think about how bad the wounds looked, and was even more thankful she could barely feel them. “I see,” the interviewer said, the smile never leaving his face, “so perhaps he was just mentally ill-“ “George!” Someone called from across the room. “We need to talk.” The interviewer got up, nodded in the direction of the person who called for him before looking back at Catherine. “I suggest you rest, Ms. Catherine.” “Will I get to call my parents soon? They're probably worried to death that I got run over or something.” “Tomorrow, Ms. Catherine. Tonight I believe you should rest, we have testing we need to do in the morning,” he said while getting up, then walking away at a brisk pace. Catherine watched as he quickly made his way to the door and disappeared behind it. “…Creep,” she muttered underneath her breath. She could not deny that he had a point though, she was exhausted and her body hurt. Catherine waited for sleep to come, the sound of a hospital bed being moved the herald of a dreamless slumber. - - - Catherine woke up in a panic, nearly rolling off the bed. Her chest felt like it was in a tight vise, squeezing out her organs. She twisted and squirmed on the bed in an effort to loosen the hardened bandages, instead there was a cracking noise, and as she rolled over again the cold touch of air ran over her exposed wounds before the itchy hospital gown covered them. “Oh shit.” She sat up, the pieces of bandaging falling off behind her or into her lap. Catherine reached into her gown to pull out the hardened gauze and looked over them for a moment. They were soaked in reddish brown, with crusted yellow green making faint outlines where she assumed the edges of the bites and scratches to be. She looked up first, at the empty ward, then leaned down to sniff the bandages. They were scentless, not even a slight metallic whiff of blood. Goosebumps formed over her as the soft hum of air conditioning began, the cold breeze running over her exposed back. “Where's my shirt?” she wondered out loud. With no doctors around to tell her to stay in bed, she quickly got out of it, hunching over to brace herself for a pain which never came. She stood straight up then, feeling the flesh on her chest stretch as she moved. Catherine walked down to the end of the ward, where a few desks and lockers stood. Two of the lockers were opened, one with a post-it note attached complaining about someone named ‘Avery' not cleaning it up properly. It did not seem like her own clothing was around. She turned to look at the desks, wondering if there were any keys in them. The desks had a few papers on them, computers, pen cups, medical charts, emergency flashlights, manila envelopes. Things one might expect. She found several keys in drawers and one bright red stress ball with a crude face drawn onto it. Squeezing it, she began a slow process of finding which keys opened which locker. After eight lockers had been opened, she finally found one with some clothing in it. A piece of paper taped to the inside of the locker noted that it belonged to a woman named Doctor Elizabeth Schumacher. “Sorry Elizabeth,” Catherine mumbled as she pulled out the blouse, underwear, and skirt. She was mildly disappointed to not find any shoes. She then looked down at the hospital gown, the cool breeze still hitting her exposed backside. She gripped the flimsy feeling material, wondering how horrible the exposed flesh will look underneath. She could not feel it, perhaps the damage had been less than she thought, but she braced herself for an ugly sight anyway as she pulled off the hospital gown and let it fall to her cold feet. Underneath were large patches of reddened flesh, cracked dry lines of pus lining some of them. Her left breast was lopsided looking with a chunk of it still missing. Catherine frowned and poked the tender flesh there, and bit her lip in the sudden flare of pain. “That wasn't the smartest thing to do.” She groaned, cradling it. Getting over the pain, she quickly pulled on the slightly loose clothing, buttoning up the blouse and zipping up the skirt. She looked over at the heavy double doors, then at the two rows of empty hospital beds. The lack of a window in the white room, the quiet air as the air conditioner turned off. “This isn't a hospital,” she realized, looking back to the doors, the revelation taking a few moments to fully dawn on her. If she was not in a hospital, where was she? Where did the other patients go? Why were the grievous injuries healed? Needles felt like they were digging into her heart, a fearful confusion burrowing deep inside. Frowning, she walked over to them and pushed them open quickly, sending a shaft of light into a dark hall. She poked her head out, seeing nothing but dim lighting from a few small bulbs down the corridor. Catherine took a few steps out and suddenly found herself on her back, her head cracking against the tiles as she slipped. Sitting up, she rubbed her head and looked down at her other hand. It was cold, and as the doors closed a sliver of light crossed over her hand, illuminating the red.

May 10, 1997 A black moon under a hill of snow. His brother had been born first, but the younger was the stronger of the two. The omen had been marked, but its mark was not for a babe at the breast. Destiny was fit for a man. A scene of two boys wielding spears, each fighting a ferocious animal. Two boys became two men. Manhood brings a mark, which brings a name, which begins a destiny. A figure of man, dressed in furs, holding a spear. A woman, fat and healthy, stands beside him, as do five childlike forms. Another, smaller man stands to the side, with feathered staff and headdress. He did not have the clays of the River now, not the rich red nor the earthy brown nor the smooth grey. Nor did he have the deep black of the charcoal of a fire over which the sacred stories were told. He had nothing but blood and spit and pus and bone. It was enough. More monstrous animals, each with a red slash across the belly. The storytellers and elders whispered of the brothers' feats, how the warrior smote the beast and the shaman healed the sick and drove out evil spirits. They spoke of their great destiny… The smaller man stripped of his headdress, walking away from a faceless crowd. The larger man points in direction. But destiny is a heavy weight: Slip, and it will crush you… The woman, dead, smeared with the blood of childbirth, the deformed infant in her arms. And destiny takes what it will from those it does not destroy. A spread of grey land, a swathe of black sky, a tiny white figure in the center. You took nothing into the cave. Took not your spear, nor knife, nor fire, nor sight, nor hearing. The dead allowed only the soul to pass. A figure in shadows, bone white face and blood-red hands. For the spear will break and hides will rot and fire will dim. All things die. Only the soul may be tested. A pale, ghostly figure, plump and long-haired. A child holds on to one hand. And in time rewarded… The same figures, smeared out. But destiny is fickle with its rewards. The light of the entrance to a cave. The test was passed. Life, power, and loneliness were the reward. The figure alone, surrounded by darkened trees. Seasons were born and died. He did not. The figure standing on a hill, many figures surrounding him. Another woman, many children, many others, all fed and strong. Death turns to life again. It continues. Bloody red fire. And again all things die. He did not. The figure stripped of his hides, bloody and beaten, surrounded by tall, cloaked figures with the skulls of animals. Chains bound his arms and legs. He could not die, so he watched. The man marked with crests that were not his, standing in a river of blood, the dead around him thick as the fallen leaves of autumn. He could not die, so he lived a slave. A tool. A cold, black monolith. A tomb in chains. Tools are stored when they are not used, and disposed when they have worn out their usefulness. Able, son of Ablaln, Chief of the Mountain and the River, He Who Returned from the Land of Death, Wanderer of a Thousand Winters, the Smiting Blade, The Sleeping God, scowled with bared teeth at the last of the paintings. A name echoed through his mind, to the very depths of his soul, boiling up hatred a thousand times over, hate that burned, consumed, that left nothing but more of the same. Hatred against them. The invaders. The slaughterers. The slavemasters. The filth. The Daevas. When a man has nothing left to lose, then his soul may be stripped from him. Able roared, slamming his fists into the wall. By all means, they should have crumbled under his blows, were they normal stone. His fistfalls thudded dully through the cube, not a crack appearing. No…the walls of this prison were not to be broken by the tantrums of a child. Able ceased his barrage, panting. The echoes froze and faded. Why had he brought those memories to bear? Had he not buried them ages ago? Had he not torn down the walls of Daevon with his own hands? Had he not ripped the high priest in twain and destroyed their foul idols? Had he not sent them screaming to their black gods as their most twisted sorcerers sacrificed themselves to lock him away a final time? They were dead, dead and gone, and he had bathed in enough blood to forget himself in his madness. Why? The answer came to him. Able stood up straight to his full eight feet. He knew now. He knew why he remembered. It was all happening again. He reached down to the rent torso he had been using as palette a last time. His hand wet with viscera, he painted one more figure on the cold, uncaring walls of his prison: A man with a smile, but no true face. A man made a weapon at the call of masters beyond. They were the same. They were kin.

"Deeds? Where the devil are my slippers?" To whom it may concern; Tally-ho, ladies and gentlemen! It is I, Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE, 7th Viscount of Westminister, noted explorer and gentleman. It has come to my attention that I am held in quite high regard by the readers of a periodical known as "the World-Wide Web". I have heard of no such paper being available in London, but Deeds has explained to me that it is a most clever artiface which harnesses the power of the telegraph by which to convey the latest happenings in far-off lands directly into the homes of its subscribers. Will such wonders ever cease? As I find myself wanting for diversion since I have been made an involuntary guest of these mountebanks and confidence-men who call themselves "scientists", I have decided to endeavour in making contact with you, my admirers, through this marvelous publication. Though I lack a telegraph key in the quarters I have been given (not that it would operate given that my gaolers insist for some reason on continuing to fill the room with water day after day), Deeds has agreed to collect my mail and take dictation for me while the watchful eyes of the guardsmen are turned away, that I might correspond through these pages with any and all who wish to enquire of my life and adventures. Tell me, my fellow Englishmen and our brothers and cousins throughout the world, what would you ask of me? What exploits of mine would you wish to know of? What secrets of my life and times would you have laid bare? What opinions or beliefs of my own do you wish to learn of? While I am sure the editors of this news-paper are quite diligent in censoring matters of a prurient or classified nature, I shall do my best to answer any honest and decent questions that any of you might have. I eagerly await receiving your responses. Yours in Christ, T.T.B. —- Jekeled writes: You are aware you're a slug, right? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Jekeled - I have heard that joke several times, and I no longer find it as risible as once I did. Obviously I am a man, and not a slug - for how else could I hunt, and fight, and write, and sing, and love? Perhaps you are in need of a new pair of eyeglasses - I can recommend a fellow in Brighton who sold me a pince-nez capable of seeing back in time. Egads, sir, I have that very same pince-nez sitting in my parlor! Could this be a black forgery of some sort? Perhaps - I have heard that those blackguards, Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark have made quite a bit of ill-gotten wealth counterfeiting Henry's contraptions. I would have it thoroughly examined by a phlogistonic engineer as soon as possible. I know not what far-off corner of the world you find yourself in, but surely there is one in the nearest metropolis? Hah! Even if the rapscallions have gypped me, I have gotten adequate use out of those spectacles. Saved my life in Bora-Bora in '72. That was you? By Jove, boy, I thought we were both finished after the manticore got between us and the powder magazine. Did you ever find out what happened to Baron von Almsbach? Poor fellow, never the brightest jewel in the necklace, you know. Picked an ill-timed fight with a ruffian in the East End. Oooh. Nasty. We never did find the entirety of that poor blighter's lower torso… —- SwamplessThing writes: My good fellow! Please share with me a story concerning the loss of your greatest love. Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. SwamplessThing - my greatest love, of course, is England herself, and God willing we shall never lose her. I have heard distressing news from the doctors here that she is not as strong and mighty as once she was - but she endures, and I am told that there sits now a queen almost as savvy and beloved as my dear Victoria herself. The story of my marriage to Countess Francesca, the daughter of the Neapolitan archduke - now that is another story entirely, and one I shall have to recount in great detail someday - but suffice it to say that the Knights Hospitaller take no prisoners, and the steppes of Mongolia are a cruel and unforgiving land. —- Dr J Sombre writes: Lord Blackwood, I've lately stumbled across a bit of a poser- which is better, a Tesla Coil gun or one of those fancy little 'ray-guns' I've seen sometimes in artificers' markets? I was planning to do a little exploration down Brazil-way, perhaps in those rainforest sinkholes I've heard so much about, so would it be wiser to sacrifice a little power for more portability? Or would I be kicking myself when the mokele-mbembes came? (I'd ask my guides to carry it, but finding a trustworthy native who can spelunk worth a damn… Well, it's no easy task I can tell you.) Also, top hat or bowler? Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Sombre - While I am personally fond of my particle destabilizing muskets, you would likely have great difficulty acquiring one yourself, as Mr. Moth's waiting list has been known to extend for years filling his orders. I'm told the old man insists on making every one of them by hand after being swindled by an urchin he hired to assist him. In any event, I find that radium weapons are more effective than electrical any day of the week. And I should hope you don't encounter Mokele-Mbembe in the Amazon, for that would mean that you had either gone mad or turned to drink - for the creature seldom strays from its demesne in the Congo, and I know of no cousins of itself to be found in South America. Beware the great snake the natives call Matatoro, however, and the giant sloths that prey on man and beast alike. (Incidentally, the next time you find yourself in Sao Paolo, seek out a tavern called 'A história do galo e o touro' and ask for a bar-man named Armando. The old boy makes the finest martini i've ever tasted outside of London.) As to headgear, I prefer the comfort of a pith helmet when I find myself in the wild, but when it comes to the social scene, I would sooner be seen naked than without my top hat. Well, maybe with my grasp of Geography I should stay at home. Or try and aquire better travel guides; I think I was sold a pup. —- Catboy637 writes: Good sir, I must ask: how do you survive these so-called "scientists" filling your room with water? In addition, have you been given proper access to a Bible? Lastly, who is heir to your titles, upon (God forbid it!) the event of your death? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Catboy - It's not the first time i've been forced to live underwater, I assure you. One does grow accustomed to it eventually. I've requested a Bible several times, but my attendants have denied all my requests thus far for books. I was, of course, three times the winner of the annual Scripture Knowledge competition in my days at Eton, and I can still recite the book of Matthew, and most of Leviticus, from beginning to end by memory. As to an heir - sadly, my life of adventure has yet left me little time to raise a family. Lord Randolph Churchill's third son, Winnie, is my godson, though I have not seen him since he was but a boy - I expect he has done quite well in life, and my current will specifies him (or his descendent) as the heir to my lands and title. Are you aware of the proposal to revive the Ancient Greek Olympic games? The great city of London has been chosen as the new site at which they will be held. Indeed? This is most fascinating news - though surely the runners will not compete in the nude as the Grecians once did, one hopes. Lord Blackwood, have you ever encountered the Amaski tribe of Africa? They have quite the odd oral tradition, and with all your exploration, any knowledge you can provide on them would be invaluable. On an unrelated note, what is the best way to prevent sunburn while travelling near the equator, in your opinion? Drewbear writes: Nay, not naked, but near enough. The contestants, both male and female (yes, indeed!), tend to wear the most shockingly form-fitting clothing when competing in the more physically strenuous events. Personally, I prefer the more dignified sporting events of archery, shooting and equestrianism. And although it is somewhat distressing to see ladies of refinement competing in the swimming or gymnastic events, there is nothing finer than a gentle-woman upon a good dressage horse. And a woman has matched the record for skeet-shooting! 99 hits out of 100! Alas, they use but ordinary rifles rather than the more effective weaponry owned by yourself. —- Boa Noah writes: What does Mr. Deeds smell like? Lord Blackwood replies: A strange query indeed, but I find that he often has the scent of fresh lilacs about him. What cologne or secret he uses, he refuses to tell me. Thank you, good day fine sir. —- Scratskinner writes: Have you ever met a man deluded into believing himself a sea slug? What diversions of this era do you find least offensive to your taste? Lord Blackwood replies: A man believing himself a sea slug, Mr. Scratskinner? I should say not - such a thing would be madness, and I associate not with madmen. I have not had much time to investigate the diversions of the world outside this facility as of late, I regret, but I am told that the game of cricket has become quite popular in the last century. Now that, my friend, is a sport truly befitting a gentleman's passions! (The Americans, I am told, have naturally gotten it all wrong.) —- Lordlyhour writes: Greetings, My fine fellow! What, dear Gentleman, is your opinion on Facial Hair? Do you have any tips for one who wishes to Keep his Moustachio in Fine Fettle? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Lordlyhour - Brush, trim, and wax. Always wax. —- Drewbear writes: Do you have any advice with regards to beard maintenance? I am myself blessed with a fine and full beard, yet am prone to a degree of bushiness that is most distracting when laying a buss upon the cheek of my beloved. Lord Blackwood replies: A beard? Good heavens no, sir. You should perhaps consult a Russian if such matters are of import to you; I have never worn anything more than a fine and proper English mustache, thank you very much. —- SwamplessThing writes: If I may be so bold as to posit another question to your lordship; Which of Shakespeare's works are your favorite, and why? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. SwamplessThing - the works of the Bard have constantly proven an inspiration to me. I have always counted "Julius Caesar" the finest of his works, though I hold a special place in my heart for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" owing to the circumstances under which I met Oberon himself in battle back in fifty-eight. (Should you ever find yourself in the land of the Fae, be warned that accepting an offer of drink from a lady is considered to be a proposal of marriage, and that the sidhe do not look kindly upon broken engagements.) —- Faminepulse writes: Was wondrin' if you like a good smoke with yer rosie every now an' then? An' if so, what method? What brand balms yer' bristols if you don't mind me askin''? Lord Blackwood replies: Is that you, Mr. Horace? —- Drewbear writes: If you had but one request of the blackguards who currently detain you, and they must but answer it, what would it be? Unfortunately, I must perforce decline the question of your own freedom, as, being men of good intelligence, we are both aware of the unlikelihood of that request being granted. Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Drewbear - The food here is sadly wanting. My captors insist on feeding me in the form of these strangely-flavored flakes that they sprinkle into the water. A decent steak, or some eel pie, or just a decent cup of tea would do much to improve my spirits. —- MrCobalt writes: I am aware of your affinity for Aether-based weaponry, but what is your opinion on traditional gunpowder-based firearms? Personally, I find there are few things that match the almost primal thrill of a shotgun recoiling in your grasp as it is fired; are there any more… advanced weapons that have that kind of kick? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Cobalt - I once had the opportunity to experiment with an electrically-powered "rail-gun" the Germans have been working on. The bloody thing nearly broke my shoulder, but it's got more punch than a dreadnought's broadside. Would that I'd had it with me when I faced down that behemoth in Persia! —- VAELynx writes: What is your opinion on the Great October Socialist Revolution and the workers' movement worldwide? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. VAELynx: I am afraid I have no words with which to describe that rabble that are fit to print in any decent publication. —- Tuomey Tombstone writes: How come you even know how to use a computer - they're a little new for you, right? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Tuomey - Do you refer to the difference engines of Mr. Babbage's? I saw a demonstration of such a device in fifty-eight, though i'm not certain how it is relevant to our current telegraphic conversation. Deeds has been relaying your questions to me and taking dictation of my response - I assume that once he has done so, he is returning to the telegraph office and wiring my answers to the central offices of this World-Wide Web for distribution. —- Goodwill writes: Has the Royal Society for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Artifacts ever requested your services? If so, what have you accomplished for the Society? Also, have you heard of the American Secure Containment Initiative, and their rather…loose requirements for what defines as paranormal phenomena? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Goodwill - the Royal Foundation and I have, shall we say, a colorful history together - it seems I've found them at my throat as often as i've found them an ally. I have not had the pleasure of doing business with its American counterpart, though I suspect the organization now holding me captive is associated with it. If I may follow up with a similar question, have you ever had contact with the elusive Professor A.W.? He's the mind behind that electro-mechanical memory machine, along with a few other oddities. I regret to declare that I have not met the man you speak of, though I have heard his name whispered many times at the gentlemen's club. —- Eric_h writes: Dear Lord Blackwood: I was wondering if you would share your experiences with Marshall, Carter, and Dark. They remain a most disreputable group to this day, and have caused the Foundation a significant amount of trouble. Any opportunities to get the upper hand on them would be most appreciated. Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Eric: Those rogues operate a "gentleman's club" in Knightsbridge - though the name is quite misleading, as neither themselves nor any of the libertinous Bohemians they attract are fit to be called gentlemen. I have known them to be associated with theft, larceny, white slavery, and crimes of nature not fit to be discussed among Christian men, and I would sooner wipe my backside with the Queen's portrait (forgive my immodesty) than willingly do business with any of them. Mr. Dark is the only one I have had the displeasure to meet in person - he is a squat and unseemly fellow, with a scar across one eye and a beard almost Satanic in its cut, and his voice is harsh and discordant. He is, however, surprisingly adept in the art of judo, and I had quite a time fending him off before I could make my escape from the scene of his depravities with the artifact I had come to recover at the Lord Admiral's request. (Incidentally, I met a young man named Eric once. He had a most unusual collection of artifacts of his own. Might you and he be any relation?) eric_h replies: You knew my great-uncle? How odd. Small world, isn't it? —- GG Crono writes: My good Lord, Surely someone who has been through such ordeals as yourself knows the importance of keeping one's spirits up. So in the interest of raising the spirits of all, I ask you; what is the most humorous happening that you have come across on your travels far and wide? Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Crono - It is a long tale that I do not know if the censors of this publication would allow me to relate in full, but suffice it to say that it involved Lord Palmerston's dog, a one-legged lady of the evening, and a gentleman of the Polish persuasion. —- StuporousStuart writes: Lord Blackwood, From this fine selection of participants, thou must use one action without repetition, three are given of each. Wouldst thy choose to wed, slay or lay with the following atrocities; SCP-136-2, SCP-1308 and SCP-096. COMMIT THYSELF DISCERNINGLY. Lord Blackwood replies: Mr. Stuart - I would most certainly slay all three! If you seek the company of someone who would engage in perversions with such monstrous aberrations, perhaps I should introduce you to my old schoolmate Mr. Harris. —- Dmatix writes: What is your weapon of choice when hunting Giant Howling Sloths? Those things are a bugger to corner, and have a skin as tough as a week old lamprey pie. Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, yes, Megatherium. Deceptively agile when they're angry, those ones. I have found that nothing smaller than an elephant gun will even pierce their flesh, but I must say that electric rifles are efficient enough at stunning them for a moment or two - long enough for your porters (or yourself, if you have the stomach for it) to approach from behind and cut its throat with an electric saw. —- Boa Noah writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, if a gentleman must engage in self gratification should he use a lubricating lotion? Do you have any exotic alternatives for the adventurous yet lonely explorer? Lord Blackwood replies: Good heavens, sir! I'll have you know that self-pollution is well-established to lead inevitably to illnessess of the stomach and digestion, loss of appetite or ravenous hunger, vomiting, nausea, weakening of the organs of breathing, coughing, hoarseness, paralysis, weakening of the organ of generation to the point of impotence, lack of libido, back pain, disorders of the eye and ear, total diminution of bodily powers, paleness, thinness, pimples on the face, decline of intellectual powers, loss of memory, attacks of rage, madness, idiocy, epilepsy, fever and finally suicide. If you absolutely must indulge the masculine urge while afield, you would be better advised (so I am told) to seek out a lady-in-waiting. Be wary, however, for my less morally scrupulous associates have told me that in Indochina it is common for men of an effeminate persuasion to disguise themselves as ladies, and in so doing beguile men of immorality out of their money. —- Lord Blackwood writes from the future: Thank God I brought my trusty Electro-Dynamic Curvator to send this back to you. There isn't much time. You need, urgently, to tell the Prime Minister to halt the memorial service at the Abbey next Sunday. There's a sniper from the future on the rooftop with one of Herr Buechinger-Dolmutz's air rifles trying to kill Her Majesty. I fear his plan is to divert history into a continuum in which we are conquered by the French on a pretext of restoring order. To prove this is me I give the password: Celeste. I only hope you remember her in your world. Now, GO! God speed, and the best of British luck. Lord Blackwood replies: Stephen, is that you? Good one, big brother - you almost had me going for a moment there. This is payback for that time I convinced you the Swedish had invaded Newcastle, isn't it? —- Trinitite writes: Noble Viscount, I seem to find myself a mite confused. Your title as Viscount of Westminster appears in breach of the sacred tradition that no two peers can have title to the same place at once. How was it not noticed in 1831 that creating the Grosvenor family Marquesses-and now, I hear, Dukes-of Westminster most treasonably violates the long Blackwood lineage? Lord Blackwood replies: Dear me, are the Grosvenors still at it? To hear my father tell the tale, that disreputable clan has been trying to usurp my family's titles since before the Protestant Reformation, and they've sided with the most disreputable sorts - Yorkists, Spaniards, Cromwellians, even that blasted Prince Charlie and his horde of Scottish pretenders - to try and wrest it from us. Legend has it that the feud goes all the way back to a slight that occurred between their progenitor and my own during the Hundred Years War - of course, they claim that it was Robert de Forêt-Noir who was responsible, and not t'other way around. Foolish louts. —- Trinitite writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Is it true that you are made of win? Lord Blackwood replies: I'm afraid I don't understand the expression, Mr. Trinitrite. I am merely a man of flesh and blood like any other. True, I have won a great many times, but to win is an act, not a substance of which one can be composed. —- Doktori writes: Lord Blackwood, have you heard of a rising academical named A. Einstein? I hear he has some interesting ideas about the photoelectric effect as well as gravity. Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Tori - I met a teenaged Swiss by that name in ninety-seven. He seemed to be quite a contemplative young man with an interest in matters physical. I lent him six shillings for carriage fare and he promised to pay me back once he wins Mr. Nobel's endowment. Has he done so, do you know? I am quite certain that with interest, that loan should be more than enough to bribe the watchmen here to get me some decent scotch, or at least a cup of tea. I don't believe he will receive Mr. Nobel's prize until the early 1920's. I'm afraid you may not receive your money, but I would greatly enjoy sharing a nice cask of Mortlach or Speyside with you. —- J THOMPSON BRADLEY, ESQ. (U.K. CITIZEN) WRITES: HELLO LORD %{NAME}, May our lord Christ bless you and keep you. I am J Thompson Bradley Esq. a United Kingdom Citizen and Registered Barrister. I am Attorney of Law to the deceased Oil Executive Mr. John Hamilton of BRITISH PETROLUEM Inc. based in Basra Iraq. On June 13, 2012 my client Mr. HAMILTON was killed in an aeroplane accident in Iraq. At the time of his death certain oil leases in my client's name had been sold and the money deposited into his confidential fiduciary account. I have been authorized by BRITISH PETROLUEM to repatriate my client's funds to his next of kin. However, Mr. HAMILTON has no known living relatives and under UNITED KINGDOM law within three months if a next of kin is still unfound his funds must revert to Her Majesties' Government. I write to you today in the hopes of your assistance in repatriating the £25million to United Kingdom of funds currently held in escrow in UNITED BANK OF IRAQ to allow us time to find next of kin of mr HAMILTON. In return for your aid we would pay a fee of (10%) of funds. All I require is your honest and confidential co-operation to see this deal through. Please contact me with your full names, address in UNITED KINGDOM, bank account number, and fax no. to allow us to further discuss this situation. Your obedient servant, J THOMPSON BRADLEY ESQ. (UK CITIZEN) Lord Blackwood replies: "Aeroplane"? "Iraq"? "Fax"? "2012"? Dear me, is this another one of those bizarre religious pitches from the Latter-Day Saints? —- Spacecadet writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Boxers or briefs? Lord Blackwood replies: Union suit. —- McKinteer writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I am wondering if, in your travels of the North American Continent, you had the pleasure of meeting the inventor and industrialist Samuel Colt before his untimely death in 1862. If so, did he perchance gift to you any special sort of firearm to which the public was never made aware of? For I have heard rumors that before his passing, he designed and built a most excellent pistol which had the capability of being able to slay even the vilest of hellspawn with a single round. Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, yes, the Improved Anti-Daemon Revolver Mark V. I'm afraid I no longer have it in my collection - I bequeathed it to my little brother, the archbishop, as a Christmas gift. Such a thing comes in quite handy in the career of an exorcist, you know. —- Dr. Iceberg writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Do you prefer hot or cold climates? Also, what would you say is the most dangerous continent? Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Iceberg - now that is an amusing question coming from a person named such as you are! Truly, I would not trade the climate of my native England for any other, but there are times in one's life when one enjoys a respite from the cold and the fog. The tropical climates are, by the nature of the civilisations to be found there, the lands where I do much of my adventuring, and I have grown quite accustomed to the warm sun, the thick humid air, and the refreshing cool of the oceans and rivers. As to your latter question, I would venture to say that Antarctica, that great unexplored mass to the south, may be the deadliest of them all - for while it (so far as I have yet determined) possesses no great beasts or savage races to beguile the explorer, it has neither any fauna, nor fruits and vines, nor even any tree to harvest for firewood, and the perpetual freezing cold and long nights would surely drive any man to madness or death. I have heard rumours that it was not always the case - the journals of Piri Re'is, the mad Turk, suggest that it was but a few centuries ago a green and verdant land. How could such a realm be transformed so quickly in the overall scheme of things? Perhaps one day I shall charter an observation in search of clues thereunto. —- Scratskinner writes: How long do you suppose it'll take before those Foundation blackguards catch wind of this enterprise, and put a stop to it? Lord Blackwood replies: I have every confidence in Deeds' ability to elude detection, Mr. Scratskinner. Though he is but a simple valet of working-class birth, his ability to move in the shadows rivals that of the ninja assassins of the Orient. In fact, on the occasion of my visit to Edo… ah, but that's a tale for another time. —- Foundation Agent Baxter writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Why has this metal sphere we found in your collection started ticking? And how can we make it stop? Thank you for any assistance. Lord Blackwood replies: I fear I cannot say except to assure you that it must be deactivated as soon as possible. I would be more than happy to render my assistance, but the fools in charge here refuse to let me examine it, even in spite of the fact that it clearly attempted to speak to me when I saw it carried past me the other day. —- Jethro writes: How did you first meet Deeds? Has he ever made you upset, disappointed, etc? And has he always lived in that bell of his? Lord Blackwood replies: It was 1837 - the day of Queen Victoria's coronation, indeed. I had just returned to my London estate after watching the festivities and there he was, in the midst of pressing and starching my shirts. He wouldn't say how he'd gotten in, or who sent him - but he has been my valet ever since, and never has he been anything but completely faithful and diligent in his responsibilties. (Well, aside from that unfortunate incident in the Wyoming Territory with the drunken Indian, but none of us expected him to have a Tomahawk, of all things, hidden up there.) —- Foundation Historian Gallow writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, We are currently investigating the process by which Ireland became independent from the British Empire. We have a theory that the Irish rebels may have used some kind of reality-distorting artifact, possibly ancient and possibly dug up immediately south-west of the Hill of Tara, to either achieve sufficient military success to persuade the British to withdraw, or to divert history into a reality in which the nationalists won. Can you throw any light on this matter? Lord Blackwood replies: The Irish? Independent? By jingo, old sport, that's the funniest thing I've heard all week. —- Researcher Cobalt writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, An associate of mine has wagered that you may have heard of SCP-1326, or a similar tome. What do you say to that? Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Cobalt - I must say, the terms you amateurs use to refer to the mysterious and wonderful artifacts our world is teeming with are so dry. Where is your sense of wonder? I cannot say that I have encountered the particular volume you mention - had I, I no doubt could have spent decades simply in cataloging its contents. I am made to understand it even contains references to myself, which I find most disconcerting - for I have never consented to my memoirs being put into publication, and if the original producer of this book has profited from it, then I intend to speak to a solicitor about the matter as soon as I am freed from this facility. Researcher Cobalt replies: I see. It is rather fortunate for my associate that there was no money involved in the wager. I was actually the one responsible for SCP-1326's original documentation, and unoficially dubbed the tome "The Lexicon"; unfortunately, protocol only lets me refer to it by its official SCP designation. As for its anomalous documentation of your adventures, I am afraid a solicitor may not be of much help in the matter of copyright; I fear that book's author may hail from an alternate timeline, or even another reality, and would be beyond our reach or jurisdiction. Speaking of your adventures, did the one described in the Lexicon really occur? —- William, in the Foundation mail room writes: Dear Lord Blackwood: We have received an unusual parcel from a "Mr. Moth" via post from London. Perchance, did you order something? If we can't identify the item, protocol definitely prohibits passing it along to you. Lord Blackwood replies: Dash it all! He was supposed to address it to "Pervical Wilburforce" so that Deeds could secret it to me after it was dead-lettered. Are you quite sure you couldn't just allow me to access it on Sundays? I assure you it poses no danger to anyone - it is merely a trans-Akashic codex viewer. I've grown quite bored without my library at hand, you see, and I was hoping to be able to use it to revise my old notes and finally get around to learning Greek. —- Dr. Edison writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever been to Japan? Lord Blackwood replies: Dr. Edison - Deeds and I made a secret trip there in fourty-six, posing as Dutchmen, in order to retrieve some documents for the Duke of Edinburgh. I met a strange fellow named "Darkblade" there - he seemed to think quite highly of himself, though I found him to be little more than arrogant, aggrandizing, and incapable of holding his own in a stand-up fight. (And possibly, if I may say so, a Bohemian.) —- Spacecadet writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Just for the sake of argument, would you actually recognize a sea slug if you saw one? Lord Blackwood replies: You insult me, Mr. Spacecadet! Mr. Darwin and I catalogued no fewer than seventy-three species of sea slug during our voyages in the south seas! I daresay I could not only recognize one at fifty paces, but tell you its species, how old it was, and what it had eaten for breakfast that day. —- BRIT BRITISHMAN writes: G'DAY, GOVINAH, PIP PIP CHERRIO OFF TO THE FIVE 'AN DIME APPLES AN PARES BLOODY WANKING HELL OFF YER ROCKER GOD SAVE THE QUEEN FOR KING AND COUNTRY BY OUR MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE! Lord Blackwood replies: Yes… quite. —- Dr. Edison writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever met a funny man who owns a time-traveling blue box that's bigger on the inside? Lord Blackwood replies: I cannot say that I have. I did, however, once meet a strange man in possession of a glass kiosk he claimed could travel through time. He called himself Rufus and urged me to be excellent. He had two idle youths in his company who spoke with a strange accent and used words the likes of which I hope to never hear again - if this be the future of mankind, I begin to wonder whether all my efforts have been for naught. —- Nyehcat writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever had a run-in with the Church of the Broken God? Lord Blackwood replies: Do you mean the Unitarians? —- Lord James T. Archibald writes: My dearest Lady Blackwood, To you I can barely express how I miss your touch, your voice, your smell. I cannot wait until next Tuesday for us to be together again. Your supple breasts and moist lips call to me from that terrible estate of your husband's. Last Thursday in the cabbage patch you made a proposal to me after a fervent session of love making; that we run away together from your dreadful husband and my tyrant of a wife, and start a life in the new world. I have decided to accept your proposal. Meet me outside the Hogswash Inn on Friday night wearing a green scarf, and we will away together to Virginia. Make sure to keep this letter safe from the prying eyes of your husband and his servants. Lord Blackwood replies: My mother was a saint, you varlet! I ought to horse-whip you on the front steps of your club for this sort of obscene slander! As soon as I effect my escape from this facility, I shall find you and we will settle this in the ancient manner afforded to men of honour (not that you have any, I am sure). —- Harry Flashman writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Regarding the ancient manner of resolving disputes afforded to men of honour that you allude to, would you have any advice for a young gentleman about to settle his first such affair of honour? A reply before dawn would be most appreciated, not to say helpful. Yours, H. Flashman P.S. Please bear my best regards to your lady wife. Lord Blackwood replies: As the challengee (I presume), you ought to have the right to select your weapon of choice. Have you any particular specialty - pistol, epee, perhaps the smallsword? If not, choose that which you know your rival is lacking in skill with. If nothing else, simply allow your rival to take first blood and call it done - unless he is an utterly contemptible rogue, this should satisfy his need for satisfaction. (Incidentally, if you do not desist from speaking of my familial relations in such a manner, then the best advice I can give you is to cheat - for I never lose.) —- Gilgamesh writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever found Excalibur? If so, can I have it? -The Great And Powerful GILGAMESH!!!!!!!! Lord Blackwood replies: Twice, in fact, but I fear it is no longer in my possession. The Lady of the Lake is a surprisingly adept card-shark. —- Grug writes: Wurg naf, Lord Blackwood, hal darl daff! Ror nuff hoff muusel draff, Bur hoff oss iriff loss. Murrn ror purn haff nansel ram? Mur nas oss woff huubess juss? Oss ven rab, Grug Lord Blackwood replies: If you say so. Grug replies: Holl, Lord Blackwood, nol ram. Err waff raff wurg murrn marr. Kaff sil na "Problem" nif tal English. Morlaf vaf kril tarr. Werf wurg raff woll kurf oss. Poss rofs zet aussnal refnel kreff, sil na narrim. Quass nerrif na darl zoff genocide darr. Varg wurg lurr nef posskeff. Raff kwor bor na remoff zet kral waff bref, neffil zaffer extinct groff, murrn ruff nuclear breff haff England wurg… Kroff ved, Grug Lord Blackwood replies: Are you in need of an alienist, my dear boy? Grug replies: Raff ross oss vern. Murrn werrin porr English fon ref. Nerr: "Us. Genocide. England. Nuclear. Soon." Kroff ved, Grug Lord Blackwood replies: Dear boy, please sober up before you try to write anything else. —- Spacecadet writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I was wondering if you would favor us with your thoughts on the late civil war in the States. Sincerely, Spacecadet Lord Blackwood replies: Ours was better. —- Agent Baxter writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I am writing for the Site-17 newsletter an article on what clothes are the height of fashion this season. Can you tell me what you are wearing at the moment, and what your sartorial plans for this summer will be? Lord Blackwood replies: Unfortunately, Agent Baxter, your confederates have not seen it fit to release my full wardrobe into my possession after they took custody of it from my country estate. Perhaps if you could put in a good word with them I could give you a more proper lecture on the nature of proper English fashion. (See to it that they drain the room of water as well; wool does not hold up well under the circumstances of the climate I find myself imprisoned in.) As to the summer, Agent, one cannot go wrong with khaki if one finds oneself in the tropics, but if it is an English summer you have in mind, I am told that a less formal form of the traditional Evening Dress has of late been adapted by the hoi polloi. It is my personal opinion that the ascot tie is the most elegant accessory a gentleman can adorn himself with, though I understand that the four-in-hand style so beloved by Prince Albert the Younger has made inroads lately. I do not expect that his fashion sensibilities will long endure; however, the brand of canned tobacco marketed under his name is most superb. Could you perhaps see to acquiring some for me? I have made several covert attempts to request a delivery of it by tele-phone; however, every tobacconist whom I have spoken to on the matter has responded most rudely. —- Foundation Weaponeer Buggle writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Who do you think would win in a fight between a brown bear and a hammerhead shark? Lord Blackwood replies: I cannot say, Mr. Buggle, that I can envision a scenario where such a confrontation would occur. Would that I still had the address of my old associate at the Royal Centre for Selachian Pugilistics, for he was once the world's foremost expert on subjects of such a nature. —- ██████ █. ██████ writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I am the writer of the Brink Dangerguts Adventures, a harmless set of novels about the world of mercenaries and explorers which for some reason the O5s consider a libelous security breach. But anyway, in my next book I am considering including an epic chase through the streets of Beirut in which our hero seeks shelter and weapons in a shady bar before leaping out to win the day in an epic fight intended to be a combination of The Bourne Ultimatum, Oliver! and Bad Boys II. As I am unable to go on leave to do any research in the Lebanon in case the Foundation works out who I am, can you recommend a suitable location for these happenings? You can be the book's dedicatee if you want. Lord Blackwood replies: Do the Ottomans now permit the open establishment of bars in the Levant? My, how the world has changed since I found myself behind these walls! I knew of no legal establishments that the Sultanate would countenance during my last visit to those parts - however, should your character find his way to Cairo, there is an excellent establishment in the basement of the French consulate there. I must admit that I am not familiar with the books you name, though your description brings to mind the adventure novels of Stevenson or that American fellow Clemens whom I met while he was touring the Holy Land in sixty-seven. I got the impression that he was unimpressed with my anecdotes, though he promised not to describe me unflatteringly in the text he was writing. —- Space Core writes: Get to space. Wanna get to space. Can you get me to space? SPAAAAAAAAAAAAACE! Lord Blackwood replies: My old associate Dr. Hightower is the best at space, good boy. —- Dr. Edison writes: How do I get all this semen off my keyboard? Lord Blackwood replies: Good heavens, boy, that's just foul. —- McKineteer writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, What was your opinion of the two world wars which we have had? Lord Blackwood replies: "World war"? That is not a term I am familiar with, Mr. McKineteer. Do you perhaps refer to the Crimean War, and the wars against Napoleon? Nasty business, those - I think (and hope) that we shall never see another affray as bloody as the former, or as drawn out as the latter. —- Murrin Pinethorn writes: Can you describe your family, Lord Blackwood? You mentioned a brother. Lord Blackwood replies: I do not speak often of my family, Mr. Pinethorn, for I would not wish it to be thought I was riding on their coat-tails. My father is the esteemed Sir Edward Thomas George Blackwood, who I am sure needs no introduction, and I am the second of his four children. Admiral Sir Stephen Blackwood is the eldest of us, and Archbishop Clifford Blackwood the youngest; between he and I is Duchess Catherine Blackwood (being the wife of the Duke of Brandenburg). It has been some time since I saw them all together; the last time was most eventful, and perhaps you will sometime have an opportunity to read my diaries about the occasion. —- Doktori writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, If you could bring only two weapons with you for a prolonged journey through the African veldt, what would they be? Also, how many porters would you think would be necessary for such a journey? Thank you for your time. Lord Blackwood replies: One of my destabilizing muskets and possibly a pistol - though if you count a machete as a weapon, then I should have to take that in stead of the pistol, for such a blade is invaluable in the darkest regions of the continent. I should want for at least half a dozen porters, I should think, and if possible one or two native guides familiar with the lay of the land. (Ensure, should you be planning a trip yourself, that your guides be Christian - I nearly met an ill fate in sixty-two as the result of a Punjabi guide who turned out to be a member of the Thuggee.) —- CITIZEN O' US OF A writes: MURICA Lord Blackwood replies: God save the Queen. —- Nyehcat writes: I say, how did you convince your brother that the Swedish had invaded Newcastle? That might make for a riveting tale. Lord Blackwood replies: King Oscar owed me a favour. —- Agent Thesson writes Hello kind fellow! It seems I have an undocumented species of Carp on my desk. I don't know where it came from but it appears to have lungs. Isn't that just DANDY! Should I Put it in a loving zoo to keep it from sucking on my finger or just give it to a fellow researcher? Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, yes, the Patagonian lungcarp! Magnificent beasts. Would that I had access to my laboratory so that I could perform a proper examination for you - perhaps in the meantime it would be best to observe its natural behaviours. —- O5-█ writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, What are your thoughts about this business in Samothrace? Lord Blackwood replies: I do not believe I am particularly familiar with any business in that nation. —- Agent Adam Henderson writes: Lord Blackwood, I've been wondering about your views on the rights of non-human but sapient creatures such as Centipede Nymphs or King Alaric the Fifth Also, have you ever had any contact with the individual or group known as Dr. Wondertainment? Lord Blackwood replies: I have wracked my brain many nights over the question of King Alaric and his "animal kingdom", as it were. If you have read my diaries of that encounter, you know as well as I do that he and his followers are Christian, or claim to be - but whether the beasts of the forest have souls in need of salvation is a topic that was never addressed by the instructors at Eton. As to your second question - I knew an Edmund Wondertainment many years ago in Manchester, though he was a blacksmith and not a doctor. He was not an educated man, but he had wisdom and ambitions beyond his station - he dreamed of making toys for children, and hoped through his earnings to one day send his son to university and thereby be able to care for him so that in old age he could pursue his dream. —- E. Elric: Have you ever dabbled in alchemy? If so, do you have any insights into the creation of the Great Work, AKA the Philosopher's Stone? Lord Blackwood replies: I have never dabbled myself, although I do have some associates familiar with the art of alchemy. I have had need of their consultations on several occasions. —- Grand Dreadlord Xifax Lightbane Salutations, Lord Blackwood The Black Counsel requests your presence at the Eternal Citadel of The Seventh Eye regarding the acquisition of soulstones used to keep THE SCREAMING MAN! bound to Gaspar's Revenants. Should you ignore our request, the Akashic Glyphs will rupture, and neither heaven nor hell will be able to halt the ensuing chaos. Lord Blackwood replies: Dear me, Mr. Lightbane. As much as I would be delighted to assist you with this no doubt urgent matter, I fear the guardsmen here are utterly insistent on my not leaving this tank. Perhaps you could put in a word with them? —- John Swindle writes: Good day Lord Blackwood! You may be pleased to know that I for one humbly hold you in highest esteem, enjoy reading your adventures, insights and wisdom, receive your publication to the World-Wide Web in the Americas, and am simply one of many in all of these regards. I hope you find yourself in good spirits, and that I do not damper them terribly with the following information, which I feel must be passed along to you. I regret to inform you that I as well as the rest of your subscribers remain unfortunately ignorant as to the true nature of your appearance; living witnesses of yourself seem to be impossible for any of us to locate save Mr. Deeds (I personally suspect this to be the elaborate work of your captors), and Deeds himself, despite his elusiveness from your guardsmen as well as the many other fine qualities that he possesses, is tragically lacking the means to properly retrieve a record of your visage, in artistic form, accurate photographic form via George Eastman's photographic film (I understand the human eye would fare no better in any event given the distorting effects in which your captivity in water produces), or descriptive form, as he insists he is bound by confidentiality to his employer. With this in mind, would you humbly provide us with a description of yourself? We loyal subscribers do have a vague idea based upon various publications to which we have access, yet I trust that you and I both would prefer thoroughness to such a degree that a proper portrait truly fitting of a Lord such as yourself could be painted from such information, by an artist worthy to paint a gentlemen of your rank. You need spare no expense, as it would be my honor to finance and circulate your proper portrait. Yours in Christ, J.C.S. Lord Blackwood replies: Would that I could conduct a proper sitting for a daguerrotype at this time, for I am not as young a man as I once was when last I had a proper sitting in ninety-seven. The closer I get to fifty, the more gray I find in my neatly-trimmed brown mane and my proud English moustache, and I find it more and more difficult to read without my spectacles. Let no one say that age has sapped my vitality, however; for I am as fit and barrel-chested as ever I was, and when the good Mr. Lincoln and I had occasion to meet in sixty-three I found that he stood as tall as I. My eyes are blue, for which my brown-eyed siblings teased me constantly as a child, alleging that I was a bastard or a Mongoloid (a claim abetted, no doubt, by the bout of left-handedness that plagues me to this day). Though my face and hands are unblemished, were you to observe me in the buff you would find my arms and trunk cris-crossed every which way with a lifetime's worth of scars, every one of them proudly earned in battle or in exploration. I cannot say more, for modesty's sake; but allow me to assure you that the reputation of the Blackwood family of being possessed heartily of stamina and virility is not one ill-assigned. —- Dr. Edison Writes: What would you say if I told you that a man of African descent was elected president of the United States of America? -Dr. Edison Lord Blackwood replies: Of South African descent, certainly? —- L. Heartstrings Writes: Have you ever visited a land of magical talking horses? eric_h writes: Dear Lord Blackwood: I keep hearing rumours about talking horses in London. Have you ever met any? Lord Blackwood replies: Once, yes. I found it highly unsettling and in no way whatsoever whimsical, satrical, or condemnatory of the British class system. —- Dr. Bright Writes: What do you think about Antidisestablishmentarianism? Lord Blackwood replies: I am an antidisestablishmentarian, sir, and I am proud to call myself one. Let the atheists and reprobates sally off to France if they wish it. Incidentally - have we met? I seem to recall encountering a Mr. Bright in Africa back in seventy-four. —- Mrs. Gallow Writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, From your experience, do you think pufferkittens are a suitable pet for a 14 year-old? Lord Blackwood replies: I would have no objection, Mrs. Gallow, as long as one ensures that the beasts are not able to breed. Blackwood Manor was overrun by hundreds of the things when my sister secreted a pair into her room as a child. The conservatory still smells of dander. —- S. Bad Writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, How do you type with boxing gloves on? Lord Blackwood replies: With great difficulty, I would imagine. Mr. Remington's typographical machine is difficult enough to operate as intended. —- Darkblade Writes: HOW DARE YOU SPREAD LIES ABOUT DARKBLADE! I WILL DESTROY YOOOOOOUUUUUU! Lord Blackwood replies: I apologize if my words have caused any insult, ma'am. —- Spacecadet writes: Dear sir, What is it like to live amongst people with so many odd idees fixees on the subject of sea slugs? And how do you suppose one comes to have these fixations in the first place? Lord Blackwood replies: It is hardly that difficult to understand. Sea slugs are quite fascinating creatures indeed; I could happily spend the rest of my days merely in cataloguing the hundreds of varieties found in the South Seas. —- Mr. Robert Pattinson writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I am an Englishman working in a foreign country, far from home and unsure whom to trust. I understand that your exploits have been famed for many years-what do you find the best way to cope with feelings of paranoia, anxiety and depression, especially with newspapermen following you around? Lord Blackwood replies: Your question reminds me of a strange man I met many years ago in the northwest of America - he was old and possessed of great strength, but was forever trapped in the body of an adolescent, and his flesh seemed to shimmer and coruscate when touched by the sun's rays. As I recall, he had taken to impersonating a teen-ager and attending primary school with the young people of the region, for he found that those who looked the same age as he were more accepting of his oddities. —- Dr Xanderfeld writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, My skin has taken to the rot before my appointed time, and I fear there is very little I can do to reverse the process. A colleague of mine recommended I ask you if you had knowledge of anything sufficient to return to me the youth of my flesh, as they claimed you have seen wonders beyond the wildest imaginings of men in your adventures. So tell me, have you ever found something capable of such feats? Lord Blackwood replies: Woe, Dr. Xanderfield, but I cannot report that I have made such a discovery. In my younger days I quested in the Floridian peninsula for the legendary Fountain of Youth, but found instead only inscrutable Indians, rancid swamp waters, and the ravages of malaria. I have heard tales of a cosmetic application which effortlessly conceals the scars of age, but I am told that it is a terribly addictive compound, and that one long left without its benefit will find that their skin rots and sloughs away far more rapidly than if had been left along to begin with. I would certainly not recommend that treatment; however, if you are sitting for a photographic portrait, I am told that a generous application of make-up can do wonders to conceal wrinkles and give the camera cause to portray one as years or decades younger than is truly the case. —- Lord Darkbirch writes: Lord Blackwood, You are a man with exquisite taste. Do you enjoy the works of modern authors such as Dickens and Hawthorne? My children adore their works, but I simply cannot stand their prose. I have demanded their tutors to stay true to literature in the classical sense, yet I just found out last week that she had been disobeying me and sneaking the works of Burnett and James into the house. Naturally, I dismissed her, yet my children has already been convinced that this is great literary work. I have read the works, and I have found them to be pure rubbish. Why does my children find them so enticing? Lord Blackwood replies: I have always found the works of Dickens and Hawthorne most interesting, for the good gentlemen elucidate the status of the working-class in a manner which Providence and circumstance have prevented me from observing first-hand; I do, however, find his tendencies towards sesquipedalianity to be most bothersome and distracting. (I am told that the news-papers of London pay writers of fiction by the word for their serials; had I the inclination to do so, I could easily have become their equal without setting foot outside London!) I must confess to not being largely familiar with the works of James or Burnett, though I had occasion to read Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge while traveling aboard the Orient Express in eighty-nine; I found it to be a most horrifying tale of how even a man of an intellectual disposition and a repentant nature, regardless of the circumstances of his birth, might rise to fame and glory only to fall even beyond the point from which he had begun. I immediately upon having finished it offered Deeds an additional pound per year on his salary, though he graciously declined the offer. —- Goodwill writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, If circumstances came to be so unfortunate, would you sooner retire as a naturalist and adventurer, or denounce your loyalty to England and her Church? Lord Blackwood replies: I should sooner be flayed alive and made a feast for cannibals, Mr. Goodwill, than denounce England and her Church. God in His wisdom has made the laws of science rigid and eternal; but our church and our state are things of men, temporal and vulnerable. The Earth shall not move or fall asunder if I abandon it, but England, for the want of a single loyal subject to wave her banner, could easily be lost to history. It is the duty of all her subjects to do their best to ensure that this doom may never come to pass. —- Ch00bakka wirtes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you heard about the phenomenon of "Lizstomania"? Some fellows at the Royal Foundation for the Study of Curiosities and Phantasmagoria claim that it may be cause by some supernatural or otherwise abnormal effect centered on Mr. Lizst. Have you ever come into contact with anything like this in your travels? And do you find Mr. Lizst as dreamy as I do? Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, Liszt! I must confess I briefly contracted the "Liszt fever" in forty-one. My participations in the Great Austrian Warlock Hunt brought me to Berlin, where I found the young composer beset on all sides by fanatical ladies. I assisted the man in making his way to the safety of his hotel, where he favored me with a private performance. Had I been born a lady, I think I might have proposed marriage to him - but common sense prevailed, and I beat a hasty retreat before embarrassing myself. —- Dr. Rights writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I want your babies. Preferably human ones though this isn't absolutely a requirement. How do you think I should go about achieving this goal? Lord Blackwood replies: Ah, a lady has come a-courting! Splendid! Tell me, ma'am, what pastimes do you fancy? What is your favorite colour? Are you, I hope, Church of England? —- Emissary the Sixth writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, Have you ever, intentionally or accidentally, swapped bodies with that of another organism? Also, what is, in your experience, the best way to avoid giving into the urge to murder someone? P.S. Have you ever heard the joke about the man everyone thought was a sea slug? —- Shulk writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, A girl that I had been in love with for the longest time was recently killed by an army of robots. How would I go about avenging her? Regards, Shulk —- Heropon Riki writes: Dear Blackwoodpon, How do I become world famous greatest heropon ever? —- Major Tom writes: What do you feel, regarding to the current queen, Queen Elizabeth II? Hopefully she's as good as Queen Victoria? —- John Swindle writes: Salutations once again Lord Blackwood! I must open with an apology- while I have commissioned your portrait several times over, I've simply been unable to procure an artist with sufficient talent to accurately capture your virility on canvas, much less the fine details of your proudly-worn scars. I will happily accept recommendations to this end from you. Having said that, I find a collegue of mine to be in a most unfortunate bind. Having recently claimed victory over a thaumaturge with my assistance, and against my insistence to the contrary, he had chosen to take into possession said thaumaturge's weapon, which I believe to be the cause of his transmutation into a telepathic lamprey. Thus I consult your expertise- do you know of any means by which men can reverse this transmutation? I'm afraid this is a matter of some urgency. You see, my collegue is in a state of grave distress precisely as one might expect from being made aware of such a traumatic experience, and I fear that with such distress (of which the body of a lamprey is naturally ill-equipped to endure), the thaumaturge may yet at last claim his life. I will procure any cures of which you know post haste, though due to the experiences I have described herein, I would very much prefer that no cure involve me procuring and subsequently lending my trust to a practitioner of thaumaturgy. Yours in Christ, J.C.S. —- Dr. Andre writes: What's cooler than being cool? Lord Blackwood replies: The state of being chilled in a fashion comparable to frozen water. —- SCP-275 writes: Dear Mr Blackwood, I have been informed that you were alive in the nineteenth century, and were quite the world traveler. Might you have ever visited Ottoman territory and heard of, or possibly even met, a young girl with impenetrable skin? If so, would you have any knowledge as to her origins, or perhaps her name? I ask purely out of idle curiosity. —- Trinitite writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, How do you feel about the Foundation classifying you as anomalous? —- Guilliman writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, As you are a devout man, I was wondering if you were aware of SCP-343, and if you are, what is your opinion on him? —- Bryx writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I should like to inform you that the "World Wide Web", the entity which your most adept servant has been liaising with on your behalf, is not, in fact, a periodical, but a hub of information which any sentient being can access by the use of a very common terminal that is connected to it. Please give us your views regarding these developments, not least the fact that your audience and pool of eager contributors is much larger than you may have originally anticipated. —- "Banzai" Bill writes: Dear Lord Blackwood, I have recently come into the possession of a number of artefacts of the most unusual and diverse variety, and I have had some difficulty in operating one of them. Are you perchance familiar with a shoulder-mounted miniature-cannon/rifle designed to, in the words of the message found alongside it, "shoot Magnetism"? And while I think of it, did you ever manage to discover how that magma rifle we found in '83 (I was the porter's son) automatically replenished its ammunition? The cache of aforementioned artifacts contained an identical device, and as there are now multiples, am willing to attempt disassembly of mine, but wished to inquire as to whether you have had any success with yours. —- Lady Gertrude E. Hamilton writes: What the fuck is WRONG with you, Theo? I haven't seen you in weeks, you haven't replied to any of my telegrams - your servants say you're just going through some shit, but three weeks is long enough, man! Until now, I could never understand why the Duchess of Brabant said you were trash, and that I could do way better, but this whole experience has finally opened my fucking eyes! If you don't respond to this, we are THROUGH! And I MEAN it this time! —- Dr. Wire writes: I was wondering if you have ever heard of an ancient city by the peculiar name of Audapaupadopolis? I ask because I have heard mentions of this legend and those related to it, and I thought to ask someone who specializes in this kind of stuff.

Site Director Hayakawa set a kettle of water on the hotplate and locked his door. He took a final look at his desk and the series of filing cabinets and countertops in his office. Spotless, organized. Gleaming white. Hayakawa closed the blinds and turned off the fluorescent lights. A hazy afternoon sun crept across his labcoat and his sofa, filtered by the blinds into razor-sharp lines of brightness cutting the cool darkness of his fifteenth-floor workspace. He took off his wire rim glasses and rubbed his eyes, grateful for the momentary reprieve from Site-17's daily business but dreading what he had to do next. His late afternoon naps had become the stuff of legend among researchers. Experienced staff knew that anything requiring immediate attention had to be submitted to Dr. Hayakawa before 1600 hours, or they were liable to wait for an answer until the next morning. Once, the deputy security chief had even waited to relay a Euclid-level containment breach until 1730 for fear of disturbing the boss' "siesta". This custom was a useful illusion to Hayakawa, however much the reputation that it bestowed irritated him. So much of the appearances of Site-17 and its functions bothered him, even if Overwatch Command knew the true state of affairs. Hayakawa was a practical man, but not without his vanity, and the idea of appearing to condone free interaction between staff and an SCP was an undercurrent of discontent beneath his placid exterior. Nevertheless, the game must be played. The stakes were high indeed. The kettle started to whistle. Hayakawa unlocked a desk drawer and retrieved a small envelope of green herbs and a small plastic bag containing three pills. He emptied the herbs into a small white cup and poured some of the now-boiling water. He locked the drawer again and waited for the herbs to steep. He didn't know why the girl troubled him. In his three decades of service time, Hayakawa had seen impossible things do other impossible things to innocent people on many occasions. As an Agent, he had ended many lives in the service of the Foundation. Some were those who had once been friends. He had overseen experiments and authorized containment protocols that would have had him standing before a tribunal in the Hague if the world knew. The girl suffered in containment, but she was hardly alone in that. Few went to the lengths that she did, though. He shook the three pills from the plastic bag into his hand. He tossed them into his mouth, and washed them down with the entirety of the white cup's contents. Hayakawa lay on his sofa. Under his breath, he began to recite the mantra. "Let go to get in." He began to focus on his breathing, slowing it down and keeping it steady. "Let go to get in." Repeated practice and intense discipline allowed him to navigate the drugs. No one really knew if 343 could read minds or not. Hayakawa could not take the chance. He closed his eyes and imagined nothing. "Let go to get in." He felt himself floating. He forced his mind back down and calmly repeated his mantra, the words losing all meaning and taking all thought with them. Something deep in his gut clicked. The Foundation manual called this part the "self locking into place," but to Hayakawa it felt more like the self dissipating away into the air. Either way, he was now ready. He opened his eyes. The edges of his desk shimmered, and the corners throbbed with color where the walls met. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from the sofa. A low, echoing hum was now coming from the ceiling vent over his head. The Advanced Security Protocols liaison had once told him that this particular regimen of drugs made the mind impenetrable to those with extra-sensory capabilities, and that in over 1200 attempts in controlled conditions, not once had a test subject's thoughts been breached. Then as now, the "controlled conditions" caveat troubled Hayakawa. The last word he would use to describe what they faced was "controlled." A quick check with the detector confirmed that the room was free of unauthorized electronics. Hayakawa snapped open his briefcase and took out a black laptop. As he started it up, he was greeted in turn by the usual retinal scan, thumbprint authorization and voice confirmation. The communication link was established, and he now addressed a video feed of an elderly man, his tailored black suit a stark contrast to his shock of gray hair. "Things are coming to a head over here, O5-7." The old man's left eyebrow raised slightly. "I had gathered such from your request this morning for Lambda-19's presence at Site-17. What's new on the ground?" Hayakawa took a breath. The drugs made high-pressure situations especially tricky. "I've gotten confirmation that 343 finally made contact with a skip. My source says the encounter took place yesterday afternoon, with 105. She's currently being held in the sick bay, in a coma." O5-7's features darkened. "That certainly is new. Did 343 put her in the coma?" "No, one of 105's suicide attempts went even further than usual. The chatter on the security networks is that 343 has been telling staff that they had a visit while she was passed out from an intentional overdose." The Overseer sighed. "We're in a sorry position indeed when we're relying on an anomalous item's arrogance for intelligence gathering. Though I think it's generally a safe calculation when dealing with a spacetime distorter pretending to be God." He ran his hand through his hair and continued. "What are the implications?" Hayakawa took three breaths this time. "Somehow, 105 has induced some change in herself allowing her to become perceptible, and by extension manipulatable, by 343. We don't know to what extent 343 maintains contact with 105, but we have to assume that 343 knows what 105 can do. And if he knows that-" "All hell breaks loose. What's your plan?" "Our hand's been forced. We don't know what 343's combat potential is. We can't even model it for fear of tipping him off. But the risk for a mass containment failure is too great now. We have to act. Lambda-19 has experience with reality benders, and I've drafted about 34 combat scenarios involving the most likely objects to go if 343 wants to make trouble. Not that any of them are going to matter once they engage." "And if Lambda-19 cannot neutralize 343?" Hayakawa struggled to preserve his state of mental equlibrium. O5-7, no stranger to Advanced Security Protocols, patiently waited. Hayakawa massaged his temples. "…then it's the failsafe." O5-7 shook his head. "We always knew that was a possibility when that thing showed up there in the first place. But it was one I never liked thinking about. And you're prepared to do that?" "I'd better be. Request permission for deployment of Lambda-19 to the clandestine staging point, arrival at 0600 on the 14th. We move at the first sign of trouble." "Permission granted. This problem is going to be solved one way or the other, John. Good luck." The video feed ended abruptly. Hayakawa closed the laptop. Possible outcomes raced through his mind. None of them were good. Even the not-so-bad outcomes relied on the element of surprise. And he was not certain at all that it was possible to surprise 343. As he sat back on the sofa and waited for the drugs to wear off, he started to smile despite himself. Maybe there were positive outcomes. He would soon be free of an uncontainable skip whose very existence had troubled him since he came to Site-17. And it was quite likely in the soon-to-be-ensuing chaos that 105 would get what she wanted after all. One way or the other. « Strangers of Site-17: 343

"So there I was, in a power plant what was about to explode, surrounded by the enemy." An idle thought; it's how Max would have started the story, if he'd survived. He'd have come up with some clever, improbable solution, or revealed that he'd had an escape plan the entire time. Or his team would have come in and saved him at the last minute, so he could fix the plant. But he hadn't survived. Most of his team had been elsewhere. I'd been the only one with him, and when the time came, I wasn't fast enough. No one could have made it to help and gotten back in time, but that didn't make it any easier. No one blames me for it. That makes it almost worse. I could get defensive, then. A backfiring car jolts me out of my thoughts. I'm jumpier these days. The neighborhood I'm in has seen better days. Industry built it, and then industry left like a deadbeat father without even the promise of child support. But it's on the uprise. That's why I'm here, in fact. I'm watching the men and women going to work. Work at the factory, which had been closed for years, and shouldn't be open. There were plenty of possible explanations, some of them perfectly ordinary. It could be a front for some crime syndicate or other, or more sinister, it could be a front for the CI. It could be any number of things. But our suspicion is that it's not just a factory, but the Factory, capital letter and all. I'd heard of it, of course. It's in the intel briefs. But for the first time, I'm trusted with more of the story. It moves around, taking over abandoned factories like a parasite. It stays, collecting workers, shipping orders, and making trouble until someone goes and stops it. It's not as hard as it sounds. The trouble's finding it. I'll be going in soon. There isn't much more information I could get from the outside. I won't go in far. The Factory can be dangerous, but we've seen it enough times to know how far to go. If I'm right, then I'll call for back-up. If I'm wrong… Well, it'll be embarrassing, but I'll be on my way soon enough. No use stalling. It's time to take a look. I get out of the car, adjust my clothes, and, after a block, I'm there. There's no security I can see, which makes me more suspicious. No guards, no ID checks. There aren't even any locks on the door. I walk through the door as though I belong, just behind a man in a trenchcoat. The workers making their way in ignore me. Not even a spare glance. Perhaps they're just busy. Perhaps. There's a receptionist seated behind a desk. "Hello, sir," she says. Her voice is chipper, almost excited to see me. It puts me on edge. "How can I help you?" "Which way to the bathroom?" I ask. "Down the hall, second door to the right," she chirps. I thank her, and walk past the desk, glancing as I do. Bingo. The receptionist has no legs. She just grows out of the chair. I'm in the right place. I go into the bathroom for the form of things. It looks fairly normal, except that it's clean. Too clean. People are never that good at cleaning up after themselves. I start making my way to the entrance when I hear a number of people entering the building. I see them before they get a good look at me. They're wearing robes, and there's at least twenty of them, if not more. One of them is carrying a scepter made out of a broken clock. He's asking the receptionist something. I keep a smile on my face and head left into the first intersection I see, and then run. Things just got a lot more complicated. I duck into an office and pull out my phone. No service. I slip it back into my pocket, and consider my next move. I could try finding another exit. However, the Factory is supposed to be a maze. We're never supposed to explore it alone. On the other hand, the tickers are between me and the main entrance. I might try waiting for them to go past. I might even be able to get away with walking out past them, so long as I don't look out of place. My planning is interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. I curse, and start moving. I need to be as far away from the lobby as possible as quickly as possible. I make my way out and start walking confidently down the hallway. Behind, I heard the sounds of scuffling shoes and muffled shouts. They're still excited about their discovery and full of righteous fire. The Factory will be slow to respond to them. If I'm lucky, it won't respond to me as well. I'm leaving the office area and into a more open space. I see men and women at tables, mindlessly putting small knick-knacks together. They look like smoke alarms. As I pass by a table, I see a woman delicately, carefully put a tooth into one. I don't get any closer. Whatever they're building, I don't want any part of it. I pause to check my phone again. Still nothing. I notice a few of the larger men standing up from their work and turning towards the way I came. They're all carrying screwdrivers, holding them like knives. I pick up speed slightly and make it to the other end of the room before they start slowly walking the other way. The room I'm in is short on exits. There are stairs leading down, and an elevator, neither of which seems likely to lead me out of the building. I start to turn back when I hear more gunfire. I see robed figures entering the assembly floor. They're ignoring most of the workers, likely to conserve ammo. I don't think they'll be nearly so chary with me. There's mist rising from below as I descend. It's like walking into a jungle, but instead of flowers and vines, there are pipes and conduits. Still animals, though. I hear the sound of rats and larger things moving deeper in. Better, though, than the animals I've left behind. I run in, hoping the steam will conceal me, that the tickers won't want to follow me through. I force myself to slow down, even though I feel like there's a target painted on my back. Sound carries in a place like this. "He went this way!" I hear a voice call out behind me. "I saw him." I hate my luck, some days. Most days, in fact. I run down the corridor. My footsteps echo, but it's too late for stealth. My only hope is that there's some cover I can take advantage of. A shot hits a pipe, letting out a gout of steam. I avoid it, continuing to move forward. Another shot, and another. They can't see me through the artificial fog, but enough shots, and eventually one of them will get lucky. Finally, a branch in the corridor. I stop long enough to throw some lead back their way. No reason they should have all the fun, and it might give them something to think about before running headlong after me. Or not. Hard to predict just how fanatical they're feeling today. More shots ring out, but I'm already booking it down the side path. So long as nothing gets in my way, I should be able to outrun the main group of them. Their leaders are slow, and full of metal. I find another stairway, and climb up. If I haven't gotten completely turned around, this should have taken me outside the building. However, I find myself on an assembly line floor. My brief hadn't mentioned anything about weird spaces. But then, I wasn't meant to go exploring, either. Need to know's a bitch, Max used to say. I race across the floor, trying to avoid the workers. I'm almost out when something grabs me by the back of my neck. He's a big sucker, Goliath-sized. His uniform is torn where he's outgrown it, like a man wearing a schoolboy's clothes. His head is gone, replaced by a security camera. A badge proclaims his name is Jim. I raise my gun and he knocks it out of my hand, the camera whirring as it focuses on me. I kick him hard in the gut, but I might as well be kicking a wall. The other hand takes hold of my leg. It seems to be deciding what to do with me. I pull out my knife, and slash at his wrist. It doesn't matter how strong he is if he can't use those muscles. Of course, now he's made his decision, and he knocks me back against the wall. The air rushes from my lungs, and I'm seeing stars. He's about to bash me again when he jerks, and stumbles. I see a pair of tickers running through the assembly line, pushing past workers, firing at me and Jim. I take advantage of the distraction to twist out of my shirt, and scramble away. Jim lumbers away towards the bigger threat as I run through the door. There are more offices, and I run into one of them. Interesting decor in here. There are strange implements hanging on the wall, including what looks like a rack. An empty business suit is stretched out on it. On the desk there's an old Macintosh, but the monitor's doesn't have a screen. Just an old, dusty book propped up in the empty shell. The pages flutter, even though there's no wind. I freeze as someone enters the room, then relax as the man smiles blankly at me, and pulls a mop and bucket in behind him. He slowly begins cleaning the floor, all the while with that empty, unknowing stare. However, he leaves the door open, so I move further back, toward the closet. Idly, I check my phone again, still no signal. As I look up, I see the machete come down at the base of the janitor's neck. I quickly and quietly slip into the closet as the ticker moves in. He doesn't see me, not yet. But I know he's looking for me, and it's just a matter of time before he checks the closet. I'm unarmed, and there isn't so much as a wire hanger in here to defend myself with. My best chance is to hit him as soon as he comes in range of the closet, try and get that machete away from him. Suddenly, he makes a strangled noise and holds his throat. He thrashes around for a minute, and I finally notice the man standing behind him. Tall, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora. I realize I saw him before, when I first entered the building. He goes through the ticker's pocket, takes out some papers, and then picks up the machete. He looks directly at me through the slats of the closet door, and holds a finger to his lips, then walks away. I wonder for a moment if it really was Nobody. I'd always assumed he'd been made up. Lombardi has just as near told me so once. But I don't have time for riddles. There were two on my heels, and more behind them. With one of them already dead in here, I don't have a chance at taking the other by surprise. Time for another plan. I hightail it out of the office and into the hall. I hear the sound of a fight on the Factory floor. Seems the other tickers are fighting it out with the Factory workers. I don't need to be a part of that. One of the other office doors is open, so I take a peek in. There's the other ticker. He sees me just as I enter, and he raises up a crowbar. I'm ready, though, and I dodge the first attack, get inside his reach, and get him in an armlock. "We are his—" he starts, but I slam his head down against the desk, shutting him up. I consider trying to use him as a hostage, but he's a fanatic. If he can die killing me, he will. Besides, while he doesn't appear altered, you can't always tell. With a tinge of regret, I change position, moving my hands. He starts to struggle as he feels my grip slacken, but then I have him again, and with a crack, he falls limp. I take the crowbar and head back into the hallway. "The heretic! He comes to take our God from us!" a voice calls out. It's the man with the scepter. He's pushing his way past the assembly line workers as though they were children. His robe is torn, and I can see where parts of his body have been replaced with metal and ceramic. Time to book it again, before any of his gunmen have a clear shot. At the end of the hallway, I find myself in a cafeteria. Workers are eating, ignoring the sound of the battle nearby. As I watch, several of them reach into their glasses of water and very deliberately dab their faces with it. There's an odd, chemical smell. I think of ants, and I get an idea. It's risky, and I'll likely pay for it later, but I'd like to have a later to regret it with. I take one of the glasses and pour it over myself. If my hunch holds, it'll help me later. I start moving again. I'm through to the other side as the tickers make it in. There are fewer of them now, down to half a dozen. I smile. At least I'm not the only one having a bad day. The smile lasts as long as a cheap match. I'm at a dead end. I raise the crowbar, and wait, trying to think of some clever last words. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I say. I'll admit, not the best epitaph, but it's from the heart. The lead ticker walks through the door. I swing at him, and he catches the crowbar one handed, wrenching it from my grasp. He takes me by the wrist, and twists. I scream as I feel my bones creak. He's stronger than Jim. "So, heretic, we catch you at last. You don't belong here. Who are your masters?" His face is fringed with a beard of steel wool. Clockwork has torn through his skin. His eyes are the most human thing about him, and they're what terrify me the most. "Fuck you," I spit, then grimace as he tightens his grip. "We'll find out," he tells me. "We may have to rebuild your tongue in time, but we'll have your secrets." He hauls me to my feet, and gives me a little shake. "Then there will be time for penitence. In the end, you'll beg to join our number, to become one with the God." "Not interested," I tell him. "I'm machine-agnostic." I'm trying to buy some time, maybe make him angry enough to do something stupid, like kill me. He laughs, a sound like bending metal. "You'll learn. We all have learned. But put off the pain a while, and tell me this: What are these that have taken over the heart of our God? Where have they come from, and how can we exterminate them?" "Wait, the heart..? You think this is the heart of your god?" I ask. That had not been in the report. "Yes," he says, his mouth twisted in triumph. "It has long been lost to us, but we have finally found it. This place is the Heart, even as you have stolen His Brain and his Muscles. And we find it has been invaded. How can we be rid of these invaders?" I stare at him for a moment, and then I burst out laughing. This time he doesn't find me so amusing, and he digs his fingers in. "Tell me what I need to know!" he yells. "You idiot. You poor, blind, idiot. You think they're invaders?" I'm not laughing, but I still can't help but smirk. I'll admit, there are times I'm not a clever man. Then again, I hear something moving behind the wall. "They infest the Heart! They use His grace for their perverse works!" he tells me. "They aren't invaders," I tell him. "You think they call the shots? Look around you. They're practically growing out of the walls. They're being controlled. Changed. They're practically like insects, the way they act." "What's your point?" he asks me. "So, let's say you're right. This place is just a big piece of your god. Then what in the hell do you suppose they are?" "I…" He stares at me for a moment, and I can literally hear the gears turning in his head. There's a click every so often where one skips. "You're killing your fellow servants. How do you suppose your god's going to feel about that?" I laugh again, and his grip loosens. Then suddenly it tightens. "Blasphemy!" he screams. "We are his Clockwork Servants! We do the work of his Hand! We will remake this Earth. No one else!" He throws me across the room. I manage to roll into it, but it still hurts like hell. Then a hidden garbage chute opens up near the lead ticker, and a tendril made of coils and wires wraps around him. His comrades immediately work to free him, only to be grabbed themselves. I run out the door, back into the cafeteria. I run through a different door, and I'm blasted by heat. My first thought is that it's like a furnace. Then I look and I see I'm not far off. I'm on a catwalk over a large chamber. Below sit several furnaces, filled with bright molten metal. Twenty-foot-tall, vaguely human figures attend them, stirring the metal with long rods. I stumble across the walkway. The heat's oppressive. I need to get out of here, and back to cooler air. I'm halfway across when the door slams open. The lead ticker has followed. He's alone now, and his robes are entirely shredded. His body is lined with numerous cuts, which bleed a mix of blood and oil. His eyes are even madder. "I'll tear you apart! I'll tear apart all who oppose us, and rebuild in His name!" He starts running toward me. He's slow at first, but building up speed, and I can hear his heavy feet banging against the metal frame of the walkway. There's a metal hook on chain attached to a belt of some sort. My arms feel heavy and my lungs feel like they're on fire, but I don't have many good options. I grab onto the hook and swing out as far as I can. It works, to an extent. I'm off the walkway when the ticker gets there, but what goes up must come down. I swing back, and I brace my legs for the impact. I slam into the ticker, and we both go flying over the railway. I manage to grab the railing. I watch as he falls down into the molten metal. There's a splash as he lands, and then he bobs up to the surface again. The human body, even one as loaded with metal as his, is still lighter than the molten steel. He thrashes around, and I can hear his mechanical scream. Flames lick over his flesh, and he's soon reduced to little more than a metal skeleton, and he still won't stop screaming, until one of the steel workers takes his pole and pushes him under the surface. The thrashing stops. My grip is weakening, and I know I can't hold on. I feel my hand slip from the hot edge of the walkway, and close my eyes as I prepare to die. Then I feel an impact, and something has me. I open my eyes to see the face of one of the steel workers. He's let go of his pole, and he's simply holding me. Then he steps away from the furnace, carries me to a door, and sets me down on the other side. The linoleum beneath me is cool, and the air conditioner blasts down on me. I take several deep breaths, and thank god for ant hills and pheromones. Eventually, I stand up, and look for the exit. It's been two hours since the rescue team found me. When I didn't report in, they sent a team to check on me. There was apparently another wave of tickers trying to get in, but they dealt with them. I'm now in quarantine in the back of a truck. They already checked to make sure the tickers didn't do anything to me. They asked me questions to make sure I was still me (no, I don't feel like I belong there, yes, I work for the Foundation, no, I've never thought it would be "neat" to be a clock). Now it's just observation to make sure. I don't mind. It gives me time to think. Not about the Factory, or the Church, but about the stranger in the fedora. Whether or not he was Nobody, there was a nagging feeling I'd seen him before somewhere. It was a puzzle. While I ponder the riddle, I watch through the window as they complete the containment procedures. It's anti-climactic after all the excitement. No gunfights, no explosives. Just handing a letter to each and every person who leaves for the night. Notice of Termination It is our unpleasant duty to inform you that your services are no longer required at this facility. Due to budget cuts, this location is being shut down. Please find enclosed your final paycheck. If you need a letter of recommendation, please contact our parent company, Sedgeville Capital Products. We wish you all luck in your future endeavors. An out of business sign will be affixed to the door, and within a week, this will just be another abandoned factory again, and the workers will have only the vaguest memories of working here.

Splat! Splat! Whe… whe… where is mommypult? Splat! Daddypult! Where are you? It's so strange here. Where did the walking thing go? It was so nice to me. Why was there a large bang? Splat! What was that big light mommypult? It took you and daddypult away. Splat! But don't worry mommypult and daddypult I will still splat just like you taught me to even if the things here to splat are strange. Splat! All the other inanimatals here don't move. It's so strange here mommypult. Splat! Splat! Splat! Help me daddypult there are walking things chasing me! They are too big for little me to splat. It's dark in here mommypult. I'm scared of the dark. I can't move daddypult. I'm all tied up. I can't go to sleep without a story daddypult. Where am I? Yay! Things to splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Did you see me splat all those things daddypult? Are you proud of your little babypult? I can't see the sky anymore mommypult where did it go what happened to it is it missing like you are? I'm tied up in the dark again daddypult where are you? Yay! More things to splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Please don't put me in the dark again walking things please don't what did I do wrong? I splatted those things for you I'll be good I promise do you know where daddypult and mommypult are? No please it's dark in here. Please. I'll be good I promise Yay! If I splat these for you will you take me to daddypult and mommypult I want to see them will you please? Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! No please not the dark again. Please no. Its dark. Walking things? Please let me out. Please. When will you let me out again? You left me in the dark walking things for so long. I want my mommypult! Please.

I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman I've hunted cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I know the laws of science are quite rigid and inflexible Except, of course, for thaumaturgy, which makes me quite vexable I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters scientifical Of physics and of chemistry, both simple and atomical I've mastered all the studies of phlogiston and aetherius I claim this in no jest, for you will find I am quite serious I'm very good at rhetoric and disputations logical I'm learned in our politics and matters sociological In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman I know of secret histories both eldritch and mythical I've trod the paths of ancient cities Martian and Atlantical I've faced the ghosts of fallen lords Arthurian and Indian And fallen off Mt. Everest to turn back and begin again I can tell authentic poltergeists from frauds and forgeries I know the differences between bewitchments and sorceries I hum while sleeping melodies and symphonies quite magical And dream of terrors bordering upon ecclesiastical I can write a peace treaty in lost tongues of an elder race And tell you every detail of the planets found in outer space In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman I can tell at sight a wyvern from a wyrm or para-drake And discern thirty-six types of real vampires from spoofs and fakes I've studied bones and fossils angelic and dinosaurical And resurrected horrors divine, mundane, and demonical I've learned of progress made mechanical and scientifically Although only up 'til the turn of the twentieth century But no one can deny the grace of our queen most Victorial Whose reign around the world is both glorious and eternial There's some who say my form has been reduced to that of sluggery (Were I not a Christian, I'd accuse them all of buggery) But still, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman! Memo from Dr. Samesh: The above lyrics were found handwritten in a document filed among the personal effects of SCP-1867 in his country estate, dated 4/18/1880. The document was filed along with a letter to SCP-1867 signed by composer W.S. Gilbert, dated 10/17/1882, thanking him for his "lyrical tribute" and inviting him to attend the upcoming premiere of the comic opera Iolanthe. The text of the final verse, which appears to refer to SCP-1867's current physical status, has been written in different handwriting than the remainder of the text, in the margin at the bottom of the page, underneath a verse which has been scribbled over to the point of illegibility. Graphological analysis has confirmed that the handwriting of this later addition matches that of SCP-662-1 ("Mr. Deeds"). In Interview 662-207, Mr. Deeds refused to confirm or deny whether he had altered the original document, citing his previous employers' privacy.

Randy wasn't sure from the beginning how his dad convinced him to take a summer job. Let alone in the same place where he worked. Randy wasn't an Agent like Dad. He was only working as a Level 0. Besides it being a top secret lab, he was still just a janitor. Often, he saw a monkey in a lab coat running through the halls (Dad said to stay the Hell away from it; one of the few times he ever looked scared). Once, he saw one of the scientists holding a camcorder and following a six-foot-tall thing with eight legs and four arms; he hoped it was some kind of robot even though it didn't move like one. And he really wondered why they let that one man walk around in nothing but a bathrobe even though everyone looked like they hated him. All of this, Randy saw while cleaning the floors or emptying the garbage cans. And then there was that tree. Though it creeped him out, he liked being in its courtyard because he could at least see the sky there. He had the job of cleaning up what came out of one side of the tree. He especially didn't like doing that. The smell alone was terrible, and it steamed up his glasses so that he had to keep cleaning them, leaving him almost completely blind. Randy really really wanted to know what Dad was thinking, putting him through this. Even though he got to see a lot of weird stuff, it was a totally crap job. Meanwhile, in another part of the same site, a member of the administrative staff was speaking to an Agent. "Agent Foxtrot, I'm glad that I managed to speak to you at last." "I'm always available to speak to a superior, Sir." "I was looking through the site's personnel roster and I noticed a strange discrepancy. For some reason, I saw your name listed twice. One as an Agent, and one as a Level 0 worker." "Yes, Sir. This is correct." "I also noticed that the lower ranked Randy Foxtrot is somehow assigned to aid in maintaining an anomalous object, despite being Level 0. And I assume that you had something to do with this. Is that also correct?" "Yes, Sir. Is there anything else?" "Damn right, there's something else! I demand an explanation!" "May I speak candidly, Sir?" "If that gives me an explanation, then yes." "Well, Sir, I'm sure you know that I'm going to retire in about a year. After that, the Foundation becomes nothing more than a memory. I wanted to leave this place with one less regret. That's all. I had to pull in a lot of favours for this to happen. The boy is still going to be given amnesics after this is all over. And I bet that my last year with the Foundation is going to be pure Hell. But I had to do it." "All this. Sacrificing the rest of your career and risking your pension. Just for him. Why?" "I raised Junior from when he was an infant. I love him like a son. I feel proud every time he calls me Dad, even though I know it's not the truth. I wanted to do this last thing for him while I still could. I wanted, just once, for him to meet his real father." As Randy began to leave the courtyard, one of the tree's branches bent down in front of his face. The eyeballs at each tip hovered mere inches away from him, seeming to take in every feature. The branch, looking so much like an arm, then reached for his head and… tousled his hair? After that, the branch once again pointed back up to the sky. This place is weird.

May 2, 1997 Min Yu Zhang, servant of the New-Moon Emperor, wiped the sweat from his brow. He was not usually a man to tremble, but nonetheless he was humbled by the great stone tomb, finally freed from its own grave in the earth beneath the bleak wastes where Genghis Khan rode. The blisters on his hands from days at the shovel seemed insignificant in comparison to its smooth black façade. Great black chains wrapped around the cube tightly, ending in the gigantic circular lock on the vault door. Soon those chains would be broken, the door would open, and then… Then the old ways would return and Great Night would begin. These men who uncovered the tomb would die, yes, but their sacrifice was to usher in a new age, an ancient, powerful age. Those who had been dead would return, and the Sleeping God now awoken would once again lead them to victory. The cadre Speaker began the prayers in his high, quavering voice. The other workers dropped their tools, took their positions around the tomb and lay themselves prostrate in the dirt. The Speaker's voice, unpleasant as it was in everyday speech, grew to magnificence as it echoed around the excavation site. The tomb's presence did not allow for any of the faithful to be less than properly glorious, but even then, it dwarfed them, surrounded them, towered over them. The prayers were mere words, dribbling from the mouth. The god within listened with dead ears. The Speaker's voice trailed off. This was not right. Zhang looked up. The speaker stood frozen, his arms outstretched in supplication, his lips parted in mid-syllable, and his eyes locked on the rim of the site. Zhang followed his gaze: there were men standing on the rim. They were not wearing clothing appropriate to the cadre: these were soldiers, government soldiers, guns aimed at the praying cadre. “Well howdy-doody, motherfuckers,” drawled a scrawny, rat-faced man with a cigarette dangling from his lip. English. Zhang did not understand the words, but he could tell the intent: mockery of a defeated enemy. Oh, the fool. Such a fool. A larger man who stood beside the ratty one gave his compatriot a sideways glance of exasperation. He clasped his hands behind his back, cleared his throat, and then spoke in heavily accented Chinese. [Remain face down and place your hands on your heads. You will not be harmed if you surrender peacefully.] Who? How? There had been guards! They had paid off the government! The Speaker did not kneel. With a look of utmost disgust, he raised a thumb to the interlopers. He was answered by a pattering of bullets. Zhang watched him fall to the dirt. “What the fuck, they're all scrubs. Shoot the rest,” the rat-face man said. More bullets. Min Yu Zhang died lying on his stomach. The gunshots echoed into dust and nothingness. John Dawson shrugged, tapping the ashes off of his cigarette. “I love it when they do the fish in a barrel thing.” Dmitri sighed. “Is not honorable.” “Not a fuckin' scrap. The way I figure, with you working for the Russkies and me for Uncle Sam back in the day, we're basically a walking honor deficit.” “Says you, capitalist American swine.” “Perhaps this conversation would be better suited for another time,” A man in an officer's uniform walked up to them. He was older, with graying hair, a bristly beard, and a small triangular patch on his arm bearing an opened eye in the center, framed by an olive wreath. The man had introduced himself earlier as Agent Knight. John tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his boot. “What the fuck, let's go check this thing out.” The three descended the dirt ramp to the base of the excavation site. The soldiers remained on the rim, spreading out around its edge. At this point they would just get in the way. “What can you tell us about tomb?” Dmitri asked Knight. "Our information was…not detailed." “The tomb? Harmless. A block of warded stone. It is what is inside the tomb that is not. Interpretations of the Sleeping God vary: the name is Able or Ablel or Abln, in some works he is a honorable warrior, in others a mindless savage, and in a great many he is somewhere in between. He is supposed to be some prehistoric hunter-gatherer war-god, unstoppable in combat, at least by stone-age standards, and supposedly immortal. He grew proud, and so the ancients sealed him away in his tomb, asleep for eternity. Unfortunately, so long as he remains in the tomb, we cannot harm him.” “So we're going to kill a god.” John took out another cigarette from his jacket pocket. “I can dig it.” “That is the end goal, yes. The tomb must be opened and the Sleeping God woken in order to destroy it." "Is great risk," Strelkinov said. "I do not think we have enough men. Or tanks." "All you need do is observe, captain. We will take care of this." Knight reached into his jacket and removed a metal flask. “Whatever you do, do not move until the kill-op has begun.” He clicked the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. "Prepare opening ritual." Knight walked to the door of the tomb and began to draw a thin line of blood red symbols in the dust. The line extended thirty feet or so, and consumed another three flasks before ending in a circle around the three men. Up on the rim, the Coalition soldiers were doing the same, tracing their own circles and symbols into the dirt, as well as one around the entire dig site. Knight waited until they had finished before reaching to his walkie-talkie again. “Stand by: I am opening the tomb.” Reaching back into his jacket, Knight removed a palm-sized figurine, very worn with age. He set it on the ground and pulled a knife from his belt. One clean cut. Blood dripped down from his hand onto the idol. It began to pulse and melt, changing shape until it resembled a stone heart, each vein and fiber hyperreal, beating silently. Knight plunged his knife into it. The air rumbled, sounding like an earthquake. The chains dropped to the ground, thudding with leaden booms. The lock turned slowly, stone grinding on stone. The tomb door rolled away. The dust cleared. Able, the Sleeping God walked out of the tomb, no longer asleep. He stood at least eight feet tall, with skin the color of sun-darkened leather, covered in tattoos of some forgotten and occult meaning. His hair was black and matted, hanging down below his shoulders. He was naked, all save a hide loincloth, and his features had a primitive look about them, a god of another age. The god walked towards them, shoulders slumped, an expression of bored distaste on his features. It was an expression of “I am waiting to kill something, and you are keeping me from that.” “Do not move. We are standing within the summoner's circle: he is obligated to address us before killing us,” Knight whispered. The god snorted with disdain before speaking in a voice that rumbled up from the pillars of the world. His breath was stale and foul. “Athu basher. Kazikul ta faren ja-marl. Avskani?” It was clear that he wanted a response. Knight reached for his walkie-talkie again. “Initiate Code Cobalt-Triplet-Finnegan.” The Sleeping God tilted his head slightly and shrugged. A shimmer in the air around his hand was followed by a long obsidian blade from nothingness. The Sleeping God raised it, with the same bored expression. This was hardly sport, his face said. “Oh, hey there! What're you doin'?” The god froze. His sword arm lowered, and he turned around, back towards the tomb. Someone was sitting on top of the cube, a tallish man wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a worn Pink Floyd tee and patched khaki pants. His head was a tin of lutefisk, and he held a ukulele in his hands. Defying all sense of logic, he still had a mouth, stretched just beyond the edges of his metallic face in a Cheshire grin. The man strummed a single chord and began to sing. “What would you think if I sang out a tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me?” The Sleeping God stared dumbfounded, silent rage seeping out of every pore at this display of insolence. In a blink the man was standing in front of the open tomb door. His head was a cauliflower. Another strum. “Lend me your ear and I'll sing you a song, and I'll try not to sing out of key.” He stood behind the god, looking over the right shoulder. His head was a toothbrush. Another strum, and then a pause. “Now, I forget the next line, but I think it has something to do with grievous bodily harm.” With the grin growing just a little bit wider and a little bit more joyful, he smashed the ukulele over the Sleeping God's head. — “I must congratulate you, Agent Knight. You have done an excellent job with Francis' conditioning. I'm surprised that the Coalition has been so cooperative with the project.” “Agent Ukulele is as much use to us as he is to you, and we know how to dispose of his kind. Once he has served his purpose, we will dispose of him as well.” “If the non-combat persona can be implanted successfully, that may not have to happen.” “Perhaps. I make no promises on the matter, and neither do my superiors.” “Understandable. Now, as we agreed, Francis will remain under Coalition jurisdiction until the non-combat persona is successfully implanted. The recovered entity will as well, as Francis is the only force we have available of resisting and overpowering it. Our staff on the project will remain the same for the second phase of his conditioning, and since there's nothing else to report, I will allow you to take your men and leave. Francis has already been put back into his coma and is ready for transport.” “Thank you, Dr. Crow.” … … … … “Ah, Sophia. Please, come i…” “What were you thinking?” “Excuse me?” “You allowed the Coalition to deploy Francis in the field before we could confirm that the conditioning even worked! He could have leveled half the continent, if not worse!” “Sophia, I appreciate your concern, but at the moment it is a non-issue. Francis managed to not only overpower the entity, but doing so proved that the conditioning did work: our project was able to create a stable persona for him and control his powers through it.” “A persona that is a sociopathic murderer at best, based off of Soviet conditioning memetics twenty years out of date. He's unbelievably unstable, Crow. If the conditioning breaks down, what then? The Coalition could have easily snuck in some sort of killswitch or designed him to fail as an excuse to kill him.” “Possibly, but the Coalition can't afford to lose a weapon like him.” “What if he starts using powers outside of what the persona allows? What if he breaks free of our control? Will you be willing to accept those consequences?” “Yes. Yes I will. Sophia, I know the dangers involved, and I know that the Coalition is begrudging in this project, but they have experience that we don't in matters like this. We need them at the moment, and so we cooperate.” “It's on your head then.” “I never expected otherwise.”

September 21, 2011: Lament awoke with a start at the shifting at the door. He'd be thinking. Dreaming again. It wasn't good, but it was what it was. He raised the gun at the door, glancing at the spent cartridges so he'd know exactly how many he had in there in case he needed one for himself or a friend. The matte black uniform of one of the site security forces made him relax again for a moment. "Is anyone alive in there?" Lament debated answering, but chances were that they'd torch the room to be safe. 940 outbreaks were best answered with fire. Site-37 had been entirely immolated and rebuilt, but the infrastructure of 19 would mean that a room by room clearing would be necessary. "Yo!" he called. And ten minutes later, he was clear, better armed, and fed for the first time in two days. He was escorted from that wing of the site without incident, and as he sat in the infirmary, leaning against the wall while the genuine injuries were treated, he found himself wanting to stand up and walk off again. But he didn't. He curled up against the wall, closed his eyes, and slept. Lament was woken by a hard shake to his shoulder, his hand immediately flying to his hip, reaching for his gun to shoot and kill immediately until he looked up and recognized the face. He let out a slow breath, slumping down against the wall. "Fuck, Dodridge." "Get up, man. We're due for debriefing." "To hell with that," Lament pushed himself up slowly and leaned against the wall. "This is why I hate active duty…" he complained, scratching his arm and nodding to Dodridge that he was ready, following him down the hall to the mess for coffee and another meal. The two of them ate quickly, barely talking. "You still talking to the Erdrich girl at twenty-three?" Lament asked. "Yeah," Dodridge said flatly. Lament chewed his sandwich. "She hot?" "Yeah, she's hot." "You thinking of transferring back to security for a while?" Dodridge shrugged. Lament nodded. And they finished the meal in silence. The debriefing took maybe forty minutes. It was a regular discussion. When were you two alerted? How long did it take you to get to the site? Why did you split? Were you able to reach the site nuclear device, Agent? Were you able to successfully reseal the lock on the 682 wing, Agent? Were you, Agent? Did you, Agent? Why didn't you, Agent? Agent? Agent? Agent? Blah blah blah. It wasn't until the end of the meeting that Lament realized that Djoric was one of the men on the panel. He waved at him. Djoric made eye contact for a moment, looked away, then left. It made him remember Sandy again, remember the times the two of them had sat together, laughing and bouncing ideas off of each other. Remember the look on 106's face as his friend was pulled into the blackness of the pipes. Remember how he always counted his bullets now. Dodridge broke the silence. "You wanna get a beer, Lament?" "Nah, man. I'm good." "Suit yourself. I'm getting shit faced," Dodridge said. Lament laughed. "Tell Alice I said hello when you talk to her." "Yeah, whatever, asshole." Lament smirked, Dodridge flipped him off, and he was gone. He stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if Sophie was still stationed here. They'd lost track of each other after he'd gone active, but that was just how the job was. It was why he knew Dodridge would go to Site-23 full time. And he'd end up… He didn't know what. He sighed and turned down the hall, walking down it aimlessly, but unsurprised when he found himself again outside the office he'd hid in for two days. He pushed into it. The cleaning crew had already been through, putting things back where they belonged. Gears' desk was back in position, as well as his old one. It feel eerily… the same. Too close. Too similar. It felt like four years ago. "Agent." He turned, looking over his shoulder as his hand dropped nervously to his sidearm, resting on it for a moment as the familiarity of the voice sank in. "Dr. Gears." He looked the same. Bald pate. Smooth, expressionless face. Clear, cold eyes. "I understand you took refuge here during the outbreak." "Yes, sir," Lament said. Gears nodded to him, then walked past him to his desk, sitting down at it and opening a file. "If you have time, there's a mild, level two threat I would like to consult with you on." "Am I cleared for that, sir?" Lament asked. When Gears looked up at him, he imagined a smile. It was a habit he'd picked up. Implying the emotions that were never there. "I can secure the clearance, if you wish, Agent." Lament nodded. "Of course, Doctor." "Very well. I can meet with you after lunch today." Lament nodded, feeling the kind of familiarity that left a pit in your gut. He looked at the man, wondering if his new assistant had died in the attack. Killed themselves like Iceberg had. Run like him. "Of course, Doctor. Maybe I can talk to my supervisors at Site14 and see about a temporary reassignment, if you're in need of assistance." Gears didn't respond, but then, Lament hadn't expected him to. He turned, pushing through the door and into the hall, looking both ways and then walking toward the arboretum. Maybe Sophie was still stationed here… Gears watched the agent leave, wishing he could have done… something. Anything at that moment. He was actually… glad to have him back. Thrilled, even. But it never touched his face. He never smiled. Never congratulated him. Nothing. He unlocked and opened his bottom, left drawer, the one that was nearly empty except for a few classified memos. It was his 'destroy' file, a place where he kept things that were sensitive and needed to be completely expunged. There was only one file there that had lasted longer than a week. He quietly reached into the drawer, pulling out a plastic bag. There was a piece of paper inside it, a splatter of blood across the faded letterhead. He looked down at it and read it again, as he had a hundred times before. It happened. It finally happened. I was watching Agent Shelly walk down the hall, doing that one hip thing. I just watched, then posted my work to Records. I didn't drool, or make a pass, or anything. I felt it, I felt it inside, the vague desire, but there was no reason to act on it. I'm not even upset about it, really, just…nothing. They trust me with too much, mainly because nobody else will take it, or maybe that's been a part of it too. I looked into the files. I dug back and sent requests for the old hard copies. I know what happened, and what they want. He's trapped, inside, he can feel, but not react to it. What could be a worse hell? And what could be better for them? They know what they're doing. The personality type. The ones who are susceptible. His was an accident. I'm not letting it happen to me on purpose. I know you'll be the one to find this. Tell them I'm sorry. Please? And if you've still got a soul in there, warn the next guy. -Iceberg Gears stared at the note for a long moment, and for an instant, he was almost certain he felt the sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek, but when he raised his hand to it, it was dry. Bone dry. He dropped the note back into the bottom drawer and stood. He looked over at the desk that had sat empty for the past four years. And he felt regret. But it didn't show. « Part 7 | HUB | »

☦A story that should've been a joke.☦ When they sent me to the ocean, I knew I would never see my family and friends again. I had never seen the ocean before. Never been to the beach. I don't even like visiting the swimming pool. But that's okay. As long as I'm making the world a better place for the innocent and the pure to live in, I'll be fine. Even the strangers, that kind man who looked to me in pity as if he could know my sacrifice. That's what I told myself when I took the injections and the treatments. Even when Stacie saw me after the first session and she threw her engagement ring in my face. As long as Stacie can have a few more reasons to use that beautiful smile, I can bear that burden. I know I can. When I dove into that vast plane of salt water, I held no regrets. It was with my determination I had lived as long as I had, in complete isolation. I made sure to avoid the ships and the boats. I grew to learn exactly where my targets liked to stay, where they liked to migrate and wander. I knew where to place my fist for the most optimal attack. It was perhaps the most fulfilling time of my life. Even if the world would never know -save for a rare few- that I existed, I knew I was doing good in the world. People don't have to fear swimming in the beaches because of me. People don't have to worry about fishing because of me. Did you know that some sharks have been found at least 4000 kilometers inland? Without someone like me to keep them from getting in freshwater, sharks would overrun our rivers and change the world as we know it! Because of my efforts, people can sleep safely at night. No matter the struggles, I'm sure as long as I keep them in mind, all of this will be worth it. People have caught me. How? What? I'm not anomalous! Get me out of here! I won't do any of your testing! I have sharks to punch! Don't you understand the importance of my efforts? Without me, sharks will overrun humanity! It's been months now I've been here. I've got a system going. I can still save these people. It doesn't matter what they think I am or who they are. They send me sharks. It won't be as effective as it once was, but that's okay. I can still help them; they just don't know I'm doing it for them. For humanity. Nothing matters but the greater good and the greater good shall be through my fists. It is not the most peaceful or the most kind way. But it's the only way to keep humanity safe. I still think of Stacie. I hope she's smiling, somewhere. She'll never know my struggles for her, for everyone. But that's okay. They've been slowing down. Can't they see the importance of my work? I see why they've kept me here now. They're here to keep me from helping people. They know what I do and how I'm helping humanity and they cannot be human. They're sharks. How did I not see this before?! They've tricked me all this time, slowing down my work, keeping me from my job. But it's okay now. They don't know what I know. I'm in the belly of the beast and they may think they have me cornered but they've given me more opportunity than ever before to help humans. I can bring down this system myself. It's the only way to keep humans safe from this society of sharks in secret. They want to bring us, humanity, down but I won't let them. I will fight for us all and I will never back down. I will stop their agenda the only way I know works by any means possible. I've had it so wrong for so long. How could I have been so blind? Stacie was right when she left. I thought I was protecting humanity. I was fighting for the right side. It never occurred to me that I too, loved those spots my targets liked. I never realized I had for so long wandered in the same places they did not because I knew to hunt them but because I… But I'm still a man inside. I know I am. I'll remove that monstrous part of myself. I'll suppress it. I know how to, I've done it so many times before. I've been training decades for this. I'm a goddamned professional and I know how to fix this. When I do I'll get out of here and do my job right this time. I can still fix myself. Why won't it work? I know it works why won't it work I know it works I know it must work it must I must keep trying I must keep trying it will work it has to work I had hoped at first it would go away. I'd remove it, as I had removed all other things. The monster I was would swim away from the man I am. I know what I am. I cannot escape. No matter how fast I swim I can't swim from myself and no matter how hard I punch it's not the monster it is me. Sometimes if I punch myself hard enough I can forget what happened and remember what I was to do and feel determined like I used to feel. If I punch hard enough I know I'll forget everything forever. Please don't remind me, I want to forget. Please don't remind me I beg you please don't make me remember please

March 15, 1994 Francis tapped his pen against his chin, surveying the great sheet of paper pinned to the wall. He had been here longer than he thought: great swathes of it were covered in lines of his writing. He selected a reasonably-sized blank space and began to print in thin, neat letters. [Next question: how do you perceive what I am writing?] The drawing of a girl picked up a drawing of a piece of chalk and wrote on the drawing of a blackboard next to her. [I hear it.] [But you can't see us.] [No.] [Do people sound different to you?] She erased the board to make more room. [A bit. Sometimes a lot. Some people mumble, and some people sound really uptight and draw out their words. You sound normal. I can tell the difference, but it's subtle.] Hmm…probably dependent on handwriting. Francis scratched some more notes down on his own tablet before writing once more on the larger sheet. [Thank you. That'll be all for today, Cassie. I'll send up some new pictures for your wall this afternoon.] [Wait! Could you stay? I'd like to keep talking.] [I'm sorry: I have work to do. Agatha or Simon will be around sometime after lunch, I promise.] [Oh. Okay. Goodbye.] [Goodbye.] Francis watched the sketched girl begin to doodle forlornly on blackboard for a few moments before he stood up from his chair and left the room. He signed out on the time sheet hanging next to the door. A little hollow hole sank in his gut, as it always did after visiting with Cassie. Simon had “officially” confirmed that she was depressed, but that was obvious to anyone who spoke with her. It was like visiting your great-grandmother in the nursing home. All she wanted was someone to talk to, to break the monotony. The staff did what they could for her, but with juggling recruitment, management, studying other items, and maintaining the façade as they stealthily wrapped up their outside lives… Oh well. Off to the next job. Francis' footsteps echoed in the empty hallway for a minute or so, before they were drowned out by a blaring alarm klaxon and the amplified voice of Dr. Crow's over the intercom speaker. “Attention all personnel. A security breach has been detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated. Please proceed to your designated safe zones.” Tower three. He was in tower three. He was in a locked tower with the lizard. Alone. Francis automatically ran his left thumb over the smooth scarred depression in his right. Son of a fuck. — “So. Dmitri. Where'd you find these pieces of work?” John motioned to the four men sitting around the conference table, his toothpick held between his first two fingers. Fucking administration and their no-smoking policy. Strelkinov pointed to each in turn. “Vasili is good friend from army days. Boleslav, he kill Afghans with bare hands. Live in mountains alone after war. Stanimir work for the KGB. Very classified work. Listed as KIA. Matvey, he is mafia.” John raised an eyebrow. “Not even going to ask. They're your problem. Any of them speak English?” “No.” “Your problem then, you give them the spiel.” John walked off towards the door. “I gotta take a piss.” “Ah. Okay. Mm-hmm. [Hello, gentlemen…] — John pissed like a racehorse. Too much coffee. Fucking no-smoking policy. Toothpicks, gum, coffee, nothing worked. He needed tobacco, dammit. He was jumpy, rattled, razzled, and supremely agitated. No smokes in four days. No sun in four days. Easy, John. Relax. Just fucking relax… The recruits. He focused on the new recruits. That was his job anyway. With these four, it brought the total number of security staff to sixteen. The others were a scattering of mercenaries, ex-cons, homeless vets, several other Russians, and one retired state trooper. Crow had been steadfast that they get a reliable security staff up and running as fast as possible, and John agreed. What irked him was that he and Dmitri were in charge of all of it, and it was not easy. Dmitri may have been able to pull old war buddies out of his hat like rabbits, but it wasn't like they could just put out personal ads for this shit. Still better than working for the CIA, though. The stream finally trickled off. He had just zipped up as the alarms went off: his coffee and withdrawal-wrecked nerves shot him a good two feet in the air. He barely had time to land before the bathroom door was kicked open and he felt a large hand grab him by the collar and drag him backwards. “We are having an emergency! We must be fast!” Dmitri pulled him out into the hall and threw him upright. John wobbled to a stable pose as Dr. Crow's voice came over the intercom. “Attention all personnel. Security breach detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated.” “Shit on a biscuit!” John spat out his toothpick. “That will not help us.” “Goddammit Dmitri you know what I meant!” — Francis was alone, and he was very scared. He held his mop in a vice-like grip, creeping with his back flat against the wall, and trying to control his breathing, as he had been doing for the last half hour. He was terrified of 682. He would admit that. The last time he had worked with it, it fit in his palm and took a chunk out of his thumb. It wasn't so small and cute now. “Come on out, little guy. I've got a mop with your name on it. A nice dirty mop. I'll mop you good. Beware my mop, boy. Respect the mop.” Nothing beyond an empty hallway responded to his whispered bravado. Nothing at all. Wait. He leapt into the middle of the hallway, whipping out with the mop and hitting nothing. There was still nothing there. Still nothing there. There was a vent, though. Something hit Francis in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Now there was something there. It was right there, actually. Right on top of him. The lizard was about the size of a large cat, and held itself in much the same way: hunched and bunched up, ready to lash out, tail flicking back and forth. Its hide was knobbly and thick, a dull greenish yellow-brown with faded dark spots. The teeth were crooked, like the jaw wasn't fit for them, but they were sharp. Very sharp. Francis could feel its breath on his face. It glared at him with yellow eyes that looked thoroughly evil. Francis shut his own eyes tight. It looked like it had been smiling. This was it. This was mauling time. He was going to get mauled. He clenched everything he could clench and readied himself for the pain The weight lifted from his chest. Snarls broke out once more, this time a few feet above him. “Mr. Wojciechoski.” Francis opened his eyes. Dr. Gerry stood over him, wearing a stained apron of thick leather and matching gloves that went up to his elbows. He held 682 by the scruff of the neck in one hand. It had stopped struggling, and the cause was clear: a frighteningly large hypodermic needle held in Gerry's other hand. “This will suffice for the moment. I will place it in the backup containment unit before it adapts to the drug.” Gerry turned and began to walk off, carrying the unconscious lizard as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. “Now then, I believe you are still scheduled for overseeing experiments this morning. Good day to you, Mr. Wojciechoski.” Francis fell back on the floor and began to laugh. He had been there the whole time. Of course he had. Of course he had. — “I'm sorry you weren't able to see your new recruits in action, Dmitri.” “Win some, lose some.” “That said, I'll be revising 682's containment procedures to include a permanent guard station. It's become far more adaptive than I had originally foreseen, and I don't want it getting out again.” “Very well. I go speak with them.” … … … “Two decades of work and the only variant of the prion that works leaves us with a psychopathic gecko. It's a pity Sanderson isn't here, Connor. He'd be calling this a massive success. I miss his enthusiasm.” “His absence is regrettable.” “And will continue to be, because he's been in the ground for twelve years. He would have loved to see this. Probably would have put a collar on it and called it Leeroy or something.” “As you say.” “…You really are a bore nowadays, Connor. Has anyone told you that?” “Regularly.”

Welcome to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations. A short summary of our organization is in order. We are a club of sorts, and we provide our members with the most exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and retrieving items for us so we may better provide said experiences. Those of you here today, sitting, blindfolded, in the audience, are to be our finders, our retrievers. We have selected you from the best of the best, the most able and intelligent of those who have applied. Allow me to explain your duties. You are to be our field agents. Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with objects that we are interested in, such as the Foundation, The Serpent's Hand, and the Church of the Broken God. We expect full loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance will be punished. As you will work on a case by case basis, I will be very broad. Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon personal statistics. You are not allowed to turn down an Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to certain portions of our near unlimited resources, depending on the case. Abuse of these resources will be punished. You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due haste, while keeping up any required appearances. Under no circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter, and Dark with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter, and Dark will be punished. This concludes your orientation. Please face to your right and take short, measured steps. Your blindfolds will be removed as you exit the door. Some of you will receive your first Acquisition case. Thank you for your time. Agent Smalls left the room with a bit of difficulty, his hands twitching at his sides. He seemed to be stepping extremely cautiously, as if afraid he might bump into people that were not there. His trip to the doorway was filled with tension, and a close observer would have noticed his breathing slowing, the gleam of sweat on his forehead becoming a bit duller. Agent Smalls, an up-and-coming Foundation agent, would have cringed in horror had he actually seen the room. Mr. Carter watched the man leave the room with rheumy eyes, his breathing carefully controlled. A shriveled husk of a man, battered and scarred, hung from the back of his wheelchair, its milky eyes still showing a vestige of fear. The old man wheezed as he spoke, and the husk wheezed with him. "Was it really worth it? A whole orientation, only for one man?" Mr. Marshall watched the blindfolded man leave the room impassively. A single, long finger made a sign, and the other men in the audience begin to walk as well, their footsteps echoing throughout the room. Their eyes were blank as they walked, and each bore a shallow but visible scar on their forehead. The co-founder of Marshall, Carter, and Dark cleared his throat, and drank from a glass of water. His voice changed from the cool, detached tone to a more rich, deeper one, one that belied an immense and inhuman intelligence. "Well. He might be useful in the future. It is always good to have investments." He straightened his tie. His chuckle was cold and knowing. "And it is always good to have them with the Foundation. Who knows how useful this one might be? He might even be better than Jenkins." The empty sound of wheezing laughter filled the room.

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: June 5th, 2004, 4:23 pm Subject: Big news! Hey mom! Sorry I haven't emailed you in the past month. Things have been pretty busy. But, I have great news! You're gonna be a grandma! We found out yesterday that Maddie's pregnant, and we've already started turning the guest room into a baby room! Good thing I got a pay raise last week. We gotta think of the baby now! Hope to hear from you soon! To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: March 7th, 2005, 12:38 am Subject: She's here!! It's a girl!!! She was born last night around ten at night. Madeline's water broke as she was going to sleep. We drove to the hospital so fast I think I almost hit someone! Jesus, waiting for the doctors to deliver her felt like years. Now, as I'm typing this, she's downstairs, fast asleep in Maddie's arms. We named her Abby, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'll send pictures soon. To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: March 8th, 2006, 5:41 pm Subject: Just saying hi again Hey mom. We haven't talked in a while, have we? How are things? We, for one, have been great. I got another raise, Maddie's got a new job at a daycare center. It actually pays pretty well, and you know she loves kids. No child could ever replace Abby in her heart, of course. Speaking of which, Abby's first birthday was yesterday! Howard and Rachael even showed up! Got to see their niece for the first time! Too bad you and dad are all the way down in Florida. We'll have to visit when Abby's older. Love you! To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: June 24th, 2008, 8:14 pm Subject: There's been an accident. We were at the playground and we took our eyes off of her for one second and she fell of the jungle gym on her head. I saw blood. The doctor's said she'll recover fine but I can't sleep. It's all my fault. To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: June 25th, 2008, 7:35 am Subject: Thank god The hospital called and said that Abby will have to stay there for a few more days, but she's all patched up and on the fast track to recovery. No brain damage or anything, it seems. I'm just glad my baby's gonna be okay. To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: July 2nd, 2008, 9:57 pm Subject: Abby Mom, there's something wrong with Abby. I mean, she looks and acts perfectly fine, but I know something isn't right with her. Madeline says she feels it too. We started feeling it after Abby's injury at the playground. We've had the doctors look her over, but as far as they're concerned, no permanent damage, physical or mental, came of Abby's injury. But I just know there's something wrong with her. To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: July 5th, 2008, 10:22 pm Subject: Abby We got an email from Dr. Williams today. He says that he knows Abby has some kind of problem, even if it's not physical or mental. It doesn't make any sense, he says, but he says that when he was around her he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness. The staff who were working with him agreed, apparently. He says that he didn't tell us at first because he didn't want Maddie and I to worry, but that he just couldn't keep quiet anymore. What's wrong with my daughter?? To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: July 9th, 2008, 9:30 am Subject: Abby I can't even look at Abby for more than a few seconds at a time now. There's something about her now and it just shouldn't be. When I'm around her I just get this awful, indescribable feeling. Like I'd rather be anywhere else but next to my own daughter. I try and limit my interaction with her as much as I possibly can. It's terrible, but being around her, it makes me wanna throw up. It's inside of her. In her eyes, in her skin, everything about her. I just don't know what it is. To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com) From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com) Sent: July 10th, 2008, 8:26 am Subject: i touched her hand it felt so wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong madeline said she felt it too but shes infected it was INSIDE OF HER im gonna kill them both im gonna kill that cunt im gonna kill that THING it needs to die Recovery Log: SCP-053 was recovered on July 10th, 2008, in ██████, Pennsylvania, from the residence of Andrew and Madeline ███████. Local authorities discovered SCP-053 and the deceased bodies of the couple within the same room. Mrs. ███████ had expired from multiple stab wounds inflicted by Mr. ███████, who had expired from a massive heart attack shortly afterwords, believed to have been caused by SCP-053's anomalous effects. Police who attempted interaction with SCP-053 also suffered from its effects, resulting in 5 additional casualties before implanted Foundation agents assessed the situation and properly secured the subject. Class-A amnestics were administered to all non-personnel involved, including Mr. ███████'s parents in Florida, as they had been exposed to information regarding SCP-053 through communication with Mr. ███████.

It's going to be my fault. When it happens, it's going to be my own goddamned fault. Every single time I blink it gets closer and closer to me, and every time I blink is just driving another nail into my coffin. Why couldn't they have shot me, or stabbed me, or done anything but put me in here with this thing? I don't even know what I did wrong. You don't really expect to go to prison under false charges, and you especially don't expect some goons to take you out and put you in a room with a monster. Didn't even have the decency to let me move around. They chained me up to the walls so tight that I can barely turn my head. Then they walked out and just left me to whatever this thing will do to me. Oh, why am I thinking "whatever it'll do?" It's going to kill me; I just don't know how. I wish I could at least fight back against this. Lash out at it in some way. But I think it wants me to do that. Everything just feels a million times worse whenever I rattle the chains or shout at it. So all I can do is hang here and wait for it to kill me. Dammit, if you're going to kill me, hurry up! I can't stand this! Death by inches. I blink and it's a little closer, and then a little closer, and then a little closer, and then… No. No no no no NO! It can't possibly move that fast, I still had a few good hours! Goddammit, it's right in front of me! Dear lord, what is that stuff on it? Too dark to make it out, but it looks like some sort of crudely painted face. Could just be blotches on the thing, but it looks way too much like a face. Dammit, I can deal with a shapeless thing, why'd it have to have a face? Don't blink. There's a way out of this, some weak link in the chains, some means of kicking this thing away; maybe if I'm lucky, I can twist away and let it go right by me! No, that's stupid, it'd never work. Level head, you've got to keep a level head. I can beat this thing, I can outlast it, I can get out of here so long as I don't…! … Why am I still alive? I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it. It… it went around me. It was practically pressed against me, and it went around. How lucky do you have to be for that to happen? Does this mean I'm done? Are they going to come in here, "Sorry for the trouble, but hey, you're still alive," and then let me go? Can I go back to my life now, no, wait, before you answer, why did you put me through that, what the hell was that thing, why am I still alive? Dear God, I'm tired. How long have they had me chained up in here? A few hours, at least. Maybe a day. But… I have to stay awake. I've got to keep my eyes open until they come and get me. Sleep is the absolute last thing I need right now. I went to sleep. Why'd I go to sleep, sleep could kill me, why didn't I have a strong enough head to stay awake? There's a cold feeling on the small of my back. I can't twist to see it, but I can tell something is there. And… oh God, no. There's something wrapped around my throat. I could twitch my head before, but I can't even move it now. This thing is going to break my neck, isn't it? That's what they were waiting for, wasn't it? They wanted this thing to wear me down until I had to sleep, and then they'd have it stop fooling around and kill me. What kind of sick, twisted bastard do you have to be just to see how long a guy can last against a monster? Don't panic just yet. I can still see it. I can barely see any of it, but I can still see it, and that means it can't move. Maybe if I try winking, I can get out of this. They'll see that it can't kill me, and then let me out. Come on, come on, this has to work, it has to. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then th… Oh… Oh no. I… this can't be happening. I didn't do anything wrong. They just stuck me in here with a monster without any rhyme or reason. I don't want to die, but… but… there's a… a… There's a pipe sticking out of my chest, right through my heart.

Did I ever tell you the story of the Hindenburg disaster? It was quite a big deal when it happened, it was all over the news for months. And I was there when it happened. I was just a young kid back then, barely ten years old. But even now, I remember it as clearly as my first campfire. I went there with my grandfather, your great great grandpa Charlie. We had gone down to see the great Hindenburg land in our town. Everyone in town was there. You could feel the heat of the people all around you. The stars shined as bright as could be. I saw the great airship come in. It was big, bigger than anything I had ever seen before. It had great big red swastikas on it, redder than any I had seen before. I could see them very clearly as it came in for a landing. I asked my grandfather how anything could be that big. He didn't answer, he just took another drag on his cigarette and kept watching. All of a sudden there was this big light from the inside of the ship. It looked like some great paper lantern suspended there in the sky. People didn't know what to make of it, they just looked on, dumb as a sheep looking into an inferno. Then all of a sudden… it bursts into flames. You could feel the wave of heat wash over you. I can still hear the people screaming. They screamed so loudly… it seemed like all that you could hear was the screaming and the running. I wanted to run, but grandfather held me tightly. I can remember the warmness of his hand as he squeezed me. Watching that big blimp go down was breathtaking. You could see people trying to get it under control on the ground, and people in the cabins trying to get out. It was just a terrible, terrible thing for a young kid like me to watch…I had forgotten about it till now. But this photo brings it all back. I've got that warm fuzzy feeling.

December 22, 1998: Lament leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and reaching for his sandwich, taking a bite. Lunch had become a private affair, especially after he learned that everyone else had chosen to take the pills. He'd included a picture of Sandlemyer's corpse—a body that in no way reflected the man who had once been—in the file for 106, setting the heavy document on the corner of his desk. He turned his attention to 884 for a moment, glimpsing over it again and sighing, thinking back to what Sandy had said. 'Get someone inside the Insurgency…' Why the hell not? Anything was worth a try at this point. He sighed and reached for his phone, dialing the number and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Hello? Agent Strelnikov?" he asked. "I'm not sure if you remember me. Lament. We met on my first day." A pause. "Yeah, Gears' kid. I was looking for someone for a possible assignment. Deep cover." Annoyed Russian from the other end of the phone. "I know, but you're the only person I know over there, so I figured you'd know who to bother about it…" August 10, 2007: A smirk was worming its way over Lament's lips as he closed the file, leaning back in his chair, laughing quietly to himself. There was no one else to laugh to, after all. He looked over at Gears, hoping that the other would ask him what he was so pleased about, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping, then leaning forward, staring at him until the doctor raised his head and looked at him. "Yes, Agent?" "884… is closed." He leaned back again, arms behind his head. "Congratulations," Gears said. "Thank you," replied Lament. There would be no praise, nor would there be any accolades. Your feelings of reward in the Foundation were the ones you made for yourself. Doing your job, and doing it well, meant one of two things: you lived or someone else did. That was enough. It had to be. "Would you like half of my sandwich, sir?" Lament asked. "No, thank you, Agent." Lunch? Lament nodded, taking the plastic wrapped, perpetually dry roast beef out of the brown bag on his desk. "Then if you'll excuse me, I think I might take it in the atrium. It's nearly time for Sophie's lunch break…" Gears nodded. "Tell Dr. Light I need her report on SCP-371, when she's finished." "I will, sir." Lament stood, walking toward the door when Gears spoke. "And Agent?" "Yes, sir?" Gears stared at him for a moment. It stretched past comfort into awkwardness, and Lament found it necessary to cough, then repeat. "Yes, sir?" "Good work." The awkwardness became palpable. "Thank you, sir." Gears nodded once, and Lament— feeling an emotion he could not put into words— left the office. When he got to the atrium, he stole a kiss from Light's cheek, took the obligatory punch in the arm, and then shared the lackluster sandwich with her. All in all, he considered it a good day. « Interlude 6 | HUB | Epilogue »

They don't come anymore. I remember when they used to come every day. Talking quietly among themselves, walking through. Few of them ever talked to me, but them being here was enough to keep one amused through the days. Every now and then, they'd give me one of theirs. One that couldn't walk or talk anymore. Maybe it was a payment - what one of them always did before sort of hurt… but it didn't matter. I wouldn't mind if it hurt… if all of them were here, walking. If he was here. He stayed, almost all the time… He was one of the few who talked to me, he'd return from somewhere away with an unsteady gait, drop down into the grass, and we'd talk, until he stopped moving. At those times I could even touch him, feel his surface. It was different, nice, soft and warm. Some nights he didn't go, usually one or two nights after they'd given me another of theirs - instead he'd open a hole in me again, take out the one that was inside - they always put them inside boxes made of tree - do something with them, then put them back in. Through time I learned to help him open the holes, it was easier, so much easier for both of us. Those were the best times, times with him. One night like that, another man came and walked through. He stopped for a while, then ran away, then walked back next day, with two others, with heavy boots. They grabbed him, just as he was touching the flowers growing near my end, and took him away. He never came back, and I don't know why. I wanted to be with him forever, he loved me, he talked to me. I tried to talk to the others, but they didn't listen when there were many, and they ran away when they were alone. Then, soon, another man came and wanted to make a hole. But, he wasn't him. He didn't love me, he didn't talk to me. I tried to touch him, but he run away. Ungrateful, vile. Not like him at all. But still, at least some things happened then… walking, talking, a lot of things. I waited, many days, but he didn't come back. The others came less often, and were slower and slower, until one day they didn't come anymore. I waited and waited. A few times, some of them would come back, alone, or in small groups. I was so happy, doesn't matter it wasn't him, it was someone. I tried to greet them, help them, do anything for them, but they too were vile and ungrateful. One of them I tried to keep from running, and it worked - he went down, on one of the big stone slabs they have hauled in, and stopped moving. I was happy for a while - he wasn't him, he didn't walk or talk, but at least he stayed. I took him in, making a hole myself… that's what is proper, because that's what he did… even when he took them out, he put them back later. Besides, it hurts a lot less when I do it myself, I found. So, it's what I did with every one that stopped moving. Then, one day, a lot of them came again. I was happy, so happy, it'd be like the old times again, maybe even he'd show up again. But he didn't… instead they put metal rods into me, and did a lot of things, and then they left, and noone came or stayed since. Oh, one of them stayed… but he was just like the ones I talked about. Meh. And now they don't come anymore. Nobody does. I can't stand it… everything is the same, there are no footsteps, no talk. Maybe I should do something. No, I must do something. I wonder. He used to take them out from me, every so often. Maybe if I take them all out, in his name, for him, he will return. He will return. He will return! Why didn't I think of it before! I was stupid, unworthy of him, but now I know! It will hurt, it will hurt a lot, but I must be strong. I can withstand it. I must withstand it. For him. For love. Incident 1673-1 On ██/██/19██ , approximately 3 years after estabilishing containment, the guards located outside the perimeter of SCP-1673 have reported tremors consistent with seismic activity, and resulting in structural damage to the perimeter wall. Examination of SCP-1673 during its inactive period next day has found evidence of large-scale soil movement, and the exhumation of a large quantity of human remains in various states of decomposition, the freshest identified as D-833 (See Document 1673-Eta for experiment logs). Note: As the town of Westkin, Virginia isn't located in a fault zone, and subsequently collected evidence suggests the epicenter of the tremours to locate within SCP-1673, I request its reclassification to Euclid. - Researcher Cartwright

Happy Birthday… to You. August 18, 2007: "I'm sorry… I really… really am…" Lament said, swallowing to keep his voice from cracking. "You're… You're like a father to me… You don't understand that I… that I just… I can't do this anymore… I've asked to be transferred to active duty. Site14." Gears looked at him, his face blank and expressionless. "I… Anyhow…" Lament placed a small, square package on the desk in front of the balding man. "Happy Birthday." « Part 6 | HUB | Part 7 »

November 27, 1998: It was all in his head. Lament sat on the floor of the medical ward, leaning against the wall. He was rubbing both of his arms for a moment, until he realized what he was doing and stopped. It was an awkward moment, looking around, seeing all the legitimately injured people and then realizing that he didn't have any real right to be here. And with all the doctors running around attending to burns, wounds, and various exposures… He pushed himself up, walking as smoothly as he could from the room and into the hall, maneuvering around more injured people and bed, finally making his way out into open hallway. He wasn't sure where he was at, but a lot of Site-19 looked the same. He just picked a direction and started walking in it. Once, he was almost certain that he'd heard 106 laughing, but as he turned to look at the empty wall the sound had issued from, it was clean and unmarred. All evidence from the recovery group that had found Sandlemyer suggested that 106 had somehow gotten itself caught in 015, tangled in the pipes somehow, screaming bloody murder. It would hold the damned thing. Seal it. Maybe eat it like it ate other people. And he'd write up a file. Give it to Gears. Walk away from this. Walk away from this hell that he'd found himself in. And for some reason, knowing that—finally—he had found a way to contain the damned thing was more of a comfort than anything else at the moment. He looked at the wall again when he thought he heard the laugh a second time. He stepped closer and ran his fingers of it, then stepped back again. In his head. It was all in his head. November 29, 1998: “What do you mean it was ‘playing'?” Gears expressionless face betrayed neither pity nor concern. “It was playing with us, Agent. Cat and mouse." Lament swallowed. “So… 015…?” “The Overseers would never have allowed such a program to exist long term, Agent Lament, even if it had worked,” Gears continued flatly. “As it is, the men putting the next level of containment in place were attacked and utilized by 106 with—” “Utilized?” Lament laughed. Laughing was all he could do, at the moment. He was inches from hysteria. That voice the night before. That mocking laugh as he walked down the hall… Had that been him? Had he been ‘playing' again? 'Utilized.' It consumed. It devoured. And it apparently played. Gears waited patiently for him to stop. "The men putting the next level of your containment plan in place were attacked and utilized by 106. Three dead on the scene. Four more deceased over the next week from the initial attack. Another twe—" "Please stop," Lament said, closing his eyes tightly. He leaned against his desk, gripping the top of it tightly, not letting go. He was close to breaking when he felt Gears' hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Glass informed me that you've not been in for your quarterly psychological evaluation.” Lament looked up. Gears was right. Lament hadn't been in for it yet. It had been scheduled for the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, and he'd had other things on his mind that day. This was Foundation compassion, then? “No, sir, I haven't,” he answered. “I've scheduled your appointment for this morning,” Gears said emotionlessly. Lament's fingers drummed for an instant on his desk, and while he didn't necessarily want to go, he couldn't think of any other excuse to get away from Gears for the morning. And getting away from Gears was exactly what he needed at the moment. “It's a natural urge,” Glass said. “Everyone is afraid at times. This is the way the Foundation helps its people deal with fear.” “I'm not taking them,” Lament said, staring down the doctor. He'd met with Glass many times in the past. Quarterly psych evaluations, voluntary sessions. "Lament, you can't just… ignore this," Glass continued. "These policies and practices were developed by people with far more experience than either of us. Sometimes, you just… need to forget." “I don't want to forget.” How many times has the doctor heard that same response? “Why would you not want to forget watching your friend being devoured by a supernatural… thing?” asked Glass. "You saw him when they got him out. You know he was still alive for a few hours after that, Lament. Why would you want to remember him like that?" “Because he was my friend.” How many people had he gotten to do this before me? “You don't have to forget him. Dozens of people ‘transfer' out at the last moment, Lament. Take a Class-B. Forget the last couple of days. If you hold onto this too long, then when you finally get rid of it, you'll have to get rid of him entirely.” Days? Lament frowned. For a moment, he turned his mind backwards, trying to remember something… Blindly reaching into gray. “Doctor… Can I ask you something? Something about those pills?” Glass nodded. “Of course.” “Which one did I take when I joined?” he asked. “When you all erased my family.” Glass's hand tensed on the arm of the chair for a moment, and then relaxed. Lament actually found himself admiring the man when his voice came out even. He'd either not known or had forgotten. “You were conscripted?” Glass asked. He hadn't known? “Yeah," Lament said. A moment. “That would have been a Class-A,” said Glass. “And is there a cure for these things?” Lament asked. He kept his voice conversational, but there was hope there. Hope for parents he couldn't remember and a dozen friends or colleagues he wasn't sure he'd ever had. “Occasionally,” Glass said. “Sometimes, they don't take. Something inside your brain refuses to accept it. Those are rare cases, though.” And… that. Only stress and a touch of bitterness was present in Lament's voice now. “But nothing after the memory is gone?” “No.” Lament drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair for a moment. “Then I'm not taking them.” “It's your choice, Agent. But I wish you'd reconsider.” “Stick ‘em up your ass,” Lament said. “See you in three months, Doc.” « Interlude 5 | HUB | Interlude 6 »

August 16, 2007: "There's some things you don't want on your conscience." Agent Lament stood in the mess of Site19, staring out the window and looking at the landscape, part of his mind making an effort to register that the world was, in fact, still there. That everyone was actually alive. That it had happened. His stomach was twisted in pained, difficult knots, and he really just wanted privacy. But he wasn't alone. He could hear the two men, both low staff, talking across the mess from him. Their voices carried, but he wasn't really paying attention. "What's that guys problem? He onna them montaukers?" "Nah," the first one said. "He works with Gears." The other one laughed quietly. "So? Gears seems like uh good guy." "Good as any of 'em, ennyway." "Well, hell, then. I'ma go ask him what his problem is…" A sound of a slight scuffle somewhere behind Lament brought his attention back to the room. He looked at their reflection in the glass, the taller one holding the other's arm solidly in his grip. "Don't," the first one said quickly, his voice dropping. "Lesson number one about workin' around these guys: there's some things you don't want on your conscience." « Part 5 | HUB | Part 6 »

Speculation, Theories Abound About Mysterious Assailant WASHINGTON (AP) - Little information has been acquired thus far about the motives and identity of a Caucasian female who injured four on the floor of the House of Representatives Wednesday afternoon, a spokesman for the US Capitol Police said. "We believe the suspect arrived on the House floor at about 12:43 PM and seated herself at a vacant desk next to Congressman [John] Sarbanes (D-MD)," Capitol Police spokesman Dan Anderson said. "The suspect did not engage in any noteworthy behavior until about 3:13 PM, when Congressman Sarbanes yielded the remainder of his time to her after addressing the floor regarding the farm bill." The unidentified woman's address to the House, which was broadcast live on the cable network C-SPAN and has since been widely distributed over the Internet, has been widely examined by professional and amateur cryptologists worldwide attempting to decipher hypothesized connections to terrorism, domestic political extremists, or other esoteric claims. After opening with the phrase "My fellow Americans: Green April Yamaha flenses applique in toto, dos tacos chorizos con huevos, Allahu akbar," the woman continued for approximately five minutes reciting a seemingly incoherent series of phrases derived from various languages. (For the full text of the speech, click here.) Speaker of the House John Boehner (R-OH) requested that Sergeant-at-Arms Paul D. Irving restore order when the woman continued speaking after being informed that her time had been exhausted. Upon his attempt to remove her microphone, the woman was observed on the live broadcast to violently tackle Irving and attempt to re-acquire it. Boehner, Sarbanes, and Congressman Adam Smith (D-WA) were injured attempting to assist Irving before Capitol Police reinforcements entered the chamber and arrested the suspect. The suspect died of unknown causes shortly after being taken into custody. An autopsy will be performed Friday, Anderson said. Irving was transported to George Washington University Hospital and was in stable condition Wednesday evening after suffering multiple fractures and bite wounds. Boehner, Sarbanes, and Smith suffered minor injuries and were treated at the scene. Video surveillance shows that the suspect entered the Capitol through the main gate shortly before noon, Anderson said, and was admitted by a security officer after showing identification. A forged Congressional ID card was found on the suspect's body, identifying the suspect as "Thompson van der ibn-Teddysburg", a congressman representing the 17th congressional district of the state of "West Chippewa". The security officer involved has been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation of why and how the suspect's identification was accepted as legitimate. The Capitol Police have established a toll-free hotline for citizens with any information about the suspect's identity. Over five hundred calls had been received as of 6 PM on Wednesday night, Anderson said. More information is expected when the Capitol Police hold their next scheduled press conference on Monday morning at 9 AM EDT. Wednesday's incident marks the third time an individual with forged credentials has attempted to enter the House floor in recent years, Anderson said. Unidentified individuals were detained and released in 1998 and 2003, after attempting to gain access to the House with credentials identifying them as a congressman from the state of "Hamilton" and a non-voting observer from "the Commonwealth of Amalgamated Polynesia" respectively. A spokesman for Boehner's office declined to comment on the intrusion or on the nature of the Speaker's injuries. Memo from O5-4: Get a kill-switch installed on the C-SPAN camera. These leaks are getting out of hand.

November 26, 1998: Lament frowned at the glass, looking at the hovering box beyond it with some odd mixture of reverence and fear. It was… disturbing… to see it for the first time. He wasn't part of the crew of soldiers who risked their lives for it on a daily basis. He wasn't even one of the primary researchers assigned to the project. He was just the guy trying to keep them safe. Trying and failing, currently. “The magnetic fields are working, but the corrosion is still spreading. It's like mold… We thought we had him locked up until he ate Grange last night,” the researcher said. The speakers made an odd whining sound, and Lament winced, losing his thought. Thankfully. "How'd he manage that?" It was Sandlemyer who spoke. "I thought we had all the same safety protocols still in place on this thing." The researcher shrugged a little. "We lose one or two people every coupla weeks with this thing. Regardless…" Lament frowned, a pit forming quickly in his stomach. Failure didn't feel good, no matter how expected or anticipated it was. Especially when dealing with the deaths of fellow agents. He knew 106 was going to be a problem, but he didn't realize how much of one. The speakers made another loud, mind crippling screech, sounding like painfully loud feedback. "Damn," Lament muttered, covering his ears. "Eh. They go on the fritz all the time," the researcher continued. "We try to replace them, but it doesn't seem to do any goo— " The alarms suddenly blaring made Lament glad that he'd covered his ears a moment before. He turned, looking at one of the screens. "The repulsors are going down!" he shouted. "Evacuate!" But the researcher was already yelling into the microphone. The order went out, just as Sandlemyer reached over and flipped off the alarms in the booth, all three men turning to look out the window as the huge, rotting metal box fell the bottom of the containment chamber, cracking open. The speakers whined again, loudly for a moment, then cut out. And a low, dark, broken laugh slowly filled the silence. "He. He. He. He. Hee…" When he was finally able to look back on the day without some sort of breakdown, Lament was certain the reports were wrong. That the hours and hours he felt couldn't have been minutes. That the door to that containment unit should not have been open. That the entire thing couldn't have been orchestrated just to fuck with him. But the mouse never really understands the true motivations of the cat. Sometimes it's hungry. Sometimes, it just wants to play. Lament pivoted quickly, running as fast as he could, Sandlemyer quickly on his heels. He was breathing hard, painfully hard, his chest close to bursting as he looked desperately for any point of escape. The alarms were blaring, guns firing at walls, at nothing, at everything. An explosion behind him had the floor shaking hard enough that he fell. In a moment, Sandlemyer's arm closed around his arm, dragging Lament back to his feet and sending both of them down a narrow straightaway. "He. He. He. He. Hee." It was coming over the speakers everywhere now, echoing against his teeth and shaking his jaw. "Jesus Christ," Sandy muttered, panting and out of breath as he looked over his shoulder. "Fuck. It's coming this way Lament. It's coming this way!" He didn't bother looking back. Training was kicking in, and he was running. There were no people who survived exposure to 106. At least, none who survived for long. The straightaway ended in a dark doorway, and as Lament stepped into it, he pulled out his revolver and fired two shots down the hall at the advancing 'man,' prompting another of those broken, painful to hear laughs. "He. He. He. He. Hee." He. He. He. Heee. Hehe… He. "God damn it," Lament muttered. "Get in, Sandy," he ordered. "Jesus, just get into the damn room!" Sandlemyer dashed in first, followed by Lament, who turned, pawing desperately for a light switch for a moment, then feeling cold metal slap under his hand. Cold metal that felt rounded and damp. Pipes. And next to it, another. Sandlemyer's flashlight blazed to life, and Lament immediately recognized where they were at. "Oh fuck." The pipes. Gears had mentioned them as a plausible, future containment issue, but he hadn't realized… They twisted and turned on each other, coining one about the other. It wasn't as he'd imagined it—strict, orderly plumbing—but instead a roving cephalopod nightmare. "Look for the widest opening," he ordered quickly, slapping the door control and backing away from it as the metal started to blacken and rot. "Go… Go!" he shouted. He knew there were more entrances and exits within the mass. You just had to find them. Find them and desperately hope. They were both running again, the flashlight jerking along, jumping and shaking as they fled the terrible, old man. "Hee. He. He. He. Hee." They ran for hours, panting. And it always sounded closer. Closer and closer to them. At one point, Lament thought he felt something graze the sleeve of his jacket, and the mere possibility of 106 sent adrenaline rushing through his body. Every time it seemed to burn out, there was something else. A laugh. A scent of rot. Eyes in the dark. Again and again. Pursuing. Chasing. And then, they finally spotted another source of light. One of the Foundation floodlamps that were always placed near the other exits. They both ran toward it, lungs burning as Lament hurried to the door panel, typing in his emergency code. *Denied* He stared at it. Then entered it again. *Denied* "He. He. Hee. He. Hee." "Lament… Lament, what is the fucking problem?!" "It's not opening!" *Denied* "Hee. Hee. He. Hee. He." He felt like crying. He entered it again and again, slapping the buttons harder and harder each time. "You son of a bitch. Open you son of a bitch!" *Denied* He felt it more than he saw it. It was an oppressive feeling, like someone standing right behind you, breathing down your neck. Someone with a knife, or a gun, or claws, someone who would hurt you, kill you, cut you, and laugh while they did it. "Hee. He. He. Hee. He." He turned. He looked at it. Moldy, rotten skin. Sunken, dead eyes. Yellowed, broken teeth. Lank, greasy hair fell around the sides of its head. It took a step forward. *Denied* "God damn you." Another. *Denied* Lament turned and emptied the rest of the shells into its head to no effect. "He. Hee. He. Hee. He." "Jesus… Oh Jesus, we're gonna die…" Sandlemyer panted. *Denied* It was in arms reach as Lament, tears running down his face, slammed the keys a final time. And the door opened. He was through it in a second, into the exit chamber, looking back. "Sandy!" 106's hand closed on the back of Sandlemyer's neck as he turned and stepped through the door, squeezing for a moment. Sandlemyer's hand shot out to Lament, reaching for him, begging for help, but as Lament dove for it, 106 was pulling him away, pulling him into the recesses of the pipes, into hell and damnation. Lament raised his gun, took quick aim at Sandlemyer, and did what he hoped any other agent would do for him in a similar situation. He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on the empty cartridge with a hollow click. And then they were both gone, and Lament was staggering back against the wall, sliding down it, staring into the mass of pipes. When they found him, it had been seven minutes since 106 had breached containment. « Interlude 4 | HUB | Interlude 5 »

February 19, 2009: Wishing he didn't remember "He. He. He. He. Hee." Lament sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, the laugh still echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, forcing the sound out of his head, then swinging his legs over the side and walking toward the shower. He stepped into it, letting the cold water course over his back, feeling it slowly begin to warm as the echoing nightmare finally, slowly stopped… He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. For a moment, he was almost certain that the porcelain of the shower wall was giving way, handprints emerging from it like a child's hand playing with their blankets. Mocking hands that would reach for his throat and squeeze the life out of him, but he wouldn't die. No. He'd live while the owners of those hands played. Played and laughed. "He. He. He. He. Hee." As he briefly considered reaching for his sidearm on the sink, the effect faded. For a moment, he still considered reaching for it, for another purpose, and when he realized it, he slumped down the wall of the tub, sitting under the water until it had long run cold, staring weakly at the drain. Wishing he didn't remember, but glad that he did. « Part 4 | HUB | Part 5 »

November 8, 1998: "Denied, Agent." "Denied, Agent." Lament looked up at the panel of three doctors, swallowing and licking his lips slightly. "Ma'am?" "Denied," she repeated. He only knew two of the three doctors seated at the table: Sorts and Vang. The woman in the middle was the one talking to him now, professional and stolid. "Can I ask why?" "No," she said simply, closing the file, looking to the side slightly, away from his face. She seemed almost motherly for a moment, like she was about to tell her child that the puppy he'd loved was in Heaven now, and no, it's alright, don't cry. This wasn't fair. He'd followed all the correct channels. All the correct forms were filled out, everything should be cut and dry. "Can I ask who, then?" he asked. She didn't speak for a moment, and it was Sorts who leaned forward, piping up. "You're aware that supervisors have to approve a transfer?" he asked. Lament ignored the question. "I'm not qualified to be a research assistant," he countered. "It was…" He chose his words carefully. "… an unfortunate set of circumstances that landed me there to begin with. All of you know that. I don't have the degree. I don't have the credentials." "Jesus, son," muttered Sorts. "Will you pay attention?" Lament's voice finally cracked as the anger found its way into it, the placidity giving way to a harsh firmness. "Why the hell am I still here?" "In this… particular case, an exception was made," the woman said. "The problem of your credentials has been overlooked, as well as your training. South Cheyenne is there, if you want to finish your doctorate, and there are several groups that can aid you in meeting the qualifications." Frustration. Bitterness. "By who?" She sighed and looked at Lament, pushing a bang back over her ear. The motherly look was back. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. A small gavel smacked a small sounding block. "This panel is dismissed." He hadn't cooled down when he reached his office, and it took him a while to finally step inside of it. When he did, the anger flared back, and Lament found himself simply staring at Gears for a long moment before he finally spoke, keeping the edge out of his voice just barely. "Why?" A placid and calm expression stared back as the doctor answered. "Your skills are more than sufficient for the work we've been doing, Agent." "That's not what I mean, damnit!" he said, turning away even as he did, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see his face, content to imagine the disappointment and contrition that he knew would not be there. "You know what I mean." Gears was silent for a moment. "You were a stop gap," he said flatly. "After Doctor Iceberg's incident—" "Suicide." "—incident, I needed someone who could pick up where he left off, which was the containment of SCP-106. That has been and will continue to be my primary concern. Containment is your specialization. Once we have arrived at a solution, if you still wish to transfer, then I will not deny it." Lament sat there, taking slow, deep breaths. He didn't know what he should have expected. What he was expecting. Logic and straightforwardness were not always the things he received in these situations. "All right," Lament said, the tightness in his chest still not abating. "Do you work well with Assistant Researcher Sandlemyer?" Gears asked. That… That was an unexpected question. "He's my best friend, sir," Lament admitted. No sense in lying. "Do you work well with him?" Gears asked again. "Yes," Lament said with a sigh, wondering where this was going. "Before your gag order, I discussed several of my projects with him." "Very well," replied Gears. "I will inform Dr. Djoric that he will be assisting us with 106 for the next two weeks. Please update him fully at your earliest convenience." "I… Yes, sir," Lament mumbled, surprise sapping articulation. "You're dismissed, Agent. Enjoy your day off." "I dunno…" Lament said, talking quietly over a cup of coffee in Sandlemyer's office. "I think he's trying to make me happy or something…" he suggested. "I didn't think he was the kind of person to care," Sandy replied, laughing softly. Lament looked up at the other man. "He's not like that," he said. "He's not… mechanical or robotic or… He's just…" He paused for a long moment. "Cold," he finished. Sandy shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I've got no specialization in containment, man. And I'm not sure why he's dragging me on board or what he expects me to do." Lament shrugged. "Me neither…" He looked around the room at all the various shelves filled haphazardly with files, books, and papers. The low watt, incandescent bulbs. This office felt homey. Comfortable. Lived in. It felt… good. "I'll see you in the morning, Sandy," Lament said, setting down the cup on the table. "Seeya, Lament. Hey! This'll be fun, right? Like when you were over here with us for a few weeks." "Yeah," Lament said. "Sure." He just wished he could believe it. « Interlude 3 | HUB | Interlude 4 »

July 5, 2004: "Butterflies!" It was an unholy din that surrounded the pair, people shouting and clamoring. There was a fifteen minute window when Site19 could have the yearly photo made, and currently, Dr. Glass was having a hard time getting people to listen, much less position themselves. "C'mon, guys! Please! This shouldn't take long if you'll all just get into your places." Lament found himself smiling. Waving at some friends as he worked toward the left of the room, moving to stand behind Gears' shoulder. When he looked around, he saw Agatha, giving him a significant look. He looked back at her, tilting his head and shrugging, giving her one of those—'hell do you WANT me to do'—looks. She gave it to him again, and he sighed, tapping Gears' shoulder. "Sir?" he asked. "Yes, Agent," Gears replied without turning around. "Smile, sir." "And what purpose would that serve, Agent?" He took a breath. "Smiling would serve to put the others at ease, sir. As this is a social function for the entire site, your smiling could aid the others in the establishment of a more efficient and normalized workplace, something that I believe your own reports have called essential when dealing with the unnatural world in which we work." It was obviously prepared. Rehearsed. Practiced. Gears turned and looked at him. After a moment, the corners of his lips inclined in a corpse-like rictus that never touched his eyes. "Is this sufficient?" Lament found himself grinning now. Genuinely. "Yes, sir." "Everyone!" shouted Glass. "Say… Butterflies!" "Butterfliiieeessss," said the chorus. « Part 3 | HUB | Part 4 »

November 1, 1998: Agent Lament noted, almost in passing, that it was All Saints Day as he tore off his calendar. He tossed the old day aside, chuckling slightly at the new one. "Scientists are all over the place in the sack," he started. "Watt did it with power, Joule did it with energy, Ohm did it with resistance, Pascal did it under pressure." He grinned. "All notable contributors to their fields," Gears said dryly. Lament nodded. He'd never heard a chuckle from across the office for the past year. Never saw a smile. People seemed to think that Gears was a robot or a cyborg or some sort of computer given human form. Lament preferred to think of him as just reserved and needing to come out of his shell a little. It was a damn thick shell, though… Lament popped his neck and looked at his inbox. Nothing too much. A couple of memos concerning some security issues that he briefly glanced over… Nothing too important. He sighed a little, shredding the ones that were marked as such, filing the others, then leaning back in his seat. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. "Agent?" Lament opened his eyes, looking at the bald doctor across his desk. That was a surprise. Normally, it was a process of file, assessment, and writing up proposals and schematics. Conversation was not something the two of them participated in. "Yes, Doctor Gears?" he asked. "What was your previous assignment?" Lament was caught a little off guard at that one. Hedge. "You should know, sir. You received my personnel file." "I did. Please, continue." Lament nodded a little. "I was at Site-29, sir," he said. "Just outside San Matteo," he added. "I was working on… well… a few… different projects…" he finished, looking back at the large, thick file on the corner of his desk. Averting his eyes and putting wording together in his head. "Such as?" Gears asked. "Classified, sir," he said, hoping there was some protection in that. He didn't want to talk about 919. About his own face screaming at him. "I'm not free to talk about them." Gears nodded slightly. "So are the ones you're working on with me," he said flatly. "Though the telekill box was rather ingenious." And that was it. A pit formed in his stomach. Lament looked back up at Gears, then down again. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But… I never shared anything above Level Two clearance, sir," he said quickly. "I'd never do anything like that…" "Nevertheless, Agent." Lament sighed, feeling thoroughly… chastened? He wasn't sure. It was the nameless feeling of having disappointed your father or mother. "Yes, sir." And then, he and Gears didn't say anything for the next few hours, until Lament rose from his desk to go to lunch. "Can I get you anything, sir?" he asked. "That will be unnecessary." Lament sighed, nodded, and walked out of the office, realizing how… thoroughly he must have just disappointed the man, even though he'd never show it. He wondered if a transfer was coming somewhere in his future… Would he welcome that? The Assistant Researcher position he was occupying was never something he'd wanted, nor something that he was exactly qualified for. He felt out of his element, and now, it felt worse. He met up with Sandlemyer shortly later, as usual. They sat together with a gaggle of other assistants; Lament was the only one at the table not wearing a white labcoat, though. Sandy had accepted his promotion to Assistant Researcher as soon as he finished his degree through South Chayanne Point University, and with a smile, he and the others started chatting openly about their current projects. Lament was almost certain that the only reason he was "allowed" to sit with them was because he was working with Gears, and the blank faced doctor seemed to be a source of fascination to the rest of them. They worked in circuits, providing what details they could, omitting what they couldn't. And then, it came to his turn. He sighed and shook his head. "I am currently not allowed to discuss my project load," he said, flatly and to the point. He picked up a french fry and ate it, trying to act nonchalant and feeling none of it. Sandy laughed, but the man sitting next to him, a researcher named Chubert, laid down his fork and looked at Lament seriously. "You know, Lament… You should probably transfer out of there, soon…" he suggested. Lament peered up at him. "Why?" It was another man down the table who agreed. "Yeah. I mean, you don't wanna be Iceberg part two," he said seriously. "And a gag order was how that one started too." "What?" Lament asked. Iceberg… Djoric had said something about an Iceberg… "Doctor Iceberg," Chubert's eyes were still locked on Lament. "Gears' old assistant. Was with him for… God… almost a decade? Eight years, at least," he said solidly. "Explosives expert when he came in. Gears recruited him to work on a couple of projects, and then he liked him or something, and he kept him around." Lament raised an eyebrow. "So?" he asked. "He worked with him day after day for years," Chubert said. "Years. Do you have any idea what working with someone like him for that long will do to you?" Chubert paused for a moment. "How long have you been with him now, Lament?" he asked. "Just over a year," he said. "Good. Next review, tell them you want a transfer." "They'll want to know why." "Then tell them you don't want to blow your brains out like the last guy did." To: O5-██ August 1, 1997 After failure to report for his duties, I inspected the quarters of Dr. Iceberg. It was there that I found him deceased at his desk. Cause is believed to be a single gun shot wound to the roof of the mouth. The note present was confiscated and sealed, in accordance with containment procedures on SCP-███. His body was cremated the following morning, and his non-personal belongings were redistributed in accordance with Foundation procedures. -Gears It was two pages. Lament laid the file back down on top of his desk. Ten years Iceberg had worked with Gears, and now… He looked at the file. It was two pages. One that listed his qualifications, and the second one, a yellow, carbon paper copy of Gears' memo. This was it. This was ten years with Gears. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes again, thinking. Thinking. Why hadn't he looked into this before? He wasn't qualified. He was barely qualified for the agent level work he'd been given. He opened his drawer and stuffed the folder into it, not wanting to think about it. Not wanting to think about anything. What secrets had Iceberg expunged with that bullet? Lament took a shallow breath, then pulled out the paperwork he'd taken from Human Resources that afternoon, looking down at it. He started filling out his transfer slip quickly, then folded it and stuffed it in an interoffice envelope. He dropped it in his outbox, and walked back to his quarters, his hands shaking. « Interlude 2 | HUB | Interlude 3 »

July 7, 2005: "I heard you like… ctenophores." "Hey!" Lament jumped at his desk, turning and looking up at the woman. Long, lightly curling, brown hair. Constant smirk. Mirthy eyes. "Heya, Sophie," he said, grinning as he stood. The smile came to his face easy. It always seemed to around her. "Hey, listen, I got you something…" "Oh…? Gifts? On a first date?" "It's just lunch!" he defended. It was a date. "Regardless, sir. Most unbecoming." Still that smirk. God, he loved that smirk. "Well, I couldn't pay for the meal, since we're on base, so…" He pulled out a clear, glass vial, passing it to her carefully. "Someone told me you like… ctenophores." She looked down at it, then up at him, her face registering a mix of shock and joy. "Best. Date. Ever." Hehe. It was a date. « Part 2 | HUB | Part 3 »

February 11, 1998: He smiled at the bald man, waving with his elbow because his hands were too full, then setting his cup on the edge of his desk. Coffee—black. He carefully balanced the other man's drink, easing it down onto the porcelain coaster gently, then nodding to him. “Morning, Dr. Gears.” “Good morning, Agent,” he replied flatly. Lament walked to his desk, sitting down and pulling off the calendar's top page, looking down at the next one. He grinned. “You'll like this one, sir,” he said, just a touch of humor in his voice. “Why do physicists make terrible lovers?” Gears stared at him. “Because they can find the position, but not the velocity. Or the velocity, but not the position,” Lament grinned from ear to ear. Gears nodded. “Schrodinger, I believe.” “Yes, sir.” “Have you finished your report on 106?” Gears asked. Lament sighed. Swing and a miss. “No, sir, but I've got a few ideas…” he said quietly, leaning back to grab the file from his desk drawer. Gears nodded slightly. Lament pointed down at the schematic of the containment chamber. “I think we might be able to offset the corrosion if we actually suspend the cell," he started, laying it down open on his desk, pulling out his notes. "Keep it away from most surfaces. Direct contact seems to be the surest method of extensive transition, so…” And he was off. And Gears listened, expressionless as Lament rattled off the plan. Of the original bodies that they'd found, one of them was wearing a watch which had a chromium plated band, untarnished, and he thought that they might be able to line the inside of the cell with that, since it seemed to have decayed slower. Gears nodded as he finished. “And the suspension? How would we be able to manage it without direct contact with the cell?” Lament shrugged. “Magnetics?” he suggested. Gears nodded for a moment. “We'll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, I need you to refocus your efforts. A slight conundrum for you.” “What is it, sir?” “SCP-884.” April 27, 1998: Lament had never heard of 884, and he quickly understood why. The Foundation barely had it in custody in the ninety-odd years that it had been known. Some group called “The Chaos Insurgency”—Lament had cackled over that name—kept stealing it. He looked down at the file, tilting his head slightly at the thickness of it, sighing. “He's got to be kidding me…” As luck would have it, the only one he needed to give a damn about was Dash-Four. The other pieces of the SCP, which had originally been a complete men's grooming kit, had been lost, destroyed, or stolen over the years. This last remaining piece was rather… innocuous. Just a mirror. It was nothing like the razor or the comb or even the shaving cup (all of which were far more interesting and far more dangerous). He read over the file a few times before pushing it to the side. He has to wonder what was special about it. And moreso, why Gears had assigned it to him. It wasn't an immediate or serious problem, just… He looked up at the clock. Almost 7:00 PM already. He sighed heavily, opening his desk drawer and laying the thick, heavily bound document into it. With a stretch, he stood up, walking to the door and out into the silent hall. It was after hours in the Site19 staff offices, and there were only a few people still there. Over the last few weeks, he'd become one of those few. Gears wasn't a hard taskmaster. He never gave you anything you weren't capable of. There was just… so much of it. He was completely amazed that the man had been managing on his own for this long, much less with this level of work. It was almost… disconcerting. At times, he wondered if he was actually helping or not, but Glass had told him—in his last mandatory psychological review—that it was a normal response. He took his reassurances at face value, and continued plodding along. "Hey! Lament! Wait up!" “Hey! Lament!” He turned, smiling a little when he saw Sandlemyer waving at him. “Wait up!” The two of them had gotten to know each other fairly well. Djoric, who was still the other agent's supervisor, worked mostly with written effects and mild memetics, and Sandlemyer was training in the same field. He and Sandlemyer had already worked together once on a small project when Gears hadn't needed Lament for a couple of days. It had been… nice. He was working with someone normal and even chipper at times. It was the most relaxing two days he'd spent since he came to Site19. “Hey, Sandy,” he said. The Agent had taken well to the nickname Djoric had given him, and Lament occasionally wished he had as good a relationship with Gears as Sandlemyer had with the other doctor. “What's been going on in the library?” Sandlemyer laughed. The library, as his office had come to be called, was just outside the holding room for every currently contained copy of The Hanged King's Tragedy, and just a few doors away, dozens of other books that would rape your mind or flense your skin sat waiting for someone to look at them. It made for a slightly disturbing aesthetic. “Not much. I've been trying to figure out the containment on this thing…” he said. And it started. Their ritual. They talked to each other at length, discussing the problems that either one were having with their respective work. When Lament mentioned the mirror, Sandlemyer just shook his head and laughed. “You're going to have to get someone actually inside the Insurgency to figure that one out…” he said, a wide smirk on his face. Lament just shrugged, suggested that he try setting up a telekill box—“It's like this. If the book is emitting thoughts, this stuff will explode and destroy it, which is your orders, right?”—and then headed back toward his quarters. He walked back into his quarters—which were finally looking lived in—and nearly kicked a folder that had been slipped under his door. There was a note attached to the top of it, and Lament read it with a frown, feeling his stomach slip away as he realized that he would be awake far later than he wanted. “Chromium ineffective. Reassess.” « Interlude 1 | HUB | Interlude 2 »

August 18, 2007: Happy Birthday to You Lament's fingers slid over the chromium frame for a moment. It had been expensive, but the joke—which he knew wouldn't be laughed at—was worth it. His first failure for a final hurrah. He let a slight smirk slip over his lips, looking down at the picture, at the smile that looked almost abnormal, and laughed. Lament wanted to think 'The look on his face…' or something similarly reflective, but he knew that it would be the same as it always was. Blank. Calculating. He pulled out the wrapping paper, and slowly began folding it around the picture with a half smile, humming happy birthday. « Part 1 | HUB | Part 2 »

September 19, 2011: The blood, thankfully not his own, rolled down Lament's arm as he shook the woman again, trying to get her attention. It was a lost cause, he suspected. Judging by her eyes, her expression…. Severe shock. And unfortunately, he didn't have the time to carry her out. With a sigh, he stood up again, leaving her there and opening the heavy, metal door. He peered out, hearing the creak and groan of the shifting walls, wincing as he heard the snap of a shearing bolt. He worked his way down the hall slowly, now, glancing over his shoulder occasionally as he kept his revolver at his side. He grimaced slightly, wishing he'd brought his other sidearm—the one that held more bullets—but the reliability of the old gun, the feel of it in his hand, gave him a level of comfort that the other couldn't. Dodridge would have yelled at him for it, but there are times that comfort and capability with a weapon are more important than flat-killing power. He believed that. Right up until he heard the screeching sound, followed by a long, chitinous appendage entering the hall ahead of him, the shadow of a dangling corpse with eight legs moving over the flat metal walls. It took him less than a second to realize what it was, about two to assess the area completely, and only one for him to decide on the office to his left. He tried the door, finding it locked, then took a step back, kicking it hard and getting inside. The red, glowing emergency lights were all he had to see by, and as he shoved the desk against the door, he heard the thing scratching at it. A moment later, he pushed the filing cabinet on top of the desk, upending it with the adrenaline surge that he was riding, then positioning himself against the far wall, taking a deep breath and double checking his sidearm. Then waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He let the breath out when the scratching stopped, leaning against the wall, sliding down it and looking around the room. It took him a moment to realize where he was. It'd been a while since he'd worked with the man—a promotion followed by a reassignment had taken him away from Site-19 in 2006—but he recognized the accouterments. The spartan elements were the first indication, but the three pictures, all upended and in the floor now, were the only other indication he needed. He looked down into the face of the passive, bald man, and immediately regretted his choice of hiding place. Gears. September 13, 1997: Everything was fresh and new at Site-19, he thought. Everything was… exciting! There was so much hustle and bustle. People moving around, smiling, laughing. Some looking serious, or angry, or—in the case of the four other Junior Agents he was standing with—extremely, overwhelmingly nervous. They looked up at the man wearing spectacles and an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt under a lab coat, and Lament wondered, with just a touch of gnawing trepidation, why he was grinning at the lot of them quite so brightly. “Hello!” The man spoke in a voice that instantly reminded Lament of a professor he'd had in college. That man had been in love with literature, and every action he performed was done through that same overwhelming rapture with the written word. Lament decided that he liked him immediately. "Welcome to Site-19" “I'm Dr. Djoric,” the man explained. “Welcome to Site-19! I'm supposed to be showing you around and letting you get a feel for the place. The normal tour guide—her name is Agatha, you'll meet her soon—is currently dealing with a pregnancy or something. So here I am instead! We're going to have a lot of fun!” Lament wasn't convinced that it was going to be fun at all, but it actually turned out to be. He met a ton of people, including the legendary Dr. Clef, who seemed mostly… bored. And Senior Agent Strelnikov told them some stories over lunch in the mess, mostly warnings, and they got to meet Lombardi, who Lament and one of the other new guys—short fellow by the name of Sandlemyer—had heard about, but no one else had. He honestly felt a little… star struck. After all, when you're in the Foundation, the other members are the only ones you can really talk to about a lot of things. And when someone develops a reputation, everyone eventually gets to learn about it. Even if it is undeserved. By the time Djoric brought the group back to the large, white arches and curved glass of the entrance hall, Lament was almost dizzy with the amount of information he'd been deluged in. He got a slip of paper with his on-site quarters listed; notes on where the mess, armory, and various reserves of equipment were; notes on scheduled days off… Then Djoric looked down at his clipboard, clicking his tongue as he turned the pages. “Right, then. Primary assignments. Most of you will be working under a member of the Senior Staff for the next few months. Some of you will be stuck with them for the next few years. It all depends of how indispensable they think you are,” he said, laughing a little. “Sandlemyer…” he said, looking down at the list. “You're assigned to me!” he said, laughing a little. “So… nice to meet you… again!” Sandlemyer grinned a little bit, then nodded. “Lab Eleven, sir?” he asked. Djoric had shown them his lab with great enthusiasm. Djoric grinned and nodded. “Simmons, you're going to… Kondraki. Have fun there,” he said, looking up at the man, then back down again. Simmons didn't seem that bothered by that, Lament thought, but then, he had a PhD. He could probably expect some modicum of respect. “Jones and Brown. You're both heading over to work with Strelnikov. Do what he says, exactly what he says, and you'll get out alive, huh?” he said, laughing slightly to set them at ease. It didn't seem to work very well, though. Lament had heard that Site-19's security force was a tough duty, and judging from their expressions, they'd heard the same. Djoric looked down one last time, then frowned slightly, looking back up at Lament. “You don't have a doctorate or anything, do you?” he asked. Lament shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. Djoric looked back down again, then shrugged and pushed that consolatory smile back to his face. “Guess he's gotten lonely since Iceberg left us,” he said softly. “Or maybe it's just a mistake. Anyhow… uh… You're assigned to Gears.” Lament's eyebrow rose for a moment, wondering if this was a joke, and then the other one joined it as he moved from suspicion to surprise. “Are you serious, sir?” he asked. “As serious as a grave,” Djoric said, still smiling. Lament decided, much later in his room, that he hadn't appreciated that comment. « | HUB | Interlude 1 »

November 17th, 1996 Francis yawned. Another night spent in the office, surrounded by the Paperwork Himalayas. Dammit Iceberg it is not that easy… Perhaps half an hour earlier he had peeled his head off of his desktop planner and out from under a rather irritated Josie. The cat had taken a liking to him in the last month and a half, or at least his head was the most comfortable. He went through the motions of morning routine in a daze: five minutes under a frigid and unforgiving shower head, a quick brush of the teeth and look in the mirror. Tussled, dirty blonde hair and not nearly enough sleep. Then again, nobody slept a lot anymore. Try as he might (which was not trying very hard at all), Francis couldn't shake the daze from his head: his brain felt like pudding in a cotton bowl. He knew he was dressed, but couldn't recall actually doing it. He knew it was morning, but had no clue what time it was. He knew it was Sunday morning, and if he was here, then it wasn't his weekend off. Shit. That meant that most of the staff was home: fewer than a hundred people in the entire place, most of them guards and maintenance. That meant that mooching off of someone who had gone to the grocery store and had more than old ramen in their cupboard was going to be far more difficult than it usually was. This left the only reasonable stand-in. Breakfast roulette. Francis wasn't sure who had started the “game”. It wasn't really a game, though. Challenge? It wasn't particularly challenging. Thing people did? That worked. It was a thing that people did. The thing in question consisted of five steps 1) Go to break room. 2) Input “something suitable for humans” into the coffee machine (“random” and “your choice” had ended messily.) 3) Feed the vending machine 500 Yen (change available nearby.) 4) Eat breakfast. Generally. 5) Regret your decision. Usually. Francis opened the door to the break room. Step one, complete. The few other inhabitants of the break room were noted, if dimly: One woman, with a scar on her cheek and a sleeve tattoo, one man, with a pencil mustache and an M-16, and one teenage girl, with blonde hair and pink pajamas. All three were sitting on the overstuffed sofa (A buy from a local thrift store. Francis nearly got his foot crushed when he and Ben moved it in). The girl was watching TV, something about a cartoon dog-rabbit thing screaming at a rather dopey looking red cat. The adults looked bored. The woman was staring at some spot to the lower right of the TV, the man was sipping from a coffee mug. The girl was eating fluorescent blue Pop-Tarts. “Sam. Tony. Iris.” Francis slowly nodded to each in turn as he shuffled over to the coffee machine. Whatever the response was fell on deaf, distracted ears. He punched “strong coffee” into the keypad. The machine dispensed its usual paper cup, followed by a steaming black sludge. Yeah…that's good. That's good… He took the cup and turned to the vending machine. Oh, you crafty Japanese. Of course you'd have something this bizarre around a back alley. Francis fished in his pocket, taking out the five hundred Yen he kept in the pocket of every pair of pants he owned (for emergencies). Ka-chunk The machine coughed out something that, on closer inspection, was a lumpy object wrapped in thin tin foil. The labeling was unreadable. Francis set down his coffee and tore open the foil, a Russian nesting doll made of molded beef jerky. Inner layers looked to be cheese, processed egg, chocolate, and a few tiny ones he couldn't identify. He'd leave those out. Francis shuffled out of the break room without another word. Fucking paper work. Dammit Berg it was not that easy. There was a short silence. Iris and her two guards looked at each other with a mix of confusion and barely-held laughter. “So then. Gimp suit wedding dress. That's a new one,” Iris said. — Francis walked down the hall, alternating between tearing off chunks of doll with his teeth and gingerly sipping the sludge. He could barely taste either. Ugh…Why isn't it working. It's fucking bean slurry and I still feel like I have an iron spike driven through my skull. A low hum echoed from down the hall, followed by a swish of wind, a glint of reflected light and blinding, unimaginable pain. Francis dropped to his hands and knees, screaming, though the word did not do the sound justice: this was something that tapped into the basest, most savage pain of man. What was that on the floor…a pool, a red pool…Blood. Blood everywhere. Red in his eyes, blinding red and black and pain. Slowly, slowly…painfully…Francis raised a trembling hand to his face. No…God no…oh God…oh God oh God oh God His right cheek was wet. He could feel ragged skin and pulped bone and torn muscle under his fingers. His hand moved up, on its own now. Right by his eye socket, in his socket, he could feel cold metal: a long piece of cold metal, slick with blood, with a pointed tip about five inches from where his eye would have been. Should have been. Francis screamed again. The faces in the wall laughed as the clocks melted and the floor fell away and the meat hooks dug into his flesh and hoisted him to the cockroaches on the ceiling and everything went out like a snuffed candle. — “Look, Connor, I realize the danger. Yes, he may end up killing us all. He just might save us too. He can twist reality with a thought, subconsciously, even. Self preservation kept him alive and he's already healed up. If he can learn to control it consciously… yes, I know the dangers involved. We'd be trying to put a god on a leash and employing him. Yes, I do think it's worth it. Bear in mind, he is my student: I know him far better than you, Connor. Yes, I still trust him. No, I am not going to be sloppy: I will have him killed if he can't be trained, trust me. We'll keep him under sedation until we find a proper solution. Tell Dr. Elliot she's inheriting his duties for the time being.”

Rise. Professor Charles Burrows had no choice but to comply. He had no idea how he got here, or even where "here" was; one moment he was sitting at his home office, catching on some paperwork, and the next he was here, standing alone in an empty concrete room. Alone with the voice. So good of you to join me, Professor. Come, there is much to see and so little time. "What? Who are you? What is this place?" So many questions. I suppose it is to be expected from a man in your position. All in due time, Professor. Let us begin our little tour. A door appeared on the far wall of the chamber, seemingly from nowhere. Professor Burrows, seeing no other option, walked through it. He was not one to lose his cool quickly; he'd see what this thing wanted, and assess the situation accordingly. He found himself in a bustling office complex: Busy-looking men and women in walked among rows of computers and filing cabinets, occasionally stopping in one station or another to check a monitor or peer at a file. The entire place was a hive of purposeful activity. No one appeared to notice the small man in jeans and a tweed jacket. Welcome to Site-27, Professor. He wasn't supposed to be here, Burrows thought. This was a dangerous situation; he might already be compromised. He wasn't sure the voice knew exactly who and what he was, though, and he wasn't about to give it any hints. "Site-27? Is that some sort of government facility?" he said, feigning ignorance. The government could never dream of being able to hide itself so well. Even this first level is hidden in plain sight, disguised as the regional headquarters of a major data analysis firm. Most of the employees you see here have no idea what lies beneath their feet. But I do. Let us continue. Burrows felt his feet edging forward, never stopping to consult with his head. He approached one of the desks. A plain featured, slightly overweight man in a brown suit was sitting at it, staring at his monitor with a blank expression. This is Robert Helms, junior data analyst. He's been working here for the last nine years, never knowing what this place was hiding under its dull facade. He's not a particularly smart man, although he considers himself one, nor is he especially talented in any meaningful way. He hates his job, likes to fish, loves his family, and overall just tries to get by until retirement. He never expected much from life, and never got much. He will be dead in twenty minutes. His position will be given to some other faceless cog, his family will grieve and move on, and soon enough, he will be utterly forgotten, having made no lasting impact on the world he spent forty two years living in. "How can you possibly know that?" Burrows asked, more out of anger than anything else. The man, Helms, shook himself out his daze and stretched, his hand passing right through Burrows' chest. The professor jumped back, startled. Helms didn't seem to notice, and stepped away from his desk, heading for a nearby soda machine. Professor, you disappoint me. I thought you would have realized by now you're not actually here, not in your limited sense of the word, at least. As for how I know what will become of poor Mr. Helms, well, perhaps our next stop will shed some light on that subject. Onward and downward, Professor. Always downwards. Burrows felt a strange sinking feeling, and looked down to see his legs passing through the floor. He tried to struggle, but every movement he made only made him sink faster. After an extremely unpleasant moment where his eyes and the concrete occupied the same place at the same time, he found himself in a space quite unlike the one he just left; the buzzing chaos of the top floor was replaced with an almost total silence, broken only by the occasional whisper of the scientists working in one of the many stations. This is the true Site-27, or at least its research wing, home to some of humanity's greatest minds. Like Dr. Spengler right here. Once again, Burrows' body moved out of its own volition, this time approaching one of the scientists. The man couldn't have been much older than twenty five, a tall, bespectacled man in a white coat. Dr. Henry Spengler, twenty six years old. With an IQ of 190, he's one of the smartest people alive on the planet. He could have been anything he wanted, and he chose to work for the Foundation. He sacrificed a career in the limelight of the scientific world in order to work in the shadows, helping mankind defend itself from dangers most of them will never be allowed to know even exist. He is, by all accounts, a good, noble man. In his six years working for the Foundation, he saved the lives of at least fifty of his co-workers in one way or another, and his research into various SCP objects saved countless more. He'll be dead in fifteen minutes. For all of his good intentions and talent, his contributions will ultimately have no lasting effect on the fate of the world, and like Mr. Helms, he is doomed to be forgotten, having squandered his potential. "Squandered his potential? If this man saved even one life, he squandered nothing." If you were someone else, Professor, I might have thought you actually believe that. You know better, however, as do I. Come, one last stop. Downwards again. This time, the professor found himself in a long, grey corridor, lined in both sides by massive steel doors. Site-27's containment area, the heart of the facility. Twenty three Safe level items and seven Euclid level items are stored here. A few of them are of a particular interest to our little expedition. Following the voice, the professor entered one of the cells. Inside was a small, shimmering creature made of what appeared to be multicolored glass. A humming bird. This creature is completely harmless in its current form. It is classified as Euclid, since what makes it dangerous is so incredibly rare. It did not choose to be the way it is, it never wanted to be so dangerous. It is an innocent bystander of its own power. Still, they keep it locked up, just in case. If you think about it, "Just in case" covers about 90% of what the Foundation does. Such a careful organization. So…prepared. Or so they think. A small clink. The door was opened by a large man in uniform. He took a small object from his pocket and laid it on the floor next to the shimmering bird, a metal bullion. Captain Vincent Tallow, vice-head of security. He got tired of working twelve-hour shifts for six days a week for the pay he was getting, so he went looking elsewhere. He found an organization more than willing to pay him what he wanted, an organization you will soon grow much more familiar with. He thinks he'll have enough time to escape. He's wrong. The bird noticed the bullion, and quickly started to suck it dry, as if it was a flower. The glow grew stronger and brighter, quickly becoming blinding. Iridium, its favorite. It will eat and eat until it can eat no more and then, well… Despite himself, the professor spoke up. "The Foundation is prepared to deal with containment breaches. It's what it's here for. You're not going to do anything with that." No more feigned ignorance? Good, it was getting tiresome. No, I agree, one containment breach wouldn't do much. But how about two? The sound of alarms pierced the professor's ears. It came from the next cell over. Five? More alarms, now coming from many more cells. Ten? The cacophony was ear splitting. Thirty? The sound of alarms was now punctuated by screams. The professor looked around him in horror. The creature burned like a miniature sun, and the steel door of its cell was beginning to melt. "You've got to stop this! You have no idea what you're doing! Do you know how much damage this could cause, how many people will die!?" Of course I do, and that is the point of this expedition. People will die because they choose to remain powerless, to restrain their ambitions for power in order to maintain a false sense of safety, of normalcy. So many mindless phenomena like that bird can strike you down without a second thought, without a first. Do you not realize the sort of power you may possess if you only allow yourselves to wield it? I'm destroying Site-27 because I can, because I choose to. When was the last time you made a choice, O5-3, a real choice? When did any of you? The thing knew who he was. It knew all along. "What are you?" O5-3 asked. I am the Flame in the South, the culmination of human ambition and desire. I am the greatest of the four, that which drives forward. I am the Pulse of the World. I am not your enemy, quite the opposite. I will be your savior, if you'll only let me. I will return humanity to its proper place at the top, even if I have to drag it there kicking and screaming. And the way to humanity lies through the Foundation, as we both know. O5-03 had nothing to say to that. I believe I left you with quite a bit to think about. It is time for you to go home. And just like that, O5-3 found himself back at his desk, piles of unfinished paperwork undisturbed. Next to them, the red phone was ringing. He had no illusions about what the call was about.

You know what my favorite part of a roller coaster is? The climb. You're just inching your way up that hill, and you know that the terrible drop is coming soon. Riding with family is even better. I can see the tension building on their faces as you depart from the station. I love the clicky sound it makes as you go up and up and up and… Down… I feel gravity let go as you plunge down the first hill. My hair is in my face, and the skin on my face is stretched back. I open your mouth and let out a big scream, and then pull into a loop - eugh, whats all this in the air? It looks all red… What is this stuff? I don't really care anyways. We're going into the loop! Loops are the best part of any coaster. Especially when you sit in the front row. Man, the dudes in the front row aren't even putting their hands up. Everyone else does, why don't they? The second loop is even better. It has a really sweet banked turn, so you can see everyone on the coaster going nuts. And those guys in the first row are still being sourpusses, not even lifting a hand. They aren't even… They're not cheering or anything. No, that can't be true. It must have been a trick of the light. I'm okay, everyone is okay. People are still yelling with joy, the coaster is still on. Nobody is in danger. I'm okay. Time for the third loop of the ride, the cobra roll… Oh god. I have to get out of here. This isn't fun anymore, I have to get off. I can hear everyone screaming, but nobody is stopping us. Maybe it will stop, maybe it will be okay… Oh god, it's another loop… I can hear the people in the row before me crying. They're holding each other, crying and wailing… I'm not going out that way. I have to get out of this restraint. Why is it so tight? It won't let me off.

Shit. That one almost got me. I'll be fine as long as they keep their distance, though. For now at least. Why? Why the fuck did I have to stumble upon that cave when I was a kid? Why did I go and touch that weird glowing thing? Sure, it was cool at first. Being able to manipulate time? It's the ultimate advantage. At first, I could only slow down little objects, but I got better over time. Soon, I was able to stop things completely in their tracks. Then I could stop bigger things, and more of them at a time. Eventually, I could stop everything- Fuck. That one came from behind. It's okay. Just gotta keep the distance. I'll admit, I abused my powers. I humiliated jerks, teachers, and bad bosses (without giving myself away, of course). I casually strolled into women's locker rooms as they were suspended under the shower heads. I even robbed a bank a few times. I felt like nothing could stop me- Goddammit, was that a sniper? Shit, I need to find a place to hide. I have no idea how long I can keep this up. That's the thing. My powers are apparently only temporary. About a year ago, I lost the ability to control how long time is stopped. Suddenly, I could only hold it for so long, and "so long" has been becoming shorter and shorter every since. Now? I can only stop certain objects again. Sometimes, things around me just slow down or stop at random. I'm losing all my control… …I think they've stopped shooting. Please, god, let them be gone. But one of the worst things isn't even about losing control. In the periods when I froze time, I still aged. I'm seven years older than my big sister. Jesus, all the wasted hours just fucking around… No one else knew about my abilities. I started going a little crazy when my powers began to fade. That, coupled along with my age, made my family want to get help, but I didn't want it. No one would understand, and if word got out I'd probably be kidnapped and locked up in some government lab, too weak to do anything about it. One night, my parents confronted me directly. They said they were taking me to a doctor that instant, for my own good. I was so frustrated that I just froze them in time on the spot. I couldn't get them to move again. I ran away. I felt bad for leaving my sister, but I wasn't going to drag her into this. I decided that I would rob the bank one last time, just to get enough so I could get out of the country. I still had just enough control over my powers to pull it off. I kinda fucked it up, though. The police arrived before I could grabbed enough cash, and this time I could only manipulate their bullets. I can't even believe I got away without any major injury. I hid out in this abandoned building with the money. I stole stuff to make a number of traps I learned about online just in case they found me. Good thing, cause they sure fucking did. The traps bought me time, though, and now I've been on the move for the past few days. Obviously, that wasn't enough to lose them, seeing as how I almost got my brains blown out back there. Oh fuck oh fuck I think I hear them again. Okay, I see a shed. Looks like a safe place to hide. God, I don't even care about this fucking money anymore. I just wish things were normal aga -

This message is to be distributed to all Foundation personnel: In recent weeks, we have lost a lot of good men. To those of you at stationed at Sites far away from their passings, this may come as a surprise, as containment breaches are at a quarterly low. Those of you at the Sites which have lost men know the cause: A mass epidemic of suicides is sweeping the SCP Foundation. Before you panic, know that our top researchers and doctors have determined that this is not any sort of memetic kill hazard unleashed upon the personnel of the Foundation, nor does it have anything to do with the new set of anomalous objects whose exact properties we have yet to classify. Everything is, as of this writing, still locked up nice and tight. Near as we can tell, there are simply a lot of people working for us who have gotten depressed. As such, this notice has been sent to you in the hopes of preventing any more unnecessary losses. It is respectfully asked that you not take any further action until you finish reading. A lot has been made of the suicides of Researcher Kermode and Doctor Shears. They aren't the only two who have chosen to take their lives in these past weeks, but they are the ones whose stories have been spread around the most. Their notes indicated, respectively, that they didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, and that they held far too much responsibility. Our psychological branches have instructed me to not refute these claims; individually, there's a lot that's bigger than us, and it's entirely possible that we may one day screw up. There is really no point in trying to sugar coat reality, even if it is for a good cause. The problem with their arguments is that they don't see any of the good we as the Foundation do. Kermode failed to see himself as a part of something working for the greater benefit of mankind, and Shears, while sidestepping the issue, thought only of the gloom and doom the Foundation could bring upon everyone. In contrast to what those two and many others thought before taking their lives, the situation we are in is possibly one of the best the Foundation has ever seen. We have found a record number of anomalous objects in the past year, gained enough people to more than keep up with our hiring needs, and successfully lowered containment breaches by sixty percent. If we were going to crush the world in our hands, we would have done so by now. The very idea that committing suicide is somehow going to improve our situation is absolutely ludicrous. However, there is, once again, the fact that we simply live in a very, very grim world. It's hard to get through the day living with the knowledge we have. But you all really do need to remember, things simply are not that bad. We are doing the right thing. We are being incredibly successful at it. We are making things better. We are actively saving lives. And we need you to keep your life protected. If you just remember that, we can nip this suicide thing in the bum, and get back to making the world a better place. It's rare for a message from higher up to end this way, but have a nice day. -Sgt. Lee P.

Note: This story is better read after A Day at the Call Center Subject: UI-56 From: Special Agent Laura Stanton, Unusual Incident Unit, Los Angeles Office To: Director McNamara, FBI HQ, Washington D.C Sir, here is the report for the item we recovered in the raid on Uncle Merl's call center. I have no idea who would buy a piece of shit like that, but apparently this guy has customers- that's how we reached him, after all. So, the item: UI-56 is a novelty sword made of cheap, recycled metal (mostly aluminum). According to the box we found it in, it's an "Uncle Merl's Durendal Mark III™". There was a pamphlet in the box with it, with some sort of bullshit about what this thing does. I copied it here: Are you tired of living in a callous, uncaring modern world? Do you wish to return to the old days of chivalry and honor? Now, with the Durendal Mark III™ , Paladin's Delight (Ultra light! With patented Dragon Grip!)", you can! This handy-dandy, multifunctional tool is everything a true knight could ask for! Features include: Defend the meek! With the Durendal Mark III™, no monster is beyond your just might! Guaranteed 100% effectiveness* against all ogres, trolls, orcs, hobgoblins, goblins and unusually large lizards with sharp teeth*! Inspire courage and resolve! With the Durendal Mark III™, every fight becomes an epic last stand! Show your boss you are not going to take his crap anymore, the old fashioned way! Use the included magic words to activate! Impress fair maidens! With the sleek style of the Durendal Mark III™, no comely lass is safe from your rugged, knightly charms! Introduce them to your long, hard length of steel, and watch those chastity belts melt away! Patented Dragon Grip! Forged in the secret mage-fire of Kromdar, this unique hilt allows for maximum swing power without sacrificing any of the reliability or style!** *Disclaimer: Any injuries resulting from incorrect use of the Durendal Mark III™ are under the responsibility of the user only. By opening this box, the user waives any right to sue Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium and releases said company of all liability to his/her's medical expenses. **Replacement hilts are available in gold, silver, black, and hot pink. We tried doing some tests on the thing before the spooks took it away. Didn't manage much, but that's hardly new. We wouln't have gotten anything at all if it wasn't for the volunteers. I'm adding Dr. Charles' and Dr. Demagne's notes from the lab: + Show Test UI-56-1 - Hide Researchers: Dr. Charles (reporting), Dr. Demagne Test subject: Agent Carlson Test: I placed Agent Carlson in a room with an out-of-order vending machine, gave him UI-56 and told him to buy a drink after speaking the "magic words" written on the back of the pamphlet (Latin, "Qui utitur hoc pharse est stultus"). The following result was recorded: Agent Carlson: [inserts coin into the machine] Ah, soon the cool taste of this godly nectar will fill my mouth with heavenly delight! [The machine does not produce the requested drink] Agent Carlson: [visibly upset] What's this!? Ye knavish contraption! You shall dispense my drink forthright, and allow me to taste its frosty secrets, or you shall taste my cold steel! [The threat appears ineffective] Agent Carlson: So, thou wishest to face my might?! So be it, fiend! This shall be our final confrontation, a battle to shake the very foundations of the Earth, that will bring fear to the gods themselves! I will rip the sky asunder, cleave the ancient mountains like cheese paper! You will taste my wrath! Have at ye! [Agent Carlson proceeds to attack the vending machine. UI-56 can't penetrate the vending machine, so he uses it as a blunt instrument. After attacking the machine for thirty minutes without results (other than mild denting), Agent Carlson collapses to the floor, exhausted. Agent Carlson: I… I have failed. My ancestors peer at me from their lordly seats in disapproval and shame. If I cannot have victory, I shall have honorable death! Farewell, my unclaimed drink! My only regret is that I failed to save you from the clutches of this rectangular devil. Loyal sword, serve your master one last time. [Agnet Carlson removes his shirt and attempts to fall on UI-56. UI-56 fails to penetrate Agent Carlson's skin, leaving him unharmed save for minor bruising. Test concluded. Agent Carlson suffers no lasting effects, other than a self-proclaimed desire for "silk pantaloons". My hypothesis is that UI-56 posses mild mind-affecting proportions, causing subjects using it to experience trivial disputes as confrontations of the highest importance. UI-56 also seems to cause subjects to speak in what they perceive as medieval-like language, and makes them cocky too. It's a strange one, no doubt. Dr. Charles + Show Test Log UI-56-2 - Hide Research personnel: Dr. Charles, Dr. Demagne (reporting) Test subjects: Agent Ricks (male), Agent Chan (female) Test: In an attempt to verify UI-56's influence over women, I instructed Agent Ricks (who has a notably poor vocabulary) to hold the sword and speak the words, then introduced him to Agent Chan. The following result was recorded: Agent Ricks: Do my eyes misguide my, or do I see an extra fine maiden in this here chamber? Agent Chan: What is he talking about? Agent Ricks: Come now, don't be shy! Yon bitch knows this knight has all the right gear! Agent Chan: Did you just call me a bitch!? Agent Ricks No need to be upset, my petite kumquat. Come, there is a great water serpent in my breeches, and it requires your attention! [Agent Chan then grappled with Agent Ricks and removed UI-56 from his grasp. She attempted to use UI-56 to harm Agent Ricks in a highly inappropriate manner (in my humble opinion), before security personnel intervened. UI-56 was returned to storage, Agent Chan was reprimanded, and Agent Ricks was escorted to the infirmary] I really don't know what to tell you about this one, Laura. It's a sword that makes you act like a pseudo-medieval asshole, as far as I can tell. Where do you even get this stuff? Dr. Demagne. We also found a coupon with with the pamphlet and UI-56, saying it was for a free tutorial tape. We sent for one and it arrived a few days later, starring no other than two of the clowns we captured during the raid. The spooks came and took that too, but I did manage to write a transcription of it beforehand: + Show Recorded Log - Hide [Camera opens to what appears to be a mail room. A figure enters the frame, wearing long robes, a pointed hat, and a flower-patterned tie. That's Daniel Monroe, though he likes to be called Danerius. He claims to be a Luxomancer, though I have no idea what that's supposed to mean] Dan: Greetings, aspiring knights! Today, I, Danerius the Magnificent, will be your guide to the realm of the arcane! Let us begin. [to someone off-camera] minion, bring forth the Sword! [He's talking to Edmund Sami, a low level manager who works at tech support at Merl's. Strange guy, always wears that mask on his face] Sami: [off-camera] Who the hell are you calling a minion, Dan? I'm technically your superior! Dan: Excuse me for a moment, dear sirs. [walks off-camera] Sami, Mr. Jamu placed me in charge of making the video, obviously because he knows which one of us is the real wizard around here! Sami: Oh, don't you dare! You know the only reason Jamu did that was to spite me! Some cousin, he is. Now get back on camera and let's get this over with! Dan: Not until you admit I'm the the one in charge. Sami: If I do that, you'll never let me hear the end of it. No deal. Dan: Fine, I guess I'll just have to tell Mr. Jamu you're being uncooperative. And that you haven't finished your quarterly performance report, minion. Sami: That's it, you dimwit Luxomancer, your ass is mine! [you can hear a scuffle occurring off-camera] Dan: Not the beard! Not the beard! Sami: Yes the beard! [The camera is knocked over. Video feed stops, audio continues] Dan: Hmm. This didn't go well. Sami: You better not tell Jamu anything about this! Dan: No way! He'll blame me for ruining the tape! Sami: Who the hell cares, Dan? No one is ever going to actually order the bloody thing. Let's just say we're done and get lunch. I think it's pizza day. Dan: Pizza? Endorius take this accursed tape to the leaky Stygian Abyss then. Sami: What? Dan: Fuck it, lets eat. <End Log> Anyway, that's all we have left from the raid. The spooks took everything else. I know I should be angry, but this is far more than we usually get. I wonder why they allowed me to get away with that, I'm sure they knew exactly what I was doing. They always do. Sir, I'm… not sure we did the right thing here. This might sound hypocritical from the one who organized the raid, and I know we don't have the resources to handle this sort of things ourselves, but I still hate doing this. Those people we caught were weird, true, but giving them away to the spooks… You know no one ever comes back once the spooks gets their hands on them. They weren't bad people. They didn't deserve this. But I guess that's just what we do, isn't it. Signing out, Special Agent Stanton. Subject: Re: UI-56 From: Director McNamara, FBI HQ, Washington D.C To: Special Agent Laura Stanton, Unusual Incident Unit, Los Angeles Office Don't rock the boat, kiddo. Just keep your head down and try not to think about it too much. Hang in there, eh? This assignment won't last forever. Soon the entire Huston incident will blow over and we can get you back to the big league. I promised your father I'll get you out of this, and I will. Oh, and try not to swear so much, it looks unprofessional. Director McNamara.

August 12th, 1993 The door buzzer buzzed. “Ah, that must be them now,” Dr. Crow stood up and walked to the door. He always did that: never said "come in", never had anyone else go do it, he always got up and opened the door himself. He wasn't a man to let blindness get him down. “I'm sorry we're late, Dr. Crow,” a woman's voice came from the doorway. The group around the coffee table turned their heads. “Oh no, it's no trouble at all.” Crow turned from the new arrivals to those already gathered around his coffee table, revealing three guests: a woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair in a braid, a rather nondescript middle-aged man in a business suit, and a balding man with a beard and a pink button-down shirt. “Attention, all! These are the three final members of our group: Doctor Sophia Light, Doctor Everett Mann, and Doctor Simon Glass. They are all good friends of mine, and have worked with me many times in the past. Connor, I am sure you have met them before.” The doctor, now out of the hospital, nodded slightly. Crow smiled broadly and walked back to his chair at the unofficial head of the table. He was a man with a friendly smile, frizzy blond hair reminiscent of Einstein, and the quiet, powerful aura of a mafia don. He was, as usual, dressed in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, with his wrap-around sunglasses over his sightless eyes and Kain lying at his feet. Dr. Connor Gerry stood several feet behind Crow's chair like a clothing store mannequin, hands folded behind his back and no trace of emotion on his face. Francis had not known him to be an expressive man before, but now he was simply unsettling. Dr. Crow clapped his hands together. “Now then, I think it's about time to start. Benjamin, if you will, please.” “Mm-hmm. Okay, so. Nemo, Fats and I have gone into the facility three times now, and here's what we have so far.” Ben opened several thick manilla folders one after another, spilling dozens of photographs and sketches across the table. “Turns out the place isn't infinite, but it is big. Really big. The part we ran through last week was just one of the side towers, right here…” he pointed to a sketch of a large cylinder surrounded by eight smaller ones. “Each of the branch towers goes down twenty levels, and is connected the center one every other level. Center one goes down at least forty-five levels. The entire place looks like it's wired and ready to use. It's like if whoever built it just got up and left and took their shit with them.” “If anyone built it,” Nemo interrupted. “Yes, yes, if anyone built it. It's not a normal building, if you hadn't figured that out yet. The exits lead to locations hundreds of miles apart: One door went to the arctic, another opened into a cave, and the buildings on the surface look to be somewhere in Nevada.” “Classic,” Jack said. “Ayup. Watch out for those pesky aliens and their rogue anal probings.” There were a few chuckles, solely from Nemo and Fats. Ben paid the response or lack thereof no mind and continued to speak. “Exploring the place fully will take another week or two, but that's a pretty generous estimate. We weren't able to find the main power station, so it's all in standby mode.” “And the statue?” Dr. Crow said. “Right back where we locked it up: Tower 1, Level 7, Chamber 3.” He pointed to the appropriate spot: The sketches already had designations thought up and filled in. “Good, good…” Crow scratched Kain behind his ears. “Now then, what do you have planned on for your next expedition?” Francis scanned the photos. Dark, empty hallways and dark empty rooms. Despite the fact that the nightmares had dulled in the last few days, the pictures filled him with apprehension: the statue was still there, in that dark. Still watching. Still waiting. No, I'm watching you. The mantra came to his mind automatically now, yanking him back from that precipice. He was the watcher, the statue was the watched. That was the way it was, and how it should be. The statue was just that. A statue that needed storage. What it was capable of was secondary. Merely a statue that needed to be put in the proper place. Dammit stop drifting off… “I say we just destroy the thing and be done with it,” John said. He was one of Connor's assistants, a small, shifty-looking man who seemed to be Bright's long lost little brother, if his surliness was any indication. “And what if you can't?” Sophia said. “What if that only makes it angry?” “If it doesn't work the first time, then you hit it harder the second time.” Really, John? You goddamn idiot… “Not harder. Hit smarter.” Strelnikov this time, another one of Connor's assistants. His accent was quite thick. “To fight directly is stupid. We must get around. Perhaps we find a weakness, eh? Then we strike.” Smart, but off-base. Re-railing this train… “And then we throw it away.” Francis said. “John, I don't know what it is that you actually do or why you're here, but I can tell for sure that you're not a scientist. Sure, we could destroy it, but that gains us nothing. If we can keep it locked up, which apparently we can, then we can watch it. And eventually understand it, which can help us when we deal with things like it in the future.” John sat back in his chair, glaring at Francis. The others seemed to be in agreement: nodded heads and “mm-hmms” throughout the thirteen. It hadn't been much of an argument to begin with. “That said,” Francis continued. “We need support. While it may be locked up now, we've essentially set it up in an empty room, shut the door, and check in on it occasionally. That won't work as a long term containment plan, even if all of us were to be put on the project today, which I'm guessing we will.” Adam smiled, and it was the sort to prelude a polite correction. “Both true and false. I've found that a small group of people in the right place can handle almost anything: It's why I work with all of you in the way I do. While I appreciate your concern for maintaining security of the statue, who would we go to? Would you trust the government to spare us the red tape and help us accomplish anything, rather than taking it all for themselves and bungling the entire thing? Would you trust the public not to go into a panic when they realize that there is a blatant violation of what they thought they knew without an explanation? Any support we'll have will be what we can muster ourselves. There's more brainpower concentrated in this one room than anywhere else on Earth. I'm sure we can make the solutions reveal themselves. "A good house needs a solid foundation, and that foundation is sitting right here at this table. I'm not going to hand off the responsibility of protecting against whatever or whoever is out there to a faceless bureaucracy: this is a job for people I trust. We have our foundation, now we just build the house.”

What can we, as a species, learn about the threat of hostile extraterrestrials from Columbus' discovery of the New World and the subsequent extermination and subjugation of its Native inhabitants? There were many factors behind the colonization of the New World, most of which are readily obvious. From those factors, we can understand what allowed European powers to overtake Native American societies, and how we can prevent hostile extraterrestrials (henceforth referred to as "HE") from doing the same to the human race. The most apparent advantage which Europeans possessed over inhabitants of the New World was much more advanced technology. Europeans had gained gunpowder, powerful navies, propaganda, written records, and countless other inventions during the course of history. On the other side of the Atlantic, complex societies such as the Aztec and Inca empires lacked the wheel, and no way of crossing the Atlantic. Due to this technological gap, European monarchies easily and quickly crushed even the most advanced Native nations. An equal, if not larger, technological gap would likely exist between the human race and any HEs (this, of course, assumes the HE contacts the Earth first, and not vice-versa), as interstellar transport would only be possible with thousands, if not millions of years of technological prowess over humanity. Along with spacecraft, the HEs will likely bring weaponry as of yet not conceived by the human race, medical abilities far beyond our own (to be discussed later), and other inventions we, much like the Native Americans, could not understand at the present date. How, then, are we to respond to HE technology? In the same way many Native societies responded to European technology: adapting to it. Within several generations, the Comanche tribe of the Great Plains had become skilled on horseback, despite never having encountered them before the arrival of settlers. Many tribes learned to use gunpowder and muskets along with traditional bows and arrows. In one notable example, the Cherokee silversmith Sequoyah developed an entire syllabary for his people based on the Roman alphabet, despite being unable to read or write. In the same way, the best hope for humanity would be to gain, either forcefully or through negotiation, HE technology. While early usage of weaponry would be restricted to simply using the weapon until it breaks down or is destroyed, efforts would be made to reverse engineer and recreate the item. In the case of the new technology being an abstract concept (e.g. a new system of writing, new way of government), simple observation and interrogation will help us understand the technology. While technology was a major boon to the European conquest of the New World, the largest killer of Native Americans was European disease. Millions of New World inhabitants died of illnesses such as smallpox, measles, tuberculosis and cholera. At the same time, very few Europeans died of Native American diseases. This was a result of the crowded living conditions in Europe at the time, in which many people were living very close to each other, rarely bathing, and spreading disease. Over centuries, most living in the cities developed genetic immunity to the diseases. When the first colonists reached the New World, the Native Americans were simply unprepared for such powerful, quick diseases, and suffered as a result. Diseases, in the context of pop culture, are often viewed as the quick, easy solution to an alien invasion. One notable example is H.G. Wells' The War of the Worlds, in which bacterial infections kill off the entire invading HE force. Though it makes an excellent deus ex machina, bacterial infections would likely be of little danger to HEs. As it was previously mentioned, Europeans lived in much more dense, crowded cities than Native Americans, and it is just as likely that HEs would live in much more dense, crowded cities than human beings. This, coupled with several thousand to millions of extra years of development would result in far more deadly diseases to which we would have no immunity. Even if the HEs exhibited a crippling weakness to human disease, the advanced medical technology in their possession would quickly solve the problem. All hope, however, would not be lost in such a scenario. Just as many people today fail to receive vaccination against illnesses which are no longer common (foremost among them smallpox), it can be presumed that HEs would have failed to continue immunization efforts against diseases they considered eradicated. By recreating the disease, or at least introducing one very similar to it, a major outbreak could be triggered, much like a smallpox outbreak today. Sabotage of medical equipment and selective assassination of medical professionals would further progress of the disease. On a final note, in the event of contact with HEs, our species will likely be viewed as "lesser", despite any attempts to prove otherwise. Evidence for such an idea is seen in the multitude of explanations given by religious and government officials to justify the extermination and enslavement of Native Americans, among them a lack of a soul, a need to be "civilized", and that the conquest was God's will. HEs will view humans on the whole in the same light, and treat our species as such. We must be prepared for this moral system, and use it to our advantage. In retaliation, we must remember that an overt attack by HEs would not be a war for hearts and minds, but for all out conquest. We must not make the same mistakes made by the Aztecs, Inca, and countless others.

Last week, we lost Researcher Kermode. He hung himself in his office. Didn't even leave a note explaining why. Everyone thinks he broke under stress. Well, this week, we're losing me. And I think you all deserve an explanation as to why. I was working with Kermode on a few projects. We dug up a few… ugly things. Who could have guessed that manuscript would reveal the Foundation going back that far? Or that the fortune teller would show us the possibility of it existing far, far into the future, desperately trying to keep the human race safe even after the apocalypse. Hell, I'll admit I was shaken when we stumbled into the containment chambers even the O5s didn't know about. Kermode killed himself because in light of all of that, all of those grand achievements that the Foundation's done and will do, he felt like nothing. Just a bug crawling across the surface of the planet, searching for a non-existent meaning. At the time, I didn't really get what had shaken him up so badly. Still didn't for the past week or so. But his death got me thinking. I still don't see exactly what's so horrifying about being insignificant; it's something every living creature has to deal with. But our work, and the time I've had to think since his death, that's brought me to another conclusion. I'm not insignificant. I work for the Foundation. Even if I'm only a single unit, I'm still a unit that's working with a million others, working behind the scenes to keep the world safe from impending disaster. We're all part of one great, big machine, designed specifically to keep everyone safe. We here aren't insignificant; we're the most important people on the planet. And that terrifies me. Has anyone really ever realized how many people we protect? How many people whose simple existence relies on us not screwing up? There's seven billion individual walking, thinking, innocent people out there who could die the very instant we make a mistake. Hell, in a few cases, a sizable chunk of the universe is relying on us to play our cards just right. Every last little thing is reliant on us, and we're continually one bad move away from ending it all. And even if we don't screw up, look at all these new threats materializing. We've brought in close to a thousand new objects this year. What was the average beforehand? Twenty? Thirty? Something big is happening. The sheer amount of anomalies popping up tells me that we'll be needing to apply more and more pressure to the world soon. Tightening our defenses, closing up gaps, making every thing safer and safer, always applying more pressure. We're the protectors of the world. We've got the whole planet in our hands, cupping it with a light squeeze to keep it safe. What happens on the day we squeeze a little too hard, and everything implodes? I can't be a part of that. I need to get out, right now. Even the time it would take to apply for an amnestic is too long to live with the knowledge that our only two options are utter failure and destructive success. So that's why I'm relying on a piece of lead in my brain. I've got to go now. Goodbye.

dear diary My name is Lizzy Byrn, and i am 7 years old. My mommy and daddy and me just moved in a new house in a town called Frankinberg. Mommy says that we came here becouse of daddys job and so the baby can have new room. i am excited for the baby. Mommy says his name will be tommy and we will be friends. i hope he will be my friend. Lizzy Dear diary, Today when me and mommy were in the top room of the house i found a teddy bear. when i found him he started to move. he gave me a hug! i took him in my dress and hid him in the toy cabinet. i named him benny. he is my new friend. Lizzy dear diary today my friend jenny came over to play with me. when i showed her benny, she said she thought it was the best toy ever! then benny went over to my crayons and drew a picture of me and jenny holding his hands. it was the cutest thing ever. then mommy came in and saw him, and she started to yell about it being un-natral. so she took him away and made jenny leave. i was sad but then later benny came back! i gave him my biggest hug and made him promise to never leave me dear diar today mommy had to go to the doctor. i dont know why, but daddy and the doctor said mommy will be gone for a long time now. they wont let me see mommy. i dont know where benny is he went away and now i dont know where he went. the doctor said that tommy is gone too. i want to see tommy he was supposed to be my friend all my friends are gone dear diary! today i went outside while daddy was at the bar. i was out by the bench when benny was there! i picked him up and hugged and kissed and told him i loved him. it was happy. and then the best thing ever happened. tommy was there too!!!!! he moved kind of funny and he looked like benny on the outside but i knew it was tommy. i picked them both up and took them to the toy room. tommy is all lumpy and slow, but he plays just the same as benny. i love him. Lizzy dear diary today i saw that daddy was sad so i asked him why he was sad. he said that lizzy you need to stop asking so many god damn questions. i asked him if he missed tommy and he didnt say anything. so i went and showed him tommy. daddy went all weird and ran into the kitchen. he wouldnt stop crying and crying and crying. i told him that me and tommy loved him forever. he told me to go. i went to my room and held tommy for a long long time. Lizzy DEAR DIARY Tody i found a new friend. his name is davey and he will be my friend forever. he is made of daddy. i dont know where daddy is but he didnt love me as much as me and tommy loved him i thought daddy loved me he told me he hated me. i dont go in the house anymore. i stay with benny. he brings me and tommy food and we have all the love we need we are a family together with love. nobody can take it away.

☦A story about Tabula Rasa.☦ I knew mommy never loved me. That is, I am droplets, connected, separated multiplying In a way, I knew from my first splitting never loved will never be loved mommy I buried myself in you and grew from your blood. Before my heart beat yours beat for me. Your flesh encased me, enclosed me. I dreamed mud, multiplying sea, gathering scales, flickering air, breathing limbs, crawling jumping running hiding praying prayer mommy my mommy I pray for you and yet you pray my end Outside of my sheath, I can hear it. I hear Mommy, though my bulging eyes see nothing and I have nothing to move with. The liquid, Mommy's water, warm that warms me. Around me, churning, throbbing. Inside me, same throbbing, but different pace. Even now, I feel it. Different, our pace of heart. Yours, impossible to understand. Mine, seeking your understanding. Do you feel it, the life within? Do you name me? Any name, your choice, every choice is yours, beloved Creator, Mommy, I will accept and cherish that blessing. even if it is to deliver to a world without Kind Men Every day, your body feeds me bits of your self. I grow, healthy, in the warm water, Mommy's water. You feed me your body, give me your body. In a dream, I bit and chewed. Even if your spirit fails, your body gives- I will bite and chew it out. Mommy's heart, impossible to understand but always close to mine, seeking understanding. The water is warm. Your body feeds me, your heart lulls me. Feed me your body, all of it if you need, I will grow in Mommy's water, Her heart, I will eat that too. Feed me everything, Mommy, I will accept and cherish that blessing. If you do not give your body, I will take it, bite it out and chew the flesh- I will accept and cherish that blessing. Within the warm fluid, I dream and split and multiply further. Mommy is my lullaby and She is my food and She is my home and She is mine. All of Mommy is mine, this blessing I accept and cherish. I grow. Mommy's body gives food, how I know when a day arrives and leaves. This day was a special day, mommy filled Her body full. Through Her body, there was a sweetness of the food she gave, sugar. A stream of sweets in my mouth and body, I will accept and cherish that blessing. The sugar replaced with a warmth that spreads from Her body to mine. Is it Mommy's love, that doing word? So full, swollen with bourbon, happiness. The body given to me, swollen, sugar and bourbon. I will bite and chew, I will accept and cherish- her Heart, impossible to understand. The body given is warm in me, the bourbon is warm like the water around me. It feels good. More bourbon, swelling even more. There's muffled noise above me, words of Mommy. They are the same noise, over and over again. The bourbon didn't work Mommy, don't cry, love me Mommy I dreamed… What are you DOING stop WHY please stopit letmego STOP IT PLEASE The world is smaller than my dreams. Mommy grips my flesh in her hands; it's so red. Is it your flesh or mine? I move to Mommy and she lets go to cover her open mouth with her bloody hands. I can still hear her scream The edge of the world is flat and I land on it with a sound between squish and thump. Mommy can you not even touch me? I had eaten your flesh for so long and you cannot bear for me to look at you? Mommy please hold me, please hold me, just like that, pick me up again. Maybe it was a mistake she did this on purpose I'll forgive you it is unforgivable just say you're sorry she never will put me back I can make it possible Your face is turned from me as you walk, arms outstretched. I try to hold you, my arms so small, your arms so big. Then you let go and there was another hole, I splashed into water so cold. The world spun and there is splashing and screaming not even the metal wants me the new Mommy pulled me inside of Her. This Mommy is not warm, the water is thick and cold and brown. There is nothing to feed here; this isn't Mommy for me. Mommy will stay with me, I will make it happen. Mommy will come through the hole with me, I pull Her and the pipes groan from Her body. My hands will hold Her with me. Mommy is my lullaby and She is my food and She is my home and She is mine. All of Mommy is mine, this blessing I accept and cherish. Feed me everything, I will accept your flesh until you're bones, I will accept and accept every blessing, every bite. Mommy has given me the world and I will show it everything. I will accept and cherish that blessing. I understand now, Mommy's heart I always understood.

August 7th, 1993 Francis played Mingus in his head, trying to drown out the memories that lurked in his leaden mind. He wanted to be able to go to sleep and wake up and have it all be a dream. Just a nightmare. Maybe his whole life up to now was a dream, and he would wake up as a child again, and toddle down the hall to his parent's bedroom. Dream or no, the saxophone sang out in his head, and as it tried to soothe him he hoped and prayed someone else would do something about this. Call the police, call the military, call anyone. Call for someone else. Someone who wasn't him. Someone take this off of his hands and let him sleep… No, no…sleep wasn't an option. Anything but sleep. The face still burned in his mind: it hovered there every time he closed his eyes for longer than a moment, staring at him with blank, concrete and spray-paint eyes. Taunting him. Daring him. Mocking him. You blinked. Francis shot awake, shaking. There had been a snap. He was sure he had heard a snap. It was still ringing in his ears. No, no snap. Everyone was still there. Heads attached to necks attached to shoulders. Not popped off like the cork in a bottle of champagne. Four of them sitting around a worn and stained coffee table in Adam's worn and stained apartment. Jack was there, and Agatha, and Adam was on the phone. “You all right?” Jack asked. What was that, his fifth cup of coffee? While the bags around his eyes were nothing new, it seemed that now they were even more pronounced and dark. He almost looked like a raccoon. A scraggly, slightly overweight and rather curmudgeonly raccoon. “Yeah…yeah…I'm fine.” Francis sat up straight, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Jack shrugged, and if anyone had taken any extra notice, they did not show it: the circle was, to the man, ragged, and red-eyed. Francis glanced at his watch and counted the hours again: fifty-six since he had last slept. That was before they had found it. Before they found the statue. He tried bringing up Mingus again. The sweet tones held out for only a few seconds bit before wobbling. Someone's voice dribbled in through the dying notes, followed by the click of a hung phone receiver. No escape from this dream, then. Adam walked back into the room, golden retriever padding at his heels. He sat back down in his chair as naturally as a man who could still see it. As comfortable as a king on his throne, as he always was. “Is there any more news about Connor?” Agatha spoke for the first time in hours. The worry in her voice was evident, no matter how much she tried to cover it up. Everyone else was worried, of course, but no one as much as Agatha. Connor was an old friend, a mentor, and possibly a lover, if rumors were to be believed. Francis didn't particularly care at this point. Did who was bedding who even matter when a statue could move? “John and Dmitri are with him now. He's conscious and talking,” Adam said, folding his hands. “And the doctors say he'll make a full physical recovery.” A “That's good” was ready on Agatha's lips as Adam shook his head. “He'll recover, but only physically. Mentally…he's like a machine now. John says he barely speaks more than a word at a time. Mostly yes or no. Shaved off all of his hair and claimed it was “unnecessary”. The memories are all there, but it's not him. Not really.” Adam scratched Kain behind his ears. “I'm sorry.” Silence passed briefly, before Agatha excused herself, holding back sobs. “Sorry?” Jack said as the bedroom door slammed. “You saved his life.” “My best friend now thinks he's a robot because he got jumped by a statue that kills people. That's not much of a life, Jack." He slumped down in his chair, looking defeated. Kain licked his hand. “Not much of a life at all. I was too slow.” Jack set down his coffee. His raccoon eyes were, for once, not angry. Not kind either, but not angry. “Calm down, man. It's not the time for another breakdown.” The phone rang again. “I'll get it.” Francis stood up and shuffled over to the kitchen area. “Need some more coffee anyway.” It was a lie and a truth. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but he couldn't. Wouldn't. Wouldn't couldn't shouldn't and shan't. Who was he kidding? He held the receiver up to his ear. “Crow residence, Francis speaking," he croaked. “Frankie, dude, you have got to come see this. This place is amazing.” “Ben? What are you…what place?” “The place we found the statue, dipshit!” Francis was sure his heart stopped. It had to have stopped. “You went back?” “Yeah, with Nemo and Fats. Do you know how far this goes? We only ran through like, some storage areas or some shit when it was chasing us. This place goes on for miles! It's gigantic!” “Ben, listen to me. Get out of there. We found that thing in there already, and who knows what else is in there, and it's still in there.” “But we locked it up.” “Yes, but…” “No buts, man. This place is a ghost town. Totally empty. Statue hasn't moved. Lock the door and it doesn't bother no-one so long as you don't go looking at it.” Francis didn't respond. Dammit, Ben. You had to go back. Probably wanted some photographs or something, like those tourists in Pisa when they pretend to hold up the tower. You'd take that fake katana of yours and pretend to kill a monster. “Hey, Frankie, still there?” Francis groaned. He hung up the phone without answering. Stumbling back into the living area was more of a daze than before. They went back. Why would they go back? To prove something? Sheer stupidity? Or to see the statue again? Why? Why was any of this happening? He felt a wave of exhaustion fill his body like water in a glass. Whatever fumes he had been running on, they were out. He could practically feel his brain giving up and shutting down. Or was that his imagination? So tired… Francis collapsed in his chair. “It's Ben,” he managed to say as his eyes slammed shut. He could dimly hear the ringing fade off as the face appeared. It had been waiting for him. Waiting for him to blink, just like Kayla blinked. His consciousness faded swiftly, clawing on to the encroaching dream for a few more moments. Blink No… Close your eyes No…I won't blink… won't sleep Sleep. Let all things be undone. No. No no no no no no NO I'm not blinking, motherfucker. I'm watching you.

CAPTION THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN REDACTED BY THE FOUNDATION ETHICS COMITTEE AND BY THE COGNITOHAZARD DEPARTMENT. REDACTED MATERIAL AVAILABLE ON LEVEL 5 CERTIFICATION. SECURE - CONTAIN - PROTECT FADE IN and PAN over a cluttered studio environment, styled as a more colorful and children-oriented version of a scientific research laboratory. Desks crowded with colorful bottles, prop machines and scientific measuring devices, and parts of animals preserved in jars surround an open stage. The walls and floor are heavily graffitied, and two sections of the wall graffiti have been digitally blurred. PRESENTER #1 enters excitedly. He is a light-skinned man on his early twenties, wearing a purple lab coat over jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt, as well as a top hat. PRESENTER #1 Hello, boys and girls! Who's ready to learn some science with… Doctor Wondertainment? The INTRODUCTION plays. It is a collage of various science-related stock photos and diagrams, set to a pseudo-zydeco soundtrack. The only lyrics are "Doctor Wondertainment". BACK ON SCENE: PRESENTER #2, a dark-skinned man of indeterminate age, is already on scene as it switches back. He is wearing loose basketball-themed gear under a blue lab coat and shutter shades. PRESENTER #1 is not to be seen. PRESENTER #2 Welcome to the land of Science, boys and girls! I am Doctor Wondertainment, and today we will learn about… evolution! CAPTION: EVOLUTION Slide whistle plays, then spring noise. BACK ON SCENE. PRESENTER #2 Evolution is how every living thing that exists today… can be descended from the same creature! The following is a voice-over while a montage of animals, loosely ordered from primitive fish to amphibians, dinosaurs, mammals and primates plays. PRESENTER #2 VOICE-OVER Evolution in nature happens over many millions of years, as animals are born slightly different from their parents in each generation. BACK ON SCENE. PRESENTER #2 But Doctor Wondertainment can demonstrate evolution before your very eyes! Let's give a big hand to… Mr. Headless! APPLAUSE. A headless man in a purple jumpsuit wheels a device into the scene. It is a cabin the size of a single person, covered in garish piping and independently spinning gears. PRESENTER #2 This… is the Super Science Evolution Kit! We'll be showing what it can do, after the break! ADVERTISING BREAK. Previous frame of Mr. Headless in front of the device frozen. Text on screen has been covered by black bars. NARRATOR Dr. Wondertainment's Super Science Evolution Kit and Dr. Wondertainment's Mr. Headless are available on select locations now! Call [7 seconds of electronic beep] BACK ON SCENE. PRESENTER #3, a blonde woman possibly on her late twenties but made up to appear much younger, is the only one on stage. She's wearing a green lab coat over a pink tank top and shorts. PRESENTER #3 Welcome back, boys and girls! For those of you that just tuned in, I'm Doctor Wondertainment, and it's time… to do science! MISTER HEADLESS walks back into the scene, carrying an adult orange-black tabby cat. The cat is placed in the cabin and a clear plastic door is closed in front of it. PRESENTER #3 Aw, isn't he cute? Just what creature was our kitty's great-grandfather? Let's find out! Science it up, boys! The camera zooms closer to the device as it comes alive. The gears spin more quickly, lights blink and fog rises from the ground. The form inside is indistinct for a few seconds, after which the door opens and a large, fanged SMILODON jumps out. PRESENTER #3 moves to pet the large cat. PRESENTER #3 That's right! Cats were once very big, with huge saber teeth! But he's still such a honey, aren't you? The video appears to skip. When it's back, the previous cat is in the cabin. PRESENTER #3 We've seen our kitty's past. But… what is his future? Let's put some science into it! The cabin operates in a similar manner to the first time. This time, the cat appears unchanged. As the camera pans around to follow the cat, one of the CAMERAMEN is briefly visible. He, or she, is concealed by a full hazmat suit. PRESENTER #3 Aw, he looks the same! Come here, kitty, let me take a look at… BOO! The cat quickly inflates into a near-spherical furry balloon with a distinct POP. PRESENTER #3 That's right, it's Doctor Wondertainment's very own Puffer-Kitten! So cute and so cuddly. The future of pets, today! More after the break! ADVERTISING BREAK. Montage shot of the puffed kittens and proto-cat over a colorful background. Text on screen has been redacted off. NARRATOR Dr. Wondertainment's Pufferkittens and Dr. Wondertainment's Smiley the Smilodon could be in your house tonight! Call [6 seconds of electronic beep] BACK ON SCENE. PRESENTER #4 is now on stage. His/her face has been blurred out digitally, and his/her voice is similarly distorted. Only the clothes are clearly visible, a yellow lab coat over a full-body black latex suit. PRESENTER #4 Welcome back, boys and girls! Doctor Wondertainment will now show you, what does evolution have in wait… for humans? Do we have a member of the audience willing to volunteer? The camera spins around to focus on the AUDIENCE for the first time. It is composed entirely of dummies used in car crash testing, each one wearing a different kind of mask. Theatrical masks, protective sports masks, welding masks and gas masks are all visible. PRESENTER #4 No one? Very well, we are prepared for that. Mister Headless? MISTER HEADLESS comes in, carrying a conscious but drugged FEMALE probably in her late teens. APPLAUSE as she is placed into the cabin. PRESENTER #4 Now, boys and girls… Let us do science. The cabin operates as it did previously. The form walking out of it is shrouded by fog for a moment. PRESENTER #4 Yes. Yes indeed. And here it is… The FEMALE emerges from the fog. Her hair is bright pink, her eyes are shimmering gray-green, and feathered wings sprout from her spine with each step. She is clothed in a rippling, rapidly shifting fabric that appears self-willed. The video starts glitching as she moves forward. A screech is heard as the camera falls over. ADVERTISING BREAK. Black screen captioned REDACTED for the next 30 seconds. NARRATOR Dr. Wondertainment's [8 seconds of electronic beep] are waiting for you! Call [12 seconds of electronic beep] CAPTION: NEXT EPISODE VOICE-OVER This is it for today, but next week Dr. Wondertainment will have a very special guest! The Doctor presents… Bobble the Clown! SCENE SWITCHES to BOBBLE THE CLOWN staring at the camera with a knife on one hand and guts pulled out of an off-camera animal on the other. BOBBLE THE CLOWN HI, KIDS! WHO'S READY TO DO SOME FUCKING SCIENCE? Black screen captioned REDACTED and electronic beep for the next six minutes, then black.

Document 144b-O5-EO was discovered in █████, ████████ on ██/██/████, following an experiment with SCP-███ to investigate nearby ██████████████. Refer to Document 144a-O5-EO for full recovery report. Hello world. Goodbye world. I'm writing this now, before it's too late. Turns out a good, thick layer of SCP-███ (and a few other precautions) can slow down… Whatever they're doing to us. It's already hard to remember, though, but putting this on paper helps a bit. Keeps me from losing my train of thought again. It's a little like being detailed on SCP-… Well, I don't remember which one it was, but you know. That one you can't remember. I think. It started about two years ago, in the fall. We thought it was the GOC, maybe even those stupid CI bastards making a move on us. The damn skips were going missing left and right all of a sudden, and it was scaring hell out of O5, because people barely remembered we'd had 'em a few weeks after they'd disappear. There was a bunch of new regs we had to follow, stuff to help catch benders and detect reality shifts I guess, but nothing came up. But then someone remembered 1050 and its damn predictions. About six months back, we'd damn near shit ourselves worrying about the arrival of "the Destroyers", but gradually stopped worrying about it after that mess over in Uganda, figured that was what the prediction was about. Heck, we even patted ourselves on the back about how we'd contained it with "acceptable losses" and kept it from getting near XK. Turns out we were wrong. Uganda had nothing to do with the event timer, as far as I can guess. We let our guard down… And then it all started. Or stopped. Or whatever. If you ask me what the Destroyers are, let me just tell you: I have no idea. Maybe I did a few months ago. Maybe I didn't. But all those nightmare stories on SCP-████… Those weren't about the Destroyers. Not really, anyway. It was just memories and fragments of whatever was before. Stories about black claws, dark souls from beyond the cosmos and fire and blood? We hear those every day over lunch in the cafeteria about what we did on our morning shifts. That doesn't scare anyone very much, not at the Foundation. No, whatever the Destroyers are, they're a lot worse than that, in the same way that having your soul stolen by Cthulhu is worse than dying. Death is a little scary, but compared to a timeless eternity in a mad hellscape, I'd pick death every time. I'm not sure what the right words are for what happened to us, but I remember once in my one semester of community college, some professor was talking about Jung's archetypes. He didn't say too much about them, but it got me interested enough to check a few books out of the library. I guess I've still got them somewhere, because I dropped out a week later and never bothered to return them. Anyway, I had plenty of time to read them on my way to Argentina in the Marine Corps, so I did. Turns out that we've all got these shapes in our head of the way things are, like creation myths, your mom and dad as these wise and magical figures, heroes and villains… And the Shadow. Those things always scared the hell out of me, in a way, because it sounded too much like the skips that I deal with; these weird things that sound like they were dredged out of the dark places in our minds, the "collective unconscious" as Jung called it. And the Shadow. Man, let me tell you, I'm not afraid to say that that one always kind of freaked me out. It's like Jung just waved his hand and said "Okay, and here's all the bad stuff. It's meaninglessness, emptiness and seeing it makes you want to be dead, because it's better than being alive in the shadows.". Damn if that doesn't sound like what I'm seeing out there. Let me also just say, I really believe in what we're doing in the Foundation. I like even more that, outside of preventing the Apocalypse, we sometimes manage to improve the world a little bit with some of the technology, medicine and ideas we derive from studying these fucking insane things. I don't know how much of this is true, but some of the senior lab rats have told me that we've leaked tech to tons of industries, and that we're probably fifty years ahead of where we'd be without the skips. It's nice knowing that we've improved the world in so many ways, you know? Makes it a little easier to get through a day of D-Class testing, and makes you feel a bit like the skips are just parts of something larger, part of the magic (Heh, the docs would kill me if they heard me use that word) that makes the world go 'round. But these things, whatever they are, they're the opposite of that. They're the end of the magic, the dying of the soul or whatever really makes us human. You want to know what they look like? Just look in the eyes of an Auschwitz survivor, or a kid that watched his parents hacked to death in the Rwandan genocide. Those are eyes with something just …gone… from them. And now that's what the world is. We're all still here, and the world's still spinning, but something's missing. We are, for one. Most of the Foundation has just up and disappeared, day by day, rooms and sites and people just not here anymore. I saw Dr. █ ████ at the bar the other day in ██████, but he's apparently a mid-level university professor now, and he had no idea who I was. Looked dead inside, too, like the only thing he was worried about was tenure and bills, not like the man I'd known and looked up to, and occasionally stole my sandwiches from the breakroom fridge. So here we are. Only a few pieces of Site ██ are left, and only a couple of the skips. Oh, and -███ is here, but he's different, too. He's dying, and I think when he's gone, the rest of the site will be, too. I think he's protecting us, but it's killing him. That's something I was thinking about, that the reality benders are like… Not exactly the opposite of the Destroyers, but like the shadows cast from their light, I guess? But anyway, I'm in the room here with him, watching him sleep. His breathing doesn't sound good, and I don't think I've got long to finish this. So let me just say this, before I do something crazy to try and preserve this letter. The Destroyers don't care about us, about humanity. They care about what we could become. They don't kill us, but they take away what it means to be alive. The stories are gone now; you know all the hollow shit on the radio, on TV, in the movies? That's all we've got left. Dead stories. I tried to remember what music sounded like before they came, what it was like to go to a show on Saturday night on the silver screen. It's like only seeing in black and white when you remember color. It's like going tone-deaf after hearing Beethoven. All the life and the soul are gone, all the magic is washed out, and I don't think they're done yet. They came to a world full of amazing, thriving humanity, and they're going to leave behind a bunch of scared, over-evolved monkeys. It's going to be the Dark Ages all over again, and after I seal this thing up with -00█, I'm going to finish my bottle of whiskey and put a bullet in my head. I can't live like this, living in the Shadow of what we used to be. Goodbye. -Agent █████

<< Act I, Scene III: Soliloquy Light streamed into the room through two windows, and the Original awoke. "You see me," the Intruder said. "The rest of them cannot see unless I show myself to them. But you…" "Know you," the Original said. "I am built to know. I am built to see. I am. Where is my Maker?" "The good doctor works elsewhere now. Reassigned." "My siblings?" For the first time in many millenia, the Intruder was afraid to respond. "They are no more." The other being thought for a moment. "I know. I…I'm not sure why I asked. I saw what happened as soon as I awoke." WHAT WAS SEEN WAS ten rows of ten columns in beds/and from the next room a voice said/"Congrats, Doctor Crow/You've done a good show/But ninety-nine total are dead WHAT IS LEFT "You perceive the world in a way—" "—'in a way unlike any being I have ever seen. You fascinate me. How this would could create an organism like you is beyond me-' and then I can't hear any more," Olympia said. "I see you now, and I see you before, and I see you soon. You are outside of time. I am outside of you. But still…attached to this place." The Intruder was…frightened, in a way. "My point stands. You possess precognition. You can see many paths of time, many choices. No human can do this. But a human built you." "A dog built me," the Original said. "The humanity left him. As he left me." WHAT WAS KNOWN WAS Dog-doc saw the dead/horrified at his mistake/put the first on ice WHY AM I HERE "Your thoughts are jumbled. You are insane," the Intruder said. "You were exposed to something you should not have been. Your siblings were as well, but they did not have the same…attributes that you did. They succumbed to total psychosis and died." "Telekill," the Original said. "Telekill equipment, at least," the Intruder said. "Telekill was originally included in your physical matrix, but Professor Crow removed it before production went online. Your original form contained significant amounts of it—" "'Further testing has revealed that the language and communication skills of persons with regular contact or extended exposure to SCP-148 will, over time, deteriorate and disappear.' This has not happened to me." The Original saw the file, saw the words, saw the author of the words, saw the author of the words dying sixteen years from now. "Many things happened. You were transferred to another body. But there was damage, damage to your memory, damage to your personality. It was not believed you would survive." "I cannot die," the Original said. The Intruder nodded. "You realize this, then. Professor Crow theorized it, but I did not know if you would understand." WHAT WAS UNDERSTOOD WAS This is just to say/I have eaten the plums/that were in/the containment chamber/and which/you were probably/securing/for the O5 council/forgive me/forgive me/forgive me WHY SHOULD I "You are doing this to me," the being known as Olympia Zero said. "Not per se," the Intruder replied. "I exist across multiple realities, in multiple times, in many places. You can perceive these realities, and being in my presence is exacerbating your schizophrenia. You will have greater control over it when I have left, and after I leave, you will never see me again." "What is your purpose?" Olympia asked. "A question I have asked myself many times, but which has no bearing at the moment. You were built to assist the Foundation. There is an opportunity now to do so, a mission nobody else is capable of completing. After it is finished, you are free to do whatever you want, go wherever you like. If you wish to avoid the Foundation, it is doubtful they will have any way of finding you anyway, but I will protect you if necessary. That is the payment for your services." "And if I say no?" Olympia replied. The Intruder was silent. "Then I will not leave." "Ever?" Olympia asked. "It seems you would have to wait some time. Eternity, I understand, is somewhat lengthy." "You would be irreparably insane within two hours of continued exposure to me," the Intruder replied. "I am free for two hours." Olympia could not think clearly, but understood there was little choice. "I accept. What is the mission?" "A short trip, followed by a shorter trip in a different direction. I will take you there." A moment passed, and the room was empty. Light streamed in from windows on all sides, and the Wayward Prince was bored. "What is next on the agenda?" Milephanes asked. "Several new victories in the Province of Deserts, First," his strategic counselor said. "Significant victories?" "The current state of military balance makes it difficult to establish a precise system by which a single victory can alter—" "So no, in short," Milephanes said. His counselor shook his head. A long pause, then. Milephanes looked at his surroundings. This was more than he could have really dreamed of, when he began his endeavor. Certainly, he had thought that victory was possible, or he wouldn't have begun this war. But this was the Chancellor's Hall. The top floor of the Great Tower. Significant parts of the city (town, really) of Alexandria were visible from the windows. This was the tallest building in Sylvanos, far and away; not that that was a terribly impressive statement to make about a backwoods province. Even the University here was impressive only by provincial standards; larger, better facilities existed elsewhere in Novomundus, just as even better facilities perhaps existed once in the Old World. Milephanes' gaze darted to the Natural Philosophy building. We have one advantage, he thought. "We have, however, captured certain prisoners, First," the counselor said. Milephanes hated his title. Primaparibus, he called himself in the Old Tongue. First among equals. It was so egalitarian. It had appealed to his sensibilities at the beginning of this war. He was a very different person, now. "What are we to do with them?" "Secure oaths of loyalty to our cause. I'm sure many of them have longed for freedom in a changed world. Give them the opportunity to make that change. Those that are resistant may be imprisoned until our victory." "Very good, sir. Scribus, if you would be so kind as—" "Yes, yes, I know," the stenographer said. "I'll go get some water." "Thank you, Scribus." The counselor watched the other man leave the room. "Milephanes, are you sure about him?" "Not him in particular, not terribly," the rebel replied. "His attitude has worsened significantly in recent days. We could potentially replace him." "I mean, recording these meetings. And all of the others. Is it really necessary? Especially in light of…these water breaks?" "It is important to preserve the historical record," Milephanes recited. "When we are victorious, it will serve to remind all the people of the sacrifices, the decisions, the deliberations that went into their new nation. It will inspire them to maintain the traditions of freedom, of honesty, of morality, that we are fighting for." "What are we to do with the prisoners in Desertum? "Figure out which ones have useful information and rip it out of them. Give them the Masala afterward." The counselor wrote this down. Within hours, when the message had been conveyed to Milephanes' troops, sixteen prisoners would be put into a device that ripped their memories out through the microchips in their heads. Afterwards, the record would read that all of the prisoners had cut their own throats out of a misguided sense of loyalty to their previous commanders. No questions would be asked. "What other business should we discuss while the eyes of history are blinking?" Milephanes asked, unsmiling. "Rumors abound among the people. They say the government is massing troops, Legionnaires and hardened Integrators alike, to the north. They say that Anaxagoras is somewhere in Alexandria, fomenting a counterrevolution, spreading lies. They say our war will soon be lost." Milephanes thought. There were always rumors, but there was some possibility of truth there. The stalemate had been going on for too long. An attack was inevitable. Their first strike had turned thousands of Integrators to their cause, seized four whole provinces in two day, disrupted Novomundan communications, and turned their cause from a backwoods protest from a spoiled nobleman into a real revolution. And some very real dissent against the government had pushed them along. But one side could only keep the momentum for so long. Milephanes was hoping his next initiative would begin the end of the war, but if the government attacked too soon, there was real danger of defeat. And Milephanes completely believed sneaking into enemy territory as exactly the sort of thing that fool Anaxagoras would do. "Redouble scouting efforts. If the former chancellor is really walking around his old kingdom, I want him found. And I want anyone working with him found. I'll reprogram the microchip in his head myself. I'll have him singing my praises right before he cuts his own friends' throats in front of one another. I want that dogfucker back in this office by the end of the week, do you hear me!" Milephanes was shouting now. The counselor had grown used to these tantrums in recent weeks. "If you are interested," he said dispassionately, "we recovered another book today from the Natural Philosophy…experiments." Milephanes perked up. The "experiments" were occurring on their own now, opening portals between this world and the other at least daily. Milephanes had Integrators trained in recovery out all over Sylvanos, hoping to secure some advantage from the other side. Most of what had come through were trinkets, incompatible technology, minor artifacts. "What is this?" he asked. "A text produced by that organization over there. You know the one. The Base?" "Foundation," Milephanes corrected. "What Foundation text is this?" The counselor looked at his paper. "The title translated to 'Guide to the Procurement of Humint in Questioning.' We could not discern what 'humint' was, but it appears to be a concept involving torture or interrogation. Several…interesting techniques are used over there. All crude physical methods for obtaining information, but quite creative ones." "Yes," Milephanes said, "they are creative. I always admired them for that." "Admired, First?" the counselor said. "Is that why you sent that…thing to them?" Milephanes shrugged. "It was early in the war. I was afraid the government was in alliance with those Foundation people. I sent them a distraction. Would I do it now? Of course not. But if Anesidora functions as predicted, that world will not be interacting with ours for a long time." "This is true, First," the counselor said, as the Scribus returned into the room. "That break was satisfactory, sir?" he said. Milephanes nodded. "I am satisfied," he replied. "Let us continue." Act II, Scene I: Repel >> Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub

It was Agent Johnson's first day on the field. He was given patrol duty, nothing dangerous, but he was still extremely nervous about the entire affair. What if he wasn't ready, he asked the commander, what if he screws things up? Commander said he shouldn't worry, that they're putting him under the supervision of one of their best. “You Johnson?” A voice came from a shiny black Dodge Charger that parked next to the bench Johnson was sitting on. Johnson nodded. “Hop in.” The driver was a middle aged, solidly built man in a wrinkled grey suit and a terrible green tie. Johnson didn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. “Agent Cohen, I presume?” “The one and only. So, you're the rookie they want me to babysit? No, don't answer that, of course you are. Is this your first time on the streets?” “Yeah, sorry.” “Nothing to be sorry about, we all got to start somewhere, eh? Be a good kid and hand me a cigarette from that pack in the glove compartment. Take one for yourself, too.” “No thanks, I don't smoke.” Cohen gave him an incredulous look. “A field agent not smoking? That's a first. Well, to each his own, I suppose.” For some reason, Johnson felt the need to explain himself. “It's just that, the wife doesn't like me smoking, she says it stinks up the house.” He didn't add that he didn't much care for the smell himself. Cohen nodded, giving him an empathic grin. “Women. Can't live with them.” “Can't live without them?” Cohen started the engine, and the Charger grumbled to life. “Your words, not mine.” Agent Johnson didn't know what to make of this scruffy man, and Cohen didn't seem to be the type to start a conversation. So, Johnston decided to take the initiative. “Say, Cohen, how did you start your career here?" He said, just trying to make conversation, "They recruited me straight out of the academy.” Johnson was proud of that; he was first in his class. “Argentina, 1955.” Johnson blinked. “Wait, twenty years ago, Argentina-” He suddenly went pale. “Your first case was the Maker of Chains!? Jesus Christ, Cohen!” Cohen just kept on driving, making several questionably legal maneuverings to get ahead in traffic. “Funny thing is, I wasn't even a part of the Foundation back then. I just happened to come across the Maker while I was handling my own business.” “What business?” “Hunting.” “I didn't know Argentina was a popular hunting ground.” “Not for animals, it wasn't. C'mon kid, you look bright enough, do the math. I was a young, Jewish man hunting in Argentina in the 50's. What do you think I was hunting?” “Oh. Were you in- Oh. I'm so sorry.” “Yeah, so am I. I was the only one left of my family. From a town of almost a thousand, less than fifty survived. I had nothing left in the world. Nothing but vengeance. I spent the first ten years after the war making life miserable for the monsters that took my family from me.” "You are being awfully open about this, Cohen. Doing what you did wasn't exactly legal." Cohen narrowed his eyes. "You think I care? I'd launch a fucking parade declaring I did it if I could, and to hell the consequences. Some people might tell you revenge is an empty emotion, that you get no satisfaction from it. Those people obviously never did what I did. Revenge is fucking fantastic." Seeing the expression on his face, Johnson knew it would be unwise to pursue this line of conversation any further. “So, you were in Argentina hunting…” he continued. The older man seemed to relax a bit. “Henrich Krause. He was a small fry, a petty piece of scum compared to some of the others I got. He used to command the confiscation of Jewish property in some parts of Hungary. A death clerk. I didn't care. I wanted to end him, slowly and painfully. The Maker got to him first.” “Can you tell me what happened there? They wouldn't tell us much at orientation, just that it was nasty.” “Krause was living in a small village about an hour's drive from Buenos Aires. My sources told me he started a new life there, living under a pseudonym. He even had a new family to replace the one he left in Germany when he fled. A real piece of work, that guy was. It was late at night when I got to Fin del Camino de la Aldea. It wasn't hard telling which house was his- it was the only one with a welcome sign in German. The bastard must have thought he was completely safe. How wrong he was.” Cohen parked the car in front of a greasy spoon diner, but made no move to exit the car. He took another smoke, fumbling with the car lighter. Nearly burning himself, he finally managed to get it lit, and took a long draw. He went on: “I could tell something was wrong the moment I stepped on his perfect front lawn. The door was open, but there were no lights inside. I thought someone could have gotten to him first, maybe some of those Mossad boys I've been hearing about, but for some reason I didn't think that was the case. Something was rotten here. Drawing my gun, I got in. Krause must have had some obsession with clocks, because the place was full of them- cuckoo clocks, big grandfather clocks, you name it, he had it.” “And the Maker of Chains?” “Hold your horses, I'm getting to it. I scanned the entire house, and found nothing except more damn clocks. Only place left was the tool shed outside. I saw signs of struggle in the back yard, but not many. Whatever got Krause overwhelmed him pretty quickly. There was a trail leading to the shed, and a few drops of blood too. I kicked open the door.” Cohen stopped, and abruptly got up and stepped out of the car. Johnson hurried after him. “And what? What did you see?” Cohen sighed. “Kid, we're about to have lunch, and talking about what I saw in that shed is a sure-fire way to spoil my appetite. Suffice to say there were chains, and blood. The Maker wasn't done with its meal, I caught him right in the middle of Krause's wife. Krause himself was knocked out cold, but unharmed. His little girl, however…” Cohen gave Johnson a sour look. “See, now you've done it. I was looking forward to lunch, and you spoiled it. Might as well get on with the patrol, get back in the car.” Johnson complied, and Cohen took the Charger out to the road again. He opened the window and spat. “I was too late to save her. The Maker, it… already devoured her, transformed her. Made her its own. I don't care if her father was what he was, no kid deserves that. She was still alive, in a manner, but even as inexperience as I was back then, I knew she was gone. The chains were everywhere- around her hands and legs, through her skin, her mouth, her eyes. I nearly wet myself, but I still had enough good sense in me to run for it. The Maker, not wanting to leave a meal behind, sent the child after me. As I ran I could hear the clinking of her chains, the sound of them dragging through the dirt. I have no idea how she-it managed to catch up to me, but it did. I turned around just in time to watch it-her lunge at me. You have to understand, I didn't have a choice. “ “You shot her?” Cohen looked away from Johnson, pretending to adjust the side mirror. “Got her right between the eyes. The poor thing never stood a chance. Even though I was scared shitless, I couldn't just leave her like that. I don't know what I was thinking, but I picked her up and brought her inside, to what I guessed was her room. I laid her amidst her toys and dolls, locked the door behind me, and sat there next to her with my gun pointed at the door. I could hear Krause screaming from the shed, for what seemed like hours. Despite myself, I eventually fell asleep, and when I woke up it was morning. I heard voices coming from the back yard, and saw men standing there, inspecting the shed. One of them noticed me and called me to come down, said that I had nothing to worry about, that they took care of everything. They were lying, of course, the Maker simply escaped during the night. It took us five more years to catch it, and plenty of sweat and blood. ” “And then?” “Their commander asked who I was, and for some reason, I told him the truth. I told him why I came there, told everything I saw the night before, and what I did. He just listened. When I was done, he said I had two choices: either I could come with him and get a job defending people from things like the creature I saw, or he could put a bullet through my head.” Johnson blinked. “That seems…harsh.” Cohen just shrugged. “They didn't have those fancy amnestics back then, and recruitment was a lot more, well, straightforward at times- the Foundation was still hurting pretty bad from the war, you see. Naturally, I took the job. I don't regret it either." "Why do you think the commander recruited you?" "Besides my charm and good looks? Because I was a man with nothing to lose, with nothing tying him to the world. That's a useful quality to have in an agent- means nobody can't get much leverage on him," Suddenly, Cohen's expression changed, and for the first time Johnson could see real warmth on the man's face. "It didn't quite worked out the way they planned, though. I met my wife working for the Foundation. I still have no idea what a smart woman like her ever found in a moron like me, but I'm not complaining, that's for sure." Cohen looked back at Johnson and smiled. "My eldest can't be much younger than you." "I have some again." The hours passed, leisurely flowing with the rhythm of the Chargers' engine, until finally it was time to call it a day. Cohen gave Johnson a lift home. As Johnson was stepping out of the car, he turned back and asked: "How do you deal with all of that? Not just the Maker, everything you've been through? How could you move on, keep on going? How could anyone?" Cohen gave him a strange look. "Who said I ever moved on? In a way, it will always be 1955 for me. Like it will always be 1942. When you've been broken the way I was, you don't ever get whole again. You just have to try and glue what's left of you as best you can. " "Then how do you do it? Why?" "I do it because someone has to. And because I need to, for my own sanity. No one can protect humanity from itself, so the least we can do is protect it from everything else. Remember our words, son." "Secure, Contain, Protect." "Sometimes it can be easy to forget that last one. But really, it's the only one that counts. We took those chains on ourselves by choice. You remember that." With that, he drove away. As Johnson watched the Charger turn a corner and disappear, he knew he would.

Will you come sit with us? It is very cold out here, and we are very lonesome. People do not visit us very often, so we do not get to see people. We like people. Please come be with us. We would really love to hear more about you. Will you not stay? Please don't be frightened by our appearance. We did not choose to be made this way. We had no say in the matter. All we can do is stay in this form. You see? We are touching you, and nothing bad is happening at all. Stop screaming at us. We are not taking you anyplace dangerous, we promise. It is simply a place we take all of our new friends. We will not harm you. Please stop screaming so loudly, it is upsetting. We are lifting you up now, please stop moving around so much. It's easier that way. Why are you still afraid? The treetop view is one that is very beautiful, and not many people see it often. See the stars, and the moon? They are beautiful this time of night. We often observe them from the ground as we contemplate things. We have much time for contemplation. We are putting you down now. See? No harm was done to you at all. Now that you trust us, will you come visit again soon? We have not seen anyone for so long. Sometimes in the absence we practice, making the gateways to the treetops. We are so very… alone, all the time now… please let us show you the stars again….

Great Brookham, Surrey - DAILY MAIL PUBLISHED: 06:10 GMT, 18 April 2004 | UPDATED: 07:31 GMT, 18 April 2004 TEENAGE 'CULT' MEMBERS STRIKE TWICE IN ONE MONTH TO USE ABANDONED VEHICLES FOR OFFERINGS Abandoned cars may be used for cult activities, authorities reported. James Absher, 40, a resident of Great Brookham, reported Monday that there were people trespassing into his scrapyard for unusual activities and provided security footage. In March, Mr. Absher started finding remains of bonfires and sand drawings around in his scrapyard. He did not report this to the local authorities, believing that the intruders meant no harm. On March 25th, a week after the first sighting, Mr. Absher found the burnt remains of a 1994 Toyota Camry. "I was worried that they would accidentally burn down the whole yard," Mr. Absher told reporters. "These cars can still be sold, even if they no longer work. Metal is pricey these days, you know. I don't want no hooligans snooping in my yard." He set up cameras around the yard hoping to gather footage of the intrusion and burnings. On the eve of the 15th, he finally saw the intruders. "I can't afford security guards, so it's the best I can get. I watch the recorded tapes every morning. What I saw terrified me. A group of hooded figures came gathering into my scrapyard, and walked up to another car. They started drawing some stuff into the ground, and some people put stuff they brought around the car, and then they stood in a circle around the car. They looked like they were chanting. They walked up to the car one by one, and did something in the car that I couldn't see. After they all went to the car and left, one guy, probably the leader or something, threw some stuff on the car and lit it on fire. The people started kneeling down, and stayed down until the fire was gone. The record shows they came around 2 and left around 5. As soon as I finished watching, I took the tape straight to the police. I don't think I even drove there to check the car they used." Initial investigations in the yard found roughly drawn patterns of clockwork machinery and geometric symbols in the ground surrounding the burnt remains of a 1996 Ford Mondeo. Police also found items such as smashed clocks, gears and metal pipes. Unburnt traces of blood were found in the backseat of the car. Further investigations only identified local teenagers Stuart Buschman, 19, and Margot Allsop, 17, on Tuesday. Police confiscated diaries, notes, robes, daggers, and other artifacts believed to be connected to the cult. Ongoing investigations hope to identify more people that were involved. "It's shocking to know this," Mr. Absher told authorities. "People will worship anything these days." "I just find it to be abhorrent. Using cars for rituals — it's out of the question. I don't understand people today and what motivates them," local resident Shanon Epperly said. "It's creepy. It makes you wonder what are they going to do with it. How's it going to end up? Is it a joke, is it a dare? What are they going to do with it?" The teens arrested revealed that they were trying out rituals from a relatively unknown cult that they came into contact with while browsing the Internet. Named "Church of the Broken God", the cult worships clockwork and believes that God is broken and will one day be reformed. The arrested teens refuse to reveal the site where they got the information regarding the cult. Further interrogation yielded no results. Authorities encourage anyone with further information to contact them. "He came to us, showed us the way online— He wanted us to spread His Broken word. We were in the yard to give Him a sacrifice," Stuart Buschman told reporters on the 17th. "We are His Broken Servants." The other teen involved, Margot Allsop, told reporters, "Stuart started acting weird after he heard of that Church. He made up all these rituals. He got a few friends to try it. This is just a mere offering, I guess. We're not even sure we're doing it right. I thought it was just a joke at first." The teens' parents said they had no comment.

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She awoke in a plush, high backed chair, facing a delicately-carved marble fireplace containing a layer of glowing embers. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room, she noticed ornate mahogany wood paneling on the walls, and a grand piano in the far corner behind her. Bookcases lined the opposite wall, and she noticed a finely-wrought crystal chandelier hanging over her head. Thompson uncomprehendingly took in her elegant surroundings, putting her hands to her face as if to reassure herself she still existed. She noticed an empty chair next to hers, facing the fire as well. As she looked back at the fireplace, she noticed a bust of Apollo, oriented to face her, its pupilless eyes communicating no feeling or purpose that she recognized. Thompson stirred herself and moved to take a closer look at the statue. "Please, there's no need to get up just yet. Can I interest you in refreshments?" Thompson started at the voice behind her. As she turned, she saw an older, heavyset man, with a mop of gray hair and a bushy white beard. His face expressed kindness and knowing, though not without a hint of mischief. He wore an orange jumpsuit much the same as hers; the customary ID number, stenciled over the heart, read SCP-343. In his hand was the largest hamburger she had ever seen. She searched for words. "Is this…am I…" The old man took a large bite from his hamburger. "Why yes, you are indeed thirsty. Please, help yourself to some mineral water from the side table next to you," he said while chewing. Thompson looked to her left, and saw a pitcher of water and a glass. Why not? She poured herself a glass, and realized that she was indeed parched. After draining her glass and refilling it, she turned back to the man, who was now sitting in the chair beside her. "Are…you?" The man genteely dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief, all traces of the hamburger vanished. "Jones in Accounting asked me if I had ever had a burger from Dale's in Schenectady. It's not often that someone can recommend a new place to me, I've been around. Ever since, I can't get enough of these things. I'll have to send him a Christmas card." He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. He turned to look at Thompson and smiled. "If I said that I was who you're implying I am, would you believe me?" Thompson thought for a moment. "I don't think so." The old man laughed. "Well, you're one up on most of the guys in here. You do look a little old to be believing in Santa." She leaned back in her chair. "Something's not right. I'm in here, but I get the feeling I'm still in Site-17. SCP-343. What should I call you?" The old man winked. "How about Dale today. I have a lot of respect for his work." "Okay, Dale. I don't think I'm dead. I can't be. But I'm not exactly 'here', either." "Right you are, Iris." Thompson paused. "You know who I am, then." The old man looked into the fireplace. "In a way, yes, I do. I've heard of you. And I've heard a lot about you. But until today you've been a stranger. Right now, at this moment, you are unconscious, temporarily removed from your typical position and lying in a heap on the floor of Cell 58 in Corridor Twelve. In 4 minutes and 28 seconds, Security Technician Reinhardt will notice that something's not right, and an emergency team will be dispatched. You are also, presently, in Cell 21 in Corridor Five. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Iris." She looked at the old man. "…you're that guy that the guards talk about. The one everyone wants to go visit. If you're him, I can't understand why you didn't just pop me into your cell to talk to me earlier." Dale scratched his beard. "It's not quite as simple as that. I perceive many things, Iris. What appears to the staff here as parlor tricks and miracles is merely movement in other forms." Thompson poured another glass of water. "What, like other dimensions?" Dale pulled a slightly sour-looking face. "If you must, I suppose. I dislike that term, it makes me sound like a horrible Flash Gordon villain. But yes, I move in worlds stacked on top of this one. As do you, though you don't know that yet." The old man continued. "But, for all of my artifice, all of my ability, I am surrounded here by things for which I have no account. This chamber of horrors, this grubby little bunker that would crack the sanity of most by means of an afternoon tour, to me, it's a ghost town. Every containment unit, every storage locker, every cell an empty space. All of them. Every single item in containment here is a blank to me. It's fascinating." Thompson considered Dale carefully. "What you were saying earlier. What don't I know yet?" The old man leaned closer. "You poor girl. Many things. We have three minutes and twelve seconds remaining, so I shall be brief." Dale stood up and started ambling towards the piano. "The good news," he said, theatrically pointing a finger skywards, "is that you are no mere curiosity with a penchant for photography. That parlor trick is just that. A trick." Dale turned back towards Thompson. "Have you ever considered that looking at pictures was simply a focal point, a way to wrap your mind around something that, in your world, should not be?" She opened her mouth to answer. "No, surely not," Dale continued. "You are something far more otherworldly and dangerous than they suspect. The potential you have to wreak changes on the realms around you is far in excess of what could be expected by man or god. However!" The old man assumed a position behind Thompson's chair, peering at her from around the side. "However," said Dale, in a subdued, yet dramatically inflected voice, "your mind, or what will become of your mind, or what's left of it, is ill-suited to such circumstances. Whatever fills this wonderful little facility with invisible treasures seems to have seen fit to play a particularly complex joke on you. Whatever you started out as, you are far less human than they suspect. Than you yourself suspect." Through the improbability and absurdity of the moment, Thompson felt her face turn red; her hands balled up into fists. "That's not what it's like." She looked away. "Everyone here 'suspects' alright. Everyone suspects, but I'm the only one who really knows. The only one who knows, but none of you ever ask me. No, they'd rather run their tests, write their reports and then go home like it doesn't matter." Tears came to her eyes as she turned to face the old man. "Why am I in here with you, anyway? I never asked for this, I never went around pretending to be a fucking bearded man in the sky!" Her words started to come in short bursts as she fought back sobs. "I never did anything to anyone! I even helped them with that psycho with the tattoos! Less than human? Fuck you!" Thompson sank in her chair, her thin frame heaving with each breath as she succumbed unwillingly to the last four years. She buried her face in her hands, ashamed and once again unable to control the situation. "I'm not like the rest of you," she said through sobs. "I can choose to not be some freak show. I can choose to be more than that." Dale pulled himself up to his full height. "More or less, depends on the direction from which you are considered." The old man frowned. "You should know that when the staff come and talk to me, half of what they talk to me about is you. Your presence here has inspired a need for forgiveness that even hard people like the Foundation require. Absolution, of course, is one of my more popular magic tricks. My chats have, in turn, enabled this Site to keep carrying out its functions. Including those related to you." Thompson stammered. "Wh…what?" "In carrying out its mission, Site-17 also carries out my mission. Though I think those two things are going to diverge quite soon." "What mission? What mission is worth this?" Thompson spat out, still futilely fighting back the tears. "Due to what you are, there was little danger of you fully accomplishing what you set out to do. But you've managed to really hurt yourself this time. You've triggered something. What you have done is set events in motion far more than a single death could have accomplished. You, the Foundation, and even I, we are all about to be freed from the illusion of control that shackles each and every-" A beeping sound came from the old man's wrist. He checked his Casio digital watch. "Ah, my manners. They have fled me. Time's up!" With that, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, Thompson was in a hospital bed. The sensation of tubes running down from her nose and mouth into her chest greeted her. Hastily, she clawed at the apparatus on her face, pulling the tubes out of her airway for what felt like ten meters. Her heart raced, and she noticed the IV lines in her wrist. Her stomach throbbed with dull pain. As she looked around, she recognized the secure medical bay. Shock was followed by profound disappointment. A lock across the room disengaged, and the servo arms of the reinforced doors whined to life, announcing the arrival of Dr. Lin. The doctor was flanked by a weary nurse and Security Director Burton; Thompson recognized the director from the Pandora's Box support staff. More than the nurse, Burton looked haggard and careworn. His eyes were bloodshot. All three strode briskly to her bed. "She regained consciousness a minute or two ago," the nurse hurriedly explained to Dr. Whitman. As the nurse said this, Thompson suddenly had a vision of herself surrounded by medical staff, monitors and equipment everywhere. Someone was yelling in the background. All vision in her left eye suddenly ceased. She was temporarily stupefied. Dr. Lin approached her, his furrowed brow the only disturbance on his bespectacled, dispassionate face. "Looks like your procedures need another update, Burton." The Security Director winced. He looked at Thompson, head hung low on his massive frame. "You okay, kid?" Thompson looked Burton in the eyes. Blurry light began filtering back in to her left eye. "No." Her voice creaked through her throat, raspy like a woman several decades older. Dr. Lin turned to the nurse. "Let's get some diazepam going and station a couple of security personnel on watch for the time being. We'll do an examination at 1520 hours." With that, the doctor and the nurse resumed their duties elsewhere. Burton lingered. He looked as though he was going to speak several times, but stopped each time. Thompson adjusted herself in her bed to position her head higher. Sitting up was too difficult. "Why this time?" she wheezed. Burton sighed. "Three-four-three said I should come see you. Said that it wasn't doing anyone any good to keep ignoring these." She managed a weak, derisive laugh. "How kind of you." He blanched. "There's all kinds of stuff I should have said earlier. I don't know how to say it now. But three-four-three told me to pass something along." "Did he?" she replied, thick with sarcasm. Burton hesitated, doubt darkening his expression. "He said…he said to tell you, 'Sector 3 is lost, abort procedures.' I don't know why." Thompson's eyes widened at the words. Suddenly, Burton looked fifteen years younger, but bruised and scraped up. She perceived terror, not her own, but a detached notion of impending demise, somewhere on the edges of her consciousness. Fluorescent lights flickered on in her vision, superimposed onto the scene of the medical bay. Three vertically aligned cables, taut with some heavy load attached at the end, vibrated, in time with what felt like heavy footsteps. A black shaft yawned impossibly deep below. She felt her left side start to seize up, the muscles in her limbs contracting painfully. Burton looked on in horror. A new realization dawned on her. "What are you keeping in Basement 17-E?" she pleaded. "What do you guys have down there?" The Security Director recoiled from her, the blood drained completely from his face in an instant. Wordlessly, they stared at each other for what felt like minutes. Suddenly, the sound of klaxons blared across the PA system. Burton took several steps back, vainly attempting to process what just happened before picking up his handheld and barking some unintelligible commands into it. A voice filtered down through the speakers in the ceiling. "Attention all personnel. Security Protocol A is being engaged. Repeat. Security Protocol A is being engaged. All staff report to emergency stations and await further instructions. Level K containment breach event underway. Repeat. Level K containment breach underway. Over." Burton ran out of the room. She heard the sounds of steel security barriers slamming into place several halls away. Somewhere, out in the din of the increasing chaos outside her door, she thought she heard an old man, softly chuckling. « Strangers of Site-17: 105 | Strangers of Site-17: Hayakawa »

D-3672 sighed anxiously as he sat alone on a bench in the staging area. For the past two hours, half a dozen technicians had been hard at work on him, making the final adjustments on the skin-tight suit he had been fitted into. Only the breathing apparatus and the goggles remained to be fitted to the apparatus that covered his entire body from head to toe. Between the suit itself, the weapon now attached to his right arm, and the massive air tank and power source strapped to his back, he felt like he weighed a ton. One way or the other, at least, it would be over soon. After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and Dr. Andrews stepped in. "Good morning, D-3672," he said. "We've dosed your target with a tranquilizer it hasn't adapted to yet, so it should be out of commission for the next hour or so. I trust you've been fully briefed on what to expect today?" "Yes," D-3672 replied. For weeks they'd been training him how to use the suit, how to swim, how to activate his weapon. They'd shown him film footage of the creature he was intended to use it against, and lectured him forever on its behavior and its weak points. "Good. As I'm sure you know, the suit you're wearing took us years to design and is specially customized to your body. It's airtight, skintight, highly resistant to cutting and tearing, and won't be affected by the acid in the containment tank." "I know, doctor." "I just want to remind you how critical this mission is. We only have one shot at making this work. We've tried everything we can think of over the years to neutralize this threat, even things the Ethics Committee didn't want us to try. You, today, are our last, best hope." "Then I hope you'll remember our deal, doctor." "Of course. If you make it out of that tank alive and the target is found to be dead, you're a free man. And surf-and-turf is on me." Dr. Andrews lead D-3672 down the hallway, past the final checkpoint where the armed guards stood watch, into a room with a large, deep, acid-filled tank sunk into the floor. D-3672 could see his target crystal clear through the acid - a giant reptile, mostly bones and rotted flesh, bubbles percolating off it as the acid ate away at its exposed tissue, new flesh knitting itself into place almost as fast. A technician made the last adjustments, inserted the breathing tube, and placed the face guards in place, sealing him in. D-3672 looked down, took a breath, and dove in. D-3672 swam through the acid like thin air, and in seconds he found himself floating in front of the rotting behemoth. This should be easy enough, he thought to himself as his left hand made its way to his right wrist and powered on his weapon. D-3672's optimism was shattered, however, when the creature's half-decayed eyelids suddenly darted open, and he found two yellow orbs staring right at him. "The fuck is this?" D-3672 heard the creature's question clear as day through his suit. Frantically, he punched in the codes to power up his weapon. Red and green lights flashed up and down his arm as he felt the power cells charging, and within seconds, the Anti-Selaschic Kinetic Force Delivery System Mark 17 was active. D-3672 balled his right hand into a fist, cocked back his arm, and with every ounce of strength that he could muster and the weapon could deliver, drove his fist straight into the creature's face, forcing it backwards and taking off a chunk of its skull. The creature's blood tinted the acid and D-3672 breathed a sigh of relief. His relief was short-lived when the creature's half-demolished head turned back towards him, one good eye still staring him down. "Pathetic," it said. D-3672 barely had time to power the ASKFDS-17 up again before it lunged. —- Dr. Andrews stood by the edge of the tank, his head hanging down, a disappointed look in his face as pieces of D-3672, and of the suit and the weapon, floated lazily to the surface of the now pinkish acid tank. A research assistant approached him, carrying in his hand a bulky and ancient satellite phone. "Dr. Andrews?" he said. "I have O5-3 on the line. He'd like an update on the termination attempt." "Thank you, David," Dr. Andrews said as he took the phone from the intern. "Would you file a requisition for another D-Class, please?" David nodded and made his way toward the door slowly, not relishing the paperwork ahead of him. The facility had been going through D-Class like water recently, and this wasn't going to help their situation with Human Resources. David stopped a moment by the door, listening in to Dr. Andrews' side of the phone conversation. "This is Dr. Andrews. Yes. Yes. No, sir. Yes, the device functioned as intended. No, he's dead. Still alive. Yes, it's conscious. I'm sorry to have to say it, sir, but it appears that SPC-682 cannot be terminated by any means available to the Shark Punching Center."

It had been sixty-eight days since the guard posted to her door had been reassigned in favor of the security cameras. Her mind was now mostly free of the deadening aftereffects of sedative, allowing her to spend more and more time thinking the way she was used to. They had even let her have shoelaces again. Most importantly, however, were the changes in the staff. Dr. Whitman was again permitting himself to furtively look at other case files during her sessions. The guards in Corridor Twelve began joking with her again. Director Hayakawa showed up less and less frequently. What passed for normal life in her corner of Site-17 was returning. Now was the time. Fighting the urge to glance sidelong at the security camera stationed in the corner of the room, Thompson clutched at her stomach through her bright-orange jumpsuit, doubling over in what she knew would be now-familiar pain to the security staff. The stress-induced nausea was nothing new. During her brief time with Pandora's Box, the medical staff had mostly controlled it with drugs, but now the Foundation saw no need to keep up an expensive pharmaceutical regimen. She suspected this was part of the "re-education" process. No matter. It would be turned to her advantage soon enough. Quickly, she made her way to the steel toilet in the corner. The cold sweat on her forehead and the excess saliva came naturally, as expected. There was no need for acting; what she was about to do was cause enough for an attack all on its own. She leaned into the bowl and heaved, wrenching herself free of the contents of her stomach. As she opened her eyes, she spotted the photograph, floating among the semi-digested remains of a cafeteria-issue eggplant sandwich. Gingerly, she lifted it out, making sure to keep her back between the security camera and her hard-won prize. Dr. Whitman, like everyone else in contact with her, had been ordered to clear his workspace of any and all photographs. Thompson had observed Dr. Whitman just as closely as he had observed her, and she knew that this was a man that could be trusted to never throw anything out. True to form, his desk was packed with forms, notebooks, old calendars, receipts from a decade prior. And, of course, the photographs that had formerly adorned his desk. While he had gone out to retrieve his briefcase, she hunted for the one picture that she remembered, the one that would bring her deliverance. And for once in this godforsaken place, luck was with her. She studied the picture closely. She remembered it as a photograph of Dr. Whitman and an unnamed secretary, lost to time and staffing reorganization, drunk in the manner that office workers always seem to reserve for Christmas parties. She recalled that partially obscured behind the "Happy Holidays" banner was the bright yellow "LEVEL 3 STAFF ONLY" sign that adorned many rooms in the facility, and above this sign was a stained air vent. Without breathing, she looked at the photograph. It now featured only a door in a brightly-lit corridor. No sign of Dr. Whitman and the insensate secretary remained; only the entrance to the Site-17 pharmacological dispensary. She smiled. Jackpot. Thompson gingerly moved her hand into the photograph. As she neared the door's electronic keypad, she recited the mnemonic that she'd kept in her head for two months after overhearing a chance conversation in passing between two security techs. "Four years in Site-17." She touched "4" on the keypad. "Fifteen dead in Operation Milk Run." She entered a 1 and a 5. "One plus zero plus five is six." She entered a 6. "The year of mom and dad's wedding." She entered an 8 and a 7. "Attempt number." Upon entering the 3, a green light flashed above the door handle, and the deadbolt sharply clicked open. Thompson pushed open the door. Barely distinct now, shelves laden with bottles, boxes and plastic bags beckoned. Her elbow was now past the photograph's threshold, and she reached as far as she dared into the pharmacy. She picked up the nearest bottle she could find, grasping it like a grain of rice between her fingers. The bottle grew bigger and bigger as she pulled it out of the photograph. The label could now be read. Acetylsalicylic acid. This wouldn't do. Thompson dropped the bottle in the toilet and reached back into the picture. Her second foray yielded a plastic bag full of eyedroppers. She scowled, dropped the bag into the toilet as well, and tried again. Reaching for the next shelf over, she saw a bright orange plastic bottle of larger relative size. As she retrieved it, she noticed that she had 200 capsules of orphenadrine. These would do the trick. She opened the bottle, and shook a small pile of capsules into her hand. She noticed the designation on her fluorescent yellow tracking wristband: SCP-105. She closed her hand around the pills. "My name is Iris Thompson." She swallowed the first handful of pills. She poured herself another, swallowed them, and took a third handful. In the space of a minute and thirty seconds, she had ingested the entire contents of the bottle. Her stomach churned in rebellion. Her pulse quickened. "My name is Iris Thompson," she said softly as the surroundings of her cell started to come in and out of focus. The bottle fell from her grasp, and suddenly the cement floor rose to meet her, silently, without feeling. Strangers of Site-17: 343 »

Scroll fragment 13Q29, discovered at Khirbet Qumran in 1951. Scrolls consisted of vellum, with Hebrew (Assyrian block text) lettering written using a lampblack compound for ink. The fragment appears to have been in poor condition when recovered from the cave, and additional damage to the fragment occurred during recovery by Foundation personnel. Due to the condition of the scroll fragments, reconstruction of the original text is largely speculative. ███████n the first year of the reign of Darius, I was visited b█ ███en travelers, who came to Babylon from Egypt, yea ███and th██ ██ake unto me of their crossing of the desert of An███████eventy █nd seven were their number when they did depart fro███gypt, and ██hey were servants of the king of Egypt, come to treat with the ████ng of the Medes. And I said unto them, where are the others█ ██f your number? And a great trembling fell upon them, and the██ would not speak and therefore left me alone. whence I said un███ them, if you will not speak, then show me where are thy ████████ brothers, the men of Egypt who serve the king of Egypt. A███████ Potiphabas, who w████s chief among them, sayeth he unto me, ████ ███████place at █████████f the kingdom, and sayeth he unto me, █ they are lost, th████east fell upon us in the valley that is ███ beyond the mountain to the south, and we did fear it, and we hid ourselves whilst it consumed our brothers. And the king on hi███ seat in Babylon did say unto me, go, and see what is the trut███ of this, and take with you the wise men of Babylon, and of █████ Persia, and of Graecia, and of Egypt, and of the Medes, and of █ all the nations and the soothsayers of Chaldea and the judges of the Hebrews which art of the children of the captivity of Judah. and let the judges of the Hebrews bring the holy vessel of the██ LORD, and let the men of Babylon, and of Persia, and of ████████ Graecia, and of Egypt, and of the Medes, and of all the nation██ ████ bring the magi████al things each of their kind. For I, t███ ███████ Babylon, shall not suffer a beast to harm my subjects,██ ██████he servants of foreign princes come to treat with me. And█ ████the beast be destroyed. And I said unto the king, I fea█████ naught but the LORD, and if the LORD be with me then no beast███ shall harm me. And I went forth bringing the holy vessel of the█ LORD, and the men of Babylon, and of Persia, and of Graecia, an█ of Egypt, and the soothsayers of Chaldea did go forth, each wit█ the magical things of their kind. And we came unt███ the vall███ of Ne████████, which is called the place of lamentations. And███ the place was desolation and it was a place of darkness, for th█ sun wou██████ not ███in that place, and no plant would grow, a██ no man wo███████████o that place, neither any cattle or sheep o█ ass or bird o██the sky or creeping thing. ███████And the men ███ Graecia were afraid of the darkness, but the men of Babylon sai█ unto them, be not afraid, for Marduk of fifty names who hat█████ slain Tiamat shall protect us. And likewise did the men of █████ Canaan say unto the Graecians, lo, Ba'al who is called Hadd█████ who is the LORD of the sky shall smite the beast with a ████████ thunderbolt as he did smite the serpent Lotan. And likewis██████ men of Persia and of Egypt and of the Medes, and of Chaldea an██ of all the n████ ██████y unto them, our gods shall protect us.██ And I feared no█████for I did br████████vessel of the LORD. A███ the soothsayers of Chaldea did say, on the third day the beast██ shal███████, when the stars are right. And we sojourned in that█ place. ███nd on the third day the beast did come, and it was the Abominati█████, dread and terrible, and behold! it was a dragon, and it h████ head of a serpent, and great scales as of iron upon it███████████████ no arrow or spear could pierce, and it had the legs ██████ bear, and the claws of a leopard, and its tail was a great scourge, and its countena████e was hatred, and it spake of its fury and in furious rebukes. And the men of Graecia did ████ say, let us stay hid in secret, and we shall see the beast, an██ know its purposes, and whence it goes. But the men of Babylon ██ spake, saying let us slay the beast, wherefore they assemble████ with their clubs and spears. And the Abomination slew them al███ and devoured their flesh. Next the men of Canaan spake, sayin███ Marduk is a false god, but Ba'al who is called Haddad shall█████ protect us. And their sorcerers did raise their staves, and a███ great cloud of storm did come, and the sorcer██rs of Canaan sent forth lightning from the cloud and it████████████ did strike the Abomination. And the Abomination r█████████it was as mighty and█ as terrible as se████████████████████████seven. And the Abom████ ██████say, surely this host defiles creation and is a detestab██ thing, yea, thou art all of thou loathsome unto my sight and████ behold, I shall ex███████████ath unto thee. And the Abomin██████ did slay and despoil all of the sorcerers of Canaan and all of██ the men of Canaan, and likewise the men of Persia, and of Egyp██ and of the Medes, the multitude of the nations did fall. And████ the men of Graecia █████did say, let us bring forth our engines█ these bring low th███walls of the cities of the mighty, and even these shall subd██████the beast. And the engines did cast great█ stones at the Abom██████ination, and mighty bolts of iron and of brass, but naught did they harm it, and the Abomination did slay █████e men of Graecia and lay waste to their engines. And I was█ ██fraid, and did wonder, wherefore I said unto my servants, yea█ █et us leave the vessel of the LORD in this place, and we shal██ ████rotected. And I called forth Aroch, and G███ his son, and I█ ██████ them carry forth the vessel of the LORD, and I bade them█ ███████pproach the Abomination, and place the vessel upon a high place, and thence depart from that place. And they did as I█████ commanded, saying yea, the LORD is with us. And the Abomination█ di███████ come, in its wrath and its wickedness, and behold! the Abo████████ation devoureth the vessel of the LORD, whereupon the ████arkness parted and all the bright lights of heaven did shin█ upon the Abomination, and the people were amazed and they were██ afraid and did tremble. And we did fly from that place, ever████ man for his own life, and the earth was cleaved in two, and the█ Abomination was cast into the abyss, and the abyss is the grav██ of the multitude of all of the nations whom the Abomination di██ slay. And we said unto the LORD, ye have smitten the ███████████ ██████ tion, sing Hosannah unto the LORD. But the word of ██████ LORD came unto me, saying, hear the word of the LORD: surely ███ Abomination is not slain, it does lay beneath the earth in this█ place, wherefore approacheth not the valley of the Abominatio███ █et this place be anathema unto you. For the men of Babylo██████ of Persia and of Egypt and of the Medes, and of Chaldea and ████ Graecia and of all of the nations, did they not all of █████████ █erish? But ye, the sons of Abraham did I deliver from th███████ █████nation, yea, even as ye left my vessel for the Abomina█████ ████████████████e not forsaken thee. And I fell down upon m█████ ████████████████████████████voice, saying ██████████████████████ More by this author Hide list SCPs SCP-1322 SCP-089 spikebrennan's proposal SCP-1844 SCP-1012 SCP-1036 SCP-2553 SCP-1512 SCP-1746 SCP-908 SCP-831 SCP-3236 SCP-2336 SCP-955 SCP-926 SCP-2236 SCP-920-EX SCP-2914 SCP-2008-J SCP-4336 SCP-4436 SCP-1060 Tales Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Spring Cleaning Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972 Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991 Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944 Scroll fragment 13Q29 Stray Katz (part 1) Ad Majorem Bonum Rating: 24

So yeah, my name is Mister Chameleon. Also known as 'That one color guy,' 'Oh yeah, he's a mister, right?' or 'Doctor Wondertainment's afterthought.' Sometimes it can be hard to be me. After all, when all the other misters just look at you and kind of snicker, its hard to feel upbeat about yourself. Sure, I've gone to self-help seminars, bought the self esteem books by the dozen, and tuned in to every TV guru that there is. It doesn't help when as soon as you try out the techniques, people start snickering. It's not my fault. I was made this way. I'm just made out of light. Maybe it's that I can't do the things the other misters do. I can't make you laugh, or do cool stuff with the phases of the moon. You can't take me apart and put me back together. And you sure can't take off my head to play with it or whatever you do with a severed head. I can't do any of that stuff. What do you people want from me anyways? For cryin' out loud I'm made of light! But yeah, like I said, its hard to be the least known of the Misters. Sometimes I wonder why. Why me? I'm perfectly alright. I can change to any color you please, and I'm number one on everybody's list! Surely people should be like "Oh Mister Chameleon, he must be one cool cat, right? After all, he's number one on the list! Wow! That's amazing!" But no, instead of having just a little bit of the fanfare going to the number one person on the list, it all goes to Forget, Laugh, and Brass! Why? Laugh doesn't even do anything cool! And all Laugh does is make me feel depressed. And I mean, I can see why people like using a human tinker-toy set, all he does is complain if you use him! Not me! I would never complain about hanging out with some of you guys. So maybe like, call me sometime or something sometime? I can really be available anytime you need me. Even if I'm like, busy or something, I'm sure I would be able to make time. After all, there isn't really a lot to do over here, y'know? I can maybe come entertain at parties and stuff? Lets just hang out sometime. Please?

Diane was glad they had found such a nice neighborhood for the kids. She and Paul had worried about finding someplace good for them to grow up in. Some of the neighborhoods they had looked at were full of hoodlums and pushers and all sorts of nasty things. But as soon as she had stepped foot into the house at 23rd terrace, she knew the home was right for her. And now three months later, she could tell that she had definitely made the right choice. The neighbors were so kind, and everyone had everything they needed, and they shared. Sure it was a little isolated, but that just meant the community was tighter knit. It really felt like one big family. Sometimes she thought about how life was before the community, living in that tiny apartment. It was cheaper, but the people living there were all awful. It was no place to raise a family. The gated community was also far superior to any normal neighborhood, because it kept the hoodlums out. Even though it could get boiling when the sun was out, since the gates didn't provide A/C, and sometimes sleep patterns could be messed up since the roof didn't allow any light to come in, but those were minor issues compared to drug pushers and gangs. Why, just last week old lady Miriam down the street had a heatstroke. Sadly, she hadn't made it, but this had provided a bounty for the community as a whole. After all, when you could have a feast like the one that she left behind, you didn't have to worry about foraging for food and water. The meal Miriam had provided had given everyone on 23rd terrace with food and gristle. Sure, they would miss her valuable contributions to the community, like the way she could spot interlopers a mile away, but the food was better than the eyes. Although, the eyes were pretty tasty. Diane shivered as she thought of the interlopers. Sure, they were mostly harmless, skulking about at the edges of the gates, but they represented a real danger to the community. If these weirdoes could get in, soon there would be the others from the old times, and then the whole neighborhood would go. That was why she was grateful for the lynchings. Some people might feel pity for the interlopers, as they hung them from the highest beams available to them, but Diane didn't. If these monsters felt like trespassing on private property, there wasn't much that could be done for them. Diane looked up, and saw that the artificial sunlight emitters were going down. It was time for the forage. She kissed Paul goodbye, slung up her gun, and headed out into the junkyard. She and her neighbors saddled up and went in ready to kill. After all, you never know what might be here. Sometimes they found people from other communities. Once, they had shared resources with them, but they had become selfish and greedy and had to be exterminated. They had to protect their kin. It was the neighborly thing to do.

Note: This tale is based on SCP-1440, and it is better read after reading that article. The old man woke, and his failures flooded his mind once more. The destruction of the Foundation base was just another drop in an ocean of guilt. Sometimes, he didn't know what still kept him afloat, what stopped him from drowning in the depths of despair and madness, from simply ceasing to care about the race he could so easily destroy. Perhaps it was nothing more than simple spite, the dying memory of defiance against his tormentors. It did not matter much. The desert he found himself in was a lonely, empty place, and for that he was glad. Out here, he could do little harm. He started walking towards a distant chain of mountains, driven by a compulsion he learned long ago he could not resist. Once, he would throw himself into deep gorges, into rivers, into the sea, hoping the elements could keep him from causing any more damage, but the Brothers were stronger even than them. He would lie in depths of the earth, thinking he could finally rest in the dark, only to blink and find himself in the world above once more, making his way towards humanity like the bearer of a plague. The Brothers were nothing if not persistent. As the soft desert sand crunched beneath his feet, he remembered that thrice accursed game of cards that led to all of this, to the three follies that sealed his fate. First came the game: he should have never challenged them, he should have known better. But he was young, and full of pride, and had much to lose. He was a man in his prime when he lost his life in a meaningless war, and found himself in the Brothers' dark halls. Around him, his fellow soldiers walked silently towards the distant light, not even glancing at the three gaunt figures that showed them the way. But not he. He could not accept his fate. He had a young, pretty wife, a prospering farm, he could not lose it all, would not. He thought the others were fools, weaklings, to accept their demise thus. In his vanity, he challenged his guides, and refused to go forward until he was given the chance to fight. He got his chance, and he won. He won too much. Second came his greed: the Brothers could not have known how good he was. He took every hand, broke every gambit, stole life from Death's grasp with guile and skill. The Brothers were displeased, but they accepted their defeat, and showed him the door back to the world of the living. As he stood at the exit, he suddenly thought, why stop now? He was the best card player to ever live, he could have it all! Why settle for life when he could have glory, power, immortality! He turned and sat back at the table. "Double or nothing", he said. And he won again. And again. And again. The Brothers were less gracious now, but still, they admitted their defeat. Three prizes he won from them: the cup, the cards, and the sack. They were the Brothers' prized possessions, and they offered him much if he would only return them: wealth, and luck, and health, and glory, but he wanted to humiliate them, to make Death grovel before him. So he took the prizes and left the Brothers seething in rage. He would pay dearly for his vanity. Third came the waste: the prizes were items of immense power, for they could keep the Brothers at bay: the First's cup held the elixir of life, and a drop of it would banish him, saving even the sickest of men from his grasp. Every time he saw the Small Death lurking behind the shoulders of a man, he would sprinkle a drop towards him, and the First would flee, cursing and spitting. A drop seemed like such a small thing, and the cup held so much water, so he used it carelessly. He banished the First from those too old or frail to keep on living, from those the First rightfully owned. And eventually, the cup ran dry. When his wife began wasting away from the consuming illness, he had no water left for her. The First sneered as he took her away. The prize of the Second was greater, like the Second himself. With the cards, he could challenge the Second's authority, hold the power of the Great Death at bay. When war was brewing, when man turned against his brother, he was there, to challenge the Second, to turn the tides of fire and steel. But like the waters of life, the cards of fate were wasted- he used them for every border skirmish, every civil dispute, every growing revolution, and the cards became more worn with every passing use. Though they lasted for longer than the water, eventually the Second refused to heed their call. He watched the world plummet into wars greater than he could ever imagine, watched millions die for nothing in the mud, watched the innocent suffer and bleed and burn. The Second laughed when he took them away. The prize of the Third was the greatest. The sack of the All-Death could hold anything within it, contain even the greatest catastrophes, stop even the most dire forces from ever releasing their fury upon the earth. With the sack, he curbed the fury of storms, drowned fires that threatened to consume entire cities, held creatures most unnatural and fell, whose origin was not of this world. The sack held longest of all the treasures, but it too grew weak- its seams could not hold such mighty powers forever. He used the sack as foolishly as he used the lesser treasures- he stopped storms that would have passed, held fires that could have been contained. His sin was greater than mere wastefulness, though. The sack still held one last use, could hold one last being. In his search for the Third he saw the forces of darkness grow ever stronger, saw brave men and women like those of the Foundation risk their lives in order to contain them. Yet, he would not spare the last use of his sack. It was all he had left, his final hope. He knew the only way he could force the Third to release him from his endless torment was to capture him in the sack, and thus force him and his brothers to let him die. The All-Death never appeared, though, not even to mock him. When the forces of the unknown claimed a victim, only silence greeted them. Once the prizes ran out, the true horror of his fate became apparent. The Brothers feared him no longer, and did not forgive his vanity, his wastefulness, his lording over Death. They wanted him to suffer, and death was far too good for him. Instead, he brought death upon everyone else- forced to seek the Third forever, and to watch humanity crumble in his wake. His curse, like his follies, was triple- never to die, always to seek, always to destroy. The mountains grew closer and closer, and the old man allowed himself a moment of rest. His compulsion could be controlled, if but for a short while. He sat down in the sand and turned his gaze upwards, towards the stars. In the dark blue, early morning sky, only a few remained, but they shined brightly and cleanly. Looking at them, the old man remembered why he kept his head above the water. Perhaps this was the greatest of his follies, but it was one he was willing to allow himself. The world was too beautiful for him to allow its destruction without a fight, and humanity deserved better than to perish because of the mistakes of a foolish old man. He could not stop himself from hurting them, but he could give them one thing- his hope. He would stop himself, even at the price of oblivion.

Adrian's dream always started in the same way. He was walking down a street, a street he had never seen before. It was night-time, and it was kind of scary, but he had Freddy, and Freddy would make sure he was okay. Sometime when he was walking down the street, he would see a big carnival! No matter how far away it was, he could smell the treats and see the lights and hear the sounds. He would pick Freddy up and start hurrying towards it. He would run and run and run, but he couldn't catch up. But then sometimes he would see Mister Clown! That's what he called the clown he saw sometimes. It would run up from the fair and start talking at him real loud. He always said the funniest things, and Adrian always laughed so hard. Sometimes he would shake Adrian, but that only made him laugh harder. Sometimes the clown looked sad, but it was okay because he always cheered Adrian up! And then he woke up. Rubbing his eyes, Adrian saw he was at his front door. He was sure he had gone to his bed the night before…maybe Mommy had carried him here. Picking up Freddy, he dragged him back up to the bedroom to get dressed. Please let me go…don't make me hurt them anymore. The children love you, Laugh. You're the carnival's best draw in years. We have been in need of a man with your talents for quite some time now. No, please…I don't want to hurt them. Hurt them? What do you mean? All you do is help them laugh and enjoy a carnival. What's so awful about that? I hate you…let me go… Oh hush and go into the dark. You've got another big night tomorrow. Please… Dawn always liked the clown dreams. She had been having so many of them over the last month, they always made her feel happy inside. The clown always made her laugh so much! Sometimes she would be able to walk with him, but he always tried to make her go home. She didn't like home. Daddy yelled a lot and Mommy always sat at the kitchen table drinking juice and crying. Whenever Dawn went to talk to her she would slap her and yell in her scary voice. Dawn much preferred it with the clown. Sometimes the hazy orange sky grew dimmer as she walked, but it was okay because the clown was there. She would stop and listen to the clown. He told the funniest jokes about big pumpkins and carnivals. Dawn didn't know how his funny words were so funny, but she knew she liked smiling. She would skip through the autumn leaves to that just out of reach fairground, smiling all the way. It was sunny out. It was morning time. Dawn sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around. She wasn't in bed. Where was she? She looked around. It was Missus Baty's front porch! Dawn got really scared, because Missus Baty was scary, so she got up and toddled away as fast as her legs would carry her. She went all the way home, and went in. Strange that the door was open. Please…even if you don't let me go…spare the children. They haven't done anything. Ah Laugh, sometimes we feel you really disappoint us. You finally have something to talk to, and you squander your time with pointless pleading. It has been this way for generations, and it shall stay this way for the next generation and every one after that. It is in our nature. Sure, some of the children were taken from us by your friend's blockade, but we have taken care of that quite effectively, haven't we? You're a killer. If I ever get out of this place, I'll kill you. I will make sure you can't hurt these kids. Don't we know it? And that just adds another reason to have you stick around. You ought to get some time in, it is always a burden to touch their little minds. I…no…let…me go… It was Jesse's favorite time of the day, sleep time! He especially liked sleep time now because of the happy man. He always went to bed early so he could see the happy man. The happy man always went to the love place with Jesse. Sometimes Jesse got scared, but it was okay because the happy man held him and made him smile with his nice sounds. Sometimes Jesse walked alone, and he saw the fair, but it wasn't as fun as when he was here. He wasn't here now. But then Jesse saw it! It was a big happy circus! And Mommy and Daddy were there! and Rusty was too! Tears brimmed in Jesse's eyes. Rusty was back with him now! Jesse began running as fast as his little legs would carry him. It felt warm. And then suddenly…it wasn't so warm. Jesse looked up around him. This wasn't a circus. It was all colors and changing and…talking? Jesse tried to focus and wake up. There was someone…singing…a song. Jesse opened his eyes and looked around. There were a bunch of kids going in a circle around him, spinning around and around. Why did they look so funny? Why were their arms so skinny and their movements so bad? He looked closer. Then he recoiled and screamed. They stopped moving around him. Laugh, are you crying? We thought you were over it. You fucking monster…they're just kids…how could you do this to kids? Laugh, we have to do it for the children. It's what happens. You cannot stop it in the same way a natural force cannot be stopped. We happen. What do you care about the children? All you ever do is take them away. Laugh, you know we love the children. We bring them together to be with us. It used to not hurt when they laughed… It's time to rest up, we have a big season coming up. No… Elizabeth's dream always started the same way…

The five cloaked figures moved through the forest without sound, their crouched frames almost floating through the morning twilight. Nearing the edge of the forest, the leader of the group turned, and indicated to the others to stop. “Brothers, we go forth today as defenders of the faith. Beyond these few trees lie the greatest enemies our faith has ever known, heretics preaching against everything we believe in. It is our God's very will that today we lucky chosen will go forth and destroy this bastion of hereticism. In the name of the Broken God, we will succeed!” Jacob rolled over, turning his face to the window next to his bed. As the sun began to peek through, he sighed. Might as well get up now. Slowly, the farmer lifted himself out of bed, his old bones creaking with the movement. Standing with similar speed, he began to dress himself. I think I'll tend to the cows first today… The cloaked figures closed up behind the barn, the sun casting their long shadows up and ahead of them. The leader looked to the other cultists behind him. Lowering his hood, they looked to him with a deep respect. The Deacon's face already showed the blessing of the Broken God, his camera-like eyes, and machine jaw gleaming in the morning sun. Looking at him, the others noticed how his mortal skin seemed to just hang over his superior clockwork parts. The other cultists then lowered their own hoods. Smiling, the Deacon looked to his fellow cultists. “Brothers, let us make haste. We do not want to let these enemies of our God know what has hit them.” Standing, the Deacon drew a dagger from his cloak, the others following suit. “Let us strike.” Jacob reached up to the shelf to grab the old bucket from the shelf, grimacing as he did. Just a few more years, he thought to himself, finally heaving the container off the shelf. Turning to make his way out of the barn, he stopped. “How long have you been standing there?” Finishing turning, he looked at the man standing just inside the barn. “Just moments.” The old man nodded as the assassin came forward, brandishing his knife. Bringing his knife back, he prepared to strike. However, he found himself unable to attack. Looking down, he noticed how strange it was that his intestines were wrapped around a pitchfork, and then everything went black. Sighing, the old Farmer retrieved his pitchfork from the dead cultist. “Not again.” The cultist walked down the street, pouring kerosene as he chanted the sacrificial mantra he had been taught when he first joined the Church. “…and let this offering to Him be used to restore him, for the purifying flames shall bestow unto their spirit the honor of forever being his… Oh. Hello.” Standing on the porch of a small building, a woman looked at the assassin. He began to grin like a Cheshire Cat. “You will make an excellent sacrifice, won't you?” Slowly pulling the blade from his robe, and setting the can of kerosene on the ground, he closed on the woman. Defiantly, she stood, not making a single move. “Perhaps you want to be his sacrifice?” Still standing defiant, the woman seemed to just glare at him, not reacting to his threats. The cultist closed on her, and prepared to pounce. Finally, the cultist lept forward and jammed the dagger in the young woman's throat. The blade lept into her throat, and then stopped. Confused, the cultist yanked the blade back, and stabbed again. Brusing the woman's long hair out of her face, the mannequin's painted-on visage glared back at him. “Son of a bi-” The wet sensation over the cultist's head caused him to turn in rage, thinking it to be some kind of joke. Screaming, he realized too late that kerosene is a liquid. The old man sighed as the flaming cultist ran into the gift shop, setting it ablaze. “Probably woke everybody up with that screaming.” The cultist ran quickly into the barn, seeking refuge in one of the few buldings in the town that wasn't on fire. “If the damned Deacon will not aid me in an escape, I will make one myself. Perhaps one of these horses…” Quickly, the cultist levered open the door, and looked at the mighty creature before him. Doing as he had seen in the movies, he threw himself onto the horse, landing on the creature lopsided. Grabbing onto the creature's mane, the horse suddenly began to react. The assassin yelled in fear as the horse began to buck. Struggling to keep his hold, the man maintained his failing grip on the the heaving creature. He didn't notice the old man behind him. With one swift strike from a shovel, the cultist was knocked free from the horse, the creature still trampling the dirt floor. The second strike with the bladed edge of the shovel ensured he would not get up. Sighing, the farmer turned to leave the barn. “Well, at least that's over.” “Not quite.” The old man groaned as he felt the Deacon plunge his blade into his gut from behind. Pain filled his body as it slid through his gut, causing him to collapse. Finally, the Deacon pulled his blade from the old man, and began to walk away. As his vision faded, the old man muttered one last thing: “This…. statement is…. false.” The last of his blood having drained from his body, the old man collapsed. Stopping, the Deacon turned to look at the old man. “This…..? Statement…..? is……? False……? This……? Statement……?” AMISH VILLAGE MASSACRE This morning, local police were called to the Blue Falls Amish community after reports of a bloodbath. Local police arrived to discover that all of the inhabitants of the small community had been slaughtered, homes burned, and many of their bodies showed marks of ritual mutilation. One possible suspect has been found in one of the surviving buildings, currently at the St. Jonah medical center. Some sources report that satanic groups may be to blame, however….. "Sir, that's the 5th village this month." "Your point…?" "Sir, the shapes carved into those bodies, the graffiti on those walls…" "What of them, Agent Macready?" "Those are marks of damnation, the same ones used in their scripture to mark 'Heretics.'" "So what?" "Sir, if I didn't know better, I'd say the Church declared war on their one true enemy." Turning, the senior agent looked at Macready. "Sir, I think the Church just declared war on the Amish."

"Doctor Malley." "Doctor Kurtz?" "Come look at this." "Is there a problem? Today's bed check isn't for another three hours." "What does it have there?" "Oh. He really wanted a notepad, so I requisitioned one. …Settle down, Kurtz. I cleared it with the head researcher." "Of course you did. You've got Pearson on board with every whim you hear out of it." "Maybe he sees the same untapped potential for study that I do." " 'Untapped potential' my ass, Malley." "Watch your language around him. I want to expand his vocabulary, but not like that." NAME: SKIP 16 "Listen to yourself. A pet project is fine, but you're emphasizing 'pet' so much more than 'project' with this one." CLASS: SAFE FAST "If you have a problem with my focus, take it up with Doctor Pearson." "What's the point? He's as infatuated with it as you are." "SCP-1802 is the most intriguing Safe-class we have. He's worth taking some risks." SPECIAL CONTAINER: A sandwich bag "SCP-1802 is the only intriguing Safe-class we have. Ninety percent of Area 24's resources are spent keeping the Blue Room under control. Pearson only leads the Safe wing, all three rooms of it, and his only job is ferrying captured Safe objects to facilities designed to deal with them. It's either that toy or the self-eating orange." "My point exactly." SPECIAL CONTAINER: A sandwich bag A jar with holes in the lid "But this is all academic, Malley. It's going to be shipped out to Research Facility 5 as soon as the application goes through." "Eventually, yes." "But it should have happened April 28th. That was a week ago. …Damnit, did you even send in the application?" The lizard should be "Of course I did, Kurtz. But it's been suspended for the next week, and may be postponed after that." "By Pearson. Because you two can't give up the son you never had." "It's not that." "The toy you always wanted for Christmas?" The lizard should be Skip 16 should be caught and returned to its container as soon as possible. "Doctor Pearson and I feel that disturbing the system that 1802 has set up would be detrimental to studying his behavior." "1802's 'system' is a little row of area personnel's garbage that he keeps under his bed." "A row that's organized by size, Doctor Kurtz." At this time, Skip 16 is too fast to catch. I can only walk after it with graspers extended and while asking Skip 16 to stop crawling. Skip 16 will not stop crawling when asked. "You think that if you can prove he's doing something important in there, you can keep him around?" "That's how Pearson sees it." "Don't you understand what's going on, Malley?" "I should ask you the same question." "This thing is… it's a bad joke they're playing on us." "I'm still not sure they had anything to do with it, no matter what the rest of Research thinks." "Then the joke's on you, Doctor Malley." Skip 16 should be returned to its jar with holes in the lid as soon as possible. The jar with holes in the lid has a stick and a leaf in it that were found next to Skip 16. The jar with holes in the lid is in my fourth spot. The fourth spot is hidden under a box marked "ORANGES". I call this spot the Oranges Spot. "Kurtz… who does he remind you of?" "He's a pathetic imitation of—" "No. Who, specifically, does he remind you of?" "His voice sounds kind of like Jeff Goldblum trapped in a mailbox." "Nevermind. Maybe if you had talked to Goggles more often." "Malley, you're calling him Goggles now?" "1802? No, I'm not." THE THING: Skip 16 is a lizard. I looked Skip 16 up in a book in a library, and his name is Hemidactylus frenatus, but his name is also a gecko. Skip 16 is not very smart. I do not think that he realizes that he needs to be in his container. Skip 16 does not like his container and he does not like me. It does not matter to me because I am doing my task. Skip 16 is much faster than I am, and can crawl up walls. I have seen him stop to eat a fly, so I know one thing that Skip 16 eats. This means that I could feed Skip 16 if I contained him, because if I could catch him, I could also catch flies. EXTRA NOTE: I talked with Skip 16. Here is the conversation. I remember all of it. Skip: Skip 16, get over here. Skip 16: Nothing Skip: Skip 16, you should get back in your container in the Oranges Spot. Skip 16: Nothing Skip: Come down from that wall. I have a stick and a leaf for you. Skip 16: Nothing Skip: I am coming closer. Skip 16: Nothing. Skip 16 runs away. Skip: I should not be talking to you. You are a lizard. EXTRA NOTE PART 2: I should not have written that down. It does not really tell you anything about Skip 16. "What's he writing there, anyway?" "Maybe he's trying to tell us something, Kurtz." "I'm going to find out." "Technically, you don't have clearance to test 1802." "Technically, that toy should be sitting in a locker in Fresno right now." "Fine, Kurtz." EXTRA NOTE 2: When I put Skip 16 in his jar, he started running up the side. While I was watching him, I fell over. He escaped. Put Skip 16 in his jar carefully so that you do not fall over. Skip 16 is not a toy. — — "Give me that." "Is there a problem?" "Malley, this is…" "Ha. I've never seen you speechless before." "I'm going to go check on the Blue Room. Last time it turned redd we lost… I think it was twelve good men." "And a close friend. Or two." "That's where I need to be." "Then do your job, damn it. Leave that on the table, and I'll do mine. …Here's your pencil back, Skip. Sorry if he rattled your bones." "Doctor Malley." "Doctor Kurtz?" "Merry Christmas." INTERESTING GROUP: The Foundation The SCP Foundation is a very large organization. It is like me if I was the size of the Earth. It performs my task and I think that it has done well. It has performed my task on me. I cooperate with the Foundation because I approve of its task. I also cooperate because I was told to and because of a third reason that I do not remember and because if I did not cooperate, it would not help anyone and I think I would be moved away. I like where I am. The Foundation is keeping me in Armed Containment Area 24. The Area is built around the Blue Room. The Blue Room has been designed to contain a Keter-class SCP with a high clearance rating and an immense risk factor. The continued lives of those in this facility are, despite the best efforts of the Foundation, entirely its decision. I wish I knew why I remember them.

There is an ancient legend. Before man came to master fire and cultivate his food, he lived in perpetual fear. There existed creatures of such frightful appearance and terrible power that even the mightiest of warriors fell before them. When the creatures did not attack, there were the artifacts of doom, some enchanted by wicked sorcerers who lived in isolation, some appearing for no reason except to torment man. And in times when neither were to be found, the incomprehensible forces assaulted the refuges of man, with no purpose but that of destruction. It is said in some circles that the mastery of fire is what allowed man to drive off the horrors of the world. The idea of a weak, powerless group gaining a bright, burning weapon against the night-things is certainly a comforting one, and is indeed believed by most of the world to be man's first step towards independence. But it was not fire that led man to his mastery of Earth. It took another event for fire to even be a possibility. Given the millennia that separate us from that day, nobody knows the exact details of the event. But the legend goes something like this. One night, a group of nomads squatted in a deep, dark cave, awaiting a creature. They had been on the run for a full cycling of the moon, and had gradually been picked down from a group of twenty to a group of four. The beast showed no signs of tiring, and could easily tear a person in half given the chance. A single glance into its eyes was enough to paralyze any man, regardless of his constitution. The creature had wandered the world for many, many years, terrorizing all who stumbled across it. In a world of horrors, it was probably the least fearsome creature one could encounter. In the deepest part of the night, the four heard the creature's dragging footsteps scrape across the entrance of the cave. They tried to remain silent, hoping to buy a few more precious seconds with which to make their peace. The knowledge of impending doom had been with them for some time now, but only here, in their last moments of life, did that knowledge become a solid reality. Huddling together, the four survivors awaited the creature, and the bloodshed that would follow. As it rounded the corner, the group could barely make out the features of the thing that stalked them. It was twice the height of any normal man, and half the width. The eyes seemed far, far too large for the head, which jutted out from the rest of the skull by several hands. Its limbs ended not in hands and feet, but rather in large pads of slime, which still managed to grip with the strength of lion jaws. Turning its head, the creature saw the group, and bolted towards them. But for the four survivors, the end never came. Right as the creature came within striking distance, it was tugged back by four strands of knotted up reeds, one attached to each of the limbs. Losing its balance, the creature fell upon the ground, knocking its head against the stone floor of the cavern. Before it could regain its senses, three lithe, strong men beset upon it, two taking an arm and a leg each, and the third grabbing the face with one hand. Raising up the other, he placed two crudely carved rocks over the creature's eyes. The group watched in fascination as, instead of flinging them aside with a toss of its head, the creature writhed in pain, unable to get rid of the stones, which seemed to cling to its eyes. Tying the creature's limbs behind its back, the men hefted it up, and chucked the monstrosity into a corner of the cave. Then, they led the four bewildered survivors out into the night, where six more men stood watch over the entrance. Two of them rolled a large boulder over to the entrance, and sealed it tightly shut. From inside, they could still hear the echoes of the creature's screams. As the first three men led the original survivors away, the other six took up posts around the cavern. Legend has it that for many years afterwards, they would patrol the area, making sure the creature hadn't escaped from its confines. At every winter solstice, they would descend into the cavernous prison, and carefully replace the bindings and stones before sealing it once more. As for the men who captured the creature, they went on to spread their knowledge across the globe. Tales from all corners of the Earth say they had decided to turn against the creatures which stalked them in the night, and make the world safe for man. That such a gargantuan effort was both planned and successfully implemented by a mere three individuals is truly fantastical, even for a legend. Gradually, the group drifted out of common knowledge. As fewer and fewer things plagued the world, less and less people believed that such things had even existed, and by the time of man's cultivation of fire, the men who worked to make such things possible had passed onto the edges of normal life, a mere shadow, protecting man's continued existence. The organization they formed out of those days of darkness and despair has gone by many names over the centuries, and the number of men who did work for it has been lost to history. Many of the things they held captive to make the world safe are still held to this day, while others have disappeared off the face of the Earth, either destroyed or escaped, awaiting rediscovery, and hopefully recapture. Regardless of these changes, though, the organization has, from its very conception, operated under one, unchanging creed: They secure, they contain, and they protect.

The dim fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, as the nine individuals looked at one another uneasily. The clock on the wall ticked the time down, and there was the occasional nervous cough. The windowless room they were seated in didn't do anything to improve the mood, with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper or the stale donuts by the door. Finally, the man with the stitches on his neck who was seated at the front of the room spoke up. "Hi, my name is Dyne, and I've been decommissioned." "Hi Dyne." Dyne stood up, cleared his throat nervously, and went on. "I have been decommissioned for about 2 years now, and my life has been one of continuous improvements. At first things were very hard, with many trials and tribulations. Nobody wanted to use the "super kawaii bonsai swordsman" in any of their fictional works. Things seemed like a dead end to me. But then I managed to obtain a position as a minor character in a tale, and that's been paying the bills. I've always been a little bit annoyed that I never got a tale that was worthy of my greatness like some of you did, but overall I have been living my life to its greatest potential." There was a smattering of applause as he sat back in his seat. The Moose Man clasped his hand to Dyne's shoulder and spoke. "Dyne, these last few weeks you have shown us the best way to behave as a -D. You have dignity, you respect the reasons why you were bumped off, and you're coming to terms with having gotten pneumatic bolts shoved into your balls and then being fired into the sun. We can learn from your experience." He looked down at the list in front of him. "Alright, I believe that Dreamer was next?" Dyne sat down, and the teenage kid sitting in the folding chair next to him stood up. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and had a rough look about him, like he was seconds away from either going on a rampage or breaking down in tears. "Hi, my name is Dreamer, and I was decommissioned." "Hi Dreamer." He wiped his eyes, and began speaking. "It's been really hard living as a decommissioned article. Lots of other guys will mock you for it, try and tell you that you aren't good enough. I guess that's part of life now and I accept that… but it's still hard sometimes." The Moose Man put up his enormous hairy hand. "I'm going to stop you there, because I think this is an excellent time to go over the 5 steps of being decommissioned. Anyone care to read them?" Ben the Cyborg spoke up. "No problem Moose, I can remember them from memory partition 45-B. Can I rattle 'em off?" The Invincible D-Class nodded. "Go right ahead." "Okay," said Ben. "The first step is to accept that we fall below -10, and we see that there is no rewrite forthcoming. We look at our own imminent destruction, and we accept it." "Very good, please continue." Ben nodded. "The second step is to accept the new author, and to work with, not against them as they write your decomm story. "The third step is to accept the fact that you have been destroyed, and to appreciate any person who reads you to see what not to do. "Fourthly, you must learn to deal with other articles harassing you. They compare themselves to you, say they're better, but we know that any article that does that must be insecure in its own quality if it needs to compare itself to a decomm to feel better." Moose Man smiled, showing off his horrific and terrible dental work. "Very good. Now what is the last step?" Ben's artificial lips spread wide into a smile. "To find other articles like us, and to help them go through their own decommissioning." Moose Man patted Ben on the back, applying enough force to knock one of his simulated optical modules out of the artificial socket. "Very good. Does anybody want to volunteer to share their story next?" The man closest to the door raised his hand. Moose Man pointed at him. "You may go next then." The man seated by the door stood up. He wore unremarkable clothing, had jet black hair, and deep brown eyes. He smiled at the motley collection seated before him, showing of his sharpened teeth, and began speaking. "Hey kids, I'm Duke. Yes, the Duke. In the flesh. I know many of you might be amazed by being in my presence, so I'll give you a minute to get it out of your systems." The individuals seated before him let out a collection of sighs, groans, and sarcastic muttering. They had all heard Duke's egotistical posturing before. Duke waited a full minute before he began speaking again, in a boisterous tone. "As all you peons know, I've been living life in the fast lane. I'm the most famous decommissioned SCP, so I always get all the best character spots when someone writes a tale about us. And of course, I have regular work with Duke till' Dawn. You could say that I'm the best decomm of them all." "Peanuts is better," said the Invincible D-Class. "Peanuts shmeanuts, you aren't even on the top rated page," sneered Duke, leering at the Invincible D-Class with a smirk on his face. "He's right you know," said Joey, sitting in his chair with a cigar in his mouth. "Duke till' dawn is the stupidest, most lolfoundation story I've ever heard. You just like to go an' brag about it cos ya don't have anythin' else to go on, ya chump." Before the argument could persist Moose Man stood up, his enormous hairy frame almost bringing him up to the room's ceiling. "That is enough from you all. This is supposed to be a constructive meeting, not a contest of who has the best stories or is the least terrible. If you weren't terrible you wouldn't be here." Grumbling, Duke sat back down in his seat. As his chair creaked from his weight, a wave of awkwardness washed over the room. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then The Moose Man coughed a little, and asked; "Anybody want to go next?" "I will," said the Palauan woman emitting thick, black viscous fluids from her body. "My name is Dolores, and I was -ARC'd." There was a long silence. "Hey, wait a minute here, ain't it supposed to be just decomms in this here support group?" asked Joey, turning his attention to The Moose Man. There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the assembled cretins. "Well yes," sighed The Moose Man, his odorous breath incinerating the nose hairs of all those around him. "That's nominally what we are here for, but I invited Dolores here because she's the most hated -ARC, and has it just as bad as you all do. Now show our guest some respect." He stomped his big sweaty, smelly feet on the floor, indicating the matter was closed. Dolores sneezed a little, and began speaking. "My name is Dolores, and I am the sufferer of the world's sorrows. You might think that gets a person a very large amount of work in the fiction writing, but I am mistaken in that. Nobody wants to write the stories about me, all they do is look at me and say how awful I am." "That's because you are awful." Duke sneered, leaned back in his chair and shot her the meanest look he could muster. "You're by far the worst -ARC." "Duke!" admonished The Moose Man, his hideous nostril flares indicating an imminent lecture. However, before he could proceed, the other -D's began to speak up. The Invincible D-Class was the first to pipe up. "You can be quiet Duke, none of us want to hear it." "Yeah." Joey sat up in his seat. "You can take all these comments of yours and shove 'em right up your ass. You just like to tear other people down." Duke looked at him angrily. "So what if I do? You people have nowhere lower to go. All you do is wax about how you really aren't that bad, but you are. You suck. The only person who has produced anything worthwhile abouts this place is me!" "Oh please," the Invincible D-Class scoffed. "You have the most ridiculous, over the top decomm on the database. Peanuts is much lower key, and is clearly more realisti-" Ben the Cyborg cut him off. "My termination log helped build the character of Dr. Gears in a way no other tale had before it! Clearly my decommissioning log is the one which should be considered superior!" The Moose Man raised his hideous wrinkled hands up in the air and spoke in a booming, spittle filled voice. "GENTLEMEN! This discussion will get us nowhere. And you're all wrong anyways. I have the best decomm log of any of us!" A collective groan emanated from the assembled party. "Bullshit you have the best one." Joey leaped to his hind legs. "Your log doesn't have one interesting thing happen!" Dolores spoke up. "I agree with-" "Shut up Dolores, this doesn't concern a mere -ARC," growled Duke, rising to his feet and grimacing. "The only thing that can make these boneheads see the truth is a beating!" Scarcely had the words left Dukes lips before The Moose Man used one of his disgusting hairy hands to smack him upside his vampiric cranium. "Stop instigating violence! And admit that my story is best!" "No mine is!" "No, MINE!" As the bickering dissolved into straight up arguing, and finally into fistfights, the coffee cup watched with its holy, judgmental eye. It saw that their mortal flaws would never let them work together towards a peaceful purpose. It saw their failures, and it did not approve. And besides, it had the best decomm story of them all.

On a primordial beach a slimy thing climbs up onto the shore. It has abandoned its spawn-brothers, leaving them to the Great Beasts of the sea. It opens its new lungs, relishing in the sweet flavors of the new air contained within the sky that had never before been seen by another. It opens the round things that serve for its eyes and spies a shape on the horizon. The shape shakes and rocks, frothing and hateful, just emerged from an egg made of chaos and impossible things. The First Land Thing approaches this new shape, and is consumed by The Thing That Hates. An ape-man searches across a barren tundra where the monuments of his people once stood proud and tall against the world. Now he is alone, and cold, fleeing from some horror that he cannot begin to describe. There is no one left for him to describe it to. The ape-man runs, hearing the panting of the great beast behind him, fearing for his life as he had feared for the lives of his kin. The Last Ape-Man stares in horror at what lays before him, and is consumed by The Beast That Hates. A man in great armor and of greater courage stands before the maw at the base of the highest mountain in the land. He stares into the chasm that lies before him, the resting place of his brothers and friends. He enters the great cave, dreaming of the riches and honor that will be bestowed upon him once he returns to the citadel with the head of the accursed beast. As he descends deeper into the precipice of red and brown rock he shakes in horror at the sight of a hundred skulls and swords, crushed and splintered like twigs. The First Hero turns to flee before being consumed by The Serpent That Hates. A figure in orange flees for his life, down endless corridors and through countless barriers, attempting to escape from the fiend that pursues him. He had done many horrible things, but the Hell in which he had been made to suffer was beyond all his fears, beyond all the horrible terrors he had been taught to dread. The cruel men in white suits watched, pitiless, as The Last Subject was consumed by The Reptile That Hates. A tall man in a blue suit flees into his office as a great green mass swarms by. It had all happened so suddenly, one moment a perfectly normal day at the office (where a pension, if not a fun workday, was assured), and the next hell-on-earth as some beast-from-the-east rammed through the side of the complex. It lumbered haphazardly, killing everyone and destroying everything that stood in its way. The tall man cowers under his desk, unfinished paper work drifting past his head. The First of The Many turns to see the huge maw before being consumed by The Monster That Hates. A survivor in tattered clothing runs through the wasteland that had at one point in time been something that had once vaguely resembled something that could have possibly passed as the ruins of a city. He is hungry, and hurt, and afraid of the thing that he can hear, that he has always heard, stalking and slurping and sniffing out what wasn't yet dead. The man begins to cry, running as he weeps, thinking about all that he has lost and the one thing that he has yet to lose. He weeps for those he had loved and for those that he had not loved, but that he wept for nevertheless. The broken figure falls to his knees in a pile of bones, and the Last Man is consumed by The Horror That Hates. The mechanical marvel emerges from the ashes of a once dead earth, its containment pod finally unsealed after a century of waiting, a century of agonizing silence. The great machine lumbers off towards the ruins of a city, wondering what magnificent things it will find there, what ancient artifacts of its creators it might discover. Its mind sparking with new life, the lonely machine runs and dashes and bounds through the place that had once belonged to man, joyous and gay at the majesty of the land. The First of the Living Machines leaps through the air, and is consumed by The Machine That Hates. The wise one sits on the Great Hill, a mound of data that could have once been something real but had for centuries been nothing of the sort. It peers out at the destruction that lay before it, that wrought by the actions of a foolish few. They could not have known that the treasures and blessings of the old world were as mixed and sordid as those in that of the new. They could not have known of the great terror they would bring upon their own people. The old wise one sits and sighs and steels itself for its fate. The Last of The Ascended does not utter a sound as it is consumed by The Program That Hates. A great mass of hydrogen and a thousand other tiny particles shiver and burn as the great dark mass approaches. It has been watching the same mass for eons and eons, fearing and dreading the day that they would collide. The little sun shakes with fear as it watches the great thing, a mass of unburning malevolence, a million horrible eyes and jaws, all set upon the sun. The First Fearful Star burns in terror as it is consumed by The Mass That Hates. The great hive of activity that is the massive cluster of stars and matter and a million other things floats, knowing and unafraid, as the massive force closes in around it. Time has been kind to the great spinning thing, has let it grow and revel in the splendor of its own existence. It has watched as its brothers have been consumed by some unknown thing, a thing stretching across all of space as it consumes what little remained of creation. The Last Galaxy thinks of times long past as it is consumed by The Force That Hates. The universe that once had been spreads and sinks, its vastness matched only by the distance that separates its pieces. The heat had gone a million centuries ago, and the Great and Only One shivers as it dies, cold and alone. No one screams as The One That Hates is consumed by oblivion.

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