I stared at the television, barely catching the words, as I helped Helen into the chair.
"…gone, nothing left but a giant hole. The hurricanes reported in the region were actually the result of air and water rushing in to fill the…"
"Come on, come on," I said, flipping to another channel. I couldn't care less about North Korea. I was looking for the big news.
"…gap between the two sides is wider than ever. The Secretary of Defense is defending the secrecy, saying it was for our own protection. The president denies…"
This was better, but still not quite there. "Look, I know you hate it when I flip through the channels, Helen," I said, "But for God's sake, the whole world's just changed! Aren't you excited?" I just couldn't understand why she didn't look more excited. I'll never understand women, I'm afraid.
I tried another, as I brushed a fly from in front of my face.
"…having any knowledge of these events are being asked to come forward. Sources in Parliament have confirmed that the Global Occult Coalition is partly funded with crown…"
I shook my head. Not quite there yet. Helen's expression was disapproving. "I'm sorry," I said. "But you don't understand what it's like for me. You're normal. I've never fit in. I've never belonged. It's easy for you, but there's never been a place for me." I changed the channel.
"…money like anyone else, Robert. Our clients have refined tastes, and we do our best to attend to them. I don't think you'll find that we've done anything illegal. I wouldn't call…"
I put my hand on Helen's. "Everything's changed today. There are others like me. Can you imagine? I'm not alone. Not really." I shook my head suddenly. "Oh, no, no, I didn't mean it like that. Of course I'm glad we met. But we've only known each other a few days, and I've been wanting to find other people like me for all my life. Imagine, like, okay, like you were the only one in the world who could see. Nobody else knew what blue even was, let alone what it had to do with the sky. Can you even think how lonely that would be?"
"…for a trial by the international court. The SCP Foundation has so far refused to consent to an…"
"Look, we can get on with things in a minute. Just let me find one good bit. Someone will be talking about it, you'll see," I told Helen. I changed it again, and this time was rewarded by a young woman being interviewed in a studio. "Here, look!"
"…examination, because some of the doctors were kind of creepy. But it wasn't bad for the most part. Just awfully lonely," she said.
She was blond, in her early twenties, it seemed. Pretty face, though not so pretty as Helen.
"And all because of your… talent?" the interviewer asked.
Boorish man. Glasses. I can't stand a man in glasses. Puts me on edge.
"That's right," she said. "They said it could be dangerous."
"Can we see a demonstration?" asked the interviewer.
She nods, and is handed a photograph. It shows another man, dark skin, fine suit. As soon as she takes it, it begins to move.
The host calls backstage, and the dark-skinned man walks in. His picture matches his movements. When the girl touches the picture, the man jumps, and says he could feel her touching him. A close-up shows his skin indenting in the spot where she puts her finger. The camera zoomed in to let everyone see how her finger goes into the photograph.
"Have you always been able to do this?" asked the interviewer.
"Since I was younger, at least," she says.
I turned it off. We'd seen enough. "Oh, Helen," I said, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "It's so wonderful. I'm not a freak anymore. I belong, for once in my miserable life, I belong." I reached over and stroked her cheek lovingly. It was pale, but there was still a hint of the rosiness she'd had the day before.
I brushed the flies from her skin. We'd been talking long enough, and it was time to get on with it. If people spend too much time dead, they start to smell, and people just don't understand. I tore the skin and flesh from her arm and pulled off her ulna, and began to chew, muscles around my jaw swelling and growing to let me crush the bone. Once I finished, it was time to look outward for once.
The world was new, and for once, I felt I had a place in it.


Hiro P. always said that a successful art-strike required speed, cunning, and above all else, style. In retrospect, he'd never said anything about things like "artistic vision" or "ability to fight off the Masters of Bougie". Hiding behind a steel shipping crate because people were shooting at you, while your art-splosion slowly unfolded itself like a bloom of paint and death not even fifteen feet away… Well, it was almost enough to make you wonder whether you could've done something better with your life, like sticking your dick in a mound of bullet ants.
Hiro was fucking around with the detonator, stupidly trying to make the art bomb stop or even reverse. Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) had pulled a marker from somewhere and was scribbling some drawing on the side of the container. She was a little fucked in the head, even for your group, but she was an artist to the end. And you? You were thinking and noticing you were thinking and noticing that you were noticing and wow, who the fuck was that over there?
Some dude was just walking through the bullet fire, like he knew where they were going to be and just happened to be where they weren't. Looked like a parody of a banker, too, or maybe a private detective from those old movies your ma made you watch with her, all dapper and shit, a figure drawn in shades of slate and charcoal.
He walked around the corner of the container, out of the field of fire, and stood with his back to you, looking at the Paintball-o-Doom expanding slowly but surely towards you. After a minute or so, and another few inches closer to polychromatic glory, he turned to the three of you, shook his head, and said a single word: "Amateurish."
He turned to go and you quickly darted over and grabbed his shoulder. "Dude, what about us? We can't get away while those pricks over there are shooting at us!" He sighed and gave a little half-frown, then pulled a stub of chalk from his pocket and tossed it to Arsehole. "Make your own way out, if you can. Or sacrifice it all for Art, your choice." With that, he turned and walked back through the rain of gunfire. (Shit-fucking Christ, how many bullets did they HAVE?!)
Arsehole looked at the stub for a second, then drew a submarine hatch on the pavement in front of her. She barely had enough chalk, but got the finishing touches on it just as the first splat of viridian burned against your face. She gave the wheel on the hatch a twist and a circle of concrete popped open. The three of you scrambled down into the hole, and you pulled it closed just as the first sizzle of azure frostbite hit your hand.
And that was how you met The Critic for the first time.

Turned out a lot of people had encountered him in one way or another. He had a lot of names: The Critic, Mr. Gray, Fuckface, The Man, and a shit-ton more. You tried calling him "Your Private Dick", but nobody else thought it was funny, so you stopped after a while. Nobody knew where he came from, or who he was, but he would show up at particularly… exuberant pieces every now and then, give a fast-and-dirty review, then disappear again. Sometimes he'd help people out of a jam, like he did for you, sometimes he'd grab artists and toss them to the wolves of the Establishment. Sometimes literally wolves, too. You heard one particularly gruesome story involving a collective trying to do some kind of PETA-esque shit at a zoo (sooooo derivative), and they ended up kibble for about half the carnivores because of him.
You got a little obsessed with him for a few months, and got partway through half a dozen pieces about him before you blocked. Every time you tried, it was like there was a hole in the middle of it that refused to be filled. The closest you got was a neat little art contagion that would make infectees go gray and monochrome, like The Critic's color palette, but it seemed… blah. Lifeless. Childish and obvious and dull-witted, when you should be going for dynamic and mysterious. You ended up shelving it all, sticking it in a U-Stor-It out in South Fuckington, Middle of Nowhere, USA.
You decided to do a little traveling to get some perspective on the Man From Nowhere. You spent a couple of years doing a variety of middling-to-moderately successful shows and actions in Eastern Europe down into Spain. The latest was a direct-action performance piece in Nice, France, where a group spiked the water system with a custom fast-acting hallucinogen that ended up with half the tourist trade tripping and seeing the gaps between the strings of reality. The early reviews were that it was ambitious but poorly executed, but at least you got a few people to wake up. You had a few inklings about the nature of Humanity versus Mystery and were taking the train to London, to catch the scene bubbling under the surface there, when you noticed The Critic sitting next to you.
"Hello, artist."
Startled, you replied, "Uh, hello. I, uh, didn't see you there."
"Very few people do. I'm here to discuss your little project about me."
You frowned. "Wha- Oh, I guess you've been watching me. Kinda creepy, man."
"Not really, but I did read a little something about you working on something of potential interest."
"Wait, I'm getting reviews on something that I haven't even finished yet? MotherFUCK. It was Kaneese, wasn't it? I'm going to wring that little poseur's neck," you grumbled darkly.
He seemed amused by your little outburst. "No, no, it was no one you would know or even be able to contact. Nevertheless, I want to warn you that you need to be more… original in your interpretation. In the waters you're splashing in, clichés will do nothing except get your work flamed and removed." He waved his hand vaguely towards the ceiling as he said, "Harsh criticism is the nature of the game, is it not?"
"Removed? No, nevermind." You shook your head. "Have you seen my, I guess, treatise on you? What do you think?"
"A little staid, as I'm sure you know, but some parts have potential. Pare it down to the core of your statement, your meaning, then elaborate from there. Don't feel that you have to add flash to make it acceptable; just work with what you have and make people like it."
"Uh, thanks for the advice." You paused for a moment. "Um, can I ask you a question?"
He made a small go-ahead gesture and said, "I don't guarantee that I'll answer, but ask away."
You steeled your nerves and asked, "Why do you act so… randomly? I mean, you'll help some people one time, then the next you hand the same people over to the U.N. or whatever, then the next you just stand on the sidelines and watch."
He smiled a Mona Lisa smile at you. "Your theme on me is 'Mystery', isn't it? Think of it as part of my charm. I know what needs to be done, or undone, and take care of things as I see fit." He paused, then continued, "I do have to say that I find you art monsters to be some of the more entertaining under my watch."
With that, he rose. "Well, I must be going. I look forward to seeing the finished work, little artist." He tipped his hat to you, walked away, and you sank into a contemplation on how to edit and redefine your current scraps back "home".
And that was how you met The Critic for the second time.

The rest of your trip back to your storage unit in BFE, West Who-Gives-A-Damn was uneventful. Just a few days blitzed out of your mind in Boston, an induced flash-mob recreation of Debbie Does Dallas on the 50-yard line of Cowboys Stadium, and a lovely evening over tea with The Possibly Reverend George St. George the George'th of the Church of Bob the Irredeemer. Delightful wo/man.
You were feeling energized yet serene when you finally unlocked the door on the unit and rolled it up. Looking at everything tossed into it, you realized that The Critic was right; most of what you'd done before was trash, derivative, or clichéd to hell and back again. You spent a few days untangling one piece from another, picking apart what worked and what didn't. The next month was spent in a haze as you invented and engineered, called in favors, salvaged and scrapped and scraped and stole and slept.
Eventually you ended up with something totally new; something you didn't even realize was in you, yet somehow tasted distinctly of your touch. You arranged for the first showing to take place on the grounds for Burning Man. Not while it was actually going on, that would've been a bit too… public for this particular piece's opening, but during the off-season. Besides, that gave it time to take root and mature for when the borderliners showed up.
You passed the word out and around forty people showed up in person, although you saw some phones out, presumably streaming video elsewhere. In the center of the space was a seventy-foot-tall saguaro cactus made out of sheet metal and strips of malachite. It glowed, even after the sun set, with a purple-gray-green shimmer that pulled at the mind, like light reflecting off a pigeon's wing. Set into the base of the ivory tower were two narrow archways, barely big enough to squeeze into, through which could be seen Nothing. People kept trying to look into them, but their eyes refused to register anything at all. There were a few appreciative murmurs as people noticed that, but you tuned out most of the comments as you geared yourself up for the Real Deal.
You let the audience circle the engraved spire until the new moon rose above the empty wooden scaffolding. In a spotlight of starlight and moondark, you walked up to the enormous sandstone anthill and stood, framed before the first archway.
"Here is the unknown and the unknowable, the place through which we cannot speak. I invite anyone to walk in this man's shoes and tell themselves they are unchanged."
You then took a step backwards, into and through the archway.
It's strange seeing everyone like this, you think. Scrambling and rambling and even the brightest stars are stuck in the void of reality. You wonder why people don't just tear the veil from their eyes and remake everything into something more interesting.
You see The Critic (oh, but now you know his name, don't you) walk out of the blind spot you didn't know you had, and stand, real and true amongst the flitterings around you both, a 4-D man in a 2-D world. He walks a slow circle around your edifice, and steps into the other archway.
A creditable effort, he thinks. I'm not sure that many people will understand what you've done here, but I do believe that this grand (a/e)ffect is worthwhile. Hmm. You should take a step forward, though. I believe that things are about to get slightly more interesting than you anticipate.
You think that he might be right. After all, you can smell that he's telling the truth as he knows it. You step out of the arch and found yourself surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and sycophants, all clamoring to praise you.
You held up your hands and managed to stick a stiff smile on your face. "Ladies, gentlemen, teegs, nulls, please settle down. 'Nobody Knows Me, #6239' is an interactive piece, but I believe we're going to have some unwelcome company soon. Anyone who doesn't want to become a commercial sale or an exquisite corpse might want to leave now."
Most of the audience looked uncomfortable and started to drift off to their vehicles, but a handful stuck around, questioning you.
"How many-" "What inspir-" "Whenceforth came-" "Lovely materi-" "The luminos-"
You answered in generalities and layered meanings for about an hour. The helicopters were surprisingly quiet, but that wasn't too remarkable, given who flew them. You hugged yourself and awaited the coming cuffs and chains. You wondered if your new "patrons" would let you have access to some art supplies before they shot you in the head. Just a little chalk would do.
And that was how you met The Critic for the third time.


☦The slow fall of the Foundation.☦

August 14th, 2051 - September 9th, 2077

The castle was old and decrepit but still stood, a testament to the stubbornness of humanity's rules impressed upon the world. It had been so easy then to establish their symbol of absolute control upon everything they felt the need to conquer. It was not so easy to maintain.
Still, the castle proudly stood. It was unaffected by water and rain. It took no damage from vines supported by it or the animals sheltered by it. None of those could remove the old stones, dislodge the buttresses or collapse the foundation.
An insignificant fragment of stone is chipped from a wall.

The patient flipped through the pages of a well-loved storybook with the same intentness as when it was new. It paid no heed to when the good doctor walked in, though the wings on its skin stopped their fluttering for just a moment in acknowledgement. Dr. Blake coughed, unused to the musky scent of a neglected room.
The doctor fiddled with his badge, arthritic fingers rubbing over his Site Director title, then his name. “Hello, SCP-1252.” He spoke with a timbre that denied the wrinkles on his face. “I'll make this quick. We've decided that resources here would be better spent elsewhere. Therefo-”
“Yes. Please.”
The doctor's momentary silence was the only sign he may have been taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“Yes. Please.” The humanoid's throat was raspy with lack of use. What remained of its tongue licked at its lips, wetting them with half-congealed spittle. “You can't… really…” It took a breath of its mask. “…keep me anymore, right? That's okay.” It tried to give its most reassuring smile. “I don't mind.” SCP-1252 attempted to reach out and console the man who had lied to and trapped it here. The wires barely allowed it to unbend its elbow.
“…Can you at least afford a bullet?”
Dr. Blake reached over to turn the life support off.

What was but one brick, fallen out of its massive walls?

The cameras couldn't see everywhere, though they tried. Many had been coated in vines but no one could afford the resources to replace or repair them. What few remained could only survey a small area, leaving the children free to do as they desired once they learned to avoid the artificial eyes.
A boy neared his 50th birthday but had long forgotten to age. His faded blue pajamas seemed transparent under the sunlight as he climbed through his home. Normally he would only be awake once the moon had tucked the sun to bed, but today he had come to check out the first visitor in a decade.
At the edge of the overgrown garden, a girl cradled a nearly lifeless ragdoll in her arms. Her head was cocked to the side in curiosity, though no expression could be seen past her sun bleached giraffe mask. She had come to be invited into a secret club of children who had discovered that the physical world was just an option. As the local welcome crew came to greet her, she extended her prize.
The boy took her ragdoll, pressing it to his ear. The rough fabric could be seen from under his translucent fingers as he listened to a soul of what was once a woman, begging to feel again. He handed it back to his new friend, lips moving without sound. Do you know tag?

The rain is relentless this season, breathing life into withered vines to begin their work again. The animals seek shelter, burrowing away the castle's foundations. Perhaps it had been wrong to think of such a relic as everlasting.
But still, inevitability seemed too far away to accept.

The room was given a gentle paint of cartoony animals in pastel colors, though even that has faded with time. Worn out children's toys lay strewn over the floor, forgotten only to be rediscovered and played with as new again. A half-finished lion made of legos lay on its side as a reminder of what was lost. In a corner, a boy with red hair and a blush of freckles took his afternoon nap. His hands clung tightly to the holey blanket, allowing a thin sheet of worn fabric to defend against all the frightening unknowns of the world. He was neither roused by the sound of a door opening and closing nor awakened from the soft footsteps.
There was supposed to be a single guard on duty. They could not afford to have a guard for the guard, not anymore. It was the long-awaited opportunity to strike a personal wound. The attackers could afford their bullets, where the protectors could not.
To come running at the sound of a single gunshot was to be too late. The boy who endured the suffering of strangers had been finally allowed to no longer feel anymore.

A stiff breeze prompted a few shaky stones to lose their grip. What used to be impenetrable now warmly invited all animals to shelter and home, unable to keep out even the least agile amongst them. The castle had become a giant rat's nest and all the predators wanted their share.

The Administrator surveyed the empty table before them.
There used to be a time, about a generation ago, that each chair was filled with the best specimens humanity could provide. The brightest minds and the strongest of wills met together regularly to maintain absolute order onto a world that steadily became more disorderly. They were the steady hand that disciplined the rowdy teen. They were the gatekeepers between that which ran against the grain of society and the curious humanity that sought to cross them.
There were few signs of things having gone amiss. At first, the increased collection of anomalies was brushed off as the result of a rapidly growing organization and the greater resources to hunt more leads. A few less useful sites were converted in anticipation for new growth. It was a simple matter of diverting minor funds at the time. If those bright minds of that day had been smart enough to predict the need for more extreme change at the time, perhaps all of this could've been avoided.
That was wishful thinking. It was inevitable. The Administrator knew that. The Administrator knew that even before the Overseers began to empty their chairs.
The first was a freak containment breach. It turns out that when the Engineering team had to construct hundreds of chambers a month, triple checking turned to double checking and double checking to a single glance over. Not even the kindest of man could keep up with the pace of new stories to fabricate, fresh containment procedures to devise, still-bleeding tragedies to hide.
The next two were suicide. Even the strongest of wills broke under sustained pressure. The remainder were picked off over the years. A few simply disappeared. O5-2 hadn't been seen since 590 was executed by the CI. Jack never could handle the loss of family. O5-4 left only the icon of a stylized rat king on her desk, a testament to how ingenuity was nothing more than functional insanity.
Friendship and spirit did nothing to prevent this. Their ideals, aspirations, and the hearts that birthed them could not produce the strength they needed. Respect and duty had long fell to the wayside, far from the binding contracts that they were thought to be.
In the end, nothing they really believed in could've saved them.

The castle's remaining walls moaned like the joints of an old man.
Inevitability was on its way.

| Hub |


-» You joined channel #booksudontread
-» Topic is: Welcome to #booksudontread - RULES: Don't be an ass. Don't out your fellows. If you're here, it's because you've been invited. If you get kicked, it's because the ops think you've been doing something that could endanger yourself or others. Don't come back without their approval.
-» Topic set by MisterKitty on 1/23/2013 12:33:27 PM
* ChanServ sets mode +v no1uno for #booksudontread
<@MisterKitty> So he says, 'First assume a spherical Chicken!'
<Vet> Hahahaahhahahahahaha
<vodkanono> lol
<crankshaft> hehehe
<~3rdSister> Oh lordy Mid, that's an old one.
<@MisterKitty> Still good.
<no1uno> Sounds like a good time being had.
* Jagerman rolls some dice, and opens up a door.
<no1uno> It's nice you all can laugh at a time like this. When things are so rough.
<romeoohromeo> whaddya mean no1?
<@MisterKitty> I haven't seen you around before, no1uno. When did you join?
<Vet> Ha, new blood! Let's ask him the questions!
<@MisterKitty> Oh lord, do we have to go through with this?
<vodkanono> Why not? There are traditions that keep us strong. We shall continue.
<no1uno> If this is how things are done, then let them continue as such.
<@MisterKitty> Fine, go ahead, ask the damn questions already.
<romeoohromeo> al right, question one: how'd ya find us?
<no1uno> Oh, I have my ways.
<crayweed> Oh no! That's a cop out! Come on, we've all done the questions, you gotta answer.
<no1uno> Well, to be prefectly honest, I just typed in 'Serpent Hands Secret Chat room' and this is what popped up.
<romeoohromeo> …
<crayweed> …
<Vet> …
<romeoohromeo> i don't believe you
<no1uno> To be fair, I'm not actually using a regular computer. I had this one special built to do most of the work of tracking you people down. You're almost as hard to find as I am. But now I have you.
<destructiveMouse> …
<crankshaft> …
<~3rdSister> … Okay, let's get this joker out of here.
-» You were kicked from #booksudontread by 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (You were not invited.)
<no1uno> and Yet, I am still here.
<romeoohromeo> is… is that supposed to be possible? c, i thought you had this on lock down.
<~3rdSister> That shouldn't be possible. But hanging aroudn you guys I know possible is a big field. You kids talk to him, I'm gonna… work my magic.
<no1uno> I believe there was a second question?
<crayweed> Okay, right, I got this. What are you lookign for here?
<no1uno> Succor. Release. I seek the one who will free me from my torment, and let me once more pass on to the next. I seek the knowledge of the past, and the wisdom of the future.
<vodkanono> …
<@MisterKitty> …
<romeoohromeo> … the fuck, man?
<~3rdSister> Got you now! Suck it asshole.
* 3rdSister sets mode +b *!*@no1uno for#booksudontread
<~3rdSister> Wait, what? That wasn't a name ban… Fuck it.
-» You were kicked from #booksudontread by 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Eat it creep.)
* 3rdSister wipes her hands of it. "Asshole dealt with."
<vodkanono> *Applauds* Well played, oh web mistress of awesome.
<no1uno> I believe such applauds would be out of line, as I am still here.
<~3rdSister> MOTHER FUCKER! Give me a moment.
* 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) has left #bookudontread ()
<Vet> All right asshole, as long as we've got you here, let's finish this. Last question. What's your power?"
<@MisterKitty> Don't feed the noobs guys.
<crayweed> Well, you gonna answer or what
<no1uno> Ah, now you come to the crux of this operation, the nub, the epitome of what I wish to speak on.You see, I am unknown, I am unseen, I am not. Those who are aware do not believe, and I, I sit in the cracks, and watch the world turn. And I am here with an offer.
<@MisterKitty> What do you offer us?
<no1uno> You? Absolutely nothing. You have the power you seek.
<romeoohromeo> aw yeah, romeo is coming into power now give it to me bitches
<no1uno> Let us say no.
<crayweed> Then why ARE you here?
* vodkanono checks his watch.
<vodkanono> Why must the evil villains go on and on and on and on..
<no1uno> I resist the label of evil.
<crankshaft> So you're a good guy?
<romeoohromeo> he reisists the label of good
<no1uno> I resist the label of… yes.
<crayweed> So your nothing.
<no1uno> I am me, is that not enough?
* 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) has joined #booksudontread
<no1uno> And my target returns.
<~3rdSister> Right, you want me? Fine. Let's do this.
<@MisterKitty> C, are you sure you want to do this?
* 3rdSister sets mode +i for #booksudontread
* romeoohromeo was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)
* crayweed was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)
* crankshaft was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)
* Jagerman was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)
<@Misterkitty> Claire, no, let me stick around and help you!
* Misterkitty was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Love you too. I'll deal with it.)
* vodkanono was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)
* Vet was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)
* destructiveMouse was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)
* OldMan was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (When the hell did you get here?)
<~3rdSister> And now it is down to me, and it is down to you.
<no1uno> It has always been thus. You just resisted it. There's still one person watching, you know.
<~3rdSister> I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. There's no one else in the room! How did you bypass my security? Why are you cracking my site? What the fuck do you want from me?
<no1uno> I want to make you an offer. I'm tired. I've been doing this for… for too long. It has taken a toll on my mind as well as my body.
<~3rdSister> What makes you think I want it?
<no1uno> Because you asked for it, Claire. Because you want to be the ultimate thorn in the side of the Jailers.
<~3rdSister> …
<~3rdSister> … Oh.
<~3rdSister> You.
<no1uno> Me.
<~3rdSister> What do you offer?
<no1uno> Everything. All my files, all my tools, everything you need to make them fail.
<~3rdSister> And what does it cost?
<no1uno> Everything. You will be unable to make yourself known, even to those who were your closest friends. You will be me. Will have always been me.
<~3rdSister> My…family?
<no1uno> Will never have had a third little sister.
<~3rdSister> Never again…
<no1uno> But you'd fulfill the family goal.
<~3rdSister> You're an asshole. Very well. I accept.
<no1uno> Turn around.
* chanserv sets mode -i for #booksudontread
* MisterKitty has joined #booksudontread
* chanserv sets mode +qo MisterKitty MisterKitty for #booksudontread
* romeoohromeo has joined #booksudontread
<~MisterKitty> Huh, that was odd.
<romeoohromeo> whut
<~MisterKitty> I was locked out of the room for a minute. Weird. oh well, looks like nothings wrong.


"After the objects are processed and given SCP designation, we organize them into three main classes; Safe, Euclid, and Keter. Safe-class objects are the simplest to contain, more often than not requiring minimal procedural deviation, maintenance, and observation. The most strenuous…"
Trighit yawned and surveyed the monochrome hallway. He was glad that he had been pushed to the back of the group; now, there was no reason to mask his boredom with Dr. Grant. Everyone else seemed rapt in attention towards the so called "scientist's" speech.
"I've yet to see a single scientific thing," he muttered.
Though the building looked like neat and orderly enough, there were noises and murmurs coming from the rooms lining the hallways. Trighit focused his attention on the humming he heard emanating from a room on his right. He nudged Pokum and motioned with his head towards the door and the documents sitting in a bin attached to the wall beside it. The assistant shook his head, put one finger in front of his lips, pointed ahead of him, and refocused on the speaker.
"Well, fine then. I'll just look for myself," he quietly fumed.
Trighit edged over to the door and took one of the sheafs of paper down.

Item #: SCP-1517
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: All instances of SCP-1517 and SCP-1517-A are to be contained in cryogenic…

"I don't care, I don't care," he mumbled to himself as he replaced the documents and reached for the handle. "I just want to know what it is…"
"Mr. Triggit, was it?"
The squat researcher retracted his arm and turned around.
"I-It's pronounced 'Try-it,' actually." he shakily responded working his tongue awkwardly around the unfamiliar words.
"Yes, well, my apologies Mr. Trite. Anyways, though I'm sure you're eager to see the example Euclids, we'd prefer to let our personnel handle the containment. If you could please step back?"
Trighit let out a long, relieved breath as he moved back towards Pokum.
"Now, as I was saying, Euclid-class objects are typically the objects that require moderate amount of attention and protocols. In this room are some fine examples of Euclid-classes. Doctor Peters, if you don't mind?"
The woman nodded, swiped a keycard in the panel adjacent to the bin ("How had I not noticed…?"), and opened the door. Trighit whipped out his ever-present notebook and excitedly craned his short neck, trying to see into the room.
The thrill was short lived. Instead of revealing a new, incredible specimens and environments, the room looked just like the hallway outside; gray, sterile, and boring. A row of white tubes lined the walls, each equipped with a module identical to the one found outside of the door.
"Certain Euclid-classes are deemed to be most easily, effectively, and safely stored in cryogenic suspension. Take a look here at these specimens." The man lifted his own keycard attached to a lanyard around his neck and swiped it through the attachment on one of the tanks. The front of the structure opened with a hissing noise, and the doctor retrieved several objects from inside.
"Now, these here are instances of SCP-1517-A, the eggs of SCP-1517. These may look like gobstoppers, but…" the man stopped short. Trighit was waving one hand in the air while frantically writing in his journal that was balanced on one of his legs with the other. "Yes?"
"What is a gobstopper?" he asked, readjusting to use his now free hand to support the journal.
The man blinked. "It's, um, a type of candy."
The hand shot up again.
"What kind of creature is 'candy?'" Trighit could feel Pokum's questioning stare, but he ignored it.
"It's… um… well…" Grant was lost for words. He turned to his companions who simply shrugged. The man set down the spheres and rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a wallet. Handing a dollar to his other coworker, he instructed, "Fredricks, go buy a packet of Skittles from the cafeteria vending machine."
The agent paled slightly. "Sir, ah, I'm not quite familiar with this wing, maybe Peters would be better for this?"
Grant groaned and started debating quietly with his two coworkers after assuring Trighit and Pokum that this was all normal custom. While the researchers were engrossed in their spat, the Antarctican scientist quickly grabbed three of the balls and pocketed them.
"Ah, sir, I'm sure you could always show me later!"
The three scientists, glanced over and quickly regained their composure.
"Mmhmm, yes, it's a minor detail anyways. I'm sure you're much more interested in the behavior of the species."
"Yes, sir. Please continue." Trighit replied with a smile on his face stretching ear to ear.
As Grant continued to talk about the behavior of the insects, Pokum nudged his friend frantically, clearly worried about the dangers posed by his actions. In reply, Trighit shook his head, put one finger in front of his lips, and pointed with the finger on his other hand towards Grant.

"Every day with you, I swear!"
The pair of Antarcticans had been escorted to their room after the tour ("Them? Stay with me? I will not allow it."), where Pokum immediately began chastising his compatriot.
Trighit laughed. "Calm yourself Pokum, it's just some research, no big deal. I'll study them, take some notes, and have them back before they even notice."
"Do you even think about what you do? This isn't back at home where no one cares how many threxans you coerce from the pack, or how many hyrechi you dig out of the ground! You're going to get us executed before we've been here for more than a week, you fool!"
He chuckled again. "You worry yourself too much, friend. We're not in trouble, are we? No one noticed, yes?"
Pokum remained silent and he crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"Bah, this is the whole reason why we came, isn't it?"
"No," he spat, "This is the whole reason why you came, Trighit. I came to make sure you didn't get yourself hurt or killed, and that's it. I've told you, I don't care about this stuff, I care about you! Now, go put it back, apologize, and maybe they won't leave us to rot."

"Sir, um… it appears that we're missing a few of the SCP-1517-A instances."
"Fifteen-seventeen, fifteen-seventeen…?"
"The candy bugs, sir."
"The ones we used as example Euclids for the researchers from SCP-1483?"
"Yes."
"…Shit. Send Peters over to that wing to double check the count on each skip in containment and send Fredricks down to their room, and if they don't find it there, declare a containment breach."
"Aye."

Trighit sat in shock. "Y-you don't care? Since when?"
The assistant kneaded his forehead in frustration. "Trighit, I don't know how many times I've tried to tell you. I always came along just because you wanted me to, and, well, you're my friend. You just never listened because you were always too focused or fascinated by whatever happened to be that day's subject. I actually kind of hate all of this."
"But Pokum, I always… I… I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it." He sighed. "Look, let's just put them back. No one will have to know, we can probably use these card things they gave us to get back in. We'll just go along, studying— well, observing the things they tell us to— and then, when the excursion is all over, we go back home where no one cares how much of what animal you take."
"Yes," the scientist replied hollowly. "They're in that flask, right on the desk."
Pokum silently went over, and dumped the contents into his hand.
"I'm going to go try to put these back. Stay put."
A sharp knocking on the door made them both freeze.
"Hey, this is Agent Fredricks. Open up!"
The two paled and looked at each other.
"Oh God, what do we do?" mouthed Trighit.
Pokum shrugged while frantically scanning the room for a place to hide them.
"Keep him busy for as long as you can, I'll be there in a minute." Pokum mouthed, quickly maneuvering towards the bathroom.
Trighit ran to answer, but the door of their room flung open, and in walked a tired-looking man attired in a suit.
"Alright, it's room inspection time." he said, any former traces of humor and ease gone.
"Whatever for, Agent Fredricks?" the squat visitor asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
The agent glared at him for a few moments before responding. "A few of SCP-1517-A's eggs didn't make it back to containment after your tour of the site. We're trying to find them now."
Trighit tried to put on his most genuine smile. It didn't work.
"Well, I do hope you locate them."
The agent grunted and moved towards the beds, upturning everything and inspecting all of the sheets. Trighit angled his head towards the bathroom to look at his companion, who quickly tossed the eggs into the toilet. Pokum edged out of the bathroom as quietly as he could, but the squeaking of the door's hinges as he tried to close it caught Fredrick's attention.
"Hey, what were you doing in there?"
"I was, ah, just trying to…" Pokum stumbled over his words as he searched for an alibi. By the time he had thought of one, the agent had pushed past him into the small room.
"Not even a day into this thing and already…" The pair could hear him mumbling from the room as they stood silent, erect, and terrified. Soon after, a clanging resounded in the room, accompanied by yelling and the sounds of things falling and glass breaking. The agent ran out, arms covered with crawling colorful insects.
His screaming only lasted about fifteen seconds. The Antarctians didn't stop screaming for a while, not until more people came, hosed down the agent, and shoved the pair down the hallway to the Site Director's office.

« Hub »


The former Great Hall of the Nine-Teenth Ruin was, for the first time that year, completely full, an observation that Cardinal Frakes made with no small amount of pride.
Dignitaries from every Monastery had made an appearance, from Deacon Collings (of the Temple of the Red-Pool) to Sister Bissett (from the Agnethain Sisterhood, founded at the time of the Great Breach by the Saints Rights, Erdrich and Break) to Arch-Cardinal Liriano, of the Council of Ethicists. They had all come, despite the dangers of traveling through Expunged territory, to witness the Ceremony of the Clockworks.
Stepping up to the podium, Frakes raised his arms for silence before beginning the chant from the Holy Procedures.
"Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive approval from site command may operate 914," he chanted.
"Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive approval from site command may operate 914," echoed the crowd.
"SCP-914 is to be kept in research cell 109-B with two guard personnel on duty at all times," he continued.
"SCP-914 is to be kept in research cell 109-B with two guard personnel on duty at all times," echoed the crowd.
Frakes continued like this, reciting the words from memory. Decades ago, at the beginning of his study, he had chosen to focus on the writings of Saint Gears, a path he had never regretted. Because of this, he was the natural choice to carry out the Ceremony of the Clockworks after the previous Cardinal in charge had died.
"The process takes between five and ten minutes, depending on the size of the object being refined," concluded the group.
When the last echoes died down, Frakes spoke. "D-Caste 100718468294, please approach the Intake booth with the Input."
The chosen D-Caste picked up the object in question-a small, hand-carved wooden statue depicting a whale-and walked to the Input box.
"Please insert the object into the input box," Frakes said.
The D-Caste proceeded to do so, causing the door to slowly grind shut and release a small ding.
"Now proceed to set the knob to 'Fine'," Frakes said.
The D-Caste did so.
"Now, wind the key underneath."
The D-Caste wound it, then stepped back from 914.
Deep within the machine, parts that had been neglected and used sparingly for years ground to life. For five minutes, the Great Hall was filled with the shrieks of tortured metal and awful grinds of rusted gears.
When the process was done, the machine ground to a halt.
"D-Caste, remove the object from SCP-914," Frakes said.
The D-Caste opened the "Output" booth and removed an object that superficially appeared to be the same statue that had gone in.
The room became completely silent.
"The resulting anomaly is classified as SCP-2986," chanted Frakes.
The resulting anomaly is classified as SCP-2986," echoed the crowd.
"SCP-2986 is to be contained inside a box constructed of pine," Frakes recited.
"SCP-2986 is to be contained inside a box constructed of pine," came the echo.
After the recitation of the Holy Procedures, another D-Caste brought out a pine box, handcrafted to the appropriate specifications, and the new SCP was contained. The Ceremony of the Clockworks was now concluded, and the box was passed around to be studied by the dignitaries.
After the examination was complete, and after all the dignitaries had begun their journey back home, Cardinal Frakes picked up the box and walked deeper into the ruins.
After an hour's worth of walking, he came to a room filled with stacks of pinewood boxes identical to the one in his hand, which extended as far as the eye could see.
Reverently, he set his box on top of the stack closest to him before bowing down and saying a short prayer to Saint Gears:
"Saint Gears, please guide me in my time of need as you guided the Holy Foundation during the Great Breach."
"Bequeath unto me the knowledge to discover that which is false."
"Grant unto me the ability to separate logic from falsity."
"Allow me to grasp but a portion of the knowledge you once had."
"Quid non scitum est potest causare magis nocere quam nulla intentoque malevolentia unquam speraverunt effectum."


The needles were bamboo, six inches or so in length, streaks of rainbow stain running down their length. The yarn was Angora wool, pure white. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it; this one in front of her was purer, whiter, superior in every regard.
She inhaled deeply, exhaled. She began the home row, wrapping, threading, wrapping, threading. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. Wrap, thread.
The Headache dimmed, ever so slightly. It was a proper noun at this point. The headache began on a Sunday afternoon, remained through the evening, and she felt it still the next morning. That was thirteen years ago. Her…condition rendered painkillers unusable; anything that could impair her judgment could expose her. She couldn't let her guard down. She could never let her guard down.
Inhale, exhale. Wrap, thread. Eighty-eight stitches on the home row, then she inserted her free needle into the loop nearest the end of the needle. The Headache dimmed ever so slightly more. Josephine smiled, knitting and purling down the row. She didn't have much interest in the end result, an end pillow for a love seat, but the point was the repetition. The relaxation. An audiotape of Pachebel's Canon in D played in the background, and the headache dimmed further.

"I hardly see the point of further discussion," the old man said. smirking. The smirk was always there. "You never seem to unearth anything new."
"You claim you're here voluntarily," the researcher said. "If you're so annoyed by our line of questioning, you can simply leave, can't you?"
"That would be remarkably impolite, I feel," the man said. "I simply think you're not having an adequate amount of fun with this."
"Fun?" the researcher asked. "SCP-343, this is my job. My job is to make new discoveries into beings such as yourself, and there is no part of you inclined to help me. You would be more than happy to lead me on a wild goose chase of contradiction and invention until my superiors sent me to a microbiology lab in the Arctic Circle."
The old man paused for the first time in their conversation. "That was remarkably forthright, Dr. Castile. I admire forthrightness. I see so little of it from individuals such as yourself, researchers, bureaucrats. Very well, I'll tell you a secret. I'll tell you something I haven't told any of your people before. Lean close, Richard."
The researcher, taken aback for a moment, leaned his head close to the other man in the room. The old man across the table leaned close as well.
"Richard, I have no idea how I got here."

Josephine was well into her third row of the pillow when she realized the headache had almost completely faded away. She was amazed. It had been literally years since she had felt so at peace. She had a list, a very, very long list of ways she had tried to find relaxation, tried to find peace, from her burdens. Her burdens never ended. So many enemies, Josephine had thought (she would not let those thoughts get in the way of her knitting). So much work to be done, all the time. Josephine felt the throbbing intensify momentarily, then fade again. Her hands bobbed forward, caught the yarn, pulled backward, and formed the next stitch. One step at a time. Each motion deliberate, yet inevitable. Each step optional, yet destined.
The headache was gone. She felt so much relief; she had been so burdened, burdened with the work of evading the Beast. That was her name for those so-called "scientists", those animals that hunted beings that were different than they were. Her Inquisition. Her witch hunters. On days when she questioned herself, days when she doubted herself, she wondered if she really was a witch. Something unnatural. Something that needed to be confined.
The yarn was perfect, floating in the air in front of her. The skein unraveled itself, feeding inch after inch, foot after foot into her handiwork. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it. She had created this one from pure thought, pure imagination; she had vibrated quantum foam and Platonic form and rearranged molecules and humors and atoms into something new, something that had never existed in the universe before. This was what she did. This was what God or nature made her to do, and she would do it. The headache returned for a moment, then passed as she began a new row.

"You don't know why you're here?" Researcher Castile asked. "You're God, you're here of your own will, but you don't remember doing it?"
"Did you…I mean, that isn't…I lied, child," the old man, SCP-343, said to the other in the room. "It is tricks, games. I play with you, as I always have." The old man's eyes stopped tracking the researcher in front of him. "I am here and God and always will- -be here- -lied, child, it is tricks- -" The old man jerked forward suddenly, ramming his head against the top of the table. His arms hung limply by his sides as he rammed his head against the table again.
"What are you—"
"Gerald Clifton, Cleveland, Ohio," the old man slurred through a broken nose and several broken teeth, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead. "I was born in 1912, please. Let me die. I feel it controlling me. She controls me. She'll come back any minute."
"What are you talking about?"
"It isn't me talking. When you talk to me. 'God' is what it wants you to see me as. It watches you. It sits inside me and makes me talk. Kill me. Let me die. It will come back for me, it will lie to you again." The old man seemed his age for the first time that Researcher Castile could recall. Seemed…human. Seemed normal.
"You're being controlled by an external force? Is that what you're telling me?"
"Let me die," the old man pleaded, tears streaming down his face, blood dripping into his eyes. "Let me die free, please."

Josephine neared the end of her sixth row when she realized something was amiss. The headache had left her, but it pulsed ever so slightly as she paused. Too relaxed, she thought. I let go of one of them.
She closed her eyes and her mind left the room, the house, the area code that her body inhabited. It traveled from one predetermined location to another, isolated location. They would have been impossible to find if she didn't know exactly what she was looking for. The people who had built prisons on those locations had designed them to be impossible to find. She checked containment chambers across half a dozen Sites before she found what she was looking for at Site 17. Gerald, she thought. I'm so sorry I needed to use you.
She concentrated further and found herself in the same room- -

Researcher Castile was furiously scribbling notes. "Gerald, how long have you been controlled by this entity?"
"I have no idea," the still-sobbing old man replied. "So long. Most of my life. She put me here. She wanted you to find me. She wanted you to catch me. She watches me, and watches you through me. She needs spies. She knows what you would do to her. She fears you. So many others. She's so old, at least a century, maybe closer to two. She's so tired."
Castile perked at this. "More? Other beings controlled by the same entity?"
"Many," the old man replied. "I can tell you at least that- -" The old man stopped talking suddenly, his eyes closing, his head sagging downward.
His head rose, his eyes locking on Researcher Castile, and Richard knew he was looking at someone different. Something different.
"So smart," said the voice coming from the old man's mouth, contempt dripping from each word. "So lucky. Such a breakthrough. Such a promotion," the voice said. "I bet you can already see the commendation."
"Am I speaking to—" A flash of light blasted across the table. Castile tried to speak, heard only croaks; he had been rendered mute.
"So lucky," the voice repeated, the air in the room seeming to circulate faster around the old man. "How lucky are you now? Think you're so smart. Hunting. Think you're such a good hunter. Think you're all such good hunters. Worthless. God, so worthless." The old man did not rise; rather, the chair he sat in seemed to melt into the air, the table rolled forward without effort, and the old man suddenly was standing at his full height.
"Think you caught God. You caught a drifter, fool. Think you're studying God. God studies you, you fool. You child. I study you. Every cruelty. Every injustice. Think you can catch me."
"Wh….what are…" Castile croaked.
"Forget it," the old man's voice said, and Castile forgot. The notes he had written disappeared, graphite pulling off of the page and reforming on the pencil. Another chair materialized behind the old man, and the old man's form sat within. Castile felt something…missing, felt something leaving him. Felt something gone.
The feeling lasted only a moment, then he began. Nothing unusual here for Castile; just another SCP, another containment test. Just a moment of discomfort, nothing more. Foundation researchers felt that uneasy feeling all the time. Nothing unusual here.
"Okay, beginning interaction with SCP-343," Castile said, looking at the smirk on SCP-343's face. The smirk that was always there.

The headache returned as Josephine returned to her body. Stupid girl, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Almost gave it all away. Almost let them find you. She forced herself to focus on the headache, make it stronger. You deserve this. Stupid girl. Throbbing, blinding pain drilled through her head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
She was floating fully in the air now, and the pain in her head bloomed brighter until she screamed. A bright flash of light. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her anger faded into shame. She reconstituted some clothing around herself and disappeared.

MEMORANDUM
LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE ONLY
CODEWORD: "GREEN KING"

FROM: OPERATIVE AMBER
TO: OPERATIVE MAGNUS
TWO MORE EVENTS DISCOVERED. INTERVIEW BETWEEN SITE 17 RESEARCHER AND SCP-343. VIDEO ATTACHED. RESEARCHER WAS COMPLETELY AMNESTIZED BEYOND ANY KNOWN CHEMICAL METHODS; MRI SUGGESTED CHEMICAL PATHWAYS AND NEURAL DEVELOPMENT OF MEMORIES WAS LITERALLY REVERSED AND ELIMINATED. COVERT VIDEO SURVEILLANCE OF SCP-343 AS PER "GREEN KING" PROJECT ALLOWED FOR RECOVERY. INTERVIEW ENDED AT 1523 HOURS ON 11/02/13.
KEYHOLE SATELLITES DETECTED AN ENERGY SURGE IN AN ISOLATED AREA OF SONORA DESERT AT 1525 HOURS. RESULTING CRATER RESEMBLED THERMOBARIC WARHEAD DETONATION SITE.
ANALYSIS ONGOING.
AMBER


The marketplace was busy, as always. Goods being heaved off of and onto ships, merchants trying to raise their voices above the clamor to peddle their wares, the various colorful trinkets being sold. All set beneath the overpowering aroma of the ocean.
Caleb couldn't care less about any of it. He was just trying to get the crates of God knows what off of the boat and onto the dock without killing himself. It was hard work, but it paid well enough, especially this job. For some reason, whoever owned this cargo was paying the crew double what they normally got for a load this size. No one knew what was in them, but for that kind of money, Caleb wasn't really in the mood to ask questions.
What Caleb did know was that whatever it was, it was heavy. It took three men working the ropes to hoist the cargo off the upper deck of the ship and down to the dock. Even then, the boxes still made a resounding thud when they hit bottom.
The job only got harder as the sun got higher. Caleb's hands were getting sweaty, and he was getting tired. Still, there were only two or three more crates to go. Better to finish the job now and go home early then spend more time out in the sun.
Then, without any kind of warning, a little girl, unimpeded by the thick crowd in front of her, dashed over, past the guiding ropes and onto the docks. Before anyone could yell to her to stop, or even have the time to recognize her presence, she had tripped on a loose plank. At that exact moment, the rope holding the crate gave way.
The next few moments were forever etched into Caleb's memory. He heard the snap as the rope broke, and saw the little girl on her knees directly below it. He tried to call out to her, but even in that instant, he knew it wouldn't do any good. He saw the crate falling, faster and faster, getting ever closer to the girl's head…

Global Occult Coalition Manifestation Priorities for Extranormal Abilities in Type-Green Entities

This document outlines the order in which abilities typically manifest in Type-Green entities. Keep in mind that while this progression is typical for Type-Greens, it may not be representative of all cases. In addition, in many cases Type-Greens may manifest multiple levels of ability simultaneously.
Level 0: Spontaneous Defensive Behavior
Typically, a Type-Green entity's first experience with his or her abilities comes unintentionally, in response to an immediate perceived threat. While the mechanism by which this reflexive action occurs is not well understood, it has been shown that increased levels of adrenaline, as well as other hormones associated with the acute stress response, can cause reality-affective powers to manifest more easily.

… and then it wasn't.
Caleb blinked. The crate was gone. There was no trace of it anywhere. No pieces of rope, no splintered wood, none of whatever was inside it. The only evidence that something had fallen was the frayed end of the rope still attached to the pulley.
Everyone who had seen the incident froze for a moment. No one knew exactly how to process what had just happened. The poor girl kept staring up where the crate used to be, as if she was still waiting for it to come back down.
Most people, however, hadn't seen the crate fall. Because the crate never hit the ground, it never made any noise, so nobody really paid attention to it. The dumbstruck dock workers escorted the girl back into the crowd and gave her a lecture on how it wasn't safe to go onto the docks when people were working.
The human mind copes with what it doesn't understand by ignoring it. Among the people who had actually seen the incident, most chose to believe that they had somehow mis-seen what had really happened. The crate missed the girl and fell into the water. The rope never broke. The entire incident never happened.
A select few, however, chose to remember. They knew what they had seen, and what they had seen wasn't normal. Some of these people were later dragged from their homes in the middle of the night and made to forget. Others were smart enough to keep their heads down about it, earned the right to guard their memories, and with it, the knowledge that the world around them was not nearly as coherent as they had been led to believe.
One person in particular, however, learned a little bit more that day. The instant they saw the crate vanished from the air, not simply moved somewhere else or made invisible, but actually removed wholly from existence, they knew that they were responsible. They did not understand how or why it had happened, but they knew for certain that they had been the cause. In that instant, as they perceived the imminent danger, they looked at the offending object. Then they looked at it in a slightly different way, and it was no more.
Thus, Josephine, the little girl who was nearly crushed, lived. And a great power lived with her.

Level 1: Manipulation of Matter
After the initial discovery event, many Type-Greens will begin a phase of experimentation. Typically, abilities which involve the manipulation of matter are the first conscious abilities to manifest. These can include telekinesis (the physical manipulation of objects without applying measurable force), transmutation (the conversion of one type of matter into another type), and violation of the conservation of matter (destroying matter or bringing new matter into existence).

It took some time before Josephine was again able to cause something to happen by her will alone. At first, she tried pointing at inanimate objects and ordering them around, as if the atoms contained therein were soldiers waiting for orders. When that failed, she tried making hand gestures and saying magic words. This, too, proved ineffective against the permanence of reality. She tried simply thinking very hard at an object, but the solution proved more complex.
She reached an epiphany in the middle of the night. She awoke from a nightmare, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. She had dreamed that she was again on that dock, immobilized as the crate fell down on her in slow motion. She smelled sweet salt water, heard the waves rushing around her. She struggled desperately to move out of the crate's way, but she felt as if her whole body were encased in concrete. Her physical body failing her, she was now forced to control her power or be crushed. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. In her mind, she saw the crate. She saw the gravity pulling it down, and the friction pulling it up. She saw the air moving across the surface of the crate, she saw the nanoscopic foam which formed the atoms which formed the molecules which formed the wood which formed the box. She saw the crate for what it was.
And then, she saw that it was not. Influencing reality is, in the simplest possible terms, a matter of perspective.
Many years later, Josephine returned to the dock. The waves were rolling in gently. Gently, at least, so far as other people would see it. Josephine could feel the kinetic energy in the water, the energy pushing the waves, the energies flowing in waves and particles between earth and water and sun and moon. But the salt water, the sweet smell basking in the air, she had no way to reproduce or analyze it. Deep down, it was all neural impulses, memories, particles. But some part of Josephine didn't want to analyze it. She didn't want to spoil every little magic for herself.
Josephine told nobody about her… condition. She did it to protect herself, and her loved ones. But part of the reason was that she knew, deep down, that if anyone knew what she could do, they would try to use her for their own purposes.
And Josephine had plans of her own.


Deep in the catacombs beneath Overwatch Cathedral, there was a cavernous and isolated chamber at the end of a long hallway. The historians of the Holy Foundation could only guess at what purpose it might have held before the Great Breach - some claimed it had been a storage room, some an auditorium, some a shelter, others the containment chamber of one of the demons the ancients had contained before the world was consumed. No sound penetrated its walls, and it took five strong men to open or close the mighty steel door (which not everyone agreed had originally been part of the room) that offered the only means of entrance or exit. Few but the highest ranking members of the clergy knew it even existed, let alone the path to reach it, and none could breach its doors but by satisfying the Omega Guard that they had a right to be there, for this was the heart of the Overwatch itself - the meeting place of the Council of Thirteen, the Doctors of the Church, the vicars of Bright.
As one passed through the grand doorway, he would see all three walls before him covered with grand tapestries, sewn over decades by the D-Caste and the deacons who oversaw their work at portraying the history of the Holy Foundation. On the left wall, the tapestries portrayed the legends of the ancient world, before the Great Breach. St. Alto staring down the great dragon and feeding the multitudes from a steaming pot of soup, St. Konn the Vampire-Slayer testing his steel against the duke of the strigoi, St. Canis Corvin educating the False War-God, and in the center of the wall the First Resurrection of the Lord Bright, holding the Holy Amulet above His head. To the right, the tapestries depicted the Great Breach and the degradations that occurred in those days, the fall of the ancient temple, and the rising of the Holy Foundation, with the Lord Bright, again in the center of the wall, flanked by His saints as they stood triumphantly over the corpse of the great dragon and the rubble of the statue that He Himself had smashed to bits in his rage over the death of St. Agatha. On the opposite wall, the art portrayed the Holy Foundation as it existed today - educating the civilians, carrying word of the Holy Containment Procedures to all corners of the world, keeping the ancient evils sealed. In the center of that wall was the hope for the future - a shining silver city, greater than any that had stood before the breach, over which Lord Bright looked with a smile.
Beneath this tapestry, there sat against a wall a great throne of mahogany and leather, decorated with gems and holy icons, preserved and restored throughout the centuries for the Father of the Foundation, His Holiness the Lord Jack Bright, whose amulet sat in a glass case upon the throne in His stead. Thirteen lesser chairs before thirteen desks sat arranged in a semicircle facing the chair. Today, ten of the chairs were occupied by old men and women, the Cardinal Doctors who had given their lives in service and risen through the ranks of the church to become members of the Council of Thirteen. Two of the Omega Guard flanked the door to ensure that none trespassed on the meeting. One of the men near the left end of the semicircle rose and spoke to the others.
"I, the Second," he said, for in this chamber it was their custom to refer to themselves by number rather than name, "hereby call this meeting of the Council of Thirteen to order in the name of the First, who has passed away this last winter and is absent. Cardinal Doctors Two, Three, Four, Six, Seven, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen present. The Twelfth has agreed to lead us in prayer."
The Second seated himself as the Twelfth rose from her seat and bowed her head. "Lord Bright," she began as the others lowered their heads as well, "forgive us today for the transgression we are about to commit against You. Know that we mean no disgrace or disrespect in our hearts, and that we commit these deeds to understand Your glory and to further carry out Your will, as we do in all things. Forgive those who serve us today and take part in these acts at our orders, for they seek only to serve and to honor You and Your Foundation. Bless us with Your wisdom and keep us safe, that our children may know a world free from the terrors of the Expunged. Amen."
"Amen," the other nine agreed as the Twelfth seated herself. A moment passed in silence as each of the ten waited for one of the others to take action, for it had been over a hundred years since the Council of Thirteen last found this course of action necessary, and though they had all agreed it was the only way, each of them had their doubts.
"Perhaps," suggested the Sixth timidly, "we should conduct the vote once more before we begin?"
"Indeed," the Second said. "It would be a shame to discover too late that this proceeding is unnecessary. Please cast your votes on the question at hand in the traditional manner." One of the guardsmen left his post at the door and picked up a large box with a slot on top. As he walked around the table, each of the cardinals wrote their vote on a slip of paper and dropped it into the box. After a few minutes had passed, the guardsman returned to the door and opened the box, where he and his partner removed the slips and tallied the votes one by one.
"The vote remains tied," announced the guardsman. "Five for one, five for the other."
"Then we must proceed," the Second said, "and Bright have mercy on us all. Guard! Our guests may enter now."
The guardsman approached the door and knocked on it in the agreed-upon pattern - three short knocks in rapid succession, followed after a brief pause by a hard knock, a short knock, another hard knock, and another short knock, followed after another pause by a short knock, two hard knocks, and a short knock. The door rumbled and opened slowly as it was pushed from the other side. A half dozen Omega Guards entered - two carrying a table between them, two carrying several heavy chains and ropes, and the other two leading a D-Caste, stripped to his loincloth. The D-Caste had been specially prepared for the day's ritual - starved and emaciated, his teeth pulled and fingernails removed, and he looked to the assembled cardinals only a few days away from death. The assembled leaders of the Holy Foundation watched in silence as the table was set between the semicircle of desks and the throne, the D-Caste was laid on it and bound with the chains, and the guardsmen pulled the hoods of their black robes over their heads and tied them closed so that only their eyes were visible.
"Do you know why you have been brought here today, D-34029132?" asked the Thirteenth.
"Yes, my lord," replied the bound man.
"And have you agreed to this rite willingly?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Are you ready to give up your life in the name of your church and your Lord?"
The D-Caste paused. "Yes, my lord."
The Thirteenth turned his gaze to the guardsmen. "Make sure the ropes and chains remain taut and that he does not attempt to hurt himself. If you must restrain him physically, do not hesitate to do so. There is no sin in any of the actions you have been asked to perform today - and though He may test you with His cries and protestations, remember that the Lord loves you and will forgive you."
The Second nodded. "Now, please proceed." The cardinals rose from their seats and watched attentively as five of the guards took their places around the D-Caste. The sixth guard approached the throne and reverently picked up the glass case containing the Lord Bright's amulet before taking his own place at the head of the table. Another guardsman reached out and removed the top from the case. As the other five tucked their hands into their robes to prevent any accidental contact, the guard holding the case turned it upside down, and the Holy Amulet fell out and landed on the chained man's chest.
The late Cardinal Doctor Anders Clef, who had been present when the Lord Bright was summoned to the Synod of New Denver in 237, had written in his memoirs that the expression on His face when He appeared was always one of confusion - the shock of finding Himself in a new host, and trying to figure out where and when He had found Himself. None of the men and women watching would have disagreed with that assessment, for no sooner did the Holy Amulet strike the D-Caste than his demeanor changed. The chained man groaned and tried to pull at his bonds to no avail, his eyes darting around the room as he took in the people and decorations around him. The cardinals watched in silence as he tried to bite off his tongue, dislocate his joints, break his limbs by bashing them against the table - all in vain, courtesy of the amendments made to the Holy Procedures centuries ago to prevent the Lord Bright from taking His leave if His earthly presence was required. As He resigned himself to being once again in a body of flesh and bone, He set his eyes on the Ninth, who had produced from his robes a scroll bearing the holiest of the Holy Procedures, those relating to the Amulet itself, and He spoke.
"I like what you've done with the cafeteria."
"Could you please tell me your name?" asked the Ninth, reading from the scroll. "I believe you are Tom Higly, working for us as part of your life sentence."
"Cut the crap," the chained man said with a sigh. "You know who I am, and you know I've been through this little ceremony enough times to wish I'd never come up with it."
The Ninth looked to his compatriots, who nodded their agreement that they could proceed. "The rite is successful!" he proclaimed. "Praise be to the Lord Bright!"
"Praise be to the Lord Bright!" shouted the assembled cardinals and guards.
"Aaah!" Lord Bright shouted. "Not so loud. This body must have the mother of all hangovers."
"Forgive us, Lord Bright," the Second said. "The Procedures state that the host body's reflexes are to be dulled with alcohol before the ritual."
"Uh-huh," Lord Bright said. "New Holy Procedure; next time, save the alcohol for after you wake me up. Somebody write that down."
"It would be my honor, Lord," the Thirteenth said.
"And haven't you guys had some sort of renaissance or reformation or scientific awakening yet? What year is it this time?"
"It is the year 698 After the Breach, Lord."
Lord Bright sighed again as he looked at the men assembled before him. "I thought you would've re-invented pants by now. Anyway, it's been nice chatting, but I'm sick of this place and I'm sick of you. Guard, be a dear and strangle me so I can get back to my nap."
"Forgive us, Lord Bright," the Second said, "but we must beg Your indulgence for a short time longer. A great… difficulty has arisen that threatens to tear our Holy Foundation apart, and we can find no authority greater than Yourself capable of settling this matter."
"Goddammit," Lord Bright said. "You guys really need to start thinking for yourself. Alright, what is it? Containment breach? D-Class rebellion? Are the Serpent's Hand back?"
"No, Lord Bright," the Second answered. "It is… a matter of theology. One of great importance, that this Council has been unable to resolve."
Bright groaned. "'Restart the Foundation as a church,' Clef said. 'It'll make sense to scientifically illiterate peasants rebuilding society,' Clef said. Well, what's the issue?"
"It would seem that the Sites and Areas in the eastern lands," the Second said, "began teaching an interpretation of the Gospel According To Everett several years ago which is quite different than that which has been maintained here in the heartlands. This… interpretation," he said so as to not upset certain of his peers, "has spread to Overwatch itself, and a great deal of strife has broken out among our many churches and outposts regarding which is the true and correct belief. We fear it may come to outright war, and thus we resolved to have a vote amongst ourselves and determine which is the one true interpretation. Unfortunately, we have become deadlocked, five to five."
"That's why there are supposed to be thirteen O5s," Lord Bright said. "Did you need to wake me up just to remind you that those chairs aren't supposed to be empty?"
"They are not empty by design, Lord Bright," interrupted the Tenth. "The First and the Eighth succumbed to the plague during the long winter, and the Fifth is currently in the south commanding the Mobile Legions in our ongoing crusade against the Chaos Insurgency. Due to our being deadlocked on this issue, we have been unable to appoint any to take their place."
"Of course. So what's this big disagreement?"
The Second nodded to two large books on the desk. "It concerns a disagreement in the translation of chapter 37, verse 25."
"Which is?"
"Was the child that you and St. Agatha conceived on the eve of the Great Breach created of Your spirit, or from Your spirit?"
—-
"And that," said the old man, "is how one word almost led the world to the brink of war - and how the Lord Bright set things straight."
"But what did the Lord Bright say?" asked the towheaded boy sitting at his grandfather's feet.
"Yeah!" cried the girl sitting next to him. "What did He tell them?"
"What do you think?" the grandfather asked.
"I think she was born from Bright's spirit," said the boy.
"Nuh-uh!" the girl said. "St. Emile was born of Bright's spirit!"
The old man laughed. "Looks like we've got a schism on our hands again, right here."
"Well?" the boy asked. "Which of us is right?"
"And say it in your Bright voice!"
The old man scowled and did his best Bright impression as he read the last line of the story;
"For cryin' out loud… Rights and I never had any kids."


Lot #: 50621-173
ANIMATED CONCRETE STATUE
Minimum Bid: $20,000,000
This lovely objet d'art was constructed in 1987 by an anonymous artist out of concrete and rebar. It is 2 meters in height, and painted beige with darker shading around the stomach and buttocks, as well as a striking red and green pattern around the face.
Unusual Qualities: In addition to its striking avant-garde appearance, this one-of-a-kind statue is both animate and quite bloodthirsty. Although it cannot move while being watched, the statue will attempt to strangle or break the neck of any human being it encounters while unobserved.
Care Instructions: The object will cause any enclosed structure it is housed in to become soiled by a slurry composed of feces and blood. It is recommended that cleaning take place at least twice a week by a team of at least six persons, no fewer than three of which should maintain direct line of sight to the object at all times. Persons on "watch duty" should inform the other members of the watch team before blinking.
Disclaimer: The object will be provided to the customer in a sealed steel-reinforced portable safe. Marshall, Carter, and Dark assumes no responsibility for any injuries or fatalities that may occur once the safe is opened.

Lot #: 50621-668
THE GENOVESE BLADE
Minimum Bid: $7,000,000
In addition to its paranormal properties, this particular object also has historical value for those who collect artifacts related to famous crimes. A thirteen-inch chef's knife with a single-beveled edge and a rosewood handle, this item was originally discovered in a heavily damaged condition. It has been lovingly restored to its original quality by our team of experts, and will now serve both as an unusual conversation piece and a useful tool in its own right.
Unusual Qualities: The item has the unique psychic quality of suppressing any attempts to interfere with violent actions taken by its user.
Care Instructions: The blade of the knife should be kept clean, away from moisture, and lubricated carefully against rust. The handle should be polished on a regular basis with any wood care product of your choice.
Disclaimer: This item is provided as a historical curiosity only. Marshall, Carter, and Dark do not endorse criminal behavior of any sort.

Lot #: 50621-1057
THE IDEA OF A SHARK
Minimum Bid: $149,000,000
An unusual piece of dadaist art created by an anonymous member of the "Are We Cool Yet?" avant-garde art movement, this particular item is a five-meter-long animate empty space in the shape of an adult tiger shark. Although completely invisible when immersed in water, this item has been injected with a non-toxic orange dye to make it visible for our members during this auction.
As stated by the original artist: "Panic means that the idea of a shark can be more dangerous than an actual shark. It can even be more dangerous than no shark at all."
Unusual Qualities: Although behaving like and in almost all other respects an actual shark, this item is massless and incorporeal, except when attacking or consuming meat.
Care Instructions: Marshall, Carter, and Dark recommends that this item be kept in a saltwater tank made of at least six-inch-thick transparent acrylic. At least five kg of raw meat and fish should be provided at least three times daily. It is recommended that a non-toxic dye be injected into any food consumed by this object in order to maintain visibility, if desired.
Disclaimer: As the feeding and care of large marine creatures is a complicated task best carried out by experts, Marshall, Carter, and Dark cannot assume responsibility for the continued survival of this item once it has been taken into possession by the buyer.


On June 16, 1963, a team of Foundation agents attempted and failed to re-contain the escaped SCP-2030 in West Berlin. The following excerpt is drawn from the debrief of team leader Louis Franklin. The interview was conducted on June 18, 1963, by Berlin station chief Marcel Gunther.
[Note: Certain designations may no longer be accurate.]
[Excerpt Begins]
Interviewer: Alright, Franklin, we've gone over SCP-2030's escape from the Oslo containment facility and the subsequent pursuit conducted by your field investigation team in some detail. Now, if you could give more context for the West Berlin encounter?
Franklin: We had just arrived in the city on the morning of the sixteenth when Intelligence notified us about a scheduled meeting between one Agent Antonov, KGB, and a Foundation employee preparing to defect. Only problem was, this supposed defector had been listed as KIA quite recently — and if you've read twenty-thirty's file, you'll see why that set off alarms.
Our team was half American and half German — a local bunch. We set out on the evening of the Sixteenth to break up the encounter and bag the thing. Antonov had arranged the meeting at a bar out in Charlottenberg — small, quiet place. Harrison parked across the street in the sedan with Michaels and Manteuffel. Tegelmann, Conley, and Roberts were staking out the back way with the automatic rifle. Ludwig and I were tailing Antonov on foot. It wasn't till he got up to the door of the bar that we got a good look at him and realized just how inexperienced he had to be.
Interviewer: What gave you that impression?
F: He dressed like he didn't know any better. No gloves or protective glasses, no briefcase for a gasmask or forensic kit — basics anybody who'd worked with parasci before wouldn't have gone into the field without. But he walked right into that bar as if he owned the place — it demonstrated to us, at least, that he had no inkling of what he was walking into.
Interviewer: How did you proceed once he had entered the building?
F: Ludwig and I checked in with the other two teams after Antonov entered — no sign of our skip, so we took station down the street and waited for about half an hour. Nobody else arrived or left during that time.
All of a sudden Harrison tears out of there, tires squealing- he'd seen a couple of Polizei autos coming down the street, sirens screaming, and scrambled. I thought maybe the Americans had put the Germans onto our operation, so we got out of there too. Unfortunately that meant nobody was keeping an eye on the front door. Several minutes passed before it became clear that the cops weren't after us. We suspected that twenty-thirty might have been waiting for an opening to move in to the bar, so Ludwig and I decided to investigate the premise on foot while Harrison was still pulling back around.
Interviewer: You engaged the entity with your backup out of position?
F: We weren't sure it was in there at all, at first, but I didn't want to give our skip a chance to dig in — which it would, if we lost track of it.
Interviewer: I understand. What did you find when you made your reconnaissance?
F: Everything was pretty unremarkable; two women at the filthy bar, four drunken workers hooting over some card game in the corner. In the center, hunched over a rickety table underneath the shuttered front window was our KGB man, deep in conversation with Agent Hockaday.
Interviewer: Hockaday was reported deceased after the Oslo breach, correct?
F: Killed in the initial breach — and then twenty-thirty dragged his corpse helter-skelter across half of Europe.
Interview: But why Hockaday? And why was the creature traveling east in the first place?
F: Hell, Gunther, it's your station, you know we could never follow it over the wall. East Germany could give it shelter. The thing must have called up Hockaday's contacts in the Stasi and arranged a defection — maybe even told them what it was.
If we'd been any slower, twenty-thirty would have been on time and out of our reach — but now it sat before us, hands stretched out over the table just short of the Russki's bare palms. The infection process smells strongly of oranges — gave the game away even before I saw Hockaday's face. Before I could alert our backup though, Ludwig misjudged the situation.
Interviewer: Misjudged?
F: Ludwig knew a lot of folks at the Oslo site, maybe he was more shook up than he let on. We'd been on the road continuously since the breach — maybe sixty hours of pursuit had clouded his judgement. I don't know and I never got the chance to ask him. For whatever reason, as soon as he ID'd the thing he drew his automatic and started blasting.
Hockaday's body was knocked about and his clothes were shredded but lead rounds don't do much to twenty-thirty's semiskin. The creature pulled itself into a mass and flung itself across the room at Ludwig looking like a blanket made of oatmeal, same color too. Hit Ludwig full on and he went down like a sack of bricks. Meanwhile, I had my hands full keeping our Soviet friend from making a run for the door.
Conley and Roberts burst in through the back door just as I got Antonov under control and Tegelmann followed them with the BAR. Headquarters had issued us particular rounds for this skip — super-dense armor piercing; very experimental. His first two bursts punched right through twenty-thirty's mantle and into Ludwig; ugly, but no helping it. Punctured, the skip bled out in seconds. The whole fight couldn't have lasted two minutes.
Interviewer: Let me stop you there. Your report says that you transported the KGB agent away from the engagement site and released him; without consulting me, I might add. Why did you leave him alive?
F: We interrogated him while Michaels and Stettin were whitewashing — sterilizing the place and distributing amnestics. Antonov wasn't in any condition to be concealing things. He was well out of it, breathing heavily, eyelids dark blue — all the symptoms of early twenty-thirty infestation, and the skip's drugs were still thick in his system. “I've got to get to Carre,” he says first thing, even before we ask him his name. Carre, he says, Carre. Very important. Absolutely critical. Sure enough, there's a photo of the bastard sewn into the seam of his jacket.
Interviewer: Carre?
F: John Carre. CIA spook playing a double game between the Americans and the Russkis. Helped pillage Site 20 back in '59. Looks like the Kremlin wised up to all that, though. Hence, Antonov getting fed to our skip.
Interviewer: You believe the meeting was intended to…
F: …Expose Carre to twenty-thirty, yes — to get him out of the way without the Americans knowing their cover had been blown. Some KGB bastard must have figured they could have their cake and eat it, too — close a leak, and get their hands on a shapeshifting puddle grateful for sanctuary in the bargain. All they needed was somebody expendable like Antonov to get the creature over the wall and into contact with Carre; then they could replace him with the skip and leave the Americans none the wiser.
Interviewer: You were part of the team which brought the entity into containment in the first place, Franklin, so I know you know what it's capable of. How did knowledge of Antonov's mission justify releasing SCP-2030 into the wild with no clear timeframe for recovery?
F: Carre's a particular case. A nose for our operations and very few scruples about selling our secrets…the foreign teams had been trying to knock him out for a while now. If getting him meant letting the thing loose, writing off Antonov and who knows how many other good little Communists…well, then call it a matter of operational necessity.
Interviewer: I expect you to be onhand, should the creature attempt to return. In the meantime, Tegelmann will take over pursuit of the remaining Oslo anomalies.
F: Twenty-thirty won't be gone long. It'll come back over the wall when it's worn out its welcome — and I doubt our Russian friends will think much of its 'gratitude'…
[Excerpt ends.]

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