There was a storm. The sky was full of clouds and with every second you could hear the scream of lightning echoing to the farthest part of the island. The sea lashed against the coast like an enraged beast; perhaps that was the clearest warning of what was coming from afar, that creature determined to devastate anything in its path. Soon it could be seen with the naked eye: its scales shone like the ghosts of the ships it had dragged to the sea, and its tentacles preceded it, only increasing the ominousness of the being, of that aquatic aberration, even more profane than all the others.
In another time, in another life, the Doom would have inevitably fallen upon the mythical land of Hy-Brasil. It would have been the unstoppable force, passing through forests and buildings as if they were mere toys. It would have been one of the greatest catastrophes in history. The home of the fairies would never have recovered, and millions would have lost their lives.
However, today was not that day.
Today was the day of legend, the moment when humanity would defy the tempest. It was the time when dozens of years of work would finally culminate. The efforts of those who had fallen in battle would receive their reward, and it would prove conclusively that nothing was in vain.
The island anxiously awaited the monster in the distance. It waited, ready to protect its vast wonders.
Because today was the day the goddamn Crocodilian Kraken was going to get punched in its fucking face.

The titan stared at the horizon. It was over one hundred meters tall and was the most glorious machine ever created by the Center. Hundreds of anomalies had been used for its invention, in addition to the thousands of people who supported the project, giving up sleep for weeks at a time in order to be ready when the moment arrived. To describe in detail the Last Pugilist was an impossible task: it was enough to mention its two colossal steel red boxing gloves, placed on each side of its body, as well as the gigantic white robe it wore on its body, which it would take off when its opponent appeared.
Dr. Mikasa Kaori was watching the dramatic scene from the palace of High King Nuada Airgetlám VII, where she had set up her operation post. It wasn't practical, actually. She had had to make many adjustments to the equipment and machinery to be able to monitor the fight from there; it was instead symbolic, for she knew that if the Deviant reached the castle, no matter what they did, all would be lost.
The Deviant. That's how Kaori referred to the demon. After spending her whole life studying the sea in search of ways to combat the Selachian threat, one thing had become clear to her: there were big things down below. Large animals, all allied with sharks and strong enough to send the human race back into the abyss. Initiating Project HOOK had not been easy, but it had been the right thing to do. When the Lookout Submarines had sighted the Deviant-Type Selachian Entity Number 0851, she had simply said:
"Let's punch the Deviant."
On the balcony, the rain drenched her completely, but she remained still, expectant. The magical protection had long since fallen, but fuck luck. They had fists, and that was all that mattered.

"Imminent contact, assuming position," Captain Perseus' voice sounded cold over the radio. Kaori knew he was afraid, even if he would never admit it. Up there, aboard the head of the Last Pugilist, Captain Perseus was gripped by a myriad of emotions, all logical and illogical at the same time. He felt fear and anger, excitement and panic, dread and bravery. He would never live another day like that.
A thunderclap above all others was heard as the sentry moved and dropped its pristine white coat over a forest, crushing countless trees like it was nothing. In perspective, this event had no relevance if one saw the enemy approaching, already a few miles from the coast. The Last Pugilist strode forward, first with short steps and then with great leaps that shook the whole island. Captain Perseus was heading towards the sea, to meet the Deviant as soon as it arrived and thus put an end to it as soon as possible. It seemed as if his heart was about to burst out of his chest at every moment.
Finally, the beast arrived. Four of its hideous arms clutched the earth relentlessly. It used its tentacles to straighten itself and stand upright in all its splendor. The Deviant let out the roar of a god, a sound such that many years later all the inhabitants of Hy-Brasil would still hear it in their nightmares.
A great stream of blue flames illuminated the sky, coming out of the mouth of hell itself.
"May our ancestors protect us," said High King Nuada, as he walked beside Dr. Kaori. "Tonight, Hy-Brasil will witness a mighty fight."

The first hit was an uppercut; Captain Perseus slammed the Deviant's mouth shut in mid-roar. Then the giant robot's left arm went for the creature's eyes, and then the creature received one more blow to the abdomen. The beast's limbs were too short to defend itself, but soon its tentacles began to do all the work. In mid-motion, the Deviant grabbed its adversary by the thorax, and then by its left forearm, only to pull it towards the sea.
"Kill that bastard!" Kaori shouted over the radio, feeling powerless before the scene in front of her.
"Negative," was the reply he received. "It's too strong, and it doesn't seem to want to let go despite the punches I'm—"
"I didn't ask you, you son of a bitch, it's a goddamn order!"
Perseus looked around. The monitors inside the cockpit harassed him with incessant warnings of danger, but he knew that amid all the noise and flashing lights there was a way to solve his problem. After what seemed like an eternity, he found it: a lever located to his right. He held it in his hand, but hesitated. Was he really forced to do this? Would he finally have to reduce himself to such a crass strategy? Was death better than betraying his most ancient principles?
"Forgive me, Dad." He muttered. "I know I'll disappoint you, but the world of sports always has to move on."
He pulled the lever.
Without any warning, the gleaming body of the Last Pugilist bent its knees and jumped. Its right leg traced a trajectory through the air and went crashing into the side of the Deviant's head, then contracted and landed back on the ground. Such a movement caused a devastating earthquake that trashed some nearby houses, but the Deviant stopped its advance, stunned. Perseus shouted with joy.
"Kickboxing, motherfucker!"
"That's it, goddammit!" High King Nuada punched the air, unable to contain his fervor.
The Last Pugilist landed another blow on the monster's jaws, breaking multiple fangs and finally getting it to let go. The Last Pugilist took a couple of steps back to keep its distance.
The beast released a flare of blue fire toward the robot's cockpit, who was barely able to shield itself from the attack. However, it served as a distraction for the subsequent onslaught made by the Deviant. Both titans fell to the ground in a nonsense of punches and tentacles. And suddenly, something happened that no one ever expected to happen. Dr. Kaori couldn't hold back a panicked scream as the Deviant flung out one of its limbs and stridently punched Perseus' cockpit.
"It-it's punching back!" The latter shouted over the radio while receiving more and more hits from the Deviant. "I-Impossible! It shouldn't…"
"Keep it together!" Kaori shouted back. "If that beast thinks it can land better punches than you, then show it otherwise."
"I can't! It's got me pinned to the ground! The arms can't raise high enough."
"Then… We'll have to use the projectile. Hold on a bit longer." Kaori turned to the High King. "Bring the projectile."
"Bring the projectile!" The High King ordered his guards, and they rushed off to somewhere on the lower floors. They soon returned with an extraordinary device.
It resembled some kind of giant crossbow, although without any mechanism to launch the projectile held in its upper part. In the lower part, a lever allowed to raise and lower the projectile itself, and another one to move it from right to left, so that it could be aimed at any desired target.
The projectile itself was a gigantic white shark, struggling to free itself. It was facing backwards, with its tail towards the balcony.
"Is this what you call Project 446, Dr. Kaori?" The High King asked.
"That's right. In the past, Operation Turnaround wasn't so extravagant, but we needed something to miss fewer shots."
"I understand. Aim for the monstrous behemoth!" The guards obeyed. "Now, if I may, Dr. Kaori, I would like to assist in saving my nation."
"Oh, I would be honored. My technique is a little rusty, anyway."
"Here I go, stand aside."
High King Nuada Airgetlám VII approached the device and, using all the strength he had within him, increased a thousandfold by the devotion he had for his endangered people, struck the shark in such a way that it turned around and went flying towards the Deviant at an immeasurable speed. The monster never saw it coming. It only felt it crash into its forehead and stun it again.
The Last Pugilist took advantage of the situation and got rid of that being with an accurate blow.
It was back on his feet and this time it was not willing to fall.
It moved quickly, so as not to allow the creature any attack. Captain Perseus unleashed his fury against the Deviant, landing punch after punch on its maw. With each impact, more and more blood spurted from its jaws, and more crunching sounds could be heard amidst the storm. The last hit was an uppercut, and the Crocodilian Kraken fell to the ground, dead.

The first beams of dawn fell on the island like a divine grace. The waters were beginning to calm down; now they only caressed the shore faintly with the movement of the tide. In the distance, seagulls could be heard, along with other fantastic creatures endemic to the forests of Hy-Brasil.
The metallic titan towered triumphantly into the sky. The corpse of the Deviant laid out before it, as proof of the fight that had just taken place. Perseus watched it from the cockpit, thoughtful. They would probably take it away to study it and improve the next model of the mecha. Some groups would probably steal what they could and try to make their own profit. Hy-Brasil would probably commemorate the day, have a party with him and Kaori, and then go back to normal life.
More Deviants would probably appear, ready to avenge their fallen brother.
Perseus knew that the war had only just begun. He would be ready. He would spend day and night in the simulators, trying to rectify the mistakes that almost cost him his life. He would improve. He would not allow anything to take over the surface.
At this time, however, he had won. The Last Pugilist had searched, punched and conquered. It had proven its undisputed superiority over the Selachians. He had faced the ocean itself and had prevailed.
The colossus raised both arms, like the letter v in the word victory.


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"The Doctor" by stoner99
I encourage you to read more of my works here:
https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/stoner99-author-page

THEN:
"Medical malpractice. First degree kidnapping. Conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree. Tampering with a dead body. First degree murder…"
Everett shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the clerk read out the charges. He almost couldn't believe it. This is how they get you, he thought. God damn it.
"All rise."
He stood.
"I understand the defendant wishes to plead guilty?"
"Yes. I-I mean, yes, your Honor. That's correct." Shit. Not exactly projecting confidence.
The Judge — a rather stout, dark-skinned man in his mid-seventies — did not react. "So you've reached an agreement with the prosecution?" He gestured to the leading state's attorney, seated parallel to Everett's public defender. "Mr. Moore?"
"No, your Honor. The defendant has not reached an agreement with the prosecution at this time. In fact, it was my understanding that the defendant had refused to enter negotiations altogether." Murmurs filled the courtroom. The Judge turned back to Everett.
"Is that correct, Mr. Mann?"
"Yes, your Honor."
For a moment, the Judge seemed almost taken aback. "Mr. Mann: you stand accused of multiple violent felonies. If convicted, you face a maximum sentence of life plus one hundred forty-five years, and a fine of upwards of two hundred-thousand dollars."
Everett winced.
"You have declined to reach a plea bargain with Mr. Moore… and elected, of your own accord, to enter a guilty plea. Do you fully understand what you are about to do?"
"Yes, your Honor."
"Would you like the opportunity to consult with Mr. Edwards before affirming your decision?" Everett turned to his public defender. Thomas Edwards — a resigned-looking, unassuming white man in his mid-forties — was already half-asleep.
"Uh, no, your Honor."
"Alright." He paused. "Do you have… anything to say for yourself, before I announce your sentence?"
Suddenly, Everett piped up. "U-um, yes, actually, your Honor. I do." This is it, he thought. Weeks of practice, planning, and forethought had all lead up to this moment. He had already taken a gamble pleading guilty. Would it pay off? Surely, now, they will understand, he reassured himself. Surely, now, they will see reason. They have to. Surely…
He took a deep breath, and began to speak.
"I needn't comment on the nature of my research. This is not a matter for the courts to meddle in. I accept responsibility for my crimes, insofar as I acknowledge that I committed them. I refuse to accept responsibility for my pursuit of knowledge. Everything I did, I did for the good of my fellow man." He paused. "And… t-to the families, that I hurt. I'm sorry. But it had to be done! I mean, isn't that what science is all about? Making sacrifices? And b-believe me, I have. I have made sacrifices. I've sacrificed my humanity. My conscience. And… and… I mean …"
He stammered off. No one said a word.
"I see. Is that all?"
No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO! Everett wanted to scream, but managed to suppress the breadth of his anguish as he stood to address the court, one final time. For all his wit and passionate rhetoric, Everett Mann was not a particularly inspiring public speaker. Or a very sound legal mind. He could read the expression on the Judge's face as well as anyone else. It wasn't close to enough.
"Yes," he said, meekly. "That would be all."
The Judge chose his next words carefully. "Given the… facts of this case, the plainly heinous nature of the crimes, and the defendant's ardent refusal to accept responsibility—"
Refusal to accept responsibility? What? Everett stood. "Your Honor, I was merely trying to—"
But the Judge would have none of it. "Mr. Mann, please be seated." Everett considered protesting, but thought better of it. He sat down, defeated.
"Given these… aggravating factors, I find it appropriate to sentence the defendant to no less than the statutory maximum of life imprisonment, plus one hundred forty-five years — to be served concurrently — and a fine of two hundred-thousand U.S. dollars. Are there any objections to the sentencing at this time? Mr. Edwards? Mr. Moore?"
The courtroom was silent.
"So be it, then."
Everett could feel his stomach churning. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when I was this close…
He cursed under his breath. "God damn it. God fucking damn it."
It was over.

NOW:
Everett paced in his cell. The three days since he had arrived at the Ohio State Penitentiary had been nothing short of an absolute nightmare. The walls of the small room were damp and cracked; Everett feared they would collapse at a touch. The floor was unusually sticky, emitting a strange odor best described as a mix of rotten eggs and horse shit. Solitary confinement.
He had been moved after he made the mistake of telling his cellmate his name. Apparently, his little "experiment" had made the papers. "The Mad Doctor", he cursed. "What a joke." The taste of toilet water was still fresh in his mouth.
Everett's ruminations would not last, however, as the sudden sound of footsteps grew closer to his cell. He heard the awkward jangling of keys emanating from the hallway outside. No sooner than a second later, the door was thrown open, momentarily blinding him as the light reached his eyes.
"MANN!", someone shouted. "You have a visitor."
The sight of the guard was a welcomed break from the monotony of his confinement. "A visitor?" he said, bemused. The guard spoke up.
"Yeah. Your attorney. Mr… what was his name again? Forget it. Come with me."
Everett bemusement turned to confusion — and, soon, anxiety — as he considered the guard's words. "My… attorney? But I don't—"
"Whatever", the guard dismissed. "Come with me."
Everett was ushered down the hallway, through the prison's central atrium, down a dozen stairwells, and into the conference room below. How big is this place?, he wondered. Along the way, he was greeted with mocking chants, spit, and the thumping of feet. For a moment, the prison seemed closer to a menagerie of caged birds, manically hawking at the sight of their scornful master. "MAD DOCTOR, MAD DOCTOR!", they screamed. "OPEN ME UP, WHY DON'T 'YA?"
But Everett remained unphased. When the noise finally dissipated, and the door slammed behind him, Everett was greeted with an unfamiliar sight. The man standing before him was not, in fact, his dispirited public defender, Thomas Edwards.
He was older — perhaps fifty-five — and well-dressed, with black slacks, brown oxfords, and a grey suit and tie over a pearly white undershirt. His long, receding grey hair was combed back to the base of his neck, and neatly trimmed at the front and sides. Thick black-framed glasses and a scraggly beard covered the worst of his wrinkled face. His fair skin was scarred at the hands and wrists, which he quickly moved to conceal once he noticed Everett staring.
The text on a red nametag at the lapel of his suit was just barely legible.

Merle Hart
South Cheyenne Point Legal Aid

"Ah, hello! Dr. Mann, is it? Please, have a seat." He reached out to shake his hand. Everett returned the gesture. "Merle Hart. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Dr. Mann? The use of the title unnerved him.
"I'm flattered, but it's just mister, now. Ever since… you know."
"Yes, you've made quite the name for yourself. "The Mad Doctor"!" He laughed. "Personally, I thought the "Butcher of the Bay" had more of a ring to it, but I digress. Now, let me see here…" Hart grabbed a large manila envelope from beneath his folding chair, removing several documents and setting them on the table, and began rummaging.
"I'm sorry, who are you, exactly?", Everett asked.
"Me? My name's Merle. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
"Yes, you told me. I meant—"
"I'm just busting your balls. Hey, lighten up, buddy! I'll get to that in a minute. Ah, here we are!" He seemed to find what he was looking for. Everett felt a growing pit in his stomach as he glanced at the stack of papers on the table. He recognized some of them — printed photographs of old family gatherings, his childhood home, his graduation from university. His laboratory.
"Everett Abbott Mann," Hart began to read. "born May 29th, 1958. Currently twenty… eight, years old? Is that right? Happy belated birthday. Parents died in a car accident when you were four. You were raised by your uncle, who went to prison when you were fourteen for murdering his… girlfriend? That's nice. Guess this sort of thing runs in the family, huh?" He smirked.
Everett was not amused.
"In spite of this, you graduated magna cum laude from Harvard University in 1980, and from Harvard medical school in 1984, going on to establish a highly successful practice in Columbus, Ohi—"
"That's enough. How the hell do you know all of this? Who are you? Answer me!", he pushed. "Guard! Guaaarrdd!", he yelled. "Hey! I don't know this guy! Let me out of here! Let me— oh, no."
Everett was so caught up in his fit that he almost didn't notice the gun pointed at his head from across the table.
"Simmer down a bit."
Everett raised his hands, shaking. Hart sighed, and put away his pistol.
"Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you." He paused. For a moment, they sat in silence. Hart seemed to be in deep thought. "I apologize for not being… forthcoming, in arranging this meeting. I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot here. I'll be frank with you, Rhett. Can I call you Rhett?"
"Sure", Everett replied. He wasn't about to get smart with the eccentric stranger with a gun.
"You're in some deep shit, Rhett. Deep, deep shit. But I want to help you. Your methods are… unorthodox, yes, but your vision is clear. What you did — what you discovered, rather, was groundbreaking. And it would be a damn shame for these talents to go to waste while you're rotting in some state penitentiary for the next fifty years." Hart looked through him. "We need you, Rhett. We need people like you at our organization."
The gears in Everett's head started to turn. He didn't bother to ask who "we" was. His fear and bewilderment turned to an all-consuming panic as he took in what the stranger had said. He doesn't… he couldn't, no, that's impossible. The prototypes. I thought I… I…
"What I… discovered? And what would that be?"
"Now's not the time to be coy. We found your toys. Before the feds, thank god. The courts may have seen a butcher, but, then again — they didn't know what we know, did they? We've been monitoring your work for some time. You aren't as slick as you think you are. And we weren't the only ones. The UI... well, I suppose you wouldn't know what that is. Luckily, they were so engrossed with all the… er, bloodshed, that they didn't think to dig any deeper."
Everett was at a loss for words. "What are you getting at here?"
"You were faced with a dilemma. Pursue your findings. Bend the very laws of existence to your whim. And create something to move humanity towards a more advanced, enlightened future." Hart closed his fists into a dramatic gesture. "But at a terrible cost: a human life. The life of a child, no less." He leaned closer. His tone grew quiet, and dreadfully serious.
"And I'll tell you something, Rhett: you made the right choice."
Everett remained stone-faced.
"This… organization."
"Foundation", Hart corrected.
"You want… me?"
"Yes."
Everett thought for a moment about everything the man had said. But only for a moment. Then, he smiled.
It was quite simple from there, really.
"Where do I begin?"

The Doctor | The Soldier »


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F.A.Q.

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Excerpts from Critiques of the "Normalcy" Mandate, Chapter III: The History of "Normalcy".
This manifesto was originally published in 1934 by a half-Fae half-human, Osvendor Sarrian Enzan. To this day, the following work provides the ideological foundation for the modern "Serpent's Hand" movement as well as other groups opposing the existence of the Veil policy and the actions of the organizations that maintain it.

Antiquity
In the primeval times of the beginning centuries, when the world was still young and the first empires of the three mortals species — Yeren, Fae, and Humans — rose and fell; magic, miracles, and gods were not something distant, but close, even tangible. Although there was no rational explanation for all the questions plaguing mortals, there was no division between what was considered "abnormal" and what was "normal." However, when Adam was tempted by the false Starlight to commit the unforgivable sin of the Second Diaspora, these centuries have inevitably passed, and mortals were forced to hide in caves from the darkness in the ruins of their former empires. Most of the knowledge of those times has been lost to the depths of history, and the few remnants have adapted to newly formed beliefs, such as the titans mentioned in the Bible and in the beliefs of the ancient Greeks, which have their origins in the stories of the Nightwalkers.

Fig. 1.1: The seal used by the "Abnormality Institute."

However, civilization managed to rebuild, now with humans as the dominant species. The first ancient states and cities began to emerge, using magic and the still-present — though much smaller than before — divine presence. From the ancient Xia Dynasty, the Ortothan Kingdom, the matriarchal Daevite Empire worshiping the gods of darkness and blood through the Kingdom of Israel and the rebellion of the Sorcerer-King of Adytum to the Mediterranean power of the Mekhanites. However, as the years passed, this open approach slowly began to change.
The important milestone in the birth of modern normalcy was the establishment of the first prenormalcy organization, the Abnormal Objects and Phenomena Institute of China (中华异常事物与现象学会); also known as Abnormality Institute (异学会). It was created after the Zhou Dynasty took power in the 11th century to secure objects related to the cult of the Golden Crows, which existed during the Shang Dynasty, and was composed of prominent scholars and sages. The organization would last for the next few centuries with ups and downs, to eventually, be forced to merge into what is known today as the SCP Foundation at the dawn of a new era.
As the world moved into a new age, it began to increasingly turn its back on what it started to consider inexplicable, particularly in Europe, where the rise and expansion of Roman Catholic Church influence strongly contributed to this.
Middle Ages
The expansion of the Church's authority and the stabilization of the papacy's dominant position in Europe, involving the suppression of local pagan beliefs, led to an even greater decline in the former ancient acceptance of paranormal phenomena.

Fig. 2.1: Witch trials, an example of anomalies persecution.

Although the Church initially coexisted fairly peacefully with anomalous species and people practicing magic, the thing that ultimately broke the camel's back was the Fourth Occult War, the Mongol Empire invasion of Europe. As a result of it, the Church's policy towards the incomprehensible became more restrictive, in the form of Iron Crusade, allowing only a few groups and orders associated with the Church to be authorized to practice magic, forcing other magic users and anomalous species to hide in special enclaves, such as Esterberg, Avalon or the mystical island of Hy-Brasil, out of fear for their lives.
This was the first major separation between what was subjectively considered anomalous and what was non-anomalous. The existence of the former began to be actively demonized and persecuted, of which the most famous example is the witch trials that continued even after the end of the Dark Ages. Despite this, to this day many medieval legends and tales mentioning Fae, various magical practices and other anomalous species have survived.
Of course, with the inevitable approach of the end of the Middle Ages and the transition into a new era, this status began to slowly change, symbolically culminating in Fifth Occult War, which happened simultaneously with the Thirty Years' War, and lasted between 1618 and 1648.
Renaissance

Fig. 3.1: Nostradamus; a French astrologer, prophet, occultist, and mystic.

The Reformation movements, the beginning of the Renaissance era, and ultimately conflict — or more accurately, conflicts — led to a significant weakening of the Church's position and a loosening of its oppressive grip toward the unexplained; although, of course, this did not mean that its persecution completely stopped. For example, the aforementioned witch trials continued to some extent even up to the 18th century. The result of it was the proliferation and progression of magical practices that lasted for more than 200 years.
In the 15th and 16th centuries before the Fifth Occult War, the wealthy bourgeoisie and nobility began to take interest in the artes magicae — Latin for magical arts, also called artes prohibitae due to being prohibited by canon law, which aligned with the ideals of the Renaissance period, positioning itself as a counter to the Dark Ages.
During these times many now-famous and prominent occultists, mystics, alchemists, and other people involved in esoteric research became famous and laid the foundation for future ages, including, among others: Nostradamus, Johann Weyer, Michael Sendivogius, John Dee, or Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, the famous philosopher and creator of Renaissance Kabbalistic and Hermetic magic. Representations of magical phenomena also began to appear in art, with the most famous example being the English playwright and poet William Shakespeare, whose works often included references to magical practices, interventions of occult forces as well as the Fae, and whose presence in the British Isles at the time was significant.
The symbolic end of the Fifth Occult War additionally allowed for a full blossoming of all sorts of groups, cults, brotherhoods, clubs, and other organizations practicing and working with magic, not limited only to those associated with the Church as in the Middle Ages — from the infamous Marshall, Carter & Darke through the Polish Anomalous Mushroom Picking Association (PZGA) to the secret society of the Bavarian Illuminati and many other groups still in existence today — as well as individuals studying esoteric practices.
However, as the centuries passed, the numerous and significant magical organizations of the time began to fall into increasing stagnation and conservatism, unwilling to adapt to the new realities of a world that, with the Enlightenment and then the beginning of the Industrial Revolution in the second half of the 18th century, began to move more and more toward a deeper modern and scientific understanding of the world. Scholars cataloging and systematizing previously unexplored fields of science slowly began to push aside the occult world holding on to outdated dogmas and old practices, stuck in stagnation, further and further increasing the separation between them.
This situation allowed organizations and institutions associated with the most powerful governments at the time to grow into something resembling China's Abnormality Institute nearly 3 000 years after its creation. Driven by the ideals of "securing the safety of their nation," they slowly launched their campaign of terror with the goal of protecting themselves from the imaginary threat posed by the world of magic, which they ultimately created themselves. They established a modern understanding of the Greek-derived word "anomaly" — meaning a deviation from the objective norm — creating themselves a subjective definition of said norm, excluding from it the conservative esoteric world stuck in stagnation not yet aware at the time of the disastrous consequences this would have for its future. This laid the groundwork that eventually contributed to the official establishment of the Veil dictatorship after the Sixth Occult War.
Among the most infamous prenormalcy organizations of the time were the American Secure Containment Initiative (ASCI), which introduced the immoral practice of using human subjects in experiments, which is still used today by the SCP Foundation, having racist roots in its origins; the ruthless and brutal His/Her Majesty's Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal (HMFSCP), which wanted to maintain the hegemony of the British monarchy; or the French Estate noir. The growing terror of these organizations left an increasingly bigger mark on the occult world, which became stagnated in its dogmatic beliefs and was perpetuated in it by the actions of those prenormalcy organizations. Divisions and conflicts among many paranormal organizations that emerged from this system eventually culminated in the outbreak of the Sixth Occult War in 1864.
Modernity

Fig. 4.1: Photo from the SCP Foundation archives supposedly depicting the signing of the "Convention on Preternatural Phenomena."

The Sixth Occult War finally ended in 1868 after 4 brutal and bloody years of fighting, with the death of the ancient Demiurge — killed by a German group of thaumaturgists taking advantage of the ongoing chaos — responsible for keeping the numbers of thaumaturgists down as well as stabilizing baseline reality, preventing hostile extradimensional beings from seeping into it. Both the scale of the conflict and the fear of such powerful forces eventually pushed national governments to step in, ending the conflict between all the parties already exhausted and devastated by it — many of the significant pre-conflict groups hadn't survived it or had significantly declined .
As a result, representatives of the most powerful governments and occult organizations — the majority of which were prenormalcy ones — met in an unknown location, officially signing the "Convention on Preternatural Phenomena" (French: Convention Sur Les Phénomènes Surnaturel) on November 23, 1868. Formalizing with it so-called normalcy, precisely defining their subjectively determined "consensus reality" and what is to be officially considered "anomalous" — which was previously understood rather loosely by prenormalcy organizations — and hidden from the public behind the "Veil" for its supposed welfare and protection, through lies and manipulation. Anomalousness isn't some constant of reality, it is what a group of old men in suits a couple of decades ago arbitrarily decided as such.
Although the intentions officially behind its signing can be considered noble — the desire to protect the world from a disaster on the scale of the Sixth Occult War — the manner in which they were carried out shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what led to this tragedy in the first place. The oppression of prenormalcy organizations and the conservatist stagnation of the magical society that caused the subdivisions and discord were what unleashed this conflict, giving the former an opportunity to create a convenient narrative of conflict between good and evil; between normality and abnormality; between order meant to protect humanity and alleged anomalous disorder which in logical consequence supposedly meant to endanger it. This also shows the xenophobic and supremacist ideas behind the whole concept of "normalcy," elevating humans to the title of the "normal" and dominant species above the Fae, Yeren, and other sentient species considered "anomalous" and therefore lesser and inferior.
Such thinking about anomalies, which are always supposed to pose a threat simply by their existence, is fundamentally flawed. As dangerous as some can be, so can too the phenomena considered subjectively "normal" — from all manner of diseases to fires or storms — and suppressing knowledge about them will only force humanity to cower from them in the darkness of ignorance. Hiding behind science and the objectivity of the Convention's ideas and their realizations represent only the death of knowledge, science, development, and light, comparable to how the Catholic Church fought against the heliocentric theory, unable to accept changes and things going beyond the dogmatic status quo they imposed.

Fig. 4.2: Adam Bright, the last general director of ASCI, and later O5-12.

Although the exact signatories of the convention itself are unknown and it is protected by many magical and occult seals, anonymous sources as well as rumors circulating for years in anomalous communities identify as potential signatories, among others: Adam Bright (future O5-12) of ASCI and few other later O5s; the future SCP Foundation Administrator;1 Hadfield Senior, director of HMFSCP (who died a year after the signing of the Convention);2 and the Deathless Merchant of London, Percival Darke of Marshall, Carter & Darke, whose involvement adds a certain dark ambiguity regarding the purity of the intent of its establishment.
The convention also resulted in the birth of the idea of modern national and international normalcy organizations designed to deal with its maintenance, led by the international SCP Foundation formed in 1870 from the ashes of the former alliance of 13 prenormalcy and occult organizations — the General Assembly of Thaumaturgists and Theologists Against Queen Mab — which took as its goal the noble fight against Queen Mab and the less noble maintenance of "normalcy," which the first amendments to the convention entrusted to the Foundation to later become one of their infamous "SCP-001."
This beast — headed by the aforementioned Administrator with a decision-making arm in the form of the O5 Council, seated by the representatives of these 13 organizations, some of which were also signatories to the convention — hid behind numbers, was able over the next few years to slowly overwhelm most of the world's major governments with its hideous tentacles, develop and popularize the technology of synthetic chemical amnestics in order to maintain its normalcy in 1894 — replacing the old expensive and not fully effective practices based on hypnosis and alchemy, disregarding the fact that their use could lead to carcinogenic side effects — convert the traitorous archivist of the Library to its side, and cut itself off from the magic world, locking it behind the bars of its prisons and chambers, forgetting that it itself had roots in it.
Although, in the interest of the questionable honor of these organizations, I must give credit to the national normalcy organizations belonging to the Entente and the Foundation for the fact that they were able to prevent the outbreak of another occult conflict parallel to the Great War.
However, to the surprise of many, this whole situation has ignited a Promethean fire of development in a now even more repressed and hidden in shadow magical society. From the development of the theory of Unified Thaumatology by J.S. Carver in 1913 which gave a new scientific understanding of what we had previously called "magic," to all sorts of discoveries and miracles created by Prometheus Laboratories which helped to solve many problems considered unsolvable for generations — and which the SCP Foundation, in its own hubris and hypocrisy, helped fund — and also the birth of new movements in anomalous art. In doing so, the anomalous communities exposed the nonsense of the "Veil" policy born by the closure to change of occult organizations prior to the Sixth Occult War, fuelled by prenormalcy organizations for which this fact was in their favor. The gray areas of science, that they had previously decided to reject, began to show that people thinking in this way were wrong, giving a better understanding to new fields of so-called modern parascience like taumaturgy, memetics, psionics, metaphysics, and ontokinetics.

Fig. 4.3: James Rollander's Factory.

Despite this, the monolith that the Foundation has become remained blinded; this fact led to the greatest tragedy of the occult world in the early 20th century, the Third Diaspora. The Foundation, in February of 1910, took over a large Factory belonging to James Rollander — whom that organization had wiped from the pages of history beyond the Veil — manipulated by the ancient Queen Mab impersonating her sister to help her enter baseline reality once again, who also managed to fool the Foundation with her tricks, which remained deaf to the cries and warnings of the Fae and the rest of paranormal world about the threat; until there was nothing left for them to do but, in a sudden burst, grab weapons to oppose the return of the ancient beast that the organization, which one of main goal was to stop it, now wanted in its own blindness and stupidity bring back to the living.
It is estimated that the following tragedy claimed more than 85% of the Fae population at the time, sacrificing their souls to Queen Mab. It cost the lives of countless men, women, mothers, fathers, friends and loved ones, while also giving impetus to extreme Neo-Mabbites organizations to act, the largest of which is Triumviraté, propagating the idea of rebuilding the ancient monarchist dictatorship of the Fae empire under Mab regime, citing humanity's harms against their species.
Although the Foundation seems to have finally understood its blindness and foolishness on this issue, initiating needed changes in its approach, it is still not enough. Fundamental changes are needed, related to understanding the basis of its mistakes allowing to finally catch the arsonist, rather than merely trying to fight the caused fire.
Future
However, despite these glimpses of small changes, the dictatorship of normalcy that has existed for more than 60 years does not promise to fall. The Veil system has managed to establish itself in the magical world, and most occult organizations have adapted to it under the threat of being destroyed. And while many of my dear like-minded colleagues are creating romantic visions of a great revolution against this system — it doesn't look like it will be realized any time soon. Also, highly disturbing are reports from Europe of significant repressions and persecutions by a more and more radical and nationalist Germany.
In addition, some modern research as well as ancient legends and tales suggest that such radical changes of perspective on the world have significant consequences, as it will also cause the world to change as well. The establishment of the so-called Veil on an unprecedented scale, its restrictive maintenance, control over magic, as well as the subjective exclusion of a part of reality will certainly have its repercussions — some ancient accounts mentions the weakening and dying of magic and related phenomena in the ancient Daevite Empire where it was reserved only for oligarchic matriarchs or during the medieval persecutions by the Church. However, this subject still remains heavily unresearched, and only in the realm of legends and myths based on accounts from hundreds of years ago, so I will refrain from drawing additional conclusions from it.
Although certainly, some kind of more serious consequences of the establishment of the Veil will eventually occur, with worse or better results for the occult world. For the time being, I look to the future uncertainly, hoping to see some glimmerings of hopes for change on the distant horizon.

While the rest of mankind dwells in the light, we must stand in the darkness to fight it, contain it, and shield it from the eyes of the public, so that others may live in a sane and normal world. Because if we don't, there might soon be no more world to guide forward.

— The SCP Foundation Administrator, preamble of "About Extradimensional Beings and Their Queen" (1870)

| From 120's Archives |

Footnotes
1. Banished for his sins to grove, where names have power after being tricked by the ancient queen into losing his name to her; can be freely addressed per Administrator, as the title of SCP Foundation Administrator is thaumaturgically reinforced and protected.
2. Whose daughter later inherited his position of HMFSCP director and became part of the Foundation.


Bullshit. Everyone's getting laid, drunk, or high tonight. Even those fucking tykes are getting candy at least. Not me, I'm stuck with delivery, chauffering pizza to all the parties around town like a loser. My next house seems fine though, just a mom and her daughter. The little girl's dressed like one of those Disney princesses, though I can't tell which one. It's a shame, it's the scariest day of the year and she's doing corporate dress-up. If it weren't for this stupid job I'd probably be handing out candy, and scaring kids with my Jason mask. But no, I'm here, bringing this woman her pizza.
I step out of the car, getting a gasp of fresh air while I can, and reach into the backseat for the box with their address. Once I find it I bring it to the mother, she and her girl are sitting at a folding table with a pumpkin-shaped bucket filled with candy.
"Here ya go. this'll be fifteen dollars and twenty-four cents." In the most polite tone of voice I can muster in these conditions.
"Oh! Hello, my wallet's back inside. Would you mind if I went to get it?"
"That's perfectly fine, Ma'am." Obviously. I'm not leaving without getting paid.
"Okay, I'll be right back. You should head inside too, Josie, it's getting a bit cold out."
The kid harumphed and went with her mom inside. The front door exposes the cold darkness outside to warm light from within. Taking advantage of the circumstances, I take a piece of candy from the bucket. Seems like a piece of chocolate. I pocket it right before the door opens back up. The mom steps out, play-fighting the daughter to keep her in. With the theatrics done, she walks up to me and holds up a few dollar bills. I take them, replacing them with the pizza box.
"You're welcome to keep the change!" She hollers at me while taking the food back inside. I take a look at what she handed me and count up sixteen dollars. I could already feel the seventy-six cents burning a hole in my pocket. Speaking of pocket, I grab a few more pieces of chocolate from the bucket, that's what you get for not putting up a take one sign.

Back on the road, stuck with the choking scent of grease and marinara, with just a horrible hint of pineapple. My next stop is a ways away, on the other side of the city. With my phone preoccupied with GPS duties, I'm stuck with the rotten zombie of radio. Men who couldn't tell you what a podcast was at gunpoint tell me how the youth have gone soft, instead of the more sensible thing, shutting up and playing music. Their current topic was the holiday, and how kids don't have access to good scares anymore, one man who sounds like his half filled with snot says that there hasn't been a good scary movie released since 1999. At that, I turn the damned thing off. I don't need my brain rotting along with theirs.
It's ten minutes of silence later when I hit the next house, tall, dark, and old. I get a feeling that this house predates all of my living relatives. I give the building in front of me a solid few seconds of awe before getting the pizzas. On the way to the door, I can't help but appreciate the decorations on the way, whoever the owner is, they sure know how to celebrate the holidays! Those gravestones look almost real! I balance two pizza boxes on my right hand and knock quickly to return the boxes to both hands. It takes a second but I begin to hear footsteps, and soon, the door opens. The door-opener is dressed as a skeleton, and is stunning with how realistic the costume is.
"That's gonna be twenty-eight dollars and ninety-three cents."
"Hm? Oh, I'll be right back, I don't really carry money with me."
"That's fine sir, I'll be right here. That's a pretty nice costume, super realistic!"
He closes the door soon after I stop talking, and is gone for a whole minute. Hopefully, he'll give me a tip, payback for the compliment. I can hear footsteps again. He's opening the door…
"Here you go." in his bony hand is a wad of cash and loose change. I trade the boxes and cash with practiced motions, taking more care with the stack of boxes. once it's done, he closes the door. On the way back to the car I check the money he handed me, $28.93 exactly. Cheap skele-bastard.

A much shorter trip, helped by the fact the radio stations have wisened up and started playing music. It's a few winding roads, some made of dirt shaking the car around like its life depended on it. Where the roads lead me leaves my jaw hanging. Black shingled spires rising out of the ground like thorns. Granite tombstones give off an appearance like teeth in an animal's mouth, waiting to bite. I check my phone to see if this was the right address, only for it to be confirmed. This was a new house. I park in front of the driveway. This place just got one pizza, but they also went crazy with the breadsticks. They need the massive bag we typically use for our four-pizza party pack. The gravestones here are fine, but the fake webs and spiders make it seem like they're trying a bit too hard.
With one hand holding the box and the other, a garbage bag of breadsticks, I have to get creative with knocking. One kick to the door later, it opens up. I almost begin telling the price before I see who opened the door, the skeleton. It takes a bit too long for me to compose myself. The skeleton has his arms crossed, wallet in one of his hands, clearly waiting for the price.
"Oh, uh, thirty-nine dollars exactly. That's a pretty spooky costume you got there, make it yourself?"
"Mhm." He fishes more cash out of his wallet and hands it over to me. In order to grab it, I have to hand over the box, then give him the bag. I end up making it more complicated than it needed to be though and feel like I wasted my time. Before I can say anything else, he practically slams the door on me. I know the answer before I look, but I can't stop myself. Thirty. Nine. Dollars.

I'm on the pavement once again, at a reasonable 5 miles over the speed limit. More smoke is coming out of my ears than the truck in front of me, and my face is as red as… well also the truck in front of me. There isn't a lot of red stuff in front of me at the moment. The sun is past setting and it's getting darker, so I'm forced to turn on my headlights so I don't run into… I don't know, the truck or whatever.
Eventually, I turn into a nice looking neighborhood. Kids have stopped trick-or-treating and the road is lit up by light from TVs spilling through windows. It starts to cool my nerves to see-
"MOTHER FUCKER!" IT'S THE FUCKING HOUSE. AGAIN. A reasonable five turns into an egregious twenty over the speed limit as I rush to a dumb-looking house on the corner. When I reach the house, I practically kick my door open. The other door is yanked so hard that for a brief second my anger switches to panic until I realize that I didn't break anything. I take out another pizza box and slam both doors shut. The way to the door is more like a march than a walk. I look at all the crappy, styrofoam gravestones with dumb, animatronic zombie hands coming out of the ground and scowl. I punch the door when I get to it, as if that's what I want to punch. The skeleton is quicker this time, as if he was waiting for me.
"It's eleven forty-five." I'm trying to control myself, but if this bastard makes one wrong move I know I'm going to snap.
"Thanks."
"Fuck off." The skeleton looks taken aback a little as- ooooooh fuck. what did I just say. I seem to have gotten the attention of one of the people at this party, some guy in a fursuit who was talking to someone in what was the worst Frankenstein make-up I have ever seen. The skeleton reaches into his wallet and pulls out a ten dollar bill and hands it to me. I sheepishly accept the money and give him the pizza. He closes the door slowly, looking dead at me the whole time. The way back to the car is a march no longer, merely a trudge.

I don't waste my time on this one, the first thing I do is look up the address of the next house. I fucking called it! Same house, same yard. He's not making an ass out of me this time. I'm going home, nights over.

Though it is the last house on the list, I can't quit now. Besides, if I blow this one off I'll find myself in hot water with my boss. I ride off towards the next house, back at five over. I take a deep breath in and smell it, the pineapple. I turn off the radio, I need silence for this. Powered by a pure determination to get this over with, I ride on. I see the house now, the black spires, the gravestones, and pump myself up for what's to come. It's muscle memory now, I step out, take the pizza out, and walk to the door. I pay the decorations no mind as I knock on the door. It opens slowly, revealing the skeleton bit by bit.
"Thirte-"
"I'm not paying for that," The skeleton said in a monotone voice.
"What." Also monotone.
"You told me to 'fuck off' last time. I'm not paying you after that."
"The money goes to the company, I just get tips. You didn't give me any of those before I yelled at you anyways."
"I'm not paying a company that hires anyone like you either. Give me the pizza and fuck off. "
That is it. I've had enough of this boney ass-hat. I wind back and sock him in the jaw. After it connects, I see the skull come clean off, landing ten feet behind him. The bones in front of me crumple into a pile. A second passes and I become aware of how quiet it has become. Without looking up, I can tell that everyone inside is looking at me. I gently lay the pizza box down on the pile of bones, and slowly close the door. Once I hear the door click shut, I run to the car as fast as I can and speed off before putting on the seatbelt.
I think back to the skeleton, and how realistic his costume was. How real the gravestones looked. How were there that many houses that looked identical? Did that fursuit bare its fangs at me? As I thought about all of this, I felt a crushing fear overwhelm me as I realized something.
"I'm so fucking fired."