It was the buzzing that got to you. Not the half-converted bodies, not the sweet stench of honey, but the buzzing. It filled the air, almost tangible in its sound, a static noise that replaced any thought that wasn't related to bees. It filled every moment of your life with the knowledge that you and your family were dead. That you would either turn into a freak, or your corpse would be used to build another hive to make more bees. It was the knowledge that humanity was breathing it's last.
The man got on the beekeeping suit, taping chemical tape around thick rubber gloves and boots. A precaution when surrounded by tiny, deadly bees. He had seen what had happened when one didn't tape up a suit. Thousands pouring into a man's mouth, his screams drowned out by the buzzing. Either that or they got into your ear, to change you. He saw that happen once, a man who couldn't take the loneliness, who just wanted to be a part of a species again, so he ripped off his helmet and let them pour in. The freaks had encouraged it, spewing shit about how the conversion was a good thing, how it wouldn't hurt. He had finally got them to shut up about a year ago. Speaking of the freaks, it was that time of the month again. Trading day.
"Oh, it's no big deal, the bees are wonderful. Such lovely singers." They had all seemed so damn cheerful.
The last time he had a human was when someone had run into town, just wearing a shirt and jeans. The swarm had taken him, bees crawling into his ears to go to work. A lot of people did that in the final days, not able to take the loneliness and the buzzing. He wouldn't though. He could deal with being alone. Hell, he'd done it for most of his life. Putting on the hood, he grabbed a handheld smoker, putting fuel into the satchel. It was his own mix, pine and dried grass from the forest. He gathered up the rest of his things, trading goods, some snacks, and extra fuel, and headed out the door.
The door had to be slammed shut to close. He needed to take a closer look at it one day, once he had the parts. Leaves crunched under his feet as he walked towards the car, the fall air numbing his hands. Sliding into the front seat, he turned the ignition, waiting for the engine to sputter to life. When it finally did, he pulled out of the driveway, glancing at his cabin. Years of work had gone into it, major additions being a greenhouse, water collectors, and a windmill for extra power. It was his wife, his kids, the only thing he really cared about besides his own survival.
An empty road was all he saw as he drove through the forest, roots starting to bust through the asphalt. The occasional husk of a car was on the side, looted long ago for parts. No one came out here to refurbish the road these days, there not being a point to it. Why waste time on a road when you could just fly? It was a hassle though, with no way of fixing them. He probably could, if he had any supplies. Right now he just had to make do, at least until the roads collapsed completely. He'd probably have to walk then, either that or find a Jeep or something. Passing the sign for Sheldon, long since overgrown with vines and covered in honeycomb, he turned the corner, the smell of honey overpowering. The first buildings that he saw were covered in beehives, dark clouds surrounding them like smog. And then he saw the freaks.
The freaks watched him with compound eyes, going about their daily business. The man was a monthly spectacle, something to see and acknowledge, maybe brag to your friends about. He didn't harm any of them, bringing in supplies to trade. Mostly apples, surplus from his fall harvest. He pulled to the side of the road, getting out. Locking it, out of habit more then anything, he stepped onto the sidewalk. One of the freaks waved to him, spindly arm in the air. He gave a polite wave in return. Turning to the storefront, he glanced up at the vine covered sign. "Hanson's General Goods." Taking a breath, he went inside.

"Morning Monthly!"
The bee was happy, antenna twitching. Monthly was a good man, even if he was a beet of a downer. He always brought good flowers and fruits to trade, that, apparently, he grew himself! In return, the bee gave him technology that the hive couldn't use, usually things with buttons. Cell phones could have worked, but the power had gone out about ten years ago. Plus, who needed cell service when you could just communicate with pheromones? Mail composed entirely of scent, forming wonderful little packages, he loved it.
Monthly stepped up to the counter.
"Brought in the usual, twenty pounds of apples, plus the flowers."
Always being polite, Monthly made sure to transport the whole flowerbeds. Most people would just cut up the whole thing.
"That sounds wonderful, let me just see what we found this month. Your generator still working?"
"Yeah uh, I mean, some bees, no offense I mean, tried to build a hive in it. Found it when I came home one time. Had to smoke them out."
"Oh no, I understand. The little guys are sweet but they just don't understand, you know?"
"Yeah." Monthly tapped on the counter with a rubber glove, glancing around the store. The bee turned and looked through the shelves, trying to find something that could be a fair trade. Aha, an Xbox! Still worked it seemed, plus the place they found it at had some games that could be played.
"You got anything to keep you occupied? Got an Xbox here if you wanted, could throw in some games."
"How much for it?"
"How many apples did you say you had again?"
"Uh, 'bout nine or ten, give or take."
"I'll take three for this, then I can give you an even trade of honey. How much?"
"Just a pound then."
"So four pounds of apples? Sounds good!" The bee set the Xbox on the counter, then went over to grab a few jars of honey. Monthly went out and grabbed two bags, one in each hand. Coming back inside, he set them on the counter.
"Hey, if you uh, don't mind me asking…"
"Yeah?"
"You guys all this happy and carefree?"
"Oh, well, I'd like to think our little hive is, but you know, it always depends on the flowers and the people." He twitched his antenna in an equivalent of a smile.
Monthly didn't seem to recognize it, nodding quietly. He set the bags down on the counter.
"You mind if I ask you something in return?" The bee asked, holding honey.
"Yeah, sure."
"Do you ever get lonely? You know, living by yourself for years. Can't recall you ever mentioning a dog or kids or anything."
"Uh, no, not really." A quick frown flashed across Monthly's face, the man bad at hiding his emotions. The bee was saddened. He was social, used to being surrounded by family members and his loved ones. Being alone would bee like suicide.
"You know, you don't have to…change or anything, but you're welcome at my house if you'd like. Like I've said before, if you just wanna come to hang out, maybe have dinner, you're always welcome." He grabbed the apples in trade, setting them down behind the counter.
Monthly looked at him. "Thanks for the offer, but, I'm gonna have to say no. Wouldn't be able to eat anything really, not with this thing on-." He gestured to his suit. "Plus, I gotta conserve fuel, already eating it up with these trips." The bee shrugged.
"Well if you ever like to come, you're always welcome at our table. That all?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Well, have a nice day." The bee said kindly. Monthly only nodded in response, grabbing his goods. Stepping outside, the bee felt sorry for him. Monthly was a man who was alone in the world, both by his own exile and by biology.

The man drove home, silent. A damn freak got to him. He didn't need its sympathy, perfectly fine being alone. Pulling up into the driveway to his cabin, he stepped out of the car, getting the Xbox and honey. Heading inside, he was greeted only by the hum of his generator. The air was still, and it smelled, a mix of body odor and sawdust. Putting away the Xbox and honey, he started to take off his beekeeping gear. Underneath, he only had on a t-shirt and jeans. Glancing out at the setting sun, he yawned. It was early, but sleep called to him. He unrolled his futon, turning it into a bed. After setting out blankets and pillows, he turned off his generator. Finally he slipped into his sheets. Sleep hit him easily, brain falling swiftly into the blackness of REM.
There was a humming noise, he noticed when he woke up. Getting up and stretching, he thought nothing of it, thinking it was his generator. Until he realized that his generator was turned off. The hum got louder, like a speaker blaring into his ear. Something was in his ear, and he knew what. Turning, he saw the door to his cabin cracked open. It must not have shut it all the way last night, letting a swarm get in. He started to panic, remembering the fate of everyone else who had the bees come in. Frantically, he looked for something to end it, not wanting to end up like everyone else. But, at the same time, some part of him accepted his fate. He knew that was the bees. It was them working to keep him alive and trapped in their hive. They wanted him to be with others, and the only thing he could do was obey. Not bothering to put on the beekeeping suit, he ran to his truck, getting in and driving to town. The only thing he could hear was the hum of the bees as they went to work.
He arrived in town, stumbling out of his car. Some citizens of the hive watched in mild surprise, as the man they christened Monthly wasn't wearing any of his usual gear. Something had to be wrong. One came up to him, confused. "Hey partner, everything okay?"
"No damn it, everything is not okay!-" He stuttered his words, heading for Hanson's General Goods. The bee was there, stocking shelves as usual. Turning to see who had entered, he saw the man standing in the doorway. "I'm changing damn it-"
"What? Changing, what do you…oh, you mean-"
"I'm beecoming, I mean, becoming a freak, just like all of you. And, and I can't do this alone, my body won't let me." He winced, looking at the bee. "God, I-I'm so lonely, you were right, really, just let me bee by you, please-"
"Of course, I know exactly what you're going through, just take a seat. I'll go get someone." The man took a seat in a chair by the counter, head in hands. He had been so prepared, so cautious, and now it had all gone to waste. The planning, the work, all of it was useless. But part of him accepted that, the feeling spreading. Eventually, he calmed down, only one thought in his head.
How bad could this be?

The bees sat around a dinner table, buzzing a prayer before eating. The same bee who ran Hanson's looked around, seeing all the faces. It was good, he thought, to see his friends and family. And seeing the new face, the one who had just finished his change a month or two ago, was wonderful. Really, the bee thought, he was glad that Monthly had finally gotten that chance to come to dinner.
Glancing outside, he thought. It would be a good day to check on the crops. Winter was finally letting up, and spring seeped through the snowy hills. He was excited. He could tell, it was going to be a beautiful spring this year.
As the bees ate, their buzz resonated with the others in the hive, and the collective buzz there resonated with the next hive over, and so on and so forth, until the entire world buzzed in harmony. The world finally seemed to be at peace, no wars, no death, just a plan to work towards the greater good.


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ΩK
It's the end of the world, but Joyce Michaels still has to go to work in the morning.
Written for the Doomsday Contest, and now part of the End of Death canon!
More from this author

2020
SEPTEMBER 12th, 14:02
"Umm… Mrs. Michaels?"
"Yes?"
"I believe the doctor would like to, um, show you something."
Joyce Michaels' father was sat up in his hospital bed for the first time in months. The heartbeat monitor next to his bed cried a steady tone — it had been disconnected.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
He was finally awake, though perhaps not lucid.
Joyce turned to the nurse. "What happened?"
The nurse fumbled with his words. "We shut off the life support just now — 07:02, that's, 14:02 GMT. It didn't… nothing changed."
Joyce's lungs burned. Her heart felt slow. This can't be real.

07:32, half an hour later. Joyce was in the hospital lobby. The doctors had told her to go wait while they worked out what had happened.
A television in the corner of the room was tuned to the news. It wasn't just her dad. It was everyone. In the past half hour, life had continued, uninterrupted by death for the first time in forever. No one had died. Not even animals.
The camera was focused on some boy who'd slapped a mosquito on his arm. Amongst its remains, what was left of it still writhed, trying to fly away.
The presenter was smiling. 'A miracle', she called it. Joyce couldn't manage a smile — the only thing on her mind was the amount of work that lay ahead.

2020 SEPTEMBER 13th
"Hey, Joyce."
She quickly finished typing up her message and hit 'Send' before looking up to see who'd come into her office. She smiled when she saw that it was Darryl Lloyd, a researcher with whom she'd worked previously. "Hey, Darryl. What brings you down here?"
"I just got assigned to a new project and wanted to come say goodbye. What're you up to?"
"I just sent an email to the Site Director asking for a transfer, actually."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure."

To: Site Director Fletcher
From: Dr. Joyce Michaels
Subject: Omega-K research request
Hi Tom,
I'd like to request to be on the team researching Omega-K. Not only is it in my field, but it's very much a personal matter to me.
I've worked with the analytical teams for SCP-2679 and SCP-3138, both of which required me to determine the cause of death for anomalous corpses. While I'm more than aware that Omega-K won't involve any dead bodies, I feel that being part of the research team is something that fits my expertise very well.
Many thanks.
Joyce

"No spelling mistakes, nice," Darryl commented, his head hovering over Joyce's shoulder as he scanned the text. "Are you sure you know him well enough to call him 'Tom'? I think you should go a little more formal."
Joyce dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "It's fine. We've spoken… at least three times. I've sent it now, anyway."
Darryl sighed in mock exasperation. "You're too late, by the way. Emily Young's already claimed the project — it's numbered SCP-3984."
"You couldn't have told me that already?"
"Hey, not my fault you couldn't wait to send the email."
"Fair enough. How did she get to it so quickly, anyway?"
"Seemed like she claimed it literally minutes after it happened. Don't ask me how she managed it."
Joyce shrugged. "I guess she does work fast. How do you know this stuff, anyway?"
"I'm on her research team."
"Oh, come on now, that's not fair. Do you think you can get me a place?"
Darryl laughed gently. "I'm not sure that I can. She was keen on having a very small team."
"Shame." Joyce sighed. "Look, I actually have to head to a meeting in a few minutes, so I don't really have time to chat."
"You know…" Darryl began, his voice trailing off.
Joyce looked up at him. A long moment passed. "What?"
"…it's funny how it's the Rapture, but my neighbors are still out mowing their lawn like it's any other Sunday."
"Rapture? Who's calling it the Rapture?"
"Uh, I think some hippies on the news started it to raise awareness for the growing population or something. Spread over the internet."
"Right. Sorry, what was your point?"
"I just find it funny how this is a K-class scenario and all, but the mundane day-to-day stuff just carries on."
Joyce laughed gently, just enough to tell Darryl that she'd acknowledged his joke but didn't find it funny. He smiled, rapped his knuckle twice against her office door, and closed it behind him on his way out.
She checked her email again. Two new messages — one to her work address, one to her personal address.

To: Dr. Joyce Michaels
From: Site Director Fletcher
Subject: RE: Omega-K research request
Dr. Michaels,
ΩK is a personal matter for everyone in the Foundation. It's a personal matter for everyone in the world, no less.
That being said, the reason I can't allow you to research ΩK is because it's already been claimed. Dr. Emily Young has taken the project and picked her own staff to assist her — a skeleton crew, I might add. I'd suggest you pass along your request to her.
I should mention that she's made it very clear that the purpose of research into ΩK should be to discover its limit, not its origin, and I'm inclined to agree.
I'd recommend you do something more useful with your time. The bugs should be a huge problem by now, perhaps you can find out why they're not.
Hoping you're well,
Site Director Thomas Fletcher

To: joycemichaels79@gmail.com
From: administrative@newstarthospital.org
Subject: Regarding upcoming discharge
Dear Joyce,
On account of budget constraints and increasing hospital membership, the New Start Hospital regrets to inform you that your relative, George Michaels, will be discharged from the hospital on the 15th.
As Mr Michaels is no longer in a terminal condition, we trust that this news will only bear a minor inconvenience.
Be sure to let one of our staff know if you need assistance transporting Mr Michaels to your home.
Regards,
New Start Hospital

2022 APRIL 17th
A long, thin speleothem of spittle drooled gently from her father's mouth. Joyce took a piece of tissue and gently dabbed it away. His eyes, seeing but probably not understanding, were fixed on the television screen.
The television showed, in silence, the inauguration of Jonathan Narsimmes as president of the United States. The election had been a landslide. Narsimmes' manifesto was neither left-wing nor right-wing — he simply had a solution, which is what everyone wanted to hear.
Three sharp knocks on the front door woke Joyce from her mental haze. Her eyes drifted hazily from the television — which was turned on but muted — to the door. She rose from her seat and made her way over to the source of the noise. She took a quick look through the peephole and saw someone she faintly recognised from years ago, a face she could barely remember and certainly didn't know by name.
She opened the door and there stood someone dressed in the green uniform of South Cheyenne Point, an assisted living facility a few hours' drive away. It was where Tony, Joyce's brother, worked — if you believed what the Foundation told people who didn't need to know better. Joyce knew the truth, of course, but the fresh-faced twenty-something who was stood at the door clearly had a script to deliver.
"I'm real sorry, Miss Michaels." he began. "I-I hate to have to be the one to tell ya, but Anthony's dead. He passed away peacefully—"
"How old's that script, kid?" Joyce asked, tired eyes boring down into him. "No one's died for a year and a half."
He stuttered, fumbled on his words. He didn't have a backup plan. "I haven't had to do this in quite a while, sorry, ma'am."
"You are Foundation, right? Not civilian?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You know that I'm also Foundation?"
"N-no, ma'am. But I do now."
"Then you should know that I know that my brother's been dead for quite a while."
"I'm real sorry, ma'am," the boy mumbled. He was doing his best. "I guess that's better than finding out now?"
A quick glare silenced him. "It's not."
"I'm sorry. Wh-when did he die, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Ten days before everything went to shit. Ten fucking days. If he'd've taken a holiday or something he'd be alive today."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"You know," Joyce continued — now that she'd started talking, she couldn't stop. "I was told he was a good man. A great agent. One of the best. I was told he saved countless lives, but they never told me how."
Joyce stepped to the side, letting the boy look into the room, letting him see the silent television and the elderly man who sat opposite to it, watching intently, probably not even aware that he couldn't hear anything.
"That's my dad," she continued. "I look after him these days. He's supposed to be dead. Hospitalized for months — he was going to die that very day, you know. He kept his life, just like everyone else, but his memory is long gone."
Tears began to form slowly in her eyes. As she blinked rapidly to force them back, she was grateful that she was facing away from the boy, that he didn't see.
She turned back to him. "One survived, but lost his mind. The other died. It should have been the other way round, but life doesn't work out the way you want it to, huh? So how come my brother's died again?"
The boy stuttered. He didn't have a response for this. It was supposed to be a quick visit. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It must've been a mistake. I'll… I'll… Y'know, we can maybe do something about your father. Look after him for you. That way you-you can maybe even come back to the Foundation, have a little more time on your hands."
"I'll think about it," Joyce said, and then she gently shut the door over the boy's face. She took a seat next to her father. He asked who the boy was, but she didn't answer. He wouldn't remember asking by the time she'd finished speaking.

2025 DECEMBER 31st
Joyce sat at her desk, compiling the report that she'd been asked to make. A list of anomalies, both in containment and otherwise, and any changes that occurred to them as a result of ΩK.
She stared at the list, her five most recent entries — the ones she'd finished today — staring back.

SCP
Post-ΩK Behavior
Post-ΩK Classification

SCP-1440
SCP-1440 entered a nearby township and dwelled there for a week without causing an anomalously formed disaster. The Foundation proceeded to capture SCP-1440 for containment at a nearby site.
Euclid, pending further reclassification as Neutralized

SCP-2935
The Foundation is no longer able to access SCP-2935; its entrance now leads to a non-anomalous tunnel system.
Neutralized

SCP-2718
System bug making entry inaccessible is now gone. Entry was empty. Possibly unrelated.
Reassigned

Declassified Anomaly A315
A315 no longer displays anomalous properties.
Neutralized

SCP-2339
Population number has continued to increase into the millions. Now capable of simulating upwards of 20 symphonies simultaneously.
Euclid

Three sharp knocks on her office door diverted her attention from her work.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened and Darryl Lloyd burst inside. He looked a little dishevelled, his hair not quite in place, a little red in the cheeks.
"Joyce," he began, slightly breathless, "Young just tried to kill herself. I know that you've worked with her previously, I… I just wanted to let you know."
"Emily Young?"
"Emily, yeah."
Joyce closed the document she'd been working on and rose a hand to idly scratch the side of her neck.
"Weren't you both working with 3984 directly?" she asked.
"We were. You'd've thought that she of all people would know the consequences."
"What's her current condition?"
"I got here as soon as I could. She's being taken to medical right now. If I had to give a prognosis, I'd say brain damage at the very least."
"How bad?"
"Bad."
Joyce pressed both hands to her face and let out a long, quiet moan. If Darryl heard, he didn't comment.
A long moment passed. Darryl broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Joyce," he began, "were you two close?"
Joyce lowered her hands from her face. She took a sharp breath in, and exhaled it slowly.
"No. My brother worked with her, though."
Darryl nodded. He understood.
"Can you let someone know that I'll be taking over 3984?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I wanted to originally, remember? I'll write up the post-incident report and everything, just leave it to me. I want to see Emily first, though."
Darryl shook his head sympathetically. "Of course, I'll take you there now."

2030 OCTOBER 3rd
"Hi, is this the home of a Miss Joyce Michaels?"
The woman at the door had hair dyed a deep purple, made into curls that bounced around her shoulders. Her smile, painted a bright red, was big and felt genuine.
"Yeah, that's me."
"Good to meet you! My name is Emma Preston, I'm working with the Societal Census Program and I'm here to ask you a few questions. Can you spare fifteen minutes?"
"Oh, I've heard about you guys. Didn't you find something weird happening in Florida, or something?"
The woman shrugged, a wry smile on the her face. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't know about that. I just ask the questions. Do you mind if I come inside?"
With no excuse readily available, Joyce waved her inside. Preston curtseyed and let herself into the lounge. The two sat on either end of the long couch.
"You are Joyce Michaels?"
"I am."
"Can I have your age and gender?"
"I'm fifty-one. And I'm female, but I'm hoping you knew that."
Preston laughed gently. "Hey, I'm not one to judge."
She spent another moment writing in her notepad before looking back up at Joyce.
"May I ask if you have any living immediate family?"
"Uh, sure." Joyce took a moment to think, and saw that Preston was already writing even though she hadn't said anything yet. "My dad, George, is eighty-three, he lives in an assisted living complex. My brother Eric is forty-eight, though I don't know where he's living at the minute."
"Have you visited your dad recently?"
"I— uh, that's a little personal? No, not recently."
Preston looked up from her notepad. "I'm sorry. Is that everyone?"
"That's everyone."
"Thank you, Joyce. May I ask if you're expecting a child, or if you know anyone who is?"
"I'm not, and I don't. I'm pretty sure we're not allowed to, these days?"
Preston nodded. "You are, but only if the pregnancy is registered, which you have to declare a few weeks in advance. And then they can deny it — I think it's hideous, personally, but it's the law. Sorry for asking — this is what the Census is for, after all."
Sure it is. "That's no problem. Blame Narsimmes."
"Of course. May I ask about any lifestyle changes you've had since the Rapture?"
"The Rapture? Oh, you mean omega-kay."
Preston tilted her head to the side slightly, her hair swinging to match. "I mean, since people stopped dying."
"Yeah, that. Uh… I guess not a lot, really. What kind of information are you looking for?"
Preston smiled. "As much as you're okay with sharing. For example, have your living arrangements changed at all?"
"Yeah, sure. I quit my job a few years back to take care of my dad, who would've otherwise, y'know. Eventually he got moved into assisted living and I was given my old job back. I still work there. Huh, I guess my arrangements haven't changed at all."
"Where do you work, out of interest?"
"At the minute, just general admin for the Foundation. I used to have a more hands-on role, but it got too much. I stepped down from that a few months ago."
"The Foundation?"
"You know, the, uh…"
It occurred to Joyce that Emma Preston might not know what the Foundation was, despite being employed by one of its fronts. Joyce had been talking to a civilian this whole time.
"…the, uh, Manna Charitable Foundation. We're… a charity."
"Of course, my apologies! Would you say your organisation's work has changed much since the Rapture?"
"It's…"
Joyce had never worked with the Manna Charitable Foundation, and had no clue what they really did. She decided to wing it.
"…it's gotten a lot harder. Taking care of the homeless is already difficult enough, and in recent years, so many more people are forced to live that life. We've been doing our best to take care of as many as we can, and we'll keep doing so, but… it's hard, you know? Every day when I walk into work I can feel the weight of those people who depend on me, who depend on us. And I feel like this is my place in the world, this is where I belong. I'm just grateful that so many people are still happy to donate their money to us, to help however they can."
As she spoke, her bullshit was punctuated by Preston's perfectly-timed expressions of sympathy and approval. Joyce sighed. She'd have to make a phone call to get her census entry expunged.
"You mentioned you used to have a more hands-on role?"
"In the soup kitchen. I burned my hands, so I don't work there anymore."
Preston nodded solemnly, and began to stand up. "Well, thank you for your time, Miss Michaels, I have more than enough to be working with, and a good many other people to get to today!"
"That's no problem. Have a nice evening, Ms. Preston."
"You too, Miss Michaels. Make sure you visit your dad soon."

2033 JANUARY 1st
"Hey, dad."
"Hello, have we met?"
It was the same conversation every time they saw each other. Every time, it was torture. In some ways, though, it was a blessing — it had been over a year since Joyce had visited her father, and her guilt was suppressed by the knowledge that he didn't even remember who she was.
"I have a New Year's present for you."
She held out a small box — one that had once held a wedding ring. The same box that he had given to Joyce's mother so many years ago. She'd found it, by pure chance, a few months ago. She was hoping that he'd remember it, that feeling its blue velvet cover would bring something back. The best she could hope for was a fond tear in his eye.
Her dad might not even remember what New Year's is, but he knew what a gift was. He took the box slowly. His hands, weak and covered with dark veins, shook gently as he struggled to open it.
Joyce reached forward and opened for him. The box opened slowly, its internal spring trying to hold itself closed, until it popped open with a muffled click.
Inside was a single pill.
"What's this?" he barked, his voice gruff and coarse.
"It's… medicine," she told him, "it'll make the pain go away."
"I'm not in any pain."
I am. "It'll stop you from forgetting things."
"I haven't forgotten anything."
"Dad, you don't even know who I am."
"Of course I do," he said, and for the first time since Joyce had arrived he looked up and made eye contact with her.
Joyce had forgotten what that felt like. Her dad's gaze, sharp and intelligent, boring down into her. He smiled, not with his mouth, but with the friendly wrinkles around his eyes. It all came flooding back, all the precious memories she'd hidden away and locked up tight: how he'd taught her to cook, all those long cycling trips, the conversations they'd had together. It felt like her dad was back, and for a moment, she dared to hope that he finally remembered his daughter.
"You're my nurse," he finished.
Of course. Her dad was long gone.
Joyce looked down at the pill in the ring box. She was putting her job on the line to bring her father some peace.
Perhaps if he understood just what this was, how hard it had been for Joyce to get.
"You know, Dad," she began, "this pill was very hard to find. It's made by a company called Marshall, Carter and Dark, and they call this little pill 'Hypnotraline'. It's very expensive." Far, far more expensive than I could ever hope to afford.
She moved a little closer, her father's eyes watching intently. "I actually stole this. We — the Foundation, that's where I work — intercepted a shipment of hundreds of these pills, and by pure luck I managed to steal one just for you."
She moved her father's hand onto the pill, keen not to touch it herself, just in case. "It's really important that you… I want you to take this, Dad. It's for your own good."
She didn't tell him that the pill was the result of a collaboration between MC&D and Prometheus Laboratories, as far as the Foundation could tell, and the two corporations had swapped research as and when was it was profitable for both. There was no telling what Prometheus Labs had gotten out of the deal, as only MC&D had a product to show for it.
Perhaps if her father knew all of this, then he'd take the pill. Perhaps, if he knew it was a sleeping pill that put you into a sleep so deep you'd never wake up, then he'd take it.
He didn't, and Joyce was no monster.

2044 FEBRUARY 21st

You are old. You are sick. Perhaps you're simply tired.
Tired of life. But we all know that there's no end in sight.
But who needs an end, when we can have a fresh beginning?
Why be you, when you can be new?
Prometheus Laboratories. Make the change, today.

The advertisement had finished ten minutes ago, but its message still echoed in Joyce's mind. Prometheus Labs were literally offering the ability to swap your entire body with another — and somehow, not a single person in the Foundation had been aware of it before the official announcement. 110-Montauk had proved to be something of a distraction.
Joyce had been tasked with writing the report on what Prometheus were doing and how they'd managed to fly beneath the radar for so long. Her work was slow, though — not only was there very limited information to research (most of which came directly from Prometheus' advertising), but she was concerned that is was too late — that by the time they had any semblance of a plan to oppose the company, people would already be flocking to get their surgery done.
Before long, the news might even reveal that the surgery actually worked, and by then, it would be way out of the Foundation's hands.
Three sharp knocks on her office door diverted her attention.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened and Ardal Rogers, captain of one of the Site's security teams — Joyce couldn't remember which one exactly — partially stepped into the room.
"Dr. Michaels. Sorry to disturb you, but an interrogee is requesting your presence."
"An interrogee?"
"Yes, ma'am. We found her trying to access a classified document — the file for 3984, in fact."
"I haven't touched that for years. No-one has. Why would she want that?"
"We don't know, ma'am. We're hoping she'll be a little more open if she's allowed to talk to you."
Joyce nodded. "Very well. Take me to her."

She wasn't being kept in squalor, with each wrist strung to a wall and blood dripping from her mouth from being beaten by guards. Instead, she was sat in a wooden chair, handcuffed to a metal ring on the left side of a table. She looked fairly healthy, if you ignored the scars around her neck and the red stain on her shirt.
Her head was bowed slightly, but she kept strict eye contact as Joyce entered the interrogation chamber. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Neither said a word for a long moment.
She smiled, her eyes wide and empty. "You're looking old."
"I was told that you attempted to access the documentation for SCP-3984."
"I did."
"And that you specifically requested my presence."
"I did."
"Why?"
The woman leaned forward a little. "Do you remember me?"
"No."
"It's been a long time. Sixteen years?"
"You're older than sixteen. I could see you being fifty."
"Sixteen years since you stitched my head back onto my body."
It all came back. 3984, every D-Class who Young got her hands on, the fates that befell them. They were all still alive. One had come back.
"She beheaded you."
Her smile grew wider. "You remember me."
"I'm sorry." Joyce started. Words came back to her, words that she'd been planning to say to her but had never been given the chance. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Eight years in a freezer—I, I'm—"
She nodded, but too quickly — it was more like a nervous tic. "It changes you. But you survive."
"D-11424. That was your designation. What was your name?"
A look of confusion passed over her face, like she didn't know the word, or perhaps the answer, but it was gone in an instant. "It doesn't matter."
"Why did you want to talk to me specifically?"
"Young was trying to hide something. I knew it, I know it, I found the evidence."
Of course she was trying to hide something. She killed handfuls of D-Class, real living people who had to take the torture she inflicted and carry with them forever. "If you've read the file, you know as well as me that she tried to—"
"Do you know what Project Dammerung is, doctor?"
"What?"
"Project Dammerung. Does it ring a bell?"
Joyce thought back. The word did ring a bell, though she couldn't remember where from. "I don't recognise the name."
"It existed. I know it. There's a link, a link to it in SCP-3984. A reference. But I couldn't get through it."
"I was the lead researcher for 3984 for years, I would know if there were something like that there."
"Of course you wouldn't be able to see it. It was buried! Hidden, deep beneath. Level 5 access only. Young, Young put it there."
She spoke too quickly, spit forming around her mouth. She reached her free right hand up to wipe it away.
Joyce knew that she could be right. If there were such a link, it was very possible that it could have been hidden from her.
Joyce turned towards the door. "I think we're done here."
"No, no!" she cried, stretching forward with her free hand, panicked eyes staring up at Joyce. "Tell me then, doctor, tell me why research into omega-kay was forbidden."
"Because there's no point." But there was no point in any of the tests we did for 3984. A guard's voice echoed through the door, barking some command.
"Promise me you'll look into it."
"No." I will.
The door swung open and Joyce was pushed aside. A guard grabbed the old D-11424 and forced her into her seat. Another grabbed Joyce, more gently, and led her outside the chamber. The door swung shut behind her with a metallic clang.
Ardal Rogers placed his hand on Joyce's shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, ma'am. Forget what she said. We'll take care of her."
"It's no problem," Joyce replied, but her voice was distant. D-11424 could be right.
Before she could look into that, though, she had a report on Prometheus Labs to finish.

SCP-3984

End of Death

SURGICAL IDENTITY PERPETUATION


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A Storm More Foul, A Land Less Fair
Direct sequel to A Foul Storm in a Fair Land
Part of the War on All Fronts Canon.
Part of Team Mikasa's Doomsday Contest 2018 entries, along with:

SCP-3534 by DrCaroll
Embracing The Angels by stormbreath
Project Sensuikan by stallmantic
The Kaiju Sea by DrChandra

by stormbreath

The last King of Hy-Brasil stood on the docks of his kingdom, which had been reduced to nothing more than a village.

The last King of Hy-Brasil stood on the docks of his kingdom, which had been reduced to nothing more than a village. A storm had come to Hy-Brasil, thunder and lightning like the fury of a god. Delbáeth was a humble man, who wanted his legacy to be one of gradual rebirth for a land that had its very heart ripped out of it. This had been his hope, the focus of his entire reign.
But in front of him stood the monster that had killed his father, his uncle, his cousin, and his home. It had died five years ago and here it was again, twice the size as it had been in the past. The thing towered so tall that its head lay in the storm clouds, out of sight. It was an ugly thing - too many arms and not enough tentacles, a wretch of parts that rightfully belonged to a myriad of beasts.
By all means, a righteous world would not have permitted it to live, and yet here it was nonetheless, devoid of reason and devoid of right.
He had been away from Hy-Brasil when the first bane of Hy-Brasil had destroyed the island - that was how he survived - but he was here now, ready to die with his people. The rest of the world had already collapsed into fire and ruin, brought upon by wretched krakens that had flooded out of some Foundation site in Japan. Hy-Brasil was lucky, for it avoided the majority of the beasts, but even the greatest of places will fall in time.
The monster was too big to swim in the ocean, so it had toppled onto its tentacles and was crawling towards the city. It was making a path that would take it right by Delbáeth, as he stood watching the progress of the titan with disgust. Nothing about it was right, and his third eye screamed in his head how hideous it was. He did his best to ignore the cries, so he could watch the death of his homeland.
The beast crawled right by him, and Delbáeth looked it in one of its five eyes, trying to stare deep into the soul. His third eye pierced the mind of the beast, and found nothing at all. The kraken - all of the krakens - was nothing more than an animal, a creature of habit and a mindless beast. Nothing but instinct drove this abomination. Armageddon was nothing more than a way of life for it.
There were many magical wards on Hy-Brasil, far too many. They had done nothing but make the island a target for the first beast, and now the swarm of successors would follow suit. They hunted by magic, and they mistook magic for a food source. Perhaps it was? Perhaps they preyed upon magic itself? Stranger things have happened. But in any case, they would come to Hy-Brasil and find nothing to kill, only a city to destroy.
In another world, perhaps, this would not be happening. In another world, Delbáeth might be more fortunate. He might have been able to form a pact to safeguard the world against monsters like this, and he might have had the chance to rebuild the ruins of Hy-Brasil. But it is not prudent to let one become distracted with the fates of other worlds, for the one that exists is all that matters. In this world, this wretched world, there were thousands of monsters and not enough men to kill them.
The rest of the world had hardly fared any better at all, falling to the beasts when they poured from the sea. America had damned itself with their own nuclear missiles. True, the only way to destroy one of the beasts was with nuclear weaponry, but the fools had pointed their weapons at themselves and pulled the trigger. Yes, their atomic fire vaporized the monster attacking New York, but what had happened to New York in the process?
Other nations - those with the option, at least - were then left with a devil's choice. Did they want to die at the five hands of abominations that did not belong in this world, or at the old familiar fears they had always thought would be their end? They justified their choice by saying that they weren't actively killing themselves, only allowing the end to wash over them.
Delbáeth gripped the spear in his hands tighter, as the beast dragged itself towards the heart of Hy-Brasil. He ripped his sword out of its sheath and it began to glow with a brilliant light. Together, they were half of the Four Treasures of Tuatha Dé Danann, the last remnants of his people's culture. The spear had belonged to Lug and the sword to Nuada Airgetlám I, the namesake of Delbáeth's uncle, king before him.
They were weapons clouded in myth and mist. It was said that no battle held against the spear would be lost, and no foe could escape the sword. If the legends held true, Delbáeth, having armed himself with both, stood unassailable on the rocky coast of Hy-Brasil. Clutched in his hands were the mightiest of weapons ever forged, weapons of great and terrible power.
King Delbáeth, Lord of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Sovereign of the Kingdom of Hy-Brasil, Master of Fair Folk, holding the weapons used to anoint him as royalty, standing in front of a kraken, felt like he was nothing more than a child pretending to be a royal.
From what he understood, the sword and the spear had been wielded during the first attack upon Hy-Brasil. The first bane of Hy-Brasil had fallen in that battle, which did speak well for the power of the sword, but the fool that had grabbed the spear to fight with it had died as well. The beast had rampaged for another hour, and in that hour the heart of Hy-Brasil was torn out.
Delbáeth looked up to the stormy skies, letting the rain hit his face. The wards that had controlled the weather of Hy-Brasil had broken when the rest of the island died, and it was subject to the same atmosphere as the rest of the world. He had been raised in a beautiful land of luck and light, and now it was his time to die in a broken land of darkness and decay.
The Coalition had come in full force before, bombarding and attacking the first beast. But there was no sign of them this time. Delbáeth did not know if they were busy elsewhere, trying to save the last remnants of civilization that still existed, or if they had already fallen with the rest of the world. But the reason why they were not here was of no importance, only their absence was. They were not here, and nothing would change that.
The last king of Hy-Brasil turned to the beast. He thought of his uncle, his father, and all his family who had died in Hy-Brasil all those years ago. They had died in the rain as well, but they had not been expecting it. He, however, was ready. He steeled himself for what would come next, and turned his gaze to the monster eating his city.
Delbáeth screamed. Many of the women in his lineage had become banshees after they passed away, and he channeled them to make his voice a chorus. He cried for the death of his kingdom, for the death of his legacy, for the death of his people, for the death of the world. The wail echoed throughout the city, the last cry of Hy-Brasil.
Tears streaming down his face, Delbáeth glanced at his weapons and realized just how worthless they truly were. The Tuatha Dé Danann were a literal people and their magic followed suit. If not used exactly as intended, the enchantments on the weapons would have no effect. It would find any loophole and exploit it.
The sword prevented escape, and of what help would that be? Any blow from the sword would be nothing more than a prick to the beast, one that would heal within seconds. It did not want to run from the sword and so the sword would be of no use whatsoever. That magic was strong against mortal men faced with Fair Folk raiders, but this attack would have no similarities to that. The sword slayed men, not monsters.
The spear would be equally worthless. A fly daring to bite a god is not a battle and it is barely even an attack. The Coalition's assault on the kraken had been a battle, for they had brought weapons to rival the power of the beast. But the Coalition was nowhere to be found and the only weapons that Delbáeth had to his name were two useless artifacts that he was barely trained to wield. The Coalition hunted gods and Delbáeth hunted deer.
The kraken lifted itself on the ground and its head went back into the clouds for just a moment, before coming back down to release a deluge of flame. The city ignited, just as it had before, but this time there would be no deliverance. These fires were final, for all the valiant men in the rest of the world were already gone, and the last remnants of Hy-Brasil had already left.
It was now the time for action, whether it be to flee or to fight. He had the resources to try and find one of the last vestiges of humanity or to flee this world for another plane, like the Wanderer's Library. This would not be the end, unless he wanted it to be. But as he watched the aquatic dragon burn his city, a fire of his own began to burn, deep inside.
He put his sword back into the sheath and braced the spear in his two hands. He knew some spellcasting, and worked it around himself, filling in the gaps with the natural magic of his people. He was not prepared for battle, but he would never be. He was, however, prepared to make a statement. Nobody was around to hear it, but that was of no consequence. He wasn't making it for anyone but himself.
Delbáeth charged.


"Nobody tells you how boring the apocalypse actually is."
"…"
"I mean, okay, look. The beginning, the part with the invasion and the explosions and shit? It's fucking bonkers. But like, after? Boring as fuck, am I right?"
"You're way too casual about all of this."
"What? No! Dude, the world as we know it has ended, it's terrible!"
"Then why does it sound like you're trying to pitch me something three weeks after my wife disappeared in front of my eyes?"
"Wha— Hold on now, dude. I'm not pitching you shit, okay? I'm trying to help you out here."
"Gary, I'm still fucking grieving."
"And I can't help my friend?!"
"…It's 2 AM, Gary. Why are you here and what the fuck is that in your hands?"
"I'm here bec—oh this is a piece of one of the Bugs."
"What?"
"Look, Stu, I'm here because the world ended, OUR worlds have ended. We are the only survivors of our dysfunctional makeshift family, but does that mean we have to fucking waste away? Do you think Casandra would really want that? We survived, Stu, but that's not enough, don't you wanna live?"
"There were only two things I lived for in this world. You guys, and the waves. Casandra's gone and the other is a fucking wasteland."
"I mean technically it's a 'Wastesea' bu-"
"Gary!"
"Sorry, sorry! Look, I know all that, Stu. That's what THIS is for."
"How is a chunk of one of the things that almost wiped out humanity going to help me?"
"That's what I'm trying to get to, dude! For fuck's sake will you just come with me? It's easier if I just show you."

Two months ago, two realities began to converge. One was failing, intent on claiming the other. The other was our home.
The Nexus was their point of entry. Entities swarmed us like locusts upon fields, stripping us of our existence so they could take our place. Spreading a plague, tainting resources, using weapons we did not understand to remove our claim on this world, this reality.
We did not let them.
The Foundation, having kept this scourge of a reality at bay for decades, understood their existence. Even though they could not stop their arrival, they could drive them back. The Veil shattered, but humanity strengthened. United under a common cause, we fought back.
Two weeks ago, we won. Their effects still haunt us, but we won.

"Okay, now you see where it attaches to its ass? Rip that piece off."
"We shouldn't be here, the Foundation quarantined this place for a reason."
"It's just the Bug corpses, dude. I'm friends with one of their MTF guys. No plague over here, they just haven't cleaned up the dead Bugs."
"Gary, you don't have friends and none of this looks like it has an ass."
"Dude, right here! There's fuckin' brown goo coming out of there, it's obviously an ass."
"It's obviously disgusting."
"Fine, you baby. I'll do it myself… There! See? Easy."
"Congrats, now what do I do with this giant Bug's ass-flap?"
"Feel it, do you feel that?"
"Feel it? Gary, is this a sexual thing? Oh god, this is a sexual thing isn't it?"
"Stu! For the love of god can you stop being such a twat and listen! Can you feel it vibrating? Every few minutes it like, wobbles."
"Holy shit… Is this thing still alive?"
"Nah, dude. It's wobbling, with the Nexus!"

The oceans were tainted at the coastlines, marine life was severely crippled.
The Bugs could not survive with our sea, so they began swapping ours for theirs. We managed to stop the spread of the blight, leaving numerous areas fit for desalination, but there were no longer any beaches. Only a treacherous, caustic deep, which required specialized equipment to traverse.
They stole a part of our humanity that we took for granted. Until we find a way to reverse the blight, our future generations will never experience the serene beauty of a coastline, the caressing touch of our mother nature by her oceans waves.

"We're going TOWARDS the Nexus?"
"Hahaha yeah!"
"Gary, this is nuts."
"Totally, but check this out. Hold the flap in front of you with the side facing the Nexus."
"The fuck? It's like, pushing back."
"Every time the Nexus pulses right?"
"Yeah…"
"And the closer you get to the Nexus, the more it pushes back."
"So how do we— Dude what's the point of all this?"
"Just keep following me, and hold it to your side, with the tip facing forward. See? Almost no resistance at all. Like an arrow through the air."
"What about the Foundation patrols?"
"Like I said, I've got a friend on the inside, he got us a way in. Plus, he's joining us."

Two friends mourn the loss of their loved one. When she lived, the three of them were friends. Since early childhood, they were one another's support. There was nobody else.
Long before she was lost, one became her husband and the other their closest friend. The three were inseparable, and together they acquired the same love of the ocean. They moved to the coast so they could be by the sea. They often said that the three of them felt like an island, three individuals nobody understood. So when they found the one thing that loved them back, the sea became the fourth member. The mother who always comforted, celebrated and loved them, as they caught her tides.
They were a family. Until she was taken away.
Not taken away, replaced. Her existence replaced with that of another, something not of this world. They had no chance to say goodbye, they had no intention of welcoming her distortion. As they watched the invader that replaced their loved one die, they hoped it would bring their loved ones back.
It did not.

"Oh shit, there he is. Yo! We're over here!"
"Is that the MTF guy? Wait, is he carrying a butt-flap too?"
"Yeah, that's Marvin, he kind of hates me but I managed to smuggle him some good weed so he's chilled."
"You're still dealing? After the apocalypse?"
"SHIT YES I'm still dealing! The end of the world is stressful, bro."
"Uh, Gary, your new friend has company."
"Fuck, get down!"
"Fantastic."
"Wait… Dude, you see that? Behind his back, he's waving us through."
"This smells like a trap, Gary."
"No way, I told him I'd rat him out to his captain if I don't get this favor."
"Hey, it looks like they're turning around…"
"Fuckin Marv! Coming through with the win."
"Why's he going with them, though? I thought you said he's joining us."
"Damn, looks like he distracted them or some shit… Oh shit hahaha."
"What?"
"He just mouthed 'YOU OWE ME ASSHOLE' haha. Let's go, we're almost there."

In two highly secured buildings, separated by two hundred miles, two people are sitting in empty rooms.
One is a highly experienced veteran, seasoned by countless encounters with the unexplained. The other, a young woman, hastily recruited to help save the world.
The veteran receives a notification on his computer. He has been added to a room in his Secure Chat Program.
The old man types:

ADDED TO ENCRYPTED ROOM BY RESEARCHER T CROWLER

What is it?

There's been a development.

In regards to?

The Nexus.

Researcher Crowler, if it was happening again, I'm sure we'd have all known it by now.

It's not that, sir. It seems as though some civilians have figured out how to use the shifting Hume levels released from the Nexus as a sort of current.

Elaborate. Like an electrical current?

No, physical. Sir, a small group of civilians have been removing the chitinous appendages of the dead invader-drones, piggybacking off the waves caused by two realities interacting and using them in transportation.

They're transporting dead Bug parts? For what? Some sort of rhino-horn/aphrodesiac/Bug-drug trade thing?

No, they're using the parts AS transportation.

Tamara, just skip the clinical bullshit and say what you need to say.

Sir, they've figured out how to surf on humes.

Two old friends stand in an abandoned parking lot. One is a joker, taking nothing besides his family to heart. The other, a mourner, only wishing to lament his loss. Nearby stands the bringer of their tragedy, the Nexus. Pulses oscillate from the aperture, making their hair stand on end, reverberating through the chitinous remains in their hands.

The joker jumps, he demonstrates to his mourning companion that the very thing that brought them so much pain could help them soothe it. He steps on his makeshift board, turns it toward the Nexus and is caught by a pulse, sending him soaring through the air.

The mourner watches his friend do the impossible, seemingly surfing on reality itself. His friend, carving through the air, laughing and screaming with glee. Ironically, it just did not seem real.

He had barely even noticed himself stand and prepare himself when he realized the ebb and flow from the Nexus was familiar, not unlike the gentle rocking of the ocean.
Except, he hated it, he could never grow to love the thing that took his wife away. He despised the nostalgia it gave him, but he'd be damned if this fucking thing didn't owe him one moment of happiness.

For the first time in ages, he stood up, stepped on his board and caught a wave.

As Stu ripped through the air, he spotted his friend standing below, smiling.

He smiled back, and whispered under his breath:

"Casandra would have loved this."

And with them being so close to myself and the lost ones, I wish I could tell them that I do.