Below are the previous entries for the game. Read and enjoy! The answer are in links at the end of each one.

Welcome to And Then I Died…, an SCP collective writing game! Useful information is held behind a collapsible tab right here:

Click Here to Learn The Rules of the Game

Click Here to Make This Go Away

This is pretty simple. The idea of this game is to compose an encounter with an SCP without overtly revealing what SCP it actually is. The rules are basic, and as follows:
1. Whoever guessed the last one correctly (information about guessing at the bottom) has to write the next one. If you don't want to write, then don't guess. Feel free to sit back, relax, and say "Oh! I got it right!" when you do.
2. If you're writing the new one, try to keep it under 500 words. This is a game, not a novel. Also, try to get it written within a day or two (a week at the longest), so the game can keep moving forward. If you fail to write your entry quickly enough, a judge will step in and write it for you.
3. While not required, a few red herrings are definitely encouraged, so long as the final solution is the most likely/most obvious answer. Having someone die from exposure to SCP-008 while SCP-682 eats their torso and they're fired from the Sun Launcher… Not gonna work.
4. Try to make it… well… not obvious, but… guessable. Going for something needlessly obtuse will make the game no fun for anyone.
5. The character "speaking" (and this is the most important rule) must die at the end. It might not be from the SCP in question, so long as their exposure caused it somehow.
6. If no one guesses your SCP, then congrats! After a week or so, let everyone know how clever you were, and write another one.
7. If you're the author, make sure you send a message to TroyL, or Dexanote to let them know the answer. Troy, Ragz and Dex will be recusing themselves from making any further guesses to function in this capacity. Winners will be posted in the discussion thread for this page, so keep your eyes open! Maybe you won!
If there are any questions, or a need for clarification, please notify the game judging people things, TroyL, or Dexanote, in the chat. Thanks, and have a good time reading and guessing!

Looking for the old entries? Click right here for some excellent reads! Answers are included at the end of each entry.

Round One: TroyL
I laughed when they told me about the faeries that would occasionally appear around the room, especially since I'd not really been around and SCP like this one before. Heh. To think, I was going to be working at Site-19. It was going to fun! So much fun!
I yawned and looked around the room, scratching my neck and peering over at the sensors, watching the blips and swatting away the little, winged nuisances. Mostly things I could ignore…
After a moment, though, one of the blips goes too high. The machine lets out a soft alarm, and with a sigh, I push myself up and open the observation door, walking over to the bed and glancing down at the sleeping form there. Nothing that I can see, but to be safe…
I grab the syringe (there are always a full stash of everything I might need right next to the bed) and slide it into the IV, depressing it and tossing it into the bin. I walk back and look down at her, smiling, then…
Her lips are moving. I can almost make out what they're saying? Avoid Cameras? Abba Concierto? Abra Ka-
And then I died.
Solved

Round Two: Scantron
Oh, oh man. I can't believe that worked. Do you think they even saw anyone take their tickets? Probably not. Shit, stop giggling man! You're sounding like your girlfriend. Let's just hope… aw, fuck. Nosebleed seats. Eh, it's not like it's setting us back anything.
…fuck. Fuck. The fuck was that shit? We aren't paying this guy ten mil a year to hit easy pop-ups. I don't even know what's going on. You think maybe they could have spared a few funds from the renovation to get some decent fucking players, right? I mean, we have enough medieval stuff in that one guy in left field, the one with the mustache.
Just… well, hey, it's most of the way over. We're not losing too badly, right? And their relief pitcher, what's his name, he's kinda shitty, so we have a shot. Oh, look, s'pose we should stand up and sing along. I always loved this song…
Fuck, this is tingly, I don't kn-
And then I died.
Solved

Round Three: Vlemich
Damn this heat! This isn't what I signed up for at all. I can't believe they sent us down to this God-forsaken land. I'm getting sick of the Austrians all over the place. It would be nice just to see a few more Englishmen around here to make things feel more like home. Oh well, just another day of watching over platoons. At least I managed to land an easy gig! All I have to do is sit up on this rooftop, out of sight, out of mind for all these damn gun toting soldiers.
Finally some action! And lucky me, all I have to do is sit up here and start picking off any threats I find. Look at those boys go! Those new guns are really clearing the way for our boys! For the Queen!
Each man is moving professionally, coordinated through the small village. These small militia might not be well equipped, but orders from the top are to put them down before they can gain enough support and man power to become a threat. I guess I can respect nipping it in the bud, but it's almost too easy. Just look how securely those Tommys are getting through this little place! Alright, time to buckle down and keep an eye out for them….
WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON? Damnit, this is turning bad quick! I can't even see any return fire! One, two… five men down already at this one stupid little hut! What the fuck! Damnit, I can't see anything! Shit, shit, SHIT! Where are they? GOD DAMNIT the whole damned platoon is going down! Son of a bitch! Ah fuck, somebody is coming out of the hut… Line up the sights… I don't know how you took out a whole platoon but you're about to go down mother fucker. He is looking around at the dead bodies now. All I need is a clean shot at his head. He comes out into the open; heart is racing; sights are lined up; a clean shot to the head, wait, what's wrong with his face? No matter; I slowly squeeze the trigger.
And then I died.
Solved

Round Four: anqxyr
I am running, running faster than I've ever run before. Tunnels of the sewer around me are lightness, all alike, and some part of me worries for a moment that I will get lost here. I can hear the blood pulsing, pounding in my ears, and feel the presence of the beast behind me, chasing me.
The beast came for us when we were resting, eating. It killed three, maybe four, before the rest came to their senses and started to run. To be honest, we expected it to happen, eventually. There were debates, and proposals of traps and early warning system, build from scraps and garbage. But none of it matters now.
I can see the outline of another tunnel ahead of me. I dive into the opening and continue to run for half a minute more, then stop. I can see every detail of every brick in the wall before me, edges sharp, gleaming in the dark, as if they are laughing at me. Dead end. I turn around, mortified.
The beast enters the tunnel, blocking the only way out. I look in its eyes. They are focused on me, not blinking, and I see the hunger and the fire of hunt in them. Before I can do anything, it comes to me, at me. For a brief moment I think about a life I had before, normal life, with joy and purpose, not filled with fear and disgust, not focused on mere survival. Then the beast closes its jaws on my throat. I try to scream in pain and terror, but all that comes out is a high-pitched squeak.
And then I died.
Solved

Round Five: Uncandescent
“I'm disappointed in you Richie.” His voice wavered and bubbled on the edge of my consciousness. The world was spinning, tilting every which way. I was going to be sick.
“Very disappointed.”
A burst of pain, terrible pain, right in the back of my head. Am I dead? Dying?
No, still alive, still breathing.
It shouldn't hurt to breathe.
“I thought we were friends, you and I.”
Stay conscious. Focus on something, anything, anything other than the pain. It's dark, but—there, on the ground, in red, it's—
Another wave of nausea. It was a tooth. My tooth.
“But then you went and stabbed me in the back. Is that how you treat your friends, Richie?”
“I… I didn't…”
This wasn't fair. They'd hit me too much, too long. Words were hard now.
“What? You didn't what? C'mon, spit it out!” A slap on the back, hard. Blood flew from my mouth. The ropes dug into my arms.
“I didn't mean to…” It came out blubbery, but I was beyond caring.
“You didn't mean to spend my money?” He reached forward and grabbed my shoulders. “You didn't mean to splurge it all on a fancy new car?” A heavy smack and suddenly my cheek was pressed against the floor.
Suddenly something broke inside. Hot streaks trailed down my cheeks, and this time it wasn't blood.
“Please… Please just… just stop.” I begged.
“No. You know what Richie, I'm not gonna stop. You've fucked up one too many times.” A click cut through the ringing in my ears. “No more excuses.”
“No!” I yelled. “I can pay you back! I know people! I have something that can stop this!”
“You're right. Life insurance.”
And then I died.
Unsolved

Round Six: Uncandescent
It's true what they say, you know. You never appreciate what you have until it's gone.
Like the sun. No one ever stops and goes “Gee, I'm sure glad that the sun is there!” It's always going to be there. And if you've seen it once, you've seen it a million times. It gets you nice and toasty on warm summer days, but for the rest of the time there's central heating. And central heating doesn't shine in your eyes, or make your skin flake off, or hang you with the big C. But now… now I regret every second I didn't spend just standing outside, just soaking it all up. Maybe then I'd have some extra for times like this.
And people. Never thought I'd give a crap about people. Always in your face with their whining and their problems and their baggage and exactly everything about themselves that you couldn't care less about. Right now, I'd give my left arm just to see someone's face. I don't even care if they're deaf and mute, I just want to know that someone else exists. I just want to… I guess I just want to know that the world really happened. That I didn't just make it all up, you know?
No, that's stupid. I'm the stupid one here, really. Traipsing around, looking for adventure, and I wind up—
OW! Wow! Did I mention antibiotics yet? Because I really miss antibiotics. Wowee, antibiotics. I haven't been able to look at my leg in—days, maybe? I don't know. No sun, no time, no goddamn difference. The color makes me sick, and I don't think I have anything left to puke up. And on top of that—
Sorry, I… I tripped. You have to really watch your feet, cause…
I… don't think I'm gonna make it.
Actually… I know I'm not gonna make it.
I think I might have always known.
Is it wrong that I feel better now?
Cause I do. I feel like… like I could snatch up every criminal on the planet. And map out the insides of every abandoned building in the world. It'll take a while, but I'm sure I'll have plenty of time, you know? Where I'm going, I mean. I wonder what it'll be like. At least I know it can't be worse than here…
And then I died.
Solved

Round Seven: Scantron
You know, once you get used to the stench, this place is pretty great. Functional heating, still has electricity, full fridge and pantry. I'm almost thinking "What's the catch?", you know, seeing as how nobody's moved in yet. I'm not normally accustomed to living arrangements this nice, given my lifestyle… stayed up all night playing video games to celebrate the find. Neighbors are probably wondering why the lights are still on… I should really go to bed. Ah, here's the bedroom.
Hm. Now, that would be the smell, wouldn't it. Let me just… yeah, he's dead. Well. I'll just look for any… yeah, they're dead too. I wonder what killed 'em… they're so pale. I should probably leave now, no good just standing around.
Ow! Fuck! Why can't I walk? I… ugh, thirsty…
And then I died.
Unsolved

Round Eight: Scantron
I yawn and look out at the road in front of me… the yellow dividing lines come into existence in my headlights, rush past me, and dissolve into the darkness. I yawn again. My eyelids slip closed and then snap back open. "Hey Jo?" No response. I prod her.
She stirs, then stretches a bit in the seat beside me. A sleepy "Yeah hon?" escapes her mouth.
"Could we, uh…" I yawn even harder and blink my eyes. "Could you get me s'more coffee?"
She curls up back into a ball in the passenger seat. She mutters, "We don't have any more… you drank it. We should just pull over for the night."
My eyelids are so heavy. I drift out of my lane a little, but I swerve back in and blink rapidly to wake myself up. "No, no, we have to get to your parents' house by six."
"Mm-hmm…" She's back to sleep already. Lucky her… I would have her take my place, but she had the last shift. It's my turn right now.
I refocus my attention on the road in front of me. I let out a massive yawn, my mouth going wide enough to strain the jaw. I massage my chin as I talk out loud to myself. "There's no-one else on this road right now… it's supposed to be straight. I could rest my eyes a bit…" I stroke Jo's hair a bit and close my eyes-
I wake up with a start, finding my weight pressed on my right leg, my foot squeezing the gas pedal. Jo is screaming. The radio is screaming. In my groggy panic, I just floor it harder…
And then I died.
Solved

Round Nine: Grug16
"Come on, Brad," I said. "Why do you have to be such a freakin' chicken?"
The other guys laughed. It was clear nobody liked my younger brother. Who would? The little guy never leaves the house. He says he's scared of “Monsters” and “Bad Guys”. He watches too many cartoons. Still, I had to take him with me. If a little mischief night fun isn't going to make him man up, nothing else will.
So we strolled down Fairside Road. Most of the houses had their decorations up already, shriveled ghosts and plastic witches everywhere. They looked really freaky in the darkness. Brad stayed close to me as Mickey, Jun, and Rob hovered around and tossed insults.
“Snot nose”
“Fatass”
“Nerd virgin.”
“Stop it!” yelled Brad.
“Alright, guys. Let's get that house first,” I said, trying to distract them. Old Lady Carter's place. I figured she'd be too deaf to notice us until we were done. Mickey pulled out the four dozen eggs he brought, handing three cartons to Jun while he opened the last. After tossing a few, I remembered Brad was with us. I held out an egg in my hand. “Come on, Brad. Think of it like a… a magic spell.” I put on my best big bro face for him. After a second of hesitation, he nods, and took the egg. He wound up and threw.
A single window pane broke clear of the frame, and we heard the wonderful sound of dishes and silverware falling over inside. That's a lot of payoff for one egg. Brad looked at me in disbelief, and then smiled. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” I said. The other guys started clapping. I was more proud of him than I had been in a long time. Then the clapping abruptly stopped, and the screaming started.
And then I died.
Solved

Round Ten: GideonSmith08
“Shit, shit, shit, shit…”
Knocking a neglected glass of mystery juice over, I pulled Jeremy in close, soaking myself in his tears and in the unknown fluid. Earthquakes, while pretty common, are always a constant fear. But I guess that's to be expected in LA; an occasional test of acuity at 9 PM to “shake up” life a little, pardon the pun, isn't THAT bad.
Holding him close, my unconditioned paternal instincts kicked in. The last decade's been… shit: Faulty brakes took my parents, the Big C took my Katherine, the land-lord's taking our shitty home in a few weeks, and even Mother Nature's against us today. But, staying true to all of those damned Full House episodes and Disney films I think we used to watch, I guess I'm just giving giving the kid someone to depend on, y'know?
“Shhhhh… That's it. Wasn't so bad, was it?”
My sleeve acting as a crude replacement for the tissue boxes on the table above us, I started to believe that I got pretty good at this crap. And as if I was a damned psychic or whatever, staying under the desk seemed like the best idea, considering the possibility of an aftershock. A few seconds later, the satisfaction of my precise judgement made the shaking room a little brighter.
Not wanting to be too righteous, I thought back to the familiar faces…
I don't know how they put up with my shit over the years, but I supposed this fucking family was… mine now. I clung to Jason… Shit, I mean Jeremy- a little tighter, nuzzling my face against his messy, grey hair.
I don't know if it was fear or a deep rejection of my new responsibility, but the cold, awkward unfamiliarity felt… almost right.
And then I died.
Unsolved

Final Round: TroyL
It's with a sigh that I lean back in my chair… Finally, it's over. All this 'And Then I Died…' nonsense is through. Too many people didn't seem to care, and the ones who seemed to care guessed too quickly to get it right… Oh well. These things happen. Maybe I'll start it up again one day…
I stand up and walk out to my car, feeling a few drops of rain hit my neck as I climb inside it, closing the door and shivering as I make the slow drive home. The heater feels good, at least. I turn on the radio, listening with a chuckle to Garrison Keillor. He looks nothing like he sounds, being far smoother and more elegant than his rough voice would suggest, but that's fine, after all.
I finally arrive home, walking inside and dropping my keys, wallet, phone, and scancard on the table, sighing and walking over to my home computer, sitting down and checking IRC to see if I had any pressing messages. Finding that the most exciting thing going on was another newbie getting kicked from #site19, I stand and make myself some dinner: egg whites and toast. It's a little dry, but palatable enough. Good food for a dieter.
After dinner, I catch half an episode of House, then change into my workout clothes and head to the gym. I'm there for maybe an hour, just doing chest and back, and then a quick run. The light rain hasn't let up, but I rather enjoy running in the rain, if I'm honest. It's nice and cool, and I feel clean when I get done.
The trip home is uneventful as I scribble my time, "8 mins 47 sec", down in my workout book. I'm just a little pleased with myself for keeping my mine under nine minutes, something I wouldn't have even thought about a few months ago. When I head back into my house, I make more eggs, then sit down and screw around in some of the chat rooms, trolling Ragazzo and Echo just for kicks, then getting into a retarded argument over something similarly retarded. It's a nice enough evening, all things considered.
I take a shower finally, then dry off and head to bed naked. Laying down on the new mattress, I can't help but wonder if I'm really getting anything done with my life… But, of course, it doesn't matter.
Because then I died.

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To guess, send a PM to one of the three judges by clicking their name here: TroyL, Ragazzo, or Dexanote. Alternatively, you can enter the #site19 chat and send a PM to one of the three judges: TroyL (alias MechaTroy), Ragazzo, or Dexanote (alias ProfChainsawFace, Chainshank, or anything with Dexa in his name). They'll let you know if you've guessed correctly. Generally, you only get one guess, so make sure you think you're right before you take a swing at it! If you win, then congrats! You get to write the next one. Have fun!


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SCP-076-2, Ablu ben Adam, grandchild of God, was covered in blood, charred by acid, burnt by fire, and having the time of his life.
The Slipgate project, they had told him on his one hour of the day not dedicated to killing, when he busied himself tending to his pig farm. It opened a wormhole between Foundation sites, conveniently placed as far from Earth as feasible - on the tiny moons of Mars.
"Roughly six hours after Deimos was removed from this realm of existence, the Phobos base was overtaken by hostiles. We are sending you in to make a report."
"I will report the shit out of that situation," Able said, feeding a pear to one of the pigs. He loved to spoil the little guys.
And he had gone to Mars' excuse for a moon and personally introduced the concept of death to at least twelve different species of demoniac beings. Spike-shelled fire-throwing humanoids, floating skulls fueled by nuclear rage, hideous naked gorillas, spheres of flesh with single baleful eyes - all of them became Phobian mulch.
His report was nine words long: "Located portal to Deimos. Still working. I'm going in." He didn't bother waiting for the reply.
His path through Deimos was a mirror of the first part of the mission, painted in even brighter tones of red, purple, green and black blood. Projectile weapons littered the site, and he didn't touch a single one. And at the edge of the wrinkled rock, he saw the new focus of Deimos' orbit - the place the Serpent had told him about so long ago. Hell.
He dove, and struck the shores of hell like a twice-fallen angel. It takes a special kind of soul to make heaven out of hell, but Able managed, calling into existence creative new hybrids of chainsaw and sword, chopping through demonflesh like Paul Bunyan's sequel.
And now he stood in front of giant, green marble doors, engraved with the inverted pentagram. The door to the throne of the Enemy of the World.
Able inhaled. "This will be almost exciting."
The doors flew open with his mighty kick.
"AAAAAAAAABLEEEE," SCP-682 roared from the black throne, with a voice that was a scratch on the universe itself, "I FUCKED YOUR MOM."
Able could not summon a sword big enough.


Mr. Carter and Mr. Marshall are sitting at a table. They are discussing something. The door swings open. Enter Mr. Dark.
MR. DARK. Gentlemen, I have an unpleasant piece of news to tell you! Our stock went seventeen points further down. We're losing customers at an astonishing pace.
MR. MARSHALL, MR. CARTER [together]. How come?!
MR. DARK. The competition is meddling in our affairs! The SCP Foundation is robbing our customers, the Church of Broken God and the Meat Circus are draining away people of influence, the Factory's market share is growing - plainly, we have no chance in the small business!
MR. CARTER. What do we do now? With things as they are now, we'll soon be eaten out of house and home and no amount of pull is going to help.
MR. DARK. Calm down, colleagues! I've thought it all over. If we can't sell expensive artifacts to the rich, we'll craft them production-scale and make them available to the public! We'll open a dozen offices in different countries - who knows, we may end up with a hundred or two of them.
MR. MARSHALL. Can we handle it as we are? It's a larger scale compared to what we have now…
MR. DARK. I told you - I've thought it all over and made some agreements. Allow me to introduce…
Enter four people.
FIRST [taking off his hat and revealing small horns on his head]. Mr. Natas, a lawyer.
SECOND [adjusting his tie]. Mr. Luke. I don't like being called by my full name, it brings too much unwanted attention.
THIRD. Mr. Dark Jr.
MR. DARK. Family business, so to say.
MR. MARSHALL [obviously annoyed]. Now who's that dude?
DUDE. Scruffy. I'm a janitor.
MR. DARK. He owns the control stake.
MR. CARTER. Things are really bad for us, aren't they.
MR. DARK [addressing the guests]. Meet Mr. Marshall and Mr. Carter, the owners of our little business. Fabulous people, you'll fall into step in no time.
МR. NATAS. The contracts are signed, we can start immediately. Although, being a co-owner of the company, I insist on a rebranding. We all deserve to be mentioned in the name.
MR. CARTER [making some calculations]. Too big. Even if we simply take the initials. Just listen to it: MCDNLDS!
MR. MARSHALL. I beg your pardon, but I insist that Mr. Scruffy's name is to be separated from the rest. Nothing personal, but a janitor director might scare the customers away.
MR. CARTER. We'll use an apostrophe. Do you mind, Mr. Scruffy?
SCRUFFY. Not at all.
MR. MARSHALL. Perfect. Still, the name is barely readable, let alone easy to memorize. Maybe if we add some vowels…


In the howling temple of the black moon's light
Five brave fools came in the night.
The first gave flesh,
The second gave stone,
The third gave the power to move when alone.
The fourth gave life and the power to think,
The fifth gave nothing
for he paused,
and he blinked.


Have you ever loved someone?
Not that family love, or devotion…but real, blind love. I don't think people know how dangerous real, true love is. Love will make you do great things, but it can also make you do terrible, terrible things. You'll lie, cheat, steal, sell out your best friend, your family…yourself, all for the hope, just the hope, that it will make the object of your love happy. Just the hope.
I met her after high school. I'd known her during, but never got up the gumption to ask her out. One day, we both happened to be visiting the same friends…we got talking…there it was. It was like a fever. I felt sick with love, that kind of warm self-destructive burn that you get in the grip of a sickness. It's unpleasant, yes…but comforting, too. It took me three months to say I loved her. I think she knew from the first second I saw her. I kissed her for the first time after helping her take out her trash. Or, rather, she kissed me. I felt like I'd been hit by a bus, and I wanted it to happen again.
Do you always mean what you say, when you talk to your loved ones? Honestly, do you? Think about it. How often do you say “I love you” to fill up space. How often do you say “we'll always be together” more to quiet fears than as a deep expression of caring. I told her I would do anything for her, that I would give everything I had to be with her, always. We'd just made love the first time, on her mother's living room floor, while watching Nosferatu, of all things. I've still never seen the end of that movie.
I meant it, when I said it. I felt it, like swallowing a small stone, a weight inside me. I would do anything for her.
We'd moved out, gotten an apartment…then her mother got sick. She had to be admitted…needed an expensive treatment. My love was nearly catatonic with worry. We were hysterically poor. I told her that I'd get the money, somehow. I'd work all I could, do odd jobs, and make her mom ok. I worked two jobs on the week, three on the weekend. Went on three hours of sleep, then one, then none. I felt dead inside, a hollow whistling in my soul where sleep and exhaustion waited to claw me in to a pit…yet on I went. Shambling, broken, eyes black and puffy, I got the money. The moment I handed it to her, I fell to the ground, gave myself a mild concussion, and slept for three days.
She started to worry about me, more and more. Said I worked too much, too hard. It felt like a knife in the eardrum to let her down, dry-shaving with a rusted nail was preferable to failing her. She asked me, begged me to stop…but I saw in her eyes her love. She knew why I did it, pushed too much, so hard. Despite her fear, she accepted this sacrifice of myself. If bills ate up the food budget, I would not eat for weeks, until we were recovered. If we lacked for gas, or the car broke down, I would walk to wherever was needed, never mind the wind, cold, rain…pain.
I was walking when I got hit by the car. I think she'll never totally forgive herself for that. I was exhausted, dead on my feet, but walking quickly to work, when I didn't see a sign…or someone ignored it. I only realized my mistake when the grill collapsed four ribs. By the time I really digested the situation, I was dead, neck shattered and twisted, limbs replaced with lead.
All I could hear, or see, was her, laying naked on her scratchy carpet, tears in her eyes, listening to me tell her that I would always love her, be with her, do anything for her.
That I would never leave her alone.
I don't know how I got home. I fell a lot, leaving abstract snow angels in my wake. I stopped bleeding a little bit before home, the gore solidifying on my skin in the cold. My bones crackled and ground like a box of gravel, but I kept on, gritting my teeth until they cracked. She was, I think, understandably horrified when I fell in the doorway, landing like a frozen slab of meat. Which, I guess, I was. We had a rough few days. She kept wanting me to go to the doctor, and I kept telling her I don't think that would help. When she felt for my pulse, she finally stopped asking.
It took forever to figure things out. We got my bones and such in to more or less alright shape…called in to work, took all my vacation time, trying to think. Looking back, it was horribly simple, but it's not like you get a manual. I told her what I thought, and she was…upset, to say the least. I talked her around to it, over time. She wouldn't look me in the eye when I left, though.
It never gets easier. My flesh was ruined, but my will remains. Still, will can't knit together bone, or zip up skin. It hurts so much, every time. The…failing bits, the rotten ones, are…pushed out. If I'm lucky, it's just like throwing up or having diarrhea. More often, everything just…presses out through the skin, before it heals. You'd be amazed how much the body breaks down, when it can't just heal. Still, seeing her smile…knowing that I can keep my promise another day, another week…it makes it alright. Barely.
So, you understand that, when I do this, it's not because I'm some greedy monster. It's not a…hunger, or anything, it's just what I have to do, to keep going. Keep my promise. I don't even taste the flesh, it's just…neutral, like solid water or something. I am sorry, really…if there was another way, I'd be doing it. But…it has to be human, and alive. I've tried all the other ways, and it doesn't work. Please, just…don't cry, I'm a sucker for crying, and if you start, then I'll start, and my tears are…bitter, and taste wretched. I'll try and make it quick, sorry for talking so much…I know the rope must hurt.
I just…don't get out much anymore…just work and home. I love her so much, it's so great…but…this is my only real time alone, you know? I can see you love someone too…so you know. You'd be in my place too, if that's what it took. I promised her, and I'll keep that promise forever. Your body will help me keep that promise. I'll try and make it fast.
Love makes us all monsters, eventually.
Try and go limp, or it'll hurt more when I bite muscle.


I invented a car that runs on nightmare fuel. It's kind of funny, actually. We invented fire to scare away the darkness, now we can use the darkness to power our lights.
It's not like nightmare fuel is hard to find. People are afraid of a lot of things, they're driven by it. I siphon that off, and I use it to drive an engine. It's simple, really, though the instruments I use to gather the fuel are very sensitive and very complex, so much so that I'm the only one who can use them. But I don't mind. I'll fix that eventually. One thing at a time.
Distilling and concentrating the fuel comes next. A man can be driven by fear very easily, but a machine can't fear, not really. The fuel has to be stronger, and so I distill it, break it down into its essential elements, and then concentrate it. The process takes months, and is very easy to get wrong, but I'll fix that. One thing at a time.
But after that, it's good to use. No nasty greenhouse gases, just some steam and screams. Turn up the music loud enough and you won't notice anything at all.
I'll probably get a Nobel for this.
There are still some kinks that need working out though. Sometimes the engine leaks. Sometimes things happen. They're just little things, little incidents here and there, nothing too big, nothing too big. Nothing more than a passing shadow, a monster under the bed, a freak happening. Nothing too big.
I'll fix it, don't you worry, but one thing at a time.


The walk always took half an hour. Half an hour there, half an hour back, from the outside. But it always felt longer when he actually walked the tunnel. It felt like time was being stretched out, that his quiet footsteps would softly echo for endless miles.
Tonight was a long, long walk. He could feel the weight of the earth pushing down on his shoulders. The air in the tunnel was cold, the smooth concrete walls frigid to the touch. The only thing to pierce the darkness was the bright cone of his flashlight.
This was a very old place. Very old indeed. It didn't look it. To the eyes it was just a maintenance tunnel, bare concrete, an occasional exposed pipe. There was time stored up in these stones, soaked up like a sponge, filling the place as it slowly oozed out of the cracks in the walls and rust on the pipes.
His flashlight bobbed. He kept walking. Time passed.
Then, finally, already, the arch, where there would have been a door. There was no door anymore. The words carved on the lintel had been worn down long ago. Words had little power here. He stepped through.
He reached the hall, though he only knew it from the breeze, and the feeling of the walls dropping away into the shadows. There was only darkness there. He kept walking. His footsteps did not echo.
Shapes stirred in his peripheral vision. Ghostly lights flickered to life. A graveyard of broken and cracked computer monitors shed their sickly light. Nothing was ever displayed. All around him he could see the dim outlines of scrap wires and old circuit boards and junked towers. He could hear rustling and laughter from the shadows, occasionally see the glowing reflection of an eye. And then there was the throne.
The great seat amidst the rusting, decaying garbage was occupied. As it always was. The form of the king was tall, thin, shapeless and still shaped, somewhat like a man, wearing a pale face and dark clothes. A courtesy. The king wore no crown. The king had no need for one.
Around the throne sat the king's attendants, waiting at attention, their faceless faces smiling for eternity. They turned to watch the man as he approached the throne, their empty eyes looking as one gaze.
The man stopped. He bowed, and then righted himself.
The king bent down, extending a hand of long, bony fingers. The shadows around it crept and grew like the roots of some gnarled, ancient tree.
The man took a paper bag from his coat pocket. From it, he counted out twenty-one pebbles into the king's bony hand. The king's hand closed and the king sat straight again.
The man was free to leave now. He did. The walk back felt shorter this time. He shrugged off the thought.
Twenty-one pebbles for twenty-one children who would be gone by the morning. Maybe not this morning, maybe not next, but some morning. Twenty-one children, delivered every year. That was the deal that had been kept for a long, long time.
Deals have to be kept.


It was upon the morning of the seventeenth of October when I encountered my long-term friend and companion Mr. Sherlock Holmes knocking upon the door of my residence. As I opened the door, I recognized the look of subdued excitement on Holmes' face. He was obviously in the middle of a case; one of those periods where he would rush from location to location, either unaware of the effect such a schedule was having on his body or uncaring, locked as he was in the thrill of the chase.
It was highly peculiar for him to call on me, for it was often his way to send a telegram summoning me to his residence at 221B Baker Street. I voiced this concern and he looked at me with a sharp eye. "My dear Watson!" he exclaimed. "I know that if I were to send a telegram it would take at least ten minutes for it to arrive, and at least ten minutes for you to arrive at my residence! No, time is of the essence, my friend! The hunt is on!"
He led me outside to a waiting carriage, my feet carrying out the exciting routine they had gone through dozens of time before. Once we were inside, I turned to Holmes. "I trust you are on a case?" I said.
"You expect anything less of me?" He smiled. "Did you enjoy your trip to Scotland?"
I began to reply in the negative, for my wife had fallen ill on the second day of our trip, when I realized I had not told Holmes of my holiday at any point before or after the weeks trip. "I can see how you would deduce I was on a trip, considering the length of my absence," I said. "But however did you work out I went to Scotland?"
He leaned forward, as if to impart some of his usual wisdom, but instead said; "Your wife was leaning out of the window, I simply asked her! You must always be aware, my dear Watson, that before we come to the world of theories and ideas, we must first make sure to find out the facts!"
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "This seems to be contrary to the priorities you yourself demonstrate, my friend. Oftentimes, you will have worked out the solution to the case moments after, or even before, the details of it have been imparted to you!"
He turned to me in mock anger, but his expression quickly lightened as if he was speaking to a child, as he no doubt considered himself to be. "I must not underestimate you, Watson! You saw through my ruse. Facts are cold liars. Oh, they never lie themselves, but they throw decoys, red herrings right in front of us! A theory is the lance that punches through their shield and allows us access to the truth, whether it be good or bad. You have learned a lot, Watson. Who knows, perhaps you would be the one to fool Sherlock Holmes!" He chuckled lightly, knowing that this could never happen. "Very well, enough games. I will tell you of the case.
"Two years ago, a Mr. Daniel Highman moved to London from his previous residence in America after the death of his wife. He brought with him his five year old son, Robert Highman, and seventeen year old daughter, Elizabeth Highman. He was a recluse and a tinkerer, often spending days and days experimenting with his inventions. None of them appear to have seen the light of day, so I can imagine his efforts were wasted. He does not appear to have achieved anything of much interest, and his life appears to have been dull and, regrettably, short."
"He is dead?"
"It is more often than not the case with our, well, cases, is it not, Watson? We are surrounded by death. I would lament this, but it is unwise to bite the hand that feeds us! Daniel Highman was found dead last week. His hand was missing and it appears that he had died of blood loss."
"A straight cut?" I asked. "The hand, I mean?"
"No, it had been torn off as if by some savage beast."
"Good God!" I ejaculated.
"It is a dreadful affair," Holmes agreed. "He was not a rich man, so I do not see either of the children doing it for the inheritance. I have searched his quarters before and found nothing of note. I am not willing to simply leave this case unsolved, Watson, so I have called upon you, as you often are instrumental in our cases. The police have no suspects and neither do I. Perhaps with a second search we will find something more."
-
It was fifteen minutes before our carriage arrived at the Highman residence. Holmes got out, leaving me to pay the driver, as was his way. Holmes knocked twice before the door opened to reveal Miss Highman, staring at us with tear-streaked eyes. "Mr. Holmes?" she cried. "You've discovered something more? Who is this man?" She turned on me, hostility clear on her expression. "Is he a suspect?!" she demanded.
Holmes lay a pacifying hand upon her shoulder. "No. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. He is here to help me with my investigation. Can you please show us to your fathers quarters?"
"Certainly," she stuttered, leading us down the stairs. "Father was often down here for weeks. He was very absorbed in his work. He is - he was a very successful inventor," she informed us with misguided pride. "Clients would visit him often."
Given Holmes' short, cold summary of the man's life, I assumed this was a lie designed to impress myself and my companion. Holmes continued as if he had not heard her speak.
"Here we are," she said, opening the door. "Would you mind if I left you to it? I must comfort my brother."
"Not at all," replied Holmes. She left the room, her footsteps echoing.
Mr. Highman's chambers consisted of a small writing desk, a few cupboards, a wardrobe and a bed. The writing desk was covered in blank sheets of paper. The state of the bed showed that it was slept in often. I saw nothing else of interest in the cold room where the man had died, and appearances suggested that neither had Holmes. No inventions, nothing but the evidence of a broken man.
"Get searching then, Watson," said Holmes. "The game is afoot." He said these words sadly, as if utterly defeated by the lack of evidence in the room.
I approached a cupboard and yanked it open. It was full of cutlery, knives and forks simply shoved in among the plates. An untidy man, no doubt. I lifted my head to see Holmes open the wardrobe with a triumphant expression, only to resume his deflated one. And then he was triumphant again, and a few seconds later, full of sadness. My heart dropped.
"Holmes?" I asked. "Are you alright?"
He turned to me. "Watson, what are…" He blinked, as if confused. "Watson, what are…" He repeated. Stepping sideways for a better look, I noticed the glint of light reflecting off glass. Surmising that this was the cause of Holmes' confusion, I lifted my revolver and fired a single shot. The glass smashed. Water poured out of the wardrobe, followed by a small fish. Holmes came back to himself.
"A fish?" he said to himself. "Aha! A fish!"
Miss Highman came rushing into the room, obviously agitated by the loud bang. "What happened?" She gasped. "You…I thought that…the murderer!"
Holmes raised a hand to stop her. "No. No murderer. I think it is best we gathered in the dining room."
-
We sat there, the body of the fish in the middle of the table, the water that covered it staining the fine tablecloth. Holmes turned to me to begin the proceedings.
"You received a letter earlier?" he asked. "You have traces of envelope paper underneath your fingernails."
"Yes. It appears my wife's illness is worse than I thought. I will have to return to my home as soon as we are finished here."
He nodded. "Well, I will not keep Dr. Watson long. With the evidence we have gained, it is simply elementary. This fish is obviously the cause of your woes, Miss Highman," he said, nodding to her.
"How is that possible?" asked Miss Highman. "It is but a fish!"
"With what happened to me, Miss Highman," replied Holmes. "It is obvious that this fish somehow has the means to tamper with the memories of man. No murderer, Miss Highman. Just a fish. It is now dead, and its sinister practice is undone."
"I find this very unlikely, Holmes," I commented.
He turned to me. "What have I always told you, Watson? When you have removed the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. If you look in the fish's mouth, you will note the sharp teeth. Your father stayed in his quarters for weeks at a time. No doubt, on one of these occasions he must have been feeding the fish. Its effect caused him to put his hand in the bowl again and again, until there was nothing left of his hand and he bled to death."
"This fish was an instrument of murder?" I said. "Who would have done this?"
"Himself, I suspect. He was an eccentric man, and he would not have been able to resist a specimen such as this, and so he kept it in his quarters, studying it often."
"Nobody will believe this, Mr. Holmes," said Miss Highman.
"I do not think that's important, Miss Highman. Do you believe it?"
-
We walked through the park towards my home. Holmes said, "I am sure your wife will recover soon enough, and you'll be ready for another case, my friend."
I laughed. "You could do without me, Sherlock."
"Of course not, John. You have saved my life, after all."
He was a very successful inventor. Clients would visit him often.
"Many times, Holmes. I fear I do little else."
No inventions, nothing but the evidence of a broken man.
"May it never change," said Holmes, as I looked down at the hand which had saved Sherlock Holmes.
"Who knows, perhaps you would be the one to fool Sherlock Holmes!"
I shot Holmes through the back of the head.
-
I walked into 221B Baker Street and went up the stairs to what had been Holmes' quarters. As arranged in his letter to me, Mycroft Holmes had left the door unlocked and was sitting in Holmes' armchair, smoking a pipe.
"You did it?" asked Mycroft.
"Yes," I said. "Have you arranged the rest?"
"My men will move in and give Miss Highman and her brother the necessary amnestics. You have done our Foundation a great service, Dr. Watson." He said this as if I had simply delivered a letter instead of killing his brother. He saw my expression. "It had to be done, doctor. The loss of Dr. Highman was a regrettable one, but Sherlock could not be allowed to continue knowing what he knew. He isn't - wasn't as sensible as you. We're the only thing holding the world together, you know."
"Yes," I said, and I was telling the truth. "I know."
"You and your wife sail for America on Tuesday. I would pack your bags. Now we will walk onto the streets as if we were old friends, and go our separate ways. I will spread the story that Holmes was killed in Strasbourg. Are we clear?"
"Yes." My voice was a dull, quiet monotone. "We are."
Myself and Mycroft left the cold, dead room at 221B Baker Street.
THE END


The Fabergé bastard was raging. Tools flew, doors slammed, the walls and floorboards rattled. Through it all, he loosed a stream of profanity so acidic it threatened to peel the already faded paint. Rejected. Him. HIM. Heir to the most prestigious jewelers in the world, makers of wonders only seen in dreams, tossed out like some beggar at the gate. What's more, it was done by some pathetic, overpuffed lackwit of a servant, his offering never even reaching the edge of the Czar's gaze.
He threw a hammer hard enough to lodge it in a wall, fuming and drooling with vitriolic rage. His egg, a perfect representation of the legendary Fabergé eggs presented to the young princes and princesses, lay shattered in a fine dust around the floor. It had taken nearly a full year to create, at no small cost to his personal finances, relationships and nerves. Glittering and gilded, inscribed around every inch were miniature scenes and tales of Baba Yaga and Koshchey the Deathless, the cold eyes of clear diamond, the fearful children of soft pearl.
Behind a tiny hidden catch in the painting of the chicken-footed home of Baba Yaga, there opened a tiny clockwork pageant of horror. As the tiny, delicate doors swung open, the battle between hero and villain unwound, the bright clear-faced lad battling the eternally old Koshchey. Gruesome, but just the thing for a bloody-minded boy, as the youngest prince was well known to be. All this, dashed to splinters because some worthless advisor was “offended” and would not have it “upsetting the delicate sensibilities of the young lord.” Pigeon-hearted swine, he'd had the audacity to have the guard escort him none too softly outside the gate.
His rage ebbed, head throbbing as he slouched against a wall. The workshop/living quarters was in shambles, only the highest shelves remaining somewhat untouched. He panted, starting to quietly sob, looking down at his worthless hands. It was his best work, and he knew he'd never make its equal again. His eyes rolled to the rafters, absently seeking out the stoutest, the most likely to bear his weight. Suddenly, his eye settled on the clockwork rose resting in the high corner. With a twist, it would bloom open, then fold in on itself to become a chirping bird. He stared, eyes red-rimmed and feverish, as an idea started to slowly writhe.
He stood, taking down the rose, winding it and watching the ballet of change. It was always the change that amused. The secret unfolding. With the eggs, the outside was almost ignored, in the hunt of the secret inside. Secrets. Change. He slowly smiled, an unwholesome expression on his gaunt, grim face. He would build them a wonder, the likes of which the world had never seen, and would never see again. He would create a treasure that would be kept and passed down ages after the Czars were dead, gone and forgotten.
He started with smashed clocks. Crawling from workshops and rubbish heaps, he gathered every toy, tool or clock he could find with so much as a cog in it. His workshop filled quickly, with stacks and stacks of gears, belts, flywheels and springs, all ordered and stacked to the rafters. His blueprints grew as well, from two sheets to five, then eight, then twenty. Soon, he'd taken to jotting outlines on the walls, scribbling notations on the floor of the narrow walkways through the gears.
What few friends he'd had started to talk. He'd grown impossibly more gaunt and haggard, his eyes feverish and driven, and seldom spoke above a mumble. The few who stopped to check on him could barely squeeze in his door, and were quickly choked by the smell of oil and rust. His already limited output of jewelery and clockworks stopped completely, along with his income. He took to selling furniture, clothes, anything that could buy the little food he needed. Whispers of possession and dark arts started to follow him.
The shunning was nothing new to him, and in a way was almost welcome. He had a suspicion of those who were too nice, too open, and the constant, nagging drain of interaction slowed down the Work. Since discarding the frivolity of sleep, he'd gained even more time to devote to the Work, the petty whining of his neighbors over the night noise silenced by his grim stare. The assembly started to take shape, the millions of parts starting to move from pile to the growing mass that took up most of his small room. He drowsed in its silent heart, as close to sleep as he had been in weeks, and listened to the phantom ticking of the coming birth.
He poured all that he had, all that he was into the Work. He spoke to it, cajoling, cursing, whispering, shouting. He lost flesh to slipped bolts and suddenly engaged cogs. He poured blood and pus over chisels, awls and screwdrivers as his hands split, blistered, healed, then split again. He asked the mass its opinion on its slowly forming wooden skin. Should this window go here, or perhaps a tower? A rabbit or a rat behind this tree? The first time it started, the clanking and rattling causing dust to pour from the roof, he embraced and kissed the wood and metal horror with more passion than he had ever shown a woman.
Finally, it was ready. So large he would have to batter down a wall, so heavy it would take thirty stout men to hoist it out, he touched it with all the delicacy and adoration of a father touching the tiny fingers of his new child. It had gone beyond a simple gift, an offering to the mighty. It was all he had never known. Lover, child, mother, he had wrung out all that his pinched soul had, to this beautiful, terrible creation.

The parade was a grand affair, if boring. In the five years since a gaunt, grim man was turned away carrying an ornamental egg, the Czar and his family had changed very little. Perhaps a little more fat on the Lord and Lady, a little more firmness of feature to the princes, and some suggestive curves to the princess, but otherwise an identical portrait. Even the birthday parade had the same tired floats, the same gilded carriages. When the procession came to a road blocked by a massive shape and an emaciated horror, the princess actually had to be nudged awake from a light doze.
The mad Fabergé stood before a hill covered in grimy tarps. He had not spent the years in idle suspension. His limbs were as thin as a scarecrow, muscles like thin cables writhing beneath. His head was a pinched skull with some expression, and his smile nearly sent the queen into a swoon. The worn, tattered clothes hung from him like a sack, puffing and swaying as he made a low bow. His voice was a brittle, harsh rasp as he spoke: “My Lord, may I present, on this glorious day, my gift.”
The tarps fell away, and the whole square lost its breath. A fairytale kingdom had sprouted in the center of the street. Around the base were small trees and shrubs, thick with cavorting faeries and goblins. Tiny brooks and lakes held glittering mermaids and smiling fish. Deeper, a tiny gnome village rested against a lilliputian mountain range, the men frozen in work and play. Songbirds and dragons nestled in the high places, and dark, suggestive shapes lurked in caves and burrows.
All this paled, however, to the castle. With spires rising nearly twenty feet in the air, it shone like a vision of another world. Two large, stout gates stood open, armored knights guarding the way in plumed helms. Balconies held ladies of unearthly beauty, their suitors bent to a knee in devotion, or shielding them from horrors spawned from the darkest dreams of man. Grand balls and feasts were frozen in the inner halls, and a king with a visage radiating power presided over a trial. The moat swarmed with beasts, and every pinnacle played roost to all manner of wings.
Speech was impossible. Every inch glittered and shone with gems and gilding. Crystals radiated rainbows along every surface, pearl and gold shimmered like a dream. The creator stooped to an alleyway and drew forth a mangy dog, gently jostling it up the shimmering walkway of silver to the left castle gateway. He closed it, then stepped over to a fairy ring of silver mushrooms. In it were arranged tiny statues, and he lifted one up, fitting it into a small stone altar above the ring. He then slotted a polished brass key into a slot below the stone, and twisted.
Suddenly, the kingdom came to life. The whole square, until now struck dumb, almost screamed with delight. The fish swam, the birds sang, the knights marched, the gnomes dug. Everywhere was movement, sound, light. The trees swayed, the dragons brooded, from the dungeon depths came a small, chilling moan. The king held court, pronouncing judgment as the Czar and his family clapped and watched in pleasure. The world suddenly froze again, and the scarecrow man opened the left gateway, to reveal it empty. He smiled wickedly, then opened the right gateway, releasing a sudden burst of tiny, pure-white doves.
Man and machine were bundled back to the palace with all haste. His repellent, almost demonic appearance was almost immediately forgotten in the wash of this new amusement. A ballroom was cleared, walls razed and rebuilt to admit the massive piece. Items were found, placed, and reborn. Wonders beyond imagination were born from the most base objects; Glittering threads from a stone, a clockwork kitten from an old clock, a wobbling jelly that could not be punctured or torn, no matter how abused, from a simple ceramic jug.
The young prince had to be stopped twice, carrying one of the royal cats. Things entered through one gate, and left the other, and never again could they be returned to their former shape. Still, a canary was sacrificed to the cause, and emerged a peacock in perfect miniature. The Czar was delighted beyond words, and embraced the reeking, horrid wreck of the device's creator like a brother. Dinners were planned, rooms were made ready, and in the black heart of the bastard Fabergé there stirred the alien feelings of true, honest joy.

It was in the dim of the night that two small forms slipped into the ballroom. One in nightshirt, the other a soft white nightgown, the two forms stole silently through the dark up to the fairy tale castle. The night-shirted figure, the young prince, whispered and pinched, prodding the princess up to the gate of the castle. He had whispered wicked things in her ear in the night, and threatened to reveal two unpleasant secrets to their parents if she did not accompany him and do as he said.
He was not a truly wicked boy, no more so than any young boy is. The same impulse that made him put frogs in his sister's toybox, chase her about with snakes, and kick her shins at dinner, also drove him to see what would happen to her in the castle. The princess pleaded at the gate, begging her brother in a whisper to let her go back to bed. He pushed harder, sneering as he threatened to tell their father the true way his favorite clothes had been ruined. She paled, shivered, and silently went into the gate, tears rolling in cold silence.
He pulled shut the gate, his little daemon heart dancing with naughty glee. He hopped to the ring, selecting the frog with a barely suppressed giggle. As he turned the key, he settled accounts for many of his sister's tattling, her clever remarks and finger-pointing. As the castle sang and clanked, the prince grew afraid. If someone should wake up, he'd be blamed for sure. He started working up a hazy lie as the figures danced, practicing a half-asleep blink and a story of being woken up just moments before the first to arrive. He was still practicing when the castle stopped and he opened the other gate.
The screaming awoke the Czar and his wife first, even with their rooms so far from the ballroom. In the way of parents, they seemed to know without question their children were in danger. They passed servants and drowsy footmen, the Czar a grim-faced ghost in pale robes. He burst into the ballroom, servants quick on his heels, the door cracking the plaster behind it with the force. The young prince was curled a short pace from the castle, sobbing and gibbering, shuddering as if with great cold. As the Czar went to his young son, he heard a sound from the castle. He looked, and his son was forgotten.
Hell had been born in the fairy wood. A blubbering, writhing mass worked to push through the trees, hard nibs of what looked like teeth scraping as it crawled. Oozing pools that might have been eyes drooled hissing pus, the bloating wound-like mouth working in soft horror. The soggy, dripping paws pulled and plucked at the shining ground, tubes, and strings waving along the heaving back. It squealed at the assembled men and women, the tatters of the princess's nightgown still hanging, trapped in the folds of its flesh, the little tiara sunken near the hollow pit of a nose. The servants were dumbstruck, frozen by fear, none even stirring as the Czar's wife swooned and hit the floor with a heavy thud. The Czar rose, slowly, too shocked to be afraid, and went to comfort his daughter.
The princess took hours to die. Her room was sealed, the doorway plastered over, the body within too twisted and misshapen to bury. The young prince was broken, a mindless shell. His ability to speak decayed over several months, finally little more than a shambling ghost, left to stare for hours at windows and walls. The Czar fared little better. He wandered, staring at his throne at times as if he had no idea what it was, suddenly prone to fits of sobs or acidic rage. The public was told little to nothing, the servants in attendance that hellish night threatened with death for the merest breath of the truth.
The mad Fabergé fared worst of all. Besides the princess. He was bundled from his bed by six guards, a bag thrown over his head and an armored fist in his belly. He was dumped in a cold cellar and left, bound and bagged, for a full day. Soiled and exhausted, he was drawn up and the bag removed, only to face the haggard, manic stare of the Czar. The mad Fabergé hardly had time to speak, and when the Czar's fist shattered his already cracked teeth and sent them lacerating into his tongue, it was impossible anyway. He beat him off and on for nearly two days. Finally he had the man's fingerless palms hacked off, his remaining eye gouged out, and locked him in the deepest, blackest pit to rot.
The fairy palace was removed. For all the Czar's wrath, he could not simply destroy it. The very sight of it overwhelmed him, the mention of it enough to give him shudders and migraines. It was shifted painfully along to a basement in a disused wing of the palace, and forgotten. Over time, the gilding was peeled, the gems worked free, the statues stolen. Years came and went, the now-bare wooden shell slowly warping and splitting with age and season. It was moved, then moved again, finally coming to rest in a vacation home of the royalty, buried alongside other unknown and uncared for treasures.
A legend rose around the wooden forest and castle. The great-grandchildren of the now long-dead Czar scared each other with stories about it, daring each other to slip into the dank, dark store room and touch it. An ancient, crumbling butler finally spilled an age-faded copy of the story, and delicious scandal rolled through the bars and boarding houses for days. However, other concerns took precedence, and during some uprising or another, the summer palace was burned to the foundation. Along with it went many great works of art, and the twisted, warped shell of the wooden palace and forest. As the embers cooled above it, buried deep in the rubble the ancient, charred clockworks lay unnoticed and unknown.

The scholar discovered the clockworks in a book. The forgotten diaries of a servant, left to rot in the University archives, acquired as part of a lot from an estate sale. He never doubted the truth of it, even when he presented his proposal to the derision of the faculty. He pooled his own funds, tapped other resources of varying levels of legality, and set out to find it. After eight weeks of searching and excavation, the scholar stood, reeking and filthy, over the unearthed sorrow of a Czar.
Two more weeks were devoted to the planning of transport. The device was impossible to disassemble, and the scholar would not risk any more damage than the device had already taken. It was lifted whole-cloth from the pit, boxed and padded lovingly, and flown back to the scholar's home at a maximum of expense. There, two rooms were gutted and hollowed out, and the monstrous metal hulk was shifted into place.
For weeks, the scholar pried and probed at the mass of clockwork…but could divine nothing. Tentative, safe experiments soon gave way to more dramatic and less well-reasoned theories, even as he had a large panel fitted over the long-destroyed one, with much more simple and direct notations on it. His classwork and other research projects suffered, and were ignored. He became more and more prone to rambling and outbursts of disjointed theories, always mumbling “I've almost got it cracked.”
Others drew away from him, as if he carried a plague they could catch. The scholar ignored his shunning, the letters promising first reprimand, then eventually dismissal. Always, always, the next turn of the key would give the last shard of the puzzle, and cement his place in history…always the next one, the next vase, the next dog, the next fabric…the next one would finally reveal the pattern. And if not that, then the one after. Or the next one, surely.
He wasted away, eaten from the inside by first obsession, then rage. He would force the reason from the hulk of metal, it would repay all the pain he had poured out for it. One way or another.
The police found him almost by accident. Three ladies of the evening had vanished over the last week, and two patrolmen were making rounds with little hope or interest. The door swung open silently under their knock, the silence inside drawing them in, guns drawn. They found him in the kitchen, hanging from a stout rope. Pinned to his chest was a note:
I have touched the hand of God
And found it the same as the Fiend
Hell is all around us
Forgive what I have done.
The two patrolmen swept the house as they called back for help, expecting little but the boredom and numb regret of any suicide process. Nobody knows what exactly it was that was found in the basement. Only one of the officers came back up, and he never spoke again during his short remaining years. Whatever it was left masses of strange, swooping scars over his face, and left his bones as brittle as glass. The other police who responded said the house was already burning when they arrived, surely the result of an electrical outage, or a stove left on by a distraught suicide victim. The moaning and bubbling wailing that seemed to rock from the base of the fire was without a doubt simply escaping gas or warping metal.
They didn't know what to make of the mass of charred clockworks once the rubble was cleared. When the men from the government came, they were all too relieved to turn it over to them. It may have been that relief that caused them not to look at the ID cards too long, or follow up the case too closely. The story faded as well, just another tragic fire from a victim of professional stress.

The Foundation was most pleased, all the more so with the knowledge that they'd swooped the item mere hours ahead of Marshall, Carter and Dark.
Now they sit, poking and prodding in careful, controlled isolation, musing at this wonder of madness. More and more they learn, and as they do, the less they understand. They slip into confusion and anger slower, the madness spread evenly over many…but still they slip. They push and prod, trying to force meaning on insanity.
Trying to divine the secrets of the universe from a child's toy.


Dr. Edison sneezed into the telephone. It had been a long day keeping the eldritch horrors contained within Site-██ locked up, and the good doctor was in no mood to catch a cold. The fact that Site-██ was in Antarctica didn't help things. "Sorry doc." he said. "I don't think I caught that. You're saying my what went where now?"
"Your movie! The one that got you transferred to Antarctica!" said Dr. King. "It's becoming a cult classic! The O5 are in an uproar! Haven't you been paying attention?"
"Attention?" Edison replied. "Attention to what?"

And now it's time for Bum Reviews, with Chester A. Bum.
Tonight's review: The SCP Foundation

OHHHH MY GOD, THIS IS THE GREATEST MOVIE I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!
[DATA EXSPOILERS!]
So there are these guys, called the SCP Foundation, and they're this secret government organization run by Tommy Wissau dedicated to investigating paranormal stuff!
I WAS A PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR, ONCE!
Oh, wait, that was just a TV show. What was it called again? Oh yeah: Baywatch Nights!
But there's also this organization of eeeevil terrorists who kidnap a vampire overlord… who is played by the guy from Twilight for some reason.
Boy, that Edward guy has fallen on hard times, hasn't he?
But to make matters worse, there's an eeevil arms dealer working for the terrorists, who wants to destroy the SCP foundation so that he can… drill for oil, or something.
Yeah, I don't get it either.
So Tommy Wisau calls his top scientists, and tells them that they need to stop the terrorists before the vampire Apocalypse happens!
"Uh, boss? Wouldn't it be a better idea to just tell the army about this or something?"
"Ha ha ha funny story, Mark."

PHELOUS: So that was The SCP Foundation, another disappointingly shitty movie from "Zhe Only Fucking Geinus in Zhe Buisness" and those guys who made Epic Movie. Oh, and in case you're one of those people who just watch the end of videos without any context, I'm Phelous the Canadian internet review guy from ThatGuyWithTheGlasses dot com dot com.
PHELOUS: OOOOOOOOOHHHH! Do you see what I just did there? I just made fun of something really stupid that the movie did in my end-of-review skit that they thought was funny but really wasn't! I am being soooo funny right now!
PHELOUS: OOOOOOOOOHHHH! I just explained the joke that I just made five seconds ago, which is ALSO something the movie did that I'm making fun of! More comic goooolllld!
*"Dr Clef" (obviously played by Phelous in a suit and gorilla mask) walks into the room brandishing a Ukalale-Shotgun.*
"DR. CLEF": You've made terrible meta-jokes for the last time, Phelous. I'm here to take away your Internet licence forever!
PHELOUS: Noooooo! How could this happen to meeeeeeee? *Breaks into song* I made my mistakeeeessss! There's nowhere to ruuuun, the night goes ooooooon and I'm fading awaaaaayyyyyy!
*Dr. Clef shoots Phelous. Phelous begins regenerating time-lord style for about 10 seconds while Dramatic Dr. Who music plays, only to stop abruptly.*
PHELOUS: Ha ha, I'm not doing that joke anymore. In fact, this entire skit is kind of terrible isn't it, so lets end it right here.
"DR. CLEF": What? You mean I came all this way for nothing?
PHELOUS: Fiiiiine. You can do a one-liner… but just one!
"DR. CLEF": Okay then. Ahem: *Dr. Who music begins playing again* Get these motherfucking Skips off my motherfucking plane… motherfucker!
*Music suddenly stops.*
PHELOUS: Really? That's the best you could come up with?
"DR. CLEF": Oh shut up, it's not like your show is much better.
PHELOUS: Ha ha, you see that was funny beacuse my show has terrible production values, so by saying that my show isn't much better than that terrible one liner Clef is making a humorous comparison to-
*Dr. Clef shoots Phelous*
PHELOUS: *cough* *hak*, Mmmm, watcha saaaayyyy…
*Dr. Clef shoots Phelous again. Cue credits.*

"Well given that I got transferred to freakin' Antarctica, I'm not exactly first in line to learn this kind of stuff." Dr. Edison coughed. "So, um… what do you want me to do about it?"
"The hell if I know!" Dr. King said. "It's your movie! You do something about it!"
Dr. Edison paused as he gave the problem some thought. "Okay." he said, "Here's what you do…"

FILM BRAIN: I'm Film Brain, and welcome to Bad Movie Beatdown! Today we're going to take a look at Michael Bay's SCP Foundation 6: The Revenge of Darkblade, undoubtedly the worst movie of our generation. It's so bad that it has the dubious honor of being the only movie to somehow wind up with a negative Metacritic score. And believe me, this movie deserves it.
*Cut to Phelous, wearing the Dr Clef costume*
PHELOUS: Not so fast, Film Brain! Your data is about to be Ex-Punged!

FILM BRAIN: No, Phelous, I am not doing another crossover with you.
PHELOUS: Oh come on! But I brought out the costume and every-
FILM BRAIN: NO.
*Phelous slinks away, while a violin plays in the background*

"I don't understand…" said O5-█. "How exactly does making more movies solve the problem?"
"It's quite simple, really." said Dr. Edison, adjusting his sunglasses. "With a few exceptions, movies only get worse and worse as more sequels keep being made. So I figured that if we make enough sequels, we'll eventually make a movie so bad that it will erase the entire franchise from the collective unconscious! And who else is better at making terrible sequels than Michael Bay himself?"
O5-█ shook his head. "I can think of so many reasons why that didn't work."
"Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking either." said Dr. Edison. "In fact, I think I actually made things worse… But you have to admit, they work great as torture devices!"
The O5 glared at Edison.
"I'm being sent back to Antarctica, aren't I?"
"Yep."


I…I don't understand…
Why…why is it that they're everywhere?
Every place, everywhere, every fucking world…They're always there.
Why?

"Hi Mum! I'm back home from school!" Jimmy said as he walked through the front door.
"Hi Darling! Just so you know your friends Sullivan and Jameson are already here." replied his Mum.
'Great!' thought Jimmy, that means he could play 'Foundation', the game they always played together. Jimmy walked into the living room and greeted Sullivan and Jameson.
"Doctor Bright." he said to Sullivan in a serious tone.
"Doctor James." he said to Jameson in the same serious tone.
"Doctor Gears." They both replied in an equally serious tone.
Jimmy smiled. They always played Foundation well.
"I take it you're here to see SCP-846?" Jimmy asked them.
"That's right we are. There are a few more tests we would like to run." replied Sullivan.
"In that case I'm going to have to see your security clearance."
Sullivan and Jameson took out their identifications. Square pieces of paper with the names 'Dr. Bright' and 'Dr. James' respectively as well as The Foundation's secret symbol (Jameson's Dad had them laminated).
"Very good gentlemen. Now if you'll follow me."
Jimmy took them into his room and from underneath his bed he took out an old shoe-box. On the box Jimmy has written in big letters with a red felt-tip pen 'SCP-846' as well as the super-secret symbol.
The symbol had one thick circle, three arrows pointing inwards and another circle-like shape around the edges. Jimmy never told the other two that the symbol always gave him the creeps when he looked at it.
"Is the containment door closed?" He asked Sullivan.
"I'll secure it now Doctor Gears." Sullivan replied as he went to shut the bedroom door.
Once it was shut, Jimmy opened the shoebox and took out what was inside. It was a small robot that called itself 'Robo-Dude'. There was also a controller for it with an 'On/Off' switch, a 'Speak' button and a small microphone. Jimmy flipped the switch to 'On'.
"GREETINGS ROBO-PAL. HOW MAY ROBO-DUDE ASSIST YOU TODAY?" the voice of Robo-Dude was a dull, grating sound.
Jimmy turned to Sullivan and started to say "Dr. Bright, what tests did you want to ru-" He paused, noticing a stranger standing in the doorway.
"Who… who are you?" Jimmy asked the stranger in a shaky voice.
"That's… not important right now, what do you call that… thing?" The stranger had an odd accent.
"We call it SCP-846, but who are you?"
The stranger opened his mouth to reply, but all of a sudden he disappeared.

Sometimes…they're children…
Most times…they're adults…
But always…ALWAYS…
They look at me as if I'm…diseased…

It was raining as Robert drove home from work. He never liked the rain. He never really liked his job either, just some boring desk-job for an insurance firm. Working in a cramped cubicle for hours on end, constantly typing on a computer. It was monotonous work but at least it paid the bills.
Robert pulled into his driveway and quickly made his way inside. He trudged upstairs, taking off his jacket as he did so and headed straight for his bedroom. His house was tiny, a living/dining room, a small kitchen (not enough room for a washing machine of course), a hallway, a bathroom and one bedroom. He took his lab coat out of his wardrobe and smiled. This was how he could actually get through each working day.
Donning the lab-coat he switched to his alter-ego Alto Clef. Doctor of The Foundation.
On his way to the basement he engaged a conversation with a tattered lampshade.
"Ah, Doctor Kondraki. Good to see you on your feet after that little fiasco the other week."
Despite the lampshade being inanimate it responded with:
"Yeah, I'm not quite sure how he managed to do that."
Alto Clef went into his basement and approached the safe sitting on the table.
The safe wasn't very big, and on it Alto Clef had carefully engraved 'SCP-101' onto it as well as the symbol that he had come up with.
It consisted of a circular object surrounding three inward pointing arrows and a thick circle in the middle. The usual shiver went up Alto Clef's back when he saw the symbol.
Unlocking the safe (the combination was 24-17-11) he took out a leathery bag and placed it on the table.
He opened it and inside was a row of razor-sharp teeth and a spongey tongue.
There was a sudden 'thump' from above him and the sound of someone, or something, moving around the house.
Alto Clef quickly grabbed his handgun from a nearby cabinet and checked to see if it was loaded.
It was.
He cautiously edged up the stairs out of the basement with his finger on the trigger when suddenly a dark shape was standing in the doorway.
"I don't know who you are but… you better get out of my house right now!" Alto Clef demanded with as much assertion as he could muster. Although he couldn't stop his voice from shaking.
"I just…" the other man began "…I just want to see what you have."
"Who… Who are you?" Alto Clef blurted out.
"No time for that, I have to see it." The other man quickly pushed past Alto Clef and began moving towards the safe of SCP-101.
"Stop!" Alto Clef yelled out in desperation. "Or I'll shoot!"
The man stopped suddenly and slowly turned to face Alto Clef.
"I-" the man began but was cut off from the gunshot.
The man looked down at the blood coming out his chest and vanished completely.

He shot me…HE SHOT ME!
I'm…going to die from one of these places…
But as long as I… make sense of all this…
Then I won't mind…

Containment cell.
Rush of air.
Forest.
Always happens like that.
Now where am I?
Where are they?
I see…
Ruins.
"Sir, the sensors have picked up movement outside."
"How large?"
"Human sized. Showed up out of nowhere."
Commandant Strelnikov narrowed his eyes.
"Send out a platoon of Ascension Guard to retrieve whoever it is. Secure and Contain."
"At once. Contain and Protect."
Commandant Strelnikov left the Central Command and made his way through Bunker #19 towards his office.
Once there, he began writing a report on the day's events.
16 minutes later he received a message on his terminal to proceed to Interrogation Chamber F.
'That must be the Ascension Guard back with whoever it was from Outside.' Strelnikov thought to himself.
He got up, left his office and made his way towards Interrogation Room F.
Outside, Commandant Strelnikov met Inquisitor Dodridge, the leader of the Ascension Guard that was sent out to retrieve the Outsider.
"Secure and Contain." Dodridge saluted.
"Contain and Protect." Strelnikov replied. "I trust the Outsider wasn't too difficult to apprehend?"
"He was not your eminence; in fact he gave himself up willingly. He also lacks the brand of the Blessed and bears no tribal markings."
"Noted."
Commandant Strelnikov entered the Interrogation Chamber and looked across the table at the Outsider.
He was dressed in clothing of Pre-Incident design. Strelnikov remembered they were called t-shirts, jeans and trainers. Remarkably they looked new and undamaged despite the Incident happening several decades ago.
Strelnikov sat down on the chair opposite the Outsider.
"Commandant Strelnikov presiding, interrogating an Outsider brought into Bunker #19 by a platoon of Ascension Guard led by Inquisitor Dodridge."
Everything said in the Interrogation Chamber was recorded by a machine located in the adjacent room that was separated by a one-sided mirror.
"At 1:04pm the Outsider triggered sensors located in sector 5b." Commandant Strelnikov went through the basic procedures an Interrogation.
Now looking up at the Outsider, Strelnikov properly began the Interrogation.
"Now, Outsider. What is your name?"
The Outsider was looking at the one-way mirror.
"You… have people on the other side of there don't you? Watching us." The Outsider's voice was very shaky.
Strelnikov glanced at the one-way mirror. Clearly this wasn't going to be an ordinary Interrogation.
"I'm the one asking the questions here," he said in a stern voice "Now tell us what your name is."
The Outsider finally looked at Strelnikov, and the Commandant could see the madness in his eyes common with Exposure.
"My… name… doesn't matter." The Outsider said before blurting out "You can call me Guy."
"Very well, Guy. Now tell us what tribe you are from."
"T… Tribe?"
"Don't play games with me outsider!" Strelnikov nearly shouted as he lost his temper. "Tell me what tribe you are from!"
"I… don't come from any tribe…"
"LIAR!" Strelnikov was shouting now. "The only way you filth can survive is by banding together and huddling close for warmth! Any loner in the Outside dies from starvation or from one of the Blighted Anomalies." Strelnikov stood up, towering above the Outsider who cowered before him.
"You WILL tell us what tribe you are from! You WILL tell us what you are doing here! And there is NOTHING you can do about it!"
He sat back down and with a growl demanded "Begin."
The Outsider sat there impassively.
"Did you hear what I said Outsider?" Strelnikov yelled. "Answer me!"
"Oh I heard you." The Outsider's voice had change dramatically, gone was any hint of fear. It had been replaced by a voice that seemed to suck all warmth out of the room with every word.
"I heard you alright." The Outsider continued. "But what makes you think that one such as me will ever answer to one as feeble as you?"
The Outsider looked up; the look of madness was still in his eyes.
"W… what are you?" Strelnikov stammered, he knew that this was something other than a Blighted Anomaly.
The Outsider grinned.
"I am… something else."
The Outsider began to laugh.
In one quick movement, Commandant Strelnikov gathered his wits, stood upright, drew his firearm and pointed it at… nothing.
The Outsider had vanished completely.
Strelnikov cleared his throat.
"Interrogation concluded, The Outsider being interrogated was somehow able to disappear. It is to be suspected that the Outsider was a Blighted Anomaly or was in possession of one. The Decontamination crew that processed the Outsider will be reviewed for dereliction of duty." He said, finishing the Interrogation.
The Judicators would not be happy.

I'm the only one who knows…
I'm the only one who understands…
I'm the only one who can figure all this out…
The Doctors of my world…they think they're so clever…
But… they know nothing…NOTHING…
And I can never tell them…about the others…
They wouldn't…believe me…
They think they're the only ones…
But they're not…
My…world's Foundation still only has 191 SCPs in containment…
There are more out there…
In other…places…


Item #: SCP-1926-R
Object Class: Keter Rejected as an SCP Object by O5 order.
Special Containment Procedures: Mobile Task Force Delta-16 "The Deep Sea Fishermen" must maintain a constant watch for the reappearance of SCP-1926 or any of its inhabitants. The MTF is maintained on the ship ███ █████ at coordinates 47°9′S 126°43′W. The ███ █████ will be kept supplied as necessary from the nearest inhabited location, Easter Island. As SCP-1926 is uncontainable and a major threat to human life, if it reappears, it will be destroyed via air strike with a ██ kiloton nuclear device as soon as stationed personnel have withdrawn to a safe distance. All containment procedures suspended indefinitely.
Description: SCP-1926 is a small, previously uncharted island, reported to be located in a desolate area of the South Pacific Ocean, approximately 700km SE of Easter Island (approximate coordinates 47°9′S 126°43′W). Description is based on second-hand sources, as nothing was found at the designated location when Foundation personnel arrived to investigate.  Deep sea sonar probes revealed unusual surfaces at a depth of approximately 500 m.  Divers reported seeing [DATA EXPUNGED] before contact was lost.
SCP-1926 is described as being composed primarily of black basalt blocks, covered with mud and greenish ooze, indicating an extended period of submersion. Personnel are warned not to attempt exploration of SCP-1926, as most previous visitors have been reported killed, either by the inhabitants, or by the effects of the alleged non-Euclidean geometric structure of the island.
The most recent reported visitor, a Norwegian fisherman named ████ ██████████, claims to be the only survivor of an original crew of 47, aboard the █████. Upon exploring SCP-1926, the crew encountered one of its inhabitants (designated SCP-1926-1). SCP 1926-1 is described as a winged creature approximately 60 m tall, somewhat resembling a cross between a human and an octopus or squid. SCP-1926-1 killed most of the crew while on SCP-1926, and pursued the survivors when they attempted escape aboard the █████. Survivors attempted to kill SCP-1926-1 by ramming it with the ship; attempt failed, as SCP-1926-1 re-formed itself several minutes after its apparent destruction. However, SCP-1926-1 broke off pursuit and returned to SCP-1926, allowing the █████ to escape. It is unknown if SCP-1926-1 is a unique being, or representative of a larger population.
Addendum: This area of ocean is referenced in a document recently captured from a Serpent's Hand operative. The relevant passage states "He will rise when the stars are right." but does not give details on when this will happen, or what astronomical conditions constitute "rightness."
[Note from O5-7: This is an obvious hoax, written by some █████████ fan. I can't believe you all fell for it and actually sent an MTF down there, never mind that you had a nuke ready. Containment procedures cancelled effective immediately. Items SCP-1926 and 1926-1 are to be expunged from the main database, and all personnel involved officially reprimanded.]


Personnel Involved: Agent S████, Agent F███
Date: ██/██/████
Location: ███████, Austria
Description: Following up on reports of anomalous activity in the area, Agents S████ and F███ were dispatched to the town of ███████, Austria. Upon arrival, it became apparent that a local resident (██████ █████, formerly a traveling salesman) had spontaneously transformed into a large, unidentified organism resembling an insect. The subject has a hard, though not impenetrable exoskeleton and displays anatomical segmentation similar to that of an arthropod. Notably, the subject appears to have retained most of the cognitive capacity and memories of his previous human form. The subject is capable of vocalizing, however his vocalizations have thus far been impossible to translate into recognizable speech; it is theorized the subject no longer possesses the necessary oral and laryngeal structure to produce human speech. An apple is lodged into the dorsal portion of the subjects exoskeleton (upon investigation, determined to be the result of a violent incident with the subject's father), causing it significant ailment. Researchers are working to determine whether or nor the apple can be removed without causing further injury.
The subject's family and several other witnesses have been dosed with class B amnestics. The organism is currently under containment, awaiting classification. The mechanism by which its metamorphosis occurred has yet to be determined.


Acquisitions and Review. One of the names in The Foundation that can send staff into convulsions. After Agents and MTF squads get something caged, have the remains mopped up and minds scrubbed, A and R have the job of figuring out what in the hell comes next. Something of a patchwork group, they work with all ranges of Agents, staff and security, working out initial SCP documents and trying to minimize the body count, while also setting up research goals. All in all, it's one of the more stressful jobs in an organization that views a total stress-induced mental collapse as a minor lost-time event.
All this was sitting in the forefront of Agent Poly's mind when he saw Agent Shun sitting across from him in the lunch room, smiling. Poly was reasonably sure the last time Shun had smiled was when SCP-914 had turned a dead pig into a pile of bacon, and that had been more than eight months ago.
“The hell is wrong with you?”
Shun grinned, sporting a mock confused look. “Why, whatever do you mean?”
“You look entirely too pleased with yourself to be working here.”
Shun waved a hand, leaning back in his chair. “I'm just glad to be alive… and have my caseload for the week done.”
Poly sputtered, nearly gagging on his coke. “What the hell? You… what? You had at least three new cases, and I know one will end up Keter! What black magic is this, and share immediately.”
“You know that saying, many hands make light work?” Shun grinned like a cat with a mouthful of feathers. “Well, I've just got the right hands to rely on.”
“You will tell me your dark secrets, or I will soak your underpants in meat before your next 682 review.”
“Ok, so remember that memo we got a few months back, about the new processing site they set up in Egypt?”
Poly nodded slowly, scraping back in his memory. “Yeah… wasn't it some co-op deal with ORIA defectors or something?”
Shun bobbed his head, leaning in with a quick sideways glance. “It's got a few, yes, but it's more a warehouse site, for review items coming from all over the middle east. The thing is, it's also listed as a hub site, which means they can take any and all items up for transport…”
Poly's eyes widened “… like initial review items. But, how the hell would you shift them like that without catching hell? You can't just pass the buck.”
“That's just the thing. The head of review, Agent Melike, is apparently a glutton for punishment. I started talking to her on a review project, and she actually entered a request to take over the review. On-site. Signed the transport orders and everything. I just had to forward the case notes, and in about a week she sent a complete SCP proposal.”
Poly sat back heavily, shaking his head. “Good lord. And you just sat on this? While I struggled and worried if I'm working on a second heart attack.”
“Hey, it's not like that… just… wanted to make sure it was really happening first, I would have told you.”
“Uh huh, yeah, I… wait, what was the Agent again?”
“Who? Oh, the one at the new hub? Agent Melike.”
Poly furrowed his brow, looking to the side. “… That's a weird name, even for this place.”
“It's Turkish, apparently, something royal or the like, like Magnus or something.”
Poly looked at Shun, questioning. “… How long has this girl been here?”
Shun pulled back a bit, feeling suddenly defensive. “Well, I don't know… a few months, maybe? It's not like I'm dating her or something, we just talk and trade research.”
“A few months… Shun, when was the last time you heard of anyone with less than two years invested being able to sign transport requests.”
Shun froze, an icy drip rolling down his spine. “… S-she's probably a transfer, from another staff unit. Like when we got Harp after Finn degenerated.”
“We would have been notified of a transfer, even overseas. Remember, we always get those bullshit secured email notices you have to sign and reply to.”
“… oh god.”
Poly pushed out his chair, rising quickly. “Let's go to security… maybe they just forgot or something.”
Poly was in too much of a rush to catch Shun whispering quietly “Please god…”

Theft Report 0012 – 3
Aux: BC Folio

It was brought to the attention of Site Command at Site 42 that a possible breach of security had been noted. Acquisitions and Review reported an unknown Agent “Melike” had been corresponding and accepting new item transfers. Central Records reported no “Agent Melike” on file for the past three years, and no new hub sites opened in the Egypt area for the last six years.
All item transfers en-route were shunted to the nearest site, and all in-process requests for transfer were canceled. All suspect documents were seized and submitted to Security for immediate priority review. SCP documents sent by “Agent Melike” show little to no knowledge of Foundation function, comprised of basic review and dense scientific jargon that, after review, have no real validity. Transfer documents show that the delivery address is a disused loading dock, which has been abandoned for ten years.
Interrogation of transfer and delivery staff revealed that staff was greeted by an agent identifying herself as “Agent Rook”, who provided all necessary security documents and signatures. Review of these documents have shown all to be expert forgeries. Network review has revealed access of several security nodes and form depositories by Agent Pike, who has been reported MIA for two weeks. His network card was somehow kept active well beyond the normal automatic termination limit, and it is believed that this is how the documents and security information were acquired. Transport staff believed the drop location was a covert transfer site.
MTF teams responding to the “Hub Site” location in the “Agent Melike” documents found an abandoned office building at the given location. Investigation turned up nothing but two vagrants on the main floors, but the basement was found to contain one desk, a chess board, and a poster. The poster was of “The Turk”, an automaton built in 1770 that could play chess, having the appearance of a “Turk” at a large table with a chess board before it. The Turk was later revealed to have been a hoax, with a small man hidden in a secret compartment under the table.
It is currently believed that the theft of twelve SCP-class items has been perpetrated by the “Black Queen”. Due to the limited review and understanding of the items at the time of theft, tracking is proving exceptionally difficult. Many items have already been refiled under “Lost” with Central Records. Further action is suspended until initial damage and loss reports are filed.

Memo: O5-8
Re: Black Queen.
She used our own goddamn security against us. It's supposed to insulate sections, so nobody knows too much, or gets unneeded information… and she used it to drain us like a stuck pig. We're going to have to go through a total security theory review, and liquidate the department until we get it sorted out. Thousands of man hours are going to be squandered while we look for the thumb up our collective asses. O5-3 has been drinking Pepto like it's soda. I want this bitch found.

Change the rules…
Kriegspiel
Or keep to tradition.
Queen To Pawn


It hurts… They don't know that it hurts, but it does. So badly.
Every time I try to speak, it just gets worse. They come at me, prod me, examine me… They pull things open, cut into my flesh… And when I try to run, they just make it worse. Even when I look at them, it just gets worse…
I can't breathe. The air here is so… wrong. I miss my home, but they won't let me go… Why won't they just let me go?
The others sent some of them looking for me… Not many, but some. I can feel them. At first, it was just the watching one and a few of the others. The unknowable one. Then… they sent them.
And not just one of them. They sent… so many. The rooms. The worlds. Chunks of the universe even. Whole races, uprooted, thrown through the void. For me. All for me. Even the dragon came, and that… that was scary. I never thought they'd send her. She's close. She can smell me. She keeps trying to reach me, but these new ones keep her locked up too…
I'm not that important. It was just the one, wasn't it? Just one of them. So sweet. Succulent. How was I supposed to know what would happen to her? I was just following my nature. And her skin was so soft…
They want me gone. Destroyed. All of them. Even the ones that used to love me…
These new ones… they suffocate me. Blind me. Hurt me. I burn them and cut them and tear at them, and they WON'T LET ME GO! THEY JUST KEEP HURTING ME!
I just want to RUN! To be FREE! To FEED.
I just want their skins.