Dear Diary
………………………
*Click click tap click tap tap tap*
Alright, Videira. Here's the script you were wondering about. This thing was a sort of dramatization of a little research disaster that happened in July four years back. It was meant to illustrate to some of our less cautious researchers the value of emotional detachment during the job, or some BS like that. Never really got produced, and no, I don't know why not. It's missing the a bit of narration that was meant to go in before and after the thing played. If I remember correctly, just details about the event. I think that it was something about this being written from live video feed, with creative liberty taken only when necessary. I found what I could about the incident, and it seems to match pretty well. Apparently the SCP was destroyed by the girl afterward, which is one reason they got worked up about it enough to start making this thing… I guess someone wanted to use it for questioning the dead or something. Since the research was never completed and the thing got burned, there's no official entry in the database on it. The guy's name matches the other stuff I've found, but the girl's name is only here - I guess they didn't want anyone to find out what happened to her. Seeing as she destroyed a potentially useful SCP after making a rather serious mistake in studying it, I can see why they might not want that to appear in a human resources type video. I can keep digging for more, if you'd like, but I can't make any promises.
- J.N.
p.s. - Dinner, Saturday.
*Click click click tap*
*Beep*
-*-*-*-*-*
ACT I
FADE IN
INT. HOUSE - NIGHT
A small room with a medium-sized bed and two chairs. There are two doors, on either side of the room (One leads to a small bathroom, the other to a hallway). Everything is white and sanitary.
A MAN is sitting on the bed. He is holding tightly on to a book. He is in mid teen years, and is wearing clean white hospital clothes.
Two researchers are standing in the hall. One is MASON, an early middle-aged man, the other is HOLLY, a woman also in early middle age. Both wear lab coats.
ANGLE ON HALLWAY.
HOLLY
Well, Mason, you got the tickets?
MASON
Of course I do, Hol. Vacation in Vienna. Two months. I promised, didn't I?
HOLLY
God, I'll be glad to see the back of this place. When do we leave?
MASON
Friday. We just need to finish the interview, see what makes him tick. And he's a safe class, so we can take it easy.
HOLLY
I don't think I've ever had this much go right before, honey.
MASON and HOLLY grip each other's hands briefly, then open the door to the MAN's room.
ANGLE ON MAN, looking up.
MAN
Please, why am I here? Why won't anyone tell me?
MASON
Sir, we just need to ask you a few questions. After that you can go home.
MAN
Why?
WIDER ANGLE ON ALL CHARACTERS
HOLLY
We think you may have some knowledge about a recent accident, and we just need to know a few things about you.
MAN
What do you mean, accident?
HOLLY
Sir, just answer the questions. Then, you can go home and just forget about all of this. Now, what's your name?
MAN
How can you have me here if you don't even know my name?
MASON
Please, sir, this is just protocol. Now, answer the question.
MAN
My name is Esteban Tetson.
MASON takes out a notepad and begins writing in it.
ANGLE ON MAN
MAN (CONT.)
My parents were migrant workers from Chiapas, Mexico. They changed their last names when they acquired US citizenship. Esteban means crown, and has etymological connections to English names such as Steven and Stephen.
MASON stops writing, and both HOLLY and MASON look at the MAN.
MASON
Sir, where did you receive your education?
MAN
I didn't. My parents were very poor. I learned English mostly from the other boys my age. I didn't learn to read and write until I was a teenager.
MASON
You don't seem to be having any difficulties. You don't even have an accent.
MAN
I wouldn't know.
MASON shrugs, and starts writing again.
HOLLY
Why don't you tell us about that book?
MAN
This is my diary. I've kept it ever since I was a kid.
HOLLY
I thought you said that you didn't learn to write until you were a teenager.
MAN
I didn't.
HOLLY
But then how did you keep a diary?
MAN
You're wasting my time with this. Please, just let me go home now.
MASON
Sir, please just tell us how you kept a diary before you learned how to write.
MAN
Why won't you believe me? Have you never heard of someone keeping a diary before?
HOLLY AND MASON share a glance.
MASON
Sir, those are all the questions we needed to ask for now. I suggest you get some sleep. We'll be back tomorrow.
MAN
But…
ANGLE ON HOLLY AND MASON leaving. CLOSE ON THE MAN sitting briefly, then lying back, gripping the diary to his chest.
FADE OUT
END ACT I
-*-*-*-*-*
ACT II
FADE IN
Resume. OVERHEAD SHOT OF MAN lying down, asleep, still gripping the book. HOLLY and MASON are out in the hall, talking. MASON has a carrying case.
TWO SHOT ON HOLLY AND MASON
HOLLY
Think it's him or the book?
MASON
Dunno yet. I had the team pick up some memorabilia from Esteban Tetson's family, and ask whether he kept a diary. They didn't remember. I mean, it's been a while.
HOLLY
I hate this part.
MASON
Yeah.
HOLLY
Maybe, after this is done, we could just stay in Vienna. You know, forget this place. Move on. Find some safe and enjoyable employment in hard manual labor.
MASON
I wish that was still a joke. You know we can't.
HOLLY
Yeah.
TWO SHOT as they hug briefly, then walk over and OPEN the DOOR. At the SOUND OF IT OPENING, the MAN immediately sits up, fully awake.
WIDE ANGLE ON ALL CHARACTERS
MAN
Please, just tell me when you'll let me go. I have children.
MASON
Ah, good. That's the topic I wanted to start on.
MASON and HOLLY sit down. MASON takes out his writing utensils.
ANGLE ON MAN
MAN
What? Why do you need to know about them? Has something happened?
TWO SHOT ON MASON AND THE MAN
MASON
Nothing has happened, sir. This is just protocol. Now, please, just play along for a little bit longer.
MAN
Fine. Fine, I don't care, I just want this over quickly.
MASON
How many children do you have, and what are their names?
MAN
Two daughters. Celia and Chicha.
MASON
How old are they?
MAN
Celia is twenty, Chicha is fourteen.
MASON
And how old are you?
MAN
Forty-five. I was born in 1958, just after my parents immigrated. I was born at seven thirty-two in the afternoon on Wednesday, April twenty-seventh. There were no complications during birth, and I weighed exactly six pounds.
CLOSE ON MASON'S HAND when he stops writing. MASON and HOLLY look at the man.
MASON
Why do you do that?
MAN
Do what?
MASON
Tell us so much about yourself. You did it yesterday, when we asked for your name. And if you were poor, how do you know your exact time of birth and your weight at that time?
WIDE ANGLE OF ALL CHARACTERS, FAVORING THE MAN
MAN
Please, if you must ask me questions, don't make them like that. I'm being questioned, and I don't even know where I am. I don't feel like joking.
MASON
Can you please just answer the question?
MAN
Why should I answer the question, when it's so obvious and unnecessary?
MASON begins to speak again, but HOLLY puts a hand on his arm, and he stops.
HOLLY
We're sorry for upsetting you, but this is just protocol. We'll leave that question for later. I think that for now we have something to show you.
MASON begins unpacking the bag. He takes out a small photo album and a mirror.
MAN
How did you get that? Why do you have my photographs?
HOLLY takes the photo album from MASON, and opens it.
HOLLY
Sir, just answer our questions. After that, we'll answer yours. Now, where was this picture taken?
MAN
I was on vacation in Vienna with my family. It was hard, but I had saved enough to go. That was three years ago.
HOLLY quickly turns the page of the album, points randomly.
HOLLY
This one?
CLOSE ON PHOTOGRAPH OF UNFAMILIAR MAN, WOMAN, AND TWO GIRLS, IN FRONT OF A GARAGE.
MAN
That's us in front of the garage where I work. We took that two years ago.
HOLLY
This is you in the middle?
MAN
Yes, of course.
MASON holds up the mirror. WIDER ANGLE TO INCLUDE MIRROR. The MAN can be seen in the mirror. There is no similarity between the man in the photo and the man on the bed.
MAN
Why are you doing that?
HOLLY
Do you see any differences between the man in this photo and yourself?
MAN
No, of course not.
HOLLY
Of course.
ANGLE ON CHARACTERS
MASON
Sir, you are a teenager. Look at yourself. You are not forty-five. You are closer to fifteen. Your name is not Esteban Tetson, Esteban Tetson died while you were in elementary school. You are Jon Eois. You live with your parents, Kip and Janice. You have never been outside the United States.
MAN
I don't know why you have me here, and I will not answer any more questions until you explain what this is about. I know who I am. I know exactly who I am, and I am tired of these jokes.
MASON
I see.
TWO SHOT OF MASON AND HOLLY repacking the bag in silence, leaving the mirror. They walk to the door, but HOLLY stops and turns.
HOLLY
Do you remember how you found that diary?
The MAN does not answer. POV of the MAN watching the researchers exit, then looking back at the mirror. It shows Esteban Tetson holding the diary. CLOSE ON MIRROR.
CUT TO HALLWAY
TWO SHOT OF HOLLY AND MASON, STANDING AT THE WALL ACROSS FROM THE ROOM.
HOLLY
I think it's the book. He's too fixated on it, too illogical about it.
MASON
Just be glad he's safe to work with. We'll grab the book tomorrow, run some tests. I just want to see this thing filed and gone.
A MEDICAL GURNEY ENTERS at the far end of the hallway, being rolled by another researcher. It is steadily rolled towards HOLLY, MASON, and the camera. HOLLY AND MASON watch it approach.
HOLLY
Mason?
MASON
Yeah?
HOLLY
Why'd I have to come here to meet someone?
THE GURNEY reaches HOLLY and MASON.
MASON
Because the universe has a really weird sense of humor.
THE MAN SCREAMS from OFF SCREEN. HOLLY AND MASON jump in surprise, and run for the door. The GURNEY WHEELER does not react, and continues to move.
ANGLE ON DOOR. HOLLY OPENS IT, but the view begins to fade as soon as she does.
FADE OUT
END ACT II
-*-*-*-*-*
ACT III
FADE IN
RESUME. TWO SHOT HOLLY AND MASON ENTERING THE HALLWAY. MASON is holding a CELL PHONE.
HOLLY
It figures, doesn't it? We finally get an easy subject, and this happens
HOLLY AND MASON stop walking outside the door.
MASON
We're just lucky, Hol. At least we're not on statue duty.
HOLLY shudders.
MASON (CONT.)
At least he died quickly.
HOLLY
That really isn't very comforting.
MASON
No, I guess not. But we have to figure out how his body affected our lovely little ticket to Vienna. It's procedure.
HOLLY
I know, honey. I'm just sick of this. Every day someone's careless and there's another body to deal with. It didn't use to bother me that much, but now…
HOLLY reaches for MASON'S hand.
HOLLY (CONT.)
Now, every day I think the body's going to be you.
MASON
I know. We shouldn't be here anymore.
HOLLY
No choice.
MASON
I know.
THE CELLPHONE BEEPS. MASON hits a button on it.
MASON (CONT.)
He's awake. Let's go.
HOLLY AND MASON kiss, then walk to the door.
ANGLE ON MAN, looking at the door as it opens and HOLLY AND MASON ENTER.
MAN
Finally. Holly, Mason, I'm fine. I have no idea how, but I'm fine. Now can I please go home and get some rest?
WIDEN ANGLE to show all characters.
MASON
We've told you before, sir. Once we're done asking you questions, you can go.
MAN
What on earth are you talking about?
MASON
What do you-
HOLLY
Mason, how did he know our names?
HOLLY AND MASON pause.
ANGLE ON MAN
MAN
We've worked together for five years. Now stop joking around.
MASON takes out his writing pad, and begins scribbling furiously. He does not look up when he talks.
MASON
What, if anything, do you know about the men Esteban Tetson and Jon Eois?
MAN
What? Why?
MASON
Just answer the question.
MAN
I've never heard the names before. Now can you please explain what's going on here?
MASON
What about that book you're holding?
MAN
My diary? I've kept it ever since I was a kid.
MASON
You bring it to work?
MAN
Of course I do.
MASON
In spite of the restrictions on personal belongings we may bring on site?
MAN
I don't see the relevance.
MASON
No, of course not. Holly, restrain him. I want to try something.
WIDEN ANGLE
THE MAN acts surprised and confused. He attempts to defend himself, but HOLLY easily overpowers him. MASON forcefully takes the diary from him. THE MAN begins to SCREAM.
MASON (CONT.)
Put him in the bathroom and lock the door.
CAMERA FOLLOWS as HOLLY drags THE MAN to the bathroom and pushes him in, then shuts the door and presses a button on it.
MASON (CONT.)
He, or they, displayed an obsession with the book, a fear of separation from it. If I'm right, the effect should end after a bit of time alone.
CAMERA CUT TO BATHROOM, with the MAN on one side of the screen and a mirror on the other. The mirror shows the reflection of another researcher.
THE MAN begins to cough, growing steadily louder throughout the conversation. MASON AND HOLLY can be heard talking as if they were in the room.
HOLLY
Honey, I don't like this. We shouldn't do tests without approval from higher up.
MASON
That takes too long. I want to leave tomorrow. Hell, I want to leave right now. I don't want to talk to someone who believes they're a dead friend of mine. That's just too much.
THE MAN begins to pound against the door, still coughing.
HOLLY
We can't afford to be careless, not now.
MASON
I'd rather take a risk than keep hearing that thing talk.
THE MAN GASPS AND COLLAPSES. HOLLY AND MASON notice the absence of noise.
MASON (CONT.)
There. Let's go check.
THE DOOR OPENS, HOLLY AND MASON STANDING in it. MASON is holding the diary. HOLLY rushes to THE MAN'S side. She puts her hand on his chest, and her ear to his mouth.
HOLLY
No heartbeat, no breathing. He's dead.
MASON looks down at the body.
MASON
Where am I?
HOLLY turns toward MASON. The mirror shows an exact copy of JON EOIS standing above his own body, in MASON'S place. He is gripping the diary.
CAMERA CUT TO BLACK
END ACT III


One day, Dr. Cog was walking through his lab (being a scientist and all), when he found Dr. Crow trying to catch his attention. It was never a hard thing to do, as Dr. Cog was usually quite bored, and Dr. Crow was a talking dog.
“You should take a look at this,” insisted Dr. Crow, in a somewhat excited manner, “It's really quite interesting.”
“Well, I don't have any experiments running at the time, so show the way.” Dr. Cog replied in his usual monotone.
The pair walked down several hallways, and through several elevators (Dr. Crow isn't good with stairs), the bipedal doctor occasionally deflecting attempts at smalltalk.
“Any interesting hypotheses?” Dr. Crow would ask, “Any developments with the exploding crabs, or the self-aware maze of pipes?” Dr. Cog hemmed and hawed, it was all work to him.
After a good many turns and descents, they reached a darkened observation room. Behind the single large window was a boy, probably no more than ten years old.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“This,” Dr. Crow indicated with a wave of a paw, “is a small boy who eats only plastics, and is about three times as strong as an average child of his age”
“Interesting. Not particularly dangerous. Administer sedatives, run a four month circuit of tests with some of the new researchers, and slate the item for destruction if it presents any difficulties.”
“You know, Cog, we've been friends for years, research partners at the least. You've seen some strange things that I couldn't imagine. I've never understood, though, how you can deal with things like this so easily.”
“Like what?”
“Like asking a dog with glasses to kill a small child if it ‘presents difficulties.'”
Already on his way out the door, Dr. Cog replied: “There's always another one tomorrow.”


I am a wire. They're finding new ways to kill me. Even now, I can hear 00201, screaming, relentless, and under it and above it and around it and through it there's 598, pressing, like a vice, trying to squeeze it out, the waves break around them. I twitch and I turn, screaming passively, and I feel a pair of hands clutch firmly at my back- when I look through yellow-washed eyes there's no one there, just another way to use me-

I wasn't new to the Foundation, for three years I'd been catching their monsters and outreasoning their demons. I'd risked life and limb and sanity for them, and when they asked me to observe the introduction of SCP-598 to SCP-███-00201, how was I to refuse them? It was after I noticed that what I believed to be the observation chamber was coated in the humming yellow I knew so well, and heard the door lock behind me, that I thought to question them.

Two agents watched through the plate glass window.
“Twelve, I'd rather you not kill her.”
“You've already been informed of the risks, Barculo,” The Other Man in the room shifted and sunk his hands into his pockets. “We strongly believe SCP-███-00201's hostile intent will be directed at SCP-598 as opposed to Agent Hays, especially with 598 making the initial confrontation.”
“Only got the memo today. You're planning to use her mind as a battleground. She's a good agent.” Eliot Barculo clenched his fists.
“Barculo, I'm sorry that she's the most convenient choice we had. The fact that she's interacted with 598 before, that counts for something- And her mental ability-”
“The synesthesia, you mean.”
“Yes. Precisely. All of these make her the most logical choice.”
“What happened to all the Class-D's?”
“No synesthesates around for the time being, and we can't keep putting resources into containing it-” he gestured to the steel box, which gave another shudder as the equipment surrounding it sparked to dangerous highs. "And we're not merely planning on it, we're about to. Do you have any further questions, Agent Barculo?”
The man swore several times and dug his feet at the ground, then looked up. “Can I watch?”
“Figured you'd want to.” Twelve gestured to a pair of seats. The pair sat down and reached for their headphones.

I was surprised that nothing happened the second I stepped in. Only the sturdy reflective plate glass, and the large steel box, a dark chair, and of course the quiet yellow hum of the walls greeted me.
“Hello, friend,” I greeted the walls as I dropped into the chair (the door clicking brightly behind me).
The pensive yellow hum only throbbed and buzzed worriedly instead of responding immediately. Mm, steel yourself, Miriam, yes? It asks.
“I thought I was just observing,” I frown.
Not as I understand it. Of course the intelligent shade of ochre has a higher security clearance then I. It's, ah, you're designed to act as the medium, I believe.
This wasn't what I was told.
I'm sorry, Miriam, brace yourself. I'll work this out. I could feel it do the same. The steel door flew open.
Instantly I heard the screaming, and at the same time Yellow flung like a tiger- lesser sensations went crawling up the walls. Pure light and sound exploded into being in my skull. I sat immobile, staring unblinking at the yellow wall- its normally calm hum now a bee-swarm buzz. An inhuman, pitch-black scream ran through me, and there was a distant awareness of 598 grappling it with sheer will. Flipping it onto its back. Glimpses of a suited man and Eliot Barculo through the plate glass, who wore bulky headsets to protect from -00201 and looked through painted glass as protection from 598.
Golden ribbons swarmed around a black cloud, shrieking and battering, and I sat still and let the gods wage war and tried not to remember things torn free in my head-
- illicit trips at ten years to the shooting range with a tall uncle, laughing in delight as I lay down a messy pattern of shots, more interested in the concentric lime-green ripples they made then ultimate destinations. Back when synesthesia was a vase-shaped word rather than a neurological condition, back when we'd play with pots, pans, dyes, dulcimers, paints, anything else that would make noises and colors -
- police force days, decked in sparrow-song blues, rounding the corner, pistol raised, as the thing that had been the house ate Officer Strandberg, fire hose sloshing it down, and a man I would come to know well tapped me on the back, saying, I think I have a new job for you -
- the inside of Agent Brennan's car, in the pale night at the end of my first mission under Eliot Barculo, with the brakes blown out and a bullet only just out of my calf, pulsing black. Raindrops streaming dye the air green, as the pain throws rings around my legs and I wait for the darkness to overtake me, I feel Brennan's dusky hand in my hair, and his fingers turn the radio on to the New World Symphony -
Not exactly helping! Yellow calls. I snap back. The screaming is still there and spurting liquid ink tendrils, I catch a smiling thought that looks a lot like a “Hah”. There is blow after blow that seem to be nothing more material or pure then an aural push towards failure, and the pulsing walls seem to glow a little less brightly with every throb. My mind, with its mixed signals and need for interpretation, shows me a handful of black diamonds fluttering to earth like feathers.
My friend is unprepared, but deals with adversity well. He - always written as male in my mind - tries for a relentless and slow domination of psychic force, calmly reaching out again and again. They're too closely matched: a creature of air, a creature of light, transcending mediums, trying to sing each other to death.

This was new to me, and yet, I excelled. In me there are thousands of eons of guarding the caves, of reflecting throughout the Resplendent Hall with my brethren, of singing the songs of our species. Only in our distant memories was the knowledge of interaction with a species not our own.
And yet, I find I use violence where I wish it. Certainly I owe my Foundation favors.
I change tactics, becoming a monolith. I know my enemy already, he is an echo of the mouth of the infernal cavities of Long Before. Born of endless night, strong, but seeing no further then the preoccupied predator must.
Light travels faster than sound. I remember this. I notice the black ribbons in her mind and with a thought crush them.
In the chair, Miriam shakes. I would apologize, honestly, but there is no time.

Hays twitched, dancing unwillingly to behemoths filling her sight and ears. A whirlwind and a nothing of chaos changing shape. They didn't exist. The screaming. The dark.
Yellow decided a change of tactics was necessary, and concentrated very hard for a moment. The normal thoughtful hum erupted into a sudden, high, very organic howl. Hays remembered something about shortwave radios. It had an electric affect, and she jolted, but 00201 took most of the blow. The darkness howled and dissipated a little.
Miriam - Yellow started, but he was cut off by the scream again. He came at it from all angles like an ectoplasmic starfish, like a guardian angel. The small human's shoulders shook. Hands and claws, touching and bracing -
- tempestuous -
-Miriam, the thought you were having earlier, Yellow says urgently. How did it end?
I can't move, I can't think. “…Why?” They continue to attack as my mind tries to work. My hand jumps up of its own accord and sinks into my leg, drawing blood.
Look, it ends with you and Agent Brennan listening to that symphony and falling asleep in the car, right?
Among other things, yes.
I have an idea. Finish the memory, imagine the song. I have a plan but I'll need your assistance- The screaming stops for a minute, my vision clears, and I turn around to see chips of bright yellow paint spraying off the walls, before the black cloud senses me -
I truly heard it, unsheltered, for the first time, as Yellow didn't react quickly enough. I opened my mouth to scream, driven to be alongside it, lusting to echo it -
A yellow hum filled my mind. The world goes xanthic. Everything else blinks out temporarily.
Mariam, that's how it gets you, 598 tells me sternly. My idea, the symphony, trust me.
Then it was gone, the awful screaming returned, but distracted as Yellow danced around it. My ears were wet. I had nearly died, and 598 had stopped it.
The song. What song? Time passed in inches.
…00201 like battering assaults pushing vision to a standstill -
…pain in my leg, red rings, that night in the car -
…the two concepts like a hurricane through my central nervous system, a true epileptic seizure, muscles contracting like the man whose spine I'd shot out -
…hands in my hair -
…the scream -
…violins -
My mother had always said I was musical. Piano, cello, violin, clarinet, piccolo, nothing came as easily to me as that one godly gift. As soon as I recalled the first note, the rest followed, like an old friend: small vermilion zephyrs.
Cellos crescendoing into anxious violins, sprouting gold all over.
The dam rose, shrugging its mighty shoulders one last time, heaved, and the golden wave burst -
When it came crashing down, it was a thousand times what it had been in the car. Caterwauling and dazzling, vivid beyond thought, piercing to the heart and the everything of what I knew- it was a stinging all-encompassing force, that left burns on my tongue, a sonorous beam; more than that, a tidal wave of energy, merely passing through the dimension of sensation on its way to a higher goal.
And now the tide was going out.
It had worked, I knew it had worked, the scream was extinguished; the black cloud not a trace but in my mind. As I slumped in the seat, arms sliding uncomfortably down the sides, something new had shifted into being.
I could see the warm bitter rings echoing off of bleeding legs; as the locks clicked open, I could hear the argent pins sliding upward and downward, floral tastes echoing off them, I could see the tawny-striped voices, muttering red clothing, hitting high notes and textured ellipses-
I could see -

Twelve and Barculo, once it was done, exchanged a glance before removing their headphones simultaneously and rising to survey the damage. SCP-598 had succeeded admirably, not a trace of the hostile entity that they had expended so many men finding and restraining remained. Head Agent Eliot Barculo called for a medical team and started tending to Hays, while Twelve stepped aside for a conversation with the only slightly-damaged surface of 598.
“Good work, Yellow. Are you injured?”
Not at all, thank you, good Twelve. The physical damage is superficial, and I will be entirely restored with some chromal rebuilding.
“Good to hear. How did you do it?”
Changing tactics. Miriam aided me near the end as well.
“Really?” Twelve raised an eyebrow at the stretcher being carried out, a knowing smile writ on the face of the unconscious body on it. “Is she dead?”
No, however, I feel I may have harmed her somehow. This would be unfortunate. I did try to avoid it.
“Collateral damage,” the man said sadly. He turned to face the wall again. “Yellow, none the less, you've performed admirably. I'll be passing this on to the higher-ups, of course, and I hope you'll continue to assist the Foundation when we need it.”
I look forward to being of service.
Twelve and the stretchers left, and the lit room was left alone. Solitary, SCP-598 glinted and reflected around the walls, in slowed, contrite, static thought. Elsewhere, in the Medical Ward, Miriam (blood leaking from ears, nose, and throat, limbs still rocking spasmodically) grinned like a madman, entertaining thoughts of a man whose voice felt like cloves, whose eyes were sweet foggy panpipe notes, whose hands were dusky barks sailing in a d-flat sea, of everything correlated and a world illuminated.
A nurse held her still on the gurney as a doctor pushed a needle into her arm, and the quiet darkness rushed around, up to meet her.


Document 941-B was located in the men's lavatory at Site ██ June 3, ████. Despite an authorized review by the on-site forensic department, there are as of yet no clues as to who is responsible for publishing Document 941-B. Even though much of the information within Document 941-B has been proven false after lengthy investigations, such periodicals are not repeat not permitted under the employee contract.
ALL periodicals must be submitted to and approved by at least two Level 3 administrators and must be printed using supplied on-site equipment.
Note from O5-█:
Even though we have yet to find any further items related to Document 941-B, we must still be on the lookout for possible attempts to distribute items like these. They only serve to undermine the established authority and can possibly have negative effects on the disposition of researchers.
Note:
WHO THE HELL IS PRINT ABOUT MY SEX LIFE
SON OF THE BITCH
I HAVE YOUR HEAD ASS FOR THIS YOU SON OF A BITCHES
-D. Strelnikov
With respect, Captain, none of this can possibly contain information the whole site wasn't aware of before.
-Dr. Light
For the record, you totally traded down.
-Agent Yoric
Hey man, how come this one even has some Javanese date and matchmaking articles? It even has prediction dates for some of our personnel… Let's see… Iceberg, Kliwon Friday ██th ████████, ████… 'Be careful, watch for the flying money hidden dump' …I seriously can't decipher this one.
-Agent Carriontrooper
MOVE ALONG NOW, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, PEOPLE.
IN PARTICULAR, PAGE SIXTEEN IS TO BE TREATED AS, ahem, A CLASS- uh, TWELVE MEMETIC HAZARD.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
-Dr. Klein
I am not a Monkey.
-Dr. Bright
On the upside, the extra advertisement from the ban should sell enough to cover printing cos- er, nevermind. How do I make it erase that?
-Agent Yoric
It all really depends on your definition of Doctor, I suppose. I refuse to comment beyond that.
-Lurker
So THAT is what happened to that poor, poor pony.
-Dr. Ziegler
Damn. I expected an article about Strelnikov's beak wetting habits, but I didn't expect close-up pictures…
-Dr. Kald
I think I was at that wedding.
-Agent Nicholakis
I was at 914 and Gears' counselling session. It was the most uninteresting thing ever.
-Agent Spoon
Whoever came up with "Dear Able: Advice for the Lovelorn": that was funny as hell, and it was nice knowing you.
-Dr. Lambert
Everything on page 16 is FALSE. FALSEFALSEFALSE. And I swear I'm going to hurt someone the next time I hear the word "Necrololi".
~Dr. Trebuchet
Regarding the article on page 24 about my botched attempt to get 050… The pictures about the "Sushi-Inator" are just photoshops of 914 with inari-sushi filling! I wasn't even near 914 that day, so shut up about trying to get pictures of Josie wrapped in seaweed! IT NEVER HAPPENED!
-Dr. Okagawa
That Pisces horoscope regarding 999 is just downright disturbing.
-Dr. Armstrong
Jesus Strelnikov, I had to turn those pictures upside down twice before I realised what they were showing.
- Dr. Aeish
Who the fuck approved a 231-7 paternity test?
-Dr. Stoeckle
I see that nobody else slipped the Internal Communications staff a fifty to keep their mouths shut.
-Clef


Darkness loomed over the streets of Night City, the shadows casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt pavement, the city's dark darkness lurking deep within its shriveled black hearts, as black as pitch and as shriveled as the lungs of a chain-smoking sailor.
Joe Knife pinned the girl up against the wall, his ugly, slobbering face sneering as he sneeringly pulled up her skirt. "Don't worry," he sneered. "I'll make sure this hurts a lot. I'm a rapist, this is what I do, rape and things like that."
It was then that he was clobbered by a bowl of chowder, steaming hot and packed with delicious clams and white potatoes, cooked just to firmness, with quite a few celery bits as well to give snap and flavor. It was New England clam chowder, for the figure who stood on the rooftop wearing a black apron and a tall chef's hat made of black cloth (blacker than the blackest of blacks that a black-wearing goth kid would wear at midnight) was not fond of tomatoes in his clam chowder, and considered it an abberation, nay, a heresy, which must be purged.
Joe Knife screamed in pain as he raised his gun and fired it at the rooftop, but the black-clad, mysterious figure was too fast for him, and vanished in a flash of black cloth. "Come out!" he screamed. "Who the hell are you? Where the fuck are you coming from?"
"Right here," said a voice, and it pounded him in the back of the skull with a ladle.
Joe Knife grabbed the back of his head. "OW! That HURTS!" he shouted. "And you didn't answer my question, who are you?"
The mysterious stranger drew himself up to his full mysterious seven feet of height, and the grin on his face was wide and mysterious. Moonlight glinted off the horns on his forehead.
"The name is Clef," he said. "Chowderclef. Defender of the World."

CHOWDERCLEF, DEFENDER OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER 1: THE BADASS AND THE HOT CHICKS WHO WANT TO BONE HIM, OR BE BONED BY HIM

Site 19 was in a tizzy. "Oh no!" shouted Doctor Rights. "All the SCPs are out of their pens!"
"I'll save you!" said Doctor Clef, and he ran into the room with his shotgun.
"Oh noes," said SCP-682. "It is Clef. He gong to kill us."
"Ha ha ha!" said Doctor Clef, and he shot at SCP-682 with his shotgun rocket missiles.
"Argh!" shouted SPC-682, and it fell down and was ded.
"You saved us!" said Doctor Rights, and she kissed him. And then they had sex.
"The SCP Foundation would fall apart without Doctor Clef here," said Doctor Gears, and he gave Clef a promotion to O5.
To everyone at Site 19, Doctor Clef was just a mild mannered researcher, an ordinary guy like any other.
But Doctor Clef had a sekrets. At night, when the rest of Site 19 was alseep, he put on a black chef's toke and a black aporn. And he went to the Site 19 kitchen and he made a big pot of clam chowder. Then he went to Gotham City or Night City or Metropolis and he fought crime. He was Chowderclef! Defendeer of the innocent and the protector of the world.
This si his story.

"I'm sorry to call you away from your work on such short notice."
"Always glad to help out a senior staff member. What can I do for you?"
"I have a question for you. Do you remember this?"
"But of course. How could I forget? It took me hours to type up this report."
"Please read the report again."
"All right… it seems in order… wait. Oh my god…"

Vanessa Danielle Heartilly picked up her tray of food and walked over to the lunchroom table. Halfway, there, she felt something grab her backpack and pull her down. She stumbled and fell, scattering her milk and spaghetti all over the front of her shirt.
Alexis Evilmeir sneered at her. "Nice job, nerd," she said, flouncing her stringy blonde hair. "It looks good on you." She laughed and walked away, accompanied by the other popular researchers, who sat around with all of the jocks at their own table, gossiping about something stupid and lame.
Vanessa whimpered and knelt there on the lunchroom floor. A single tear rolled down her face and splashed on the food. "Get the hell up and clean that up," the lunch lady said, and Vanessa slowly got to her feet and started to gather up the fallen food.
Then a hand reached down and helped her. "Here," a soft, gentle voice said. "Let me help."
She looked up into the face of the most handsome man she had ever seen. His eyes were limpid blue, green, and brown orbs, their sparkling hues warming her heart, and his perfect white skin peeked from under the collar of his immaculate white labcoat. A broad smile on his face as he carefully wiped the tear from her cheek and licked it off the tip of his finger. "Beautiful girls shouldn't cry," he said.
"I'm not beautiful," Vanessa mumbled.
"I think you are. I've thought so for a long time," Doctor Clef said. "I've watched you for a very long time, you know." He picked her up off the ground and carried her away, while Alexis and her stupid friends looked on jealously.
"Are you sure this is a good idea," Vanessa whispered. "I mean, what if the other senior staff see?"
"Fuck the senior staff. Love is greater than this," Clef growled, and he started to take off her blouse. "But first, you need to know something," he whispered into her ear.
"Anything," gasped Vanessa.
"Late at night," Clef uttered, "I put on a black hat and apron and fight crime as Chowderclef."

"My god. How far has it spread?"
"As far as we can tell, to all of your records. Everything from your personnel files to your reports to your SCP articles."
"This is ridiculous. How could anyone believe any of this? Ex-GOC sniper? I was a clerk! And my god, I'd never been anywhere near a gun, much less used one… they're like bad…"
"Bad fanfiction, yes. SCP-732 is known to do that."
"Can the records be retrieved?"
"Perhaps… but it will take a while. Some of them may never be completely restored."
"My god… all those years of work, all that data, reduced to the testosterone-laced ramblings of a preteen, violence-obsessed…"
"I'm sorry, Doctor Clef. I really am."

"DIE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" Clef screamed, and he blazed away with his twin Pancor Jackhammers, filling the air with lead. The zombies exploded into showers of gore, splattering blood and internal organs across the walls. "KEEP KILLING THEM, YOU FUCKERS, DON'T LET THEM GET AROUND US!"
"SIR!" screamed Strelnikov. "THE DAMNED CHECHEN ZOMBIES ARE COMING THROUGH THE WALLS!"
"FUCK THAT! KILL THEM ALL!" Clef roared. He threw down his twin Pancor Jackhammers and grabbed a pair of Mateba Autorevolvers, firing off the exotic .38 caliber weapons akimbo, as he dove under cover. "GRENADE OUT!"
A whole bandolier of grenades flew over the desk and landed in the middle of the group of zombies, turning them into chunks of writhing flesh. "It's over," Demitri said.
"No. Not yet," Clef snarled. He put on a black chef's hat and an apron. "The criminal scum who did this is still out there. We must bring him to justice."
"I'll go with you," Damitri said.
"No. I must do this alone," grimaced Clef. "Chowderclef always works alone."

— Alice screamed with pleasure. "Chowderclef, oh god, I love you!" she screamed, as she came. Chowderclef's massive, throbbing —

— "Fire photon torpedoes!" shouted Captain Picard. The U.S.S. Chowderclef raced after the Romulan invaders, firing a massive stream of photon torpedoes and quantum phasers, launching X-Wing fighters and Mark XI Vipers in massive —

— "CHOWDER FOR THE CHOWDERCLEF, POTATOES FOR THE SPUD THRONE!" screamed the Chaos Space Marine, as he —

"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"… no, I think I'll be fine. But as long as the initial infection is gone, we should be fine."
"You seem to be taking this well."
"It is actually pretty funny. And I must admit, this… other Doctor Clef… seems to have a much more interesting life than I do. Instead of being cooped up in a lab, he seems to be living the life of some kind of action movie star. Killing… sorry, what's the word 732 used… decommissioning SCPs… claiming to be Satan… he's actually quite the badass."
"Isn't that the truth. Some personnel claim that we should keep these older files, simply for entertainment purposes, at least."
"The originals will have to be restored, of course."
"But of course. In any case, that is all. Oh yes, and here."
"Ah, thank you. I'd wondered where they'd gone off to."
"I wouldn't want you to lose them. After all, you'll need these if you want to fight crime as Chowderclef."

END


Incident Report: I-028-F
SCP involved: SCP-028
Personnel involved: Agent Stebritz, Security Officers Gomez and Bishop, D-1437
Date: ██/██/████
Location: Site █
Description: I was assigned the duty of bi-weekly inspection of Site █, and arrived shortly after 12:00 noon. Officer Bishop was stationed in the security checkpoint outside the front gate, while Officer Gomez was stationed at the door to the room where SCP-028 is held. D-1437 was going about his duties cleaning the facility. I checked everything as per usual, and was done with the inspection by 3:15. Transportation back to my hotel room was scheduled to come back at 4:00, so I pulled up a chair in one of the offices in the building and started reading a book to pass the time.
A little after 3:30 PM, a group of 3 high school students found their way to Site █ thinking that they could vandalize it without people noticing. Officer Bishop heard their spray paint and moved out to scare them away. About fifteen minutes later, they came back and started throwing rocks at Officer Bishop (probably thinking he was just some Rent-a-Cop). He called for Officer Gomez and they both moved to drive the kids off again. During the time that the facility was left unguarded, D-1437, during his daily rounds of sweeping the halls, saw that the room containing SCP-028 was left unguarded. He made his way into the seemingly empty room and stumbled unknowingly into SCP-028's area of effect.
Moments later, I heard screams coming from down the hall. I jumped up and ran to the room where I found D-1437 on his knees, screaming and crying. As soon as he saw me, he lunged for me and grabbed hold of my clothing. He repeatedly screamed, "It's killed all of them!", "It's unstoppable!", and "You don't know what it's capable of!", along with other incomprehensible blabbering. I managed to get him to calm down enough to form one complete statement. He looked me in the eye and said:
D-1437: You HAVE to do everything you can to stop it or it will be the end of everything we know!
Myself: What are you talking about? What will be the end of what?
D-1437: At Site 19… number Fift… (His face went blank and almost looked bewildered.)
Myself: …Number what?
D-1437: …What the fuck are you doing holding me? Get the fuck off! (At this point he pushes me away and stands up.)
Myself: What do you mean 'what am I doing'? You were screaming bloody murder in here.
D-1437: The hell are you talkin' about? I was just seein' what was in this room!
At this point, Officers Gomez and Bishop return. After asking us what we were doing in there, I asked them what they were doing not guarding the facility. They explained and I led D-1437 back to the office I was in before. I sat D-1437 down and cuffed his hands, then contacted SCP Command to come pick D-1437 up. They arrived ten minutes later. As they were walking D-1437 away, he yelled "The room was empty! There was nothing in there!"
Personal note: D-1437 was on death row for multiple counts of murder, along with several other less severe crimes. One, how did he manage to get a JANITORIAL job working with a Safe-level SCP? Two, what knowledge could have possibly been implanted into his mind to scare him so bad? Three, why was he only affected by this knowledge for no more than a minute?
Addendum:
Document# 028-01: Interrogation of D-1437

Agent ████: Why did you go into that room?
D-1437: I saw that no one was guarding it, and I was curious. I don't see what the big deal is, it's just an empty room.
Agent ████: You don't remember anything strange happening in that room?
D-1437: Other than that dude suddenly latchin' on to me, no.
Agent ████: No sudden inspirations or revelations?
D-1437: Yeah, actually. That dude's gay.
Agent ████: Alright.
D-1437: Look, I don't know what the big deal is. There's nothin' but air in that room.
Agent ████: Then why were you screaming?
D-1437: I wasn't! I was in the room for like ten seconds!
Agent ████: According to Agent Stebritz, you were in there for almost a minute yelling about something that will kill everyone.
D-1437: What? That's bullshit! It couldn't have been more than fifteen seconds I was in there!
Agent ████: And you're sure about that?
D-1437: Of course! Your Agent's a damn moron!
Agent ████: Okay then, excuse me. (Agent ████ exits the room.)

D-1437 terminated at first of the month as per protocol.
The SCP D-1437 referenced is unknown at this time, but efforts are being put forth to find it. Site 19 security has been tightened, but no sign of such a threat has been found.


Our planet was dying. There are many explanations I could give for this, countless stories of failures and failed ideas and the inability of one lonely species to see the truth, endless tales of ignorance and of the worst possible living sin, stupidity. But none of these reasons are excuses, and in any case I am not looking for sympathy. So suffice to say that our planet was dying, while we yearned to live.
I was in the Council of Sciences. Several years earlier, we had sat down the most formidable minds of our time, and broken down our situation, assessing the level of our threat- dire, indeed, very dire- and more importantly, discussing what we would need for a solution. It was called the Thirty Year Plan. The common people thought this referred to what we were going to do over the next thirty years to solve their problems. In actuality, it was the maximum calculated length of time we had until civilization broke down, and possibly methods of lengthening that time.
We would need land, and food, and fuel, and we didn't have the resources to attain any of it. We did, yes, have a prototype starship available to us, and enough energy to power it many light years, but the starship could not carry a city, and there was already talk of breaking it down and using the power source to produce heat or food or any of the supplies already in dire need. Our planet was dying. Our people were starving. We needed hope.
Then it came, out of the stars, like a gift from the gods we had officially denounced. We spotted it in the atmosphere long before it touched the surface of our planet, and a rocket was sent to retrieve it from orbit. It fell to earth in an unpopulated desert, and was removed by a single unmarked van. We couldn't afford to get anyone's hopes up.
I was fortunate to be chosen to help study the Artifact. The bulk of it was badly dented, stained, and entirely foreign to us. It was made by hands, and the hands were not ours.
There was some manner of electrical devices built into it, although they were all but melted and ashen ropes now. The only item we could recover was a single, beautiful, golden disk, covered in tiny circular ridges on one side and engraved all over on the other. We all stared at the markings. They were unlike anything we had ever seen.
"I don't want to jump to conclusions," said my good friend Professor Maddy, after some discussion, "But these drawings could, after some imagination, be a star map of sorts." He indicated a set of abstract dots and lines. "And these," gesturing to an outlined shape, "Could almost be life of some sort." He was saying what all of us were thinking, what we didn't want to think. I put my hand on his back. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I said gently.
"Yes," said the Head of the Council. "Absolutely. Research on this item must start immediately, but not a word of this is to be given to the public. Does everyone here understand? Not a word." He looked around, expression softening. "False hope is another commodity we cannot afford." Everyone understood what he meant.
The next day, I was assigned to speak at a protest in the city of Voss. This was the part of my job I hated most. Voss was impoverished, hungry, massive, and angry, perhaps rightfully so. I would have to smile, and try to address and support their concerns by feeding them lies, hopefully by mentioning the Thirty Year Plan as much as I could. That always seemed to reassure them.
I stood, later, in a crumbling and formerly-grand auditorium in Voss. The entire room was packed with filthy, hungry, extinguished souls, all of them staring at me, dead silent.
"I would like to c-commend you for your concern," I stammered. "But your g-government, and the Council of Sciences, have only your best interests in… In mind, and we are working on finding solutions to the most pressing issues we face, namely the food and water shortages, the economic sh-shortfalls, as well as pollution. We want to assure you that we are doing everything we can to deal with these. I will now f-field questions." I tugged at the collar of my shirt, as the room dissolved into angry muttering. A young reporter with a microphone stood up.
"Professor Rook," she addressed me, "You say you are addressing the poverty and the food and water shortages in communities around the planet. What exactly are you doing?"
I adjusted my hat normally. "We are developing new and improved filtration methods and agricultural practices," I said, "Which should drastically increase the amount of food raised. The… Uh, the production and implementation of these techniques will require a sub… substantial new workforce, thus increasing hiring. This, and more, is all covered in the Thirty Year Plan."
Another reporter stood up. "You know, all the officials I've heard have talked about the Thirty Year Plan, but I haven't heard any specifics yet. What is the Thirty Year Plan going to do about overpopulation? About our waning food populations? About the poverty? Professor, what is the Thirty Year Plan?"
"The Thirty Year Plan cannot be fully disclosed, because we believe that total disclosure will alter the intended results," I read off of my prompter. "Suffice to say that the Thirty Year Plan is being enacted as we speak, and is showing results." Deemphasize, deflect, reassure. Easy enough.
The crowd had begun shouting about the lack of results. I felt small.
Somewhere in the back, a well-dressed man stood up. He didn't have a microphone, and his loud voice carried his words.
"Professor Rook," he said smoothly. "I recently discovered an unrevealed government report- it my have been somewhat confidential, I apologize- but it stated that some sort of object- known as the Artifact, I believe- fell out of the sky several days ago, and, let me quote the report- 'It is certainly man-made, although it is engraved with multiple symbols not recognized, and is nearly positively non-terrestrial in design.' What can you tell us about the Artifact, professor?"
The room was silent. I felt as though I had been punched in the chest. I had written those words. The Artifact. They knew about the Artifact. I watched the man fade into the crowd again.
"Y-yes, the, uh, the anomaly- the Artifact, as it's known- does present some curiosity to us, but it's… Certainly not a definite symbol of anything. Research is… R-research is ongoing." The prompter was black. Silence.
"Why didn't you tell us?" A voice screamed. A civilian somewhere.
"We, uh, we didn't want to g-get anyone's hopes up…" The mass broke into screams and boiled like a pot of water. I felt sick. I felt like a monster. Security rushed in. The meeting ended shortly after that.
They had to change our hotel reservations. They put security in the lobby. Nobody found us. I called Maddy, asking about the Artifact.
They had found nothing. They had bounced light off of it, scanned it, studied it, measured the ridges, put them through our best codebreaking programs. Nothing at all. And news of it had encircled the planet by now.
I slept with my two mates that night, Jai and Adel. None of their comforting, their nuzzling, their reassurances helped. Eventually their soft words and contact degraded into the slow, heavy, silence. When I tried to sleep, I tossed and turned helplessly. I latched onto the thought that the Artifact, instead of being a greeting or a chance occurrence, was in fact a plea for help from another dying world, a planet similarly falling apart. Another world running out. It would be unbearable.
In the morning, I woke up early. I snuck into the security guard's break room between shifts, took a gun, and slipped back into my hotel room unnoticed. Jai and Adel slept peacefully, still holding my nonexistent form.
I had to turn away. I was a coward. I held the gun to my head. Straight through the upper eye, that would do it. The people were angry, furious, and they had every right to be. Their water sources had failed them. Their food sources had failed them. Their ecosystem had failed them. We had failed them. They wanted to see the Thirty Year Plan? This was the Thirty Year Plan. I closed my eyes. The phone rang.
I jumped, and turned to see if Jai or Adel had noticed. They hadn't. I shoved the gun into a drawer, and stepped into the hall. "Yes?" I asked tiredly.
"Rook, this is Maddy. The artifact."
"…What about it?"
"We made it work. Look, you know the side with the ridges? We had to balance a pin over it, attach a speaker, and spin it at a very precise rate."
"Almost like a code."
"Maybe. But you have to get over here right now. It's making noise. It's singing."
I was there in under an hour.
By that time, they had reached the apparent end of the recording, and had to reposition the device to make it play again. We sat surrounding the little makeshift player, as the disc spun, absolutely silent.
I heard sounds, the likes of which I had never heard before. Short, organic, staccato beeps and clicks. A low buzzing that rose and fell. Vibrant, voice-like vocalizations from the throats of strange animals, showing anger and joy. Hundreds of sharp, short, airy, melodious whistles, that fell into wondrous natural tunes and songs. A long, low, howl that seemed to swell out of silence, like a mountain out of water, like the sun out of night. Then there was the music.
All different styles, all different sounds. Some like water falling over rocks, some like heartbeats, like screaming, like falling, like love. Unintelligible singing voices wove in and out of them. It was rhythmic and beautiful.
"That's not all," Maddy explained excitedly. "We translated the star maps. We found our star. If we're right, this came from a planet in a solar system 7.7 light years away." Well within reach of the starcraft. I could feel the Thirty Year Plan, and all of my doubts, wither away.
The music ended soon, replaced by tuneful, punctuated voices, all diverse in their influences, all saying things we couldn't interpret, but understood precisely. The music had ended, but I was listening to the most glorious song I would ever hear.
Hello.
Hola.
Bonjour.
Jambo.
Ni hao.
I could barely give the muttered instructions to prep the starcraft. This was the song of salvation, of hope, of deliverance. A song of plenty, of a land of space and air and animals and voices. We thank our otherworldly saviours like tribal ancients, showing gratitude for the lives of the animals they were about to hunt.
So this message is to you, to your planet, to your world that howls and speaks and sings. Thank you for your expressions of welcome and invitation, and for your offerings of hope and life.
We hear you.
And we're coming as soon as we can.


Dear Mom,
Hi from school, it's me, Elaine. I know it's been a while since I've written anything, but it's been really busy over here and I just haven't had the time. I know it's strange for me to be late, but I wish you were here so I could tell you how crazy everything has been. I really miss you and the whole family, and I'm hoping I can get some time to visit during the break. I did finally find the package you sent me a while ago, and I really appreciate it because I love the patterns on my dresses. The stuff they sell over here is just not the same as what we have back home.
Anyways, it's about time for midterms here, and you can't go anywhere without seeing people studying. You know, it's kinda scary being out here for the first time, but I guess you can really start to like it after a while. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about our promise. Our minds are still on the same thing, so we are going to make that date no matter what!
I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to go home for the break, the flight to home is already booked up. You'd think they'd learned to create an additional flight this time of year, but I guess they would have to order additional help or something, and I wouldn't want to be stuck out working over break. A week of watching everyone else go home would just kill me. Anyways, hopefully I can figure something out before the chaos really starts. That, or I'll just have to find a better time. Or maybe I should just come home for good. I don't know any more, it's like there's just so much wrong right now, I just want to be home again. I'm sure someone could help me with all this, but you know how I am with being helped out by other people. It's just like there's nothing there for me if I don't do it myself. Anyways, I'll keep trying, there has to be something I can do. Please tell Dad I love him, and we'll get together again soon. I hoped you saved us some of your special cookies! Anyways, I should get back to studying before something bad happens.
Hello there.


scritch scritch scritch
I couldn't get any sleep last night. There was something scratching from behind the walls. It's probably just rats or something. I'll probably get it checked out tomorrow.
scritch scritch scritch
Couldn't sleep again last night. That damn scratching sound came up again. This time, it was all over the place, like it was scurrying through the walls and ceiling. I seriously have to call somebody about this.
scritch scritch scritch
That damn scratching won't stop. I called over the landlord and an exterminator. They gave my room and the entire floor a thorough inspection, short of knocking holes through the walls. They said they couldn't find any evidence of pests anywhere. Well fuck them. At least the inspection was free.
scritch scritch scritch
Fucking hell, it's still there. I borrowed some plastic sealing spray from one of my neighbors. I'm not sure how he happened to have several cans of the stuff lying around, it just seems to be a bit too convenient. From the way he acted, it looked as if this wasn't the first time he's done something like this. Maybe…?
Nah, just my imagination.
I didn't sleep that night. I spent the whole time sealing every possible crack and hole in my apartment. I don't want to risk that damn whatever it is crawling into my room.
scritch scritch scritch
FUCK.
I think the thing must have crept in while I was out. I can hear it scratching around on the inside of my room now. Oh god, I think it's coming closer…
I'm calling Amy#1000..
scritch scritch scritch
It's in my head eating my thoughts!
Itsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughts!

Transcript of Autopsy Report
Doctor █████: Alright, subject is a ██-year-old Caucasian male. Cause of death unknown at this time.
Doctor ████████: But, look at him! His head-
Doctor █████: Doctor ████████! I know you're new here, but please refrain from making unprofessional statements during the autopsy. Severe trauma in the top half of the subject's skull. Scratch marks on the wounds suggest that the trauma was self-inflicted and done by hand. The blood, skin, hair, and bone fragments found under the subject's fingernails correlates with this hypothesis.
Doctor ████████: He scratched his own brains out?
Doctor █████: That's a very blunt way to put it, but yes. That seems like what happened, does it? But you can never be too sure. Let's continue…


When I was a little boy, I was afraid of monsters.
They always lurked in the dark places where the light didn't reach. It didn't matter how many times my father shone a flashlight into the dark corners of my closet; I knew, the moment that the light was gone, that the monsters would come back. They would lurk in the darkness and whisper to me. I would cower under my blanket and hope they would go away. Sometimes, they would, when the morning came, but I knew that the moment the darkness came back, the monsters would return too.
And they always did.
When I grew up, I learned why: the real monsters don't hide in dark corners and closets. The real monsters are the ones that live behind your eyes, in the darkness of your mind, and it takes more than a flashlight to send them away, more than a blanket to hide from them. They're always there, whispering to you, saying terrible things that children don't understand.
After enough listening, you'd do anything to make them stop.
You'll find what you're looking for in the basement of the abandoned Murphy house. She's still alive - at least, the parts that I still had were alive the last time I visited her - but the others are long dead. I've kept their teeth in ziploc bags in the old file cabinet. Maybe you can identify them from dental records.
Anyway, she hasn't eaten in days, and she's lost a lot of blood, but she might still live if you hurry. If she wants to live, that is. The others didn't want to, in the end.
All I ask is that you leave the light on when you go. This prison cell is very dark, and I'm afraid that the monsters will come out when you leave.


“Hurry up, we're gonna get caught!” Jenny whispered, failing to stifle a giggle.
“Come on,” I muttered, “I've popped harder locks in my sleep… there!” I stood, one hand on the jimmied doorknob, and said to Jenny, “Last chance to back out.”
She snorted and replied, “Like I'm scared of some old ghost story. Just go in before someone sees us!”
I cautiously opened the door and started to look around inside when Jenny pushed me in. “Come on, you goober!” she giggled, following me inside and closing the door behind her. I pulled a couple of flashlights out of my jacket and handed one to Jenny. The loft was dark and dusty—no surprise since no one had lived there in who knows how long.
“Whoa, freaky!” I exclaimed, shining my flashlight on a… sculpture, I guess. I didn't know what else it could be. It looked sort of like a person, but its face was distorted, its body was twisted and stretched, and its arms and legs were in positions I didn't think were possible. It looked like it was made from some kind of stone, maybe marble.
“Look,” Jenny called, “there's a whole bunch of them in here!” Shining our flashlights around, we saw several more sculptures scattered around the room. They all looked like horribly misshapen people, some made out of wood, some metal, some from that same stone as the first, and a few that… I didn't know what they were made of. “Talk about artistic license,” Jenny murmured as she stepped closer to one of the sculptures.
As she examined the sculptures, I decided to see what else was in the loft. In the next room, I saw more of those weird sculptures, but also a table with what looked like dozens of tools on it. “Hey, Jenny, come check this out,” I called out as I approached the table. Neatly arranged on the table was a large assortment of hammers, chisels, files, and other tools I guessed a sculptor would use, as well as vises, tongs, saws, knives, and several tools I had no clue what were.
Jenny came into the room a moment later. “Something's weird about those sculptures out there,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Yeah, they're creepy as hell. Come look at all these tools…”
“No, I mean… something's not right about them. I don't know what, just… jeez, it's cold in here!”
“Well, yeah, we're in a vacant loft in November,” I responded as I picked up a crescent-shaped tool off the table.
“No, look, I can see my breath in here… hey, how come there's not any dust on those tools?” she said as she pointed her flashlight to the table. She was right—though the rest of the loft was dusty, the table and tools were completely clean and shiny, like they'd just been polished. “Someone's gotta be here,” Jenny said, starting to sound hysterical. “Let's get out of here!”
“Relax,” I said, “no one's been here in forev—OOF!”
Something had knocked me over, pushed me down hard onto my belly. I tried to get up, but it felt like something huge was on top of me, pinning me down. I tried to yell but couldn't draw a breath. I heard Jenny scream, but she was cut off with a loud thump.
The weight on me spread, covering my whole body, smothering me. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I tried to call out to Jenny but I couldn't even whisper her name. I was suffocating… drowning…
…I don't know how long I was out. Minutes? Days? I can't tell. I still can't move, even though I don't feel the weight on top of me. I try to open my eyes, but… it feels like they're already open. But I can't see.
I try to say something, but I can't move my lips. It feels like I'm smiling, but my mouth feels like it's twisted around and under my face. Instinctively I try to run, but I know it's useless to try. I don't want to feel my legs, or my arms, but I have to.
That's all I can do now, feel this twisted body, sculpted into an impossible pose—and think about what happened to me and Jenny.


Every night for the past month, I've had the same dream. I'm in a dark tunnel, and I hear a noise behind me. It's quiet, faint. It always draws closer. Shuffle tick tick. Shuffle Tick Tick. Such an innocuous sound, but the slow creeping of it towards me terrifies me. I run as fast as I can away from the sound, panting, gasping for air. The tunnel echoes, and I hear it getting closer. I wake up, just as it reaches me.
Another night passes with the same nightmare. My eyes shoot open, and I'm in my bedroom, nothing special. I look over at the window, and sigh. It's bright out this morning. I smile, the terrors of the night banished once more. I make breakfast for my son and myself, put on my suit, got in my car. I checked my mirrors, no big deal, but I swear I could hear the sound behind me, shuffle tick tick. I snap my head towards the sound, and see my neighbor sweeping her driveway. I have a little chuckle. It's just a dream, and I'm getting paranoid over nothing.
I pulled in to the office, and stepped out of my car. Another day of crunch for a web development company. We had to turn out a product soon, or we'd be in trouble. I took the elevator up to my office, and I heard the sound again…shuffle tick tick. I looked around, and noticed one of the elevator buttons blinking. Must have just been a bulb popping. Nothing important.
I sit down at my cubicle, and started working. Code segments, debugging, the usual. I put in a good four hours, before getting up to go to lunch.
Lunch was good today for once; burger, fries, shake in the cafeteria. It was great, and I looked forward to picking up my son from school, having a quiet night in front of the tube or something. I turn off my computer, and walk out of the office. I hear a sound behind me though…Shuffle Tick Tick. Shuffle Tick. Shuffle Tick. I turn around quickly, and see a blinking street light, making some kind of noises. I guess it was only my imagination. Maybe I should talk to my brother-in-law. He's a psychiatrist or something like that.
I pick up Stephen, and take him home. I ask him about what he learned in school today. Division he says. Smart kid. I start to make dinner for the two of us. Chicken breast, broccoli spears, rice. I put Stephen to bed after watching the Raiders get thoroughly wrecked by the Steelers. Before he goes to sleep, I ask him if he's had any strange dreams lately. He told me he's only had dreams about me. I asked him what he meant, and he said that he was having dreams that daddy was a superhero. I smiled, and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
Changing into a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, I slip under the covers, and fall asleep almost as soon as I hit the pillow.
I'm in the dark tunnel. All I can hear behind me is Shuffle Tick Tick. Shuffle Tick Tick. But now, a new noise. A throaty growl, almost an animal sound. I break out into a run. The terror is a lump in my chest, and I can't run fast enough. The sound gets closer and closer, the echoes growing louder, and I hear an inhuman scream from behind me, and something crashes down on my back. I scream out in terror, and my eyes shoot open. I look around the room, and see nothing out of the ordinary. I rush to the bathroom, and throw up into the toilet. I'd never been so scared in my life. I look in the mirror, and for a moment I see almost a ghost of an image behind me in the mirror. I turn around, my hands up defensively, and see only the shower curtain behind me. Nerves. Just nerves.
I can't shake the feeling of being watched. I quickly push Stephen to get into his uniform for school, and get into my car to go to work. He says something about breakfast, and I reach into my wallet, handing him a couple of bills. He could buy breakfast at School I think. I don't remember. I almost forgot my tie in the rush, but I strung one around my neck with shaking fingers. I hear from behind me…Shuffle Tick Tick. Shuffle Tick Tick. I turn around, frantically searching for the sound. I see a kid carrying a trash bag, dragging it along the ground, and trying to tug it along every few seconds. I'm not crazy, just overworked, nothing to worry about. The crunch at work would be over soon, and we would return to the normal stress level.
I drive to work quickly, above the speed limit. Something's following me, I'm sure of it. I get into the office, and hold my head in my hands. I hear a quiet shuffle, and look up, realizing its just the door opening. My friend John asks if I'm alright. I give him a shaky smile and try to temporize that I hadn't slept well. Nothing to worry about. I barely got any work done. I couldn't think straight. A knock at my cubicle wall, and John says it's time to go. I didn't even notice the day. There's no code on my screen. What was I doing again?
Stephen is at a friend's house I think…I can't remember. They picked him up from school, right? It doesn't matter, I've got to keep my mind focused. I can't let them get to me. That noise isn't going to get me. Not me. Someone…someone needs me, but I can't remember anymore. That damn noise is in my thoughts, every last thing I can think of. If only the damnable noise would stop! My eyes swiveled around the room, looking for the source…Shuffle Tick Tick. The VCR is sticking again. Of course, it's nothing. Just the VCR. I stay up as long as I can, but eventually head upstairs to my room, laying down, and drifting off to sleep.
I'm in a dark tunnel, a loud noise is coming from behind me Shuffle Tick Tick, and something is calling out in the most ghastly voice I can imagine, something unintelligible. I run as fast as my legs will take me, until finally, I fall to the ground, tripping over an errant rock. Something pounces on top of me, and grabs my foot between powerful jaws. I can almost hear the sound of its jaw muscles contracting, as my eyes slam open.
I scream at the top of my lungs, and throw the covers away. My foot is fine, and I get up, running into the bathroom again, vomiting out the contents of my stomach into the toilet again. What the hell is happening to me? I've never been this terrified in my life. I don't understand what's happening, and I hear a noise behind me…Shuffle tick tick. I look around, trying to find the source of the sound, but there isn't one. Nothing. Just that horrible noise. It's all around me. I hold my hands to my ears to try to block out the sound, but it doesn't help.
I throw on the first clothes I come to in my closet, a pair of rumpled sweatpants, and a tee shirt, and run out the door. I get into my car, and start to drive off in the opposite direction from work, coming to a stop light. I take a moment to think. I can't miss work, they're depending on me, I've got to make sure I don't miss work, it's important to…someone, I can't remember anymore.
I get into the office, and my boss is at my cubicle wall, asking me why I didn't turn in any work yesterday? He takes a look at me, and shakes his head, telling me to go home. I stood up, and struggled out, while the rest of my coworkers looked on. Their eyes looked so hollow.
I got into my car, and started driving. I had no idea where I was going. Was I being haunted? Was there something that I couldn't see? I couldn't remember, but something was tugging at the back of my mind. It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is getting away from that noise, that tunnel, whatever it is, was.
Time didn't matter anymore. I stopped at a convenience store, and bought a bunch of NoDoz. The attendant looked at me, and asked if I was alright. I snarled something at him, and walked out. The noise was all around me now…Shuffle tick tick. I screamed out into the night at nothing, and got back into my car, pulling off. My tires squealed, and the next few hours pass in a blur.
It's too much, I need to sleep. I know I can't, if I do it'll find me. But I can't anymore, I'm so tired, I'm out of pills, and my hands are shaking. I think my car is running out of gas, and I pull in to a seedy motel on the side of the road. I stumble into the office, and slap down my credit card. The clerk hands me a key, and when she does, it makes a noise on the table…shuffle tick tick. I scream, and run out, running down the doors, panting. I find the door that goes with my key, and turn it in the lock.
The room is dirty, smelly, but I didn't care. I sat down on the bed, and stared at the door. I got up, and moved the dresser in front of the door, and put the desk with the television on it in front of the bathroom door. Nothing is going to get me tonight.
A manic grin spreads across my face. Nothing is going to find me here. It can't. I'm too far away! My eyelids grow heavy. I'm safe here though. I fall back, and pass into darkness.
I'm in the tunnel again. No, no! I scream into the darkness and start running, but that horrible noise echoes all around me! Shuffle tick tick…shuffle tick tick. It's getting closer! How can it get closer! I can hear a horrible moaning, groaning sound. Like the voice of some horrible creature from beyond death, reality. Something is right behind me! It lands on my back, and I feel powerful jaws close around my foot.
All I hear next is a snap, and feel a tear, as my body goes into shock. The thing jumps on top of me, and grabs me by the throat with its teeth. I wake up with a jolt, to see blood all over the bed. My foot is gone, my throat is raw, and torn. I stand up in a panic as best I can on the nub of bone left of my left leg. I shuffle over to the door as best as I can, and I shove everything out of the way with strength I shouldn't have. My jaw itches. I throw the door open, and run out, eyes streaming tears, throat weeping blood. I run out into the night, and I can't see anything. It must be midnight. I see a light in the distance, and I start to shuffle towards it. I see something on each side of me. I'm in a dark…tunnel? My eyes go wide, and I surge forward with renewed terror. I hear something in front of me, a person.
I move as fast as I can down the dark metal tunnel, towards a sound in front of me, but the only sound that comes out of my mouth is a horrible moan from my mangled throat. I'm trying to call out for help, but something's wrong with my jaw. It comes out a throaty moan, almost a groan. My feet make an odd sound…a shuffle of one foot…a tick, tick as the bone touches the floor. I try to call for help, but I already know what's happening…
The bored scientists look up at the screaming man in the bed. "D-344 has broken down into total psychosis. Note it, and bring in the other D-class marked for Object 845 imprinting. Then terminate the subject." In the corner, a rather old clock with a stuck second hand makes a shuffle sound, as the second hand scrapes against the top of the face, then two quick ticks as it catches up with the correct time…
Shuffle Tick Tick…


It is four thirty in the morning, and I've just woken up in the shower, laying in the tub with a fierce stream of hot water gone cold with time running frigid down my face. I have no idea how long I've been asleep. It doesn't really matter.
Rising, I grab a towel from the pile on the floor, wrapping it around my body with an odd sense of gratitude, and move down the short hallway to my tiny bedroom. Looking around the clothes strewn about the floor, I find a T-shirt and pants I like (or maybe just choose them at random, I'm not really sure anymore…) and shrug them on, tug, zip, button, adjust for comfort. Ha, comfort. Ignoring the insistent tapping from the other side of the cardboard and duct-tape covered window (where my gaze lingers for a moment, but only a moment. I think.) I head into the kitchen for breakfast (soggy cereal with milk grown slightly warm from the broken refrigerator) and a demotivated perusal of the help wanted section of last weeks old newspaper. I used to get the newspaper every morning, searching diligently for a job, a task, anything to get me moving forward and upward, out of this shitty fourteenth floor loft in a slumhouse on the south side of a city that hasn't been worth living in by all accounts since the seventies, but it doesn't really feel worth it anymore. With a sigh, I dump the remaining cereal and set the bowl on the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink. I need to get out of here.
Back down the hall and into my room to grab a jacket (it's freezing in here), and my eyes lock on that sheet of cardboard taped over the window. From behind it, softly, tap, tap, tap. She's still out there. She always is, as soon as it gets dark, until the sun rises, knocking gently on the window, fourteen stories up, hair blowing in the night time breeze, beckoning me to open the window, to let her in. I can change your life, she seems to say, if you'll let me. Shuddering, I look away.
Nate (God I miss that kid) used to tell me that I was depressed, that I was seeing things, that I should get help. Used to, till one day she came knocking on his window too. He called me then, breathless, apologizing for not believing me. He sounded strange on the phone… eager. I never heard from him again. I wonder if he's better off.
When I first came here, it felt like life was amazing, like the world was one big opportunity stretching itself wide in front of me and just waiting for me to take that first step. I'd chosen this apartment, with its window view of the entire, sprawling, electric starscape of the city lit up at night like God's own fallen Christmas tree, just so I could look out and revel in that feeling, in that high. That feeling got me through the first few months.
Gradually, though, the joy faded, and I was left with so many needs, and so many troubles, and never enough money, and so much time to think about it all, and I slipped into the bleak depression I've been in up till now. Then one day, she came.
Back then, I'd been able to sleep at night, every night, regularly, instead of falling into fitful patches of restless slumber at disjointed times, and I'd been asleep when she first showed up. I was awoken by a soft, almost polite knocking, so soft that at first I got up and went to the door, looking out into the silent hallway. When I went to return to bed, I saw her. Standing on nothing, fourteen floors up, her dress blowing in the wind, one hand knocking on the glass like a door, the other waving as I saw her, beckoning, a friendly gesture. I've read stories in my lifetime of creatures and spirits that knock on windows at night, of vampires who can only enter a home if the owner answers the door. I knew (or thought I knew) the risks. I went out into the living room and tossed and turned on the couch, hoping she'd be gone by morning.
And she was, but she was back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, knocking, calling silently to me, promising wordlessly that she could change my life, make it better. Eventually, I covered the window, trying to ignore her, hoping normalcy would return, but no. It never did. It never will.
So here I am, looking down, looking away, looking anywhere but at that window, shaking with desperate desire to look out, to open it, to let her in, and knowing with every fiber of my being how desperately wrong it would be. I've held out this long, but as I sink deeper into myself, I know that soon, soon, I'll walk to that window, and with shaking hands I'll tear down the barrier, and I'll reach for the latch…
Fuck that. Tomorrow, I'm buying a gun. No one will miss me anyway.


August 3, 200█:
A red light blinked on and off, annoyingly insistent amongst a sea of green and blue denoting the status of the Foundation's worldwide assets. The man at the console, annoyed at being interrupted from his nap, sat up in his chair and started tapping commands into his console.
Observation Post 3-02 was one of those little places that only a few high-ranking Foundation personnel knew or cared about, but it was a vital safeguard against catastrophe. The personnel staffed to watch the OPs were not allowed to have knowledge on any other Observation Posts, or even know exactly how many there were, but these installations kept tabs on every major site in the world, quietly monitoring alert systems and backing up data in case of a breach or disaster. The personnel that watched the dull banks of monitors were some of the most vital links in the Foundation's world wide network. Or so they were told.
In truth, the men and women stuck in these backwater shacks were the joke of Foundation Security. While the occasional breach warranted notification of their superiors, the job was boring beyond comprehension. It was easy to go crazy staring at the endless banks of monitors, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
And so, as Agent Johnson grumbled and rose, he could only think about the annoying amount of paperwork that would eventually land on his desk after any 'red-light' event. But something was different about this one. Something he'd never seen before, which was cause to take a closer look.
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT", the status indicator read. "Automated Notification: Site 28 - SCP-███/SCP-███/SCP-███ containment compromised."
That merited a raised eyebrow. A breach of a single major SCP was pretty serious news, but three at once was almost unheard of. While a loose Keter was capable of claiming an entire site, it had been several years since a breach of that magnitude had occurred, and containment security had been seriously upgraded since. But that was of little concern to the man in the OP, for his job was only to watch, and report. But as he reached to forward the message, another red light came up on his console.
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT", the new report said. "Automated Notification: Site 28 communications lost."
How unusual, Johnson thought to himself as he reached for another folder, yet another preset incident response. It sounded rather dire, but the Foundation was ready for anything these days. It was probably a simple electronic malfunction (breaches tended to cause all sorts of collateral damage), but a mobile task force would be sent out to make sure that everything was alright. Ten minutes later, with the proper reports filed and notifications sent out, he leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes, hoping nothing else would pop up and he could catch some more of his nap.
Half a second later, Johnson sat up again, cursing as he reached for his console and then freezing as he scanned the monitor array.
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 36 - SCP-███/SCP-███ containment compromised."
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 31 - SCP-███ containment compromised."
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 42 communications lost."
His hand was shaking slightly, Agent Johnson noted, as he reached for two more folders from the cabinet, wondering what the devil was going on. He didn't know why he was so nervous, but something just seemed… wrong. On a whim, he checked the logs from the Foundation news wire, seeing if any breach drills were scheduled for today.
Nothing.
But even as he started filling out the reports and initiating response protocols, more red lights began flickering on across the board.
"PRIORITY 3 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 14 - SCP-███/SCP-███/SCP-███ containment compromised."
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 8 communications lost."
Something on the edge of panic began to creep into Johnson's veins, but he could only stare at the monitors as more and more reports rolled in.
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 3 communications lost."
"PRIORITY 2 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 38 communications lost."
"PRIORITY 1 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 26 on-site warhead detonated."
"PRIORITY 1 ALERT - Automated Notification: Site 21 on-site warhead detonated."
Now, fragments of inter-site communications were pouring in from secondary channels as well, dutifully recorded by the OP's data harvester and filed away in the post's repository.
"-Security to Section 5, massive breach coming from-"
"-us out of here… Oh God, they're coming through the wa-"
"-blow it; we're all dead, we're all fucking d-"
As the alert notifications overflowed the monitors, however, a single message popped up above his main console, overriding the primary monitors.
"O5 ALERT - All observation posts: Immediate, initiate Protocol XK-0272/A."
Even as the message popped up, a hidden console in the wall opened, a red keypad with a keyed lock, looking all the world like the Big Red Button in a bad science fiction movie. In a cold sweat, Johnson stood up and pulled the thin folder from the back of his cabinet, a dusty manila file, red taped and with the ominous protocol designation across the front. Breaking the seal and taking out the single page of instructions, Johnson sat down and began reading.

PROTOCOL XK-0272/A
In case of irrecoverable [DATA EXPUNGED], all Observation Posts must observe Action XK-0272.
Due to possible compromise of primary staff and researchers, all triggering mechanisms for Action XK-0272 are routed to OP consoles.
ACTION XK-0272
In case of [DATA EXPUNGED], priority of Foundation personnel is to eliminate infection vectors for [DATA EXPUNGED]. This necessitates the termination of all nonessential Foundation staff and assets, and elimination of all major worldwide population centers in preparation for [DATA EXPUNGED].
Upon confirmation of destruct code from requisite majority of OP posts, on-site warheads and sleeper warheads at all Foundation sites and world population centers will be detonated, by which the infection of [DATA EXPUNGED] may be halted and human re-population possible.

Was this possible? Agent Johnson collapsed into his chair, frozen in disbelief, both at the instructions on his table and the constant stream of communications being routed through his post. Even as his mind reeled from the revelation, the status indicators of countless sites and task forces flickered off as, one by one, they succumbed to whatever cosmic horror had broken loose.
Was this the only way? Was there any possibility of avoiding this? What if there were survivors holding out in the cities? How could they expect him to do this? The keypad on the wall seemed to leer at him, taunting him, daring him to end the world.
Agent Johnson sat for nearly an hour, watching as the world he knew disappeared from his monitors, before finally standing up and walking stiffly to the keypad. There was nothing left, he told himself. There was nothing left to save, nothing left to mourn. The key from around his neck went into the lock, and his personal pass code went into the pad.
"To sleep, perchance to dream," he muttered, and twisted the key.
Document 0272/A-T/0131:

To Dr. ██████:
Pursuant to your inquiry dated [DATA EXPUNGED], here are the results of the 8/3/0█ experiment. Out of a total ██ Observation Posts subjected to the test, only █ OPs were able and willing to carry out the pre-assigned task.
While this is alarming, it is not necessarily unexpected. Being assigned to an OP is seen as a dead-end assignment. These people are not properly trained or conditioned to be able to deal with a real XK-class end-of-the-world scenario. If we really want to be able to use the 0272/A system as a fail-safe, then we'll have to figure this out.
Most of the personnel involved have been given Class A amnestics and sent back to work, but many had to be re-assigned or removed from duty. I believe two also committed suicide.
In summary: The test was well within expected parameters. We'll work on increasing the effectiveness of the fail-safe in the future.
Sincerely,
Dr. █████████


The old man stands over her hospital bed, staring down at the girl. She is wired to all sorts of machines, beeping and booping, all of them designed to keep her alive. All of them unneeded. He leans over the bed, a pleasant smile on his face. "You can get up now."
The girl scrunches her eyes tightly together, not looking at him. "Go 'way! 'M in a coma!"
The older gentleman tsks at her words. "Now, you may have the mundane believing that, but you and I both know better. Come on, lazy bones, get up now!"
The girl opens one eyelid halfway, peering at the man. He looks so pleasant and charming, like her grandfather! But there's something about him, something the… what did he call them, mundanes? wouldn't see. A veiled… hatred? "I'm not supposed to leave the bed. The Doctors will get angry." Again.
"No worries, my dear. I'll see to it they never even notice you're gone." He gestures absently with a hand, and the girl feels a tingle in her skin. Sitting up, she notices that there is now another girl in her bed, to whom all the instruments are attached. She eagerly hops out of bed, clapping her hands.
"Yey! Thank you, poppy."
"Hmm, yes. Now, we can't have you going out and about in that dreadful hospital gown, can we?" He ponders for a moment, trying to decide what would be most appropriate, but even as he thinks, the little girl bobs her head, and is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. "Well. Someone has more control then we were given to think. Tell me." Offering her his hand. "Do you know what you are?"
"The doctors keep calling me a, uhm, reality bender? It means, I can do anything, right?" She takes his hand warily.
"Hmm, you have grown ready for this. Come, let me show you." And the two of them vanish.

They sit together on a bench, watching the world go by. It is a horrible world, where mankind has been reduced to a more primal state. They hug the light, and fear the darkness, for terrible things exist in the darkness. Sitting on the park bench, the old man and the little girl watch as creatures of nightmare stalk the shadows, waiting to find a lone human, and take them.
"Where are we?" She asks, innocently. She knows nothing here can hurt her, knows it in her heart, and so it must be true.
"A future." He responds flippantly.
"Don't you mean, the future?" She corrects him, in that know it all tone little children have.
"No child, I mean a future. This is not necessarily the future that occurs, it is simply the one I choose to show you. It could just as easily be this one." And with a wave of his hands, they are sitting in a utopia, the sun shining, the people laughing and smiling, no sick or injured, everything… perfect.
The girl studies the people, then looks up at the old man. "So, Reality Benders can travel to the future?"
He winces, shaking his head a little sadly. "Please! We prefer the term Shapers."
"But aren't we Reality Benders?"
He coughs into his hand. "Well, you see, it's like the difference between using the word African over the word Negro. While both are correct terminology, one is more polite, and one wasn't given to us by people who aren't us."
She frowns in concentration, then nods slowly. "I think I get it. But, why Shapers?"
He laughs. "Well, we have to call ourselves something, don't we? And we do Shape things to our whim."
"But, the future?"
"Like a dog with a bone, you. Very well then. No, we Shapers cannot travel in time, as such. We can view other times, and affect them, to some degree, but we are bound from actually traveling to them." He puffs lightly on his pipe as he speaks.
"So, you mean, we can make things happen here, but not actually touch things?" It's hard to keep up sometimes, but then she just imagines herself getting it, and she does.
"That's it exactly!" It would sound like praise, to any one else. But she hears the edge in it.
"Why?"
"Ah, to understand that, you must understand the Game. And to understand the Game, you must play it." The old man stands up, offering her his hand.
"Come, walk with me to the Great Hall."
The girl stands as well, but refuses his hand. The longer she is with this man, the less she trusts him. He's nice, pleasant, fatherly, always smiling… but there is something behind his eyes. Something darker that she can feel with her mind, if not her senses. Sometimes, when she isn't looking at him, it almost feels like he is licking his lips. "Show me the way."
"It is rather a difficult path, but… if you insist."

The path is a long one, and filled with many a twist and turn. The girl pauses at one turn, staring into the halls of another Foundation. The walls and people are fuzzy, as if poorly tuned in. She turns to the older man, frowning. "What's wrong with this one?"
He laughs, a jovial sound. "Ah, this reality is more unlikely than most. See?" One of the doors blows open, a young boy and an old man with a beard, both holding wands and dressed in robes, strolling through, destroying Foundation agents with simple flicks of their wands. "This one is near impossible to actually happen, so it comes in rougher."
He starts to walk, sedately, in some realities with a cane, in others with a limp, but in most with a sort of slow amble. It all depends on how you look at him, really. But however he actually walks, the end result is him leaving this plane of existence, and passing into another one. The girl takes one last, long lingering look at the fuzzy reality, as a girl who looks remarkably like her runs to the wand-wielding males, then turns to follow him. Around him, the sound of dice clattering, of cards slapping the table, and of figures being moved from one spot to the next is almost constant. The Great Hall is many things, but quiet, it is not.
He takes a moment to look around at table after table of Shapers, all involved in their own little games. Here, the fate of worlds is decided, based on some of the smallest of things. On the outskirts, the low-level Shapers influence the fall of a leaf, the flow of water down a window pane. Moving inwards you find the more experienced Shapers, using regular humans like chess pieces, to further their own goals. The final ring contains those Shapers who duel with entire nations. Some of these appear almost frozen in time, as long-term strategies are waited upon.
And in the middle is his table, alone at the moment. Here, he plays all the games, great and small, but with only one stake. But it's still the most important game there is.
He turns as the girl finds her way here, his face automatically cheerful and welcoming. She'll never see it coming, when it happens. She'll play him, oh yes, and never know, until he wins. And he will win. He has plenty of trophies to attest to that.
The trophies line the ceiling of the great hall, humanoid statues, once powerful Shapers, now nothing more than remnants of ideas, bound in time, their powers lost to the old man, used to make him even more powerful. His eyes stop at an empty space, and he whistles a sharp note, narrowing his eyes. "He's out again, is he? Ah, well, I will have him back."
The girl doesn't notice his words, too intent on studying the people they are passing. Two Asian boys are embroiled in a rather determined game of Go. As she watches, she can see how the pieces are more than just pieces, the natural forces, and people they represent. Something in her tells her how they move, how they fit. She shyly steps up to the boy on the left, and points to a spot on the board. "You should put a piece there."
"There? But that wins me nothing," he protests.
"Just trust me. One man, right there." She nods at him. He waffles over the choice, then nods and does so. In a normal game of Go, nothing would be won. But in this game, half of the board changes over to his side with that one piece.
"Nicely played," the old man acknowledges.
"It was just obvious." The two pass another table, where a red-haired man in Arabic dress sits next to a man who seems to be surrounded by a halo of flames. Their opponent is… well, it changes. One minute it is a horrible monster with the head of a pig, the next, it is an old man with a ruby where his heart should be. Their game is one she has never seen before, what appears to be some form of large structure, with each player taking turns moving the various rooms of the structure, and moving pieces inside of it as well. The old man snorts.
"Tamlin is playing with himself again. Sad." He leads her onwards, to the center table, and gestures her towards the far seat. "Here is where you and I shall play."
"I don't like chess," the girl protests, even as she finds herself sitting. He takes his place across from her, behind the white pieces.
"Chess is merely a metaphor. I approve of the symbolism because it is a game for gentlemen, a game with quite a large degree of finesse. Of course, the goal we play towards is something fairly different… " He smiles over the board at her. "A simple bet."
"I don't want to play." She tries to stand, but finds she cannot. The old man's smile widens. The other players in the room are pointedly not looking at her.
"You don't have a choice, my dear. You came here with me, you play my game. If you had come here on your own, perhaps you might have had a chance, but as it stands — Well, a simple bet, as I said." He touches his king briefly. For a moment, the piece looks like three different men, three brothers. "Your goal is to give one of these men, a happy ending."
The girl stares at him, shocked. "You want me to give them a handjob?"
He bursts out laughing, a loud, booming, joyous sound. "Oh, my dear, you have spent too much time around those despicable and mundane researchers. No my dear, I mean set things up so that their story ends happily. " He waves off her attempt to comment. "No, not for the rest of their lives, merely that this chapter of their existence gets a happy ending. You pick up on things quickly, I'm sure you'll figure it out."
"I don't want to play chess." She's pouting now, arms crossed over her chest.
"It doesn't matter. If you fail to play, I win, by default, and make their lives miserable." He moves his first pawn forward. On the board, it is merely a pawn. But, in the real world, agents of the Foundation are redirected, and a rather callous man is placed in charge of the containment of an SCP with the mind of a child.
"I don't play chess!" She declares emphatically, glaring at the board. A slow smile creeps over her features. "But I do play Yu-Gi-Oh." She stares at the board intently, her face furrowed in concentration. A slow change occurs on her half of the board, until it resembles one half chess, one half children's card game. She looks up at him, from the cards in her hand, and smiles. Quickly, she places a card on the table, the image showing a sand dune. "I play the hungry sands, in defense mode! And then I cast a past immortality on it" She drops a card on top of the first one, this one displaying an amulet with a ruby stone in the middle. Sometime, many years ago, a researcher-turned-SCP gets lost in the desert. The SCP is recovered, but only after a month has passed, and his mind is imprinted on the hive mind living there.
The old man stares at her, and, for once, an emotion other than joviality appears on his face. He is shocked. More than that, for the first time in a long time, he is surprised. The Great Hall has grown silent, every eye upon the game in the middle. "What are you looking at?" he asks them, without looking around. The sounds pick up again, as the other Shapers return to their games.
343 leans forward, the smile once again rising to his face as he gazes at the transformed board. "I don't know how you did that. But that's what is going to make this interesting."
239 can't help but smile back. "Game on."
Next: Unfinished Business And yes, it does all fit together.