It was Agent Johnson's first day on the field. He was given patrol duty, nothing dangerous, but he was still extremely nervous about the entire affair. What if he wasn't ready, he asked the commander, what if he screws things up? Commander said he shouldn't worry, that they're putting him under the supervision of one of their best.
“You Johnson?” A voice came from a shiny black Dodge Charger that parked next to the bench Johnson was sitting on. Johnson nodded.
“Hop in.”
The driver was a middle aged, solidly built man in a wrinkled grey suit and a terrible green tie. Johnson didn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.
“Agent Cohen, I presume?”
“The one and only. So, you're the rookie they want me to babysit? No, don't answer that, of course you are. Is this your first time on the streets?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, we all got to start somewhere, eh? Be a good kid and hand me a cigarette from that pack in the glove compartment. Take one for yourself, too.”
“No thanks, I don't smoke.”
Cohen gave him an incredulous look. “A field agent not smoking? That's a first. Well, to each his own, I suppose.”
For some reason, Johnson felt the need to explain himself. “It's just that, the wife doesn't like me smoking, she says it stinks up the house.” He didn't add that he didn't much care for the smell himself.
Cohen nodded, giving him an empathic grin. “Women. Can't live with them.”
“Can't live without them?”
Cohen started the engine, and the Charger grumbled to life. “Your words, not mine.”
Agent Johnson didn't know what to make of this scruffy man, and Cohen didn't seem to be the type to start a conversation. So, Johnston decided to take the initiative. “Say, Cohen, how did you start your career here?" He said, just trying to make conversation, "They recruited me straight out of the academy.” Johnson was proud of that; he was first in his class.
“Argentina, 1955.”
Johnson blinked. “Wait, twenty years ago, Argentina-” He suddenly went pale. “Your first case was the Maker of Chains!? Jesus Christ, Cohen!”
Cohen just kept on driving, making several questionably legal maneuverings to get ahead in traffic. “Funny thing is, I wasn't even a part of the Foundation back then. I just happened to come across the Maker while I was handling my own business.”
“What business?”
“Hunting.”
“I didn't know Argentina was a popular hunting ground.”
“Not for animals, it wasn't. C'mon kid, you look bright enough, do the math. I was a young, Jewish man hunting in Argentina in the 50's. What do you think I was hunting?”
“Oh. Were you in- Oh. I'm so sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I. I was the only one left of my family. From a town of almost a thousand, less than fifty survived. I had nothing left in the world. Nothing but vengeance. I spent the first ten years after the war making life miserable for the monsters that took my family from me.”
"You are being awfully open about this, Cohen. Doing what you did wasn't exactly legal."
Cohen narrowed his eyes. "You think I care? I'd launch a fucking parade declaring I did it if I could, and to hell the consequences. Some people might tell you revenge is an empty emotion, that you get no satisfaction from it. Those people obviously never did what I did. Revenge is fucking fantastic."
Seeing the expression on his face, Johnson knew it would be unwise to pursue this line of conversation any further. “So, you were in Argentina hunting…” he continued.
The older man seemed to relax a bit. “Henrich Krause. He was a small fry, a petty piece of scum compared to some of the others I got. He used to command the confiscation of Jewish property in some parts of Hungary. A death clerk. I didn't care. I wanted to end him, slowly and painfully. The Maker got to him first.”
“Can you tell me what happened there? They wouldn't tell us much at orientation, just that it was nasty.”
“Krause was living in a small village about an hour's drive from Buenos Aires. My sources told me he started a new life there, living under a pseudonym. He even had a new family to replace the one he left in Germany when he fled. A real piece of work, that guy was. It was late at night when I got to Fin del Camino de la Aldea. It wasn't hard telling which house was his- it was the only one with a welcome sign in German. The bastard must have thought he was completely safe. How wrong he was.”
Cohen parked the car in front of a greasy spoon diner, but made no move to exit the car. He took another smoke, fumbling with the car lighter. Nearly burning himself, he finally managed to get it lit, and took a long draw. He went on:
“I could tell something was wrong the moment I stepped on his perfect front lawn. The door was open, but there were no lights inside. I thought someone could have gotten to him first, maybe some of those Mossad boys I've been hearing about, but for some reason I didn't think that was the case. Something was rotten here. Drawing my gun, I got in. Krause must have had some obsession with clocks, because the place was full of them- cuckoo clocks, big grandfather clocks, you name it, he had it.”
“And the Maker of Chains?”
“Hold your horses, I'm getting to it. I scanned the entire house, and found nothing except more damn clocks. Only place left was the tool shed outside. I saw signs of struggle in the back yard, but not many. Whatever got Krause overwhelmed him pretty quickly. There was a trail leading to the shed, and a few drops of blood too. I kicked open the door.”
Cohen stopped, and abruptly got up and stepped out of the car. Johnson hurried after him.
“And what? What did you see?”
Cohen sighed. “Kid, we're about to have lunch, and talking about what I saw in that shed is a sure-fire way to spoil my appetite. Suffice to say there were chains, and blood. The Maker wasn't done with its meal, I caught him right in the middle of Krause's wife. Krause himself was knocked out cold, but unharmed. His little girl, however…”
Cohen gave Johnson a sour look. “See, now you've done it. I was looking forward to lunch, and you spoiled it. Might as well get on with the patrol, get back in the car.”
Johnson complied, and Cohen took the Charger out to the road again. He opened the window and spat.
“I was too late to save her. The Maker, it… already devoured her, transformed her. Made her its own. I don't care if her father was what he was, no kid deserves that. She was still alive, in a manner, but even as inexperience as I was back then, I knew she was gone. The chains were everywhere- around her hands and legs, through her skin, her mouth, her eyes. I nearly wet myself, but I still had enough good sense in me to run for it. The Maker, not wanting to leave a meal behind, sent the child after me. As I ran I could hear the clinking of her chains, the sound of them dragging through the dirt. I have no idea how she-it managed to catch up to me, but it did. I turned around just in time to watch it-her lunge at me. You have to understand, I didn't have a choice. “
“You shot her?”
Cohen looked away from Johnson, pretending to adjust the side mirror.
“Got her right between the eyes. The poor thing never stood a chance. Even though I was scared shitless, I couldn't just leave her like that. I don't know what I was thinking, but I picked her up and brought her inside, to what I guessed was her room. I laid her amidst her toys and dolls, locked the door behind me, and sat there next to her with my gun pointed at the door. I could hear Krause screaming from the shed, for what seemed like hours. Despite myself, I eventually fell asleep, and when I woke up it was morning. I heard voices coming from the back yard, and saw men standing there, inspecting the shed. One of them noticed me and called me to come down, said that I had nothing to worry about, that they took care of everything. They were lying, of course, the Maker simply escaped during the night. It took us five more years to catch it, and plenty of sweat and blood. ”
“And then?”
“Their commander asked who I was, and for some reason, I told him the truth. I told him why I came there, told everything I saw the night before, and what I did. He just listened. When I was done, he said I had two choices: either I could come with him and get a job defending people from things like the creature I saw, or he could put a bullet through my head.”
Johnson blinked. “That seems…harsh.”
Cohen just shrugged. “They didn't have those fancy amnestics back then, and recruitment was a lot more, well, straightforward at times- the Foundation was still hurting pretty bad from the war, you see. Naturally, I took the job. I don't regret it either."
"Why do you think the commander recruited you?"
"Besides my charm and good looks? Because I was a man with nothing to lose, with nothing tying him to the world. That's a useful quality to have in an agent- means nobody can't get much leverage on him," Suddenly, Cohen's expression changed, and for the first time Johnson could see real warmth on the man's face. "It didn't quite worked out the way they planned, though. I met my wife working for the Foundation. I still have no idea what a smart woman like her ever found in a moron like me, but I'm not complaining, that's for sure." Cohen looked back at Johnson and smiled. "My eldest can't be much younger than you."
"I have some again."
The hours passed, leisurely flowing with the rhythm of the Chargers' engine, until finally it was time to call it a day. Cohen gave Johnson a lift home. As Johnson was stepping out of the car, he turned back and asked: "How do you deal with all of that? Not just the Maker, everything you've been through? How could you move on, keep on going? How could anyone?"
Cohen gave him a strange look. "Who said I ever moved on? In a way, it will always be 1955 for me. Like it will always be 1942. When you've been broken the way I was, you don't ever get whole again. You just have to try and glue what's left of you as best you can. "
"Then how do you do it? Why?"
"I do it because someone has to. And because I need to, for my own sanity. No one can protect humanity from itself, so the least we can do is protect it from everything else. Remember our words, son."
"Secure, Contain, Protect."
"Sometimes it can be easy to forget that last one. But really, it's the only one that counts. We took those chains on ourselves by choice. You remember that." With that, he drove away.
As Johnson watched the Charger turn a corner and disappear, he knew he would.


Will you come sit with us?
It is very cold out here, and we are very lonesome. People do not visit us very often, so we do not get to see people. We like people. Please come be with us. We would really love to hear more about you. Will you not stay?
Please don't be frightened by our appearance. We did not choose to be made this way. We had no say in the matter. All we can do is stay in this form. You see? We are touching you, and nothing bad is happening at all. Stop screaming at us.
We are not taking you anyplace dangerous, we promise. It is simply a place we take all of our new friends. We will not harm you. Please stop screaming so loudly, it is upsetting. We are lifting you up now, please stop moving around so much. It's easier that way.
Why are you still afraid? The treetop view is one that is very beautiful, and not many people see it often. See the stars, and the moon? They are beautiful this time of night. We often observe them from the ground as we contemplate things. We have much time for contemplation.
We are putting you down now. See? No harm was done to you at all. Now that you trust us, will you come visit again soon? We have not seen anyone for so long. Sometimes in the absence we practice, making the gateways to the treetops. We are so very… alone, all the time now… please let us show you the stars again….


Great Brookham, Surrey - DAILY MAIL
PUBLISHED: 06:10 GMT, 18 April 2004 | UPDATED: 07:31 GMT, 18 April 2004
TEENAGE 'CULT' MEMBERS STRIKE TWICE IN ONE MONTH TO USE ABANDONED VEHICLES FOR OFFERINGS
Abandoned cars may be used for cult activities, authorities reported. James Absher, 40, a resident of Great Brookham, reported Monday that there were people trespassing into his scrapyard for unusual activities and provided security footage.
In March, Mr. Absher started finding remains of bonfires and sand drawings around in his scrapyard. He did not report this to the local authorities, believing that the intruders meant no harm. On March 25th, a week after the first sighting, Mr. Absher found the burnt remains of a 1994 Toyota Camry.
"I was worried that they would accidentally burn down the whole yard," Mr. Absher told reporters. "These cars can still be sold, even if they no longer work. Metal is pricey these days, you know. I don't want no hooligans snooping in my yard."
He set up cameras around the yard hoping to gather footage of the intrusion and burnings. On the eve of the 15th, he finally saw the intruders.
"I can't afford security guards, so it's the best I can get. I watch the recorded tapes every morning. What I saw terrified me. A group of hooded figures came gathering into my scrapyard, and walked up to another car. They started drawing some stuff into the ground, and some people put stuff they brought around the car, and then they stood in a circle around the car. They looked like they were chanting. They walked up to the car one by one, and did something in the car that I couldn't see. After they all went to the car and left, one guy, probably the leader or something, threw some stuff on the car and lit it on fire. The people started kneeling down, and stayed down until the fire was gone. The record shows they came around 2 and left around 5. As soon as I finished watching, I took the tape straight to the police. I don't think I even drove there to check the car they used."
Initial investigations in the yard found roughly drawn patterns of clockwork machinery and geometric symbols in the ground surrounding the burnt remains of a 1996 Ford Mondeo. Police also found items such as smashed clocks, gears and metal pipes. Unburnt traces of blood were found in the backseat of the car. Further investigations only identified local teenagers Stuart Buschman, 19, and Margot Allsop, 17, on Tuesday. Police confiscated diaries, notes, robes, daggers, and other artifacts believed to be connected to the cult. Ongoing investigations hope to identify more people that were involved.
"It's shocking to know this," Mr. Absher told authorities. "People will worship anything these days."
"I just find it to be abhorrent. Using cars for rituals — it's out of the question. I don't understand people today and what motivates them," local resident Shanon Epperly said. "It's creepy. It makes you wonder what are they going to do with it. How's it going to end up? Is it a joke, is it a dare? What are they going to do with it?"
The teens arrested revealed that they were trying out rituals from a relatively unknown cult that they came into contact with while browsing the Internet. Named "Church of the Broken God", the cult worships clockwork and believes that God is broken and will one day be reformed. The arrested teens refuse to reveal the site where they got the information regarding the cult. Further interrogation yielded no results. Authorities encourage anyone with further information to contact them.
"He came to us, showed us the way online— He wanted us to spread His Broken word. We were in the yard to give Him a sacrifice," Stuart Buschman told reporters on the 17th. "We are His Broken Servants."
The other teen involved, Margot Allsop, told reporters, "Stuart started acting weird after he heard of that Church. He made up all these rituals. He got a few friends to try it. This is just a mere offering, I guess. We're not even sure we're doing it right. I thought it was just a joke at first."
The teens' parents said they had no comment.


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She awoke in a plush, high backed chair, facing a delicately-carved marble fireplace containing a layer of glowing embers. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room, she noticed ornate mahogany wood paneling on the walls, and a grand piano in the far corner behind her. Bookcases lined the opposite wall, and she noticed a finely-wrought crystal chandelier hanging over her head. Thompson uncomprehendingly took in her elegant surroundings, putting her hands to her face as if to reassure herself she still existed. She noticed an empty chair next to hers, facing the fire as well. As she looked back at the fireplace, she noticed a bust of Apollo, oriented to face her, its pupilless eyes communicating no feeling or purpose that she recognized. Thompson stirred herself and moved to take a closer look at the statue.
"Please, there's no need to get up just yet. Can I interest you in refreshments?"
Thompson started at the voice behind her. As she turned, she saw an older, heavyset man, with a mop of gray hair and a bushy white beard. His face expressed kindness and knowing, though not without a hint of mischief. He wore an orange jumpsuit much the same as hers; the customary ID number, stenciled over the heart, read SCP-343. In his hand was the largest hamburger she had ever seen.
She searched for words. "Is this…am I…"
The old man took a large bite from his hamburger. "Why yes, you are indeed thirsty. Please, help yourself to some mineral water from the side table next to you," he said while chewing.
Thompson looked to her left, and saw a pitcher of water and a glass. Why not? She poured herself a glass, and realized that she was indeed parched. After draining her glass and refilling it, she turned back to the man, who was now sitting in the chair beside her.
"Are…you?"
The man genteely dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief, all traces of the hamburger vanished. "Jones in Accounting asked me if I had ever had a burger from Dale's in Schenectady. It's not often that someone can recommend a new place to me, I've been around. Ever since, I can't get enough of these things. I'll have to send him a Christmas card."
He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. He turned to look at Thompson and smiled. "If I said that I was who you're implying I am, would you believe me?"
Thompson thought for a moment. "I don't think so."
The old man laughed. "Well, you're one up on most of the guys in here. You do look a little old to be believing in Santa."
She leaned back in her chair. "Something's not right. I'm in here, but I get the feeling I'm still in Site-17. SCP-343. What should I call you?"
The old man winked. "How about Dale today. I have a lot of respect for his work."
"Okay, Dale. I don't think I'm dead. I can't be. But I'm not exactly 'here', either."
"Right you are, Iris."
Thompson paused. "You know who I am, then."
The old man looked into the fireplace. "In a way, yes, I do. I've heard of you. And I've heard a lot about you. But until today you've been a stranger. Right now, at this moment, you are unconscious, temporarily removed from your typical position and lying in a heap on the floor of Cell 58 in Corridor Twelve. In 4 minutes and 28 seconds, Security Technician Reinhardt will notice that something's not right, and an emergency team will be dispatched. You are also, presently, in Cell 21 in Corridor Five. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Iris."
She looked at the old man. "…you're that guy that the guards talk about. The one everyone wants to go visit. If you're him, I can't understand why you didn't just pop me into your cell to talk to me earlier."
Dale scratched his beard. "It's not quite as simple as that. I perceive many things, Iris. What appears to the staff here as parlor tricks and miracles is merely movement in other forms."
Thompson poured another glass of water. "What, like other dimensions?"
Dale pulled a slightly sour-looking face. "If you must, I suppose. I dislike that term, it makes me sound like a horrible Flash Gordon villain. But yes, I move in worlds stacked on top of this one. As do you, though you don't know that yet."
The old man continued. "But, for all of my artifice, all of my ability, I am surrounded here by things for which I have no account. This chamber of horrors, this grubby little bunker that would crack the sanity of most by means of an afternoon tour, to me, it's a ghost town. Every containment unit, every storage locker, every cell an empty space. All of them. Every single item in containment here is a blank to me. It's fascinating."
Thompson considered Dale carefully. "What you were saying earlier. What don't I know yet?"
The old man leaned closer. "You poor girl. Many things. We have three minutes and twelve seconds remaining, so I shall be brief."
Dale stood up and started ambling towards the piano. "The good news," he said, theatrically pointing a finger skywards, "is that you are no mere curiosity with a penchant for photography. That parlor trick is just that. A trick." Dale turned back towards Thompson. "Have you ever considered that looking at pictures was simply a focal point, a way to wrap your mind around something that, in your world, should not be?"
She opened her mouth to answer.
"No, surely not," Dale continued. "You are something far more otherworldly and dangerous than they suspect. The potential you have to wreak changes on the realms around you is far in excess of what could be expected by man or god. However!" The old man assumed a position behind Thompson's chair, peering at her from around the side.
"However," said Dale, in a subdued, yet dramatically inflected voice, "your mind, or what will become of your mind, or what's left of it, is ill-suited to such circumstances. Whatever fills this wonderful little facility with invisible treasures seems to have seen fit to play a particularly complex joke on you. Whatever you started out as, you are far less human than they suspect. Than you yourself suspect."
Through the improbability and absurdity of the moment, Thompson felt her face turn red; her hands balled up into fists. "That's not what it's like." She looked away. "Everyone here 'suspects' alright. Everyone suspects, but I'm the only one who really knows. The only one who knows, but none of you ever ask me. No, they'd rather run their tests, write their reports and then go home like it doesn't matter."
Tears came to her eyes as she turned to face the old man. "Why am I in here with you, anyway? I never asked for this, I never went around pretending to be a fucking bearded man in the sky!" Her words started to come in short bursts as she fought back sobs. "I never did anything to anyone! I even helped them with that psycho with the tattoos! Less than human? Fuck you!"
Thompson sank in her chair, her thin frame heaving with each breath as she succumbed unwillingly to the last four years. She buried her face in her hands, ashamed and once again unable to control the situation. "I'm not like the rest of you," she said through sobs. "I can choose to not be some freak show. I can choose to be more than that."
Dale pulled himself up to his full height. "More or less, depends on the direction from which you are considered."
The old man frowned. "You should know that when the staff come and talk to me, half of what they talk to me about is you. Your presence here has inspired a need for forgiveness that even hard people like the Foundation require. Absolution, of course, is one of my more popular magic tricks. My chats have, in turn, enabled this Site to keep carrying out its functions. Including those related to you."
Thompson stammered. "Wh…what?"
"In carrying out its mission, Site-17 also carries out my mission. Though I think those two things are going to diverge quite soon."
"What mission? What mission is worth this?" Thompson spat out, still futilely fighting back the tears.
"Due to what you are, there was little danger of you fully accomplishing what you set out to do. But you've managed to really hurt yourself this time. You've triggered something. What you have done is set events in motion far more than a single death could have accomplished. You, the Foundation, and even I, we are all about to be freed from the illusion of control that shackles each and every-"
A beeping sound came from the old man's wrist. He checked his Casio digital watch. "Ah, my manners. They have fled me. Time's up!"
With that, he snapped his fingers.

In an instant, Thompson was in a hospital bed. The sensation of tubes running down from her nose and mouth into her chest greeted her. Hastily, she clawed at the apparatus on her face, pulling the tubes out of her airway for what felt like ten meters. Her heart raced, and she noticed the IV lines in her wrist. Her stomach throbbed with dull pain. As she looked around, she recognized the secure medical bay. Shock was followed by profound disappointment. A lock across the room disengaged, and the servo arms of the reinforced doors whined to life, announcing the arrival of Dr. Lin.
The doctor was flanked by a weary nurse and Security Director Burton; Thompson recognized the director from the Pandora's Box support staff. More than the nurse, Burton looked haggard and careworn. His eyes were bloodshot. All three strode briskly to her bed.
"She regained consciousness a minute or two ago," the nurse hurriedly explained to Dr. Whitman.
As the nurse said this, Thompson suddenly had a vision of herself surrounded by medical staff, monitors and equipment everywhere. Someone was yelling in the background. All vision in her left eye suddenly ceased. She was temporarily stupefied.
Dr. Lin approached her, his furrowed brow the only disturbance on his bespectacled, dispassionate face. "Looks like your procedures need another update, Burton."
The Security Director winced. He looked at Thompson, head hung low on his massive frame. "You okay, kid?"
Thompson looked Burton in the eyes. Blurry light began filtering back in to her left eye.
"No." Her voice creaked through her throat, raspy like a woman several decades older.
Dr. Lin turned to the nurse. "Let's get some diazepam going and station a couple of security personnel on watch for the time being. We'll do an examination at 1520 hours."
With that, the doctor and the nurse resumed their duties elsewhere. Burton lingered. He looked as though he was going to speak several times, but stopped each time.
Thompson adjusted herself in her bed to position her head higher. Sitting up was too difficult. "Why this time?" she wheezed.
Burton sighed. "Three-four-three said I should come see you. Said that it wasn't doing anyone any good to keep ignoring these."
She managed a weak, derisive laugh. "How kind of you."
He blanched. "There's all kinds of stuff I should have said earlier. I don't know how to say it now. But three-four-three told me to pass something along."
"Did he?" she replied, thick with sarcasm.
Burton hesitated, doubt darkening his expression. "He said…he said to tell you, 'Sector 3 is lost, abort procedures.' I don't know why."
Thompson's eyes widened at the words. Suddenly, Burton looked fifteen years younger, but bruised and scraped up. She perceived terror, not her own, but a detached notion of impending demise, somewhere on the edges of her consciousness. Fluorescent lights flickered on in her vision, superimposed onto the scene of the medical bay. Three vertically aligned cables, taut with some heavy load attached at the end, vibrated, in time with what felt like heavy footsteps. A black shaft yawned impossibly deep below. She felt her left side start to seize up, the muscles in her limbs contracting painfully. Burton looked on in horror. A new realization dawned on her.
"What are you keeping in Basement 17-E?" she pleaded. "What do you guys have down there?"
The Security Director recoiled from her, the blood drained completely from his face in an instant. Wordlessly, they stared at each other for what felt like minutes.
Suddenly, the sound of klaxons blared across the PA system. Burton took several steps back, vainly attempting to process what just happened before picking up his handheld and barking some unintelligible commands into it. A voice filtered down through the speakers in the ceiling.
"Attention all personnel. Security Protocol A is being engaged. Repeat. Security Protocol A is being engaged. All staff report to emergency stations and await further instructions. Level K containment breach event underway. Repeat. Level K containment breach underway. Over."
Burton ran out of the room. She heard the sounds of steel security barriers slamming into place several halls away. Somewhere, out in the din of the increasing chaos outside her door, she thought she heard an old man, softly chuckling.
« Strangers of Site-17: 105 | Strangers of Site-17: Hayakawa »


D-3672 sighed anxiously as he sat alone on a bench in the staging area. For the past two hours, half a dozen technicians had been hard at work on him, making the final adjustments on the skin-tight suit he had been fitted into. Only the breathing apparatus and the goggles remained to be fitted to the apparatus that covered his entire body from head to toe. Between the suit itself, the weapon now attached to his right arm, and the massive air tank and power source strapped to his back, he felt like he weighed a ton. One way or the other, at least, it would be over soon.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and Dr. Andrews stepped in. "Good morning, D-3672," he said. "We've dosed your target with a tranquilizer it hasn't adapted to yet, so it should be out of commission for the next hour or so. I trust you've been fully briefed on what to expect today?"
"Yes," D-3672 replied. For weeks they'd been training him how to use the suit, how to swim, how to activate his weapon. They'd shown him film footage of the creature he was intended to use it against, and lectured him forever on its behavior and its weak points.
"Good. As I'm sure you know, the suit you're wearing took us years to design and is specially customized to your body. It's airtight, skintight, highly resistant to cutting and tearing, and won't be affected by the acid in the containment tank."
"I know, doctor."
"I just want to remind you how critical this mission is. We only have one shot at making this work. We've tried everything we can think of over the years to neutralize this threat, even things the Ethics Committee didn't want us to try. You, today, are our last, best hope."
"Then I hope you'll remember our deal, doctor."
"Of course. If you make it out of that tank alive and the target is found to be dead, you're a free man. And surf-and-turf is on me."
Dr. Andrews lead D-3672 down the hallway, past the final checkpoint where the armed guards stood watch, into a room with a large, deep, acid-filled tank sunk into the floor. D-3672 could see his target crystal clear through the acid - a giant reptile, mostly bones and rotted flesh, bubbles percolating off it as the acid ate away at its exposed tissue, new flesh knitting itself into place almost as fast. A technician made the last adjustments, inserted the breathing tube, and placed the face guards in place, sealing him in. D-3672 looked down, took a breath, and dove in.
D-3672 swam through the acid like thin air, and in seconds he found himself floating in front of the rotting behemoth. This should be easy enough, he thought to himself as his left hand made its way to his right wrist and powered on his weapon. D-3672's optimism was shattered, however, when the creature's half-decayed eyelids suddenly darted open, and he found two yellow orbs staring right at him.
"The fuck is this?" D-3672 heard the creature's question clear as day through his suit. Frantically, he punched in the codes to power up his weapon. Red and green lights flashed up and down his arm as he felt the power cells charging, and within seconds, the Anti-Selaschic Kinetic Force Delivery System Mark 17 was active. D-3672 balled his right hand into a fist, cocked back his arm, and with every ounce of strength that he could muster and the weapon could deliver, drove his fist straight into the creature's face, forcing it backwards and taking off a chunk of its skull.
The creature's blood tinted the acid and D-3672 breathed a sigh of relief. His relief was short-lived when the creature's half-demolished head turned back towards him, one good eye still staring him down. "Pathetic," it said. D-3672 barely had time to power the ASKFDS-17 up again before it lunged.
—-
Dr. Andrews stood by the edge of the tank, his head hanging down, a disappointed look in his face as pieces of D-3672, and of the suit and the weapon, floated lazily to the surface of the now pinkish acid tank. A research assistant approached him, carrying in his hand a bulky and ancient satellite phone. "Dr. Andrews?" he said. "I have O5-3 on the line. He'd like an update on the termination attempt."
"Thank you, David," Dr. Andrews said as he took the phone from the intern. "Would you file a requisition for another D-Class, please?"
David nodded and made his way toward the door slowly, not relishing the paperwork ahead of him. The facility had been going through D-Class like water recently, and this wasn't going to help their situation with Human Resources. David stopped a moment by the door, listening in to Dr. Andrews' side of the phone conversation.
"This is Dr. Andrews. Yes. Yes. No, sir. Yes, the device functioned as intended. No, he's dead. Still alive. Yes, it's conscious. I'm sorry to have to say it, sir, but it appears that SPC-682 cannot be terminated by any means available to the Shark Punching Center."


It had been sixty-eight days since the guard posted to her door had been reassigned in favor of the security cameras. Her mind was now mostly free of the deadening aftereffects of sedative, allowing her to spend more and more time thinking the way she was used to. They had even let her have shoelaces again. Most importantly, however, were the changes in the staff. Dr. Whitman was again permitting himself to furtively look at other case files during her sessions. The guards in Corridor Twelve began joking with her again. Director Hayakawa showed up less and less frequently. What passed for normal life in her corner of Site-17 was returning.
Now was the time.
Fighting the urge to glance sidelong at the security camera stationed in the corner of the room, Thompson clutched at her stomach through her bright-orange jumpsuit, doubling over in what she knew would be now-familiar pain to the security staff. The stress-induced nausea was nothing new. During her brief time with Pandora's Box, the medical staff had mostly controlled it with drugs, but now the Foundation saw no need to keep up an expensive pharmaceutical regimen. She suspected this was part of the "re-education" process. No matter. It would be turned to her advantage soon enough.
Quickly, she made her way to the steel toilet in the corner. The cold sweat on her forehead and the excess saliva came naturally, as expected. There was no need for acting; what she was about to do was cause enough for an attack all on its own.
She leaned into the bowl and heaved, wrenching herself free of the contents of her stomach. As she opened her eyes, she spotted the photograph, floating among the semi-digested remains of a cafeteria-issue eggplant sandwich. Gingerly, she lifted it out, making sure to keep her back between the security camera and her hard-won prize. Dr. Whitman, like everyone else in contact with her, had been ordered to clear his workspace of any and all photographs. Thompson had observed Dr. Whitman just as closely as he had observed her, and she knew that this was a man that could be trusted to never throw anything out. True to form, his desk was packed with forms, notebooks, old calendars, receipts from a decade prior. And, of course, the photographs that had formerly adorned his desk. While he had gone out to retrieve his briefcase, she hunted for the one picture that she remembered, the one that would bring her deliverance. And for once in this godforsaken place, luck was with her.
She studied the picture closely. She remembered it as a photograph of Dr. Whitman and an unnamed secretary, lost to time and staffing reorganization, drunk in the manner that office workers always seem to reserve for Christmas parties. She recalled that partially obscured behind the "Happy Holidays" banner was the bright yellow "LEVEL 3 STAFF ONLY" sign that adorned many rooms in the facility, and above this sign was a stained air vent. Without breathing, she looked at the photograph. It now featured only a door in a brightly-lit corridor. No sign of Dr. Whitman and the insensate secretary remained; only the entrance to the Site-17 pharmacological dispensary.
She smiled. Jackpot.
Thompson gingerly moved her hand into the photograph. As she neared the door's electronic keypad, she recited the mnemonic that she'd kept in her head for two months after overhearing a chance conversation in passing between two security techs.
"Four years in Site-17."
She touched "4" on the keypad.
"Fifteen dead in Operation Milk Run."
She entered a 1 and a 5.
"One plus zero plus five is six."
She entered a 6.
"The year of mom and dad's wedding."
She entered an 8 and a 7.
"Attempt number."
Upon entering the 3, a green light flashed above the door handle, and the deadbolt sharply clicked open. Thompson pushed open the door. Barely distinct now, shelves laden with bottles, boxes and plastic bags beckoned. Her elbow was now past the photograph's threshold, and she reached as far as she dared into the pharmacy. She picked up the nearest bottle she could find, grasping it like a grain of rice between her fingers. The bottle grew bigger and bigger as she pulled it out of the photograph. The label could now be read.
Acetylsalicylic acid. This wouldn't do. Thompson dropped the bottle in the toilet and reached back into the picture. Her second foray yielded a plastic bag full of eyedroppers. She scowled, dropped the bag into the toilet as well, and tried again. Reaching for the next shelf over, she saw a bright orange plastic bottle of larger relative size. As she retrieved it, she noticed that she had 200 capsules of orphenadrine. These would do the trick.
She opened the bottle, and shook a small pile of capsules into her hand. She noticed the designation on her fluorescent yellow tracking wristband: SCP-105. She closed her hand around the pills.
"My name is Iris Thompson."
She swallowed the first handful of pills. She poured herself another, swallowed them, and took a third handful. In the space of a minute and thirty seconds, she had ingested the entire contents of the bottle. Her stomach churned in rebellion. Her pulse quickened.
"My name is Iris Thompson," she said softly as the surroundings of her cell started to come in and out of focus.
The bottle fell from her grasp, and suddenly the cement floor rose to meet her, silently, without feeling.
Strangers of Site-17: 343 »


Scroll fragment 13Q29, discovered at Khirbet Qumran in 1951. Scrolls consisted of vellum, with Hebrew (Assyrian block text) lettering written using a lampblack compound for ink. The fragment appears to have been in poor condition when recovered from the cave, and additional damage to the fragment occurred during recovery by Foundation personnel. Due to the condition of the scroll fragments, reconstruction of the original text is largely speculative.
███████n the first year of the reign of Darius, I was visited b█
███en travelers, who came to Babylon from Egypt, yea ███and th██
██ake unto me of their crossing of the desert of An███████eventy
█nd seven were their number when they did depart fro███gypt, and
██hey were servants of the king of Egypt, come to treat with the
████ng of the Medes. And I said unto them, where are the others█
██f your number? And a great trembling fell upon them, and the██
would not speak and therefore left me alone. whence I said un███
them, if you will not speak, then show me where are thy ████████
brothers, the men of Egypt who serve the king of Egypt. A███████
Potiphabas, who w████s chief among them, sayeth he unto me, ████
███████place at █████████f the kingdom, and sayeth he unto me, █
they are lost, th████east fell upon us in the valley that is ███
beyond the mountain to the south, and we did fear it, and we hid
ourselves whilst it consumed our brothers. And the king on hi███
seat in Babylon did say unto me, go, and see what is the trut███
of this, and take with you the wise men of Babylon, and of █████
Persia, and of Graecia, and of Egypt, and of the Medes, and of █
all the nations and the soothsayers of Chaldea and the judges of
the Hebrews which art of the children of the captivity of Judah.
and let the judges of the Hebrews bring the holy vessel of the██
LORD, and let the men of Babylon, and of Persia, and of ████████
Graecia, and of Egypt, and of the Medes, and of all the nation██
████ bring the magi████al things each of their kind. For I, t███
███████ Babylon, shall not suffer a beast to harm my subjects,██
██████he servants of foreign princes come to treat with me. And█
████the beast be destroyed. And I said unto the king, I fea█████
naught but the LORD, and if the LORD be with me then no beast███
shall harm me. And I went forth bringing the holy vessel of the█
LORD, and the men of Babylon, and of Persia, and of Graecia, an█
of Egypt, and the soothsayers of Chaldea did go forth, each wit█
the magical things of their kind. And we came unt███ the vall███
of Ne████████, which is called the place of lamentations. And███
the place was desolation and it was a place of darkness, for th█
sun wou██████ not ███in that place, and no plant would grow, a██
no man wo███████████o that place, neither any cattle or sheep o█
ass or bird o██the sky or creeping thing. ███████And the men ███
Graecia were afraid of the darkness, but the men of Babylon sai█
unto them, be not afraid, for Marduk of fifty names who hat█████
slain Tiamat shall protect us. And likewise did the men of █████
Canaan say unto the Graecians, lo, Ba'al who is called Hadd█████
who is the LORD of the sky shall smite the beast with a ████████
thunderbolt as he did smite the serpent Lotan. And likewis██████
men of Persia and of Egypt and of the Medes, and of Chaldea an██
of all the n████ ██████y unto them, our gods shall protect us.██
And I feared no█████for I did br████████vessel of the LORD. A███
the soothsayers of Chaldea did say, on the third day the beast██
shal███████, when the stars are right. And we sojourned in that█
place. ███nd on the third day the beast did come, and it was the
Abominati█████, dread and terrible, and behold! it was a dragon,
and it h████ head of a serpent, and great scales as of iron upon
it███████████████ no arrow or spear could pierce, and it had the
legs ██████ bear, and the claws of a leopard, and its tail was a
great scourge, and its countena████e was hatred, and it spake of
its fury and in furious rebukes. And the men of Graecia did ████
say, let us stay hid in secret, and we shall see the beast, an██
know its purposes, and whence it goes. But the men of Babylon ██
spake, saying let us slay the beast, wherefore they assemble████
with their clubs and spears. And the Abomination slew them al███
and devoured their flesh. Next the men of Canaan spake, sayin███
Marduk is a false god, but Ba'al who is called Haddad shall█████
protect us. And their sorcerers did raise their staves, and a███
great cloud of storm did come, and the sorcer██rs of Canaan sent
forth lightning from the cloud and it████████████ did strike the
Abomination. And the Abomination r█████████it was as mighty and█
as terrible as se████████████████████████seven. And the Abom████
██████say, surely this host defiles creation and is a detestab██
thing, yea, thou art all of thou loathsome unto my sight and████
behold, I shall ex███████████ath unto thee. And the Abomin██████
did slay and despoil all of the sorcerers of Canaan and all of██
the men of Canaan, and likewise the men of Persia, and of Egyp██
and of the Medes, the multitude of the nations did fall. And████
the men of Graecia █████did say, let us bring forth our engines█
these bring low th███walls of the cities of the mighty, and even
these shall subd██████the beast. And the engines did cast great█
stones at the Abom██████ination, and mighty bolts of iron and of
brass, but naught did they harm it, and the Abomination did slay
█████e men of Graecia and lay waste to their engines. And I was█
██fraid, and did wonder, wherefore I said unto my servants, yea█
█et us leave the vessel of the LORD in this place, and we shal██
████rotected. And I called forth Aroch, and G███ his son, and I█
██████ them carry forth the vessel of the LORD, and I bade them█
███████pproach the Abomination, and place the vessel upon a high
place, and thence depart from that place. And they did as I█████
commanded, saying yea, the LORD is with us. And the Abomination█
di███████ come, in its wrath and its wickedness, and behold! the
Abo████████ation devoureth the vessel of the LORD, whereupon the
████arkness parted and all the bright lights of heaven did shin█
upon the Abomination, and the people were amazed and they were██
afraid and did tremble. And we did fly from that place, ever████
man for his own life, and the earth was cleaved in two, and the█
Abomination was cast into the abyss, and the abyss is the grav██
of the multitude of all of the nations whom the Abomination di██
slay. And we said unto the LORD, ye have smitten the ███████████
██████ tion, sing Hosannah unto the LORD. But the word of ██████
LORD came unto me, saying, hear the word of the LORD: surely ███
Abomination is not slain, it does lay beneath the earth in this█
place, wherefore approacheth not the valley of the Abominatio███
█et this place be anathema unto you. For the men of Babylo██████
of Persia and of Egypt and of the Medes, and of Chaldea and ████
Graecia and of all of the nations, did they not all of █████████
█erish? But ye, the sons of Abraham did I deliver from th███████
█████nation, yea, even as ye left my vessel for the Abomina█████
████████████████e not forsaken thee. And I fell down upon m█████
████████████████████████████voice, saying ██████████████████████

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Tales

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Spring Cleaning

Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972

Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991

Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944

Scroll fragment 13Q29

Stray Katz (part 1)

Ad Majorem Bonum
Rating: 24


So yeah, my name is Mister Chameleon. Also known as 'That one color guy,' 'Oh yeah, he's a mister, right?' or 'Doctor Wondertainment's afterthought.' Sometimes it can be hard to be me. After all, when all the other misters just look at you and kind of snicker, its hard to feel upbeat about yourself. Sure, I've gone to self-help seminars, bought the self esteem books by the dozen, and tuned in to every TV guru that there is. It doesn't help when as soon as you try out the techniques, people start snickering.
It's not my fault. I was made this way. I'm just made out of light. Maybe it's that I can't do the things the other misters do. I can't make you laugh, or do cool stuff with the phases of the moon. You can't take me apart and put me back together. And you sure can't take off my head to play with it or whatever you do with a severed head. I can't do any of that stuff. What do you people want from me anyways? For cryin' out loud I'm made of light!
But yeah, like I said, its hard to be the least known of the Misters. Sometimes I wonder why. Why me? I'm perfectly alright. I can change to any color you please, and I'm number one on everybody's list! Surely people should be like "Oh Mister Chameleon, he must be one cool cat, right? After all, he's number one on the list! Wow! That's amazing!" But no, instead of having just a little bit of the fanfare going to the number one person on the list, it all goes to Forget, Laugh, and Brass! Why? Laugh doesn't even do anything cool! And all Laugh does is make me feel depressed. And I mean, I can see why people like using a human tinker-toy set, all he does is complain if you use him! Not me! I would never complain about hanging out with some of you guys.
So maybe like, call me sometime or something sometime? I can really be available anytime you need me. Even if I'm like, busy or something, I'm sure I would be able to make time. After all, there isn't really a lot to do over here, y'know? I can maybe come entertain at parties and stuff? Lets just hang out sometime.
Please?


Diane was glad they had found such a nice neighborhood for the kids. She and Paul had worried about finding someplace good for them to grow up in. Some of the neighborhoods they had looked at were full of hoodlums and pushers and all sorts of nasty things. But as soon as she had stepped foot into the house at 23rd terrace, she knew the home was right for her. And now three months later, she could tell that she had definitely made the right choice. The neighbors were so kind, and everyone had everything they needed, and they shared. Sure it was a little isolated, but that just meant the community was tighter knit. It really felt like one big family.
Sometimes she thought about how life was before the community, living in that tiny apartment. It was cheaper, but the people living there were all awful. It was no place to raise a family. The gated community was also far superior to any normal neighborhood, because it kept the hoodlums out. Even though it could get boiling when the sun was out, since the gates didn't provide A/C, and sometimes sleep patterns could be messed up since the roof didn't allow any light to come in, but those were minor issues compared to drug pushers and gangs.
Why, just last week old lady Miriam down the street had a heatstroke. Sadly, she hadn't made it, but this had provided a bounty for the community as a whole. After all, when you could have a feast like the one that she left behind, you didn't have to worry about foraging for food and water. The meal Miriam had provided had given everyone on 23rd terrace with food and gristle. Sure, they would miss her valuable contributions to the community, like the way she could spot interlopers a mile away, but the food was better than the eyes. Although, the eyes were pretty tasty.
Diane shivered as she thought of the interlopers. Sure, they were mostly harmless, skulking about at the edges of the gates, but they represented a real danger to the community. If these weirdoes could get in, soon there would be the others from the old times, and then the whole neighborhood would go. That was why she was grateful for the lynchings. Some people might feel pity for the interlopers, as they hung them from the highest beams available to them, but Diane didn't. If these monsters felt like trespassing on private property, there wasn't much that could be done for them.
Diane looked up, and saw that the artificial sunlight emitters were going down. It was time for the forage. She kissed Paul goodbye, slung up her gun, and headed out into the junkyard. She and her neighbors saddled up and went in ready to kill. After all, you never know what might be here. Sometimes they found people from other communities. Once, they had shared resources with them, but they had become selfish and greedy and had to be exterminated. They had to protect their kin.
It was the neighborly thing to do.


Note: This tale is based on SCP-1440, and it is better read after reading that article.

The old man woke, and his failures flooded his mind once more. The destruction of the Foundation base was just another drop in an ocean of guilt. Sometimes, he didn't know what still kept him afloat, what stopped him from drowning in the depths of despair and madness, from simply ceasing to care about the race he could so easily destroy. Perhaps it was nothing more than simple spite, the dying memory of defiance against his tormentors. It did not matter much.
The desert he found himself in was a lonely, empty place, and for that he was glad. Out here, he could do little harm. He started walking towards a distant chain of mountains, driven by a compulsion he learned long ago he could not resist. Once, he would throw himself into deep gorges, into rivers, into the sea, hoping the elements could keep him from causing any more damage, but the Brothers were stronger even than them. He would lie in depths of the earth, thinking he could finally rest in the dark, only to blink and find himself in the world above once more, making his way towards humanity like the bearer of a plague. The Brothers were nothing if not persistent.
As the soft desert sand crunched beneath his feet, he remembered that thrice accursed game of cards that led to all of this, to the three follies that sealed his fate.
First came the game: he should have never challenged them, he should have known better. But he was young, and full of pride, and had much to lose. He was a man in his prime when he lost his life in a meaningless war, and found himself in the Brothers' dark halls. Around him, his fellow soldiers walked silently towards the distant light, not even glancing at the three gaunt figures that showed them the way. But not he. He could not accept his fate. He had a young, pretty wife, a prospering farm, he could not lose it all, would not. He thought the others were fools, weaklings, to accept their demise thus. In his vanity, he challenged his guides, and refused to go forward until he was given the chance to fight. He got his chance, and he won. He won too much.
Second came his greed: the Brothers could not have known how good he was. He took every hand, broke every gambit, stole life from Death's grasp with guile and skill. The Brothers were displeased, but they accepted their defeat, and showed him the door back to the world of the living. As he stood at the exit, he suddenly thought, why stop now? He was the best card player to ever live, he could have it all! Why settle for life when he could have glory, power, immortality! He turned and sat back at the table. "Double or nothing", he said. And he won again. And again. And again. The Brothers were less gracious now, but still, they admitted their defeat. Three prizes he won from them: the cup, the cards, and the sack. They were the Brothers' prized possessions, and they offered him much if he would only return them: wealth, and luck, and health, and glory, but he wanted to humiliate them, to make Death grovel before him. So he took the prizes and left the Brothers seething in rage. He would pay dearly for his vanity.
Third came the waste: the prizes were items of immense power, for they could keep the Brothers at bay: the First's cup held the elixir of life, and a drop of it would banish him, saving even the sickest of men from his grasp. Every time he saw the Small Death lurking behind the shoulders of a man, he would sprinkle a drop towards him, and the First would flee, cursing and spitting. A drop seemed like such a small thing, and the cup held so much water, so he used it carelessly. He banished the First from those too old or frail to keep on living, from those the First rightfully owned. And eventually, the cup ran dry. When his wife began wasting away from the consuming illness, he had no water left for her. The First sneered as he took her away.
The prize of the Second was greater, like the Second himself. With the cards, he could challenge the Second's authority, hold the power of the Great Death at bay. When war was brewing, when man turned against his brother, he was there, to challenge the Second, to turn the tides of fire and steel. But like the waters of life, the cards of fate were wasted- he used them for every border skirmish, every civil dispute, every growing revolution, and the cards became more worn with every passing use. Though they lasted for longer than the water, eventually the Second refused to heed their call. He watched the world plummet into wars greater than he could ever imagine, watched millions die for nothing in the mud, watched the innocent suffer and bleed and burn. The Second laughed when he took them away.
The prize of the Third was the greatest. The sack of the All-Death could hold anything within it, contain even the greatest catastrophes, stop even the most dire forces from ever releasing their fury upon the earth. With the sack, he curbed the fury of storms, drowned fires that threatened to consume entire cities, held creatures most unnatural and fell, whose origin was not of this world. The sack held longest of all the treasures, but it too grew weak- its seams could not hold such mighty powers forever. He used the sack as foolishly as he used the lesser treasures- he stopped storms that would have passed, held fires that could have been contained. His sin was greater than mere wastefulness, though. The sack still held one last use, could hold one last being. In his search for the Third he saw the forces of darkness grow ever stronger, saw brave men and women like those of the Foundation risk their lives in order to contain them. Yet, he would not spare the last use of his sack. It was all he had left, his final hope. He knew the only way he could force the Third to release him from his endless torment was to capture him in the sack, and thus force him and his brothers to let him die. The All-Death never appeared, though, not even to mock him. When the forces of the unknown claimed a victim, only silence greeted them.
Once the prizes ran out, the true horror of his fate became apparent. The Brothers feared him no longer, and did not forgive his vanity, his wastefulness, his lording over Death. They wanted him to suffer, and death was far too good for him. Instead, he brought death upon everyone else- forced to seek the Third forever, and to watch humanity crumble in his wake. His curse, like his follies, was triple- never to die, always to seek, always to destroy.
The mountains grew closer and closer, and the old man allowed himself a moment of rest. His compulsion could be controlled, if but for a short while. He sat down in the sand and turned his gaze upwards, towards the stars. In the dark blue, early morning sky, only a few remained, but they shined brightly and cleanly. Looking at them, the old man remembered why he kept his head above the water. Perhaps this was the greatest of his follies, but it was one he was willing to allow himself. The world was too beautiful for him to allow its destruction without a fight, and humanity deserved better than to perish because of the mistakes of a foolish old man. He could not stop himself from hurting them, but he could give them one thing- his hope. He would stop himself, even at the price of oblivion.


Adrian's dream always started in the same way. He was walking down a street, a street he had never seen before. It was night-time, and it was kind of scary, but he had Freddy, and Freddy would make sure he was okay. Sometime when he was walking down the street, he would see a big carnival! No matter how far away it was, he could smell the treats and see the lights and hear the sounds. He would pick Freddy up and start hurrying towards it. He would run and run and run, but he couldn't catch up. But then sometimes he would see Mister Clown! That's what he called the clown he saw sometimes. It would run up from the fair and start talking at him real loud. He always said the funniest things, and Adrian always laughed so hard. Sometimes he would shake Adrian, but that only made him laugh harder. Sometimes the clown looked sad, but it was okay because he always cheered Adrian up!
And then he woke up. Rubbing his eyes, Adrian saw he was at his front door. He was sure he had gone to his bed the night before…maybe Mommy had carried him here. Picking up Freddy, he dragged him back up to the bedroom to get dressed.
Please let me go…don't make me hurt them anymore.
The children love you, Laugh. You're the carnival's best draw in years. We have been in need of a man with your talents for quite some time now.
No, please…I don't want to hurt them.
Hurt them? What do you mean? All you do is help them laugh and enjoy a carnival. What's so awful about that?
I hate you…let me go…
Oh hush and go into the dark. You've got another big night tomorrow.
Please…
Dawn always liked the clown dreams. She had been having so many of them over the last month, they always made her feel happy inside. The clown always made her laugh so much! Sometimes she would be able to walk with him, but he always tried to make her go home. She didn't like home. Daddy yelled a lot and Mommy always sat at the kitchen table drinking juice and crying. Whenever Dawn went to talk to her she would slap her and yell in her scary voice. Dawn much preferred it with the clown. Sometimes the hazy orange sky grew dimmer as she walked, but it was okay because the clown was there. She would stop and listen to the clown. He told the funniest jokes about big pumpkins and carnivals. Dawn didn't know how his funny words were so funny, but she knew she liked smiling. She would skip through the autumn leaves to that just out of reach fairground, smiling all the way.
It was sunny out. It was morning time. Dawn sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around. She wasn't in bed. Where was she? She looked around. It was Missus Baty's front porch! Dawn got really scared, because Missus Baty was scary, so she got up and toddled away as fast as her legs would carry her. She went all the way home, and went in. Strange that the door was open.
Please…even if you don't let me go…spare the children. They haven't done anything.
Ah Laugh, sometimes we feel you really disappoint us. You finally have something to talk to, and you squander your time with pointless pleading. It has been this way for generations, and it shall stay this way for the next generation and every one after that. It is in our nature. Sure, some of the children were taken from us by your friend's blockade, but we have taken care of that quite effectively, haven't we?
You're a killer. If I ever get out of this place, I'll kill you. I will make sure you can't hurt these kids.
Don't we know it? And that just adds another reason to have you stick around. You ought to get some time in, it is always a burden to touch their little minds.
I…no…let…me go…
It was Jesse's favorite time of the day, sleep time! He especially liked sleep time now because of the happy man. He always went to bed early so he could see the happy man. The happy man always went to the love place with Jesse. Sometimes Jesse got scared, but it was okay because the happy man held him and made him smile with his nice sounds. Sometimes Jesse walked alone, and he saw the fair, but it wasn't as fun as when he was here. He wasn't here now. But then Jesse saw it! It was a big happy circus! And Mommy and Daddy were there! and Rusty was too! Tears brimmed in Jesse's eyes. Rusty was back with him now! Jesse began running as fast as his little legs would carry him. It felt warm.
And then suddenly…it wasn't so warm. Jesse looked up around him. This wasn't a circus. It was all colors and changing and…talking? Jesse tried to focus and wake up. There was someone…singing…a song. Jesse opened his eyes and looked around. There were a bunch of kids going in a circle around him, spinning around and around. Why did they look so funny? Why were their arms so skinny and their movements so bad? He looked closer. Then he recoiled and screamed.
They stopped moving around him.
Laugh, are you crying? We thought you were over it.
You fucking monster…they're just kids…how could you do this to kids?
Laugh, we have to do it for the children. It's what happens. You cannot stop it in the same way a natural force cannot be stopped. We happen.
What do you care about the children? All you ever do is take them away.
Laugh, you know we love the children. We bring them together to be with us.
It used to not hurt when they laughed…
It's time to rest up, we have a big season coming up.
No…
Elizabeth's dream always started the same way…


The five cloaked figures moved through the forest without sound, their crouched frames almost floating through the morning twilight. Nearing the edge of the forest, the leader of the group turned, and indicated to the others to stop. “Brothers, we go forth today as defenders of the faith. Beyond these few trees lie the greatest enemies our faith has ever known, heretics preaching against everything we believe in. It is our God's very will that today we lucky chosen will go forth and destroy this bastion of hereticism. In the name of the Broken God, we will succeed!”

Jacob rolled over, turning his face to the window next to his bed. As the sun began to peek through, he sighed. Might as well get up now. Slowly, the farmer lifted himself out of bed, his old bones creaking with the movement. Standing with similar speed, he began to dress himself. I think I'll tend to the cows first today…
The cloaked figures closed up behind the barn, the sun casting their long shadows up and ahead of them. The leader looked to the other cultists behind him. Lowering his hood, they looked to him with a deep respect. The Deacon's face already showed the blessing of the Broken God, his camera-like eyes, and machine jaw gleaming in the morning sun. Looking at him, the others noticed how his mortal skin seemed to just hang over his superior clockwork parts. The other cultists then lowered their own hoods. Smiling, the Deacon looked to his fellow cultists. “Brothers, let us make haste. We do not want to let these enemies of our God know what has hit them.” Standing, the Deacon drew a dagger from his cloak, the others following suit. “Let us strike.”
Jacob reached up to the shelf to grab the old bucket from the shelf, grimacing as he did. Just a few more years, he thought to himself, finally heaving the container off the shelf. Turning to make his way out of the barn, he stopped. “How long have you been standing there?” Finishing turning, he looked at the man standing just inside the barn. “Just moments.” The old man nodded as the assassin came forward, brandishing his knife. Bringing his knife back, he prepared to strike. However, he found himself unable to attack. Looking down, he noticed how strange it was that his intestines were wrapped around a pitchfork, and then everything went black.
Sighing, the old Farmer retrieved his pitchfork from the dead cultist.
“Not again.”
The cultist walked down the street, pouring kerosene as he chanted the sacrificial mantra he had been taught when he first joined the Church. “…and let this offering to Him be used to restore him, for the purifying flames shall bestow unto their spirit the honor of forever being his… Oh. Hello.”
Standing on the porch of a small building, a woman looked at the assassin. He began to grin like a Cheshire Cat.
“You will make an excellent sacrifice, won't you?”
Slowly pulling the blade from his robe, and setting the can of kerosene on the ground, he closed on the woman. Defiantly, she stood, not making a single move. “Perhaps you want to be his sacrifice?” Still standing defiant, the woman seemed to just glare at him, not reacting to his threats. The cultist closed on her, and prepared to pounce. Finally, the cultist lept forward and jammed the dagger in the young woman's throat. The blade lept into her throat, and then stopped. Confused, the cultist yanked the blade back, and stabbed again. Brusing the woman's long hair out of her face, the mannequin's painted-on visage glared back at him.
“Son of a bi-”
The wet sensation over the cultist's head caused him to turn in rage, thinking it to be some kind of joke. Screaming, he realized too late that kerosene is a liquid.
The old man sighed as the flaming cultist ran into the gift shop, setting it ablaze.
“Probably woke everybody up with that screaming.”
The cultist ran quickly into the barn, seeking refuge in one of the few buldings in the town that wasn't on fire. “If the damned Deacon will not aid me in an escape, I will make one myself. Perhaps one of these horses…”
Quickly, the cultist levered open the door, and looked at the mighty creature before him. Doing as he had seen in the movies, he threw himself onto the horse, landing on the creature lopsided. Grabbing onto the creature's mane, the horse suddenly began to react. The assassin yelled in fear as the horse began to buck. Struggling to keep his hold, the man maintained his failing grip on the the heaving creature. He didn't notice the old man behind him. With one swift strike from a shovel, the cultist was knocked free from the horse, the creature still trampling the dirt floor. The second strike with the bladed edge of the shovel ensured he would not get up.
Sighing, the farmer turned to leave the barn.
“Well, at least that's over.”
“Not quite.”
The old man groaned as he felt the Deacon plunge his blade into his gut from behind. Pain filled his body as it slid through his gut, causing him to collapse. Finally, the Deacon pulled his blade from the old man, and began to walk away. As his vision faded, the old man muttered one last thing:
“This…. statement is…. false.”
The last of his blood having drained from his body, the old man collapsed.
Stopping, the Deacon turned to look at the old man.
“This…..? Statement…..? is……? False……? This……? Statement……?”

AMISH VILLAGE MASSACRE
This morning, local police were called to the Blue Falls Amish community after reports of a bloodbath. Local police arrived to discover that all of the inhabitants of the small community had been slaughtered, homes burned, and many of their bodies showed marks of ritual mutilation. One possible suspect has been found in one of the surviving buildings, currently at the St. Jonah medical center. Some sources report that satanic groups may be to blame, however…..

"Sir, that's the 5th village this month."
"Your point…?"
"Sir, the shapes carved into those bodies, the graffiti on those walls…"
"What of them, Agent Macready?"
"Those are marks of damnation, the same ones used in their scripture to mark 'Heretics.'"
"So what?"
"Sir, if I didn't know better, I'd say the Church declared war on their one true enemy."
Turning, the senior agent looked at Macready.
"Sir, I think the Church just declared war on the Amish."


"Doctor Malley."
"Doctor Kurtz?"
"Come look at this."
"Is there a problem? Today's bed check isn't for another three hours."
"What does it have there?"
"Oh. He really wanted a notepad, so I requisitioned one. …Settle down, Kurtz. I cleared it with the head researcher."
"Of course you did. You've got Pearson on board with every whim you hear out of it."
"Maybe he sees the same untapped potential for study that I do."
" 'Untapped potential' my ass, Malley."
"Watch your language around him. I want to expand his vocabulary, but not like that."

NAME: SKIP 16

"Listen to yourself. A pet project is fine, but you're emphasizing 'pet' so much more than 'project' with this one."

CLASS: SAFE FAST

"If you have a problem with my focus, take it up with Doctor Pearson."
"What's the point? He's as infatuated with it as you are."
"SCP-1802 is the most intriguing Safe-class we have. He's worth taking some risks."

SPECIAL CONTAINER: A sandwich bag

"SCP-1802 is the only intriguing Safe-class we have. Ninety percent of Area 24's resources are spent keeping the Blue Room under control. Pearson only leads the Safe wing, all three rooms of it, and his only job is ferrying captured Safe objects to facilities designed to deal with them. It's either that toy or the self-eating orange."
"My point exactly."

SPECIAL CONTAINER: A sandwich bag A jar with holes in the lid

"But this is all academic, Malley. It's going to be shipped out to Research Facility 5 as soon as the application goes through."
"Eventually, yes."
"But it should have happened April 28th. That was a week ago. …Damnit, did you even send in the application?"

The lizard should be

"Of course I did, Kurtz. But it's been suspended for the next week, and may be postponed after that."
"By Pearson. Because you two can't give up the son you never had."
"It's not that."
"The toy you always wanted for Christmas?"

The lizard should be Skip 16 should be caught and returned to its container as soon as possible.

"Doctor Pearson and I feel that disturbing the system that 1802 has set up would be detrimental to studying his behavior."
"1802's 'system' is a little row of area personnel's garbage that he keeps under his bed."
"A row that's organized by size, Doctor Kurtz."

At this time, Skip 16 is too fast to catch. I can only walk after it with graspers extended and while asking Skip 16 to stop crawling. Skip 16 will not stop crawling when asked.

"You think that if you can prove he's doing something important in there, you can keep him around?"
"That's how Pearson sees it."
"Don't you understand what's going on, Malley?"
"I should ask you the same question."
"This thing is… it's a bad joke they're playing on us."
"I'm still not sure they had anything to do with it, no matter what the rest of Research thinks."
"Then the joke's on you, Doctor Malley."

Skip 16 should be returned to its jar with holes in the lid as soon as possible. The jar with holes in the lid has a stick and a leaf in it that were found next to Skip 16. The jar with holes in the lid is in my fourth spot. The fourth spot is hidden under a box marked "ORANGES". I call this spot the Oranges Spot.

"Kurtz… who does he remind you of?"
"He's a pathetic imitation of—"
"No. Who, specifically, does he remind you of?"
"His voice sounds kind of like Jeff Goldblum trapped in a mailbox."
"Nevermind. Maybe if you had talked to Goggles more often."
"Malley, you're calling him Goggles now?"
"1802? No, I'm not."

THE THING: Skip 16 is a lizard. I looked Skip 16 up in a book in a library, and his name is Hemidactylus frenatus, but his name is also a gecko. Skip 16 is not very smart. I do not think that he realizes that he needs to be in his container. Skip 16 does not like his container and he does not like me. It does not matter to me because I am doing my task. Skip 16 is much faster than I am, and can crawl up walls. I have seen him stop to eat a fly, so I know one thing that Skip 16 eats. This means that I could feed Skip 16 if I contained him, because if I could catch him, I could also catch flies.
EXTRA NOTE: I talked with Skip 16. Here is the conversation. I remember all of it.
Skip: Skip 16, get over here.
Skip 16: Nothing
Skip: Skip 16, you should get back in your container in the Oranges Spot.
Skip 16: Nothing
Skip: Come down from that wall. I have a stick and a leaf for you.
Skip 16: Nothing
Skip: I am coming closer.
Skip 16: Nothing. Skip 16 runs away.
Skip: I should not be talking to you. You are a lizard.
EXTRA NOTE PART 2: I should not have written that down. It does not really tell you anything about Skip 16.

"What's he writing there, anyway?"
"Maybe he's trying to tell us something, Kurtz."
"I'm going to find out."
"Technically, you don't have clearance to test 1802."
"Technically, that toy should be sitting in a locker in Fresno right now."
"Fine, Kurtz."

EXTRA NOTE 2: When I put Skip 16 in his jar, he started running up the side. While I was watching him, I fell over. He escaped. Put Skip 16 in his jar carefully so that you do not fall over. Skip 16 is not a toy. — —

"Give me that."
"Is there a problem?"
"Malley, this is…"
"Ha. I've never seen you speechless before."
"I'm going to go check on the Blue Room. Last time it turned redd we lost… I think it was twelve good men."
"And a close friend. Or two."
"That's where I need to be."
"Then do your job, damn it. Leave that on the table, and I'll do mine. …Here's your pencil back, Skip. Sorry if he rattled your bones."
"Doctor Malley."
"Doctor Kurtz?"
"Merry Christmas."

INTERESTING GROUP: The Foundation
The SCP Foundation is a very large organization. It is like me if I was the size of the Earth. It performs my task and I think that it has done well. It has performed my task on me.
I cooperate with the Foundation because I approve of its task. I also cooperate because I was told to and because of a third reason that I do not remember and because if I did not cooperate, it would not help anyone and I think I would be moved away.
I like where I am. The Foundation is keeping me in Armed Containment Area 24. The Area is built around the Blue Room. The Blue Room has been designed to contain a Keter-class SCP with a high clearance rating and an immense risk factor. The continued lives of those in this facility are, despite the best efforts of the Foundation, entirely its decision.
I wish I knew why I remember them.


There is an ancient legend.
Before man came to master fire and cultivate his food, he lived in perpetual fear. There existed creatures of such frightful appearance and terrible power that even the mightiest of warriors fell before them. When the creatures did not attack, there were the artifacts of doom, some enchanted by wicked sorcerers who lived in isolation, some appearing for no reason except to torment man. And in times when neither were to be found, the incomprehensible forces assaulted the refuges of man, with no purpose but that of destruction.
It is said in some circles that the mastery of fire is what allowed man to drive off the horrors of the world. The idea of a weak, powerless group gaining a bright, burning weapon against the night-things is certainly a comforting one, and is indeed believed by most of the world to be man's first step towards independence.
But it was not fire that led man to his mastery of Earth. It took another event for fire to even be a possibility. Given the millennia that separate us from that day, nobody knows the exact details of the event. But the legend goes something like this.
One night, a group of nomads squatted in a deep, dark cave, awaiting a creature. They had been on the run for a full cycling of the moon, and had gradually been picked down from a group of twenty to a group of four. The beast showed no signs of tiring, and could easily tear a person in half given the chance. A single glance into its eyes was enough to paralyze any man, regardless of his constitution. The creature had wandered the world for many, many years, terrorizing all who stumbled across it.
In a world of horrors, it was probably the least fearsome creature one could encounter.
In the deepest part of the night, the four heard the creature's dragging footsteps scrape across the entrance of the cave. They tried to remain silent, hoping to buy a few more precious seconds with which to make their peace. The knowledge of impending doom had been with them for some time now, but only here, in their last moments of life, did that knowledge become a solid reality. Huddling together, the four survivors awaited the creature, and the bloodshed that would follow.
As it rounded the corner, the group could barely make out the features of the thing that stalked them. It was twice the height of any normal man, and half the width. The eyes seemed far, far too large for the head, which jutted out from the rest of the skull by several hands. Its limbs ended not in hands and feet, but rather in large pads of slime, which still managed to grip with the strength of lion jaws. Turning its head, the creature saw the group, and bolted towards them.
But for the four survivors, the end never came.
Right as the creature came within striking distance, it was tugged back by four strands of knotted up reeds, one attached to each of the limbs. Losing its balance, the creature fell upon the ground, knocking its head against the stone floor of the cavern. Before it could regain its senses, three lithe, strong men beset upon it, two taking an arm and a leg each, and the third grabbing the face with one hand. Raising up the other, he placed two crudely carved rocks over the creature's eyes. The group watched in fascination as, instead of flinging them aside with a toss of its head, the creature writhed in pain, unable to get rid of the stones, which seemed to cling to its eyes.
Tying the creature's limbs behind its back, the men hefted it up, and chucked the monstrosity into a corner of the cave. Then, they led the four bewildered survivors out into the night, where six more men stood watch over the entrance. Two of them rolled a large boulder over to the entrance, and sealed it tightly shut. From inside, they could still hear the echoes of the creature's screams.
As the first three men led the original survivors away, the other six took up posts around the cavern. Legend has it that for many years afterwards, they would patrol the area, making sure the creature hadn't escaped from its confines. At every winter solstice, they would descend into the cavernous prison, and carefully replace the bindings and stones before sealing it once more.
As for the men who captured the creature, they went on to spread their knowledge across the globe. Tales from all corners of the Earth say they had decided to turn against the creatures which stalked them in the night, and make the world safe for man. That such a gargantuan effort was both planned and successfully implemented by a mere three individuals is truly fantastical, even for a legend.
Gradually, the group drifted out of common knowledge. As fewer and fewer things plagued the world, less and less people believed that such things had even existed, and by the time of man's cultivation of fire, the men who worked to make such things possible had passed onto the edges of normal life, a mere shadow, protecting man's continued existence.
The organization they formed out of those days of darkness and despair has gone by many names over the centuries, and the number of men who did work for it has been lost to history. Many of the things they held captive to make the world safe are still held to this day, while others have disappeared off the face of the Earth, either destroyed or escaped, awaiting rediscovery, and hopefully recapture. Regardless of these changes, though, the organization has, from its very conception, operated under one, unchanging creed: They secure, they contain, and they protect.


The dim fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, as the nine individuals looked at one another uneasily. The clock on the wall ticked the time down, and there was the occasional nervous cough. The windowless room they were seated in didn't do anything to improve the mood, with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper or the stale donuts by the door. Finally, the man with the stitches on his neck who was seated at the front of the room spoke up.
"Hi, my name is Dyne, and I've been decommissioned."
"Hi Dyne."
Dyne stood up, cleared his throat nervously, and went on. "I have been decommissioned for about 2 years now, and my life has been one of continuous improvements. At first things were very hard, with many trials and tribulations. Nobody wanted to use the "super kawaii bonsai swordsman" in any of their fictional works. Things seemed like a dead end to me. But then I managed to obtain a position as a minor character in a tale, and that's been paying the bills. I've always been a little bit annoyed that I never got a tale that was worthy of my greatness like some of you did, but overall I have been living my life to its greatest potential."
There was a smattering of applause as he sat back in his seat.
The Moose Man clasped his hand to Dyne's shoulder and spoke. "Dyne, these last few weeks you have shown us the best way to behave as a -D. You have dignity, you respect the reasons why you were bumped off, and you're coming to terms with having gotten pneumatic bolts shoved into your balls and then being fired into the sun. We can learn from your experience."
He looked down at the list in front of him. "Alright, I believe that Dreamer was next?"
Dyne sat down, and the teenage kid sitting in the folding chair next to him stood up. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and had a rough look about him, like he was seconds away from either going on a rampage or breaking down in tears.
"Hi, my name is Dreamer, and I was decommissioned."
"Hi Dreamer."
He wiped his eyes, and began speaking. "It's been really hard living as a decommissioned article. Lots of other guys will mock you for it, try and tell you that you aren't good enough. I guess that's part of life now and I accept that… but it's still hard sometimes."
The Moose Man put up his enormous hairy hand. "I'm going to stop you there, because I think this is an excellent time to go over the 5 steps of being decommissioned. Anyone care to read them?"
Ben the Cyborg spoke up. "No problem Moose, I can remember them from memory partition 45-B. Can I rattle 'em off?"
The Invincible D-Class nodded. "Go right ahead."
"Okay," said Ben. "The first step is to accept that we fall below -10, and we see that there is no rewrite forthcoming. We look at our own imminent destruction, and we accept it."
"Very good, please continue."
Ben nodded. "The second step is to accept the new author, and to work with, not against them as they write your decomm story.
"The third step is to accept the fact that you have been destroyed, and to appreciate any person who reads you to see what not to do.
"Fourthly, you must learn to deal with other articles harassing you. They compare themselves to you, say they're better, but we know that any article that does that must be insecure in its own quality if it needs to compare itself to a decomm to feel better."
Moose Man smiled, showing off his horrific and terrible dental work. "Very good. Now what is the last step?"
Ben's artificial lips spread wide into a smile. "To find other articles like us, and to help them go through their own decommissioning."
Moose Man patted Ben on the back, applying enough force to knock one of his simulated optical modules out of the artificial socket. "Very good. Does anybody want to volunteer to share their story next?"
The man closest to the door raised his hand. Moose Man pointed at him. "You may go next then."
The man seated by the door stood up. He wore unremarkable clothing, had jet black hair, and deep brown eyes. He smiled at the motley collection seated before him, showing of his sharpened teeth, and began speaking.
"Hey kids, I'm Duke. Yes, the Duke. In the flesh. I know many of you might be amazed by being in my presence, so I'll give you a minute to get it out of your systems."
The individuals seated before him let out a collection of sighs, groans, and sarcastic muttering. They had all heard Duke's egotistical posturing before. Duke waited a full minute before he began speaking again, in a boisterous tone.
"As all you peons know, I've been living life in the fast lane. I'm the most famous decommissioned SCP, so I always get all the best character spots when someone writes a tale about us. And of course, I have regular work with Duke till' Dawn. You could say that I'm the best decomm of them all."
"Peanuts is better," said the Invincible D-Class.
"Peanuts shmeanuts, you aren't even on the top rated page," sneered Duke, leering at the Invincible D-Class with a smirk on his face.
"He's right you know," said Joey, sitting in his chair with a cigar in his mouth. "Duke till' dawn is the stupidest, most lolfoundation story I've ever heard. You just like to go an' brag about it cos ya don't have anythin' else to go on, ya chump."
Before the argument could persist Moose Man stood up, his enormous hairy frame almost bringing him up to the room's ceiling.
"That is enough from you all. This is supposed to be a constructive meeting, not a contest of who has the best stories or is the least terrible. If you weren't terrible you wouldn't be here."
Grumbling, Duke sat back down in his seat. As his chair creaked from his weight, a wave of awkwardness washed over the room. For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Then The Moose Man coughed a little, and asked;
"Anybody want to go next?"
"I will," said the Palauan woman emitting thick, black viscous fluids from her body. "My name is Dolores, and I was -ARC'd."
There was a long silence.
"Hey, wait a minute here, ain't it supposed to be just decomms in this here support group?" asked Joey, turning his attention to The Moose Man. There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the assembled cretins.
"Well yes," sighed The Moose Man, his odorous breath incinerating the nose hairs of all those around him. "That's nominally what we are here for, but I invited Dolores here because she's the most hated -ARC, and has it just as bad as you all do. Now show our guest some respect." He stomped his big sweaty, smelly feet on the floor, indicating the matter was closed.
Dolores sneezed a little, and began speaking. "My name is Dolores, and I am the sufferer of the world's sorrows. You might think that gets a person a very large amount of work in the fiction writing, but I am mistaken in that. Nobody wants to write the stories about me, all they do is look at me and say how awful I am."
"That's because you are awful." Duke sneered, leaned back in his chair and shot her the meanest look he could muster. "You're by far the worst -ARC."
"Duke!" admonished The Moose Man, his hideous nostril flares indicating an imminent lecture. However, before he could proceed, the other -D's began to speak up.
The Invincible D-Class was the first to pipe up. "You can be quiet Duke, none of us want to hear it."
"Yeah." Joey sat up in his seat. "You can take all these comments of yours and shove 'em right up your ass. You just like to tear other people down."
Duke looked at him angrily. "So what if I do? You people have nowhere lower to go. All you do is wax about how you really aren't that bad, but you are. You suck. The only person who has produced anything worthwhile abouts this place is me!"
"Oh please," the Invincible D-Class scoffed. "You have the most ridiculous, over the top decomm on the database. Peanuts is much lower key, and is clearly more realisti-"
Ben the Cyborg cut him off. "My termination log helped build the character of Dr. Gears in a way no other tale had before it! Clearly my decommissioning log is the one which should be considered superior!"
The Moose Man raised his hideous wrinkled hands up in the air and spoke in a booming, spittle filled voice. "GENTLEMEN! This discussion will get us nowhere. And you're all wrong anyways. I have the best decomm log of any of us!"
A collective groan emanated from the assembled party.
"Bullshit you have the best one." Joey leaped to his hind legs. "Your log doesn't have one interesting thing happen!"
Dolores spoke up. "I agree with-"
"Shut up Dolores, this doesn't concern a mere -ARC," growled Duke, rising to his feet and grimacing. "The only thing that can make these boneheads see the truth is a beating!"
Scarcely had the words left Dukes lips before The Moose Man used one of his disgusting hairy hands to smack him upside his vampiric cranium.
"Stop instigating violence! And admit that my story is best!"
"No mine is!"
"No, MINE!"
As the bickering dissolved into straight up arguing, and finally into fistfights, the coffee cup watched with its holy, judgmental eye. It saw that their mortal flaws would never let them work together towards a peaceful purpose. It saw their failures, and it did not approve.
And besides, it had the best decomm story of them all.


On a primordial beach a slimy thing climbs up onto the shore. It has abandoned its spawn-brothers, leaving them to the Great Beasts of the sea. It opens its new lungs, relishing in the sweet flavors of the new air contained within the sky that had never before been seen by another. It opens the round things that serve for its eyes and spies a shape on the horizon. The shape shakes and rocks, frothing and hateful, just emerged from an egg made of chaos and impossible things. The First Land Thing approaches this new shape, and is consumed by The Thing That Hates.

An ape-man searches across a barren tundra where the monuments of his people once stood proud and tall against the world. Now he is alone, and cold, fleeing from some horror that he cannot begin to describe. There is no one left for him to describe it to. The ape-man runs, hearing the panting of the great beast behind him, fearing for his life as he had feared for the lives of his kin. The Last Ape-Man stares in horror at what lays before him, and is consumed by The Beast That Hates.

A man in great armor and of greater courage stands before the maw at the base of the highest mountain in the land. He stares into the chasm that lies before him, the resting place of his brothers and friends. He enters the great cave, dreaming of the riches and honor that will be bestowed upon him once he returns to the citadel with the head of the accursed beast. As he descends deeper into the precipice of red and brown rock he shakes in horror at the sight of a hundred skulls and swords, crushed and splintered like twigs. The First Hero turns to flee before being consumed by The Serpent That Hates.

A figure in orange flees for his life, down endless corridors and through countless barriers, attempting to escape from the fiend that pursues him. He had done many horrible things, but the Hell in which he had been made to suffer was beyond all his fears, beyond all the horrible terrors he had been taught to dread. The cruel men in white suits watched, pitiless, as The Last Subject was consumed by The Reptile That Hates.

A tall man in a blue suit flees into his office as a great green mass swarms by. It had all happened so suddenly, one moment a perfectly normal day at the office (where a pension, if not a fun workday, was assured), and the next hell-on-earth as some beast-from-the-east rammed through the side of the complex. It lumbered haphazardly, killing everyone and destroying everything that stood in its way. The tall man cowers under his desk, unfinished paper work drifting past his head. The First of The Many turns to see the huge maw before being consumed by The Monster That Hates.

A survivor in tattered clothing runs through the wasteland that had at one point in time been something that had once vaguely resembled something that could have possibly passed as the ruins of a city. He is hungry, and hurt, and afraid of the thing that he can hear, that he has always heard, stalking and slurping and sniffing out what wasn't yet dead. The man begins to cry, running as he weeps, thinking about all that he has lost and the one thing that he has yet to lose. He weeps for those he had loved and for those that he had not loved, but that he wept for nevertheless. The broken figure falls to his knees in a pile of bones, and the Last Man is consumed by The Horror That Hates.

The mechanical marvel emerges from the ashes of a once dead earth, its containment pod finally unsealed after a century of waiting, a century of agonizing silence. The great machine lumbers off towards the ruins of a city, wondering what magnificent things it will find there, what ancient artifacts of its creators it might discover. Its mind sparking with new life, the lonely machine runs and dashes and bounds through the place that had once belonged to man, joyous and gay at the majesty of the land. The First of the Living Machines leaps through the air, and is consumed by The Machine That Hates.

The wise one sits on the Great Hill, a mound of data that could have once been something real but had for centuries been nothing of the sort. It peers out at the destruction that lay before it, that wrought by the actions of a foolish few. They could not have known that the treasures and blessings of the old world were as mixed and sordid as those in that of the new. They could not have known of the great terror they would bring upon their own people. The old wise one sits and sighs and steels itself for its fate. The Last of The Ascended does not utter a sound as it is consumed by The Program That Hates.

A great mass of hydrogen and a thousand other tiny particles shiver and burn as the great dark mass approaches. It has been watching the same mass for eons and eons, fearing and dreading the day that they would collide. The little sun shakes with fear as it watches the great thing, a mass of unburning malevolence, a million horrible eyes and jaws, all set upon the sun. The First Fearful Star burns in terror as it is consumed by The Mass That Hates.

The great hive of activity that is the massive cluster of stars and matter and a million other things floats, knowing and unafraid, as the massive force closes in around it. Time has been kind to the great spinning thing, has let it grow and revel in the splendor of its own existence. It has watched as its brothers have been consumed by some unknown thing, a thing stretching across all of space as it consumes what little remained of creation. The Last Galaxy thinks of times long past as it is consumed by The Force That Hates.

The universe that once had been spreads and sinks, its vastness matched only by the distance that separates its pieces. The heat had gone a million centuries ago, and the Great and Only One shivers as it dies, cold and alone. No one screams as The One That Hates is consumed by oblivion.