Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Ding.
There is a soft patter of steps as a British Shorthair walks over, leaping onto a desk; eyes hovering over a smartphone as it presses its paw against the screen.
"You have mail, Master," a deep voice emanating from the feline states.
A whirr of mechanical noise stirs from the opposite side of the room as a speaker crackles to life.
A synthetic monotone voice replies, "Is it important? Robotics isn't easy, and I'm already doing it hands-free."
Looking over at the source of the voice, the cat licks its paw. "It is an invitation to the festivities of Hollow's Eve for the site."
"That's not impor-"
"It's mandatory, for you at least. You must, if I may be so bold as to quote: 'Get out of your cave and show yourself amongst the living as physically as possible. You're not a damn specter so stop haunting your lab. Bring some body; and by this I mean one with yourself in it.'"
A moment of silence passes.
"But I'm still working on them. It's just a skeletal frame at this point. Barely put together, basic electronics and stuff put in. No reinforcements, no features, no actual body."
Static crackles over the speakers as the lights flicker.
Bright feline eyes stare forth throughout the flickering. "Do not worry, Master. It will be perfect for the occasion. You are supposed to be spooky, as I am told."

Some might complain about working on the holidays; missing the staff parties or their own plans.
Not Frank. Everyone's off doing their own thing, just peace and quiet. Oh, not to mention the free food. They feel so bad about the unfortunate few that have to work through the holidays; always food from any of the site parties brought down to you as thanks, and holiday treats.
Easy guard shift. Just him, the cameras, and free food. The occasional staff coming and going but nothing major. Sometimes one has to sit back and enjoy the good times in this line of work after all.
Click. Clack. The whirring of pistons in motion echoes down the hall.
"That's odd…"
The keyboard clacks as the camera feeds focus to that of the hallway outside the security checkpoint.
"What in the…"

A robotic skeleton with a messenger bag slung over its shoulder, cat head leaning out of it, walks down the hallway, holding what appears to be a Foundation-issued ID in its hand.
Coming to a stop and slowly turning to face the bullet proof glass of the desk, hand outstretched holding an ID card, a monotone voice emerges from within.
"Hey Frank. How's your night going?" says the skeleton, the lenses in its robotic eyes focusing on the Site Guard in front of it. "Not at the party either, huh? I feel that. They told me I had to go socialize in the fl- in the physicality as it were."
The robotic arm moves slowly forward, its hand placing down the ID card, a single finger laboriously pushing it forward.
Looking down at the card in trepidation. "There's no… There's uh no photo."
Gazing into him unblinkingly. "Sorry, I don't really have a," it gestures with overdrawn and unrefined motions, "much of a set appearance anymore. Just a spirit in a skeleton, you know?"
Reaching for a nearby radio, as it clackers on. "Checkpoint twenty to Sec-Command. Got a," he lowers his voice as he leans into the radio, "got a fuckin' terminator here at my desk, trying to head up. No, uh, verifiable photo ID. Name is Jasper Coldsmith, attached to a uh, SCP-7963."
Moments pass as both stare at one another without moving before a response comes forth from the radio.
"Hey Frank, How's the ghost shift treating yah? Heh. Jasper you say? Tell him to head on up, he's supposed to be up here. Almost got ordered to go drag him out of his lab, good timing. Take it easy, Frank."
Still perturbed, Frank slowly moves the card back out of the slot.
"Well… you heard em. Head on up."
Retrieving the card, a cacophony of mechanical noise erupts as it moves steadily towards the elevator. Turning forward, the messenger bag faces the security checkpoint, a cat staring out.
The cat opens its maw, "Happy Hollow's Eve, Guard Frank."

Sounds of a mechanical clanking and whirring fill the empty halls, emphasizing the eerie dead silence of the site, save for the ghostly whirring of the air systems breathing into the underground complex.
"Being the being that I am now, am I allowed to be freaked out by the empty halls devoid of life on Halloween?"
Leaning out of the messenger bag, the cat paws up at the robot. "Stop worrying. Knowing you I'm sure the room full of people will be worse."
Stopping for a second, the robot's shoulders creak as they lower. "Did you have to put it that way?"

A set of double doors are opened partially several times before something eases its way through it into the main site cafeteria.
People are gathered throughout the room, some in work attire, others in a variety of costumes for the occasion. Food, candy and drinks are layed out on the tables with Halloween-themed music floating throughout the air.
The odd disturbance at the door causes several to look its way in time to see some sort of metallic skeleton-like figure trip through them, with a cat leaping out of its bag onto a nearby seat.
Steadying itself and straightening up, it looks around. "Oh no, I've had this exact dream before, but I'm even more naked somehow."
Several party-goers, some a bit more into their cup than others, head over, greeting Jasper and his feline companion.
"Jasper!"
"You made it."
"Nice Entrance, drink much already?"
"Hey Bob, you up for cards?"
Jasper along with researchers Romeo and Kaelin meander over to a table closer to the center of the room, and the festivities. Now sitting down, the conversation shifts to discussion about Jasper's project and how the body building was going.
Meanwhile, Bob, the British Shorthair, has been dealt into a game of cards on the other side of the room.
"You want a drink, Jasp?"
"A Drink, Romeo? What do you think man?"
"Gotcha, wait here: I'll go grab something good."
"What? Wait, that was a n- and he's already gone."

The evening continues on as a metal hand methodically raps its fingers against the table, leaning into it.
"At least I got idling fidgeting down again. Good," Jasper tones out.
"Come on Jasp, yuh you gotta have fun. I know it's a w-ourk function but you guh-tta relax," mutters out a drunken researcher Romeo, now laying face down on the table.
"You're just here to drink, then drank drinks you wanted me to try somehow."
"Yeah, you're not looking good there," Kaelin adds in. "You need help back to the dorms?"
"Nah I'll… I'll just sleep here. No party like a Foundation pahhrty. It's fiiine," Romeo slogs on.
Kaelin glares at him before arching an eyebrow to Jasper.
"He's from Site 19," a monotone reply springs forth.
Meanwhile, several people throw their hand of cards onto the table they're at in dismay.
"Alright, I think you've all had enough tonight, Gentlemen. Both of alcohol and loss," informs a feline voice as it paws in its winnings closer to itself. "Besides, I don't believe any of you have much left to wager."
"How'd a cat beat us… it can't even hold the cards," one goes, swishing around the remains of their drink.
"Hey Bob, come on. Cat to man here, all in good fun… can I have my car keys back?" they ask, smiling nervously and while reaching towards a pair of keys.
"This is why I prefer dogs… Crow's shit at poker."

A ringing in his head, he coughs through a dry throat.
"Uauagh… what… where…" mutters the awakened researcher Romeo, now under the table in the main site cafeteria still.
"OW!" he erupts as he bangs his head into said table.
Looking up from the floor he spots a skeleton of sorts, with fake eyes, staring back at him, watching his movements.
"Oh god whatthefuck!!"
"Good morning, Romeo, oh Romeo," intones the skeleton as it slides over a pitcher of water across the table.
"Wha? Jasper, is that you? What happened last night?" Romeo groggily asks as he starts to drink from the pitcher.
"Oh you know. Halloween, costumes, candy. You drank for both of us, I guess."
Robotic fingers rap-tap-tap against the table. "And I decided to wait around while you and…" it gestures broadly around, "some others like you slept it off. I can say I was out of my lab then."
Placing the pitcher down, now empty of its contents. "Hey uh, aren't you magic too? In general?" he says as he waves his hands around. "You got some sort of hangover cure spell?"
"I can think of a few."
"Can… Can you use one on me?"
"No."


The fluorescent light flickered overhead, its high buzzing echoing on the blue tile. There was a drain in the center of the concrete floor. Some of the tiles looked newer than others.

The world is full of shapes, forms humming with meaning. Light twists and turns in front of Marlin, imparting its impossible secrets to him.
He has seen the face of God. Closeup on his mouth as blood seeps from a broken tooth over his cracked and sore-encrusted lips.
Marlin has seen a miracle. Not a moment of crowd psychosis in an overheated tent revival. Not an odd occurrence lent significance after the fact. A bona fide miracle, something that cannot possibly exist and yet does.
He knows the world cannot be the same. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. For the moment, he settles on silence.

Marlin's good wrist was handcuffed to a heavy metal table. Without noticing, he picked at the scabs covering his hands until they began to bleed. The blood was thin and pink.
He waited.

There is a God. Not one of insubstantial belief. Not of rotting flesh made perfect. A God of light. Pure and strong and direct. One who speaks to Marlin. Who loves him.

Finally, the two agents entered.
Outside of the dark of the Atlanta night, he could make them apart a bit better. Still interchangeable, but at least now they were individuals, instead of a single mass. Both were bulky, probably late middle age. One had red hair buzzed short and a sallow complexion. The other had receding black hair swept into an unconvincing comb-over.
The redhead dropped a folder on the middle of the table, his look daring Marlin to pick it up. When he didn't, the redhead scowled and sat down, his partner following suit a moment later.
For a minute, the two men simply sat there, glaring at Marlin, the empty seconds ticking by.
Suddenly, a coughing fit overtook Marlin. He doubled over, hacking up thick globules of phlegm onto his torn shirtsleeve.
It only took a few seconds, but it was already too late. Whatever atmosphere of intimidation they had been trying to summon had been shattered.
The dark-haired one sighed. "I'm Agent Semple, this is Agent McPherson," he began.
"We're with the FCC," said Agent McPherson in a flat voice.
Marlin gave a choked laugh.
McPherson continued, unfazed. "What can you tell us about Ion Popescu, alias Father Sunday?" he asked, "We know you came into possession of a video of his recently."
"Mr. Popescu is wanted on over three dozen charges, all serious," Semple said, "And anyone who has contact with him is, well, he's of interest to us."

Marlin isn't listening. The two fat men quack on, playing good cop bad cop, but all Marlin can see are their two bulky frames, like granite slabs.
Zoom in, pan between the faces of the two men. There is no light that escapes from them. Like the people on the television, at least before.
There is a god. There is a god. There is a god.
And his name is Father Sunday. He is the conation, and he speaks to Marlin through the air and through the light.

"So," said Semple, "Are you willing to assist us? We can make it worth your while."
"You can walk out of here today," McPherson offered, "We can even see to it that little rat hole you call a TV station gets a life-line."
Marlin stared at the two men, a blank expression on his face. They stared back, equally impassive. Finally, Marlin leaned back.
After a long silence, he spoke. "I don't think you guys are from the FCC," he said.
"Why you-" Semple lunged at him, thick veins bulging in his forehead. McPherson held him back, telling the agent to calm himself, apologizing to Marlin. Marlin gave a phlegmy cackle as Semple tried break free.
A sound came over the commotion. The two agents paused, their ears perked.
A distant bark. Two, three.
The agents withdrew from one another. Both reached beneath their jackets, each pulling a meaty-looking gun. They made their way to the door, both peaking through the narrow reinforced window.
"Don't move an inch," Semple growled, pointing at Marlin. Marlin lifted his arm, displaying the handcuff locked around his right wrist.
McPherson motioned to Semple, who nodded. With a rush, McPherson threw open the door and darted into the hallway, just out of Marlin's view. A split second later, a bark and a spray of red against the door.
The body of McPherson toppled awkwardly against the door frame, what remained of his head lolling towards Marlin.
"Je-" Semple gasped, hand covering his mouth. Before he could finish, another bark, this one closer. The gunshot echoed and rebounded off the cheap tile of the cramped interrogation room.
Semple's neck burst red, knocking him back into the room. His eyes remained opened, uncomprehending, as he fell to the floor and was still.

There is a god. There is a god.
There is a ringing in Marlin's ears that fills everything. Pan to the bodies. He knows he should feel something, but as he looks at their bulky forms, the thick red already beginning to pool beneath them, all he can see is shapes.

There came a voice from the hallway. "Marlin?"
Marlin cocked his head. He recognized the voice. "Paul?"
The barrel of a rifle poked around the frame of the door. A moment later, Marlin saw the face of CIVIL-TV's long-time technician appear in the doorway. His face was covered in a fine mist of red spatters, the blood on his coke bottle glasses catching in the fluorescent light.
For the first time since he had seen the face of God, Marlin was dumbfounded. As he grasped incoherently at words, Paul stuck his head out the door. "Here!" Without waiting for a response, he began to dig in the pockets of the dead shapes.
Several seconds later, a second figure appeared in the doorway, holding another rifle. As Marlin registered the face of Jeanine, his secretary, his mind went fully blank. He stopped trying to even babel and stared at the door once again, half expecting to see Mr. Ansley, his high school shop teacher.
After a moment , Paul approached triumphantly, a key in his hand. Slung over his should was an old messenger bag. With a click, Marlin felt the lock against his wrist fall away. As the handcuff clicked open, a block disappeared from Marlin's mind.
"Paul?" he asked, recognizing the insanity of the situation, "Jeanine? How-?"
Jeanine shook her head and rolled up her sleeve. The flesh above her wrist was knotted with sores, several of them crusted and cracked, exposing the muscle and bone beneath. The wounds wept something thicker than pus.
"Do you really think that you were the only person who ever saw the tape? That saw the broadcast?" she asked "How do you think the kid got into your office?" There was an edge to her questions, but no tone of malice.
Paul smiled. "For years, Marlin," he said, anticipating the next question, "That's why I followed you from ABN - I knew that sooner or later, you'd find a tape - the tape. I saw the original broadcast - we both did - and could feel it speaking, guiding us." He reached into his satchel and emerged with a tape. The tape, the one with the spidery lettering.
"Sarkic Sermons."

Jump cut to Marlin's face, bruised and crusted with dried blood. He hears the words, but they do not matter. His eye, bloodshot and twitching, meets with Paul's. He can see wondrous things, see that Paul is another soul seeking perfection. The light dances in his eyes, and Marlin understands perfectly.
There is an argument that will be broadcast. Two men, both ignorant, wading through the mire. Each will claim to have the answer on how to blossom the nation. But they will not - they only have the tools of flesh, chained to space. People will be watching, their eyes wide and their minds open, seeking to know the answers.
Marlin knows that he must show the people the true answer. A word beyond corruption. One which he and Jeanine and Paul are so tantalizingly close to. Their bodies, diseased and dying, the only things holding them back. Ready to rot off altogether, leaving only clear, direct light.
Close up to Jeanine's eyes, crinkled in joy.

"I knew you'd understand," she said.
"C'mon," Paul said, jerking his head towards the door, "we saved something for you."
As he made his way to the door, Marlin leaned down and took the gun off of one of the two shapes that had once threatened him. He held it unsteadily in his right hand.
The trio made their way down twisting cinderblock hallways, some decorated with shapes and spatters. Eventually, they came to an unmarked office with the door ajar.
Inside, a man lay on the floor, clenching his gut. The blood had soaked through his shirt and jacket. He groaned, his eyes screwed shut. His legs scrabbled feebly against the air.
Marlin recognized him.
Lazslo Vadasz.
The man who found tapes. The one who had pleaded with Marlin to walk away. The only person besides Paul and Jeanine and the kid who knew about the Father Sunday tapes at all.
Here.
"He tried to run, but we couldn't let anyone escape," Jeanine said, matter-of-factly, "You understand."
Marlin nodded and crouched down next to his long-time associate. "Hey Vadasz," he said. The name tasted ancient on his tongue, like some language learned and forgotten a lifetime ago.
Vadasz's eyes flickered open. "M-Marlin?" he asked. His voice was weak and hollow. There was barely see any light in them.
Marlin smiled. "Yeah, it's me," he said. After several fumbling attempts, he cocked back the hammer on the pistol.
"I know you were working for the shapes, Vadasz," Marlin said. He aimed the pistol at Vadasz's head, just below the ear.
Vadasz wheezed and tried to whisper something. Marlin spoke over him. "But it's okay, Vadasz. I forgive you."
Marlin cradled Vadasz's head in his bad hand, gripping him tightly.
"I forgive you. And I love you," he said, "And Father Sunday loves you too."
Vadasz began to shake, his eyes locked on the gun at the corner of his vision. "Marlin, n-"
The blast tore through the small room, almost rupturing Marlin's eardrums. Jeanine and Paul winced.
What remained of Vadasz's skull spasmed. For a few seconds, thick tumors began to bloom, then died back just as quickly.

Far above, Marlin sees a spirit, flying free from its rotting body. It dances and twinkles against the lights of the city before joining with a thousand million others in a place up, up beyond this world.
Close up to Marlin's bloody smile as he lovingly lays down Vadasz's corpse.
There is a god.

"We should go," Jeanine said.

As they drove down Peachtree, Marlin's mind hummed. He knew the plan instinctively - go to ABN, broadcast the sermon. But Marlin also knew that plans fell through, that there were always unforeseen problems. Some abstracted part of him, from the days before, tried to account for possible complications.
Every time he tried to narrow in on a specific thought, he began to feel fuzzy. Some combination of head trauma, pills, tumors, adrenaline, and ecstasy kept him from focusing. Paul was driving, chain smoking and flicking butts into the night. Jeanine stared into the distance ahead, murmuring to herself and nodding.
A thought flitted across Marlin's mind. He tried for several seconds to let it go, but found it would not leave. Finally, as they paused at a red light, he stuck his head between the front seats.
"You saw the broadcast- what was it? Did you see Father Sunday?"
Paul stopped mid-drag. Jeanine didn't turn to look at Marlin, but her lips stopped moving. She glanced out the corner of her eye.
More silence.
The car started again as the traffic light flipped to green. Jeanine shook her head, then opened her mouth.
"It was beauty," she said before turning to look out the window. She began to cough, trying to cover it with her hand.

Marlin's mind goes back to the shapes in the cement hallway. He recalls his death-soaked life. The voices of the chorus, of the congregation call to him, worming into his thoughts and illuminating them. He can feel their joy, and it is his own.

Paul nodded. "What we saw was what we needed to see."
"Yeah, but do you know it originally was? What was filmed? What was the sermon?"
He glanced at Marlin, tensed, then turned back. "Doesn't matter. It is what it is, what it became, that's important. You know that." Jeanine began to hack.
Marlin sat, formulating protests, then realized that it was pointless. They were past questions now, anyhow.
He slumped in the seat and began to pick at the fingers of his left hand. The skin shredded like tissue paper beneath his nails. There was no blood that welled from the wounds, only the muscles and tendons. Had his body always been like this? So distant and fragile?
As he wondered, Paul pulled up to the ABN lot. "Rock and roll," he said, thumping the side of the van. In his hand, he shook the tape, eliciting a hollow rattle.
The trio had pulled up to a service entrance, one Marlin recognized from smoke breaks a hundred thousand lifetimes ago. Sure enough, the cement floors outside the entrance reeked of acrid smoke.
Jeanine was about to push open the door when she began to cough. A wheezing rattle, then something more, as if she wanted to expel everything. She doubled over as she hacked out putrid air.
Something large fell from her mouth, landing on the cement with a slick thud. Deep red with white streaks, it twitched on the floor, then began to wither and rot. Jeanine looked up and smiled through teeth dripping with blood. Paul clapped her on the back, a grin on his face. Marlin stared at the crumbling mess before pushing open the door.

Long angle shot of the concrete hallway. Around and within and along the white-painted cinderblock walls freewheel countless members of the congregation, their spirits free from the bodies that once imprisoned them. Their faces are too numerous to count, too joyous to behold. Marlin aches to join them.
Marlin, Jeanine, and Paul stride down the hall. Jeanine's cough is still rattling in her chest. At the far end of the hallway, Marlin sees a shape. Something heavy and fleshy. Without breaking stride, he raises the gun and fires. The shape starts, a hole opening up in the wall beside it. He takes another shot. The shape opens the door and skitters inside, into the news room.

The screaming was audible even before they reached the door. Muffled clattering, yells. Furniture toppling.
Paul moved ahead and kicked open the door leading into the ABN newsroom. The layout was different from when he had left, cubicles shuffled into new lanes, glass-walled meeting rooms made into offices and offices into meeting rooms. The wall of televisions, tuned to ABN stations across the country was still there, at least.
There were screams and gunshots as the three of them entered, but Marlin didn't hear them. It had been so easy to get caught up in the shuffle of everything before. His nose always to the ground, seeking seeking another story another promotion another edge, he had never noticed how high the ceiling went, up far into the distance until it vanished into inky black.
Only the wall of TV's followed up into the black, a thin white line of information and love travelling into infinity, piercing the dark, immutable and immaculate. He looked into the television sets, all of them all at once.

There is a god, there is a god, there must be a god, there is a god, and he is looking at Marlin, Father Sunday sees Marlin and Marlin sees the congregation, laughing, their faces joyous. He sees Vadasz and the boy from the video and a hundred thousand others passing like ghosts through the signal. Marlin wants to weep. At the beauty he sees. At the beautiful thing he will become - no longer Marlin or Jeanine or Paul, but something sacred and immaculate. At the beautiful thing they are going to do, an act of love - of true, unrestrained compassion.
The screens flash. They flip to the scene unfolding in front of Marlin - Paul and Jeanine crouched down, trading fire with the lone security guard. Several bodies sprawled on the floor. One shot, two, three rip through Paul's stomach, pulverizing his guts into a slurry of blood and flesh and bile. He gives a strangled groan, but does not stop shooting. Zoom in on his face, focus on the sweat beading up almost immediately.

Marlin moved between the cubicles, keeping his head down. He could feel the light suffuse him and guide him. Craning his neck out from the corner, Marlin saw the side of the security guard, his attention still affixed to Jeanine and Paul. Slowly, so slowly, he made way to the guard. He cocked the hammer on the pistol.

Interior shot, Marlin's soul. He can feel himself dissolving, soaking in the triumphal beauty of the congregation. They know all, and can never steer him wrong.

Just then, someone pulled the fire alarm. The walls lit up with a thrumming light, rancid-smelling water spraying from overhead. The shrieking of the alarm reverberated off of the infinite walls of the news room. The guard started and turned his head, catching a glimpse of Marlin. He twisted around, gun raised.
They both pulled the trigger. A split second later, Marlin felt something eat through him.
The guard's throat bloomed red as he stood there, his face frozen in idiotic surprise. His gun clattered to the floor, and he held onto a cubicle wall to support himself. Marlin lined up another shaky shot. This one tore through the man's head. The man crumpled into a shape on the floor.

The congregation whorls about, ravenously joyful.

Marlin looked down. A perfect circle began to grow and expand fractally from his chest onto the damp fabric of his shirt. The pain was dull and distant, as if it were happening to someone else.
He turned to Jeanine and Paul. Paul, propped up against one of the cubicles, weakly trying to hold his guts inside of him. His face was ashen, and his whole body seemed to shudder with every breath. Water gathered at nose and chin, accumulated into a drop, then fell. He stared into the middle distance.
Jeanine was dead. At first, Marlin thought it had been a gunshot. As he staggered closer, he saw the lesions, muscle and bone torn apart. The water sputtered and turned to steam as it touched her skin, mottled with tumors.
Paul looked up at Marlin. "I saw," he began, then seemed to lose track of his words.
Marlin crouched down beside his friend. Paul's lips trembled. There was fear in his eyes.
"I saw," he said again, gripping at Marlin's shirt with a blood-slicked hand.
Then Paul's eyes saw nothing. The shape of his body slumped over. Marlin knew there was no prayer that would compare with what he was about to do, what they would do, but even so, he prayed for Paul.
He grabbed the cassette tape of the Sermons from Paul's bag and lurched towards the control room.

Cut to Marlin's soul. Bright and luminous and perfect. Aching to be free, to free others in a final show of compassion and love.
He is a soul. He has a body.
A body with a collapsed lung and a shattered wrist. One rotting from the inside out, unravelling with each step. The physical body cannot stand prolonged contact with true reality, he thinks.
Father Sunday and his face, the face of the congregation, it had awakened something long-dead in him.
The true Marlin, numinous and bright and perfect in every way.
Just as he would do for the viewers, the people beholding the entire truth for the first time.
The congregation wraps around him, snaking around each limb, each inch of flesh. It is weightless, yet impossibly strong.

With each step, Marlin could feel his body decay. Tissue became thick, then wetted with rot. Scars and old wounds opened up. He could feel his flesh pulse as thick tumors emerged all over his body.
His cracked and bleeding lips spread a smile full of disintegrating teeth. He held the only physical thing that mattered. The gateway to the congregation.
As he shambled to the control room, he could feel it warp and distend in his grip. Like it was too much to be held. The cassette heated up, searing the tattered flesh of Marlin's fingertips. He was past the point of noticing.
Finally, he reached the control room. The debate of the two men was still ongoing.

President Reagan smiles, shakes his head. Cut to Mondale, frowning. Cut back to Reagan.
"Marlin," Reagan says.
The glass screens blink. They see the tape. The truth. They need it. The cassette slot on the control station yawns hungrily.

Marlin had to lean against the console to support himself now. At some distant point, some distant part of him had worked these controls. It felt like coming home.
He didn't hear the police enter. He didn't listen to their commands. All of Marlin's world was this one simple and final action.
The VHS tape clicked into the console.

For a split second, there is Ronald Reagan, mid-quip. Then the screen goes blank.
The congregation. Brought direct into a million households.

The police officers yelled, their words thick and slow like molasses. Even if he had wanted to understand them, Marlin couldn't have.
Marlin felt the bullet burn through his chest before he even heard the bang. Then another, and another. The monitors behind him shattered one by one, sputtering sparks as they burst.
His body was dead before it hit the floor. One of the cops pumped an extra four rounds into it just to be sure.

Up up, long delirious burning blue, a thing that had once been associated with the body of Marlin Wexler laughs and wheels, free and glowing.
It flies into the warm embrace of a glowing glass thing it had called the congregation, but is not called that. What had once been attached to Marlin Wexler laughs as it is burned away, united. There is only the thing that is not called the congregation, moving into a million souls more.

« Because You're On Television, Dummy | TV Brings Me Closer To The World |


by Ethagon

It was the eve of All Hallows Day, the last chance for the departed to exact their vengeance on those that had caused them harm. Then, on the Day of All Saints, the gates to beyond would open and all the poor souls of the last year would enter.
On this darkest night, an unassuming bat flew from festival to festival. It had no vengeance in mind for long gone had been those that wronged it. Instead, it was searching for something. So it flew along the coastline of bonfires, that partitioned land and festival from sea and storm. It listened to the wind until it caught the slightest whisper - 'Unusual Cargo'.
It changed course and landed upside down under the eaves of a roof, its ears wide open to not miss a sound. Under it the night brimmed with life. The children and the poor went from house to house, lamenting in place for the ghosts they couldn't see. For their and all departed's sake, they got soul cakes in return. Souling they called it.
The bat The beggar slipped into the festival below.
'Changing forms' like this was just a matter of telling the universe that he had always been this way. His kind used a variety of tricks, mostly by staying hidden from everyone and everything, to better sell the new form to the world. Still, the universe demanded a price paid in blood for making a Lie so blatantly about what you were. At least the bat had been ingrained enough into them, that Lying about it was a small price to pay.
As soon as he stepped into the festival, fleeting stares turned to him, fixing his form like rays of the sun. How much he yearned to rather stay somewhere unobserved and eat in peace, but he had no choice in the matter. It was either continuing missions for the Society of Vampires or collecting blood for his matriarch, like everyone else. At least this way, the blood he took was for him alone.
The form of a beggar was halfway unassuming. Everyone wanted to ignore the poor if they could. As part of the person he now was he wore a black cloak. A mask, like some of the kids wore, would have been too attention-grabbing. The humans used both cloaks and masks to make the ghosts think they were part of them. They rather underestimated ghosts on their last day on earth, in his opinion.
As he walked through the market, he opened his ears again. This beggar had always had good ears. Hopefully, they wouldn't be pointed again. At least they'd be hidden by the cloak. He caught several points of interest.
There was a man hastily walking away from a booth of divination. The method of divination seemed to be the reading of thrown apple seeds. The seeds had been carved to have 12 sides of equal length, so it was likely this was true divination. Tempting to get quick answers, but it was best to stay away from someone who could actually reveal him.
He turned his attention towards the bonfire. Beyond it, the sea raged with wind and waves, but none of it could come past the 'line' of fire. He asked the people next to him why the fire was so small.
Apparently, some Christian official was here and had restricted the firing material. That way it wouldn't be used on 'some pagan ritual' as the official had described the bonfire.
Christian Officials they said. It was likely then, he was dealing with the Royal Office for Christian Artifacts. They were probably here for the same goods he was after. Had they not interfered, the Commission of Unusual Cargo would have sold it at a certain auction infiltrated by vampires.
In a moment where all eyes were elsewhere, he swung his coat strong enough for a wind to go through the fire, hastening its inevitable death.
He continued to walk among the celebrating, getting more information about his target. He was looking for a certain kind of manner of speech. He found it near a booth for fish. It was the English you could often hear from members of the Commission if you had the ear for it. The conversation he caught wasn't of much interest, except for one vital piece: How long it was from here to a hall the Commission was currently using for "storage".
The beggar took a fish to still his human hunger and went on his-
He stopped.
Had one of the fish just turned its eyes to look at him?
One of the fishers noticed him. "The fish look at you too? It's just the lightning, wouldn't worry about it. Not like fish have ghosts."
The beggar nodded but internally shook his head. Typical for humans to think they were the only ones entitled to a soul.
The beggar The traveller, after a walk through shadows, inquired a passer-by about the halls ten minutes away and found answer. He would go there shortly, but first the traveller Kaesauvaonfai would hunt. A vampire could always do with some more blood and it was All Hallows' Eve after all.
He found his victim in a young man, going alone through an alleyway, too far from the festival to call for help. His prey walked past the traveller a shadow without care, not even having time to be surprised as the shadow the bloodsucker sank his teeth into the prey's neck and drank.
The holes in the corpse's neck were quickly hidden with a precise dagger slash and Kaesauvaonfai went on with his way. He didn't have forever until the bonfire would have burned out.
Looking at the halls he wondered how the Society of Vampires would store the goods. The áuṭupiri giáhen had after all long fallen from grace, they're hideouts only consisted of dirty crypts and graveyards. Maybe in a few centuries, they would house in mansions again, as their station demanded.
He equipped himself with some strength and jumped onto a nearby roof. From there it was another silent jump to the roof of his desire. A quick gaze through the window confirmed no one looking in his direction. No one was still looking when he went through and landed in the hall, the goods before him.
It was a nearly full skeleton of a great blue-horned whale, the queen of all marine life. More importantly, its bones when powdered and consumed could replace your recent memories with ones of the sea. A perfect tool to keep the existence of vampires hidden.
Kaesauvaonfai stepped closer and began his work with closed eyes. He felt his matriarch guide his hand as he painted an unknowable sigil with shadows on the bones of the great creature. When he was finished he went to another spot and repeated the process.
He got to the last sigil before he was noticed. He felt the fixing presence of two eyes on the back of his head before the corresponding human started to speak.
"WHAT are you doing there, young man?" The human's steps came close enough to get a look at the vampire's cloak normal uniform. Kaesauvaonfai elected to cough.
The human stopped. "Well?"
Fitting with this person's first assumption a young man's voice came out of the vampire's mouth. "Sorry Sir, it's just this part of the whale looked a bit weird." He said as he finished the last part of the sigil.
"The whale is in my custody. I will be the judge if anything is wrong with it." The human stepped closer again. Just a few more steps and the man would have no time to react-
He felt another pair of eyes on his head. What the vampire's head unfortunately also felt was a shot going through it only moments after.
Before another shot could pierce him for the second first time, he jumped to cover. Behind the surprised first human and then with another step behind some crates.
"What on earth was that for?"
"I was warned by a fortune-teller, but we thought it was still at the festival. It's a revenant."
"A revenant? What would a revenant want with the corpse of the king of the sea? And drawing in shadows on it besides. This is clearly the work of a Vampire."
Damn it. Only the Royal Office and the House of Jones had documentation so thorough that they knew enough about vampires to draw this conclusion. The first speaker would be from the Office and the second from the Commission. Back-up for the latter was likely on the way.
"A vampire? Are you sure about that?"
"Of course I am sure! Do you trust your pagan fortune-teller over a scholar now?"
"I'll see what I can get against it." Footsteps left the area.
Kaesauvaonfai looked up at the lamps shining some amount of light into the hall. He had placed his Matriarch's sigils. Now they just needed to be enveloped by complete darkness for her spell to work. Well, and of course for the bonfire at the festival to burn down to get rid of all evidence here.
The Royal Officer stepped in front of the crates he was behind, a handheld cross stretched out in front of him.
This was the annoying part about being a vampire. Yes, their constant concealment gave them the ability to lie to the universe. Unfortunately, the listener is part of the Lie. Even without being aware of it, they could fix his form in a direction more suited for them. So the presence of this cross and an accompanied Latin prayer didn't hurt him because of that stupid religion, but because the Officer believed it would.
Under pain, the vampire pulled out a dagger and hurled it at the lamp above him. Now in darkness, he pulled down the crate next to him and jumped away from the Officer.
He landed directly in the path of the Commissions agent, who had returned with both hands filled with grains of rice that he now threw at him.
"Five-thousand-four-hundred-and-fifty-two!" Kaesauvaonfai spat out before driving another dagger through the man's shoulder.
His opponent was quick to react and put a stake through the vampire's heart at the same moment.
The vampire laughed. "No stake for you. You and your friend opted for crosses and rice. All blemishes have been set." And at the moment the human looked at his face the stake and its damage was still there gone.
The Officer emerged from the crate "Ignore the creature, a stake through the heart hurts it either way."
The Commission person drove another stake through his heart. Why did he have two? The vampire grabbed his opponent, threw him at another lamp, and collapsed.
He could let the second stake vanish like the first, but he had only about two Lies left in him.
It was raining outside. Kaesauvaonfai grinned at that. He used his second-to-last Lie to order the rats in the hall to extinguish the remaining lamps. Then he coughed. "You were awfully well equipped to handle me."
"If you're here then you know as well as I do what fate the the first skeleton the Commission caught befell. Of course, they sent their best to not lose their reputation. Besides, you need to be prepared for anything on this unholy night." The Officer was slowly walking around him while keeping his distance and the cross still extended. Most likely he wanted to reach his perished friend's pistol.
The vampire coughed out another laugh. "Unholy night? It is you people who made it this way. I'm just along for the ride."
"Nonsense. Its pagan origins are obvious."
"Sure, everything is pagan, if you go far enough back. But tell me, is All Hallows a heathen's holiday? No, your people just mystified something of their own creation. They yearn for the unknown."
The Officer had now reached the corpse.
"Let me live for just a moment longer and you might just make it out of here alive." He lied.
"And why would I do that?" The Officer was now checking the pistol.
"It was you, who kept the firing material from the bonfire, wasn't it?"
"Another local pagan ritual that needs to cease. It was attracting unholy creatures if anything."
"It was keeping them out! But at least one bonfire is out now and the line is broken. I wonder if there are any ghosts at sea that are currently very angry about where their skeleton is. But-" He was shot in the head.
- I'm sure it's fine since whales don't have ghosts.
The flood broke through the hall only a moment before the last of the lamps went out. In the moment of absolute darkness, the Matriarch grabbed the skeleton and whisked it to a faraway place. Leaving behind the Ghost of the Sea's Queen.
Her skeleton wasn't there. Enraged and confused she and her waters would wreak havoc over all she came across, until the dawn of All Hallows.
Among the waters, a last Lie was used and the corpse of a vampire a cloud flew away.
The cloud would sigh if it could.
All lies were temporary so it would gradually turn into its original form across the next week. At least the objective was fulfilled and the cloud wouldn't be in a blood debt for its Matriarch. It was just a shame that it didn't really get a chance for a longer hunt, this All Hallows' Eve.


Dear Lament,
Before I begin, may I mention just how terribly handsome you are? Yes, just a dashing fellow, I've always said. "There goes Lament, a reasonably good-looking person," people frequently hear me comment.
And so good at shooting, and shouting, and so forth. Especially the so forth. You just don't see many skilled at so forth these days. I don't know what they're teaching at the academy nowadays, but the curriculum must be dreadfully lacking, judging by the quality of agent we see coming through the doors today.
Also, for a layman, you have an almost adequate grasp of science. I've often said that the Foundation has attracted the finest minds of our generation, and we've appreciated having you there with us. Why, with a little training, a little self-improvement, and a rigorous ten-year program, you could just about be trusted with a bunsen burner. Under supervision, of course.
Oh, and let us not forget your best quality, your nigh-inexhaustible reserves of forgiveness and mercy.
But enough about the many virtues I am certain you possess. It's time to get to the business of the thing. I am terribly sorry to inform you that some, ah, "lamentable" (see what I, ha, did there?) events have taken place while you were on holiday for which I may or may not have been responsible.
First, your car. Do you remember your car? A very nice sedan. Have I mentioned how good your taste in cars is? "There goes a fellow who knows his way around a used car lot," I say whenever I am not commenting on your good looks. And so good with money, that you had paid it off just last month.
Well, there's no easy way to tell you this. I had borrowed it to run some errands (have I mentioned how generous and understanding you are? So very understanding), when I discovered a quite fascinating little creature, the result of some sort of genetic manipulation, in the company of several young bike-riding children. After a high-speed chase, some hi-jinx, and a double-digit body count, I found myself in possession of the creature. Unfortunately, I had attracted the attention of the Chaos Insurgency. Also unfortunately, your car was completely demolished in the ensuing et cetera.
After further et cetera, I felt it was wise to make a call for backup. Now, you will recall that I had lost my cellular phone during the unpleasantness last week with the gang of hooligans who turned out to not be, as I had initially surmised, operatives of Parawatch, but merely recalcitrant Youth. Well, I had not had a chance to replace it, so I had borrowed yours (if you were wondering where it had gone to, well, mystery solved!). Unfortunately, while I was attempting to dial for assistance, it was destroyed by a stray bullet. I threw the battery, which was in the process of exploding, into the face of one of the Insurgents and beat a hasty retreat with the creature in tow.
I commandeered a taxi cab with the use of Foundation funds. It turns out that I somehow found myself in possession of your charge card, which was fortunate. They don't trust me with one any more since the capybara incident. Happily, they, like me, are well aware of your financial acumen, and so yours had a full line of credit.
It's possible it still does. I haven't seen it since I left the cab driver to duck into a shopping centre for cover. Ducking and weaving through the crowds, I managed to lose the Chaos Insurgency. Unfortunately, I also lost the creature.
The sad news is that the Insurgency found the creature first. The good news is that it found the Insurgency delicious, as it grew to rather large proportions.
The creature chased me from the shopping centre, and I put up a fairly good accounting of myself, firing off multiple rounds of ammunition, even hitting it once before I resorted to throwing the gun into its face (By the way, do you remember that nice gun your mentor Agent Harrison gave you? Actually, best not to bring it up, I think). I was about to be devoured when this folderol attracted the attention of, will you believe it, a Wondertainment Salesman of all people? Well, he happened to have Little Jimmy's Monster Terrarium handy, and in no time the creature was subdued, with no more cost than three box tops and four payments of $99.99 in American currency. I told them you'd cover me, you're so terribly generous.
I knew I needed to take the creature to a safe haven. Unfortunately, Site 19 was all the way across town. It was then I realized I was only blocks away from your house. A happy coincidence, I hear you say. Well, that's simply due to your own excellent taste in real estate. Don't think I haven't noticed it, and commented on it when not discussing your good looks or automobile expertise. And soon I was crossing the threshold to safety.
There was a bit of awkwardness when that fellow you have over all the time opened the door. The one you said made breakfast in bed that one time, Paul, I think? Your brother, I imagine. Anyway, I was explaining that I was simply a friend of yours from work and needed to drop something off. It was then that the clockwork ninjas attacked.
In hindsight, I probably should not have been sending the Church of the Broken God taunting carrier pigeons. Just inviting trouble. But they're so stuck in the last century, it's hard not to tweak their nose a bit. In the resultant fracas, I'm afraid that there was some property damage. That is, the property was entirely damaged. And then it was set on fire. And exploded a bit.
But don't worry about Paul. I was able to save nearly all of his organs. It's like he's still with us, when you think about it. Though I will say I don't think his spleen holds a candle to yours.
Which brings me to the final bit of unpleasantness. Do you remember that specimen that we were supposed to return? Or rather, that I was supposed to return? SCP-1047-J? Well, I've just been so dashed busy, I had left it in your garage, and I'm afraid it was completely destroyed.
But don't worry! I was able to recreate the circumstances of its creation, and I'm sure no one will notice the difference. I know you've told me time-and-time-again not to create new anomalous objects, but I'm sure there will be no ill consequences for my actions. There may be some awkward questions about why it was in your garage (among other things that have been stored there), but I've no doubt you can clear it all up as soon as you're back.
Your Good Friend,
Doctor Everett Mann


FOUNDATION STANDARD SITE ADMINISTRATION & CONDUCT MANUAL
D-CLASS HOUSING REGULATIONS

Revision 5.1. Electronic copy.
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Submitted to Foundation Records Database. File Modifiable by Board of Ethics.
All field personnel and Foundation staff have been issued a clearance/site-specific copy of this manual as of 15/03/96. You are currently viewing an electronic copy of Humanitarian Ethics Subcommittee document ECD01265. Do not copy or re-distribute.
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Introduction
All sites that require Class-D housing are to read this document and ensure all standards outlined within are followed, or budgetary reductions and further punishment may be enacted. Changes to this document are unlikely due to the difficulty that comes with altering Class-D housing areas.

I: Class-D Housing General Areas
This section will detail required areas that must be present inside of Class-D containment areas, regardless of subclass with the exception of Class IV, as well as restrictions and regulations on what areas can and cannot be included. These areas include:

Class-D cells, complete with small tables bound to wall, a bed with one pillow nailed to the ground, a sink and toilet
Bathrooms, including showers and water of hot and cold temperature

For Class-D above Class IV, they will be provided with:

Cafeteria
Library
Recreational area, indoors or outdoors

For Class-D personnel of Class II value or above, they may have access to:

Extended amenities of site's choice
Larger cell, with one to three bunks as well as being kept with other Class-D.

II: Class-D Subclasses
Certain Class-D personnel, based on previous behavior and research value, are assigned subclasses. The classes are listed in the below chart:
It should be noted that classifications can and are commonly changed as research value increases and decreases. Usually, Level I and Level II classes are only temporary.

Classification
Value
Qualifying Parameters
Requirements/Permissions

I
Extremely high-value
The Class-D exhibits anomalous properties, is required for the continued testing1, containment, or neutralization of an SCP object, or has extremely valuable physical and mental qualities.
Class-D are permitted to have access to many extended luxuries, and only must sleep in their bunks area with other Class-D during night hours. During day hours, Class-I are allowed continued access to supervised luxury areas such as recreational areas and libraries. Class-I should not come into contact with Class-III Class-D or below.

II
High-value
The Class-D possesses rare physical or mental qualities valuable for research, or have shown constant and continued compliance and helpfulness to the Foundation's research.
Class-II are permitted to have extended access to luxuries such as libraries and recreational areas.

III
Standard
The Class-D does not possess any extranormal properties, and does not possess a record of non-compliance or risk.
Class-III are permitted to have access to limited luxuries, and are subject to standard on-site routines and guidelines. Class-III can be substituted for high-risk testing or recontainment of anomalies should no suitable Class-IV D-Class be present.

IV
High-risk
The Class-D is highly dangerous, and has a history of continued non-compliance and danger.
Class-IV are not permitted access to any luxuries or exposure to other personnel, and are only removed from containment for testing on or recontainment of high-risk SCP subjects2.

III: Class-D Containment Upkeep
Generally, Class-D containment areas will need to be repaired and cleaned in a timely manner. Class-D may be assigned janitorial duties in exchange for extended luxuries, to a limited extent. In the event repair of a Class-D containment area is important, maintenance personnel may enter with an escort of no less than two armed security personnel.

IV: Class-D Non-Compliance Punishment Limits
In the event Class-D personnel refuses testing, they should not be physically forced as a first option. Instead, D-Class should receive 5 seconds to comply before termination. Repeated non-compliant D-Class can be moved down to Class-IV.

V: Class-D Treatment
Class-D should not be spoken to as being inferior, non-human, objects, 'guinea pigs', or other dehumanizing terms. Personnel should be reminded that Class-D are not subhuman or inferior, but essential to the Foundation's goal of research. Class-D personnel should not be verbally abused in any other way.
Class-D above Class IV are allowed to speak to on-site Ethics Committee members, personnel enforcing the Code of Ethics, or make reports about personnel they believe to be violating the Code of Ethics.
Class-D should not be beaten, injured or physically restrained unless they are posing a threat to other personnel, or are refusing to comply despite warnings. Torture and purposeful attempts at mental damage are absolutely forbidden unless necessary for containment3.
Class-D should not be used recklessly in tests, especially if said tests have a large chance of the death or severe injury of a D-Class4.

VI: Site Specific Regulations
In the event a facility requires modifications to these guidelines for proper containment of Class-D, a request can be submitted to the Board of Ethics. The request will be reviewed and given a verdict by the Board of Ethics within 7 days.

Sites should follow standard protocols.
Areas should follow standard protocols in most cases.
Outposts and Observation posts should not house Class-D unless absolutely required.

VI.I
Below are guidelines for various types of sites.

Armed facilities should have increased security standards.
Dimensional facilities should not generally house Class-D personnel.
Extrasolar facilities will not contain Class-D personnel.
Lunar facilities will not contain Class-D personnel due to the difficulty of transport.
Protected facilities will not contain Class-D personnel.
Provisional facilities may contain Class-D personnel if needed.
Storage facilities may contain Class-D personnel if needed.
Xenobiological facilities may contain Class-D personnel.

VII Security Standards
Class-D personnel should never have knowledge of any contained SCPs unless required for testing. Class-D containment areas should always be monitored for potential info breaches. No personnel are allowed in, except for authorized security personnel. For mental health evaluations, D-Class can be escorted to designated areas. All personnel entering should be checked for unauthorized equipment to ensure D-Class do not obtain contraband.

VIII Recruiting D-Class
Class-D personnel can be recruited from the following situations, should they be completely compliant in joining. Class-D recruits should not be told about the Foundation or anything pertaining to the anomalous until they have agreed to join.

Homeless shelters/hotspots, where they will be offered ~$80,000 for each year of work. The money will be granted after being released.

Prisons, where they will be offered time reduced from their sentence (Each year of work as Class-D removes 2 years from sentence.)

Death row prisons, where they will be offered the possibility of reduction to ~15 year sentence depending on crimes, in exchange for 5-10 years of work with the Foundation.

Low-income cities. Same procedure as with homeless.

Prisoners of war. Locations heavily dependent on Foundation relations with holding country. Holding country will be paid in exchange for the prisoner for 1-5 years of work, then released.

Captured members of hostile GOIs5. Should be considered Class-IV on a case-by-case basis. Said members will not be considered for anything above Class-III unless they have significant anomalous properties.

Recruiters within correctional facilities should be under constant escort, or in a safe area where prisoners can come speak. For a D-Class to begin registration, they must sign a contract that details how long they will be working with the Foundation, and the time that will be removed at the end of their service. Prisoners expressing interest should be informed that the work is dangerous, and nothing more.
Recruiters in low income areas and homeless shelters should do the same.
Recruiters are not needed for hostile captured GOI members, and will be used as D-Class without a choice.
Recruiters for Prisoners of War should be similar to in correctional facilities, but less guarded.
Recruiters in Death Row areas should be under heavy guard and walk to each cell, handing out small papers that detail how prisoners can get their sentences reduced. This is the same as in normal correctional facilities, but is a method to reduce recruiter contact with inmates.

IX Lockdowns & Emergencies
In the event of a lockdown, all D-Class are to be immediately returned to their cells. Class-D that refuse to enter may be terminated without warning. D-Class containment area is placed on lockdown until the emergency is concluded. In the event of Code White or Gray,6 D-Class containment area is to be placed under guard of several security personnel to ensure no D-Class are extracted or questioned by hostiles.

END OF DOCUMENT.

Footnotes
1. Such as D-52125's research importance for SCP-5031.
2. Such as SCP-106's recall protocol.
3. SCP-106
4. This is a violation of Code of Ethics section 1.
5. Such as the Chaos Insurgency.
6. Hostile incursion.