It had started when he remembered his name. That was the point at which the pieces of the puzzle started to snap back together.
That was the problem with amnestics, though. Echoes of memories still wafted through your head at times. Smells were the worst. A cookout at Site-14 had a woman who'd been laughing and smiling suddenly crying. The smell of a steak on a grill had triggered something… but he'd never found out what. That would have been, after all, classified information. And he wasn't supposed to have classified information.
Heh.
It had started when he remembered his name. It was such an odd thing, too. He'd been reading, sitting in the mess and staring out the low bay windows at the world that he was becoming more and more surprised was still there, when he'd heard someone yell.
“Hey! Jere! Where are we going after lunch?”
Maybe it was the sandwich. He'd been eating a pretty good sandwich too, and he was certain that the taste was familiar, but he couldn't… he just couldn't place it. But ‘Jere.' That felt right. That felt… disturbingly right.
“Colton,” he said.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement. The other half of the puzzle piece sliding back into place, curves locking together. And it had started.
The next piece was a birthday party—he still wasn't sure whose, maybe his, maybe someone else's—at a pool, and there was this rosebush there that was just… perfect. He'd seen a similar one in the botanical garden, walking with Sophie. He frowned slightly, his hands not feeling quite right after he'd… But the rose bush. It had been another piece. Snapping into place.
That's really all it takes. Make a connection, and things start to come back together. Things start to change. For some people, being able to remember means you can't do your job. For him? It just meant he started to do his job harder. He had a little girl out there. A wife. A family, with parents and grandparents who loved spoiling… damn.
He sighed, concentrating and trying to bring her name to his mind, but… No. The heaviest memories were the ones that sank the deepest.
It was coming, though. All the pieces were starting to fit back together again in his head, and that made the tiny, nagging doubts in the back of his mind fade again. Soon. Soon, things would be different. Soon, he'd have his memory back.
The prophet had written his lamentation. The temple was fallen. Soon, not even the wailing wall would remain.
“Forgive me?” he asked the room. None of the corpses responded.
He stepped over three and five, working himself past eight and out of the bunker, taking a deep breath. So much to do. So little time.

« Splinter: In the End: Rawhide | Canon Hub | Awakenings, Part Two »


An extended siren for fifteen seconds meant fire. A continuous siren meant evacuation. Three short sirens meant a lock down, and two short sirens followed by an extended siren was a bomb threat. Beyond that, things started getting complicated.
All in all, Jackson Sloth Memorial High School had sixty-seven unique siren codes for different types of emergencies, ranging from a low-pitched four second siren for a rain of live fish, to a medium-pitched three-and-a-half second siren for a rain of dead fish. The first nine days of each semester were dedicated entirely to emergency drills, and a siren-worthy event occurred an average of three times every two weeks. Their rival school, Sloth's Pit Senior High School, had a lower emergency rate, but a higher ratio of students with an Omega-3 deficiency.
Today, no sirens were ringing. For sixteen-year-old Adam Snerling, this was the greatest emergency of all. Adam blinked sweat from his eyes and stared hopelessly at a calculus exam he couldn't begin to comprehend. Indexes and coefficients rode squiggly lines up and down the page, threatening to spill out onto the desk and dance around the room. Adam looked up from the paper. Most of the class seemed to be trapped in the same state of horrified incapability as him. Three tables over, Adam's friend Utkarsh was scribbling frantically. Fifteen minutes into the test, it didn't seem so funny anymore. Adam eyed the teacher at the front of the room warily, gauging his chances for a successful peek at the paper in front of him. No dice. Tenure at JSMH had honed Ms Burton's reflexes to an almost precognitive level. She was staring directly at Adam, with the intensity of an electric vulture. Adam swallowed and looked back to the clock. Somehow another five desperate, silent minutes had gone by already. Twenty minutes spent on the first question, and his only thought was that x was probably in there somewhere. Resigned to failure, his eyes flickered listlessly around the room. The open door with its view of a beautiful not-flooded hallway; the open windows with their view of a beautiful fishless sky; other things that were neither the test or a means of escape; and the frustratingly silent sirens, which had begun to sprout hair.
Yesssssssssss.
Ten minutes and a brief trumpet solo later, Jackson Sloth Memorial High had devised its sixty-eighth unique emergency siren code, and Ms Burton's test had been postponed for the seventh week in a row. Ms Burton sat on a picnic table out on the school lawn and stared blearily at the test paper in her hands. Slowly, she began to rip it into little pieces. Adam stood at the top of the steps outside the school's main entrance and watched his teacher's mental breakdown with a purely non-malicious satisfaction. Utkarsh was sitting a few steps down, with his head in his hands. Adam sat down beside him and watched the road. White vans began to pull up at the front of the school. The signs on the side read "School Cosmetology Provision". The paint didn't seem to have dried yet. A representative from the company exited the lead van and approached the principal to ask what, exactly, had happened.
"Same as last time," said the principal, "Except with hair."
Adam and Utkarsh shifted a half-inch to the side as a squad of black-suited school cosmetologists marched past them into the school building. Adam grinned at the stern-faced military efficiency of the team.
"Elite Mobile Hair-Disposal Unit Bravo Sixty-Niner!" he said, "Codename: Occam's Leg Razor!"
Utkarsh didn't respond. Adam frowned, and nudged him.
"How 'bout that hair, huh?" said Adam. Utkarsh nodded without looking up. "Pretty crazy. Wonder where that came from."
Utkarsh shrugged noncommittally.
"Probably your mom's pubes, right?" said Adam desperately.
"I was gonna ace that test," muttered Utkarsh.
"Alright," sighed Adam. This again.
"I was!" said Utkarsh. He turned his head and glared at Adam, "I was. I studied for it. I studied for it when it was announced, two months ago, and I studied for it every week it was delayed since then, and now I could find an integral with both hands behind my back and my dick on fire. I was going to ace it."
Adam smiled nervously. Utkarsh snorted and turned away, hunched over on the step, arms folded. He didn't look back at Adam. Adam fidgeted nervously.
"I was going to ace it," Utkarsh growled.
"Dude, you're still gonna get a good mark—"
"I'm gonna get the same mark everybody else is gonna get. The same mark everybody always gets, and no-one ever, ever earns," Utkarsh barked. Adam shuffled the half-inch back. "You know, I want to do shit, okay? I just want to do shit, and when I do shit, I want it to make shit happen, okay? Cause and effect. Just once, just for once, when I throw a ball I want it to come back down, instead of getting snatched out of the air by a fucking owl."
"It's usually an eagle," Adam mumbled.
"My dad's gonna ask me how the test went today, Adam, and I gotta tell him I'm getting a B because the PA system decided to grow a beard. That is bullshit. That is a literal hailstorm of bullshit."
(Two second low pitch, three short.)
"I'm sorry, man," mumbled Adam, "But shit happens, right? Everyone goes through this. It's just the way the world works. Maybe you needa talk to someone about this. Not me. Someone who's not me."
"Nah," said Utkarsh. He blinked, and shook his head, "No-one would ever believe me. Let's not talk about it anymore."
"Cool," said Adam, who was feeling particularly compliant. The doors opened behind them. A member of the elite trimming unit stuck his head out and yelled at them to clear out of the way. They gathered up their bags and sauntered slowly down the steps. The rest of the squad followed shortly after, dragging a tangled mass of hair the size of a small car. Adam and Utkarsh watched the team move it slowly across the lawn.
"So, what do you think was the deal with that hair?" asked Adam.
"I dunno," Utkarsh shrugged, "Probably rats in the walls."
"Or swamp gas," said Adam.
"Or a weather balloon."
"Yeah."
The team of combat stylists began the complicated process of preparing the hair for transport. One of them started up a chainsaw and began to try and cut into the side of the twisted knot. The chainsaw's desperate shrieks and pealing black smoke were such a fascinating distraction that Adam and Utkarsh almost didn't notice the darkening skies, or the pitter-patter growing louder behind them. The worker with the chainsaw certainly didn't, until something wet and wriggling dropped down onto his head. The man lowered his chainsaw, looked up to the sky, and groaned. Adam laughed. Utkarsh just shook his head in disbelief. As the downpour increased, low-pitched sirens rang out for exactly four seconds and the students of Jackson Sloth's Memorial High began to gather their bags and head home.

|Hub|


We gotta keep our own, don't we?
That's what my dear Momma always said. If ya got something earned, or somethin' that's yours, keep it safe. Don't let any o' them outside peepers come creepin' in, tryin' to make off with somethin' of yours. She wanted to keep away from them folks, to live with what we already got.
I kept care of Momma and Sue Ann fer all my life. Side by side, we lived'n peace, and sometimes comfort, if we was lucky. We each had our protection, an' used it well. But, sometimes it wadn't enough. Momma passed back in '48, bless her heart. Big storm knocked her right over, an' she never got up. Sue Ann got to be with Momma some years after, with a rusted heart.
But y'can't let yerself fall apart when some'n your own ain't around anyplace. I kept up, remembrin' them and keepin' to my own, like Momma woulda wanted me to. Keepin' it safe. The protector don't quite look like what he used to be, but that don't change a thing, now does it? Still keeps to me, like I do t'him. Y'all should've kept to yerselves, 'stead of headin' here.
You folks never learn. Comin' onto someone else's land ain't respectful, and then up and lyin' about it don't help. I chased yer buddies away, maybe they'll think twice about coming back. Anythin's possible. Lookit em' run. They go quick when they scared, don't they?
Now, uh, fer you. See, my protector's been gettin' on in his years, and he don't have the spring to his step what like he used to. Tellin' me he's tired, and wants rest. The man deserves to rest more'n anyone. But, I still need a protector.
You like beans? Aww, well you'll learn't love 'em, soon.

INCIDENT 1270-██
On ██/██/201█, several agents were performing routine reconnaissance into SCP-1270's second floor. During this time, SCP-1270-1 suddenly manifested and began attacking personnel, injuring ██ and fatally wounding █. Following the incident, Agent Fowells, who had been with the reconnaissance team, was found to be missing. His current status is MIA.


At the start of each day, place a new patch on a part of your body between the neck and the waist. Put the patch on a new spot each day to lessen skin irritation. Do not use for a period longer than eight weeks. In case of mild rash, remove patch and relocated it. In case of a more severe rash, consult your family doctor.
Henry DeMontfort sighed, removed the protective film from the large nicotine patch, and applied it to his left bicep. He didn't dare to expect the relaxing rush that came with his cigarettes, and indeed, the only sensation the patch provided was a slight but noticeable itch. He leaned back on his hard-backed chair with a grunt, and slowly rubbed his temples. His headache was coming back.
"Sir? You have a visitor."
Looking up, DeMontfort was met with the visage of Lieutenant Hammersmith, his second-in-command. The young man's face bore their usual stoic expression, slightly twisted around the huge, jagged scar that dominated his right cheek.
"I do not wish to be disturbed, Lieutenant. Tell them to come back in an hour." A sudden throb in his head made DeMontfort winch. "In fact, tell them to come back tomorrow."
"It's Salah Zairi, sir," said Hammersmith in that unsettling soft voice of his. "He says you'll see him."
Salah. The name invoked many conflicting emotions in DeMontfort, and memories. The snarl of the vicious young man he first met more than twenty-five years prior, the tempered steel of the man the Initiative made of him. The infuriately patient tone he always used during their long theological debates and his hard grip on DeMontfort's shoulder as he pulled him away from a burning inferno DeMontfort had every intention of leaping into. The harsh words that passed between them since, and the harsher deeds both men committed in the name of their faith.
DeMontfort really couldn't deal with the man now, not the way things were going. The last three months have been absolutely catastrophic for Project Malleus and for DeMontfort's personal position in the Horizon Initiative as well. A combination of tactical blunders, acts of zeal that bordered on lunacy on the part of some of his subordinates, and some rather poor choices of his own left Project Malleus hanging on the brink, and the last thing he needed was Salah's recrimination on top of all that. Still, he and the man had too much history for DeMontfort to refuse to meet him, a fact Salah apparently knew perfectly well.
"Let him in."
The lieutenant nodded and left, returning moments later with a dark, sharply featured man, maybe ten years DeMontfort's junior. A familiar face, yet also that of a stranger. DeMontfort rose from his seat, and offered the man his hand. After hesitating a moment, Salah took it.
"Salah."
"DeMontfort."
Despite expecting this, the coldness in the man's voice stung.
"Please, have a seat. I'm sure it's been quite the drive here."
"Thank you, I'll stand."
"Suit yourself, I suppose."
DeMontfort sank back into his seat, absent-mindedly scratching at his nicotine patch. He really needed a smoke. Salah stood glaring at him from across his desk, apparently satisfied in letting him guess the reason for his unexpected visit. Sadly, DeMontfort had no trouble figuring that out.
"This is about that clock-idol of yours, isn't it?"
Abruptly, Salah's cool expression melted away, and became distorted with rage. "It was so much more than that, Henry!" A pained look flashed over the younger man's face, and he sank down to the seat opposite DeMontfort, as if suddenly exhausted.
"It could have… it could have saved us. It was divine, Henry, I heard its voice. His Voice."
"That's blasphemy, Salah. You of all people should know better."
"You weren't there, Henry. You didn't hear it. This was no machinist idol. It could have told us so much." With that, a spark of his former anger rekindled in Salah's eyes. "And thanks to your men, no one will hear it ever again."
DeMontfort looked at the man's hard-lined face, and found that he didn't have much to say to that. Rashid and his men did indeed break protocol in destroying the idol when they did. Project Malleus never got a proper chance to examine it before deciding its fate, and it was this sort of rash action that led them to the sordid position they were in now in the first place. He could never admit that to Salah, of course. "What do you want me to say, Salah?"
"That you won't let something this like happen again! That you put a leash on those mad dogs you call operatives! Forget the Voice, Henry, There were women, children and elderly there. There was a time when the mere thought of doing something like that would have appalled you, and now you and your Wolves are practically experts in it. What happened to you, Henry?"
This time, it was DeMontfort's turn to feel anger bubbling up his throat like liquid lead. "You know very well what happened, Salah. You were there."
Salah turned his eyes away. "This has to stop, Henry. For your sake, if not for the Initiative's. You're losing yourself, and you'll take us all with you."
The pain in DeMontfort head returned, and it brought friends. He could have dismissed Salah then and there, act like everything was business as usual, but he knew that the time for that has passed. So, he decided on an unusual tactic for him these last few years. Total honesty.
"The last few months have been bad, Salah. My men and I did some things that shouldn't have been done. I know you and I had our differences when it came to the way the Initiative runs its business, but even you have to admit our occasional ruthlessness was vital to its survival. And up until the last few months, I had never once doubted that what we were doing was right, that it was God's work. Something changed in us, Salah. Something broke." It felt strangely liberating to finally admit it, not only to Salah, but to himself.
"Then do something about it, Henry. It's not too late."
"I will. I have taken measures, Salah, and some things are going to change around here. I suspect I'm not the only one who'll make sure of that."
"The Tribunal?"
DeMontfort grimaced. "Pack of elderly vultures that they are."
"You know that's not fair. What happened wasn't their fault. Wasn't yours either."
DeMontfort dismissed this with a wave. "Regardless, it will be taken care of, Salah, you have my word. I owe you this much, at least. I owe them that much, certainly."
For the first time since he entered, there was a hint of a smile in Salah's expression. "You almost sound like your old self, Henry."
"Bah, I hope not. I couldn't stand being that miserable fop again. It was bad enough being him once. There was one other thing I wanted to talk to you about while you're here-"
DeMontort was interrupted by the sound of Salah's cellphone, which DeMontfort was surprised to hear had Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture as its ring tone. He was about to made a snide comment about it, when he saw Salah going deathly pale. "What happened, Salah? Was that the Tribunal? Cult uprising? Is it the Children again? Answer me, man!"
"Mary-Ann… she went into labor…" with a flash of realization, Salah grabbed his coat and almost tripped over the chair in his haste to make it to the door.
"Salah, hold a second!"
Salah did stop, though obviously only with a great reluctance. "Whatever Initiative business you want to discuss, Henry, it will have to wait. I'm not going to-"
"It's not that. Just give me a moment."
DeMontfort rummaged around in his desk drawer and after a short search produced two items, which he handed to Salah. One was an old leather-bound copy of Erasmus of Rotterdam's Education of a Christian Prince. The other was a bright blue stuffed rabbit.
"For Mary-Ann and the baby. I'm sorry I missed the wedding, Salah. You know how those things are."
Salah nodded, gave DeMontfort a quick pat on the shoulder, and bolted out, rabbit and book tucked under his armpit. DeMontfort shook his head, scratched at his arm again and, after a short argument with himself, removed the nicotine patch. Instead, he drew a cigarette from his sliver case and lit it, savoring the small rush of relaxation it offered, before sitting back down at his desk.
There was work to be done.

« Tolerance | Hub | The Man Comes Around »


Agent Silas walked through the bazaar, taking special care not to touch any of the passers-by. You heard stories about people coming down with horrible diseases after spending a day in a Luna market. He'd had his inoculations against the more common ones, like the clockworks, but you could never be too careful. He'd known a guy who'd burst into flames a few days after visiting Luna. It was one of the biggest human colonies in the galaxy, and so it was a melting pot for all sorts of contagions and viruses.
For a few seconds, the street was plunged into darkness as a sky-train passed overhead. The crowds around him didn't even seem to have noticed, being that used to the dark. Silas hurried up: he wanted to be out of this godforsaken place as soon as possible. He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Fucking Homeworlders.
They were gathered all around a big model of the Homeworld, listening to a preacher who wore a large winter coat and a necklace made of pebbles. The crowd was mainly human with a few Precursors on the fringes here and there. Precursors were a rare sight, but usually the most devout and radical of the Homeworlders. It has been their Homeworld for longer, Silas supposed. That wasn't to say every Precursor was a Homeworlder, though. Silas had once known a Precursor who was devoutly Catholic. Good guy, they'd taken out a nest of schizo-forms together.
Silas pulled his hat down over his head - there was always a chance a Homeworlders might recognize him from one of their Desecration Broadcasts. A leaflet fluttered through the air and landed at Silas' feet:

WOE TO THE DESECRATORS
WOE:
TO THE MEMBERS OF SCP WHO HAVE RELEASED THEIR HORRORS ONTO OUR HOMEWORLD!
In the year of the Homeworld 2193, the Desecrators, in their pride and folly released the Horrors they kept onto our Homeworld and doomed all who stood upon it!
TO THE RAVAGES OF THE MINT ZONE AND TO THE DEVIL THAT KILLS ALL WHO LOOK UPON IT!
Those of the Colonies were forced to look in horror at what the Desecrators had wrought!
TO THE BEAST THAT NEVER DIES AND TO THE ROT OF THE ELDER!
The Desecrators continue in their sins on far-flung worlds, hidden from the eyes of true believers!
TO THE SPHERE OF DEAD THAT FILLS THE SKY OF MEXICO AND TO THE OCEAN OF BLOOD FROM WHICH NEW HORRORS SPILL!
Fear not! Every last Desecrator shall be purged from their hidden nests and forced to face the justice of the Homeworld!
WOE TO EVERY LAST TRAVESTY INFLICTED ON OUR HOMEWORLD!!!

Typical 'woe to the Homeworld' doctrine. Some photographs of the SCPs down on the Homeworld, some old pictures of Homeworld landmarks.
"My brothers and sisters!" the preacher was shouting. "We have been torn from the Homeworld, from our Homeworld, by the whisperers and agents of the Desecrators! In their pride, they have let their Horrors destroy it! Woe to the men of O5, the instigators of this destruction! Woe to the men they command, the Foundation heretics and the Foundation dreadlords, for in their mindless obedience they doomed our Homeworld!"
"Woe!" the crowd echoed.
"But fear not, dear flock!" said the preacher, raising his arms high in the air. "For the day approaches when the Church of the Homeworld will take us all back to our rightful place in the universe! The Homeworld will be purged clean of the Horrors that pollute it! Our children will laugh and play in the rain-forests of Antarctica and the lush green fields of Norway! This, the Church promises to you all!"
The crowd was chanting now, a standing ovation to the preacher. "Father New Zealand! Father New Zealand!"
With the stuff you had to deal with, being an Agent wasn't easy, but the Homeworlders only made the job harder. If they'd figured out who Silas was, the crowd would probably have descended on him and ripped him to shreds. That, or use him for the center of one of their Desecration Broadcasts. They always needed executions for those.
Still able to hear the ravings of the preacher, Silas finally reached the address he had been given and entered.

The room he found himself in was grey and bare. Most likely he was one of the only people to ever step foot in here. Two others were already there, looking like guards from the way they were positioned. One was a human man, his only distinguishable trait being the misshapen thing on his face that might have been a nose. The other one was a Begriven, standing a good foot over Silas. It walked on three legs and its thick body was framed by six stick-like arms on each side. Its long, curved neck ended with an almost comically small head. The Begriven regarded Silas impassively.
The man spoke first. "Do you have me?"
Silas nodded and placed his bag gently on the ground, careful not to damage the item within. He opened it up and lifted it out. It was rather burnt and dented, but still recognizably a toaster. "Where's Marshall?"
The man tapped at a device on his wrist. Mr. Marshall, or at least a hologram of him, appeared in the room. He was a young man with a symmetrical plastic face, wearing a black suit. He rubbed his hands together.
Silas didn't like working with Mickey and Dee, but here in the Colonies, the Foundation didn't have that many options. With the heavy Homeworlder presence, it was almost impossible for SCP retrieval to take place. The O5's had decided that trading something relatively harmless for information on something definitely harmful was worth it, and so Silas was going along with it. His was not to reason why.
"Mr. Silas!" Marshall's voice sounded cheery, but distorted and far away. Problems with the signal, most likely. "Glad you could make it. I see you've brought me."
"Yes," said Silas, starting to feel suspicious. It was kind of funny, when you thought about it: it was common knowledge that Marshall couldn't be trusted, yet people always seemed to trust him anyway. Desperation drove you to stupidity, and Silas was beginning to realize that agreeing to this deal had been pretty damn stupid. "Where's the data you promised?"
Marshall ignored him. "You've met my friends here, I see. This is Henry," he said, gesturing to the man with the busted nose. He turned to the Begriven. "And this is Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother. Did I get that right?"
Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother clicked in the affirmative.
"I got you what you wanted, Marshall," said Silas. "All I want is the data."
Marshall furrowed his brow in a look of mock confusion. "Data? What data?"
"You know what data, Marshall. Stop playing games."
"Oh, that data. It doesn't exist, sorry. I tricked you," said Marshall, obviously struggling not to grin. The Begriven lunged forward and restrained Silas before he could make a move. "Henry, please tell Mr. New Zealand he can come in."
Henry nodded and opened the door. The preacher from the street walked in, glaring at Silas with utter contempt.
"You're sure he's a Desecrator, Marshall?" New Zealand asked the hologram.
"Oh, definitely. He tried to pay me to tell him about one of his Horrors. Can you believe that?"
"You're mocking me, Marshall," growled New Zealand. "But you're right. I've seen his face on the Broadcasts. You've received the payment, I take it?"
"You son of a bitch!" shouted Silas. "I paid you! I brought me to you!"
Marshall shrugged. "He paid more, it's nothing personal. Thanks for bringing me, though." He nodded to the toaster on the floor, then looked back up at New Zealand. "Well, you can see we've got him. We'll have him on your shuttle within the hour, and then you can take him to wherever you film those Desecration Broadcasts of yours."
New Zealand's eyes narrowed. "You are obviously not trustworthy, Marshall. You deal in Horrors and betray your customers. How do I know you will do as you say?"
Marshall grinned his fake plastic grin. "Like I said, you paid more than he did. He'll be delivered to your shuttle within the hour."
Mr. New Zealand stood in the room for a few seconds, then looked at Henry, said: "Within the hour." and left.
Silas spat on the floor. "I heard you guys were down on your luck. This isn't very dignified, is it? Not very classy?"
Marshall's face twisted in anger. "Get him out of here," he said, and the hologram vanished.
Silas felt Bountiful Splendor's grip loosening. They were going to start moving him to the shuttle any second now, but he needed to time this right.
Henry stood in front of him. "Alright," he began. "Here's how it's gonna work. You make a move, I shoot you. You say a fucking thing to anyone, I shoot you. You even try to run, I -"
Silas' hand lunged up, holding his hidden laser pistol, and shot Henry. Fragments of charred bone and meat scattered across the room. Silas kicked Bountiful Splendor away from him and started moving towards the other side of the room.
He looked back. Bountiful Splendor was already back up and moving towards him fast. Silas fired twice, wildly: the first shot clipped one of Splendor's arms, sending the tip of it flying across the room, while the second blew off its head. It screeched in rage and charged at him, knocking him off his feet. His vision blurred from the impact.
He knew he only had a few seconds before Splendor came back to its senses and finished him off. He reached wildly for a weapon, anything, finally grabbing something light, but blunt. Splendor flipped him over, its backup jaw emerging from a cavity in its chest. Silas began to hit it repeatedly with the object, sending dark green ichor splashing across the room. Splendor fell to the floor, twitching, and Silas finished it off with one last blow.
He brushed some of the green fluid off his clothes and looked down at his hand, realizing what he had been beating Splendor with. The goddamn toaster. It wasn't much more than a wrecked piece of metal covered in Begriven blood now, though. He quickly stuffed the hunk of metal into his bag, throwing it across his shoulders. Soon enough, New Zealand would come back wondering why he wasn't on the shuttle yet. He checked the room one last time, found nothing, and left.

As Silas' shuttle took off, the entertainment module picked up a Desecration Broadcast. Since they hadn't managed to get him, Silas guessed it was pre-recorded. On the screen next to the controls, a Homeworlder priest wearing an 'I Love NY' shirt was circling a bound and gagged scientist. The priest took a sheet of paper from somewhere off-camera.
"And now," he said. "I will read from Dr. Merritt's sins, as he himself wrote them."
Silas' shuttle made the initial jump out of Luna. Now he could actually see the Homeworld, the shriveled husk that it was.
"Experiment Log 18729-1!" shouted the priest. "Test 1! D-01921 entered the testing chamber and read to SCP-18729 an excerpt from The Dark of the Eyes by Fortunate Bounty of the Third Mother! Instant incineration of D-01921 ensued!"
Where Canada had once been, there was now a great red ocean. In Europe, the massive green vortex of the Mint Zone swirled, laying waste to the country once known as Germany.
"Test 2!" screamed the priest. "D-01729 entered the testing chamber and read to SCP-18729 a copy of SCP-18729's own containment procedures! Data expunged - they themselves cannot look upon their travesties! They cannot face what they have done to our Homeworld!"
The blood ocean and the Mint Zone were the biggest dangers on the Homeworld, but Silas knew that there were a thousand other anomalies, each capable of killing in horrific ways. 682, 058, 173…there were too many to list. Silas didn't think anyone would ever be able to live on the Homeworld again. Didn't know why anyone would want to.
"The Desecrators refuse to repent their transgressions! They have brought our Homeworld to death, and so we are forced to do the same to them!" With that, the priest lifted up a pistol and blasted off the scientist's head. The image of his corpse remained on the screen for a few seconds, but was then replaced by pictures and names of known Foundation members. "Stay strong, stay vigilant, my children," said the priest. "This has been Father Brazil. Goodnight."
Silas looked at the Homeworld for another second, a withered dead ball framed by the light of the sun. Then he pulled a lever, warped, and was gone.


Document 16265-15719-A
Foreword: The following column was recovered after being published in a number of national newspapers (for a full list, see Document 1626-1678-B) and raising suspicion in the Foundation monitoring service due to its subject matter. When questioned, none of the editors of said newspapers could explain how this column came to be published.

Friends, readers, true believers, and other assorted assholes,
Welcome.
Welcome to what, you may ask. Well, I'll tell you. You, dear readers, are about to experience the event of a lifetime. Everything you've been through so far, every lie you were taught by your school, or your parents, or your priest, you can just forget all that garbage right now. Tonight, you see, you'll read the words… of a prophet.
FOR I AM SATURN DEER, PROPHET, MASTER OF WORDS, TEACHER OF MAN, AND CARING LOVER, AND I WILL ROCK YOUR WORLD, SON.
But first, a few letters from my loyal readers. See, I am nothing if not magnanimous in my wisdom, and lo, I am willing to answer even the most moronic of questions for your sake. You can't say I never do anything for you, now can you? Let us begin:
Dear Saturn,
I have heard of your mighty prophetic powers, and so I write to you, seeking your advice. I have been afflicted with a terrible illness, which deformed my once beautiful body into a grotesque monstrosity, a vile parody of what it once was. Especially my nether regions, which are now tainted beyond recognition, and cannot be looked upon without risking one's sanity. This happened after I besmirched the name of the High Shaman of Trlybon, which might not have been the wisest decision in retrospect.
I beg of you, deliver me from my woes! A cure, dear prophet, is all I ask of you. That, and that you keep this missive private, else my shame will be endless.
Yours truly,
Balgorath, Knight of the Holy Order of the Most Venerable Ferret, London
Well, Balgorath, the solution for your problem is rather simple, believe it or not. You see, what you're dealing with here is a simple, if effective, Curse of the Bloated Snake. It might seem very frightening (especially under a UV light), but do not be alarmed. All you need to do is to…remove your Seventh Seal while listening to the music of the Spheres, just as they perfectly align themselves under the Sign of Aphrodite. But Saturn, you may ask, how will I know the right time? Well, have no fear, for I just so happen to possess a recorded version of exactly the type you require, and shall be more than happy to deliver it to you.
For only fourteen easy payments of 19.95$, plus taxes, plus shipment.
Dear Mr. Deer,
A friend of mine went to one of your seminars, and she was really impressed with that you said. I don't usually do this, but I've been feeling really lost these last couple of months, and I figured some advice from someone like you might be the thing I needed to get myself back on track. I'm an artist, you see, what some people call an anartist, but I don't think I'm very good. I've been hanging out with this group lately, and there's this guy there, Tony. He's amazing at everything: he looks like an underwear modal, has charisma practically pouring out of him, he's smart, successful, and his art… man, his art just comes to life. Literally. Not to mention the women. Seeing him, I've been feeling really inadequate. I mean, the best I ever did was that flaming tower of goat skulls, and hardly anyone even noticed that. What should I do?
Nathan,
BackdoorSoHo, New York
Nathan, my lad, you're looking at this from entirely the wrong perspective. You should be glad you're a pathetic, worthless loser whose failure as an artist is only rivaled by his utter incompetence with women. You see, people like Tony and me, successful, competent people, we have so much responsibility on our shoulders; we have an image to maintain, a reputation, friends to keep happy. People expect us to do great things. You? People know you'll never amount to anything. Being a waste of space and oxygen like you is the ultimate form of freedom, my friend! I mean, you could kill yourself right now, just stick a gun in your mouth and blow your fucking brains out, and no one would even care! How liberating!
Truly, you are fortunate.
Seriously though, no one would care. Not even a little bit.
Seriously, Saturn?
Don't you ever learn? Look, Saturn, every time you try this whole prophet spiel, you end up dead. This is the fifth time in the last two hundred years alone. How about you just retire to Fiji or something, so we can skip over the whole “killing you for your crimes against humanity” thing? It's all more trouble than it's worth, for both you and us. Or you could duke it out with the guys who like burning things. Again.
Think about it,
MA
Bitch, please. I'm not afraid of you, your tinderbox of a husband, or you merry band of multicultural prudes. You say you stopped me before? Well, fact is, I'm still here now, aren't I, spreading the good word to all willing, those smart enough to think outside of the boxes you put around their heads. Threaten me? Do you lift? I seriously doubt you even lift.
Horns,
Me heard you have horns. Me need horns for charms and hat. You give me horns, give me stars, me don't bash you on head with rock. Me could bash you on head with rock if you into that sort of thing, me not judge, but me prefers to use diplomacy. Me gentleman. Got monocle, got hat, need horns, said before. Me need someone to distinguish me from other big guy, phony with swords. Me far better looking anyway, got classic movie charms. Similar names, people get confused.
Give your horns, me and you no problem. If not, rocks.
Gable
Wrong Saturn Deer there, buddy. You're looking for the four-legged furry bloke that hangs around that gas giant over there. Easy mistake to make, I understand.
God, where do I find those guys?
Prophet,
I come to you with a proposal. You do not know me, but I believe we share common goals. You have been trapped in this cycle for a long, long time, and it has left you a jaded shadow of what you used to be. Where you once led legions of followers down uncertain paths, now you scam and insult the tiny handful of fools still willing to listen to you. Soon, they too will be gone. I can help. I know of your… unique talents, and I can put them to good use. I am very good at that, trust me. With my resources and your skills, we could become something…more.
We shall talk,
D
Um. Er. Let me get back to you on that, eh? It's not like I don't appreciate the offer, it's just that I'm kinda doing this open letter column thing right now, and I don't think this is the place to discuss this. I wish I could stop, but we both know that's not the way things work. Also, say hi to your sister for me. She'll know why. "Don't know him" my ass.
Alright, folks, that's all the time we have today. I know I promised to dispense some of my ultimate wisdom, but unfortunately those mouth breathers with the letters took all the space I had. But, tune in next time, and I shall show you such marvels and wonders, even my sexual prowess shall almost pale in comparison. Or, you could order the DVDs, a thirteen-disk Collector's Edition, for only 49.99$. Whatever rocks your boat.
Till next time, I was Saturn Deer, and I bid ye adieu.


Author's Note: You might want to read The Written God before reading this tale.

There was certainly peace and happiness for a while; yet, as the people know, evil is unavoidable.

There was a knock at Jacob Hunt's door. The newly promoted Project Malleus captain called out to the visitor, who promptly walked in and took a standing position in front of his desk.
"Jerome, welcome to my office. Isn't it amazing?" Jacob grinned as he spread his arms out.
The man managed an impatient half-smile. "Quite, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to give my report before we rest on our laurels."
He sighed, letting his arms fall limply. "True enough, this is cause for more diligence than celebration anyways. Now, you sent a memo that said you discovered a few new religious groups in the immediate area?"
Jerome nodded. "Yes. The closest and largest one is based in Buffalo, looks to be… about fifty members at the moment. They also appear to have some sort of anomalous artifact that they use in their rituals and rites."
Jacob thought for a second, folding his hands. "That's only forty-five minutes away at most. Do we know when and where they meet?"
The man glanced towards his wrist. "Well, they usually meet from about this time until about eight."
Hunt stood up. "Well, what are we waiting for then? Let's go."
Jerome did not move, save for a single raised eyebrow. "Sir, We haven't even told McLean about the group, let alone run our mission plan past DeMontfort. We can't just—"
"We can't just what? We can't go out and stop a probably dangerous group of heathens that are polluting the world with their filth and ideas? We have to wait for those idiot Sheep to try to recruit them into our ranks, like they've done with so many people that are utterly unclean?"
The lanky man remained still. "The proper procedures must be adhered to, sir. The law was made for a reason, and rampant vigilantism might not be the best use of your post."
Jacob chuckled. "Oh, come on Jerome, you haven't heard tales about captains acting on their own accord to slip through certain cracks in the system? This isn't vigilantism, boy, this is efficient duty. I hear the voice of God telling me this is what's right. Go on, gather Babylon Squad. We'll be in and out, within an hour or two. The higher ups will be none the wiser, and the world will be rid of another wretched paganist system."
Jerome once again refused to budge. "Jacob, that's not how I do things."
Jacob silently gave him an icy glare. "Fine," he said after several minutes of silence, "We'll call up DeMontfort for his approval."
Jerome nodded, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed the number. It rang three times before a the Director answered.
"Director DeMontfort speaking."
"Hello, Director," spoke Jerome. "This is Jerome Allen, speaking on the behalf of Father Jacob." Hunt motioned towards his ears, which Jerome took as a sign to put the call on speakerphone.
"Ah, yes. The new captain. What'd he want to talk to me about?"
"You see, there is a newly discovered cult in the immediate area, and he wanted to get the approval to go after them immediately."
There were a few seconds of silence before DeMontfort replied. "What kind of group is this?"
Jerome put the phone down on the desk in front of him as he flipped through papers on a clipboard. "A society which believes in a god and messiah figure that comes to life when its people write about it. They also appear to outright shun all other written religious figures and texts."
A few more seconds of silence.
"Do they have special weapons or abilities at their disposal?"
"It seems highly likely, but hasn't been confirmed yet. That would require extended observation of the group, which I think could be handled more effectively by the Shepherd Corps. They may even be able to integrate members of the Cult of the Wordsmith into the religion covertly in order to observe. We have a few planted Project Malleus agents already, but I don't think we can rely on their long-term judgement and ability to blend in."
"I see," DeMontfort replied. "My opinion is that a possibly dangerous and definitely blasphemous group should be taken out as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, such a course of action wouldn't be possible if this request was submitted through all the proper channels. Even more unfortunately, I never received any sort of indication from Father Jacob about his plans of action, or even any prior information about the group. It really is such a shame, but I suppose it meet our goal at the end of the day."
Frowning from confusion, Jerome said, "I don't understand."
DeMontfort took a very slow and deep breath, then exhaled for just as long. "Why, Jerome, what I'm saying is that if I were to do it my way, I would immediately send out Jacob and his squadron to eliminate the group you described. But, much to my dismay, a blockade of policy and diplomatic relations and Sheep restrict my movements. I guess it really is too bad that you didn't inform me of such action, really, but no one could possibly get too mad at you for doing your job. Understood?"
Closing his eyes, he responded through clenched teeth, "I understand."
"Excellent. I'll see you boys later." A three toned beeping filled the office.
"Well then," said Jacob as he leaned back in his chair. "Let's get to it."
"Right away." Jerome solidly nodded and walked out of the room to gather the squad quietly.

But soon enough, a Wolf came to tear the Believers asunder.

They filed into the warehouse silently, but even so, their black tactical clothing made them distinctly noticeable among the sea of brown robes. Laughter and talking transformed into silence in the space of a few seconds. The screaming began when the agents drew their guns and began yelling and cornering them. Once they were surrounded, a nervous sea of hushed whispers replaced their yells.
The Project Malleus agents sternly surveyed the group they had trapped. It was composed of a variety of people, all wearing burlap sacks with hoods attached. A robust, regally-attired man stepped to the front and addressed the tall man already standing in the center of the formation.
“Name of the group?”
“The Faith of the Scribed, sir."
"Excellent. Now, read out their transgressions. Loudly."
"I don't think that's—"
"…"
"…Right. The Scribes believe in a messiah that comes about through their writings and scripture. The main leader professed that all other religious figures described through writing were utterly false and all who believed in such people would be eliminated by their Lord.”
Jacob Hunt growled derisively, barking, “Blasphemers, worse than the Pastafarians,” to the crowd. He leered over the hooded people in front of him. Most cults at least had nice looking vestments. This one just appeared to be wearing potato sacks. “Are the Sheep aware of this?”
“At the current moment, Project Malleus is the only branch aware of this operation, but I have men ready to send the signal to the chapterhouse at a moment's notice if you change your mind.”
“Let's keep it quiet. I don't want to hassle with them over assimilation negotiations. You heard what DeMontfort said. We're going to eliminate these heathens, here and now, as our duty as agent of Project Malleus.” Thoughts of grandeur and images of Hunt as a mighty warrior smiting down sinners with his God's sword had filled his cranium, as evidenced by his triumphant grin and trembling eagerness.
Jerome shook his head. "We need to—"
"You need to follow God's will as interpreted by me. Understood?"
A very observant onlooker would have noticed Jerome's jaw clench tightly for several seconds before he tersely answered, "I understand."

The tension among the group felt suffocating. Everyone's eyes were fixed downwards and all the joy and laughter from just a few minutes earlier had utterly dissipated. There was a low murmur working its way through the crowd, mostly made up of family members consoling each other.
Roger thought back through his mind. Why, why why? Why was this happening? Where was Reggravi? Where the fuck was it? He had specifically written it for a time of peril, just in case.
A tugging at his robes interrupted his thoughts. He looked down at the boy trying to get his attention.
"What is it, Jimmy?" he whispered, struggling to keep the tension out of his voice.
"Well, Mr. Roger… Reggravi is gonna come, right? He's gonna save us all, isn't he?"
Roger attempted to give him a wide, confident smile. It ended up looking more like he was baring his teeth. "Of course. Reggravi would never betray us. Isn't that what's written?"
The boy thought for a minute, as if trying very hard to remember if this was true. He apparently decided it was because he nodded, plopped back down, and began looking around the group expectantly.
He shook himself. Snap out of it, Roger. You were the one that found it, so why are you having trouble believing in it when a kid just accepts it like that?
With these thoughts, he relaxed, but not by much. There was still the chance he was wrong.

“Father Jacob?”
He turned to look at the agent. "Yes?"
"Do you have a plan for if this plan backfires? They are suspected of having some sort of artifact, after all. Shouldn't we at least call for backup since we didn't report this?"
He snorted derisively. "If we waited around for all that paperwork and processing to build up, we'd never get anything done around here! Look, here are some heathens, so we're going to eliminate them. Plain and simple."
"But even DeMontfort—"
"Now, that's enough. We have a mission we are prepared to do, and we're going to do it."
"…Yes, sir."
"Good. Now, let me prepare."
Jacob pulled a metal cone from his bag, lifting it up to the sky as he muttered, ”I ask for guidance. I ask for strength. I ask for light. I respond with righteousness. Amen.” He brought the object back down as he told his co-worker, "Jerome, ready the rest of the men. You'll be cleaning up the stragglers after I'm done."
The man next to him saluted and began speaking into his radio. Jacob raised the object to his mouth, inhaled deeply, and shouted.

The blast of sound, probably loud in normal circumstances, was amplified to painful amounts by the near-silence and the enclosed space of the warehouse. Roger's hands shot up to the sides of his head to cover his ears. He peered over to where the attack seemed to be aimed at and was taken aback when he saw a circle in the center of the crowd, empty save for a tall hooded figure.
Could it be…
But not yet. Roger dared not to celebrate yet. Not until he was certain.

After the echoes of the sound had faded, silence filled the dank and dimly lit warehouse. Jacob frowned. A blast from the object usually managed to clear out at least a circle of people. Instead, it appeared to only have affected one of the heathens, a tall man standing in the center of the gathering. Shaking his head, Jacob once again lifted the cone, aimed it directly at the standing form, and yelled.
The figure's hood fell to the floor, severed from the rest of his outfit by the attack, revealing a faceless head with large, bloody holes scattered across the surface. Several of the hooded figures shouted in surprised delight at the appearance of the entity, which simply stood tall and silent, the blood flowing more freely and turning darker and thicker with each passing second. These shouts turned into louder cheers and crescendoed into an uproar as all of the captive people screamed in triumph.

And then our Savior alit on the earth, shroud humbly like His followers so as to fool the Unworthy. He walked among our people in their supposed defeat, left unseen by the enemy until the hour of Salvation dawned.

“Jerome! Jerome!” Hunt strained to make his voice heard over the din. “Kill it and kill them quickly! Burn the building down if you must!”
The man on his side nodded and sprinted off as Jacob once again lifted the cone, shouting at crowd with the tall, dirty figure remaining steadfastly erect in the center. Instantly, the faceless man seemed to shift to the front of the crowd, arms and legs outstretched like a star. Each blast shredded its already rough outfit, punching red holes all across its form. Agents were now openly firing at the crowd, but the being seemed to catch each and every bullet with its own body. As this continued, the ruby color dripping from these wounds darkened and a bubbling black liquid began seeping out.
No, no! Jacob attempted to shout once more, but could muster nothing more than a rasp. Not yet! I can't be finished yet! He threw the object in his hand aside. Useless relic! God help me, God help me!
He glanced up at the scene. The muck had completely covered the man's form and extended two additional limbs as it crashed forward. The roar of the cheering people was absolutely deafening. He watched as the creature bashed his men and enveloped their corpses with its filthy slime.
A heartbeat rang though his mind.
I'm not ready yet. I have so much left to accomplish. I can't die here, not now.
He was still reaching for his pistol when the creature's front leg slammed into— no, through— his chest. The last glimpse of the mortal world Jacob Hunt experienced was utter blackness surrounded by the cacophony of defeat.

The cornered people cheered louder and louder with each blast absorbed by their Lord. It seemed to flow and sway so as to completely shield them with its body, a body so perfect that the man's assaults were unable to faze it. He grew greater and more powerful as the blows became progressively weaker and the man's voice grew hoarse. When Reggravi revealed a form to cast judgement upon Jacob, they jumped to their feet and screamed in triumph as loud as they could.
Roger looked on in awestruck wonder. I never should have doubted. I never should have thought He would let us go. After all, I wrote it. He glanced upward. Of course… this does mean that soon… well, it was about time anyways. He grinned.

He rose as the Beast bared its fangs to strike. The Faithful were strongly shielded against the creature with His magnificent form, and by His sacrifice, He was instantly reborn as our Strength. He overran the Unbelieving while keeping those with the Faith protected by His love.

The agents knew when they were outmatched. They hated admitting it, but they knew it was better to sacrifice a battle in order to win the war another day. Seven out of the original twenty members of the force managed to escape the building and flee to the nearest chapterhouse.
The dark creature watched as they left, returning to the cheering crowd inside once their vehicles had driven out of its field of vision. It crawled over to the center as the people quieted themselves in reverence. One man began reciting sacred words, joined in by another, and another, and another until the entire congregation was detailing the legend of their Lord, Reggravi.
As they neared the end of their tale, the creature's six legs shortened more and more until they were once again melded with its body. A large and luminous white flower began to sprout from the black mass, growing in size until it filled the warehouse with its petals. The people, still chanting, climbed up onto it as it rose higher and higher into the sky, clearing the path above them with a protective cage of thorns. When they had finished the saga, they started over from the beginning. This continued as the large flower soared upwards into the aether. Once they had finished the story for the second time, both they and the flower disappeared.

The Beast slain and the Unbelieving conquered, He then met with His People, who told of His chronicle. Then, sprouting the Gateway of Paradise, He raised all of the Faithful up with Him as He ascended.

"Project Malleus was never given authorization for this."
"I know, sir."
"DeMontfort himself even claims to know nothing about this operation."
Jerome gulped. "I know, sir."
"What were you thinking?"
"Captain Hunt had deemed the cult to be dangerous and was trying to preemptively eliminate it before it could do anything. As his subordinate, I was following his orders."
"That's not how we work around here, Jerome. You know that."
"Yes, sir."
Harold McLean sighed. "Well, at least we can get it all sorted out now, I suppose. I guess we'll start with how it even happened in the first place. Details about the group in question?"
"They called themselves the Faith of the Scribed. They believed in a higher being that was summoned when written about. Most of their history is detailed in their holy texts," he said, holding up a midnight blue book.
"I see. Give me that, then, and I'll deal with all of your disciplinary reports later."
"Of course."
As the agents left his office, Harold sighed. A lot of good men were lost for no cause today. Dispelling these thoughts, he flipped open the book and began reading.
"Reggravi was born out of the writings of Roger Legrand, the first Scribe. He detailed meeting the being, and so he did. Thus, our belief began…

And in the aftermath, the survivors left and carried on, a group of seven. The Master would appear to each as an angel of their god every night, advising them in the ways of their Faith and making them into His Prophets of the Second Edition. Each would learn the ways of the Scribed through Reggravi himself and spread His word and knowledge through their writings. Thus, the new and greater wave of the Scribes shall come to order and help propagate His legacy.

Jerome, arise.
The man opened his eyes and stared at the form in front of him. It was a floating angel, face obscured by blinding light and clad in pure white garments. Its glowing wings seemed to stretch and encompass the entire room, filling the space with soft, gentle luminescence.
My name is Bertrien, and I am your Protector. Let me guide you and show you the way. The being held out a single, perfect hand.
"Yes, Lord," responded Jerome as he took his hand. "I'm ready to follow."
And you will, child. But before I can take you, you must help spread my word and love to the masses.
"I shall. Give me the law and I will obey. Give me justice and I will act as your envoy."
Now, you are called the First Prophet by me. Go forth.

« The Written God | Hub »


Roger Legrand crumpled up the fifth text-filled sheet and rocketed it towards the wastebin.
"Why can't I fucking write today?"
He bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his hair, resting his elbow on top of dozens of discarded brainstorming sheets covered with half-formed ideas.
"What's happening to me? Goddammit, goddammit! I just want to write like how I used to." He glanced up at the bookcase in his study, the top row completely filled with his novels.
Frustrated, he grabbed a random piece of paper and began writing again.
"And then the great goddamn Reggravi, the fucking master of language I just pulled out of my ass, appeared to Roger Legrand and struck him with awe and inspiration. He became his muse! His inspiration! His path to better things in this goddamn pitiful existence of frustration!!!!"
"Fuck it all, fuck it all!" He ripped the sheet to shreds and tossed it over his shoulder before folding his arms and laying his head down on his desk. He stayed like this for a few moments before becoming aware of… something watching him. Slowly, he turned to look behind him. A tall man-like figure stood there, a featureless face visible under its hood and dressed in several heavy layers of a coarse, brown fiber. It said nothing, it simply stood there with its head angled down towards Roger.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
The figure remained silent.
"How did you get in here?"
Still silent, the being in front of him raise a single finger (with no fingernail to be seen) and pointed at the scraps Roger had just torn up.
Uncomprehending, he continued to stare at the figure as it started to move about the room. It picked up several balled-up pieces of paper out of the trash and returned them to Roger's desk, smoothing them out and pointing at several key words and phrases previously deemed by the man to be bad ideas.
He walked over and watched the creature.
"'A god of books…' 'a tale of a family…' something that will change the world…'" He looked up at the hooded thing, who in turn had picked up the torn scraps and replaced them on the surface in front of Roger. And so, he understood. He had found a being that came when written about, something that could literally change the world. He became inspired, empowered by this discovery, and began frantically writing out notes and ideas, good ones this time. He never noticed the creature he now knew was called Reggravi disappear, but he knew that he'd meet it again.
As he fell deeper and deeper into a writing frenzy, he came to many realizations, many stopped thoughts and epiphanies about the thing he had found. Instead of thinking up ways to expand on the creature in fantastical adventures, he found that it felt… wrong to keep such a wondrous and almighty beast— no, being— locked away in fictional tales that would dilute its magnificence. It was unthinkable, after a certain point.
This was something that deserved respect.
This was something that deserved praise.
This was something that Roger was born to do.
And so, the first Scribe of Reggravi came into existence.

Excerpts from His Book, the holy scripture of the Faith of the Scribed.

It wasn't hard to find people to join in the belief. After all, it was a religion based on a figure whose existence and power could be proven at literally any time. First came Roger's close friends, then their friends, until they numbered about fifty people, give or take a few. In fact, it was more of a small little community than a religion. But most of all, they certainly were not a cult. No, they were simply average people living average lives that had discovered the Truth and met up once a week to talk about it and share their faith.
And it was nice.

"I think my kids breezed through here. They aren't giving you any trouble, are they?" said a woman approaching Roger after the service.
He grinned and shook his head. "Of course not, Clarisse, they're simply wonderful. Hey, I'm glad you came! It's always nice to see you guys around here."
The woman chuckled. "Ah, Roger, of course we came. This is the highlight of our weeks right here," she said, waving her hand at the people around them. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."
"I'm glad to hear that. Hey, where's Patrick today?"
"Oh… he's…" muttered the woman, fiddling with her wedding band. "He's… been sick recently. That's all. Came down with something awful, doctors don't know what it is, they took some… blood samples. We're just waiting to hear back."
He patted her on the shoulder. "I see. I hope it all turns out for the best."
She nodded, murmured something about having to go watch her kids, and sidled away. Roger sighed. People were always going to have their problems, whether or not they were a part of the Scribes, but… He pivoted on his heel and walked over to the front of the room. There, he surveyed the mass of people there. It wasn't big, but it was close.
At least they have people to support them when they fall.

In the throng of the crowd, a man conspicuously weaved in and out between people, taking in the experience. He made mental notes of every face, every name he could remember, reciting as much of the sermon from before over and over in his head so as to retain as much of it as he could.
He socialized, keeping his cold, analyzing gaze hidden behind two rows of beaming teeth. In fact, he met nearly every single member of the congregation that night and was one of the last to leave. As the room emptied, the man got in his car and drove off.
The Wolf was returning to its pack.

And so, we gathered to honor Him. Friends, families, all together in love. We paved the way of His coming, knowing that it would come sometime or another. We knew. We prepared.

A few weeks later, the Scribes were holding another regular service, with Roger, as always, reading the sacred texts.
"…and the Faithful will ascend with Reggravi in his greatness." Roger closed the book and smiled at the congregation. "Don't fear, for our Lord will surely come soon. I can feel it. Now, worship service is over. As always, feel free to stay and enjoy the snacks and each other's company."
This last part was unnecessary; no one ever left right after the services. Within minutes, the tiny warehouse where they held their meetings was filled with chatter and laughter. Dozens of ecru-clad people spread out and filled the room, intermingling with each other.
Roger smiled. As much as he loved the faith, watching the community mesh was even better. He wandered into the crowd, shaking hands and greeting people as he passed. A few conversation snippets later, he found the person he was looking for and tapped her on the shoulder. The brunette woman turned around.
"It's been three weeks since Pat's been here, Clarisse." He sighed.
She cast her eyes downward. "I know, I know. He's been… very ill as of late. I'm not sure if he'll ever be well enough to come back."
He glanced down at her hands. Clarisse was feeling around the bare base of her left ring finger. She noticed him staring and quickly folded her hands behind her back. He cast her a sympathetic look.
"…My ring's been bothering me a bit recently, so I decided just to take it off."
Roger paused for a minute. "Hey, Clarisse?"
"Yes?"
"We're all a family here. Please don't forget that. Don't be afraid to tell us you need support."
She gave him a weak smile and a half-nod before wandering off. Roger sighed once more. Some people just didn't like admitting they needed help. Or rather, they didn't like burdening other people with their problems.
Well, only time will help, I suppose.
And with these thoughts, he made his way back into the crowd.

Five Wolves scouted the group, gleaming as much information as they could, knowledge about both the religion itself and the people gathered there. Throughout their mingling, they signaled to each other the prepared sign, a smiling nod accompanied with the scratching of the back of their neck.
They were ready to plan the operation.

« Hub | The Word and the Wolf»


Pain. Pain, and fire, and then peace. For a long time, she remembered the peace. There was a light, so beautiful and calm, that she drifted towards. Her parents, though, her parents would miss her, wouldn't they? She could hear them, and they sounded so sad. She couldn't leave, not yet.
She tried to follow their voices home. It should have been so easy. She walked a line, not daring to look up, to the light that called, nor down, to the darkness that hungered. Her parents were her line, keeping her here, from floating or falling. They called to her, and people gave her rides, and she should have got there. And yet, and yet…
Fire. Fire and pain. She felt herself set adrift again, her body wracked with nothing but pain. She saw them, finally, saw them as they floated past her, as she fell, burning, tumbling, into the hungry abyss. She fell through them, felt the pain of their deaths, added to her own, and landed, in the darkness.
The darkness loved her. It took her to its bosom, and taught her. It showed her what had happened to her parents, who was to blame. The darkness showed her what she could do with her anger, with her pain, how she could feed it. Then it let her go.
She didn't float, not anymore. She climbed up out of the darkness, every step a struggle, like forcing her way through a thick mud. Just because the darkness wanted her help didn't mean it was going to make her leaving easy.
It needed feeding, so she fed it. She avenged her parents. She more than avenged her parents, with blood and fire and pain. Until.
The girl looked up at the sound of a motor, a sad smile on her face. It was time to start everything again. She bent over to look into the car as it slowed down. "Excuse me mister can you give me a ride?"
The old man inside turned to her, and smiled. "Oh yes my dear. I'm sad to say, I should have given you a ride long ago. Come on in." He unlocked the door, and she slipped inside, resting lightly upon the seat. She didn't bother to put on her seat belt, even as the driver drove off.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked, poised to spring on him, as she had sprung on so many before.
"You've been tormented, my dear. Far more than you deserved. You… fell off the list. You were never supposed to have been left out here, on your own, this long." He took his hands off the wheel as he turned to look at her. If she had cared about her health, she would have worried about crashing, but she didn't, and, oddly enough, the car seemed to know the way without being guided. "I've been… inconvenienced for some time. The Foundation-"
"The Foundation? THE FOUNDATION?" she raged, her form shifting as her anger showed. "I knew it! you're another one of those damned scientists, trying to hurt me again! Well, I won't let you!" And the girl struck out, lodging her hand in the man's chest, where she easily crushed his heart.
…At least that's how it had always gone. The girl crushed, and crushed again, but found herself meeting no resistance. The old man just shook his head sadly at her. "You see? You are supposed to be at peace, but to be so angry…" The girl heard a change. The car engine wasn't making any noise, any more. Had it ever? Instead, it sounded like… like the clopping of hooves. "It's okay Mary. All of the pain is over."
Mary found herself unable to focus. The rage that had fueled her for so long was gone. She thought she heard her parents, calling her name. She found herself remembering a line from a poem she'd read in school. "Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality."

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Needle… needle in my neck… Weird clear stuff pumping through it… Who are you people… What are you doing… Where is my son…
Rubble all around me. Where am I? The mall? I think that's where we were, but I can't be sure. Corpses all around, my son among them, blood everywhere, smoke… choking me… I have to move, I have to find some way of getting out of here. If the building collapses, then nobody can help…
What's that sound? Sounds like footsteps…
Oh thank God, police! Police! You've got to help me, officers. It killed everyone, officers, everyone here. Tore through them like they weren't even there. There's blood all over me and I think my family is dead and you've got to help me please you've got to help me I don't know what to do what was that thing why was it killing everybody why didn't it kill… what are you doing with that…
Oh God, oh God, James, no! What did that thing do to you, kid, what'd it do? Where's your arms, where's your legs, where's your head, oh God, what did it do with your head? I can see it there out of the corner of my eye, through the hole it left in the wall, just over the horizon, but I dont' want to look directly at it because everyone else looked at it and look what it did to them and my son, oh God, James, why'd it do this, what'd it do to you? I can't… I… what's happening? Why are they all dead?
I've gotta get help, there has to be someone here. A doctor? Doctor's can't help people without heads I need someone who can get me out of here before that thing comes back. Police, police, I need the police, where can I find the police where can I find the police…
Stay the hell away from my son!
James, get behind me, I'm not letting this thing near you! Where's your Mom? We have to find her before this thing can get to her!
Oh God, this thing is killing everyone, just tearing them apart with its bare hands. It ripped off that old man's arms like they weren't even there, and crushed that woman's head and… Don't look at it, James, look away, try and see if you can find Mom! It's killing everyone who looks at it. Oh God, what am I gonna do, I can't have my son in the middle of this, we're just out shopping at the mall and we were going to find something for his birthday and it's knocking out the roof supports and…
Lucy! No, no, not Lucy, stay away from her, stay away from my wife you fucking thing, stay away, don't you touch her…!
James, come back here! Stay away from it, James! Don't look at it, Ja… JAMES!
I've always liked the music here in the mall. It's corny, but kinda entertaining. Friendly enough for the family without getting too annoying. Couple that with the clear layout and good prices, and you've got one hell of a good mall.
Do you hear that, Lucy? Sounds like something screaming outside. Go on, James, just keep thinking about what you want for your birthday.. What is that sound, though? Lucy doesn't seem too concerned by it, but it's just so… odd. I can't stop thinking about it. There it is again. Sounds even closer now. But we're just here to do some shopping. Shouldn't let myself be concerned with stuff like that. What was it we needed next? Think it was some milk, eggs, apples…
There's that sound again. Sounds awfully close. Everyone else seems a bit disturbed by it too. Wonder if there's a fight going on out…
Oh Jesus, the wall's bursting open…
On my knees, panting. They're dabbing my neck with a pad stemming the blood from the needle and they're talking to each other and oh Christ, it hurts. That should do it says one man and the other says that its time for the replacement thing I don't understand that word he's using but the other says no, he had a family and we need to get rid of that first and the other says it'll take weeks to track down any others who knew us and the first one just sighs and says a bunch of things and oh god what's happened why am I in the middle of a bunch of dead bodies, I'd just come to the mall alone to do some shopping, oh God, oh God…
They're still arguing and one of them's objecting heavily to something but the other's already taking action and the first one's pulling him away, but the other's already doing it. There's another needle in my neck. I don't want another…
I have a wife named Lucy. She's the most brilliant woman you've ever met. Long chestnut hair, beautiful green eyes, dazzling smile. Smart as hell, too. I couldn't be more lucky to have met her eleven years ago and to have started dating her ten years ago and to have married her on December 26th eight years ago. She's got the best damned laugh I've ever heard. She always wears green and absolutely hates purple. She's not too computer savvy but she can handle her way around them well enough. She works as a realtor in a company whose name I always forget. She loves the sight of morning dew and the smell of rain and the sound of birds in the trees. She is the absolute best woman in the world, the perfect partner for me, and I'd just die if I were to ever lose her. She is my wife Lucy…
My son, James. He's six, almost seven years old. Bright little kid. Not genius level but pretty damned smart to me. He's got my chin, my eyes, my laugh. I don't know where he gets his smile and hair from, but whoever it was, I still need to thank them. He's so alive and full of energy, always running around and trying to find something to do. He occasionally gets in trouble for it, but for the most part, he's a well behaved kid. Not an angel, but still. He wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up, even if he can't pronounce the word properly yet. He's got a ton of friends, and they're all good kids too. I love my son more than anything in the world. My brilliant, brilliant, lovely, irreplaceable child James…
On my knees. Everybody dead. Outside the mall. The mall's on fire. What…
There's a man in a uniform talking to me. He says there was a terrorist attack. On the mall? Yes, he says. We're living in dangerous times, he says. I was far enough way from the blast to not get hit, but my head and neck got pretty messed up, he says. I check my neck, and sure enough it's bleeding. Feels more like needle marks, but I don't question it. He says that he's going to take me to a hospital, and get me patched up. I say fine. I need to get away from here. I can't be around these dead bodies. I need to talk to my parents, my friends, anyone who can help me make sense of this.
I should just go…


"It's almost time." Allen kept his hand on the button, and his eyes glued to the monitor. He was alone in the booth, the same as an unknown number of compatriots. The system had been designed so that no one could tell what booth was in control of what, or how many there were.
"All eyes are locked on target," the voice to his left commented. Due to the effects of the radio, it was dull, monotone, and even the gender didn't come across. Allen knew his voice would be the same on their end. He would never know what booth was talking. He flicked his left hand across the prep buttons, nodding, even though he couldn't be seen.
"Guns are armed. We've got…" His eyes dropped to the number on his screen before jumping back up to the monitor. "Approximately seventy four weapons of various types trained on target. One of them should do something." He hoped. Under the sound of their voices, he could still hear the count down. It was getting closer. Soon, all their preparation would be worth it.
"All booths are online," claimed the voice to his right. Allen was slightly relieved that someone could tell. All alone in this booth, knowing what was to come, a small part of his mind insisted that he was the only one. That no one of the outside took this seriously. But no, the booths were all- "Strike that. We just lost a booth. Attempting to reconnect… connection lost. All booths, be aware, one booth has gone dark."
He leaned forward, taking his eyes reluctantly from the screen to check his board. Three weapons had just been shunted to his control. Acid sprayer, flame thrower, and armor piercing bullets in a Gatling gun. He knew there were backups on backups, but still… He flicked the buttons, readying his new weapons. The countdown hit thirty seconds, and he was ready to do his job.
"Two more booths just went dark. Attention, all booths, we have lost three booths. It is possible we are looking at enem- Five, we have lost five booths." Allen's hands were a blur, readying more weapons systems. The numbers moved steadily downwards, as the dull voice spoke of more booths lost, and the importance of every remaining booth staying active and alert.
At the five second mark, even that voice stopped. Allen knew in his heart that he was alone. He was the last one.
At the four second mark, something pounded on the side of his booth. His finger hovered above the button.
Three seconds, he could hear something ripping into the wall behind him.
Two seconds, and he felt a breeze against the back of his skull. The doors were supposed to be proof against that!
One second, and something touched his back, trying to pull him away. With the last ounce of his strength, as the timer reached zero, Allen pushed the button. He almost thought he heard a human voice. The monitor that showed that god damn box blanked out in the flare of weaponry.

To all units:
Arctic Base Theta has gone white. No response from any systems. All teams on site are believed dead. Automatic systems have activated onsite nuke. Our teams didn't make it in time to prevent detonation, those paranoid bastards actually did it.
Withdraw all units from the area, we don't have time to deal with the fallout.
Special Agent Joshua Kent

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Al woke up suddenly, unsure why. Something, something there, on the edge of knowing… Was it another breakthrough? They came to him so often in his dreams. He blamed the object, although Robert would claim it was natural genius. Al wasn't so sure, anymore.
Heh. Al. He'd been using that name so long, it came naturally to him. He'd had many names over the years, and even some numbers, but he'd been doing this job for so long, his handlers just called him Al. It was a mark of respect, or possibly trust. He wasn't sure which.
He slung his feet over the edge of the cot, trying to figure out what had woken him. His mind drifted, as it was wont to do these days. This job had been intended as a reward, for services rendered. Then the job title started to mean something it hadn't when he took it, and things got rough, until someone stepped in.
It was funny, back in the day, when he first took the job, they had all sorts of plans as to how to disguise him, so his handlers wouldn't recognize him. In the end, his suggestion that they cut his hair proved to work wonders. He'd let it grow out since then, but everyone thought he was dead these days, so it didn't matter.
He was given everything he wanted. Lots of paper, access to the Object, and all the latest information on scientific advances. In return, he kept turning over his papers to the Foundation, giving them all sorts of new information they could use for… whatever they use it for. He didn't care anymore. All he wanted was to be left alone, and not to have to think about his sins.
He pondered again his wakefulness. It couldn't have been the Object, he was used to the sound of… nothing. He tilted his head to the left, listened. Nothing. The sound that had become a part of his life, had stopped.
Al lunged for the box he kept by his bed, opening the lid carefully. The track was smooth. The oil was fresh. The Object… was still. Slowly, reverently, he reached within, picking up the Object gingerly. He remembered the destruction it could cause if enclosed… but, no, nothing. Not a shred of movement.
His mind raced, in a desperate attempt to find a cause. None of his previous theories ever accounted for this. Matter + Mass, no, that's not right. If the speed is equal to the velocity, no! Al thumped his free hand against the wall. Nothing accounted for it stopping!
He rolled it between his fingers, staring, hopefully. Maybe he could jump start it? No. Nothing. After all these years, all the papers he had written, all the possibilities he had explored, the simple Object that had made him a household name was no more. With a curse in his native tongue, he threw it to the ground, lost in his anger.
CRACK!
Al quickly glanced downwards, staring in horror at the shattered remains of the Object. He had only a moment to try and understand what was before him, before the energies inside blasted through him, reducing the caretaker to less than ash. That which had been contained was unleashed, and it fled into the universe, to seek out the others like it.
All that was left was the echo of his last words, as he finally understood everything.
"It vas an egg."

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On a shelf, in an office, three little monkeys sit in a locked box. They've been there for years, never moving, only doing their job. Now… Now something is different. They are different. Once more, they can move, and speak, as they did in days of old…
The first little monkey twists his head from side to side, his hands stills clasped firmly over his eyes. "Is anyone there?"
The second little monkey, his hands clasped firmly across his ears, sees his brother move. "Holy shit, a talking monkey!"
The third little monkey, his hands firmly across his mouth, rolls his eyes in frustration. He raises a leg, and taps his deaf brother, then gestures at the lid.
The Blind Monkey shakes his head to clear it. "Where are we brothers?"
The Deaf Monkey talks, despite not hearing the answers. "I see a way out! If we all throw ourselves against the wall, we can make our prison move!"
The Dumb Monkey nods his head, holding up a foot with three fingers. He counts down, and, on three, they throw themselves against the wall. Well, the Dumb and the Deaf ones do, the Blind one needs to be nudged to do it. The little monkeys repeat this pattern several times, until the box they are in tumbles to the floor.
The lock shatters, and three little monkeys climb out into a world that is not ready for them. They stroll, quite confidently, down the halls of Site 19, unaware of the trouble they leave in their wake.
A researcher spots the first monkey as he inputs his security code. Suddenly blind, he hits the wrong button, unlocking a secure containment door instead of locking it. "What the fuck is that noise?" are the last words he ever speaks.
An agent spots the second monkey as he responds to the alarm klaxon. When the alarm goes quiet from his point of view, he re-holsters his gun, and signals an all clear. "Wait, no, it's still out!" is the last thing he says.
The security guard sent to report on the situation spots the third monkey before he spots the escapee. As a consequence, he is unable to tell his superiors what is happening, before he is ruthlessly slaughtered. He says nothing at the end, not even a scream.
Stumbling over a piece of debris, the first Monkey raises his voice to be heard. "Where are we going?"
Using his tail to guide his blind brother, the second Monkey calls out. "Let's go down! I know a guy!"
The last monkey would sigh, if he could. Instead he follows his brothers, doing his best to keep them on track. It's like herding cats! Or, you know, guiding deaf and blind monkeys when you yourself cannot speak.
Eventually, the three brothers find their way to just the right office. The one they seek is inside. They know in their little plastic hearts that they are but pieces of a greater whole, not real beings.
"Should we knock?" Asks the first, peering at the vast expanse of the door.
"I think we're expected!" Says the second, as said door slowly swings open.
The third, as usual, says nothing. He merely smiles, as he feels the atoms that make up his body loosen, and begin flowing towards the one who was awaiting them.
"My children. Thank you, for holding the power, for so long. But now, I need it back. Speak your last words, that I may remember you."
"Is this going to hurt?" And one was gone.
"Give my love to whomever will take it!" And two were gone.
The third, with a sickening 'pop' wrenched his hands away from his mouth. He stretched his jaw as the other waited, took a deep breath, and said the only words he'd ever speak.
"Well, shit."
And all three were gone. But not forgotten.
In the aftermath of a massive Keter breach, no one noticed the absence of three little monkeys. Amongst the dead was a researcher who had been awarded for being the cleverest, which may have been why the absence of another monkey wasn't reported either.

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Director Cyrus knew that Fritz was watching him as he shuffled through a filing cabinet. He made a mental note to have a serious discussion with whomever had filed these things in an ass-backwards way. Yanking them out of the drawer, he hastily shut the cabinet and turned to face his counterpart.
"Commander Williams… thank you for coming on such short notice."
Fritz leaned forward in his seat. "It's Fritz, if you don't mind."
Cyrus glanced up. "Right… I'm here to check on the status of E-345. Is it on track for tomorrow's test?"
Fritz nodded. "Yes sir. They might actually be taking it to the provisional containment unit now… hold on, let me check."
A crumpled piece of paper was produced, and Fritz peered at it. "Actually… it's being moved in an hour or so. I can check back with you then if you need it."
"That will be all, Williams. You can go."
So he did.

Commander Frederick Williams walked through the halls of Site-19, out of administrative offices to containment areas. There was a better atmosphere here, friendlier. If he'd been here on any other day, he might've stopped by the employee lounge, or observe the containment areas of some skips under his watch. But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he made a beeline for one containment area.
He entered quietly, walking to the folding table in the middle of the room. There was a single sheet of paper, and a dull #2 pencil. No eraser. Sitting in the squeaky wooden chair, he began to write.
Hello, Cass

Welcome, please enter user ID.
Direc/Cyrus
Please enter password.
icannotrecall
Password Accepted.
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Loading…
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Loading…
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Access Granted.
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Welcome, Director Cyrus. Please enter an action.
Access Logs: Experiment E-345
Stand by….
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Experiment E-345 involves the exposure of E-345, a humanoid with psychokinetic abilities, with Prometheus Labs Telekill alloy. Initial testing has indicated that the alloy is sufficient to block any telepathic signal, and this could prove a boon to containment, if successful. The test procedure will see Researcher Byron escorting E-345 to the center of the test area, followed by a square of telekill alloy being lowered over it. Following this, D-3451 and D-8063 will be sent into the containment chamber, and E-345 will be instructed to begin manifesting its effect after Researcher Byron evacuates the room.
YOU(Director Cyrus), Agent HK-016, and an HMCL Supervisor(Dr. Eberstrom) will be stationed in the observation chamber. No other notable personnel will be involved in testing.

How are you?
The animate sketch looked to the left border of her paper prison, before sketching out a reply. Very bored. What sort of test do you want to do?
Actually, I thought we could just talk.
She paused, frowning towards the blank space she assumed the writer would be looking from. Fritz?
yes.
Cassandra's face broke out into a smile. Well, that changes things…

Access Testing Log: Commander Williams
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Commander Wiliams Test Log:
E-0345: 13
E-0456: Unknown, object terminated
E-1371: Unknown, object terminatedE-2300: Unknown, object terminated
E-0089: Unknown, object terminatedSCP-085: 56!
SCP-085 Logs: Access
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Loading…
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Currently, primary testing with SCP-085 has been performed with Commander Williams

"You're always the first to defend him! Can't you see when Fritz is doing wrong?!"
Masipag glared across the hall to Kulzn, who wore his usual veneer of indiference.
"What Fritz does with his time is his own business, Masipag, and not yours."
She grimaced at him. "Fritz has been spending all his time with the drawing, and not with me or Kraito! How can we be ready for this huge, big-deal test if he isn't even giving his subordinates the time of day?"
Kulzn paused. "Have you thought he might have a little faith in you, for once?"
Masipag's glare hardened. "Watch what you say. Kulzn…"
"Fine … fine… but think about this: Maybe if you'd gotten off your ass for once and took some initiative, you'd be overseeing the test tomorrow and not me."
"Fuck you, Kulzn. Just… god…" She leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"See you tomorrow, Lieutenant."

Access Logs: Lee Byron
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Lee Byron is a member of the Foundation, under the Telepathic Research division of Site-19. Currently assigned as the Research lead for the "Telekill Alloy" project. Further information is restricted.
icanremembernow
…Loading Amnestic Logs
"Currently, I believe that Researcher Byron is fully capable of performing his duties, in spite of his prior history as an Amnestic user. He has shown nothing but determined work spirit and is an asset to my team. Lee is fully capable of leading this project."
Commander Williams
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Logout
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Goodbye, Administrator.

The research labs were usually pretty sparse this time of night. The work day had long ago ended, sending doctors, lab assistants and technicians scurrying to their dormitories. Occasionally, there was a slumbering junior researcher left behind by colleagues, but these were few and far between. There was, however. One person in the labs on this particular evening. Lumbering through the corridors, glancing in doors, Lee made his way to the primary test chamber.
Everything was ready for tomorrow. The telekill cube was in its place, resting in the center of the room. It loomed overhead, a titanic iceberg that dominated the testing area. He watched it for just a moment, a brief one, then began ascending the scaffold that had been erected around it. Around and around, he could feel it wrapping around him.
Your audience awaits, Lee.
He stood atop the mountaintop, and saw the multitudes that would be waiting. They wanted his sound, his way. The notes of the crescendo would ring through history, and ready humanity for the finale.
Lee Byron spreads his arms, and the crowd goes wild.

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