“Hey hey hey!” Veronica's voice was a tad hoarse after a night of partying at her favorite underground scene, the Inamorata. “Fresh shipment o' brandy, whiskey, rum, and for you adventurous folk, your personal favorite hits on any shape o' tab ya like!” Of course, there was also the Inamorotica strategically attached to it for once the partying got a little too heated. “And remember, folks! Anytime anyone asks ya why ya feel so good, tell ‘em ya talked to Vicky!” The dancing and loud music on the main stage was usually enough for her.
She had the help of a lady named Esmer that day, long, flowy black hair reaching down to her hips. She was always a hit no matter where the boss put her, so she'd end up somewhere new each couple of days. Fridays were already busy enough, but with Esmer merely existing behind the counter beside her, the entire length of the bar and the tables surrounding were packed with happy customers.
Sure, it implied that she didn't have the same natural allure as her coworker, but the money was the only important thing at the end of the day. That's why the boss liked her. Profit-driven, just like all the most respected denizens of that fiery hellscape they came from.
“Hey hey hey!” Esmer called out afterward in her deeper, sultry tone she was known for. Didn't have the same attention-grabbing flair, Veronica thought, but it was a good attempt. “You heard the lady! Start seeing your wildest fantasies while fire and electricity courses through your veins! How often do you get the opportunity to have this kind of experience? Indulge yourself!”
She was met with a boisterous holler from some of the men in attendance, glasses raised and foam spilling onto the crimson carpets. A human woman wandered across the casino floor dazed and confused after taking a hit of Xalthumum from the smoking cauldron Veronica kept on the wall with all of her alcohol. It wasn't meant for humans and she'd be lucky to remember who she was by the end of the week, but it was no skin off her nose.
“Nice pitch,” Veronica mentioned close to Esmer's ear over the chatter that surrounded them. She had to stand on her toes to be on her level because she was demonic perfection personified, so of course she'd be tall. She got in her own head for a moment on whether or not it was redundant to add personified to the end of that thought, but she was quickly distracted by one of the actors working at the newly opened Treasure Island.
She knew him as Forlore, one of the most popular demons among the female demographic, human and demon alike. He had a small black mustache parted at the center reminiscent of a pirate stereotype, while the rest of his features were a perfect fit for the handsome, dashing lead role in whatever show they had going on over there.
“Miss Saller,” he formally greeted her, sending her heart aflutter despite her usual preferences. "A pleasure to be making your acquaintance."
People only ever spoke to her like that when they wanted something, especially if they looked like him. This was still Undervegas, after all.
“You here to see Miss Popular?” Veronica asked, gesturing her head to Esmer while her hands were busy preparing drinks.
“I would never simply ignore you, Miss Saller,” he went on, leaning into the counter to get closer to her. “I'll wait until the crowd dies down to have a moment of your time. Both of you.”
Shrugging, Veronica said, “Yeah, alright.” It didn't take long for women, mostly human, to begin asking for his autograph, quickly taking his attention away from the bar. She didn't know what an actor like him wanted with her, probably pity, but she'd bite regardless.
A different man, human this time, cleared his throat to garner her attention as her head pivoted to meet his. She half expected it to be Harry from the unkempt shape of his beard, but it was a popular style among human men, she supposed.
"Can I help you?" she asked as the man's eyes never once left hers, his silence an eerie thing even to a demon such as herself.
Finally, he said, "I'm looking for women. I heard there are always places to find them if you ask the right questions in Vegas."
Sliding a freshly poured mug of whiskey to a waiting customer, she said, "Yeah, we offer some services like what you're insinuatin'. What kinda women ya lookin' for?"
"I have my eyes on one right now, don't I?" he went on, causing Veronica to physically tense up in a moment of revulsion.
"I ain't for sale, buddy," she let him know, one brow raised as she moved to a different part of the counter to pick up a tab. He followed her.
"You've gotta have a price," he asked, leaning in closer this time.
"Six grand for an hour," she blurted out, hoping that would be enough to disinterest him. If not, well, six grand was six grand.
"Aww, c'mon," the man said with a grin, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I thought the floor models were always the cheapest!"
Veronica shrugged. "Them's the brakes, I'm sad to tell ya. If ya want a nice girl who'll treat ya right without breakin' the bank, you know we've got 'em, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," the man muttered dismissively with a wave of his hand. "Maybe I'll come back sometime and… bring six-thousand friends, eh? I'm sure they'll be able to do the talking."
"Yeah, well, lemme know when ya get that popular," Veronica said firmly. "Until then, it's an admire from afar kinda situation."
Nodding and grinning, the man faded back into the crowd and out of sight. There was nothing about that interaction that was in the least bit redeemable except that it had ended, but at least it assured her she had some kind of sex appeal going on in the presence of the Amazonian demon beside her. Sure, it was with the likes of the worst kinds of creeps, but she'd take a win where she could get one.
Later into the night when their shifts were up, the three of them sat at a nearby table as another bartender's shift began behind the counter. Both Esmer and Forlore were smiling as if they knew something she didn't. The whole thing was starting to look awfully fishy, but she supposed that didn't come as much of a surprise considering Treasure Island was involved. She mused internally about the pun but kept a firm expression on the outside.
“The Tropicana is doing well tonight!” Forlore said as if it was coming off as praise from him. “You both look absolutely beautiful and…” He struggled when he looked down at Veronica's pinstripe suit before saying, ”Stylish. Very stylish indeed.”
“Vicky brings a needed professional, masculine energy to the bar,” Esmer explained as Veronica's eyes narrowed. “Isn't that right?”
She retained the same face as she asked, “Why's a suit gotta be masculine?”
“Anyway,” Esmer desperately pivoted, “we wanted to talk to you about my role here in the casino. Both of us are in… very firm agreement that I would be better suited acting alongside the great Andre Forlore in Mystère.” She never once looked at her when talking, her eyes locked onto Forlore's, whose first name Veronica just then learned. “We know since you're on good terms with the boss, maybe you could work something out that doesn't end in dozens of dead tourists, which would undoubtedly start unprofitable rumors about me. We all know how passionately she feels about having me here at the Tropicana.”
Veronica crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, processing the request to a high degree of skepticism. “Boss already ain't on good terms with the Treasure Island folks, or as she calls it, ‘Shit Reef.' And lemme tell ya, she's lookin' for any excuse she can get to put that whole establishment underground. You remember what happened to Nob Hill last year.”
“I'm not afraid of the Tropicana Boss,” Andre stated proudly. “Treasure Island has Franco Dragone, whom I've worked with closely. If you think Tropicana can go toe to toe with the likes of our forces with Dragone at the helm, you would be sorely mistaken.”
“There's another route,” Esmer said, reaching out a delicate hand to cover Andre's. “Remember? The Foundation. The Luxor. Someone can tip them off that the Tropicana is getting ready for an attack on Treasure Island and they'll intervene.”
“I feel as though you two don't understand where my allegiances lie,” Veronica chimed in. “I don't want any bloodshed either, y'know? I'm a reasonable person, everybody knows this, but… cards on the table, I've got a lot invested in this place doin' well, eh? You gettin' the Luxor involved is gonna be cheatin' the game and I'm not too keen on that. You two may not like it, but Esmer stays here for now. No violence, no conflict, just amicable business for all parties involved, just like the dark lord intended probably.”
The two of them exchanged looks of disappointment with one another, clearly unwilling to back down. Andre spoke up then, asking, “Have you ever been in love, Veronica? Have you ever wanted to bend hell itself to your whim just to be with that special person?”
“Look, I get it,” Veronica remarked, her hands held up in mock surrender. “Of course I've been in love- I'm only Satanspawn, right? I mean, give or take a few hundred generations, but you get the picture. We've all been there. Some crazy fucks are even fallin' in love with the humans, it's everywhere, can't escape it, but sometimes ya gotta work with what you've got. And if what you've got is the distance between our two casino resorts, is it really all that bad? Is it really worth startin' wars over?”
She knew she wasn't getting through to either of them by way of their silence, but it was worth a shot regardless. Of all people, it had to be her thrust into the middle of this…
“It was a mistake to come to you, then,” Andre announced after a prolonged hush that had swept over them.
Veronica sighed, screwing up her face in her anguish. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so, huh.”
It was never so simple, of course. Andre merely being there at the Tropicana was risky enough as it was, and considering the two lived in their respective resorts, it was hard to find the space to be alone together. Sure, Veronica would occasionally meet a certain someone at the Inamorata, but if that certain someone was from a rival resort, well, tough shit.
And tough shit was exactly what she managed to come across on her way to the elevators.
"Am I gonna have to call security?" she asked the creep as she pressed the sharp nail of her index finger against his chest.
He stood there looming over her in the shadow of a flight of stairs overhead. He lit a cigarette hanging from his lips and asked, "You ever heard of Vermillion Vagaries?"
Unsubtly tilting her head to one side to glance beyond him, she contemplated walking right past the man and forgetting about the whole thing.
"They've got this weird way of sticking around. You really shouldn't've gotten involved in all that. Should've just let the girl have her fun."
Furrowing her brows, Veronica took a step back and asked, "What the fuck are you talkin' about?"
"She pledged herself to the crane fly and you took that away from her."
Veronica stopped him there. "Wait, hold up, that's what Vagaries are for? Some dime-a-dozen cult ritual bullshit? What, were you plannin' on sacrificin' me once we got a room?"
The man was silent after that, the uncomfortable look in his eyes telling her everything she needed to know.
"Look, pal," she went on. "This is cute, but don't go fuckin' around with real demons, alright? Gonna get yourself in real eternal trouble like that." She placed a scalding hot palm on his shoulder as she passed by, leaving him there to have his brief moment of reflection.
"All are embraced by the crane fly," he said without so much as an acknowledgment from Veronica. "Human and demon alike. Its legs are everywhere."
Once she was comfortably alone in an elevator headed straight for the top, she took a moment to breathe and collect her thoughts. The last thing she needed in her life was more people popping into it because she couldn't help but be a good friend. If she had her way, she would have cut Enreau out of her life ages ago. Maybe it was a sign from the dark powers below that it was time to let go of Altha entirely, forget about her and let her and her new flame be someone else's problem for once.
As she rose past the dozens of floors on the exterior of the mega-casino, looking out over the ever-burning lights of that crazy city outside she called home, she couldn't help but feel weak. Not just for her inability to let sleeping dogs lie, but for her loyalty to the boss of the establishment. Esmer and Andre were naive, sure, but they were just lovestruck morons. They didn't deserve whatever was coming their way in the near future. She knew she didn't have much of an option, though, and she knew the boss would want to sink that island into the sea after hearing about this.
“She WHAT!?” The boss of Tropicana was short, even from Veronica's height at five feet and four inches. If it hadn't been for the pure wickedness in her face and the way her lips would bend and curl like the horns on her head, there wouldn't have been anything intimidating about the lady. She knew business like she knew warfare, and to her, they were one and the same. Rarely would she be seen anywhere outside of her luxurious penthouse, each room catering to every desire imaginable. Up a flight of stairs was an observatory overlooking all corners of the city and at least one employee stuck up there keeping an eye out for anything suspicious at any given time.
“They do seem perfect for each other,” Veronica admitted, hands relaxed behind her head on the only uncomfortable seat in the whole room, which of course was meant for anyone addressing her directly in front of her massive desk. “But instead o' goin' in guns blazin' and all that, I was thinkin' we could make up for losin' her. She's a traitor and a lost cause, right? But she's probably over there right now already and there ain't much we can do about that. Sure, she's a valuable asset, but she's been workin' here for years, we got staff who know all her tricks and, lemme tell ya, some o' them could give Esmer a run for her money if they put a little oomph into it.”
"Obviously we replace her, Vicky, that didn't even need to be said,” the boss said, brows straining under the weight of her own thoughts. “If we don't retaliate, then who the fuck even are we? Eh? Buncha fuckin' pussies with our thumbs up our asses. They think they can start up an empire out of nowhere, steal our valuable property, and just fuckin' get away with it? Do they even know who the fuck runs Tropicana? Have they not heard the name Prissy before? I'll mark it on their god-blessed foreheads for all eternity once I'm done with ‘em.”
All things considered, that was exactly what she was expecting to hear from the one and only archdemon known as Boss Prissy.
“Andre said somethin' about a Franco Dragone,” Veronica mentioned, leaning the chair back ever so slightly. “You know anything about that?”
Prissy made a retching sound with her mouth as she glared into one of the windows. “Yeah, I fuckin' know him. People call him the Administrator. He organizes every little detail, every movement of every limb on every single fuck he's in charge of. I would've called him a puppeteer, but people don't like knowin' that they're bein' controlled.”
“Sounds like an artistic director,” Veronica suggested.
“That's because he is, dumbass,” Prissy snapped back. “And he's over there usin' choreography straight from hell to mesmerize the whole fuckin' nation. Humans aren't ready for that shit, it's blowin' their minds! I'm gonna need to talk to Finn soon about gettin' better comedians for the Comedy Stop. Or just liftin' jokes straight from hell, since that's on the table now. Tropicana's gotta be the only place you can lose your mind laughin'. Jot that down.”
Veronica shrugged and looked around the room incredulously. “Do I look like a secretary? You want me to write it down on my suit with coke or somethin'? ‘Cause that's all I got.”
Prissy made another guttural noise from her throat and picked up a pen from her desk to write it down herself. “Eugh, I hate it. Forget it. Get outta my office, I gotta make some calls.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Veronica stood up and saw herself out, thankful to have it done and over with. If that Undervegas luck could shine down on her just once, she'd get out of having to participate in any of the ensuing retaliation her boss spoke of. Wishful thinking, of course. Just like the thought of getting to spend the rest of her night alone in her own apartment after the elevator had gone subterranean.
The red, orange, and violet neon lights lining the sides of her living room in a rising staircase design flickered on as she stepped inside, illuminating the deep black couch at the center surrounded by a kitchen behind a curved counter in one corner and a cursed floral sofa running perpendicular to it off to one side. She hated the thing, but it came with the room. Little did she know that 'came with' meant 'eternally bound to.'
Enreau was lying on the black couch, her hair blending in with it to make it appear as if the leather itself had encroached upon her head. Her reddish-brown eyes were open, but staring at the ceiling instead of her.
"Fuck are you doin' here?" Veronica asked as she removed her pinstripe jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. "Altha gotcha in the doghouse or somethin'? Takes a lot for her to resort to that, I'd know."
"The Crane Cult has its legs around you," Enreau replied in her meager voice. "You shouldn't have interfered."
Veronica tilted her head back and raised her brows before nodding slowly. She had almost forgotten about that. "Yeah, I had a run-in with one of its uh… members today. Real nice guy, you two probably get along."
"You stopped me from leaving this place," Enreau went on. "The Realm of the Crane Fly doesn't force us to keep working forever to get power like Hell or Earth. The rules just don't apply there."
Sitting on the other end of the couch beside Enreau's feet, she raised a leg and rested her head on her knee. "So you were lookin' to leave Altha behind altogether without lettin' her know? Demons get a deservedly bad reputation, but that's a real dick move o' you to pull." She reached to the coffee table beside her and stuffed a cigarette into her lips. "So now what? How am I gonna be inconvenienced by this Crane Cult thing? 'Cause I got a war loomin' on the horizon already and I ain't lookin' to deal with any more goat shit on top o' that."
Enreau shifted to her side, her eyes on the front door. "That's why I'm here. I've already tasted the nectar. I can see the crane fly, and it sees you. You're marked. But I can keep it away."
Veronica gave her a skeptical nod as she lit her cigarette. "I'm not new to this," she stated alongside several clouds of smoke escaping with her words. "You don't need to keep watch for me, I've handled worse. Go home to Altha, I'm sure she's worried about ya."
"Altha doesn't own me," Enreau said firmly. "I'm staying here until the crane fly moves on."
Taking a deep breath, Veronica stood up and passed by the kitchen on her way to her bedroom, saying, "Do whatever you want. Just know that the boss is goin' at it with Treasure Island. You're technically an employee, so be prepared for the worst, eh?"
She opened her black iron door and was about to close it behind her when a question popped into her head. Slowly creaking it open yet again, she asked, "Hey, uh… You said I was marked. Marked for what exactly?"
Enreau lifted her head above the back of the couch to make eye contact with her. "Containment."
After a moment of silence, Veronica looked elsewhere and said quietly, "Huh…" She closed the door shut and stared at her open black bed, its sheets forever undone for a lack of bothering with it. Even underneath them, she couldn't seem to close her eyes or clear her head. For which exact reason, she couldn't be sure.

<<Previous - Part 1: Eightball


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"Come on, baby? You don't find this…" She drew her hand up the side of her legs, white-gloved fingers lingering on green, "…inviting?"
Behind her, a man in red and a man in yellow stared at me. Though Yellow's eyes betrayed a simple mind, Red's eyes held the same hunger that Green wore. All he wanted, now and forever, was me.
I could barely stammer out a response. "I-I mean, yeah. But I remember you from when I was, when I was kid. It'd be… wrong." I was grasping at straws.
"Is it wrong to give into human nature? To listen to your most primal urge?"
I struggled to find the connection to frisbee as she placed her hand on my shoulder.
"All I ask is that you fuck me, eat me, and throw away whatever's left. Don't worry. It's not gonna hurt me at all."
I was speechless for a moment, unable to comprehend what I'd just heard.
"But. But you're-"
"The Green M&M?"

It'd been in the news for days. Some kind of "phantom plague."Nobody knew what was going on. You'd get sick, and then, you'd just disappear. I was never too worried; death would be a relief from retail work. And if it didn't kill me, maybe I'd be a hero for finding out what was going on. Win-Win.
I kept mulling over the possibilities as I walked home through a foot of snow, my mind always darting towards zombies, or aliens, or alien zombies. I was so preoccupied that I almost didn't hear the three people walking behind me until they passed me. Three college-aged guys, laughing and showing each other pictures on their phones. I don't think they looked up, or away from each other, for more than a few seconds. Up ahead, a woman with fiery red hair waved to them from an alley and they waved back. Probably friends or classmates. Perhaps if I'd studied more, I'd be there with them.
Hands frozen from the cold, I ducked into a coffee shop and ordered a simple black coffee. The barista, an elderly Italian man asked how work was going in broken English and I did my best to say "Same shit, different day," in equally broken Italian, making him laugh. It was our little ritual.
When I left the coffee shop, I saw the footprints from the boys ended at the alley's mouth. I had no one to go home to, so I indulged my curiosity. I shouldn't have. The alley turned before reaching a dead end and I found the ground covered in a brown substance. Sitting on a dumpster with her feet on what appeared to be the body of a giant M&M mascot, the woman with fiery red hair watched on as the three boys, in various states of undress, convulsed on the floor and tore at their clothes. Their skin flashed multichromatic and their bodies grew bulbous. The woman looked up at me and grinned.
"You shouldn't have come back here."
"No, I uh, shouldn't."
I started to run. I never saw the boys get up.
Breathless, I slammed the door to my apartment. What had I just seen? Before I could process anything, I heard a cough behind me and turned to see the Green M&M, flanked by the Red and Yellow M&Ms.

"And that lead to your current situation?"
"Yes. To the best of my knowledge."
"So you believe that a red-headed woman is running around Boston turning people into giant M&Ms?"
"Well, not turning."
"Yeah. You're saying it's based on ingesting the flesh and sexual intercourse."
"Yes, Doctor, I do."
"Then why in God's Green Earth did you-"
"Because they were delicious."


As the crowd swirled around him, the youth glanced at his watch.
Three minutes.
He grabbed another one of the hot dogs, slathered it with all manner of toppings, and handed it to the man in the pinstripe suit standing before him.
"That'll be six dollars, please."
The man didn't miss a beat - pulling out a few dollars and slamming them on the counter as he yammered away into his wireless headphones.
Polluting, capitalist pig.
He forced a smile.
"Thank you sir - please come again!"
As the man disappeared into the crowd, the youth's eyes scanned across the scurrying bystanders attentively, looking for any signs of undue attention, his mind mentally snapshotting the scene —

A young man in a rainbow parka and thigh-high shorts, with a furry rave hat and a sign taped to his front proclaiming "EAT THE RICH", smiling as he hands out pamphlets advertising a local gathering of Marxists — the youth spares a smile back in his direction. I wish Nadia could see this… He looks like one of Abba's old photos, from before he found us, ran the Home… Before the Mission, maybe? —
A pair of children, chasing each other in circles holding up plastic dinosaurs as they pretend at predator-and-prey, and then they giggle as their father snatches them up one under each arm, hugging them close as he weaves through the crowd to their waiting mother – and in his mind's eye as he sees them he sees himself, running along the riverfront with Nadia and Charli, and Abba yells at them to come back in for supper, and Nadia grabs his arm and starts running, and as he protests that he wants just another minute to feel the sun on his face, another moment away from the Home, she yells behind her, "Jakob, I am NOT missing supper again for you!" and she giggled as she runs ever so slightly faster — I wish I could be that young again. Not a worry in the world —
Two teenagers in jeans and matching hooded sweatshirts, strolling along hand-in-hand, the one trips and drops his ice cream cone and the other laughs as he proffers his own. It reminds the youth of a day, not even a year ago, where he walked hand-in-hand with her, and unbidden, the thought springs to his mind — Nadia, my first and only, I hope you found peace without me, and I'm only sorry that I couldn't find my peace with you —

And then, his attention was elsewhere.
Above him, the massive screens blaring their gaudy advertisements above Times Square switched to a tall man in a white room - bearded, wearing a garment of living, pulsating flesh, eyes filled with a quiet anger.
And so it begins. A brief shake of his right hand, an old tic that he quickly brings back under control. His foot starts tapping nervously, and this he can't rein back in, despite his best efforts.
"People of the world! I bring you good news!"
The children began to look up, some pulling out their phones to record. He heard them muttering - "Is this a new advertisement? Some kind of movie trailer?"
"For too long, we have raped and pillaged the natural world! We have depleted its resources, burned its forests to the ground, poisoned its seas, and slaughtered ourselves in the process. And, only now, do we begin to pay for it - the oceans rise, the storms brew, the heat is relentless. We have broken the natural order of things - and now, we will reap the consequences."
The whispers intensified - and now he could see police officers scattered around the plaza murmuring among themselves, speaking into shoulder-mounted receivers. The crowd was growing restless, every phone now pointed upward. Some of the poor fools were taking selfies with Abba in the background.
"And yet, despite this, we cannot stop. We are addicted to drinking the blood of nature. We continue to harvest our oil, burn it for fuel, and we refuse. My children, know this - I understand. I understand what it is to be a slave to addiction. And today, I come not to berate you - I come to bring you freedom."
The youth's eyes swept over the crowd - a few of the tourists were already scanning for exits, moving towards the subway stations - the ones who knew a bad situation when they saw one. The rest were held rapt by the television screens. He checked his watch again.
Twenty seconds.
His grip on the hot dog stand tightened, knuckles whitening, as he slowly reached for the button underneath. He fixed his gaze on the white van, a few meters away, filled to bursting with innocuous-looking barrels.
"I liberate you - from the tyranny of choice, from your wicked hearts. You are all slaves to death and pollution. I will free you all from the responsibility to save yourselves - Nature's reclamation begins today!"
Hands shaking, he pressed the button.

"We've cleared YouTube, but some of the dark web links are still up - every time we kill one, another three mirrors appear. We may need to resort to more extreme measures on that front."
"Very well, Agent. Any updates regarding the on-the-ground containment efforts?"
"We've neutralized all signs of the contagion in the subway tunnels - Seems like the media's bought the chemical attack story, and I'm working with Disinformation to figure out a cover for the neon flooding and incineration work, but that's a secondary priority for now. All other efforts proceeding as planned."
"Excellent work - thank you for all of your efforts, Agent. I'll check back in at noon - keep me updated in the meantime."
"Yes sir - signing off."
As the videoconference ended, Valdez leaned back in his chair, taking a long moment to stretch. He stood up, touched his toes, swung his arms - took a sip of his morning coffee.
And then he sat back down at his desk, and switched back to the tab he'd had open just prior to the discussion.
From a Foundation chopper, a live view of Manhattan, and more importantly - the argon-rich forest full of fatal toxins currently occupying Times Square, slowly retreating from the Foundation damage control teams encircling it.
Just one easy day. Just one. All I'm asking for.
He sighed, picked up the phone, and got back to work.


London, England, May 1943

The Grand Occident Wedge was more crowded than it had been in generations. Enzo hated it. In his decade and a half as Oecumenicus Volgi, since his predecessor imploded himself in a transdimensional mining accident back in '28, a Freemason had never set foot inside its sacred halls, in no small part because every single visitor, from deliverymen to honored foreign dignitaries, was thoroughly vetted by Gormogon mentalists beforehand. But there were only so many mentalists, and now that the Ancient and Most Noble Order had joined up with this new Allied Occult Initiative to fight the fascist menace, all sorts of outsiders had made themselves at home in the hallowed halls of the Wedge. Oh, no doubt most of them were free of any Masonic taint. But there were openly and secretly Masonic organizations in the Initiative, and although they were operating under the banner of truce, he would not put it past them to sneak listening devices and spy-hexes into the sanctum. He'd need to go over the place with a fine-toothed comb once the war was over.
Oh, he knew why they were using the Wedge. Other than the Houses of Parliament and the Bank of England, it was the only building in London with the requisite mystical protections to house such an endeavor, and the only one that could be commandeered at such short notice. (Well, there were the Templar catacombs beneath Temple Church; but as soon as that crypto-Masonic Portuguese son-of-a-bitch Sousa suggested it, Enzo had immediately volunteered the Wedge. No way he was going into some ancient Freemason burial chamber without a bag full of dynamite.) But it still didn't sit right.
He was distracting himself from the possibility of Masonic infiltration with some paperwork when someone knocked on his office door. He grunted, and they let themselves in.
"Oecumenicus Santorini?" A man's voice, with a slight accent—Australia, maybe, or New Zealand.
"Please, call me Vincenzo." He signed his name with a flourish, and looked up. The man had no face. His foot reached for the detonator under his desk; it would activate a shaped charge under the carpet, turning the man into an avant-garde ceiling fresco. "And who are you, signore?"
"There's no need for the explosive, Vincenzo. I'm with the Initiative." He reached into his suit pocket and took out a large envelope, flicking it onto Enzo's desk. Impressive, seeing as he was still six feet away. "John Smith. Australian Abnormal Intelligence Bureau."
Enzo kept his foot on the detonator, and slowly opened the envelope. It contained a set of schematics, for some sort of military research laboratory, heavily fortified and built into a mountainside. "Some Nazi fortress? Why come to me with this? We've got Gormogons ready to deploy anywhere in Germany, no?"
John Smith shook his head. "The base is not in Germany, Vincenzo. And we cannot use just any demolitions expert." Two more envelopes, each apparently larger than the pockets they came from, landed on the desk. The first was a thaumaturgic diagram, written in a combination of Ancient Greek and advanced mathematics; it showed a fiendishly complex series of interlocking wards and hexes, surrounding the same base. Enzo had already developed and discarded three separate plans for its destruction when Smith cleared his throat. "Ah, the third envelope, Vincenzo."
The third envelope contained a map, with the location of the base clearly marked. "Merda."

Neu Schwabenland, Antarctica, July 1943

"I coulda been a florist. Or a farmer. Maybe even a priest," Enzo muttered into his scarf as his snowshoes crunched over the waist-deep drifts. "No, not a priest, they gotta be celibate. A carpenter, maybe. Cazzo di Cristo, how much longer?"
"Did you say something, Vinny?" His companion on this long trek was an unnervingly chipper Canadian, who seemed entirely unaffected by the cold. She hadn't even covered her face, for Christ's sake. It was minus forty outside, with the wind bringing it down even further, and he couldn't even use a personal warming spell without being seen by the goddamn Nazi wizards he was here to blow up. He had felt nothing but regret for the last week.
"No, Signora Boisvert, just talking to myself." He adjusted his pack, and kept walking.
"I keep telling you to call me Ursula."
"And I keep telling you not to call me Vinny, but we can't always get what we want, no?"
"Guess we can't. So, I have a question."
"Mmmm?" He raised his eyes from the snow, and saw that she was snowshoeing backwards. He didn't even think that was possible.
"Why didn't you stay in Italy? I mean, didn't Mussolini ban the Freemasons? I thought you'd be all about that."
"So? He is a violent thug. He does not have a good reason for hating the Masons. He just did it to make nice with the Pope." Enzo shook his head sadly. "Not that he cares at all for the Church. Pure propaganda, nothing more."
"And do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Have a good reason for hating the Masons?"
He sighed, and stopped walking for a moment. "I am about to divulge one of the deepest secrets of the Most Ancient and Noble Order of Gormogons." Ursula had also stopped, and was staring wide-eyed at him. "If you spread this to anyone—and I mean anyone—the vengeance will be swift and merciless. Do you accept these terms?" She nodded. "The reason that I, and all loyal Gormogons, hate the Freemasons, is simple: we trace our lineage back through the ages back to ancient Sumeria. There, in the city of Kish, the great king Jushur baked the first brick, and founded the Guild of Bricklayers. And, well, to make a long story short, those Egyptian figli di puttane came in with their rocks, which you can just pick up off the goddamn ground, and took all the fancy jobs for themselves!"
Ursula was speechless. "Wh… Really? Are you serious?"
"Nope." Enzo's deadpan shattered, and he almost doubled over in laughter. "Madonna mia, the look on your face! Gets them every time." He wiped a tear from his eye before it could freeze there, and started walking again. "Andiamo. I want to cover some more ground before we camp."
"We're not camping tonight, Vinny." He looked back, and saw Ursula was grinning ear-to-ear. "We're gonna set off some fireworks."

It took another couple hours for the mountain to emerge from the fog of blowing snow, standing alone on a vast white plain.
They crept up on the base from the North, staying low to the ground to avoid being spotted from the massive hangars cut into the rock. Every so often, an odd saucer-shaped flying machine would take off from one of those, heading god-knows-where—back to the Fatherland, maybe, or to another secret base down here in the Antarctic. “Luftplatte. Elegant little pieces of engineering,” Ursula whispered as one passed almost directly overhead. “Excellent range, very maneuverable, fragile as all hell. Could probably take one down with a BB gun if it flew low enough, and if the internal weight balance is anything but perfect they'll spin out of control. No idea how they're powered. Magic, probably.”
Enzo shook his head. “No. I'd be able to see that from here. Doesn't mean they're… ah, strictly scientific, of course. Maybe they've trapped some kind of ghost in the engine.” He shrugged, as best as he could while crawling through the snow. “I'm not that kind of engineer, anyway. I take stuff apart, you know? Suddenly and violently and all over the place.”
Ursula grinned. “Then let's do a little bit of that. How close do you need to get to work your magic?”
"Well, the first ring of wards is about a quarter mile out. So ideally I get right up next to that. Could do it from here, I suppose, but it would be a very unpleasant experience." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a cheap notebook, its pages covered in occult calculations and diagrams. "Thankfully, the actually demolition will be very simple. Their warding is ingenious, but it's got a resonance frequency that I can exploit. I just need to vibrate the ambient thaumaturgic currents in a particular way, and…" He glanced over at Ursula. "I'm losing you, aren't I."
"Yes."
He heaved a deep sigh. Every goddamn time. "You know when someone sings at the right tone and shatters a wine glass?"
"Why didn't you say that to begin with?"
"Never mind. Just get me up to the first ring of wards, yeah?"
They crawled forwards, stopping whenever a Luftplatte buzzed overhead. It was slow going, of course; but they had time. Well, eventually they would probably freeze to death. But not for a few hours, at least. It actually probably only took twenty minutes or so, but it felt like hours. Enzo sat crosslegged in the snow, his knees only a few meters from the outermost ward, and closed his eyes. "This may take some time. Please make sure I'm not disturbed, it would be very bad for my structural integrity."

The first indication that anything was wrong was the hum. It started below the range of human hearing, just a low rumble; then stepped up through the octaves, until it hit a b-sharp in the middle registers. The hum was followed by a glow, a soft purple light that came from nowhere in particular. By the time the rumbling started, the base was in a panic. The commander had taken the first Luftplatte he could find, and his senior officers quickly followed. Soldiers fled on snowmobiles and skis, even wading through the snow on foot. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rumbling stopped; no more hum, no more purple light. The stragglers heaved a collective sight of relief, some even turning around and headed back towards the fortress; and then everything exploded.
Enzo opened his eyes. He had been in a deep trance state, almost a waking dream, seeing nothing but the spellcraft of the wards and his own mystical interference. It was a hard state to emerge from, and in the past he had occasionally gone the wrong direction, straight from meditation to true sleep. So when the first thing he saw was a polar bear standing in front of an erupting volcano, he was sure he was dreaming.
"Polar bears aren't even native to this hemisphere," he murmured to himself, trying to pull his dream into lucidity so he could wake up and get on with the mission. "And they would never come this far inland. Come on, Enzo, wake up!"
"You're definitely awake, Vinny," the bear said, its features shifting in disturbing ways as it—she—slowly transformed back into human form. "That was dramatic. Did you know that the mountain was a dormant volcano?"
"I… You…" He tipped his head back, staring at the slate-grey sky. "Ursula. 'Little bear'. Not even subtle, huh?"
"You might not believe me, but it is actually my given name."
"Right. Of course." He stood up, his knees complaining at the effort. "So… How do we get home?"
"Oh, that's easy. I've got a Library card."
"A library card?"
"No, a Library card. Capital 'L'." She took a small piece of paper from a pocket, and held it up in front of her face, then incanted something, in a language that Enzo couldn't even recognize.
"What language is that?"
"A Samoyedic Lithuanian dialect of Guarani, with classical Arabian inflections."
"What?"
"Don't worry about it." She let go of the card, and it stayed hovering there, about four feet off the ground; and then it expanded, opening somehow, until a door-sized portal stood before them. A soft breeze blew out of it, blessedly warm and smelling of old books. "What is it you're always saying? Right. Andiamo."


by Ethagon

Good evening ladies and gentlemen,
I am Director Weld and this is the fourth time that I speak to the committee. I come to you today to propose the abolition of all on-site explosives. Especially regarding those of nuclear nature.
As you are all well aware, the Foundation's history with nuclear warheads is a long one. We used them since, well, since they were invented, the time of wars.
We did our best to stay out of all these wars, and yet we couldn't help but use the greatest creation for ourselves. And what did we use it for? Threaten our own staff. Nuclear warheads soon became the new method to easily resolve major security breaches. Not a normal bomb, mind you, an atomic bomb.
Unfortunately, it took years of hindsight to realize that these warheads contaminate a site with atomic radiation for the next billion years. And do you know what can still thrive in that radioactivity? Anomalies. Well some of them, but I don't have to tell you that some are too much in our line of work.
I wasn't there when the disaster of Site 21 happened. One of the biggest Keter breaches in our history, followed by the on-call of 5 of our best task forces. What stopped them? Not the Keter, they had it almost in check. What stopped them was the premature decision of someone at that site, that it would be time to bring out the last resort and blow everything up.
Now we've got a focal point of anomalies that control a still functioning site and no human can contain them, because they'd die if they entered.
And I know at most sites we do not use nuclear warheads anymore, but that's not because of the things I just said. They are only out of use because of the veil breaking that these explosions cause. After all, it is a bit difficult to hide a radioactive cloud that travels through multiple continents before dissolving.
At least the new explosives can remove a site without making a single sound outside its scope and don't leave a huge, never to be used again, crater. Incidentally, locations in more remote locations are still dependent on atomic bombs.
But do you know what really bothered me about Site 21? It's not the radioactivity it spread or the abomination it now houses, it is the fact that we lost 5 of our best task forces to that explosion. 5 task forces we could have needed that year. 5 task forces filled with young enthusiasts who could have served the Foundation for a whole lifetime.
And if those soldiers were still alive, they could have prevented a lot more of the "last resorts" that we had to use.
Now since I am speaking to the Ethics Committee here, I also want to note that knowing that you are working under the watchful eye of a bomb that could explode any minute does not help your productivity.
I also honestly never understood the argument that these explosives are our best bets against raids. Is it not the point of stopping a raid to not lose the objects and people we're housing? And surely a raid was never that extreme that it would be worth it to eradicate all personnel and other anomalies with them?
Now tell me: Who here knows one anomaly that breached containment that could have been neutralized by a nuke.
Yes, not that surprising.
Now tell me again: Which of those couldn't have been neutralized by a gunshot at the right time?
I thought as much.
Now if you don't take anything else away from today at least promise me, that you will stand against the council's decision to arm my department and other Foundation Fronts with On-Site-Explosives. I don't think the explained anomalies I house are a danger to anyone. And while the Foundation may not publicly exist we Fronts will take consequences.
We have many good Soldiers who trained their entire life to prevent breaches. Triggering a Bomb is just the easy way out and a dishonour to their jobs.
We don't have to die in the dark,
Thank you for your time.

While the council appreciates Director Weld's ongoing worry for staff, this motion can not pass. What is clearly missing from this proposal to be truly worth considering is an alternative. If I understood Weld correctly his alternative to the current solution is "We must be better" and while that certainly is a goal to gravitate towards, it is not always obtainable. After all, we're only human beings and there is only so much we can do. Then what exactly do we need to expect if these human efforts are not enough? Do we just accept that the last breach will cause a K-class scenario? Shouldn't we have done everything in our power to prevent that, even including "that last resort"?
I do want to give a bit of perspective on these "last resorts". In the last 50 years, all in all, four sites decided that there was no other option. And while we are all aware that 21 was a tragedy, stricter control was implemented afterwards for all sites, those other three incidents, in the end, saved humanity.
However, Weld is right about one thing. Atomic Bombs are extremely ineffective compared to more modern explosive devices and as such all sites still dependent on them will be replaced. That motion will pass.
The general proposal is denied by the Council.
I will not go into the psychological effects of the awareness of on-site explosives. If this is a problem, it is the duty of the ethics committee to find a solution.
~ O5-6

Ethics Committee Voting

Pending


Does self-sacrifice count as suicide?
It had been a fun thought experiment, that night at the bar. Richardson and Donnegal taking turns seeing who could speak over the other the loudest, while you sipped your Maker's Mark in bemused observation. You can't remember who won that arguement — if anyone ever really 'wins' an argument at a bar.
Guess it doesn't really matter, now.
You try and put the image of Richardson, newly cleaved in two and deposited artistically on either side of the door to their office, out of your head.
Focus.
Easier thought than done.
Luckily, your muscle memory knows the layout of this site, even though the room you're heading to isn't one you've been in since orientation, the day you were promoted. Just last year, ten months ago to be precise.
Feels like a lifetime.
Focus.
Focus on the current task. Not on the body you just had to step over. Just keep running.
Past Skidmore's office, thankfully empty. They hadn't come in today. Good. They're too beautiful to die this young. Guess that "let's grab a drink sometime" isn't going to pan out after all.
Do you think they'll remember you, think of you? Part of you hopes not, for their sake.
But part of you hopes so.
Focus.
Try not to think about Skidmore. Or any of your peers, most of whom are behind you, that thing having taken artistic license with their internal organ arrangement.
Nothing you can do for them, now. Can't even blame whoever it was that caused this mess. They probably went first. Why didn't it get you?
That's not useful. Don't waste time thinking about yourself. You're not gonna survive long enough to deal with survivor's guilt anyhow. Don't focus on you. Don't focus on the ones behind you. You can't help them, and you can't help yourself.
Focus.
Focus on the people you can help. The people outside. They can be saved from this. They will be saved from this.
Focus on that door at the end of the hall. The one you never thought you'd have to use.
Don't think about the dismembered… whatever bodypart you just stepped on. They're not using it anymore. Should've worn boots today — you're never gonna get the blood out of these shoes.
Never. There's a lot of things you're Never. Marriage. Kids. White picket fences and rocking chairs. That trip to Istanbul. They're all Nevers now.
Well, you always could turn right. Towards the doors. Towards the outside. Skidmore's still out there. You could still grab that drink. Find out if they've ever been to Istanbul.
Maybe build that picket fence.
But then it would follow.
A moment's hesitation. A fumble for your keycard.
Swipe. Beep. Latch.
They can see Istanbul without you.
The lights come on, but they're hardly necessary. The button is lit up like a Senator's nose at a prayer breakfast.
You can't help but laugh. Of course it's actually a big, red button.
The word "ARMED" lit up in green beneath it. Always armed.
You'd heard of some sites where they didn't bother. Not this one.
Not with things like it in the subbasements below.
A glimmer of a thought. What if it had found the door?
No, wait. Remember the file. Afraid of sunlight.
Check your watch. 2:24pm. Thank whoever for small victories.
At least it will go with you to whatever Next is.
Probably not Istanbul.
This is for other people's picket fences. Other people's rocking chairs.
Focus on them.
Focus on the reason you took this job to begin with.
To Secure, yes. To Contain, surely.
To Protect.
A button pressed.
A reassuring beep.
A deafening silence.
Does self-sacrifice count as suicide?
You spend the rest of your life wondering.


Calibold

I Am Become Death

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page

I saw a god last night.

I dreamt he had come to me, appearing by my bedside. I could not move, for I was blinded by his glorious visage. He told me of a new world, a new dawn, and that I would take part in it. He felt my skepticism in my mind, and assured me that I would see the signs.

His visit was short, barely a few seconds. I remained wondering if I was in a dream, and I still wondered when I first awoke.

I do not wonder now. He was a god. He foresaw what was to come.

We are at war.

And I fear that he was right. On this day, a date of infamy, I am to take part in this new world.

Dec. 8, 1941.

I saw the god again. Many times.

I saw him in shadows, in mirrors, at my vision's edge. He is certainly real, though I cannot explain how I know, I can only feel. But his presence is strong. Sometimes, when my back is turned and I sit still, it feels as though he is over my shoulder, watching my work. I could touch him, but I do not dare.

He only appears when I am in study, but I do not know what studies of mine he would find interest in. But I feel a sense of comfort when he is near. I am grateful.

Yet I still do not understand.

February 9, 1942

The god has begun to speak to me again, and what joy I feel.

He says his name is Vishnu, like the Hindu god. I have read of him in the Gita. The revelation surprised me somewhat; Vishnu is often described as nigh-alien in appearance, but the entity that guides me seems like a man. But I learned not to question it; he is a god, and gods appear as they please. His appearance is irrelevant. I feel his power, his love, his wisdom. Being near him is like entering a warm home, after walking in the snow. Indeed, his wisdom stands in stark contrast to the ignorance of the world.

His words are soothing, and happy. I have never felt more inspired than when Vishnu speaks to me. My mind expands tenfold. I see the infinite capacity of science, but I see the even further knowledge of what is beyond. For moments, I can see the realms of gods, of monsters. Those things that walk among us.

I have discovered so much, beyond what any man has found before. But I must not be too arrogant. What I have done, I have done through Vishnu, because I have trusted him. He has guided me so far, and he can continue to guide me further.

I will bring peace, he says. With his guidance, I know I can.

March 28, 1942

Vishnu's prophecy was correct.

I have been asked to change the world.

May 19, 1942

I am afraid.

The researchers, the government, they want me to build a bomb. I asked Vishnu what I must do.

His answer surprised me. He wanted me to continue. I do not understand how this will bring peace, especially if the bomb is what they want it to be. But I trust Vishnu.

May 21, 1942

We are approaching the bomb's completion.

Peace will come.

October 16, 1944

It's done.

We test tomorrow.

July 15, 1945

We detonated the bomb.

The whole experience seemed to be a dream. I knew the calculations, I knew what would happen. But my mind at those times could not comprehend what I would create.

As I was blinded by the bomb's light, I heard the voice of Vishnu next to me, repeating words from the Bhagavad Gita:

Now you are become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

For a brief moment, I was a god. A destroyer of worlds.

Vishnu's voice spoke softly to me. He told me of a world where such power and beyond was known, feared, harnessed. All would live in chaos, dread, terror.

I asked why he would have me create this. He said he didn't. He said he merely wanted me to know, to watch. The bomb would be made, whether in ten, or twenty, or a hundred years.

And then he told me the truth.

Humanity would have done it anyway, because no one would stop them. Vishnu told me what to do. To preserve the dharma, two worlds must be kept apart.

The bomb was a demonstration, he told me. The foundation.

I am afraid, but I know what to do. Vishnu has shown me, and though it is grand and terrifying, he has offered me a place to serve him.

July 17, 1945

I understand the visions Vishnu gave me now.

What no one must find.

What must be hidden.

July 21, 1945

I know what to do now.

July 29, 1945

To whom it may concern,
If I am contacting you, it is because of your knowledge, your trustworthiness, and your resourcefulness.
No doubt you've heard of me before. I know how I must seem to you, a warmonger. Allow me to be clear. I regret the bomb. I wish I had never had to make it.
But there are far, far worse things in the world, those that baffle even men of science. Of course, you know of this, which is why I am contacting you.
My eyes have been opened by the divine. I have seen the realms of gods, and have received their guidance. The machinations of gods are being engineered by mortals, if only to ensure that mortality thrives, through containing that which would poison it.
But I assure you, you are not being called by me, but by a higher power.
I encourage you, even for a brief moment, to have faith. Faith that we can succeed, and together, form the Foundation of a balanced and peaceful world.

- Administrator J. Robert Oppenheimer

+ More by Calibold +

- More by Calibold -

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page
— SCP Articles —

SCP-7178 — A Thief In The Night
SCP-7179 — E is for Eternity
SCP-6469-D — A BABY?????
SCP-2082 — Elephas cryophilus
SCP-6156 — Oh, Doug!
SCP-6579-D — The Detective Killer
SCP-6900-D — The House of Stars
SCP-5277 — What Can Go Wrong
SCP-5363-D — Controlled Containment
SCP-3482 — fine mayor posters campaign by dado
SCP-5156 — monke
Director Bold's Proposal-J — "Guys, please don't read our SCPs 🥺"
SCP-2693 — Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Deep Dark Well
SCP-5559-D — The Great Ambrose Bake-Off!
SCP-3448-J — Should Have Taken Him Sleeping
SCP-4456-D — No One Expects The Spanish Decommission!
SCP-4745 — Spooky Scary Snowman
SCP-4645 — Blackmailing Computer

— Tales —

OpusConfidant Wiki - SCP-4645 - Threatini
Diary Of An Existential Kid
Responsible Promotion
Friends Of Us Never Die
Truth Lies
A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust
Happy Father's Day
Mission: Decommission
A Bold Choice
I Am Become Death
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Eldritch (Sung to the tune of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas")
Chapter One - The End

— GoI Formats —

Manifest 476: Vanishing Galleon
The Book Of Mathisi, Chapter 1: The Parable Of The Three Princes
LTE-8686-Yellow-Kewpie
UIU File: 2001-023

— Other —

Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0 Guide
Decommissioning Department Hub
Fortune Favors
Decommissioning Dept. Theme
Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0
Mega Cool Author Page Tool Ver. 1.4.0
Calibold's Mega Cool Alternate SCP Logos Page
Calibold's Mega Cool Art Page (It's Mostly Just Icons, But Whatever, It's Still Mega Cool)

— Co-Authored —

Abraka David's Proposal — A Peak Behind the Curtain (feat. Ralliston, Placeholder McD, Guaire, Guezma, Jack Ike, Sherf, Yossipossi, Dr Balthazaar, Grigori Karpin, LORDXVNV, Lt Flops, Uncle Nicolini, Metaphysician)
SCP-7400 — Your Honor, League of Legends (feat. Sherf)
I, Hub (feat. many other authors)
Resurrection: New Faces (feat. Grigori Karpin, Nagiros, and redredred)
SCP-5545 — 𝙰 𝙱 𝙽 𝙾 𝚁 𝙼 𝙰 𝙻 𝙸 𝚃 𝚈 (feat. Yossipossi)
SCP-194 — Thank You For Your Cooperation (feat. CityToast)

— Foreign —
Director Bold's Proposal — Language
SCP-LA-II — Fruit


"It's not going to explode…. it's not going to explode…. it's not going to explode…."
A woman holds her knees as tight as she is able to on the spotless floor, her back to the cold hard drywall. The room is lit up by naught but the occasional swing of red light from an emergency siren. The woman mutters to herself a single phrase, over and over and over and over, as she had done for the past 5 minutes. She repeats the phrase in whispered tones, only for herself to hear, as it's drowned out by the sounds of a radio she lays next to her. The voices from the radio consist of either screaming that shortly stops after it starts or incessant weeping, with the occasional plea for help or request for directions interrupting the normal transmissions.
"Detonation is in 15 minutes."
A robotic transmission forces the rest to silence as it plays, the woman's breathing becomes more ragged and uneven, she struggles to repeat the phrase as she weeps. She tries to hide her head in her knees, but it soon jolts back out at the sound of screeching as the steel door to the room she hides in begins to open. As a figure begins to come into view, she feels a shock ripple through her chest. Her body instinctively jolts up in fear as she tries to push herself further against the wall, she lets out a scream, but she stops when the figure enters the room.
It's a man she recognizes, one she works with closely. He sees her face, wet from all the tears, her eyes swelling up threatening to let out even more. He breathes a sigh of relief and pushes the button on a panel next to him, the door shuts, this time steel bolts seal it shut.
The red light of the siren passes the man, she realizes her mind wasn't playing tricks on her this time. As soon as the light reaches her, she pushes herself off the wall to get up and embrace the man. Before she's able to, she notices one glaring difference.
"John… your arm…"
The man's left arm is torn off, blood splattered over the left side of his lab coat. He looks straight into her eyes and with a soft smile; he simply says:
"I'm glad you're alright."
The two sit down. Once again the woman sits in the same position against the wall, the man sits to the left of her. The two huddle close, side by side. The radio is still on, transmitting the pleas for help from across the station; the man reaches for it, and with a flick of a switch it lets out a last bit of static until they are left in silence.
"Shouldn't we keep it on in case something happens?"
"It's fine, it's best we don't worry ourselves too much."
The two spend a moment huddled close together in silence, the woman once again hides her head in her knees and begins to cry.
"Nancy, do you remember when I told you I used to be in a band? You wanted me to play something for you?"
She turns her head slightly, no longer hiding it, she looks to the man sitting next to her. She wipes away her tears and barely manages to let out an "mhm…".
The man pulls out his phone from his pocket, with a few taps, he opens a music player. He shows her the phone.
"Hit play for me."

With a touch of her finger, the light jazz envelops the otherwise silent room. The light once again passes the two of them, and she once again clearly sees his warm smile. It passes them several times until she sniffles and returns the smile, she begins wiping away her tears. She lets go of her knees and begins to relax, she rests her head on the man's shoulder as she takes in the music.
"I thought you wanted to save it for Friday?"
"I think we can reschedule to today."
The man puts his arm around her.
"You didn't seal the door, and you kept the radio open."
"I was hoping…"
"It's fine. I came here straight away too."
The man pauses.
"I don't think I would've had it in me to work on what they had us work on without you. I don't know how you kept your head up for so long, but you made it feel like everything was alright even considering what we've had to do."
The man rests his head on hers. He notices her tap her fingers on his knee to the tune of the song as the light passes them by again. This time, she speaks up.
"I kept going because of you too. You were always so patient with me. I messed up so many times at first, but every time I was going to be reassigned you vouched for me. It meant so much."
"Considering the current circumstances, maybe it'd have been best if I let them reassign you. I'm sorry."
Her hand reaches up to stroke his cheek, she tilts his head to face her.
"Don't be, I'm sorry if it's too soon but, I really wouldn't rather be anywhere else in the world."
She leans in closer, as does he. The light shines on them one last time, as they share their first kiss between them.


For about three minutes, I was as speechless as anyone else. I was in the dark, just like the rest of my family who thought I work as an accountant for the state.
The Foundation showed me a world beyond the mundane existence I thought was normal. For a few years, I deluded myself into believing I was … special, somehow, one of the few to possess hidden knowledge, keep the world sane. It was all I had, after growing up in perpetual mediocrity among honor roll siblings. Die in the dark, live in the light, you know the whole thing.
Christmastime is one of the few occasions I get to see my family. It's hard for me to get away from work now that I'm with the Foundation. We have our old family tradition, we read from the Bible together. We read about the wise men following the star in the east, a new light to lead the way. It was some kind of cosmic poetry when that December night turned to day out of nowhere.
The full moon's quiet glow turned into a blazing fire. They tell you not to look directly at the sun. Nobody needed to be told not to look right at this thing. You could barely look out the window without your eyes watering. Pretty soon, I realized I wasn't crazy. My parents were seeing it. The kids in the pajamas were seeing it. My grandfather is all but blind and he could pick out each and every snowflake tumbling over the cracked asphalt on the other end of the driveway.
It hadn't even stopped before the messages hit my work phone, which I kept in the locket compartment of my suitcase.

I tried to call my supervising researcher. Busy line. I mean, at least she knew I was eight hours away by plane.

Ennui Protocol? Whatever that was, it was clearly above my clearance level when day was day and night was night. I tried calling some coworkers, all busy, because I wasn't betting on finding some airtight box here in the middle of Cornfield, North Nowhere. I felt my pulse rising.
Then the light started fading. I relaxed my squinting eyes, and it was the darkest night of my life. I think it was because my pupils had contracted to pinpoints, but there was also that hole in the moon. Looking at it, it looked like that hole was getting bigger, and the moon just getting darker. At first, it was so subtle that I thought it was a trick of the light. Soon enough, it was unmistakeable: that was some kind of hole in the moon, and it was definitely expanding.
The bigger it got, the more I got nervous, because I couldn't get a hold of anyone back at the Site. What were they going to do anyway, tell me that this Ennui deal is classified and wish me the best of luck? My hands and fingers were shaking. My mouth was dry; my tongue felt like so many white cotton balls.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzes: A red-eye flight back to work, leaving in three hours, which gave me about 20 minutes to throw my crap into my suitcase and leave for the airport. As my eyes adjusted, I found myself wondering why Dad thought a 40-watt bulb would cut it for this room. At any rate, no MTF chopper escort for a lowly junior containment specialist such as myself. I lugged my things down the stairs from my childhood bedroom and found my parents glued to the pale flickering of the TV.
While some have speculated that this event was a supernova, astronomers say that the evidence doesn't point in that direction. They believe that they would have known about a potential supernova this bright years in advance, but according to Dr. Harden at the Duster Peak Observatory, nobody predicted anything like this.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I shouldn't have been surprised that my employer could Class A the whole godforsaken planet, but life is full of surprises when you think you hold the secrets of the universe.
At the airport, I finally got a call from the Site, one of the level 0s, which was about as helpful as a matchstick in a mile-deep cave. Said he was a travel coordinator, was I expected to make my flight? I said that everything was grounded by the FAA. He stammered about making some adjustments and said he would call me back. Sure enough, a barely-comprehensible loudspeaker announcer informed us that my flight, and only my flight, had been cleared to depart. Foundation casts a long shadow, noon or midnight, I suppose. Give me that matchstick, bud.
Back at the Site, the director herded everyone into one of the big conference rooms, and with all the feeling of an unscented candle, regrets to inform us that following the explosion that destroyed the moon, the anomaly had been classified as Apollyon. The department directors on the platform gasped, while the rest of the drones and I buzzed softly about what the hell an Apollyon was. The director, apparently unperturbed by the confusion in front of him and the lidded panic behind him, carried on his monotone explaining the definition of the Apollyon object class. Yes, all possibilities for containment had been examined, and found unworkable.
He sat down and the resident anomastronomer or whatever she was stood up and explained that six fragments of the moon's crust larger in mass than what killed the dinosaurs had a greater than 99% chance of striking the Earth's surface. Twelve more above 95%, 54 above 90%. His voice carried nothing but a faint curiosity as he explained that the Earth would carry a visible ring as the major fragments broke down, a few hundred thousand years or so. The impact craters had the potential to drastically change the shape of the oceans. Well, book the fucking cruise.
At any rate, the veil was well and truly lifted. Even amateurs had spotted the seven-limbed monstrosity found in several pieces where the moon used to be. Outside the dutiful sobriety of the Site's fluorescent lighting, the world had gone to chaos, like in the movies, as people tried and failed to come to terms with an XK.

On day five, I lay in my bunk, with the heat of my reading lamp making my face sweaty, the rest of my room a faint outline of a charcoal drawing. I thought I saw everything. I never thought a time would come when I couldn't secure, couldn't contain, couldn't protect. I thought I was a big shot, revamping Euclid containment procedures and cutting the breach rate in half sitewide. Sometimes, when I let my ego out for just a moment, I thought myself a hotshot. Now, that meant nothing. I'd die like the rest of them, star employee or not.
What did it matter? Work was all I had, the only thing that gave me a few scraps of self-worth. If the Foundation—THE Foundation—was throwing in the towel, then the moon might as well bury me in some pitch-black crater. Or … maybe it would be easier to ask one of the task force guys to borrow a sidearm.
Is there an afterlife, under that star in the east? I was certain, once. Now, I desperately hope so. Only one way to find out.
A knock on the door. One of the seniors hands me a manila envelope without saying a word, and walks out. The white sheets glow orange under the lamp.

This document serves as notice that you have been granted 4/2000 clearance. You will be transported to SCP-2000 at 0500. Documentation containing special containment procedures and description is attached. Further orders will be given on site.

Why me? Why not? It's a question for another time, because I have to strap into this helicopter while the sun peeks through gray clouds above us.


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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
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CONTENT WARNING: The article you are about to read has mentions of suicide, implied accidental death, and implied sexual actions. Reader discretion is advised.

ONE MAN,
SURROUNDED BY FANS AND FRIENDS,
ONE NIGHT,
HIS LAST.
LENNUS O'NALLEY'S FINAL PIECE — OUT WITH A BANG
LIVE AT THE MEMORIAL AUDITORIUM, APRIL 9TH @ 8:00 PM

Samuel lifted his face from the flier and looked back at Lennus. He had spent all day staring into a bright drawing tablet, working out an exploit to not only add different textures to the glass, but to have it applied to all screens when displayed. His eyes were tired, his brain was fried, and the hours were lifting off of his legs to allow for blood flow. A surprise midnight visit from a… colleague wasn't in the plan on this rainy evening. "What is this?"
"What it says on the paper. It's my final performance. And I want you to be there for it." Lennus smiled a weak smile.
"You're done? You're cutting out art?"
"What? No." A pause. "Kinda? I guess I am, yeah."
Samuel's eyes squinted and his brow lowered, giving his brain a little bit of space to think. "I don't think I get it. How do you "kinda" give up art?"
"You're asking, so you don't get it. Art isn't what I'm giving up. It's a consequence to me killing myself." Lennus shrugged. "It's not that hard to get, Sammy."
"Hm. When you put it that— you're killing yourself?!"
"Yeah, I'm killing myself."
"Why are you killing yourself?"
"That's kind of a personal question, don't you think?"
"I—. You just. Ugh…" Samuel rubbed his palms into his face. "Can you be, you know, plain with me here? Help me help you?"
Lennus breathed in and breathed out from his nose, holding the air for less than two seconds. He took a step closer towards the doorway to avoid the rain and pulled down the hood of his jacket. Samuel took a small step back, maintaining a comfortable distance. "You ever wonder about your funeral, Sammy?"
"Sometimes."
"Ever think about who is going to be there? The personalities? The numbers?"
"Sometimes."
"Ever think about how your contributions to the world of anart influenced your local communities, inspired your partners, proved your enemies wrong, all the friends you made along the—"
"Some. Times."
"I'm always thinking about that, Sam. All the time, all the time. I'm always thinking about the lives I've touched with my work. I want to know what that's going to look like. But we can't see into the future, Sam." A pause. "Well, probably. Anyway, I can't see into the future. So I was in the shower, really thought about it for a bit in there, really got curious. And I just can't take the wondering anymore. I need to know. So, I made…" Lennus reached into his backpack. "So I maaaaaaade… this."
Lennus held out a wide elastic wristband, grey-ish blue in color with three thin red stripes in the center.
Samuel sighed. "Just spit it out, Len. It's too late for me to play guessing games."
"It's a wristband. I thought that was obvious."
"I know it's a wri—"
"But not just a wristband! This is a wristband that I made for my performance! These are going to be held out at the door. Each person gets one. I'll be wearing a special one myself. I'll step out on stage, my final words in hand. They're beautiful, everyone will think so. These final words will touch the hearts of my audience, sending that warm affection and admiration through the… ethersphere… or something… whatever its called. It'll put it through that and into my wristband."
A pause. For effect. Samuel leaned his shoulder onto the door frame, crossing his arms, waiting for the effect to pass.
"And then I'll explode. The end."
"Oh. I didn't see that coming."
Lennus laughed lightly. "Yeah, I don't think a lot of people will. So, what do you think and should I reserve a seat for you?"
Samuel reset himself to his standing position, arms still crossed. "Well, I don't think you should do it, Len. I won't give you the whole speech, because I'm sure you brought this to your other friends—"
"Nope, you're the first."
"Len, this is a bit… This is very serious. You know that, right? This is your life you're talking about. Don't get me wrong, I love flash performances. I love what anart has allowed me to do for my self-expression. But I don't love it enough to give my life up for it." Samuel took a small step forward, leaning in just enough to impose a presence upon the young anartist. "It's not worth it. You've got a whole lot ahead of you."
Lennus stared forward, unflinching. "So you hate it?"
"I hate the idea of your throwing away the long life ahead of you and don't personally condone it."
"What I do with my life is my business. And tomorrow, it serves as a medium for my art."
"Nice dedication. Apply it to something else more worth it than glorified suicide."
"This is worth it. It will be worth it, Sam."
"Trust me. It isn't and it won't be."
"Tell you what. I'll reserve a seat for you. You'll get the best view. Not too up close, but not so far back you won't be able to make out anything. I'll pay for your way in. You get a plus one, too, bring a friend."
"Len, please."
"So I'll see you there. Cool. Thanks. Good talk." Lennus backed up, pulling his hood back over his head, turned around, and walked out to the street. Samuel briefly considered calling out, but he knew that he wasn't having any of it.

Lennus arrived at his own apartment nearly an hour later. Walking in the rain always put him in a peaceful state of mind. Sleep would be easy on him tonight.
He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door, greeted by lights he left on and food he left out. The sofa and coffee table were covered in the seemingly needless junk he needed to make the wristbands happen. Lennus closed the door and stepped over some tools left on the floor to get into the kitchen.
He took off his jacket.
The jacket was tossed onto a metal folding chair with the rest of his coats. He opened the fridge to find he wasn't up to cooking anything, not at nearly two in the morning. He closed the fridge and grabbed an apple on the counter. It was reduced to a core after several bites and twenty minutes.
He took off his shoes. Socks came after, only to be stuffed into the right shoe for use tomorrow.
Barefoot, step-by-step, the ritual began. He entered the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He scrubbed away the taste of a fruit, taking moments to attempt an extraction of apple skin. He spit the food waste and blood into the sink. Sensitive gums. Brushes were never sensitive enough. Again: Brush, pick, spit. Mouth wash until he couldn't hold back tears. Spit before the weakness could catch up. He wiped his face with a towel and left into the bedroom.
He took off his shirt.
A quick examination of his torso indicates that activity isn't a foreign concept, but a steady healthy diet might be. Lennus gripped his stomach in both hands. He didn't hate it. He didn't love it either. A deep inhale. A long exhale. Just a quick moment to ground himself.
He took off his pants.
Lennus fell backwards into his bed, bouncing once or twice as he impacted the mattress. He assumed a position that felt the most comfortable at the present moment, covered himself up, and closed his eyes. This moment was instantly over when he realized he didn't turn off the lights. Sit up, feet on floor, step, step, flick, step, step, and back into bed. A new position was taken to replace the previous one because that wasn't comfortable anymore and this one was.
He let his thoughts wander. The excitement of the performance tomorrow pulsed from goosebumps on his back like static. Lennus thought of all the people that would be there. His mentor. His competitors. Maybe a few nice looking women, tears wetting their eyes as they watched him in his final moments. Soft sobs. Warm skin. Warm lips.
He took off his underwear.
The smell of their hair. Their finest details, normally kept secret underneath clothes. And they'd let Lennus touch before the performance ended, and he would, because who would turn down such a generous offer?
Skin on skin contact. Friction. Electricity.
Samuel's firm ass.
A sigh. A groan. And then relief.

Lennus paced back and forth in the backstage makeup room. He was excited. So much planning had gone into this and he was excited at the reception to the work he had put into all of it.
The stage had been decorated to resemble a visitation wake. A casket as the centerpiece, flowers adorned the backdrop of the stage and the ends of the theater seat rows. At the bottom of the stage was several commemorations of his various contributions to the community that he held so dear. Yes, it was a little strange to be the planner for his own service, but the total agency over every decision was a relief: god forbid some hack of a director flaunted their mediocrity all over his lifeless body.
7:56. It was nearly time. Lennus had restrained himself from peeking out and looking into the audience. The sound guy was kind enough to watch the door and distribute the wristbands. No early triggers here.
7:57. He couldn't stop looking at the clock. It was both an act of excitement and his own dedication to punctuality. 8:00. Sharp. Not a minute early, not a minute late. The performance demanded the respect of an immediate and on-time presentation.
7:59. Somewhen, he killed a minute. He took a deep breath, letting the air recycle within his lungs before venting. Everything rests on this performance. His last performance. It was worth it. It will be worth it. He scratched at his wrist, irritated from the sweat building underneath the wristband.
8:00. The lights dimmed.
He stepped out from stage left, his eyes closed. Each step clicked and echoed on the hard stage floor. He lifted his right arm as a guide for the podium. When his fingers met with it, he assumed his place behind it. He opened his eyes and looked into the audience.
Samuel's seat was empty. As was the one next to it.
As was every seat in the house.
Spotlights flicked on and aimed at Lennus, the light causing his eyelids to flinch. His shock was apparent now and present for an audience of absolute no one. He took a moment to process and leaned into the microphone on the podium. "Um. Ned?"
The sound and lights technician's voice crackled out of the stage monitors. "What's up, Lenny?"
"Is there something wrong with the clock back stage?"
"No, should be right. The makeup gals are really anal about that."
"Then where is everyone? Outside? Did you leave the doors open?"
"Doors have been open since 7:35, like you asked."
"So… where is everyone?"
"I didn't see anyone come through that door, boss."
A pause. For effect. Lennus let the air stagnate around those words. "Why didn't you tell me, Ned?"
"You said you didn't want updates."
"Right." Lennus covered his hands with his face. "Right." His forehead made light contact with the podium.
A pause. A moment of silence for Lennus's dignity.
Ned's voice cracked through the monitors one more time. "Hey, show must go on, right? Didn't spend all this time and money for nothing."
"Shut up." Lennus reached for the phone in his pocket. He flicked through his contacts until he found Samuel's listing. He swiped to the right and it began to ring. He pressed the phone against his head.
A yawn. "Eugh. Sam speaking."
"Where the fuck are you?"
"Len?"
"Yeah. 'Len'. Answer me."
"I was catching a nap before I got back to work. Digital art exploits are more complicated than I thought."
"You slept through my performance."
"I know what I did."
"Why?"
"I didn't say I was going. You invited me, I didn't accept it. I thought that was obvious."
Lennus covered his face with his free hand. "No, it wasn't obvious."
"So, when I said 'I hate the idea and I don't condone it', you thought that meant I was still going to go?"
"Sam. No one is here. The whole house is empty. It's just me and sound guy."
"Oh. None of your friends came? I thought you would have shown this to them."
"Nope. You were the only one I came to, Sam."
"Look, don't get snippy with me. I told you I didn't like the idea."
Lennus walked away from the podium to the front of the stage. "I thought I had an impact here. I thought I made differences. You could have at least told someone else about it, even if you didn't like it. You think I deserve that much? I thought you were my friend."
A pause. Sam broke it. "Listen here, Lennus. I'm not your friend. Just because we show up at the same workshop doesn't make us friends. And as long as I'm being honest here, this 'performance'? This art thing you're doing? It's bad. It's not art. It's a cry for attention from a narcissist." Sam sighed. "I knew I should have just told you this earlier. Not like you were listening, but I could at least waste less breath with an 'I told you so'."
"Fuck you." Lennus pulled the phone away from his ear.
"Hey, fuck y—" Call ended.
Lennus took a seat at the end of the stage. He rested his head in his palms. The silence of the large theater pressed on him. He succumbed to the weight and fell onto his side, the cold wooden stage underneath him.
The monitors cracked on. "Soooo… can I leave?"

Lennus came back home, much to his surprise, as he had fully expected to have been mortally impaired at this point. He opened the door to his apartment, left unlocked, and was welcomed by the detritus left behind on the coffee table and floor, left untouched. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket. Each shuffling step to the bathroom was a lazy attempt at removing his socks.
Lennus looked at himself in the mirror. In no time at all, the reflection was just another person in front of him. They looked like they had lost something in their eyes. Or maybe it was that their skin lost a shine. Something was missing.
The weakness had caught up to him. He clenched his jaw tight, pursed his lips. His face got hot and his eyes burned.
"Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare."
A sharp sniff, an exhale like razor wire to the throat. One more breath.
Locked in.
Lennus splashed water onto his face and dried it with a towel. He moved into the bedroom and collapsed into the bed. Nothing was right in the world. Time moved on. He would be forced to march with it, and that was a pain to ground into his reality. He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The light was on, shining like a spotlight designed to draw attention to a failure. He just needed a moment to feel okay. Not happy. Just okay. That would be alright.
He took off his pants and let his mind wander. He let in some beautiful women into his corner of a dream. They looked upon him with sympathy. "We didn't forget you, babe. You'll always have us. Let's show you a good time."
He took off his underwear. Good times were coming. Lips on lips. Skin to skin contact. Soft and warm, soft and warm. This was right. This is what he deserved.
Friction. Electricity.
A sudden surge of warmth on his right wrist.
A pause.
"Right."
A sigh. A groan. And out with a bang.


Our hands blaze with glory
Marching ever forward
Our sabatons most gory
Marching to our death
Once broken now united
Marching ever forward
In battle undefeated
Marching to our death
East further past Scythia
Marching ever forward
Facing beast and Daeva
Marching to our death
Our joints slowly turn to rust
Marching ever forward
Our bones are ground into dust
Marching to our death
With spear and faith we fight
Marching ever forward
For MEKHANE we show them the light
Marching to our death
Over the Caspian and Mashriq
Marching ever forward
Making the fleshbound shriek
Marching to our death
Fighting Sarkic fear and Daevite hate
We marched ever forward
We set the trap, they took our bait
Like MEKHANE before us we marched to our death
Adytum is shattered
Antikythera battered
Broken once, broken again
United in life, united in death
rating: +23+–x


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-████ is contained in a Low-Value Object Locker at Site-55.
Description: SCP-████ is the designation for a topical skincare product, branded by its packaging as "Level+". SCP-████ is similar in appearance and consistency to a normal moisturizing hand cream.
The anomalous properties of SCP-████ become apparent with routine applications over time. Those using the product demonstrate a subtly improved capacity for learning. This applies to absorption and retention of academic material, as well as practical skills.
Tests were conducted which measured subjects' initial ability and subsequent progress in different fields, such as: reading comprehension, mental arithmetic, and playing guitar. In all cases, subjects using SCP-████ demonstrated an accelerated rate of proficiency.

"Is this stuff for real?" Junior Researcher McKinney burst into the room with a printout in hand.
Junior Researcher Lee glanced up from his computer monitor, a little annoyed at the sudden interruption. He looked at the sheet his colleague was waving around and confirmed "Yes. I'm in the middle of updating the file right now, actually."
"That's amazing! Where did it come from?"
"That's what I'm working on. You know how we've been cataloguing all that stuff from the, uh…" Lee forgot the particular Item # himself in the moment, and fumbled to describe it: "The weird alternate dimension where everything is like from some kinda RPG video game; you know what I mean."
"Yeah yeah. So some D-Class was able to bring this back from an exploration test, huh? It must have been difficult."
"According to the subject's account, an NPC basically just gave it away to them. Like, as a reward for a very trivial quest or something."
"But this stuff is incredibly useful! Why would it be so easy to get?"
"That's what I'm in the middle of figuring out! Apparently the test subjects only have a limited time before they have to be pulled back out, so they tend to skip most of the dialogue screens."
"Probably missing out on lots of content that way," McKinney sighed and shook his head.
"When they get around to letting test subjects roleplay as a wizard gnome with a deep backstory and character motivations that they invent for themselves, shall they give you a call?"
"That's-! I'm not even-! I wouldn't be a wiz-!" McKinney spluttered, finally collecting himself enough to deliver an emphatic "No."
"Anyway, I'm re-reading the speech text now, so I can get these Addendums submitted."
"It's 'Addenda'," the pedantic McKinney corrected Lee. "So what does it say; is there an explanation?"
"I was almost at the end before you interrupted me."
McKinney leaned in and read over Lee's shoulder.

20 Bear Ass(s) removed from Inventory.

| MERCHANT GERALD
Thank you, DICKHEA! Now I have the materials I need.

| MERCHANT GERALD
I'd Like to give you something, as a token of my gratitude.

5 Level+(s) added to Inventory.

| MERCHANT GERALD
These will grant a bonus to all your SKILL increases for a time. That should be useful for an adventurer like yourself.

| MERCHANT GERALD
After all, they're only gathering dust here on my shelves…

| MERCHANT GERALD
I've done everything I can to sell them, but nobody else in the village is willing to even give them a try.

| MERCHANT GERALD
I guess there's really no helping it… Cool guys don't look at EXP Lotions.

- TRADE
» - EXIT SHOP


by stormbreath

The following is a transcript of a segment the National Geographic program Occult Atlas, the most successful of the many television programs dedicated to covering anomalous sites and locations formerly in Foundation containment. This segment covers the anomaly that was contained under the designation "SCP-4400".

Reporter William Marrison is standing in the middle of Palenque.
Marrison: I'm here at Palenque, commonly known and recognized as one of the most famous Mayan sites in Mexico. Before the breaking of the Masquerade, it was host to many conspiracy theories surrounding one of its famous rulers, K'inich Janaab' Pakal.

The sarcophagus lid.

The carved sarcophagus lid of K'inich Janaab' Pakal appears on the screen.
Marrison: Many speculated that this depiction of Pakal was indicative of ancient alien activity in or around Palenque. Believers pointed to the supposed similarity of the device Pakal is sitting within to a space ship, saying that his hands are operating the controls and that he has a breathing apparatus near his nose.
Marrison: But little did anyone - or could have anyone - suspected that the true nature of the occult at Palenque came not from above, but below.
Marrison enters the Palace of Palenque, the location of Access Tunnel Ka'ax. Numerous armed guards are standing around the Access Tunnel, as well as Site-484 Director Ulysses Rosales. Director Rosales is wearing a hazmat suit.
Rosales: Hello there. SCP-4400 is slightly irradiated, so we're going to have to ask that you put on a hazmat suit before we descend any further. We didn't do this sixty years ago, mind you, but it's better to be safe.
Marrison puts on his hazmat suit, and descends Access Tunnel Ka'ax with Director Rosales, with the camera crew following shortly behind. At the halfway point, there is a gravitational anomaly in which polarity inverts, and the group begins to climb upwards.
The group emerges into SCP-4400 shortly afterwards. Numerous floodlights have been installed within, illuminating the otherwise pitch-black site of SCP-4400. Several archaeological teams can be seen variously excavating sites and analyzing the frescoes.
Rosales: Welcome to Under-Palenque, Mr. Marrison.
Marrison: Woah. It's really quite the site — this is the entirety of Palenque, completely uncovered by the jungle.
Rosales: That's actually the most interesting part of it to us now. I understand you are here to discuss 4400-América, but I can't understate the archaeological value that this site offers to us. It's one of the few and only sites that have been completely preserved since the ancient period. We don't have to excavate anything, and its all been perfectly preserved.
Marrison: And all this investigation never would have happened if not for the Masquerade, right? Just this massive wealth of information underneath the real Palenque that never would have been touched in the past.
Rosales: We had performed some minor research ourselves, but the vast majority of the information here was completely untouched. And of course, the little information we had done in the past was either focused on 4400-América or kept under lock and key.
Marrison: Speaking of 4400-América…
Rosales: Yes, of course.
Director Rosales leads Marrison and the camera crew to the SCP-4400 equivalent to Temple of the Skull. They stand at the bottom of the structure, unable to ascend any further.
Rosales: At the top of this temple is one of four thaumonuclear bombs originally put together around 650 CE, during the reign of K'inich Pakal. This site — everything you see around you — was originally constructed as an ancient means of containing these four explosive devices.
Marrison: An early equivalent to your organization, perhaps?
Rosales: Yes, to some degree — although we suspect that it was only one man, working alone, and he was the creator of the bombs he put into containment. But that early idea of getting specialized and tailored containment procedures could initially be found here.
Marrison: But I understand you don't understand much about the nature of the bombs to this day?
Rosales: There have been … significant difficulties in even approaching them. Nothing is brave enough to climb the Temples they have been placed on, the temples simply override a normal mind with fear. There were attempts made in the '60s but… those aren't allowed anymore by the Ethics Committee.
Marrison: Ah. I see.
Rosales: We have some information, but only so much.
Marrison: I understand that the explosion the bombs create isn't anomalous? That's one of the major talking points about this site and the danger it presents, that there is no fear of an anomalous reaction or fallout.
Rosales: Ah yes. The thaumaturgic reactions are one of the parts of 4400-América we understand the best. If I may use an example, imagine you have a magical lightbulb. There are two ways you could use magic to make light. First, you could directly create magical light, and cause the filament to anomalously produce light. Following?
Marrison: A simple light spell, relatively standard working. That can produce anomalous light, stuff that has potential negative side effects.
Rosales: Exactly. But there's another possible option, which is to use magic to heat the filament, which then produces light in the same way a lightbulb normally works.
Marrison: Which causes traditional types of light to be emitted. Nothing strange or anything you want to worry about.
Rosales: Exactly. Of course, you can't completely rule out the danger of a nuclear bomb, but there is nothing more than what you would normally expect. And none of these bombs are all that big, either. So there isn't a considerable risk of a nuclear explosion.
Marrison: But critics have said that security around the site is notably lax.
Rosales: To some degree. I think the most important things to note are that the site is relatively self-containing. Those temples aren't just soaked in fear. They're trapped to hell and back too. The last time somebody touched one of those bombs, his blood ripped itself out of his body, animated into a nuclear blood serpent and then killed the other people around him.
Marrison: Jesus.
Rosales: The serpent is still up there, at the top of the Temple of the Skull. We think it feeds on the ambient radiation of SCP-4400. There's another on the Temple of the Sun. So that's two bombs with beasts guarding them.
Marrison: And the bombs are stable?
Rosales: Yes, they are. It's really remarkable how durable they were built. The alchemist who made them really outdid himself. It helps they've been in a cold, dry cave for the past fourteen hundred years, but there is no chance of them exploding.
Marrison and Director Rosales begin to return to Access Tunnel Ka'ax.
Marrison: I find it interesting that you think the most interesting thing about the site is the archaeological evidence. Not the magical nuclear explosives that predate the Manhattan Project by a millennium.
Rosales: Well, the bombs, for all their might, are rather simple. They're a simple reaction. And there's so much that's anomalous in this world, one more anomaly isn't really that notable anymore, if I'm being honest. There are so many weapons and doomsday devices to be afraid of. A few pots in a cave isn't on the top of my list.
Rosales: But there's information in this cave that we wouldn't otherwise know about. A wealth of information that can enlighten us greatly about the past. And that's fascinating. I don't like to live my life in fear. Better to appreciate the new opportunities of the present than a long-forgotten fear of the past.
Marrison: Well put.