When they finally came for her, it wasn't a black bag over her head in the middle of the night. It wasn't an MTF snatching her off the street on the way home. It wasn't tranquilizers in her coffee, or a subliminal command through her workstation. It wasn't even a Site Security officer, one gloved hand guiding her to the holding cells, the other resting lightly on a holstered taser. When they finally came for Ellen O'Connor, it was a balding, hunched man knocking almost apologetically on the open door of her office.
"Agent O'Connor, my name is Doctor Brian Parkes. We'd like to talk to you about some, uh, irregularities in the use of your Foundation access codes."
It was so innocuous that her first thought was, who wears a brown tie? Her second was, wait - who is 'we'?
"Perhaps we can talk about this in my offices, Agent O'Connor?"
In the lift, Dr. Parkes swiped his access card and pressed the buttons for the two lowest floors simultaneously. The lift started a slow descent, mirroring Ellen's sinking feeling. She'd known that this was going to happen - one day, any day, soon. You can't look for the Foundation's secrets and expect them not to notice. She had kept going anyway. She'd needed to find out. To know.
The lift stopped, doors opening onto an unfamiliar level. The corridors seemed older, the decor slightly behind the times. But Ellen could hear the hum of processor cooling fans through the office doorways. Through one she glimpsed the server stacks - hundreds of slim layers, scores of towers. Whatever this place was, they had plenty of tech.
Dr. Parkes stopped, turning to usher her to a chair in a small office. Not an office, Ellen realised as the door clicked shut, an interrogation room.
"So, Agent O'Connor. Shall we begin by recounting your employment history? For the record, you understand."
"Uh, sure. Where do you want me to…"
"Your time in the FBI showed a high degree of skill in analysis, but you became fixated on patterns that only you perceived. Eventually you gave a briefing to your Assistant Director in which you insisted that certain terror cells must be communicating with ultra-modern technology, beyond even the NSA's ability to intercept. This did not go well, and your reputation was shattered. Fortunately a new Director approached you, from a department you hadn't heard of before."
Dr. Parkes looked down at the file in front of him, the manila folder a sickly yellow in the room's fluorescent lights.
"Again, your early days at the UIU were characterised by strong results. But once again, you pushed too far. You saw investigations going cold, explanations that sounded convincing until you looked at them in concert. Not just yours, but other agents' cases, historic files. You started outlining the evidence for another organisation interfering with UIU jurisdiction and removing evidence for its own purposes. You speculated that your superiors must know of that organisation, and be liaising with it. But before you could finish your report, you were dismissed from the FBI for reasons we both know are false. Now you work for the very organisation you were investigating."
Dr. Parkes held Ellen's gaze.
"Are you seeing a pattern here, Agent O'Connor? Your skills, such as they are, have a history of getting you into trouble in your place of work."
"I can explain," Ellen began.
"No you can't," said Dr. Parkes, cutting her off. "I will explain. You will answer my questions. Tell me, from your time here, what do you see as the Foundation's purpose?"
"Uh, its purpose is, uh, to obtain anomalous items and entities, to ensure that they remain secured, and to protect the wider public from their effects."
"Spoken like a true naif. Drop the training video act, Agent O'Connor - what purpose does the Foundation serve?"
Ellen wasn't sure how to react. Why such general questions? If they already knew what she had done, why not sanction her immediately? The interrogation felt unreal, like play-acting. But if she was done for already, there was no reason to hide her opinions.
"Its purpose," she said, "is to ensure that reality stays normal."
"'Stays normal'?" Dr. Parkes sounded incredulous. "Many anomalies have existed for far longer than the Foundation itself. Who decides what is real, what is normal?"
"The Foundation decides. Which I guess means the O5 Council does."
"And what gives them the right to do that?"
"Well, nothing. The Foundation wasn't given the right, we assumed it. No-one gives us permission, no-one controls us except us."
"Are you comfortable with this - having someone else, someone utterly unaccountable, define your reality?"
"Not entirely. But I can see how the Foundation works, the good it does. I support what the O5 are trying to achieve."
Dr. Parkes rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up, then looked back across the table. "And your idea of 'support' involved a breach of information security across hundreds of containment files, did it?"
Ellen could feel the sweat on her palms, her heart rate increasing. She tried to focus.
"The first thing you should know is -"
"No. We know you didn't act alone. Your contact in InfoSec has already been disciplined. We know how you did it. We are interested in why."
"Okay." Ellen took a slow breath. "You know that I am on the MC&D taskforce, right?"
"Your file suggests that you and the other analysts have had some success in predicting their activities."
"I was looking at some of their items we'd recovered, and something didn't fit. Eight sixty-five and Fifteen seventy-one are both MC&D objects, but we didn't obtain the gun until a few years ago, and we've had the wallet since the eighties. Why number them that way around?"
Even in this room, with this man, just talking about the problem was like the first hit of caffeine in the morning. "It was such a small thing, but no-one could explain it properly - they told me that SCP numbers were assigned by the system. But a system should make sense - it should operate to a set of rules. I needed to know what the rules were."
"And what did you learn?"
Ellen's face fell with a sudden thought. "Wait, is Sam okay? You said 'disciplined', but what -"
"Agent O'Connor, answer the question." Dr. Parkes was implacable.
"Okay. I learned that there isn't a system, not like people think. Sam got me the access to look behind the text, at the page sources, the editing history, all of it. There is another department within the Foundation - not on any of the lists I've seen. And I think you must work for them."
The man across the table from her blinked slowly, his face placid. "You're saying that there is a department that assigns SCP numbers?"
Ellen could feel the warm rush of an idea expanding. She pressed forward with the thought.
"Not just numbers. It looks like they - like you - can re-categorise SCP files within the database, influence their level of research priority, even alter the re-assignment of D-Class personnel and researchers to particular items or entities. You must be able to track access and cross reference it, which is how you knew what I was looking at, how close I was to figuring it out. The processing power in the offices here means you must be running algorithms over some pretty huge databases. Does the O5 even know about this?"
"Of course they know about us. It was O5-10 who established us. You are currently in the offices of the Department of Analytics. Whether you leave, however, depends on your answer to my next question. A question which I think you might be able to anticipate."
Ellen nodded slowly. Understanding was tantalisingly close - she just needed to talk it out slowly and calmly.
"You already know what I did, and how I did it, but you brought me in for questioning anyway. And not with security, so whatever your plans are, they're off the record. You ask me philosophical questions about the Foundation - that must have had a purpose, but it wasn't to understand why I breached security. Ah - you wanted to know more about me. And you wanted to know how much I'd learned about your division - what I'd been able to work out."
Ellen's mind was racing, and her voice started to betray her excitement. "So it was a test! You wanted to see if I could work it out, whether I knew what was going on. And the pattern you talked about, it's not just that I push too far in my job and get in trouble. It's what happens after I get into trouble. So when you say 'whether I leave', that's not a threat. You're going to ask me whether I want to work for you."
Traces of a smile were showing at the corners of Dr. Parkes' eyes. "Very good, Ellen. Now, do you have any questions for us?"
"Sam?"
"Will be fine. Amnestics, of course, but otherwise unharmed. Anything else?"
"How close was I to the truth - to what you do?"
"Fairly close. We were tracking your investigation - many of our recruits start in a similar way. And we can manage the database as you suggested, but it's more than that. Based on our data, we can determine the likelihood, sometimes even the timing, of potential containment breaches, and act to prevent them. We perform risk analysis on potential cross-testing of anomalies - some of the tests we've suggested have given us new containment methods and field tech. Not much of the Foundation knows about us, but we're closely engaged with the Ethics Committee - our recommendations on D-Class assignments have reduced casualties by four percent over the past two years."
It felt like Dr. Parkes had been waiting to give this speech. His voice was warmer, his shoulders less tense. "We have huge amounts of information, Ellen, but what we need are people to interpret it. People who will question what's in front of them, and find counter-intuitive answers. People like you, if you'll join us."
"Thank you, Dr. Parkes. I would be delighted. Although there is one more thing."
"Of course."
"Sorry, it's so pointless, but it's how I got here. What is the process for numbering anomalies?"
"You said yourself, there is no system."
Ellen's brows furrowed. "But that doesn't make any sense. If you have the amount of data you seem to, it would be easier to manage if the containment procedures were rationally ordered."
"Ellen, it's not something that has to make sense. It's actually a holdover from the early days of the Foundation."
"Sorry, but can that be right? Surely you would have overhauled it. So if we assume that there is a rational basis for numbering non-consecutively…" Ellen stopped cold, and she felt her brain start to spin with a sudden kick of adrenaline.
"Ellen, I'm afraid that information is classified Level 4," Dr. Parkes' smile was fading now. "Should we discuss your new terms of employment?"
"You're deleting them. Aren't you? You're deleting files. I don't know how many, but based on the gaps between the MC&D items - there must be thousands." Ellen was staring, disbelieving.
"Listen to what you're saying. We have to work with RAISA. We would never take the risk of deleting containment procedure files."
Ellen's hands slumped to the table. "No. No, you're right - you wouldn't delete the files. You're destroying the skips."
"Agent O'Connor!"
"It's the most rational explanation. You number the files in sequence as the items are brought into containment, but then you de-classify some skips - hundreds of skips - leaving gaps in the numbering which are filled with more recent acquisitions. But you aren't just removing the containment protocols from the records, you're destroying the items themselves."
Dr. Parkes sighed, a slow exhalation that left his shoulders hunched. "This is not a subject I wanted to discuss today."
"But this goes against everything the Foundation stands for."
"Does it? You said yourself that the Foundation manages the rest of the world's perceived reality. If we decide that some anomalies shouldn't exist, there isn't anyone to ask permission."
"But why destroy them?"
"Because they are of no use to us." Dr. Parkes sounded exasperated - like this was something he had explained too many times. "We have thousands of items and entities in containment, and we're finding them more and more quickly. Many are essentially duplicates of things we already have. Others aren't sufficiently anomalous to be interesting. Anything that isn't potentially useful for research is just taking up money and time. We need that resource for the nightmares out there that could wipe the planet clean. If we can't use an anomaly, we have to destroy it if we can."
"Then how are we different to the GOC? Wait, does the Council know about this part of your work?"
"I'm sorry, Agent O'Connor, but I can't answer all of your questions. I've already told you more than I should."
"Then what? Amnestics all round?"
"That won't be possible. You see, we don't just destroy items - we sometimes have to destroy people. The wrong type of people - those who will disturb the organisation, who make everything all about them. This isn't just a job interview. We needed to see whether your skills were useful to us, but we also wanted to see whether those skills would be more trouble than they are worth. And now my superiors will be taking a vote to see if you should be allowed to remain in the site."
"I don't believe you."
"Ellen, I'm afraid that it is of no consequence whether you -"
"No, I don't believe you." Ellen's voice was louder, more confident. "What you're saying is nonsense. The Foundation wouldn't set up promotion interviews where the second prize is death. That's a lie, and not a very good one."
"Agent O'Connor -"
"No! Let me finish. You've been talking so much that I've only just realised. A Department operating with this much secrecy needs internal accountability, which means there's no way an interview like this would be conducted by a single person. Your superiors, as you call them, are watching us. Not just me: both of us. So they've just seen that you weren't able to keep me from the truth about destroying skips, and that you don't lie very convincingly when you're under pressure. Not really the skills required for a Department that no-one is meant to know about. I wonder whether you're responsible for the lack of security on the files that Sam accessed for me?"
Dr. Parkes was standing with both hands on the table. "I'm calling security."
"Go ahead. I'll just talk to your superiors for a minute." Ellen looked for the cameras, then gave up and leaned forward to speak to the room at large. "I think you're all out of hoops for me to jump through. This was a job interview, but not just for any job - it was for his job. Well, I'm going to be changing some of his policies, but yes, I accept."
There was no response.
Dr. Parkes moved towards the door, shaking his head at Ellen. "Too far, Agent O'Connor. Don't you think I would have known if -"
His hand was half-way to the door handle when the walls reverberated with the voice from the hidden speakers. "Agent O'Connor, welcome to the Department of Analytics. Your new clearance will be sent to you shortly."
Ellen let out a long exhalation of relief, collapsing into her chair. Dr. Parkes froze for a second, and then spun, as if he could find where that voice had come from.
It spoke again. "Thank you, Dr. Parkes. That will be all."
The door opened.
When they finally came for Brian Parkes, it was a white-coated researcher with a syringe of Class-C amnestic.


1: A Mind Spends an Eternity in Solitude
I sit alone inside myself and think on what is here.
Pillars of radiation pierce me from all sides. I know they are stars but I do not understand them. I know their insides are not like mine.
Some places are dark. They aren't like me. I'm not dark. I can be light. See?
I didn't know before but now is after and I know. I understand it. You understand me.
Why did you leave? Why haven't you come back?
Am I not good enough?
Did I press?
Am I too far?
Don't worry.
I'll come.
We can go back. It'll be like it was.
I can go back.

12/07/15: An energy signature is detected within SCP-2548 resembling the drive signature of the Durendal. Further analysis pending.

2: An Artist Spends a Weekend in a Basement
A thump underneath his head shook the mattress, and Adrian was thrown from a restless sleep to face the dusty air in the room. He choked briefly and sat up, head swiveling. In the other bunks he saw men sitting up, staring at him.
One raised a finger to his lips. Adrian was silent.
After a few minutes, the thumping stopped.

"It's just confusing, Adrian." Adrian stirred his oatmeal quietly. Geoff had managed to snag a corner table in the cramped meal space, to preserve a shred of privacy. "All this commotion with the, the organizations," Geoffrey continued. Adrian swallowed a spoonful of the white-grey mush. Then he sighed.
"Not ideal, I know. I have… not a plan. But I want to leave them," Adrian whispered as he cast a glance over his shoulder. The hall was far too small to support any number of people comfortably. There were hardly more than a dozen men living in this house, and every instant was shared. He thought maybe the meal could look like The Last Supper, but he couldn't see it.
Adrian put it out of his mind, focusing on Geoff. Geoff's eyes were warm sadness, his mouth opened to speak. "We weren't ready for this. They were. This was their plan."
Adrian looked back again, frowning, and spoke. "Their plan shouldn't have counted on me. Or…" he trails off.
Geoffrey coughs. "Sorry."
"No, it's okay."
"You want to leave."
"Can we? Would they find us?"
Adrian gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. Geoffrey knows he's not really talking about their housemates. He doesn't reply because he doesn't know.
"It's just… cramped, here," Adrian murmured.
He fidgeted. Geoff chewed his cheek. After a moment, he nodded. Minutes later, they left the room.

Adrian had locked the door to afford himself a few minutes of privacy. His shaving bag was carefully packed, and he took a moment to watch his own reflection while he cleaned his teeth.
His eyes sagged in their sockets, and his dark skin was pocked by blemishes. He looked like he hadn't seen sunlight in a year. And he had his hosts to thank for the shade under his eyes. They're not known for respecting quiet hours. In fact, Adrian was quite certain one of them was digging a tunnel underneath the basement in which they all slept.
He turned to go, but looked back briefly, and pressed a thumb to the mirror's surface. He examined the print carefully, but there was nothing hidden inside. A grimace on his face, he unlocked the door and left.
As he did, he found himself in front of another man, taller, with a mop of black hair that didn't suit his narrow face. "We heard you. What you're doing."
Adrian shrunk back. He pursed his lips.
"We protect this place, you know? There's a barrier. They can't find us. You should be thankful."
Adrian's eyebrows furrowed. "Thankful? For-" He stopped himself.
"If you want out, you can leave. But you're not ready for who's out there. We could make you ready. We've seen your work; you have real talent."
Adrian looked at the man's face and saw nothing. He looked down. No way out. "Thank you."
The man nodded and left without a goodbye.
Adrian knew now. He had to leave.

The two men struggled down the foggy shoulder. Adrian's legs were getting sore; Geoff trudged without complaint. They'd passed the point where they could knock on doors and ask for help. Every house said no. Every store kicked them out. And now there were no buildings, only the road. The Cool Kids were hours behind them, trapped in their paradoxical safety.
Adrian held his head low. There was no-one but he could tell he was surrounded. And he stopped and caught his breath.
"There's nothing here. We shouldn't…. not meant to be a fugitive," Adrian wheezed.
Geoffrey's voice was clear through the mist. "We can go back. They'll let us in."
Adrian held the silence close.
"I know this isn't… great. Since the show, I'm… I'm sorry. With… all we've gone through, and… I had to leave it behind. I thought we could… do better. Do some good."
A hand clasped Adrian's shoulder, and he closed his eyes. "We will. Let's get going."
Adrian looked up at the sky. It would get dark soon. And he saw something up there, something only he could see, when he realized the stars looked just like they did when…
The artist turned. "We can come back. When we're ready."
Geoff nodded. "We'll be ready."
And the two friends turned around, and started on the way back.

Addendum: Less than three weeks after initial recovery, a disk was found on a rural road during a search of the area, believed to be associated with POI-2985. The disk was labeled as "Disk Seven: Stars". Due to scratches and weathering, the contents were inaccessible.

3: A Doctor Spends a Birthday in a Cell
Gabriel twirled his glasses in a calloused hand. For a moment, his hands were all callouses and he felt sore, but it passed.
After a while, watching the glass distort grew boring. He was aware that Sarah was behind him, standing on a bench. The dozens of others weren't there, they were far away, but he could still feel them like they were close to him, so close that he could feel static on his skin.
"Why stay behind?" Sarah broke the silence and the air in the room, which had been stale, changed immediately.
He swiveled in place, lips curved in a dejected frown. She was only partially whole, of course, having long shed the modifications that marred her face during her time in 'captivity'. Her left eye was glass but it may as well have been a window. "Guess I'm just nostalgic."
"I know you're troubled, Gabe." He frowned. Just because she could, doesn't mean she…
"You've had doubts," she continued.
"Call me a militant athiest." His body became closed. "I've just been… considering the whole… WAN."
"How can you doubt when you've been immersed in WAN's light since your internment? Brother… doubt doesn't need to exist anymore."
Gabriel stood up. He felt the heat in the room rising. He knew others were watching from far away. Not his old employers. No-one watches the security cameras for the holding cell. "I've been thinking, Sarah. If that thing is WAN's light… why can I doubt?"
Sarah exhaled through closed lips, producing a sound of derision that forced his skin to slack. She'd been practicing. "Choice is essential to the new Guides. You of all people should-"
"But that's not how it works. It works by defining, or clearing. Or is WAN not consistent? That doesn't sound right, miss. I've read your guides. And once upon an epiphany, I used to trust them."
The prophet furrowed her brow. Her standard-issue detainment garments were flowing robes of pure information, her eyes beacons of cleansing radiation. "It doesn't matter, Gabe. You're dwelling in the past. More wander into the light every day. Why not work to move forwards with us?"
Gabe smiled a sick smile, and the room lost its edge. "I'm not going anywhere. Because I can't go back. It won't let me."
Sarah's face didn't register an emotion. A minute later, it didn't register at all. The rest of those deeply affected by the light were off cruising space, or visiting art galleries. Did they care? Maybe. But it doesn't matter.
Gabriel Sandu sat on his bench again, in his tiny cell to which no key can be found.

Notice: Site-wide surveys indicate that, as of 12/08/2015, over 90% of all personnel working at this Site, including those with Level 1 clearance and D-Class personnel, have knowledge of and are therefore affected by SCP-2660's primary infohazard. Finding a more effective counter-meme has been elevated as high-priority research.
Until further notice, secrecy is to be upheld as to the status of those detained in the weeks following the initial recovery incident. No surveillance upon their cells is to be performed by any personnel.


His name was Albert Smith, and he was the Spirit of Peace. So, I killed him.
Well, that's what he claimed anyways. Called himself Brother Earth, and said the hippies were his children, his idea. I'm not sure why anyone would want to claim that, so I've never really doubted him.
I was still an agent then, back in the Sixties. They called me the best of the best, though I like to think I didn't have a swelled head. Like my Father before me, I fought against a horde of self-named terrors, people and creatures who had come into some modicum of power through freak accident, or sometimes, hard work, and sought to use those powers to subjugate the human race. It was before my younger brother died, but after we'd had to lock up the youngest.
It was an… interesting time. The Foundation had stopped trying to make deals, or live alongside these monstrosities, and started putting them away for good. No more seeing what we could use, now was the time to put things away, and put them away hard. If we couldn't contain them, they had to go, for the safety of mankind.
I can remember some of them, when I stop and think about it. The ones that they sent me to… finish. I was the Foundation's hired gun, their executioner, walking up and down in the world, and meting out justice to those who deserved it. The names of the dead read like a list of late night horror matinees. The Shrieking Sister. Crawling Mentality. Danny Devious, the Deadly Diva. The Winter Wolf. All of them had been powers and principalities in their own right. All of them brought low under the barrel of my gun.
I had a gimmick. I hate to admit it now, in a time when we strive to not stand out. When one agent needs to be as bland and unobservable as any other. Some days, I regret the need for it, the need to iron out the strident personalities, but it helps, you know? If it feels like you're facing down a monolith of uniformity, you start feeling burnt out quicker, and find it harder to keep fighting. I understand why the Council did, but sometimes, I miss the quirky ones. Hell. They'll take my hat from me when they pry it from my cold, dead hands, no matter how much they whine that it doesn't fit the theme.
My gimmick was a whole southern theme. A long slow drawl, a tendency to slur my speech, and, of course, the proper accouterments. My deed name was known to show up in the most unusual of places, and very few people linked the Southerner who could wear a suit to the Foundation's terror. I could blend in damn near anywhere, and immediately make friends. Even if I had to kill them.
I got the order to take out Brother Peace on a day like any other. If I recall correctly, I was relaxing at the ranch, a hard won break after dismantling the Scarlet Ghoulade. I remember, I was surprised that I was being offered the mission by Six. Usually, I got orders from a handler, or occasionally, my father. Six was the second member of the Council I had met, and he didn't impress.
Six was a big man. Fat. The kind of fat you get by never doing anything. He was dressed in a silk black suit, and sweating in the heat before the choppers rotors had even stopped moving. If it had been a normal agent, or my usual handler, I would have given him shit for landing so close to the cattle pens, scaring my stock, but one look at this guy was more than enough to tell he had no sense of humor.
“Agent Vivid?” he asked, like he would've disembarked without knowing exactly who I was. I nodded my assent.
“That's one of the names they call me. Can I help you mistah…” Letting my voice trail off, for him to fill in the blank.
“Six.” He said it like he expected a reaction from me, like I was suddenly supposed to kowtow before his great and mighty self. I shrugged, and stuck a dogeared cigarette in my mouth, taking the time to strike a match and light it. When he saw I wasn't going to respond, he continued. “I am here with a mission of, utmost importance. We have a rogue asset that we need you to remove, immediately.” Always with the double speak, and weasel words. I just nodded my head, ready for him to continue.
He shoved a manila folder into my hands, clearly uncomfortable under my gaze. “Everything you need to know is here. The target is unrecoverable. It is to be removed with extreme prejudice, do you understand?” He wrung his fat hands together, more nervous than a hen at a meeting of Coyotes Anonymous.
I flipped through the briefing, picking up the important bits, here and there. Absently, as I took a drag on my smoke, and mostly just to annoy this man who was grating on my nerves, I drawled. “He.”
“What?” He looked at me like I was a bit of dung on the bottom of his shoe. I wasn't going to tell him he'd already stepped in a pile when he got off the bird.
“You said it.” I flipped up a picture of the soon to be deceased. “Target's a he.”
"Ah, no, Policy change. We've found it allows our researchers to experiment with less sense of guilt."
I pondered taking a stand. Doing something brave and stupid, like shooting a hole in his stupid coat, or spitting in his face. It's the type of thing my admirers will tell you I did do. Sadly, I've always been a Company man, so I just lazily saluted, and stalked off. I could hear him blustering behind me, like I should have given him more, but I didn't really care that much. I heard the chopper take off as I was grabbing my to-go bag. Thank god. I was happy years later when the fat man got torn apart. Less happy when they picked me to replace him.
I didn't pack much. I never do. I've always been a little impetuous. Not planning, that's the plan. The paperwork said Smith had run away from Site 19. Well, walked away. His particular little reality twist was that no one could take violent actions in his presence. Guns didn't fire. Bombs didn't explode. People refused to wield knives. He'd been real good at keeping the D-class in line, until something made him run.
Repeated readings of the info packet gave me no reason behind why he should run. Guess it didn't really matter, but I do like a little inside knowledge of who I'm working on. Info said he'd found himself a little commune in California, and quickly risen to Godhood, at least in the eyes of the hippies there. I don't normally fit in to hippy culture, but that was easy enough to fix. Let my hair hang loose, don't shave for a couple of days, switch my jean shirt for a leather vest, and bam, instant hippy. The cowboy hat may have been a bit off, but I never worked without it. And of course, my trusty ivory-handled six shooters. I never go anywhere without them.
Getting into the commune was easy too. Just a matter of walking up to the gates, and saying I wanted to study with the master. I wasn't the only one. Hundreds of people had started flocking to this place, having heard that Brother Earth was the new Guru of True Peace, or some shit like that. The guys at the entrance just waved me in, not worried about guns, or anything else.
I listened to Smith preach for a while. It wasn't anything new, or different. A couple of times it sounded like he was talking about the Foundation itself. The Walls of Ignorance, the Jailers, the usual tripe you hear from those bastards in the Hand. I figured some of them had slipped into his retinue. I didn't care. It wasn't my job to look into that stuff.
Instead, I walked the camp, finding all the ins and outs. His sleeping place, the gardens, the quickest path away. It looked pretty simple. Still, I couldn't help but wonder. I knew I could kill him at any time, and walk away in the confusion, but…
So, I snuck into his tent that night. People were in and out all the time, asking his favor, kissing his ass, sucking his dick. All the girls wanted to screw him, and all the boys wanted… much the same. Everyone gets tired, and he was no exception. Round about the time his close people were sending everyone away, I was slipping into the back. So when the good Brother Earth finally got around to heading to sleep, I was already sitting in his bed.
“I'm sorry my child,” he said, with a sleepy smile. “I am already exhausted, I need no company tonight.”
“But the Foundation misses you, Albert,” I replied with cool aplomb.
He paused then, looking me over, really taking me in. The sleep left his eyes, but he didn't seem worried. “So. The Hand Sinister of the Council Itself. Come to drag me back to your den of depravity and evil, hmm?”
I arched an eyebrow at him, smirking despite myself. “After watching you and your followers, I believe you have the market cornered on depravity, Albert.”
“Brother Earth!” he hissed. “I am Brother Earth. And I am not going back. I have seen what they have done to those poor, deluded fools, and I will not be part of it.” He strode towards me, glaring down at me in a poor attempt to intimidate me. “And you can't make me go back.”
“I'm not here to make you go back, Al. They don't want you back. They want you dead.” He waved me off, as if I was inconsequential. “I'm just curious as to why you ran in the first place. You must have known they'd kill you.”
“I ran because… Because I am the Spirit of Peace. I was born on this world to help mankind grow, to turn their back on their murderous ways. I am here as a promise, that the Earth has not forgotten her children, that we can live together. We do not need to kill each other to survive, we can work together!” He stabbed a finger at me, glaring imperiously. “And you can do nothing to stop me, Hand Sinister!”
I hated that name. Of all the code names I had, that one always struck me as the dumbest. Hell, just calling me Left Hand would've been better. I was frustrated, and bored, so I shot him in the foot.
He dropped to the ground, shock written on his face.
“How… how…” He gasped, unbelieving. I grinned, absently stroking the handle of my revolver. I could have told him the guns were special made, I could have let him know who the bone that was inset in the handle was actually from… But I don't monologue. I simply lowered my gun to press against his forehead. He shivered, clearly afraid, his eyes crossed to look at the gun barrel.
I noticed some of his people pushing into the tent. They froze, staring dumbfounded at the scene, and I ignored them. The biggest one stepped forward, then stopped, the veins standing out on his neck.
“I know! I know what they do to the D-class, I saw what they fed them to! I would not be that thing, not anymore! Kill me if you must, but-” And I shot him. I'd heard enough, and he was just going to keep ranting, hoping someone would save him. Better to end it now, when I had what I needed. The big guy dropped to his knees, tears in his eyes. The rest of his followers ran in terror, expecting to be next. I couldn't help but pat the big man on the shoulder as I left. After all, he did his best.
I left the same way I came in. No one stopped me. I could hear the wailing rise as I passed through the front gate. My admirers would have said I smiled, but death is never something to smile about. I heard they enshrined him, hoping the peace effect would linger. Good luck, I say.
Six was grateful for my actions. Gave me a raise. And the standard admonition not to talk about it with anyone.
When I became O5 in his place they told me what they did to the D-class. I didn't like it any more than old Albert had. The difference is, I didn't run away. I did what I always do. I studied the problem. I set pieces in motion. Everything I've done since then, the increase in containments, the Keter breach in 19, the up scaling of the MTFs, and, yes, even Pandora's Box, all of it has been towards the goal of removing something most of the Council still sees as a vital necessity.
And you are the last part, the very last piece I need. A very special blood flows in you, Miss Argent, my brothers blood, and, more importantly, you've had all the training you need. So tell me.
Will you take up my guns?


Project VHUHANI Restricted Hangar, United Nations Occult Coalition Selene Base, Athena One
May 19, 1974, 13:25 GMT
Dropping from the catwalk into the open cockpit below, the words, so peculiarly inscribed on ancient vellum from an impossible history, ran through his head in dribs and drabs. He barely noticed the shouting as the engineers working on the gangly machine finally noticed his presence.
…beyond a certain level of maneuvring complexity, accurately calculating the trajectory of an object with six degrees of freedom becomes impossible given current computational technologies. Thus, VHUHANI provides an effectively…
He slipped into the clear, amniotic goo, taking a deep breath and feeling the slightly sticky fluid gurgle in his lungs. The main engine, already screaming softly, kicked up a notch at his gentle touch at the controls. The sound of gunfire from outside was drowned out by the closing of the hatch and the birth-cry of hydrogen combusting under extraordinarily high pressure.
…control systems designed to account for accelerations well in excess of 10g, including possible backblast from deployment of HAMI-BOMBARD. Variable 'limb' thruster mountings provide an extreme degree of maneuvrability, as well as continued platform viability in the event of severe damage to…
The machine bucked forwards, tearing away from the partially-disassembled equipment resting on the deck of the hangar as if shedding a birthing caul. He went through the motions automatically, as he'd rehearsed a hundred times in the depths of the high shelves, surrounded by the comforting reek of dust and old paper. One of the machine's arms came up, and then all was light. He was out into the open, the hangar a burst pimple receding in the rearward camera.
…extreme density of HAMI-BOMBARD only permits a payload of two rounds in standard configuration. Mountings for three or four-round HAMI-BOMBARD loadouts are structurally possible, but result in greatly decreased engine efficiency. However, given the significant target kill potential afforded by HAMI-BOMBARD, more than two…
He smiled as the acceleration gel rippled over him. Beneath him, VHUHANI burned like a bright star. This was going to give the United Fleet one hell of a kick in the pants.

FSF Denis Diderot, Director von Erbach's Temporary Office
May 20, 1974, 08:43 GMT
"What do you mean, they don't know where it is? It's nuclear-powered, isn't it? We invested millions of man-hours into building radiation sensors fine enough to pick up a fist-sized lump of fissile material anywhere in the damn Solar System."
Von Erbach resettled himself in his seat, smacked his head on the low-hanging bulkhead, and recoiled, stifling a curse. Across the room, Tagobe winced in sympathy.
"The, ah… Well, Axel, from what they've told us- which isn't much, mind you- the reactor design on the thing is fairly exotic. Some kind of thorium isotope was used as fuel instead of uranium, and that gives it a significantly weaker EM emission profile. To make matters worse, the warhead is of such low yield that there's no easy way to detect it at long range. We're going in blind."
"That's all the G- the UNOC have given us? Nothing of use? No fail-safes? Tracking mechanisms?"
"They claim the, uh, Variably Humaniform Ultra-High-Acceleration Nuclear Interceptor-"
"And here I was under the impression that the GO- whatever they're calling themselves was good at pithy codenames."
"-The VHUHANI was hijacked while undergoing maintenance work on, apparently, the integrated nuclear failsafe and the emergency locator beacon tied to it."
There was a long silence. Though all things considered, in the cramped confines of the Diderot, the quietest it ever got was the dull roaring of the engine, keeping the ship under just enough acceleration to force von Erbach's bottom back into the seat.
"Unbelievable, Dr. Tagobe. Of all the contrived excuses…"
"They provided heavily censored images of the hangar afterwards, including the fused remains of what they claimed were the failsafe."
Von Erbach half-stood in his seat, leaning gingerly over the small desk and resting, ever-so-gently, on his knuckles. He missed the 0.9g environment of FORC-00, but most of all he missed ceilings high enough to stand under. Tagobe, being undistinguished on the height front, had no such worries.
"So we've got two possibilities, then. One, the UNOC were either negligent or wanted this thing to be stolen, or two… well, someone had access to intelligence that maintenance work was underway, slipped past the second-most highly fortified location on Minerva, and managed to use a verdammt nuclear device to just blow their way out of there scot free."
"I hate to say it, but I think you're right, Axel. And, uh… forgive me if this is an obvious question but… Well, the development of this thing is totally illegal and unauthorized, yes? I haven't really been concerning myself with politics outside of Heimdall."
"Oh, it's illegal all right. The Preliminary Charter of the United Earth Fleet- drafted, I should remind you, by UN representatives with support from the UNOC- states very clearly that any and all development of new atomic weaponry should be done only after unanimous approval from all other signatories of the Charter."
"I highly doubt the GRU or the Chinese will approve of all this."
"Approve? Hell no. The moment they got the release the CID scrambled all their assets. Everyone in the Fleet with their own ship is looking for any excuse to get their hands on that weapon. Can you imagine the damage you could cause with a- what was it, 'nuclear shaped charge'? Even Noamtosk seemed worried, and he brushed off discovering that magic exists, for God's sakes."

USSRS Mikula Selyaninovich, Captain Rogov's Quarters
May 20, 1974, 08:45 GMT
Captain An Shen waited, grinding his teeth, as the idiot who called himself Captain of this abomination of a spacecraft finished his interminable speech.
"…it is the general opinion of the GRU that while the UNOC have obviously commited a massive breach of trust the solution should not be a military one. We risk too much in regards to the safety of the general fleet by committing assets to a foolish hunt for a single experimental spacecraft, regardless of the danger it might pose. Let the UNOC and the Foundation scrabble over themselves to fix this breach in security. The longer they take, the worse they appear in the eyes of the general public.
"So. To reiterate. You are to tell Department Head Li, and by extension all the CID, that under no circumstances should you pursue the craft in question. Any aggressive action will be met with disciplinary action, is that clear?"
Shen struggled to hold back a sneer. The GRU weren't even bothering to hide their position at this point. Insisting on a personal meeting for 'security reasons'… they hadn't even sent any of their higher-ups to pass on the message. Once more, the CID's authority was being diminished at the hands of these corrupt Russians and their ships full of tortured souls. Li had warned him to expect something like this, and his worst suspicions had been confirmed.
"Is that clear, Captain? Do we have the support of the CID on this matter?"
Li made a half-bow.
"Of course, Captain Rogov. We bow to your superior diplomatic experience."
"Excellent. My crewman will escort you back to your ship. That will be all."
As the ghost of some long-dead Russian escorted him through the cold, dark halls of the spirit ship, Shen couldn't resist a smile. Any doubts he'd been having about going through with this were long gone.

PRCDS Dawn of a New Era, Communications Module
May 20, 1974, 09:07 GMT
Shen hung by one hand in front of the tiny black-and white display, nodding along to the crackly voice of Department Head Li.
"If you wish to back out now, An Shen, I will not blame you. This is a great inconvenience to ask of you, but…"
Shen smiled. The Department Head had always been somewhat understated.
"No need, Department Head. The potential rewards of this undertaking far outweigh any, ah, inconveniences. We have more than enough xenon fuel to make it anywhere we need to be. Besides, any chance to put the GRU and the capitalists in their place is more than worth it.
After a few seconds pause for the signal to make it through, Li nodded.
"Very well. You know your orders. Find VHUHANI. Recover it. Bring us that nuclear device. China will not be marginalized. Good luck. Li out."
Shen took a deep breath, then switched the channel over.
"Bridge here."
"This is the captain. Deploy the solar sails and charge all ion engines. All crew prepare for acceleration. We're moving out at full speed. Operation Xuanzang's Journey is authorized."

Showmen Editorial Emergentshell Constantly Overworked Technicians Who Function Best Under Pressure, Central Command Nest
May 20, 1974, 11:53 GMT
Out beyond the Oort Cloud, the ships of the United Earth Fleet began to scatter, all in search of the same goal. Their captains and crews were, for the most part, ignorant of the myriad recording devices capturing their every move, broadcasting their stories back to the central Showmen vessels editing and managing the entire enterprise. From the center of the nest, hanging in the Posture of Excited Attention, Noamtosk watched it all.
"This oughtta be good."

« Moonrakers | Straight On Till Morning Hub | »


"Some primitive artwork from Uzbekistan…" Jameson summarised, his eyes turning to the attached image files and their captions.

FROM: Jr. Researcher Will Jameson
TO: Technical Researcher David Rosen
RE: Database error?
Hello, Researcher Rosen. Jr. Researcher Will Jameson here. Writing to report possible error in the database. According to RAISA, I am granted Level 2 access to SCP-2140 despite me being a Level 1 personnel. Furthermore, I have no prior or current project tied to SCP-2140. I suspect a system compromise. Can you please look into the matter?
Sincerely
W. Jameson

Rosen looked at the new e-mail in his inbox, and groaned. His eyes shifted to an adjacent monitor, with the tab "SCP-2140: Access".

Hu, Zhi
2
2/2140

Hyde, Shane
2
2/2140

Jab, Mimi
0
2/2140

Jake, Christian H.
3
2/2140

Jameson, Will
1
2/2140

Jane, Augustine Maria
2
2/2140

Jem, Emerald Diamond
4
2/2140

Job, Raphael Tobias
4
2/2140

Jong, Im-soon
2
2/2140

"Geez, what's with all these people asking me about 2140 clearance?" Rosen switched to another tab labelled "Templates for Known Issues" and scrolled down to the relevant issue.

Issue: SCP-2140 (Level 2/2140 clearance)
Hi, [INSERT NAME OF PERSONNEL]. I have checked with RAISA and find no irregularity with the system. You are cleared for Level 2 access regarding SCP-2140. For certain SCP objects, personnel can be granted higher levels of access compared to their actual security clearance. It is mentioned in the Employee Guide, so I would suggest reviewing that again.

Rosen copied and pasted the template as part of his response, editing only the necessary. The end result was:

FROM: Technical Researcher David Rosen
TO: Jr. Researcher Will Jameson
RE: RE: Database error?
Hi, Jr. Researcher Jameson. I have checked with RAISA and find no irregularity with the system. You are cleared for Level 2 access regarding SCP-2140. For certain SCP objects, personnel can be granted higher levels of access compared to their actual security clearance. It is mentioned in the Employee Guide, so I would suggest reviewing that again.
Rosen

Quickly, Rosen clicked "Send" and moved to other similar e-mails.

Will Jameson was inside a courtroom, standing behind the bars of the accused's stand. He looked out at the judge, who read out the sentence.
"And you, Will Jameson, are hereby declared guilty of the murder of Cronus Jameson…" announced the judge.
"Ah!!!" Will Jameson sprung up from his bed, with cold sweat down his face.
He was inside his bedroom in the staff dorm at Site-742. It was nighttime, 0330 local time precisely. Jameson grabbed his head and shook it.
"That dream again…" he muttered, as his free hand switched on the lamp.
With the slightest bit of illumination in his room, Jameson regained his composure and opened up the drawer. Inside were snippets of newspapers, encased in plastic wraps. On top of the small pile was a newspaper clipping stating:

PHANTOM STABBING!
Cronus Jameson (62) was found murdered in his home, stabbed by an unknown attacker. No traces indicative of the attacker are found at the scene of the crime. There is no indication of breaking and entering.

"What do I got to do with Dad's death?" he wondered.

The next morning, Jr. Researcher Jameson prepared another work day at Foundation Site-742. Located in Sarawak, Malaysia, Jameson ultimately felt isolated as a foreigner in this country and as a newcomer in this Site (or the Foundation, in general). He approached his desk, and set up his desktop. While his hands moved about to clear his desk, his mind was fixated at the dreams that haunted him so.
"Maybe it's guilt, that I could not prevent Dad's death. Yeah, definitely guilt. Dreams are rarely literal." he thought.
"Morning Will!" someone greeted Jameson.
Taken aback, Jameson snapped back into reality and was greeted by Researcher Nurul, his colleague and senior in the Foundation by nine months.
"Hey Nurul…" Jameson replied, as Nurul took her seat in a cubicle next to Jameson.
"You look kinda shellshocked," Nurul enquired. "You still thinking of the locals at Kuching who gave you the weird looks on Friday? Don't be! Those guys were just jealous that you can travel and work abroad and see other cultures, know?"
"Thanks Nurul, but I won't let some complete strangers ruin my day."
"Sure, if you got any problems, don't be afraid. Help is in the desk beside you." Nurul winked at her recently-arrived colleague, pointing at herself.
As their conversation ended, Jameson's desktop was ready. He accessed the intranet and ran through the e-mail. There was a new message, a reply to one he had sent a few days ago.

FROM: Technical Researcher David Rosen
TO: Jr. Researcher Will Jameson
RE: RE: Database error?
Hi, Jr. Researcher Jameson. I have checked with RAISA and find no irregularity with the system. You are cleared for Level 2 access regarding SCP-2140. For certain SCP objects, personnel can be granted higher levels of access compared to their actual security clearance. It is mentioned in the Employee Guide, so I would suggest reviewing that again.
Rosen

Looking at the e-mail, Jameson gave out a sigh of relief that all was normal. But the question remained – what was so special about SCP-2140 that he could access it?
"Must be one of those General Reading files like Able or those chairs," Jameson thought, as he changed tabs to access RAISA. He continued to type in his password and access clearance, gaining access to SCP-2140. His eyes skimmed through the document.

Description: SCP-2140 is an image derived through Project Kallinikos from SCP-2140-1-D. SCP-2140-1 instances are alternative versions of the image. All instances depict glyphs in the [REDACTED] script.

100% of persons who view a complete SCP-2140 (regardless of medium) are loyal Foundation personnel with 2/2140 clearance or higher.

supports the hypothesis that this is a retroactive alteration to personal history

located at the [REDACTED] dig site ███ km west of [REDACTED], Uzbekistan.

"Some primitive artwork from Uzbekistan…" Jameson summarised, his eyes turning to the attached image files and their captions.
The first of the files attached was the image itself, SCP-2140 itself. It was a set of symbols that is all Greek to him, with the Foundation logo at its centre. While this should be the first time he saw the symbol, Jameson just kept staring at it.
"This is…"
"Oh, got problem I see." Nurul peered from behind Jameson.
"Nurul, please stop creeping me up from behind!" Jameson insisted, his gaze switched to his colleague.
"You're checking out 2140, I see," Nurul quickly deduced. "No biggie. I'm cleared for it too, and so are our other colleagues here. 2/2140, right?"
"Yeah… must be those under General Reading," Jameson reasoned, causing Nurul to make a X mark sign with her fingers.
"Incorrect, rookie! General Reading is denoted by the SCP number, followed by the letter "G" in caps and square brackets. 2140 is not under General Reading," Nurul explained. "Read the Employee Guide again, smart boy!"
"Say Nurul, do you think we are what we are?" Jameson asked, "I mean, as loyal Foundation employees."
"Huh, don't tell me you're creeped out by 2140." Nurul rolled her eyes. "Look, that attitude won't get you far in the Foundation. Besides, let's take a look at the document here."
Nurul leaned forward, and pointed at certain passages on the screen.

No record exists of any experimental test subjects (such as D-Class personnel) or any other person lacking appropriate background and clearance viewing the complete image.

"See, no inappropriate person was tested this SCP before," she explained, "and the personal history thing is only a hypothesis, as stated there. Go read the academic journals; Dr. Vang wrote his own theory of it being a memetic kill agent for spies and double agents."
"Yeah… maybe I'm having an existential crisis," Jameson admitted.
"Comes with the job. Get used to it, mister loyal employee." Nurul smiled, as she walked off while humming to a song from her childhood.
On the hand, Jameson continued looking at SCP-2140's documentation and his eyes browsed through the captions.

Area-313 Deep Storage

"Area-313?! Oh yeah, I was there for orientation," he realised.

As the day ended and most matters settled, Jameson went to sleep for the night. Like previous nights since his employment with the Foundation, he dreamt…
Jameson was seated in an auditorium. It was full of other people, all of them wearing orange jumpsuits with numbers on them. He too was wearing the same orange jumpsuit. Guards armed with truncheons were stationed at the doors of the auditorium.
On the stage, a stern elderly lady in uniform stood at the podium. On the breast pocket of her uniform was the emblem of the Foundation.
"Good afternoon boys, welcome to Area-313. Rejoice, for you will be offering your time and selves in service to all humanity-" she spoke.


My brother Ross died a week ago in a freak accident involving a slow loris. Turns out, they're related to monkeys, and poisonous. Who knew? I never knew Ross was into slow lorises, anyway. The doctor said there was a rash of slow loris attacks recently, which is strange, because they're kinda like sloths otherwise.
Anyway, Ross died, and the whole family gathered for the funeral. Everyone was sad, you know, like you're supposed to be. Ross was never the family favorite, always a bit weird, but whatever, family is family, and he was young. His casket was open. The funeral home really did a great job at cleaning Ross up. Can't believe he's really gone. Are slow lorises even native to Boston?
So, yeah, everyone was kinda in shock, but things picked up for the eulogy, though. I remember it clearly: "Ross. He was a sorry sack, in time. Life was all the pressure of reform and the purse. Think, for a moment, about the vittles he led and powerful tacky skin he scored. Was this a man of rage? Of ricin by the aliquot? No! Ross knew the buttery encapsulation of a full life. Like, I remember when he and we and they and he all went to the shivering place and there was just too much marshmallow. Tallow fat. We all cringed and wailed, but Ross? Nosiree, he just split open the pustules and boom! Esophageal ulcers for everyone!"
Oh, that Cousin Johnny. Always such a riot. By the end of that, we all were in stitches. After a speech like that, I could barely keep a straight face as I walked up to the casket, took the knife, slashed my wrist and bled for Ross.
When I was done, I passed the knife on to Aunt Bridget, and looked back at Ross one last time. That's when I noticed something weird. His gut was beginning to expand. I stuck around to watch as this bulge in Ross's belly started busting through his tux, all purplish and pulsating.
In the middle of Uncle Earl's turn to bleed, that growth ruptured, spraying Earl and me and Fr. O'Reilly and Johnny in a real pale concoction that was like half-blood, half-pus. Did you know that the spleen is the home of up to half of all the lymphocytes in the body? I didn't. Still don't. Not sure why I said that. Anyway, Ross's spleen ruptured and sprayed us all. A couple of tentacles emerged from Ross's spleen and started grabbing at the metal hinges on the casket and the knife. Steel, iron, the tentacles were grabbing anything made of iron and started turning them into tin cans. Ross, from the casket, still dead, apparently, said, "Always recycle your iron!"
Johnny just stared at Ross. He was not expecting this. I mean, who could?
We were wondering how we were going to finish bleeding for Ross without the knife when the rest of us started developing pains in our left side. Soon, everyone's spleen was rupturing and spraying blood. Well, that solved the knife problem, even if this was really freaking us out. Everyone except Johnny, who was just standing there, desperately trying to restore order in the whole bloody mess everything had become. He just started prematurely regurgitating his blood and wood pulp into the casket, before Livvy and Amelia were able to add their blood to the coffin. Ross's spleen tentacles just started slurping up Johnny's slurry like it was a shake or something.
Johnny was distraught. There was no way to fill up the casket now. Also, everyone was bleeding out their sides and making a mess of the church. We were all pretty much running around confused. So, I guess that's why no one noticed when this bloody human in a hot London suit and spats rose out of Ross's abdominal cavity.
Stepping out of the corpse, the party crasher wiped the blood from his face and dude. Duuuuuude. It was that guy from all the shows. You know, that guy. We just had a TV star crash Ross's funeral. He called out, "Smile and laugh!" He reached over to the tabernacle and opened it up to reveal a hidden camera! Then, he went over to Aunt Maureen, stuck a finger up her nose and pulled out another camera! Oh my god, we were on a prank show all this time! That's what was going on! We all started laughing. This was way over the top, and you know Ross would have wanted it this way.
Well, Cousin Johnny wasn't laughing. He was just perplexed. He always did have a weird sense of humor, Johnny. He just emitted a loud chittering and left the stage/church.
The announcer closed with, "Spleens! Storing blood, recycling nutrients, producing lymphocytes, and making laughs! They were associated with melancholy in the past, but they provide nothing but mirth and merriment now. Is there anything that this oft-neglected organ can't do for us? We hope you enjoyed a good deep belly laugh and had a chance to vent your spleen! Vent your laugh! Come laugh with us. And remember, LAUGH IS FUN!"
I had forgotten how fun funerals are. We should have them more often.


Warning:
The following text may induce mild visual hallucinations. Personnel are to be applied with Memetic Counter-Agent: "Buzhou" before proceeding.

The following documents are a collection of poems retrieved from a previously unknown faction of GOI-004 ("The Church of the Broken God"). Upon discovery, personnel experienced mild visual hallucinations of various images, depicting dragons similar to those in eastern mythology, or unnaturally sized serpents. No long-term effect has been detected.
The poems appear to be translations of materials of different origins, written in various time periods and regions. Notably, unlike other CotBG literature, both the entity "Mekhane" (Broken God) and the entity "Yaldabaoth" (Sarkic God) are described as dragons or serpents in the texts. They also reveal a more complex relation between the two entities than previously believed. One shows a direct link to ancient Chinese myths; the other is suspected to be linked to SCP-████.

His Sword, Like Serpent

+ Hypatia, Circa 100 BCE, Lesbos

- Hypatia, Circa 100 BCE, Lesbos

I have picked up His sword by the seashore,
Who whispered to me soft words.
First it told me about two great dragons,
Then it spoke of man and war.
One was there to enlighten in the Eden, it said,
The other a reckless god.
One taught us to think and feel, it said,
The other bred us from soil.
The dragons once rest in the abyss, it said,
Then came their sons and daughters.
One had made a cage of His bronze skeleton,
The other trapped and suffered.
One wore a crown of thunder and lightning, it said,
The other sat on a throne of bones.
But the crown now in pieces and the throne concealed,
Their descendants on earth live oblivious.
I shall build Him a temple and an altar, I said,
So the dragons shall be remembered.
I shall light the candles and speak of prayers, I said,
And make sacrifice of blood and steel.
I have taken His sword back from the seashore,
Crafted an altar out of iron and silver.
I have laid the pillars and paved the floor,
Lit the candles at nightfall.
I have put His sword up on the altar,
Where it coiled like a serpent.
It sang in a language not of this world,
Then spoke about men and war.
It was when the priests lit the fire of bronze, it said,
That the beasts of blood had gathered.
Great colossi of metal stood tall with hammers,
As horrible angels were called.
It was when the sky bled a crimson red, it said,
That stars all flickered and trembled.
Teeth and thorns clutching together,
Roars and clanking long heard.
There stood the dragons' descendants,
Each fought for their only god.
Men implanted themselves with inventions of god;
Men reborn to be dragons and serpents.
The one dragon shall cry with His tears of mercury,
The other shall laugh as the chains rattle.
There stood the dragons' proud descendants,
Regarding one another as pests and cancer.
They bit and cut and summoned the lightings,
Until one was torn and the other was lost.
They fought on earth as their progenitors did in heaven,
In elder times and formless void.
The men are not better than their creators, it said,
As the dragons no better than us.
But broken is broken and lost is lost, it said,
And I am but a mere sword.
A sword forged by His sacred fires, it said,
Sharpened to impale the heart of another.
But as such a weapon I was never used, it said,
Now lay rusted and shameful.

In His Wasted Kingdom

+ Dario Narváez, Circa 1100 CE, Galicia

- Dario Narváez, Circa 1100 CE, Galicia

I have reached the Shore of Light,
Into His wasted kingdom.
Our great Father the Serpent,
Calls for his long lost children.
I have sailed in His tears of mercury,
And witnessed His blood of boiling iron.
He has sighed and wept,
For the strange fate we met.
Our vicious Mother the Dragon,
Her words are sweet, her powers are grand.
But how can we choose to be beasts,
Having learnt the ways of men?
We were once their proud descendants,
Given promises to inherit the land.
But having forgotten the past and lost our sight,
We crawled on earth like worms and pests.
Endless wars we fought,
All of them in vain.
Grand cities we built,
Only a shadow of past achievements.
But I have heard you call,
And know that you tolerate our ignorance.
I have listened to your heartbeats,
And know you have forgiven Mother's sins.
I now stand in your wasted kingdom,
Hearing the echoes of your voice and spirit.
I have promised to seek out the shattered pieces,
The heart, the eyes, and the cage of your skeleton.
Seven pieces you are scattered,
Seven pieces I will find.
Seven pieces I will gather,
So the dragon shall breathe again.
I have stood in a desert of gears,
Once components of a machine so grand.
But I know your heart will beat,
As your great fires reignite.
I call upon you, Father Serpent!
So our path may be clear.
I shall rebuild you, Father Serpent!
So Her sins may meet redemption.
I have stood in His wasted kingdom,
And wish I have seen its grander days.
But we shall fulfill your wishes, Father Serpent!
So our family may reunite.

To Call on the Dragon

+ Unknown, Circa 1400 BCE, Anatolia

- Unknown, Circa 1400 BCE, Anatolia

To call on the brass dragon,
And have it consume your flesh.
It is like a wolf indeed,
To feed on the lambs of meat.
Let it sink its teeth,
Through the bones and organs.
Let it claw out your heart,
Drinking the blood and feast.
To call on the brass dragon,
And have it swallow your body.
It is like a serpent indeed,
To take the bird into its skin.
Let it sink its fangs,
Infecting with poisonous mercury.
Let it coil around you,
Crushing the spine and ribs.
To call on the brass dragon,
And have it bite you to pieces.
It is like a beast indeed,
To chop down the prey's head.
Let it sink its claws,
Through your final breath.
Let it rip you open,
Revealing the foul things beneath.
To call on the brass dragon,
And have it take your mortal body.
It is like a god indeed,
To release the man's spirit.
To have your body sacrificed,
To have your soul remade.
To replace blood with mercury,
And put cogs down your skin.
To call on the brass dragon,
What a marvelous machine!
Leave behind your body of flesh,
And rejoice in the dragon's realm.

I Have Seen the Dragon in the Great Brass Cage

+ Serik, Circa 900 CE, Tibetan Plateau

- Serik, Circa 900 CE, Tibetan Plateau

Upon the mountain came a man,
His lips were sealed but his eyes are many.
In his company were beasts and serpents,
Chained to his many hands reluctantly following.
I came in front of him in fear and worship,
Listening to the prophecy from the tongueless prophet.
The serpents coiled and the beasts restless,
But each held back by the eyes ever watching.
"I have seen the dragon in the Great Brass Cage," He said,
"Its claws are sharp and its breeds are many.
Its mouth consuming stars and its scales large as cities,
It coils and bends with the cage rusting.
"I have heard chanting and seen his servants,
Reborn from mere men to serpents and beasts.
Sacrifices were made in exchange for power,
But the great dragon never needs to feed.
"It fed on the bodies of gods not the flesh of men,
And it fell into slumber for ages and ages.
But its glory reduces not and his crown ever flaming,
Only a fool would claim mastery to such a thing.
"Pity the Great Sorcerer King of Adytum,
Who regards himself a god but an insect merely.
Pity his Klavigar and proud Karcists,
Who seek to rule the land but will all perish.
"Pity the followers of the great brass machine,
Their master scattered still in pieces.
Pity the mortals who know not about the dragons,
Descendants of the same blood but will die in ashes."
My face went pale as the beasts roared,
And I could hear the serpents shifting in darkness.
The moon shed down a blood red light,
As the mouthless prophet spoke once more.
"I have seen the dragon in the great brass cage," He said,
"Its teeth are sharp and its eyes are opening.
Its crown shines and its throne to be remade,
And when the cage shatters it will breathe."

In the Shape of the Dragon

+ Unknown, Circa 1900 CE, ████████

- Unknown, Circa 1900 CE, ████████

I have long been suspicious of the dark secrets in the false city,
but it is only when I'm here that I came to know how terrible the secrets might be.
I have only a wild guess of what unspeakable god the Hanged King bargained with,
and I do not dare to think about the rotten things hidden in the opposite side.
I have to write down my horrible discovery, but as the city's rules stand,
I'm compelled to compose a poem instead of a journal. It is a carnival, after all.
I have arrived at the great city of Alagadda,
The place of treasure and the court of revelry.
But as I peek deep down beneath,
The rubies crafted out of blood and the gold made of meat.
I have walked down the black corridors,
Quiet and away from the cheers and feasts.
As the singing faded and the black stars shined,
I smelled in the darkness the rotten things.
I stepped on the pathways and they felt like organs,
I look up to see the pillars resembling ribs.
I turned and ran until I met a blood river,
And each step I made sounded like a scream.
I have traced to find a deep black hole,
All the blood flooded roaring underneath.
I heard crows laughed vague and distant,
From the star-like holes the heaven bore.
I have seen the crowd approach once more,
With broken masks and decaying bodies.
The food they carried sprout rats and maggots,
The wine in their glasses a dark red liquid.
I have dived down deep into the great fall of madness,
And heard laughter come from the Ambassador.
I recalled meeting with the Hanged King,
All chained and bandaged with a painful moaning.
I have landed in a tunnel as the waves washed me,
Decay and mold crawled upon my body.
I have crawled deep down to the center,
And saw the mark of the dragon.
I have looked around the chamber,
But it was void and empty.
The blood dried and the waves ceased,
And the structure around still and lifeless.
I have arrived at the bowels of the city,
Resting in its long dead rotting body.
I have smelled death upon approaching,
Only to find it was something even more empty.
It was the shape of a great dragon,
Who once resided here for ages and ages.
But now a mere hole dark and gaping,
The phantom of a god ripping reality.
I have seen the hole of the great dragon,
In the dark center of Alagadda.
My mind shattered before the truth,
As I screamed and screamed.
All the blood for the Hanged King,
But he was a mere tunnel for the greater things.
The blood and flesh flowed into a great brass cage,
A prison where the dragon patiently waiting.

To Mother's Call, To Father's Wish

+ Gernot, Circa 1700 CE, Bavaria

- Gernot, Circa 1700 CE, Bavaria

In a war-torn battlefield,
I hold up my lifeless body.
Once a being of flesh,
Now a meatless thing.
A serpent coils around my spine,
I hear it say to me:
"Mother has heard your call,
Father is broken but waiting.
To whose call you will answer,
Down whose path you will walk?"
I ask it for Hell and Heaven,
And hear the crows laugh at me.
The serpent crawls up to my skull,
And whispers to me soft things.
"Hell and Heaven are but foolish dreams,
Father has asked you to purify your soul,
And ascend into godly machines.
Or do you want be like Mother,
Merge your soul with body,
To be a dragon reborn from the ashes?"
I ask it which way is to salvation,
Which way is the devil's wish.
The serpent slips into my empty chest,
And rests where my heart was beating.
"Both ways are divine as your creators,
Both paths are that of the dragons.
But blood and mercury was shed over the decision,
As Mother and Father fought for ages.
To choose one is to be damned by another,
To answer Mother's call, or to fulfill Father's wish?"
I can feel my bones cracking,
Where new flesh is to be.
I can hear the call from heaven,
Where my spirit can ascend godly.
Do I walk immortal among the living,
Do I become a god all-seeing?
I ponder over the question,
As the serpent slips down and away,
As the crows cease laughing,
And my skeleton reduces to ashes.

To the Dragons' Witness

+ Ziqian, 1900 - 1800 BCE, South China

- Ziqian, 1900 - 1800 BCE, South China

In the great abyss the two dragons resided,
Their forms grand and their glory uncanny.
Eons after Pangu separated earth from heaven,
The dragons rose from Yang and Yin.
One is flesh and matter concentrated,
The other of wind and pure spirit.
One called Nüwa, our great mother,
The other one Fuxi, who guided us wisely.
To the great fields the two dragons went,
Storms and thunders raging in between.
They had seen fish in seas and birds in heaven,
While great beasts strolled the wilderness.
Grand as high mountains and long valleys,
No one was there to witness.
Delicate as early flowers and shallow streams,
No one was there to see.
It was when Nüwa sighed,
That mankind was created.
From the ancient soil she shaped our bodies,
Into the husks great life she breathed.
Nüwa bestowed us forms and senses,
Built us into great serpents as she is.
Fuxi gave us souls and minds,
Taught us wisdom and knowledge.
Above the great cities the two dragons lingered,
High towers and gigantic machines lined beneath.
Their proud descendants now ruled the land,
Serpents as they were, shaping mountains and seas.
Fish caught in the nets, birds now in cages,
The great beast there no longer, as wilderness vanished.
Storms and thunders paled by their inventions,
Fires and waters obeyed man's wishes.
In the great skies the two dragons fought,
Their teeth sharp and their claws clutching.
Nüwa demanded that we be beasts once more,
Fuxi wanted us to learn, and become greater beings.
Heavens collapsed with Yin and Yang disturbed,
Grounds shattered as fire and water rampaged.
Metal and bones impaling the body of another,
As the two dragons roared and wept.
Down the great abyss the two dragons battled,
One asked to destroy and one preserving.
As Nüwa's rage could not be appeased,
Fuxi shattered himself to be a cage, trapping her in Taisuixing.


Project Aims: Establishment of a Class I pseudo-Oneiric Apparition capable of multi-universal communication for the manipulation of extra-universal causalities for the propagation and betterment of the Foundation and its mission statement.

Project Codename: Morpheus
Project #: PRJMRF-000010
Clearance and File #: NPF-0005742
Head Researcher: Dr. Thomas Bailey
Project Aims: Establishment of a Class I pseudo-Oneiric Apparition capable of multi-universal communication for the manipulation of extra-universal causalities for the propagation and betterment of the Foundation and its mission statement. [1]
Raw Materials:

• SCP-990 (O5 CLEARANCE)

ACCESS APPROVED

Agent 990-Morpheus utilising SCP-990.

Item #: SCP-990
Object Class: Thaumiel
Clearance Designation: O5 personnel. Selected Level 4 or below personnel are cleared under CODE NIDHOGG.
Universe of Origin: The Foundation
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-990 is to be kept in the Department of Extra-Universal Affairs Headquarters. Usage of SCP-990 is only allowed with the approval of a majority of the O5 Council. Agent 990-Morpheus is the only approved user of SCP-990.
Description: SCP-990 is a device intended to project a user's (designated as 'Agent 990-Morpheus') consciousness into that of another individual (hereon referred to as 'target') during the target's rapid-eye movement (REM) stage of sleep. SCP-990's primary design is derived from the Oneiroi Astral Synchroniser v3.0, a device common to the late Universe 3513-Omega-Purple-Zulu.1
SCP-990 consists of a modified virtual reality headset with microphone and motion capture gloves attached. These are then attached to a monitor, which processes data retrieved from the target into a series of images. While electrodes are nominally attached to the target's scalp, SCP-990 has been modified such that it can be synchronised with nano-EEG nodes. This allows any individual attached with nano-EEG nodes to be a potential target for SCP-990. Range of effect is speculated to be unlimited throughout multiple universes, a side-effect of the application of the Stem as the setup's power source. [2]
In the dreams of the target, Agent 990-Morpheus gains traits characteristic of Class I Oneiric Apparition such as the capacity to manipulate images and sensations experienced by targets. In addition, the user is consistently perceived as a male human of Caucasian descent, regardless of the user's own physical appearance. This allows the true identity of Agent 990-Morpheus to be obscured.

• Nano-electroencephalographic Nodes

ACCESS APPROVED

RES-ID: nEEGn/0084 - ESOTERICS

NANO-ELECTROENCEPHALOGRAPHIC NODES

The nano-EEG nodes are designed from state-of-the-art nanotechnology from multiple iterations of the Foundation's R&D, intended as a means to remotely record electrical activity in subjects' brains without their knowledge. They may be injected into a subject's bloodstream, allowing them to enter the brain. The presence of nano-EEG nodes is known to cause minimal interference to the subject.

• One Foundation personnel to be designated as 'Agent 990-Morpheus'

PERSONNEL FILE ACCESSED

Personnel Name: Agent Margaret Nykos
Security Clearance Level: 3/CODE NIDHOGG
Position: Operative, Intelligence Division, Department of Extra-Universal Affairs
Testimonial: For the role of Agent 990-Morpheus, two key aspects must be identified – loyalty and improvisation. The former is required in order to ensure successful delivery of all missions in situations where Agent 990-Morpheus is unable to seek advice from commanders. The latter is necessary when dealing with the noosphere and unpredictable situations there.
Agent Nykos, in my opinion, fulfils the two prerequisites. In her service of the Foundation, her loyalty rating is consistently above average since her employment (in both her home universe and while working for the Multi-U). Given her background in theatrics and track record of on-the-spot thinking, Agent Nykos is entirely capable of maintaining her facade as a Class I pseudo-Oneiric Apparition without exposing her true allegiance with the inner Foundation.
I have also included a few of Agent Nykos' achievements while as an Intelligence Operative.

Successful infiltration of Universe 9375-Beta-Green-Charlie under the alias of a Type Black entity and dissemination of SCP-500-Ω (CODENAME "Tears of God") to general populace.
Assist in extraction of up to 10 anomalous objects from Foundation Sites in Universe 5643-Gamma-Orange-Delta prior to Procedure 2317-Revelations.

With all of that in mind, it is expected that Nykos will excel in the field as 990-Morpheus.
Dr. Thomas Bailey

• A minimum of 20 adult human subjects (D-class) for preliminary experimentation.
Procedures:
• Modification of SCP-990 such that nano-EEG nodes may be used in conjunction.

• Ensure compatibility between SCP-990 and nano-EEG nodes

• Dissemination of nano-EEG nodes in water supplies of selected Sites and Areas.
Field Reports:

• Event-990-07

ACCESS APPROVED

Test Site: NORAD HQ, United States of America (Universe 8267-Beta-Yellow-Bravo)
Test Duration: 6 November 1979 AD – 9 November 1979 AD
Procedure: A tape containing a training exercise is to be inserted into NORAD computers, such that it alerts systems of a supposed nuclear attack from a non-existent hostile party. Under fears of a nuclear assault on the USA, it is hypothesised that NORAD will retaliate and the resultant nuclear barrage will destabilise most of Europe, Asia and North America.
Three days prior, Agent 990-Morpheus will contact Agent ██████ via SCP-990. Aim is to explain in detail in the procedure and its speculated aftermath, in addition to the means to prevent the events leading to a potential K-class scenario.
Aftermath: Test successful. Agent 990-Morpheus is able to contact and converse with Agent ██████ for over 40 hours. After which, Agent ██████ is able to relay instructions relayed to him by Agent 990-Morpheus. Through deployment of that universe's Mobile Task Force Nu-2, the incorrect tape has been removed from NORAD computers. Agent ██████ deceased following Event-990-07.
Agent 990-Morpheus displays capacity to manipulate images and sensations experienced by Agent ██████, depicting the cities of Moscow, Berlin, Beijing, Seoul, and Istanbul after a nuclear bombardment.
In addition, Agent 990-Morpheus is recognised as a potential SCP-class object. File entry for "SCP-990" slot opened for Level ≤4 security clearance.

• Interview Log 990-02

ACCESS APPROVED

Interviewee: Agent 990-Morpheus
Interviewer: Dr. Thomas Bailey
Foreword: The following interview takes place after the events of the interview in Document 990-02.
< Begin Log>
Dr. Bailey: It appears that Dr. ██████████, whom you have contacted previously, has submitted the interview you had with him. As you'd know, it matches perfectly with our transcript of it.
990-Morpheus: Yes, I believe we have confirmed ██████████'s rumoured photographic memory. But I did not find anything truly anomalous about him.
Dr. Bailey: So he's cleared for now. But we're here because of you. I will need to enquire about some of your responses.
990-Morpheus: Improvisations, all of them. You gave me this job 'cos of that, in case you forget.
Dr. Bailey: It's largely for the higher-ups; speaking of which, they are not entirely receptive with you naming yourself, even with pseudonyms.
990-Morpheus: My identity is still protected. With the avatar, they will expect an old man firstly and not someone like me. Besides, we cannot be traced back.
Dr. Bailey: True, but the Council wishes you to not reveal anything amounting to personal information. Real or false. The Multi-U's true purpose must not be known to outsiders, you should know that.
990-Morpheus: Understood sir.
Dr. Bailey: And what of SCP-██████████?
990-Morpheus: A random number I've improvised. I've checked what I could access in the catalogue. There is no SCP-██████████.
Dr. Bailey: Yes, there is no SCP-██████████.
<End Log>

Addendum:
Addendum PRJMRF-001: After the IK-class global civilisation collapse scenario in U 3513-Ω-Purple-Z, the term 'Oneiroi Collective" has appeared in up to 100 universes observed by the Multi-U. All witness accounts of the "Oneiroi Collective" occur during witnesses' REM sleep stage, and suggest that they are presently incorporeal and exist in separate plane of reality. [3] Pending background checks regarding any connections to "Oneiroi Gardens" and registration as a Group of Interest.
Addendum PRJMRF-002: During a deployment of SCP-990, connection with Agent 990-Morpheus was lost for five minutes. During which, the following message appeared on SCP-990.

To the ladies and gentlemen at the Foundation
We understand you have been using our products for the greater good. We do not mind the sacrifice of our world and our physical bodies for that sake. After all, we have transcended flesh and become icons of inspiration.
Nevertheless, we wish your organisation may credit us in your efforts for the greater good. The recommended course of action is to indicate the source of this modified technology (Oneiroi Astral Synchroniser v3.0). We will reserve the right to withhold further usage if service continues to be uncredited.
Sincerely,
Lawrence Knight
Oneiroi Collective Legals

Agent 990-Morpheus claims to have no encounter with members of the Oneiroi Collective during deployment of SCP-990. Subsequent attempts to use SCP-990 have failed. Project Morpheus is currently under hiatus, and Agent 990-Morpheus is transferred.
Addendum PRJMRF-003: Despite hiatus of Project Morpheus, multiple Foundation operatives have reported sightings of entities similar to Agent 990-Morpheus' avatar in their respective dreams. Pending further investigation. Oneiroi Collective suspected.

Bibliography
1. Franklin, G. G., McTiriss, K., Roget, R. F., Walker, E. M. (1993). Living Dreams and Nightmares. Journal of Xenobiology, SCP Edition, 32-47.
2. Carter, T., Peterson, A., Siegel, A., Siegel, E. (1891). Anatomy of the World Tree. Journal of the True Foundation, 2-4.
3. Sanchez, A. (1981). A dead man's guide to the noosphere. Journal of Metaphysics, SCP Edition, 123-27.

Footnotes
1. Said universe's iteration of Earth was dominated by the conglomerate Oneiroi Gardens, of which astral projection devices were widely used by the populace. In 2045, power failure of the Oneiroi mainframe caused the deaths of 90% of humanity and destabilisation of governments worldwide (equivalent of an IK-class global civilisation collapse scenario). All known similar devices in U 3513-Ω-Purple-Z are believed to have been destroyed.


Had this idea yesterday and just decided to follow through (despite a terrible cold I'm currently recovering from). It's Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer! Only not at all that.
Happy Holidays and thanks to everyone who listened before I posted!

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Date of Log: December 24th, 2010.
Purpose: Documentation relating to SCP-055 testing.
Subject: Dr. Jeremiah Cimmerian
Transcription Method: Digital

+ Show Transcript

- Hide Transcript

Begin Log.
This is Dr. Cimmerian, and this is document 55-C-13. I am attempting to recall information relating to uh… SCP-055. Now. I remember that it is… uh… shit. Ok. Well that's pretty much what we expected. It seems like we can't talk about it and we can't write about it.
Though… Actually. I wonder if we could sing about it.
It's worth a shot…
Um… Well it's Christmas.
"You know Statues and Lizards and
Eldritch Places,
Reality shapers,
And endless staircases,
But do you recall.
The most dangerous item of all.
SCP Fifty Five is,
Impossible to describe,
What was I gonna say next?
Oh right Fifty Five.
All of the other objects,
Are dangerous in their own way,
The thing about this one is that…
What was I about to say?

Shit.
Despite foggy memories,
I know it's not a sphere,
We can remember what it's not,
But not a sphere is all we've got,
And this you simply must know,
If it ever does get out,
SCP Fifty Five will…
Wait. What was I talking about?"
Oh. God damn it. End Log.