“This is a bad idea,” mutters Dr. Jack Bright, currently in the body of a 54 year old Jewish butcher, who had been sentenced to death for killing his wife, and using her body as extra stuffing in his meat pies. This body was the closest to being what might be considered his own, even if it did knock a few decades off his age. He slides into a seat at the large table, trying to get comfortable. He'd been female for the past several months, and slipping into a differently gendered host always made him feel like bits were hanging out where they shouldn't.
“I think it's a fucking horrible idea. But-” O5-6, often referred to as Cowboy, and once upon a time known as Mikell Bright, slips into his own seat. He adjusts his belt as he tries to make himself at home, but he hadn't felt right since he gave up his guns. He casts a barely concealed, avarice filled glance across the room at the current owner. She'd earned them, he had no right to ask for them back, but no gun felt the same. “You do a lot for family, especially when they get…” He searches for the word, having trouble finding something polite.
“Old, Mikell. She got old.” Jack fills in, never one for politeness. He turns to his other side, making sure his younger brother was safe in his chair, and wouldn't fall out. He had to take care of TJ. The meeting set up was very explicit, no guards, no nurses, no one who wasn't family. Period. “It's weird to think of one of our brood getting old, but… She aged. Kind of quickly too.”
“I thought she'd gotten herself a new body?” Yorick Elroy interjects from where he leans against the wall. As one of the younger members of the family, the roundabout grandson of Dr. Bright had chosen a standing position, preferring to let the elders get comfortable. The fact that it also allows him to monitor all the exits to the conference room, and get to them fastest, probably also factored in. “I feel like she was involved with the ruckus at Site 23, someone said.”
“Might have been wish granting from 239,” opinions the youngest member of the troupe, Special Agent Serra Argent. She too chooses to stay standing, but, as opposed to her laconic cousin, she was pacing the Foundation side of the table, her hands never far from the pearl handled revolvers that were, if not her birthright, then her due. “You know, like with…” Her gaze drifts to where her father was drawing with his crayons. Everyone followed her gaze, and then glances away, almost as one. The family that guilts together…
“How long do you think they'll make us wait?” Cowboy asks as he fiddles with his belt for what feels like the hundredth time in five minutes.
“Not long,” says a voice by the door. The Foundation side of the Bright family turns their attention to the door, and frowns as one. Was there someone speaking? It was hard to tell. Nobody was there.
She was Asian, and young, and kind of wide. It was hard to keep these facts in mind. She was dressed kinda like- and she was about- the only one of the group who could keep his eyes on her with any reliability was Jack, but then, he kept his mind outside of his body, so she really doesn't work on him. “They sent me first, to make sure you guys were abiding by the rules.” She walks down the other side of the table, looking at chairs, checking underneath, in general, being a suspicious brat. She doesn't bother looking at any of the people, they didn't interest her. “No Sarah?”
Bright snorts, as his family continues trying to find the source of the voice. He just stares at her, his chin propped on one fist, his eyes watering. “Looks like someone's gone up in the world, my dear.” He offers a brief smile to his great grandniece, secure in the knowledge he was the only one who recognizes her. “And no, no Sarah. We wouldn't have been able to bring TJ, no it's okay, keep coloring.” He strokes his younger brother's hair to calm the boy, who looks up when he recognizes his own name. “If Mikell hadn't gone out on a limb, with a ‘new experimental treatment.' Sarah would have just been over the top. Besides. It's not like she would've noticed.”
“That girl notices more than you might think,” says the mature woman who follows her daughter into the room. Claire Lumineux the Second, or Junior to friends and enemies alike, was almost as bland as her daughter, but it's more of a practiced blandness, borne out of a need to not stand out, to not be caught. She was thin, and her hair was almost completely white. She has a glare for everyone at the table, except for one. Her face softens when she sees TJ, and she visibly has to stop herself from walking around to that side of the table to touch him. A brilliant arc of electricity leaps from her fingers to ground in the chair as she pulls it out. She offers a wry grin as explanation. “Too much static.”
“Now now auntie. Don't go trying to scare the poor Jailers. You know our blood doesn't run easily.” The next man through the door wears heavy shades, to hide his eyes, and walks with a red tipped cane. He'd left the dog at home, because he knew it would have tried to bite someone. David Blindman, often called The Legitimate Son, or the Legal Heir, was there to speak for the Unnumbered Brood, the many children sired by O5-6 in his younger, wilder days. Some of the Brood claimed descent from others of the Bright family, but they were all lumped together under one banner, for better or worse. David nods to his father, and easily settles into a chair. “Father. I'd say it's good to see you, but you made sure that's not true.”
“David,” Six rumbles. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, hands once more on his belt. “We've had this argument. I wanted to save you-” He glances down the table, at his youngest brother. “From everything.”
“You've always had a funny way of protecting people, son.” The two seated Foundation employees jump to their feet as a young, dark skinned woman, dressed in a traditional hijab and form-hiding dress, floats through the door. I feel the need to point out that ‘floats' here is only used as in the sense that it appeared so, not that she was actually levitating. You have to be specific when describing these people, you never know what they can actually do. She smiles at the men behind the table, and gives each of them a big hug, and then does the same for TJ. He just seems annoyed that she was keeping him from coloring. “Hello boys, it's good to see you,” she says, still grinning as she makes her way over to her side of the table. Once called Evelyn, and sometimes called Two, since her defection and rejuvenation she tended to go by the name Echidna, or, when she was feeling romantic, Mother of Monsters. It was a title she came by both naturally, and artificially. She slips into a seat with the grace of a queen, her voluminous dress bulging oddly in places, before she smooths them out.
“Your father couldn't make it?” She addresses the question to Mikell, but it's Jack who answers.
“Dad's retired. He made it quite clear he didn't want to get involved with any of this, even if it was family business.” The lady who creates creatures for a living arches an eyebrow at her son, but lets it pass. If her husband wanted to retire, well, good for him. At least he got out.
The last person to enter the room was the only one who was trusted by all of them. A tall, thin ginger fellow, dressed in purple, Arabian style robes, he was known by many names. Dr. Joseph Tamlin. Yosef Bin Tamlin. Yoshua bin Yosef. Time. That Asshole. O5-13. The Wibbly in the Wobbly. Oh Fuck, Why Is He Here. The Wall Breaker. And dozens, if not hundreds, more, spread across thousands of years of human history. Many people theorize that Tamlin is not a name, but a title, passed on in secret. These people are wrong. Probably. Possibly. In most timelines. It gets weird, y'see? Time is happening, all at once, together- “Don't bother, they won't understand,” Tamlin comments to the room at large. Both sides of the table exchange a glance, but don't say anything. They were all used his random outbursts. He was pushing an old TV-on-a-stand set up, like people of a certain age will remember from grade school, with the VCR on a shelf below TV. He glances over the assembled personages, mentally checking people off on his list, and nodded to himself. “Good! We're all here, we can begin.”
Yorick does his own mental count, and then raises a hand. “Ah, pardon me, but I don't think-”
He is cut off by Tamlin. “Yes, Claire is not present, despite having been the one to call this meeting. The reason why, is here.” Gesturing with a video tape. “Claire gave this to me in 1981, to be played on the occasion of her death-” A collective gasp from both sides. “Which, according to her notes happened-” He pauses, his eyes on the far wall. As if drawn by some dread magnet, all eyes, and faces in David's case, turn towards the wall, and the clock upon it. The hands tick forward, until they point at the 12 and the 5. “Just then.”
David, Claire the Second, Jack and Serra all lower their heads for a moment, in sorrow and respect. Nobody would lower her head for her grandmother, but since no one would have seen, she doesn't bother. Yorick keeps his eyes on Tamlin, while TJ just continues coloring. Evelyn buries her face in her hands and sobs at the thought of outliving her child. Mikell just grumbles, like he always does. “God damn precogs. And her with her flair for the dramatic, waiting until we were all gathered to die. Ow! What the hell was that?” He rubs the back of his head, glaring around the room. But Nobody had hit him, so he quickly forgets about it.
“Anyways,” Tamlin continues. “This is her last request. Any objections to me playing it? No? Good.” He carefully inserts the tape in the VCR and hits play. He makes his way over to the light switch, to allow better viewing, then pauses, looking at how tense the other occupants of the room have become. “Yes, let's leave the lights on, shall we? Don't want anybody getting ideas.” Although he was most definitely looking at Nobody when he said it. She just shrugs, and tries to look innocent.
The tape starts with a view of a young African woman, her hair done up in long beaded braids, dressed in a simple yellow dress. She sits, staring at the camera, her hands clasped in front of her.
Serra frowns, looks at Claire 2, and peered at Evelyn, shook her head, and leaned forward, mouth opening to ask her Uncle Jack a question. He just presses a finger against her lips, not looking at her.
“I'll explain later,” he reassures her.
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the wall, pouting only a little bit.
On screen, Claire nods, seemingly in Jack's direction. “Yes, that would be best, thank you. Hello everyone!” she says with a bright smile, her gaze seeming to rove those assembled. The others kind of nod in response, aware that, on some level, she was seeing them, or had already seen them, or whatever.
SCP-590 doesn't look up from his crayons. He just lifts one hand to wave at the screen. “Hi Claire! I miss you!” His brothers stare at him in shock, unused to him being verbal.
Claire on screen smiles wider, looking towards her beloved brother. “I miss you too, TJ. You keeping an eye on your big brothers?” She doesn't seem to expect a response, as she returns her attention to scanning the company. “Hello, again, my family. It's lovely to see you all together, even if the circumstances aren't the best. So. Let's get the legalese out of the way. I, Claire Lumineux Senior, born Claire Bright, most often known as The Little Sister, being of sound mind, and currently, sound body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament, and do declare Joey Tamlin to be the sole executor of my estate.” She takes a deep breath, and pauses, cocking her head to the side. Her gaze falls on where Jack was shifting, looking like he was about to speak.
Jack frowns at the screen, and closes his mouth. For several minutes, there is silence, the real life Bright staring at the onscreen Bright, as if each was seeking to outlast the other. Everyone else shifts nervously, unsure of what to expect. Finally, Claire, her eyes narrowing into a glare, speaks again. “If you don't say it, I can't respond to it, you know how this works.”
Bright blows out a mouthful of air, a great long exasperated sigh. “How can we be sure you're dead?” At that exact moment, every cell phone in the room rings in with their individual ‘picture text' ring tone. Jack tries hard not to look embarrassed as the gentle strings of the Macarena overrides the other tones. He flips his phone open, looking at the gruesome photo therein. “Well. At least she died in bed.”
“Yes, I'm sure that was a great comfort to me,” Claire replies with a wry grin, shaking her head at her brother. “I have passed, although my shadow will rest long upon this world. After all, what good is being able to see the future, if you can't go on changing things after your death? Ha! Dark won't have nothing on me, you can bet your britches!” Her eyes rove the table, her grin threatening to split her face in two. “Not even Hari Seldon will match my machinations! But, right, not gloating.” She clears her throat, trying to pull her features to a more sedate, neutral expression. “My will. Yes. Let's do oldest to youngest, shall we?”
Her gaze turns to her still weeping mother. “Mom.” Evelyn's head lifts, staring at her daughter, her eyes red from crying. “I have so much to thank you for. You gave me life. You got me out before certain people-” Her eyes drift towards her older brothers. “Could make my life a living hell. And you gave me a new body, when the old one failed.” Absently patting her braids. “So, I have decided the only way to reward you, is with life. Joey?”
Dr. Tamlin reaches into a bag beside his chair, which he didn't walk in with. Very carefully, he pulls out a small box, smaller than a breadbox, bigger than a ring box, and walks around the table to set it in front of Evelyn Bright.
She reaches out slowly, hesitantly, and flips up the lid. Her face is a mask of wonder as she stares with-in, multi-colored lights reflecting on her face. She carefully turns the box so the rest of the family can see it, and is rewarded with gasps of delight. Inside the little box is an egg, no bigger than a chicken's egg, but the shell is covered in a slowly shifting array of colors. It glows from the inside, a warm, healthy glow. Evelyn closes the box with some reluctance, and draws it back to her, her hands clasped above it.
“It's called a Mundane Egg. According to the dealer I got it from, it's supposed to contain another universe inside, another little big bang, waiting for entropy to spiral out of control so it can have its turn. I don't foresee it hatching in your lifetime, but I think it's still something fun for you to have. You were a fantastic mother, as much as you could be. Thank you mom.”
Echidna lowers her head, and pulls her veil across her face, to weep in solitude.
Turning her eyes from her mother, Claire's brow furrows as she eyes her eldest brother with some distaste. “Mikell. What do you get the man who's taken everything?” She gestures calmly to Tamlin, who rummages in his bag, before pulling forth a case roughly two feet long, maybe a foot wide, hard shell and flip open latches, like for a musical instrument. He slides this down the table to Mikell, who stops it with one hand.
Leaning forward, Mikell unlatches the case, and studies the contents with a look of confusion, before turning it to face his family. Inside are the remains of a broadsword, nestled in a fitted red velvet casing. A foot and a half of handle and blade fill the bottom, while the top holds several shards of the blade strapped in with elastic. He turns his quizzical gaze to the screen, one eyebrow arching. “What the devil is this?”
“The name of my little underground railroad, or, at least, the one that stuck, is the Little Sisters. I've always loved it, because it works on so many levels. On the one hand, everyone love to make the 1984 reference, with the Little Sisters forming to help keep an eye on, and harass, the Big Brother that is the Foundation. And, on a more personal level, it was always a jab from me, at you, saying little sister is always watching her personal big brother. With me gone, while the name lives on,” the video nods to her descendants, “I am no longer here to give you my personal attention. So I had to leave you with something that would always remind you of me. That,” one dark hand pointing towards where Mikell is inspecting the damaged blade, “is the original sword of Damocles. Let me tell you, it took a fair doing to track down a work of fiction, and, as you can see, it's been through a lot. But now, whenever you look at this, you will feel the weight, hanging over your head, and remember me.” A cruel smile passes over her face. “Who knows? It may save your life, if you keep it nearby.” And she winks; knowing that even that little bit of a hint at forewarning would keep it close by him.
“Which brings me to the middle brother, and my mixed feelings.” Her gaze shifts to Jack, who is caught in the middle of making sure TJ doesn't spill his juice box. He glances at the screen with a face that is devoid of emotion, unsure where his sister is taking this. “Jack. My brother, my friend, my greatest enemy, and often ally.” Jack doesn't look at his older brother, and at-work superior. Mikell, however, lets his glare travel between screen and brother, scowling deeper and deeper. Claire continues, as if nothing was happening. “For you, my dear brother, I offer my silence, as I ever did.” A glance is shared, between the brothers, and their sister on screen, and you can almost see all three mentally agree to never bring it up. “And this. I know you thought you had accounted for all of them, but I managed to squirrel one away.”
Dr. Tamlin pulls a bottle from his pack of many things, a bottle whose very shape causes Jack to gasp, and his face to light up in delight. The bottle appears to have been made by a glass blower with a bad case of the hiccups, and the liquid within it is dark, a little syrupy, and has a deep blue tint to it.
Yorick makes an interrogative noise as Jack reaches out and pulls the bottle to him, cradling it as if it was a fragile, porcelain doll, or a baby. When the noise does nothing, he clears his throat. When that fails to illicit a response, he rolls his eyes and speaks. “Yo, gramps. What's in the bottle?”
Jacks head jerks up, a little guiltily, and he looks around the table. “Ah, yes. This. Well. This is a bottle of the first whiskey I ever made, back in my first life. I've got two bottles put aside for special occasions, but a third! Well!” He carefully pulls the stopper; just enough for a half an inch of cork to clear the rim, and even with that much exposed, the smell of fermented apples quickly fills the room. He laughs, and grins at the screen. “It just gets better with age! Thank you Claire. I'll drink to your memory.”
“I wouldn't expect you to do anything else. Which brings me to my favori-“
“No.” TJ is sitting upright in his chair, his eyes on the screen, paying attention for the first time, his eyes unusually aware, and intelligent.
“Ah, TJ.” Claire clears her throat. “I have something very special for you.”
“No,” TJ repeats, his voice stronger, his gaze focusing on her face. “Move on, sister.”
There is a threat in his voice, that shocks those who have only known him as the mostly brain dead SCP-590. Even his closest relative, his darling brother Jack, seems to be at a loss for words at this reaction.
“It's okay James, I knew she'd try this. We prepared.” TJ snakes a hand out to grab Jack's hand, squeezing it lightly.
Claire's brow furrows, staring down her younger brother. Then, she shrugs it off. “If you don't want it, I'll make sure someone who needs it, gets it.”
TJ nods once, and his face goes vacant, back to the senseless smile that normally accompanies him. He pulls his hand from his brother's, as he once again focuses on his drawing, without a care in the world.
“My dear daughter. You knew this was coming, we've already discussed most of it.” Claire looks, and sounds, slightly disgruntled, her exchange with her brother clearly weighing on her. Junior glances up, dabbing at her eyes. “To you I leave everything. The safe houses, the deeds, the boons we are owed, all this and more is now in your name. The Runners will listen when you call, and the Deep Beneath has pledged itself to your service. All of the rest of it is in the case.”
Joey Tamlin pulls a thick hefty leather briefcase from his bag, and forces it down the table. He struggles a little bit, it's clearly heavy.
“I'll look at this later. Thank you mom.” Claire the Second smiles for a moment, placing her hands on the hefty luggage. A glance at her elder relatives is all it takes to make it clear that any of them who try to peek inside will get quite a shock.
The dark gaze turns towards David, who stares back, ahem, blindly. “David. While we've never been what you might call close, you are the only member of the family who understands what it's like to see more than others, to always be that one step ahead.” His head inclines gently towards the screen, as if to indicate she has a point. “But we've never seen eye to eye, no offense intended, about the problem of the Unnumbered Brood.”
David stirs, sitting up a little straighter. “We just want recognition. To be part of the family.”
“You ARE part of the family, dash it all!” Mikell interjects, slamming his hand against the table. “You have ALWAYS been my son, I will ALWAYS be there for you!”
“And the others dad? Hmm?” David leaps to his feet, staring down his father. “All your other children, all the bastards of the Bright blood, who have been left out in the cold? Will you be there for them? Will you protect them the way you tried to protect me?” He whips off his sunglasses, revealing the gaping craters where his eyes should be. “Will you neuter them when they begin to show up as anomalous? My brother, screaming Heebie Jeebies, would you tear out his vocal cords, so the Foundation wouldn't come for him? Doesn't always work, removing the source of the power, does it? What about Poor Tessie Shakes? Gonna cut her spine, keep her from moving so she can't make things fall? Huh, Dad? Gonna find some way to control all my brothers and sisters, and if they can't pass for normal, lock them in some cell like-“ His finger darts out, pointing at TJ.
Who is looking back at him, those young eyes dark, a grim frown on his youthful, freckled features.
“Will… Will you…” David's rant falters, as 590 does not cease his staring. Even a blind man can feel the weight of that gaze on him.
“David-“ Mikell begins, but he too falls silent when the hefty gaze of his youngest brother turns to him. The three are silent, two of them unsure of what is going on, the third sure, but unwilling to speak on it.
“That will be enough, from both of you!” Claire's voice cracks like a whip in the quiet room. “You both have your differences, and they will NOT be worked out here, thank you very much.” She glares back and forth between them, cowing them into respectability, even from beyond the grave. “Now, as I was saying. We do not see eye to eye on many things, David.” She winces at the unintentional reference, but continues. “But I do agree with what you are doing. Therefore, I have deeded you the safe house in New Orleans, to act as a home base of sorts, for you and yours. Along with that is a list of several of the Brood you may have missed.” Her eyes turn from him, to her mother. “Because none of us have ever been the least bit careful with our DNA.”
Dr. Tamlin carefully walks over to the blind man, and hands him a small folder of papers. “Everything you need is in here,” he says, before returning to his place at the head of the table.
“Yorick Elroy!” Her voice cracks like a whip, causing the named individual to jump, startled, from where he is trying to peer nonchalantly at David's documents. “I know you've always thought of me as the aunt you never wanted, in a family you wish you didn't know. But I foresee I will always have a soft spot for you, due to our time together in Tibet.” She smiles at the young man, while most of the other family members do a slow ‘turn and stare.'
“When did you-“ Jack begins, before being interrupted.
“It was something I was doing for the Insurgency, back when. You know, Clef's special Task Force?” Yorick lies rather easily, but that's a common survival trait amongst these relations. “I'm not allowed to talk about it.” Heads nod in response to that information. They all have things they cannot talk about.
“Because of that, I did want to give you a small memento, a reminder of me, and a warning.” She gestures to her lackey Tamlin, who takes the opportunity to hand Yorick a small black stone. “It has no special properties. It's just a chip off a certain gravestone, I'm sure you remember the one. All it is a reminder. Oh, and the warning, of course.” She straightens herself, letting her eyes adopt a far-away gaze, her voice deepening in the manner of cheap fortune tellers worldwide. “Do not go seeking immortality, it will find you.”
Yorick shivers, and slips the stone in his pocket. “Thank you, Claire.”
“You're welcome, boy! Which, of course, leads us to the youngest member of the family. Hello Serra, we'll never meet, my name is Claire, as I assume you've figured out.” Claire smiles beatifically at the young Miss Argent.
“Considering I only found out about my relation to this group a couple of weeks ago, yeh, never met. Hey. Nice to know you. Sorry you're dead.” Serra replies flippantly, brushing a long red lock of curly hair out of her face.
“I don't actually have much for you, just this.” Claire nods for Tamlin to go ahead.
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a leather belt, a beautifully crafted and tooled thing, with dozens of tiny scenes of fantastical creatures carved into its length. Attached to the belt are two holsters, both clearly made with the same level of care.
Serra snags the belt and frowns. Almost without thinking, she pulls one of her six shooters out, triggering the other side of the table to move back, and shake out their sleeves, then she slips it into the empty holster in front of her. “Huh. A perfect fit.”
“Yes, of course it is. That belt was my father's.” Claire continues, as everyone resettles. “I find it only fitting that you should have it.” She turns her gaze from the youngest to Mikell. “And no Mikey, I won't tell you how I got it. If you feel she deserves the guns, then I can do no less than give her the belt. Oh, and a name.” Glancing back to Serra, Claire smirks. “You need to look up Alberto Giovanni. In some circles, he's known as the Gunsmith.”
The last present doled out, Claire once again turns her attention to the room at large. “My family. My loved ones. I am going to miss every last one of you. And I know you'll all miss me. And the last thing I have to say is a warning. Something is coming, something that will require both containers and contained to handle. If you don't figure out a way to-“ And the screen fills with static.
“I'm afraid it ends there.” Tamlin says with a sigh, as he leans forward, and presses the stop button. “Either she never finished it, or age has wiped the tape, but that's all she wrote. Or recorded, anyways.” He stands up, a clear dismissal. “Anything else she may have left, I will be handing out personally. In the end…” He clears his throat, looking around the room, making eye contact with each and every one of his descendants, or ancestors, depending on which way you look at it. Yes, including David, although Lord knows how he manages that. “In the end, she wanted this meeting, not simply to hand out trinkets, but to get you, all of you, together. To remind you that you ARE family.” Again the look at each of them, although at this point, many avoid his gaze. “And sometimes, family is more important.” He sighs, knowing he didn't reach any of them. “Fine. Do what you will. Go. Remember, the truce holds, until the last has left.”
The first to leave is Evelyn. She gathers her robes about her, walking with a gait that makes it seem as if she has too many legs. She squeezes Mikell on the shoulder, and touches Jack on the head, before ending with a hug for TJ. She shakes hands with both Yorick and Serra, muttering a brief “Welcome to the family,” to the latter. She leaves with the dignity of a queen, already beginning to mask her pain.
Mikell and David stand up at the same time. They both open their mouths to speak, then glance at the black screen, and think better of it. They leave via separate doors, both deep in thought.
Yorick moves to help his grandfather with 590, and his assistance is welcome. Together, the two of them manage to lead the young looking man away, as he cries for his crayons. He wasn't done drawing.
Claire the Second slips out during the commotion, unnoticed.
Serra throws the belt and holsters over her shoulder, as she leans over to study TJ's drawings. Simple stuff, a child's drawings. It looks like he was making portraits of everyone at the table. She frowns, staring at the portraits, then looks up, thinking hard. “One too many,” she mutters to herself, before nodding to Dr. Tamlin, gathering the drawings together, and leaving the room.
Tamlin is last to leave, making sure that no one has left anything behind, pushing the chairs in, and so on. He pauses in front of the TV, and pushes play again, watching the static on the screen. He speaks aloud to the empty room. “This room will cease to be in the next thirty minutes. It was only ever temporary.” He pulls a single blue rose from his sleeve, and lays it on the VCR, in memory of someone who almost understood him, then leaves.
Nobody is in the room now, all by herself. Her eyes stay focused on the screen, her thoughts whirling. She is somehow not surprised when the static goes away, replaced once more by the dead woman.
“Hello Claire. I left you for last, because you need so little from me. Remember to go the site of the Sacred Fallen on the 13th, as we discussed, and please, please don't forget to get the wine to the temple before the dark of the moon. I wrote the rest of my instructions down, and there's a few simple props in the bag. Everything is set into motion. Remember what I taught you, and follow my words.” She smiles, raising a hand in benediction, and is finally gone for good.
“I remember Grandmother. I couldn't possibly forget.” She sighs, pulling herself to her feet. She absently grabs the bag as she walks towards the door. She flips the lights off, letting her words echo in the empty room.
“Anything for the family.”


'Twas another year's Christmas Eve, and most were asleep in those parts of the world engulfed in the night of the 24th of December. In a certain house located in a certain city at night, a certain "intruder" crept and sneaked inside that house. He was a fairly obese man of pale complexion, with round chest and belly. Donned in red and white, he was silent and stealthy. In his hands, he carried an equally round red sack that rattled and jingled every step the man takes. This man was Santa, obviously.
Santa looked at the Christmas tree in front of him, and rummaged his red sack. He took out a gift box, green in colour and wrapped in red ribbons. On the ribbon, there was a card labelled "For Fred". Santa bent down to the best of his ability, as if to place the gift box underneath the tree. But suddenly…
"Hey there!" a voice cried.
Santa turned around calmly and he saw a young boy, most likely aged between six to nine. The young boy was holding an action figure of a brass robot, worn with age – the many years it had been in this boy's possession. The young boy stared blankly at this stout stranger in front of him, trying his hardest not to blink.
But in the end, the temptation to blink was too potent and the boy blinked. Santa was no longer by the Christmas tree; he was right in front of the boy. He bent down again and presented the boy with the gift box.
"Little Fred, I presume? Take it."
The boy accepted the gift box, dropping his brass action figure in the process. He shook the box, wondering what it could be. All this time, Santa looked on with a gentle smile on his face.
"If anyone asks, it's from your daddy." He said, exiting the room.
With Santa gone, Fred continued to fiddle with his latest gift. And then…
"Fred, who were you talking with just now?" His mother called out, holding a flashlight in her hand.
"Santa Claus, he's kinda round."
And so, rinse and repeat the same process, Santa eventually delivered gifts to all the children of the world. And finally, he went off to his final destination for the season – Site-19. The hallways of Site-19 are long and winding, although Santa knew his way around well enough. He walked past the D-class and staff dormitories, and the various cages that held many lethal SCP objects.
Finally, Santa stopped – in front of a cell door. The door opened on its own accord, as though it noticed Santa's presence. Inside is an empty room of concrete with a Faraday cage. Santa entered the room and the door slammed shut. Outside that door, it remained a silent night with no further movement.
Days later, Dr. Hughes of Site-19 was making his rounds to the anomalies under his supervision. He entered the cells of one his assigned SCPs: a room with a Faraday cage inside. Santa was seated inside that cell.
"Good morning, SCP-055." said the doctor.

"…And the big reveal is, Santa Claus is actually SCP-055!" Jr. Researcher Hu Zhi finished his narration of his Tale to his elder sister, Dr. Hu An.
An silently typed into her tablet, and showed it to her younger brother.

You do know there are severe lapses in logic in your story. Santa does not exist. It is impossible for a human being to distribute gifts to about 1.9 billion children across the world within one cycle of the Earth's rotation. Your depiction of Site-19 is a complete mockery to the Foundation's largest facility. And I suspect you named the boy "Fred" intentionally.
Furthermore, it is not advisable to make light of a Keter-class SCP, even if it were for jest.

"Sis, lighten up. It's the Christmas season!" Zhi insisted, "Given the stress of our day jobs, a bit of humour and entertainment will keep us sane enough to fight another day. This break's until the 26th, so let's savour the moment."
An sighed at Zhi's response, face-palming herself as she relented to her brother's logic. She briefly glanced at the empty third chair in the dinner table, while typing in her tablet. Zhi peeked at the tablet.

You sure Bao will be coming home for Christmas?

"Yes, he should have alighted by now."
As Zhi spoke, An continued typing additional words.

Even father couldn't convince him to come home. You seriously think your emails can get through that thic

The door bell to the Hu residence rang, while An kept on typing. The two siblings removed themselves from the circular dinner table at once, going to the door. As the door opened, it revealed the Hu siblings' youngest brother – known as Agent Hu Bao at work.
"Told you he'll be back." Zhi remarked; to which, An smiled gently.
"Merry Christmas guys." Bao greeted.


December 24th, 2011
5:14:06 PM

Daniel Horatio Aeslinger, Psy. D. stood with his back to the room, facing the window. Outside all was quiet and dark, mostly dark. The single point of light in the room behind him only made the outside world seem more desolate.
On the desk, spread out in what would to the average observer look like a total mess, but was in fact a highly sophisticated method of organization that only he understood, lay eleven personnel files that didn't exist. They looked unobtrusive enough; simple manila folders with neat handwriting on the tab denoting their subjects. Eleven of them, and he had to work through them all. He'd been at it for the last six hours, reading, making notes, comparing those notes with those in the dossiers, written by his predecessors. One of them had asked for a profile on eleven of the twelve others, the twelfth one having gone to Bjornsen for some reason. And now he was weary, his hand ached and his brain was alight.
As he stood there, watching the dark calm, the first snowflakes began dropping. It was the one thing that could get him sentimental, snow. It brought back memories of his childhood, of misshapen snowmen and fortresses diligently made over the course of weeks.
What a way to spend Christmas eve.

7:03:51 PM

He'd noticed a pattern in the files. Each of the employees portrayed in these documents was a well-adjusted, but not too well-adjusted person. Each of them had some small quirks, except for #6, whose quirk seemed to be that they were quirkless. Each of the people portrayed had an exemplary track record within The Foundation, having risen to power by simply doing their job better and more efficiently than their erstwhile colleagues. He didn't buy it for one second. All of the files before him had been fabricated, but he couldn't for the life of him think of a good reason why they would be this badly fabricated.
He leant back in the rickety chair he'd found in this office. Its usual occupant was probably busy having a ball at the Site's annual Christmas party. Closing his eyes he tried to walk through all possible scenarios that would leave him here, in a spare office on Christmas eve reading what amounted to fictional biographies of people that officially didn't exist. And didn't want to exist.
In the end the only reason he could think of was that they wanted to see how long it took him to see through the whole thing. But why then give Bjornsen the last one? Or was it perhaps a case of a pawn being reminded of their nature? Have someone do something useless just to remind them they can be made to do anything, even if it doesn't make sense?
He'd never be on the O5 council, that was for sure.

8:56:29 PM

As the windows caked up with snow, the only sound in the sparsely decorated office was the haphazard snoring of a middle-aged man drooling on the folders under his bearded cheek.

9:33:11 PM

Daniel awoke with a snort, causing him to profusely apologize to no one in particular. Several files were now impossible to return to records, but he figured they hadn't come from there in the first place anyway. When the courier came in the morning, he'd explain. He doubted the courier would care. Switching on the computer in front of him, he prepared to write up his final reports on those twelve people in charge of what was undoubtedly the biggest conspiracy in the history of mankind. As it was booting up, he stepped outside into the hallway.
When he'd started, he'd had a thermos of coffee with him. Coffee that he knew tasted like coffee, in stark contrast to the concentrated monkey's armpit juice they called coffee here. But that thermos had been empty for the last three hours, and his body was craving caffeine. Standing outside of the small room, he looked left and then right, trying to remember how he'd come in and whether or not he'd seen one of the Site's coffee machines. He thought he had, two lefts and a right from where he stood. As the computer behind him merrily bleeped its way through its awakening, Aeslinger closed and locked the office's door behind him and went on a personal quest.

10:02:43 PM

It had not, in fact, been two lefts and a right. As the amount of both lefts and rights had now jumped to the double digits, he was fairly sure that he was as far from the office he needed to return to as he was from a cup of decent coffee.

10:48:13 PM

He was now thoroughly lost and still caffeineless. He didn't recognize any part of the building he was in, and as he'd only received the key card to the one particular office he'd been working in until a little more than an hour ago, he couldn't look outside for potential landmarks. That is, if he'd be able to see them through the snow outside. He found a small bench standing against a nondescript off-white wall and sat down with his head in his hands. He had a good GPS tracker on his company phone, but that required him not to abandon it next to a booting computer, which he of course had done. He sighed and counted the emergency lights on in this hallway. It came to seven to the left of him and nineteen to the right of him. Nineteen minus seven was twelve. What a coincidence. He leant back too sharply and hit his head on the wall. Muttering, he nursed the back of his head.
Not to worry, he was going to get back to that office. Somehow.

11:54:26 PM

Daniel Horatio Aeslinger was oblivious to the muted sounds of laughter and music making their ways through the miles of corridors. One leg dangled awkwardly down from the bench on which he lay, the other was stretched out on top of it. His jacket had been folded up and placed underneath his head, and his hands were folded across his belly. The steady rise and fall of his chest made it very clear he was not, in fact, going to get back to that office today. Perhaps on Christmas Day, and with help, but for now he would stay put. It didn't matter, the work wasn't due until the 27th.
In the office several feet to his right a computer patiently waited for one Daniel Horatio Aeslinger to input his credentials. It had nothing better to do on Christmas eve.


Dietrich sat on the edge of the boat dock, setting down the last few from his six pack next to him. It was just above freezing as the mirror surface of the lake reflected the cold spacey sky. Merle leaned under the amber flood light as he waited for an answer.
"I don't know ."
Merle shuffled forward and sat beside him. It was dead quiet. Not even the wayward chirp of a cricket could be heard. Merle has a certain aura about him that just repels all surrounding wildlife. It used to set off the hairs on Dietrich's neck, but after a few years he's forgotten about that feeling. A full minute passed by and he signed to Dietrich again, though his claws were hardly visible in the darkness.
WHY-CAN'T-YOU-REMEMBER
Dietrich shrugged. "It ain't that simple. Try'n look back— mentally. Any lil thing. It's like try'n to remember a scene from an old movie or the weather in a photograph." He then gently palmed the cold flat stone in his hand he picked up on his walk earlier.
"You know… I have hard times rememberin what her voice sounded like. How dumb is that?"
Merle just listened for a while, then responded.
YEAH-THAT-SOUNDS-DUMB
Dietrich nodded and with a flick of his wrist, skipped his stone a good long ways across the water's surface. "The heartache, the tears, even that's all fuzzy… if I even felt dem things then. I was a kid when it happened. I never felt what I should've felt. Just like how I can't remember what I should remember."
SORRY-I-EVEN-ASKED
Merle leaned back on his arms and watched the stone finally sink into the quiet black. Dietrich popped open another beer. "The worst part? The worst part is that for a while when she was in decline, ya know… it was kinda what I subconsciously wanted."
THAT-DOESN'T-MAKE-SENSE
"As a teenager, nuthin makes sense. But there's always this, I dunno, a competition between stupid young shitheads to see who has the worst home life. Somehow issues like yer parents gettin divorced, bein abused as a kid, or things like that makes you cooler. High school is ass-backwards."
SOUNDS-LIKE-MOST-HUMANS
Dietrich continued. "One thing I do remember… when Pa carried her downstairs and sat her in the chair on Christmas mornin. She watched us like a corpse as my brother and I opened presents. The whole holiday was just hollow. That was the last I'd seen her. I wasn't brave enough to go to her room, too 'fraid I'd be the one to find her dead. She died two days later in the middle of the night in her bed. Her name was Betty."
THEN-WHAT
"I went back to school. I pretended like nuthin was wrong. I even lied bout her bein alive. Like there was no cancer. I couldn't handle the reality and the guilt. Oh fuck, that guilt. This went on fer years, Merle."
NOBODY-KNEW
"Oh! My teachers knew. Yeah. I was prolly bein watched to see if I flipped out. I never did. Nobody talked to me… or asked. So I just pretended. And after all that pretendin… I forgot to grieve. I forgot to grieve, Merle. And I've forgotten how to even start. The lie went on fer so long, I forgot that it was a lie in the first place. How's that fer bein a teenager?"
SO-YOU-HAVE-REGRETS
Dietrich looked at Merle, then at his feet. "Nope. Maybe. Does it matter?" He took a swig. "Everyone's Ma dies. My sad story ain't so special, Merle. So I'll have a few beers every Christmas— where we dumped her ashes. Maybe I can jog a memory or two. Remind myself of the lie. Maybe even figure out how to— nevermind."
Dietrich took a long swig. "Too many years, not 'nuff beers." He was just drunk enough to roll one over to Merle, which he just stared at with his empty eyes.
I-CAN'T-DRINK
Dietrich took another long swig and tossed the empty can next to him. "Just humor me then. I'm a drunk trying to dig up his shitty past. And you're a— thing. A thing that has to listen to me."
HURRY-UP-AND-PASS-OUT
"How else you think this's gonna end?" With a grunt and a burp, Dietrich groggily stood up. The beer sloshed in his belly as he blinked hard to focus. "H-help me find my way back to the camper, Merle."


It was when the waves splashed against his body that he gradually returned to consciousness. How long had he been lying here? He found himself half-buried in the sand and attempted to move, but was too weak to do so.
The sun must have risen; he could feel the heat, but his eyes would not open, if eyes even existed. Something felt very wrong to him, but he could not quite place what it was. He tried to remember, and for a moment he thought he had something, but it was all too distant and unreal, and that feeling faded. He was blind and deaf, lying there as the cold, salty water cut him again and again. He knew something was missing, or rather, everything was missing. And that was when he remembered the pain.
He screamed for days but nobody listened. His body parts, barely holding together, each anguished fragment emitting a chorus of screams. Ocean and sand had become his eternal prison, enveloping his body and slithering through his wounds. The more he struggled, the greater his pain. There was no escape.
He hungered. He had to eat, after all. Or did he? He could not remember ever having needed to, but the hunger had nonetheless consumed him. There was a strange craving, an urge to replace - to compensate – for what was missing. So he dug from the sand around him, and swallowed whatever he could find. But the more he ate, the hungrier he felt. His body hurt even more as he felt parts that should not be there growing. Cancer, perhaps, but he could not care less.
There was something missing, and he had to find it, he had to stop the pain.
He screamed and dug and fed for days and nights. Gradually, the sand had lost its grip of him and he no longer felt the torture of the salty sea. He had more time to think between the episodes of pain, but his memory was distant and broken. Who was he, what was his name? He did not know. What had happened? He could not remember. Vaguely, he could recall a war. No, not war, a battle. Or was it just a fight?
One night, when his body was bathed in the glow of the full moon, someone answered his cries. They took him home, tended to him, scraping away all the filth that had accumulated on him. They spoke to him, but it was in a language he could not understand. He would thank them, but doubted they would understand his words of gratitude. The pain still lingered but had lessened in his new home. There was no water to choke him, no sand to scrape him. His caretakers even offered him food, easing his unending famine.
It was when he felt much better, when he thought they could finally hear what he had to say, when things fell apart. He felt their quarrels and confusion, but could not understand their nature. He was then fed with something strange; it moved as if struggling and soaked his body in strange liquids. Whatever it was, he could not stop himself.
He felt screams, not his, but from those around him. He could not comprehend what was happening. It reminded him of the war - the fight so long ago. Were there screams as well? Someone else came, and his caretakers ran.
He did not know them, but he soon became afraid. They carried with them strange things and a large water prison. He wanted to run, along with his caretakers, but couldn't. He screamed and screamed but they did not care. They came closer, and plunged him into the cold, salty water.
He found himself drowning again, as his senses left him.


F̶o̶u̶r̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ Thirteen

Randale remembered when he was given his life by Huesic, member of the last pair, and the thirteenth demiurge to have been created from the Maker. Being number 67 of 777, Randal was one of the handful of demiurges to aid in the creation of the Heavens and the Earths from the very start. At that point, no one had a definite appearance; they were constantly changing, amorphous and incomprehensible, with nothing but mental attributes to carry them forward. Not like the present, whose forms reflected their own creations.
His participation in creating the heavens was appreciated, but where Randale excelled most was creating life on the Living Earth. The creation of different forms of life had been the best part of his new life so far. He enjoyed aiding the Seven Pairs in its creation.
He felt proud of himself.
Fredrick and Agathos, the King and Queen of Eden and First Pair, proclaimed today that a celebration was in order, and that each of the demiurges in Eden would receive a gift in exchange for their service. Randale knew that this announcement was substantial, especially since the king and queen were the ones making it. The only thing that'd make it more significant would be if the Maker itself gave it. However, that was not what Randale was keen on. He was focused on what was offered to the few who had proved themselves: training, directly from the fourteen rulers of Eden, otherwise known as the Seven Pairs; the first demiurges to have been created by the Maker.
Only a hundred will be selected, at least at first. That hundred would be able to collaborate with others, develop philosophies, and, perhaps, even surpass the Seven Pairs! The mere thought of it was almost too much for Randale to bear.
The Gathering Pit was alive with color tonight. The fires gave off a warm, friendly glow, and the fountains oozed black with sweet booze. No expense had been spared; the debauchery was ready to begin.
Randale had chosen a form that reflected his best and, by far, favorite creation: the stilted fox. Stylistically, his design seemed to bridge the gap between fox and wolf, but its figure quickly erased that thought. Though he shared the fox's fiery brown coat, his blackened legs allowed him to stand taller than the direst of wolves and the largest of foxes combined. His mane seemed to brush the skies when compared to either species, but among the many other demiurges, he maintained a proud modesty.
He didn't want to become muddled with booze just yet, not until the king and queen made their announcement. Anticipation rushed over Randale's thoughts until he noticed something off about the stage. Each ruler had a throne built for them, but Huesic had been sitting alone tonight. It was just like the Serpent, to leave Huesic there like that. What Huesic saw in the Serpent to be joined with them, Randale had no clue. The Serpent didn't contribute much to the construction of the Third World. They couldn't even be bothered to name themself, they just accepted the titles of “Number Fourteen” and “the Serpent.” Yet, they were given the order to create the species that would rule the Living Earth.
It might have been fine if their design had had any intelligence to them, but the Serpent had it set in their mind that brute force alone could reign supreme. They might have been fine if they hadn't been so large, which meant more food was needed for sustenance. They might have been fine if the Serpent had not spoken ill of King Fredrick, which tempted him to test the Serpent's design with a great ball of fire, but to be honest, the entire species should not have been eradicated from even that if it were designed well enough.
But, regardless, the Serpent's design had failed. The Maker had intervened and simply inserted itself into the world. Not what any of the demiurges wanted; in fact, they saw it as vain for the Maker to base the world on itself, and not vice versa, but it was competent. And at least the Serpent brought up the concept of cold blood with that incident, even if it was Huesic who perfected it.
Randale snapped out of his thoughts in time to see the king had stepped down from his throne, in his signature, wolfish form. The king was a good king. Charismatic, hardy, fair, if a tad brash.
He began to speak with a smile a valley-wide, and voice that boomed throughout the pit, "Welcome all! We hope you are all well on this night. This event marks a truly special time in history, one that deserves celebration!"
The crowd had roared in agreement, only settling when the king had raised his paw.
"This is a night of recognition. Each and every one of you is responsible for the Third World, and I think I am not misrepresenting my brothers' and sisters' beliefs when I say that we are all the proudest we've ever been. So, in order to show our appreciation, we have all decided to allow this, our gift to you all: ceaseless access to the fountains! Every place, anytime, anyone! So long as you are not at work, no more will there be a restriction on celebratory drinks! You all have earned this right!"
If the previous cheers had been loud, they were deafening now. The king continued. "But many of you have not come for that. Today, we have a very special opportunity for our most talented children.
Tonight, we shall select a hundred of our honorable children, and pass along our lessons to them, with the intent that they shall pass along their wisdom to their brothers and sisters… what is that?"
The king's smile deformed into a look of concern. The crowd looked in the direction of the disturbance to see one of their brothers distraught, and approaching the king, begging for his attention.
"Is there a problem? What's wrong?"
"Father, father, the humans, they broke the rule! They ate from the tree!"
"Calm down, calm down!… You must be mistaken, take me to them," the king said, then turning his attention to the others and lowering the volume in his voice "Agathos, come with me, this is important." He addressed the other pairs before alerting the partygoers, "try to calm everyone down when I leave. Everyone! I must go. Something has happened that calls my attention. In the meantime, please, enjoy the festivities."
And with that, he and the queen stepped down and left, the murmuring crowd parting as he walked.
The princess spoke, "quiet, quiet. Now, continuing where our king left off, we'll begin to name those who we'll see first thing tomorrow!"
Only a few could stomach cheering. Randale could not help but to be nervous. There were so few rules in place, the only rule that would demand the king's presence was the one: the rule regarding the Tree of Knowledge. The Maker had forbidden any of their creations on the Living Earth to possess a certain level of intelligence, so to be sure it wasn't used to such a degree, Agathos stored that power in a large tree and kept it in Eden, far away from their creations. There was no way the humans could have gotten to it by themselves.
Many, Randale included, were in a daze when their name had been called. This was an honor, and Randale accepted it with the best smile he could force, but everyone could feel something wrong looming over them from the horizon.
At least there were drinks.

"You are all disgusting. Blazes to you all," the Serpent roared.
It was not a good day. The king, grey flames circling his head, stood at the gates of Eden with what used to be known as the Serpent under his claws. The king's form was so much larger than his was at the pit. It was not a design that could survive as a species, but it was effective as a show of force. Randale watched, keeping the crowd a safe distance away from the king and the serpent. The king had insisted that the only two to come close to the serpent would be him and Huesic, but they didn't want to see them, or “it" now, again.
The Serpent continued its cursing, "damn you, I swear that you-," the king crushed it under his paw, its bones snapping under his weight.
"Silence," he said, coldly. "Crafter number fourteen, it is the decision of myself, Crafters two through thirteen, and the citizens of Eden that you are to be stripped of your privileges, erased from all records, and expelled to walk the earth without end. You have given the humans the fruit from the tree of knowledge and sabotaged the entire design. Who knows what will happen now."
The Serpent's bones began to move back into place, repairing itself. "T-thirteen? Huesic? They agreed to this?"
"Yes, they did. And I know they have been doing your work for you as you took credit. I would say that I don't enjoy this. I would try to be sympathetic, but frankly, you have contributed too little for me to care. You chose to use your position to enhance only your own comfort, rather than the comforts of others. You are disgusting."
The Serpent piped up, “you know why I did it. Even you agree, we should not be told what we can and cannot do. Why do you defend that monster-"
"Did you not hear me the first time?" The king growled, now crushing the Serpent even harder. "It was an agreement that you broke. We had the final say. Now because of your jealousy, we all will suffer. Your design failed, so now you envy the current one, the Human. So, in addition to the mentioned punishments, I forbid you from abandoning your body, I forbid you to enact on any of your endeavors, and I forbid you from employing the gift of creation in all you do. Humans will fruitlessly desire your death to no end, and your only friend shall be fear."
The king lifted his paw and sat down. "Now leave. May your respites be few and far between."
The Serpent lifted itself again, bones reforming in its skin. It left without another word.

It felt like a lifetime since the Serpent had doomed them all. When it was driven out of Eden, the Maker had punished everyone, including the demiurges. While they still had eternal life and could not die, they now felt pain, and hunger, and disease. At first, the punishment had felt lenient, but Eden was not designed to provide enough food to support life on its own. Hunger soon fell over Eden as its citizens became increasingly divided. The king and queen became furious at the Maker for punishing them for something that they were not at fault for, but the other pairs were more concerned with what the Maker would do if they resisted.
After rallying supporters for a rebellion against the Maker, the king and queen had been labeled traitors against Eden, even when the overwhelming majority of its citizens had agreed with them. The only loyalists for the Maker had been the other rulers of Eden, and a handful of those who were deemed worthy of training. Much of those who stayed with the other rulers did so only to protect them, rather than defend the Maker. This included Randale, as he persistently checked on Huesic as they became more and more reclusive.
"Huesic? Are you here?" Randale said as he crept into Huesic's room.
"Oh. Hello Randale… don't you have anything better to do?"
"It's been days since I've seen you leave. I worry."
"I'm fine," Huesic mumbled.
"Huesic, you know you can tell me anything. You don't have to keep up your image around me. I care about my creator." Randale approached. "If it's fine with you, can I confess something? I… agree more with Fredrick than the others. We should all be fighting the Maker, not each other. And our resistance against our own king? Labeling him a traitor? He doesn't want us hurt. We seem to be the ones hurting. It's not right. Why aren't we trying to reverse this curse? I don't want to hurt my brothers and sisters, I want things perfect. The way they were before… I'm sorry, that was rude. I wasn't-"
"No, no, it's fine. We all do."
"… I'll stop talking if that's what you want."
Huesic sighed and stood up to reveal themself. He changed his form from a small lizard to a small fox. Many demiurges abandoned any sort of reptile forms after what happened, just to avoid being associated with the Serpent. If anyone had the right to change theirs, it would be Huesic. "I'm sorry. I'm just in a bad state of mind. You can talk to me. I could have prevented Fourteen. They… ‘it' just became so distant. It's my fault, I-"
“No,” Randale interrupted. "Don't ever blame yourself for what it did. That was its problem, not yours. The Serpent, and its envy and laziness was to blame, not you. Don't ever, ever depreciate yourself like that, you're so loved. You know this, right?"
"… I… thank you, my son. I needed to hear that. I never wanted any of this."
"I know you didn't. I know, It's hard, but we'll get through. I know we will."
"I-I think so too. It feels good, hearing you say that," Huesic said.
"Maybe we should go." Randale started after a pause.
"Go?" Huesic sniffed "Where?"
"Out of Eden. I mean, it can't be too bad on the Third World, can it? At least there are no wars there yet."
"I can't. I still have family here, I can't leave them."
"We can bring them. Think of what good we can do with our knowledge. Even if we can't cure the sick, we'd help so many just on knowledge alone! And if we are to be afflicted with things like hunger, going out of Eden makes sense anyways, wouldn't it? Let's all leave, and make the best of it."
“Do you have a plan?” Huesic hesitated.
"We can work it out, that I can promise you, but, please? Come with me? Before there's any more damage?" Randale stuck out his paw, "Deal? Parent and son?"
Huesic paused, only for a moment. It wasn't too long that they stuck out their paw to meet his, "deal."


« The Journal of K. M. Sandoval | Hub | A Convincing Lyre »

"Hello, young lady. What brings you here?"
Emma narrowed her eyes slightly at the man before her. The old man. Had to be in his eighties. He sat at a weathered metal desk, with a dusty, barely-touched old desktop. It still used a CRT screen, even. Really, now, "young lady"? I have every right to be here, just like you. You're lucky you're so ancient. You probably don't know better. Ah, well, I'd better make a good impression anyway. She smiled and responded, "I'm Junior Researcher Emma Stark. And you are?"
"Anderson. Roger Anderson. Welcome to the salt mines."
Long-Term Archives was, in fact, a former salt mine. The bored-out crystalline walls served to maintain clean air with low humidity—perfect for document storage. The irregular texture of the walls made for a soothing counterbalance to the antiseptic straightness of the walls in the rest of the facility. "Thanks. I'm looking for a file that didn't make it into the 2003 database upgrade. I'm pretty sure it's still just in paper."
"Yes, here's where it'll be. Do you have a file number?"
"A designation. It should be SCP-1969-EX."
Roger narrowed his eyes. A wry grin twisted across his furrowed mouth. "Interesting choice. Business or pleasure?"
Emma blinked and looked at Roger with a start. "What? Business. You get requests for otherwise down here?"
Roger leered slightly. "On occasion. We're strictly business down here. But the story of Paul's death always piques interest."
"Yes, but McCartney didn't die. He's still alive."
"Mmhm. But back then, it didn't seem so cut and dried as all that. But yes, he's conclusively alive, and that's why the SCP is Explained. You're right, it never got into the database. When it was concluded that nothing happened, they just stamped and closed the file, and no one bothered to upload it to take up space pretending it was an anomaly." He didn't even look at his computer or files. "Aisle 22, Box 431. Four rows to the right. Show your credentials at the door. And we've got cameras down there, so don't go snooping in other boxes. And don't forget your latex gloves."
Emma waved her badge in front of the door panel, a green light flickered, and Roger pressed a button under his desk. The door opened. Emma entered and oriented herself. The encrusted white ceiling strung with fluorescent lights gave an oddly inadequate glow to the metal frame shelves and cardboard boxes stacked in endless rows in the cavern. The air was pure, mineral, dry. She carefully followed his instructions, walked into the aisle, and pulled the heavy box from its shelf. She placed it on the floor and opened it.
Inside, there was a full set of vinyl records from the Beatles in their original sleeves. Multiples. The sleeves were marked up with a series of lines, notes, and questions about the meaning of each element of the artwork. Earlier albums, before 1968, showed only a few notes or marks, and were signed by the Cognitohazard Monitoring Division. But the albums were repeated chronologically, and each month more and more lines were made. More connections were noted. Sections of the album covers were highlighted, then covered over with stickers labeled "Warning! Memetic Hazard!" The frenzy of notes, connections, and redactions over the same identical covers continued until February 1970, when everything just stopped.
Tucked toward the back of the box, she found the main file documentation for SCP-1969-EX.

Item #: SCP-1969-EX
Object Class: Euclid Keter Explained
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1969 is contained in a standard humanoid containment cell at Site-06-3. It is to be constantly monitored by cameras behind two-way glass. As SCP-1969 has displayed no dangerous anomalous behavior, standard containment procedures are considered sufficient. SCP-1969 is allowed furnishings and decorations for extra comfort for continued good behavior. Any changes or shifts in appearance are to be immediately logged and reported to Site Director Wertham.
Update 11/9/69: SCP-1969 is uncontained and spreads unchecked in public. MTF Gamma-5 ("Red Herrings") is to track down all vectors of misinformation spread by infectees and intercept all flyers, pamphlets, and journalistic articles that carry SCP-1969 infection. All seminars carrying SCP-1969 infection are to be infiltrated and disrupted. Articles discussing the truth regarding Paul McCartney's continued vitality are to be placed in all periodicals.
Update 3/14/70: SCP-1969 is no longer considered anomalous and no longer requires containment. All efforts to contain SCP-1969 are to cease and SCP-1969 is now considered Explained.
Description: SCP-1969 is a 28-year-old Scottish Canadian by the name of William Campbell. Through an undetermined regimen of training and meditation, it has managed to take on a perfect resemblance of POI-1841-12, also known as Paul McCartney, performer in the Beatles. SCP-1969 still maintains minor differences from POI-1841-12, namely a small surgical scar on his upper lip, and right-handedness, while POI-1841-12 is left-handed.
SCP-1969 completed his anomalous transformation at the Beatles' request, to replace POI-1841-12 after his death the morning of 9 November, 1966. The remaining members of the band and their manager, acting to keep news of the death from spreading, bribed the police involved with POI-1841-12's fatal automobile accident and hired SCP-1969. See Field Incident 1841-N, MTF Beta-6 reporting, for a witness report of the accident.
Surveillance personnel noted that despite the fatal accident, POI-1841-12 was seen as continuing to perform in concert and attend recording sessions at Abbey Road Studios. The nature of the anomaly was not determined until SCP-1969 came to the Foundation's attention through the Cognitohazard Monitoring Division. The Beatles had already come under higher scrutiny with the simultaneous worldwide release on 1 June 1967 of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which, while only scoring 3 on the Kant-Derrida scale (non-anomalous memetic) itself, had a number of symbols and subliminal hints, questioning POI-1841-12's continued life. The CMD further discovered a hidden phone number on the Magical Mystery Tour soundtrack album cover, released 27 November 1967. The transcript of the phone call follows.

Participants: Field Agent Roger Anderson (RA), and POI-1969-A (POI), identified by voice to be a woman in her late 20s, with a West London accent
<Begin Log>
POI: (sighs for 1.5 seconds) Hello?
RA: Hello. To whom am I speaking?
POI: Is this about Paul?
RA: Have you received a lot of phone calls, ma'am?
POI: Have I received a lot of phone calls? Listen, I've had to deal with every single pampered stoned kid in every university in this country, along with every newsboy hopeful for some "scoop" and even ornery policemen from various precincts casually wondering if I know anything about Paul. "Is he dead?" "How did it happen?" I swear, the morbid fascination you Yanks have for the demise of a man who's walking around this very minute would be farcical, if it weren't so grotesque. I'll say the same thing to you as I've said to everyone else. No, he's not dead. And if he were, I should know nothing about it. Now please, do me the kind favor of leaving me alone.
RA: Sorry to bother you, ma'am. Have a good day.
POI: No! Wait… You don't sound in university. I'm sorry. Perhaps I'm being rash. Are you a journalist? Are you with the government?
RA: No, ma'am.
POI: And… you… you can keep a secret, can you?
RA: …My business is in keeping secrets.
POI: Oh god… I just… I can't just hold it in any longer.
RA: Hold what in?
POI: I… I killed him.
RA: You killed Paul McCartney?
POI: I didn't mean to. Oh, god, I barely remember it all, I was so drunk and high at the time. Everything feels so unreal. But I was there. I watched him die. I was out, walking, five in the morning, trying to get back home after clubbing too hard. I could barely keep straight, I must have stepped into traffic a half dozen times. Then this man, this cute man drives up beside me, offers me a lift. I was in no condition to refuse, and I joined him. I told him where I lived. We started talking, I asked him what he's doing driving around at this hour, and he talks about how he had a row with his bandmates during a recording session. And that's when I realized it. He was Paul. The Paul. Paul had seen me, and picked me up, and was taking me home! Such a gentleman! (sobs)
RA: Lucky.
POI: Don't you dare say that! When I realized I was in the car with Paul, I… The Beatles are like gods to me. And here, Paul, dear, lovely Paul, had taken notice of me, picked me up, was my white knight. I… I lost control. I started screaming and flailing about in excitement. In my altered state, I grabbed for him, tried to hug him, kiss him. And then he… We veered off the road and collided with a lamppost and flipped. The police were right there, and had pulled me from the wreckage. They set about to freeing Paul, when… the car exploded. He would still be alive if it weren't for me!
RA: I… I'm sorry. Did the police speak to you further?
POI: I told them my name — Rita — and they dropped me off at home and gave me some pills to swallow to sober up. Strangest thing, their uniforms didn't look like any police I knew. There was this whole three-arrow thing, and they kept talking about amnesiacs.
RA: But you still remember everything? The pills didn't make you feel hazy? Did they have a coppery aftertaste?
POI: Ask Alice when she's ten feet tall. I'm not sure what all I was on, that night.
RA: That's… different.
POI: That's what I thought. But I daren't say anything to anyone before. I just pretty much hid until I received a phone call about a month later. It was John, and they asked me to come down to Abbey Road.
RA: What about?
POI: I wasn't sure, but when John calls, you answer. I feared the worst. I killed Paul, after all. I would have let them do anything to me. I deserved it. But when I got there, he, George, and Ringo greeted me with hugs. They told me not to worry, all is forgiven, everything was going to be all right. But how could it? I killed Paul. My idol. The beloved of millions. He was gone. But that's when they introduced me to William.
RA: William?
POI: William Campbell. A Canadian bloke. Sandy brown, wavy hair, wide-set, grey eyes. John told me he was going to be the new Paul, they held a look-alike contest and he won. I couldn't believe it. This man was nothing like Paul. Then John said they all had a song for me. I told them no, what I did was horrible, they should kill me where I stood. But no, they insisted. And William started singing this song to me… It's on Sgt. Pepper. "Lovely Rita." I still can't believe they wrote it. But the strangest thing was that as William sang, his voice changed. His skin tone, eyes, face, body, even his hair color, everything shifted. By the end of the song… He wasn't William anymore.
RA: Shifted? How? Not William?
POI: He was Paul. I could have sworn it was Paul, all over again. The man whose music I loved, the man who rescued me, gave his life for me that night… he stood before me anew.
RA: How…?
POI: Paul — sorry, William — said that he completed the transformation through meditation. John said they had tried a few other experiments, tried a cardboard cutout for a while, but they really needed a living, flesh-and-blood Paul to continue things. And so they found William.
RA: A cardboard cutout?
POI: It was apparently a really good cardboard cutout. But now they have William.
RA: All right…
POI: They swore me to secrecy until later, when they could break the news to the fans. They feared mass suicides, couldn't let that happen. Needed something quieter. And… oh god, I've been living with this massive burden of guilt ever since. Thank you. Thank you for listening.
RA: It's been an honor.
POI: But… You know? For all the drama, I suppose it had to happen somehow. I don't know… It's written, or it's karma, or whatever. After all, John did say they were bigger than Jesus.
RA: More popular than Jesus, yes.
POI: Right. And for all their music, still, only three died on the Mount that day.
RA: Wait, what?
<Phone disconnects - End Log>

The phone call was traced to a management office on an abandoned feed lot outside Laramie, WY. No sign of POI-1969-1 or a working telephone was found.
The present instance of POI-1841-12, believed to be Mr. Campbell, was given the designation SCP-1969. MTF Beta-6 took custody of SCP-1969 and is to be kept for observation.
Addendum 11/9/69: Despite Foundation custody of SCP-1969, The Beatles continue to release music. MTF Beta-6 note the continued presence of POI-1841-12 at recording sessions. Furthermore, SCP-1969 researchers note that the object does not resemble POI-1841-12.
Enhanced testing and interviews confirm that Mr. Campbell is not anomalous. He is to be given amnesiacs and released.
MTF Beta-6 increases surveillance of POI-1841-12 and confirms that he is still alive.
The Cognitohazard Monitoring Division reports that Beatles album covers carry an increasingly virulent memetic hazard. Upon review, the CMD hereby revises the Kant-Derrida score to 7. Viewing the album covers and discussion with other curious individuals leads to the conclusion that POI-1841-12 was killed on 9 November, 1966, while it can be demonstrated that POI-1841-12 continues to live. Given the widespread worldwide distribution of Beatles album covers, SCP-1969 is expanded to include this memetic hazard and its Object Class is redesignated Keter.
SCP-1969 is an active widespread memetic hazard of pandemic proportions. MTF Gamma-5 ("Red Herrings") formed to dispense the truth regarding the living status of POI-1841-12 worldwide. Field agents are embedded on college campuses to attend meetings and informal discussions regarding the alleged death of POI-1841-12 and disseminate the truth and present skepticism.
MTF Beta-6 warns of an expected uptick of suicides due to SCP-1841.
Addendum 3/14/70: MTF Gamma-5 reports high levels of success in combatting SCP-1969. A photo spread in Life Magazine showing the continued life of POI-1841-12 has demonstrated complete inoculation to the memetic hazard. The ease of removal of the hazard indicates that it is non-anomalous in nature, and can be attributed to mass hysteria stemming from SCP-1841. SCP-1969 is considered Explained.

Emma looked up from her reading. Something wasn't right. She pulled out the documentation, closed the box, placed it back on the shelf, and jogged back out to the reception room. She tossed the papers on Roger's desk.
"You're Roger Anderson."
"You're supposed to shelve the file when you're done with it."
Emma slammed a hand down on the papers. "You're Roger Anderson. And I'm not done with this file."
Roger shook his head and allowed himself a sheepish smirk. "I am. I was in Cog Haz at the time, I worked on 1969. Hey, I forgot to ask in the excitement of you looking up my work. For the record, which object are you assigned to? How did you start looking for 1969?"
Emma stared at Roger a moment. Is he trying to change the subject? No, more about 1969, I can still ask. "I'm on SCP-012. I was — "
"Oh, for the love of… Twelve. It's always Twelve." Roger buried his face in his hands. "Twelve is the reason I transferred to Cog Haz in the first place. Lost a partner and a good friend to Twelve."
Emma peered into Roger's craggy face. "You… You're Anderson? Anderson and Spitzer Anderson?"
Roger nodded. "Leon Spitzer. Damn fine partner, drinking buddy, confidant. All stripped away into a paranoid mess by a damn piece of sheet music. I was popping amnesiacs like Tic-Tacs when I realized what was going on. I never actually saw the vellum with the mud off, but… One tip, miss. Don't abuse amnesiacs. Ever."
Resolved to be regaled with rambling old-man tales, she corrected, "Amnestics?"
"Amnestics, amnesiacs, whatever. I know they reformulated them a few years back and reminded everyone that they're really called amnestics, but we were all used to calling them amnesiacs, even if it wasn't right. But I panicked when I realized what was happening to Leon. We were in Florence to pick up a copy of 701, which is safe to look at and read, so we weren't expecting something as insidious as Twelve. When I realized that Twelve had changed Leon, I started recording everything I knew and made myself an amnesiac cocktail. I lost my best friend and half of my childhood that day. Do you know how horrible it feels to go visit your family for Christmas, and realize you can't remember your mother's name? Terrible. When I got back, I put in for transfer to Cog Haz. I wasn't going to let another Twelve slip past me again. I also got medical orders never to take amnesiacs again."
Emma wondered, "But when you retire — "
Roger shut her down with a wave of his hand. "I ain't retiring. Had to give up that possibility just to avoid the retirement party drink. That's why I'm down here in Archives now. I'm too run down for anything actually anomalous, so I get to sit down here in the salt and reminisce, most days. It's good for my lungs. Slow pace, low risk. Best retirement I could ask for."
Silence passed between them. Roger sat contently, while Emma leaned against the desk, half-sitting on it. She squirmed and looked around, noticing the papers under her hand. "Now about Paul —"
"You still haven't answered why you wanted to look up 1969. Don't think I've forgotten. I'm old, but not senile, Miss Stark," Roger interrupted with a wink.
Emma rolled her eyes and sighed. "Okay, so I was looking over K. M. Sandoval's journal, for clues about what 012 was doing. I didn't see anything, but there was this note about how he alluded to Paul's death on the night it was supposed to happen. So I looked for any records we might have had on Paul's death, and learned about SCP-1969-EX. So here I am."
Roger's eyes sharpened in response. "Sandoval talked about McCartney's death? And he was supposed to have died while we were in Florence?"
Emma pulled out her tablet and presented it to him. "I took a picture. See the note in the margin regarding McCartney?"
Roger pored over the tablet, pulled his desk lamp close over it, cursed the clashing lights, pushed it away, and read carefully, mumbling to himself. "Looks like Wertham's writing. He knew more about 1969 than any of us. If anyone knew the particulars of McCartney's death, it was him. But if this really is his journal, you're right. Sandoval was talking about when McCartney died. Maybe that's why Rita mentioned Golgotha. But according to this, he hadn't even found Twelve yet. How could he have known that Paul died that night, a thousand miles away?"
Emma looked askance at Roger. "Paul… didn't die that night."
Roger gave Emma a blank stare. "No, Paul didn't die that night."
Emma leaped back into her questions. "But that's the problem with this documentation. If Paul never died, who was William Campbell? Why did you pick him up? What was that phone call with Rita all about? None of this makes sense!"
Roger smiled and spread his hands placatingly. "Wertham explained it to me. Mass hysteria interference from another SCP."
"SCP-1841?"
"Sounds right to me. Strange, it was apparently neutralized back in the 19th century, though. I remember reading it over then."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I just listened to Wertham and went ahead with it. You don't contradict the site director."
Emma tapped a few figures into her tablet. "No, it's not SCP-1841, that's a travel guide or something."
"Can't be. It had to do with mass hysteria carried by Franz Liszt, if I remember correctly. Died with him."
"Wait… 1969 got reused, right? How about… Aha! Here it is. SCP-1841-EX. Your 1841's explained and in the database."
"Explained? When did that happen? Read it to me."
Emma looked at Roger in disbelief from his request, but shook her head and went through the record with him, including the addenda. Stopping for a moment afterward, she mused, "This doesn't help this case a bit."
Roger scowled. "So Wertham pulled a full-RAISA on the article."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know how stuff is redacted or expunged or behind an access code wall when we're not supposed to know about something, right? Well, that little redacted sign lets us know that something is in fact there, we're just not supposed to see it. But sometimes, someone pulls strings and makes sure we aren't allowed to know that there's hidden information. What do those addenda say? It tells us that they completely changed the article, made it look complete. That way, we walk away thinking that it's Neutralized last century, when it's still active."
Emma sighed. "I'm more concerned that if 1841 is Explained, then 1969 suddenly can't be mass hysteria. Suddenly, it's not explained."
Roger hardened his jaw and swallowed. "So Paul really did die."
Emma jumped up and paced. "No, we know he didn't die. The only way this makes sense is if we know he died, then know he didn't die. Which is it?"
Roger laughed. "Maybe both."
"What?"
"Listen, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Paul never died. Everyone went a little crazy one fall, saw stuff that wasn't there, and then we all wised up. But the Beta-6 involvement, Campbell, the Rita call, none of that would have gone down that way if we didn't have conclusive knowledge that Paul did die on November 9, 1966. So, maybe he was dead. And now he isn't. Stranger things have happened, you know."
Emma stopped pacing and leaned forward against the desk. A knot started forming in her stomach. "What are we talking about, resurrection? They were 'bigger than Jesus,' right?"
"More popular than Jesus," Roger corrected. Realization passed over his face. "Oh. Oh, Rita. Listen, have you got the Twelve documentation? Show me the full record. I'm still cleared for it, no amnesiacs, remember?"
Emma passed her tablet to Roger. He squinted to read the screen, but got through the short documentation quickly. "Where's the rest of it?"
"That's it."
"No, this is all kinds of inaccurate."
"Really?" Emma took the tablet back and looked it over again. "I know, I've been wanting to update it with some of the most recent results, but…"
"You're still suspending it from the ceiling in its own room so people can't look at it, right?"
"Yes…?"
"The way this reads, it's not Euclid, it's Safe. You stick it in a locker and forget about it. You don't go through all the trouble of its own room and leave it where someone has any chance to see it at some weird angle."
The knot tightened further in her stomach. She felt her insides grow cold.
Roger continued, "And how many pages is the music now? We had five when I stopped working with it. How many now?"
"Um… We… uh… A hundred and seventeen."
"A hundred and Seventeen. All in blood? Even when ink is provided?"
Emma didn't like where this was going. Getting words out was getting harder. "Yes."
"And do all the pages carry the cog haz?"
Emma blushed and shrunk. "N-no. Just ten of them."
"Don't you think this is all important documentation?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"And what's this about a 'recent storm'? Do the 1966 Florence floods seem recent to you? Or just a storm?"
Emma was at the verge of tears. "No."
"Miss Stark, this documentation is inaccurate and misleading."
In a small voice, she responded, "I'll fix it. I want to fix it."
Roger stopped, realizing what he was doing. He swallowed and took a deep breath. Damn you, Twelve. He softened his tone. "No, it's not your fault. What I'm saying is that Twelve is receiving the full RAISA, like 1841."
Emma's encroaching dread dissolved. "What? Are you sure?"
Roger fixed Emma with a steely gaze. "Yes. Read the journal again. Sandoval was affected and had to find Twelve before he knew about it. You know you can't just stick it in a locker. You know it's Euclid."
Emma, confused, replied, "Couldn't we put it in a locker?"
"For a bit, but people know about it. And when they know about it, they want to do more with it. They'd pull it back out. You were ready to change things to say more about it. Heck, I was almost shouting at you just now. How many people have read that? How many have loved it? Does it deserve that love? Does that document deserve so much attention? And how many want nothing more than to rewrite it? They know how to fix it. They know how to complete it. And yet, they cannot."
Emma's eyes widened. "Oh my god. Is that why we keep testing with it? Is that why we can't put it away? We're all affected by it? We want to display it?"
Roger nodded. "I bet so. It's not a strong effect. It can be resisted. But it's… alluring. It's sexy. Even when presented with some crappy inaccurate documentation, something about it sings in your soul. You just know how powerful it is. How compelling. You want to work with it. That's why it's Euclid."
"And… someone doesn't want anyone to know this."
Emma started wondering. She's been working with this item for nearly a year now. Who is hiding the truth from her? From the Foundation? Who is trying to make sure no one knows anything more about it? Why? What is this scrap of music capable of? "Wertham?"
"Wertham's dead. No, it's got to be someone else."
"Then who?"
"No clue. But you need a chance to meet with some other old-timers. Someone's got to know something. And Twelve being Twelve, someone's just dying to spill his guts about it. I got an invite to Dr. Califano's retirement party next week. Come with me. We'll get some answers."
Emma straightened. "Okay. Yes. I… gotta get back to work. But what about 1969 and all that?"
"It's a crap shoot. But I'm betting on Twelve."