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Nash Pinkle's Guide to the Foundation
The tale that is 8 years in the making. This tale is based on a conversation I had in 2012 over IRC with one basic premise: How can you explain concepts about the Foundation badly…but correctly?
It started with tags, moved on to SCPs, and even Foundation staff. I apparently kept a list in a notepad file that's been sitting in my documents folder since then, and I stumbled across it this week while looking at old SCP files on my laptop. Enjoy.
Thanks to Croquembouche for CSS help.
More from this author

Nash Pinkle was a facilities specialist employed by the SCP Foundation. Though his employment has recently ended, he did express interest in becoming a Foundation researcher, and at one time attempted to submit the following “guide” as a body of research work for review. It remains here for archival purposes only and should not be used for reference.

"Someone wouldn't really use this for reference, now would they?"
"…"
"Don't look at me like that. Please don't tell me someone used this for actual reference."

Nash Pinkle's Definitive Guide to Amono Anemo Anime Weird shit

Ello, I'm Nash Pinkle. And this is my guide to the different kinds of weird shit at the Foundation. See, all o these things can be grouped into “groups”, or “another word for groups”, that you can define by asking one simple question: wot if?
Editor's Note: Text below contains only highlights from the original 57-page list.

Word
Wot it mean

Safe
Wot if you could lock scary things up?

Euclid
Wot if you could lock scary things up, sorta?

Keter
Wot if you couldn't lock scary things up?

Thaumiel
Wot if it locked OTHER scary things up?

airborne
Wot if scary could fly??

aquatic
Wot if scary could swim?

sentient
Wot if scary could think?

alive
Wot if scary was alive?

autonomous
Wot if scary was alive but NOT alive?

automaton
Wot if robots were scary? Fukken hell, robots are scary.

hostile
this is all of them, u can't tell me diffrnt

skeletal
SKELTALS

"This is…"
"Incredible, right?"
"It's something. I don't know what it is. But it's something."

bovine
Wot if cows were scary? I could punch a cow y'know

canine
Wot if dogs were scary?

arboreal
Wot if trees were scary?

humanoid
Wot if people was scary?

mathematical
wot if numbers was scary

narrative
wot if stories was scary

religious
Wot if church was scary? A nun smacked me once

artistic
Wot if art was scary?

sculpture
Wot if art was scary IN 3-D??

arachnid
SPIDERS

concept
Wot if ideas was scary?

contagion
Wot if germs was scary?

electrical
Wot if batteries were scary?

meta
wot if SCARY was scary

"You alright?"
"I'm feeling lightheaded."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Like…what if scary was scary. Think about it, John. What if?"

cognitohazard
Wot if it was scary to see or hear it?

memetic
Wot if it was scary to know about it?

infohazard
Wot if it was scary to talk about it?

memory-affecting
wot if you didn't know about scary

antimemetic
wot if you didn't know about scary and IT WOODNT LET U

mind-affecting
Wot if scary got in yer head

compulsion
Wot if scary made you do stuff?

Hallucinatory
wot if scary made you see stuff?

Transfiguration
Wot if scary made you INTO stuff?

future
wot if scary was LATER

historical
Wot if scary was EARLIER

extradimensional
Wot if scary was somewhere else

extraterrestrial
Wot if scary was FROM somewhere else

language
Wot if scary could talk

mobile
Wot if scary could walk

immobile
Wot if scary couldn't walk

predictive
Wot if scary KNEW stuff

knowledge
Wot if scary made you KNEW stuff

"That's…oddly poetic."
"I know, right?"

location
wot if u could go to scary city

online
Wot if u could go to scary dot com

loop
wot if scary again

media
wot if scary was on tape

reanimation
ZOMBIES

adaptive
Wot if scary got scarier?

empathic
Wot if scary had feels?

self-repairing
Wot if scary had heals?

carnivorous
Wot if scary had meals?

miniature
wot if scary was small

microscopic
Wot if scary was really small

observational
Wot if it was scary when you looked at it

ocular
Wot if it was scary when it looked at you

"The most terrifying thing about this is that it's just so…accurate."
"Gives me chills."

visual
wot if you could see scary?

interactive
wot if you could touch scary?

acoustic
Wot if you could hear scary?

olfactory
what if you could smell scary?

food
wot if you could eat scary?

toxic
wot if you COULDN'T eat scary?

gaseous
Wot if you could breathe scary?

clothing
Wot if you could wear scary?

game
Wot if you could play with scary?

furniture
wot if you could sit on scary?

tool
Wot if you could use scary?

ontokinetic
wot if scary could do anything

paradox
wot if scary broke everything

predatory
wot if scary hunted you

self-replicating
Wot if scary made more scary

sexual
fuckin' scary

BONUS: SPECIFIC THINGS AND PEEPL

"Oh no."
"Yep."

Dr. Gears
Wot if smart people was scary

Director Actus
wot if old people was scary

SCP-682
Wot if it was so scary u couldn't kill it

●●|●●●●●|●●|●
Wot if it was so scary u couldn't write about it

SCP-055
Wot if it was so scary u couldn't know about it

SCP-4885
Wot if Waldo was scary

SCP-096
Wot if a face was scary

SCP-426
Wot if I was a toaster (and scary)

SCP-999
Wot if jello was scary

SCP-871
Wot if cake was scary

SCP-3930
Wot if nothing was scary

SCP-3393
wot if u were scary

"This is awful. It's the same question over and over again. It's not in any discernible order."
"But?"
"But like…I feel like I understand the subject matter better now. I feel ashamed."
"We all do, doctor. We all do."


Letting Arcadia use your daughter to save the world is as good as murdering her yourself.
"Dad, I guess you know best."
It's killing me, the remembering. When the dog's barking at the front door all I can see is the image of them snuggling by the fire. Can't tell where her hair ends and the dog begins. Laughing together because her new hairdo's barking at me. Losing Dana hits me every waking moment in my life.
Almost saving Lorraine is the closest to feeling whole again I'm ever getting. Sitting for six months at the vanity waiting for the sound of Dana coming home again. It's all my fault, my knowing, Nolan flattering me and snatching her away, I'll be blaming myself long after Wolfe Funeral Home's crematorium starts burning me.
Crafting her Bird gives me a hint of invention, that inspiring feeling. Something inside again, just a stirring by watching the videotape. Getting the voice just right. Walking up the stairs to Lorraine's room. Looking her in the eye is hard enough. Sleeping together wasn't happening for us again.
As soon as I start taking the sheet off the cage, she's shaking her head. "No, no, no pets, the dog is enough. Let me alone, I'm fine." Protesting, I open the door. The Bird flying, perching on Lorraine's shoulder. Nuzzling her with mechanical cheeks, speaking from an electronic beak.
"Mom, you're looking radiant today."
Remembering how feeling feels is a wonderful thing. Like numbing wearing off on the drive home from a dentist appointment. Lorraine walking around the house, smiling when she thinks I'm not looking.
Wearing off. Nolan learning we're coming together. Not caring about harming her again, his thinking evolving past desiring what he's getting in the now is an impossibility. Inviting himself over for dinner.
Riding on her shoulder, the second thing Nolan's gazing eyes see is Lorraine's bird. Joking about it, laughing at her. "If that thing comes near me, so help me God, I'll be like this!"
Pale, skinny hand moving slowly in the air with open palm, grasping at nothing. Dabney and Gordon chuckling behind him. They're slumming to his benefit, going have to start realizing that eventually.
Turkey for dinner. Lorraine allowing the Bird freedom for wandering the table, as befits a family member. Nolan will never stop thinking he's funny. The Bird hopping near him, nibbling at his plate. Swooshing hand a few inches short of hitting her. Just enough for sparking fear.
Wishing I could take comfort in knowing she didn't see it coming. Flying over Lorraine's head and looking back at Nolan means she wasn't seeing the mirror on the wall until the snapping took her.
Having the nerve to finish eating is classic Nolan. Smiling and talking business while Lorraine is cradling cold metal feathers in the next room. Repeating for the first time the only words she can bring herself to say for the rest of her living memory.
"Dana, are you coming home today?"
— Letter written by Albert Alcorn, intended recipient unknown


The city is fallen, and Lovataar does not grieve.
It is a terrible tragedy. Thousands of men, women, and children, with whom she shares blood and flesh through their empire, through Ion, all dead between one sunset and the next. The Mekhanite alliance, knowing nothing of mercy, had burned it to its foundations, their weapons melting stone and bone as well as wood and metal. There shall be no death rites, even, for the inhabitants, because they could not enter the place to recover them.
But Lovataar does not grieve.
The others do; she sees red-rimmed eyes, downturned faces, ladders of new-made cuts crossing arms and wings and foreheads as offerings of suffering shared with the dead. The vanguard's heart has broken, and her lover, healer always, has brought them together here, in the courtyard of another city which is not their own, to mend it again.
Ion could simply warp the world until the entire congregation gathered could see him, but that is not his way; he clambers up the wall and stands upon the parapet in his own mourning form - human, with scars.
He breathes in, breathes out. Opens his mouth. Speaks.
And he reminds them of why they are there, in the service of what their comrades-in-arms, families, people die. For no lesser destiny than the liberation of all people from the shackles of kings and tyrants and gods and their own broken bodies. To build a world where there will be no more oppressors, no more sorrow. Where the scorched earth will grow again, and the roads will be marked only by dancing footprints and the feathered, four-toed hooves of reindeer.
Lovataar looks down at her own. They are upright, smooth-walled, and undivided, with only tiny fringes of feathering. Although the Kalmaktama can shape their bodies, with intention, to whatever they want, when their focus slides they tend to resettle into the same shapes over and over again like comfortable, working clothing. And what Lovataar knows of hooves is of digging them clean with a dull knife, then swinging herself up into the saddle to gallop across the steppe. Princesses learn no art truly but how to ride, for the horse is no flatterer, it was said, and so she had learned the art, and had always thought it as close to flight as possible, before Ion had come and given her the opportunity of wings. She is named for it by the Kalmaktama, horse-woman, not only for this skill but because legend holds that the lineage of the Daeva descends from the brothers of the dawn-goddess, who were half horse and half human.
In that lineage her blood runs equid, not cervine. She is not a reindeer - will her footprints mark those roads?
She stands with a jerk, and goes; no-one watches, and Ion's words do not falter.

She finds Orok nearly-concealed by the drooping, dead branches of hemlocks surrounding the glade. She would have thought he would be doing something - cleaning armour, mending harness, something - but no: he is simply crouching there, hands on a fallen log, perfectly still.
Like a guard at duty at his mistress's shoulder.
When a twig cracks under her approaching feet, he looks up. Their eyes meet unguarded, and she sees the exact same thoughts in him as writhe through her brain.
Neither speaks, each waiting for the other to admit the unadmittable: that they should not be there. That there is too much Daevon in each of them, born into her and wrought into him, and they cannot tear it out entirely without tearing out their selves. That they are unworthy, that if Ion had a gram more wisdom in that hard-burning idealistic heart he would throw them away and trample them into the ditches and it would be just, would be fair, would be the best the world could hope for.
His knuckles are as washed-out white as his hair. Lovataar has little knowledge of smith-craft, but she has on occasion peered inside smithies to see broken fragments of iron, cracked swords and warped hilts, placed in crucibles and slid into the forge to be melted down, refined, and purified again.
She wonders if weapons, too, fear being remade.
Ikunaan. It is the first and last promise Ion makes to all who follow him. That their suffering can end, in a real time and in a real space. That they can have a land of their own, not built from the corpse of a rotting god or stolen by usurpers from neighbouring lands, where all mankind could live in unity and fellowship, their baser instincts washed away. A land built on four pillars: joy, salvation, peace, and freedom, and free from suffering, lacking anything that might cause it.
What place would such a world have for a pótnyā and a guard, a ruler and a weapon?
In lieu of all of this, Lovataar demands, “Spar with me.”
Orok nods jerkily. They both need to be bled.
He stands, stiffening slightly as his back straightens, and begins to work out his joints while she divests herself of most of her jewelry. Gauntlet-fulls of bangles, necklaces, and dangling hair-chains pile on the soil. She has gained and re-lost nearly all of her parure over the years - pulling out piercings as her flesh closed over them and re-driving them through new appendages, offering melted-down armrings as collateral or in exchange for armour and weaponry to their distant allies, who still value gold. The Kalmaktama do not: if they wear jewelry at all, they wear iron or beads of amber, jet, and mother-of-pearl. Things they can pull apart and digest down for the constituents if necessary, whereas it is very clear that in their eyes gold is a foolish, oppressive metal - rare yet won at great labour, pretty and shiny and too soft to be any good at all beyond that.
When she is empty and her limbs are light, they face each other. On a signal that is not given, their claws unsheathe, their fangs extend. On a second, they attack.
They are - well, they have been monsters since before they can each remember, since Daevon first lifted its chisel and began shaping them in their infancies. But they have the bodies to match it, now. Any still-humans would be dead three times over, with such savagery - blood soaks the soil until it turns muddy, links of Orok's intestines catch on trees, her own fur mixes with the moss. The air steams with their breath and sweat.
She catches him off balance and aims a kick for his face, meaning to stun; Orok takes it with a grunt, but she has left herself open. He seizes her tail in his fist and pulls. A flaming shock runs up her spine to her skull, and she screams, lashing out on instinct - a claw catches his forearm, forces him to drop her.
They twist away, come together again. His palm slides over her face, closes in the mess of her braids, pulls. The vegetal snap of splitting cartilage registers first, and then a wave of pain floods over her head, wipes out all her thoughts in one second of glorious nonexistence.
Her face-chain is knotted around the base of his fingers, when her vision returns. Cáyé. She had forgotten that. In revenge, her lips draw back into a snarl and she launches herself at him. They tumble to the ground, him on top, pinning her to the freezing earth.
“I cannot see it,” he says, hidden in their tangle of limbs and horn and blood. “When he tells us how it will be, in the new world. When I try and think about living in it, after the war. There's just - black.”
Her claws dig in under his shoulder blade, crunching through a ligament. The grip weakens, and she arches her back for space, slithers out and pushes her fingers between the tendons in his neck. “I can,” she responds. The skies are eternally warm in a flaming rose sunset, and people may sit and stare at them for hours because there is no work to be done that they do not choose themselves. It contains vast forests with undergrowth flourishing like emeralds and hyphae linking all the trees into one vast and mutual mind. It contains beautiful deserts that burst into blossoming under the rain, and rivers both slow and mild and glacial, foaming white. It contains cities of glowing sandstone lighted with star-like strings of lamps, and fields that bring forth grain in abundance, always in season and needing no threshing, and trees laden so with sweet fruit that their boughs bend almost to the ground; laughter and dancing, love and fulfillment.
It does not contain horses, or gold, or her.
Orok takes a deep strike across her back, and she knows it only by absence, because her legs flicker out of perception and are gone as he divides the nerves. She falls, rolling onto her back, and as he lunges at her wrenches her hands apart, calling out of the air spines of protein and carbonate. His own momentum impales him upon them.
Blood drips from his face onto hers. Both are panting, aching, half-blinded by hair and gore. Orok slowly pulls himself off her spikes and presses a paw over the gaping holes in his chest. With the other, he wipes clean his nose and mouth.
Lovataar lies still, gazing up at the blue sky cut with feathery branches. Her nerves seal themselves back together with tingling, then burning, then nothing at all. Her tailbones re-fuse, and her tail writhes at being caught beneath her legs, the tuft at its end lifting into the air like a flame. She rolls awkwardly to all fours to free it, coming face-to-face with her pile of shining accessories again. As her bones continue knitting and muscle fibres replicating and bruises digesting themselves, she sits back on her heels and puts them back on.
“Here.” A hand is extended towards her. The glitter that is her face-chain dangles between the fingers.
She takes it from him and pushes the links back through earlobe, lip, and nasal ala. His hand stays where it is; she clasps it in her own and lets him haul her to her feet.
They also know this: that neither will ever leave. They will stay with Ion until the very end, even if it turns out they are forbidden from it. There is no turning back once they have shared in his dream, even if by only a dewdrop.
So they turn, and go back hand in hand towards the fortress.


Her mother told her a story, once, about a boy who was trapped in a courtyard.
Its walls were tall and sheer, and although they could be climbed on the inside, on the outside there was not a handhold nor a stop to be seen. Therefore, anyone could look out over the green and fertile lands surrounding it, but they could not descend to reach it, and this was a greater torment to the dwellers within than aught else. And daily the boy would climb the walls and look out, dreaming of what might lie beyond that horizon and what it might be like to stride among those grasses and discover it.
So the boy spoke to his sister, and he said, The only creatures that can cross that boundary are the birds, which we see each year as they migrate. If I am ever to flee, I must become like them: will you help me, sister, to gather the feathers they shed? For from them I am minded to make a pair of wings for myself, that I may follow them away into the wideness of the world.
And she agreed. So every day they would go out upon the grass and gather feathers, and every night they would take out the wings and fasten more of their feathers onto them. The boy would watch the birds and attempt to mimic their actions so that his body would know what to do when finally he made his flight.
And finally, the wings were fully-fledged, and the boy donned them and went out. The night was cool, the breeze gentle. He climbed up to the top of the walls and stood there with arms outstretched, and the air caught under them and lifted him until he felt weightless.
The guards, seeing his shadow dark against the starlight, rushed up to the parapet and tried to seize him. They tried to set hands on him, to pull the wings from his body. But they were too late - he had worn them so long that they had grown onto his arms, and no matter how they grasped the guards could not tear them away. And the boy leapt from the parapet and flew, the ground dropping away beneath him as he dwindled to a speck in the sky and was gone, away from the chains, away from the punishments, into the wilderness to be forever and always free.
She never said what had happened to the sister.

Saarn is not thinking, when she wrenches a hole in the membranes of space and time and flings herself away from the collapsing conquest and tumbles out into the snow. It bites white on her skin. Her portal has sealed by the time she struggles to her feet, stranding her alone in a colourless desert broken only by the bleak shafts of distant mountain-slopes.
(After the riot of coppery magic and autolysis she had glimpsed back beyond it, she is grateful for the white.)
When she stretches out her senses, she feels nothing - well, all the small burrowing things dormant underneath it, the slow pulse of sugar through deep-buried grass roots, but nothing with the taste of Nälkä in it, nothing that tastes like real flesh. She must be far from the rest of the hosts, far from the rest of the empire, far from anything.
(Anything. Like anything remains anymore. Kythera will be a ruin, now, after whatever the Mekhanites had done to corrupt his power. Now that Orok and Lovataar have been destroyed by their own selves, now that uncontrolled sorcery has shredded their halkosts. She had felt that first tug of corruption in her own guts before fleeing, and even so far away the memory disgusts her, pulls her pupils out wide.
That distance is probably the only thing that saved her, come to think.)
The sky is opalescent, revealing no sun or moon or any means of determining her location. So, at random, Saarn picks a direction and walks.

Only once does she think that it might be easier, if she had a body. Even if it hadn't been his, even if it hadn't been whole - a limb, a liver, an amulet, just something that she could hold in her actual hands, weep over with her actual eyes. Something she could wash and wrap in winding sheets and lay on fragrant fir in the bone-grounds at the edges of the forest and say a prayer over - like she had done for her first sister, the one to whom she had been bound by the sharing of a womb rather than the sharing of meat and drink.
Or maybe that would have made it worse - maybe grief is like water, harmless and easily passed through when diffuse as mist, but if given something to nucleate upon, all gathered together in one place, capable of striking any human instantly down.
And the infuriating thing is - she had known this. It was worthless to love anything, anyone: the masters, or the world in general, would take or sell it all away. She had had herself almost fully trained: when they had pulled her first family away behind the marketplace, she had bit the inside of her lips until they ulcerated, ground her nails into the skin of her hands, but she had not wept. Nor the second time, nor the third time, nor when the switches fell over her palms or when the sons of the house would hold her against the walls - Saarn had built her own walls, sealed in her soul until it could feel nothing, do nothing, until she had almost forgotten she had one.
But he had been - warm. Temptingly warm, and that hidden soul had shuddered and against all the rest of her will slipped out one tendril - please, can we bask here? it had asked, just for a moment?
And, like a fool, she had agreed.

Saarn does not feel the cold, as she trudges on through the empty tundra. She becomes aware of it only as a slowing, her limbs taking longer to respond to her thoughts and those thoughts taking longer to cross the expanses of her mind. This might be a cause for concern, but fortunately the cold slows that as well.
He said, when she and Nadox and he were curled around a brazier one night speaking of everything and nothing, that there were creatures lying within the frozen soils, so perfectly preserved over millions of years that he could revive one with scarcely a sliver of power, if he found one.
She will become one of them, soon enough. Frozen through, only waiting for the chance of someone to stumble upon her and revive her. If they ever do.
Lost in these thoughts, she overtops a ridge only for a sudden flash of darkness among all that hoar to catch on one of the many predatory instincts lying coiled at the bottom of her mind.
There are dwellings, here. There is smoke that smudges the sky, and small figures moving like insects.
But that is no reason to deviate from her path.
Saarn is good at camouflage, so it is but a moment to make herself look as one of them - blunt-cut bangs, resorbed appendages, melanocytes replicating and migrating over her face to cluster in jagged lines on her chin and forehead. And then she goes down among the huts - poor things but honest, built of packed snow and skins supported with slender ribs of bone. Almost they look like the shelters from the first days of Ion's campaign, that had put forth their own ribs and gills.
Their inhabitants mill about, not looking at her - weaving baskets, sewing furs, stirring steaming cooking-skins. Outside one shelter, a young man stands threading sinew through a fold of leather, and a young woman runs up to him, hair tumbling loose. He says something and laughs; the woman does too, and he puts an arm around her shoulders, bends down to press his lips to her hairline.
And fury is a wildfire, a wave that crashes over and drowns her.
Saarn does not feel the cold, but she does feel the warmth - a third of the way to boiling smeared on her cheeks, soaking her kirtle, splattered bright over the snow. Her fangs fold themselves back up against the roof of her mouth, and her claws retract involuntarily.
It tastes the same - iron and protein and rich rare salt, steaming into the air. Centuries have passed, and yet she has trodden only in a great circle, come right back to where she was before with nothing to show for all that time but a handful more scars and a hole where a god once lived.
Her lips curl. What a waste.

She does not count the years she spends simply… moving. Crawling from territory to territory, among the hemlocks. And when each grows familiar, too close, too claustrophobic, she simply slits the world and moves on to somewhere else. Anywhere else.
But Saarn survives. No matter how many raw fields of lifeless black rocks she has to walk over, how many times her soles burst into blistering against the hot steam. No matter how many times the snow descends and covers her up as thickly as the ice-bear pelt Orok had draped over her. He had placed the cased-out head over her own, and she had laughed, it sliding down over her eyes to conceal her entirely in thick white fur.
She had still been wrapped in it hours later, once the moon had risen into a foggy, iridescent-fringed spot like a cataracted eye gazing down at them. Orok's breath had shimmered as well in its light, but the trabecular permineralized ramparts had been warm and insulative under them - even more so for her, curled animalistic into his side.
Why did you come? he had asked, and she had known what he meant: to follow Ion at all. It had been breathed almost noiselessly, as though to ask that question was shameful, as though anything less than full devotion to the cause meant they would become enemies, even after all this time. Would push them over that hair-thin line between with us and against us.
I do not know, Saarn had answered honestly. Language - any of them, Adytite or Daevite or Ejienk, the accented tongues of the western sea or brought from the jungles of the south - was not designed to describe the knot of agonizing adoration that had settled among the limbs of her ribs. You?
Me neither. There were so many people who claimed to be Deliverer, in Jel, he had said. And I doubted every one. And was right! She did not bother to ask how he had known this, what had happened to them. It was the same in every city across the empire: every runaway wanted to think they'd be the one to survive, the one who would reach back and free all the others, be hero and break the fetters and none of them ever did and nothing ever changed. I could never afford to hope, he had said.
Neither had she. Her mother had tried to turn that sentiment on its head - nobody can afford your hope, čuoru, she had said, ruffling Saarn's hair. That is the one thing they cannot buy, at any price.
Saarn had known better. What did that matter, if they could afford everything else?
But in the end, her mother had been wrong - not because she had estimated too low but because she had estimated too high. If any of the masters or mistresses had ever tried to buy her hope they would have used pierced and marked coins, placed them into her old owner's hands - not a twisted handful of pig-iron rent from the walls and flung at her feet, not one follow me and one kiss on the brow.
He never would have paid a single measly kúan for any of their bodies - you are far too precious to me for that, he had said.
She wonders what he would have given, to ensure their hope endured.

See, this is what had bound them all - that they had loved a prophet. That they had lived within their own legend, within the tale that he had called out to crowds and whispered in their ears and hissed as curses to priests and tyrants bleeding out on his blades.
It had been terrible - she sees that now, with eyes gone milky as the crystallins within them freeze. But they had been young and wine-drunk on hope and novelty, and had taken him at face value when he said they could be happy, could be free.
And now the story has all gone wrong - she lives, and he is dead, and her wings have been clipped and she is falling, falling.

The hills grow green, lined with spruce-forests again. The mountains grow tall, the rock below their bases thrusting them ever upwards until their peaks are hidden in the clouds. Animals cross her path, occasionally, and her claws and venoms always strike their marks, send them folding gently to the ground, dead.
Sometimes she even eats them, after.
There is a small blue lake in a small shadowed valley, and she stumbles right into its shallows. When she kneels down to drink from it, her face catches in the water, wakens that same predator-instinct that demands her to focus upon it. She looks like a thing barely alive, with knotted hair and crusted eyes, clothing long since rotted away to rags - like a monster, slit-pupiled and scaled. For a moment she pangs to remember her old face, the soft and blunt-toothed one. The instinctual depths of her mind howl that she run back, to that place and that time.
(In years to come, men will drink from the water of this lake and die instantly.)
But what is there to return to, after so long? How could she bear to be human again, blind and dumb and undefended as she had been? How could she bear to be anything else, knowing the horror that had wrought everything living? He has strung her up on a gibbet between flesh and spirit, slave and goddess, and forgot to cut the cord.
It turns out that even liminality goes sour, over ages.

The world opens a wide mouth and swallows her up. Over flowstones and terraces, beneath stalactites hanging like swords suspended from threads, she wanders, seeking no end but unable to endure stillness either.
Eventually, she breaks out into a cavern lit by shafts of light falling from crumbling-edged sinkholes in the ceiling. The limestone waterfall to her left looks more liquid than the others have, drenched in some black, sticky substance whose volatiles taste of carbon when they drift between her lips.
Saarn does not realize what her hands are doing until they have already begun - dipping into the tar, dragging themselves over the walls. Tracing limbs, tracing hands and feet and eyes, the letter-shapes Nadox had shown her with his fingers rough over hers and lips and faces painted the way Lovataar had done them, with firm sure lines. The four of them take shape, there, on the wall - not perfect, for nothing that lives can ever be perfect, perfect is for crystals and metals, not for ensouled things - but beautiful. Full and flourishing, the way they ought to be. Once again, for the first time in uncountable years, she beholds Lovataar's horned visage, Orok solemn and proud, Nadox with his hands frozen in the middle of a word.
And him - still gentle, and still lost.
She snatches up another handful of tar and steps forward again, slashing though the rock tears the skin from her knuckles. Liar, somebody snarls, and they use her mouth. They clench her hands and pull, and up there on the surface roots respond and hyphae, auguring down, spilling lithodegredative enzymes, and once again fleshy tendrils rupture from her companions' bodies, tearing them to pieces.
He was worse than the masters had been, for at least they had kept their promises, no matter how monstrous they were. But Ion -
You said you would save us. He had taken her and used her, seized her when she had no choice but to obey and then hollowed her out for a weapon. Would he have discarded her anyway had his conquest succeeded, having no further use for her? For now he had left her with nothing, had replaced her hope in dying under the axe with hope in him, and then rent even that away from her.
Just another false claimant to the title of Deliverer, after all.
I hate you are her last words to the man - beautiful and loving and glorious, whom she had called welye and käsek, my life and yet for all that only that, a man and no more - who died, and did not take her with him.


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Ulysses B. Donkman and the Mournful Birthday by: DrAkimoto & MalyceGraves

Original Donkman Article

Donkman and the Clockwork Bandits

~DrAkimoto's Author Page~
♠ MalyceGraves' Author Page

February 10, 1976 - Atlanta, GA
The rain poured relentlessly from a slate-gray sky, coating everyone and everything in damp misery. Ulysses B. Donkman had definitely seen better days, certainly better weather. But, the weather matched his mood, and he found that to be just about right.
He stood on a corner outside yet another bar in yet another town, the collar of his old dust-colored trench coat was pulled up around his neck, but it did little to stop the more-than-frequent drips of cold water from running down his back. But, that too was just about right. This was just the season for it, after all, and Donkman was just glad it wasn't snowing.
The screeching noise from the breaks of an old panel van caught his attention, and he looked up just in time to see a group of four men dressed in black leather jackets hustling a small figure with a bag over their head into the side of the van. Now that, that didn't seem right.
The men slammed the door shut and accelerated away, only to turn and come to a halt at the traffic light in front of Donkman. He snorted in the irony of it as he stepped out and calmly reached out to open the side door. It wasn't even locked.
The kidnappers all looked up in shock, and a muffled scream can be heard from the bundle at their feet. "Pardon me friends, I'ma need y'all to step out a moment." Donkman looked pointedly at the dumbfounded kidnappers.
"And just who the fuck are you?" Came from one of the thugs in the front seat.
Donkman gripped the frame of the car door tightly, controlling his temper. "Now, there ain't no need to be rude. I'm just a concerned bystander." At that, the driver slammed his foot down on the gas as he tried to just leave this obviously crazy man behind.
With an ease that shouldn't have been possible, Donkman casually stepped up onto the side of the van and ripped the driver's door from its hinges before the van could travel more than a few feet. Again with nonchalant ease, he grabbed the kidnapper by the collar and casually tossed him from the van.
The vehicle rolled to a stop in stunned silence. Donkman grinned laconically at the crooks still sitting in the van.
"Christ–" One of them got out before he too was yanked bodily from the back of the car.
"I done told y'all that there was no call for bein' rude. Now, if'n ya please, jus-" His slow drawl was cut off as the two remaining thugs lunged at him, and all three went tumbling to the wet pavement. For just a moment, it looked as if the two had the upper hand on the erstwhile rescuer, before he reached up with deceptive speed and slammed the heads of the two together in a wet sounding smack.
The man in the passenger seat shoved open his door. "I'm getting' outta' here, man! You're fucking crazy!"
Donkman climbed to his feet with a sigh, then reached into his coat to remove his slingshot and a small metal ball. The second crook was running helter-skelter down the street as Donkman lined up his shot. With a flick of the wrist, the ball was sent flying through the air like a bullet, connecting with the fleeing crook in the back of the head. With an audible yelp, he too collapsed to the ground.
Donkman gazed out at him for a few moments, making certain that he wouldn't be getting to his feet, before climbing into the van.
"Are you alright, young mister?" His voice was quiet, with a healthy dose of a reassuring tone.
"I want my mommy!" The boy's voice was tremulous, obviously still filled with fear.
Donkman sighed, and paused for a moment and thinks of his own mother. He settled down beside the boy, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the van. "Can ya' keep a secret, kid?"
The boy nodded and wiped at his nose.
"I reckon we all miss our mothers now and again; even 'ol Donkman." He nodded to himself, his tone somber and still with that lacing of calm reassurance.
The boy sniffled, then looked up at Donkman, tears wet in his eyes.
"Really?"
Donkman placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, a smile playing about his lips. "Of course."
For a moment they sat there in a companionable silence before Donkman patted the boy on the back. "Now, let's see if'n we can find ya' momma; where were ya' before those loathsome crooks snatched ya?"
"We went to the market, but I got lost, and I couldn't find her." The kid pointed down the road towards the store.
"Well, let's go find her." Donkman climbed out of the van and turned to help the kid down to the pavement just as the rain stopped falling. He takes the kid's hand, and they started to walk towards the market.
"What's ya' name partner?"
"I'm Robert! But everyone just calls me Bobby!"
Donkman laughed and looked over to give his young companion a wink. "Well it's nice to meet'ya, Bobby. My name's Donkman, Ulysses Donkman."
They shook hands and continued to amble down the street. "So where's your momma, mister?"
"Oh, I haven't seen my mother in quite a while, I'd like to think she's in a better place."
"Better than what?"
Donkman motioned around himself with a broad gesture, "All of this."
"Is she pretty? My momma is the prettiest."
Donkman stopped and dug into his pocket. After a moment, he pulled out a small portrait in an ancient pocket photo case. He paused for a moment, then showed the kid the picture.
The kid scrunched up his face as he looked at the picture. "That's a funny looking mask you got there."
"Yeah… I reckon it is." Donkman said solemnly as he tucked the picture back into his pocket. With a sigh, he straightened and they kept walking towards the store.
"Well, why haven't you seen her?"
Donkman sighed again at that one, and his tone takes on a wistful quality. "Time has a funny way of gettin' away from us."
They come to a stop outside the market, and a pretty young woman dashed out and gathered the boy up in her arms.
"Mr. Donkman saved me, momma! The bad men were gonna take me and he beat 'em up real good!" The kid's voice came out in a rush as he returned the hug with fervor. "He brought me back here, and we were coming to look for you!"
The woman finally turned to Donkman, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "How can I ever repay you, Mr. Donkman?"
He shook his head and reached over to rustle Bobby's hair. "Nah, 'twernt nothin, ma'am. Just bein' polite, is all." With that, he knuckled his forehead at her, and turned to walk away.
"Make sure you go see your momma mister!" The boy's voice carried after him, and Donkman wiped one of his own tears from his eye.

Notice from the Foundation Historical Analysis Division

Photograph of what is assumed to be SCP-4768's mother's grave.

Foundation agents looking for the childhood home of SCP-4768 found an unmarked grave located near the town of Willsboro, Texas. The grave was on the Pickman farm; tax records indicate the land was abandoned and ownership was transferred to the town of Willsboro in 1899. The home on the property was demolished in 1925 but the unmarked grave was left undisturbed. The skeletal remains match with those of a female donkey (Equus asinus), approximately 35-40 years olds at time of death. A small metal box was found holding a picture of SCP-4768 and a donkey, along with a note written on parchment, dated February 23, 1976. Due to the nature of the material found, the grave and the box were left at the scene, though extensive photographs were taken. Local Foundation agents will observe the area on the 22-24 of February each year.

All photographic evidence is available to personnel with 3/4768 Clearance at the Site-51 Archives.

The content of the note reads as follows:

February 23, 1976

Today, on the day of my birth, I cannot help but think of you.
Ever since you left I find myself at a loss for a home to lay my head, for a place to truly call safe. I have spent many, many years traveling across these great lands, a hero to some, a villain to others, a wanderer to most.
Of course, I have made friends along the way. But none will see me for what I really am. I have been many things, I have seen many places but none have brought me the joys of youth, when we would graze about the farm, not a care in the world. I should have never left home, my insatiable need for adventure has led me astray time and time again, one misstep after another.
When I was just a foal you told me life would be hard, that I would need to find my own way, but you never said it would last forever. The longer you've been away the more my long life seems a curse. Forever a stranger in a strange land.
I miss you, mum.

<< Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
♦ Ulysses B. Donkman and the Mournful Birthday ♦
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Foreboding Forest >>


Calibold

Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page

R.I.P.
Ulysses B. Donkman
Died September 3rd, 1898
True heroes die for us.

Sherman Lockwell stood underneath a weeping willow. He hated to stand near anything that wept, but this was the quietest of the bunch.
The funeral was packed. Hundreds had turned out to pay their respects for Donkman. Men, women, and children all cried tears of pain over the loss of their hero. Lockwell cried tears of joy over the money he'd be getting today.
He just wished they didn't have to meet at the funeral, of all things. He liked towns and cities; it was just interesting, with the people and the buildings. There was an extra dimension to it, both literal and metaphorical. But instead, he was stuck in a barren flat field, interrupted only by headstones and a small crowd of walking water pumps.
The preacher walked to the podium. "Today, we celebrate the life, and mourn the loss of one dearest to us, to our nation, and to all decent human beings. Ulysses B. Donkman was wickedly killed, struck down by a coward and a villain. He died bravely, a hero. A defender of all that was decent, good, and just."

One Week Ago
Lockwell walked into the Galloping Goose. In most respects, it was a bar like any other. Waitresses shouting at one another, round tables cluttered with strong drinks and even stronger men, and the obligatory round dartboard. What stood out to him were the photos. Dozens of them, all of the same man doing different things: Sitting in a train, standing over a dead bear, sitting atop a horse. He'd done his research, and knew of only one man with this sort of fame in these parts.
Lockwell sat down. The bartender, a large man with a wide mustache, raised his eyebrows. "Never seen you 'round here before."
Lockwell smiled. "Probably not, but more folks are more business."
"Aye, fair enough. What can I get for you?"
Lockwell thought for a moment. "Surprise me. I'm in the mood for it."
As the bartender poured the drink, he asked "So what brings you to the Galloping Goose?"
"Looking for a fellow named Donkman," said Lockwell, "Big fan of his, came down here to meet him."
The bartender stopped for a moment. "Lotsa folks come down to see the Donkman. Proud to say I know the guy, at least."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. Doesn't stay in one place for very long, but he does pop by here every so often. I think he's in town today, actually, so I'd say you might be in luck."
The bartender handed Lockwell the drink, which he cautiously sipped. It wasn't too strong, and it tasted faintly of cherry. "I wouldn't call it luck. I know a few folks, they told me where to go."
"Well, you seem eager to meet- speak of the devil, there he is now!"
Lockwell turned in his seat to look at the man who had just walked in. Donkman was definitely an impressive sight, and it had nothing to do with his actual looks. The way he carried himself, his friendly expression; everything about him was graceful and charming.
The bartender waved. "Donk! You've got an admirer here!" He gestured to Lockwell.
Donkman grinned and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, partner! Always happy to oblige a fan!"
Lockwell took the hand and shook it. Donkman had a firm grasp. "It's an honor, Mr. Donkman."
Donkman sat down next to Lockwell. "The usual, Johnny." The bartender handed him a glass and Donkman turned to Lockwell. "So what can I do for you?"
"Just was hoping to meet you."
Donkman grinned. "Well, I reckon you done that-!" He stopped and turned to a few folks yelling his name. "Ayy, if it ain't Johnny Deadbolt, how you doing…"
Now was Lockman's chance. He looked around the bar and planned everything out. It was easy to cause chaos in a place like this.
And a push and a shove later, the bar was in a riot. Drinks, stools, bodies flying everywhere. He turned about and saw Donkman defending himself with a bar stool. It was too easy.
No one heard the gunshot.
No one noticed him carry Donkman's body out.
It was late at night. He took Donkman to the river. Everything was going easily. He tied some large stones to Donkman's feet. And just to be sure, he shot the body a few more times, in the heart and head. Finally, he threw it in.
Nobody saw him do it. Nobody noticed him come back. The bar, the houses, everything was dark and still.
All too easy.

He tuned back into the preacher, just in time for his special segment. "And now, to Donkman's murderer," said the preacher. He'd begun to cry, tears of anger falling down his face. "I do not know if you are here, but if you are, know that even Christ himself should not seek mercy towards you. You have destroyed a true bastion of strength, love, justice, and honor. A man most beloved by all he knew, and yet you were able to reach into the depths of hell itself to find the sheer cruelty to destroy him."
Lockwell nodded. He'd heard this sort of thing before, although he had to confess he was impressed by the emotion he heard. Interesting, but it didn't matter to him. A dead guy was money, and he didn't care who would miss him. All that mattered was that he was paid.
The preacher finished with slight sob and wiped his eyes. The coffin was lowered into the ground, hitting the earth with a loud flump. Lockwell checked his watch. When he looked up again, a man in a dark coat and large hat was walking towards him.
"Sherman Lockwell?" he asked. The newcomer had a slight British accent, though it was barely perceptible underneath his quiet voice.
"That'd be me, chief. You have what I want?"
"Of sorts, although not what you were expecting."
Lockwell shifted slightly. Something was up. "What do you mean?"
"I'm Charles Gayle. I represent your employer." Gayle straightened his tie. "He wants you to meet him again."
Lockwell pointed at Gayle. "Now hold on a sec. I don't care what words the boss has for me, I just want my money. I did the job, I'd like to be paid for it!"
Gayle put his hands up defensively. "You'll get your money, rest assured. That's partially why he'd like to meet with you again, he has your pay. But there is something else you should be aware of."
Gayle pulled out a few photos and gave them to Lockwell. Each of them was a picture of a different person. "Who are they?" asked Lockwell.
"Each of them was sent to assassinate Mr. Donkman," said Gayle. "Each of them failed."
Lockwell looked at the pictures again. A few of them he even recognized: a mustached man, very clearly Albert Taim; a hooded figure, with an N-shaped brooch for "The Neutralizer"; he'd even met the next person, David Kaile. A chill went up his spine as he considered that what he'd done had possibly been more significant than he'd thought.
"As you have probably guessed, your client was… impressed by your work. He'd like to make contact with you again." Gayle smiled slightly. "Between you and I, it takes quite a lot to impress the boss. I can guarantee he has more fine offers for you in the future."
Thunder rumbled in the distance, making both men start slightly. "I'd best be going," said Gayle, "I wish you luck, Mr. Lockwell."
Gayle walked back towards the crowd, and was quickly lost. Lockwell leaned against the tree he stood under. Slowly, he grinned. Things were looking up for him. A successful job, good pay, and a guarantee of more work in the future.
He felt a slight uneasiness, and tried to ignore it. But he couldn't help but feel a bit off about everything. He thought for a moment, and shook it away. The job was successful. His client was well-known for keeping their promises. Besides, he could always worry about it later.
Rain began to fall, and as the crowd's umbrellas went up, so did his spirits.

Charles Gayle walked towards his horse-drawn carriage. His servant opened the door for him, and he stepped inside. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and smiled.
"I trust everything went well?" said Mr. Arshull.
Gayle laughed. "Oh, beyond well, Arshull. Beyond well." He took a sip of his drink. "Lockwell is on track to becoming a fabled assassin, and his boss has had a deep fear put to rest at last."
Mr. Arshull nodded. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, sir. Now that today's affairs have been settled, perhaps you'd like to take a brief respite?"
"I like where you're going, Mr. Arshull. But there's still time left for a bit of fun, I'd say."
Mr. Arshull smiled. "I suppose you'd like to keep tabs on our friend Lockwell for now then?"
The carriage started forward. "Aye, we'll do that."
"Ah, what did you think of the funeral, sir?"
Gayle began to laugh. "Truly beautiful, Arshull. I loved the sentiment, although it's a pity nobody came."
"A clever trick all the same," said Arshull. He puffed on a cigar.
"I'll take the compliment," said Gayle, "Besides, no one would have remembered their hero's face anyway."
"Including Mr. Lockwell, of course."
"Yes, although I don't pity myself for him. He doesn't need to know he failed his mission," said Ulysses B. Donkman. "Now, let's keep a good eye on him. I want to know exactly who wants me dead."
They started off down the road, leaving a mirage to dissipate behind them.

Notice from the Foundation Historical Analysis Division

The Galloping Goose, a bar frequented by SCP-4768.

Foundation agents investigating SCP-4768's history of human relations found evidence of multiple assassination attempts against it. None of them had succeeded. However, a journal entry by Sherman Lockwell, a hitman at the time, claimed that he had successfully killed SCP-4768 in the Galloping Goose, a bar which SCP-4768 frequented. Additionally, a second entry affirmed that he had actually visited its funeral, but further investigation concluded that no records within Lockwell's area of operations confirmed the death or burial of anyone named Ulysses B. Donkman.

All photographic evidence is available to personnel with 3/4768 Clearance at the Site-51 Archives.

+ More by Calibold +

- More by Calibold -

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page
— SCP Articles —

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

— Tales —

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

— GoI Formats —

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

— Other —

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

— Co-Authored —

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

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

<< Ulysses B. Donkman and the Clockwork Bandits
♦ Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman ♦
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Mournful Birthday >>


Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Or, more like it…
Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit.
Left, right, left, right. Back, forth, back, forth. Hit, return, hit, return.
Two paddles, one on the left and one on the right. The ball, bouncing from one side to the other, over a dotted line that marked the middle. All of it, white on a black background. That was one monitor.
The others were a camera feed and a data stream. The subject and her vitals. Someone had to be watching at all times, and tonight, it was Trevor. Well, Dr. Smart. Yes, that was his real name. Trevor Smart. And on a graveyard shift, he was going to be making sure Dana Alcorn didn't suddenly up and die.
Oh, and that her game was going well.
Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit.
He couldn't believe this was actually his job. The words he uttered when he first learned he would be watching a video game play out for the rest of his foreseeable life suddenly sounded so hollow upon remembering — "dream come true". Of all the games in the world, it had to be Pong.
Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit.
Against procedure, he muted the game. No headway had been made in decades. No wins, no losses. Neither side. Pong was not a hard game. Dana had engendered a stalemate. And it was his job to make sure of two things. One, it was still a stalemate, and two, the machines were still taking care of all her bodily functions. Making sure she didn't get bed sores, making sure water was being fed into her stomach, as well as the daily streams of nutrients. Make sure her heartrate was normal (seems she hadn't been excited in years), her breathing was steady (she inhaled when her opponent hit the ball, and exhaled when she did), and that she blinked enough that her eyes didn't crack (could they not have ever upgraded to plugging the game directly into her brain?). And wouldn't you guess it…
None of this had been a problem. Not ever. Things were so stable, that there had been passing mention of allowing less than 24/7 surveillance. Give her some breathing room, so to speak. It was allowed for a good bit, too. Before Trevor was here, of course. But he's heard about it. The "glory days". That, of course, was before it was realized that people here had passed four days in the span of six hours.
He glanced at the clock. 6:59 in the morning. Half an hour before his shift ended. Just needed to keep his eyes open until then. He sipped his decaf coffee.
Dit. Dit. Dit. Dit.
Even with the mute, he could hear it in his head. The worst earworm in all of existence.
Trevor spun in the chair. The room was tiny. Awful. Dark. No windows, one desk, three monitors. There was barely space enough to doodle on the available post-it notes. It's like it was designed to torture.
So much professionalism erodes when everyone essentially believes their job is useless, and moreover, finds themselves in a position where no one is checking in on them. So Trevor, finally breaking near the end of his shift, pulled out his phone; his buddy Thain was known to wake up around this time.
Trevor: you awake
Thain: Literally just woke up.
Trevor: im watching the girl
Thain: Damn that was tonight?
Trevor: uuuggggh
Thain: This morning*?
Trevor: ye
Thain: Sucks.
Trevor: ye
Thain: I imagine you're waiting for me to occupy you somehow.
Trevor: yes please
Thain: Nothing interesting has happened in the past 12 hours.
Thain: So I got no new material
Trevor: fucking tell me about it
Thain: So I'm not sure what there is to say.
Trevor: i cant believe i got decaf today
Thain: Hold up taking a shower
Trevor: ok
Fuck. There went that. Thain took, like, 20 minute showers. This was hell. Trevor did another couple spins. He envied people for whom books could hold their attention. That would be an easy fix to this awful situation. But he wasn't into that, there was no data to be had and the wifi blocked all websites of potential interest, they'd kill him if they found him playing some sort of mobile game. Shit. He felt like a teenager again. Problems like this should not affect 30-year-olds.
Hold up. Hold. Up.
The clock, one of the only things creating light other than his monitor and his phone, was red, bright, and wrong. 6:61, it said.
Suddenly, Trevor wasn't bored. Oh god. Why did this have to happen while he was on duty?
Trevor: Thain, I need your help
Trevor: !!!
Trevor: Thain
Trevor: Thain
Fuck. He was going to have to call him. Which he did, and it of course went to voicemail.
Back to the clock.
6:62.
"Fuck!" he yelled. He and Thain were the only people he could expect to be awake right now. Anyone who wasn't already likely wouldn't be for a good, long time. If, of course, time even allowed for that statement to make sense.
Trevor started running over what he remembered. The first thing, of course, was to get into Dana's cell, and begin negotiations. For that matter —
Dit. Dit. Dit.
No, the game was going fine. Not an issue. Never had been. Stupid thought. Trevor opened the door and stepped out. He finally got to leave, and yet he wasn't happy about the circumstances that allowed it. Out of this door was more work. Trevor had to wonder; what was going to be new this time? They had become more calculated, recently — if you can call it "recent". A time dilation hadn't happened in years.
Oh my god, Trevor thought. They picked me because I'm lazy. Clever bastards. Mostly just bastards though.
He pulled on his coat that hung on the coat rack outside the door, and proceeded down the hallway.
Then turned around, because that was the wrong direction.
Clever. Bastards.
He checked his phone. 6:64. Yup, it was still happening. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Then he got a call.
"Trev, what's wrong?"
"Look at the clock, man."
There was a pause.
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Damn it, I'm at least thirty minutes from the Site, dude. Stayed at my girlfriend's place last night, she lives a bit farther out. Speaking of, gonna have to make up an excuse to leave. Also speaking of, I'm in range of the time dilation? How big is this area of effect?"
"No clue dude."
"If anyone else is awake right now and snaps a picture…"
"God damn it man, covering up containment breaches is not my job. I'm just the surveillance guy, and I need your help, because last time I fucking learned this procedure I was a newhire! Now get in your car and drive!"
"Alright!"
Thain hung up.
Then he got a call.
"Trevor, I gotta drive."
"I'm alone in a building where the only other people awake are a nigh-comatose girl playing pong and literal demons. Keep me some company?"
Thain sighed. "Fine."
"Thank you."
Trevor was flying down the stairs, his shoulder-length wavy brown hair flopping on his neck. Once or twice his foot didn't quite stick the landing, and his back tensed to the point of pain as he tried to keep his balance and avoid tumbling down the stairs. He must have made a noise to go with it, because each time Thain would chuckle over the phone, and Trevor would have to remind him to shut up.
Then, he was at the lowest basement level, the only place in this entire Site to house even one anomaly. Yeah. It was that important. Trevor wished it felt as important as it was. Because as it was, the door to the big, important thing wasn't locked. It couldn't be — because if it was locked to Level 4 access or above, and only a Level 2 like Trevor was awake when they started getting fucked with? Well. That's one of a few reasons that they passed through six days in four hours once. Wait, other way around, four hours in six — no! Four days, six hours. God damn it.
Trevor laughed.
"Shut it!"
"Bro, you called me!"
Trevor grumbled as he fumbled his keycard out of his pocket. Just about the only reason this keycard lock was here was because they wanted a record of who went in and out. Trevor had only ever seen the room from the surveillance screen — they wanted as few people as possible to actually enter the room — so he wasn't truly prepared for the stench.
"Holy mackerel, dude…"
So this was what happened when you lock someone in a room for their whole life. Trevor knew she was cleaned sometimes, but the extent to which they could clean her was limited. The entire operation was rushed, and now she couldn't be moved for fear that she, you know, loses. And they didn't install a bath at first… so the best option was to spray her with water.
So Trevor did just that.
He picked up the hose, already fitted with the appropriate nozzle, and spritzed Dana.
"Hey!" He spritzed her thrice more. "Hey! You're breaking the contract and you know it! Fucking, come out!" This time, he held it down, and began to soak her. Then, a drop got in her eye, and her emotionless face had to squint.
"Shit, got some in her eye."
"You," noise from Thain's side told Trevor that he had dropped the phone. "You what?"
"It's fine, man."
"You didn't put the goggles on her!? Dude!"
"Okay, I get it! I'll put some on her or someshit, it's fine."
"It's not fine!"
"Well it will be, get off my back!"
Trevor jogged to the Close Observation Deck, a room coming off of Dana's that had a one-way mirror looking in on her, controls of the devices keeping her alive, desks, and drawers in each of them. These, Trevor pillaged.
"Goggles, goggles, goggles…"
Trevor passed over notes, stress balls, a magic eight ball (why was that here?), an original gameboy (that made more sense), oodles of pencils and pens, tools(?), and some other more disturbing items (why do they need a baton in here, or a taser for that matter, would she really perform better by being temporarily incapacitated with a tazer?). But he found what he was looking for. Goggles!
"Got 'em. Where are you?"
"I'm still 20, 25 minutes away my man, but I'm noticing something. All the other cars are moving… really, really slowly. And they're not reacting to me. Had to get out of a lane because this dude was trying to tailgate the guy in front of me."
"And you didn't even make a noise about it until now?"
"I concentrate better with silence, needed it silent."
"Okay, makes sense."
With the goggles affixed, Trevor resumed the spraying, yelling even louder this time.
"Hey, bitches!! You've broken the contract! Speak up, assholes!"
"Trev, I just said I focus better with silence, if you could keep it down —"
"Woah woah woah, shut it for a second."
Trevor felt the building shake, saw the lights flicker.
"They're responding," Trevor whispered.
He saw Dana's face begin to scrunch up, saw her begin to twist and struggle, and then she opened her mouth, and a low muddy growl came out. "Fuck," Trevor said under his breath. It's really easy to forget they can't actually do anything to you. Suddenly, he understood the presence of the taser.
"Y-yeah, fuckheads, stop playing stupid and answer me!"
The growling grew louder, the room darker, and Trevor smaller. Suddenly, looking at Dana was like looking at a landmark, somewhere off in the distance, as tall as buildings, her seat a plateau. Trevor started shaking, and wondered if that was natural or induced. From what he'd heard, they were likely capable of it, and were total drama queens to boot. In any case, induced or not, he felt it. Fear.
"Talk to me. Thain, talk to me, talk to me Thain, c'mon dude please, talk to me, talk to me man."
No response over the phone. But Dana's face started seizing, her cheeks twitching, lips pulling in strange directions. The growling started to fuse with other noises — squealing, grunting, screeching, coughing, all happening at once, ingredients in a cauldron, stewing and boiling, bubbling, twisting, some of this and some of that, so abrasive and strange that Trevor felt queasy. It reached its most unbearable crescendo just as it started forming… words.
"You dare accuse us, mortal!?"
The voice gurgled like it was full of water, popped and crackled as if from flame, snarled like a lion's roar, all of this at once and more.
"Y-you're —" Trevor broke off to compose himself. "You're breaking the contract!"
The voice-menagerie cackled. "What line, exactly?"
Fuck. He hadn't brought the contract with him. Furthermore, he didn't know where it was.
"You know there is no line!" Trevor yelled. "You're cheating around the system!"
The laugh came again, and the feeling it sent through Trevor could be described as a fresh layer of dried clay and dirt, caking his skeleton and all the rest of his insides. "The system is ours to cheat, mortal! If it isn't in the contract, it is by your oversight that the loophole exists — and that contract is inviolable until its expiry. There is nothing you can do."
"Then what the fuck did the guys before me do? This is supposed to work."
The demons remained silent.
"Ah right. And this, this is why you chose now to do this. Fuck me. Uhhh…"
…
"I'll call your boss?"
The demons cackled once more. "And how would you do that?"
"Well… fuck. Fuck!" Trevor tried to turn around and head towards the door, but all he found was an abyss. "I should have got more stuff before I came down here. Uhh…" He looked all around, but only found black. They wouldn't let him go now that they had him in their trap. This was a stupid move. An utterly idiotic play on Trevor's part. If only he had searched around more, he had access to the file in which it describes in detail what to do. Because of him, it was gonna be those six days all over again. Or was it four days? Fuck!
"Umm…" Trevor squinted. "Ummm!" He scrunched his face up, tensed his arms, as if physical exertion would force an idea out of his brain. "Ummm!!"
Woah, wait, it worked.
Well, it got an idea into his head. He didn't know if it worked yet.
"Alright, uhhh… well." Trevor swallowed. "Ever heard the saying 'speak of the devil'?"
A single grunt responded.
"Hmm. Well, here goes." Trevor cleared his throat.

"SATAN!"

Trevor thought he heard an echo, thought he might have seen Dana's possessed face flinch. Okay, he thought to himself, there are people who take a bit to respond, I'll just do it again. And he did. Over and over, a whooping holler of the devil's name, summoning him (or a representative) to this place, here and now.
"Hey," the demons mumbled. But Trevor didn't hear them, and started to spin variations.
"Lucifer, Lucy, six six six, three sixes, Lord of Darkness, King of the Underworld, Master of the Unholy Below, Punisher of the Damned, Satan, should I say Satan again…"
"Stop that," a little louder this time.
"Yo my boy the Devil, I got some bitches here think they can just up and break contracts!"
"We're not breaking anything!"
"Golly gee whiz, this soul I have is suuuch a burden! If only someone could come and take it off my hands, I would be eternally grateful! Woohoo!"
"Stop invoking the Dark Lord!"
"Heya, Satan, I'd like to strike a —"
"Stop!"
Trevor felt, for just a moment, petrifying terror. His eyes went wide, his knees went weak, his brain went numb, and he wanted to die, then and there. It stopped him mid-sentence — his voice vanished from his throat. But it only lasted an instant, and then he was fine. And after he was fine, then he was smug.
"Ahh, so that's what it is. Striking a —"
It happened again.
"Jesus, stop that!"
"You stop trying to make… make…"
"Deals?"
"Don't speak that word!"
Trevor chuckled. "Okay, then I want to make a deal with you!"
The demons were silent.
"You stop dilating time, I don't call up your boss. Got it?"
"We can stop you each time."
"Alright, so be it. I'd like to strike a —"
"We have terms!"
"What terms?"
"We get to count the extra time here. It doesn't get completely reversed. And you bathe her more often — by the unholy moats, she stinks! We are not filth demons, we demand a cleaner work environment!"
"Fine. Keep the time."
"Good. Do you know how long 3,000 years is?"
"I'm not gonna live even an eighth of that. So yeah, it's long. But that's your fault."
"'3,000 years or until Dana dies, whichever comes first.'" The gurgling voice echoed unnaturally with the quotation of the contract.
"Bro, I'm not about to empathize with literal demons."
A groan of anger grew from Dana's mouth. "How much time did we get?"
"Uhh," Trevor checked his watch. "18ish minutes."
"Only 18!? How did you notice so soon?"
"Digital clocks. They don't just keep spinning."
"Ahh fuck."
"Yeah. Better luck next time. Except there won't be a next time. So stop trying. And for that matter, actually stop the time dilation please."
Silence.
"Alright then," Trevor cleared his throat. "Satan, I'd like to strike a —"
And then the darkness was gone, the room back to normal, Dana just as small as she usually was. The game was still a stalemate. The place still stank. The tubes were still feeding her everything she needed. And, Trevor noticed, the cameras on the ceiling were still running.
God damn it, he thought. They're going to notice I didn't know procedure. I just improvised. Fuuuck.
And then he checked his watch.
7:00 am.
"Phew," he breathed. Then, he sauntered up the stairs, meandered back to the office, and sat wearily at the desk, viewing the three cameras again. Another thirty minutes. Trevor let his head hit the desk. He hated this job.
Oh, and Thain died in a car crash once all the cars sped back up.
What? That's what happened.


Before the Foundation, history's largest mega-corporation—the East India Company—bankrolled a commission to protect anomalous objects. But what happened to them?

From The Merchants at Jambi
To The Agents of The Company at Bantam
22nd of October 1615
Worshipful Sir, our loves in all dutiful affections remembered, etc.,
May it please you to understand on the 27th of September we arrived at Lapata, near one day's walk from the water and the mouth of the Jambe where the ship had been anchored, whereupon inquired as to the Java junks and sought a guide into the place for which we were wholly ignorant. We slept til morn when the master of the ship wrote to us and said that from the swelling of the Jambe, there was neither any way to board the ship nor allow it into open river, and as such we were to march two days to the place where Your Worshipful Sir's cargo may be possessed and returned two days hence to the ship. We did this with all expedience, and met the seller, a Dutchman named Iojann. Iojann seemed all the happier to be rid of it, and nearly left our engagement without being paid.
As this letter finds you I am in expectation of my arrival in Fort St. David within a fortnight, and London by year's end. Then as now I remain your humble, and obedient,
Othaniel Trower
Company Agent & Steward
The Merchants at Jambi

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The Honourable East India Company
Manifest Detail # C-154919
Date: 21st of October 1615
Vessel: The Good Ship Tristanna
Storage: The cargo to be held in the lazarette, in a box of wood of thickest material, and secured to both floor and hull by iron chain. No crew, the Bosun or below, shall be permitted in the lazarette until this cargo be delivered. Should a crewman make his way within through misadventure or negligence, he is to remain there to expire.
Description: One (1) calf; a waif or runt of a beast with scarce the strength to stand nor move, should it be removed from within (Which, again, it should NOT). It is truly a creature unsightly in the eyes of God, but for that moment when the sun sets. Then, and I know not how, does the creature within become something else. Its voice becoming that of a wise man, speaking in an educated form, seeking release from its prison of wood and iron and offering riches and wisdom and other things of value in return. The box slowly grows quiet over the course of the hour if undisturbed.
Scribbled Note, in the margin.
23rd October
Father Leigham convinced the First Officer to allow him into the Lazarette to pray. They are with God now, and I am not [the note ends]

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"So it was an SCP, then," Dr. Werner said, setting the tablet down.
Her companion shook his head. "No, it was not. Such designations didn't exist then. it was simply unusual cargo. That is, until the night of the 23rd of October, 1615. Something happened aboard that boat and the few officers who survived boarded a lifeboat and floated away, letting the good ship Tristanna sink to the bottom of the Indian Ocean."
"A good story, and well told," Warner said, taking a sip of a cup of coffee and leaning back in her chair. "Forgive me being blunt, but I fail to see its relevance now. Unless the cow is still active?"
He shook his head. "No, it is not. But we haven't quite gotten there yet. Please, continue."

From The Port at Leole
To The Worshipful George Barckley, Agent for the English Nation in Bantam
The 26th of March, 1617
Whereas before you wrote unto me by servant of Lord [indistinguishable] to render unto him the purchase of two or three hundred boards from his master, I have made bargain for 38 rials per hundred.
In meanwhile, I have learned of note a man who has spoken of Bantam, and has entreated unto me to offer him that I might send his regards; he claims he is a man formerly of the Company, whose ship was lost at sea some two years ago; he begs his remarks be shared unto one Othaniel Trower who, he insists, serves at Bantam in your household, by the name of Arham Whitters.
Yours to Command,
Heinhurst, L.
Steward of Port at Leole

The response is hastily written on the reverse.
2nd of April, 1617
Captain:
I respond with courtesy on behalf of the Worshipful Lord Barckley's Household on this matter.
The man who claims to be Arham Whitters is not to be trusted. Should this letter arrive before I do, you must kill him at once.
Othaniel Trower

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From The Steward of the Company Investigations Committee of the West Indes
To The Worshipful George Barckley, Agent for the English Nation in Bantam
12th of April, 1617
Worshipful Sir, our loves in all dutiful affections remembered, etc.,
It is as feared, for upon my arrival on the grounds of the port, the stench of death was thick in the air. As my crewmen departed the ship—or rather, as those who would dare to do so departed the ship, the air was cool and quiet but our hearts thundered in protest of that which we were to discover.
I will spare the details, but each and every man, woman, and child at Port Leole is listed as a casualty in the attached report of our survey, including one Liam Heinhurst, whose reputation as your good and faithful servant is undisputed.
During the completion of our survey, which took several days, A good crewman by the name Danfield became very distressed, and attempted to take command of the ship Rhiannon Bay on the morning of the 8th, resting further down the port, but was captured by guards and stowed in the brig, where, where his howls for freedom, food and pity were unable to be ceased.
In the later afternoon I had the grave misfortune to discover the body of the late Danfield, who had apparently taken his own life some days earlier; but as his howls from the Rhiannon Bay were still unceasing, I recognized the beast for what it was. The sun was near to dropping below the horizon, and I ordered chains and a cargo chest to the Rhiannon Bay, where we wrestled the enraged Danfield into the chest, locked it, and secured it with iron. We set the ship afloat in the harbor, and I ordered it be watched through the night in rotating shifts. In the morning we re-boarded the Rhiannon Bay, retrieved the chest, and secured it below deck.
As I write this, Worshipful Sir, I can hear the crying below deck again, but it is not Danfield. It is that of a young girl, begging release from her prison. The men stationed below have put wax in their ears to stifle her cries, and are under strict order to kill any man should try and free whatever is in that box. Their vigilance is paramount to the creature meeting its fate.
I remain, as ever, your humble and obedient,
Othaniel Trower
Steward
Investigations Committee (Abroad)

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"Danfield was the cow SCP?" Warner shook her head, taking another sip of coffee. It had gone cold.
"Danfield was the creature, yes—and after some considerable debate in London, I am sure, it was decided the creature, which was unable to be killed by conventional means, should be confined. It was. Meanwhile," the man reached over and swiped forward on the tablet to the next set of documents, "Trower was hailed internally as a great asset to the East India Company, having recovered valuable assets and prevented further catastrophe at the hands of godless creatures from hell."
"That's understandable. What did he get, an award? East India Company stock?"
"Yes," the man said, opening the first document on the next page. "and also: A Commission."

The Right Worshipful Maurice Abbott, Governor-General of the East India Company, Lord Mayor of London, by the authority of James I, King of Great Brittaine, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, &c., hereby grants this my Governor's Commission to LORD OTHANIEL TROWER, to lead and direct this Right Honourable Commission on Unusual Cargo, and direct him to perform the duties of said office as necessary to support the Honourable East India Company, and affords him the rights, privileges, and honours in all places under His Majesty's rule and other such places as may be entitled to such honours, signed this Seventh Day of September, in the Seventeenth Year of His Majesty's Reign.

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From The Steward The R.H. Commissioner of the Commission on Unusual Cargo
To the Agents of the Company at Bantam
11th of October, 1623
Worshipful Sirs, our loves in all dutiful affections remembered, etc.,
It is with deepest pride that I accept The Right Worshipful's gracious commission to serve on the Committee so stated in your letter, though for divers and difficult matters it is impossible to receive it in person. As it is, my duties which this committee will assume are not stayed by delay in their care.
I am informed that the committee will oversee all three pieces of unusual cargo which are housed here. Furthermore, it is my intention that as the needs of this Honourable and Royal company grow as with the East Indian people, it is without doubt that we may indeed recover more.
On this subject I am afraid I must somewhat digress; this third piece of cargo is most peculiar; no box nor chain can contain it and as such we have used considerable expense to be certain it will no longer cross the winds of our ships nor threaten the tradesmen nor assets under our banners.
I remain as ever, your humble and obedient,
R. H. Othaniel Trower

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The R. H. Commission on Unusual Cargo
The Honourable East India Company
Manifest
Authorized by the Board of Regents of said Commission
Report #002
Storage: The cargo must be kept in stone hole of two feet with a depth of ten feet, bordered with a ring of lamp oil. Should the cargo attempt to escape this hole, the oil is to be lit, the heat and light of which should subdue it, while bamboo rods are used to push them back in.
They must be fed; they are quick to consume spoilt food though it makes them ill and quiet, but does not kill them, so as such any spoilt food shall be given to them so they will be most docile.
Margin note: Should they get through the fire, they may be lured with rancid meat, seized with a bucket, and returned to their hole. Do NOT touch them with your flesh!
Cargo Description
The cargo is four rabbits, two white and two brown. They do not sleep nor grow old and frail as rabbits do; these I am told are nearly 50 years in age. The trouble grows deeply particular when they are undetained, as they will seek out food and eat it with a ravenous nature unseen in the fauna of God's kingdom. They eat anything they find; they were discovered aboard an abandoned Company vessel which, upon investigation, had its food stores emptied and was afloat for seven days unmanned. The discovering crew believes the rabbits may have eaten the previous crew, as all are missing.
Attest: Othaniel Trower, Commissioner
Margin note: I am inclined to believe this, given how the rabbits react when
[end of page]

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"And this group preceded the Foundation?" Warner said, stirring her cold coffee with a pencil.
"By some time. The East India Company was a business entity, nothing more. The Commission oversaw all things that were beyond normal men's means to contain. Some of it wasn't actually anomalous…we know that. But some of it was. And this…this was the first coordinated, financed, planned way to contain them."
"And no one knew about this?" Warner furrowed her brow. "After all this time?"
He laughed. "This is the company whose main governing body outside of London was called the Secret Committee, which everyone knew about. But no, after some years the Commission started covering its own tracks, removing paperwork, and keeping itself rather quiet, until…"
She leaned forward, smiling despite herself at the man's sense of dramatics. "Until?"

From the Commissioner and Regents of the R. H. Commission on Unusual Cargo
The Honourable East India Company
To The Right Worshipful John Gayer, Governor of Bombay and Chair of the Secret Committee of the East India Company
October 21, 1648
Right Worshipful Sir, our loves in all dutiful affections remembered, etc.,
I have received your correspondence related to this manner of acts against our Honourable Company, and your order to use the Commission and its Unusual Cargo in the coming conflicts.
We respectfully decline.
R. H. Othaniel Trower
Commissioner

From the Commissioner and Regents of the R. H. Commission on Unusual Cargo
The Honourable East India Company
To The Right Worshipful Governor-General and Court of Directors of the Honourable East India Company
January 2, 1649
Worshipful and Right Worshipful Sirs, our loves in all dutiful affections remembered, etc.,
I have received your correspondence. Your threats are of the highest disrespect to your character and of the loyal members of this Commission, whose duties we owe to God and Mankind are clear in purpose.
We respectfully decline.
R. H. Othaniel Trower
Commissioner

From the Commissioner of the R. H. Commission on Unusual Cargo
The Honourable East India Company
To The Right Worshipful Governor-General and Court of Directors of the Honourable East India Company
January 31, 1649
Worshipful and Right Worshipful Sirs, our loves in all dutiful affections remembered, etc.,
If you read this letter then you are quite aware that the Commission has relocated. At this time we offer you no further allegiance. We will soon disappear from your records and you will be unlikely to hear from us further.
Othaniel Trower
Commissioner

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"They wanted to use the anomalous objects for wars? Like…normal, person-to-person wars." Warner rolled her eyes. "Incredible."
"What is so poignant here is that Trower refused," the man replied. "He, like the Foundation's overseers, felt it incredibly important that these anomalous objects not be embroiled in the whims of petty politics. But the EIC was not impressed."
Werner set the tablet down. "So what happened?"
"The Commission vanished. The East India Company did not hear from them for a long time, and as promised, the Commission's files disappeared from the paperwork, and it was difficult to even determine who had been employed with them. That was the last of Trower, until…well. This." He gestured to the last document on the page.

From The Commission on Unusual Cargo, at [location unreadable]
To The Clerk of Parliament of the United Kingdom, Westminster Hall
Dear Sir:
Following the passage of the Act of 36 Victoria c 17, 15 May 1873 (East India Stock Dividend Redemption Act) Please find enclosed a completed redemption certificate for these guaranteed shares of stock.
As ever, your humble and obedient,
Othaniel Trower
Commissioner

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Werner stared, agape, at the paper. "1873? He would have been—"
"Very old, yes. But here is the interesting thing, Dr. Werner. Occasionally we come across a containment report—a Manifest of Unusual Cargo—dated from the 17th century through the mid-19th. Some of them match SCPs in the system. Some do not. But a few mention the main site for the Commission of Unusual Cargo. But wherever it is, it has not been found. Yet."
Werner set the tablet down. "You're talking about, what? Dozens of SCPs?"
"Hundreds," the man replied, picking the tablet up and returning it to his bag. "Carefully procured, gathered, and contained by the Commission. But you see, it has remained lost for one reason—it can only be located by someone who knows of its existence."
"Infohazard protection?" Werner rubbed her temple with a finger. "So okay. Dude. Um…" Werner pulled a drawer open to locate a migraine pill, but she couldn't locate one. "Mister…um." The man stood up. She closed the drawer. "Wait. How do you know about the Commission, then? And why are you telling me? And…" She felt a dawning realization. "And who are you? And how did you get in here? And how did I even—"
But he was already gone. The office door was closed. Locked, even. She had been alone for hours. Everything was normal.
Except a single note on her desk.
Trembling, she picked it up.

I hope you find it.
O.

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The Commission on Unusual Cargo
Tales:

· Fish Out of Water ·
· Journeys: The Story of Dane ·
· The Letters of the Commission on Unusual Cargo ·
· The Vampire of All Hallows' Eve ·

Manifests:

· Manifest 303: My Billet-Doux to You ·
· Manifest 3231: Dr. Haselhurst ·
· Manifest 327: Vultures ·
· Manifest 390: History Hath Triumphed ·
· Manifest 476: Vanishing Galleon ·
· Manifest 704: Corpses of the Colossi ·
· Manifest 803: Intoxicating Liqueur ·

Other:

· SCP-3946 ·
· SCP-4461 ·
· SCP-5332 ·
· SCP-5679 ·
· SCP-5862 ·
· SCP-6529 ·