Audio Log dated 21/04/1994, Site ███. Post-incident report. Timestamp 14:21:55
It's going to be remarkably difficult to accurately report what happened here if I'm not able to give names and numbers, you know? I'm really not sure how much help this is going to be if I don't talk about the details. What? Well, I don't think that, and I don't believe that you do too. This isn't the kind of thing that we can train for, you know? Ok, I'll be vague, although with some of the high-level stuff I'm going to have to talk about, not using any number designations seems a bit pointless, as anyone cleared to listen to this… OK, OK, anything for an easy life. Although to call anything where you have to deal with this snafu an easy life is a bit inaccurate, but there you go. Yes, I'll describe what I saw. Jesus, they're not paying you by the hour, are they? A bit of compassion here, I just witnessed the apocalypse. Or the start of it, anyway. Or maybe somewhere around the middle. It's funny how non-specific the End Times ended up being.
So, as everyone knows by now, we'd used the new array to perform iterations of the Twins – I can call them that, right? That's not breaking any of your precious data rules? Right, so the Twins had been getting worryingly close over the last few spins, more so than the usual variation. I think we'd had some problems with one of our other guests, not entirely sure which because R block had been restricted access for the last few months, probably one of the techs there doing some higher level testing, but whatever it was we'd had a couple of blips, you know – the purple LEDs light up, everyone suddenly bends at the knees as their mass increases for a second or two, then we all bounce back up with a little hop. If it weren't for the pretty terrifying implications it could even be a fun distraction. But we'd noticed that after the last one the orbiter made a tiny little dip in altitude, about an hour later, and then again the next time it went overhead it dipped again. Only fractions of a millimetre, but it was definitely affecting its linear orbit, and that's bad news – the thing hasn't shown any sign of being affected by gravity before, so there must have been something else that caused it to drop, but I'll be damned if I know what. It goes up and down at times, but that's smooth, not a drop. So we wrote up the Formal Assessment of Increasing Risk and sent it up the hill, and we were told to keep monitoring the situation and to submit another FAIR if the situation got any worse. It certainly became the focus of a lot of conversation on site, because we'd been monitoring them for so long, one doing nothing and the other just happily orbiting away, the idea of them being a problem had faded to the backs of our minds a bit. That's just when the universe comes and bites you on the ass though.
And so it did. Next time she was overhead, blip, another drop. About 0.4mm this time. We were now pretty sure that the problem was serious, it was clearly reacting to whatever the R-block guys had been doing. So we called down and let them know, and they confirmed that the experimentation had stopped several hours prior to the second dip, and the item involved had now been moved to another site as a precautionary measure by the Cross-team. So we hoped that would be the end of it. But don't you know, next time she was overhead, another drop, this time 1.6mm and we didn't need to be no mathematicians to see the exponential increase there, and to do the math - it gets big real fast. So with it orbiting every 20 hours or so we could see that we had about one hundred hours to come up with an idea – that's not much when all you have to go on is a few pages of notes and you're dealing with something that not even the brightest guys understood.
So, we started pooling ideas and collecting as much information as we could. The first thing that we found out was the biggest mindscrew of all – the gravity hadn't changed, the earth had moved. The stationary twin had moved with it, but the orbiter hadn't, staying on exactly the same path as before. So it hadn't dipped, we'd… undipped, or whatever the right word for that would be. So someone in one of our liaison departments contacted NASA, IAU, all the space guys and asked them if they'd had any unusual results lately. Nothing. A movement of the earth perpendicular to its direction of motion that was now over 2cm and nobody had noticed but us. This was really confusing, but hey, confusing is part of the job, right? That wasn't our responsibility at that time, there was another team on that. We were primarily given the task of coming up with XK-avoidance plans, and that included some pretty intense thinking. Master Key Initiative, anyone? That gives me the shudders just to think about. No, don't worry, I'm not saying anything to anyone about nothing, I know the rules. Just letting you know how serious things got down there. But, as we were sitting in our hot, sweaty rooms and talking until the early hours measurements came back to show that as soon as they came just under a kilometre from one another the orbiter started slowing down. Not much at first, but with each drop the speed dropped noticeably, until we were able to watch it go over at not much faster than a jet, and low enough that we even considered erecting a mast with high tensile steel netting just in case we'd made an error on the whole ‘Unstoppable' thing. Thank goodness we didn't, it could have shredded the lot of us. At least this gave us much more time to think, not that it helped much.
So, at this point, we've got this thing going over our heads so we can actually see the damn thing, and still, everyone else is acting like nothing's wrong, right? Princess Di can't even get out of a damn car without some douche with a camera stalking her, but we're taking pictures of the damn thing and nobody else has seen it at all. So our people talk to NASA's people, meteorological centres, and nobody else is getting anything weird. Or at least we don't think so, but of course, we're not saying anything either - I think we were using the cover of an astronomy lab somewhere in the Australian desert, something like that. People never question Aussie laboratories, it's too big to come and find you. We let up top know about this, and we're told to keep at it but to await further instructions, and so that's what we did. We sat down in our even hotter, sweatier rooms and came up with just about every reasonable suggestion we could think of, up to and including trying to move the Earth on its orbit. Yeah, we were talking about attaching ropes to anchor points and dragging the damn thing like a tugboat, that's how bad things had got. But we didn't want to think about the alternative, touchdown.
But don't you just know it, then the Fives get back to us with something we wanted to think about even less. They'd told us to begin considering Master Key solutions. The collective ‘Oh, Fuck' was probably audible all over the site, and so we sat down again but this time we had the added problem of the treatment potentially being even worse than the cure. I mean, you take a screwdriver, the worst you can happen is you poke it through a gas main or a power line, but when your toolbox is made up of pretty much the worst things ever, the scope for clusterfucks is much higher, you know?
The announcement also informed us that without outright saying it, Up Top were considering this to be potentially XK, something we'd not really wanted to do ourselves. But there was no denying it, if those two collided then the energy release was potentially enormous. I mean, when you think what less than a gram of Uranium did to Hiroshima, if these things really tried to occupy the same space at the same time then you're probably talking gigatons of energy. We're talking about putting a crack right down the middle of the earth, and causing pretty much every earthquake zone to crumble itself into dust. Now, I had already had a couple of ideas regarding this, but most of them I had to throw out because I didn't have a plan to deal with whatever it was that we'd used to sort out the current problem. I had this great idea involving getting a plane with the door stuck on the top of it… well… it was pretty wild, and might have worked, but it was shot down because it would have been conspicuous, to say the least.
We'd gone through all the usual suspects, temporal slowing, wormholes, but nothing ended up being less risky than what we were trying to prevent, I mean, these are some real untold quantities that we're talking about putting together here. My comedy favourite was the handbag, that was priceless. Even under this stress, there were some chuckles when that got suggested.
Anyway, by this point we're on like hour 60, and this thing is getting real close, but the closer it got, the slower it got, and we started to get our hopes up as the maths heads calculated the trajectory and velocity, we started to wonder whether we'd all been worrying about nothing the whole time, and it was going to get closer and slower, and closer and slower, and never actually touch at all. You ever hear of Zeno's Arrow? It was this thought experiment, right, where it was posited that if you fire an arrow at a tortoise, the arrow moves towards the tortoise, but the tortoise moves a bit too, real slow, and the arrow has moved a bit closer, but by that point the tortoise has moved on a bit too, and although the arrow keeps getting closer to the tortoise, each time it gets to where the tortoise was, the tortoise has moved forwards a bit. Of course, this was only a thought experiment, as if you tried it practically you'd better have a lot of tortoises, right? But we started to wonder if it was going that way. Zeno's Arrow reflected, in the dark mirror of our fears.
Of course, we couldn't actually risk that happening, because what if we're wrong? That was a phrase that got said over and over again in those couple of days. ‘What if we're wrong?' and then a long pause, because nobody had a good answer for it. Then one of the guys who had been keeping quiet and going through item lists for the last sixteen hours popped up and asked ‘How about this?' and held up a report we'd all missed entirely. It was virtually orange, the paper was so old, and it was one of the really old ones which was signed at the bottom, in faded blue ink, by one of the senior staffers. The write-up was pretty vague by today's standards, but it said enough. We were looking at two universes connected by a single quantum event of a relatively small divergence. You know, a tree did or didn't fall over, a bath did or didn't overflow, the small stuff. And the boffins decided that there was a way of pushing everything over to the next universe along. Lots of people did lots of maths, and it was decided that it was the best way to go if it looked like things were going awry.
I mean, it was risky, but the risks involved were all assessed, and the vast majority of likelihoods were deemed to be less disastrous than letting the Twins meet. The phrase ‘caught between a rock and a hard place' had never been so apt.
By this point the orbiter was on what was clearly its final orbit, it was travelling slightly slower than my Taurus, and was moving straight at us. It wasn't making any unusual moves now, and the Earth was seemingly staying where it was, which we unanimously decided was a very good thing, as if there were any more sudden movements we could end up with a hole smashed through the centre of the earth, and that would be a whole other problem, especially given the amount of underground storage we have onsite. Might have sorted Eight-Two out, though.
Three hundred and forty-four meters, that was the distance between the two that they finally decided to push the switch. I say push the switch, because that's exactly what they had to do. Open the lid, flip the lock and press the switch, and then it was done.
We were still there, still standing in the same room, still wearing the same clothes. There was no way of finding out what was different in this iteration of the universe. Nothing we could detect, but it could have been a trilobite born with an extra leg thirty million years ago, or anything from any time. All that mattered was that in this dimension, the balls were where they were supposed to be, and path calculation showed that they weren't showing any signs of path collision any time in the next nine hundred million years. That's good enough for me.
So with that all done and all the parties dying down, things settled down again, and people stopped talking about it. They stopped remembering it, they stopped knowing that it had even happened, and now I'm talking to you about it because I'm the last one in the office that remembers a damn thing about it. I don't know why, but if it's up to me then it's up to me, so we know what to do next time. So I went to put the doc back in file, and it was going back to the really old file room, up on a dusty shelf next to a binder with the same number on it. So I pulled down the binder, and it was full, and I mean FULL of pages, thousands of them, with nothing on but little lines, you know, the gates like on the sides of planes, show how many kills they have. I flicked through and there were millions of them. I had to have a look at the last page, and there it was, a nice new blue line, still shiny, third in the gate. I put the folder back and tried not to think about it too hard. That's what gets you through a lot of the time. Don't think too hard.
So I did a bit of reading, physics guys talking about infinite-universes theory, and I'm hoping like hell that they ARE infinite. Or at least that we've got one left.
What, you're at the end of the tape? We still use tape?
End of Audio Log
TRANSCRIPT AND LOG SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE DELETION AND DESTRUCTION


"I'm telling you, lolcats are not a memetic threat. Stop trying to get them classified."
Professor Anders Bjornsen looked with exasperation at the woman seated across the desk from him. Dr. Blaire Roth was undeniably one of the best psychiatrists and cognitive-behavioral therapists in the Psych Department, but definitely had certain… fixations. Like most of the staff dedicated to treating the mental trauma of Foundation employees, she rarely had direct contact with SCP Items, or even Anomalous Objects. The fact that the few she'd independently tried to get access to (all through official channels, of course) were all related to cats had been noted and dismissed as a harmless quirk.
Maybe it was time to upgrade that from "harmless" to "worrisome".
"But they've been around practically forever! There are literally captioned pictures of cats in costumes from the 1870s! How can you not think that a memetic effect that strong isn't a threat?!"
Dr. Roth very visibly restrained herself from pounding her fist on the desk and instead started gesturing with strong, sharp motions.
"Even if they appear harmless right now, the Foundation, of ALL people, knows how easy it would be to piggyback something dangerous onto it! Make a Grumpy Cat that literally makes you grumpy. Make a Business Cat macro that makes you a workaholic. Make a Sniper Cat gif that literally kills you! There are at least a dozen things that I personally have counseled people for that could be turned into a K-class threat if transmitted via lolcats. At least—"
Bjornsen raised his palm to interrupt Dr. Roth's mini-rant. "Yes, I've seen your prospectus. I think you're missing something, though."
"What, pray tell."
"The Foundation starts and curates easily 30% of all 4chan and tumblr memes."
"What."
"Skeleton war was us. We didn't start rage comics, but we're the ones who standardized rage faces into their current, non-anomalous forms. Even Grumpy Cat's owners now work for one of our fronts."
Dr. Roth's face was frozen, a look of disbelief permanently stuck. Bjornsen saw this and sighed.
"You're not the first person to see the infectious potential of popular memes. The Cognitohazard and Memetics Department regularly consults with some of us here in Psych for ideas on how to shorten meme lifespans. There's a reason that most popular memes die out in a few weeks. Now yes, admittedly lolcats are remarkably resilient, but it's under control."
Dr. Roth suddenly pushed back from the desk, the chair spinning slightly as she stood. She angrily said, "Then all this was just making me look stupid?"
Bjornsen sighed again. "No. It was looking obsessive, but not stupid. Frankly, I'd thought that you would've moved on from this particular fixation by now, so this is partially my fault. Sit down."
Dr. Roth slowly sat down and scooted the chair back to the desk. "So what now, since my warning is apparently too little, too late?"
This earned a quick, sharp look of reproof, and she collected herself a little. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. But still, what now?"
Bjornsen open a drawer and pulled out a folder, which he slid over to her. "This is an overview synopsis of current research into controlling lolcat memes, cleared for someone of your clearance level. I want you to read this and tell me whether you want to be read into the liaison team for the Cog/Mem department. This would not be a promotion, if you are, but maybe you can point that fierce dedication in a useful direction."
Dr. Roth slowly reached out and flipped open the folder. A dozen pages awaited her perusal. A slight smile curved her lips as she picked up the first one and began to read.


« Stealing Solidarity: Phase 1 | Hub | Stealing Solidarity: Phase 3 »

Area-08 was located more or less five hundred miles west of the Azores, and consisted of a small, desolate island, and a larger, even more desolate artificial island. The larger island consisting of a ring six miles across and various modules that might be raised or lowered above the surface. The smaller island contained the launch facilities, the larger one provided containment.
It was originally constructed in the 1950s as the center of the Foundation's fledgling space program, and remains the only Foundation facility where launches might take place unseen, thanks to a complex net of data suppression, government and corporate bribes, satellite interference, and outright assassination both of character and body.
The site, along with all others, had been notified two days prior of the event where six humanoids escaped from containment, temporarily overpowered a Foundation AI, carved a hole in the panopticon, stole a van, torched a motorpool, and were currently of unknown whereabouts. Like most of the other sites that received this message, Site-08 did not pay this significant mind. It was located in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, far away from any sort of outside trouble. Its staff were a dozy, phlegmatic bunch, content to live out their careers in the northern mid-Atlantic, making sure that all the D-class and robotic units made it up to orbit in once piece, and from orbit to Thoth Station or the Lagranges, and then back home again.
This was life at Area-08, at least until someone crashed a boat into the small, desolate island's loading dock.

Site directors are by nature reclusive creatures. They rarely interact with others of their kind, outside of the safe, controlled environments of monthly regional report commissions. When presented with their kin, they become skittish, as they are trained from birth to correlate the presence of other directors with imminent disaster.
This avoidance of others of the species has long concerned administrators the world over. As the creatures refuse to stay around each other long enough to reproduce, the species might go extinct within the next twenty years.
Now there were twenty-six of them in the same conference call, each one steeled for the twin threats of a major containment breach and peer interaction, though willing to hold back on the barbed insults about performance. Two starred names sat on top of the conference client's user list.

☆OVERSEER-O5-4
☆OVERSEER-O5-9

A blip on the end of a dotted line, well outside the arcs of the orbiting missile platforms, was the topic of discussion today.

Director Kettering: All told, there are thirty-two personnel wounded, eight dead. Most of those hospitalized were the targets of a cognitohazard similar to the ones used during the initial breach at Site-15. Collateral and digital damage isn't anything we can't patch up with a little time, but replacing the Hamill will take a significant amount of resources. In addition, we are going to have to overhaul the security for shuttle access - they were able to bypass digital and physical failsafes.
Director Eman: Are you sure it can't be recovered? We could easily allow them to pass through the BARGAVASTRA network and retake the vessel.
Director Kittering: It wouldn't be able to survive re-entry in the first place, after the drone attack, and from their current trajectory it looks like they are attempting a slingshot orbit.
Director Eman: Ah. Right. I'm sorry.
Director Factor: Could we intercept them?
Director Kittering: No. The Herbert is currently at FORC-03, and the Heinlein is currently being retrofit at Thoth Station.
Director Hazelwood: Given what we gathered in interviews from SCP-2085 and associates, it is most likely that they are aiming towards SCP-2117.
Director Pickman: And they will be able to make the journey?
Director Kittering: The Hamill was fully supplied when it was hijacked, and the drones were not able to damage it enough to prevent space travel.
Director Van Graph: I'm watching the footage of the break-in right now. You guys had a soundstage set up for Mars?
Director Kittering: Pet project.
Director Van Graph: Pity they shot it all up.
Director Kittering: We can build it again.
Director Boll: Has a warning message been sent to the Solidarity?
Director Kittering: It has. However, that poses another issue. As I said in the briefing, FORC-04 and SCP-2117 have been operated by a skeleton crew for the last eighteen months, after the accidental re-activation of the ship's automated janitorial system. At the moment there are a total of ten research staff on the station, and then forty-two D-class and sixteen security personnel on the ship proper.
Director Kinsey: Considering the state of affairs on 2117, the issue is solved. They will board, and be eaten alive by overzealous cleaning products.
Director Yonn: I doubt it, considering their luck.
Director Brand: It should be possible to recover the Hamill if this is the case.
Director Tortend: Kinsey has a point, however. The Solidarity is a dead end. They'll board, and be stuck there. We could easily contain them there on the ship.
Director Kittering: That is a possibility. The ship has shown no signs of active functionally.
Director May: If I might interrupt with an obliquely-related question - Why did they call themselves the Black Rabbit Company? They're all cats.
Director Kittering: I believe it was a folkloric reference – a rabbit in the moon, instead of an old man, but I'm not entirely sure.
Director May: Ah.
Direction Kittering: With all that in mind, I think the matter now is to determine what can be done with SCP-2085 and associates contained aboard the Solidarity. I am of the opinion that-
☆OVERSEER-O5-4: We have made a judgment.
Director Kittering: Oh. Quite right. Yes, Overseer?
☆OVERSEER-O5-9: We have judged that this matter be held under direct Overwatch guidance.
☆OVERSEER-O5-4: We will oversee the situation. You will be informed of changes as they occur, as according to what information might be freely distributed.
☆OVERSEER-O5-9: Go about your business.
☆OVERSEER-O5-4: The matter is in our hands.
☆OVERSEER-O5-9: This meeting is adjourned.

Hana looked at the nightside of Earth far below her. Spiderwebs of gold outlined continents. Lightning flashed in cloudbanks. People were sleeping, mostly. People were doing everything, down below. Everything they had ever done. Even while sitting on top of a nuclear fusion engine hurtling through the void at speeds that would eventually peak in the hundreds of thousands of miles an hour, Hana felt that she might not be moving at all.
She felt as if she wanted to cry, just from the sight of the Earth down there, just from how beautiful it was, but she couldn't. Her heart felt filled up with heavy, stagnant blood. Feelings of mud, all drains blocked. This should be a happy ending, but it wasn't really happy, nor did it feel like an ending. It wasn't a beginning either. There was just a stopping, and now there was just open space, and she was free-floating around in it, without a place to go.
“So…I guess we did it,” she said, mostly to herself. “We're in space.”
“It's very black,” Tomi drawled from her spot on the module ceiling. Her silver-blue hair had formed a halo around her head. Her shoulder was bound up in gauze and medical tape.
“Har har.”
“Far too open. Horribly designed.” Tomi scratched at her face. “Better than down there, though. Too crowded, too disorganized.”
Hana plucked away the layers of her sister's words. Tomi was, as usual, drifting along for the ride. The sister in the inner tube being pulled behind the boat. Not particularly worried, not particularly excited. Present to all the possibilities but not latching on to any individual outcome.
“I'm worried about Wizard,” Hana said. She knew Tomi could easily read that on her face, but for propriety's sake, she said it out loud. For the moment, no one else was in this particular module. Momoko and Nanami were piloting, Boss was in the back, and Wizard was stowed away in one of the sleeping modules. He'd passed out before they'd even gotten out of orbit, and Nanami had been forced to wrestle him into the sleeping bag.
Tomi shrugged. Her hair rippled.
“I know. If it happens, we do what he says. We put two in his head, shove him out the airlock and into the sun. Momoko plays ‘Amazing Grace' on the bagpipes, and we keep going.”
Wizard had been very insistent on that last part. Hana didn't know if Momoko could actually play the bagpipes, but it was reasonable to assume that she would give it a try.
“Don't worry too much,” Tomi continued. “We'll get through it. We always do.”
There was some quiet for a moment. Boss drifted past them, sipping at a bag of juice. She waved at them.

Wizard dreamt.
He floated through tight, airless chambers. Cut, not carved, into the grey and dusty rock, lit by hazy, dim light. In the center of each wall was a circle of smooth, dark metal, which pulled away like a lens as he passed. He was drifting in a straight line, unable to go left or right.
The enemy's gate is down.
He might have being travelling up, or forward, but it felt down. He defined it as down, and so down it was.
There was no noise, save his breathing. No noise at all. The walls pressed in around him, and the rooms felt as if they were shrinking as he passed through them. How many now, closing in? Would they stop, or just keep getting smaller until he was trapped inside?
A lens opened, and there was no next room. If there were walls, they were beyond what Wizard was able to see in the dim light. Hundreds, thousand of miles of empty, open space.
Below him, so far below, was a field of deep red, upon which were two concentric circles of black, with three arrows pointing inwards, towards a vast golden goat's eye. It swiveled in its socket and focused upon him.
A great and terrible voice echoed in his head, without words, and sang of the consuming gulf of nothing.
He could feel his entire body joining in refrain.

“Easy there, easy there…You okay?” Boss guided Wizard out of the sleeping module.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I'm good.” Wizard grabbed onto a wall handle to steady himself. His grey, gawkish face looked more hollow and sickly than usual.
“Red again?”
“Yeah.”
Boss patted him on the shoulder.
“I'm here as long as you need me,” she said.
“I know.”
“Just in case you were having one of your ‘I don't want to be a burden' moments. Because you aren't, and you don't owe me anything. I'll be here.”
Wizard chuckled weakly.
“I don't know how you do it.”
“You're my little bro. There's no how to it.” She grinned. “Might as well ask a fish how it swims.”
Wizard nodded his head, but didn't say anything else. Excited shouts could be heard from the other passenger module, over the ever-present hum of machinery.
“You know,” Wizard said. “I can't actually remember which one of us came up with the spaceship idea.”
“You did.”
“No, I'm sure it was you. I didn't even have the space wizard shtick until after we came up with the plan.”
“Huh…I guess we'll split it down the middle and call it even.” Boss made a chopping motion with her hand.
“Fair enough.”
Boss somersaulted and pushed off the floor, towards the other module.
“The girls have some Halo up and running up here, if you want to jump in,” she said. “Going to be a long trip.”

Day 2
Six marbles of brandy floated around the heads of the Black Rabbit Company.
“As according to the Company Charter, the first round of drinks after a successful job are to be taken in memory of all of our sisters,” Boss said.
“Aye,” the others echoed solemnly.
“I know we're at a midway point, but I don't think we're going to have much downtime after all this. Let's make it count for them, guys.”
“And let all our bastard dads rot in hell,” Nanami said.
“Amen, sister.” Momoko nodded.
They simultaneously slurped down the spheres of booze.
Day 5
Tomi filed her nails with a whetstone as she ran on the treadmill. Behind her, Momoko lifted weights on the Resistive Exercise Device.
“Momoko, I have an apology to make.”
“What's up?”
“I touched Big Richard's butt.”
Momoko let go of the bar and twisted around. Tomi kept walking and filing her nails.
“You what.”
“Touched him right on the butt.”
“You what.” Her ears went flat.
“I touched his butt, and then gave him a polish and a kiss.”
Momoko's scowl would have curdled milk, coagulated gravy, and boiled vinegar, if it was actually threatening. It wasn't, so the result was just oddly endearing.
“Is that how we're playing? Really?” She crossed her arms. “Then I guess I'm going to call Sam up and ask him out.”
“You wouldn't.”
Momoko held up a fist, extended her thumb and pinky, and pretended to dial a number on it.
“Don't you dare.”
“Beep boop bop boop” Momoko held her hand up to her ear. “Ring ring, ring ring – Hey! Sam! So since Tomi is a lying, backstabbing, butt-touching cheater, I was wondering if you wanted to go out for a night on the town. I hear the shooting range just got remodeled. What's that? Of course Harry can come along!”
Tomi swiped and snarled at Momoko. This was completely ineffectual due to the fact that she was still strapped in the treadmill harness, and after a few swings she hung her head and sighed. Momoko snrked, which devolved into a hearty belly laugh. Tomi, still pacing on the treadmill, joined with her flat, stone-skipping chuckle.
“There's probably something wrong with us,” Tomi said.
Momoko pressed a finger to her chin, and looked thoughtfully at a vague spot above her head.
“Nope, not seeing it.”
Day 9

[Boss: OOC what was this guy's deal again?]
[Hana: Alright, it's the snake's turn. What's your AC, Nanami?]
[Nanami: Thirteen]
[Tomi: Crazy professor made a snake in the basement]
[Hana: Okay…twenty.]
[Nanami: Shit.]
[Hana: Rolling to confirm…twenty.]
[Nanami: Shiiiiiiiiit.]
[Hana: That's a grand total of…thirty-six damage.]
[Nanami: Fuuuuuuuuuck.]
[Wizard: o]
[Wizard: uch]
[Wizard: I hate using a keyboard for this.]
[Tomi: pat pat]
[Hana: You can make a save against death.]
[Nanami: Na, fuck it. I'll make someone new.]
[Momoko: Hahahahahaha]
[Hana: Okay. You all see Nanami get bisected by the snake. Blood and organs fly everywhere.]
[Nanami: The rigor mortis sets in and my corpse flips all of you off.]

Day 11
“Weeeeeeeeeee'll drink-a-drink-a-drink to Lily the Pink-the-Pink-the-Pink, the savior of our human ra-a-a-ce! For she invented medicinal compound, most efficacious in every case!”

[Nanami: How long are they going to keep singing? I'm about ready to tear out my spine and hang myself with it.]
[Tomi: I'd like to see that.]
[Boss: You could go ask them to stop.]
[Nanami: Hell no! Why do you think I'm sittin' here complaining about it? Drunk Momoko is one thing, but there's no way I'm getting near drunk Hana without being totally sloshed.]
[Nanami: And they just drank the last of it, WHICH IS THE REASON THIS IS A PROBLEM.]

“Poutine poutine!”

[Nanami: OH GOD]
[Boss: hahahahaha]

“Poutine poutine!”

[Nanami: OH GOD NO.]

“J'ai tellement faim!”

“Poutine poutine!”

“Poutine poutine!”

“Poutine poutine!”

“C'est ça ou rien!”

“POUTINE POUTINE!”

[Nanami: I am dead, bury me with my porn stash.]
[Tomi: You shall be as Nefertiti.]
[Nanami: Damn right.]

Day 15
“Hope you like cranberry.” A packet of juice tumbled end over end from Boss's to Wizard's.
“How long was I out this time?” A limp hand plucked the bag out of the air.
“Nine hours and change.”
“I'm sore all over.”
“You look like it.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“Need anything else?”
“Na. Think I'm okay.”
“Okay. Call me if you need anything.” Boss pushed off towards the other module. Wizard was left alone with his cranberry juice and his thoughts.
There were moments when his mind drifted from the ship and the girls. Here some hazy, lingering shade of his old identity had come floating into the present between the dream and waking up. There had been a past before, as little as he thought about it now. He once had a wife. Kids. Siblings. Friends. Parents. A job. All gone. As far as any of them knew, he had just disappeared a short time after he had gone off to Japan to teach English. A suicide by a man of low-to-middling prospects and low-to-middling ability, fueled by a failing marriage and failing health, or so it was thought.
All of those memories felt as if they belonged to someone else. No matter how he felt that the nature of the man had changed, the nagging voice of doubt always asked if that was truly the case, and suggested it would be more reasonable to assume that he was either callous enough to sever all ties to the man he was, or delusional enough to try and run from it.
It was a cunning, persuasive voice, and at times like these he could not tell if it was Red's, or his own, or if there was even a difference between the two.
Wizard drained the last of the cranberry juice. Selective hearing had always been a skill of his.
Day 18
“Hana, there's the carcass of a space whale right outside our window,” Nanami said, with far less enthusiasm than she had any right to have.
“Are you okay?”
“I'm bored. The whale is surrounded by the bodies of the whalers who died trying to bring it back into port.”
Hana pushed herself over and nudged Nanami to the side so that they could share the window. There was, as she suspected, nothing there.
“That one guy with the broken helmet was two days away from retirement.” Nanami pressed a finger against the glass, pointing at nothing.
“The woman with the big harpoon used to be a pirate. Her best friend was a space octopus.” Hana played along, because she was just as bored.
“The company never retrieved the bodies, because they wiped them all from the records.”
“But…it's not all depressing. They left a gift for one of the other crews.”
“A map to a hidden stash of loot.”
“Space ambergris.”
“Diamonds the size of your skull.”
“And a crate of microwaveable space-meat burritos.”
“Now you're just cheating,” Nanami groaned.
“So the second crew all gets packed up in their tugboat and heads off into the belt to find the treasure,” Hana continued.
“And let me guess: the second crew is five sisters and their best friend?”
“Yep.”
“Hahahahaha,” Nanami flipped herself backwards off the module wall. “Not yet, sis, not just yet.”
But soon, both of them thought. Soon indeed.
Day 21
“That's it right there, Boss. That's the Solidarity.”
The ship was little more than an egg-shaped blur on the screen, but it was enough to re-ignite Boss' sense of swashbuckling from its vacation.
“Excellent. What kind of resistance are we looking at?”
“Uh, none, Boss. Station's giving us the all-clear to board,” Nanami said as she fiddled around with the control board.
A second passed where even the ship engine seemed to silence themselves.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No joke. Clearance codes are all good.”
Boss peered again at the fuzzy grey ship and its accompanying station.
“What an obvious trap.”
“Tell me about it.”
“They'd know we'd figure that out, though,” Momoko butted in.
“And we know that they know that, yeah yeah, let's skip that song and dance.” Boss shook her head. “Suggestions, anybody?”


It was refreshing to have bruises on my skin.
My mouth felt slightly off. I reached up to my jaw, then clicked it back into place. I spat out blood and a few teeth, then felt hard matter extrude from my gums anew. The bruises faded away, returning to the colour of simple flesh. I grinned.
At this, my opponent was somewhat taken aback. He responded with another punch.
Heat flowed around my abdomen; the demigod's fingers ripped between my ribs and punctured my lungs, my previously inhaled breath now whistling through the open wound. He pulled back, then struck again, this time slicing my heart and stomach. My eyes widened, I felt blood and gastric juices start to pour into places blood and gastric juices should not pour into. Another blow popped my left eye; then my opponent took a step away.
He watched, intrigued, as my muscles rippled and realigned. The pain used to bring me to my knees; now, with my steeled mind, there is only extreme and excruciating discomfort. My diaphragm spasmed and I coughed up blood and misplaced vomit, then my gut tightened and I threw up vomit and misplaced blood. The wounds re-knitted, my stomach and heart sealing; then my lungs, which felt as if on fire as I drew a deep breath. I stared into Perseus' face as I felt a lens pull itself into existence, and felt my eye reinflate with vitreous humour.
Perseus grimaced.
"Well then. It seems I was mistaken. Which member of the pantheon were you looking for again?"
"Hephaestus."
"You think… you're a son of Hephaestus?"
"Yes."
"With your body and build? The god of craftsmen? I'd think you to be one of Ares' boys."
"My body is of his, for it is a work of art."
I flexed for emphasis. Perseus smirked a little.
"Maybe a son of Narcissus."
"I don't mean to brag. This is not my opinion on the matter."
"Then whose is it?"
"Professor Mared Gretchen's."
Perseus' eyes widened at the name.
"Old Mared sent you?"
"If that is what you will call her, then yes. You've met her?"
"No. She is, however… quite well known in our circles. She is known to override."
"Override?"
"Override and overwrite. The tales of Old Mared are… genuinely mythical, even to people like you or I."
"I've not heard such tales."
"Well… we try to keep them under wraps. They are mostly embarrassing to the rest of us. She kicked Zeus in the balls once."
I felt an eyebrow raise involuntarily. Perseus scratched his neck.
"Regardless… I cannot personally hold audience with Hephaestus, but I can certainly find someone who can. Your negotiations from there on will be your own. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Then let us exchange phone numbers."
I passed a slip of paper from my pocket to him, he passed one in return. He looked over my body, still slightly damp and red from blood, then nodded.
"It was good to meet you, Khoren."
"And you, Perseus."
Perseus started to walk away, then turned over his shoulder.
"If you don't mind my asking, why do you want to meet him?"
"Besides being my father?"
"Well, yes."
"He owes my mother a lifetime of child support."
Perseus chuckled lightly and walked away.

I selected the contact labelled "Prof. Gretchen" on my mobile phone, then called. After three rings, the Professor answered in her grandmotherly British accent.
"Khoren, my boy, my boy! How goes the epic quest?"
"I've got to say, Professor Gretchen, substantially better whenever I mention your name to people."
I heard her laugh; big, booming, gut laughs that I'd seen many times before.
"Good to hear they haven't forgotten me over there! The amount of drinking that went on at their parties, surprised they manage to remember their own names. Where are you up to?"
"I've made some progress with things. I'm mostly just calling to clarify something."
"Hm?"
"Did you ever kick Zeus in the balls?"
That big, booming laugh again, which I tried to interrupt.
"Really though. Did that happen?"
"Oh, absolutely. His fault for hitting on me. At the time, of course, he didn't know I swung for the other team, but he kept pushing and pushing. Clearly quite inebriated - normally a reasonable enough chap, but cannot stomach his alcohol. Goes straight to his head. Incapacitated him long enough for me to run out the back door with Eris and Athena though. Honestly, Eris throws much better parties, and Athena can do that thing where you tie a knot in a cherry stalk with your tongue."
"But you never met Hephaestus?"
"No, no, no. A few thousand years of turning down invites to sit indoors working on your next big piece, eventually they stop bothering to ask you at all."
"I see."
"Hm? What's wrong, boy?"
"I'm not sure why you didn't tell me this before I left, Professor. It might have helped a bit."
"Khoren, you get to my age, you gather enough stories to fill a hundred phone books. I could bore you to your death and mine with all the things I got up to with just that pantheon. And anyway, this is your quest, not mine. If I could just give you an address, it wouldn't have any meaning, would it?"
"It would certainly make things a lot easier, though."
"All I say is that nothing is easy, and the best things are the hardest. Gotta go, Khoren; have an appointment with a poker player."
"Thanks, Professor. Talk to you soon."

Perseus didn't end up calling; instead, he texted through an address, a date, and a time. I sent him my thanks in response. It was still not for another two days that he would arrive. I sipped my coffee lightly, enjoying the sun.
A loud bang echoed around the corner. The source then drove out; a brightly coloured van made a hairpin turn and rocketed past the cafe, followed by a pursuing large black van labelled "σκληρά κρούστα πιτσαρία". The sputtering of their engines faded off into the distance, and the patrons returned to their newspapers and beverages.
I felt some concern.

It was an uninteresting building. It looked like any other in the vicinity.
What was concerning about it was that I recognised the psychedelically patterned van outside.
Still, I had arrived to the meeting half an hour early. I read to pass the time; a small pile of visitor's pamphlets lined my hire car, and I slowly made my way through. Twenty five minutes later, a man wearing large sunglasses and a girl of school age exited the building, seemingly in deep conversation. They returned to the van, the man starting the engine with a low rumble, and then drove away.
The black van parked around the corner pulled out of their hiding place and drove to tail behind. I felt a deep itch in my shoulders, though I wasn't without a contingency plan. I confirmed the presence of the cold, heavy metal in my pocket. It was a short wait for the black van to leave from my sight; then, I opened the door of the hire car, stepped out, and closed it with a thunk.
The front door of the building was made of some heavy wood, not quite matching the rest of its construction. I knocked it solidly, then waited some time, before a man pulled it open from inside.
He looked young. He was dressed in a bright neon t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a simple silver chain around his neck, and a tattoo covering the majority of his right arm with a hammer. The man looked up at me, then cocked his head slightly.
"Khoren?"
"Yes. I'm here to see-"
The man suddenly moved, hugging me around my midriff.
"My son, my son! Home at last!"
With some reaching, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face. Looking at him closer, there was black stubble around his chin, and his right ear was pierced in three places. This was not the image of Hephaestus I had in mind. He slapped me on the shoulders, grinning and turning.
"Come on in, and close the door behind you."
I turned, pushed the door closed, and followed my father into what appeared to be a workroom. An anvil sat in the corner, which caught my interest; then I noticed the thick layer of dust along its surface. In the room's centre was a wooden table covered in paint and surrounded by similarly styled stools; on it sat a bowl of potato chips, which Hephaestus took a handful from and munched audibly. He looked up at me.
"Have a seat, have some chips. Some friends brought them here - really interesting flavouring, impressive stuff."
I sat across from him, picked a chip up, and crunched it around in my mouth. It tasted like strawberries. As I chewed, my father started to speak.
"I know what you're going to say: I don't look like all the pictures."
I swallowed and gave a response.
"I will admit, I was expecting an old man working at a smith."
"Not as much smithing these days as there used to be. Us gods latch on to whatever gets us the most people within our purview. I've always been in charge of blacksmiths and fires, but these days being the god of artisans gets me a bit more attention. Quite a bit more, in fact. People keep asking me for favours - minor miracles, you know - and I really can't help but oblige."
I kept silent. Hephaestus sighed.
"But that's not why you're here."
"No."
"Right. Well. Tell me what I've got to sign."
I pulled out a packet of paper and offered it to the man across from me, along with a pen.
"Read it thoroughly."
"I don't need to. Your mother was a lovely lady, but despite what she's probably led you to believe, she was always much more interested in me than I was in her. That got her into trouble; as far as I see, this helps her out of it."
Hephaestus signed the paper with a flourish, passing it back to me along with an envelope. I took them both, looking at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to my mother.
"If you could pass that on to her I'd appreciate it. She should be more forthcoming with a few things after that. I would tell you myself, but it's the sort of thing that she'd want to say herself. Oh, and also, give her this."
Hephaestus pulled out a small ring from his pocket, then passed it over to me. It looked like weaved silver and gold. I placed the ring and the envelope in my right pocket, then folded up the legal document and placed it in my left. I stood, looking down at my father.
"I appreciate your understanding in this matter."
"Your mother really must have changed, she's raised you to sound like a lawyer."
"No, she's not changed much, I think. I never quite fit what she wanted from a son."
"Bah, to hell with her. Anartists are a fickle folk, I'm sure she loves you all the same."
I bowed to Hephaestus.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Dad."
He stood, showing me back to the door.
"The pleasure's all mine, Khoren. Come back if you're in the neighbourhood again."
I left his house, strode back to the car, and drove away without looking back.

That was the one time I saw my father while he was still alive.

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I had parents, once. They were fighting over something with me frequently… I can't remember what it was we ever fought over, but I can always feel the dread from them. Nice to think they were probably fighting with themselves, and I got roped into it. Maybe if I at least thought like that, part of the blame wouldn't be on me. Ridding myself of that responsibility makes everything afterwards easier to cope with, right?
One night, I ran away. I had to back them into a corner with a knife just to escape from it, but I ran. Something was different about that night, that much I'm sure of. My parents could feel it too. I watched them as much as I could while getting out of the house, and they never looked me in the eyes during it all. Not once did I look back as I sprinted away. For a few years after, I managed to live with some kind of peace. I changed my name, got a new job, made friends, found a place to live with my aunt for a while before having my own space…
There were oddities in spite of all that. I was still carrying that weight of my experiences around, but something else latched onto that. A sense of dread and fear, I think? It's hard to put into words but it was something more than that. Even with my friends, I'd approach all interactions with some kind of caution, as if I'd have to run away from them as well. Being a landscape contractor helped distract me from that, but as time went by, the way I went about things felt… well, have you ever had something loom over you, threaten to overwhelm your senses? It just took its sweet time with it.
Nights eventually started to get worse for me. My dreams gradually drifted towards one single recurring one. When they started, it'd probably be at the tail-end of the dream, or maybe just involving one element. I've always been frightened regardless. And for the past however many months it's been, it's always been the same.
I'm back at my house again. Everyone is sleeping. My parents, siblings, even the pet dog (though I can't remember if we had one anymore). I never start out in different places, though. Always, without fail. The same place. Right in the main hallway on the second floor, with only two places to go. The bedroom, or forward. But I can never go in my bedroom. Either the door is locked (did the door ever have a lock? I can't see why), or I just can't get through the open passageway. So there's only forward.
And forward is the ladder to the attic.
The attic always creeped me out up until the time I left the house. I could never get near the ladder without being a bit repulsed by it, and as far as I knew, no one ever stored anything up there. But it's different this time. There's more to it. A sense of loathing (from myself?), and hate (from… somewhere?), and fear, and… well, there's no accurate words. I don't think it's something someone would ever experience in their lives. It's another kind of emotion altogether.
For the first time ever, I climb up the ladder, my feet feeling heavier and harder to lift. I can feel my stomach twist and my head pulse erratically. I don't want to go up there, yet I have no choice but to go up there. I never have the choice to turn back. It's always forward. The ladder is only twelve rungs (I've been counting for a couple years now), yet the flow of time seems to get slower and slower with each rung until it nearly stops altogether at the top.
Finally, I make it and I look in. I see the attic.
The other thing that keeps repeating in these dreams is that I never can see what's in there, or remember. I see something, but I don't know what that something is, or if it's anything at all. There's a force, but there's no force to really sense in there. It's empty in there. That's what I hope for. That every time I go up into the attic, there's nothing there. Despite that, there's always something about it that fills me with worry and terror. I can't help but stare into the attic, looking around to see what's brought me there.
And I realize I never climbed up it at all. There's only forward to go. So I'm forced to go back up. Maybe this time, I catch a glimpse of my parents, sleeping with their heads buried into the wall, lights obscuring them from my vision completely. I still can't go into there to talk to them. There's only the ladder, the attic, and whatever is waiting for me in there. And for the first time ever, I climb up into the attic, feet feeling heavier and harder to lift, stomach twisting, head pulsing…
Eventually, I wake up, having never climbed the ladder at all. Of course I know I climbed the ladder, yet I can't ever get up there. Though I know I did. Nothing's waiting for me. That's the ideal, but I can feel it, something I must have left behind. Occasionally, I'll even dream about my parents trying to climb it. My mom did, once. I'm afraid to know what she saw.
I've had the urge for a while now to go back home and visit my parents. In one of my more final and relatively normal dreams, I think, I went back there. It was Christmas, and I wanted to at least see my parents one more time, to clear the air up and make things better for all of us. I snagged a few gifts for my parents and siblings on the way, and it took me almost half a day of driving to get there. Home wasn't like I remembered it, though. Everyone had acted like I'd never existed to begin with. They remembered me wistfully, as if I never had a full life with them to begin with. The attic is still there, too.
I felt myself stepping towards the attic, going to climb the ladder.


Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site
Everyone was busy, typing up skips (well, except Bright).
Pixel and Moose fought to keep peace in the chat,
For the Christmas trolls had awoken; poor ones at that.
Kalinin was writhing, though snuggled in bed,
For fears of awful skips were dancing through his head.
Drewbear sharpened his paws, and Zyn fluttered her wings,
Preparing for the newbies (among other such things).
When out from the wiki, there arose such a clatter
And Kaktus yelled "By my spines, what on Earth is the matter?"
To the forums they flew, Reject and Gaffney in a flash.
To see to their horror, SCP-231 musings like a rash.
The questions of [DATA EXPUNGED] briefly fluttered on the page;
For an eternity these would come, but must never be allowed to age.
When suddenly there came, to the mods beleaguered eyes',
A man in an ornate sled that made them cry (with joy, of course).
Twas an English professor, clad in red that would soon get him laid,
I don't know what his shoes looked like, so I'll assume they were suede.
His writing was indistinguishable; it was dope as hell.
They knew immediately his identity: it could only be TroyL.
"Santa Troy!" the staff all called with glee.
"What have you brought us? Unfinished Business Three?"
Santa Troy stood there proudly, majestically sporting his beards.
From his sack came fresh articles that quickly dissuaded our fears.
"On Clef! On Sorts! On Soulless! On Kate!"
"I got you these articles, now read them and rate!"
"On Eric! On Weizhong! On Anqxyr and Crayne!"
"Prepare your eyeballs, 'cos I'm makin' it rain!"
"On Esko! On Vivax! And the rest of them too!"
"I gave you the articles, now you know what to do!"
We all were in awe of Santa Troy's swag.
He got back in his sled and shut up his bag.
TroyL grabbed his pen and refilled it with ink.
And then he was gone, before we could blink.
Everyone sighed sadly, for Santa was gone.
But then we heard a voice, from the great beyond.
"All right you lazy fucks! It's time to write!"
"Merry Skipmas to all, and to all a good night!"


...
Dr. Thaddeus Xyank leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, wishing desperately to find a radio station that was not playing that godawful holiday music. A record snowfall on Christmas Eve. How fucking quaint. Everyone he had bumped into today was so oppressively cheery it turned his stomach. So here he sat in his half-lit office, rubbing his eyes and hoping against all hope that it would just plain go away.

The team disappeared into the back of the object, carrying their wired transmitter with them. "Alpha, one-zero, confirm uplink."
~Reading you clear. Uplink established~
"Excellent. Do you have visual on any dash twos?"
~Negative. Scanner sweep confirms they're all at the feast.~
"Alright," Thad replied. "Launch on my mark."

By his calculations, this was the quietest of all possible Christmas Eves at Site-17. But the quiet didn't stop the memories trickling back in, and despite a mountain of papers to his right insisting they needed solutions, it didn't seem he would be getting any work done. Thad's eyes crept up the filing cabinet and bored holes in the top drawer where he knew his emergency bottle of brown liquor (he was pretty sure it was rum this time) lay waiting for him.
"…Fuck it."
In his pocket were keys which were soon in his hand and sooner in the lock and on his desk was a bottle and no glass. He kicked off his shoes, propped his feet on the desk, popped the cork and drank, watching the snow continue to accumulate outside.

"LENCHIT! LENCHIT! TALK TO ME!"
Static.
"MARKINE? TALSKIN? COELER?"
The object began to shake. At the edge of his perception, Thad swore he saw the figures on the face of it begin to… shift. Not move exactly, but change, moment by moment, between three separate versions of themselves.
"Dr. Xyank! They're gone! Get out of there!" Kremlin shouted in the back of his skull. The alarm was blaring and the bulkhead sliding closed.

"Room for one more?"
Thad glanced to the doorway and was only a little bit (but not very) surprised to see another person who looked exactly like himself. He smirked and shook his head. "Quietest of all possible December 24ths?"
"Yeah…" the Xyank at the door responded. "Funny.. out of infinity, two of me picked the same one."
"Was bound to happen somewhere." Thad corked the small bottle and tossed it to Xyank. "Pull the nameplate and close the door. There's a record snowfall to watch."

~Isolation protocol is now in effect. This lab will be sealed in 10 seconds. All Foundation Personnel, evacuate immediately~
The whole room began to flicker rapidly then, while simultaneously not changing at all, and Thad became very, very dizzy watching it. As quickly as his legs would move (which was not very), he backed toward the closing door.
There was a burst of sound and light, and the face of the object cracked. Seventy five hours with a diamond carbide drill had been needed just to sample the mineral, and before Thad's eyes a crack as wide as his thumb had opened up.
From within, the creature emerged. And Thaddeus saw. He saw very well indeed.

Xyank did as he was asked and perched on the corner of the desk, taking a large, long swallow of the rum he had been given. "… Hey, how old are you?"
"You don't know?"
"I don't remember this, so… no. I'm sure I don't need to explain it at this point."
Thad rolled his eyes and took the bottle back. "I'm not sure how much good it would do." Another hard swallow. The liquor felt hot and filled the back of his mouth with salty nastiness, but the finish was smooth and pleasant, like molasses and ginger. He checked his watch, and then his internal chronometer, and did some quick math. "…I'll be seventy-five in about four days."
Xyank nodded, pulling a chair out of a neglected corner of the room and mirroring his double's posture… it just seemed more natural, less disorienting. "I'll be eighty-two in the same."
"Really? Surprised I'm holding up that well. Have you been back home to refresh the…" Thad vaguely gestured to his torso. "Well, any of it."
Xyank shook his head. "You know there's no 'there' there anymore."

He ran down corridors as they screamed. As they blew their brains out. As they tore at their flesh. He ran past sirens as they howled. He did his best to ignore the raving over the intercom. He ran with about fifteen other people who also knew they would run no matter what, until a pipe broke and hot steel meant for an isolation protocol melted their faces off.
And he kept running. Because that's what he saw and that's what was right.

"Right…" Thad said. "Thanks for that." He took another shot and slammed the bottle down.
They shared a moment in silence. Snow drifted placidly downward, highlighted by the sulfur orange glow in the parking lot beyond the window. If he listened carefully, Thad was sure he could almost hear it.
"It's funny," Xyank said finally. "All the numbers, all the rigor of the theory, and it still doesn't explain moments like this one."
"Is this the part where an older, wiser me explains in terms I can understand some secret key to unlocking all the pain of December the 24th? And then I bend over on my desk after you leave and have the good long cry I've been putting off these past 30 years, because Christmas Magic or some other ridiculous horseshit?"
Xyank rubbed the bridge of his nose with both hands. "No…It's the part where I point out that if you wanted, you'd never have to experience a December 24th ever again. Not until you were actually ready for it."
Thad glared at his double with the fury of ONE star in particular.
Undeterred, Xyank continued. "…And yet here we are."

The escape capsules up ahead, for Class B and A assets to get out in the event that something just this ludicrous had happened.
A man wielding a crowbar smashed him in the face suddenly. Completely expectantly, but with no time to react. Seeing is not undoing. This track was set. Fifteen seconds and this man had already plucked out his own eyes.
Thad saw stars. He raised an arm and blocked the crowbar. Thad's radius broke but the titanium ulna held firm. He grabbed the crowbar, bashed the eyeless madman and ran, half blind and bleeding, back down the hall.
There would be just one capsule left.

"I had work to do," Thad insisted.
"You could have done it in 18th century Istanbul, or 30th century Mars with equal convenience," Xyank countered.
"I've changed my mind. Get out."
"So you can drink yourself stupid and alone on Christmas eve?" Xyank asked.
"Yes, that is exactly why." Thad wasn't looking at his companion anymore, so he was shocked when he reached for the bottle and his fingers grabbed only air. His fist struck the desk hard enough to make it jump. "WILL YOU-"
"NO." Xyank said, drinking a modest nip. "No. I absolutely will not let you sit here in the dark with your demons alone."
Thad's jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached, and still he clamped tighter, speaking through pencil line lips. "Why?"

Soaring over the city, he saw the creature. It was enormous. It was beautiful. It was horrible.
It saw. It saw, and so did everyone else. They saw very well indeed.
Most of them broke beneath it. Some stayed to fight the broken and keep the innocent innocent, even to the last moment which they knew was coming. Some held hands and hugged their lovers tightly. Some beat oblivion to the punch.
Thaddeus Xyank ran.
Later he would say that he panicked in his own way like so many others did.
But it wasn't panic. He wasn't even there. Where a mind should have been, there was only matter, cold and dispassionate, riding on the rails of fate.

"Because it's not your fault," Xyank said finally.
Thad's body suddenly felt very… very strange. Like a balloon inside full of something both warm and cold at once had suddenly burst. His eyes began to cloud.
"I came here because what happened was…" Xyank paused looking for words but there weren't any. "…I came to pay my respects. Because after talking to Dr. Glass for long enough—"
Thad's emotional revelation paused briefly for a sputtering laugh. The drink was starting to sink in behind his sinus, but he would cling to the mask of sanity as long as he could.
"Shut up and listen to me. Listen to YOU. This is bigger than us. We are small wheels in this machine, if we can be said to be wheels at all. The fact that you can see it, doesn't make it yours!"
"So what?!" Thad said, grabbing the bottle back roughly. "I'm supposed to just sit back and do nothing while causality falls apart? Have you seen the naked present? Have you even tried?! Someone has got to do something!"
Xyank took a deep breath and cleaned his glasses. "I know…And you will." He stood, taking the bottle out of Thad's stupefied hands, and pulling one last nip from the bottle before pouring the last ounce on the floor. "But it's too heavy for you. And the sooner you realize that you're not the only one capable of understanding it, the better off this world will be." Without looking, Xyank pulled a bit of paper from his pocket, and began to scribble a shape.

He saw this, but did not know it or feel it. And as the wall of light flew toward him, as he saw it would, he would probably have thought himself a coward.

"Fine, thank you for your weak platitudes, Mr. Ghost of Christmas Future. I'll be sure to send Dickens your—"

…But there wasn't time.

Silence. There was no one left to berate. The double was gone, leaving only the outline of his loafers in the liquor on the floor. Alone once more, without even himself to keep company, Thaddeus Xyank stood, took the nameplate into his pocket, and walked down a fleet of quiet corridors to the parking lot. Cold air stung his nose in the snowy night, and for a moment he thought he saw a pattern in the swirling of the flakes as they passed by each lamp post. Yet there was no pattern. Merely the quiet whisper of wind, ice, and simple random beauty.
When his phone rang, he answered it, sobered himself, and got into his car.

His very next sensation was that he was alive, and that he no longer saw. At least that was something.

Part 6: 20 GOTO 10 | Hub | Part 8: The Kitchen Sink


Researcher Conwell sat alone at his desk. The sound of his typing filled the silence that otherwise engulfed the lab. With a large yawn, he took the opportunity to check the clock. It was 7:48 PM, December 24th, 2011.
The door to the lab then opened, the sound of Christmas music flooding the room as an old bearded man with a walnut cane, a Santa hat, and what might possibly have been the world's tackiest Christmas sweater stormed in. This man was the well-respected senior researcher Dr. Zachary Johnson.
“Ho ho ho,” Johnson said with a sheepish grin. He placed a small mp3 player that was blasting Christmas tunes on one of the lab benches.
“They let you visit Dr. Collins dressed like that?” Conwell asked. He rubbed his right temple as he chuckled.
“Got to keep poor Gregg's spirits up somehow,” Johnson jovially replied, “Besides, if I don't reach the point where the higher ups are worried that I've become infected with some anomalous Christmas virus, I'm just not spirited enough.”
“You certainly would have fooled me,” Conwell said with a small smile. He then turned back to his work, stopping his typing only when his superior cleared his throat.
“Jacob,” he said as he checked his watch, “it is now 7:50 PM on Christmas Eve. You have been working on those documents since before I left here to visit Harold, three hours ago. I think it's time for you to join me in the break room for a coffee.”
Conwell shrugged and pointed to his work. Johnson would have none of it.
“Son,” Johnson said as he tapped his cane on the ground, “if you turn me down I will hit you with this cane until you leave my lab. Humor an old soul and join me for a Christmas coffee break.”
Conwell immediately held up his hands in surrender. Without another word he closed his laptop and began to make his way towards the door. Johnson gave a nod of approval as he watched his assistant step into the hall. He then grabbed his mp3 player and shut off the lights. The two men made their way towards the cafeteria in relative silence, save the Christmas songs coming from Johnson's person.
“So Jacob,” Johnson began, “why are you here tonight. You got last Christmas Eve off. Surely a young man like you has somewhere else to be on Christmas.”
“My folks and I fell out of touch after I started with the Foundation,” Conwell replied. “They think I'm working on a research ship for Stuart, Cameron, and Pauling Labs, so they don't really expect me home for the holidays.”
“I see,” Johnson nodded, “so what changed last year?”
Conwell sighed and shook his head. This caused Johnson to stop and smirk.
“Girlfriend?” he asked.
“It's more of an on-again-off-again kind of thing, but yeah,” Conwell said with a half-hearted chuckle. “She was busy tonight, so I felt I'd be more productive here.”
“Such is life,” Johnson shrugged. The two men continued their walk.
Before long, they found themselves within the break room. What was normally drab and sterile had been recently done up in a more seasonal flair. Johnson quietly offered Conwell a seat and began to prepare a fresh pot of coffee.
“If you don't mind me asking, Dr. Johnson,” Conwell began, “what about you? Is there a Mrs. Johnson missing you tonight?”
“I'm afraid not,” Johnson said as he finished setting up the coffee machine. He then moved on to rummaging through the fridge. “Shelly passed away almost twenty years ago. I usually spend the holiday with my daughter, Jessica, and the grandkids. This year, however, they are going to visit the son-in-law's family. I guess you and I are two peas in a pod after all.”
Johnson emerged from the fridge with several Tupperware containers. Before Conwell had a chance to ask questions, his superior was already preparing two plates. The containers were filled with most of the fixings of a rudimentary Christmas dinner.
“Jessica prepared this spread for me earlier,” Johnson said as he placed the plates in the microwave. “As you can see, it's far more than enough for me to consume alone. Even if I could eat it all, I'd rather not.”
Conwell opened his mouth to protest, but remained silent when Johnson held out his hand for him to stop. After a few minutes, Johnson removed the plates from the microwave and placed them on the table with a warm smile. Conwell returned with a small smile of his own and gratefully accepted the plate.
The two men then ate in silence. Conwell nodding as he relished the taste of the makeshift Christmas meal. Johnson's daughter was apparently a very, very skilled cook. After they had both finished Johnson set about disposing of the paper plates.
“So, Jacob,” Johnson began, “you'd agree with me if I told you no one should be alone on Christmas, would you not?”
“I suppose I'd be a hypocrite at this point if I said no,” Conwell said with a chuckle, “why?”
“Do you think you'd be up for one more task?” Johnson asked with a small smile.
“What did you have in mind?”

“And so… and so I said… I said, Karlyle, if that was true we wouldn't need to send in an MTF, I could just have my wife handle the job!” Johnson said as he tried to contain himself. Ultimately he failed, resulting in him and the other occupants of the room broke out into a fit of laughter.
Conwell was now standing in the corner of a Site-19 humanoid containment cell. Dr. Johnson sat at the nearby desk, facing the room's occupant, a middle aged man known as Dr. Harold Thompson. Conwell had never met him before, but to his understanding he was a former colleague of Dr. Johnson's who had the great misfortune of acquiring the ability to turn all living organic matter he touched into solid marble. Johnson had pulled a few strings and managed to get a “psychological health visit” scheduled for that evening. The last two hours had been spent with the three of them joking as Dr. Johnson and Dr. Thompson matched wits over a game of chess. Unfortunately, Dr. Johnson had recently made the winning move, signaling that their time together was drawing to a close.
“Check mate, old friend,” Johnson said with a sad smile.
“You got me again, Zach,” Harold replied.
The two men then began placing the pieces back in the box.
“Before you go, I have a small gift for you in the top drawer of my desk. I'd get it myself, but as I'm sure you know, I have to remain on the bed when I have visitors…” Harold added as he put away the last of the pieces. “I hope you don't mind that I didn't have a chance to have it properly wrapped…”
Johnson gave a nod of acknowledgement, and slowly opened the drawer. His mouth hung open in awe as he slowly removed what appeared to be a small marble sculpture of a bird.
“That's one of the products of Dr. Freemont's last round of testing. She said I could keep it. I thought you might like it,” Harold said with a sad smile. He then gave Conwell an apologetic glance, “I'm afraid I didn't have chance to prepare something for you, I didn't know we'd have this opportunity to meet…”
“Oh, don't mind that Harold,” Johnson said with a hearty chuckle, “Jacob's just here for the ride. This is very beautiful, though. Thank you very much.”
“Guess I have some use after all…” Harold mumbled under his breath, his eyes glancing at his gloved hands, then back to his friend.
“I have something for you as well,” Johnson said as he slowly got to his feet. Without a sound he silently placed his mp3 player on the table, and pressed play. “Your son sent it to me this morning.”
“Hey, Dr. Johnson” said the voice in the recording. It sounded like a man roughly Conwell's age. “Here are some of the people from the neighborhood. Have a very merry Christmas!”
Several more voices then joined the first as they began to sing “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” Conwell watched as Harold sat straight up, his eyes unblinking as he kept his gaze firmly on the mp3 player. Johnson then quietly signaled for the two of them to leave. Before they exited the cell, both Conwell and Johnson looked back at their friend. A small trail of tears ran down his face as he remained motionless, taking in the sound of the music.
“No one should be alone on Christmas, Jacob,” Johnson said quietly as the two of them stepped into the adjoining observation room. “Don't you agree?”
Conwell gave a nod in agreement.
“Merry Christmas, Jacob,” the elderly researcher said as he slowly began to walk away, “You have yourself a nice evening.”
“Merry Christmas, Dr. Johnson,” Conwell replied with a smile of admiration, “You too.”


Happy holidays!

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F.A.Q.

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Twas the night before Christmas at Site-88,
And Robert the guard was running quite late,
All the skips were contained in their cells with such care,
That everyone hoped, as did Bob, they'd stay there,
His first order of business was to check on containment,
He changed channels, instead, to the night's entertainment,
It's a Wonderful Life, he'd seen it before,
And fell asleep then, for an hour or more.
There were those who had hoped, on this night before gifts,
That Robert would draw the short straw on the shifts,
And plans were hatched over seven months previous,
By a group of some interest with conspirators devious,
To release all the creatures contained at the site,
To fight the Foundation on Christmas Eve Night,
They knew that their plan, while courageous, was dumb,
But worth it, they thought, if it releases just one.
Gates one, two, and three were as easy as pie,
But they met resistance at gates four and gates five,
Bob startled awake at the sound of alarms,
And shouting, and death, and of course firearms,
He switched his monitors, checked all of the frequencies,
Hit the red button for containment emergencies,
On screens he could see, as they just made it in,
No one could get out, but inside they could win.
They'd planned well for that, and taking their chance,
The first cell on the right, at the placard they glanced,
And in looking, they saw there, One Seven Three,
Saw Euclid, and thought, how bad could it be?
The statue, Bob knew, so easily beaten,
But these stupid folk hadn't been to that meeting,
So as the last of their number closed his eyes in assent,
Bobby blinked once and the last one was bent.
He panicked then, and fell to the floor,
Scrambled and made his way outside his door,
The statue knew that's right where he would be,
And Bobby fell backwards, attempting to flee,
It pressed on his windpipe, strained vocal cords,
This is it, he imagined, and thought of last words,
"Muh… Merry Christmas," he croaked, as it began its attack,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good…" crack.


Dr. Ralph Roget knocked on the door, shave-and-a-haircut style. It was the way he always knocked when he was a kid, coming with Mom to see the grandparents. It was also the only way for the now-retired Director Gillespie to recognize who was at the door, and come answer it.
She did answer it, a moment after his thought finished. A small old woman, a bit withered in her body, but she still had the kind face that he could remember smiling down as her arms lifted him up. Shirley Gillespie's face lit up as she saw her grandson on her doorstep.
"Oh, my goodness! It's so lovely to see you… please, please, come in… you've gotten so tall!" She tittered joyfully, lightly pulling on Ralph's arm to escort him into the room. The main apartment was small and plain, with a single antennae-box television set, an overstuffed armchair, and a little table beside it. In the corner, there was a small fake Christmas tree. Ralph's eyes lingered on the tree.
"Your grandfather and I picked it up yesterday morning. It's lovely, isn't it? Bob says he's going to decorate it soon."
Ralph sighed. The home had put the tree up in her room, like every other room. It was a cheap plastic tree, without any decoration, and it looked like the leaves were actually AstroTurf. He smiled at his grandmother, and nodded. "It's very nice. Did you pick it out?"
"Yes, yes…" She looked into his face for a moment, smiling. "You're getting so tall, dear. You'll have to stand by Bob when he gets back home."
"I will, Director." He smiled at her. She used to become so annoyed when he called her 'Director'. She'd always go on about how she'd retired to get away from stuffy formality, and she wanted to just be grandma from then on. Now? She just smiled and nodded, with a cheery disconnect from his words.
"How's work been going? Are you still friends with David?" She picked an ancient tray of cookies, and placed them on the ground in between them.
"No. He doesn't work at Site-77 any longer, and I haven't heard from him in awhile." Ralph didn't know who David was. He'd never known a David. In all likeliness, if he ever knew a David, Director Gillespie would likely never know about it.
"That's a shame. He was a polite boy." Director Gillespie looked towards where her last room had a window. "Did you see the tree?"
"Yes, I did."
Director Gillespie looked back to Ralph. "Why, you've gotten so tall! I'll have to compare you to Bob when he gets home."
"Grandpa's not coming home, Director." Ralph kept his eyes locked on where the window was. He left his grandmothers face out of his sight.
"Oh… well, at least he's doing well," said Director Gillespie, talking to nobody in particular.
"… I should be going. It's been nice seeing you."
Director Gillespie smiled at him. "Well, it's been lovely having you down! Bob and I both loved seeing you, and I'll tell him you left when he comes home."
"You'll tell him how much I've grown, right?" Ralph smiled at her.
"Grown?" She looked at him, her smile stopped in space.
Dr. Roget stood up, and turned away from her. "I'll see you soon, grandma."
His grandmother smiled at him, the recognition in her eyes fading. "Goodbye…"
Dr. Roget stepped out of the apartment, walked out of the building, out of the complex, and got into his car. Sitting in the seat, he sighed.
He pulled out of the snowy driveway of the Soft Community Plantations retirement home, and back into the night.


Hi. This is my part of the Christmas Collaboration. Enjoy! (And keep an eye on the "Most Recently Created" page for more stories from different authors as we inch closer to Christmas!)

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F.A.Q.

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What appeared to be a techno remix of Santa Baby blasted over the sound system, while "Polly" began to strip. It was Christmas Eve inside SCP-2713, which meant the bizarreness was going to be stepped up a notch. Three unarmed agents stood near the door, scanning the crowd for potential threats. Two doctors with Foundation insignia on their badges sat at the bar observing the chaos around them.
"Man. Look at that stellar body," Doctor Cimmerian grinned at Doctor Foster as he spoke. Foster, for his part, let out an audible groan. Cimmerian kept his smile and motioned to the bartender. The man walked over and put another shot glass down, joining the 7 other full glasses to Cimmerian's right.
"You know, the point of having to buy a shot every time you make a terrible pun was to keep you from doing it," Foster shook his head and looked over at the bartender who stood over the pair with a questioning look on his face, "Oh uh, sorry, we're paying customers but we can't drink on duty,"
The bartender nodded as though that explained everything and went back to wiping the bar.
"You think he's worried about running out of glasses?" Cimmerian said, cocking his head to the side.
"I don't know. This place has always confused the hell out of me. When it instituted a two drink minimum last year I stopped trying to figure it out," Foster played with the single glass in front of him.
"This is one of the projects in your portfolio, I don't think you can do that," Cimmerian said, his smile returning.
"It is in there, yeah," he said before looking back up, "But not by choice."
"Cause Malina knew your name."
Foster drew a sharp breath. "Yeah. What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't the ethics liaison be at home with his family?"
"Don't have one," Cimmerian said with a shrug, "Plus they wanted someone with a decent clearance to keep an eye on you, just in case,"
"Oh? You feel comfortable telling me that?" Foster looked back down at his drink.
"I've looked at your file. If you were going to betray the Foundation you'd have done it a long time ago."
Both men let that hang above the conversation for a second, then another, and then one more before Foster broke the silence.
"You think she'll show up tonight?"
The omnipresent music ebbed for a moment, and the two Doctors looked at each other.
"She shows up every Christmas Eve."
"Polly" had finished her set, and, after collecting her discarded clothing, retreated behind the curtains. The PA system boomed, "Once again, put your hands together… for… BETH,"
The rest of the crowd rushed to the edge of the stage and looked up at the pole. The curtains moved, and the catcalls began from the crowd, but neither of the two doctors could see anything on stage at all. Every Christmas Eve, the biggest crowd would show up in 2713 all year, and every Christmas Eve the Foundation would observe an even stranger event. A performer named "Beth", that the Foundation could not see.
"You know they're just playing a joke on us about the Star of Bethlehem, right?" Foster said, before turning back to his glass, "We're not going to get any new information out of this place this year that we didn't get the first year it happened."
"Maybe," Cimmerian said, before grabbing one of his shot glasses and raising it into the air, "But I'll settle for the constellation prize."

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Lackluster lights twinkled within one of Site 19's various staff lounges. They were a dull affair, nothing but a sequence of blinking yellow lights strung up around the edges of the ceiling. A single, tiny tree sat upon the counter in all of its rubber glory. Which was to say very little glory at all. Researchers and security staff lounged, as people were wont to do in lounges, and despite the fact it was Christmas Eve that was all they were doing.
The Foundation was not particularly keen on holidays, simply because they often meant personnel wanted time off. It didn't help that the holiday involved a possibly deity that may have suffered a severe case of being murdered some decades ago, if their 'friends' at the Global Occult Coalition were to be believed. Which, considering their inability to break something as simple as a chair, was unlikely. But this particular holiday brought about a certain cheer in many of the personnel. And so, for morale, the Foundation had dispensed trifling amounts of holiday cheer throughout their facilities. Not enough to really liven up the place, and the personnel still had their respective responsibilities to tend to, but enough that they didn't feel the need to complain much.
This did not sit well with one Daniel Navarro, Foundation field agent and anomalous art specialist, so he took it upon himself to remedy his peers' situation of poor holiday funding. With a fake beard strapped to his coarse chin, a Santa hat jammed over his head, and a grin slapped across his face he sauntered into the room with a red sack slung over one shoulder.
The assembled personnel eyed him groggily, some having to squint at the bright red against the dull grey walls. They were those who lived on site, or had foolishly spent their vacation days already. Trapped within the site's concrete halls, they were unable to bring in their own decorations due to storage ordinances. And now they were at the mercy of Navarro, and the bundle of goodies he toted.
Navarro surveyed those before him for a familiar face. Gregg Collins gave a vague sort of wave before returning to his glass of eggnog, content to sit and muse nothings to himself. Sitting in one of the various armchairs was an olive-skinned man wearing a tacky sweater and an unsure smile. Navarro had worked with him several times before, but could never remember his name. Likely because the man couldn't remember himself. And then there was Jane Weiss, of Theta-90. She knew Navarro well enough to try to avoid his gaze and little enough to think that would actually work.
From his bag of merriment he withdrew a cluster of multicolored lights. The fact that they glowed without being plugged in drew interest from the others in the room. He handed the bundle to Weiss, who stared at the lights as if they were a parcel of something illegal. Which was accurate, as they broke the laws of physics. And the Foundation was quite fond of said laws, and no doubt looked down upon relieving the anomalous objects storage rooms of their contents.
But boredom was a powerful thing. It fastened itself around Weiss' neck, and the looming holiday potentiality weighed down on her shoulders. She looked up at Navarro, whose eyes glittered with the reflective colors of the lights in his hands. Weiss sighed and took them from Navarro. She recruited one of the researchers, and together they replaced the yellow lights with their more diverse brethren.
And with that, the others lifted themselves from their seats and gathered around Navarro and his sack of wonder to collect more items to thicken the Christmas atmosphere. The amnesiac acquired a tin of cookies and nestled into his seat without regard for the others. Collins was pulled from his chair by a younger researcher, and together the two of them gathered up drinks and cups.
One or two glanced at the camera swiveling in the upper corner of the room. Navarro simply smiled and shook his head, the fluff ball at the end of his hat swinging around like a yuletide wrecking ball. Bribery came cheap this time of year. As if to prove this, one of the various security personnel slid a CD player and accompanying from the bag.
Hats and eggnog were dispensed, and when enough people were suitably hatted and mustachioed he moved over to an empty corner of the room. After jostling the sack around he set its mouth against the floor and lifted, revealing the green plastic of a tree support stand. As the bag lifted it spit out more and more tree, until Navarro had to stand on his toes and even then the tree was bending over. It snapped to attention when it was completely out, still quivering with dew.
With a certain degree of reverence Navarro plucked out the final item. It was a glass ball with a coiled metal base, the latter tinted green with spray paint. Inside the ball was a small ball of nuclear fire, pinpricks of excess energy escaping in something akin to sunbeams. The miniature star held all the energy of its larger counterparts, yet paradoxically lacked their heat and brightness. The others decorated the tree with lights and glass balls and other assorted ornaments to the sound of caroling while Navarro shoved a chair close to the tree. Once the tree was fully decorated, Navarro used the chair as a footstool to slide the coil around the top of the tree.
The room now aglow in warm, wholly unnatural light, the group eased back into their seats. Drunk on their renewed Christmas spirits, and/or more mundane spirits depending on which eggnog they partook in, they reveled in the merry tranquility. Some broke into song, others gorged on the various tins of food extracted from Navarro's magic bag.
Once midnight rolled past a few broke away from the crowd to retire early, and eventually Navarro felt compelled to join them. He waved off those remaining and reminded the sober ones which storage unit the items were to be returned to. He hung on the door frame and let out a quick but heartfelt message before departing to his room.
"Merry Christmas, everyone!"