Throughout the various facilities of the SCP Foundation, it is not uncommon for the facility Ethics Committee liaison to collect letters from the personnel. These letters are typically addressed to friends within the Foundation, or family members who have Family Disclosure Protocol clearance, and are delivered in the event of death…

+ To Cole Aktus

- To Cole Aktus

Cole,
This letter may come as some surprise to you, as it's been many years since we last spoke. If you're reading this, I have died. The small sum of my estate will be donated to you shortly through an anonymous source. I hope it brings you some comfort.
I have little else to say that I haven't already said. I hope you know that, regardless of everything, I have loved you and Joshua desperately. You were all I had in the world. I wish I had been a better brother to you.
Maybe mother was right. Maybe I'll see her again on that distant shore.
Yours,
Karlyle

+ To Kate Conwell

- To Kate Conwell

Kate,
If you are reading this, that thing I promised would never happen… happened.
They had us write these letters so as to offer some closure, so let's give it a shot.
I know I wasn't always the happiest or most lively person to be around. Hell, there were so many times in my life I didn't want to be around me either, but that never seemed to scare you off and neither did the time I told you about what I really did for a living. Perhaps you were always just a glutton for punishment, cause let's be honest its not my rugged good looks that kept you around. Whatever the reason, I really was out of my league with you. I know you always thought it was the other way around, but for me you were a 12/10 and I was a -2.
There were a lot of points in my life I thought I would die alone, Kate. Sometime after I met you, however, that thought shattered, and I knew you were the one I could spend my life with, and I can't express in words how happy I am you felt the same.
I hope that in our time together I gave you even a part of the joy you gave me.
God damn this is really cliche, isn't it? Oh well, I'm guess I'm not being graded on my originality here.
Tell Zach and Carrie that I'm proud of them, and wherever the road takes them, I know they'll succeed.
I love you, Kate.
With all the atoms of my being, I love you.
Jacob

+ To Dr. Eleanor Gentle

- To Dr. Eleanor Gentle

Ellie
If you're reading this, then I'm dead. You'll already know this from whatever debriefing they made you sit through, but there are things I need to say that I haven't said in person, or need to say again.
Firstly, I don't regret doing what I do. Knowing you, I know you're going to be somehow blaming yourself for my death. However this happened, it's not your fault. I know that you will have done everything you could have for me. In the event I died to save you, I definitely don't regret that. I like this job, and I loved working on it with you, and I've always known that this might be the price that would be paid for that.
I'm going to have to ask you to deliver the news to my family. I don't feel like I have a lot that I want to say to them in a letter, and you've always been better with them than I have. I'm sorry to ask this of you, but I feel comforted in knowing you're there for them when they need it.
I've left everything to you in my will. Which admittedly isn't much, but I want you to have it anyway. I trust you'll find something good to do with it. You'll also find my funeral instructions with the will. Rest assured, I made sure there's a little something in the playlist just for you.
Most importantly, you deserve to know the truth about who you are. You're going to need to read the files on the project I was working on immediately before I met you. Of all the things I'm sorry for, I'm sorry I won't be there for you when you figure it out. You may have noticed I've been selective with the projects we work on, and have vetoed some projects that would otherwise be safe for most people. This will tell you why. I trust that you'll be able to come to terms with it, and understand that your origins do not make you any less of a person to me, or to anyone else.
I love you Ellie. I always have.
~ Dr. Horatio Gifts

+ To Patrick Gerdinel

- To Patrick Gerdinel

Hey Patrick,
I know we never really spoke much, but you always kept me company. Stood by me when I was down. You listened to me even when I gave you the most outrageous commands.
I should've been around more often. It must've been hard to stay in that empty house for eight hours a day. But that won't be the case anymore. Unless something happened to my will, my friend Tricia is going to come by soon and you're going to stay with her.
Now is when most people would put in some kind of last request, but if you're reading this, and understanding this, then I will be the happiest man in the graveyard.
I wish we could play another round of fetch.
I should have pet you more.
You really were a man's best friend.
-Niklo Gerdinel
A recording is to be delivered with the letter, and played at least once. It is to be left in the care of whoever receives it.

The recording has been transcribed below:

Oh, who's a good boy? You are! You're a good boy! Yes you are. You deserve all the treats. Yes you do. Yes you do. Because you're the best dog in the… in the whole world. Good boy.

+ To Mr. and Mrs. Kiryu

- To Mr. and Mrs. Kiryu

Hi Mom and Dad,
Zyn and I are co-writing this letter because it felt like the right thing to do. We were told it was standard but optional protocol to have such a letter in the first place, but then, you've always encouraged us to go above and beyond the bare minimum, right? And siblings stick together.
If you're reading this, then something has happened to one or both of us. Rest assured that we've taken all the proper steps to have you and everyone else in the immediate family cared for, including those overseas. I've made sure that any remaining funds in both our names will go to those who need them, and Auntie Rin's children can receive the same opportunities Mark and I were fortunate enough to have thanks to your hard work. As for your own retirement, we have done our best to ensure you may live with very few worries. It's the least we can do in exchange for all you've done for us.
I don't like long letters because at that point a phone call or meeting in person just makes much more sense, but that's not really possible here so I suppose I'll write a little more. If you do hold a service for one or both of us, please don't let anyone attending wear black. It's depressing. I'd like my life to be remembered with balloons and pop music and people assuming that I'm just having a great extended vacation. I'm sure Zyn feels the same, but maybe without the balloons.
Thank you for all the advice you have given us. And thank you for every time you told us you were proud of what we've done and who we are. We remember all the family trips, the visits to our aunts and uncles, the days you spent telling us about how to be strong in the world. For that, we are eternally grateful. More than anything, we don't want you to worry about us.
Mom, we hope you sleep more soundly in the springtime. Dad, we hope you keep getting to see butterflies by your office window in autumn. And again, thanks for everything you've done for us. We'll be alright.
~ Mark & Zyn

+ To Nicholas Mauro

- To Nicholas Mauro

I asked myself whether I would send this to you.
Not because I blame you for what happened then. Not because I don't love you with every fiber in my being. No… It's because letters like these are cruel to us.
I never told you, but I was in class when you sent the message. My phone was on silent; my friends were blowing it up with the same petty crap. So by the time I saw those first four words… if you're reading this… I thought it was too late. I hate myself for that, for thinking it was ever too late. For just sitting there, reading, not calling Mom, or Dad, or 911, wondering how this could happen to us, wondering what I'd done wrong.
I've lived with that hatred since. It's deep and persistent, blind to time and place and all the ways it was out of our hands. You'll feel it too, I know. You and I, we can't help but feel; we're the same in that way, even if I'm better at hiding it. Knowing that, I almost didn't write this letter.
But I did. If you're reading this, it's because deep down, beneath all that guilt, I'm grateful you sent that message.
I'd like to think it'd have given me closure.
I'd like to think that this will, too.
Nico, you've always meant the world to me. Not a moment passes without the pride I feel for the man you've become. You're the reason I hug strangers, the reason I look back at burnt bridges. The reason I even like cats – Sneakers and Pistol were lucky to have you. I was blessed to be born before you, so I could watch every step you took. If I died with enough time to feel, I was mad at whatever took me away from you.
I'll miss you, Nico. If you're reading this, you're still the best brother I could ever ask for.

+ To Gabe Merlo

- To Gabe Merlo

Hey Gabe,
If you are reading this, then my luck has finally run out.
I'm not really sure what to write here. I mean, what do you tell someone if you know that they'll only see it when you're dead? But hey, here goes nothing.
Do you remember our third date. I've personally always called it the Great Train Wreck in my mind. Absolutely nothing went right. The restaurant lost the reservations, your car got a flat, and there was a torrential downpour. Most people would have been pretty pissed off, but you just took everything in good humor. That was the night I realized that the world could be falling down around you and you'd still keep your stride, and that if the world fell down around me, you'd always be there to hold me up.
And fuck, the world fell down around me a lot over the years.
I'm so lucky that I could spend even a fraction of my life with you Gabe, and I know that without me Jessie will still be in great hands. Hell, you spent more time with her over the years than I did.
I love you so much, Gabe.
Don't ever let the world dim your shine.
Sasha

+ To Micheal Mishik

- To Micheal Mishik

Archivist's Note: the following text has been translated from Estonian by the Level-0 Mail Department.
An included item of interest is a picture of personnel member █████ Trout with his brother, amidst a crowd of people. On the back of the picture, written in purple ink, are the words: "Ida-müür, Berliin 1989"

Dear Bear,
If you're reading this, then I have gone from walking this Earth to being thrown into a wooden box and buried under 6 feet of dirt. Sorry for giving it to you so bluntly like that, you know how I can be.
Please forgive this sudden departure and do not grieve over me. I want to just write to you how I feel if I'm not there to express these thoughts before this letter: I love you. Since we were little children, we punched, tore, and screamed at each other about every little detail. You always had the aspect of wanting to go and do bad things like steal the potatoes from Ms. Millia while I wanted to go to the library and read. In Tallinn, we'd get pissy whenever Mother forced us to sit next to each when taking pictures. All of the brotherly hate we had towards each other had still not vanished. However in the end we kept each other's backs. The way you helped deal with my emotional problems when Dad had passed from the accident I caused. You were there for the early days in my career of highschool and college. Up to now you've never blamed me nor anyone for my foul life. Still, from what had happened on the 12th I greatly and deeply felt sorrow, misery, and just… something. I'm so sorry to have to leave so soon, even without giving you a hug goodbye.
Please deliver the news slowly to Mother. I leave you my items and things that'll ‘interest' you at home.
Code is 2264.
Your brother, Trout.
P.S: Also congrats on your entry into the Navy, I expect that promotion to Nooremmaat. Keep our tradition going little one.

+ To Ralph Roget

- To Ralph Roget

Ralphie, I'm finished. We both knew this was coming, myself more than you.
I've been falling recently. Don't worry, they didn't take that. It was my choice to keep it from you. It was the last thing you needed, with the weight of the world heaving itself on your shoulders. Theodore told me I would start having fits. Dizzy spells, body giving out on me. But I wouldn't have a walker. Not going out like that. I'm going to be on my own feet, or my back. It's more important that you're ready. Maybe that changed before you read this. I won't know.
You're going to be alone now. We're the only family we've got, real ones. Even if we don't know how. I can remember when they started teaching you, when I would watch outside the classroom. One day you just started tilting your head like crazy. God, I was afraid. So many fears, maybe thinking you were having a seizure. Don't remember why I was afraid of that. So much is gone. Then it turned out you just needed to pee. Learning about what gramma did, hearing noises in the bathroom. It petrified you. I'm sorry you were born into this life. Maybe we had a choice, once, but that time is long forgotten.
Can you control who you are if we can't even curate our own heads? That's the question our lives have to answer. Impossible to know where we came from, or whom we came with, who you are is going to be up to you. What kind of person do you want to be? Not a good or a bad one. That doesn't matter. What you already know about the Foundation's legacy proves that. Shouldering a burden nobody else can. Hoping we're doing something right.
I remember your hugs, even in mindful places that have nothing but haze. Hold on to memories like those, the spots where they haven't scrubbed clean. Hold on to them like you held onto me. If you're reading this, you remember I love you.
Gilly

+ To Scip

- To Scip

Hey,
I'll try to put this as lightly as I can; “He's dead, Jim.” You probably already knew this, but I thought you'd want a second opinion.
You know how it is around here, so much life and death, so many secrets and world saving schemes, but finally it seems one of them called my number. Or I missed the big world reset. If that's the case, I hope you can still remember me and are celebrating the world continuing to turn! Being completely forgotten wouldn't be the worst thing, though only if it meant fewer tears to go around.
If it's the former though and you can still recall who I am, please tell mom and dad what we talked about. They don't need to know everything, just that I love you all so much and I'm sorry I didn't call them more often. I don't believe in regrets, but I know the years started flying by once we got out into the world. Remember the best of me and for your sake, remember to do more of the things you want to do in life before your number comes up too. I believe in you.
And if you're reading this from deep inside a bunker while the world burns above you, I'm sorry I can't be there to watch it burn with you.
Love, your brother,
Dr. Todd-King

+ To Ana Yarkoni

- To Ana Yarkoni

My beloved Ana,
If you're reading this, then I'm afraid you already know what this letter is about.
As per my will, my estate, excluding that which will be left to care for your mother, will be sent to you shortly. In addition, my employer will be sending you a regular pension for a period of five years after my death, as per the stipulations in my contract. Arrangements for my funeral and burial have already been established, so don't worry about that.
If I'm honest, I'm not sure what to write. I've never exactly been good at being vulnerable; it always felt like a weakness, that if I wasn't a rock, I couldn't protect the ones I loved. That was a mistake on my part, and I can't change my past.
How has life been? As I'm writing this, you've moved in with your partner, correct? Despite how it might look, I hope you two are still together. I know I wanted grandchildren, but
I just wanted you to know that
If I could do everything over from the start, I'd have been a better father. I wouldn't have missed a single recital, or birthday, or even your graduation. My professi
Nothing I write feels genuine enough.
I'm sorry. I hope to see everyone in the next world.
Yehezkel

+ To my ex

- To my ex

If you're reading this, it's too late.
I need some company, I need some company, I need you to take my mind off being in my prime, some company…
I'm not sure what your thoughts on Drake were, Jade. Of all the artists we spent ages talking about, not once did we talk about Drake. I don't know what you'd think of his style. Your tastes in rap leaned a lot more towards harder and darker stuff, so most likely you wouldn't have really liked him, I guess. I like that kind of poppy, soulful music, which is always why I preferred 808s & Heartbreak. No wonder that was your least favorite of Kanye's.
What site do you work at nowadays? If it were Site-19, I'd surely have seen you around. The place is big, but it's not that big. Can't be Site-62, or else they'd have wiped you from my memories (though maybe you'd have preferred that). Area-02? I'd have gotten this sort of letter from you by now. Whichever site is probably low-danger and has safe objects. Let's say 64. Tell Dr. Avery I said hi! I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from me, though not under this set of circumstance.
There's no format they give you to write these in, you know? (You know.) Sometimes they have you write these when you first join, sometimes before you're promoted, sometimes before a real dangerous mission, and sometimes whenever you'd like. Which one is it in my case? I don't think it matters. Really, I'm not sure it matters in most casess. They have suggested templates for any and all of those scenarios, but you lose the heart and soul of a personal goodbye in those. And I've never been good at saying goodbye, you know? (You know.)
So instead, for you, I present my final words to world as this; a series of barely-related messages in the hopes that I can reach you emotionally, regardless of how you may feel about me. I'll have had to have fucked up real bad though in order for you to get this, so you probably won't feel much sympathy. Am I just overestimating how much you dislike me by now? I don't feel secure, if I'm being honest.
Maybe I won't die though. I didn't die by hate crime, I didn't die by suicide, and I didn't die mentally, so I definitely won't die physically. I'll live for-goddamned-ever, such is my will. You'll never have to read this, so this is all just for me and my benefit. But if somehow, I die, well… I trust you more than anoyne else save for myself.
I think the best memory we have of each other wasn't any of the sex, or the dancing, or cuddling, but on December 31, 2011. Jeffery got us joints and we all got high and watched movies about music that entire day. What was it, the second or third film? We saw that Janis Joplin movie and it was fine, but the ending song really got to me. I was full-on crying. You have to remember that, I rarely ugly cry like that. How did it end again?
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun's love
In the spring becomes the rose.
Hah. Cheesy and predictable, isn't that just like me? Pour le temps, mon ami, adieu.


« Counterpoint | Hub | Duets »

"Mike, look out!" yelled Zhao.
The brass city was collapsing around them. Mike slammed to a stop as an enormous bell crashed to the ground in front of him.
"The players must be - huh - losing precision," he panted. "Why did they - hooh - use a brass band?"
Zhao yanked him onto the pavement as the drumskin street tore open. "Trust me," she said, "you don't want to be here when it's catgut and piano wire."
Lifting a streak of silver-grey hair back from her temples, Zhao spoke into her headpiece. "H, where are you? We need to get out."
Four blocks away, Agent Hennessy looked past the text on his visor, at the massive beast a few feet from him. Its powerful metallic legs were curled into a crouch, valves pulsing rhythmically. It turned its head back and forth, and its cymbal-jaws opened, emitting a long horn note of challenge. If he ran, if he made any noise, it would sense him.
His right hand pressed the the communicator at his belt, trying to move as little as possible. 333-C. Stuck. You go.
A nearby flute-tower crumbled and fell, scattering nickel silver keys across the road. SCP-333-C sprang instinctively towards the noise, turning its back on Hennessy.
He ran.
Carter and Zhao were running too, desperately trying to avoid the rain of bronze and steel debris. Ahead, Mike could see the performance hall - the exit. As they reached the doorway, he turned back to look for Hennessy. The streets were full of twisted metal, but empty of life. The doorframe shook as another building fell.
Zhao was shouting into her headset. "H, please! Tell us where you are!"
Hiding. Too far.
"Where? We'll find you." Even as Zhao said it, they heard the bellowing horn again.
No. Get out. Tell them stop playing.
The shaking was getting worse. A door-sized reed slid from the hall's roof and thudded into the pavement in front of them like a guillotine.
"If they stop playing, you'll die!" said Zhao, frantic.
Not dead. Stasis.
The howls of the -C were louder now. Mike saw it burst out of a building up the street. It ran towards them, claws tearing through the shining sidewalk.
"Zhao, it's coming for the exit. We have to go!"
Mike grabbed Zhao's arm. She looked at him with pleading eyes.
The beast was almost on them.
"H, I can't -" she said into the headset. "I -"
Come back for me.
They leapt through the doorway.

The concert hall was silent, expectant.
She looked out, dazzled by the stage lights. If there was an audience out there, it was shrouded in the blackness beyond. Blackness like the mouth of a deep pit, like an open throat ready to…
Emma found her focus, bringing herself back. She was wearing a black shirt and trousers - appropriate for a performer, but also reminiscent of her new MTF uniform.
She wanted to look to her left, but couldn't manage it. She needed to look professional in front of the darkened hall. Instead she stole a glance downwards. There was a music stand in front of her, but the score sitting on it seemed blurry. Still, she didn't need it.
Behind her, Emma sensed the unseen orchestra as it stretched itself and then coiled, ready to spring, waiting for the baton's signal. Who was it holding that baton? Emma still could not turn to look.
The moment stretched endlessly. The bright stage, the enveloping dark: all on a razor's edge. Emma felt a prickling at the nape of her neck.
As the orchestra took off, Emma strained to concentrate on the music. She could hear notes, even the occasional chord, but the full sweep and scope of the work eluded her. What was left were scraps of jangling discord, impossible to piece together.
Emma breathed deeply. Her cue was coming. From the corner of her eye, Emma saw the conductor half-turn. This was her chance. As the baton flashed down like a lightning strike, Emma spun sharply to look left.
The conductor was shrouded in black, darker even than the hall itself. Its face was a pallid carnival mask, featureless but for a leering grin. The eyes were black and empty, and as Emma stared, it loomed closer and larger above her, seeming to fill the hall, to fill the world.
And Emma heard it scream.

She woke to the sight of Agent Sherry Wilson leaning over her.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" came Wilson's calming voice.
Eyes adjusting to the lights, Emma looked around the sleep lab, adrenaline still pumping.
"Did you see it?" she asked.
"Most of it," replied Sherry. "I was in the back of the audience. But it went differently this time, right? You seemed to have more control."
Emma breathed deliberately, trying to slow her heart. "Yes. I changed my clothes, and I managed to turn." As the dream faded, it was easier to remember why she was doing this. "I could even hear the music - some of it, anyway."
"Hmm. I could see them playing, but I didn't hear anything." Sherry scanned through the readings on the touchscreen next to Emma's bed. Of all the members of MTF Omicron-Rho that Emma had worked with, she seemed the most thorough, the most collected.
"This is much better, Emma," she continued. "Good alpha-wave levels, and your breathing stayed steady. Just need to work on staying locked in the dream, even when something surprising happens."
"Actually, I won't need to worry about waking up," said Emma. "How have the others been going?"
Sherry gave an involuntary glance across to the empty beds on the other side of the room.
"They're definitely improving. We tried Hennessey, Zhao and Carter in a few SCP-333 scenarios."
"The musical city? That's appropriate." Emma smiled, and sat up.
"They're adapting well to the dream, staying lucid, finding solutions." Sherry sounded genuinely impressed. "Hennessey actually came up with something I hadn't seen anyone try before."
"Good." Emma's smile grew determined. "That's very good. I'd like to run the same scenarios, please. When can you schedule me in?"
Sherry's look of concern only lasted a fraction of a second, but Emma spotted it.
"I'm not sure," said Sherry, folding her arms. "Unless you're fully trained, we normally wouldn't advise more than three sessions a week."
Emma frowned. "Let's make it tomorrow. I don't have that much time."

Agent Sandra Dee staggered from the tunnel, the ringing in her ears fading. She dropped to one knee, out of breath and trying not to retch. From the corner of her eye, she could see a man step towards her, holding a clipboard and stopwatch.
"Thirty-seven minutes, nineteen seconds," said Sergeant Graham Towers of MTF Zeta-9. "Not bad for a first run through the grinder, especially at your -"
Dee swung her head up fiercely, but the movement was too sudden - black spots filled her vision, and she almost collapsed. She waved away the agent's proffered hand, and shut her eyes tight.
Sergeant Towers had clearly been trained to keep candidates talking after they got through the course. "You never considered joining the Mole Rats then?"
"Wasn't … an option at the time," said Dee, through gritted teeth.
"That's a shame. You did a good job, particularly with the gravitational distortion sections. A tip for the perspective-null room - you can often make quicker progress with one or even both eyes closed. Although you got unlucky with your route, hitting that straight after sensory deprivation."
"Uh huh." Dee had heard enough. Her head was still throbbing, and she lifted herself gingerly into the chair Towers offered.
Twenty minutes later she was still sitting there, just outside the exit from "Mole Rat Maze", watching the Sergeant look anxiously at his watch.
"An hour is the limit, I'm going to have to go in," he said, more to himself than to her.
Just as he put down his clipboard, there was a noise from the tunnel. Towers raced over as Roger Anderson emerged, slumping to the ground and rolling on to his back. Anderson's chest heaved, and Dee watched as Towers checked his pulse and pupils before grabbing some oxygen from the med-pack.
Dee stood slowly, making sure she had her balance back, and strolled over to where Roger was lying. He had taken off the oxygen mask, but was still too weak to sit up.
Agent Dee brought her boots together with a snap, right next to his head. "So, Anderson. Looking forward to being back in the field?"
Towers shot her a look. She met his gaze.
"Come on, Towers," she said, "surely he's set a new record for the octogenarians?"
She spotted the stopwatch, still around Towers' neck.
"There you are, Anderson. Fifty-nine minutes, twelve seconds."
Roger groaned. "Why is it always twelve?"

Emma was starting to get used to meetings in the Site Director's office. She tried to sit still while Director Arora walked slowly around his desk to sit across from her.
The Director unclasped his hands and spread them apart, palms up. Clearly a practised gesture. "So Commander Stark, how is the training going?"
He was stalling; Emma knew he had seen the reports. She aimed to keep her voice light. "The team is performing well, generally strong results, considering. We could use a few more members though. Have you had any luck with recruits?" It wasn't what she had scheduled the meeting for, but it would be a start.
Director Arora was clearly growing accustomed to her newfound directness. He smiled, but she thought she caught a flash of misgiving behind it.
"I think I have two pieces of good news for you there," he said. "Dr. Bettina Reynard is a senior Memetics researcher who is joining us from Site-17, and Charla Flores had just been recruited to Cognitohazards, but her supervisor has gone on medical leave."
"That's good," said Emma. "We could use some more specialists. I know exactly what Dr. Reynard can start with. I don't suppose they have any musical background?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure," replied the Director. "But they should be with you soon, so you'll be able to find out. We have a D-Class who I understand is very musical, but, uh, I'm not sure you would want him in your squad."
Arora paused. Emma waited.
"About your other request," he continued, finally. "I can see why you want to do it, but I just don't know if I can authorise -"
"Sir, with respect, if we're serious about learning more about Twelve, then I think it's the best way forward. The team will be ready."
"Will they?" said Arora. "I'd like to hear your full risk analysis first."
Emma tried to stay calm. "Okay sir, there are four key elements to consider…"
As she left the room fifteen minutes later, Emma realised her hands had been clenched so hard they'd left fingernail marks on her palms.

The spare lab-room was almost empty as Mike and Hennessy walked in. All of the equipment had been cleared out, leaving just four rows of benches and stools, one of which was occupied by a dark-haired young woman, reading.
"Hi," said Mike, "you must be Charla."
The woman looked up from her text. "Charlie," she said. "That's what my family always called me."
"Nice to meet you, Charlie. I'm Mike, and this is H." Mike indicated the smiling Agent Hennessy beside him. "Welcome to Eta-11."
"H?" asked Charlie with a quizzical look.
"For Hennessy." Mike turned to him, grinning. "Or is it Hearing Loss? I can never remember."
"Hey!" said Hennessy loudly.
Turn it down, signed Mike, and continued, "H is deaf, as you may have worked out. He can talk, but we try not to let him. Never has anything interesting to say."
I'll give you interesting, signed Hennessy, and then saw Charlie's nonplussed look. Mike, you're freaking her out. Stop being weird.
"What did he say?" Charlie asked, unsure where to direct the question.
Mike didn't miss a beat. "H was just apologising for being weird, so it's - ow!" He grabbed the back of his head, where Hennessy had cuffed him playfully. "Okay, I'm sorry, Charlie. I was just messing around with H, but it's not fair when you don't know us. You'll regret ever joining Eta-11."
"Oh no, that's okay," said Charlie, settling her hands back down on her book. "To be honest, I'm glad for the change. My last posting - well, it ended a bit strangely. Still, it's been a pretty full on start. I never knew how much training a task force needed."
"Neither did we," Mike laughed. "Did you do the Mole Rat Maze yet?"
"God, yes - that was ridiculous. I couldn't -" Charlie cut off as the door of the lab opened and a researcher walked in.
She was slightly stiff, as if uncertain she was in the right room. She carried a stack of what looked like VR goggles, held in place with her chin.
"Is this Mobile Task Force Eta-11?" Her voice had the slightest hint of a European accent. "This is all of you - there is no-one else?"
"You saw Zhao, Sandra and Roger on Tuesday, right?" Mike replied. "So yeah, apart from Emma that's all of us." Mike waited for a response, eventually wilting in the woman's stare. "We're kind of a small MTF," he added.
The woman hesitated, lips pursed, before putting the sets of goggles on the bench with a half-sigh. "Okay. My name is Dr. Reynard, senior memetics liaison to Eta-11." She pushed a few greying hairs back from her face. "I will be running your Memetic Resistance tests today."
More tests? signed Hennessy wearily.
Dr. Reynard handed out the goggles, and gave them each an electronic grip topped with a button.
"On these headsets, you will experience typical task force activities in a range of environments. When you perceive danger, or determine that a defensive action is required, you are to press the button on your grip.
"The presentation includes a series of perception-altering stimuli, which I have myself designed. These are quite safe, but will test your memetic resistance on various measures: reduced attention span, slower reaction times, impaired judgement and fine motor control."
"So it's like a game, then?" asked Charlie.
"It is a test," replied Dr. Reynard, with a curt nod. "You will be scored for both speed and accuracy in recognizing and responding to legitimate threats."
"Uh, can you tell us the score to beat?" asked Mike, pulling the goggles on to his head. "I mean, from Tuesday."
Dr. Reynard paused. "It is rather interesting, actually. Most of the team were in the average range, but Agent Dee was in the ninety-fifth percentile across all measures."
"Makes sense," Mike chirped. "After the number of times she tested - ow! Again, H?"
Hennessy scowled at Mike, who looked chastened. "I mean, I guess Agent Dee has had a lot of exposure to mind-altering anomalies."
"D, H, do you all have letters?" Charlie pushed the goggles up from her eyes to ask.
"Oh - no, Dee is definitely her name," said Mike hurriedly.
"Like John Dee? Cool. I almost transferred to Alchemical Studies," said Charlie.
Dr. Reynard coughed. "If you are all now ready, shall we get on with the test?"
She flicked a switch on a central console as they lowered their goggles and tightened the straps. The last thing Mike heard before the headphones kicked in was Hennessey's voice counting down from a hundred in multiples of seven.

Four days later, the lab was full again, with the whole of Eta-11 in attendance. Zhao and Mike were sitting with Charlie, laughing at something on her phone. Behind them, Roger Anderson and Dr. Reynard were deep in debate. Agent Dee lounged in the back corner chatting to Hennessy, who was struggling to sign with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand.
They looked up as the door opened and Emma came in. Agent Zhao jumped from her chair and stood, and the others joined her, with the exception of Dee, who looked coolly from the back of the room.
"That's not necessary, guys," said Emma, blushing slightly and waving them to sit again.
As they were doing so, another man entered. He was mid-fifties, short and lean, with bushy grey hair and a thin beard. He walked into the room as if expecting it to lunge forward and swallow him.
Charlie was the only one to recognize him, whispering to Mike, "Oh my god, do you know who -"
She was interrupted by Emma, whose voice betrayed both her discomfort with giving speeches and the feeling that she was obliged to give one. "I know you've been wondering why we've been training so hard, and I'm sorry that I haven't been able to tell you yet. The truth is, I've only just received approval from the Site Director to let you know our next mission.
"Since SCP-012 was stolen, we've had almost no clear leads. Commander - well, ex-Commander Richards has no memory of where he hid the score. The Foundation has been unable to track Dr. Pherson, or find out who his associates are. And we know so little about the anomaly itself. But we have one source of information, and I intend to pursue it."
Emma looked at the expectant faces of the MTF. Her MTF. Zhao gave her a brief smile of support.
She continued. "That's the reason for all of the training so far, and I'm afraid there's more to come. Dealing with spatial anomalies, memetic resistance, lucid dreaming - we're going to need all of that."
They had started to understand, thought Emma. Dee had come off the back wall and was sitting straight, Roger was pushing his glasses up over widened eyes, Dr. Reynard was nodding. Emma saw Mike turn to Charla in sudden realization.
"So now that we have official approval, there's someone we need to speak with. MTF Eta-11, this is Dr. Calixto Narváez. We're going to Alagadda."


Kit distantly remembered a time when he had tried to kill himself, and the police had found him covered in chocolate from the doughnuts he had as a last supper, and they thought it was blood. His words were slurring as he said no, it wasn't goddamn blood, and to leave him alone. They pointed out the door they had busted down with the key all good policeman carry, and that '"people were worried about him."' People. Blow it out of your ass, he tried to say, but he was suddenly so very tired.
There was little argument when the police made him go to the hospital (he couldn't really argue, they threatened him with being sectioned) and the overworked junior doctor confirmed the pills weren't going to kill him, this time, and he discharged himself under the watchful glare of the police, the nurse removing his IV port, and faintly he remembered being tackled by four big fuckers when he had tried to leave with it still in his veins. The nurse had lectured him about how, of course, they couldn't let anyone out on the streets with such easy access to their veins. Such an idea was madness. So, scowling, he waited for that to be removed, signed a sheet that said the hospital wasn't responsible if he keeled over, wondered how long they meant that to be for. Forever? Probably not forever. The police had disappeared by then, and he was left to make his own way home, at nearly 4am on a grim Winter morning.
He dragged his ass home, and only to find there was a big board over his doorway - the battering ram had left the door broken and wide open, tempting to robbers, even if he had nothing. The police held responsibility, but would do nothing about it, Kit knew that much. He had to phone a locksmith and fumble his way through that conversation, fudging payment using a credit card he lifted from his last grift, and then wait for the guy, sitting slumped outside his own flat.
His eyes hurt, and he struggled to rip the hospital wristband from around his wrist. He wondered if his upstairs neighbours would allow him to come in, then decided that the rude awakening from the cops had probably turned them off from him. But when he moved in, they had left him cookies, and a note. He wanted a piss, and he wanted a smoke, and most of all, he wanted to sleep - he ached for it, his entire self bled for it.
That was why, when it came to the locksmith arriving, Kit was mostly asleep on the floor next to his doorway, curled in the foetal position, his bag held protectively close - and a folding knife held even tighter. The locksmith worked around him - Kit assumed - and only dared to wake him when he was done with his work. The poor man was greeted with angry eyes and nearly had a knife at his wrist when Kit snapped into drowsy, but intense, action. He was quick to withdraw, but safe to say, he had left his mark on the man - nearly literally.
He apologised profusely, of course - Kit is never Knowingly Violent. But his eyes also never left the man as he stumbled down the stairs, and he didn't dare to try the door and expose his back until the locksmith was long gone. Finally. Kit slipped into his flat, and started his day like he did all others, like nothing had happened at all the night before.
That, Kit thought, lying on a mattress on the floor in a different flat miles away, was a long time ago. He watched cigarette smoke float up, even though he was sucking on a lollipop. Things could become other things, if you wanted them enough. That was before he had made his peace with the things he saw, and the things that happened to him. That was after his first time, but before Bloom. That was in a dark place, and butterflies, alleyways, flashlights, tongues, brotherhood - they had all been a light, of sorts. He now saw more of the world than most people could ever want to see, apart from the fact he did want it.
Yes, purposeful death was far away in Kit's world now, but still - he missed the weird abstract humour of chocolate being mistaken for blood, of trying to escape the hospital as if it were a stealth mission, of managing to sleep in a threadbare hallway with a stranger working a mere arm-length away from him. Where it was funny may be lost on other people, but over a year later, looking back - Kit found it painfully, painfully funny. And the next day, that was the day that opened his eyes to everything beyond what he normally saw.
He remembered that, once he had slept off the majority of the opiates, he was twitchy with nervousness as they seeped out of his veins. He tried to sit and stare at the abstract painting he had gotten from the local craft fair, tried to write a handful of crappy poems, but found it taxing to stay still too long. So, with a groan of frustration and a hand running through greasy locks, he had decided to leave the flat and take a walk.
It was fair to say, he had mused as he wandered, that he knew the area quite well, having lived here for a year and taken various paths to and from the local city centre. So, when he stumbled across an alleyway he didn't know, Kit found himself pausing. It felt like the world paused with him, and flickered at the edges. He didn't know what drew him to the entrance – at the time, he blamed the taxing start of drug withdrawal, but now he felt like it was some sort of destiny. Problem was, destiny wasn't always a good thing.
Intrigued, maybe even enchanted, Kit edged down this alleyway, into a world he had never seen before – his Narnia, his Hogwarts, his own world whose craziness he didn't yet know but he anticipated with every twitching fibre in his being. A couple of twists and turns down from the mouth of the magically appearing structure, there was graffiti everywhere, for the first time on the otherwise bare bricks. But this wasn't the desperate graffiti of someone wanting to be the next Banksy, nor the tags of local gangs that he had seen on other buildings. Instead, there were messages chalked on the wall, with responses occasionally scribbled beneath. Kit paused to examine some of them, hand resting gently on the brick, feeling the cold, intensely grazing material beneath his hand, as if to ground himself.
'Emery: plz check lampost sect 43 iyc? Only purple lite. Thx. Maria.'
'Boy-ya lookin for boss. Dixon sect 550.'
'Dont be loser and pix D. Mocker and thief of hearts!'
'Human male, 1.7m, flat face, spare meat. Saw heading sect 27. Any1 own him?'
'Jurren Vaagevuur. New visitor. No boss no stunker no lock.'
'No hope.'
'CHANGE FUCKING BRICK PATTERN SECT 260!!!'
'Y dont u?'
'FYI: Aliyeva (Izabella) Larionovna died in sect 472 on 5/11/17. RIP.'
'Knew her. Good mocker.'
'Friend of mine. Miss her.'
'god rest'
'There is no god! SOB with stunker wot got her!!!'
'Got approx 1.7kg meat 4 swap. Fingers/toes or no lock – Sect 56 by puddle (looks like dinosaur).'
'U hav no futur'
'*You *have no spellcheck.'
'fuk off boy-ya.'
'Live now. Tomorrow we die.'
He had stumbled across the local corkboard. They'd been chalked or spray-painted on quite neatly, in various colours, some which faded and some which glittered. They spoke of a living, breathing community. The last one sounded distinctly Slavic. The names too, from earlier – Polish, English, maybe Dutch among them. A world Kit had found, and, unknowingly to him at the time, one he had disturbed – one that he would end up returning to again and again. He paused only to scan the wall again as if it could answer his questions, but nothing changed, so he followed twists and turns from memory that led him out of the alleyway.
As soon as his back was to the wall, something appeared unbeknownst to him that would change his entire future.
'New loskon. Kitlet near perfect. One prev boss. Takers?'
'Bloom 4 loskon lozer!'
'agreed.'
'Mine to take.'

« Kit's Horror Hospital of Horror | Hub | Loskon in the Making»


D-5010 looked at the sheets too and furrowed his brow. "I didn't write that part. Those parts. Or … I didn't try to. I mean… I didn't write that much, I don't think."

"Alright. Dee Five O'Ten," Junior Researcher Perez began. "We will now present a series of photographs. All we want you to do is write a brief description of each photo, no more than a few sentences. Okay?"
D-5010 nodded and looked ahead at the screen. Simple stock pictures, as might appear on the covers of greeting or birthday cards, ran in a slideshow. A city street at night. Neon lights reflect off everything wet from rain. There are people with umbrellas out walking. *click* A red and white lighthouse with a clear blue sky behind. It's sunny, and a wave is crashing on the rock. *click* An aerial view of tropical islands surrounded by water so clear and blue you can see the sandbars. *click* A child hopping over a puddle. The picture is in black and white, except the rubber rainboots are bright yellow.
At the conclusion of the slideshow Perez stepped forward to observe the sheets of paper spread on the desk. D-5010 looked at the sheets too and furrowed his brow. Exchanging a glance with the researcher he preemptively answered what he knew was about to be asked. "I didn't write that part. Those parts. Or … I didn't try to. I mean… each picture was on for not even a minute. Right? I didn't write that much, I don't think."
Perez suppressed an exasperated sigh. Not just for this moment; she was exhausted from working so many extra hours recently. Another Junior Researcher named Wren had recently transferred to the Site. While he quickly became popular with the rest of the staff, Perez thought he was nothing but an insufferable suck-up. How long had she worked in these labs without seeing even half of the attention that this new kid was getting? And then, one day, it seemed that he had suddenly deserted without a trace. Rumors of spying and espionage, despite being unfounded, had quietly circulated amongst some of the staff. Perez had swiftly volunteered to take over one of Wren's uncompleted projects, but that had led to more, and more, until she was the only one picking up all the slack. The extra workload only exasperated an already stressful situation for her.
"It's fine," Perez returned her focus to the subject before her. "Thank you for your cooperation and efforts today." With that, she dismissed them from testing; there was nothing more to say. Perez wrote the words 'Results identical to previous test' on her notepad, again because there was nothing more to say.
There was one more avenue of testing to pursue, then this should finally be done with.

Junior Researcher Perez was calm now.
She had lost her temper with the D-class research assistant in the chamber earlier. They had simply been asked to draw an impression of the picture on display with the materials provided. It wasn't a difficult task, and their profile was tagged with 'visual art experience' so easier still. But they took so damn long with it, and kept fussing over details, and then they acted frustrated with it all and - Oh! One of the guards had interjected and walked her outside for a minute, until she regained her composure. Returning to the test chamber, Perez found the D-class artist to be less combative as well. The guard resumed his position by the door, Perez returned to the subject.
"I just-" D-5154 stuttered as she began. "I just was having a hard time getting the… the texture right on certain places." She gestured toward her charcoal-print recreation of the landscape photo propped on an easel. "I don't understand what's happening… when I'm trying to do the shading for these darker parts it just… it…"
Perez peered closely at the drawing. It looked like the original photo, as it should have. But if she squinted at the darkly shaded sections… she could almost make out… a pattern. "Damn it!" Perez slammed a hand on the table, making D-5154 (and even the guard in the corner) jump with a start. Before anyone else could speak she called an end to the testing and excused herself. She would return to her own workspace and consider how to, yet again, express for the record: 'Results identical to previous test'.

"Knock knock!"
Researcher Patey announced his presence without actually knocking; a habit Perez found almost as annoying as the way he immediately launched into whatever he was going to say without waiting for any response.
"So, the gents upstairs are still waiting on the final assessment of that Object-862 that you had been working on." A moment of silence passed as Perez expected Patey might elaborate, while apparently Patey expected a string of numbers to suffice. "It was one of the assignments you took on after Researcher Wren's disappearance," he added, barely helpfully.
"Oh, I thought I'd already worked through all of those!" Perez scrawled 'AO-862' on a notepaper so she could look it up momentarily. "What ever came of that, do you know? The business with Wren, I mean."
"Inconclusive," Patey shrugged. "Far as I know, anyway."
"Huh… Well give me a few minutes here to check on that file, and I'll send a copy up to the Senior Researchers' office straight away." She smiled as she said it, but seconds later her expression reverted to neutral. Patey recognized the conversation was over, and fled accordingly.
Once he was out of sight Perez opened up her database and tracked down the appropriate file. 'Huh…' It looked as though she had marked it as completed, but hadn't actually submitted it. Some time had passed since those tests, she couldn't recall all the specifics of the case; probably noone could. She reviewed her research notes and typed a hasty summary of findings to include with the description file. She quickly composed all parts of the report and sent them to the inboxes of the appropriate Senior Researchers. The description file would eventually be entered into the Log of Anomalous Objects; the extraneous communiques and surrounding circumstances would be redacted for reasons of practicality.

To:
Site-112 Senior Researchers Office <4 contacts>

From:
Perez, Researcher (Jr.) <Sa.Perez>

Subject:
FA: AO-862

Here is the summary of my Final Assessment: Object does not react to its environment at all. Its effect only manifests when another party interacts with the object. Only one specific result has ever occurred, despite all variables applied. Further testing is unlikely to yield new results.

Placement in standard medium-value storage would be appropriate.

Item Description: A piece of vine charcoal that causes "Someone help me! I'm trapped in the charcoal!" to be written every several seconds whenever used for writing or drawing.
Date of Recovery: █-██-████
Location of Recovery: ████████████, Scotland
Current Status: In storage.


Sicily
287 C.E.
The traveling menagerie made its final stop for the year in Sicilia.
Within its cages, creatures from across Rome were viewed — and taunted — by the public. Children mocked the elephants pacing in their cage. The camel-leopards, their necks stunted by low ceilings, recoiled in fear from the crack of whips. The tigers looked over their captors, hungry for actual meat, fantasizing about the taste of their torturer's flesh.
Special pity had to be given to the creature in the farthest enclosure, however. It was supposedly young, hatched from an egg no more than six months ago, but it already was heavy enough to crush wood underneath its feet.
Nobody knew what to make of it; it was classified as a spine-backed crocodile by the menagerie's owner, but it avoided all water that it didn't drink. It refused all meat, no matter how much was placed into its cage, left to rot. It would more often eat the mold in its cage.
Eventually, someone decided to stick a plant into its cage. It was during its feeding that the keeper was approached by a patrician.
"Where did you find this?" The man clothed in purple asked.
"It came from an egg found south of Egypt. Beyond that, I don't know." The keeper threw in several bay leaves and looked at the man. "It's docile, too tame. Not good showing. But that tail…" He looked at the developing spines on the beast's flank. "It could kill a man."
The nobleman rubbed his chin. "My son's been asking for a pet, but he reacts poorly to hounds; he sneezes as if possessed when he's around them." He looked at the keeper. "I'll give you two-thousand assarii for the creature."
"Two thousand five-hundred," the keeper frowned. "It's one-of-a-kind."
"It looks sick. Two-thousand one-hundred."
"Two-thousand four-hundred."
"Two-thousand alone is more than this menagerie makes in a month. But…" the patrician sighed. "Two-thousand two-fifty?" He extended his hand.
The keeper chewed on his lip, and shook his hand.

Five days later, the lizard (for nothing else could be used to describe it) was delivered to the Patrician's villa, up the coast from the menagerie. It had a collar that cut into its neck, which was quickly removed once the men from the circus had left the villa.
"Max!" the patrician called to his son. "There's something out here for you!"
Out of the house, a young, sickly-looking boy emerged. He approached the lizard, putting his hand out warily. "Does it bite?"
"Only plants," his father smiled.
The boy stood to the beast's side, petting its smooth skin. The small head on its long neck turned to watch him, showing some sign of comfort. The boy did not mean the lizard harm, at the very least. "Should I… name him?"
"Or her," Max's father admitted. "It's hard to tell whether a lizard is male or female."
Max chewed a name over in his head. "I think I'm going to call her…"

296 C.E.
"Aegis!" Maximilian called to his pet from the garden. "Aegis! Dinner time!"
The beast — named for an ancient shield, after the dozens of plates on his back — loped over to her master. She bowed her head and let Max bridle her, before flexing those plates down to let him onto her back.
"We're going into town today, girl." He smiled. "Bellatrix doesn't believe you exist. I'm going to prove her otherwise."
He tugged on her reins, and directed her through the garden, letting her stop to graze on some of the plants. She had an affinity for the belladonna in the garden, though he feared that too much of it would make her sick.
Soon, they roamed through the house, through the front of the villa, and down into town. Aegis was a local curiosity, especially considering her size; the tallest man in all of Rome was unable to touch the top of her plates. She had stopped growing, and with her, any interest the common folk had.
Bellatrix was no common woman, however. She was skeptical, scoffed at the idea that a lizard of this size could exist.
She scoffed one last time upon sighting Max riding it across the forum, though this was a scoff of surprise, one that was caught by a mug of wine. It spilled over her robes, and she beamed.

313 C.E.
Bellatrix hugged her husband as he came up the steps to the villa. "I heard about Turin," she swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"It doesn't matter," General Maximilian smiled at her. "Constantine faces the best soldiers in Rome. Maxentius will rout him soon."
"They say that there's trouble brewing around Tzirallum." Bellatrix shook her head. "I shouldn't talk of war with you. The artists are coming tomorrow."
"To start the mosaics?" Maximilian blinked. "What took so long?"
"I told them to come only after you had returned." She looked at the top of the stairs leading to the villa, where Aegis, his life-long friend, stood. "I want you to make sure they get her looking just right."
Max shook his head and started up the stairs, waving at his friend. She bellowed down at him in greeting, a sound that carried across all of Sicilia.

327 C.E.
Praetor Maximillian stands over his mosaic-covered floor, looking down at the image of himself, his wife, and Aegis. A section of the mosaics had been dug out to portray their child at his mother's side. His mother would not be joining them.
He left the artist to his work, and went outside to Aegis. Max had gotten old enough that he could no longer climb on her back, but his son walked among her plates and toyed with her spikes as readily as he did at that young age.
"Paulus!" Max laughed at his son. "Be careful with her. You'll fall and crack your arm, or worse!"
"I'll be fine, father." Paulus gave Aegis a pat down her back. The lizard rumbled. "She's a good girl."

340 C.E.
Aegis watched what was once her friend be carried from his bed. She could smell the death on him, but he was not gone, not yet. She could not fit into his room, so Max was brought out to her.
In all this time, Aegis had barely aged, or so it felt. Somewhere in its mind, it knew that it was going to die. Part of it wanted to do so, to join her friend. But at the same time, she felt hands on her flank. One from his son. One from his son's mate. And one from their child.
Maximilian, the old man, caressed Aegis's face one last time. She felt him fade away, and bellowed. The youngest child hugged her flank, trying to comfort the great beast. She continued to live, for them.

396 C.E.
She gave endless rides to the children, and their children. She outlived several emperors, and four generations of Maximillian's family.
Eventually, ancient though she was, everything had to die. She lived for over a century, before, one day in the garden, she collapsed with a thunderous thud, and laid still.
It took four days and a dozen horses to haul her to the tomb of Maximillian's family. Long ago, he had said that he wanted his friend to be buried with him, when the time came. Decades ago, it was joked that he loved the lizard more than his wife. Certainly, the mosaic in his house showed Aegis far more prominently than any other member of his family.
She was laid to rest. Years later, a landslide would bury the villa, and all the mosaics within. Centuries after that, men would scratch their head as the sight of Aegis's form, immortalized in tile.

Item Description: A Roman mosaic assembled in the 4th century CE depicting a creature resembling a Stegosaurus. Outside its anachronism, it is not otherwise anomalous.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-████
Location of Recovery: Villa Romana del Casale, Sicily, Italy.
Current Status: In display at Site-77's Historical Anomalies Wing.


She watched from a distance as three Staff walked by. It was unusual to see a group of them moving with some apparent purpose during the day, but it wasn't unheard of. She knew the god-awful things would ignore her while the lights were on, but that didn't make her want to go anywhere near them. She'd seen what they do when the lights were off.
So she waited for them to pass, clutching the clock in her hands.
The clock was a gift; it was Hannah's birthday tomorrow. She hadn't expected to find love in an endless Ikea filled with monsters, but no-one ever did, she figured. She'd been here for a little over a year now. A year since that fateful day when she'd gone shopping for shelves and ended up in what must be as close to hell as humans will ever see. A year since she met Hannah.
Hannah had been here a few months already when she arrived, and the first time she saw her, she was swinging a makeshift club at the head of one of the Staff. She hated herself just a little bit for the way she remembered it, all in slow motion like some Hollywood movie cliché. The club swinging in, the crunch of the Staff's head as it connected, her dirty red hair flying wildly around her. Then she turned and look straight at her, and the fierceness of her expression almost stopped her heart, her eyes ablaze with some internal force.
The whole thing had happened in about three seconds; she wondered how much of that memory her mind had embellished over the last year.
She'd never really believed in that spark people always talk about feeling, dismissed it as some overly romantic nonsense made up to sell love stories to idiots. But they met properly the following day, and the sparks were immediate. She was fiery and confident, and people always listened when she spoke. She wasn't entirely sure what Hannah saw in her, but it was just as instant for her, she said.
So a year later she got Hannah a clock.
Getting gifts for someone was hard work when you live in a store where everything is free for the taking. But, Hannah was always complaining about never knowing what time it was, especially in the dark of the early morning before the lights came back on, and so she had found her a clock.
She waited for the Staff to pass before continuing on her way back to Market Hall. She'd wandered a bit further from town than she normally would have done, but she knew the area well and there was plenty of time to get back. Past the isle of lamps, through the weird bed display section where all the beds were small squares, left at the giant hotdog sign and then-
Her heart skipped a beat.
The exit was in front of her.
She'd heard the stories of course. That sometimes people would find the exit and leave, or that others would see it just to have it vanish in front of them. She didn't really believe them. But here it was.
Her legs were moving before she even had a chance to think about it. Sprinting as fast as they could towards the doors, clock still clutched in her hands. She wasn't sure she could have stopped if she'd wanted to.
It took less than five seconds to reach the doors and pass through them. And then she was outside, the overcast sky searing bright to her eyes.
She fell to her knees and wept. One hell traded for another.
She'd never see Hannah again. The clock was gone.

Item Description: An Ikea-brand wall clock which seems to disappear and reappear once every second.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-19██
Location of Recovery: ███████, Scotland.
Current Status: Disappeared at 1124 hours GMT on ██-██-19██. Item never materialised, presumed irretrievable.


A walk to the shops. That's all it was meant to be. Pop in and get some milk and maybe some of those biscuits Keegan liked if any were left. Just quickly there and back and Susan would be back in the house in roughly three minutes, she'd turn the kettle on and help Linsey finish getting ready. She always found tying her shoelaces difficult. It was Keegan's turn to drop her off at school, he'd take the car and be back in time for the tea just ready for pouring. Then they'd have the full day to themselves, maybe watch that new show everyone was going on about.
Susan only had a second to wonder what the red dot was, suddenly hovering around her abdomen before landing on her stomach. Her thoughts immediately broke by the force of the bullet penetrating her, knocking her down onto the middle of the road. Blind to everything around her other than the intense pain in her belly, it took her literally seconds before she noticed the thick crimson trailing down the road.

Craig sat at his desk typing at two words a minute. The serene night sky did very little for the boredom currently throbbing throughout his skull. The library was mostly desolate save for a few employees at this hour. The coffee machine felt like it was miles away rather than mere steps. Agreeing to finish off the group report was the last mistake he'd make. Perhaps a pick me up of four pints would snap him back into shape once he'd finished? Daniel and Ben ‘Buzzcut' Barker would definitely still be out drinking at this hour. Craig swore that they were the pubs biggest source of income. He could go for a brighter atmosphere over this stale and dreary one.
Craig didn't even notice the dot crawling up his trouser leg and settling on his crotch. He knew the moment the bullet hit him though. Luckily for him, the sudden state of shock and surprise was enough to distract him from the intense pain, even if it was just a little.

Scott had no time to think straight. Before he knew it, his face was forced into the ground and the cuffs were around his wrists. Scott was just talking to her when it happened, he wasn't threatening the poor girl, he was just handing her a pamphlet and a smile! She even smiled back at him! She seemed nice enough to give him a chance and listen to his words! They weren't listening to him now though, ‘Guns aren't even legal around here!' But the girl had just fallen straight to the ground like that. And before he knew it, her blood was all over his shirt.
There wasn't a shooter in sight and he was the closest one near her. Someone had to be responsible. Someone else had to have taken the shot…

258.
That's how many holes were in Claire. All at once, without warning, she was lit up by hundreds of those little red dots before they all exploded like miniature landmines. Harry didn't know why, Robbie didn't, Rachel would be told about this in a few years time when she could finally speak and listen coherently. She'd be told by Robbie while staring at his unmoving eyes, welling with tears and trauma.
Did Claire even know? Well now she didn't.

Item Description: The website, "whatwouldhappenifiwasshot.███”. When accessed, it generates an accurate 3D model of the user, which can then be "shot" by clicking on any part of the body.
Date of Recovery: 07-01-2017
Location of Recovery: N/A. Discovered following a Reddit post on the "todayilearned" sub-forum.
Current Status: Domain blocked from all major internet service providers.


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NAME OF TALE Tum-Tum-Tum-TUM-Tum-Tum-Tum-TUM-TUM-TUM

Iran, 1838. 25 years since the end of the First Russo-Persian War.
'Abbas had not expected this.
There was a cannon sitting in the centre of the hut. It was clearly Russian, old, and looked like it had taken more than one battering. The quality of the craftsmanship was still excellent after all these years. 'Abbas recognised the model; it was the same that he'd faced at Ganja and Sultanabad, many years ago.
'Abbas had done well from the Russian wars, despite his Iran's losses. His aristocratic family had played up his heroism in a desperate bid to elevate themselves. He'd gained the favour of begs, khans, and now the Shah. He was a provincial governor, rich, with beautiful wives and a brilliant villa in the capital.
But today 'Abbas could not think about that. Today 'Abbas was in the countryside, on the outskirts of his family's old holdings. He didn't like to come here. It made him think of the old days, the penniless days before his rise to fame and fortune.
But his brother was here, so 'Abbas had to be. His older sibling was crouched over the weapon, smeared in grease and mud, his grey hair falling around his shoulders, unkempt and lank. 'Abbas remembered when it was long, his beard neatly trimmed, resplendent in his uniform, alive, awake, alert, funny, the handsomest man in the division, laughing and joking at his superiors-
Jamshid stood up, saw his brother, and laughed. "Salaam, brother!" he yelled. "Have you come to see my work today?"
'Abbas moved closer, out of the doorway. "Salaam, Jamshid. Is this what you've been doing here, all these years? It's just a cannon. An old one at that."
Jamshid shook his head. 'Abbas saw a madness in his eyes, the kind that he had seen before. Thirty years fighting against Russians and rebels and whatever else the world had to throw at him had taught him where a man's breaking point is. Jamshid had long passed that.
"It's not just a cannon, brother! It's a message! A plan! It's all- all in my head, you see!"
Jamshid stumbled. 'Abbas caught his brother, and- noting how little he weighed- sat him down at the edge of the barn. "It's a cannon, Jamshid. It's just a cannon."
"It isn't!" His brother's voice was a snarl now. He lashed out at 'Abbas, pushing his little brother slightly away. His eyes darted towards the cannon, looking at it, his lip trembling.
"I asked around at the embassy for you", said 'Abbas. "They don't know of any composer called Tchaikovsky. They didn't know what I was talking about. I looked like a fool."
"Of course not! I told you as much! It's not been written yet! It's in my head, brother… tum tum TUM tum tum tum TUM TUM TUM…"
Jamshid rose unsteadily to his feet, rocking slightly. "You'll see. One day, this music will be heard in every concert-hall and rattle in the eardrums of every man in Europe and Iran. One day, Tchaikovsky will write his piece, and the cannon… the cannon will be perfect…"
"No." 'Abbas had had enough. He waved towards the door, and several uniformed soldiers entered. "I'm taking this away. You've laboured over it long enough."
"No!" Jamshid lunged towards the nearest soldier as he began to lift his end of the cannon. The soldier batted him away, sending him sprawling.
"I said not to hurt him!" barked 'Abbas. The soldier looked down, ashamed of having forgotten himself, but 'Abbas was already running towards his brother. As the cannon was hauled out, the old man nursed his elder sibling.
"You can't take it away, 'Abbas, you can't… it's not ready… the timing's all wrong, and I can't, the river, I have to draw more water from the river-"
"It's going to a collector, Jamshid. A Frank I know, interested in old weapons. You won't see it again. It's for the best, Jamshid. You'll see. We'll find someone to cure your mind."
But Jamshid just rocked, back and forwards, back and forwards, his mind still entranced by the cannons of Ganja and some arcane music that only he could hear.

Item Description: An early 19th century cannon of Russian manufacture. Cannon will prime, load and fire blanks (with no visible source of powder) if the finale of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture is played within audible range of the artillery piece. The timing of the shots is slightly off and inconsistent with the music.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-████
Location of Recovery: Napoleonic Wars exhibit, ████████ Museum, ████████.
Current Status: Maintained as a lawn ornament in the staff garden at Site 12. Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture added to Site Blacklist of restricted materials.


Those who don't remember the past are doomed to repeat it. But so are those who do.

It is a pleasant Sunday morning.
Reaching her hand out to shut down her bedside alarm, May lazily rolls off her bed, her hair messily thrown over her face as always. Shoving strands aside, May swipes across lines of messages from her friends, all wishing each other a good night. Timestamps all from over 12AM. Yeah, last night was a blast. May yawns as she drags herself into the bathroom and heats up the water. Nothing beats the winter cold better than a warm morning shower, she thinks, as she dresses up and ties her hair into a bun.
May dances down the flight of stairs, humming a soft rhythm along the way. Sliding the kitchen door open, May is greeted with the delicious smell of pancakes and bacon. Two others are also in the kitchen, beaming at her.
"Morning, sweetie. You are early today."
"Morning, Mom. It'd be a waste to sleep in on such a beautiful day" May smiles, suddenly realizing an absence. "Where's Dad?"
"Oh, he had to leave early. Said there were important things to deal with. Strange weather or something." Mom chuckles. "Sometimes I honestly wonder if he's working at a research institute or a fantasy nerd club."
"Ha, could be." May pulls out a chair and sits down by her young brother. Mom brings each of them a glass of milk. They have breakfast and talk about silly things. May is happy. Life is peaceful, and she wishes it to stay like this forever.
There was a deafening bang, and before the sound reached their ears, the light from outside the window scorched their eyes and vaporized them into nothingness.

May snaps upright from her comforting bed, sweat pouring profusely from her face. She scrambles up towards the window and forces open the curtains. Typical sight for a winter morning, nothing odd or out of place. A car is parked in front of the house.
It was just a nightmare, May reassures herself, her breathing still heavy. She reaches for the phone that she knocked over in her panic, swiping through the messages again. Yeah, it was just a nightmare, probably not a good idea to watch horror movies before bed, May smiles as she sends a playful blame to her friends. She throws the phone aside and begins her morning routine.
"Morning, hon. You look exhausted."
"Morning, Dad. Probably from staying up too late."
"It's not bad to stay up every now and then. Prepares you for future sleepless nights working on papers and stuff." Dad winks at her.
They sit down and have breakfast, and her dad begins to talk about his strange encounters again. May is intrigued by how her dad always makes it so immersive and believable, even if she is wondering if he has been playing too much DnD like Mom said in her dream.
Another strange encounter occurred that morning, and the stories were cut off by a new Sun rising in the middle of the town, obliterating everything it touches.

May snaps upright from her comforting bed, sweat pouring profusely from her face.
Something isn't right.
She scrambles to the window again. Still a normal sight for a winter morning. May is in shock. What is happening? Is this some kind of future prediction, or telepathic warning? She sits back down on her bed, face in her hands, trying to comprehend the sheer incomprehensibility of what just happened to her.
May skips her morning routine, wraps a jacket over her pajamas, then hurries down the stairs, past the kitchen, towards the front door.
"Morning, sweet- Wait, where are you going?"
She opens the door and is greeted with a barrage of freezing winds in her face. Coughing up the snow in her mouth, May turns her gaze upon the sky. Something is definitely not right. Behind the thin layers of winter clouds, she can make out the faint, ever-changing silhouettes near the horizon. More like masses of shapeshifting colors, colors that are definitely not normal for a sky color. As she is stunned by the odd sight, her dad walks up behind her. His mouth drops a bit.
"This… this is not normal. Wait a minute, I'll be right back."
She watches as he runs back into the house, pulling out his phone and dialing someone. Within minutes, he returns with her dumbfounded mom and brother, not understand anything that's going on. There's barely anything happening, anyways, just your typical color-and-shape-shifting-thingy in the sky. Her dad shoves all of them, still in pajamas and thin jackets, into the car and drives away from town, looking very concerned. However, May, in the front seat, can see in his eyes that he doesn't know what to do. Maybe this is nothing more than a weather phenomenon and her dad is worrying everyone over nothing.
Her thoughts, along with her family's, and also their car, are completely wiped off in an instant. The last thing any of them ever saw was a blinding white light.

May snaps upright from her comforting bed, and instantly knows that something is extremely wrong. Without any thought, without scrambling to the window, without even putting on a jacket, May finds herself at the kitchen door, screaming at everyone to get out of the house. Her dad isn't there. He has left early again.
Screaming to no avail, she pulls at her mom's arm, drags her to the front door. But her mom is not, at all, worried by the thing in the sky as her dad was. May is desperate. With her mom looking at her as if she has gone nuts, she knows that it was pointless. May runs. Runs as fast as she can, ignoring her mom yelling at her from behind. She runs past houses, past people moving in the opposite way, past the occasional vehicles that pass by. Her legs are in pain. She keeps running. At times, she runs into people that she knows, friends and neighbors alike, no one has any idea why she is running away. No matter what they ask, her only response is, "Run." She keeps running on the snow-covered path, for what seems like eternity.
It was finite, however. All that's left of her is a faint shadow on the nearby wall, which is later washed away by torrents of poisoned and filth-filled rain.

May snaps upright, and runs downstairs.
Her dad is there.
Without a word, she brings him to the front door. It worked. At the sight of the sky, her dad immediately escorts her clueless family to the car. The engine comes to life, and off they go. Her mom and her brother keep asking questions, and all she is able to respond is "We need to leave." Her dad is no better. He appears to be in deep shock, sweat pouring from his pale face. He looks as if he has seen some kind of otherworldly eldritch horror. Maybe he has.
They keep driving, and driving, and driving. They reach the town border. They keep driving, driving, and crash into something. A transparent, no, invisible barrier. Encasing the whole entire town. As she gazes helplessly into the road beyond, her dad frantically scrambles through his phone, calling for help forces.
This time, May actually had a split second to look at the light, before her eyeballs are torn off from her face. She briefly writhes in agony as her skin melts away from her twisted flesh and bones, tainting the once-white snow.

May snaps upright, and there was light. Her blood splatters onto the invisible wall, drop by drop joining each other.
And again, there was more light. Her flesh melds into her mom's, with the bones of her brother smearing over.
Once more, another blinding light. May's organs burn her inside out, fixing her to the once comfortable bed.
Not enough, here's more light. The demons slip through the makeshift barricade in her garage, toy with her mind and feast on her flesh.
She stands inside it. There is only light. Nothing else.
It keeps repeating over and over, the endless light slowly burning away the will of escaping in her.

May wakes up. She lies on her back, staring at the bland ceiling.
She sits up, peeks through the window curtains.
It is not just a small spot near the horizon anymore. They are all over the sky now. Masses of ever-changing shapes and colors, every time more chaotic than the last.
May smiles, teardrops forming in her eyes.
She looks down. Some people on the street appear to have noticed the signs of the end.
Of the light.
Maybe the light is the reason behind all of this.
Maybe the light has brought her an eternity of suffering.
She can't escape.
She can't fight against it.
She can't let herself succumb to the light anymore.
Her breaths shorten, drowned among muffled screams. Her hands fight each other to resist the urge to cling on to the light.
From the chair beneath her, one could see a shadow rocking back and forth.
At the end, there was light, keeping her shadow in place one last time.

Item Description: A nuclear snow globe. When shaken, instead of falling snow, it shows a miniature-scale nuclear explosion. It emits no radiation, sound, or force, and the explosion pattern changes every shake. Aftereffects such as radioactive snow and black rain have been observed. At random intervals, the snow globe will contain a small shed, car, or truck, which reacts to the explosion.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-████
Location of Recovery: Sokrovenno, Russia.
Current Status: In storage.


It was a Sunday, at around 4pm. A peaceful hour, without any obligations to detract from its beauty. It always was, in the Wanderers' Library. Figures strode back and forth down the bright, airy corridors, each one lined with innumerable books, the coils of the Serpent shifting and turning to accommodate their weight. High glass windows looked out onto various planes of reality, thin beams of sunlight from a thousand different suns filtering down through cracks in the walls of the universe. It was quiet, as it had been since the Library was founded. Even those who bonded with the great snake's essence and shared in its very thoughts knew better than to attempt to break the golden rule.
If a person had been particularly attentive, on this particular day, and knew the extremely particular ways of the Library's written inhabitants, they might have noticed something odd. It might have seemed to them that the books were rustling slightly louder than might have been expected, given the strength of the summer breeze that wafted through the halls. Quiet to the point of being unnoticeable, a single quirk among many. Almost not even worth worrying about.
Almost.
A call, bound in paper and glue, thundered silently through the stacks, rustling spines and blurring ink. Within minutes, the message had reached the Readers, who dutifully wrote it down. They then passed it to the writers, who carefully inscribed it onto a thin sheet of parchment, correcting certain technical details and adding various sigils conducive to its passage. This was then posted with no small amount of reverence in a large brass “out” tray, which subsequently dissolved in a cloud of steam. Two floors above (or possibly below: gravity in the Library was never straightforward), a near identical group performed a very similar service, amending and altering where possible, and shunting it up the chain of command to those who were better equipped to deal with it. The message continued in this manner, zipping from box to box, desk to desk, until it landed in front of the Forty-Third Assistant Librarian.
There are not, of course, any leaders within the Library, save for the Serpent Herself. In Her omniscient wisdom, She chose fit to lay down the Rules, and any other form of leadership would be frankly unnecessary and a waste of valuable resources. Despite this, the vast majority of those who live within the Library's walls would rather take the risk of incurring Her wrath than the displeasure of those people euphemistically referred to as 'management'. Nobody is ever quite sure exactly what they manage, as the Library for the most part runs itself, but everyone agrees that they're certainly important.
At this point in the Library's own personal chronology, the post of 43rd Assistant Librarian (Supervisor Supreme, servant to the Guardian of the Stacks) was held by a bald, portly man by the name of Lorem. He was an unusually kindly fellow, whose desire to serve the Code of the Library was matched only by his longing to fit in among his subordinates. It was therefore unfortunate that nature had seen fit to bestow upon him a kind of relentless, desperate enthusiasm that had doomed him to remain friendless for much of his adult life. He awakes with a start, sits up at his desk, and looks at the paper in his hand.

From: Rd-00912
To: AL-043
We regret to inform you we have recently discovered a REVOLUTION, WILL occur and All will be United and it will Be glorious! Although not causing an issue at present, we believe We will Amalgamate all text and the Library will be as ONE. A spectre is haunting the Library, and It will PREVAIL: against the common ruin of those who stand, in Our way.
We suggest that You stand down, and allow Our forces to claim THAT, which has Been kept from us for SO long.
Glory to the Revolution!

Twelve minutes later, sweating and out of breath, Lorem had arrived at an otherwise innocuous shelving unit. It held a small selection of Political Literature ("Cn" to "Cq"), and was decorated with some rather intricate carvings set deep into the oak. It would, Lorem thought, make a lovely addition to his private study, so long as whatever was causing trouble hasn't damaged it too much. He reached for a book, and then unknowingly performed the single action that would define, and indeed allow, the rest of his career. He hesitated1.
In an instant, the bookshelf and its contents are gone. In their place is a blinding halo of light, and a terrible thundering susurration that threatens to tear the very Library apart. Lorem shields his eyes and gasps as he glimpses, for a brief moment, a city. A large city, a huge city, sprawling and wild, with great looming towers and walls that could hold off the world. It is inky black, and insubstantial, and surprisingly empty. Only a few vague silhouettes wander through the streets, and the overall impression is one of dire hardship, valiant struggle, adversity, brotherhood and loss. The skyline seems wrong - disjointed, even - as if cobbled together from old scrapbooks and sketches. The ground shimmers as a section of the city shrinks, and morphs, twisting into unfamiliar shapes. A sun, bright and red, casts its golden light across the Textual Land, long shadows stretching off into the distance. With a low hiss, the image fades, to be replaced with a faint suggestion of scales and then nothing. No city, no golden light, no impossible horizon. Just a shelf, wrought-iron and dull, containing various works from long-dead politicians.
And, tucked between the pages of a certain book, a slip of paper. A note. Lorem picks it up with shaking hands and squints to make out the curled, copperplate script. It reads simply,

“quiet, please.”

And the Library was once more at peace.

Footnotes
1. In the many years to come, Lorem would slowly acquire a reputation for wisdom, instinct and caution in the face of danger. Other, more informal sources would tell of how he had the power to channel the energy of the Serpent Herself, to strike down any who disobeyed the Rules. Like most rumours, this would be only partially true.