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ADULT CONTENT
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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
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"God was on their side, no matter if He wanted it or not."
THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF ANIMAL ABUSE, GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE, GRAPHIC IMAGERY, SUICIDE, ALT-RIGHT RHETORIC, GRATUITOUS SWEARING, RELIGIOUS HORROR, INSTITUTIONAL ABUSE, COMBAT VIOLENCE, MISOGYNY, AS WELL AS HEAVY IMPLICATIONS OF SEXUAL ABUSE. PLEASE TAKE THIS WARNING SERIOUSLY. THANK YOU.
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Table of Contents
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ACT I
RISE FROM THE DEPTHS
The Villains Of The Story
"We've been here before. We'll always have been here. That makes this okay."
Rainer Kingsley looked up at the portrait of great suffering hanging above his bed. It was a magnificent rendition of a scene of a long dead culture. It depicted what probably would’ve been an enviably common sight in their world: A giant magnificent aristocratic warrior, leading a vicious looking army, all clad in leather and bone and entrails, marching their way through town, looked up at by a crowd of onlookers.
Beneath their heels lies the rape and brutalization of an entire class of people.
Small people. Weak people. Tiny people.
"Do not touch with bare flesh."
Oh, Rainer Kingsley fancied himself a collector, and his bedroom was littered with curios related to his interest in that dead old world. Preserved scrolls, millenias old, were plastered on his walls. A replica of an old warrior's helmet crafted by Erikeshan mystics hung from the ceiling. On his bedside, a glass box holding a rock pulsing red, said to have been touched by a goddess. But his most prized acquisition was the painting.
He must’ve spent ages staring at it everyday, at the rightness of it all. Hours of admiration and contemplation, hours of self-absorbed narcissistic mental masturbation at the sight of it. He savored the details. He loved it.
But today, today is different. He mustn’t take too long. No, no, today is a glorious one. Today, oh, today, he won’t just be watching. He’ll be the great ur-warrior, the great smiter, and his sword is righteous, and his sword is just.
He changed into his best red suit, and out he walked to the sound of uproaring applause from a crowd of people in ceremonial garbs and robes and blood-scars and military uniforms and much more. The great, grand Machine whirring like an engine, dragging this world to one made in his image. All is right in his world.
Endless boardroom meetings, a lifetime of indignities, of being sneered at. All those weekend nights, pretending to laugh at Adrian Green's braindead attempts at comedy just to secure the right contracts and deals. All of it is about to be worth it.
He gets on the stage, and began addressing the crowd.
“My father told me about the Daevites when I was 6,” he says. “I’m sure most of you know them, but… for those who don’t, they were the first civilization… and they were the greatest. They valued traditions… hierarchies. They valued strength. And with these values as the core tenets of their society, they ruled their world with an iron fist for centuries… and it was only when they forwent these values that they did fall. Sound familiar?”
The crowd watched raptly as he paced the room, “My father, he instilled in me the lessons of the Daevites. To never let go of those old ways. And I never forgot. And for generations, men like me, good, decent, old-stock men… we’ve tried to keep the dream, haven’t we? And what have we gotten in return? Hunted. Hunted to near extinction.”
He paused, and looked at the crowd. They were all staring at him now. All of them in the room, only hundreds now, the last of the followers of the Scarlet truth. The last shreds of a dying empire, but not for long. Not for long at all.
“And that’s our shared pain today, isn’t it, friends?” he says, stretching his arms out. “The pain of the hunted! Over the years, the Foundation, the Coalition, the Hand, the Initiative, they’ve butchered us! Murdered us for their New World Order! But they didn’t finish the job! And now, today, their reckoning begins! Their judgement! Cheers, my friends, cheers!”
The crowd cheers as Kingsley bends towards the great machine. It has been whirring since last night, all of his technicians had been working around the clock to get it up, just for this moment, just a few more minutes…
“This day is yours as much as it is mine, my friends! This day is a fruit of all of our labors, years of work, countless billions spent on placing people into the media, the government, the military, all for this moment!” he shouts to the jubilated audience, “Today, we rise from the depths! We overtake their defenses, mutilate their souls! We shall never, ever, show mercy!”
He does not notice his dimensional separators rusting. He does not notice the decay of the engraved runes on the ceiling. He does not notice because he was never told that it would happen.
“Today begins the blessed cleansing! The blessed-” Kingsley almost reaches the crescendo when it finally happens. A deafening roar and quake takes out the lights as the machine activates, as everyone in the room feels the red right hand of god squeezing their hearts. The room is bathed in an unholy red glow.
There is silence, and then applause - hooting and hollering from the red-bathed crowd. The effect was undeniably effective, but Kingsley Rainer can only stand in shocked silence. This was not how this was supposed to go, he thinks to himself, because now he hears the creaking noises, the sound of metal liquefying, shouting from the rooms in the back as his technicians dashes to fix a situation that was never accounted for.
And in the red glow of the room, a special kind of fear grips him as he hears the main door being blown open. And that’s when Foundation agents started flooding the room, and the real mess finally began.
This is not what I was told, he thinks. This is not what I was promised.
Selection
"Death is just an open door."
It’s Tuesday (or Monday, or maybe Wednesday) evening, and Hannah Xob wakes up in her room in her Foundation On-Site apartment. As always, a familiar panic jolts through her body as she realizes she did not set the alarm for today (she never does) followed by a familiar calm as she glances at her wall clock to find that it is only 1:43 PM. There is no way to immediately tell the time - her apartment has no windows.
In her mind, the rest of her day’s routine was already laid out for her. She’d go back to sleep, wake up again in a few hours, order one of the three things she’s always ordered from the Site cafeteria (clam rice, cup hotpot, or fried noodles) and take a 10-minute walk to the main lobby of Site-252. She’d spend 6 hours there mostly doing nothing aside from spending about half an hour writing reports on some dead anomalous plants, then she walks back to her apartment and then goes to sleep again until the next day.
This has been her daily routine for the last 2 years, and it has not deviated considerably in ages. It does not matter if she arrives late, or if she doesn’t hit her quota. Little matters at Site-252 - Building 5 of the Department Of Thanatology. It was one of those posts that were considered just essential enough to require someone for the position, but buried so deeply into the Foundation’s bureaucracy that it can't be said to be of any actual importance.
The building is small. The apartments are shabby. The site - situated in the desert in the middle of nowhere - reeks of death and decay, with fresh bodies and dead plants being brought in everyday, and vatfuls of compost leaving every night. Many say that employment here was a depressing existence. Hannah is fine with that.
And she’s been fine with it everyday, for the last 2 years, tucked away in the little forgotten corners of the Foundation’s ledgers. And she’d be fine with it everyday forward, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that something new seems to have entered her world today.
She didn’t notice at first, but her attention slowly drifted to her phone, which had been gathering dust in the corner for a while (no one calls, and the news only serves to depress her further) but was now emitting little tinny noises. The telltale sign of an urgent Foundation notification.
Surprised but annoyed, she retrieves the phone, and opened up her nearly-empty SCiPnet account. A new message, sent a few hours ago.
[URGENT] MTF NOTICE: You have been PERSONALLY selected for a high-priority Foundation Project, Foundation Agent Hannah Xob. The following is…
She groans. It seems it was another exploration-slash-archeology mission. She didn’t particularly care for that kind of work, and she didn’t care for Foundation missions at all nowadays, period. She’d already configured it so that every mission notice directly went to the trash. The fact that it says she was “personally selected” and that it was an urgent notice was new, though. Was it a new tactic? Was she finally getting in trouble because someone had finally realized that her current position wasn’t much of an actual job?
She read on. Most of the message was the usual Foundation jargon, but the pay… it was a lot of money compared to the usual Foundation job. A lot of money. She scrolled through it again, and a sentence caught her eye.
…selected for your personal involvement in prior projects involving [GoI-586], [Exploration Fieldwork], [Multi-Day Fieldwork],…
Memories started flooding back. Feelings that she never thought she’d feel again, and her heart felt like it was beating faster than it has in ages. The calmness, the monotony, the routine was broken, but it still wasn’t enough yet, her hand was still hovering on the “delete” button. Urgent or not, the Foundation wasn’t going to personally drag her out of her apartment for it, she wasn’t that important, and it wasn’t enough until she scrolled to the very end…
…Ethical Disclosure: High-Risk Mission, Rate Of Fatality Is High. Usual Foundation Insurance Policies applies as covered under Goldbaker-Reinz…
She blinked.
Then, she pressed “Accept.”
I Thought You Died Alone
"It's as comfortable as it looks."
Room D74 of Site-19’s hospital Wing D was a room full of stragglers.
The latest batch of patients arrived here long ago, and most of them have either healed to go back to broken, traumatized lives, or passed, either in pain or in peace.
The Foundation does not send new patients here. The opening of the more well-equipped Wing F took care of most medical needs nowadays, and Wing D was becoming more of a storage facility everyday. Room D74 remains, possibly because everyone who knows about it is just waiting for all the patients to finally die.
At the very end of the room, in the western corner is a man who the Foundation believes will never wake up. He has no brain activity, but due to bureaucratic inertia, or perhaps his former title, the Foundation has allowed him to remain alive.
Opposite him is a man with an almost completely shattered spine, who is believed to be comatose. It is a miracle that he remains alive, and if he was awake, he’d have no use for anything aside from perhaps being able to look around.
The other people in the room aren’t faring better. They too will probably never awaken. The doctors consider this a mercy.
Every week or so, someone arrives to change the filters on the bed’s integrated feeding and waste systems, refill the nutrients and liquids for each patient, and maybe wipe some dust off the ventilators. They don’t stay in the room for long, and never do. The Foundation’s technological superiority compared to the rest of the world had eliminated much of the human-required maintenance for these patients.
For the last year or so, every week, Agent Ulrich, lying in the bed in the corner with only the ability to twitch his eyes, had been trying to signal to any soul who might care that he was conscious. No one’s noticed thus far.
There is no differentiating one day from the next. There is no differentiating one moment to the next, and part of Ulrich wonders why he hasn’t gone insane yet, or if he already has. And all of this torment could just end, if just one person, just one person could just look, look at him one time…
But the moment never comes. He occasionally wonders if anyone else in the room was awake in the same way that he was, and he prayed for it to not be so. But most of all, he prayed for release.
One night, it came. He didn’t register it at first, but there it was again - something emerging from the night, a rustling from the other side of the room. And suddenly, he was acutely aware of the absence of the beeps of one singular heart monitor. Something crashes and falls. Shaky flesh on floor tiles. Then, a gaunt shadow looms over him, one with bloodshot eyes.
He recognized those eyes. He recognized the familiar grey temples, but he never saw him after the injury. The large, deep, jagged scar on the front of his head was a new, unsettling sight.
“Ulrich,” it said, in a gaspy, rattling voice. A throat that hadn’t produced sounds in ages. “Ulrich… are you there?”
And the man asked him questions, familiar phrases and names, and Ulrich wished he could answer, but nothing came out. Eventually, the man realized his situation, and he realized Ulrich’s situation, and for a second, for just a second, he stared into Ulrich’s eyes…
It’s time.
Please, he thought. Please, you know what this means. Please…
And the man did understand, recognizing the patterns as they repeated. Ulrich’s final wishes. The man read, and he shuddered, and leaned back away from view. A brief moment of despair followed by bliss unlike any as a crackling sound is heard, signalling the destruction of several vital components of the infernal system keeping him alive.
Ulrich wished he could’ve told the man how much he appreciated it, that he was glad for this final reunion, but as he drifted off into the depths, he simply wondered why anyone would want to leave its warm embrace in the first place.
Foundation Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Conley walked out of Room D74, legs trembling from years of disuse while hands shook from their most recent use, but there was so much to do, and even though he knew the Site like the backside of his hand, he had to move quick. There was only so much time.
But as he walked towards the exit of Wing D, something compelled him to pause and walk the other way, towards the mail room.
Obviously, he needed to check if he had mail.
Preparations
"Arrive on time."
It was 9:12 AM when Hannah Xob finally arrived at Site Harkin. She was supposed to arrive over 3 hours earlier. This was intentional, because if she had timed it correctly, the meet-and-greet and seminar would have just ended several minutes ago.
Flipping open a mirror, she sighs. Somehow, her bed head never seems to go away, nor does the dark circles around her eyes. It also might not have been such a good idea to come to a mission briefing wearing such casual clothes - a hoodie and baggy jeans. It's not her ideal look, but it'll have to do.
She counts to 50 then makes a beeline inside, looking for the only person she knew. The moment she opens the door, she smiles, and keeps smiling until she finds him. It doesn't quite reach her eyes.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - SITE HARKIN.
Location: Site Harkin, Lobby B.
[BEGIN LOG.]
[Dr. Fitzgerald is talking to someone.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: It’s certainly a good design, very emblematic of…
[Agent Xob walks up to him, he notices.]
Agent Xob: Hey, Liam! Sorry I was late again, I had to sort through some, uh, reports.
Dr. Fitzgerald: Oh, that’s alright. The mission’s not for weeks, anyways. You did miss out on the meet n’ greet, though, so you’ll have to introduce yourself to your new task force later on.
Agent Xob: Yeah, yeah, I’ll uh, I’ll get to that later, thanks.
Dr. Fitzgerald: As a matter of fact, actually, you can introduce yourself to one of them now. This is August Kilroy! She’ll be part of the new team.
[Dr. Liam Fitzgerald moves aside, revealing a tall, pale woman with long hair. Agent Xob appears surprised, as if she wasn’t aware that there was anyone else in the room.]
Agent Xob: Oh. Uh, hello, August!
Agent Kilroy: …Hello.
Dr. Fitzgerald: She’ll be the cartographer for your team. She’s got an excellent sense of direction. A miracle worker if I’ve ever seen one. She's a great artist, too. In fact, she was showing me her idea for the design of the logo for MTF-GIGAS, just now.
Agent Xob: …Is that the designation we’re using?
Dr. Fitzgerald: Well, you know. We didn't really need one in the first place. Unique mission, unique set-up, and the task force is only gonna be around for one mission, but I assume someone in the chain thought it'd sound cool. It’s… not that big of a deal. Show her, August.
[Dr. Fitzgerald grabs a tablet from Agent Kilroy’s hand and hands it to Agent Xob. Agent Xob’s eyes widens as she inspects it.]
Agent Xob: …Huh. Well, it’s uh, really… elaborate! Yeah, really elaborate. You did a great job!
Agent Kilroy: Oh, thank you. I’m glad you like it. (Pause.) You have nice hair.
Agent Xob: …Thank you?
[Dr. Fitzgerald claps. Startling both Agents.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: Now, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later. I do have some concerns about you missing the seminar, though, so if you need a recording of it to-
Agent Xob: Oh, the Scarlet King mythology one? I’m familiar with it, don’t worry. I don’t need it, thanks.
Dr. Fitzgerald: Ah, right. I think Agent Vaughan told me something about that, you having some prior experiences with that sort of thing.
Agent Xob: Vaughan?
Dr. Fitzgerald: Yes, Arthur Vaughan. He’ll be the leader of the team. Actually, you two worked together, right?
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: …Is that going to be a problem?
Agent Xob: Uh, no, no. I just didn’t think I’d be seeing him again, so soon. I appreciate it. I should probably go find my room, now.
Dr. Fitzgerald: Well, that’s excellent! (Turns to Agent Kilroy.) Agent Kilroy, go show our new agent her room, won’t you? I gotta head down to the basement for now.
[Dr. Fitzgerald begins to walk off, waving at the two agents. He turns back at points at Agent Xob.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: And remember! Check your schedule this time! You don’t wanna miss Dr. Tatton’s evening seminar about the Daevites!
[Dr. Fitzgerald enters the back door and disappears from view. The two agents stands there momentarily. Agent Kilroy turns to Agent Xob.]
Agent Kilroy: …Living quarters are this way.
Agent Xob: Yeah, thanks.
[They both turn and walk towards the Eastern Corridor.]
Agent Kilroy: …Did you really like my logo?
Agent Xob: Huh? Oh, uh, yeah, you bet! It’s great. Lots of uh, I can see you put a lot of Scarlet mythology stuff in there.
Agent Kilroy: Thank you…
Agent Xob: Mmhm.
[They are now out of view, but are still audible.]
Agent Kilroy: …what are Daevites?
Agent Xob: Fuck if I know.
[END LOG.]
MTF GIGAS (“Fallen Crown”)
Task Force Mission: Provisional Mobile Task Force GIGAS was established to explore SCP-9317-Ω, a Mortal-Deific Realm connected to Pluripotent Apex-Tier Entity K7 “The Scarlet King” - members were hand-selected by the SCP-9317 Containment team.
Members:
- Arthur Vaughan - Leader/Navigator/Equipment Carrier. Previously part of MTF Omicron-14.
- August Kilroy - Cartographer. Previously part of MTF Theta-90.
- Daniela Tatton - Archaeologist/Historian. Previously part of MTF Beta-14.
- Val Sanders - Translator. Previously part of MTF Theta-4.
- Anna Newman - Thaumatologist/Equipment Carrier. Previously part of MTF Phi-2.
- Telal Usher - Communications/Equipment Carrier. Previously part of MTF Iota-10.
- Hannah Xob - Resource Carrier. Previously part of MTF Omicron-14.
Utilizing Objects:
- Artifact #9317-12
- Artifact #9317-14
- Artifact #9317-15
Assisting In Containment of Objects:
- SCP-9317 (Sole duty)
Known Deployments:
- SCP-9317-Ω Exploration Mission
Planned Future Deployments:
- None.
Relevant Information: The Daevite Empire (Simplified)
A reverse-neuroimprint of basalt Daevite fortresses by Erikeshan recordkeepers. It is assumed that most of these structures were destroyed during historical purges of Daevite artefacts by earlier civilizations.
The Daevite Empire is considered one of the most enigmatic civilizations in Para-anthropology. Regarded by many sub-Veil historians as the “first true empire,” Daevite society was characterized by militarism, conquest, ancestor worship, slavery, and human sacrifice. The most notable trait of Daevite civilization, however, is its extremely early place in history, having appeared at around the 10th millennium BC.
At its peak, the Daevites occupied a city-state as large as that of modern day Rome, which had a population of nearly a million - as well as several other territories across the continent, many of which have only been discovered recently. Their society was separated into a majority lower class as well as an upper, ruling class, led by the Daevas - the matriarchal rulers of the empire.
Around the 8th millennium BC, the Daevite empire fell after decades of plague and famine, followed by the eruption of a large-scale slave revolution across the entire empire. Actual physical evidence of the Daevite empire is exceedingly rare, with most artifacts having been destroyed by the sands of time. However, surviving materials do provide a wealth of knowledge regarding the Daevite people - apparently due to the importance of record-keeping in the civilization.
The following is a segment from “Homo Daeva” by Dr. Cameron Tatton, regarding Daevite civilization.
THE DAEVITES AND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN
While the rest of humanity were still foraging and dwelling in fire-lit caves, the Daevite civilization had achieved something similar to early Rome. The Daevas had their own language, their own class system. They had their own Pantheon and deities, as well their equivalent of a military. They had grand monuments and tall, multi-storied buildings. All of this, ten thousand years before the birth of Christ. Truly, compared to the rest of the world at that time, the Daevites were the absolute pinnacle of human civilization. In terms of advancement, they were a lighthouse beacon amidst a sea of candles.
This is also why sub-Veil historians often find accounts of Daevite society to be quite distressing.
Fig. 7: Cave art, ~9000 BC - Apparently depicting the Daevite army's capture of a tribe. Noteworthy tribe members had been dismembered & placed on totems.
Evidence of Daevite civilization does not paint a pretty picture. In fact, quite the opposite. Recovered tablets and archaeological digs tell tales of a horrific and grotesque society. A society built on the broken backs of slaves. A society that treated its lower class horrifically and without care. A society where cruelty seemed to be a way of life, not only widely accepted but celebrated, sometimes even by the oppressed.
The majority of the population were farmers or builders, and often forced to work for up to 15 hours a day in terrible conditions. Neighboring tribes were often invaded and crushed by the might of the Daeva military, their people tortured, taken as slaves and prisoners, or worse. Human sacrifices, both for rituals and for entertainment were rampant, as evidenced by tablets depicting massive altars, drenched in a sea of blood, built on mountains of bones. The bodies of those who rebelled against the ruling class were mutilated and displayed in public areas, or they would be publicly drowned in the putrefying, watery mass graves that so many nameless slaves were tossed in. The crueler aspects of Daevite society are possibly its most documented traits.
The Daevite ruling class saw the lower class as nothing but mere playthings, if not simple cattle, to be killed, humiliated, or tortured for amusement and convenience. The lower class cannibalized and scrambled over itself to survive. The Matriarchs were simply content to let this play out. And through this hierarchy, the Daevites became the biggest, and only, empire in the Holocene world.
So, here’s the conflict that plagues Para-anthropologists. The Daevite empire was cruel. They reached heights that the rest of humanity wouldn’t have reached for thousands of years, they sacrificed countless people to their gods including children, built their empire out of blood and bone dust, and despite these destructive practices, they lasted two thousand years, with little change, and then collapsed. Logically, this does not sound like a society that should exist - that could exist. It’s no surprise that the Foundation formally classified them as anomalous in 1892.
And yet, there’s a possibility that the existence of the Daevites was completely, and utterly, mundane. For all of its horrors, the Daevite empire did not truly do anything especially out of the ordinary. Empires with practices similar to the Daevites would come and go. The only truly apparent anomalous trait of the Daevites was that they somehow got there earlier than most - and even then, this could perhaps be explained somehow. History teaches us that agricultural developments always precede the birth of early civilizations, and the Daevites were excellent farmers. Could that be all there is to the Daevites’ early head-start? And if so, if the Daevites were simply non-anomalous humans, what does the fact that they were the first great human civilization say about us?
Maddeningly, we may never know the truth. So here’s to the Daevites: There was never an empire like theirs, and there will never be again. Hopefully.
—Dr. Cameron Tatton, Foundation Historian
For They Know
"Members of the SCP-9317 Operation team vacating after initial activation, captured using the standard Hume/Akiva system."
Russell Pater stands still.
He understands that throughout history, there have always been men like him, and that there will always be men like him. At this time, this is more apparent than ever, as he inspects the rows and rows of blue and yellow suited men before him, endlessly tapping away at the row of monitors that makes up SCP-9317’s base components. He doesn’t feel particularly bad about that.
It is so close, he thinks. The culmination of a lifetime’s work. No, several lifetimes. Several thousand lifetimes, and now it is almost over.
The sigils on his own hazmat-like uniform burns him, signifying that time is almost running out. The material on his suit seems to droop. Only a few minutes left. He wonders if they’d be able to make it in this sweltering heat. That’s when he notices it. The man on the third monitor from the front flinching.
“Franklin, you’re out. Cross, you take over.” He commands. And Franklin almost collapses to his knees. Cross, who had been watching Franklin’s progress over his shoulder immediately swoops in to man the monitor. Two doctors hurry up and carry him out to a rickety platform off to the side.
“C’mon, man. Hold it together. You have to- Christ!” Liam Fitzgerald shouts, as Franklin retches in the suit, staining the suit. A troublesome development, and a regrettable discomfort, but it will have to wait. They’ve almost cinched it.
Cross’ eyes flies across the screen, taking in numbers and figures, blurry red graphics. He understands what’s happening, and he knows what he’s doing. There is something red. There is something writhing in the glass on the monitor. The Foundation always knows what it is doing. They know what they are doing. He knows what he’s doing. So he does what he does, and then there is silence.
Recalibration completed. SCP-9317 has now been primed.
Russell Pater looks up to find the totems of the machine lighting up. An array of dazzling colors that, he knew, could never be accurately captured on camera. He drinks in the sight for a second. Just a second…
The glass on his suit starts melting into oil. He screams at the crew to get on the platforms if they do not wish to be rendered infertile and mutant in the next 2 minutes. Dozens of bodies hurried across the platform, stumbling onto crackling thaumaturgically-treated platforms.
“Forgive me, oh, god, please forgive me…” Franklin moaned, to no one on the platform. He held himself on the railing, as if slipping. Bits of his uniform dripped off into the inky dark of the cave below.
“Was this the last round?” Liam asks, “Is it time?” And Russell looks back at the machine, and the eyes of God look back at him, and for a moment, Russell thought that God was smiling onto him. And he knew it was a trick of the light. No god would be pleased with what he had done - and he was counting on that.
SCP-9317 screams.
“Yes,” Russell said.
“It’s time.”
What They Did
"Please use Isolated Units in accordance to information protocols."
Site-19 is big. Very big. Most employees never need to go past the first hundred levels, but certain sections of the catacombic lower levels are something to behold, and if you didn’t know much about where you were going, it was possible to get lost for days. The best labyrinths are not made by men, but by bureaucracy.
Mismanaged rooms and wings that led to nowhere and held nothing. Broken down areas that were remnants of some old horrific conflicts or attacks, abandoned and never rebuilt. Locked rooms containing disasters that must never be unlocked. Construction projects that will never be finished, where the tiling meets slate stone and the ceiling extends into open caverns. Unprepared men could easily be swallowed up by it all.
Lucas Conley knew where he was going. Limping through a long unpainted hallway, he walked into the darkness of the natural tunnel, and kept waking. He walked long enough to see light at the end. Light coming through a door built into the cavern walls.
The room was created as an emergency bunker for some war long forgotten, the letter had said. Purposefully forgotten, no one bothered to lock it because all the people who knew of it either can’t remember it or don't bother to.
The room would have everything he needed to learn the truth, the letter described. And he’d need to do it quickly. Soon enough, someone would come to remove Ulrich and they would find him missing.
In the middle of the room was a computer monitor. A very old one. A secure Foundation model.
His head was throbbing, his limbs going numb, he finally managed to get himself to the chair. He dropped his body down to the seat, and the weight of his body surprised him. He felt so heavy for having such an emaciated body. There was something red behind the back of his eyes, reaching from the little dark spaces in his brain, and he didn’t know what it was. He felt like dying. He just wanted peace.
But it was too far away, now. And he’d never get it, not with what he knew. Was he really willing to do this? To know more? When knowing was already the problem?
…No.
He had to. He reached across the monitor, turned it on, and watched as the white text on the black background loaded. He’d memorized the username and the password on the way down, and as the page slowly loaded in, he kept thinking back to what that letter said.
“It’s time you knew the truth.”
Him and the truth. They were nothing but trouble, but at long last, was this it? Was the chase finally over?
“It’s time,” he mumbled to himself.
“It’s time.”
Dr. Russell Pater's Personnel File
Name: Dr. Russell H. Pater
Security Clearance: Level 4
Dr. Russell Pater
Occupation: Provisional Site Director, Containment Specialist, Ethical Containment Board Member, Head of Scarlet Response Division.
Current Site of Operation: Site Harkin (Previously at Site-523)
Biography: In 1976, Dr. Russell H. Pater joined the Foundation at the age of 18 as one of the youngest recipients of the Brightspot scholarship1 after scoring a record-high 154 on his thesis in response to the Foundation-developed Crohnon’s Problem.2 In his initial years working as a researcher in the Paratheology department, Dr. Russell helped transform the then-overlooked field of Theoretical Paratheology into full-fledged containment science after making several breakthrough discoveries in the field, such as Russell’s Five Laws Of Theological Viability, the Russell-Langstrom Practical Prayer Formula, and the schematics that would one day lay the groundwork for the Foundation’s Alpha-Omega Thesis.
Dr. Russell was promoted to Containment Specialist in 1978 and subsequently assigned to head of Project Commandment, a Foundation effort to create improved containment measures for religious anomalies using applied Paratheology. Under Dr. Russell’s lead, Project Commandment produced several notable assets, many of which would become essential in Foundation efforts against deific threats. This includes the Wynn-Russell Ouroboros Thaumastructure, the Omnisight Nullifier, and the Foundation-grade Akiva Detection Unit.3
From 1980 to 1983, the Foundation was afflicted by the Malfeasance Crisis. During this time, Dr. Russell played an instrumental role in the development of the Serapsychosoma Protocol (which impeded the Malfeasance Crisis’s progress in several states) as well as the termination of the Crisis’ primary cause.4
In 1985, Dr. Russell applied to join the Foundation’s Department Of Ethical Containment, citing his experience during the Malfeasance Crisis as the primary reason. He also published his first book, Strange Gods And Objective Morality, a 340-page examination of various philosophies and how they pertain to the Foundation’s paratheological projects. Dr. Russell’s application was not accepted until the following year, after the success of his second book, Morality In A Containment Chamber.
In 1988, Dr. Russell was promoted to the Foundation’s Ethical Containment Board, from which he oversaw the ethical containment of over 30 Keter-class SCPs at any given time, as well as several highly-classified Foundation projects. This remains his primary position and responsibility at the Foundation until today. However, he often takes part in other Foundation projects as containment advisor whenever necessary.
Current Involved Projects:
- Containment of SCP-9317 (Top Priority)
- Project SCHRODINGER (Top Priority)
- Project Underwood (Medium Priority)
- Containment of SCP-1G82 (Medium Priority)
- Project OUTIS (Low Priority)
- Containment of URA-1284 (Low Priority)
- Containment of SCP-3MC9 (Low Priority)
42 other projects hidden for brevity.
[ACCESSING FILE:SCP-9317…]
SCP-9317, image taken using specialized equipment.
SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES: To accommodate its technological degradation effect as well as preventing detection due to errant Hume5 shifts, SCP-9317 is housed in Section A5 - a large cavernous area below Sub-level 17 of Site Harkin. The entrance of Section A5 is accessible via an elevator positioned 200m away from SCP-9317 itself.
Entrance to Section A5 Access Elevator, Site Harkin
In lieu of technology-based containment measures, several thaumaturgical runes (of varying religions and denominations) have been carved in certain areas of Section A5 by Foundation specialists in order to enchant the area with anti-detection and stabilizing qualities. These runes are to be maintained triweekly. Maintenance schedule is to be moved up upon any sign of enchantment degradation.
No one is to enter Section A5 outside of scheduled testing hours, determined by the SCP-9317 Containment Team. On-site personnel are advised to check their SCiPnet accounts regularly to receive updates and information regarding the testing schedule.
Special enchanted/runic equipment is to be used to bypass SCP-9317’s technological degradation effect when necessary. Due to the low availability of these equipment as well as high risk of equipment loss, the Department Of Thaumatechnology is to be consulted prior to any expenditure.
Currently, the SCP-9317 Containment Team is headed by Dr. Russell Pater and Dr. Liam Fitzgerald.
SPECIAL PERSONNEL REQUIREMENTS: Due to the potential ramifications of mishandling SCP-9317, personnel assigned to SCP-9317 must meet several criterias in addition to undergoing extensive background checks in accordance with the SCP-9317 Containment Team’s requirements.
These criterias include having a score of at least 30 on the Milgram Obedience Examination, having finished at least 3 courses of Intermediate Applied Para-science, and having completed the Foundation Advanced Engineering Aptitude test.
Personnel assigned to SCP-9317 will be part of either one of two teams - the SCP-9317 Operation Team or the SCP-9317 Maintenance Team.
Members of the SCP-9317 Maintenance Team are to be handpicked by Dr. Russell Pater due to the involvement of uniquely complicated tasks.
Remaining personnel will be assigned to the SCP-9317 Operation Team, led by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald.
DESCRIPTION: SCP-9317 is a large, highly complex paratechnological structure designed to create, stabilize, and sustain a Wynn-Paxton Mortal-Deific Interactivity Gateway. SCP-9317 is currently functional and in an inactive state.
Rainer Kingsley, CEO of GoI-586-77, on "Red, Right, Republican" in 2008.
SCP-9317 is composed of 4 interconnected components:
- SCP-9317-A - Gateway: A large, circular structure designed to sustain a Mortal-Deific Interactivity Gateway upon activation. Main material is apparently an alloy of several rare anomalous metals, some of which have not been fully identified. Inside walls show signs of scorching as a result of the first activation attempt. Covered in unknown sigils.
- SCP-9317-B - Mainframe: Extremely large computer mainframe attached to bottom of SCP-9317-A. Computer interfaces along its sides can be used to recalibrate and activate SCP-9317 using several programs designed by Kingship Land Bridge LLC. Due to SCP-9317’s properties, examination of SCP-9317-B’s files has not been possible. See Document 9317-A “Operation Instructions” for more information.6
- SCP-9317-C - Worship Totems: Six large runic totems attached to SCP-9317-B, apparently to channel Akiva radiation7 from a nearby source. A seventh, smaller totem is embedded into SCP-9317-A, presumably to channel the Akiva radiation into the creation of a Mortal-Deific Interactivity Gateway.
- SCP-9317-D - Engine: Apparently the source of SCP-9317’s Akiva radiation. Embedded into SCP-9317-A, SCP-9317-B, and SCP-9317-C. See Document 9317-B “Engine” for more information.8
SCP-9317 constantly maintains a technological degradation field within a 100m radius beginning at the epicenter of SCP-9317-B - meaning that all complex technological components will rapidly decay. Affected technologies have been affected in a variety of ways, such as being partially reduced to dust, melting into itself, or being subjected to rapid sublimation. Technological components within SCP-9317 itself are immune to these effects. This effect has been attributed to a combination of ritualistic and thaumaturgical processes that SCP-9317 utilizes in order to function.
Interactions between probability-activated Akiva constructs and local theological fabric as depicted on SCP-9317-B’s interfaces (Recreation)
SCP-9317 incorporates both advanced technological components as well as thaumaturgic ritual-based components into its design, oftentimes having such components intertwining in remarkably complicated ways. This means that not only can SCP-9317’s inner workings be highly volatile upon misuse9, but also that SCP-9317 itself can only be operated and maintained by personnel trained in both advanced engineering and advanced thaumaturgy.
SCP-9317 was secretly developed by Kingship Land Bridge LLC (GoI-586-77) over the course of several years under the direction of its CEO, Rainer Kingsley (deceased). However, shortly after its first activation, Foundation interference heavily derailed GoI-586-77’s operation leading to SCP-9317 sustaining heavy damage.
Though most of GoI-586-77’s original documentation and schematics of SCP-9317 were lost due to GoI-586-77’s actions prior to recovery, surviving hard copies recovered by the Foundation as well as examination of related artifacts has allowed the Foundation to reverse engineer certain portions of SCP-9317, restoring it to a functional state over the course of 2 years. Despite this, however, the scientific principles as well as technical specifications behind SCP-9317 remain poorly understood.
SCP-9317-Ω is, theoretically, the Wynn-Paxton Mortal-Deific Realm to which SCP-9317 will allow access upon activation. Little information is known about SCP-9317-Ω as of this time.
ADDENDUM 1 - The Wynn-Paxton System:
The following is an explanation of the Wynn-Paxton System as given by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald.
DR. LIAM FITZGERALD - THE WYNN-PAXTON SYSTEM
If you haven’t been in Paratheology for a long time, the phrase “Wynn-Paxton Mortal-Deific System” is one you probably won’t recognize. There’s a few reasons for this.
Firstly, it was only ever documented once in Foundation records, and prior to the discovery of SCP-9317, Foundation paratheologists remained unsure if the incident truly represented a true manifestation of the phenomenon, or if it was just a fluke.
Secondly, the circumstances leading to this first documentation of the phenomenon reproducing or recording the incident almost entirely impossible. Unfortunately, I can't tell you about it either. It's a matter of information control.
And thirdly, even if the first two points weren’t true and we knew exactly how to trigger Wynn-Paxton systems, the information itself would have to be strictly contained. The prospect of such a technology becoming reproducible is certainly not ideal. Though, obviously, that you’re listening to this lecture in the first place indicates that priorities have changed.
So, that probably makes Wynn-Paxtons sound like a pretty big deal, and they are. Essentially, the Wynn-Paxton System consists of two parts, the Wynn-Paxton Mortal-Deific Interactivity Gateway, and the Wynn-Paxton Mortal-Deific Realm. Or just Gateway and Realm. Sounds easy enough?
A Gateway, as defined by Dr. Paxton, is less of a door and more of an acceleration in being. Theoretically, it would be created from immensely complicated interactions between theological constructs at a subpreonic level after being forced into existence by either impossibly low odds or astronomically precise manipulation of Akiva energy concentrations. It would last for less than a millisecond before disappearing, immensely disrupting local reality. However, in that millisecond, any being caught in the vicinity of a Gateway will be accelerated into a Realm.
A Realm in this case refers to both a location and a higher state of being - one halfway between the physical world and the ethereal metaphysical theological state of being of deities. A place where gods can reach down to mortals, and mortals can reach up. That’s where the “Mortal-Deific Interactivity” bit comes from.
Paxton theorized that in ancient times, this system was used by lesser deities and minor gods. These deities, who would open Gateways through manipulation of chance, would grant worthy humans boons, give them missions, or messages, or divine judgment. However, he also brought up the possibility that in this space, mortals might be able to exert influence over the deity themselves - wagers, games, demonstrations of valor and honor, debates. That in this place, the gods made themselves vulnerable enough to be influenced by worldly forces.
Of course, that all sounded grand, but there were no ways to actually test Paxton’s theories without an actual Wynn-Paxton System, which none of us knew how to create. Then came the aforementioned fluke, which demonstrated that something similar to it could possibly exist, but it wasn’t until SCP-9317 that we had something that could genuinely fit the criterias of what Paxton had described - an apparatus that could generate a Wynn-Paxton System in a controlled manner.
And then, there is the question for the ages. How did Kingship Land Bridge LLC stumble upon the almost-incomprehensible technical knowledge required to build it?
Knowing what we do now about Kingship Land Bridge LLC, though, one thing is certain. The entire world lucked out to an absurd degree that they managed to fuck up at the last second and are now all dead.
-Dr. Liam Fitzgerald, Department Of Thaumatechnology
ADDENDUM 2 - Theological Significance:
Through analysis of the iconography and sigils carved into SCP-9317, as well as taking into account Kingship Land Bridge LLC’s associations with certain groups of interests, it has been determined with near-certainty that the deity associated with SCP-9317 is Apex-Tier Pluripotent Entity K7, colloquially known as “The Scarlet King” - a malevolent entity commonly associated with the Children Of The Scarlet King (GoI-586) and its various subgroups.
A BRIEF EXPLANATION OF THE SCARLET KING
The Scarlet King is, from recovered documentation, a hostile Pluripotent Entity, with the primary goal of either subjugating or destroying all life in the universe. According to some historical depictions of the Scarlet King, even though this entity is fully capable of carrying out these goals, it was bound and restrained by an unknown force through the use of seven indestructible chains before it could’ve done so, yet through cunning, brute strength, his influence over mortals, and the work of the first six of his seven brides, the King had broken six of these chains through the eons - with only one chain remaining, maintained by his seventh bride, to stay the re-emergence of the King and his apotheosis.
"After The Flood" by Peter Lewinsky, undated.
Unlike many other documented Pluripotent Entities, the Scarlet King does not appear to have an associated defining religious text - instead, its ideological framework appears to stem from Urdalism, or the Scarlet Ideology, a religious ideology with similarities to Kraterocracy10, Social Darwinism11, and Anarcho-Primitivism12. How Urdalism13 manifests in the general population is poorly understood - with the prevailing theory being that the ideology is implanted into susceptible individuals by the Scarlet King, at which point these individuals will spread the ideology through mundane means - often forming a sect of the Children of The Scarlet King.
The Scarlet King is also unique in that it is among the few Pluripotent entities to communicate and act entirely through its proxies - its followers and the various splinter groups of the Children. This fact has been attributed to its restriction as detailed in its mythologies. As of this writing, the Scarlet King has yet to physically manifest in our reality, and has yet to be observed in any capacity aside from its influence on its followers.
It should be noted that information relating to the Scarlet King is often highly contradictory or unreliable, as such, the exact nature of the Scarlet King and associated subjects is deeply shrouded in uncertainty. However, several repeating themes have emerged in its mythos, such as hierarchy and authoritarianism, violence and transgression, sex and emasculation.
Other repeating themes includes:
- Aquatic imagery
- Family and betrayal
- Darkness and annihilation
- Enforced roles in society
- Conflicts between past and present
- Helplessness and hopelessness
- Montauk
Cults and organizations dedicated to the worship of the Scarlet King have existed throughout history. The earliest reference to the Scarlet King, however, takes the form of a short story titled “The Blood Man On The Lake”, originating from the Daevite Empire’s early days (~10,000 BC), which was found engraved on a stone tablet, recovered from a large body pit during a Daevite archeological expenditure in 1972.
-Excerpts from MALDEITY: Containing Our Gods by Dr. Patrick F. Lomas.
Recovered documents indicates that the creators of SCP-9317 had been attempting to contact the Scarlet King using SCP-9317 - a goal that was apparently unsuccessful due to the intervention of Mobile Task Force Omicron-14 (“Scarlet Crusaders”) shortly after SCP-9317’s first activation.
For more information on Kingship Land Bridge LLC and the incident leading up to SCP-9317’s discovery, please see Document 9317-GOI “Kingship Land Bridge LLC”.
ADDENDUM 3 - Possible Utilization:
The following is a note on SCP-9317 by O5-05.
O5 MISSIVE: SCP-9317
I don’t think I have to spell it out for anyone how much of an informational goldmine we’re sitting on here. Not only do we now have actual, physical, undeniable evidence for one of the most… no, possibly the most radical paratheology hypothetical in history - it has been served up to us in a form that we can freely dissect, tinker with, figure out, and replicate.
Furthermore, what we now have access to is a vast new source of information regarding a being widely considered to be the most enigmatic and malevolent that we know of - a being that, mind you, has been a constant threat to the Foundation and humanity at large for years, acting through its proxy hordes - a threat that has only been neutralized in recent years, perhaps not even permanently.
A world of possibilities lies before us. We cannot simply let this machine rot below our vaults. The fact that it even exists at all is a miracle - and the potential applications must at least be considered.
-O5-05
As part of Project SCHRODINGER, restoration of SCP-9317 began on 12/05/2019 and concluded on 23/07/2021.
[END OF FILE.]
On Ending Things.
Continued.
And so, all of this begs the question: Did they all truly have a choice in the matter, in the end?
And I do mean all of them. Not just the lady and her fellow task force agents. Not just the scientists and bureaucrats and all the little cogs in the Foundation that kept things running. Not just the Overseers or the Lieutenant Colonel and his little soldiers, or the little impotent techno-faschie and his cult of asskissers. Not just the God, or the brides, or the acolytes.
Hell, even Russell Pater, for Christ's sakes.
What I mean is all of them. All of humanity as a whole. What was their role in all of this?
Did they have a choice? Or was this just the culmination of a process that began with the Daevites (maybe even earlier) and just never stopped, couldn’t be stopped? And if that was the case, what does that mean? Where do we go from there?
And if they did have a choice, what does that say?
What do you think?
In the end, part of me thinks it was meant to happen. That they would always build it. That it was a matter of simple patterns. Endless patterns of violence and hatred, and if you gathered enough of it, gave it all a framework, gave it all a structure, this was always where it was gonna end up. This construct of our collective mediocrity. This Montauk Machine, terrible and inevitable.
But I mustn’t let that part win.
Your friend,
AWH.
ACT II
INDUSTRIAL FRATRICIDE
Promotion
"Ethical?"
It is 1985, and Russell Pater stands outside the doors of a conference room. It is one of the few times in his life where he recalls feeling nervous. He told himself it was just mystique, and good PR. The Ethics Committee were not omnipresent shadow people - that was just marketing, and the Department Of Ethical Containment was no different.
Besides, this was just formality. He’d already been accepted for the job. Maybe it wasn’t the shadow people that were getting to him - maybe it was the idea of finally becoming one with them, that he himself would become the shadow people.
(In time, he proved himself correct. He'd begin to see them as they really were: ineffectual, weak and decadent pencil-pushers and accountants. And he’d laugh at himself for that one moment of fear.)
But now, he was about to enter the room, and he finally formalized it. It’s just a minute or two. A short speech, barely a paragraph long. For god’s sake, he was in his 40’s by now. He read over the paper once more, and entered the room. Something closes the door behind him.
His eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness inside, and he could barely make out dark shifting figures. He feels that he is being watched. It’s all part of the show, he thinks. The theatrics, the formalities, it all serves a purpose.
(It’s no different from any ritual.)
“Doctor,” A voice from within the darkness calls out, “You have been selected to be part of the Ethical Containment Board. How would you like to respond?”
And suddenly, Russell Pater, Paratheology prodigy, Head Containment Specialist, Published Author was reduced to just that. A mere Foundation doctor. It was as if his entire being was being examined. But he knew what to say, he’d spent ages memorizing the whole speech.
Raising one hand, the doctor recites into the dark: “I, Dr. Russell Pater, gratefully and solemnly accept my new position on the Foundation Department Of Ethical Containment. From this day forward, I vow to forever do right by the core tenets of the SCP Foundation, of Security, Containment, and Protection for all, at all costs.”
(It’s an old pledge. Certainly an outdated one, and everyone got the same speech. Rumors were that the board watched for your every movement, seeking out the tiniest muscle twitches that betrayed your true, impure intentions.)
The doctor continues: “This is my duty and responsibility as a member of the Foundation Department Of Ethical Containment: To dedicate myself and my life to advancing the Foundation’s interest. To bring about a golden age of safety and efficiency. To create a Foundation fit for a modern, and moral world.”
(And he realizes somewhere here that the “lie-detecting” bit was bullshit as well, because even a blind man would’ve caught that. Later on, he learned that it was just a hazing ritual that they did. He wasn’t surprised.)
And finally, he finishes: “I swear to God above that these are my true intentions, and that this is my only mission in life henceforth: To help the Foundation and myself find the balance on the paths of truth, science, and power.”
(But the doctor never tells his God which one he really seeks.)
“Amen.”
It is done. He breathes again, completely relaxed. Russell even grins slightly as they tell him to take a seat. He keeps grinning as the light turns on to reveal a bunch of old, smiling bureaucrats greeting him enthusiastically, and he keeps grinning throughout the first meeting as they all pulled up film projectors and flipcharts, and he keeps grinning because now he knows, because the myth is dead to him and now it has no power, and because he realizes, for the first time with finality, that there really was no one who could stop him.
Communion
"Wor-thy is the Lamb that was slain,"
The air outside is thick with amnestics and flame retardant chemicals. Inside doesn’t smell much better either, but at least Lucas Conley could breathe. Coughing as he takes off his gas mask and earmuffs, Conley groans as he closes the plastic opening flap behind him. The change in pressure makes his ears pop. The church is empty. The disposal team had painstakingly removed every sign of the unpleasantness that had happened here. An empty chair remains in the middle of the room. The light filtered red through the scarlet-stained glass, rendering the church in hell colors.
Conley sees Him - Christ, crucified on the wall across the room. Instinctively, he raises his hand to cross his chest as he did in his childhood when he stops midway, remembering where he was and what had happened here. Oh, he thought, if God could see through those things, if God could see what’s happened here…
Well, I'd be out of a job, that's for sure.
He walks past the lone chair, the lone witness to a night of unspeakable horrors. He walks out of the the room and into the next corridor over. Tonight’s been a mission like any other, save for one point.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - OMICRON-14
Location: The True Faith Church - Corridor
[BEGIN LOG.]
[O-14 “Wormwood” enters the room. O-14 “Adatiel” and O-14 “Kokabiel” greet him.]
O-14 Wormwood: I’m here.
O-14 Adatiel: Hey, Lucas. How’s it outside?
O-14 Wormwood: Epsilon-6 and Pi-1 just finished initial clean-up. They’re still spraying amnestics ‘round the neighborhood. Assume after this business, they’re gonna blow the place and blame it on a gas leak.
O-14 Kokabiel: How the hell are they gonna explain the sky becoming red with that giant fucker appearing out of nowhere?
O-14 Wormwood: Red skies do happen naturally, and people see strange things in the clouds all the time. It’s not that hard. Where is he?
[O-14 “Kokabiel” points to a door in the back.]
O-14 Adatiel: Are you sure this is okay? Shouldn’t we bring him to a Site, or something? Can’t imagine Scarlet Response is gonna be happy with this. It’s not like everyday we finally catch one of the leaders and they haven’t immediately self-terminated. And one who seems to know what they were doing, at that.
O-14 Kokabiel: Evidently not, considering we’re here.
O-14 Wormwood: Scarlet Response gave the go ahead, but even if they hadn’t, it wouldn’t make much of a difference anyways, and I wouldn’t care. If we’re not getting anything useful from him in an hour, we’re not getting anything useful from him, period. Gimme the keys.
[O-14 “Adatiel” hands a pair of keys to O-14 “Wormwood”.]
O-14 Wormwood: Let’s get this circlejerk over with.
O-14 Adatiel: Wait.
O-14 Wormwood: What?
O-14 Adatiel: Whatever happened to Dan?
O-14 Wormwood: Oh.
[Pause.]
O-14 Wormwood: Dan didn’t make it.
[O-14 “Wormwood” opens the door and leaves. He closes it behind him.]
[END LOG.]
SUMMARIZED OPERATION ENTRY #586-17
NAME: “The True Faith Church”
Footage taken from Agent Gomez’s headset. Note the outline of a large creature in the background.
DETAILS: Religious extremist organization secretly associated with the Scarlet King. The church appears to have conducted sermons based on a text called “The Red Letter”, written by Godfrey Wilkins. This text was a largely nonsensical retelling of the New Testament, which incorporated Urdalistic elements.
DISCOVERY: On September 2nd, a large red glowing distortion zone was seen emanating from [REDACTED], North Carolina. Foundation forces immediately enacted information shutdown protocols. The SRD14 was immediately alerted upon reports that the outline of a large horned entity had been spotted in the vicinity.
RESPONSE: MTF Omicron-14 was dispatched to contain and neutralize the threat, flanked by MTF Epsilon-6 and MTF Pi-1. Amnestic teams were deployed to enact mass disinformation protocols.
ENGAGEMENT: [REDACTED FOR BREVITY] Ritual was apparently botched prior to termination by Foundation forces. Remnants forcibly suppressed, with local population amnesticized via chemical and auditory means. See Document O-14-586-17 for a full list of casualties.
POST-OPERATION: Under SRD Command’s orders, MTF Omicron-14 was authorized to interrogate Godfrey Wilkins, the surviving leader of the True Faith Church, about the botched ritual and the contents of the church’s basement.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - OMICRON-14
Location: The True Faith Church - Interrogation Chamber
[BEGIN LOG.]
[A make-shift interrogation room has been set up in the church’s yard. It is a plain room with four white walls. A table is in the middle of the room. O-14 “Wormwood” is filing his nails on one side of it. Opposite him is Godfrey Wilkins - a ragged old man in red robes. He is bound.]
[O-14 “Wormwood” says nothing for several minutes.]
O-14 Wormwood: Godfrey Wilkins. Small town pastor. Preached the usual hateful shit for a few decades, then upped and left for Europe. Sighted in France, Germany, and Austria a few times before you came home. Assume you picked up something over there.
Wilkins: [Silence.]
O-14 Wormwood: We know what you did to the choir. We saw the basement. And tonight… you got a lot of good men killed with what you did, and that’s not counting what you did to your own followers. Your sons and your daughters.
Wilkins: [Silence.]
O-14 Wormwood: Usually, I decide what happens to people like you, and… we’ve got some pretty… creative ideas for what to do. But I know your type. You’re a sicker breed, aren’t you? The kind that would get off on it. No, the conventional things wouldn’t work on you at all.
Wilkins: [Silence.]
O-14 Wormwood: Unfortunately for you, someone upstairs has decided that you might know something. That means the Foundation wants something from you personally. That means a bit more budget for us, and that means… you get a personalized experience. You’ll get something that really works. Oh, I promise you, your pain will be novel.
Wilkins: [Silence.]
O-14 Wormwood: (Retrieves a scrunched up piece of paper from his pocket.) Unless, of course, you answer a few questions for us.
Wilkins: You strike me as a man of God.
O-14 Wormwood: Oh, nice, so he can speak. (Begins reading from the paper) First question here for ya: What were the specific rituals and incantations that you used in order to cause the [REDACTED - SRD ORDER]?
Wilkins: What do you believe God is like?
O-14 Wormwood: I see you’re not answering the question. Next one it is then: Please explain the specifics of the Montauk procedure that led to [REDACTED - SRD ORDER]?
Wilkins: God has sent you here for a reason, child.
O-14 Wormwood: (Sighs) Next one. (deadpan) What did you encounter on your travels that led to your “discovery of the Scarlet King, its associated phenomena, and esoteric mastery over the associated thaumaturgical systems?”
Wilkins: I believe that God has sent you here to witness the glory of his victory, young one.
O-14 Wormwood: Wow, amazing. That has nothing to do with my question at all. Great job. (Tosses the paper away, shrugging) I guess you really want to be put in the pain hole, then.
Wilkins: Partake in the feast, drink the wine, touch the flesh. Rejoice in his victory, son! We have won, can’t you see? The war is won, and His glory shines upon you!
O-14 Wormwood: Your kids are dead. Your god’s vessel is stillborn. Your congregation is literal ashes. We’re going to blow up your church in a few hours, do you understand the position you’re in?
Wilkins: Do you?
O-14 Wormwood: Okay, this is-
Wilkins: That’s what you don’t understand, child. The Scarlet King always wins. That’s what I learned tonight, on that bleeding altar. The glory of God revealed to me at last. He lives on in us, child. He lives on in us all. He lives on in you, child.
(Pause.)
Wilkins: Do you really believe that what they say about the King is true? That he seeks infinite world domination, that he seeks an eternity of endless torment and endless rape of all things, of endless profanity and defilement? That he wishes to shape the world to his image? To make the world as cruel as him?
O-14 Wormwood: Right… You’re saying he seeks something else?
Wilkins: I’m saying, how do you know he hasn’t already succeeded?
O-14 Wormwood: I think I’d know if the world was made out of dead babies and blood magic, thanks. You’re not proving yourself very persuasive, or useful.
Wilkins: My proof lies in front of me.
[A long pause. O-14 “Wormwood” lets out a deep sigh. He stands up and looks at the camera.]
O-14 Wormwood: Interview’s over. He’s all yours.
Wilkins: You’ll see it one day, child! You’ll see-
[Camera disconnected.]
[END LOG.]
Closing Note: O-14 "Wormwood" is to be disciplined for significant deviation and unprofessionalism during initial interrogation of Person-of-Interest.
Another hour passes, and Conley is walking down to the basement. The smell of must somehow permeates even the filters on his gas mask. Someone else on his team is already there.
“Took you long enough,” Ulrich says, “Did he spill?”
“No. I told you, these freaks have their ways of keeping quiet. He’ll never spill,” Conley says, looking around the basement. “Any progress?”
“None at all. I think we’re done. So where is he now? He's dead?”
“He’s in the White Box. I told them to pick him up. They left a while ago.”
Ulrich looks up, “Didn’t you just say he wasn't ever gonna spill?”
“This one deserves it.”
Conley doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t move until he feels Ulrich’s gaze leave his body. He takes another look around the basement, and the remnants there. And Ulrich asks him, “What should we do now?”
“They had the right idea, trying to dispose of it," Conley shrugs. "We should finish the job. We should burn it all.”
POST-OPERATION INVESTIGATIONS: Inspection of the basement under the remains of the True Faith Church building yielded evidence of a hastily-destroyed ritual site. Remnants included:
- Several canisters of gasoline, all emptied.
- Burnt and crushed ritual paraphernalia.
- Rough charcoal sketches of the entity that had appeared in the sky in the affected areas.
Autopsy photo of the fetal entity that resulted from the True Faith Church’s aborted ritual.
- The remains of what was previously six chairs arranged in a circle around the center of the room.
- A large burnt mass composed out of a dozen distinct bodies seemingly melded together, assumed to have been the True Faith Church choir. Mass appears to become more congealed and indistinct further in, before softening into a thick liquid resembling mucus, tissue and blood.
Dissection of the aforementioned mass revealed the presence of a large, pale, deformed humanoid curled up in the fetal position at the core. This entity was deceased upon discovery,15 bloated with amniotic fluid, and infested with mold on the inside. DNA testing revealed a 100% match for Godfrey Wilkins.
In addition, parishioners had attempted to burn large amounts of documents prior to the arrival of Foundation forces, resulting in a large amount of ash. A hand-written fragment was recovered along other miscellaneous documents. The fragment was written in German and dated back to the early 18th century. Investigations into possible links to other documented anomalies are ongoing.
“That's not a good idea. You already threw the interview, didn’t you?”
“Oh, for- Look at it! It’s a fucking abomination, what the hell are we gonna learn from this? There’s nothing good here. It’s not like…”
“Conley.”
“What?!”
“Are you okay man? You've not been actin' right lately.”
"…It's been a bad night. Look, just…" Conley tries to rub his temples, but his mask gets in the way. He gestures at the disgusting mound and the gray thing sticking out of it. “Just bag it and send it to the research team. Like usual.”
Ulrich complied, and in minutes there was a team wrapping everything up. Conley watches as the row of black trucks came and went, and as he was leaving so the detonation team could do their job, he wondered if he was just going insane and making mountains out of molehills, or if there really was something else going on. Because they never used to ask so many questions, and they never asked for such specifics.
And this was probably one point among many where he had the chance, where he should've followed his gut feeling to the logical end, but for some reason, he never manages to, and he never does. Instead, he heads home and waits for another mission.
(And, incidentally, nothing happens in the White Box. And nothing ever does.)
On Patterns
I think I’ve stumbled into something interesting, and I’d like to share it with you. It began when I was thinking about the gods again. You know how it is. This particular 'bout was about patterns, if you can believe it.
Symbols, numbers, motifs and tropes. All gods speak through patterns, and the God of Montauk is no different. In every manifestation of his Cults, there are the same repeating designs, the same trends over and over again, no matter what. The number seven, the color red, the power, the crown, the suffering, the brides, the chains, and the God. Over, and over, no matter whether the faction is spiritual, religious, or reactionary. The rules don’t change.
And yet, there is one such aspect that is similarly everpresent, yet consistently overlooked. In fact, I would say it is one of the most defining traits of the Scarlet King belief system - The failure.
You see, all incarnations of the Scarlet Cult are doomed to major failure in the end.
It’s no surprise that this is the one aspect of the Scarlet Cult’s incarnations that is paid almost no attention. It’s a trend that can easily be explained by simple logic. The rise of anti-Scarlet forces is certainly a major factor. The GOC’s Squads, sects of the Broken Church declaring Urdalism as hostile, and the Foundation’s infamous Omicron-14 has all played a large role in reducing the Scarlet cult’s numbers.
However, upon closer examination of these group’s exploits over the years, one thing becomes increasingly undeniable, as well as increasingly bizarre: A large amount of all of these now-decimated Scarlet cult groups were on the verges of their greatest victories when something went terribly wrong.
That’s not hyperbole. Not many Scarlet Cults can be said to have been within reach of their goals when they were decimated, but if you have the records, you quickly notice the same trends in the ones that were. Here are just some examples:
- Blood Reign Aryans - In the midst of finalizing a ritual that would destroy a third of New York, the Aryans attempted the forging of seven bloodstones from the corpse of George Lincoln Rockwell. Records indicated that Omicron-14 intervened during the forging of the seventh bloodstone, causing the ritual to go awry, killing all of the Aryans.
- Red Cross Covenant - Attempted murder of a minor Mekhanite deity using experimental dream-based deicidal methodologies. 77 members of this group dosed themselves with an anomalous compound in order to manually access the deity’s psychoplexes. Upon breaching the final seventh layer, all members simultaneously experienced fatal seizures.
- The Montauk Project - Records are mostly lost, but what remains appears to detail a group of Scarlet-affiliated scientists being hired by the US government for a series of top-secret experiments. All records seem to indicate that the entire group somehow completely ceased existing during the seventh experiment.
And so on, it seems almost comical, but the pattern is clear: As a large-scale Montauk ritual comes to an end, it becomes more and more likely that it would end disastrously (and remember, the trends are always more apparent for larger rituals - Scarlet Cultists are often very capable thaumaturges by themselves). It can't just be attributed to the rise of anti-Scarlet factions over the years. That's contributed, sure, but it's not the whole story.
I've sent you some of the records for you to look for yourself. But I really think I've stumbled upon something here. Something that's gone unnoticed for ages. Something that, somehow, causes all Montauk magic to eventually end in disaster at the eleventh hour. What do you think?
Looking forward to hearing from you,
AWH.
Kingdom Come
"This was an unmitigated disaster."
Hannah Xob does not remember when she came to, only that she had her eyes closed when she did. She briefly wondered if she should open them now.
She chooses the darkness. Staying inside, she kept her eyes shut as tight as possible.
And the reason for this is because she doesn’t yet know if she is dead or alive. For now, she didn’t want to find out. She tries to get a sense of her other sensations. She knew the texture she was feeling on her skin - it was her bodysuit - the one specially designed for this mission. Its official name was at least a paragraph long, but it was designed to keep her stabilized during the mission. It had all these little bumps and ridges and looked like a turtleneck crossed with a spacesuit, and in using her hands to feel for these details, she realizes that she still has them. Arms, limbs, legs, too. A dull feeling runs through them, but they’re there.
She begins considering that she might actually just still be alive. She breathes in salty air. Her mouth tastes blood from a wound on her lip. She is lying on something… dry? Wet? Tentacular? The strange texture vexes her. Her ears, though, wouldn't stop ringing. A tinny noise is all she hears.
Part of her wished to drift back to sleep, but that was when she heard the yelling. A familiar voice. She opens her eyes.
Time to go to work.
PORTABLE COMMUNICATIONS - GIGAS
Location: SCP-9317-Ω
Involved: MTF-GIGAS
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: Hello!? Please! It’s me! Is anyone out there?!
Unknown: ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: Please, someone out there, anyone out there, please…
Unknown: ▓▓▓▓▓▒▓▒▒▒▒▒░▒░░░░
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: (Sobbing.)
Unknown: ▒▒▒▒ell▒▒▒▒ere… I’m▒▒▒▓▓▒▒▒▓▒
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: …Wha… wait, wait! Who’s there! It’s me! It’s Xekas- Uh, Xekasmo- Xekasmenos!
Unknown: ▒▒▓▓▒▒▒▓▒an’t hear me… adjust the freq▓▓▓▓▒▓▒▒
[GIGAS-Xekasmenos adjusts the frequency of the receiver. The audio clears.]
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: Okay, okay… I… I think that did it. Hello? Hello. Please, I’m- I’m here!
GIGAS-Ourliazontas: It’s me, August! Are you there? It’s me, Xob. Hannah Xob!
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: Oh my god, Hannah! I mean, Ourli- Ourliazontas! Oh, I’m so glad it was you, oh my…
GIGAS-Ourliazontas: We don’t need to do the names if you don’t want to. There’s really no one listening to this conversation, I don’t think. Just set it to default.
GIGAS-Xekasmenos: Oh, uh, okay, right…
Agent Xob: Yeah, never, uh, never was a fan of that stuff myself… Where are you right now? I can pick up your signal, but not anyone else’s. I guess you woke up earlier than I did. You sound hoarse.
Agent Kilroy: Y-Yeah, I… God, I’ve kinda been shouting for ages. I’m uh… I’m… I think I’m some forest. Everything is… Everything is reddish. There’s, uh, trees everywhere. Grass. There’s grass, but also, uh, sand? For some reason? I can’t see much of the sky but… I think it’s red too. It all looks sort of surreal… Uh. What about you, where are you?
Agent Xob: Same as you. Red forest and sky, sandy grass, trees. No one else here. All my gear seems okay, thankfully. I think I’m a bit scratched up but I’m fine. No doubt that this is SCP-9317-Ω.
Agent Kilroy: Wha- What do you think happened? Where’s everyone else?
Agent Xob: I don’t know. Last thing I remember was… God, I think it was getting onto the platform. I think… I think something happened after that, but I can’t remember it.
Agent Kilroy: …I think I remember something… Right when we were getting into position for the activation… I think there was a loud noise. I turned around, but there was a flash, then I woke up here.
Agent Xob: I don’t think I remember the loud noise, but my ears are still ringing, so, there must’ve been something like that. Ugh, I guess it was too much to expect things to go off without a hitch.
Agent Kilroy: Ringing? Uh, you mean… Hannah, have you tried covering up your ears?
Agent Xob: Hmm? Why?
Agent Kilroy: The noise isn’t in your ears. It’s just from this place. I heard it too, but it’s kind of faded into the background.
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: Yeah, you’re right. That’s gonna be annoying real quick.
Agent Kilroy: What… do you think we should do now? We were supposed to go along with each other. Do you think everyone else is okay? I- Oh, no… How are we supposed to contact the Foundation? Oh, god…
Agent Xob: Okay, okay, calm yourself, alright? It’s gonna be okay. I think one of the other guys handles the communications, so if we find him, we should be alright. I think for now we should, uh, find each other. Then, we could go find the others. I think I can get to you, August. If we’re close enough to speak this clearly, I’m sure our locators can pick up each other. Just turn yours on at max power. You’re gonna be okay.
Agent Kilroy: Okay, thank you…
Agent Xob: It’s no problem, yeah? Yeah, I think… I think I’ve got your signal. A bit far, but I think I can get there in a bit. Just wait, alright?
Agent Kilroy: Yeah… and, uh, Hannah?
Agent Xob: Hmm?
Agent Kilroy: Thank you. Seriously. I can’t thank you enough.
Agent Xob: It’s nothing.
Hannah gathered up all that she was carrying in her little leather rucksack, and started in the direction of August’s little red dot on the locator device. And it’s a strange feeling, she thought. It’s been so long since she felt it. What is it? Being needed? No, not exactly like that. It was being appreciated. Yeah. It felt nice.
Picking up a knife, she swung it across her side every so often, carving little wounds into the trees. Little wounds that would lead the way back. She doesn’t stay long at each one, though. She doesn’t notice the wounds bleeding salt water, nor does she notice the gray rot that ate at the red bark from the bottom up.
They made contact within an hour. To say that August was relieved would be an understatement, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely the fact that they had no idea where the others were.
“Where should we go next?” August asked, wiping sand off her uniform.
“Can you give me your comms?” Hannah said, taking her own out.
August watched as she placed their communications device together on the ground. She was about to ask something when Hannah made some strange signs with her hands, then pulled her fingers into-
Click.
“What’d you do?!” August stared in amazement at the communications device, which now had golden sigils burning across its surfaces. Hannah picked them up. They seemed stuck together.
“I reread the manual for these things before we went on, there were some basic rituals included,” Hannah said, extending the comms’ antenna. “They couldn’t just use normal technology for SCP-9317. They had to come up with some creative workarounds. Everything here uses some form of thaumaturgy or parabiological alternative. With magic, you can suspend logic and science for a bit…”
“Really?”
“That uniform you’re wearing? Grown in a clone vat, using cells from a designer animal they created that’d resemble the material of a protective suit,” A hint of pride crept into Hannah’s voice. “But yes. With this little trick, I can increase the range of these things alot, for a short time… but hopefully enough to send one message.”
Agent Xob: [MESSAGE/ALL: Currently in forest. I’m with Kilroy. Not sure where I am. Using ritual #4 to extend range of comms. Locator data is as following: #432xzx4674 #67tt3 #314cxd5. Please respond quick.]
GIGAS-Akyros [MESSAGE/ALL: This is Akyros (Val Sanders). I’m with Omega (Daniela Tatton). Locator data is as following: #951mka1245 #43oo57 #231xxa4. No other sightings. I will be moving in your direction. I think we can meet up.]
Agent Xob: [MESSAGE/ALL: Heading there now. Also, can we all ditch the codenames?]
Hannah wrenches the comms apart, and starts shaking them rapidly to cool them down. August could see smoke coming from the ports.
“It’s really not good for the batteries, though.”
It took another 2 hours for them to meet up. Hannah thought they looked like a comical pair, the two of them being together like that. Val with his thick glasses and 80’s hair and mustache looked like a militarized Ned Flanders, while Dina, with her fitting nickname, really did look something like if a dinosaur was a human being, all muscular and tall and sharp-fanged. A blonde dinosaur.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
Agent Tatton: …fucking Foundation, and their fucking “professionals". Fucking cocksuckers.
Agent Sanders: So, how are you two ladies holdin’ up? You doing good, Auggie?
Agent Kilroy: Well, I mean… I’m still lost. I’ve been working on a map since we got here, but it just looks like a map in the middle of nowhere that goes nowhere… But I’m glad to see you and Dina, Val…
Agent Sanders: Map of nowhere that goes nowhere! Ain’t that life. And you must be Hannah Xob!
Agent Xob: Val, you know who I am. We met thrice.
Agent Sanders: Yeah! A second at the water cooler, maybe two seconds the night before we went, and like half a minute sharin’ that platform on 9317. Time for a proper introduction. Put ‘er there!
[Agent Sanders smiles then puts his hand out towards Agent Xob, awaiting a handshake. She reaches out but doesn’t take it. After a few seconds, Sanders turns to Agent Kilroy, who shakes his hand. Agent Tatton groans.]
Agent Sanders: Well, thank you, Auggie. But still, Hannah. Gimme some enthusiasm and give ya’self some credits, you mighta’ singlehandedly saved the mission!
Agent Xob: I… wouldn’t say that. We’re still 3 members down, aren’t we? Telal, Anna, and, uh…
Agent Tatton: Vaughan? Yeah, they might be dead already, Jesus fucking Christ. A fucking disaster is what this has been! “Every precaution,” those fuckers said. They said they took every precaution!
Agent Xob: Yeah, I assume you don’t share Val’s enthusiasm, Dina?
Agent Tatton: The fucking machine blew up, Hannah. It’s a pretty big fucking problem.
Agent Kilroy: Oh no, I thought I saw something like that happening…
Agent Sanders: Aw, come on, dear. You’re gettin’ Auggie all scared now. Look, shit happens, yeah? We’re gonna be fine, we just gotta find the others, regroup, then try to contact the Foundation, they always know what to do-
Agent Tatton: Fucking bullshit.
Agent Sanders: Look, Hannah’s little trick back there, awesome work by the way, saved our asses! And think, if we did that with our own comms, maybe it’ll reach the others, too. I mean, it could work!
Agent Kilroy: Yeah, I… think that sounds like a good idea actually.
Agent Tatton: …It’s not that simple, Auggie. Risk of failure increases when you try to add on to rituals like this. Chances are, we lose our comms, or they blow up, and we all die.
Agent Xob: Yeah, but we don’t have any other way out at this stage. We don’t know where to go, this forest is fuckhuge. None of us managed to catch another signal. I mean, if we don’t do this, what else is there to do?
[Pause. Agent Tatton groans.]
Agent Tatton: The rest of us who don’t know how to do rituals, or don’t want to accidentally fry our genitals off, we’ll be staying a long distance away.
It took a few tries, but the three-way comms device looked like a miniature reactor when it was turned on. Hannah pre-wrote the message, and Val poked comms device with a stick for it to send.
They tossed a can of food at it afterwards to interrupt the ritual. They waited another hour and did it again to check for replies.
GIGAS-Akyros: [MESSAGE/ALL: This is Hannah Xob, with Val Sanders, Daniela Tatton, and August Kilroy. We’re in a forest at #495xaq0234 #42nn10 #954ay3. We’re asking if there’s anyone out there receiving this. Will check back in 1h.]
GIGAS-Alpha: [MESSAGE/ALL: Coordinates to get out of the forest is at #142mna2315 #93ka23 #653mx5.]
“Looks like Anna and Telal didn’t respond…” August said, looking at the screen. “…I really hope they’re doing okay.”
“They can handle themselves, I’m sure! But hey, we’ve got somewhere to go, now!” Val said, wiping the molten bits of his comms off onto a nearby tree. “That Arthur Vaughan. Y’know, we had a few missions together back in the old days. Real resourceful guy.”
Tatton said nothing. She just watched Hannah. Hannah, in turn, was just staring at the comms.
About half a day’s walk. They started on it immediately. Upon finding out that they could get hungry here, they stopped for food (large amounts of canned enhanced Foundation products). Val and August discussed bits of Scarlet King mythology that they thought was interesting and an unnecessary amount of time was spent on trying to figure out a name for the place they were at that didn’t have so many syllables (August went with “Dis” - she’d read Dante recently. Val went with some old TV reference that made no sense). Tatton spent most of the trip cursing Foundation staff under her breath.
But Hannah walked mostly in silence, aside from some small talk when August asked how she was doing.
It was nearly night time when they finally emerged from the forest. On the other side was a sandy beach. Old ruins lie on the shore. The red of the sky had tempered down to something of a dull pink. Arthur Vaughan was there. He had an inscrutable expression on his face. He was gazing at the podiums in the middle of the ruins.
Seven podiums.
Hannah watched as Val and August greeted him, but she and Dina only stayed behind checking the comms to see if anyone else’s picked up. Five of them were there now, and only two left. There was no question of extending the comm’s range again, at this point they’d all melt into slag if they tried it.
It was a while before Telal finally made contact.
PORTABLE COMMUNICATIONS - GIGAS
Location: SCP-9317-Ω
Involved: MTF-GIGAS
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Sup fuckers! I live!
Agent Kilroy: Telal? I’m glad you’re here…
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Yeah, no shit! No one fucks with the Usher, baby. I’m fuckin’ immortal, I’m gonna live forever.
Agent Xob: …Huh.
Agent Tatton: Any signs of Anna?
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Er, nothing, unfortunately. Absolutely zilch. Just been dicking around the woods on my own.
Agent Tatton: Fuck.
Agent Sanders: Jesus, you sure took your time. Where are you? It’s almost night time, we might as well come grab you.
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Oh, uh, I have no idea.
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: How’d you get here if you have no idea where you were? I mean, you’re definitely within range of the portable communicator. Just put #142mna2315 #93ka23 #653mx5 into the locator and-
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Woah, what the fuck are those numbers? Look, okay, uh, my comms was completely fucked. It’s completely destroyed. I couldn’t use it, at all. Turns out I crushed it when I got here.
Agent Kilroy: …How are you talking to us now?
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Oh, uh, I’m using the Foundation one.
Agent Xob: The Foundation one?
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Yeah! They gave me this special comms thing, modified so that it could contact the Foundation. Apparently, it’s got some super special thaumaturgic runes that it uses. I guess that made its range super far-reaching too, but uh, I don’t think it has a locator function.
Agent Kilroy: …Should you be using that, then? Shouldn’t you use it to contact the Foundation?
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Oh, absolutely not. But I couldn’t get the Foundation-contacting option to work for some reason, so…
Agent Kilroy: …That’s not good.
Agent Sanders: Well, look, we can look into it later, but you could either be 5 minutes away from us or 5 days, then. God knows what happens during the night here. What can you see?
GIGAS-Skyrodema: The same shit I’ve been seeing the entire day! Trees and grass with tons of sand in it for god-knows-why, pink sky, and-
Agent Xob: Wait, wait. Do you see sunlight from any direction? Like a sunset?
GIGAS-Skyrodema: …Yeah? Just a little. On my left.
Agent Xob: Run towards it! Sun is setting here on the beach, if you go in that direction, you could get here in a bit. The fact that you could even see that means you’ve gotta be pretty close.
GIGAS-Skyrodema: Right, right! Okay, yeah, I’m gonna do that. See y'all in no time!
And then Telal went dead. Hannah figured it was to conserve power for the comms. About half an hour later, they heard something moving in the woods. They all went to the edge of the woods to greet Telal when it happened. They watched as leaves rustled, and a lone figure emerged.
“Welcome to Hell, Telal Usher! You have been…” Val dramatically shouted, trailing off as he recognized the terrified face of Anna Newman, who ran to the group at once. She looked like she’d been crying. Her uniform was soaked.
“My… My comms ran out of batteries… There’s…” She gasped to the group, collapsing. Tatton caught her as they all looked behind her. “There’s… something… in the woods.”
A moment of silence. Then, the something emerged.
It was large, pale, and horrific. It was in the shape of a man, but wet and bloated. Its sickly pink skin was like that of raw fish flesh. It peeked out of the woods with a single pinprick eye, and with speed that didn’t fit something of its size, reached two gigantic hands out and tried to crawl forward. In its gaping maw lies what remains of Telal Usher.
Anna, however, does not see this, nor does she see it being driven back by three streams of machine gun fire, sending it back into the darkness after causing it to drop poor Telal, his blood pouring into the sand. She was just staring at something over Tatton’s shoulder. She was staring past Arthur’s inscrutable expression and past the blood red sea of Dis. She was staring into the horizons, because for a moment, she swore it was there.
It was a colossal figure of red. It didn’t look human, but she could tell that it had a gigantic body and a head with what seemed like wings sprouting out of it. It had a golden flaming crown, and its face was unlike anything she ever saw.
It looked like it was pleading with her for something. But then, it was gone, like it was never there.
Anna fell asleep, and when she awoke, the vision of the figure had already escaped her memory.
Relevant Information: The Red God, the Scarlet King, and Montauk
It is now believed that the entity known as the Scarlet King was originally part of the Daevite civilization’s pantheon, as evidenced by descriptions regarding an entity commonly referred to as the Mauš Peá or Sau Peá (either the “Blood God” or, more fittingly, the “Red God”).
Information from the Daevite empire regarding this Red God entity, its relation to Daevite culture, and the rest of the Daevite pantheon (such as the Font16) has been exceedingly rare. However, what little information has been salvaged implies these entities to be one and the same. This theory has since been corroborated through various non-Daevite historical sources.
The following section documents one such relevant discovery relating to this earlier form of the Scarlet King:
Artifact 243-170DVT - “The Blood Man On The Lake”
Details: A stone tablet, discovered in 1972. The engraved story is one of the most complete Daevite accounts regarding the Red God entity and how it was viewed in Daevite culture. The following is a tentative translation of the story, believed to be a part of a larger as-of-yet unrecovered narrative.
Translation:
“…from the depths of the sea, a figure larger than the tallest mountains in Daevon and more all-consuming than the [darkness? howling? void?] rose up. Ettá and Ädde stared in awe. The blood man of the lake, whose neck stretched long and whose body faded into the sky, leaned down at their boat.”
The Scarlet King looming before Ettá and Ädde, as depicted on Artifact 243-170DVT.
In a voice like that of a thousand [unknown noun?] , the blood man spoke, “What do you long for?”
And Ettá spoke, “We are but slaves. We suffer! We suffer so! We suffer under the spears of our rulers.”
And Ädde [spoke] , “There is nothing! Nothing we long for more! Nothing we long for more than escape! [Red God]! I know you interfere not in this realm, but I beg! Give us the knowledge to leave our rulers. Show us the path.”
And the blood man spoke, “I will give you the knowledge to escape. I will show you the path. But what will you give me?”
And Ettá spoke not. And Ädde spoke, “All.”
And the blood man spoke, “Give me your [heart]. Give me your [heart] and I will show the way. Give me your [heart] and you will have the knowledge to escape.”
And Ettá spoke not. And Ädde spoke, “Yes.”
A thousand thousand hands reached the boat. A thousand thousand [ghosts?] from the darkness of the waters reached up, and Ettá was gone. And the blood man was gone.
In the night, Ädde is alone. And he dreams. He dreams of Ettá, he dreams of the blood man, and he dreams of unending horrors. He pounded the floor of the boat. Finally, his tears went dry. For two days and two nights, his [mon-täk] fed the blood man.
On the morning of the third day, Ädde saw land, and he knew that he was at a place where the rulers could not reach. The blood man had been truthful, and Ädde was free.
And Ädde screamed until he vomited blood.
Note: The discovery of this artifact was considered a breakthrough in the Foundation’s understanding of The Scarlet King. Though similarities between the entity known as the Red God and the Scarlet King had been noted previously, it was not until the tablet’s discovery that it was determined that these two entities were the same. This was also believed to be one of the earliest appearances of the concept that the Foundation now understands to be "Montauk".
Rats
"Researchers can request further testing when deemed necessary."
Dr. Harley Rowe’s job was to worship gods. Lots of them, usually one at a time. Usually multiple ones per day. That was the job of a Paratheological researcher - the worship of multiple gods. She never had much issues with it. The work was usually the same, and she often found that sort of experience enlightening.
Today, however, her job was to carry out a ritual for a god she’d never worshipped before. A very, very old one. And a very powerful one at that. She shuddered at the ritual instructions, but still, it needed to be done.
"The following is an excerpt from the paper, “The Scarlet King and Montauk”…"
She lays down seven candles, and lights up seven strings.
Seven nails and seven lab rats, offered to the Scarlet King.
“It’s very hard for gods to truly ever die, and while Daevite civilization did not survive its fall, the Red God, or the Scarlet King, surely did. Even though it disappeared without a trace for millennia, recent archaeological digs appear to have unearthed evidence of Scarlet King worship re-emerging as far back as ~6000 B.C. - roughly 2000 years after the Daevites died out. To what this re-emergence owes its existence is currently unknown - whether it was through ontokinetic influences exerted by the King, or through non-anomalous means.”
The rats have slightly enlarged cranium, looking sickly and gaunt. They almost clung to each other as they were placed in the new enclosure, not wanting to let go. Tiny electrodes in their brains transmit emotional data to a computer that Rowe’s assistant was monitoring with boredom. They clung around the seven red candles for warmth. They watched in curiosity as Rowe dipped her finger in a black container and carefully drew a sigil on the enclosure. It was something that Omicron-14 had found in a cult compound a week ago. What they discovered along with it was grisly, but informative.
She washed her hand of the pig blood. It didn’t look quite right, but that was no issue. Symbols needn’t be 100% accurate, just close enough - and it was close enough for a Scarlet sigil. You could make out the form, the body, what she figured were little wings on its head. Yes, close enough.
“What has been ascertained, however, is that even after its two-thousand-year hibernation, this deity had re-emerged with stunningly little deviation from its original Daevite form. An old, crimson-colored sacrifice god that took the living in exchange for knowledge or power. Rock paintings depicting a colossal red being with antlers being praised in the night confirms that this is the same entity that the Daevites had worshipped so long ago.”
“The Akiva counter is on. Sensors says the subjects are experiencing fear, we’re good to go,” said her grim-faced assistant. But Dr. Rowe wasn’t listening. She had tuned it all out as she put on the medical gloves and picked up the hammer. Seven nails. Large, gnarled, rusted ones. They picked these for cruelty. Measured, mathematically-approved cruelty.
Cold, not cruel, she thinks. But all that really means is that we’re dispassionate about our cruelty.
The rats had nowhere to go. The candles burned bright. One hand was pressing down on one of the rats and holding the nail in place. The other hand gripped the hammer. The other ones could only watch. Dr. Harley Rowe steeled herself as she aimed the nail for some place that wouldn’t be vital. Colors on the screen changed from yellow to orange, and the atmosphere in the room made what came next came too naturally.
“At this point, a few features that would later become associated with our modern understanding of the Scarlet King appear to not have coalesced yet - such as the seven brides and his seven chains. And yet, there was an aspect of the King that had remained consistent throughout his entire timeline, dating back to the Daevite age.”
-Onto the second one, now, she was heaving, but she had to-
“It was a strange word that we had only recently come to understand - an old sort of concept that was transcribed as “mon-täk” by linguists at the time, that we now refer to as Montauk.”
-Nothing happening so far, but she has to get the third one-
“To understand the Scarlet King, one must understand Montauk - this concept that accompanies the King every time his presence is noted. From what can be gleaned from its original contexts, It was the means through which the King acted, and yet, it was also something that nourished the King. It came from both the King and those that he oppressed. ”
-all over her gloves now, it was seeping onto her wrists. The next one-
“And throughout history, when cults dedicated to the Scarlet King fell and rose again, they would invoke Montauk in their rituals and dark arts - thaumaturgical undertakings of such insidious and destructive nature that would rightfully earn the worshippers of the King universal disdain and hatred from all corners of both the anomalous and non-anomalous world.”
…She couldn’t do the next one. She probably shouldn’t have been able to do the previous one, or the first one, either, but whatever was driving her then was now completely depleted. This was a horrible idea. The smell was everywhere, and her hands were filthy. The enclosure looked like a horror show. The Akiva counter was silent. It was all for nothing.
“They’re just rats. You have to finish this anyways,” her assistant said. She couldn’t muster up a response. She was doing all she could to prevent the bile from crossing the threshold. Her hands were shaking.
“Look, this has gotta be done one way or the other. If you’re not feeling up to it, I can do the rest of it myself.”
“Please.”
That was all she could say. Dr. Rowe placed the hammer and nails down as she rushed to the bathroom.
Scrubbing away the viscera, she tried to snap herself out of her own empathy, but it wasn’t working. This was a mistake. She’d never dealt with many sacrifice gods before, and while she’s had to deal with the death of her subjects, it was never this… horrific? Barbaric? Primal? She didn’t know what to call it. Was she just being hypocritical? This was the first time she’s had to personally do the job herself, and it was all she could think about all day.
She could hear her assistant skewering the rest of the rats in the room over. She placed her hands over ears until the sound subsided, until all she could hear was the gentle rushing of water, but in her mind, the water kept turning red.
The test was probably a failure, she figured. There was no reaction. The Foundation didn’t find what it was looking for…
“So, what is Montauk? What is the force that could drive such macabre deeds?”
…and she was fine with that. She took a deep breath, and walked out.
Her heart fell when she heard the tiny beeping from the Akiva counter. Her assistant turned to her, beaming. “It worked,” he said. “Should we order another round of testing?”
Dr. Rowe looked at the monitor. Seven blood-red pillars accompanying electrode signatures. The rats had all died in fear, and they all died screaming.
“No. One round is enough.”
Let the poor rats be the final victims of Montauk, she thought.
To the Foundation Ethics Committee,
Enclosed along with this letter are the printed results of the live subject tests, along with the relevant mental states of the subjects. The gist of it is that the Akiva reactor appeared to sound off right at the moment where the subject's fear was the highest.
I think that this confirms the previous hypothesis that the operating principle of "Montauk" relies on the fear of Pluripotent Apex-Tier Entity K7, instilled during a period of great pain and duress. This all seems to match up with what I've heard from Omicron-14's records thus far.
Along with these documents, I've also submitted a request for reassignment to another department. I do not feel like Paratheological studies is the correct field for me at this time.
Thanks,
Dr. Harley Rowe.
Ethics Committee Memorandum:
Subject: Further research on Montauk-related thaumaturgy.
Details: After considerations, the Ethics Committee has decided to place a Class-B Prohibition on further research and experimentation regarding Montauk-related thaumaturgical systems due to the unethical practices that the system necessitates in its operation.
As such, usage of Montauk-related thaumaturgy has been restricted to the following cases:
- The Foundation discovers a Priority-A1 anomaly that absolutely necessitates the use of Montauk-related thaumaturgy.
- Usage of a discovered anomaly that utilizes Montauk-related thaumaturgy is absolutely necessary to contain a larger, wide-scale catastrophe.
Violation of this prohibition will lead to severe penalties, and in certain cases, immediate termination.
This memorandum will go into immediate effect as of today, September 7th, 1982.
Giant Leaps
"Best seat in the house."
“I… think we’re lost.” August said. The entire group paused. Hannah sighed. Vaughan asked if she was sure. “Yeah, uh, this… look at this line. This is where we walked 5 minutes ago, but then… it loops around here, but we were walking in a straight line, but it’s the same spot… It’s a topographical anomaly.”
“Fuck!” Daniela muttered, “I don’t suppose the Foundation ever actually invented a way to deal with anomalous topography, because that would be too fucking convenient!?”
“Nothing that they would’ve been able to fit inside SCP-9317, unfortunately,” Anna whispered. Val was carrying her. Everyone decided to pause for now, and try to work out what to do. And it was then that Hannah decided to slip away.
It hadn’t been an easy morning, but last night was much worse. The pale thing that ate Telal, Vaughan checking his body to find that all of Telal’s communications equipment - the equipment needed to contact the Foundation - were missing. The subsequent shouting match and panic as it began to set in that they had no way out now. It was Vaughan that stepped up to tell everyone to stay quiet. He told the team that the mission was going to be done one way or the other, and that the Foundation would surely have contingencies for this. As of now, perhaps, they were working to bring them back. The only thing to do now, according to him, was to carry out the mission as best as they could. They slept in shifts that night until the morning, but nothing came at them.
Vaughan always spoke in that strange, eloquent way. Like some otherworldly presence. It felt familiar, and commanding, but that was all that Hannah could really say about it. It seemed to have worked for the rest of the team though.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - MTF-GIGAS
Agent Sanders: Look, I think Arthur’s got it right. All I’m saying is, if we backtrack, at least we have a path.
Agent Tatton: Oh, take his side, why don’t you?
Agent Sanders: What does that mean?
Agent Newman: We can’t go back at this rate, there’s nothing to do, and our resources won’t last forever.
Agent Kilroy: …Is there no other way…?
Agent Xob: Look, guys, can I, uh, leave for a bit?
Agent Tatton: Christ, you want to end up missing!? Didn’t you hear Kilroy? It’s a topographical anomaly!
Agent Xob: I meant I’ll be within eyeview, I’m not an idiot. I don’t really have much ideas regarding how we’re gonna work this out, so, uh…
Agent Newman: That’s alright, just uh, don’t get too far, yeah?
There’s only a light breeze, but the ever-present howling is still there if she concentrates. There were two celestial bodies in SCP-9317-Ω. A dull gray moon that came out at night, and a red sun that came out during the day. At night, the moon made everything monochrome, and during the day, the sun shaded everything red. She wondered what things would look like here under normal sunlight.
She noticed a rock nearby in the field, so she sat there. She could hear Vaughan beginning to make some speech announcing some grand inspiring plan. She closed her eyes and tuned it out, tuned all things out, breathing in the salty air. It smelled like pine trees and sea salt.
It was strange how calm the moment was, knowing what she did about the Scarlet King. It wasn’t even an unpleasant sort of tranquility. She didn’t expect that. She didn’t expect this on the other side of the portal.
It certainly threw a wrench into her plans, didn’t it?
She closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t know how long it was until she opened them again, only that someone else was there when she did.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - MTF-GIGAS
[Agent Xob opens her eyes. Agent Kilroy is sitting in front of her, holding a sketchpad. Xob lurches backwards a bit.]
Agent Xob: Auggie?
Agent Kilroy: Oh, uh, I thought you were sleeping… Dina sent me to check up on you. Are you doing okay…?
[Agent Xob rubs her temples.]
Agent Xob: Uh, yeah, yeah… I’m alright. What’s going on so far?
Agent Kilroy: Everyone’s still arguing about where to go next. Not much progress has been made.
Agent Xob: …Were you drawing something?
Agent Kilroy: Oh! Uh, no, just doing some… math. For recalibrating the map. I… uh… I really don’t have anything to say either, so I figure I’d just stay here… is that alright with you?
Agent Xob: Yeah, sure.
[Agent Kilroy sits down next to Agent Xob. They watch the fields for a while.]
Agent Kilroy: What happened to Telal was terrible.
Agent Xob: Yeah, it sucked. It comes with the job, though, unfortunately. Taskforce hazards, y’know…
Agent Kilroy: Yeah… I can’t even imagine that… I think he said he had a brother. I don’t even think that they’ll be able to bring his body back…
Agent Xob: Auggie, it’s depressing, but you can’t get it get to you too much, yeah? It’s part of the job as an MTF.
Agent Kilroy: Yeah, I know… it’s just this is the first time I actually saw it happened to anyone. And now, we don’t even know if anyone’s getting out…
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: …Auggie?
Agent Kilroy: …Yeah?
Agent Xob: How… how old are you?
Agent Kilroy: I- Where’d that come from?
Agent Xob: I don’t know, I never realized how young you looked. And that thing you said, about Telal being the first time you saw someone die… how old are you?
[Pause.]
Agent Kilroy: …I’m 22.
[Agent Xob laughs. Agent Kilroys stands up.]
Agent Kilroy: Hey, c’mon, what’s that for?!
Agent Xob: Get outta here! How the hell do you have enough MTF experience for a High-Risk mission at 22?! Were you doing recon missions in-between classes? What, is the Foundation just hiring kids now?
Agent Kilroy: Oh, come on! You're 26! You couldn't've started that much earlier!
Agent Xob: Hey, I turn 27 in a month, I still joined, like when I was way older than you are. But that's not the point, you have to have been an agent for like, at least 2 years prior to get to your rank, you're saying you were an MTF agent at 19?
Agent Kilroy: Okay, look, I uh, joined Theta-90 right after I joined the Foundation. I was really good at math, so they got me as a topology mapping operator, so, I was part of a previous task force for a while! That position counted!
Agent Xob: Well, uh, you probably should’ve stayed with them, no offense.
Agent Kilroy: I don’t know, maybe… uh, they let me go after just 2 months.
Agent Xob: Shit, really? Why? You seem decent at what you do.
Agent Kilroy: Hey, I mean, I couldn’t do fieldwork. I was scared of danger, I was, uh, not good with other people… And, well… I think they got an AI to take over my work afterwards, so…
Agent Xob: Shit. I’m sorry to hear that.
Agent Kilroy: It’s no problem… but thank you. I appreciate that.
[Agent Xob and Agent Kilroy lean back a bit, watching the clouds move in the red sky.]
Agent Xob: Though… if you didn’t do good with danger, or other people… Might not have been a good idea signing up for SCP-9317 duty, huh?
Agent Kilroy: Yeah.
Agent Xob: So why’d you do it?
[Agent Kilroy looks surprised.]
Agent Kilroy: Oh, uh, um… I… wanted to get, uh… tougher. And, well, the Foundation was hiring, right? I figure I should try getting better at my job… and hopefully get on some real missions one of these days.
Agent Xob: Made a poor choice, then, agreeing on the “High Risk Of Fatality” job on your second go around.
Agent Kilroy: Yeah, well… I was never that good of an agent. But what about you? Why’d you sign up for this mission?
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: Well, I first signed up as an Agent because I was, uh… I figure I wanted some place I could call home. Then, I quit.
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: So, uh, I guess I signed up for this one after so long for the same reason. Yeah…
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: Didn’t expect to potentially die on my first mission back though, y’know?
Agent Kilroy: I’m so sorry… but hey, at least you’ve got the best seat in the house!
Agent Xob: Hmm?
Agent Kilroy: I’m just joking about the rock. There’s only wet sandy grass everywhere. This is the only rock we’ve found for miles! And you get to sit on it, lucky you.
[Agent Xob laughs.]
Agent Xob: Hey, heh, gotta make the most of a bad situation, am I right? No, you can’t have the rock, it’s my throne, Agent Kilroy! My throne in the middle of… fuckin’ nowhere redland. Yeah…
[They both lie down again, taking deep breaths and admiring the view.]
Agent Xob: Wait, why the fuck is this the only rock we’ve encountered so far?
It was heavy, but the two of them together managed to lift it up. They stared at what was underneath, and then stared at each other for a few seconds. August, surprisingly, was the first one to shout to the rest of the group.
“Guys! Look- Look at this! There’s a sign under this rock!”
It was a single arrow, but it was enough to go on. MTF-GIGAS reluctantly followed the signage in one direction, until-
“A second rock,” Hannah shouted, “Another sign, that way!”
-And they followed that one, until-
“There’s another one up ahead, I’ll be damned, it’s working!” Val said, pointing at the map. “Look, as long as we follow the rocks, this thing actually works! The map actually works, we’re not walking in circles anymore!”
And it went on for hours, but this time, they walked with purpose. There was an ever increasing feeling of certainty that this next rock would be the last, as August’s map finally grew into something more definite, more coherent.
“What’s that up ahead?” Anna asked, pointing to something in the distance. “It doesn’t look like more grass. It’s almost like…”
“It’s a cliff.” Daniela said, and the group rushed towards it. They drank in the sight at the other end in silence. All six of them.
“Dina, is that it? Is that-”
“Yes. It’s, uh, I think it is. It’s… it’s the Daevite Empire. It’s unmistakable. Christ.”
It was magnificent. The cliff led off to a small valley, under which tiny little black dots littered the plains. It was unmistakable, and much bigger than what they had anticipated. It wasn’t a clump of little villages, this was a true city-state.
And in the far distance, past the city, past more grasslands and sand, lies what seemed to be a black lake, and in the middle of the lake was the great, blackened castle - reaching off into the sky. Somehow they hadn’t noticed it first. It was a strange sight. Almost illusory. Something about it disturbed their sense of scale, their depth perception.
“Guys! Guys, there’s a way down! Look!” August shouted, and it snapped them back to reality. And Hannah watched as the rest of the group followed her down the cliff. She could almost feel Vaughan watching her, and she flinched.
But her thoughts right then weren't on Vaughan, or the Daevites, or the Scarlet King, or the castle.
It was on August, and something that she’d said to her a while back.
“What, is the Foundation just hiring kids now?”
Nineteen, and she was in a Foundation task force. Twenty-two, and she was here. A cartographer mapping out Hell. And some part of Hannah was terrified at the idea, not that August had requested to be on this mission, but the fact that, despite all of their rigorous background checks, the Foundation had gladly accepted her.
It’s one of those moments that all agents had after a while, when they realize that the Foundation wasn’t what they thought it was. Wasn’t what they wished it was. But, Hannah figured, that was just life. She had to accept that.
And as she followed the rest of the group down the hill, she briefly wondered, in the darkest corners of her mind, what else the Foundation could allow itself to do, and what else it was truly, truly capable of.
Carmen
"Hell is a place where nothing connects with nothing."
Carmen walks under a pitch black sky. Ground meat lies under her feet. There is nothing else, and for as long as Carmen can remember, things have always been this way. This will always be how things are. Carmen is in the land of annihilation.
Sometimes, she sees another figure in the distance. A figure that runs when she runs and stops when she stops. She could never catch up to it. One day, she found out that behind her was another figure too. All of them were there, never catching up to another, always distancing themselves in perfect synchronicity. Sometimes she shouts something at them, and sometimes they shout something at her. The noises never closes the distance between them.
Though, none of this can be true, not really. Carmen has no eyes with which to see. No legs with which to run. No ears to hear and no mouth to shout with. No limbs, no torso, no skin. She is not there. She is somewhere else, now.
The ground is made out of ground meat, and sometimes it writhes. If Carmen looks closely enough at it, she starts recognizing faces. Sometimes she recognizes her own. Sometimes she remembers why she is here, but mostly, she doesn’t. She just remembers the Grinding.
Sometimes, she hears the voice of her God, coming from the infinite night sky above, with not a star in sight.
FITZGERALD: THE TOTEMS ARE GOING TO TAKE A WEEK TO REPAIR LOOK AT ME NOW
PATER: I TOLD YOU IT’S GOING COMPLETELY AS PLANNED THIS IS HOW IT’S MEANT TO BE
FITZGERALD: NO NO YOU TOLD ME IT WOULD WORK THIS TIME YOU SAID YOU HAD IT FIGURED OUT
PATER: I DID JUST WAIT FOR GOD’S SAKES I TOLD YOU IT WOULD GO AS PLANNED THIS IS PART OF THE PLAN
God screamed at Itself a lot. In fact, that’s the only thing that It seems to do. It’s certainly not how her mother described God to her in church when she was 12, which does make her question if the calamitous voices from the sky really were that of God’s. But it has to be God. And besides, her mom died when she was 4 and she never went to church, so she probably didn’t know much of what she was talking about anyways.
Carmen looks down. The ground is concrete now. They’ve always been concrete. The rough kind, the kind that was just recently poured, that tears at the flesh. She paused to rest the reddened, scratched stumps that she walked on. She briefly reflected on the red trail she’s left, trailing backwards to the figure before her, tracing the red trail of the figure beyond.
The voice of God shouts profanities all the while.
TATTON: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME I WAS TOLD THAT THIS WAS SAFE AND YOU HAD IT ALL FIGURED OUT
CROSS: TRUST ME PLEASE JUST CALM DOWN WE’RE GONNA GET HER BACK IM SURE SHE CAN HANDLE HERSELF
TATTON: I AM GOING TO KILL YOU IF THIS FAILS
CROSS: IF THIS WORKS OUT YOUR NAME’S GONNA BE IN ALL THE HISTORY BOOKS THINK OF YOUR LIFE’S WORK CAMERON THE TRUTH OF THE DAEVAS THINK ABOUT THAT
TATTON: TO FUCKING HELL WITH THAT SHE’S THE ONLY FAMILY I HAVE LEFT CHRIST I SHOULD HAVE LEFT HER HOME
Home. Carmen seems to remember something like that. Memories of another life. Perhaps several of them, in fact. She remembers growing up in a delightful little house. She remembers growing up in an apartment building block. She remembers growing up on the streets of some dark odious cityscape. She remembers not growing up at all. Not being able to.
On second thought, no. She doesn’t remember. She just knows this place isn’t it. All of those lives, those fragments all converge somewhere in the same spot, though.
She thinks about it a bit harder. All the different streets from around the world. She remembers signs and notices. She remembers needing help, and seeking help. She remembers the trucks, cramped and dark, the feeling of being pressed against something wet and pathetic. She remembers the view outside of the dark window, the streetlights as they approached a tall dark building with a red crown on it. She remembers the view from a thousand different angles, through a thousand different pairs of eyes.
The sky is not empty. It is full of broken shards of glass, and rusted nails, and iron skewers. It is a hateful instrument, built for a hateful purpose, by a wrathful, desperate God. And in this moment, Carmen is not just Carmen, and she hears the voice of God demanding another cleansing.
PATER: COMMENCE RECALIBRATION NOW I WANT THIS THING OPERATIONAL WITHIN A WEEK
The sky clears up, and the eyes of God show themselves. And God sees Carmen lying there in the mass of viscera and stone. God sees all of them, walking down that dreadful trail, and they all watched as his eyes burned them like a dozen suns bursting into existence. God had dozens of eyes. Hundreds.
The flesh tried to find empathy in just one. And sometimes God flinches-
But it’s never enough.
With one commanding finger, God declares that they have all fallen short of Perfection. And that Carmen (who was Bill, who was Clara, who was John, who was Nguyen, who was Mateo, who was Diego…) had all failed the test.
With another finger, God sends the sky hurtling down towards them.
Carmen is in the land of annihilation, and every day, she is reminded that annihilation is eternal - if only she could still remember what that meant.
Members of the SCP-9317 Operation Team are to be reminded that all aspects of SCP-9317’s operation and usage is completely consistent with the Ethics Committee’s guidelines regarding the usage of Montauk-related Thaumaturgy. Please consult a superior if you feel that your mental state is unsuitable to carry out the tasks at hand.
Incident Log: Letter From PoI-7132
On Saturday, associates at Sheffield Corporate Property, a Foundation front company, received a letter addressed to someone named "R.P." The contents of the letters were as following:
Microfiction: The Seven Paths.
A woman walks on a road through the afterlife. Eventually, there comes a point in the road where it splits off into seven different paths. She notices a man waiting for her, and she asks what the seven different paths were about.
"It's something of a joke from God," He tells her. "He has a very strange sense of humor. You see, one of these paths leads to Heaven, while all others leads to Hell."
"Oh, dear." Says the woman. "How am I supposed to know which one is which?"
"Why," Says the man. "That's why I'm here - to give instructions to those who arrives through this road. I tell you, the correct path is the sixth one from the left."
"Oh, thank you!" Says the woman, tearing up. She walks down the path the man pointed, but suddenly, she is met with fire, and she falls down to Hell.
"Yes!" Shouted the man, who had sent five others (now six) to their eternal damnation previously, "Now, I know the true path! I shall be blessed!"
And he ran headfirst down the final path, but then suddenly, God comes down and tears him limb from limb anyways, because, indeed, He has a very strange sense of humor.
The end.
Written by AWH.
It is believed that this letter was intended for Dr. Russell Pater, who, at the time, was stationed at Site-523. However, upon recognizing that the the letter originated from a known person of interest (PoI-7132 - "Alberto Weider-Hoffman"), who had close ties to several hostile GoIs within the REDSIGHT database, the letter was disposed of immediately for fear of memetic contamination.
Dr. Russell Pater was not notified of this incident.
ACT III
THE BLACK STATE
In The Snow
"Roots."
The wind is howling and the air is harsh and cold. It’s the kind of cold that bites sharp, that cuts deep. Nature itself was telling them that they were not welcome here. Yet, it is man’s nature to disregard the warnings. The men in the military vehicle driving through the snow-laden sand hills were no different.
“Snow mountains in a desert, huh?” Said one of the men. “Never even seen one before.”
“It’s not exactly rare, it’s one of the more common freaks of nature,” The man at the front said, “That’s how it is. Things you’d think are polar opposites, they just mingle in their weird little pockets out here.”
“Should I be hearing any of this?” said Russell Pater, who was blindfolded in the backseat.
“Oh, no,” said the man driving. “Technically, it’s grounds for immediate termination for you to be hearing this, but I doubt the Foundation’s about to have me off the man they’ve just hired to manage one of their most volatile projects.”
Russell hears some nervous laughter, but it’s clear that their hearts aren’t in it. They drove for another 15 minutes before stopping. He gets off, and so does the driver. He’s not allowed to remove his blindfolds until the sound of them driving away is no longer audible.
“Greetings, I’m Stan. I’m the Lieutenant Colonel of MTF Omicron-14,” The man introduced himself to him. He was a broad-shouldered man with a similarly broad grin. “It’s a newly-established taskforce, just for this project. We’ll be directly under your oversight, doc.”
“A dedicated MTF. A very volatile project indeed. I’m sure the O5s are watching this one quite closely?” Russell said, shaking his hands.
“No. Not at all.”
And with that, the man uncovered a hidden shaft under one of the rocks, and they both descended into the dark depths.
The halls of Facility-41 are plain and utterly nondescript, so much so that there is no readily apparent way to discern any of them from any of the others. The rooms are unlabeled, some entry ways have no discernible markings, lacking even a door. There are no lights, and Russell doubts there is even electricity down here.
Stan holds an oil lantern in front of them as they walk down the narrow corridors. After what seemed like hours, they arrived at a red emergency door. Paint peels and gray discolorations dot its scratched surfaces. Russell briefly wondered why they were entering through an exit door.
He briefly thought that they were back under open air, but that couldn’t be right. They’d descended far too much for that, and it was mid-day when he entered. His eyes adjusted, and it became clear that they were in a large cavern somewhere beneath the mountain. Lights and paths had been laid out to illuminate and connect a variety of large box-like structures scattered around the area. They go through a security checkpoint manned by silent masked guards.
“Everything’s just been set up. Frankly, we’re not sure how long this is gonna take, so they’re still deciding between long-term and short-term containment. Those are our barracks, there in the distance. Those are the offices, usual living facilities, “ Stan pointed at each of the structures. “They’re still working out how to deliver food and things like that, but there's a decently-stocked storage, and they’ve just got water set up.”
“What about those buildings?” Russell asked, pointing to a lone box building in the distance.
“You’ll get to that, later.” Stan said, as they entered the office building. Russell grimaced as they headed upstairs, passing by Foundation employees silently painting the living room. Another short hallway, and they were at the Director’s Office. A pasty-faced young staffer greets them.
"This is Dr. Russell Pater. He'll be taking things over." Stan motioned to Russell, then turns to him. "Russ, this is Dr. Rowe's assistant- Well, technically, he's yours now- Mr…"
"Liam Fitzgerald," The staffer says, shaking Russell's hand. "And am I glad to see you both. She's in there."
"How is she?"
"Not good. But hey, that's why you're here, huh?" A smile forms at Liam's lips as he handed over the pass to the office. "To talk some sense into her?"
(Soon-to-be-former) Facility-41 Site Director Harley Rowe sits at her desk, red-faced and almost collapsed. Even from a distance, Russell could see that she was shaking. Stan excuses himself. The door closes behind them.
“I hear you’re handling a difficult project?” Russell says. “They didn’t tell me anything, they just told me that they needed a replacement, and they thought I was suitable.”
Dr. Rowe slowly looked up. She’d been crying.
“I’m sorry, Rowe, I mean…” Russell said, and he briefly tries to remember how to appear comforting.
“…I can’t tell you… how scared I am…” Rowe chokes. “Oh… Oh God… Oh Lord Jesus Christ in Heaven…”
A hand on her shoulder, a flare of the eyebrows. “Rowe, please, please calm down. Whatever it is, we can work this out…”
“…I’m so sorry, Russell. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I can’t… I can’t. It’s… It’s…”
It takes an hour for her to finally calm down. It takes another for her to finally tell Russell the current situation. To Russell, it was a simple issue: A new set of containment procedures were sent in, and she did not have the necessary skills to carry it out. The Foundation needed someone who did, and they looked to him. Getting an understanding of the situation was easy, Russell thought, but trying to get her to continue speaking was tough. Certainly the most annoying part of the whole situation.
The responses were probably some of his finest works. He told her that he’d carry out what was necessary, and try as hard as he could to address and alleviate her concerns. He told her that he’d find a way. Had they not worked together for ages, and had he always not made the right calls? Were they not veterans, siblings in arms? After all that’s happened, after Malfeasance, she had to know, right? She had to know that he wouldn’t let her down?
“You have to believe me, Rowe. It’s a hard situation, but I think I know what to do. You, you need to take care of yourself, yes?” Another pat on the back. A reassuring smile, but with carefully managed panic in the eye to really sell it. “The toughest part is over. There’s water in the fridge, and Stan can show you the way out. And if you wish, there are amnestics-”
“It’s a trap,” she tells him. “Russell… Please. It’s… it’s clear to me. It’s a trap. You must not let them do this. They wouldn’t hear it from me, but you, Russ, you mustn’t…”
About fifteen minutes later, Stan came back into the office, where he found Russell poring through endless casefiles of evidence. Artefact reports, archaeological examinations, and testimonials all lay scattered on the floor.
“Dr. Rowe is on her way back to Site-19,” Stan reported. “What about you? Are you gonna do what the Council asked?”
“Yes. That seems like the most logical thing so far,” Russell said, examining a leather bound book. “For the time being, it’s a sound strategy.”
“So, you don’t believe what she said then, that it’s a trap?”
“Oh, no,” said Russell, closing the book and placing it with the rest of the recovered artefacts. “It’s almost certainly a trap.”
Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, Dr. Harley Rowe of the Ethical Containment Board gives back the can of aerosolized amnestics to a man in the passenger seat, and she briefly pondered if she’d do anything about all of this, and her thoughts turns to all the things she should’ve said, and the things she could’ve done, and from there, she thinks about all the situations that she was in, and what needed to have happened to put her into all of those situations in the first place. The things that people must’ve agreed on, the people who must’ve known and the values that they must’ve had to come to those conclusions. And she just keeps going through those dark hallways, and the thoughts roll around in the corners of her mind, and the halls become darker and darker until suddenly she reaches the end - and there is nothing to be done.
She could’ve taken the amnestics, she thought. She should’ve taken the amnestics. Instead, she hides herself away, and quietly, she weeps.
SCP-9317-Ω Mortal-Defic Realm Analysis
By Anna Newman
Overview: The following section is a comparison between Dr. Paxton’s original hypotheses on the nature of the Mortal-Defic Interactivity Realm (henceforth referred to as an IR), and SCP-9317-Ω (henceforth referred to as subject.)
| Dr. Paxton’s Hypotheses | SCP-9317-Ω |
|---|---|
| As the perfect midway point between all things earthly and divine, an IR would be equally physical as well as conceptual/divine. For example, an item would not just be represented by its physical form but also a conceptual ideal of itself. This could render the object intangible or indestructible. | Analysis of materials inside the subject has shown a surprising amount of physicality. Matter in the subject seems to exist in a similar way to how they would in the real world. Foreign materials were subject to damage and trauma, as well as death in certain situations. |
| Human beings cannot exist in their fully-physical states in an IR. As such, they will be “uplifted” to a certain level of divinity to fit the realm’s boundaries. This could mean a spiritual or conceptual form, either fully or partially. In this state, humans are closer to divinity, and can’t be harmed/killed. | The MTF-GIGAS team appears to be on the same level of physicality as other matter in the subject, which is, as previously stated, close to baseline levels. Furthermore, one member of the team was later injured and terminated during the course of the mission. |
| An IR exists with absolute controlled order and no chaos, as all details exist for the benefit of the mortal party. Animals, ecosystems, and vegetation that might appear are simply for aesthetic or symbolic reasons, not true sentient beings with needs unrelated to the mortal party. | Almost completely debunked. Entities and ecosystems exist in subject independently of the mortal party. See “Ecosystem” section for more details. |
| An IR’s respective Deific Entity, or god, does not reside in IRs but in their own metaphysical realm. An IR’s interface only exists to precipitate interactions with mortals on a level that mortals can comprehend. As such, there can be periods where an IR may be uninhabited by its respective god. | Seemingly confirmed. That the Scarlet King does not reside in subject was one of the pre-requisites for a manned exploration. Foundation Intelligence was able to confirm this using Kingship LandBridge’s information though I sure as fuck don’t know how. MTF-GIGAS has yet to encounter the Scarlet King over the course of the mission. |
| All IRs are tied to their respective Deific Entity, or god, and depending on the power of the god, their presence will be felt strongly throughout the entire realm. As such, alterations, maintenance, and interactions with the realm from the god will leave behind trails of spiritual energies in the form of immense Akiva radiation. Mortals will often get a sense that they are being watched, and items and locations of great spiritual significance will produce effects akin to religious euphoria. | Aside from a constant high level of Akiva radiation coming from the realm itself, there has been no notable increases or spikes in Akiva radiation from any aspect of the realm. MTF-GIGAS members have yet to experience emotional or Akiva-related effects from any specific aspect of the realm other than expected reactions. Feelings of being watched deemed within baseline limits. |
Closing notes: Further investigations are warranted, but if SCP-9317-Ω gives any indications, Dr. Paxton’s theories on Mortal-Deific realms were mostly accurate, aside from a few deviations. It should be noted that SCP-9317-Ω is still the only Mortal-Deific realm on the record, and it’s quite likely that other realms will paint a completely different picture.
Something that I feel should be noted is the absence of the relevant deific entity in this realm - The Scarlet King. As previously mentioned, there was a level of chaos and randomness to the realm that none of us really expected - which made the fact that there is so little evidence of the divine figure that supposedly created the place much more questionable. We were expecting small to moderate signs - perhaps an astral projection, hume spikes indicative of divine forces, or even metaphysical constructs of significance, but we’ve basically found nothing so far.
A strange land, with some strange animals and plants, yes, but nothing that indicates a divine figure at play. Almost as if there is no god here.
Old Ghosts
"Someone's home."
Hannah watched the ground as they walked through the ghostly city state. She watched as little prints formed under August’s shoes in the red coarse dirt surface. She could see tiny displaced grains of dirt shifting, slowly pushing itself back. When she looked back, the footprints behind them were already disappearing.
“Freaky, huh?” Anna said, watching the little wounds they’d pressed into the earth seal up behind them. “I’ve seen something like it before. It’s like…”
“Psychological imprinting. It’s, uh, it’s when the memory of something becomes a construct. All changes slowly undulates, as to resemble the original memory,” Hannah finishes, slightly regretting having opened her mouth. “Uh, I think.”
“I didn’t know you were into that sorta thing!” Anna beamed. “Holy crap, and that’s like, textbook.”
“I, uh, had a small stint doing a thaumaturgy-related job…” Hannah admits. “But do you think that’s it then? That it’s one of the signs you were looking for? Of the… the King?”
Anna retrieves a counter from one of her uniform’s many pockets. She looks at it, and makes a face. “Nope, it’s still nothing. It’s… certainly strange, but not an act of God. Still don’t know what to make of it, though. I’m trying to lock in on a potential source link for the psychological imprints, and I can’t make sense of the results.”
“Oh, you’re not getting any source links?”
“No. I’m getting too many. And counting. Everywhere.” Anna said, looking around. “That must be what this place is made out of.”
“What, this city-state is made out of psychological imprints?”
“Traumatic imprints.” Anna said, “They’re the only kind that are this vivid. If all of this city’s like this, there must be millions of them here. All… patchworked together.”
The landscape is filled with mostly small, partially-subterranean structures. Dwellings for the lowliest of slaves. Among some of them are tall multi-story towers, with what appeared to be decorative gardens, or perhaps even farms. Dwellings of the upperclass. There seemed to be little in-between the two categories.
All the houses were abandoned. All signs of habitation were long gone, and there wasn’t a single soul, or animal left anywhere. A dead city, frozen in time. A fixed point in some long lost corner of history.
Everpresent were the depictions of the god. It was everywhere, drawn in the streets, built into the walls of the towers, or taking the form of rough stone statues. There was no mistaking that familiar figure, bathed in the Scarlet light of this world. Tree-like horns. A cyclopean countenance. No points for guessing who that is, Hannah thought.
Every so often, there is some wicked instrument sitting in the middle of the street. A cage designed to fit the human body. A display clearly meant to showcase skewered corpses. When they finally stopped walking, it was at a large clearing with a long dead tree. Seven nooses hung from its branches. There is no wind to move them.
Daniela provided some grisly historical facts about the Daevites all while they set up camp.
PORTABLE COMMUNICATIONS - GIGAS
Location: SCP-9317-Ω
Involved: MTF-GIGAS
Agent Tatton: …Even the children. All of them. Every few months. No, the slaves gave all they had to the upperclass, and the upperclass gave what the slaves gave ‘em to the King.
Agent Kilroy: Look, I don’t want to hear about this anymore…
Agent Tatton: There’s more where that came from! Lots more. This seems to be one of the civilian areas. Probably one of the nicer ones, too. All of these things are just for show, to intimidate. There were worse things in the Empire. Sacrifice valleys, death temples, the Halls Of The Daevas…
Agent Xob: Halls Of The Daevas?
Agent Tatton: Yeah, it was this huge fortress structure that the Daevas resided in. All of the empire’s soldiers lived there. Conditions were purposefully horrific, they designed everything in order to maximize their soldier’s ability to fight, cause harm, cause suffering, and…
Agent Sanders: Wait, is that what that thing is?
[Agent Sanders points to the dark castle in the background, visible in the distance.]
Agent Tatton: Uh, no. That’s… I don’t know what that is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Daevite architecture like that.
Agent Kilroy: I mean, this place is based on a real place, right? Did they ever find any traces of that castle in the real world?
Agent Tatton: If I’ve not heard of it, then I doubt it. Besides, I’m sure this isn’t even representative of a real Daevite city-state. It’s like some fucked up fascimile of one.
Agent Newman: Hey, that’s what I was thinking…
Agent Xob: So, what does that mean, exactly?
Agent Tatton: I’ve identified at least 3 or 4 distinct architectural styles here. Daevites, sure, but from settlements in completely different parts of the world. Stuff I’ve seen from dig sites that were continents away from each other. Everything’s been mashed up.
Agent Kilroy: How can you be so sure?
Agent Tatton: Well, another clue’s the planning. I don’t know about you folks, but the planning for the city’s completely insane. Farms in the middle of civilian homes, cutting off each other and the paths. Buildings all facing wildly different directions. It's illogical.
[Members of MTF-GIGAS paused to look around at the surrounding architecture.]
Agent Kilroy: Huh… how’d we not notice that?
Agent Sanders: Well, personally, I was more focused on the horrible murdery bits.
Agent Tatton: It’s probably what Newman and Xob said, some sorta' collection of memories. Bits and pieces all warped together, ‘cept it all comes out kinda wrong.
Agent Newman: Oh. You were, uh, listening?
Agent Tatton: Not exactly much here to listen for, except for that awful noise. It’s a good theory, though.
Agent Newman: Thanks, I… guess?
Agent Tatton: C’mon, I’m being serious! it's a compliment. Take pride in it.
Agent Newman: Right, yeah, sorry. I mean, I really appreciate it. Thank you. You’re really knowledgeable about the Daevites, too. Uh, compliments to that!
[Agent Tatton grimaces.]
Agent Tatton: Yeah, uh, no. Maybe… maybe don’t say that. That, hoo boy, I’m not fucking proud of that at all.
Agent Kilroy: Aw, c’mon, why not? It’s cool to have something you’re really good at.
Agent Tatton: Auggie, have you seen this fucking mess? This entire place, it’s a fucking abomination. I mean, there’s just fucking atrocities after atrocities here. There’s nothing meaningful. There’s nothing worth knowing about.
[Agent Tatton grows progressively angrier.]
Agent Tatton: Hell, I didn’t even want to be in this Daevite shit. I’m only here because my uncle wrote a book about them one time, and he forced me into it because he’s still fuckin’ chasing that high! I’m only here because I’m the closest thing they have to a Daevite historian that can hold a gun!
Agent Newman: Hey, I mean, Dr. Cameron Tatton is a well-respected historian. The book contributed to-
Agent Sanders: Anna, please-
Agent Tatton: Oh, bullshit! All that he’s done was repopularize some bullshit sacrifice rape god, and his similarly bullshit demented sacrifice cavemen culture! All that’s done is inspire sick fucks everywhere from the Serpent’s Hand to Three Portlands who’s got a hard-on for that kind of sick shit. You know how many fucking ghouls I’ve seen waving that book around, saying that we needed to come back to the Daevites? You know how many Neo-Daevan Nazi Clubs or whatever were caught with stashes of his book, trying to LARP out sacrifice rituals or whatever?
[Agent Tatton exasperatedly waves her hands in the air.]
Agent Tatton: I don’t get it, I don’t fucking get it! It’s just a collection of stories about people being fucking awful to each other for no good reason for some god that hated all of them, and that’s all they’ll fixate on. It’s fucking twisted! It’s deranged!
Agent Sanders: Come on, honey, please calm down-
Agent Tatton: Hell, you know that- That Rainer Kingsley fuck? The one that ran Kingship LandBridge before it got annihilated? That nazi degenerate who’s the reason we’re all here now? They found a fucking Daevite painting hanging in his bedroom. They’re saying he might’ve stared at it everyday, I don’t fucking know, probably jacked off to it while a couple feet away was some sick horrible fucking ritual where they disembowled a kid, or something similarly fucked up!
Agent Newman: Christ.
Agent Tatton: So, yeah! Fuck the fucking Daevites! Fuck my uncle, fuck his goddamn braindead book, fuck the Scarlet King, and fuck this cold degenerate bitch of a universe for putting me here now like I’ve ever done anything to deserve it!
Agent Sanders: Come on, hun, come on…
[Everyone looks at each other in silence as Agent Sanders embraces Agent Tatton.]
Agent Newman: Okay, I’m sorry for saying that. I’m sorry for bringing it up.
Agent Tatton: Look, it… doesn’t matter. Just finish setting up. It’s… it’s almost time. We gotta be on schedule. We gotta leave when mid-day comes.
Agent Xob: Alright, yeah, yeah.
[Everyone continues setting up the camp site. After a few minutes. Agent Kilroy turns to Agent Xob.]]
Agent Kilroy: W-Wait, Hannah… Rainer Kingsley was a Scarlet King worshipper? I- I just remembered I knew who he was… I thought he was just a tech guy…
Agent Xob: Oh, yeah, that part was buried pretty deep in the history document. He was a genuine one. A devout one too. He was there during that… that raid. When 9317 was recovered.
Agent Kilroy: …Wow… It’s a weird feeling. I remember seeing some of his interviews. I just remember thinking I didn’t like him. I can’t imagine him being an actual Devil worshipper.
Agent Xob: I mean, I sorta expected it, but uh… also, the Scarlet King isn’t the Devil. Like, the biblical one. That’s a bit more of a historical mix-up. Something about Christians finding depictions of the King…
Agent Sanders: Mmhm. One of the reasons why the Devil is thought to be red. Color from the King, cloven feet from Pan, the pitchfork from Neptune’s trident…
Agent Kilroy: Yeah, well, you know what I meant, but still. It’s… weird. You see someone on TV, on the internet, and it turns out, they were doing horrible, awful things… Part of me just can’t believe it.
Agent Vaughan: I can. I was there.
[Everyone turns to look at Agent Vaughan.]
Agent Vaughan: I was Omicron-14. I was there when Kingship LandBridge was raided. I saw Rainer Kingsley. I saw the Daevite painting above his bed, too.
[Pause.]
Agent Tatton: Well, there you go.
Agent Sanders: Goddamn! Artie, holy crap, you are a certified fuckin’ hero!
Agent Newman: Uh, I’m not familiar.
Agent Sanders: Anna, Auggie, those guys are fucking beasts! Oh, the stories I’ve heard about them. They’re true heroes. Foundation heroes. I didn’t know we had a genuine O-14 on our team!
Agent Vaughan: *shrugs* Hannah was on it, too. She was our thaumaturgical specialist.
[Everyone turns to look at Agent Xob. She freezes in the midst of setting up a tent.]
Agent Sanders: Holy crap, well, ain’t this day just fulla’ surprises! How come ya’ didn’t tell us?
Agent Kilroy: Yeah! I didn’t know you were on a hero team, Hannah! Did you raid Kingship too?
Agent Xob: What- Oh, uh, I- I…
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: I… I wasn’t on that mission. I was, uh, busy.
Agent Vaughan: Tchk.
[Agent Vaughan walks away. Agent Xob is shaking.]
Agent Kilroy: Still, I bet you’ve got lots of great war stories!
Agent Xob: Uh, yeah. Look…
Agent Tatton: It’s time.
[A timer sounds, signifying that it is mid-day.]
Agent Tatton: Well, that’s that. Sanders and I, we have some reports on the dirty damn Daevites to write up. What’s everyone else doing?
Agent Newman: I’ve still got a couple of analysis reports to write up.
Agent Kilroy: Um, the camp’s not done, so, I’ll help Hannah set it up. I’ve already updated the map.
Agent Sanders: Right, I think Artie said he was gonna keep trying to find the epicenter, so we know where to go next. He’ll probably be around.
Agent Xob: …How close are we to the epicenter?
Agent Sanders: I don’t think it’s very far. Mission’s almost done, we just gotta get there, map things out, walk back and contact the Foundation. Gotta keep up, gang! For Telal!
Agent Kilroy: …Yeah.
Agent Tatton: So, six hours? Everyone back in six hours?
Agent Xob: Yeah, that works.
[Agent Xob zips up the tent, and MTF-GIGAS begin walking into the city again. After a few steps, they all stop.]
MTF-GIGAS stood still as they looked into the houses and buildings in the distance, and there is something among the desolate and cold city-state that wasn’t there before. Something moving. Lots of things moving.
They start walking towards it, against their better judgement.
Red, glowing skeletal figures walk among the once empty streets. They shuffle from place to place, without apparent purpose or choices. They smelled of rain, and as Sanders came up to greet them, his hands passed through them immediately. There had to be dozens of them. Were they all out here, all across the city? Then there’d have to be tens of thousands, maybe more.
“I… are they traumatic imprints, too?” Hannah asks.
“I… I don’t know. Maybe?” Anna replies, pounding her thaumaturgical instruments. “I… Something’s wrong with my devices.”
“Well, then, what are we gonna do?” August asks, turning to her.
“Xah or se la?” Someone next to Hannah said. They all turn to find Val, apparently in conversation with one of the skeletal figures.
“..te a’tu hi’ka…” It says, before turning away to continue its march.
“Don’t worry. This is… our department,” Daniela says, holding her head in her palm. “Everything proceeds as planned, but, well… We’ll probably take another 2 hours.”
On Montauk
I remember home.
I remember the tiny little huts that we all lived in, the wilderness and the mosquitos. I remember the farmers and the smell of hay when it rained. I remember the wet dirt, and playing in the sand. The night was cool, and there were fireflies as far as the eye could see.
I remember growing up hungry, and starving, but loved. My mother told me that love and hope was all a person needed. More than food, more than water, more than anything. I remember her telling me that over, and over, as she did her little rituals: Cutting out paper doves, lighting small candles. Praying in a language I never did manage to learn. Praying for things to get better. Praying for anything to get better.
There was a particularly bad drought that year. And everyone was starving. I remember seeing people collapse, dropping like flies through the window. Piles of bodies dragged in wheelbarrows. I remember lying in bed, and just staying there, waiting until sleep came to distract from the hunger. And when things got bad enough, they asked my mother for help.
I saw it through the windows. The entire village carried out their dead and dying, and laid them on a sheet on the ground. Tall torches illuminated the night sky, as my mother drew circles and symbols into the ground. I remember her praying, praying for rain, praying for food, praying for salvation from God.
And we believed He would provide. You see, our God was a God of hope. Our God was a God of the desperate. Our God was Red. He was the God of Montauk.
That night, I witnessed my first Montauk ritual. The most powerful incantation of old magics, she told me. The language in which God spoke. But when it was done, and the torches had burnt out, the villages came out to dispose of the dead, and my mother just rolled up the sheet.
The next day, we witnessed the most pitiful rain we’ve ever seen… but it was enough. Barely enough. Enough to last until the monsoon seasons came again. But many still died, of course. Things were still bad, and they got much worse before they got better. My mother didn’t make it through.
Coward that I was, it took me another few years to finally leave. Nothing but a small sack of food, some loose change, and the last thing she left me: The shroud she wore for the ritual that night. Be good, she said. Be kind, and be hopeful. Find your truth. I remember the first time I wore it in public. I tucked it into my pants, and walked into the night. A young librarian named Sarah saw me, and complimented me on my “jacket”, apparently mistaking the embroidered image of my God for a cartoon character. The conversation shifted to recent movies that we’d watched, and our interests, and towards the end of the night, we promised to meet again. I’d made my first friend.
Life in the big city was like that. It was nothing like my village, where nothing ever changed. Now, this was a place where things changed all the time, and there was always something new. I met new friends, I learned new skills, and eventually, I began to write. I wrote poems, short stories, letters, anything. Sometimes, when I could, I was able to mail some money home. And for a while, life was good. And I thought I’d made it. That I’d found my truth, like my mother asked me to, and that it was enough. Sometimes, I’d make the attempt to pray again, but I never found the right words, and it never felt sincere.
One night, I’d just gotten home from an outing with Sarah, and a few other friends. I was drunk, and my apartment was dark. I never made it to the light switch. The next thing I remember was waking up with a splitting pain in the back of my neck, and I was somewhere unfamiliar. Cloaked men came up to me telling me that they recognized who it was on my back. It was the first time I met someone else outside of the village who worshiped the same deity as I did, and they were holding knives to my throat, accusing me of being a blaspheming heretic, who fraternized with… words I shan’t repeat here.
I won’t go into details that night, but I learned things. I learned of another lens through which my God was viewed. I learned of another way of Montauk. He told me that my God was not loving, or hopeful, but that he was a God of rage, of death. That he feasted on the dust of the bones of the inferiors, and that blood was all that mattered to him. Pure blood. Untainted blood.
Years later, and that question remains burned into the back of my mind. How could this paradox exist? These two irreconcilable paths. These two Montauk. And all these years of trying to find an answer, here I am. Where it all started. A towering temple stood before me. I placed my hand on its surface - its red basalt surface.
You’ve seen what I’ve sent you, haven’t you? The materials, the samples?
I have only one more loose end. All I ask is that you grant me one last favor, and I shall pester you no more. I need access. Access to an old Foundation-controlled building. You’ll know it when you see it. It’s a house by a dried-up lake in a small English town, named North Access, Cornwall.
Thank you,
AWH.
Old Man Of The Lake
"Hungry."
August looks back at the blueprint, then looks back at the carving. It looked perfect. She nodded at Anna, and then they shook hands.
“Hey, we make a good pair!” August says, “It’s exactly like what I had in mind!”
“Well, it was a great design. If I was gonna do something, I had to do it right, y’know?” Anna wiped her hand on her brow, wiping the blade with a cloth. They both stood back. “Do you think he would’ve liked it?”
It was a wooden sculpture, carved from a piece of the tree that they’d decided to set up camp under. Intricate little lines at the base forming upwards towards a perfect recreation of an old-timey Mobile Task Force helmet. Geometric decorations jutting out in perfect harmony. Engraved on the front of the helmet were two lines.
“MTF Iota-10 - Telal Usher”
There was no year of birth. They never got close enough to ask him about it, unfortunately, but in a way it was comforting. Like he wasn’t dead. Like this wasn’t a grave, but a monument. Like Telal was eternal here.
(There is no body to bury. His half-devoured corpse lies buried in the sands of the beach on the outskirts of this Scarlet realm. They’d retrieved tools, food, and some trinkets, but Vaughan had said that it was illogical to try to carry his corpse.)
They’d only met on that last night before they left, and she really didn’t know much about him, but he seemed like a good guy. She remembered thinking he was well-intentioned, at least, if not very funny.
“It’s a beautiful work of art. I’m sure he would’ve loved it,” Anna says, placing her hand on August’s shoulder. “You outdid yourself for this one, I didn’t think you had such artistic chops!”
“Haha, well, uh…” August smiles, “Well… It’s geometry. It’s math. I’m… I’m good at that. It’s how I got my job. I’m… not that good at actually drawing anything.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’m sure with enough practice, it’ll come to you. You’re a natural at what you do, I’ve seen you draw maps!” Anna grins.
“I mean… I used to doodle.” August rubs the back of her head, “I just… don't do it anymore. Didn't seem like I was getting anywhere. At this point, I've probably forgotten how to like, do anything that isn't just geometric stuff. I guess I've just been too scared to try again."
(Bit of a falsehood there, but she just wanted to hear it from someone else.)
“Well, if you ever try again, just draw something basic first. Like, a self-portrait, or a cat, or something.” Anna says, packing her equipment into her rucksack. "Doesn't need to be good, or anything. You can just start practicing when we get out of here. I'd love to see more of your art in the future."
(That feels nice.)
“Thanks, Anne…” August says, cleaning up the wood dust in the area. “I’ll uh, I’ll try. I should probably get everything prepared before Dina and Val returns. I still have some work to do…”
“Eh, those two? They’ll probably be back a bit late again. I’ll be in my tent, writing. See ya!” Anna says. She clicks her tongue as she pulls up the comms locators to find that the data was still garbled. They always did that when the ghosts appeared, and they usually didn't get better for hours afterwards.
Right, the ghosts. She’s still gotta write up an analysis of them, as soon as Dina and Val get back. Right now, she’ll probably have to finish up that report on the… whatever those pale things were. The giant humanoids that lived in the forest, the thing that ate up Telal. Thankfully, she had some good photos of them on the camera, and…
She paused. It was then that she remembered that she’d lent Hannah the camera. Where was Hannah, anyways? She said something about gathering some more photos of the huts. So she should just be around here.
As she walked to the edge of the clearing, she waved at the red ghostly people shambling from place to place, but they did not respond, their thoughts on better days. She walked through the dilapidated stone houses, occasionally shouting Hannah’s name, but no one responded.
Then, she turned around, and the clearing was out of her view. Immediately, she realized it was time to go back. Hannah probably wasn’t out here, anyways. For some reason, though, the way back seemed longer than she remembers.
A lot longer.
But just before it becomes apparent that something was awfully, terribly wrong, she turns the corner, and she hears voices from behind one of the huts. Hannah’s voice… and someone else’s.
She slowly approaches the hut, and some innate sense of voyeurism kicks in. She peers around the back, and she could see Hannah around the corner. She looked furious. Anna finally recognized the other voice. It was Arthur, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
Agent Xob: …Look, I don’t know what the hell came over you, but that wasn’t okay to do.
Agent Vaughan: (Inaudible.)
Agent Xob: That doesn’t make it right. I just- What is wrong with you? Genuinely, what is-
Agent Vaughan: (Inaudible.)
Agent Xob: No, no, you don’t get to say that to me. I told you, I wasn’t comfortable with that. I already told you how I feel about Omicron-14, you-
Agent Vaughan: (Inaudible.)
Agent Xob: Ashamed?! Do you- do you hear yourself!? You, you asshole. Stop- Fuck you, stop acting like you’re the only one who lost him. Lost so many of them. You think I wanted it to happen? You asshole, you-
Agent Vaughan: (Inaudible.)
Agent Xob: I fucking told you- I fucking told you why I couldn’t make it! What the hell’s happened to you? Why are you such a piece of shit nowadays!? Something fucking awful happened to me, and you don’t-
Agent Vaughan: (Inaudible.)
Agent Xob: …What did you just say?
Agent Vaughan: (Inaudible.)
Agent Xob: I- You, you…
[Agent Xob balls her hands into a fist. Her breath is ragged. She takes a step back…]
Agent Newman: (From around the corner.) Hannah?! Are you there?!
[Agent Newman arrives from around the corner. She looks at Agent Xob and Agent Vaughan.]
Agent Newman: Hey, uh, I’ve been looking for you! I… kinda need the camera back?
The shift is quick and immediate, and Hannah was back to her usual self by the time Anna turned the corner. Vaughan, well, he was simply how he always was. She said something about how they were recalibrating comms frequency to try to cut through the interference, but that they were just finishing up. Hannah offered to walk her back to camp, and Anna looked behind her to see Arthur looking back at them as he walked away.
“Are you doing okay?” Anna asked.
“Fine as ever,” Hannah says, fiddling around with the camera. “Again, sorry for not returning the camera sooner. It completely slipped my mind.”
“Uh, it’s no issue.” Anna scratches her head, “Did you get any good photos?”
“Yeah, I think it’ll be pretty useful for Dina, but y’know, everything’s just… red. Really makes it hard to make out all the details. You think it’ll still be like that when we get back?”
“…I don’t know.”
A few minutes later, and they were back at the clearing, and Anna could’ve sworn that this time, the way back seemed much shorter than she thought it was. But Hannah said that she didn’t notice a thing.
“Might have to ask August about that later. I wouldn’t be surprised if this place is also topographically anomalous,” Hannah tells her, “Speaking of which, how’s Auggie?”
“Probably in her tent, she’s gotta recalibrate her equipment. Probably’ll take a while, though, what with all of the ghosts and all. I mean, the locator certainly…"
They stopped dead in their tracks. They could see the camp a short while away, but something wasn’t right. Hannah’s tent was unzipped. There were noises from inside. They looked at each other, and nodded. They slowly approached the tent, soundlessly drawing upon their blades and guns.
Hannah could see into the tent now. Hunched over her rucksack was some ragged, disheveled humanoid form. It looked like it was wearing something fashioned out of skin. Hannah could see that it had a thick head of shiny looking hair - the shade that would’ve been silver if not for the constant redness of the world. It gnawed at something in its hand. Cans of empty Foundation rations lay at its feet.
She was just about to strike when it gasped, turned around, and screamed. She hadn’t been on a mission in a long time, and her reflexes must’ve been getting rusty, she thought, as the thing rushed away from her, and her blade missed it by millimeters. She could tell that it was a frail thing. Anna rushed over from the other side, and tried to shoot at it, but it was too quick.
Hannah took chase. For the first time, she felt grateful for the Foundation bodysuit that they were all wearing. As she ran, little bumps in the suit started to glow, and she felt lighter than before. She was gaining on the little intruder, who was running directly into the surrounding Daevite buildings.
They turned a corner and she followed, and she ran through buildings and huts and ghosts. Sometimes she ran straight past them, but still she began to slow down. The intruder - that small old man, he seemed much too skilled at this, like he knew the layout of this place like the back of his hand. Every so often, he’d make a sudden turn that tripped her up, but she kept running.
Then, he made one more turn, and when she looked, he was gone. The streets were silent. Hannah searched for him, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. It was at that moment that she saw it. The castle on the horizons.
But that’s not right, she thought. It looked so much further away before. Auggie estimated it’d take days to get to it.
And yet, it was almost twice as big as it looked back at camp. A topographical anomaly, indeed. From the beginning, the old man had known. She looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings, and tried to backtrack. A lot of the directions were still fresh in her mind, but not all of it. If she didn’t get back now, she might never get back.
The chase lasted five minutes. It took her almost three hours to get back to camp, and by that time, it was already getting dark.
"Are you happy?"
SCP-9317-Ω Ecology - Fauna
By Anna Newman
Overview: The following section includes preliminary accounts of several exotic entities that MTF-GIGAS has encountered over the course of Project SCHRODINGER.
Reconstruction of SCP-9317-Ω-1, using photos taken with 9317-treated camera (Monochrome)
Item #: SCP-9317-Ω-1
Description: SCP-9317-Ω-1 are large, pale, humanoid creatures that usually reside in the outermost forest regions of SCP-9317-Ω. Entities uniformly lack lower jaws, possess fish-like scales, singular eyes, as well as an enlarged cranium. Agent Newman, who originally observed them, reports that during the day, these entities would slumber in groups in the forests. Entities range from 8ft to over 12ft.
As sunset approached, however, instances of SCP-9317-Ω-1 would wake up, at which point they would engage in highly predatory behaviors towards each other. Entities would assault and feed upon one another with impunity. Behavior was remarkably violent, cruel, and unnecessary. SCP-9317-Ω-1 entities are carnivorous, and would pursue smaller prey on all fours.
During the course of the mission, Agent Usher encountered an instance of SCP-9317-Ω-1 pursuing Agent Newman. At which point, he attempted to engage with the instance via gunfire. Though unsuccessful, this attempt made it possible for Agent Newman to escape. Agent Usher was confirmed KIA.
Item #: SCP-9317-Ω-2
Description: SCP-9317-Ω-2 is a humanoid entity that was encountered by Agent Xob and Agent Newman at MTF-GIGAS’s Camp in Psuedo-Daevon.17 According to Agent Xob’s account, the entity resembled an older male cloaked in a robe made out of stitched-together leather, possibly human skin.
At the time of discovery, the entity was apparently consuming Foundation rations. Agent Xob pursued the entity into Psuedo-Daevon, where the entity demonstrated remarkable agility and navigational skill, making use of several topographical anomalies in the area in order to move across vast distances.
The exact motivations of the entity is unknown. Similarly unknown is whether the entity was part of SCP-9317-Ω, or was in fact another outsider.
Two instances of SCP-9317-Ω-3, posing for the camera (Color-corrected)
Item #: SCP-9317-Ω-3
Description: SCP-9317-Ω-3 refers to a large number of incorporeal beings that occupies Psuedo-Daevon. Everyday at 12:00pm, SCP-9317-Ω-3 manifests, and does not disappear for about 7 hours. During this time, most instances of SCP-9317-Ω-3 carry out routines until the manifestation period is over. MTF-GIGAS has yet to ascertain if the same SCP-9317-Ω-3 instances materializes every time in the same routines, or if SCP-9317-Ω-3 instances are representative of actual once-living people.
All SCP-9317-Ω-3 instances appear to resemble glowing decomposed late-Empire Daevite slaves, with individual appearances ranging from mummified to bare skeletons. As typical of incorporeal entities, physical matter and entities can pass through them without issue. However, a number of MTF-GIGAS’s equipment consistently fails within their vicinity, suggesting some form of Akiva interference or irregularities. Further research is required.
Initially thought to be an effect of Traumatic Imprinting similar to Psuedo-Daevon, further examination revealed that outside observers are able to affect SCP-9317-Ω-3 instances by communicating with them in Old Daevite, at which point the SCP-9317-Ω-3 might choose to respond to the observer, or choose to ignore the observer entirely. That these interactions are possible seems to suggest that SCP-9317-Ω-3 instances are some subset of the Wandering Spirits class of incorporeal beings.
For further information regarding communications with SCP-9317-Ω-3, refer to Daniela Tatton and Val Sander’s research.
Black Stone Temple
"Rest."
“Are you sure this is the correct way?” Daniela asked, as Val charged ahead through the little huts and towers. As always, the ghostly Daevite apparitions all ignored them. “I swear, if this doesn’t turn out to be the correct way…”
“C’mon, honey, have some faith in me, will ya’?” Val turns to her, pulling up his comms. A thin line was on the display. “Look! There’s an offline location mapping program on this thing. All we need to do is backtrack!”
“Huh… I didn’t realize that was part of the comms.” Dina pauses, “…Wait. That isn’t part of the comms. It only had like, three basic functions-”
“Oh, Artie cobbled it together, he gave it to me this morning! It’s… I don’t know what to call it. He managed to get into Aug’s mapping tablet, and managed to replicate it somehow on one of the comms.” Val turns the comms over to show her. The back of it is torn out. Loose, dangerous-looking wiring connects to a crystalline chip on the back, constantly emitting light. Tape holds the entire contraption together. “He’s a real McGyver, him. It’s certainly not as comprehensive as Auggie’s actual map, but it’d help us find our way back. Good enough for me!”
“I didn’t know Vaughan was that tech-savvy. Can he do that for all of us, too?”
“Ehh, he told me it wouldn’t be advisable. This thing here? Completely useless for communicating now! Plus, aside from him, we’re the only ones who really need to travel out here to do our work - and we’re always together! I guess he thought it’s too much work, since we’ll all be going to the epicenter soon, anyways.”
“Hmm…” Daniela said, and some things were running through her mind, but she decided to keep quiet for the time being.
PERSONAL NOTES - DANIELA TATTON
Entry 12: Still nothing. Turns out ghosts aren’t very talkative. The problem is that all the ones that we talked with yesterday could barely hold a conversation. We’d ask them who they were, what they were doing, and then mid-conversation they’d just turn away and go on with their day. Seems today is more of the same. Recorded a few more conversations, but it’s just the usual stuff. “My name is (weird fucking Daevite name) and I am a (farmer/slave/holedigger)” or something to that effect for most of them. Then they just go through you.
Might have to ditch the Foundation questionnaire at this point. Whoever wrote this garbage clearly didn’t account for dementia-ridden ghost slaves.
Entry 13: Finally got one that seemed to hold something of a conversation. Val was basically just fucking around, and this one ghost, he seemed to get this weird look. And it went like this, translated from Old Daevite, obviously:
Val: Terrible weather today, isn’t it? The sky’s like a dang tomato!
Ghost: …terrible… weather…
Val: *In English* Holy crap, pay attention, this one’s actually saying something!
Ghost: …I remember it…
Val: Remember… what? What is it?
Ghost: The flood.
Now, this was interesting. While the prevailing theory for the fall of the Daevite Empire is mass slave uprisings throughout the entire kingdom, a couple years ago, some Foundation archaeologists uncovered evidence of a flood that happened around that time in the same location. Now, nothing’s confirmed, but could these two events have been concurrent?
Jesus Christ, I’m reading this back and I sound like fucking Cameron. This is a disaster.
Entry 14: We talked to a few more ghosts around the area. For some reason, it seems the further out, the more talkative these guys are for some reason. They still don’t appear to hold much of a conversation, but… there’s definitely more substance here. I still don’t get it, it’s unsettling. Most of them still ignore us, but I’ve transcribed some of the more interesting conversations.
Val: Hello? Hi, could you please…
Ghost: …Have you seen my child…?
Val: Oh, no, I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t think…
Ghost: …Oh, my child, my child… My (ot-tah?)…
Val: Hey, uh, could you tell us about who you are?
Ghost: …I… am… of the mighty Daevite Empire…
Val: Yes, but could you tell us more about yourself?
Ghost: *Laughs* What… else… is there… to say…?
Val: Hello there, if it’s alright, I’d like to ask you about-
Ghost: I know… who you’re looking for…
Val: Really? Well, er, do tell.
Ghost: You… are looking… for God.
Val: And… where should we be looking for God?
Ghost: *Stretches arm out* Everywhere… and… nowhere…
And up ‘till now, when the ghosts decide they don’t want to talk with you anymore, they just walk through you and ignore everything. But that last one, it was laughing as it went away. And it just kept doing it. When we looked around the place, we realized there were a bunch of statues of the Scarlet King all around. Not sure how we missed that. Figure that’s what he was pointing to.
Entry 15: Why are they all slaves? We’ve seen no Upperclass ghosts. No army ghost. No Daeva ghost. Only the slaves, the lowliest class. The sacrifice class, not the sacrificers. Shouldn’t a god’s realm be filled with followers instead of offerings? And considering how prolific the King’s cults remain in the modern day…
Val could see that Daniela was growing uncomfortable. He put his arm around her shoulder.
“Feelin’ okay?” He asks, “Is it about that last ghost? I’m sure he was just a bit of a joker back in his day.”
“It’s… it’s not that. I don’t know. I kinda feel like…” She looked over her shoulders, “…like I’m being watched.”
Val glances around at the dozens of ghosts that were around them. “Hey, so, not to alarm ya’, but I think I feel the same way.”
“Hah. Look, okay, it’s… it’s probably nothing. It’s just…” Daniela hesitates, “It’s just… strange. I read about the Daevites, I… I always had this picture in my head, but… this is…”
They paused, and just soaked up all of the details. One of the ghosts seems to look at another while crossing paths. Was that a nod? Did that one just smile? They didn’t seem to be shambling anymore, they were just walking normally. Were they this alert back at the clearing, near the camp? They leaned on one of the stone huts, and the scene in front of them was… it was almost…
“Well, it’s certainly lacking a lot of the torture, isn’t it?” Val says, “If it wasn’t for all of them being red skeleton people, it’d almost feel peaceful.”
“Yeah, it’s weird. I’m… I’m kinda fuckin’ flabbergasted.”
And then, as if sensing the irony in what she just said, something came out of one of the opposing stonehuts that they definitely didn’t expect. Daniela saw it first. She gasped, and tugged on Val’s shirt, pointing at it. He let his jaw go slack.
A much smaller ghost, half their height, popped out. Then another, and the two of them chased each other in what seemed to be a game of tag. Following them was a taller ghost. She carried in her arms a bundle. Tiny mummified limbs reach out from within.
“Children,” Daniel whispered, taking in the strangeness of it all. “There are kids here.”
There are kids in Hell. There are babies in Hell. And it’s a strange feeling, because she looked up again, and she saw it again, another horrible sculpture hanging on the roof. Their horrible red god of death.
“Right. I mean, it’d make sense. They did sacrifice kids to him.” She sighs, something stinging her eyes, and they continue watching as the child ghosts play with each other. Then, she looked up. The ghost mother was staring right at them.
Entry 16: We looked around, but there was no other ghost that she could’ve been looking at. So we crossed to the other side, and I asked Val to talk to her.
Val: Are you… looking at us?
Ghost: You… are travelers… You have… questions…?
Val: I… yes. I’m sorry, I was supposed to ask-
Ghost: I… don't have… answers…
Val: Oh, uh, that’s alright. I…
Ghost: But… I know… where you can… find… them…
And then she pointed into the distance. We didn’t see it at first, but then we saw it. Among the towers was a spire. When we turned to ask her again, she didn’t look back. Her, and her little ghost children continued down the dirt path, not a care in the world.
“I know that spire,” Daniela whispered.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“It’s… It’s a famous Daevite ruin. The temple. I… I saw its real world counterpart. We need to get there, how much time do we have?” Daniel asked, "An hour and 43 minutes."
She turned to Val, "We might still make it if we run."
Entry 17: We ran most of the way there. I thought we wouldn’t make it in time, but somehow, we got there much quicker than we anticipated. It was as if the buildings were opening up a path for us. All the paths were straight and clear. We made it there with about half an hour to spare.
I recognized it from the book. It was one of the first discovered Daevite ruins, and one of the best preserved. The Temple Of The Scarlet King, it was called. I remember the details, the rusty red bricks, the metal cages, the instruments of torture, all the horrific shit that they could barely tell the use of. And the most striking detail: The statues on the walls of their god staring down on the sacrificial altar. They say that the bones of the last slaves were so well-preserved in the cages that they could make out individual cuts of the ritual blades.
It looked far more imposing than it did in the textbooks. So much larger, so much worse. The cages are still shiny. The statues still had its details, and the King looked so much more… real. As we walked up the stairs, more ghosts came to greet us. One of them came up to us and spoke.
Ghost: Greetings, travelers.
Val: I… uh… hello, there! We followed directions here. We were told that we could find… answers here?
Ghost: What are the questions that you seek to ask?
Val: My uh, wife, would like to ask this first. What are you, really?
Ghost: We are the lowly workers of the Daevite Empire. We till the soil, we worked the mines, we slaughtered the animals.
Val: Right, right, that I get but… you’re not living, are you? I mean…
Ghost: Ah, yes.
[Pause.]
Ghost: We’re not sure of that ourselves. Hahah. We have been here for a very, very long time. Some of us think that this is the afterlife, others… others, such as I, I think this is our… retribution.
Val: Retribution?
Ghost: Punishment. For what we’ve done.
Val: Er, what did you do?
Ghost: That answer is not mine to give. In the end, perhaps this place is neither. Perhaps we are but memories in the fog. A mirror image on the water surface.
Val: Right, right. We can circle back to that later. Uh, one of my own questions now. How are you talking to us? We’ve talked to some of the others, out there, I mean. They do not seem interested in conversation, but it seems that the closer we get to this place… you get it?
Ghost: You speak of the others, the ones who play deaf and blind. They do not hesitate to speak. They just can’t be bothered.
Val: Can you explain further?
Ghost: As I’ve said. We’ve been here for a very long time. Some of us feel the need to continue ruminating on our situation. But for many of us… a routine is enough. Even if it means to be an aimless wanderer, forever.
[Pause.]
Ghost: Sometimes, I think they forget that they were anything but a wanderer. I think some of them have forgotten the sound of a voice, altogether.
Val: I see. In that case, can I ask one more question?
Ghost: Yes.
Val: *Gestures at the statues of the Scarlet King on the walls.* That thing. That’s the Scarlet King, right?
Ghost: I don’t understand.
Val: That guy! That- The one-eyed dude with antlers. Who is that?
Ghost: Ah, yes… that is God.
Val: Okay, and… what would you describe him as? Is he… like… the Font?
Ghost: No. God is not like the Font. He is… He is hard to describe. *Pause.* This was his temple. One of the largest of its kind. They say it was the holiest place in the land. This is where they fed us to Him.
Val: They?
Ghost: The nobility. The matriarchs. You know of whom I speak of. You are no doubt familiar with our Empire. The sacrifices, the blood shedding for food and riches? The pits in which they threw the young and sick? They who did what God commanded them to. They who shed us for his blessings.
Val: Right, right, yes. We know, we know… but… there’s something we don’t get. Where are they, then?
Ghost: Where is who?
Val: Y’know, the upper class. The Daevas. If this place is what you say it is, why aren’t God’s devout followers here? Why is it only the slaves?
Ghost: Why would they be here?
Val: I mean, if this is the Daevite God’s afterlife, then-
Ghost: But it isn’t the Daevite God’s afterlife. It’s our’s.
Val: It’s… your… afterlife?
Ghost: No, as in…Well, that is not for me to say.
Val: Oh, come on!
Ghost: *Shrugs.* I apologize. We all have our limitations, but-
Val: W- Wait a minute, did you just shrug!? No- I know- I know for a fact that they did not have shrugging in 8,000 BCE!
[Pause.]
Ghost: Oh.
Val: Yeah, what the heck!?
Ghost: Well… you are not the first to come asking questions. There is a stairwell leading down to the caverns below in the main hall. There is someone there who can give you all the answers you need. The first Heretic.
Val: Wait, now-
Ghost: Oh, travelers. I bid you farewell, and good tidings.
And then he just fucking walked away with all of his ghost friends, leaving us looking completely dumbfounded. So, we continued down the stairs. The stone brick walls gave way to a carved tunnel, and it grew narrower and narrower, like the walls were closing in. And suddenly, it felt like we were closing in on something, too.
Entry 18: I don’t know what to say.
There’s just so many.
Words couldn’t describe what Daniela and Val felt as they emerged from the bottom of the stairwell. They did not know what they were expecting, but it wasn’t this.
And it was different than just reading about it, Daniela thought, all the facts and figures, all the guesswork, all the numbers obscured by time. She’d gloss over the pages time and time again in her uncle’s study, but this was certainly something else.
They were at the walls of what seemed to be a colossal silo-like chamber. And the walls of the silo-were lined with what had to have been tens of thousands of skeletons.
No, she thought, as she peered down and discovered that she couldn’t see the bottom of the chamber. There had to be millions. The product of the First Empire’s two-thousand years of systemic subjugation. And it occurred to her that Foundation historians had apparently underestimated the true scope and size of Daevite civilization by an extraordinary amount.
Upon the ceiling was the most grotesque depiction of the Scarlet King that she’d ever seen. It took up the entire ceiling and it still wasn’t enough. His one eye peering down, an utterly soulless gaze. His gaping maw opened so wide that only his upper jaw can be seen. The skulls lining the walls merged into large columns, all of which spiraled into his mouth. Several layers of teeth can be seen within, before it all fades into darkness. His appetite was fitting of that of an ur-God - endlessly ravenous, going on forever.
Seven chains embedded into the corpse-walls suspended in front of them a lone cage. A thin steel walkway from the bottom of the stairs to the cage was the only other feature of the nightmare silo. As they wordlessly approached the cage, they both realized that the cage itself was also made out of bones.
There was a lone ghost in the cage. A bare skeleton. Completely unclothed, with only fabrics and strings wrapped around its bones. The fabrics and strings were tied to the cage itself, but did not appear to restrict its movements.
It was furiously scratching at a stone tablet.
Entry 19: There was really nothing else to do or say. We just stood there for a few minutes, soaking in the horror. Then, I asked Val to talk to the ghost in the cage.
Val: Hello?
Ghost: *Unintelligible.*
Val: Oh, shit. I think that’s… Proto-Daevite. I can’t speak that.
Ghost: Ah. I can accommodate that. It’s been a long time since I’ve had new visitors. I was not expecting to see another outsider for a very, very long time.
Val: Hello… ma’am. I… okay, crud, I don’t even know what to ask. Dear Lord. What is this place?
Ghost: This is the Black Sanctum. The resting place for the Daevite Slave. There are countless other temples like this out there. It is said to be the greatest honor, to be entombed in its walls. To become an eternal sacrifice for God.
[Val looks up.]
Val: Uh, yeah, I can… I can see the idea.
Ghost: Terrifying, is He not? They told us that He could see through his images. That every sculpture, every carving was his holy Eye. That he was all-seeing as well as all-consuming. He was the ceaseless cycle of life. The endless death and rebirth of all things. And it was then our way of life to work, suffer, and be consumed in the end. Our purpose for living was to be fed into His holy furnace.
Ghost: That’s why He only had an eye and an endless maw, you see. God was a watcher, and God was a devourer.
Val: From your tone, you… didn’t approve?
Ghost: I did not. That’s why I ended up here.
Val: Could you tell us more? From the beginning, maybe.
Ghost: Yes.
[Pause.]
Ghost: In the beginning, I was… No, no. My mother was part of a small group of people. An order who kept a secret. Forbidden knowledge. A gnosis. A secret that was said to have been capable of destroying the Daevite Empire if it was ever to be spoken aloud. It was passed down by mouth, mother to daughter, father to son. Ever since the Ancient times.
Val: The Ancient times?
Ghost: Before we came to be known as the Daevites. I know not when the knowledge became lost, nor when it was rediscovered, or how. Perhaps it was around the time we departed the shores and moved inwards. Perhaps it was even earlier than that.
Val: And what was the secret?
Ghost: You did ask for the story to be told from the beginning, did you not? I hadn’t gotten there, yet.
Val: Uh, my bad. Carry on, then.
Ghost: Generations passed. My grandmother gave birth to my mother, and my mother gave birth to me. And one day… I was told that for transgressions against my father and God, my mother was to be killed.
Val: I’m sorry.
Ghost: It was a long time ago. [Pause.] Before they came for her, she told me everything. Of the order that she’d been in. Of the secret that they, the Erikeshens had kept for ages. And she told me why they did it, for so long.
Val: Why?
Ghost: Because one day, in time, they believed it would be used. And if the time was right, if the moment was right… the Daevite Empire would fall. And on that day, when I saw her corpse flayed on the altars of God, I swore that that is what I would bring.
[Pause.]
Ghost: I dedicated my entire life to my mother’s cause. I recruited in the darkness, away from God’s watchful eye. I spread messages. I whispered in darkened rooms, and I hid myself away from the light for years. I told them all the secret, and what they had to do.
Val: Could you tell us the secret, now?
[Pause.]
Ghost: We revolted. I led them. It didn’t work. Perhaps I spoke to the wrong person. Perhaps what the Daevas said were true, that they had God on their side. Ten thousand people, I led them into the Halls Of The Matriarchs, and they slaughtered us. The survivors turned on each other, destroying themselves for a chance at forgiveness. In the end, not even the cowards were spared.
Ghost: My dearest followers, my own daughters. They fashioned this cage for me from their bones. They had had God on their side, and God had commanded that I be kept here until the day I die. That every day, I’d wake up to see His wrath as he consumed all those who had placed their trust in me. God was hateful and wrathful and all-consuming, they reminded me. God was disgusted by me, and all those who followed my ways.
Val: That’s awful.
[Pause.]
Ghost: They did have God on their side, traveller. That was my first mistake. Our fight wasn’t merely physical, but spiritual. And we were lacking. But it wasn’t all for nothing. My followers kept my words alive in the dark. And… there was something else that my captors had never discovered.
Val: What was it?
[The Ghost looks up. Though no flesh remains on her skull, she seemed to be smiling.]
Ghost: All I had to do was wait. They wanted me to live, to suffer. But I was biding my time. Every so often, I’d hear it from the guard. Another revolt. A larger one. And at the end of my life, I did it.
Val: Did what?
[The Ghost leans over. Val looks down to find that in her hand, a white sphere of light was being channeled. He looks over at Daniela.]
Daniela: It’s… she was a reality bender.
Ghost: My mother had told me that I was favored by the Font. That I had starlight running through my veins. But I had to wait until it was time, and…
Val: What did you do?
Ghost: One day, when the clamoring outside could not be ignored any longer, my guard abandoned me. I cleansed my skin from my arms. I scraped the meat off my bones. And I invoked a long-forgotten ritual.
Val: What?
Ghost: Is it not beautiful?
[The Ghost moves away, motioning Val to look at the tablet.]
Ghost: That day, I invoked it, as my blood dripped through the cage. It is the secret that my mother had told me of, a long, long time ago. The secret that I had spread to all of my followers. An old symbol of Hope, even in the most desperate times. A symbol of Montauk.
[Pause.]
Val: But… isn’t that… That’s the Daevite God. The… hateful and wrathful one.
Ghost: No. It is ours.
It was at that moment that our alarm rang, and the Ghost disappeared, leaving behind that tablet. The tablet had nothing but an intricate sketch of the Scarlet King and three lines underneath. I asked Val what it said, and he translated it for me.
“The Red God”
“The God of Montauk”
“The way to Life”
Afterwards, we just looked at the sketch, and we looked back at the great big sculpture on the feeling. I told him that it just looked the same to me, the same single eye, the same mouth with long teeth. The antlered horns that looked like trees, and the same awful red shade to it all. It was identical. Absolutely the same.
And then Val said something so obvious, and I just stood there for what felt like ages, taking it in. How the fuck did we miss it? How the fuck could the Foundation have missed this, all along?
In The Dark
Artifact 5N-523DVC - Anomalous Scroll
Details: An anomalously preserved scroll, undateable due to its properties. Given to the Foundation during a 1953 information exchange by the Vatican.18 It is one of the few accounts regarding the Da'vo Christians, believed to be a formerly influential branch of early Christianity that combined Christian doctrine with various anomalous practices.19
A Da'vo Christian-made Scarlet King statue in the Vatican archives. Later depictions of the Abrahamic Devil adapted traits from such works.
Translation: “It had taken many moons, but we finally managed to track the demon men back to their sanctum of power. Our suspicions of their unholy abilities proved true, it seems, as we uncovered a magically-hidden temple of blood, buried in the mountainside.
Horrific sights awaited us. The invaders were well-versed in the old magicks, and they knew we were coming. We were ambushed, and many of our miraclemen would perish in the ensuing fight. By the end of the weekend, our dead were innumerable, but they had been completely wiped out.
It was only on the third morning after that night did we dare enter their sanctum once more. It was truly a Godless place. It was as if we had entered Hell itself, that eternal damnation had made itself physical on God’s earth in the form of this red stone temple of sin. We discovered instruments of unthinkable tortures, scattered and defiled remains of unknown persons, as well as countless ritual artefacts.
But it was their pagan god that was the most terrible thing. It was present everywhere in the temple’s design. This antlered beast with one eye and an endless maw. It occurred to us that this could perhaps even be the same beast that was worshipped by the pagans in the South. That it had made itself present here again spelled an existential threat to our community.
I dare not say what we discovered below the temple. It must not be put into writing, and my hands shake as I write this. It was here that we recovered an ancient tablet with blood writings. A depiction of this beast, with ancient writings underneath. It was here that we enlisted the help of an Erikeshan priestess to translate it. And now, we finally have a name for this agent of the Devil.
He is The Scarlet God-king. Lord of Montauk. And he, along with all of his followers, must be destroyed, for they are an existential threat to Christendom as a whole. For the sake of all things, for the sake of existence itself.”
Note: This is considered to be one of the earliest mentions of the Scarlet King and its followers. As such, the account provided was foundational to the modern understanding of the Scarlet King.
Fragmentations
"Seeing is believing."
“Rise and shine!” says August, as she emerged from her tent.
“It’s near mid-day, Auggie.” Hannah calls out from the other side of the tent. “Then again, it’s hard as hell to tell the time here.”
“Wait, Hannah, you’re still out here?! You didn’t sleep at all since last night?”
“Hell no,” Hannah says, shaking her shotgun at August, “We just cycled through, I just took over for Val. Still no trace of him, by the way.”
“God, I still can’t believe he was in the tent right next to mine…” August yawns, “I was so busy yesterday that I didn’t even hear him. Uh, where’s Val, anyways? Did I miss him?”
“Nope. Daniela and him are about to leave. Vaughan left early, still doing… navigator stuff, I guess. I think he’ll finish determining the epicenter today, but it’s looking pretty likely that it’s that black castle,” Hannah shrugs, “You should get up now, if you wanna see them off.”
At the edge of the camp, August could see Daniela and Val showing something to Anna on the camera.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
[Agent Newman is examining a photo on the camera. It is of two Daevite slave ghosts.]
Agent Newman: It really looks like they’re posing! How’d you do that? Seriously, I thought these guys barely listened to anyone, like, at all.
Agent Tatton: Yeah, it really… really does look that way. Hey, listen. We're going back to that temple yesterday. We still have some questions, still trying to figure it out, and I figure we’ll have all that we need after today’s trip.
Agent Sanders: Yeah! And you can use that picture for the article. Imagine that. Anna Newman, article of the year, followed by Val Sanders and Daniela Tatton, photo of the year.
Agent Newman: God, us? Getting credit for contributing to anomalous sciences? You wish. Though, you sure you don’t wanna publish your Daevites research yet, Dina?
Agent Tatton: No, not yet. Not until I get all the facts today, gotta make sure if my hunch is correct… Oh, hey, Auggie.
[Agent Kilroy approaches. She runs up to the group.]
Agent Kilroy: Hey, Dina! Hi, Val, Anna! You two are leaving already?
Agent Tatton: Yeah, it’s pretty close to mid-day. Last time, we didn’t get much due to poor timing, but this time, we think we could make some decent progress here.
Agent Sanders: Don’t worry, lil’ Aug! We’ll be fine, we know our way home! This is probably our last day here in Daevitesville, so gotta make it last! Make lotsa’ memories!
Agent Kilroy: Okay, well, I hope your trip goes great! We’ll have everything in the camp packed and ready by the time you’re back.
Agent Sanders: D’aww, thanks!
[Agent Sanders turns to leave, but Agent Tatton pauses.]
Agent Tatton: Oh, wait. Auggie. Take this.
Agent Kilroy: Yeah?
[Agent Tatton slips Agent Kilroy a small sheathed blade.]
Agent Kilroy: Oh, uh, thanks! I…
Agent Newman: Ah, I know that model! That's the F72 Tactical Blade, ain't it?
Agent Sanders: Sure is! Actually, I also brought one along with me… wait, hey!
Agent Tatton: Not like you were using it. Look, Auggie. Hannah told me about what happened. The weird old guy that showed up at camp. Apparently, you were the only one there at the time.
Agent Kilroy: Yeah, and I’m sorry that-
Agent Tatton: No, I mean, something really bad could’ve happened, Auggie. If push comes to shove, you need to be able to defend yourself, alright? This isn't much compared to the stuff in the emergency arms kid, but it's much more portable, and relatively easy to use and keep on your person. Don’t pull it out yet!
[Agent Tatton clasps her hand around Agent Kilroy’s to push the knife back into the sheath.]
Agent Tatton: There’s a poison coating the blade, it’s activated when exposed to air.
Agent Kilroy: Oh, fuck, fuck! Did it get on me!?
Agent Sanders: Calm down, Aug! There’s no cuts on you. Breathe!
Agent Tatton: Yeah, don’t worry. It’ll only be a problem if you get cut.
Agent Newman: Also, uh, I think there’s some general poison antidotes in the emergency arms kit. But, again, uh, try not to accidentally slice yourself open with it.
Agent Tatton: Right, just practice drawing it a few times when you can, okay?
[Agent Kilroy draws deep breaths and tuck the knife into her back pocket.]
Agent Tatton: Alright, so that’s it, yeah? We’ll be back in… seven hours. Just stay safe until then, and-
[Agent Kilroy pulls Agent Tatton into an embrace.]
Agent Newman: D'aww.
Agent Tatton: Woah. Someone’s in a good mood.
Agent Kilroy: Thank you, Dina… I really appreciate all this!
Agent Tatton: Yeah, c’mon, it’s just seven hours.
[They let go.]
Agent Kilroy: Still… good luck with your Daevites mission!
Agent Tatton: Mmhm. Will keep that in mind.
[Agent Tatton nods and walks off. Agent Sanders follows, but turns back after a few steps.]
Agent Sanders: Wait, where’s my hug?!
Agent Newman: See both of y’all later!
Agent Tatton: See ya’.
August watches them as they leave, and though it wasn’t the last time that she saw them, it is the way she’d like to remember them.
Over the course of the next several hours, Anna, Hannah, and August worked to disassemble the camp. All of the tents had to be packed up, all of the equipment had to be sorted into the appropriate bags and packs. The waste is organized and processed.
It was surprisingly heavy work. So much so that they didn’t even notice it when in-between deconstructing the porta-potty, the old man showed up again.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry for bothering you folks yesterday.”
“No problem,” Hannah said, as she twisted one of the bolts on a beam off.
Two seconds later, he had a shotgun pointed at him as Anna and August both hid behind Hannah.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
Agent Xob: You have thirty fucking seconds to get on the fucking ground!
Unknown: Oh, Lord, oh God. Please, please don’t- That is a gun, right? That’s a gun?
Agent Xob: You bet your fucking ass it is! Get down!
[Unknown complies.]
Unknown: Okay, okay, look, please! I’m doing it. I’m doing it. I’m so sorry for what I did yesterday. It’s just… It’s been so long since I had real, actual food! And- I’m sorry, it’s been a very long time since I’ve even seen another human being!
Agent Xob: Who are you?
Unknown: My name… I’m… My name is Alberto. I just…
Agent Newman: Wait. Uh, Hannah, could you tell him to stand up?
Agent Xob: Okay, stand up. But no sudden moves, okay?
[Unknown slowly stands up. His features are clearer. He is wearing what appears to be a very old leather shroud that’s been ripped apart and stitched together several times.]
Possible photo of Alberto Weider-Hoffman, circa 1994. (Foundation Archives)
Agent Newman: Wait, Alberto… as in Alberto Weider-Hoffman? The guy who kept sending Scarlet King poems to Foundation sites? I… I recognize you! Jesus, I thought you disappeared ages ago!
Agent Xob: Oh, so you’re a Scarlet King cultist. Gimme one reason why I shouldn’t just shoot you now.
Weider-Hoffman: Please, don’t do that. Look, I’m- I’m not like the other ones, okay? I’m not like that, I swear. I’m… I’m a creature of truth. That’s all I am. A seeker of the truth. That’s why I’m here.
Agent Xob: I’m not hearing a reason.
Agent Kilroy: Hannah, please. He seems… he seems harmless.
Weider-Hoffman: Yes, yes. I swear, I swear I mean you no harm. I just… I was just so hungry. Please, please just listen to me. Okay? Please.
Agent Kilroy: Hannah, please, c’mon. He didn’t attack you or anything yesterday, did he? He just ate our food. And… talking to him could help us. Please don’t kill him…
Weider-Hoffman: Please, don’t. Oh God, please don’t kill me.
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: Okay, pull out a seat. You can talk. You can even have some of our rations.
Weider-Hoffman: Oh, thank you-
Agent Xob: I’ll be keeping my gun on you the whole time, though.
About an hour afterwards, Hannah finally lowers the gun somewhat. Not out of any particular growing sentiment towards Alberto, but mostly out of frustration with the fact that this guy just wouldn’t stop talking or stay on topic. Certainly, though, it was getting clearer and clearer that this man was not a threat. Just… extremely disoriented.
He was obviously keeping some things close to the chest, but she figured she couldn’t fault him for that. He told them that he grew up in some sort of village, that they’d apparently practiced some pacifist version of Urdalism (which she couldn’t possibly understand). He said he was here to do some soul-searching after a particularly bad existential-slash-theological crisis, but that he wasn’t sure how he got there.
The whole thing was pretty hard to make out, as he kept derailing into unrelated topics, such as obscure art analysis, or random books that he read once upon a time. He seemed to improve in time, though.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
Weider-Hoffman: I think I walked. And then, I was here.
Agent Newman: You… walked?
Weider-Hoffman: Through the night sky, through the tall grass. I stared into the face of eternity, I looked for answers in the starlight, and the universe opened itself up to me. I closed my eyes, and…
Agent Xob: Motherfucker, if you’re quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson again-
Weider-Hoffman: No! No, I’m just- This is what I felt at that moment. I don’t remember what came before, or what came after, but I remember that moment. I walked through the darkness, I walked through the night, and I was here.
Agent Xob: You walked here? To a metaphysical god realm? On foot?
Weider-Hoffman: There are many paths to the gods, Xob, I assure you. I know mine wasn’t as concrete as yours, but I didn’t shed blood for it, either. It’s been so long, I can hardly remember it myself. I found myself here…
Agent Newman: And then?
Weider-Hoffman: …I don’t remember. It’s been so long. I’ve been living here since. I don’t even remember what answers I’ve been looking for. I don’t… I don’t even remember how to get home. All I’ve done is survive. All these years, looking for company other than the ghosts, setting up signs.
Agent Xob: Wait.
[Pause.]
Agent Xob: Wait, wait, okay, the instructions out in the valley. That was you?
Weider-Hoffman: I see they were finally of use, after all these years.
Agent Xob: Tell me in more details.
Weider-Hoffman: Well, my journey was much like yours. I found myself in the wilderness. I eventually found my way to the Daevites, here. For years, they kept me company.
Agent Newman: How did you do that then? The topography here is anomalous. It goes back into itself several times. We wouldn’t have made it out here if it wasn’t for your instructions, so how…
Weider-Hoffman: Oh, I listened to the voices on the wind.
Agent Xob: The what?
Weider-Hoffman: The howling. The sounds of the realm, always there.
Agent Xob: The howl- Oh, that noise. It’s faded into the background, these days. I barely even hear it anymore.
Agent Newman: I mean, I can still hear it, just a bit.
Weider-Hoffman: If you can focus on it, you can make it out. The little changes in vibrations, like little signals, telling you you’re on the right track. It took me ages to do it, so when I found the way the first time, I went back and set up a system to help me remember it. May I?
Agent Xob: Sure.
[August spoons some Foundation rations into Weider-Hoffman’s mouth, as his hands are tied. He chews on it, then swallows.]
Weider-Hoffman: Thanks.
Agent Newman: It’s courtesy of Telal.
Agent Xob: So the noise… is that what happened yesterday, when I was chasing you? You seemed to navigate the anomalous topography amazingly well.
Weider-Hoffman: Yes, well, that, and a bit of instinct. One only needs a bit of dedication to find their way here. Well, obsession might be a better term for it. I’ve been through this place many times before.
Agent Newman: Which reminds me. Xob, you said he was running towards the castle, right?
Agent Xob: Yep.
Agent Newman: Alberto, if it’s okay, could you tell us about the castle? We don’t know how anyone could’ve built that thing here, and our Daevite expert doesn't seem to think it was ever something created by the Daevites. Is it just part of this place?
Weider-Hoffman: It’s not. I’ve… I’ve been there. It’s something else from this place, entirely.
Agent Xob: What is it?
[Pause.]
Weider-Hoffman: I don’t know. I’ve never entered it. I’ve been trying for years.
Agent Hannah: Well, what’s been stopping you?
[Weider-Hoffman furrows his brows in contemplation. August spoons another mouthful of Foundation rations into his mouth as he chews slowly.]
Weider-Hoffman: There are defenses at play, there. Defenses that I can’t get through myself. But… seeing your people here, I think if we co-operated. I think we might be able to get inside.
Agent Xob: Uh, how’d you figure?
Weider-Hoffman: I’m a trained thaumaturge. I’ve bounced around from organization to organization in search of the truth. But I don’t have… the resources needed. You do. If we were to form an alliance… We both want to find the truth, yes? And it seems more and more likely that we’re both on the same path.
Agent Newman: Uh, that’s certainly a proposal. I’m sorry, but we’re not even sure if it’s our mission to get to the castle in the first place. Our navigator’s currently trying to track down the epicenter of this realm, and our mission’s basically just to map out things up to there, then wait for another team to take care of further explorations. I’m sorry, Alberto, but if we accept, it might derail our mission-
Agent Vaughan: It won’t. I’ve got the results. The castle is the epicenter.
Apparently, he’d just gotten back. A lot later than he intended, as he got lost along the way. They never even noticed him returning. He walked Alberto into his tent for interrogation. As the zipper closed behind them, Anna could see them through the small transparent window on the tent, and there was that inscrutable expression on Arthur's face again. Only except there was something different about it, this time. She saw his eyes twinkle in that strange way as he rattled off questions for Alberto to answer.
Arthur didn't fill them in on what they talked about during the next thirty minutes, but it seems that he was convinced that Alberto was trustworthy, and somehow there was the implicit understanding that that was the end of that. They’d just wait for the ghosts to disappear, wait for Val and Dina to return, regroup, then with Alberto’s guidance, move to the castle. Apparently, it’d cut the trip down several days.
"Deployable once. Do not expose to self."
Of course, he’d be bound the whole way, which he didn’t seem too concerned about, and there was one last test he’d have to pass to gain their trust. A Foundation-devised, fool-proof way to know for sure that Alberto was trustworthy.
“Alberto, can you look at this image?” Anna says, removing the card's envelope and deploying the cognitohazard. “Now, can you tell me what it is?”
“It’s an inkblot?”
“Yeah, but… what does the inkblot look like? To you, I mean.”
“Well… I guess it’s a… black cat? A black cat made out of arrows.”
Anna turns to Vaughan, and he nods. Then, he pulls up a chair. Val and Dina would be back in about two hours.
Over four hours later, and they were not back yet, and it was clear that something had gone very, very wrong.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
Agent Kilroy: Look, we need to find them, they wouldn’t- They wouldn’t be late like this. Something must’ve happened-
Agent Xob: Auggie, calm down. This place is a damn labyrinth. We get lost all the time!
Agent Newman: But they were pretty confident about where they were going, they said they had it all mapped out.
Agent Kilroy: God, if only I’d woken up earlier, I would’ve- I could’ve had them map it out so we knew where to look. Are they even still at the temple?!
Weider-Hoffman: Your friend was at the temple? Which one?
Agent Kilroy: I- uh, this one. This one…
[Agent Kilroy shows the camera to Weider-Hoffman. He takes a long look at it.]
Weider-Hoffman: I know where that is. I know a shortcut. If we go now, we’ll make it there before sunset.
And things proceeded pretty quickly after that point. Within five minutes, everyone had packed their belongings, strapped on their rucksacks, and Arthur was holding Alberto on a leash as he led the way. He didn’t seem to mind the leash any more than he minded the gun that Arthur was holding to the back of his head, in case he made any sudden move.
Hannah walked in front of them to check for hidden dangers. Whenever she turned around, she noticed that Alberto had his eyes completely shut. Yet, somehow, he always seemed to know where to go.
Alberto’s shortcut was horrifically counter-intuitive, yet absolutely effective. They went in the opposite direction that Dina and Val last went in, they went in what felt like circles, yet emerged at a completely different location in the end.
“Sometimes, this place hinders you,” Alberto said. “Other times, it helps you.”
With one final turn they’d somehow arrived at the temple doors. At that point, it was already getting dark outside. Hannah remembers thinking that it looked so much worse, so much more foreboding than what they’d seen in the photo. She looked up, and it was as if it’d go on forever. For a moment, she couldn’t make out where the dark red of the temple ended, and where the sky began.
They had it all planned out. They’d go inside, shout for Dina and Val, see if they could respond. August and her would check the upper levels, Arthur and Anna would check the lower levels. After that, they’d slowly work their way out through the surrounding area. With Alberto’s help, they could get it done quickly enough. They had it all planned out, so she had to stay calm, because August was on the verge of hyperventilating. She needed to stay calm, for her. They had a plan.
(August’s hand shook as she clutched her comms. It’s still not picking up Val and Dina’s signals, but the interference should already be gone, now. Why weren’t they picking up?)
They found them almost immediately. The stench of iron hit their nose as soon as Arthur kicked down the door. There was no need to search any further, because they could see the sacrificial altar from here.
Val was hunched over Dina’s corpse like a starved beast. The noises, the soft chewing, the glistening of intestines would haunt Hannah until the day she died. Dina’s head was lolled over. She couldn’t tell what her expression was, because she didn’t have much of a face anymore. The area where her eyes should've been were entirely, horrifically slashed - though somehow, the empty pits still manage to gaze accusingly at one of the depictions of the King on the wall. Even in the perpetual redness, they could make out the copious amount of blood, seeping into the dirt floor of the sacred temple.
Time was frozen, and things were happening frame-by-frame, as Val seemed to turn his head with a motion that took a thousand years. The lens on his glasses were shattered. His entire face is wet. Bits of meat spewing out from his over-packed gullet. He looked almost proud as he surveyed the facial expressions of all present for his grotesque display of devotion. His movements were slow, meticulous, like some high-functioning predator fit into the wiry frame of a man.
“…AAaaarrrrttthhhuuu…” Val groaned, as antlers burst from his skulls. The contents of his jaws dropped to the floor, and it was a sound of nightmares. They watched as this thing shuffled around, like its bones didn’t fit its skin, like something was threatening to burst out. Things like worms moved under his skin. Something pulsed behind the black void where his eyes used to be.
(God licked its lips, savoring the claret)
And things were moving again, nerves kicking back in in ways that they were never meant to, and Hannah remembered trying to draw a gun, but as she turned, a shot rang out, and she looked back to see the thing that was Val, and he, it, was bent over backwards. She could smell gunpowder in the air, and the thing that was Val rose again, and it was smouldering and shedding red scales, and it was crawling on four ungulate limbs, and its entire head was one huge eye and maw, and it had tree-like horns growing out of its head, and Arthur shot the damn deer-thing again, and it still wasn’t fucking dead, because it was breaking into a sprint with a hole in its chest - and now it was upon them, and it opened up the abyss it had on its face, and-
Her ears were ringing. Her world was pitch black, and moment by moment, she tried to force her eyes open. As her vision cleared, she saw the headless corpse of the red thing, still smoldering and smoking as it bled. Bits of brains and teeth sprayed across the wall like some violent abstract mosaic. Its muscles still twitched. It had to be twice as big as Val was.
Arthur walked over and emptied the rest of the gun into it. Sharp blasts that grew duller and duller, and as her hearing cleared again, Hannah could finally make out the other sounds. The sound of blood dripping, both Val and Dina’s. The sound of Anna retching behind them, the sound of Alberto praying, and the sound of August, who had been howling since the moment they opened the door.
Somewhere God Can't See
"Milestone reached! Congratulations!"
All sciences are studies of change. Chemistry, Physics, Biology, Psychology, Theology. Flesh rots, stone oxidizes, steel rusts. People, of all things, are subject to the most change. Pressure, time, it all broils over in your mind. It’s just too much.
Someone’s running outside. Russell watches through the window as Stan’s team rushes the man. They drag him across the dirt, and beat the living shit out of him with their little batons, and as the man curled up and stopped moving, he felt himself changing too, but it didn’t bother him as much.
Liam enters his office soon after, and he hangs up his lab coat by the door as he always did. Russell could still hear the sound of that damn Billy Joel song blaring from his office down the hall. He closes the door and the music is completely muted by the sound-proof layering.
“How is it?” Russell asks, closing the blinds.
“Same as usual,” he replies. “Though, we’ve finally got the numbers back for this month. You think it’s something?”
Liam tossed a bunch of documents on the table, lit a cigarette. For the next 30 minutes, he just waited in silence as Russell read through the files, one by one. When he was finished, he stacked up all of the documents into one neat pile, then opened a file drawer, dropping it onto a stack of identical document piles.
“A 12% increase in efficiency.” Russell says. “An even larger yield than last time. And that’s after amnesticizing the last of Rowe’s staff. How’s everyone over there?”
“Well, they’re taking it better than last time, so as you said, the hypothesis holds.” Liam stared at him, and then raised his eyebrows. “So, what now? I doubt we can just keep leaking files, Overwatch is still pissed at us, so I figure we’ll need to keep low for now.”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Russell says. “The cat’s out of the bag, at this point. I think we can keep pushing it in subtler ways. I doubt Overwatch is looking through our equipment list, or at our reassignment pool. The psychological testing just gets locked up in vaults, anyway.”
“So, what do you need me to do?”
“Well, we have a scientific framework. The next part after that is applications.” Russell says, as he retrieved a binder from his desk. “This is what’s next.”
Liam opens up the binder. Now, it was Russell’s turn to wait. It didn’t take long, because several pages in, Liam was already flipping to the end.
“The Ethics Committee would have our asses for this, you realize that?” Liam says, “Their memorandum didn’t exactly mince words.”
“That’s why we won’t be the one to do it. Keep reading.”
Liam kept reading. Russell poured himself a glass of scotch. As he poured, he watched Liam’s expression grow more contorted with each passing line.
“Jesus,” He said, as he closed the binder.
“What’ll you want in exchange for it?” Russell asked, retrieving another glass.
“A bigger office. A cushier job, maybe something with Stan’s crew,” Liam said, after a pause. “But you’ll have to look for someone else to be your errand boy, soon enough.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Russell says, “For now though, just enjoy the free promotions. That glass’s yours.”
“How long will this last?”
“As long as the Foundation lets it. So… long enough. And God-willing, the things decided in this room today will usher us into a better age. A “Foundation fit for a modern and moral world”, as it were.”
Liam laughs, choking on the harsh alcohol.
“You don’t agree?” Russell smiles.
“No, no, it’s just… ” Liam wipes the alcohol on his sleeve, “God’s not got nothing to do this, Russ. That’s why we’re here in the first place. God’s not watching. No one is.”
“Maybe,” Russell says, raising his own glass. “Though, for some reason, I get the feeling that even if He was, He would approve.”
ACT IV
YOU ARE WHAT I MAKE YOU
On Fine Art
Continued.
And that's exactly it, I told him. That's what Krakolche wanted the audience to contemplate on. If they were truly the first, the purest ur-example of human civilization, that great portrait of suffering, what did that say about us?
Mr. Ottinger just shrugged. "I never thought of it like that," He told me. "I just thought it looked cool," Which, in hindsight, explained what a genuine Krakolche was doing in a room of gaudy faux-medieval artefacts and overtly-nationalistic Crusades propaganda befitting a Klan compound.
Then, my host tells me to enjoy it while it lasts, for it shall be sold to a private collector next year. I felt a pang in my heart as I considered the fact that this was to be the state of all that remains of Da'Vo Christian artistry. I watched as he shuffled away to gush over some other cheap trashy oddity in his collection.
Then, I was alone, soaking all the details of that vivid display of suffering. Suffering… and yet, there was more to it than that. I look at all the little people underneath, I see their little eyes - Krakolche's specialty has always been the eyes, you see, and what the eyes convey…
Words fail me, and I dare not say more. We must see it together when you visit this winter.
There's so few pieces remaining free, unshackled by the Vatican, or unburnt by the Foundation, but as a scholar of Krakolche, I think I can say definitively that "A Portrait Of Daeva Society" was her greatest piece.
Your friend,
AWH.
Funny Story About That
"Front towards enemy."
The night is still. The wind is gentle. There is only the sound of crickets, and the rustling of leaves. Hannah Xob looks through the binoculars again at the patch of yellow light in the distance. They didn’t look like Scarlet cultists, of course, but then again, she’d been fooled by appearances before. No, no, it was stupid to think of it that way. It’s stupid, and it could get people killed.
She watched as little shadows moved through the night, watching for any sign of the usual depravities. Nothing yet, so far though, but she knew that if she just kept watching, something would present itself. Something always does, because the Foundation knows what it’s doing, and the Foundation were the ones to tell them what the villagers actually were.
They were called the Children Of The Red Soil, in their language. Words filtered down from Scarlet Response a couple weeks ago, about the rituals, about the corpses laid out in front of all the children. They took a look, didn’t like what they saw on the satellite images, and Hannah was on a plane within the hour. It was a standard mission, like all the other ones she’d been on, and she guessed she was grateful for it, even though the amount has been dropping off for a while now, and she didn’t like to think what would happen to her if it stopped altogether.
“Hannah, it’s my turn,” says a voice behind her, and she turns around and it’s Ulrich, with his trademark mustache. “Nothing yet so far, eh?”
“Nope, still nothing,” Hannah says, handing over the binoculars, “They’ll slip up soon enough, though. How’s everyone else?”
“All the other teams still haven’t arrived yet. I think Luke’s still trying to sort it out,” Ulrich says, lying down on his stomach at the observation point, “Some Foundation drone did come though, not sure what that’s about yet.”
“Drone? You mean like, an actual drone? Or like they’ve just got some dude in a business suit out here in the woods?” Hannah grins as she gets up.
“Uh, I don’t know, both.” Ulrich says, “Watch your step, you’re gonna break your neck if you aren't careful.”
Of course, Hannah’s gotten pretty used to the lightless places. Any Omicron-14 member worth her salt had to be, and she was particularly good at finding her way through the darkness. It was comforting to her, and that made all the differences. She stepped through the grass until she felt the false rock-face on the cliffside, and opened it.
The Omicron-14 camp on the other side was well-lit. There was a working freezer, there were cooled tents, and there were all the other amenities that you got when the Foundation decided that you were one of the more useful Task Forces to keep around. Most of the guys and gals were still sleeping. Usually, the mission didn’t start until enough members had arrived, and this time, for some reason, the rest of the task force had been delayed by at least several hours.
“‘Sup, Artie. How’s the game going?” Hannah waved at Arthur Vaughan, Conley’s stoned-faced right hand man. He’d been watching some sort of football game for the last hour or so, but for some reason, he didn’t seem to emote through it at any point. Not upon someone scoring a goal, or anything. “So, same as usual?”
“Mm. He’s still in the back.” Arthur says, “Arguing with someone.”
“Oh, crap. Is there some sorta issue? Does he need me or anything?”
“No.” He says, turning to her, and something in his voice unsettles her, even though nothing seems to show outwardly. “He doesn’t need you.”
It turns out Ulrich was right. Behind one of the tents, at the far end of the camp, Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Conley was currently arguing with a thirty-something man in a business suit. The man had slicked back hair, held in his hand a clipboard, and was made out of flickering red light. A whirring noise from above indicated the presence of an actual Foundation autonomous messenger drone, projecting his image through a port on its bottom compartment.
The man had a bemused expression, while Lucas Conley looked pissed. But then again, Hannah thought, he always kinda did look that way.
AUDITORY RECORDS - SCARLET RESPONSE
O-14 Wormwood: -treat us like fucking dogshit! I don’t give a shit what Russell said, it’s your fucking people’s job to not fuck this up, and-
REDSIGHT: Oh, come on, you can’t blame Scarlet Response for this. Take it up with the O5s if you’re that pissed about it. I just told you, the next best thing-
O-14 Wormwood: The next best thing will be me shoving my fucking fist so far up your rectum that your fucking teeth gets knocked out.
REDSIGHT: Dinner and a movie, first, pal.
[O-14 Cassiel approaches. Both the REDSIGHT Operative and O-14 Wormwood turns to her.]
O-14 Cassiel: Uh, Luke? Why are you shouting about fisting rectums with a hologram right now?
O-14 Wormwood: They redirected the fucking planes, Hannah. The rest of Omicron-14 ain’t coming. They’re heading to Russia right now, apparently new orders from some Scarlet Response dickhead came through.
O-14 Cassiel: What? They can’t do that, the only person who gets to make that call is you.
O-14 Wormwood: Apparently fucking not! Apparently, they can just reroute my troops without my permission, and then just not fucking tell me about it so we can dick around in a forest for five fucking hours!
REDSIGHT: Jesus, not everything is an attack on you, Connie-
O-14 Wormwood: Conley.
REDSIGHT: Sometimes, shipments get delayed. Sometimes, the chain of command breaks down. Sometimes, and forgive me for this, it’s hard to get word to some random task force leader in the middle of nowhere because the camp they’re staying at is improperly memetically cloaked at the wrong frequency.
O-14 Cassiel: Wait, you’re saying that I set up the memetic cloaking incorrectly?
REDSIGHT: I’m not saying anything! I don’t know why your team didn’t get the memo! I’m just saying that shit happens sometimes!
O-14 Wormwood: Fuck you. You know as well as I do that this is a fucking humiliation ritual. You Scarlet Response fucks have been doing this ever since I filed that complaint, because you know-
REDSIGHT: Oh, know what? We’re very interested in that. Would you like to present that before the Scarlet Response team in person?
[Silence.]
REDSIGHT: Anyways, as I said, the next best course of action is for you to get on the next plane over. You’ll be there in a couple hours. You can regroup, set things up… New mission! Ta-da.
O-14 Cassiel: Uh, what’ll it be, this time?
REDSIGHT: Oh, uh, you’ll get the full documentation on the plane, but, let me see…
[The REDSIGHT Operative flips through his clipboard.]
REDSIGHT: Occult Neo-Nazis.
O-14 Wormwood: What, is it the Blood Reign Aryans again? I thought we killed all of them.
REDSIGHT: No, no, not… not anomalous Neo-Nazis. Regular occult ones. We’ve had a low-level monitor on these guys for a few years. Russia-based. Small-scale terrorism, sextortion, shootings. Recruits online, usually targeting minors. A few cases of ritual sacrifices, worship of some egregore deity…
O-14 Cassiel: Holy shit.
REDSIGHT: Now, I know the obvious question here, that-
O-14 Cassiel: Yeah, why haven’t we gone after these guys before? This is awful.
[The REDSIGHT Operative stares at O-14 Cassiel. O-14 Wormwood keeps his head down.]
REDSIGHT: I just told you, they’re non-anomalous. They just LARP otherwise. The obvious question is, “what does this have to do with us?” And, well, usually the answer to that would be nothing, but recently, we’ve seen this pop up in their associated websites.
[The REDSIGHT Operative presses something, and a number of images display on the hologram. O-14 Wormwood furrows his brows as he browses through them.]
O-14 Wormwood: Have we classified them yet?
REDSIGHT: Our guys in Moscow’s currently listing them as SCP-1377-RU. See that little red seal there? We think it's some kinda memetic conduit, but no one's sure yet. You can read up on it on the plane, too. So, the mission is the same as always: Ice these fuckers, burn everything they’ve got, and find out how the hell they did it.
[Silence.]
REDSIGHT: Hmm. Well, it’s your call, Connie. Plane arrives in-
O-14 Wormwood: I didn’t say anything, yet.
REDSIGHT: Plane’s not just for you, it’s to carry your replacements, too. You can get on if you want, or not.
[Pause.]
O-14 Cassiel: …What?
REDSIGHT: It’s something new that the folks up in Scarlet Response has been rolling out. Well, after the success of the IDEOSIG system, the next step is, of course, a way to deal with the small fries. Don’t worry! You guys are still gonna get the bigger piece of the pie. All the major missions are still yours, but considering how low Scarlet King activity has gotten these days, you’re almost all on your way to retirement!
[The REDSIGHT Operative raises his hand in mock-celebration, shouting “Woo-hoo!” O-14 Wormwood and O-14 Cassiel just stares blankly at his hologram.]
The plane came early, all cloaked and silent. Another benefit of working for the Foundation. They all watched as the cargo hold opened up to reveal the dozen or so state-of-the-art Foundation drones. About twice as big as a beachball, but vantablack, covered in a transparent, shiny shell. Little repulsors extended from the sides of each of the drones as they all floated off into the night sky, towards the little village. Everyone got on and waited for the plane to take off.
As Hannah got on, she thought that Conley looked older than he’d ever looked. It was probably the first time that she really noticed how much he was greying.
AUDITORY RECORDS - OMICRON-14
O-14 Wormwood: Can’t let shit like that get you down, kid. The Foundation’s full of people like that. Jackasses trying to make you into some drone, some puppet. That’s something that Liam wouldn’t have taught you in orientation.
O-14 Cassiel: I get that. I was just thinking about the other stuff he said, I guess. I’ve been involved with Foundation work for so long, sometimes I forget how fucked up regular people can be.
O-14 Wormwood: Lemme tell ya’ a secret. You gotta kill that part of you. First thing we learn to do is separate what the Foundation can do, and what the Foundation is. Otherwise, you just go insane.
O-14 Cassiel: Yeah, I guess… uh, what was he implying back there? You filed a complaint or something?
[O-14 Wormwood waves dismissively.]
O-14 Wormwood: Ehhh… It’s nothing. Just Foundation corporate gossip shit. I figure I just overreacted that time, and some yuppie upstairs is still mad about it.
O-14 Cassiel: I guess.
[Pause.]
O-14 Cassiel: Y’think we’re really gonna be out of a job soon? I mean, what he said about Scarlet King activity dwindling. I mean, that’s true. We’ve been getting less and less missions for a while now, and now they have drones doing it for us.
O-14 Wormwood: I mean, probably. We have cleared out lots of the bigger cults over the year, especially after IDEOSIG. Lately, it’s only been the straggler groups, the leftovers. We’ve basically driven them to extinction. Certainly something to celebrate! We’ve managed to vanquish evil at an unprecedented level, that’s not something many people can brag about.
O-14 Cassiel: Yeah, but… you don’t look too happy about it.
O-14 Wormwood: Yeah, well… maybe it just hasn’t sunk in yet. I don’t know. Also, uh, why do you keep staring at me like that? There somethin’ in my hair?
O-14 Cassiel: Yeah, it’s turning gray, a lot. I only just noticed.
[O-14 Wormwood panics, and immediately checks his reflection on his phone.]
O-14 Wormwood: What? Fuck. How the hell did I miss that?
O-14 Cassiel: Heheh, c’mon, it doesn’t look that bad.
[There is a rumble as the plane takes off.]
O-14 Wormwood: Ah, well, shit. Thanks, that’s gonna be on my mind for the rest of the night.
They share a laugh in the cabin as the stealth plane rises into the night sky, and the last thing Hannah saw as it turned was the village. She was the only one on that plane who looked back.
The village was burning. From here, the drones were still visible. Tiny black dots zooming around, shooting out white jets of light and flames. And though she knew it was the right thing to do, she closed her eyes and tried to put the image out of her mind.
When she woke up, they were just landing in Russia.
That was years ago, and Hannah didn’t know why she was thinking about that memory now, and she didn’t understand why there was this subtle dread building up in her chest.
It was just before sunrise on the day after Val and Dina had died. They did not retrieve their corpses, nor did they manage to sleep the night before. They were all staying in one of the nearby Daevite huts. Anna was sitting on the floor in the room next to them, staring blankly out the window, counting the minutes until sunrise. Vaughan was probably pacing the streets outside.
Hannah was laying on the dirt floor, and August had been sobbing into her arms for the last several hours, though only she knew that. Alberto was sitting on the window frame, swinging his leg, and sometimes he tried to say something to sound comforting.
"I didn't have the pleasure of knowing your friends," he said. "But my heart goes out to them."
And Hannah could've pointed out that they've only really known each other for 5 days, but instead, she just mumbled a "thank you."
(Has it really only been 5 days?)
“You have to keep going, friend,” He said. “You have to keep something in your heart to drive you. Keep Dina and Val in your hearts. Let their spirits lift you out of this place.”
“That’s really nice, Alberto. But, please…” Hannah whispered, “Just try to get some sleep.”
“It works, Hannah.” He turns to look outside, “It’s worked for me at least. When my thoughts are at its darkest, I picture them in my mind. My old friends, my home, my village. I dream of one day returning to them, my…”
And then he says a name, and for some reason, Hannah shoots up at this one, though she didn’t understand it. She didn’t know why she felt like her heart was about to burst.
“What… what did you say?”
“Ah, sorry, you wouldn’t’ve understood that,” Alberto smiles, “It’s what we called ourselves, back at home. It means…”
She'd like to say stop it, say that's not funny, but the punchline was coming. A breath dies in her lungs. Something else also dies.
“…the Children Of The Red Soil.”
And then Alberto probably said something else, but her mind had already gone blank, and somewhere out there in cosmic space, right at that moment, something laughed uproariously.
Die For Your Work
"I'm here."
For two days, the remaining members of MTF-GIGAS walked in silence as Alberto guided them towards the castle. They barely stopped for food or water. They slowed down during the night, but they didn’t stop, and they kept marching, grim-faced, as the surrounding Daevite villages and huts were replaced with downward-sloping grasslands, and the grassland was replaced by sand. And suddenly, before they knew it, the castle was hours away from them, then minutes. The entire way, August diligently worked on the map, as Alberto pointed out all the shortcuts.
They came to a stop as the black lake came into view. Like a light house from Hell, the castle sat on a black stone island surrounded by a vast expanse of angry boiling black water. There are no bridges, no stone steps, no pathways to the island. There is zero way of getting across. It was something that the Foundation never took into account, so even if everything had gone right for the mission, they’d probably never have made it to the end. An entire planning committee was caught flat-footed by the premise of a boiling lake, because for some reason, that was somehow unexpected.
Then again, they didn’t expect that MTF-GIGAS would meet Alberto, either. So, it was something of a happy coincidence. Tracing sigils and symbols into the sand, Alberto repeated a few words that humans shouldn’t be capable of reproducing, and from the sand rose a large flattened boulder, suspended in the air via nothing but the will of this eccentric old poet. Everyone else got on, carrying with them their rucksacks. The boulder slowly levitated across the lake, bobbing rhythmically to the sound of Alberto’s steady, measured breaths.
That was the easy part. The hard part would be landing the damn thing, but that’s where MTF-GIGAS came in. He’d explained that he couldn’t take care of the island’s defenses on his own, he was too weak for that, and he couldn’t multi-task so well. And as the boulder approached the stone island’s shore, they understood what he meant.
Artist's Depiction of SCP-9317-Ω-4, based on Weider-Hoffman's accounts.
Item #: SCP-9317-Ω-4
Description: SCP-9317-Ω-4 refers to a species that inhabits SCP-9317-Ω-CASTLE, the epicenter of SCP-9317-Ω. According to SCP-9317-Ω-2 (henceforth Weider-Hoffman), these instances are a sub-species of SCP-9317-Ω-1 (or possibly vice-versa).
As such, SCP-9317-Ω-4 bears many anatomical similarities with SCP-9317-Ω-1, with a few exceptions. SCP-9317-Ω-4 entities are smaller, darker-colored, and more agile. They also apparently do not possess a sleep cycle, remaining awake at all times. The biggest difference, however, is that SCP-9317-Ω-4 instances are septipedal (see image) and move around much like a spider. Entities also possess distinctive growths on their foreheads, reminiscent of antlers.
According to Weider-Hoffman, all SCP-9317-Ω-4 instances are highly aggressive and predatory. As such, all instances must be terminated in order to access SCP-9317-Ω-CASTLE. From observation, SCP-9317-Ω-4 instances are not impervious to damage, and can be injured through conventional means.
Alberto called them “the toddler people” because that’s what they looked like to him, with their large heads, lack of teeth, and repetitive, one-note behaviors. August subsequently questioned if he had ever actually seen a toddler before.
He told them that he’d theorized that they were not native to this realm, because to him, they exuded an “energy” far different from the energy of this world. Perhaps there had been others here before them, once. Mortals from outside who had found their way to this realm. Perhaps they couldn’t find a way out. Perhaps, he theorized, they reproduced.
“Who knows what the effects of this place are on the human body, after generations and generations of descendants?” He said, “They could've been here for centuries, or perhaps even millenias. There’s no way to tell. Entire lives, spent here, without knowing that there is a world beyond them. Living only to maim each other and then die.”
Of course, his descriptions didn’t stop MTF-GIGAS from doing what had to be done afterwards, as they all emptied out their rucksacks on the boulder. They were Mobile Task Force members, and they all shared that same affinity.
In the end, they could all agree that, sometimes, the quickest way through a problem were Foundation arms.
Sometimes, you just have to indulge in certain excesses.
They were crawling all around the island, and they looked almost confused upon seeing them for just a moment - but it was only a moment. They snarled, they screeched, biting down on imaginary flesh with their maw, not unlike archetypical demons from some Christian B-movie. Hannah could count dozens, which meant there were probably hundreds in the castle. It'd take a lot of guns and ammunitions to keep them all down.
They’d overpacked.
Shots rained down from the sky onto the creatures below. They screamed and recoiled from the onslaught of hostile stimuli that they as a species had never experienced before. Some ran, some tried to leap toward them, drowning themselves in the boiling water in the process. Others just died, from thaumaturgically-enhanced lead, from fire, from exotic ammunition made out of energy or jellyfish extract or whatever alternative they had to use to shield from SCP-9317’s effects. Their brains leaked out of their skulls, their skulls burst, their flesh burned.
The boulder cycled around the island, and they picked off every single one of them until nothing was moving. At that point, they landed. The boulder docked. Arthur leapt off, followed by Anna, then Hannah, and August. Alberto followed suit, carrying along additional munitions and arms.
Hannah felt it in her heart that at that moment, she was no longer afraid of dying. And she wondered if the others felt that way. They’d kicked the door down, and there were dozens more, and they came, and they shot them down, and more came and they shot those down, too. They all moved in one file, neutralizing all threats, like a well-oiled, perfect synchronized machine.
It is the satiation of urges long forgotten, the feeding of an appetite long-starved, and something primal burned in Hannah Xob’s core that made her finally feel alive again after so long, it was the feeling of light coming back into your eyes, and as she looked back and saw that same light in August’s eyes, in Anna’s eyes, as they put bullet after bullet into these monstrosities, the world feels sane. This is what she was meant for. This is what she lived for. War. Righteous war. Sisterhood. The vanquishing of an unprecedented, unambiguous evil for the greater good of all mankind. It is something that she’d missed since Omicron-14.
And it burned inside her, it burned as they continued on, reaching the stairwell in the middle of the first floor. It burned as they shot at all of the remaining ones as they went up. It burned inside her as they repeated the same process on the second floor, then the third floor, then the fourth then fifth. They barely noticed the little details, the cells, the wiring, the markings, the crystal lantern, the tablets, the spiderwebs…
And then it was done. They’d emerged on the roof of the sixth floor, and the sun was upon them again, and Hanna Xob could see it all through the gun smoke, through the bodies of what had to have been hundreds and hundreds of the toddler-spider people, and she ran up to the edge of the roof, and she sees it all, and it’s all so big, and it’s all so small. The entire realm under her, the tree where Telal’s grave was, the forests in the distant where his body was buried, the temple where Val and Dina still laid rotting, the Daevite streets and paths that didn’t go where they went and the entire field where the directions made no sense, and she saw beyond the horizons, beyond SCP-9317, beyond her shitty dead-end apartment at Site-252 where she wrote about dead things for 30 minutes everyday, beyond the hospital wing of Site-19 that housed the broken body of the first person who’s ever taken her seriously, beyond her parent’s house where she promised herself that she’d make it pass the cripplingly lonely mediocrity that had dominated her entire existence, and she screamed.
For a moment, nothing in the world existed. Not August, not Arthur, not Anna, not Alberto, not the castle nor the realm, not the giant locked chamber behind her and the dead-alive thing locked inside of it, not the world outside (if it still existed) and not even her. There is only the screaming.
She screamed, and then she just kept on screaming, and she does not know if it is because she feels triumphant over evil, or because she feels completely, horrifically alone in an absurd universe that just takes what it wants, or if they’re the same thing, because she doesn’t know what she’s feeling, and then she just kept on screaming until her voice goes hoarse and she’s coughing up what she’s pretty sure is blood.
Then someone puts their hand on her shoulder and gives her a few pats, and suddenly, it becomes all too normal again, and she just sighs, and hangs her head.
“Oh, God,” says Hannah Xob. “Oh, dear God.”
And the noise was there again, that background screech, unending and unwavering, like it came back just for her, louder than ever. Like it heard her scream, and now it was howling back in sympathy.
Goodbye
It’s done. My contact at the Foundation came through. I have almost all of the pieces, and there’s only one thing left to do. The Horizon Initiative has heard me out, and the Oneiroi Collective has agreed to take me up on the offer. I think that the time for truth is fast approaching. I can hear them calling to me. My family, and my Red God.
By the time this letter reaches you, It’ll already have been done. I will no longer of this mortal coil. I don’t know what lies on the other end, but I hope that one day, I will make it through, I will make it back, and I will see you again.
Thank you for reading my letters all these years. I’m so sorry I was never for you when you needed me. You deserved more, so much more than what this cruel world has put you through, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t just take it all away.
Thank you, Sarah. I’m glad we met in the big city. That night, I was looking for my faith, but it was you who saved my soul.
Forever your friend, always.
AWH.
The House By The Lake
"Proverbs 7:27"
She felt like howling, too, but nothing comes out these days. That well had run dry long ago.
Everyday, she feels it. Something slips away from her, and it’s always something crucial, but the work must be done.
It’s been four months, she’s counted. Four months since she went to meet with that woman in that house by the lake. She can’t remember her face, or what they talked about. That part’s gone too. She still remembers seeing the antlers for the first time, and realizing beyond all doubt that she was now not in a world of her own.
(Was there something in the tea?)
Four months in, and the thing inside of her stomach wanted out. It clawed at her from the inside. It talks to her in a voice that only she hears. It was developing too quickly. It is a hateful, watchful thing, and it would not die, no matter what she tried. And she would not die, no matter what she tried. She’s not sure if she’s still capable of that.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people for no reason at all and there’s absolutely no meaning in any of it.)
Four months of hearing screaming down the hall from the other rooms, four months of coming to awful inhuman realizations after realizations that tested the limits of her psyche beyond what any human should be capable of experiencing, of what had happened, of the fact that no one was coming, that no one was looking for her. She turned to hope, and her hopes went unanswered. She turned to faith, but prayers did not escape this place. Nothing did.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because the universe is a sick and twisted place, and we can’t fight against it.)
She remembers the first time trying to communicate with the girl in the next room. The sheer horror of it all, the cold comfort of solidarity, and the despair when she stopped talking like a human being, and she was alone again. She remembers feeling emotions without name when the next girl was carried down here, in the cell next to hers. She remembers hours of screaming inarticulately through the little hole in the door from which tainted food came. Insults, then pleading, then wrath, and everything else in-between. There was never a response.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because people are inherently horrible, and innocence is an aberration.)
Four months of breaking down and rebuilding herself again. Four months of losing hope and desperately trying to find it again in a matter of minutes. Four months of expressing all the forms of protests that a human body is capable of in the face of something so universally vast and malignant and uncaring that she can’t see past no matter what she tries. She cannot picture her life a year from now.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because God is good, and He wants to test us against the works of the Devil. To forge us into impervious steel.)
Four months of scribbling down notes. Because even if she doesn’t make it out, if none of them makes it out, someone will know. Someone has to know. Prickling her finger for blood, tearing off the rags she wore for paper, she documented the entirety of her world, as seen through the doors of the food window. There is a small gap between the bricks of her cell that no one can find unless they know where to look for it.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because God has been the Devil all along, and this is just the Law of Creation.)
She writes about the strange pictures on the wall. She writes down what she sees in the opposite room sometimes, full of strange mementos and books and sculptures. She writes down the layout of the house, the details that she can remember. She writes down the names of the girls in the other rooms.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because there is no God.)
She writes about the antlered woman, who wrote in the little Campus notebooks in the other room. Who collected and categorized human bones and intricately tied strings and fabrics to them. Who set up the little altar after she first came here, and then again after the girl that came after. She wrote about the intricate gray door that she carried into the tomb one day, that she hammered into the stone wall at the end of the hall. She wrote about the two sculptures that the woman carved one night, and the look in her eye when she did it.
(Sometimes absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people just because.)
The eyes of a cold, cruel, and uncaring God.
(Absolutely horrible things.)
And today, she was writing again. And the thing in her stomach kicked so hard that it felt like her ribs would crack, but she kept on writing. And that’s when she hears the footsteps. She slams the thin piece of fabric into the gap, and stands up, but then there are too many of them. There are too many footsteps. Unfamiliar ones.
She watched as armored men made their way into the room, and something in her heart swells. She had forgotten how to hope. She screamed through the gates, she told them that she was there, she asked them to save her…
(A long time later, someone would write a book about that particular incident, and they'd muse about what could've happened if the team hadn’t proceeded any further, if they’d just unlocked the doors, gotten the girls out, and just left while they still could.)
The most haunting moment, when she looked back, was when one of the men locked eyes with her. They’d all heard her, of course, the hallway was tiny, but barely any of them glanced at her. That man locked eyes with her, blinked, and then just casually turned away. Hope is replaced by something else as she kept screaming, and the men kept streaming past her, toward their true mission. She kept screaming until after they were out of eyesight.
(Most of the time though, it’s pretty simple. Absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because people just don’t care.)
After a dreadfully long pause, they started screaming back.
A few hours later, the antlered woman came down, and she watched as the Second Acolyte walked past her cell, the dirt floor squelching beneath her feet as she stepped through blood and viscera.
“You won’t get away with this,” she whispers to her through gritted teeth and tears. ”God will strike you down for what you’ve done.”
And the antlered woman, covered in dust and blood, just stared at her, then walked on.
“God will strike you down for what you’ve done!” She screams. And a part of her knows that it wasn’t true. Because this place, and the things that happen here are all outside of His conception. Because God isn’t here right now, and it’s not likely that he ever was.
But that wasn’t correct, either. Because God is here. He is closer everyday, and every night, she hears Him laughing at her from down the hall.
(In time, she’d trade the dirty stone cell for a modern, clean hospital room, but that’s a story for another day. Most times, absolutely horrible things happen to innocent people because someone gets something out of it.)
…however, all it takes is one little clue to get out. And sometimes, the dead can topple empires that the living could never touch.
SCP-9317-Ω-CASTLE Analysis
Description: SCP-9317-Ω-CASTLE, henceforth “the castle”, refers to a large castle of indeterminate size20 that exists within SCP-9317-Ω. The castle is located on a small islet in the middle of a large boiling lake, which renders it inaccessible by most conventional means.
Prior to the arrival of MTF-GIGAS, the islet on which the castle was located was infested by several hundred instances of SCP-9317-Ω-4, which had survived on the islet, apparently isolated, for an indeterminate amount of time. Most of these entities were later neutralized to permit ease of access, aside from a single live specimen which has been captured for study.
As of now, the origins of the castle, whether it exists as a part of SCP-9317-Ω or was constructed by an outside party remains undisputed. Initially thought to be a traumatic imprint similar to the buildings of Psuedo-Daevon, materials in the castle were found to be completely material, and subject to lasting change and destruction. Regardless, it is believed that some form of thaumaturgy was used in the construction of the castle, as indicated by a few signs in its physical make-up.21
Advanced geometric calculations reveal that the castle is located at the exact epicenter of SCP-9317-Ω, which according to the theories of Dr. Paxton, would suggest some sort of spiritual or thaumaturgical significance to the operation of the realm. Investigation of this is underway.
Investigation: SCP-9317-Ω-CASTLE is composed of seven floors (refer to above diagram) and houses a number of artifacts of interest. The following section will catalogue the contents of each floor.
A helix staircase is present in the middle of the castle, wrapping around a large pillar. Notably, all floors were infested with SCP-9317-Ω-4 instances upon discovery, but numbers tapered off towards the upper levels.
1st Floor: The ground floor. The entire floor is designed similarly to a panopticon, with three sub-floors, all containing entrances to dozens of small individual rooms. All rooms appears to contain a small flat rock plain, apparently designed to be used as a bed. No other materials were recovered from the rooms, save for a large amount of heavily decomposed biological materials, presumed to be the remains of dead SCP-9317-Ω-4 instances.
2nd Floor: Found to contain a large amount of decorative strings, fabrics, and wiring that fed into and outside of the castle walls. The floor was otherwise empty. Notably, the surfaces of the walls were found to be covered in intricate designs and patterns, apparently composed out of human blood. Notably, the designs were somewhat reminiscent of circuit patterns on computer components. Further investigation revealed that the decorative materials were composed of a mixture of fabrics and wool, as well as small human bones, and apparently dried sinews.
3rd Floor: Room housed only an intricate mechanical array that looped around the room in a circle. On the array was a large crystalline lantern that emanated red light around the room. The mechanical array slowly propelled the lantern in a circle across the room through an unknown mechanism. At least two observers later reported feelings of temporary infatuation towards the lantern, possibly signalling some form of memetic influence. Thin holes were created in the ceiling of the room that lead to the fourth floor, apparently to let the lantern’s light through.
4th Floor: Room contained a large amount of stone tablets on the walls, arranged into a spiral pattern. Most of the stone tablets had writing etched into it in Proto-Daevite. Thin holes in the floor of the room allowed light from the lantern to shine onto the tablets. As the array moved the lantern around the third floor, the holes would allow the lantern’s light to sweep through the tablets in a circular manner before returning to its original position. See “Further Analysis” section for more information regarding the contents of the stone tablets.
Scan of a daevon bloodweaver spider. Note stinger.
5th Floor: Room contained an immense amount of spiderwebs. A large amount of spiders resides in this room. Upon examination, the spiders were revealed to be the long-extinct daevon bloodweaver spider - a race of red, venomous, scorpion-like 7-legged spiders, the fossils of which were discovered at several Daevite archaeological sites.
Living instances as well as venom samples are currently being catalogued. Information as well as samples are to be delivered to the Department Of Parazoology as well as the Department Of Paraentomology upon completion of the mission.
See “Further Analysis” section for more information regarding certain behaviors during the mid-day period.
6th Floor: Room contained large amounts of decorative materials identical to the type found on the 2nd floor. These materials emerged from the walls, and all fed into the ceiling, presumably connecting to something in the 7th floor. The staircase did not lead upwards into the next floor, but onto a terrace-like area on top of the castle.
7th Floor: The seventh floor consists of a single large chamber on the terrace of the 6th floor, accessible by a large door. However, no means of accessing this door has been discovered, as the door is apparently thaumaturgically locked and fortified. Thaumaturgical decoding of the floor is on-going.
Further Analysis: After it became apparent that the tablets on the fourth floor were all written in Proto-Daevite, we decided that we needn’t bother with translating the text, as none of us knew the language - and our translator was already deceased. We made plans to archive each tablet and move on, but it was then that Weider-Hoffman revealed that he had a basic grasp on Proto-Daevite. He didn’t explain how he came to learn of the long-dead language, but it was decided that his input would be valuable here.
The following are several synopsis of the tablet’s contents, as described by Weider-Hoffman. He has since expressed interest in working with Foundation resources in order to produce complete translations in the future.
Details: Small stone tablet, intricately painted with blood. Third row from bottom. Northern wall.
Synopsis: “Seems to be something from a Daevite temple. Stuff about God sending down commands from the sky, leading the Daevites into war with the other tribes and villages, and what not. Very, uh, descriptive text about the tortures that the Daevites meted out to the other populations. They were quite creative back then, yes?”
Notes: Stone used for the tablet seems very close in composition to the stone back at the temple encountered previously.
Details: Large cracked tablet, engraved, positioned at the very bottom of the floor. Southern wall.
Synopsis: “Alright, so, this is just it in my words, but this one seems to tell some sort of story. It’s about two Daevite slaves who ran away from the empire. They encounter some sort of sea god, or river god, and the god asks what they wish for. They say they wish they knew the way to escape, and the god asks for their heart. So, uh, the god takes one of the slaves away. The god feeds on his Montauk while he cries for several days, but then he finds land, but then he returns to the shore and tries to drown himself, because of what he did. The god returns, and gives the other slave back to him. Then the god delivers some aesop about how the only thing they need to escape is to never turn their backs on one another. Pretty nice story.”
Notes: This is almost exactly the contents of “The Blood Man On The Lake,” but I cannot account for the altered ending, or why it was written in Proto-Daevite, though the 1972 tablet was in late-era Daevite.
Details: Large totem pole, carvings with illustrations. Fifth from the bottom row. Eastern wall.
Synopsis: “Instructions on carving and killing prey animals as a sacrifice for God. From the antlers, I assume that’s a deer. There’s stuff about the patterns to use, how to cut the flesh. I can’t make out what that last picture is, either, but according to the text, it depicts God waging holy war against… something. It ends with this a diagram of how to position the deer carcasses. Seven deers, one for each of his brides.”
Notes: One of the sides of the totem is obscured by the wall. A continuation of the text probably lies on the other side, but it’ll have to be examined by someone who knows what they’re doing.
Details: Rough metal, engravings. Seventh from bottom row. Western wall.
Synopsis: “A story of a Daevite woman who tries to commit suicide by falling into a well. Somehow, the well falls through the world, and into the realm of God. She meets one of God’s three acolytes, who asks the woman various questions about her life. She confesses to her life’s hardships, y’know, her lover was flayed because it was the Daevite empire, her best friend was murdered, that kind of stuff. Then God appears, and he gives her the gift of Montauk. He says it’s power over all existence, but she can either take it, or continue falling to death. So, she takes the gift, and suddenly she’s back to just before she fell down the well, but this time she walks away. I guess the story here is, uh, life is what you make of it?”
Notes: More confusion. This is the first time I’m hearing about the Scarlet King having three acolytes. Plus, there wasn’t even any sacrifice in this one. I’ll have to re-read my notes on Montauk again when I get out.
Details: Mixed. Item is cobbled together out of pieces of other artefacts, including tablets, wood carvings, and other mixed items. The result is a very rough mosaic of a cyclopic, antlered, one-eyed figure with a hulking body. Closest to the ceiling. Southern wall.
Synopsis: “It just says the Red… no, the Scarlet King.”
Notes: The redness made it hard to notice, but seven chains has been drawn on top of the mosaic in blood. Surprisingly, the first instance we've seen of the chains.
Further research on the other tablets will be added later, but for now, I will say that I have a strange foreboding feeling for some reason. Obviously, some nuance is probably lost in translation, but it’s undeniable that a certain amount of these tablets is describing a much different deity than the rest. I don’t know what this implicates just yet.
Upon closer inspection, we’ve also discovered what looked like erosion on some of the tablets. Some of it covering the writing. For some reason, they looked quite recent, too. More bafflingly, when we placed one of the tablets under enhanced analysis, it appears that the erosion was somehow mending. Unlike the castle, were these tablets in fact traumatic imprints? Or have they simply been thaumaturgically treated?
Further Analysis - Addendum: Something just happened. I don’t know what to make of it. At about mid-day, my alarm sounded. It’s something that Val set up that I forgot about. I was coming down to the camp, when I came down through the 5th floor. As previously documented, an immense amount of daevon bloodweavers resides on this floor. However, as I saw then, tens of thousands of these spiders were rushing downwards, scurrying through tiny cracks in the floor.
We found them covering the walls on the 4th floor, and it wasn’t apparent what they were doing at first, but after 30 minutes they returned to the 5th floor, and we discovered what they were doing: They were depositing venom on the tablets.
For some reason, they seemed to have been trying to erode the tablets in a very specific manner. They must do this everyday as the tablets reconstituted themselves, which explains the previous signs of erosion. We noticed that many tablets now had entire lines, sentences, and sections missing entirely. I immediately retrieved Weider-Hoffman and asked him what seemed to have changed. He spent several minutes re-reading things, and this is what he said:
“It’s… it’s like they removed all of the inconsistent parts. You know what I mean? Earlier, it was as if we were reading about two completely different gods, but now, all the contradictory stuff has been scrubbed. All that’s left is a pretty clear depiction of the Scarlet King. He has seven brides, he kills people and gets people killed in his name, he feeds on Montauk and grants boons in exchange for sacrifices.”
All of this is beginning to paint a picture for me, and I don’t think I like what’s being spelled out. Tomorrow, I have some thaumaturgical analysis of the door to do, but after that, we’ll go back to translating the tablets when they’re legible again.
I still haven’t managed to read Dina’s notes, yet.
Notes: I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about everything in this castle. The tablets, the spiders wearing away at them, the lantern that moves around to… scan them? I'm missing something, because I feel like this all feels incredibly familiar to me, yet I can't remember what it reminds me of. It's driving me nuts.
Notes: I think I know what the things in the castle reminds me of.
Notes: What the fuck.
Notes: I swear im not fucking insane
Notes: what is behind that door on floor 7?
Call Of The Void
"Here with you."
Hannah didn’t know why she woke up at that particular time. She didn’t usually wake up in the middle of the night, but for some reason, it felt urgent that she was conscious at this time of night.
Similarly, something compelled her to exit the tent. The gray moon is high in the sky. It’s the middle of the night, and she still doesn’t really know why she’s out here. Maybe a walk would clear her mind?
Alberto and Vaughan said that they would be examining the castle up until sunrise. August’s shift would start in two hours, and hers would start in five, so that means that as of right now, the person on watch would be Anna. Oh, right. Anna was also holding onto some of Telal’s medical supplies. Hannah wondered if they’d packed some Ambien before coming here.
So, she put one foot in front of the other, and started dragging herself to the place where Anna usually sat. She spotted her soon enough. She tapped her on the shoulder.
No response. Anna was sleeping.
Mildly annoyed, she was about to shake her awake when suddenly something occurred to her. She glanced over to August’s tent, and felt her heart drop almost immediately. The tent was opened.
“Anna, Anna! Where the hell is August!?” Hannah shouted, her hands on Anna’s shoulder, shaking her back and forth. Anna shot up, shaking and terrified, and looked around. “She’s gone, did you see where she went!?”
“N-no, fuck, I’m- I’m so sorry. Oh, Christ!” Anna said as she got up. August hadn’t been well ever since Daniela and Val died. They didn’t want to say anything to each other, because they hadn’t been well either. There was an implicit understanding, and they didn’t think they would slip up, but it was a stupid decision to look away like that. Stupid. Stupid.
They decided to split up. Hannah would go search around the island, and Anna would search in the castle. Armed with nothing but her flashlight, Hannah started sprinting around the little Islet, past the little camp they’d set up near the shore, past the little locked cage that housed the little devil cyclop that stared at them, past the mountain of monster corpses that now littered the shore. She kept running until she was almost on the other end of the islet, and that’s when she found her.
She was staring into the boiling sea, feet merely inches from the lapping void water. The steam rose up into the nightsky, surrounding her form as the wind gently blew around her. Hannah couldn’t make out August’s face. She yells her name, but the wind seems to carry the sound away, so she started picking up speed, so she start running-
(She’s been hearing the call of void all her life. All of them have been, even before they got here. Their work kept it down, but there’s not enough to go around.)
August takes one small step towards the shore. She takes a deep breath. The sand sizzles as the caustic void water laps at her feet. She was sobbing. Then, she hears something, and turns her head to see-
Well, she doesn’t see much, because in a split second, they were a crumpled intertwined mess on the sand. Hannah had leaped onto her, but apparently had miscalculated the jump quite a bit.
“What the fuck, August?! Are you serious?! We’re only a few days away from being done with all this mess! You wanna give up now?!” Hannah shouted, wide-eyed and shaking. Adrenaline rushed through her veins as she waited for a reply, but none came.
“Jesus Christ, Auggie, my God…” She says, holding her face in her hand, and the horror of the past few days flows over her again, and August just reaches up and taps her. “What, what is it? What are you…”
“Hannah, I can’t… breath…” August gasped, struggling under the weight of Hannah’s elbow and entire upper body pressing down on her lungs. Hannah barely even notices until she looks down.
“What are you- Oh, oh shit, I am so sorry-”
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
[Alberto Weider-Hoffman and Agent Vaughan are both on the terrace of the 6th floor. Vaughan is shining a special light onto the door that increases the contrast of the door’s surface, revealing very faint engravings. Weider Hoffman is inspecting the engravings very carefully.]
[After a long time, Weider-Hoffman speaks.]
Weider-Hoffman: It’s a story as old as time. Two people finding each other in a strange place where neither belonged. They are both in search of something bigger than themselves, so they join forces, hoping that each of them could assist the other through their quest.
Agent Vaughan: Carry on.
Weider-Hoffman: So, the two of them faced obstacles and hardships. They meet enemies that became allies, and allies that became enemies. They are put through the wringer time and time again, going through all the myriads of pain and despair that life had to offer them. They face death, and destruction, and a million other beasts. But at the end of the story, they finally meet God, and they demand what they’d sought after all these years.
Agent Vaughan: And then?
Weider-Hoffman: And God asks them what they seeked. And for both of them, it’s a list of things. Meaning, purpose, a place in the cosmos. A reason for being. And God says…
Agent Vaughan: Let me guess, it was in them the whole time?
Weider-Hoffman: Well, not them. It was in each other, but I guess it’s not that big of a distinction.
Agent Vaughan: Certainly a bit childish. You are sure that this is what it says?
Weider-Hoffman: Oh yes. It’s a nice tale, I liked it.
Agent Vaughan: Then how does it help us open the door?
[Weider-Hoffman smiles, then turns to face Vaughan.]
Weider-Hoffman: Well, it doesn’t. Maybe it’s not meant to?
[At that moment, Agent Newman runs onto the terrace. She catches her breath. It’s obvious that she’s just ran up the entire castle without stopping.]
Weider-Hoffman: Anna! What’s wrong?
Agent Newman: Alberto… *huff* Artie… Look, I… Auggie wasn’t in her tent… I don’t know where she is…
[Weider-Hoffman’s eyes widen, and he rushes to the edge of the terrace. Arthur furrows his brows.]
Agent Vaughan: Why would she be gone?
Agent Newman: Look, she’s… *huff* she’s not been too well these past few days… After Val and Dina, so we… we were concerned that… that she’d…
Weider-Hoffman: Isn’t that her?
[Agent Newman runs to the edge of the terrace as well, peering down below. Weider-Hoffman points out two tiny figures walking along the shore back towards camp. Agent Newman lets out a sigh of relief.]
Weider-Hoffman: Oh my fucking stars…
[Agent Newman starts walking down the stairs again. Weider-Hoffman advises her to not sprint on her way down. She acknowledges it with a thumbs up.]
Weider-Hoffman: Do you think that we should check up on her?
Agent Vaughan: No. We’ll stay until we open this door.
“You were sleep-walking?!” Anna shouts at the two of them. Hannah had carried August back on her shoulder. Hannah had a strange smile for some reason, and August looked almost embarrassed.
“So basically, sleep-walking is when you get up in the middle of the night, then you-” Hannah explains, but is interrupted.
“I know what sleep-walking, you ass! I just mean- Auggie, you have no idea what a scare you gave me and Xob!” Then suddenly, Anna’s voice softened. “Are you feeling well, Auggie? Seriously.”
“I’m fine! I’m feeling okay. I’m just… I’m sorry I frightened you both like that. I think I’ll just go back to sleep now, before it’s my shift…”
“Your shift’s not gonna happen, Auggie. You sleep now until morning, me and Xob, we’re gonna cover it, okay?”
“But-”
“No buts. It won’t be an issue, I mean, there’s a bunch of stimulants that we have in the emergency arms kit, I’m gonna crack those open. It’s what they’re here for.” Anna puts her hand on August’s shoulder, “You need to sleep. We’ll only be here until we get the door open, and then after that, we can go back the forest. At that point, we can try to contact the Foundation again when the mission schedule ends.”
“Thanks, Anna…” says August. “Yeah, uh, good night. Sorry for all this trouble. Both of you.”
“It’s no issue,” says Hannah, as she limps back to August’s tent.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
[A tent unzips. Hannah carries August inside and gently places her on her bed. She sighs, then zips the tent up again. Both of their facial expressions almost immediately revert to a pensive, downcast look.]
[They do not say anything for a while.]
Agent Xob: Do you… want to talk about it?
[Brief silence.]
Agent Kilroy: …I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s just been so much lately…
Agent Xob: I know, I know…
Agent Kilroy: Telal, and Val, and Dina… all of that happening, all like that… I just… oh my God. I… is this what MTF agents usually deal with, everyday?
Agent Xob: Yeah.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: Well, uh, I mean, there are worse cases and better cases. Usually, it… usually, it doesn’t go so wrong this quick. But… I mean… hey! When we get back, we can always find something better to do.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: Auggie. It’s okay, it’s been awful, but we’re almost at the end. There’s only a few days left. We just gotta make it back, and then things’ll be fine. You can find some cushy job, doing mathematic stuff, or draw maps in some less volatile place, y’know?
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: …I can’t.
Agent Xob: What? Why?
[Agent Kilroy places her hand over her eyes. She’s speaking in a way that Hannah had never heard her speak before.]
Agent Kilroy: …this was my last chance.
Agent Xob: What do you mean, last chance at what?
Agent Kilroy: …working at the Foundation.
Agent Xob: What, as an agent? Auggie, I mean, uh, no offense. I didn’t think it meant that much to you, but-
Agent Kilroy: No, just… in general. I’m… I’m at Black Notice.
Agent Xob: What does that mean?
Agent Kilroy: It’s… some dumb HR term. It just means you’re basically useless to the Foundation, and you’re about to get fired. You’re good at what you do, I’m sure you haven’t heard of it, but…
Agent Xob: Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry to hear that, Auggie…
Agent Kilroy: It’s… It’s not so bad. Usually. If you were useful, for a while, I hear they try to set you up with some benefits. Some work, maybe. Not much, ex-employees can’t feel betrayed if they don’t remember, but… sometimes, they do that.
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: …you can probably tell. I didn’t… uh, I wasn’t that useful. So, I was looking at the standard package for termination.
Agent Xob: …which is?
Agent Kilroy: Amnesticization. No benefits. No healthcare, no severance, just ceremoniously dumped back into your old life, whatever still remains. Just a paper trail, and some mental blocks to keep you from questioning what you spent all those years doing.
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: I… I’d rather die than that.
Agent Xob: Auggie, I mean, that’s-
Agent Kilroy: No, no, trust me. I meant what I said. You don’t know the half of it. So…
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: …things just didn’t get better. Not once. After Theta-90, I had trouble finding more work, so I tried research assistance, but… it just… didn’t work out. I don’t know why, I just kept making mistakes. I couldn’t connect with anyone. I tried to do containment optimization, but that fell through, too. A year in, and I was basically moving from job to job without actually having done anything, so… they tell me I’ve got to stick to one thing. One thing, or I’m out. Permanently. So… I just selected doing paperwork. Little office in the back of Site-883, typing up containment efficiency parameters on Excel.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: Did… something happen?
Agent Kilroy: Nothing happened, I just… it…
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: …I don’t know how some people do it, y’know?
Agent Xob: What, Excel? Yeah, beats me.
[Agent Kilroy laughs.]
Agent Kilroy: No, Hannah. I just mean… okay, it’s something I hear about. People who pick one of the small little bureaucratic jobs in the Foundation, y’know? Doing the boring stuff, out of sight, out of mind. They keep quiet, they never make waves, and they do it day after day after day. They live in their tiny Foundation apartments, and they keep the same routine. For years. And they never feel bothered, or anything. Have you ever heard about that?
Agent Xob: …No. Not really.
Agent Kilroy: It sounded depressing to me at first. Someone told me when I first joined that that’s what I should do, if it all becomes too overwhelming. Finding a job where you just… existed, because you could live for very long just feeding on the Foundation’s bureaucracy. And now, I was in that exact position.
[Pause.]
Agent Kilroy: …I shouldn’t have been alone with my thoughts for so many hours everyday, for so long. I was on my last chance. I was too terrified to get another job. I couldn’t quit the Foundation. I could never, ever go back. Socializing was still just… agonizing, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t know why, I didn’t know how it could be so difficult just talking.
[Pause.]
Agent Kilroy: I don’t think I even said a word to anyone after the first two months. And everyday, I just… did the same things. Then I went back to a dark room to just think for the rest of the day, and I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t stop thinking. Everyday. And it felt…
Agent Xob: You… felt like you were at a dead end, that you were trapped, yeah?
Agent Kilroy: Eight months. I had that job for eight months. And I don’t know why, but just existing… It was so exhausting. And it just… never got better. Once. And… one day, I just… I just…
[Pause. Agent Xob places her hand on Agent Kilroy’s shoulder.]
Agent Xob: Auggie…
Agent Kilroy: I know. I’m… not proud of it, either. But I need to admit it. I saw the high-risk tag, and I…
Agent Xob: No, I mean…
Agent Kilroy: I was already on Black Notice. There was nothing else I could do. I really didn’t plan on making out of it alive. I figured it was a good… good way to go. At least I would go as an agent - not stuck in a cubicle.
[Agent Xob embraces Agent Kilroy.]
Agent Xob: Auggie. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine…
Agent Kilroy: It’s okay, I… It’s… I changed my mind afterwards. Y’know? Because… I met you.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: Wait, really?
Agent Kilroy: I’m not lying, I promise! Hahah, seriously… It was when you saw my logo. No one’s ever reacted that way towards my art before. And… that really made me consider things. If you can believe it… you saved me, Hannah.
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: Hah, what's with that face?
Agent Xob: Uh, Auggie, look, I…
Agent Kilroy: Oh, don’t worry. I knew you didn’t like the logo. I could see it all over your face, then. I’m talking about when I asked you again afterwards, and you said that it looked good.
Agent Xob: …I don’t understand. You’re saying that I… saved you… because I lied?
Agent Kilroy: No, Hannah. I’m saying you saved me because you were trying to be nice. No one’s ever reacted that way with me. Most people… most people don’t even act like I exist.
Agent Xob: I… I mean, I’ll take it. And for what it’s worth… the logo’s grown on me.
Agent Kilroy: Hey, you’re doing it again!
[Agent Xob and Agent Kilroy laugh.]
Agent Xob: I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I just… I mean, hey, Liam liked your logo too, didn’t he? That’s something.
[Agent Kilroy's smile falters. She looks downward.]
Agent Xob: …was it something I said? Are you okay?
Agent Kilroy: It’s nothing. Hannah, honestly… meeting you here, meeting you guys, even Alberto… It’s been some of the best things that’s happened to me in ages. I just…
[Agent Kilroy’s voice begins to crack.]
Agent Kilroy: I just wish we could’ve met elsewhere. Earlier. I just wish we didn’t meet at the end of our lives.
Agent Xob: Auggie, I…
[Agent Kilroy begins to cry. Her breath is ragged and uneven.]
Agent Kilroy: I can’t believe it, you know? Because it’s all so cruel. I finally met people I could connect with… and it's on the mission where everyone dies. And now… there’s no point.
Agent Xob: Auggie, no, come on. Come on, it's not…
Agent Kilroy: You saw how Anna looked earlier, Hannah. When she talked about contacting the Foundation again. She doesn’t believe it, either. Everyone’s been talking around it for ages, like it’s something to deal with later. But half of the team is dead. And it's just… I always just feel like something awful is gonna happen, right around the corner… but even if we make it back unscathed… how are we even supposed to signal them, or hear from them?
Agent Xob: Auggie, listen to me! We’ll make it out, I’m telling you. The Foundation always knows what it’s doing. The Foundation has ways around this. We’re still on the mission schedule. They already gave us our mission, so they’re probably just waiting until the mission time ends. At that point, they’ll send in a back-up team. They managed to send us in, after all. And… even if that doesn’t work, because 9317 is broken, or something… we can just wait! Look at Alberto. He’s been here for years. But one thing that’s certain, Auggie, we will get out.
Agent Kilroy: You really think so?
Agent Xob: I know so. We have a life beyond this place, Auggie. We have a future.
[Agent Kilroy’s breathing is calming down, but she is still crying.]
Agent Kilroy: I don’t know, Hannah… I just… even if we get out… what's waiting for us when we get back? I don’t know if I can go back to the life I had, just… rotting away in an empty room. There’s no nothing out there for me…
Agent Xob: You have me, Auggie. And Hannah, and Alberto, and even though they’re not here, I really think that Val and Dina would’ve wanted you to thrive. And when we make it out, I swear to you… I’ll be there for you. We all will.
Agent Kilroy: You… you mean it?
Agent Xob: What do you think? Does it look like I’m lying?
[Agent Kilroy manages a smile, though her tears are still flowing.]
Agent Kilroy: Hahah… no. No, it doesn’t.
And for the first time in a long while, it seemed like everything was gonna be okay for the two of them. August was smiling again, and they both knew that Hannah had meant every word. It’s a moment of connection that neither had experienced before in their lives, and would never experience again.
There were many things left unsaid, of course. Hannah considered telling August that she had joined the mission for the exact same reason as she did, but she thought better of it. August considered asking Hannah why she never mentioned Arthur when she listed everyone else, but she thought better of it.
Instead, the two shared this brief exchange.
“Would you like me to leave so you could sleep?” asks Hannah.
“If it’s alright, could you… stay a bit longer?” asks August.
And that’s what she did.
In the light of the monochrome moon and under the watchful eye of God, they embraced again, and she dried her tears, and they were both safe, and they were both happy, and they were both okay, and the red realm, the castle outside, the universe, everything else, it all ceased to exist, and the two of them were the only thing in the world. Twin centers of each other’s intertwined universes. A supernova in miniature.
Weider-Hoffman: How about we stop for the night?
Blindspots
"They deserved it, by the way. Unironically"
Conley’d worked tirelessly all his life to get rid of his blindspots. Leave no stone unturned, nothing left unchecked. Use them if possible, maybe. He’d gotten quite good at the shock and awe aspect of it, too.
The doors of the compound blasts open. Thick red smoke pours out, as angry gun-wielding, swastika-tattooed men pour out of the building. They saw Conley and the task force, and they aimed. Horror crept upon their face as they realized, one by one, that try as they might, their finger just wouldn’t press down.
(On one of Conley’s first missions, their reconnaissance had gone badly. They’d lost contact with one of his friends prior to a raid. When direct action was approved two days later, they found him crucified on a post on the enemy’s front lawn. The state he was in was horrifying. The trauma seemed to have been unsurvivable, but then they approached the post, and the “body” jerked up to beg them to kill it.)
Omicron-14 made short work of the first few dozen that came out the door. At that point, there were figures scrambling around the windows, so the two sides engaged. At that point, the other team was already streaming into the back of the building.
(Back then, Conley’s commander stopped him from obliging the request. When they cut him down, they found packages of nerve gas and explosives surgically inserted into his body. He promised himself that they’d never be caught off-guard like that again. It was a lesson that he’s tried to instill into his team, ever since he made it to the top.)
Hannah Xob rushed into the building, dispatching every single enemy combatant that she saw. Men in red hoods and white hoods and military garb and cheaply-made tactical vests purchased online, men wearing black and white graphic t-shirts with incorrectly-drawn occult symbols alongside swastikas and crosses and pentagrams.
A man cried as he backed into a bookshelf, posters and slogan pins raining down on him - each of them decrying life’s meaninglessness, each proclaiming that the true sign of civilization is murder and rape and maiming and torture of the inferior. Surrounded by his killer ideology, he pissed himself, and begged for his life to be spared.
When all was clear, they all moved up the stairs.
(It was a fire, and it was a fire that burned all around him, and it was a fire that warmed him. It wasn’t just war, it was a sacred ideal. They were warriors, something out of old legends. Good men and women in shining armor who fought demons and dragons. And Conley knew that what they had was pure, and good, and incorruptible. Making the world a better place through gratuitous tribute to its oldest art, the art of violence.)
Ulrich and Arthur sprayed bullets across the wall, painting it with fractals of blood and gunfire. All of the other task force members kept spraying as well. The compound was chosen to be isolated, hard to notice, and forgettable. Omicron-14 took full advantage of that. By the end of the next half hour, the last remaining enemy signature in the compound goes cold as Ulrich dragged a man with a giant swastika tattoo on his face out of the closet and slit his throat. But it wasn’t over yet, because they still hadn’t found what they were looking for.
(…Or maybe that was just bullshit that he told himself to deal with the fact that things were changing, and that what they were doing these days just felt more like kicking the can down the road here.)
“Watch for blindspots,” says Conley. “They have to be here, somewhere.”
They damn near turned half the compound upside down looking for them, but eventually, Hannah noticed it. It took a long time, but there it was. That sensation. As if by nature, she knelt down and examined the wall, and in tracing the invisible lines, it revealed herself to her. The invisible light that no one else could see, save for those in her line of work.
“It’s a sigil. A sigil for antimemetic cloaking,” says Hannah, as she traced her fingers around the door. “It’s… I broke it. We can use it now.”
A quick round of applause as a line of men and women in tactical suits celebrated her, and Hannah felt a bit giddy, soaking up all the compliments.
Equipment showed there were only three of them down there, and the stairs were quite small, so Conley ordered everyone else to start clean-up operations - get rid of all the fire, the blood, the bodies, and the debris. Arthur closed the door behind them as Hannah and Conley headed down into the dark.
Another door. Conley kicks it open and immediately ducks. Hannah fires two more shots. Then, they were in a small bunker with a bunch of computers, food supplies, and two dead skinheads. A third one cowered in the corner, scrambling for a gun. A third shot at his foot deterred him from coming any closer.
The computer screen was still open. Hannah could see that it was a bot farm, posting the offending images all over. She couldn’t make out much else, though, as she didn’t speak Russian.
AUDITORY RECORDS - OMICRON-14
O-14 Wormwood: We have our man, then. Hannah, could you leave, please? We’ll do the interrogation and get up soon.
O-14 Cassiel: Are you sure?
O-14 Wormwood: I think we can handle 5 minutes with this jackass ourselves. Just tell the others to pack up after they’re done, I’m sure the plane’s coming back soon.
O-14 Cassiel: Alright.
O-14 Wormwood: And kid?
O-14 Cassiel: Yeah?
O-14 Wormwood: You did great today, especially with that door trick back there. I’m glad we’ve got you on the team. Woulda’ been a fuckin’ goose chase otherwise.
O-14 Cassiel: Ah, thanks, sir. I really appreciate that.
O-14 Wormwood: Mm.
[The sound of footsteps can be heard as O-14 Cassiel exits the room. The door closes behind them.]
[Silence, save for heavy breathing PoI-1377-RU.]
O-14 Wormwood: Arthur, get on the computer, get Disinformations on the line and tell them how to remove all the SCP-1377-RU instances, won’t you?
O-14 Penemue: Yes, sir.
[PoI-1377-RU backs away as O-14 gets on the computer.]
PoI-1377-RU: Please… please don’t kill me.
O-14 Wormwood: You’ve made some pretty wonderful toys over the years, Andrei. I heard about you from one of my guys on the AWCY front. Your work was always too avant-garde for my taste. Always thought of myself as more of a Cubism guy.
PoI-1377-RU: You… know who I am?
O-14 Wormwood: I did some research on my way here. Know thy enemy. Enough to know that you’re not a Scarlet King cultist, Andrei. So, tell me, why are you working here in the bunker of a Russian neo-Nazi group, apparently spreading the good word of the Scarlet King among them? And tell me, why…
[O-14 Wormwood points at the computer.]
O-14 Wormwood: …why do you have bot-farm, running 24/7, posting memetic hazards to get little kids to kill themselves in the name of a god that you don’t even believe in?
[Silence.]
PoI-1377-RU: Listen, please, you have to understand. I’m not… I’m not like those dumbasses up there, okay? I don’t agree with them, I’ll be honest, I’m just an opportunist, if that-
[O-14 Wormwood rushes ahead and grabs PoI-1377-RU by the neck, lifting him up. PoI-1377-RU claws at his arm.]
O-14 Wormwood: I’m not fucking around, you twisted shit! Do you know how many kids you’ve killed?! Do you know what we do to sick fucks like you?! Do you!?
PoI-1377-RU: urrrp
O-14 Wormwood: Is this just a fucking joke to you!? Kids are dead, and you think this is a fucking gag!?
PoI-1377-RU: stop it’s urrp it’s a aughhh
O-14 Wormwood: Say it, you cunt! Say it!
PoI-1377-RU: it’s not meee ulpp it was a commissionnn
O-14 Wormwood: …what?
[O-14 Wormwood loosens his grip.]
PoI-1377-RU: It… oh, lord, it was a commission. I… someone sent it to me in a letter over a year ago. They sent me some Scarlet magic ritual instructions… and they sent me some money. They… they asked me to make it. It’s not my fault!
O-14 Wormwood: You… what?
PoI-1377-RU: Scarlet magic needed followers to work! I just… got local help from the Legion, I… I was just posting it because the client ghosted me afterwards, I just wanted to see if it worked.
O-14 Wormwood: Who… sent you that letter?
PoI-1377-RU: I don’t fucking know! It was unaddressed, the instructions told me to burn everything afterwards. I… fucking let go, you asshole! I was just doing a fucking job!
O-14 Penemue: Disinformations just got back to me. They managed to erase every single one of them and disabled the bot-farm.
[O-14 Wormwood drops PoI-1377-RU onto the floor. He turns his back. He looks disturbed.]
O-14 Wormwood: You, you…
[O-14 Wormwood turns around again, just to see O-14 Penemue drawing his gun.]
O-14 Wormwood: Wait-
[O-14 Penemue dispatches PoI-1377-RU. O-14 Wormwood leaps back. O-14 Penemue turns to him, expectantly. Silence]
O-14 Wormwood: Arthur, what the fuck?!
[O-14 Penemue drops his face.]
O-14 Penemue: Well, we were done, right?
O-14 Wormwood: What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why the hell did you do that!?
O-14 Penemue: I… I thought we were finished. You told me to dispatch all of them immediately, no need to stop and-
O-14 Wormwood: How the fuck am I supposed to interrogate a dead man?!
[Silence.]
O-14 Penemue: Well, I’m sorry, sir. I… I just… I wanted…
[O-14 Wormwood rubs his forehead. He stares blankly ahead in quiet contemplation.]
O-14 Wormwood: Over a year ago. It… it could’ve been any of them. Maybe we already took care of the issue. Maybe… maybe…
[Silence.]
O-14 Wormwood: Fuck it. It’s too late for this. Goddammit.
[O-14 Wormwood walks up the stairs.]
O-14 Penemue: Sir, I’m sorry, but- What am I supposed to-
O-14 Wormwood: Arthur, shut up. Just erase everything on the computer. Don’t bring anything back. Completely wipe it. Like always.
In the end, it was ironic that Conley’s obsession with avoiding blindspots was exactly what led to his downfall. The reason, of course, was that it made him think he was being careful, and that made him dangerously complacent. That, and the fact that he deified the job too much. He deified the work, he deified the missions, and he deified his team.
The worst blindspots are not the ones you can’t see. The worst blindspots are the ones that you knowingly turn away from. He loved the job too much, he loved the missions too much, and he loved his team too much. He let so much slip through his fingers in the end.
Arthur Vaughan watched as Conley went up the steps. He watched as Conley closed the doors behind him. He stayed in the dark for a long, long time, illuminated only by the dim grey light of the computer screen approaching sleep mode. Or maybe just a few minutes. He couldn’t tell the difference. He only snapped out of it when he heard the moaning. He looked down.
“Hel… help… muh…” says Andrei, blood streaming from a hole in his head. Glowing veins emanating blue light pulsates from his wound. Some esoteric last ditch attempt at avoiding death that wasn’t working quite so well. He clawed uselessly at Arthur’s boots.
Arthur just stared at the man, for a while longer, watching him struggle. Then, he brings his boots down on his head.
”Pleas-”
He keeps stomping until he breaks through bone. By the time he was done, Andrei was little more than a red pulp on the floor. He imagines Andrei’s face to be someone else’s. He smiles, and can’t stop smiling.
(Conley had never really looked. Not at him, not into his eyes. Not really. Maybe if he did, he’d seen something behind those cloudy gray eyes, he’d see the fire, the ambition. The urge to devour the world whole.)
Then it all goes away, and he is alone, and he is weak again, and the smile leaves his face so quick. Then, he is in the dark again.
(But if Conley had looked even closer than that, he might’ve seen past all those superficial traits as well. Because just after the fire and the ambition and the urges was the void, and it went on forever.)
So Arthur turns to the computer, and he pulls out from the sole of his boots a USB drive.
(Then again, Conley had never really looked, after all.)
ACT V
DEAD YESTERDAY, NO TOMORROW
Malfeasance
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't help myself."
The clock is ticking. Midnight is approaching. It is Christmas Eve, 1983, and within a few minutes, the Foundation will know if a three-year on-going XK-Scenario has been averted, or if their entire organization is doomed.
It is 11:58:24 PM.
There are oil slicks and dead bodies strewn across the room, which is itself filled with strange contraptions made out of metallic discs and elaborate glass sculptures. At the center of the room is an empty copper frame. Electrical currents run through the frame, and sparks appear every second.
A group of people stand outside the room. Some of them are weeping, while others are praying. Some appear terrified, while others betray nothing but a stern look of concern upon their face. Some are standing up, some are sitting. All of them were watching as the seconds ticked down.
It is 11:59:02 PM.
The O5 council watched as footage of the room was transmitted to their room in real time. It’s a special model, with as little delay as possible to make sure everything is timed in the acceptable parameters. Every single person in the room held a pill in their right hand.
It is 11:59:41 PM.
Everyone closes their eyes. Dr. Harley Rowe takes a deep breath as she prepares to pull the large lever in the back of the room.
It is 11:59:58 PM.
This could’ve been considered one of the greatest feats in Foundation history, if you really thought about it. Unfortunately, no one outside of this room and the O5s will ever learn of it.
It is 11:59:59 PM.
And of everyone in this room, only one individual will possess a complete recollection of the events that have transpired here over the last three years. Dr. Rowe flips the switch.
It is 12:00:00 AM.
There is a flash of light, and Dr. Russell Pater’s thin frame appears in the doorway. He is covered head-to-toe in blood, but it is not his own. A silver rod is still in his hand.
He looks up, and makes eye contact with everyone in the room simultaneously. The side-effects hadn’t worn off yet. He forces the words out, as clearly as he can, because he knows they’re on a timer here.
He remembers telling them that telling them that the entire team had died except for him. Dr. Paxton was dead. Xavier was dead. So was everyone else. The mission had been a success and they had 4 minutes, 32 seconds, and 93 milliseconds before catastrophic failure due active recall obliteration.
Whatever was remaining in him is now no longer there, and he collapses. There is a second of silence as everyone registers what they’re seeing. The next second, there is practiced pandaemonium as everyone scrambled to their positions.
“Med team, we need a med team, stat!”
“Get me explosives! We need to take the device out, now-”
“-the amnestics, distribute the amnestics to everyone!”
Somewhere else, thirteen overseers takes thirteen amnestic pills and down thirteen glasses of water. Immediately afterwards, one of them pulled a level that sealed the conference room, releasing red gas from the vents.
A few more seconds, and Russell was on a stretcher, a nurse shining a light into his eye and asking him questions. Stimulants pumped its way into his veins. Dr. Wynn comes up to him and taps him on the shoulder. Russell almost didn’t make out what he said over all of the commotion.
“What in God's name happened to everyone else?” asks Dr. Wynn.
Russell says that he doesn't know.
“Was Dr. Paxton’s theorem correct? Was this a true Mortal-Dei…” Dr. Wynn got even closer to his face.
Russell places his hand over his eyes and moans something leaning towards affirmative.
“Dammit, stay conscious.” Dr. Wynn hissed, as he leaned in to whisper into his ear. “Did you see it die?”
Russell remembers growling another affirmation. The effects were wearing off too quickly. It was hard, getting used to having a body again, getting used to being physical…
“Okay, good, good. Because there’s no risk of us doing this.” Dr. Wynn said, and before Russell could react, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He’d scream out, but Dr. Wynn’s hand was over his mouth. He opened his eyes to see the nurse withdrawing a syringe from his neck.
(The concoction was something of his own devising, an untraceable mnestic-derived compound with a sleeper effect. It’d allow the absolute recall of amnesticized memories when the subject is exposed to a certain codeword.)
“Listen, Russ. Everyone’s purging themselves. Someone is gonna come over here later, they’re gonna put amnestics into your throat, just stay still and don’t fucking protest.” Dr. Wynn practically screamed through gritted teeth. “My part is done. They were never going to let me out.”
Red gas was beginning to fill the room here, too. At this point, all of the contraptions in the other room were all smashed and burning already. It was one of their finest moments, and none of it will ever be remembered. Half of the room was already passed out from the amnestics. Most of the documents were still being burned.
Russell remembers telling Dr. Wynn to go fuck himself.
“Do it for them, son, if not for me. Do it for Paxton,” Dr. Wynn said, holding onto Russell. His eyes bulging out of his skulls. “You have to, son. You have to-”
He doesn’t make it another word, because at this point the MTFs were rushing in and one of them decides to just shoot him in the head. The nurse, too. Apparently, they decided that was probably quicker than the amnestics. A quick revenge for what he did a few years ago.
Then, they took one look at Russell, then they wrenched his mouth open, shoved half a dozen amnestics in just to be safe, then held their gloved hands over his mouth until he swallowed them all.
(The codeword would be his user verification password. He’d collapse on the floor dry-heaving about two weeks afterwards in the middle of checking his email.)
In the end, he supposed that things worked out the way that they were supposed to. And sometimes he’d feel bad about Dr. Paxton, and Dr. Wynn, about what he’d do to Tatton and Rowe and the others, about the thing with the O5s, about Arthur and the rest of the team, but it never really stuck for long. He’d visited Dr. Paxton and Dr. Wynn’s graves once each, and he never did again.
Xavier, though, was a different story.
Every year, on that day that Russell made it back without him, he'd leave a bouquet of flowers on his grave. Magnolias, his favorite. And he’d just stand there, anticipating nothing in particular, and then leave after a while.
Sometimes, he’d wonder what would’ve happened if Wynn’s little plan had failed. That if the amnestics had worked correctly, what his life might’ve ended up as. Or if he’d died during the whole experiment, and someone else had come back.
Most of the time though, he just stared at the engravings on the grave, and thought about all the things they said and all the things they left out. In the end, it was a superficial thing, he realized that, but still.
Dr. Paxton was an “Inventor, mentor, and contributor to the sciences” - yes, but they’d left out “reckless, borderline-suicidal, and extremely conflicted.”
Dr. Wynn would end up getting a more modest grave owing to what he did later in life, and the Foundation didn’t want to splurge on the extra expenses. There was but one word on his tombstone, and it was “Pioneer” - which was true enough, but Russell felt that “Braindead” would’ve been more appropriate.
Xavier’s tomb didn’t say anything, and sometimes Russell was pissed about it, but other times, he was fine with that, because all the things to be said about Xavier wouldn't fit on a rock anyways. Any rock in the world for that matter. In a way, the tombstone was correct. There was nothing left to say.
Sometimes he’d still think about the Malfeasance Crisis. How he’d only gotten away with it because of how strict the Foundation’s information control was back then, and how that ironically let him slip through the gaps. And, he guessed, as consolation for everything, and out of respect for his mentor, they’d let him keep some of prestige, even if it was for a crisis that by nature no one could talk about.
Sometimes, he’d think about what his own tombstone would say. He’d wondered what it’d say had it not been for Malfeasance, he’d wondered what it’d say after his plans all went through. And sometimes, he wondered about what they’d leave out on his own tomb. Maybe he’d get a blank tomb, like Xavier. Maybe he’d get an entire paragraph on it. Then again, he’s not much of a vanity guy.
Though, he told himself. There was one point of pride, one thing that defined him that he kind of wished would make it in when he dies, but he knew it’d never make it in in any permutation of his death, anyways. They’d never put something like that on a Foundation researcher tombstone.
It was a shame, too, because he would’ve been really proud of the title of “Godslayer”.
Pride
"Matthew 7:22-23"
Lucas Conley helped straighten out the edges, and Father Ferguson helped nail them down. They repeated this another four times, loud bangs echoing through the empty church as the seventy-something old man hammered away with surprising force. Afterwards, they both stepped back to admire their handiwork.
Conley figured that it looked quite alright, the brown wood contrasted nicely with the pride flag’s rainbow array of colors, and some of the stripes even lined up with the plank’s details. It actually looked better than he would’ve thought. Though…
“We probably should’ve ironed it.” Conley narrows his eyes, as Father Ferguson poured him a cup of coffee. “It’s, uh, really wrinkly up close.”
“Eh, my grandkid doesn’t iron hers, either. She says it’s a thing,” Father Ferguson sipped from his own cup. He glanced at Conley, and raised his eyebrows. “You don’t approve?”
“What? No, I mean, I’m not…” Conley gestured at the flag. “Some of the kids in my team, they’re, y’know. And I’m proud of all of them for it, I am. But I mean, the flag itself… you don’t feel like it’s a bit… commercial?”
“Commercial.” Father Ferguson repeats, dryly.
“I mean, I’m just saying. I just… Site-19 has giftshops, y’know. Sometimes, I walk by, and I see all the t-shirts and cups and keychains. You get it? I mean, I guess they’re just really into the whole thing, but…”
“Yeah, you haven’t seen their healthcare, benefits, and discrimination policies then,” Ferguson rolls his eyes. “Luke, I keep tellin’ ya’, you gotta get out of the Foundation once in a while. You’re working there your whole life, it’s messing with your mind.”
“Well, I do need a vacation,” concedes Conley. “That's why I came home.”
“Yeah, well, you know better than anyone that this place isn’t exactly the most enlightened of southern Bible-belt towns. So don’t worry, Conley,” Father Ferguson laughed bitterly as he poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’m not making any money off the damn flag. But for some of our neighbors, like that boy Kenny from down the block, or that Sheila you grew up with? If it’s gonna make ‘em feel any safer, if it gives some poor kid hope that the entire world’s not out to get ‘em or make money off ‘em, then it’s worth it.”
“Look, I’m sorry, Vic. Yeah, I kinda got ahead of myself there,” Conley rubs his neck. “I see where you’re coming from. I’m really sorry for implying anything back there.”
“Eh, don’t mention it, I don’t blame you. Just can’t let all the greedy imbeciles of the world ruin something good for everyone, you understand? Even if they’re Foundation.” Father Ferguson moves to rearrange some newspapers, “Then again, not like the profitability angle is gonna work much longer, unfortunately, if you’re following the news.”
“I don’t really pay attention to above-Veil matters. Foundation staff always tries to stay impartial.”
Father Ferguson cracked his knuckles, breathed in, then breathed out.
“Yeah, you would say that.” Father Ferguson says, looking back. “No, I don’t blame you. I blame the Foundation.”
Now it was Conley’s turn to roll his eyes. “Can’t we have one conversation without you blaming the Foundation for everything? I get it, you quit. I respect that, but you don’t need to keep bringing it up.”
“Hey, you said it, Luke. Always moral, always impartial, always apolitical-” Father Ferguson chided, making exaggerated waving gestures with his hands, as if presenting something before an audience on stage. “The Foundation! The apotheosis of the liberal fascist dream.”
Every single time, without fail, Conley thought. Every single time they met after he quit, they'd go through this routine. Conley mentally prepares himself again for the next half hour. And yet, he was still here. He still decided to come to this church, to this man…
“Oh, dear Christ, I mean- sorry,” Conley facepalms. “How the hell do you sound even more like a snakefucker than the last time we met? New fuckin’ record, I tell ya’ what. Vic, I managed to stop three different mass-murder rituals over the last 2 months. The combined possible casualties of those incidents? Somewhere in the 10,000s to 15,000s. I did that. We did that. We’re saving the fucking world here.”
Now Father Ferguson was sitting down on the pews. Conley kept staring at him, but it was like Father Ferguson wasn’t even seeing him. He just stared ahead into nothingness before him.
“I remember when I thought of things like that too.” says Father Ferguson, after a while. “I remember when I thought I was saving the world, son.”
“Oh, now you do the pastor shtick.”
“I don’t deny that the Foundation has prevented the world from being destroyed, that you and I both have. But that work never seems to be finished, does it?” Father Ferguson looks at Conley. “There’s always something else coming, some other cult that appears, some more mad men on the horizons.”
“Ah, you’re a utopian too?” Conley scoffs. “The Foundation is fucking fascist because it, what, it doesn’t save the world enough for you? Is that it? There’s always gonna be sick fucks loose in the world! That’s the point! That’s why you and I fought! We were saving the world, and you quit.”
“Can't you get it through your head? The work will never be finished because we weren’t saving the world. Because we were never meant to. We were just caretakers, cleaning up the Foundation’s damned mess.”
“The Foundation is responsible for every fucked-up terrible anomalous cult out there now, is that it? Do you hear yourself?! Because the world isn’t perfect, we’re bad for trying to make the world a better place?”
Then they were both silent. Father Ferguson sits up again, and leaned back on the pew. He closes his eyes, and opens them again. He seemed calmer now, but Conley was still fuming.
“I fought off a horde of Mekhanite terrorists to retrieve a cure for the clockwork virus,” says Father Ferguson. “And my wife died of breast cancer because our insurance didn’t cover the treatments. We dealt with W. Bowe and Pandora’s Box, and my son still died in Iraq thanks to W. Bush. The shit we do in the dark? How much of it transfers to the light?”
Conley’s expression softens, but he’s still crossed. “I told you, Vic. You have to separate between what the Foundation can do and what the Foundation is-”
“Why, because the Foundation tells you to? Because of your pride as a Foundation agent?” Father Ferguson turned to him again. “Because there’s no reason it can’t be otherwise, Luke. Because even though what we do in the dark doesn’t matter to the light-”
“It does matter. I just told you, we saved-”
“You don’t even buy it.” Father Ferguson grits through his teeth. “Even you can’t possibly believe that this is all there is to the Foundation, just knocking the gun out of the world's hand whenever it tries to kill itself, forever! That’s the thing, whatever happens in the light always falls down into the dark. That’s why the Foundation is fascist, not just because of all the cages, the inhumanity that runs through its corporate veins, but because at its core, all it is designed to do is support the order of things. The order that continues the world-killing. The order that creates monsters.”
“Look at you, Luke.” He continues. “You’ve fought Rubes and doomsday cults your entire life. And you still ended up with neo-fascists in your own neighborhood preaching for the apocalypse.”
Lucas Conley pauses. “What are you talking about?” he says. Father Ferguson reaches over and grabbed a newspaper from under the pile, handing it to Conley
Conley snatched it and read. There’d been a Christian Nationalist rally in his town just a while ago. On the front page was a row of men in matching red clothes, sunglasses, and white masks, marching on the streets. He recognized a few buildings in the back, past the postage signs preaching God’s hatred of the jews and the gays, and the flags of America with swastikas replacing the stars.
“It happened two days before you came home.” Father Ferguson says. “They walked past the church, actually. Then they turned the corner.”
“I… look, that’s awful, but you can’t compare the dangers here, Vic.” Conley says, still reading the newspaper. They’d marched past his home. They’d harassed one of his old neighbors. They’d dispersed and no one knew who they were. “You can’t… you can’t compare these guys to a doomsday cult, or…”
“And how long is it until one of them learns magic to bring about the apocalypse they keep asking for? Or learn about the Scarlet King from another one of your cults, trying to recruit online?” Father Ferguson says. “All those talking heads on TV calling for civil war, how long until one of comes across something with enough spark to cause an XK? That’s the issue, Luke. The people you fought, them being anomalous was the least of your problems. The real problem is that they’ll always keep coming. But that’s not your job to deal with, or the Foundation’s. It’s nobody’s job, at all.”
Conley kept reading. Father Ferguson looked into his eyes as he continued scanning the paper, looking to see if he’d see it, that familiar glint. The glint that he first saw in his own mirror all those years ago when he decided to quit.
“I know, I don’t understand it either.” Father Ferguson sighs, and looks back at the pride flag. “Y'know, that morning, when I floated the idea of putting up the flag, Father Cruz asked me if I really thought it was a good idea. If that was what God wanted. I told him that I knew in my heart that the answer was yes. Because He is all-loving, and all-merciful, and He is good. He spoke through love, and hope, and that is what I wished to bring. And then that same day, a man wearing a cross came to my doors and threatened to kill one of my flock for… wearing a rainbow pin, I guess. Threatening to kill a sixteen-year-old in the name of the Lord.”
Conley finally finishes reading. He says nothing, just staring expectantly at Father Ferguson to finish what he was gonna say.
“I just don’t understand why God lets evil dress up as him so often.” Father Ferguson concludes. “Why does He allow men to commit atrocities in His name? Why does He let them twist Him into something else, something hateful, something wicked?”
Conley’s still searching for the right words. Suddenly, Father Ferguson turns to him and furrows his brows.
“Wait, have you dyed your hair?” he asks.
“What? Oh, uh.” Conley says, running his fingers through his artificially-red scalp. “Uh, yeah. One of my soldiers noticed that I was graying, so… does it look good?”
“It looks awful.” Father Ferguson laughed. “How the hell did I not notice it before!?”
The two men share a chuckle before the silence returned. But this time, Conley knew what to say.
“I think you’re wrong, Vic.” Conley says. “I swear to you. What we’ve done, it all mattered. It’s made the world a better place. And I know the Foundation is flawed, but it can become better. Things will change, gradually. More work put into prevention, more work put into dealing with societal cancers before they all blossom into the things we fight. In the end, it’ll all work out. That’s what I believe.”
“No, it’s not.” Father Ferguson replies, his smile dropping. “I know it isn’t. Because if it was, you wouldn’t have visited me.”
"Are you happy?"
Last Night
"Calm before the storm."
Hannah recalibrates her sigil tracer again, but it’s no use. The result is the same as the last dozen times. She sends another update to Anna about there being nothing else to report, though it’s likely that she wouldn’t see it for a while. It had been a busy day for all of them. Alberto and August spent the morning completing and refining the final draft of the map for SCP-9317-Ω, creating a final path from the forest to the castle that would take a mere day’s walk. Anna finalized some reports regarding the thaumaturgical energy of the castle, while Hannah worked on trying to crack the door open. After countless futile attempts, she’d finally found a trace of a thaumaturgical ritual that could possibly have been intended to open the door. A possible solution.
Unfortunately though, it is a solution too extreme for them. So, unless there was something else at play here, that door would remain locked. Frustratingly, the chamber is apparently the only part in addition to the artefacts that is impervious to damage. Whoever designed the chamber really wanted to keep a certain type of people out, she assumed. People who wouldn’t be up to the task.
They already held the vote that morning. It was a quick one. Very decisive. Then they got back to work, so they didn't have too think too much about it.
Another recalibration, another identical result, and she sighs. The sky was getting darker anyways, so she packs up and goes downstairs. She encounters August on the stairs, gently vacuuming up spiders into a small clear box.
“I’m done with my work for today,” Hannah says. “I’m heading down to camp. You coming, Aug?”
“Yeah! I’m done here, too.” August says, packing up a boxful of bloodweavers. “You wanna call Anna for our card game again?”
“I think she might be busy, still. She says she’ll be free tonight so, let’s see how that goes.”
The two of them descended the stairs. Neither says anything about what happened last night, but occasionally, they’d glance and smile at each other. Hannah, though, still feels that pit in her stomach. She hoped that August wouldn’t bring it up, because then it’d feel all too real, because then she’d feel like a liar for what she said.
“Did you end up finding another way?” August asks, signalling that Hannah’s prayers had gone unanswered. “With the… the spell on the door, I mean…”
“No,” Hannah says, curtly. “But… we’ll keep at it. See what we can find, yeah?”
No matter what, they’d be addressing it tonight, anyways. The dark cloud that hung over them the entire trip. Whatever she said, it was unavoidable.
Hannah didn’t look back at her much after that, not until they got to the bottom floor. On the way back to camp, August noticed it first. She pointed at the pile of dead SCP-9317-Ω-4 bodies (gotta come up with a better name for ‘em) that they had stacked up since clearing out the castle.
“It looks like they’re melting.” says August. And it was true as they got closer to the body pile. The flesh had begun to decay, but it did not decay in the usual way with rot and flies. The bodies did not even smell. It looked as if the flesh had begun liquefying, and that the liquid was slowly being pulled into the rock floor itself. They didn’t dare touch it.
“Remember what Alberto said, about how he saw one of them die once?” Hannah says, poking the body with a stick. “He said it looked as if they just went back into the ground after a while. Seems he was correct.”
"A captive SCP-9317-Ω-4 specimen, photograph taken by Agent Kilroy."
“Do you think he was correct about the other thing he said, too?” August asks, glancing at Rudolph - the sole living SCP-9317-Ω-4 specimen that they’d kept alive. Rudolph just watched them as they poked at the giant pile of its dead brethren.
“The thing about them being descendants of humans?” Hannah frowns. “I mean, it’s as likely as anything else. Can’t say I like the sound of it, though. I mean, look at Rudolph. I don’t exactly feel any sort of human-kinship with him. The way he’s behaved these last couple of days? It’s more like a flesh automaton than anything. An evil flesh automaton.”
Rudolph silently stared. They’d tried to document his behavior since capture. He’d spent his first 3 days trying to claw at them while gnawing at the bar. It was on day two that they realized that his actions were so repetitive and so exact that he let out the same moans and writhed the same way every single time he repeated the movement. Anna called it extreme muscle memory. He did not deviate once from this routine, until yesterday morning when he adopted a new routine - standing completely still and only staring when he spots movement.
“Maybe it’s like the spiders. Someone just programmed them to be and act like this somehow,” Hannah narrows her eyes at the red beast behind bars. “I don’t know. We’re dealing with some unknown thaumaturgy, either way.”
“Bit of a philosophical conundrum to think about, I guess. If they’re, y’know, programmed - do you think they’re actually evil?” August asks.
“They’d been maiming and torturing each other for decades before we arrived, from what I’ve seen.” Hannah shrugs. “It’s brutal, it’s horrible. They don’t need to do that, they don’t even eat. That makes them evil in my book.”
“Yeah, but if they’re programmed like you said, do you think they have any say in it?” August kneels down besides Hannah to get a closer look at the corpse piles. “Is evil something that they choose to be… or is it just something that, y’know, they are?”
“I mean, way I see it, it’s a distinction without a difference.” Hannah turns to August. “All cats are black in the dark, I guess. Me, I just close my eyes and shoot 'em all the same.”
INTERVIEW LOG - ALBERTO WEIDER-HOFFMAN
[Agent Newman and Weider-Hoffman sits at a table. Agent Newman is typing on her tablet, while Weider-Hoffman is going through his third serving of Foundation rations.]
Agent Newman: …and what about avoidance? If one of them spots us on the way back, then what?
Weider-Hoffman: Well, that is a trickier question. The toddlers-
Agent Newman: Please, we need to come up with a better name for them. They killed one of our members already, I mean, that’s just a bit disconcerting.
Weider-Hoffman: The forest wanderers, then. They don’t like to wander too far from their forests, even when pursuing prey… as I fortunately found out firsthand.
Agent Newman: Huh, we’ve got that in common… Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like that would help if we’re too deep inside the forest. Is there any other way? Like… rubbing urine all over yourself, or playing dead?
Weider-Hoffman: The first one, I don’t think they even have nostrils! And the second one, well, I think that’ll only work on more advanced predators. These things’ll just tear your dead body apart anyways. Your best bet’ll just be to travel during the day, and hide yourself at night.
Agent Newman: I mean, we really thought shooting at them worked. The one that was chasing me a while ago…
Weider-Hoffman: It retreated when it saw that it was out of the forest. You didn’t hurt it at all. They’re not like the ones at the castle, they’re tough. Only they seem to manage killing each other. I’m speaking from experience.
Agent Newman: Speaking of, would you like to talk about that any time soon? We didn’t manage to get much out of you when we first ran into you, and after that, uh, we were quite busy. Aside from Arthur interrogating you, we haven’t really interacted much.
Weider-Hoffman: Well, that’s not true. I beat you all at solitaire the last two nights in a row.
Agent Newman: I mean, aside from that. The mission’s gonna be over in about a day or so. After that point, we might not even see you again… and I still have lots of questions. Where were you from, who you are, your life…
[Agent Newman leans in a bit and whispers.]
Agent Newman: Plus… what did you think about the file I sent you? My theories about the castle, and all the stuff that didn't add up?
[Weider-Hoffman looks up at Agent Newman. There’s a strange look in his eyes.]
Weider-Hoffman: Listen, if you’re looking into my background, I'd tell you the same thing I told Arthur.
Agent Newman: Which is?
Weider-Hoffman: Now, I can’t help you there. Why not ask him yourself?
[Weider-Hoffman twiddles with his fingers.]
Agent Newman: Well, Arthur wouldn’t tell me what you guys talked about. It’s Foundation policy, y’know, so…
Weider-Hoffman: Arthur’s got the right idea then, you should really listen to him.
[Pause. Agent Newman looks taken aback.]
Agent Newman: I guess so? I just… uh, what about that truth you told us about, when we first met? You said the castle was gonna have answers that you were looking for. The tablets, the translations, the thing with the god… isn't that what you wanted to find?
Weider-Hoffman: Keeping it real with you? I have no idea. Looking back on all this, I don’t think I’ll ever figure everything out. I figure I’ll just have to look harder into things.
[Weider-Hoffman absentmindedly taps the table.]
Agent Newman: …Are you okay?
Weider-Hoffman: Me? I’ve never been better. Why?
Agent Newman: You sound sort of… mad, right now. If you don’t want to answer. That’s okay. If you just want me to stay quiet-
[Weider-Hoffman taps harder at the table.]
Weider-Hoffman: Quiet? No, no, it’s nothing. I’ve just been feeling a little tense, that's all. I guess it’s just the mission coming to an end, and the prospect of parting ways… look, anything else you want to ask, I figure I’ll probably be able to answer, alright? Shoot off.
Agent Newman: Well, uh, okay. Hannah… did want me to ask you something specifically. How… how did you survive here for all these years? Is that something you’d be comfortable with answering?
[Pause.]
Weider-Hoffman: Black magic. That’s… that’s probably the best way to describe it. I can’t remember the specific rituals I used, but… it was after my food had run out. And I figured there was nothing to eat. It’s not like I could’ve hunted the forest wanderers, or the little spider guys at the castle, so I did something to make sure I survived…
Agent Newman: What did you do, specifically?
[Weider-Hoffman stares at Agent Newman for a few seconds.]
Agent Newman: …Alberto?
[Weider-Hoffman blinks.]
Weider-Hoffman: Cat got my tongue for a bit there, uh, sorry. It's been a while since I've thought about it…
[Weider-Hoffman slowly stands up. He grabs at the hem of his shroud.]
Weider-Hoffman: Help yourself to it. It’s easier to understand if you can see it.
[Weider-Hoffman pulls up his shroud. His body is extremely emaciated. Large and small sigils covers his entire body from the neck down. Agent Newman looks shocked.]
Agent Newman: Oh my God.
[Agent Newman touches one of the sigils. It seems to singe.]
Agent Newman: Oh, that’s… that’s awful. Alberto… Survival sigils? These… these are some very advanced thaumaturgy. You’d have to be an expert thaumaturge to…
Weider-Hoffman: Me? Expert? Oh, I was just desperate. Really, it’s the oldest trick in the book. One plus one equals three. Just… recycling my own body functions, adding just enough each time to stay alive another day…
[Weider-Hoffman closes his eyes. He sits down. When he opens his eyes again, some light has disappeared. Agent Newman doesn’t notice.]
Agent Newman: You poor, poor man…
Weider-Hoffman: It’s nothing, Anna. And I’ll be honest, the madness really helped. You can go mad on purpose, if you really wish to. Probably why I have so much trouble remembering things, but it made the time go by quite fast.
Agent Newman: That’s awful, Alberto.
Weider-Hoffman: Hey, it’s no trouble. And I’m getting better, see? I met you folks. I got to eat… actual food for the first time in years, though lord knows if I can actually tell what the ingredients are.
Agent Newman: That’s Foundation rations for ya’.
Weider-Hoffman: Mmm. And I’ll be honest, I really think that in time, it’s all going to come back to me. I have you all to thank for that. You specifically.
Agent Newman: I guess… I guess I don’t have any more questions. I’ll just ask Arthur again, when the mission is over. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Uh, card game is at the same time as always, yeah?
Weider-Hoffman: Sure! Can’t wait to kick your ass again!
Agent Newman: Hahah, you wish. Though, actually, can I ask you about one last thing?
Weider-Hoffman: Yeah, what is it?
Agent Newman: You spoke to the ghosts, right? The ghosts that appear at mid-day?
Weider-Hoffman: Not many conversationalists among them, I can tell you that. Talking to them probably drove me to insanity quicker. What about them?
Agent Newman: Do they ever say anything else? We never managed to get into Dina and Val’s Daevite research. They’re all password-locked, and none of us know how to speak Daevite. The Foundation can retrieve the files just fine, but I can’t help but wonder if they ever found out something about the ghosts that could be useful.
Weider-Hoffman: Well, from experience, you’re not missing out much. If the ghosts ever had anything interesting to say, or anything that would’ve been helpful to you guys, I’d have told you guys already.
Agent Newman: Yeah, that’s true. Uh, see you, Alberto.
Weider-Hoffman: See you.
Somehow, against all odds, August was the one who won that night. There was a hearty celebration and she received the fine emergency chocolate rations as a prize. That was the last time they’d feel like they were okay, because shortly after that, Arthur sent everyone a message on their comms that they’d have their final mission meeting soon, and Hannah knew what was coming. He asked Alberto to come get something for him, and then Hannah, Anna, and August were alone.
Anna had told her about what Alberto did to survive, and she just couldn’t stop thinking about the dead bodies of the castle monsters being absorbed into the ground. Was that all that was waiting for them if things didn’t work out? The best option here was to remain trapped in madness and starvation, as opposed to dying and absorbed?
Soon enough, they could hear footsteps walking down the stairs, though they were taken aback to only hear one set. Arthur emerged grim-faced and sluggish, carrying Alberto in his arms. Alberto was sound asleep.
“What happened?” Hannah asked.
“I’ll explain later, just let him sleep,” says Arthur. He asks everyone to pull up a chair while he places Alberto in his tent.
They sat in silence as Arthur reached into his rucksack and pulled out a bottle of Brandy and five small cups. One for each person still remaining on the team. A small amount of scotch in each of them.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
Agent Vaughan: It’s a very good brandy. I know dinner was quite a while ago, but it felt like it was fitting. To MTF-GIGAS. To the Foundation. To Daniela Tatton, to Val Sanders, and to Telal Usher.
All: To Daniela Tatton, to Val Sanders, and to Telal Usher.
[He raises his cup and downs it. Everyone else does the same. Agent Newman grimaces. Agent Kilroy coughs. Agent Xob is unfazed. Agent Vaughan licks his lips.]
Agent Vaughan: And to good health and spirits. Because we’re going to need it.
[He lowers his glass and sits in silence.]
Agent Vaughan: I don’t think we’re making it through that door. I just asked Alberto to use the full might of his thaumaturgical abilities to get it open, and it barely made a dent. He’ll probably be out until tomorrow. He’s completely exhausted.
Agent Kilroy: …He did that for us?
Agent Vaughan: Yes, once I explained to him the full extent of our situation. He was very understanding.
Agent Xob: Full extent of our situation, huh.
Agent Vaughan: Yes, well… I’m sure you’ve all surmised it.
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: You don’t actually think they’ll be able to retrieve us.
Agent Vaughan: I spent the last two nights going through all of our equipment again. All the specialized equipment that we got from Telal, the stuff that we were supposed to use for two-way communications with the Foundation, it’s all completely unusable. All of the damage is too extensive to ever be repaired. The technology is cutting-edge and completely beyond our expertise.
Agent Newman: But… if we got back to the forest, I mean, the mission schedule is for 14 days and we’re on day 12. They’ll know where to get us. They’ll…
Agent Vaughan: They won’t. We don’t even know where we’d need to go. We landed in 7 different places, some almost a day’s walk away from each other, remember? Besides, about half of us remember something about the machine exploding right before we got here, I feel like that’s pretty conclusive.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: I think it’s time I confess something.
Agent Kilroy: Is it… about how we never brought this problem up until now?
Agent Vaughan: Yes. They pulled me aside before the mission. They explained to me the retrieval process. We were supposed to establish a camp, and send them our coordinates. That way, they’d know where to open the portal for us. But, they told me, if something had gone wrong, we had to head for the epicenter. The very epicenter. It was the only exact coordinate they have. It was the back-up plan. If all else fails, head for the epicenter.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: And the other part?
Agent Vaughan: They told me not to tell any of you that part, because if things went well, the entire conversation could be avoided. It’d prevent panic on a two-week long trip. If things go bad, just try to get everyone to the epicenter in one piece.
Agent Xob: Oh, brother.
Agent Vaughan: They didn’t expect the castle. They didn’t expect the epicenter to be inside of a locked room.
Agent Newman: Wait, so, we’re only a few feet away from getting out?!
Agent Vaughan: No. We’re one door away from getting out. A door we just can’t open, even though we know how to.
[Silence. Agent Kilroy stifles a sob. Agent Xob looks down. Agent Newman just sighs. Agent Vaughan continues to stare into the distance.]
Agent Vaughan: It’s not an ideal situation, but it is the choice that we made.
Agent Xob: And we’re not going back on it. We can wait. The Foundation can figure something out. They managed to send us here-
Agent Vaughan: Through a one-of-a-kind machine that they did not create, and took two years to fix despite having some of the smartest and brightest people on the planet.
Agent Xob: But they already repaired it once. It was complete.
Agent Vaughan: They repaired minor damage on the outside owing to damage during the raid at Kingship, and that took two years. If the machine malfunctioned due to an operational error, the damage is likely to be more severe. I don’t believe they even managed mapping the entire thing’s internals out before we went through. Any action would likely take several more years afterwards, if the machine really detonated.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: But they’d send another team-
Agent Vaughan: Yes. In years. Or decades. At which point, we’ll have to still be alive and sane. It’s unlikely they’d send a rescue team after a mission deemed “high-risk of fatality” anyways. And seeing how things ended up for us, they’d probably take additional time to make sure that things go well, which could add even more years to our timeline. Conservatively, it might take anywhere from another two years to a decade for the Foundation to attempt something like this again.
[Agent Vaughan looks into his rucksack, and opens a notebook. He reads it, and then places it back inside.]
Agent Vaughan: We have enough food for one more week.
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: Then… then what do we do?
Agent Newman: Alberto. Look, we can wait. We can try to survive here. And, when we run out of food… There's Alberto. He’s been keeping himself alive with thaumaturgy. Thaumaturgy, from a trained practitioner, no less, can keep someone alive for a very long time. We can ask him to help us, with…
Agent Vaughan: You’re thinking of asking a skeleton of an old man to sustain enough thaumaturgical energy to keep five people alive, at the same time, for at least several years?
Agent Newman: Look, it worked for Alberto…
Agent Vaughan: Hannah? Your expertise?
[Silence. Everyone looks over at Agent Xob.]
Agent Kilroy: …it wouldn’t be sustainable. Not after the first four months. He… Alberto wouldn’t make it after that.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: There’s only one other way. And… if we wish, we could draw straws. But… if no one’s up to it… I…
Agent Kilroy: No.
[Everyone turns to look at Agent Kilroy. She’s not sobbing anymore. There’s a previously unseen look of determination on her face.]
Agent Kilroy: That’s not the way. I… I’m sorry. I can’t allow that to happen. I… I don’t want anyone to die for anyone else. That’s not… that’s not how we should do things.
Agent Vaughan: It’s a legitimate Foundation policy. It’s written down.
Agent Kilroy: I don’t care, it’s wrong. It’s barbaric. We’re better than that, I don’t care about that door. None of us should have to die for anyone else. Telal shouldn’t have died. Dani shouldn’t have died. Val shouldn’t have died. We can’t… we can’t keep doing this. Okay?
Agent Vaughan: I’m not saying that, I’m talking about my own-
Agent Kilroy: I don’t want you to die, either, Arthur. I said none of us.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: What do you suggest, then?
Agent Kilroy: Anything else! We- We still have time, right? There’s… do we know if we can eat the guys in the forest? Is there anything in the forest that we can eat? We can… we can maybe build houses! Or we can live here, or we can… we can eat the spiders. Just…
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Eat the spiders.
Agent Kilroy: Look, it’d- It’d be something…
Agent Vaughan: The venomous spiders. That’s your suggestion. Alongside trying to hunt and eat 10-foot-tall cyclops.
Agent Newman: Jesus, you don’t have to sound like an asshole all the time. It’s something, still. It’s a strategy. If we can… cook them, maybe we can neutralize the venom somehow…
[Agent Vaughan tries to stifle a laugh.]
Agent Xob: Oh, fuck you.
Agent Kilroy: Look, I’m just trying to-
Agent Vaughan: No, no, it’s not that. I’m not making fun of you, it’s just… that’s the kindest thing that I think anyone’s ever said to me. That you’d be willing to eat venomous spiders for years just so I don’t have to die. No, no. I really appreciate that. Hehahehh.
[Silence. Agent Vaughan's face falls. He sighs.]
Agent Vaughan: …I can tell you’re just grasping at straws, but… I can’t deny with 100% certainty that there’s… something that might work. Maybe…
[Silence.]
Agent Kilroy: So… is that everything you want to talk about?
Agent Vaughan: Yes. I guess we’ll just have to figure everything out tomorrow, then?
Agent Kilroy: Okay.
[Everyone sits in silence for a further 5 minutes. Agent Kilroy stands up.]
Agent Kilroy: I… I think I’ll go to sleep, then. I think tomorrow will be a busy day.
Agent Newman: Yeah, I’ll… I’ll just upload everything. Good night.
[Agent Newman and Agent Kilroy both starts to leave.]
Agent Xob: Auggie, do you…
[Agent Xob reaches out to Agent Kilroy.]
Agent Kilroy: No, thanks, Hannah… I really appreciate that, but… I think I need some time to think.
Agent Xob: I’m sorry, Auggie, I…
[Agent Kilroy turns to Agent Xob and smiles.]
Agent Kilroy: I’ll be okay. Thank you. I’m grateful for you. For all of you.
[Agent Xob watches as Agent Newman and Agent Kilroy both walks back into their tents. Then, there is only her and Agent Vaughan. The two stares at the fire in the middle of the camp between them for several solid minutes. Agent Vaughan speaks up first.]
Agent Vaughan: I’d like to apologize for what I said to you the other day.
[Agent Xob rolls her eyes.]
Agent Xob: Shut the fuck up, Arthur. Jesus.
Agent Vaughan: No, I’m serious. I was out of line.
Agent Xob: Can you just fucking stop trying to do this shit? I told you, I’m willing to put up with this shit if you just do your job and leave me the hell out of it. I’m fucking sick of it, you guilt-slinging me for what happened to Omicron-14. You, shaming me for what happened, like I had any say in it, you-
Agent Vaughan: It was all wrong. It was awful. I’m sorry.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: Okay. You’re sorry.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: I don’t forgive you.
Agent Vaughan: I understand.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Omicron-14 was all I had, too. Conley was the only man who ever gave a shit about me. Not even my father gave a shit half the time, and he was my own blood.
Agent Xob: Oh, daddy issues. That’s supposed to make me feel better.
Agent Vaughan: No, I’m just explaining. I’m serious about what I said. I’m sorry that I accused you of abandoning us due to you being ashamed of him and Omicron-14. I’m sorry that… that I didn’t take what happened to you seriously.
Agent Xob: Hey, kudos to you. I’m glad you decided to grow a conscience right after it becomes apparent that we’re all gonna die here.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Did they ever catch who did it?
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: No. No DNA match. You know how the Foundation handle these cases.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: I’m sorry. No one should have to go through something like that. It’s unthinkable. It’s… it’s horrible.
[Silence.]
Agent Xob: Thank you.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Have you told anyone about it?
[Agent Xob sighs.]
Agent Xob: Why do you keep asking?
Agent Vaughan: I don’t know, I just… I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be. I’m just… trying to learn. If there’s anything I can do to make it better. Something like that, I figure it’s one of those things that scars you forever. That you think about everyday. You’d need all the help you can get, right?
Agent Xob: Well, it’s not. So, stop trying to help.
Agent Vaughan: What do you mean?
Agent Xob: I mean I don’t need your help, okay? It feels weird and desperate. You’re just trying to absolve yourself of your guilt for what you said. Look, I’m recovering well from it, okay? I’m healing great. I even… surpassed some milestones, lately. I thought it’d stay with me forever, too, but these days? I barely think about it anymore. It has no power over me.
Agent Vaughan: I… I’m… I’m glad to hear that. I just-
Agent Xob: Yeah, it’s no thanks to you. You don’t need to apologize incessantly for it, you just need to not be fucking shithead so you can feel sorry for it later.
[Agent Xob stands up.]
Agent Xob: Fuck this, I’m going to bed. Of all the people from Omicron-14, I can’t believe you’re the one I have to be stuck in this hellhole with. That’s my biggest fucking problem right now.
Arthur watches as Hannah gets into her tent. Then he just continued to stare at the fire, and suddenly, he was breathing hard. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what it is that he feels. Some indescribable, unique sense of frustration. He gets up, and then starts kicking at the ground, groaning. He’s almost yelling, but he knows that he can’t be heard. And suddenly, he’s back in that basement in that Russian camp, stomping Andrei’s head in, seeing as the light goes out of its eyes.
That frustration, that feeling of inadequacy. The all-consuming weakness of being that haunted his every waking minute. That impotence. He keeps kicking, and then the fire goes out, and he is in the dark again.
He does not know whether he’s laughing, or crying. He does not care. He just reaches into the lining of his suit and presses a button. Then, there is silence. Silence broken by a single shrill noise.
Someone is giggling in the dark, but Arthur does not know if it’s him or not.
Moving Day
"Quick and speedy deliveries!"
Russell Pater watched as the red and white trucks departed one by one from the foot of the mountain. It was a bit of a strange sight, the gaudy brand-name cartoon-lettering trucks driving through the empty desert and snow. Of course, each of those trucks were completely armored and all of them collectively held an army’s worth of armed soldiers. The appearance was just because they’d be driving through a suburb pretty soon, and the usual black trucks would be too suspicious.
As the latest batch disappears into the horizons, Russell Pater enters the secret hidden shaft for the last time. This time, he could navigate through the halls just fine. Lines of agents walked past him, each carrying with them file lockers, equipment, and miscellaneous documents. When he finally made it to Facility-41, he found that they were still setting the charges up.
Good, he thought. There’s still time.
He waved to some of the agents as he walked into his office building, now stripped bare. They wouldn’t be entering his office for a good hour and a half, and he had plenty of time until then.
At least that damn Billy Joel song’s stopped blaring. He enters his office to find Liam sifting through a binder of paper. No doubt the scripts for his next gig. Speaking of which-
“How’s your new job treating you?” asks Russell, grabbing the fireplace poker from behind the door. “I see they gave you a new suit, and everything.”
“Oh, Russ, I can’t possibly ask for more!” Liam beams, closing the binder of scripts. “Shit, at first, I thought it was just a way to pass the time, but holy crap, I’m getting in to this public speaking stuff. Showmanship, all that, turns out I’m a natural at it.”
“Well, I knew you’d love the job,” Russell says, stabbing open one of the ceiling tiles. “I heard that they’re going to be reassigning… oh, Christ, watch your head or you’re gonna end up with your skull caved in.”
Russell pokes the poker through the handle of a metal locker that had been stashed above the ceiling. He drags it out, letting it fall onto the desk. It lands with a loud crack, heavily denting the wood. Liam barely recoiled in time.
“Jesus,” Liam says, watching as Russell opened the locker to reveal countless documents and papers. “Is that all that’s left?”
“Yes. I already had Omicron-14 burn the official ones,” Russell says, handing Liam the key to the closet door. “I’ll take care of this, you work on the suitcases.”
“Right. Also, funny you mention it, Omicron-14,” Liam says, taking the key. “They’re saying that it’s gonna go legit now. Become an officially listed task force. Some guy named Victor Ferguson is gonna lead it. No codename or logo yet, but I’ll be doing orientation, it’s gonna be just regular task force stuff from now. Even Stan seems to like the idea. ‘Course, we’ll have to do some info security…”
“Speaking of, how’s Stan?” Russell asks, searching around the room for a lighter. “He gotten any better yet?”
“Not really, no,” Liam says, unlocking the closet and retrieving the half-dozen suitcases from within. “He’s probably leaving last, so, you can catch up with him later, if you want.”
Russell nods in acknowledgement, and starts drizzling oil into the locker. Then, he tosses a flaming scrap onto the heap. All of the content ignites. Liam pauses for a second to watch the bonfire. About half a dozen Campus notebooks, a few witness accounts and interviews, psychological tests, personnel reassignments and personnel request forms, computer data from Site-94 a couple dozen miles away from here, subject names and biographies, containment item request forms… it all turned to ash.
“End of an era,” Liam says, watching all traces of what they’d done over the last several years disappear in the flames.
“Start of one,” says Russell, as he checked each suitcase, packed full of cash. “Start carrying these out now, through the back route.”
At the end of the day, if you manage to avoid the Foundation’s watchful eye, you can get away with quite a few things. But if the Foundation is actively averting its gaze from you, you can get away with lots of things.
By the time they left and all of the suitcases were all well and packed and on their way back to civilization, the agents had finally finished setting up all of the charges. Liam went through the back to stash the last few suitcases. Russell went through the front again. When he emerged, he saw Stan, just sitting on the rock surface, eyes staring off into the nothingness beyond.
“Hey, Stan. How are you?” Russell says, sitting down beside him. “Doing any better?”
Stan doesn’t respond. At least, not until a few seconds later, as if he was on a delay. He flinches, and looks over at Russell, then looks back. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, probably…”
Then he’s not saying anything anymore. He had that constantly-horrified look on his face that Russell didn’t see much of anymore, that’s only gotten rarer as he put his work in, but then again, Stan was here since the beginning.
“Do you think we’re going to Hell?” Stan asks, in an almost whisper.
“What?” Russell asks, leaning in, pretending like he didn’t hear it.
“Nevermind,” Stan says, lowering his head. “I’m just tired. I didn’t… sleep at all. Yesterday and today. I have something I’d like your thoughts on.”
Stan hands Russell a scrap of paper. On it was a large list of boys' names. Russell stared at Stan for a few seconds, before Stan managed to force a smile.
“He finally came, last night,” Stan says, looking away once more. “I… told her I didn’t want to name it. Him, I mean. Not until she’d given birth. So, we’re still trying to decide…”
“Congratulations to you and Vanessa, Stan.” Russell says, looking through the list of names. He would’ve said more, but Stan didn’t look like he wanted to hear it. It takes another couple minutes before Stan started talking again.
“I… hope I’ll be a good father. Y’know? A good husband, a good dad.” Stan says. And he would’ve said more, he would’ve said but I can’t help but feel like I’m damned somehow. Like we all are.
“…And you know, whatever my kid grows up to be, I’ll always…” He continues, and then afterwards he said something like be proud of him or something similar, but that’s not what he meant to say, because what he meant to say was I’ll always be hoping that whatever I am didn’t rub off on him.
But it’s too late.
But instead, he doesn’t say that, and just says something appropriate. Russell hands back the list of names, except this time, he’s made his own addition to it.
“It’s… interesting. I’ll consider it.” Stan says. And about this time, Liam walks up to them, and tells them it’s time to leave.
The charges detonated behind them as their vehicle drove through the snow and the sand. And as the mountains retreated into the distant horizons, they drove in silence, and Stan closed his eyes, and tried to forget.
“Well, what did you think about the name?” Russell asks.
Stan opened his eyes.
“Yeah, I think it’s growing on me. I sort of like the sound of it.”
He paused.
“Yes, I think that’ll be it. I think Vanessa’ll love it, too. Arthur Vaughan. Little Arthur Vaughan. Lil’ Artie.”
Stanford Vaughan would revisit that memory for years to come. Eventually, a funny thing about that conversation would occur to him, years later, as he reached for the bottle of Class-A amnestics stashed behind his cupboard and swallowed a dose large enough to cause immediate cardiac arrest.
Such A Shame It Didn't Work
"It's like a maze down there."
Dr. Cameron Tatton paces around restlessly in his room.
He’s barely slept the past few days, and he was tired. He was tired of the endless line of suited people telling him that things were going to be okay, that Dani was going to get out, somehow, and that the situation was under control. He was tired of asking questions constantly and never receiving an answer that extended beyond “we’re still working on it.” And at this moment, most of all, he was tired of seeing that goddamned book.
"One of the most influential Para-history books, of all time."
Since the last one was the only thing he apparently has any power over, he walks over to his bedside, grabs the offending paperback, then slams it inside of the desk drawer. But it’s no use. The feeling was still there, the fear that something awful was gonna happen, and it was all because of that damned book, because he was still chasing that success, after years and years of irrelevancy. It always came back to the Daevites, didn’t it?
He couldn’t stay here anymore, in that guest bedroom at Site Harkin that they stuck him in after he threatened to kill technician Cross. He couldn’t go off-site until the mission was done, whenever that would be, but whatever. Anywhere is better than here. He didn’t care if he’d be stuck back in by the security guards. He needed out.
He opened the door, and walked out into the main lobby. He tried to control his breathing, but the pulsing dread in his lungs wouldn’t go away. He was halfway across the lobby when he paused, because something was off tonight.
He didn’t see any of the guards. Usually, there’d be tons of them here.
He looked around again, and then he spotted it. The cameras. They were all off.
But most importantly, one of the maintenance doors here was opened. Those were always supposed to be closed.
Cameron did the math quickly in his head, and he did the only natural thing. He opened the maintenance door, took one last look back at the inactive cameras, and descended into the darkness. He still remembered where Section A5 was situated, and he knew these maintenance doors were connected to Sub-level 17…
He only wanted answers. What would they do to him if they caught him? No, they needed him. That was one benefit of fame, even if it’s only in the sub-veil community, they couldn’t just disappear him. At worst, it’d be a warning before they sent him back to his room like an overgrown child.
And besides. Cameron Tatton always fancied himself an adventurer, even if he only ever managed to write books.
He kept going downstairs, descending into pitch darkness. He figured that if someone caught him, that’d be it, but no one did. And besides, as long as the stairwell remained dark, chances are no one was going to use it soon. Personally, Cameron was never that afraid of the dark.
The lights kicked back in about 15 minutes afterwards, and he thought he was caught, but no one came. When he finally emerged on Sub-Level 17, the hallway was empty. He started to panic slightly. Even though this was the correct floor, he had no memory of this place. He didn’t know how to get to Section A5 from here.
Noises from down the corridor. He closed the door, and he could hear their voices coming through as they walked past.
“…recalibrating the damn thing, the field of effect just jumped way up…”
“…damn near fried the server rooms on Sub-level 15, they’re just bringing it back…”
His heart dropped a bit. If the servers were back up, then no doubt the cameras at ground level were going online again. If he returned, he’d surely be caught… but then again, if he was close to SCP-9317, there wouldn’t be many cameras down here, either.
It seems the only thing to do is continue, but where?
He opened the door again, and upon making sure that the coast was clear, he followed the directions in which the two technicians had gone. He peeked around the corner to see them going up the stairs. There were doors lining the hallways.
He tried to open one of the doors. It was locked. The next one was, too. The one after that, however, was some sort of meeting room, and aside from a picture of an old man and a JPEG of a black cat being projected on the wall, there wasn’t anything of much interest. The fourth door led to a bathroom.
It was when he was about to check out the fifth door when he heard rattling behind him. He immediately hid inside the bathroom and peeked out. A man pushing a cart walked past him. He had just exited the second door - and Cameron had not yet heard the door close. He snuck out the moment the man and the cart disappeared down the corridor.
He thanked his lucky stars that the second door was still slightly ajar. He stepped inside, and closed it behind him, locking the door. Cameron’s lucky streak continued, as he looked on the wall to find a map of Sub-level 17. Score! he thought, as he made a mental note of where he emerged, and where he had to go to find Section A5. Right now, he was at Section A1, and the room he was in was… Archives Storage.
…Archiving what, though?
The room was quite small, mostly some servers, and a few file lockers. The file lockers were labeled from 1 to 14. There were also two small computers, but it seemed like they required password access, and he didn’t have that, so he opened one of the file lockers, and…
Wait.
This can’t be.
These… These were images. Images from the exploration that she was on. He could see her in some of them, looking haggard and angry on her mission. The mission they told him had gone awry. The mission that, as they told him countless times, they had completely lost contact with. Cameron suddenly found it very hard to breathe.
What the fuck is this? What the fuck was this? This went past Info-Sec. They’d- They’d straight up lied to him. Suddenly, he notices that none of the photographs seems to be showing anyone actually looking in the camera’s direction. They were candid. They were taken unknowingly. And he kept feeling chills. What else was there, what else…
Were these transcripts? Cameron reads through them, and he's scared, and sad, because he never realized that she felt that way about what he'd done with his life.
Then, he is shaking again, because in all his years, he had never experienced anything like this. This was a conspiracy, one that he was never meant to stumble upon, one intended to deceive him. And he was hyperventilating now, because why the hell would they do this and what are they doing to her and why couldn’t they just tell me?
And he’s trying to put things together in his mind, and he begins to open another file locker, praying that his lucky streak holds, praying that he’d get more answers here, praying that it could figure out what happened to his Dani, if he could just figure out a plan-
Alas, it was not meant to be. He had opened the file locker for Day 5, and upon seeing what was inside, everything collapsed into pure simplicity for him.
Russell Pater watched intently. The room is dim, and there is a dark energy running through the dozen or so men in the room. It’s the type of energy that occurs when all present knows they are sharing a secret between them. It’s the type of secret that they know they’d all take to the grave.
In the middle of the room, Liam is shouting into a microphone. He’s wearing headphones. The rest is wordlessly typing at their computer monitors, decoding exotic transmissions and foreign signal interference.
Dr. Fitzgerald: Obviously, the text is different. We’ve only managed a few words so far, but the hypothesis seems likely. He’s not saying what it is.
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: No, do not bring it up to him, ever. We’ll be done before it’s a problem. It’ll just needlessly alert him.
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: I know, it’s already something you need to take care of.
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: If you’re sure, then there’s no reason to wait any longer. Get the note first.
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: We’re breaking up again. Look, signal is hell. Just do it. Get back to us when you can.
Russell rubbed his eyes. It was so close now, so so close. But if anything happened at this stage, it could disrupt the whole process. This had to be perfect. They had to time everything correctly.
It would be another 30 minutes until they were finally contacted again. Russell couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but by the look of Liam’s face, it hadn’t gone well.
Dr. Fitzgerald: What do you mean?
[Pause. Dr. Fitzgerald grimaces and closes his eyes.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: Look, did you use the correct one?
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: Fuck. Maybe- Maybe it's a longer process, maybe it'll happen later, tomorrow?
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: No, no. Everything just goes as planned. It was worth a shot, anyways.
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: Not at all. We’re… it’s still consistent. Just go back to sleep, and don’t fuck it up tomorrow.
[Pause.]
Dr. Fitzgerald: It’s just a nick. The suit’ll heal itself in a few hours. Contact tomorrow, but again, I can’t tell you how fucking hard it is to pick up the signal nowadays.
Liam takes off the headphones, goes up to Russell, and then relays to him everything they talked about. What a goddamn mess, he thought. What a goddamn shitshow. But still, small blessings that things were still somewhat on track, and if things got bad enough, they still had that option.
But now, Russell had to go to sleep. He ordered everyone to wipe all of their devices and head to bed. What a goddamn mess, and tomorrow would only be worse. He had work in the morning, and he had that dinner with an O5, too, so he’ll need to get ready for that. After that, well, there was only one thing to do…
He opened the room, and that’s when it happened.
He was upon him immediately. Who knew how long he had been waiting outside the door? This portly elder man with the beard and glasses, he was holding Russell by the throat, threatening to crush his windpipe.
“What did you do to her?!” the man screamed. His face was red, and there was madness in his eyes. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!”
And he kept squeezing, trying to strangle him, and he nearly succeeds, when–
*pzzzzzttttttt*
Russell does not remember the next few seconds, only that he was still suffocating on the floor and the others were trying to get him medical attention, while Dr. Cameron Tatton writhed on the floor beside him, a guard’s taser still embedded into his body.
“Did you kill him?!” Liam shouts, running over to Cameron’s convulsing body.
“No, but he’s gonna wish I did, soon enough!” says the guard.
Cameron Tatton personally couldn't agree more in that moment. What a goddamn mess, Russell. What a goddamn shitshow.
SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL Analysis
The door leading into SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL.
Description: SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL, henceforth “the central chamber”, refers to the sole chamber on SCP-9317-Ω-CASTLE’s 7th floor. The central chamber is apparently unimpregnable via any other method, the central chamber’s door serves as the only means of entry. The door itself consists of two large slabs of thaumaturgically-protected basalt stone, and as such, is immovable, indestructible, and inoperable. Research on how to open the central chamber’s door is underway.
The SCP-9317-Ω landscape emanates a constant background noise consisting of a shrill tone. While the volume of this noise fluctuates from location to location, it is most noticeable in the presence of the central chamber, especially while standing in front of the door. As such, it is believed that the source of the noise resides inside the central chamber, though what it is cannot be said for sure.
Examination using advanced Foundation prototypes managed to reveal extremely faint engravings on the surface of the central chamber’s door. According to Weider-Hoffman, these engravings consist of a short narrative about two Daevite warriors falling in love with each other. Significance of this narrative in relation to the central chamber is unclear. See file ”Weider-Hoffman Synopsis” for more details.
Agent Newman has conducted extensive analysis of the thaumaturgical field around the central chamber over the course of the exploration. This has revealed at least two unique thaumaturgical phenomena pertaining to it. See the “Thaumaturgical Analysis” section for more details on this topic.
Thaumaturgical Analysis - Deific Signatures:
Initial assumptions were that whatever is inside the central chamber would give off a high and constant rate of Akivic radiation, far higher than the rest of SCP-9317-Ω landscape, in part due to the close proximity of the epicenter of SCP-9317-Ω - a religious metaphysical realm.
However, upon actual analysis, Akiva radiation levels were almost at pure neutral, as if it was in a place completely devoid of religious significance. However, examination of this results revealed a hithertofore unseen phenomenon: Results were “flickering” at an unprecedented rate, with different deific signifiers22 disappearing and reappearing almost instantaneously.
This seems to imply that there was actually an extremely high level of Akiva energy present, but that the energy was being masked, or counteracted by an equally-powerful yet completely opposite signal. As baseline Foundation Akiva counters are not designed to handle or differentiate opposing Akiva-signatures, it is likely that this is what produced the neutral result.
The significance of this has yet to be determined, but Agent Newman is in the midst of constructing a theoretical framework. See “File - Dual God Theory” for more information.
Thaumaturgical Analysis - Blessing Mechanism
Further analysis using Agent Newman’s theory as a framework revealed the presence of spontaneously-appearing Akivic energy being drawn into the central chamber, and thaumaturgical energy signatures emanating from the chamber at the exact same rate. This appears to be some form of Blessing Mechanism, indicating some form of worship-influence exchange.
“As the Foundation had discovered through examination of a few minor deity figures, a blessing mechanism is one of the ways in which a deity and their supporters can interact.
A simplified diagram of a worship-blessing exchange.
It is a relatively simple exchange: A devout follower worships a deity, which can be traced through a stream of Akiva energy, and the deity can grant the followers their blessings, which can include among other things, thaumaturgical abilities, the gift of felicity, healing… These blessings are traceable through very specific, very minute thaumaturgical energies.
Usually, this system is usually dependent on the deity in question. Divine figures can simply set the terms of their blessing mechanism. Some require more material sacrifices, such as rituals or some form of offering in exchange for their blessings, others simply do not conform to a blessing mechanism at all. Some give very fair deals, while others give very little if at all.
Of course, different gods of different levels come with different forms of blessing mechanisms. Many will have mechanisms much more complex than described here, and many will have extremely specific or simple ones. As it is often stated in Tactical Theology, God works in mysterious ways, but all those ways are headaches."
-Excerpts from MALDEITY: Containing Our Gods by Dr. Patrick F. Lomas.
After using established methods of detecting and quantifying deific blessing mechanisms on the energies present around SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL, however, several peculiarities presented themselves. Agent Newman notes that the rate, patterns, and consistency of the energy exchange were unusual in several regards.
“It’s not supposed to be this perfect, this uniform. All of the Akiva energy flows into the central chamber’s walls in completely straight, consistently-sized lines, instead of the chaotic bursts and uneven flows that one would expect from passionate acts of worship. An equal amount of thaumaturgical energy emanates at the same exact same rate and in the exact same uniform lines.
Expected exchange compared to actual exchange measured outside SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL.
I’d expected a large output of thaumaturgical energy, as Scarlet King worshipers utilize a large amount of magic, but such a concentrated and uniform output is completely unprecedented. Gods and deities are temperamental beings. They’re chaotic, they’re unexpected. But this, this extreme, steady. Non-stop precision… This is the output of a machine, not that of a god.
This isn’t a worship system. This is a production line. Worship goes in, power comes out.
Whatever it is that's on the other side of this door, it will change our understanding of gods.”
-Agent Anna Newman
Tracking output of thaumaturgical energies has resulted in failure, as energies appear to spontaneously disappear, presumably manifesting in the outside world. However, shortly prior to demanifestation, the stream appears to break down, with thaumaturgical decay occurring at an unprecedented rate. The reason for this is unknown, but would likely result in thaumaturgical failures upon utilization.
Agent Xob, who has had prior experience with Scarlet King-related anomalies, gave the following comment.
“What I don’t fucking understand is why there’s such a constant and thick stream of Akiva energy flowing here, because that means that there’s an insane amount of people currently worshipping the Scarlet King at any given moment, and I’m pretty sure we already killed all of them.”
-Agent Hannah Xob
Sigil Analysis:
During the course of analysis, Agent Xob managed to detect the remains of sigils that had previously been inscribed on the door. The sigils would later be reconstituted. The resulting sigils appeared to be extremely old, but held several similarities to more modern sigils that seems to denote “sacrifice,” “fire,” and “entry.”
The current hypothesis is that if one were to carry out an act of sacrifice via fire in front of the central chamber, the door would open.
No other sigil has been recovered that implies any other method of entry. As of writing, all attempts at breaching the central chamber door have failed thus far.
Addendum - MTF Vote:
PROPONENT: Agent Vaughan
CONTEXT: As of this morning, no other way of opening the central chamber’s door has presented itself. Due to the time-sensitive nature of the mission, it was prudent that this vote be carried out.
PROPOSAL: Consider sacrificing a member of MTF-GIGAS in order to open the central chamber door.
MTF-GIGAS VOTE SUMMARY:
| YEA | ABSTAIN | NAY |
|---|---|---|
| Vaughan | ||
| Xob | ||
| Kilroy | ||
| Newman |
| STATUS |
|---|
| DENIED |
Notes: what have we done
Day After
"The storm."
It was simple math.
There was a burned body in front of the door, and she was missing.
It was simple math, you told yourself, as you raced up the stairs like a woman possessed upon hearing it. The events of the previous night, the selflessness that you all came to know over the course of this journey.
It was simple math that she’d do something like this.
It’s simple math, and you are not Hannah Xob at this moment. You watch as she rushes up the stairs like a woman possessed, like there’s nothing behind her eyes, as she charges ahead unblinking, with only a mild expression of surprise on her face,
You are not Hannah Xob right now, you’re just on the outside, watching it happen. You are somewhere else, and you hope you’ll be here forever.
It was simple math, just subtraction really, and she was so close to the terrace. Three more floors, two more floors. You braced for the impact. Anna jumped down the stairs, horrorstruck and grief-stricken, as she tried to get in her way, to hold Hannah back.
“Please, she pleads, vomit and tears streaming from her face. “You- You don’t need to see- to see this-“
But Hannah just pushes her off.
It was simple math.
It was her size, and you could make out some of the locks of what used to be her hair. You couldn’t look at its face for fear of recognizing it, but there wasn’t much left to look at, anyways.
It was her gear, it was her suit, it was her note. It was almost definitely her handwriting, but you wouldn’t know. She never got to show it to you before that moment.
It was simple math. It all added up. It all makes sense that she would do this and in your mind nothing Hannah Xob could’ve done would’ve made a difference.
You are going to die here. You are going to die here, alone, in fear, and in pain, with no one to hold you.
And as sure as the door was still standing, the math said that August Kilroy had burned herself to death for nothing.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS
[Agent Xob is sitting in the middle of the 4th floor. A blanket covers her. She is shaking. She holds her head down. There is no one else here.]
[Agent Newman walks downstairs from the 5th floor. Her movements are steady and focused, as if she’s focusing completely on trying to not fall over. She walks over to Agent Xob.]
[Agent Xob looks up.]
Agent Newman: It’s… she said… she said she did it to save us…
[Agent Newman chokes up. Her leg trembles.]
Agent Newman: I… I’m so sorry, Hannah. I’m so, so, so fucking sorry… I…
[Agent Xob lowers her head. Agent Newman sobs.]
Agent Newman: I don’t… I don’t know… what we’re going to do now… but… please… we have to… we have to…
[Agent Newman tries to reach out to Agent Xob. Agent Xob flinches and waves it away.]
Agent Newman: Right, right… I’m sorry. I…
[Silence.]
Agent Newman: We have to stay strong, Hannah. For her. God, for all of them. I…
[Silence.]
Agent Newman: …please eat something soon, Hannah. I… I’ll be in my tent. I have some work to do but… I’ll find some way out. I promise… I promise.
[Agent Newman kneels down and embraces Agent Xob again. This time, she doesn’t protest.]
Agent Newman: We can do this, Hannah… we have to… just have hope. Just gotta have h-hope.
[After a while, Agent Newman stands up. She stumbles to the stairs and goes down. Eventually, she is out of earshot completely. Agent Xob waits for a few more minutes afterwards.]
[Agent Xob curls up into the fetal position, then kicks her legs out. She begins hyperventilating as she swings her limbs across the floor haphazardly.]
Oh, fucking great.
[Agent Xob begins to scream and cry at the same time. Her elbows cover her face as she tears at her scalp. No one is listening.]
Goddammit, you were doing so well, girly!
[Agent Xob rolls around, shaking. She pounds the floor with her fists. She keeps doing this until the pain is too much to continue, then continues a few more times to her regret.]
Turn the damn thing off, I don’t wanna go deaf.
[She finally picks herself up, but collapses almost immediately. She tears at the blanket with little success. She’s trembling too hard to hold onto the material properly. She screams again, but no one hears it this time, either.]
We’ll just check back in after a while, assuming the signal still holds. Should we report this?
[She finally manages to shred the blanket. She kicks at it for several minutes. At one point, she kicks the floor accidentally, and collapses.]
I don’t see why. It’s the same as it ever was. Consider it as if we’re on break for the next coupla’ minutes. There anything on right now?
[She’s openly sobbing now. Hanna Xob had never cried so hard before, never felt so distraught. She hopes to God that no one’s about to enter. Thankfully, no one did. Everyone else is immersed in their own little world.]
I don’t fuckin’ know, I look like the TV Guide to you?
[Anna Newman is crying in her tent, a load of untranscribed recordings and interviews sits before her. Work that serves no apparent purpose but to pass the time now that escape seems at its unlikeliest.]
Just hand me the remote, shithead.
[Arthur Vaughan is in the middle of cleaning up the camp. He places August Kilroy’s body into a bodybag. Almost absentmindedly, he discards the blade that the corpse was holding. Then, he reaches below and wrenches a pistol from the burned suit's holster, tossing it back into the pile of weapons nearby. He unconsciously scratches at a small nick just below his neck.]
Let’s see… huh. That Adrian Green’s on the news again. That’s the billionaire guy I was tellin’ youse about. See, see, watch this. Watch that interviewer.
[He does not notice the red inflammation due to the red light.]
Hahah, holy shit. Did you see the look on her face?
[Alberto finally begins to regain consciousness, but he finds himself wading through a sea of endless darkness. He looks back to find a large black feline pursuing him. Once again, he tries to reach the surface. He wonders if he’ll break through this time.]
Deer in the headlights. Absolute deer in the headlights. You gotta love it, and they do it to themselves, every time.
[Telal Usher, Daniela Tatton, and Val Sanders do not know where they are.]
He’s really good at this, ain’t he? He did a really good interview on the RRR podcast, I think you’ll like what he says.
[August Kilroy does not know where she is.]
Nah, I’ll pass. I agree with what he says, but, y’know. Already had enough of his kind. Glad they’re wisening up, though.
[Lucas Conley is currently lying in a hospital bed a world away, deep in a slumber that he can’t make heads nor tails of, but something is certainly trying to get his attention. He just doesn’t know how it got there.]
Harsh. Let’s see what else is on here… huh, another shooting. Good lord.
[The thing inside the central chamber slowly undulates. It tries to reach out, but the chains are far too thick.]
Eh, they brought it upon themselves. I’ve seen that place on the news before, completely fucking captivated, and I mean infested. What else is on?
[Hannah Xob is still sobbing. At this moment, she is the most isolated thing in all of existence. No one is listening. No one will ever be listening. She is somewhere that God can’t see.]
Some foreign sand-village clusterfuck as always, so, same shit as the last billion years. Goddamn, nothing but whining on the news nowadays. More of that bathroom insanity bullshit. And… some dumbass is coming out with a new tell-all book about ‘20. Actually, speaking of that, what’d they do to that fatass from last night?
[The two men in the observation booth continue to flip through the channel on the TV, making crude jokes, eating stale pizza, and drinking lukewarm beer.]
Probably getting his ass probed. You know how the Foundation does things, heh. Keep going, there’s gotta be something worth watching here… Oh, thank fuck. There’s a game on.
[Within two years, they’d both be found dead in a ditch, close to a Foundation anomalous waste processing facility. Their remains would be in such conditions that identification was deemed immediately impossible. It would be deemed an accident.]
Actually, should we switch the comms back on?
[Hannah Xob lies still. She stares at the ceiling, thinking about how tired she was of seeing the color red these past two weeks. She figures she’d be better off not seeing anything at all. She closes her eyes…]
Why? That bitch’s probably still screaming. It can wait after this is done.
[The men continue watching the football game for the next hour or so. Arthur continues cleaning up the camp, but he’s taking quite a long time. He doesn’t know why his body feels so strange. He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s burning all over. He wanders over to an isolated spot on the rock island, and tries to catch a signal that doesn’t come.]
Goddammit, how the fuck do you miss a goal like that!?
[Anna Newman exits her tent, looking shaken. She’s carrying with her the emergency arms kit. She looks around for Arthur, and does not see him. She quickly sneaks over to Alberto’s tent.]
[Arthur scratches at his body. What is happening to him? What is this feeling?]
[Anna Newman exits from Alberto’s tent 5 minutes later, a horrified look in her eyes. She gets back into her tent immediately, carrying along the emergency arms kit.]
[Alberto exits the tent. Of course, they had no way of knowing any of this.]
Right, you fucking idiot! He’s coming from the right! Open your eyes!
[They do not monitor her for the next hour and a half. They wouldn’t have picked up anything from her, but if they’d turned the comms on, they might’ve picked up that 2 seconds worth of audio. A lone voice in-between a sea of silence.]
Weider-Hoffman: …H-Hannah…?
[Sometimes, you just need one little detail to make it past. Sometimes, that’s all it takes for an empire to fall.]
Hannah Xob is dreaming.
What is it all for, she thinks. An entire life’s worth of fighting and struggling, and she was going to die before she was even in her 30’s. What was it all for?
Was this really all there was for them? Short, violent lives, ending violently. Some moments of calm and peace in the midst of the bloodshed to grant them false hope so it can be dragged through glass afterwards? Live, love, die quick, die young, die in pain, die screaming. For absolutely nothing.
Did she have a choice from the start? Did any of them? She wonders what she should’ve done differently, if she hadn’t joined the Foundation, if she hadn’t joined Omicron-14, if she hadn’t taken up this mission…
She’s walking through the dark now. She’s always liked the darkness. It was calming. It was nice. It was gentle, and it was kind. At least, to her.
Suddenly, though, she sees something that she does not expect to see here. A small pinprick of light. A single white dot in the vantablack world she’s created for herself. An intrusion. A rebellion.
So, naturally, she drifted towards it.
She got closer, and closer to the dot of light. She kept getting nearer, and it kept growing in size, until…
…Hannah Xob is out of the darkness. She’s in a strange place that she’s never seen before. Some sort of studio apartment. Her eyes hurt, because it’s the first time she’s seen in colors in the past dozen days, and even though it’s just a dream, she feels her eyes stinging. Optical illusions rendered everything blue.
She could see outside the window. The floor outside looks like an endless, featureless, concrete plane. It is raining, but the rain is going upwards.
She turns around, and Alberto Weider-Hoffman is here. A small pile of dead black cats lies at his feet. He looks like he’s about to say something.
She leans in to listen better, and he opens his mouth.
His tongue is missing, and a large torrent of blood begins to spill forth.
Horizons
"Is there something beyond?"
Lucas Conley emerges from the tent, and the sight is stunning to behold.
Red, and gold, and purples, and blues filled the sky. He’d seen sunsets before, but not like this. Never like this. This was something special. The universe was trying to tell him something - and he had the feeling he knew what it was.
It’s time to stop.
But before that, he had to do right by someone. He walked past the little tents with the Foundation insignia on it, past the little mechanical children and good-natured flesh-men. Some of them smile and wave at him, some of them scutter away and hide. He tries his best to look friendly. He was still getting used to it.
There was less of Omicron-14 here this time, but they couldn’t help it. He understood. He was grateful enough for the gang of personnel who consistently showed up, but it was disappointing to know that so many of his crew just couldn’t cope without the fight.
She was there sitting there on the shore. It was probably the nicest place to look at the sunset around here. Then again, she was wearing thick sunglasses, so that might not even be her intention.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asks Conley, sitting down besides her. “Past the horizon, what do you see?”
“Uh, the sun?” Hannah says, “I mean, that’s kind of the only thing over there.”
“No, I mean, I’m just trying to be… oh, forget it.”
There’s been practically no Scarlet King activity for the last 2 months or so, and absolutely zero activity last week. They’ve had a single major mission and it was just a straggler from some group years ago who went insane and tried to take an apartment building hostage. They took care of that in under 40 minutes.
Conley tries to soak in the sight, though the peace is somewhat disturbed by the sound coming from one of the tents up north.
"I see Liam's awake." Conley glances at the tent blaring out music.
"Yeah," Hannah says without looking. "I don't think I'll ever listen to another Billy Joel song as long as I live."
They share a small laugh.
“You know, uh, some more folks didn’t show up today. So, that’s a bit of a shame,” Conley says. “But hey, we’ve still got a good two dozen people here, and you, Arthur, and Ulrich are here too. You’re always the regulars, yeah? I appreciate that.”
“Well, Arthur and Ulrich are your people, and it’s not like I have anything else to do, so…” Hannah turns away from him.
Ever since the Foundation’s Scarlet Response Division managed to use REDSIGHT’s IDEOSIG system to literally detect signs of Urdalism in people’s heads, things have gotten much better for Omicron-14. Their rates of casualties dropped drastically, enemy factions never caught them off-guard, and Conley was grateful for it all. But…
“Some of ‘em, I think they miss the point of it all.” Conley says, “All the ones who stayed home. They can’t live without the fight. And I guess for some of them, it’s more specific. It has to be this fight, not… anything else.”
“Mmhm.” Hannah says, curtly. “Warriors without a war. I guess the community work stuff we’ve been doing the past few months isn’t exactly appealing to them.”
“Well, I think it’s stupid, and it’s humanitarian work,” Conley says, “No one should be fighting just for the sake of fighting, and I’m just shocked that so many of them just don’t get that. It’s a bit of an idiot stance, in all honesty.”
“Oh my God, is that what this is all about?” Hannah turns to him. “You think I don’t vibe with all of this stuff because I like fighting for the sake of fighting? Because I’m disappointed?”
“No, c’mon, kid.” Conley says, “You’re different. I was just venting. I know what you’re going through, it’s not like ‘em. I’ve been where you are now. I get it.”
Hannah sighs.
“I’m trying, Conley,” Hannah says. “I just… I’m trying to feel it. But I can’t. I just… I don’t fight for the sake of fighting. I fight because that’s the only thing I know about being alive.”
“Oh, kid…”
“No, I’m telling you.” Hannah turned to him again, “I don’t know how to change my how I think. You’ve read my file. It's a lesson that I learned at fifteen, and it's all been downhill from there.”
“Hannah, you can’t keep allowing it to control you,” Conley says. “Look at me, all my life, I thought I’d be fighting forever. But now, I’m finally seeing a way past that madness. I’m finally learning to appreciate what I’ve done, and now I can move past it for the real work to begin.”
Hannah is silent.
“Do you know how many agents I’ve seen, who just never got it?” Conley continues, “The ones who get addicted to the fight? The one who signs onto increasingly dangerous missions as some long planned-out suicide because they know they can’t hack it at anything else? The eternal death wish?”
“God, Luke, you just don’t understand, do you?” Hannah shouts, “This is the only thing that exists for me. I can’t see past the horizons. I just see more fighting. More bloodshed. More violence. I literally can’t picture anything else. I don’t know what’s wrong with me either, but I just can’t.”
Now they are both silent, basking in the glow of that beautiful sunset. Like the burning eye of God was upon them in the moment of truth.
“I’m dissolving Omicron-14 at the end of the year,” Conley admits. He allows it a few seconds to sink it. “We’re fighting an extinct enemy, and the drones at REDSIGHT have taken over most of the job that still exists, so it felt like the right thing to do.”
Hannah doesn’t say anything, she just turns around.
“The fight never ends, Hannah. It just gets worse,” Conley says. “That’s why I’m out after this year. I’m never leading another mission again afterwards.”
Still nothing.
“Hannah, I-”
Hannah Xob sits up, wipes sand off her uniform, and heads back to her tent. She mumbles a quick apology as she stumbles past Conley. And for some reason, Conley felt it had to be done now, because they were never gonna have a chance to talk again, even though he knew it sounded silly-
“Hannah, stop.”
Hannah stops.
“Tomorrow, meet me again at this place, okay? Before the team drives back to Site-19. Look, I… I have some plans for the future. More work that actually helps people, maybe some ideas, but I… I’d need more expertise. I’d need more people. And if it’s okay… if you’d like to be a part of it… I’d like to talk about it, too.”
And maybe in that instance afterwards, he should’ve said something else, maybe something encouraging like you can do it sport or maybe you don’t have to be tied to what you think your life can only be forever or something poetic, but for some reason, he doesn’t find the word.
He felt something slipping through their fingers, but he doesn’t know why or what. So he just stays silent, and hopes she turns around. For the love of God…
“Tomorrow.” Hannah says. Then she continues back to her tent.
Tomorrow comes, but she isn’t here.
Conley’s sitting on the shore again, watching as the sun goes down. She was 20 minutes late at this point.
He hears footsteps in the sand behind him, so he grins and turns around, but it’s not her.
“Hello, sir,” says Arthur Vaughan. “Watching the sunset?”
“Yeah, hi, kid,” says Conley, his smile faltering. “Uh, yeah. Also, I told you, just call me Conley.”
“Right, my bad.”
They sit in silence for a while.
“Um, have you… er, seen Agent Xob?” Conley asks, without turning around.
“Oh, she’s still sleeping.” Arthur replies, and the ghost of a smile passes on his face without anyone to notice it. “Should I wake her up?”
Conley sighs. “No, let her get her rest.”
Of course, he tries to not think about it any further. Somethings can’t be helped, he guessed. And he tried. He really, really did try. But did he try enough? No, he must’ve.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Arthur motions at the sunset.
And it was still beautiful, it was powerful and majestic. It was holy and big. But for some reason, for Conley, it just didn’t feel right somehow, like some cosmic balance has been upset, like there was something viscerally wrong with what they were looking at, but he didn’t vocalize these thoughts, instead, he just says:
“Well, I’ve seen better.”
He never spoke to Hannah after that. He didn’t spot her until they were getting on the trucks to leave. Hannah was assigned to the truck behind him. Conley tried to get her attention, but she didn’t even seem to notice. She just stared off into the darkness behind them as if watching for some unseen shape. He thought she looked terrified at something, but then their trucks passed each other, and that was the final moment of connection that they ever had with each other.
He’d think about that last sunset a few times afterwards. He’d think about it all those times he called and she never answered, he’d think about it when he found out that she’d withdrawn from all MTF duties not long afterwards, and finally, he’d think about it when he got that phone call in the middle of the night, urgently asking him to mobilize his remaining task force immediately because something absolutely godawful was happening under some building belonging to some company named Kingship LandBridge.
Eventually, it’d occur to him why the sunset didn’t look right that last day, right as he marched his task force into that building one final time. It was just past the horizons, he thought. It was the sun.
The sun just looked a bit too red.
The New Empire
"People are good at adapting."
It had lingered in the back of her mind for years at this point.
Every few weeks, she’d thought about it, and she wouldn’t be able to do anything else. Every time, she’d fantasize about it. Create elaborate rescue fantasies, or think up scenarios in which everything somehow all worked out.
Maybe they were cured, and sent home, and they’re all okay now.
Maybe they’re all dead. Because even that might be better.
Maybe, against all logic, a miracle being of hope and love appeared out of nowhere and solved the entire situation so well that it was as if it never happened at all.
Though, she knew, the truth would never be so pleasant. She pictured empty cold hallways in her mind. She pictured men and women in cold rooms, each of them wearing a mask, wordlessly scrolling through unimaginable horrors on their monitors, never speaking a word. She imagines a hellish dystopia in miniature, of blood streaming through the cracks on the floor, of decapitated bodies in orange garb being incinerated.
She imagines so much, much more.
She imagines it, the overwhelming sense of fear and oppression and outrage that surely must reside in every researcher’s heart who worked there. She imagined private sessions of mourning in the bathrooms and single-person quarters, mourning the death of humanity, of sanity, and decency. She imagines the horror of a thousand people in the face of the deepest darkest corners of human philosophy.
And she imagines further. She imagines rallying them, appealing to their sense of basic human empathy and common goodness. She imagines all of them shouting along as one, saying we will not stand for this anymore and this isn’t right and this must end.
It’s a common fantasy when the nights are long and her mind wanders into terrible places.
And on one particularly bad night, she found herself staying up late at 4 AM, typing at a monitor. Her hands shaking as she pressed “send” on the notice assigning herself to be part of the research pool, effective tomorrow.
Not 48 hours later, she took off her blindfold at the entrance of the facility, and as her eyes adjusted to the natural sunlight, she realized something deeply unfathomable was occurring here.
“I… this… this can’t be it.” Dr. Harley Rowe whispered, as she took in her surroundings.
“It sure is, ma’am,” says the chipper-sounding assistant at the desk. “You might be thinking of the old facility, but we moved operations here a while ago!”
“I- But… but where’s…” stuttered Rowe.
They were not underground, or in a dark cavern, or in a featureless gray building. She was at a modern looking hospital. There were windows here. They were on a hillside somewhere, overlooking trees. The sky is blue, and birds are chirping. It is a beautiful day outside.
Dr. Rowe blinks, and looks around. The assistant hands her a map of the site, and asks her to go to a room for orientation.
She grows increasingly horrified as the assistant talks to her.
(She seemed so kind-hearted and good-natured as she pointed at the hallways on the map, the ones leading into the dissection room and the holding chambers.)
Dr. Rowe finds herself walking through the halls. The men and women here are not wearing masks - instead, they wear genuine-looking smiles and grins, they are telling jokes, and having a laugh with each other.
She passes a meeting room. The speaker is telling a joke. They reach the punchline, and everyone in the room bursts into riotous laughter. The speaker laughs along before segueing back into a discussion about pain thresholds.
She’s still walking, and all the things she’d imagined for ages are simply not there. The hallways are clean and well lit. On several occasions, someone waves and says hello to her, though she could only wordlessly proceed forward.
There are no horrified personnel to rally. There is no researcher on the verge of a breakdown, who might be coaxed into doing something in the name of goodness. No one here seems to have any complaints.
Do they not know what happens here?
She walks past a well-stocked breakroom. Several men play table football next to a vending machine. A pair of suited men talks about last night’s game at the water cooler. There are tacky abstract paintings on the walls, right next to cutesy Foundation graphic posters on information security, complete with a cartoon researcher shushing the viewer.
She keeps walking.
Everyone seems content.
She keeps walking.
No one seems fearful, or terrified, or even mildly disturbed.
She keeps walking.
The only frown in a building that was seemingly all smiles.
She does not know how far she’s walked, or when she started deviating from the map, but when she looks up, she finds herself in front of two large opaque doors. Above it are the words: “Observation Theater.”
At this point she’s on the verge of a complete breakdown. Her hands shake as she reaches for the handle, because she must know. She must. Because something is very wrong here, because, because…
“There you are!” says a voice from behind her. She recognizes it. “Harley, Jesus. I don’t know why they didn’t notify me that you got here.”
She turns around, her expression fearful beyond words. It is Russell Pater.
“Harley, what’s wrong?” He says, as if this isn’t the first time they’ve met since that night in her office down at Facility-41. “You’re about to miss orientation.”
She takes a long time to get the words out at first. But eventually she manages to ask, “…what… is this…?”
“It’s the new project,” Russell Pater beams. “It’s been operational for quite a while now. We had some breakthroughs. I helped design this place to maximize efficiency.”
“…for… what?”
“The Montauk Procedure, of course.” Russell Pater replies, nonchalantly. “It took a while to get it approved, but… as you can see…”
“You lie.” Rowe blurts out. Her legs feel as if they are melting. Oh God, why did she feel so afraid? “You… this… this can’t… why…”
Russell Pater blinks, patiently waiting for her to finish her sentence.
“Why… is everyone… so…”
“I told you, it’s to maximize efficiency.” Russell interrupts, apparently deciding that patience was unimportant. “I know, it’s a bit different from what you envisioned. I asked that the information never got out, because it was still in the process of-”
”Why are they acting like nothing is going on?!” Rowe shouts, “Why- why are they acting like this is normal!?”
A brief silence.
“This is normal.” Russell responds. Before Rowe can protest, he continues. “The human mind can adapt to lots of things, Harley. This is one of them, in the end, and that’s what matters most. Adaptation. There’s a type of person that is attracted to the Foundation, you know. And this? This is normal for them.”
Dr. Rowe takes another moment for the implications to sink in. Her eyes continued to widen. She’s never been so scared in her life. “Y- you… this… this can’t…”
“No, you’re right. That’s not the whole story.” Russell sighs. “No, no, Rowe, you were right. It was a trap. It just wasn’t meant for us.”
At that moment, a pair of scientists exits through the door. Rowe watched in silence as they walked down the halls and turned the corners. They were arguing about the season finale of a TV show that had aired last night.
“What’s behind this door?” Rowe asks.
“The Observation Theater, what else?”
“But… they’re not… they don’t seem scared, or…”
“If they were scared, it wouldn’t be maximum efficiency.” Russell says, frustratedly. “Do you want to see for yourself? Would that stop your questions?”
“I… I don’t…”
“Well, suit yourself. I’m going back to orientation,” Russell says, as he begins to walk away. “Don’t take it too personal, Harley. That’s the secret, you know? It’s not just Montauk. It’s just life.”
And then he is gone, and Dr. Harley Rowe is left alone in that empty hallway with the opaque doors leading to the Observation Theater.
The doors that were not locked.
Dr. Harley Rowe wants to scream.
It’s half an hour later, and Dr. Harley Rowe is on a bus back to Site-19. She scratches at her blindfold. They tell her that she’s welcome to remove it. Apparently, it was just a holdover from previous operations. More symbolic than anything practical.
Besides, she’d need her sight for this part. They hand her a glass of water and a tablet of amnestic pills.
In her mind, she is running through darkened hallways and empty rooms, but now the hallways are gone, and the rooms are no longer empty. She’s in a lobby full of light and people, and each of them wear a smile on their face, and they’re all staring at her, but their smiles never seem to reach their eyes, and their eyes doesn’t seem to register anything as she tear out her own intestines right in front of them.
She takes the amnestics.
And behind her, everything is as it ever was, and everything is as it always will be.
ACT VI
THERE IS NO GOD
Ichabod
"Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Orson Conley is an agent of the SCP Foundation."
Agent Lucas Conley sees the world through the rose colors of his glasses. It is the early 2000’s, and he is young, and red-headed, and he still has what it takes to keep on keeping on.
He’s charging ahead alongside Lieutenant Colonel Ferguson alongside all of his mates, and all is right in the world. He is their lead strategist, and Ferguson has told him once that one day he’ll take over for him, and he couldn’t look forward to it more.
The bunker doors detonate. The steel doors burst away from its hinges, and brave soldiers rush into the dark to make this awful world sane. Baptism via automatic rifle fire. Exorcism of demons by way of lead.
They cleared out room after room of hooded, red-clad men. A hundred demons in a hundred dungeon hells, dodging energy blasts and ammunition, interrupting rituals in the dark. It all came at them, and they were invincible.
Things came after them as they approached the main ritual chamber. Men with too many limbs, red scurrying things that had a face full of teeth and nothing else, carrying ritual blades and spears. Omicron-14 shot them all down all the same.
They were soldiers, but more than that, they were Foundation agents, and they would be proud to die this day in this manner.
Another bunker door, another blast, and Conley knew they were at the end, as they rushed into that circular room with all the hostages nailed to the stakes and the girl at the altar. The high priest staring at them in abject horror at the ruination of his life’s work. The syringe of red liquid was still in his hand.
He would not go down without a fight, Conley realized, as the now-emptied syringe fell from his robes. And it was just as well. Neither would they. They’d already prepared for the worst.
The high priest doubled over, and Ferguson rushed to free the girl and the hostages. He’d undone the girl’s restraints just as the high priest’s flesh was sloughing off his skin. Some horrid concoction derived from axolotls, reptiles, and blood magic, meant to bring about immortality.
They all trained their weapons on the high priest, whose skin was now bursting through with angry red pseudo-limbs and leather wings, and Conley wasn’t far enough, so he stepped back as the thing that was the high priest began to breathe fire at them through its seven laughing mouths.
“Aim at the eyes!” shouts Ferguson, as they all focused their fire. The beast’s hide was already healing the wound, sprouting more eyes across his entire body. The whole time, he uttered obscenities and expressions of disgust in a voice that was no longer human. They knew it would not be enough. It didn’t need to be, of course. They were just buying times.
”Move out!” shouts Conley, as Omicron-14 cleared a path for him. He charged ahead, right at the monsters, his thrusters catching fire as it unfolded, charging up enough energy for just one jump. The Foundation told him that everything there was experimental, the flight contraption, the spear reversed-engineered from Mekhanite technology. It could all ignite, blow them all up, but he didn’t care. Conley took the leap.
He was flying through the air on wings of iron, holding that spear of gold and things were slowing down. It is a high that is surpassed by none. He stared at the high priest’s dozen eyes, all its collective mouths hanging slack in apparent shock. He was upon it now, and…
In a split second, it was over.
They were demigods slaying beasts, they were old heroes, bringing justice to the world and evil to the sword. They were shining knights, slaying the mighty dragon, freeing the maidens. Avenging angels.
Conley was standing over the corpse of the high priest’s monstrous form. The Mekhanite spear jammed deep in its skull. It was dead. His burning metal wings collapsed into itself again, and Conley is more alive than he’s ever been, and he wishes he could do this forever.
It was magnificent. It was exhilarating. It was a thrill unlike any other. The thrill of righteousness. It was Good vs. Evil. It was unambiguous, stark, and eternally correct. It would never, ever, ever end.
It was legendary, mythological. It is Light vs. Dark. It is Black vs. White. It is all he could ask for, and he wished that it would never end. It is glorious. He is glorious. He could do this forever. He would do this forever.
It is a warrior’s Heaven. It is Valhallah. It is the Ouroboros of War, and it would go on for all time. It is Truth. It is…
It is Hell.
Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Conley is in Hell.
There are dead people here, old demons from his past, and they stare at him through the darkness, illuminated by nothing but burning hellfire across the wreckage of his life’s work. He recognized them all, each faction, each cult, each Scarlet cult’s uniforms, robes, and insignias. He was dead, and he’d been sent to Hell along with all the monsters that he’d slain in life.
He was dead, and he had led his army into Hell.
And part of him accepted that more readily than what his logical side was telling him, that they were in a bunker, that all of the fire seemed to be coming from broken down computers and fallen light fixtures and electronic devices.
It is often thought that Omicron-14’s shortcomings during this particular mission was caused by a lack of personnel with thaumaturgical expertise. Indeed, the Foundation had told them that additional MTFs would be deployed to assist them, with more adequately trained personnel. Later inspections revealed that a trained Foundation thaumaturgical expert might’ve noticed traces of runic disruptions after Omicron-14 initially entered the basement.
Conley accepted Hellfire more easily than that he was still alive, because there can’t be this many of them, not anymore. All those years trying to get rid of them, killing them, what did it all amount to? There had to be dozens, no, hundreds…
All the people they lost. All the people Conley sent to die. For the mission.
It is Ichabod. The glory is all gone.
The two opposing sides stared at each other. Seconds that felt like eternities. Roughly a hundred or so Omicron-14 members, and over three hundred Scarlet King worshipers of every denomination. And behind them, Conley could see it. Swirling, luminous, pulsating, and oh so red.
At this point, additional MTFs had arrived at the lowest basement level of the Kingship LandBridge building. However, they were met with a simple concrete floor with no signs of the bunker. The disrupted runes had apparently restabilized, shielding the bunker once again. No additional MTF agent would be able to enter the bunker until SCP-9317 deactivated several hours later.
The burning eye of God. The scarlet spiral of death watching them all.
Something snapped in him, and he instinctively drew his gun. They all did, both Scarlet worshippers and Foundation agents. Dozens of clicks rang out.
And Conley knew he was in Hell, because their guns, their blades, and their ammunition, it all started to melt alongside the fancy REDSIGHT drones that they’d brought along with them. He just couldn’t figure out why the other team’s guns were also melting as well. Cold solid steel melted into useless slag in his hands. He could feel the fabric on his skin beginning to shred. The bulletproof vest was going next.
He got the memo. They all did. Hell or not. They charged. They all charged. And in that red-shifted collapsing bunker that did not exist to the outside world, with only God watching, the two sides clashed.
The walls were melting. The ceilings were collapsing. They exchanged blows like cavemen in the haze of horror and the red smoke, subjecting each other to the primal violence that laid beneath their collective souls. Flesh met flesh met fire. Foundation operatives using teeth and nails and fists to crush the ribcages and jaws of their opponents. Many of the cultists knew magic, but then again, so did a few of Omicron-14's own. Men exploding into viscera and patches of blackness on the floor. Fireballs sent across the room that hit melting fuel canisters, great big explosions that burned away both Scarlet cultists and agents.
Conley rips out a man’s jaw and breaks another man’s neck on a table, and he does not know where he found the strength, but the adrenaline kept pumping, and he just kept on and on. And it felt like the fight would never end, like this was all that’s left in the universe. Out of the corner of his eyes, someone sends Ulrich head first into the wall, where he crumples immediately with a sickening crunch. Conley’s eye twitched.
Someone was laughing. Conley does not know who, but it was all around them. Another horror among countless horrors in the dark. As he spun around, he spotted him out of the corner of his eye, underneath the table.
Rainer Kingsley was curled up in the fetal position, eyes tightly shut, trying to shield himself from the horrors that now enveloped everything in his world. This was not how it was supposed to be, he thought. This wasn’t what he told me would happen. He prayed to not be found, if he could just wait it out-
It’s not enough, because a second later, Conley yanks his arm and slams him against a deteriorating office desk, cracking two of his ribs. He’s crying, and pissing himself. His bowels voided. Oh Lord, there’s nothing he wouldn’t give now to be out of here, there’s nothing he wouldn’t give to live to see tomorrow-
“Please, please, you- m-muh-mercy… you don’t have to do this-” Kingsley begged, blood and teeth spewing from his bloodied lips.
“I’ve killed you!” Conley shouts. Something was burning inside him. Something terrible that’s been there since the dawn of time. ”I’ve killed you, a thousand times! A million! Over and over and over again! Why won’t you just stay dead?! Why won’t any of you just STAY DEAD!?”
And Kingsley could feel his fist squeezing around his throat, please, please. This isn’t how someone like him should die. Him, whose blood descended from that of the mighty Daevas. Him, who had the blood of kings running through his veins-
This was a fucking commoner’s death.
Suddenly, opportunity strikes. Someone strikes Conley from behind, and his grip loosens momentarily. A large muscular skinhead, one of the last survivors of the Blood Reign Aryans. Conley turns around to engage with his new foe and Kingsley takes the time to yank his hand away from his throat. He scurries off.
Kingsley does not know where he is running. The exit is in the opposite direction, but Foundation forces were probably swarming the basement by now. He just keeps running until he reaches the end of the room, the hidden door that led back to his living quarters. He could still get away in this chaos, hide himself…
As the door closes, he makes the mistake of looking back. The last thing he sees in the midst of all the dark shapes moving violently in the dark is Conley, staring directly at him. The throat of the skinhead between his teeth.
Then, he sees no more.
There has to be a way out of here, somehow, somewhere. His room, his bedroom with all the artefacts, maybe something’s there, maybe there’s something he can use…
He tried to lock the door from the outside, but the hinges were melting into goo and the computer system that operated the blast door was completely fried. But he was here, and… oh, no.
The preserved scrolls were dissolving. The helmet had turned into mush. The swords on the other end of the room had fallen apart, and the prized guns that he kept in the closet had all melted into a useless pile of sludge.
Only the painting remained. Protected by a dozen protective spells and charms. The painting of the Daevite nobility in all of their glory, devouring everything in their way. Uncompromising and merciless.
It could’ve been so beautiful.
And he hears it, but he doesn’t react in time. The sound of Conley tearing through the useless slag of what remains of his security systems amidst the screaming from down the hall. And in seconds, he was upon him. Something cracked as Conley slammed Kingsley to the ground, pushing the breath out of his lungs.
Kingsley could see him, raising his fist. He reached out his hand uselessly to stop it.
“Please… w-wait…”
Conley doesn’t respond. Kingsley howls in pain as he felt sensations he’s never experienced. Half of his vision was gone and he can’t feel his face. He tried to force the words out.
“It wasn’t- my… my idea…”
It doesn’t work. Most of his teeth are gone after the second blow. And through his one working eye, he could see that the next one would be the killing blow.
“It… was… Foundation…” He chokes out through the blood and the shredded remains of his lips.
And that does it. Conley seems to freeze.
“…what?” says Conley, in a dangerously low rasp.
There was still screaming outside. They do not hear the approaching footsteps.
“I… I had… a contact… at the Foundation…fuh-fed me info for years…” Kingsley sputtered. “Portal…. M-machine… their idea… their p-pluh-plan… I ju-just d-did it…”
It remains unknown why Rainer Kingsley had opted to use concealment methods that were incompatible with SCP-9317’s operation. As the head of the project, he would’ve understood better than anyone the disruptive effects of SCP-9317 on paratechnological equipment as well as concealment runes. However, in the words of a Foundation psychologist, “the answer is almost always the ego.”
It was a bluff.
It had to be a bluff.
But for some reason, Conley could only think of Godfrey Wilkins all those years ago.
“Who? Who was it?” Conley whispers, panic and alarm rising in his voice. The ringing in his ears just keeps getting louder.
“I duh- don’t know… but… I remember his… face… I…” and then Kingsley starts trailing off. His one remaining eye widens. Despite everything, he looks more terrified now than he’s ever looked.
“Who was it!?” Conley shouts.
“I… h-huh… h-him…” Kingsley gasps.
Conley finally notices the shadow. He turns around, but it’s too late. The last thing he sees before the darkness is Arthur Vaughan, hands wrapped in deteriorating rags, a single second before he brings the pulsing red rock down on his skull.
| ITEM: SCP-4179-2-40 (Unknown) | Submitted: Dr. R. Barnard |
| Origin: Daevan Dig Site #34 | Characteristics: 15x12x6cm piece of red salt stone. Pulsating red. |
| Input from SCP-4179-1: "…A memory of a memory. I almost remember you, my friend. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, for memory alone could not save you… and for what they've done to yours. (Pause) Gods die. They do, and while people might not remember, stone does. And sometimes, being remembered is all it takes for them to come back. Keep this one safe, will you?" | |
| Notes: Item was stored in a glass container and placed on a transport vehicle en route to a Black Box holding facility. The transport vehicle was later compromised by Chaos Insurgency forces. Item currently missing. Recovered from a thaumaturgically-concealed bunker below the Kingship LandBridge building. Apparently inert. | |
Ortolans
"Best fine dining experience that an Overseer can afford."
“Oh, I’m not saying it was a bad plan, it was absolutely wonderful. The amount of knives and daggers involved, the scale of it, I can’t even imagine how long it took you to put it all together.”
Russell Pater just stares at the older man on the other side of the table, who had been for the last 5 minutes recounting every detail of his decades-long secret operations to him while forking bits or gold-covered rare steak into his mouth.
“Frankly, I’ll be honest, I think one of the others, they figured you were fudging the numbers early on,” O5-7 said between mouthfuls. “But then again, half of the council had already amnesticized themselves of Facility-41, and the other half just went, y’know, the man already has a tough job. Who gives a shit if he gives himself a pay raise?”
“Should we be talking about this right in the open?” asks Russell. The entire restaurant was empty aside from them, but emotionless waiters still came and went from the kitchen to deliver food and drinks. “I mean, I assume that you…”
“Oh, no, they’re not conscious.” O5-7 says, gesturing at one of the waiters. “But as I was saying, I kept a closer eye on you after that. And after seeing the blueprints you submitted for the new site, I finally got what you were getting at.”
O5-7 tapped the side of his head, and pointed at Russell. “You got a good fuckin’ brain for figurin’ it all out, kid. Musta’ been difficult, holding it in all these years. The discovery of a lifetime.”
Russell Pater felt like objecting to being called a kid while he was in his 60’s, but then again, this was an Overseer and he wasn’t yet suicidal. Instead, he just winces a bit.
“Still hasn’t completely healed, huh?” O5-7 asks.
“Well, it’s getting better.” Russell says, placing a hand on his neck. “Mr. Tatton wasn’t in the best of shape anyways, so, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve gone.”
“Mmm. Good man.” O5-7 continues eating. “Well, if you can still eat with your neck like that, you probably should. I’m treating you, here.”
Russell looks down and starts cutting at his own steak. It was a bit too bloody for his taste, but it was a decent cut. O5-7 looked satisfied. The waiter placed another dish on the table. Some kind of fish that was probably on the critical endangerment list, coupled with some roasted exotic vegetables.
“Oh, and if you were wondering,” O5-7 says, cutting at his own plate of fish. “It was Adrian Green that let me in on the Kingship plan. Now, that was the one part of the plan that I did not like.”
“I… wasn’t aware that Adrian Green was a sub-Veil person of interest.” Russell says, genuinely caught off-guard.
“Oh, he’s an old business partner of mine,” O5-7 chewed on the meat. Russell noticed that he ate the bones as well. “But that’s not the point. I’m talking about Rainer Kingsley. Honestly, it was a goddamn miracle that he managed to keep his mouth shut for as long as he did. But choosing him as the patsy to carry out your grand masterplan decades in the making? That was a completely imbecilic move. Stupid.”
O5-7 swallows, then looks up at Russell, apparently expecting a reply. “Well?”
“I- I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know why I’m here,” Russell says. “I mean, is this an interrogation? Are you trying to take a confession, or-”
“Jesus Christ, Russ!” O5-7 exclaims, looking surprised. “And I was just talking about how smart you were! No, see, I’m with you all the way. In fact, I’ve been with you for ages! Who’d you think convinced Six and Thirteen to change their vote to approve your reparation efforts? Who talked the GOC into letting your REDSIGHT team piggyback off their IDEOSIG tech to hunt down Rubes? Who do you think approved your little research ventures into the Russian 1377s? You think I didn’t know what you 're trying to do? We’re practically co-conspirators!”
A brief silence, then Russell asks again, “Yes, and this dinner… what is it for?”
O5-7 leans back. Another dead-eyed waiter takes away his dish and, bafflingly, places down a hot-fudge sundae. Russell Pater forks a few bits of fish into his mouth. At least it tasted pretty good.
“Have you ever listened to that RRR podcast?” O5-7 looks off into the distance. “Y’know. The “Red, Right, Republican” podcast?”
“Oh, I don’t really listen to political stuff, I’m pretty much a centrist type of person,” Russell says, accidentally letting some pride creep into his tone. “But I do know of it, I know Kingsley kinda launched his career from there. I didn’t know you listened to it.”
“Oh, more than that, kid.” O5-7 digs into the sundae. “My department funds the damn thing. That and a couple dozen other shows.”
Russell paused. Lots of questions began to swirl around in his mind regarding who knew what and when, but he managed to suppress it.
“And if you’re asking why,” O5-7 goes on, “The Foundation needs to have a hand on these things, if it ever comes to that. It’s just good media control. It’s just in case. We stay relatively hands off on things, but y’know, sometimes the little people can really surprise you with their insight.”
Russell figures there’s something to be said here about getting high off your own supply.
“But anyways,” O5-7 wipes his face. “A while ago, I was listening, and this one professor said something that really resonated with me. Honesty is brutality, he said. And brutality is honesty. and I just kept thinking about that line. Do you get it?”
Russell paused. “I think I do.”
“There you have it,” O5-7 says, and motions at one of the waitresses. “The other O5s, most of them don’t get it. Some do, but not enough. And hey, if we were going to lie to the whole world, least we can do is be fuckin’ honest with ourselves!”
Oh, so it’s ideological. O5-7 kept speaking, and he kept becoming more animated. The waitress removes his sundae glass and replaces it with a hot pot of stew.
“Of course, it’s all a facade for some of them. Pretending to care about the humanoids, the fucking degenerates we put in orange, I say it’s all bullshit. I say, I want truth. And I see your work, and I know what you’re about. Your plans… the god… Montauk…”
O5-7 was getting uncomfortably close now.
“It’s honest, my boy. I think it will work. And I want to be part of it,” O5-7 grins, meat still stuck on his teeth. “I know what you’ll need to do when it works. I know what’ll happen next. And I want to help you, all I ask for is my hands on the wheel for a bit, when the time comes.”
“And… what did you have in mind?”
“The usual things,” O5-7 replies. “A few ideas on how things should be run. A few things I’d like to take away, and a few things I’d like to add. Nothing more than what the average man wants from the world. You understand?”
“Yes.” Russell Pater says. “I do.”
“Good,” O5-7 sips his wine. “And one of these days, I’ll have to introduce you to the others.”
Russell raises an eyebrow. “You mean… the other O5s?”
“No, Russell.” O5-7 does not look at him. “Not the Council, no.”
They didn’t say much after that. Russell tried to finally get some of the food in him. The stew was surprisingly good, but he asked to hold off on the sundae until afterwards. There were a few more dishes to be brought out, and O5-7 was at least courteous enough for that.
Mid-way through eating, O5-7 asked him for the time and the date, how many people to bring, and who to shoot first. They had a brief conversation, and then they both fell silent again.
“People just do what you expect them to, don’t they?” O5-7 says. “They don’t evolve. They don’t get better. They’re born sheep and they die as sheep. That’s part of why you’re doing this, isn’t it?”
Russell Pater nods. People truly were too predictable for him.
“It’s awful,” O5-7 concludes. “But that’s why the world needs men like us. Men willing to purge it of its own cancers. Men willing to guide them towards a destiny that isn’t just them choking on their own shit.”
Russell motioned one of the waiters to retrieve his empty plate. Dinner was finally almost over.
“One final question, though,” says O5-7, wiping the meat juices off his lips. “Why SCHRODINGER? I don’t see how cats have anything to do with this…”
“Oh, it’s, well, you know how it is, It’s not about the cat itself, it’s just…” Russell tries to find the right words. “Well, it’s… either dead or alive, but we won’t know, unless we open the box.”
O5-7 laughs. “Funny. So, is it dead or alive then?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Russell responds frankly. “We haven’t quite managed to open the box yet, but we’re close.”
The final dish came. Small roasted birds a bit bigger than a thumb, and though he wasn’t much of a gourmet, Russell recognized the dish.
“It’s a French dish,” O5-7 smiles. “It’s to be eaten whole, feet first. It’s quite a unique process, how it’s cooked. First, its eyes are plucked. The darkness makes it overeat, you see. Then, it’s drowned, then marinated, both in Armagnac, before being roasted. Just remember to pick out the bones while you chew.”
“Ortolans,” Russell looked up. “I’m familiar, yes.”
“Ah, you’ve had it before?” asks O5-7, as he prepares a napkin for himself.
“Oh, no. Never, I just know of the dish.” Russell shrugs. Frankly, he just thought it’d taste like dead bird in wine.
“Ah, my friend, the taste is divine,“ O5-7 grins. “Do you also know what they do with the napkin?”
“They cover themselves,” Russell says. “To hide from the eyes of God.”
“Yes,” O5-7 whispers as he unfolds his own napkin. Russell felt a bit unnerved at the way the man stared at him. “Are you a God-fearing man, Russell?”
And for someone who’s worked for years in a department where the line between gods and monsters had been completely blurred, Russell was inclined to say yes. He felt there were lots of reasons for it, from an academic standpoint and otherwise. Enough for him to be quite confident in his view.
However, he might say he did believe in something else. He believed that there was a part of Man that calls itself God. A part that speaks in a different voice, that rears its head whenever Man needs the excuse to do unspeakable things. And sometimes, that part called itself different things, like the Greater Good, or The Foundation.
But of course, he didn’t vocalize any of that. It was besides the point, and it was rude to talk about someone who was listening, so he simply nodded.
“Good, you should be,” O5-7 says. And it’s the most serious he’s been throughout the entire conversation. “I am. That’s why I do the things I do, and when I do the things I do, I do it in His name. Your napkin’s next to your plate, by the way.”
And Russell looked down to find a napkin that wasn’t there earlier. He looked up and found O5-7 completely hidden under his own napkin. He could hear soft chewing noises from underneath.
Russell picked up the napkin, unfolded it, and placed it on his head. Seconds later, he thought better of it, so he took it off again. He decided to just do without it.
His teeth sank into the small bird, its juices and fat and organs bursting out onto his tongue. He kept chewing, while O5-7 was still under that napkin, making soft noises of delight.
It really does just taste like dead bird in wine, he thought.
Dream Sequence
"Whatever happens in your mind also happens."
SOMEWHERE THAT ISN’T ANYWHERE - HANNAH XOB’S MIND.
[Agent Xob is staring horrified as blood spews out of Weider-Hoffman’s mouth at an unprecedented rate. The room is filling up with blood. She tries to get on the couch to avoid it, but it reaches her anyway.]
Agent Xob: What the fuck, what the fuck. What the fuck?!
Weider-Hoffman: [*incomprehensible.*]
Agent Xob: Jesus Christ. This is a dream, right? Fuck you, fuck this! I don’t have time for any of this! I can’t fucking take this anymore!
[Weider-Hoffman continues to vomit blood. He holds up a finger. The blood flow dampers slightly, enough for him to speak.]
Weider-Hoffman: Sorry, just- Give me- Give me a second.
Agent Xob: Oh fuck you. You’re not even real. You’re just in my head. All of this is happening in my head.
[The stream of blood slows to a trickle.]
Weider-Hoffman: Most things happen in your head, Hannah. That includes everything real.
[Reality shifts. They’re now in Hannah’s apartment near Site-252. Weider-Hoffman coughs up the last of the blood.]
Agent Xob: Are you real then, Alberto? Sure doesn't feel like my dreams.
Weider-Hoffman: Yes. Yeah, I’m- I’m real. I’m… it’s… I’m dream projecting. I learned it from back when I was in the Oneiroi Collective.
[Agent Xob looks around.]
Agent Xob: What about me?
Weider-Hoffman: You’re also dreaming. This is your dream, I’m just squatting here. That apartment was just a bit of my brain leaking into yours, sorry.
Agent Xob: Christ. Okay.
[Reality changes again. Agent Xob tries to focus. They’re in the grass hills of SCP-9317-Ω. A lone figure stands alone in the distance. Agent Xob tries to walk to her, but the ground beneath her doesn’t move.]
Weider-Hoffman: It doesn’t work like that.
Agent Xob: Oh, fuck you.
Weider-Hoffman: Look, Hannah, I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through right now. I… I only just found out. Anna told me. Auggie didn’t-
Agent Xob: Please, Alberto. Please just shut up. Why are you even here?
Weider-Hoffman: Hannah, please. I need to talk to you. I think something terrible is about to happen. You need to listen to me. Please-
[Reality shifts again. They are in what looked to be a sea of blood. There is a giant black cat in the distance. Weider-Hoffman throws up another torrent of blood.]
Agent Xob: What the fuck is going on!?
[Reallity shifts again. They are back in Weider-Hoffman’s apartment.]
Weider-Hoffman: The cognitohazard, Hannah- The black cat. It’s wreaking havoc on my brain. It’s been preventing me from realizing what’s been happening-
Agent Xob: And what’s that?!
Weider-Hoffman: It’s- Oh God. It’s been suppressing me, suppressing me all this time. I had to encode a message to Anna, she- showed me the counterhazard but it’s- It’s not kicking in yet-
[Reality shifts again. They’re back at the grass hills. It is raining blood. The lone figure is levitating in the sky. Two pinprick dots are present instead of her eyes.]
Agent Xob: Goddammit, what’s been happening, Alberto!? Alberto, fucking tell me!
Weider-Hoffman: I can’t- Oh God it hurts so much. It hurts so mu-
[Reality shifts again. There is nothing.]
It’s Tuesday (or Monday, or maybe Wednesday) evening, and Hannah Xob wakes up in her room in her Foundation On-Site apartment. As always, a familiar panic jolts through her body as she realizes she did not set the alarm for today (she never does) followed by a familiar calm as she glances at her wall clock to find that it is only 1:43 PM. There is no way to immediately tell the time - her apartment has no windows.
Wait, no.
In her mind, the rest of her day’s routine was already laid out for her. She’d go back to sleep, wake up again in a few hours, order one of the three things she’s always ordered from the Site cafeteria (dead people, cup hotpot, or soylent green) and take a billion-year walk to the main lobby of Site-252. She’d spend several eternities there absolutely doing nothing aside from spending about half an hour writing reports on some dead anomalous plants, then she walks back to her apartment and then goes to sleep again until the sun goes out..
Except she doesn’t do that, because she remembers this part, and she swore to someone that she would never waste her life on this shit again. They’d live. They have a future out there. She’d live. Even if she wasn’t there. What the fuck. Hannah gets up, she opens the door. There is nothing but darkness ahead. She blinks.
She’s in some sort of stone cell, in a dungeon somewhere. There is nothing here but a single metal door and the sound of water flowing coming from somewhere above. There is no other way out. She pounds at the door. There is no response. She looks through the tiny slot on the door, and there is only darkness on the other side. She tries to scream, but she has no mouth.
So she thinks, are we still in my dream? and a voice from somewhere down the hall that does not exist shouts back.
“No, we’re in my dream. I thought it was easier to communicate here. I’m sorry for all of this, I think this is just the result of the counterhazard doing its work. These are my memories from back when I was conducting my investigations.”
Couldn’t you just tell me what’s going on, then!? thought Hannah.
“I’m trying to remember!” shouts Alberto. “Just give me a minute, that damn thing’s been in my head for over a week!”
She looks around the cell, and there is a black cat here. The cat holds a piece of paper in its mouth. She tries to make out what’s in the piece of paper. It appears to be three diagrams. A gray figure, a red figure, and a third larger figure apparently composed out of the parts of the other two. She tries to snatch the paper out of the cat’s mouth, but it eats up the entire thing. Then, it jumps through the door.
What the hell is going on!?
“Don’t worry, it does that! It doesn’t matter. I think I remember. This is the place- It was when I realized what was going on. When I found that last piece of evidence I needed.”
Needed for what?
“To convince myself to go to the realm of God. The Foundation only ever found one figure in that room. They’d all missed it. They’d all missed that there were two at first.”
Then, reality shifts again.
Weider-Hoffman Dream Analysis
By Alberto Weider-Hoffman
Overview: Agent Newman finds herself in another strange place, where her thoughts are all that exists. She reaches out into the darkness and something reaches back. It is Alberto Weider-Hoffman.
| Agent Xob | Weider-Hoffman |
|---|---|
| Are you there? Look, keep explaining. Jesus Christ, your brain is a goddamn mess. | I’ll try, I’m sorry. There was… there was something in that cognitohazard you showed me. |
| That can’t be. It was a standard compliant cognitohazard. We give it to people before interrogating them so they don’t, like, try to stab us. It wears off after a few hours. | Hannah, the damn thing is still inside my brain. There was a lethal anti-meme on that card. |
| …What did it do to you? | It’s coming back. I think it- I think it made me unable to conceive of certain ideas. |
| Ideas like what? | Stopping your team… I think. From doing something. |
| From doing what? | Something awful. I don’t know, let me think! All of my thoughts aren’t back inside my head yet! |
| Right, but we only met you on this trip and it was unplanned! The card was part of a basic MTF kit, none of us knew about it! Why would the Foundation have prepared something to subdue you beforehand!? | Hannah, please. I'm trying my best, but I can barely hold my own questions together, let alone hold yours! |
| Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Look, you… you said something earlier about finding some clue in a dungeon? Something about a figure or something? | Did I say that? Right, wait. Okay, I think I did. I’m sorry, I’m still trying to piece my brain together. |
| You said that it was the reason you came here. | Okay, okay, I’m remembering. I’m remembering. Oh no. God. |
| What? What happened? I can’t fucking see you, or fucking anything at all, you have to tell me if there’s something going on. | No, I mean. God. I remember it now. I remember. They cut my God apart. That’s what they did. They cut Him into pieces. Then they stitched him back together, in their image. |
| Alberto, what the hell are you talking about? | That’s what I found out. She figured it out, too. She tried to tell me, but it wouldn’t let me remember. |
| Alberto, talk to me for the love of fuck. | |
| Alberto? Where are you? | |
| Hello? | |
| Who’s there? | Meow. |
Closing Note: Hannah Xob is not here. Alberto Weider-Hoffman is not here. The black cat is still here.
On Remembering
If you can read this, just try to stay calm. I just went under again, but I think I can keep myself above the water for now. Look, when you wake up, ask Anna about her theories. She’s the one who showed it to me, and kickstarted my memories again. It’s how I managed to reach out.
I remember something else, Hannah. I think I told a lie. I’m still trying to pull up the part of me that has an explanation for why I did it, it’s still underwater, but I lied to Arthur. I lied to him about what was on that door. It wasn’t a love story, Hannah. It was a poem. A prophecy. I don’t know why I lied about it, I swear. I think I was trying to help. The cat's here to punish me because I wasn't supposed to lie.
I don’t know where I kept the entirety of the real translation. I know it’s somewhere around here. Just keep looking, and you’ll find it. I think you’ll find the answers from there. Just watch out for the black cat. It’s weakening, but it’s still there.
It really does not want you to find out this next part, and it really does not want me to remember, either.
Stone oxidizes. Blood oxidizes. Dark grey basalt turns red over time, while red blood turns black. All cats are black in the night, but then again, all gods are, too.
Keep going,
AWH.
Artifact X0B-H4NNH- “Wait, are we back in my brain again?”
Details: A poem engraved on the door of SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL's door, discoverable only through advanced Foundation thauma-imaging. Apparently discovered previously by Arthur Vaughan. Contents apparently do not depict a love story as Alberto had claimed. Re-discovered inside Hannah Xob's mind in an empty void.
Translation: Okay, okay, just let me wrap my mind around it a bit. It's a bit hard to write down pure meaning. Alberto, are you still out there? Somewhere?
Hello?
Oh, goddammit. Okay. Huh. It rhymes. Alberto, did you do that?
“Seven warriors will come in time, seven songbirds comes to nest.
Seven brides to the Montauk King, eternal is their rest.”
“Seven keys to unlock his cage, true Godhood’s to be found.
Seven chains shall burn and shake, as their blood finds the ground.”
“The faultlines are being sealed at last, the forging of seven rings.
True justice in the universe as we cry out for our King.”
“The first one’s fate is sealed from start, a lifetime living dead.
They cower and they falter as the blood rush from their head.”
“The second is slain, a life of pain, through fire did it end.
Through healing flames, the cracks in God begin to heal and mend.”
“The third is blind to the final line, slaughtered inside His lair.
The lost lambs sing for the day they bring, spewing poison into the air.”
“The fourth sells out the third, and dies by their own hand.
A pact with God, become his lot, wreak havoc on this land.”
“The feline comes, dark as the night, it bares its teeth and claw.
A symbol of order against disorder, and thus its word was law.”
Wait. That last part doesn't look right. Oh, fuck, it's just the goddamn cat again. Get out here. Shoo! You don't scare me, get the hell out of my brain! I didn't even look at that damn cognitohazard!
Okay, sorry. Let me just continue reading.
“The fifth is bound, suffocated, and drowned, preyed upon by their own kind.
They find themselves in His red hand, and He devours their mind.”
“The sixth dies buried among the tide, the stars themselves did falter.
The suns and moons did shudder as all died upon His altar.”
“The seventh dies before His eye, their hope dies on the floor.
A million billion scarlet knights march on through Heaven’s door.”
“Seven warriors shall live no more, their blood upon the dirt.
The stars align, the red moon sky reveals His final mirth.”
…Uh, yeah, that's really something.
Note: Okay, so, what am I supposed to get out of this? You lied about a poem. Why was the cognitohazard preventing you from doing that?23 …Seriously? You're trying to say that it's about us? It doesn't match up, at all. The first one is described as a zombie or something, and Telal wasn't a zombie. And Dina didn't die by fire.24 So what are you saying? It's a prophecy about us dying? So, what, is SCP-9317-Ω out to get us?25 What does that even mean? The Scarlet King is the most dangerous god that the Foundation's ever faced. I personally helped hunted down a bunch of his cults. That doesn't- That doesn't make any sense! Why would they be trying to fulfill a prophecy from one of their most dangerous foes? Besides. How would they even know about it, we only just found it!26 What!? What's wrong?!27 Can't you just shoo it away?28 What? What is it?!29 Okay, okay, I remember that. He said you were helping unlock the door, right?30 What happened after?!31 What?32 No, stop, fucking slow down! Alberto, where the hell are you?
Alberto? Goddammit, where are you?
Hello?33
Oh, fuck you.34
Look, this is getting old. Alberto, if you're listening, I think I might know a place where the cat won't be able to find us. It's just a hunch but… just follow my voice, okay?
And then, when we get there, you're going to tell me everything you know. I don't want to fuck around with this anymore.
SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW - HANNAH XOB AGAIN.
[Hannah Xob walks down the hallway. She enters the Site Harkin breakroom. It is night time, and the room is lit by yellow lamps and a fireplace. The room has an extremely cozy atmosphere. Soft piano can be heard.]
Hannah: Ah, we’re back here, are we?
[A black kitten comes crawling up to her, nuzzling her.]
Hannah: Oh, I’m sorry little guy. I know everything. Alberto managed to tell me about all of it. He might not remember everything yet, but a lot’s coming back. What he found out about the Scarlet King, what he knew about Montauk. His theories on what the Foundation’s been doing all these years. You really did a number on him, though.
[The kitten stares at her, then looks down and purrs.]
Hannah: Yeah, why a cat though? I don't really get it either.
[She pushes aside the black kitten, and looks up. August Kilroy is on the piano. The music is beautiful, but her hair hides her face.]
Hannah: God…
[She looks around. Val and Daniela are on the couch. They’re both holding a long stick with marshmallows stuck on it close to the fireplace. The smores do not burn. From this angle, their faces are obscured.]
Hannah: I can’t believe I only knew you folks for a few days. I really regret it, y’know? I mean… just staying in my room up until the day of the mission. I only really went out once, and…
[Telal walks across the room, carrying in his arms a large amount of snacks. Hannah waves at him. He waves back, but does not look her way.]
Hannah: Yeah, even you, Telal. I wish I talked to you more before we went. Y’know, what Alberto’s just told me, it’s still not sinking in yet. The idea that all of us were just… lambs to be slaughtered. The idea that there’s a high chance that none of us is really making it out of here.
[Hannah sits on a chair in the corner. She looks down, and Telal comes to give her a can of soda. She can’t make out any of the text on the can.]
Hannah: He says time works a bit differently here, in dreams. It still passes, of course. So I can’t take too long, but we do have a bit more time. I'll just… rest my eyes a bit.
[Hannah slumps down. The black kitten mewls at her. She pats it.]
Hannah: God, I can’t believe it’s only been half a month.
[Then she closes her eyes. She listens to the soft piano, and tries to get some sleep.]
[An hour passes. She does not move.]
[A year passes. She does not move.]
[A decade passes. She does not move.]
[A century passes. She does not move.]
[A millennium passes. She does not move.]
[The heat death of the universe passes. She does not move.]
[The kitten meows again, and Hannah Xob finally opens her eyes. She yawns, cracks her knuckles, and stands up.]
Hannah: Well, time to go to work.
[She walks back down the hallway.]
Hannah: See you all later. Eventually. Thanks for the soda.
[Then, she is gone.]
[The piano stops.]
EXIT - ALBERTO'S MIND.
[Hannah walks into a nice small village somewhere among the trees. She’s seen it somewhere, but not from this angle. Alberto is playing with faceless children.]
Hannah: Hi, Alberto. How long was I gone for?
Alberto: Probably a few minutes.
Hannah: Oh. Crap.
Alberto: It’s okay, I get it. I hope you enjoyed whatever you were doing. Beautiful, isn’t it?
Hannah: Yeah, this place? It looks great. Really… really.. Peaceful.
Alberto: I hope so. I don’t know if I’m remembering it accurately. I certainly can’t remember many of their faces… and I’m probably embellishing a lot of my memories of home.
[There is the sound of windchimes, and the faceless children run off. Hannah frowns.]
Hannah: Alberto, there’s… there’s something I need to talk about…
Alberto: Oh, I know. They’re all gone, aren’t they? Another casualty in the Foundation’s war against the anomalous. I saw it in your mind. I got lost in it for a bit.
Hannah: It- It wasn’t us that did it-
Alberto: No, no, Hannah. I get it.
[Alberto sighs. The village flickers.]
Alberto: I understand.
[Silence.]
Hannah: I’m so sorry.
Alberto: It’s alright. Well, it’s not, but… I have hope that they’re still out there somewhere. All the people we lose, all the hopes and dreams we have that die in the dark, it’s all out there somewhere. Somewhere safe and beautiful that we can’t reach.
[Silence.]
Alberto: Even non-existence is a place to be shared, Hannah. If that’s what lies on the other end.
Hannah: I hear you.
[Silence.]
Alberto: We have to keep surviving. The prophecies say that you all shall die, so you shan’t. And if you don’t die, the Foundation will send people to make sure that it happens. We’ll have learned what we can, and we’ll fight back. All of us, against them.
Hannah: It’s a far-fetched plan. If the Foundation really is trying to do what you’re talking about… they’ll never give up. We can’t fight them forever.
Alberto: We don’t need to fight them forever. We just need them to fail at fulfilling the prophecy. We just need to make their plans useless. We just need to not die the way the prophecy tells us to.
Hannah: Do they even know about the prophecy?
Alberto: I don’t know. Maybe this place, this realm, is sentient, and it’s trying to fulfill the prophecy itself. Maybe the Foundation only has parts of the true prophecy. It could be something they found in that house, but I never penetrated that deep into their files. But they sent you all here for what seemed to be the sole purpose of dying. And Arthur seems hellbent on doing everything in his power to make sure that it’s fulfilled.
Hannah: Right, but… that might mean that there's probably people who knows and people who doesn't, right? Maybe… maybe only the people on the top knows about it?
Alberto: I don't know, I assume? I don't see how that helps us, though. It's not like we have any way to ask anyone for help from here.
Hannah: I know, I'm just… asking. Look, what do we do now?
Alberto: We play along. Anna, she figured things out and reached out to me. The part of me that was awake at the time managed to tell her about Arthur at least. She told me she’ll try to play along while I reach out to you. When we awaken, we’ll try to play it as if nothing is wrong.
Hannah: And then?
Alberto: The first chance we have, we’ll ambush him. Tie him up. Ask him to tell us everything he knows. I don’t think he realizes that their plans might include killing him, too. I think there’s a chance that he might flip on them…
[Silence.]
Alberto: Hannah?
Hannah: You told me that he killed August.
Alberto: Yes. I think he did that. He definitely killed Val, and I don’t know how, but I think he had something to do with Daniela’s death, too.
[Silence.]
Hannah: Alberto.
Alberto: We can’t kill him, Hannah. We need him, and-
Hannah: Alberto.
[Silence.]
Alberto: Look, my friend. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, but for now. Let’s just re-group. Tonight, when Arthur is sleeping, we’ll come out, we’ll discuss things over, and gakkk
[The village burns. A gaping wound appears on Alberto’s chest. He stares down in horror. Blood streams endlessly from his mouth. Hannah steps back, horrified.]
Hannah: Alberto!?
[Alberto stares at her. He raises a shaky hand.]
Alberto: Hannah. The weapons.
[He snaps his fingers. The universe ends.]
The First Acolyte
"THE CREATION OF GOD"
You stare in disbelief at the whelping mewling red thing that stood before you. It was pathetic. A gigantic, hairless, broken, worm-like creature. It had six large vestigial wings, three on each side of its bulbous head. Useless residual limbs without any apparent purpose. It flopped around uselessly in its pond like a dying fish.
This thing can not be your God. Your glorious Red God.
You remember when your father told you of him, when he first deemed you a man, the first time he brought you along on his raids. Riding with him on horseback as he slaughtered the children and set their huts ablaze. You remember the taste of blood and fear in the air, intestines woven around still-living women like coiled snakes. Broken bodies in a pile.
He told you about God that morning, as he rode away, his men trailing him as they departed, leaving behind the smouldering wreck. The men would soon return from their hunts to find their young slaughtered and their wives butchered. They would find the altars of bone, standing triumphantly, to warn them of who had done such a deed.
“God demands it, you understand?” Your father said. “It is necessary for us to gain his favor.”
“Yes,” you told him, “I understand.”
And he rode on, clutching the broken stone tablet that he’d taken from their temple.
Perhaps he’d heard the story from his own father, and him from his own father. You wonder if the stories stayed the same all those years, but your father told you of the Daevites. How their blood ran in your veins. How they worshipped their glorious Red God of blood and war through battle and conquest. How God demanded them to one day, one day restore the Empire. But for that, the traitorkind, they must fall.
And there it went. He continued his slaughters in the dark corners of undocumented human history. In the surrounding areas, scared children whispered in the dark of your father. They spoke in fear of blinded, limbless men, left behind as a warning to the others. They spoke in fear of bodies, stitched together and painted to form a grotesque depiction of some strange horned monster. They spoke of fire that rose through the air to form the silhouette of an antlered man with no mouth and only one eye.
No one mentioned the artefacts he recovered. That was part of why he left no survivors. Piles of dusty tablets and engravings kept in some secret place that only he knew.
You briefly wondered if all the tablets that he found had told the same story. When you were old enough, he first showed you where he kept all of the artefacts. You remember briefly wondering why some parts seemed to have been chipped away intentionally. By that point, though, he was in no condition to answer questions. You buried him that Spring.
“You have to continue, you understand?” Your father begged. “You have to spread his holy word. You have to restore the Empire.”
“Yes,” you told him, “I understand.”
You did not tell him of your gifts. Your father did not know that you could meddle with the fabric of reality itself, of that time you placed your hand on a slaughtered cat and it opened its eyes, or that occasion when you ordered one of his men to stop living, and so he did.
You did not tell him that you had ordered the failure of his mind and the deterioration of his heart.
When all was said and done, your reign of terror was even worse than his, and perhaps, as embarrassing as it is to admit, you eventually ended up becoming as much of a devout as he was, perhaps even more so. Your father was only ever a man. You were a force of nature, and you could believe that God was on your side.
An army of ten thousand. A fiefdom of your own. All of them entirely devoted to you, the messenger of their Red God. Together, you would ascend. You would all ascend. You all reached out, two thousand hands, reaching towards apotheosis. Your father’s dreams finally realized. Perhaps you would meet again in God’s domain. Perhaps he would understand why you did what you did.
Of course, you could not be so lucky.
Of course, the universe demanded penance for your sins.
“What is the meaning of this?!” you demanded of the horrid worm thing in the oily pit. “Where is my God!?”
It tells you that your God is dead. Your God died a long, long, long time ago.
You ask who killed your God. The thing replied that it did, at the cost of its own powers. It had once been a God of hope in desperate times - of Montauk, was the word it used. A pacifist lord, worshiped by slaves for salvation and deliverance. That was what enraged you the most.
“Then who have I been killing in the name of!?” you demanded, tears in your eyes, a rage that could shatter stars building in your heart.
“Your own,” The thing croaked. “There is nothing for you here. There is no more bloodshed, no more battles to fight. I apologize.”
And though it spoke in a voice barely-audible and raspy, you knew it was the absolute truth.
Hours later, you emerged, and found all ten thousand of your men standing on the shore, staring at you expectantly.
You tell them their God is dead. That he’s been dead for ages. Dead to a pathetic worm-thing that now resided inside that lake just over there. You tell them that everything you had done and they had done, every village burned, every field razed, every family annihilated, every child cut from its mother’s womb, had all been for nothing.
The men stay silent.
There is thunder in your voice and holy light streaming from your eyes. You ask them if they understand.
“Yes,” all ten thousand say, “we understand.”
And then, you ask them if they accepted this.
“No,” all ten thousand say, “we don’t.”
“Good,” you say. The ground they were standing on rises into the air.
Ultimately, what came afterwards was nothing unusual for you or any of your ten thousand. It was just like the work that your father did with the tablets, and it was just like the work that some holy men a few thousand years later would do with their own holy books. Frankly, it was no different from what your father or you did to all those villages and the villagers who stood in your way. You added a few things, you took away a few things. That was it.
Even as the squirming worm-thing protested, you just ignored its screams as you carved a hole in its head so you could fit the eye, and cut down the wings on its head so there’d be space to drill the antlers in. Instruments and devices that you could conjure out of thin air.
And the Red God, the God of hope, had none, as ten thousand men slashed at its body, and broke all the things inside. Its people were dead. Its acolytes were dead. It resigned itself to oblivion, and some part of It disappeared into the darkness below.
Your God would live again. Perhaps not today, perhaps not any time soon, but eventually. Gods are fickle like that. They exist in many forms. Spiritual, physical…
(Your God’s physical body lies still in the dark, covered in salt and steel, forgotten to time and memory alike.)
…but eventually, one day, someone will finish your work. Someone will bring the living effigies into being. Someone will finally finish the procedure.
But for now, you just need to close the basic circuit. Let the old magic run through his veins again. A new kind of Montauk for a new kind of purpose. You pull out all the tricks you knew, everything you’ve learned from your travels, from your own powers, the Erikeshan mystics…
But for now…
(Eventually, many of the men fled, believing you mad with power as they saw the things you did to them and the deity. Enough stayed to finish the work. None escaped your punishment when you realized that in spite of it all, you would never leave this world.)
…for now…
(A few centuries after that, someone would stumble upon some of your father’s tablets again. They’d slaughter a chicken in the name of the Red King, and they would be able to produce fire from their palms. It didn’t take long for things to get out of control.)
…for now, you predicted that by the end of the seventh year, your little Montauk machine of a God would finally turn on.
Hannah Xob and the Eye Of God
"God is watching."
Hannah backs into the corner as she watches the horrors unfold. She could see the light leave Alberto’s eyes as Arthur removes the blade from his chest. It must’ve punctured his lungs, because she only hears a soft sighing noise as he goes slack.
Alberto’s body drops to the floor.
Arthur looks unsettled in a way Hannah had never seen before. His eyes were wide, and even here she could see that they were bloodshot. Scratches, deep ones, lined the exposed retracted areas of his suits on his arm. The veins on his neck look inflamed
“Hannah, Oh my God…” Arthur huffed. “You… I… It’s Alberto. He… he killed Anna. I found him drowning her. I… I ran up here… I knew he was about to do the same to you!”
Arthur looked down at Hannah, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the glint of light that she saw under Alberto’s shroud as he fell, his final words to her still ringing in her ears. He looked back up at Arthur, and realized that he didn’t see it.
They met each other’s eyes.
“Oh, right,” Arthur’s expression reverted from one of horror to a sneer. “You’re immune to this, aren’t you?”
The next moment, just as he bent down with the knife, Hannah did something he didn’t expect. He runs at him. Then, at the last second, she ducks, changes direction, grabs the shroud, then sprints off behind the pillar with it.
“What do you think you think you’re doing?!” He shouts at her. “There’s no way fucking way out! You think I didn’t think that one of you might run!?”
And Hannah doesn’t hear it, because she keeps running with the shroud, down to the 3rd floor past the giant lantern and the rattling contraption, then the 2nd, and as she just descends from the second floor down to the first, she sees it. The entrance of the castle. Arthur had barricaded it with leftover tents and a bunch of other miscellaneous items, and had set it all on fire. She might be able to get through, but she didn’t have enough time.
She could hear Arthur running down the stairs. She gets off and runs around through the halls of the panopticon, hoping to find somewhere to hide. She ducks into a random room, and dumps out everything in the shroud. A pistol, a small automatic gun, a combat knife, some medicines. Anna must’ve given them to Alberto when she sensed that things were wrong. Besides, she noticed that Arthur hadn’t used a gun.
The place was dead silent aside from the ever-present howling that grew fainter the further she got from the central chamber. She’d wait here until he came, then kill him, or hide until the mess at the exit burned itself out…
Wait. If Alberto was dead, then…
She isn’t able to finish the thought, because at that moment, gunfire bursts shot at the entrance of the cell. It narrowly missed her head. She hid herself in the corner.
“You dropped something!” shouted Arthur, from the other side of the panopticon.
Shit.
“Get out now, Hannah.” he continues. “I can still make this quick.”
Hannah sighs, then places both the pistol and the blade onto her suit’s holsters. Then, picking up the automatic, in what she can only imagine was a completely stupid move, she runs straight out, jumps down from the hallway onto the ground-
Her legs didn’t crack but it was hell on her ankles-
-And into his blindspot on the other side of the pillar. She hears Arthur cursing, and several more gunshots bounce off the wall, but then he goes silent. She starts running up the stairs, eyes on the ground, the automatic in her hand as she cycled around the pillar-
“Where the hell do you think you’re-” Arthur shouted, as he shot at her from the ground, only to get a spray of bullets in return. It couldn’t hit him from this angle, either, but-
“You fucking idiot!” She shouted from above. She was already on the 2nd floor again. “Don’t you realize they’re going to fucking kill you too?! We know what you’re trying to do!”
He doesn’t reply. He was trying to figure out what her strategy was. She knew as well as he did that she was trapped. There was no way out for her. He just needed to be patient… but then again, it’s the same for her.
Still, he waits for a few seconds. The sound of footsteps fades into nothing.
There was nothing to hide behind on the 2nd Floor. Being on the spiral staircase just makes you exposed…
Just to be safe, he makes his way up as quietly as possible. Just as he’s about to rear his head up, he pokes his gun through the opening. Nothing happens. He pauses, then runs up the last remaining bit of stairs and up against the walls of the second floor, his automatic pointing at any hidden dangers that might be in the room.
She wasn’t on the 2nd floor, then. So maybe the 3rd or 4th floor. The contraption would’ve made it difficult to move around, or to get away, but maybe she was counting on it to slow him down… no, no. She wouldn’t risk it. So, likelier is that she’s back on the 4th floor. He had a hunch. He went back down to the first floor.
About 20 minutes later, Hannah was still waiting on the 4th floor, waiting for the sign to come. She looked back at her leg, the blood streaming from it. She hadn’t even noticed it at first, the adrenaline blocked it out. One of the bullets must’ve nicked her. Her blood trickled down to the ground. Was that enough? Was it all doomed?
And then, she sees it. The sigh. A patch of darkness on the floor. She quickly raised her automatic down the stairs at the humanoid shape below. Her hands are shaking, and she keeps firing, but it does not fall - and then she hears the clicking, and she’s too stunned to react, because the figure is still not falling, and then she realizes that it was just Alberto’s discarded shroud propped up on a gun-
(She was watching for something to block the light from the lantern. Clever. But not enough.)
Bullets came firing back. Hannah dodged again. He had two guns. Arthur emerges holding another automatic, only to be met with an empty automatic gun to the chest. It catches him off guard enough to miss his first few shots again. He swears as Hannah disappears behind the pillar once more. This time, he pursues her. There were no railings, and there was the risk of falling down if they ran, but he didn’t care.
“You already killed Alberto, you fucking idiot!” She shouted from above him. “How the hell do you think you’re getting off this island!?”
“You think we didn’t plan for that?” Arthur shouts back. “Only one of us is planning on dying today, I’m just asking you to make it quick!”
And they were running past the spiders, and they were running past the wirings, and Arthur could see light ahead of him as she finally ran to the terrace, where she’d corner herself-
Finally, he emerges.
Hannah stood before the still-locked door, hands gripping the pistol for dear life. She was pointing it at him. He could see the sweat on her brow. She was grasping at straws now, and he knew it, because he knew that pistol.
He just calmly walked towards her.
“I’ll fucking shoot, Arthur.” she says. He could hear her voice wavering.
“No, you won’t.” Arthur says. “There’s no bullets in that pistol.”
“How are you so sure?” Hannah says. She was still pointing the pistol at him.
He takes another step closer.
“Because that was August’s personal pistol. The one she had that night when I dragged her up here and burned her alive. Which I emptied beforehand.”
Silence. He takes another step forward.
“Conley would’ve been so disappointed in you.” She says.
“He was weak,” Arthur says, taking another step forward. “And you know what? He deserved what he got. And you’ll get what you deserve too. Broken, forgotten, and dead.”
Arthur takes another step forward. The gun was pressed against his chest now. Hannah still had her arm outstretched.
“And that’s why they won’t kill me, Hannah.” Arthur says, peering down. “Because they need me, and not you. And you won’t kill me either, because you have no bullets.”
Then, just to drive it in, Arthur reaches his hand up and holds the pistol by the barrel, pushing it deeper into his chest.
“And just to be clear, my gun still works. How about you fire, and let's see who wins?”
And then he pauses for a second for her to respond.
(She just needed him to get close enough to gloat.)
And then suddenly, he’s on the ground, clutching his stomach. And Hannah was upon him, stabbing him repeatedly with the blade that he didn’t realize she had, with a fury that he did not recognize. Then, she reached for something on his suit’s holster, no. No, no-
With desperate strength, he swipes at her, launching her off of him, and into the door, but this time, the door opens-
Hannah falls backwards into the central chamber, and she sees the screaming face of God.
It was a sight more terrible than anything she’d ever seen.
It was large. Its curled up body took up the entire size of the room. It was suspended from the ceiling through seven enormous chains. Countless tubes and wires, the kind that ran throughout the castle, were driven roughly into its bleeding flesh. It was curled up in the fetal position, except it’s neck had been bent sideways so that it was looking downwards.
The god itself was horrifically mutilated. It looked as if it had been flayed, then grafted with bits and parts of some other horrific, monstrous animal. Bits of flesh gave way to reveal rot and skeletal remains inside, all of which seemed to clash with each other. This was a being that couldn’t be in anything other than extreme debilitating pain at all moments of its existence.
Maybe that’s why it was screaming. They’d heard it from all over the realm. The sound was the loudest it ever was, and it seemed to be coming from its open mouth, where metal nails had been haphazardly driven from inside of its gums to give the appearance of teeth.
Its eye seemed to be partially rotting out of its skull, and yet, Hannah could see it rotating in the socket that seemed too loose to hold it. It's iris was the deepest shade of red that she's seen ever since she stepped foot into its world, and its pupils was but a fathomless void. She could feel it watching her. Staring at her.
It seemed to be crying. It seemed scared.
Hannah and the Montauk God looked at each other.
And Hannah might’ve had some thoughts, but she remembered where she was, and that Arthur was surely recovering, so she reached down at the thing that she’d just yanked from his suit, surely the gun-
She stared down at the thing in her hand. It was a comms system. It was Telal’s comms system.
And for some incomprehensible reason, it was connecting with the Foundation.
She switched the comms on immediately, and stood up. She looked around the room. Right below the horrible flayed god was a giant well of sorts, only she couldn’t see anything when she looked inside. It was complete darkness. Pure vantablack.
Arthur was already sitting up. She ran to the other side of the room away from the entrance, and put her back against the wall. A voice finally came through from the comms.
“-ello? Hello?! Are you there?! The signal finally came through! We couldn’t hear you at all today, what the hell is going on!?” The comms blare, and it was a voice she recognized.
“Dr. Fitzgerald! It’s me! It’s Hannah Xob. For Christ’s sakes-” She screamed into the receiver, “Arthur killed everyone! There’s- The Foundation, they’re in on it! Goddammit, call someone, send help!”
Then there is silence for a few seconds. Then Liam Fitzgerald’s voice comes through again.
“…Hannah?”
“Did you not fucking hear me!? Liam, I said-”
“Oh, Hannah.” Liam replied, and it’s a more somber tone than she’s ever heard him in. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. I’m so sorry.”
Then the line goes dead. And Arthur finally comes through the door. And he has his gun, with bullets inside, and he has his blade. And even though she’d wounded him, she could see his suit beginning internal reparations, slowly mending itself.
And then Arthur takes another step closer.
“It’s over,” Arthur says, as he breaks into a wide grin, one that did not at all reach his eyes. “It’s all over.”
But Hannah wasn’t paying attention to him. She was thinking of the poem again. That last few lines.
Regardless, Arthur took another step forward, and this time, it seemed like he had something to say.
You Can't Win
"There is no escape."
“You’ll see it one day, child!” Godfrey Wilkins shouts. “You’ll see the truth of my words!”
Lucas Conley disconnects the camera. Then, he packs up his equipment, then walks towards the room.
“Because you, Lucas Conley, my child, you are his sword.”
Conley stops, and turns around.
“Okay, so you know my name.” Conley sighs. “Even though I never told it to you. Sorry to disappoint, father. But that’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“You don’t have to believe me, Lucas.” Wilkins grins. “I only wish to show the truth. The truth that God showed me this night.”
“Okay,” Lucas says, fidgeting with his pocket. “Y’know what, consider it your final words before they cart you off. Tell me what you saw, but if it’s the same fire-and-brimstone crap like always, consider your punishment worsened tenfold, and believe me, you’ll feel it.”
And there was something in Godfrey Wilkins’ eyes that he didn’t see in most of the cultists he’s dealt with.
“God is not yet born, son.” Wilkins says. “God lies, waiting, weeping, and crying in the wombs of the world. He is a pathetic fetal thing, a thing of lies, and stitched-together flesh, arranged in the facsimile of a man. When my spirit left my body, this is the truth that I saw.”
Okay. Conley hadn’t been expecting that.
“Uh, pretty strange thing to say considering you said your god’s already won.” Conley scratches his head.
“Because that’s when I understood, child.” Wilkins continues, eyes becoming unfocused. “Because God is not a being. He is a system. He is every system. And the flayed thing saw that night, I understood, was just one part of a whole. And then, I saw further than that. I saw past that castle, past the island shore, past the woman in the dark. I saw everything. And God was everywhere.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Do you know what God is, Conley?” Godfrey Wilkins snaps back. Staring at him. “God is all the times you turn away from a stranger in pain. God is the satisfaction you feel when you witness your lessers stumble and fall and break their necks. God is the viewcount on a snuff film. God is every single time someone’s been stuck in a small, damp room to never see the light of day again. God is every injustice ever committed against a child. God is the hangman’s axe, and God is the coliseum audience.”
Conley sighs. It was just a new flavor of the usual bullshit.
“‘And God, too…” Wilkins leans forward. “Is the Foundation.”
Conley felt like his eyes would roll out of his skull. He finally stands up again.
“You’ll see it one day, Conley.” Wilkins shouts after him. “That’s why the war is already won! That’s why the Scarlet King is always victorious! That’s why you can never win against him, because we’ve all been on the same side all along! Every single time someone’s had the desire to wield their power against their inferiors, that feeling… that is God. God is all of this, and a trillion other things that happen in the dark, that can’t be put into words! Everything you do in life feeds him! Every single person that’s ever existed, will exist, He lives on through them!”
Conley opens the door. Wilkins is still shouting.
“You can’t destroy an adversary that’s made out of people, Conley! You can’t kill a god that’s made out of everything that everyone does! You can't win against an enemy made out of fighting! There’s no grand event in the future where He’ll come, because The Scarlet King is being born as we speak! And one day, you’ll look in the mirror, and you’ll realize that He was already here! And you’ll realize that He was in you!”
Conley glares back at him as the door shuts.
“You live in a World Of Montauk! There is no other world! And even though you won’t realize it until it’s too late, Conley, you’ll spend your life delivering Him into-”
The door shuts. Everything is silent. Conley closes his eyes. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the portable recorder, and presses “stop.” It was another old trick. Suspects tend to talk more after they see you disable the camera.
Conley stares at the recorder for a bit, then he presses “erase.”
Lucas Conley stares at the computer screen in that forgotten bunker under Site-19. His head felt like it was splitting in half as he scrolled through the dozens of files and notes on the screen. His eyes widened every passing second, until it felt like they were about to burst out of his skull.
“No,” he whispered softly under his breath.
…determined that the basis of Montauk magic was inherently flawed. Examinations of all Omicron-14 records (as well as additional documents from the Global Occult Coalition) revealed a pattern of failure that…
This can’t be. That can’t have been what was happening. He would have noticed something like that, he wouldn’t have missed it.
Would he?
He continued scrolling.
…prior to amnesticization and subsequent transfer, SCP-231-4 was interviewed. Though the subject was highly distressed, the resulting information proved highly enlightening, particularly with regards to what appeared to be a unique ritual and interpretation of…
He was breathing hard now. His eyes were stinging. How much of this was his fault? How much of this could’ve been prevented, had he just asked more questions, had he just followed that gut feeling that he’s gotten, over, and over?
And yet, he continued scrolling.
He couldn’t stop.
…that Godcrafting was a common thought experiment in certain communities already (see the Church of the Broken God). However, it wasn’t until the psychological test results from Site-94 came in (2 weeks after the leak) that we truly had reason to believe…
…not the result of divine intervention, but was in actuality, divine incompletion. The entirety of Urdalism was flawed starting from its own deity. Obviously, the research wouldn’t be publicized, as the research conducted to confirm this violated…
And he kept reading.
And reading.
Until he found the first mention of it.
…memorandum, research and utilization of Montauk-related thaumaturgy was prohibited. However, research of recovered anomalies using Montauk-related thaumaturgy was not. As such, Omicron-14 was subsequently used as an impromptu delivery system to bypass…
He read it again.
…Omicron-14 was subsequently used…
And again.
…used…
Then, he continued.
…purposeful dissemination of promising Montauk-related research to relevant GoIs over the years. After a period of time, developments using this research would be recovered by Omicron-14, at which point, the newly established Scarlet Response Division…
…promising personnel, as recommended by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald…
Conley swore under his breath. He could feel a vein about to pop.
How long?
How fucking long?
…was not to explore a new realm, but was in fact a carefully-designed plan to complete the initial rituals as described in the notebooks and corroborated by SCP-231-4 in order to…
…prior destruction of the Urdalist population was necessary to ensure that all operations remained completely undetected. The use of the REDSIGHT IDEOSIG system was part of the…
…previously undiscovered peaceful sects as well, just to be completely certain. Personnel were mostly selected from Dr. Pater’s previous ventures into Scarlet King-related operations, but a surprising amount were apparently sympathetic to his…
It was too much to bear. It was just too fucking much. His hands were shaking, his jaw was agape, but he kept scrolling.
…adaptations, both from the materials recovered by Omicron-14, but also what is now believed to be a sort of technology that had been discovered during the 1980 Malfeasance Crisis, that Dr. Pater had memorized…
…firm belief that as soon as all seven members of the expedition expired, the initial ritual to restore the deity’s spiritual aspects would take one more step towards completion, at which point, there would be only one more step…
No.
This can’t be.
This can’t be what they were working towards, all these years.
This can’t be what they all died for. This can’t be what they helped create.
…functional thaumaturgical system, without chances of sudden failures towards completion…
…IDEOSIG, and as such, complete control over the existence of Urdalism as an ideology in the general population…
….believe that with enough resources, trained thaumaturges, and with the combined forces of the Paratechnological department, and the Tactical Theology department…
…manipulation, as well as incorporation…
…and establishment of complete Foundation control over the entity known as the Scarlet King for its own purposes.
Conley blinked.
It was too big for him to wrap his head around. It was too big to think about.
He didn’t realize it, but he had been crying. He looked down to find hair in his hands. He didn’t realize he’d been pulling it.
There was more to read, Mother of God. But he has to know.
He just has to know.
He clicked on the final document. The mission report.
…All personnel were selected by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald to ensure maximum mission efficiency. Character testimonies were used…
…Telal Usher (Deceased) - Believed to be the least troublesome option. Incredibly weakwilled, it was initially thought that the subject could be persuaded…
…Val Sanders (Deceased) - Competent, but highly oblivious. Believed to be relatively easy to dispatch upon…
…Daniela Tatton (Deceased) - Was not the ideal choice. However, circumstances prevented the addition of a more compliant subject. Suggestions were to wait until…
…Anna Newman (Deceased) - Highly competent, but combat skills were relatively non-existent. Suggestions were to wait until after secondary operations (research) to dispatch…
…August Kilroy (Deceased) - Moderately competent at topographical operations, but incredibly withdrawn. Sub-par social skills. Long history of depression. Suggestions are to fake…
…Arthur Vaughan (Deceased)…
…Initially transferred to Omicron-14 due to H.R.Com421465, H.R.Com623473, and H.R.Com344578 (after records and genetic profiles were wiped on request of Scarlet Response Dept) has become a powerful asset. Psychological profile reveals several avenues for possible persuasion. As such, subject was approached by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald …
“No, no, please, please, god, no…”
…Hannah Xob (Deceased)…
Deep in the basement, no one could hear what Lucas Conley yelled.
…exited Omicron-14 after H.R.Com832589. Highly withdrawn. Long history of depression. Selected for redundant seventh position after suggestion by Agent Vaughan, for apparent ease of dispatch…
No one could hear Lucas Conley breaking things, throwing computer monitors around the room, or punching straight through one of the screens.
…mission was deemed a complete success. Thaumaturgical restructuring of Urdalism and Montauk-related thaumaturgy was similarly successful. Several successful SCP-9317 activations followed, with 23 successful follow-up exploratory missions the following year.
No one could hear Lucas Conley sobbing in the dark for several hours, wondering what the point of it all was, wondering why he was even alive, terrified of the world outside.
And yet, someone was there with him. In the dark, pushing him on.
And something said, almost inaudibly, “There’s still a chance to fix this.”
"Are you happy?"
Seven New Ways That You Can Eat Your Young
"And then there were none."
Arthur Vaughan knelt beside Telal Usher’s remains. The things in the wood had attempted to eat him feet-first. It chewed him up whole and only spat him out when it had to flee.
He still had a terrified look on what remained of his face.
So Arthur leans in to say thanks.
“Y’know, I was supposed to get you first,” he whispered, unlatching Telal’s suit holsters. “They gave me a plan for it, and everything. Meet you somewhere isolated. They needed you to be as unhelpful as possible, but they thought it might look too suspicious if you died first. They gave me something for that, too, but…”
Arthur removed the trinkets in Telal’s suit. Some spare ammunition, half a gun… and thankfully, the comms. A bit chewed up, but still functional. It was fine, he could fix it. He was good with machines.
“But, well,” Arthur stood up, and looked at the mess that used to be Telal. “…I couldn’t have made this any more convincing than you did. Thank you.”
And while everyone was still huddling around in the back, guns pointing at the forest, Val Sanders rummaged through his rucksack to hand some ammunition to Daniela Tatton. In the process, he drops a poisoned blade that he received in Theta-4.
Daniela pockets the knife, just in case.
Considering all of the above, I wholeheartedly support future exploration endeavours as well as further anthropological research of Daevite civilization, and their relationship with these two deities.
It is clear to me now that for most of our history, our views on the so-called Scarlet King, as well as the nature of Daevites has been disastrously misguided, almost certainly through deliberate efforts. And through this, we have allowed untold evil to be committed based on what is, in essence, a collection of falsehoods, intentional disinformation, and hearsay.
I can only hope that what I’ve discovered today, and the picture that I’ve painted can serve to undo this image that most sub-Veil communities have of the
She doesn’t manage to write any further, because at this point, Daniela Tatton turns around. He slashes at her eyes, and she screams. She draws her gun and blindly shoots it in his general direction, but none of the shots land.
Maybe some God was on his side, after all.
She feels something ram into her chest, and she is sent across the railing of the second floor of the temple onto the first.
Moments before she came crashing down on the temple altar, her final thought was that she was glad that she gave August the knife, at least.
Val Sanders stood on the shore of the river bank. He picked up a rock and tossed it. He watched in amusement as the rock skipped several times on the shore, before some unseen forces brought it back to the bank to its exact starting point.
Just as he leaned down to do it over again, he noticed Arthur out of the corner of his eyes, beaming.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS:
[Agent Vaughan waves at Agent Sanders.]
Agent Sanders: Artie! Where’d you come from! I thought you were doin’ navigator work!
Agent Vaughan: I finished early. I figure I’d come and see you, since I can always return later.
Agent Sanders: Oh, that’s nice! How’d you find me, then?
[Agent Vaughan raises up his own comm. There is a thin line on the display, right next to another intersecting line. He smiles.]
Agent Vaughan: I modified my own comms system as well. Turns out, it managed to get your signal.
Agent Sanders: Oh, man, you are a legend.
Agent Vaughan: Thanks, Sanders. By the way, where’s Tatton?
Agent Sanders: Oh, she’s still at the temple, writing her report! Probably sitting on a sacrificial altar somewhere. Barely anything that works as a table around here, and the streets are just too noisy. I’m just out here, because I just needed some space away from the ghosts, y’know?
Agent Vaughan: Yeah, I expect you’d be pretty tired of talking to dead people, especially if they don’t ever say anything of note.
Agent Sanders: Oh, no, Artie.
[Agent Sanders glances back at the temple then looks back at Agent Vaughan.]
Agent Sanders: You wouldn’t believe the stuff Dani and I found about today! It’s insane! We’re thinking that the ghosts around here are more cognitive because the temple is the epicenter of whatever created this village, but the things they’ve told us about… It could be the biggest para-anthropological discovery in centuries.
Agent Vaughan: Wow.
Agent Sanders: The Daevites had two gods, Artie. Not one! A sky god and a sea god. Except there was all this damn confusion, because they used the same word for them most of the time. It was a headache, but get this! One of the gods, see, was suppressed from their history, and you're not gonna believe this, the reason we missed it all along…
[Agent Sanders trails off as Agent Vaughan reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a bottle of liquor.]
Agent Sanders: …and it was so simple that it was unbelievable! It… Arthur? What’s uh, whatcha’ got there?
Agent Vaughan: Something I managed to sneak into my kit before we left. You want some?
Agent Sanders: Wait. Artie, that’s not…
[Agent Sanders produces two small glasses.]
Agent Vaughan: It’s your favorite. Armagnac. I still remember it from when we were both working on Operation SISYPHUS.
Fifteen minutes later, they were trading old war stories and laughing about old times. Internally, though, he just wished Val would finish his damn glass. But towards the end, Val stopped laughing, and just stared at the river for a while. He suddenly looked unsure.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked. And Val looked at him, and it was like he was seeing him for the first time.
“Arthur, uh, about Operation SISYPHUS…” Val slowly got the words out. “There was… Look. After you left, it was pretty abrupt. I, uh… there were rumors.”
“Rumors,” Arthur repeated, expression unchanging.
“Yes, I heard people talk.” Val averts his gaze. “…Look, I know it’s probably nothing, or just a misunderstanding, but… Artie. You didn’t… did you?”
Arthur stared at him for a few seconds before smiling again. “Oh, you’re talking about that? Heh, don’t worry, it was nothing. Someone in HR just had a bone to pick with me, y’know?”
“Hey, I knew it!” Val laughs, though a bit nervously. “I mean, I knew it didn’t sound right. How the hell did that even happen, huh? Boy, you gotta- You gotta tell me that story sometimes, eh?”
They share another laugh, and Arthur raises the bottle. “You want more?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Val says, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Well, Dani would be pretty pissed if she knew I was drinking this much. She wanted me to watch my health and all, but… old habits die hard, y’know?”
“Yes,” Arthur replies, slipping a small capsule of red liquid inside the cup as he pours. “Old habits die hard.”
Arthur kept smiling as Val downs the second glass. He’d soon wake up, and he wouldn’t be himself anymore. It was an old concoction, recovered from an Omicron-14 raid years ago, but it was still quite potent.
In the end, Arthur thought, he was the easiest one. A conversation, a smile, and all it took to finish it off was just a bit of slow-acting…
…poison. The poison. It didn’t work. She only managed a small nick.
August’s mind raced as Arthur backed away. She could only turn her back against the door. Her limbs were bound, her gun didn’t work, and that was her last chance. It was over.
Arthur wordlessly examined the wound at the base of his neck. Blood trickled down.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll just take the restraints off afterwards, then.”
“I thought we were friends,” August shouted through the gag.
“That’s on you,” Arthur says, as he begins to pour the gasoline. “We’re co-workers, and I’m doing this because they need me to.”
“You don’t have to do this,” August says. “We can fight them, together.”
“I don’t want to,” Arthur says, drizzling the foul-smelling liquid over August.
And then she sees it. The darkening of the veins. He couldn’t see it from here, but she could. The poison beginning to spread.
Maybe it wasn’t for naught after all.
”I’m not scared of you,” she whispers.
And Arthur looks stricken, and she didn’t notice or care about what his retort was, because August closed her eyes and tuned the world out. As the fire burned that night, her final thoughts were of green grass, blue skies, a place to be happy in, and a life beyond this place.
AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS:
[Agent Vaughan stares at Agent Newman. He’s clutching his neck. She’s clutching a large bag containing all of MTF-GIGAS’ remaining weapons and ammunition. At her feet is the opened emergency arms kit. It is empty of weapons.]
Agent Vaughan: …What are you doing, Anna?
Agent Newman: I’m… cataloging our weapons. What’s wrong with your neck?
[Silence. Arthur removes his hand from his neck.]
Agent Vaughan: I think I’ve been poisoned.
Agent Newman: How?
Agent Vaughan: Well, I was sorting through our equipment earlier, and I must’ve brushed past a poisoned blade by mistake.
[Silence. Agent Vaughan steps forward. Agent Newman steps backward, dragging the emergency arms kit along with her.]
Agent Newman: We don’t have a poisoned blade. We… We only had the F72 Tactical Blade.
Agent Vaughan: Right, yes, that’s the one. Anna, where are the antidotes?
Agent Newman: The F72 was on Auggie’s person the whole time.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Well, I must’ve touched it when I was removing her corpse earlier-
Agent Newman: You touched it on your neck?
[Silence.]
[Agent Newman breaks into a sprint towards the boiling black water.]
Agent Vaughan: You idiot, don’t you dare-
[Agent Newman tosses the bag off the edge of the island. All of the weapons are submerged beneath the inky black void.]
Agent Vaughan: You fucking insane piece of shit!
[Agent Newman rushes back to grab the remaining antidotes in the emergency arms kit, but Agent Vaughan got there first.]
Arthur couldn’t stop shaking. This one had taken far too long. The antidote coursed through his veins, but the sensation that his flesh was sloughing off his bones hadn’t yet ceased. His arms were wet from the scratches, and he could only hope that the suit’s healing functions would kick in soon.
Anna laid behind him, motionless. Scruffed fabric bound her hands. Horrific burns all over her face. Her ribcage had to have been crushed as he held her beneath the boiling black water for over a minute. She was dead. She had to be.
She wasn’t. Not just yet. But she was very close.
She waited as he set up the barricade behind him, and set it on fire from the inside. She waited until he was gone.
(Logically, she should be dead. She doesn’t know why she still wasn’t, yet.)
She couldn’t see or feel anything below her waist, but she could still move one arm. Blood was slowly filling up her lungs alongside the burning black fluid, and she felt like she was drowning alive, she still had a sense of where things were. She had a good 30 seconds left.
Alberto had brought Hannah the only guns they still had. Whatever he could fit on him. If they walked out, they’d be fine. Alberto was smart, and Hannah was quick. But if Arthur was the one who walked out…
Anna dragged herself over to the cage. With one hand, she reached upwards, and unlatched the door.
(She’s done enough. So she finally lets go. And as she walked towards the light, she looked back, and she saw it again. The colossal figure of red with the flaming crown from the first day.)
The last sound she heard was Rudolph emerging from his cage.
(It smiled at her. It was a tired, but friendly smile. It waved at her, and she waved back. Then, she stepped forward.)
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - GIGAS
REDSIGHT: Hello?
Agent Vaughan: It’s done. I…
REDSIGHT: Good. We’re going to… are you crying?
Agent Vaughan: No, no, I… I… I’m just catching my breath. My wounds, they, they… haven't healed yet.
REDSIGHT: Just give it time. Yours was specially designed. You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.
Agent Vaughan: Okay, okay. How… how do I get off?
REDSIGHT: Alright, so, we actually packed something along with you. You remember the small package we told you to keep in your tent? Unfold it. You should see something that looks like a backpack. It’s a thruster system. Now, if you-
Agent Vaughan: Wait, wait. Something’s happening.
REDSIGHT: What, what is it?
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: The boiling black lake. It’s turning into… I don’t know what it is. I think it’s freezing or something. It looks solid now. Some kinda pink sand, I think. I think I can walk back, but I… I don’t know why it’s doing that.
REDSIGHT: That means you did it all correctly, Art. Ditch the thrusters for now. Get everything on the list, the map, the research papers, everyone’s tablets, get back to the forest.
Agent Vaughan: Thank you, Dr. Fitzgerald.
REDSIGHT: No problem, kid. Call again when you get there.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - GIGAS
Agent Vaughan: Fuck! Liam! Are you there?!
REDSIGHT: I’m here, I’m here, what’s going on?!
Agent Vaughan: Rudolph fucking attacked me!
REDSIGHT: The thing in the cage?!
Agent Vaughan: It wasn’t in the cage! That fucking bitch released it! It tore my fucking suit in half! Christ, I can’t feel my fucking arm-
REDSIGHT: Calm down, calm down. Jesus. Where is it now?
Agent Vaughan: I put it down! But the suit’s fucking disintegrating, what the fuck do I do?!
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Liam! What the fuck do I do!?
REDSIGHT: Okay, okay, just calm down kid. Can you walk?
Agent Vaughan: Yeah, I can- I can, but…
REDSIGHT: Kid, I’m gonna need you to walk back to the forest.
Agent Vaughan: Didn’t you hear me!? I’m fucking wounded! I can’t-
REDSIGHT: Yeah, and that’s why you gotta get back to the forest now, kid. The interference from the castle is too much for a precise transport. Just get back to the woods, and you’ll be out of the woods. Heh.
Agent Vaughan: Liam, I can’t fucking carry all of this shit back like this.
REDSIGHT: It’ll only take a day’s walk, if you use the shortcuts on the map.
Agent Vaughan: Are you even fucking listening to me?
REDSIGHT: Look, okay, do you want me to get Russell?
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Okay, I’m… I’m gonna start walking.
REDSIGHT: Glad to hear it. Call us when you get there. You’ll make it.
Agent Vaughan: …Thanks. It’s salt, by the way.
REDSIGHT: What’s that?
Agent Vaughan: The water. It turned into salt. Like a salt pan.
Along the way, he tripped over Telal's grave at the camp that they'd set up. It didn't stop him for long, the fall just really hurt. When he looked back, the grave was half-sunken into the ground, and it looked overgrown with red moss.
That did scare him a bit.
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS - GIGAS
Agent Vaughan: Hello? Please… please answer.
REDSIGHT: Hello, Arthur.
Agent Vaughan: Russ…?
REDSIGHT: Yes. I’m here for you. Where are you now?
Agent Vaughan: I think… I think I’m close to where it is…
REDSIGHT: What can you see?
Agent Vaughan: I see… I see the ruins. The seven podiums… wait.
REDSIGHT: What is it?
Agent Vaughan: I… there are statues here. There are six statues on the podium. I… is this not the right place?
REDSIGHT: No, no, we’re picking you up. You’re in the right place. Just a couple more minutes, and you’ll be at the exact spot we need you to be.
Agent Vaughan: Yes. Alright. I… I think I lost a lot of blood…
REDSIGHT: You’re almost there, Arthur. You know, we wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you. We’re proud of you, Arthur.
Agent Vaughan: Russell…
REDSIGHT: I’m proud of you. Your father must be, too.
Agent Vaughan: …It’s nothing. I… am I here?
REDSIGHT: You’re there, Arthur. Just place everything you’re carrying about… 2 meters to the right. It’s better if we transport it separately from you.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: …Alright. That’s done. Can you see it?
REDSIGHT: We see it. Okay, just stand back now. You’ll be gone from there in no time.
[An ethereal noise is heard about 2 meters away from the receiver.]
Agent Vaughan: Okay, I’m ready, Russ.
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: Russ?
[Silence.]
Agent Vaughan: …Russ?
[Silence.]
Arthur Vaughan stood there in silence for about five minutes, and then for another five minutes. Then it was 30 minutes, then an hour. And after that, he just sort of started screaming.
He didn’t stop screaming even once. He didn’t stop screaming when he heard rustling noises in the leaves. He didn’t stop screaming when the giant forest creatures emerged. He didn’t stop screaming when they picked him up, and started pulling his bones out from his flesh, one by one.
Victory
"It's all over."
Russell Pater wipes down the console, and turns the light off as he leaves. He whistles, and the sound echoes across the hallway. By that point, however, everyone on his staff had already left. Liam had seen to that earlier. He keeps walking until he finds the elevator. He gets inside and closes it. He views the dark and empty hallway one last time.
Soon enough, everything here will be buried in cement. No records will escape this place.
If you’re in this room, you’ve probably figured out all of the answers by now. Let’s recap things one more time, just to be sure.
So, once upon a time, the Daevites worshipped two gods. The exact contexts are still a bit of a mystery, but we’ve been able to glean some information from the ghosts (or at least the ones willing to talk with us), and the late Dr. Tatton’s research has been extremely helpful in helping shed light on all of this.
Now, he is in the lobby of Site Harkin again, and he takes a walk across the hall, to the Eastern corridor. He reaches into his locker and retrieves his cold jacket. From within, he retrieves his car keys. Then, he walked out onto the mostly-empty parking lot and entered his car.
For the first time in years, he starts humming a tune as he drives down the highway. He doesn’t remember the name of the song, nor where he first heard it. It doesn’t matter, though. After about thirty minutes of driving in the dead of night, he stops his car in the middle of the road, and then he waits for a bit longer. He lowers his car door just a tad to listen to the sound of cicadas.
The first god came from the sky. This is the Devourer God. The one that cleanses, that eats. It seems to be a representation of the more destructive aspects of the Font. He’s the cycle of life. He’s the natural order. Predators and prey. Not any particular predator or prey, mind you, but the entire… dynamic. Domination. Decomposition. Rebirth. Survival of the fittest.
He’s all of it, at once. That’s why he’s represented the way he is: A giant deer-creature, with an endless maw. That eats, and consumes everything, and has seven mates. An eye that sees all, because the cycle spares none.
The car is descending. The trapdoor above disguised as part of the road closes up. The entire structure was fully automated. The place was a state-of-the-art facility, and no one could enter or exit without the express approval of an O5 member. Russell raises his eyebrows as the turrets descended from the ceiling. It was certainly as over-the-top as he’d come to expect from the O5s.
Thankfully, he had the express approval of an O5 member. Well, several approvals, actually. He raised a little card, heard the whirr as the invisible scanner ran the card through the database, and came up clean. He saluted one of the turrets as he drove past them and into the tunnel beyond.
And then, there is the second god, the one who came from the seas. This is the Red God. He represents the more ephemeral things in life. Knowledge. The idea of companionship. That’s why he has acolytes instead of mates. Happiness. Trust. From what we can tell, he was some sort of whale-axolotl thing, which is pretty interesting, as the later Daevite Empire was pretty much landlocked.
More interestingly, the Red God also represented something else - hope. A very specific type of hope. The desire to keep on living, keep on existing despite how unlikely it all is. Despite how bad the situation is. It is the hope of the dying prey, the fallen warrior, and the tortured slave. The hope of the unheard. And the name of this hope as it was called back in the day was Montauk. And, I know, we’ll get back to it soon enough.
The tunnel was clean and sleek, and completely straight. It was well-lit, and he couldn’t see the end of it from here.
He kept driving, though, and the lights started getting dimmer.
Accounts regarding the Red God are a lot more scarce than the Devourer God, but we do have some depictions of his appearance as well. And, you’re gonna want to pay attention to this part, because this is the part that stumped us for years. It’s the biggest misconception in para-anthropology of all time, and the reason for it is so stupid that… well, just look.
Can’t you tell what that is? It’s two depictions of the Red God and the Devourer God. Can’t you tell which is which?
And he kept driving, and it kept getting darker. Then, it was completely dark outside the car, like he was the only thing in an endless void.
He kept driving forward. He was nearly there.
Well, how about now?
It was just in front of him now. A small grey dot emerging from the void. And he kept driving, and driving, and the dot began to grow.
It looked much bigger up close. A giant gray wall embedded into the darkness. The only lamps in the area illuminated the lone metal gate. Russell got out of the car, walked up to the gate, and peered inside a tiny hole. A tiny red dot flashes as it scans his eyes.
That’s right.
For almost all of human history, we managed to mix up two completely different gods, just because it didn’t occur to us that they could be two different colors. A black basalt temple turns red due to time and pressure, drawings in blood oxidize and turn black. They called both of them God most of the time, and we didn’t realize that back then, they had a way to tell the difference between them.
Now, the important thing is, there’s still a lot that we don’t know. We don’t really know if these gods were just myths in their days, or if they truly walked the earth. We suspect the latter. What we do know is that things had changed later on, when the Daevites became an empire. For one, the Red God was all but gone, replaced with an imperial cult wholly dedicated to the Devourer God.
The door opens. The scene before him is one of utter carnage.
The meeting table was almost entirely covered in blood. Most of the blood was red, some of it was not. Everything in the room, from the monitors, to the walls, to the lighting fixtures, to the tacky furniture was completely riddled in bullet holes.
It was probably the messiest that this particular O5 meeting room had ever looked.
Did the Daevas and the Daevite upper-class forcibly suppress the existence of the Red God to better control the population? A state-mandated religion that demanded the slave class to stay in their place would certainly be helpful. Or was it the other way, and it was the loss of the Red God that led to the Daevites growing cruel and twisted? We don’t know. What we do know, is that the Red God didn’t stay dead.
Now we know that prior to the fall of the Empire, the Red God resurfaced during the slave revolts that would destroy Daevon. The ghosts speak of this day as the day two Gods fought. That in the middle of the day came a boiling flood that swept away all things. Countless slaves drowned, their traumatic imprints seared into the realm of the God who embodied their desperate, dying hopes.
Russell Pater looked around.
The people in the room were also in terrible shape, of course. Armed soldiers littered the place, chunks and bits and pieces of things that used to be people strewn on the floor. The results of friendly-fire in an enclosed space utilizing high-powered, experimental Foundation arms.
It’ll probably be really damn difficult then to find what he needed in the middle of this mess.
Countless slaves survived. They integrated into other tribes. Some members of the original cult that brought back the Red God, the Erikeshans, even survived. We have records of one such individual, O’tta’h A’gur’oha, who apparently descended from escaped Daevite slaves, who helped create one of the first paranormalcy organizations, the Society of the Golden Arrow. The point is, tales of the Red God and the Devourer survived, even though the gods themselves were said to have perished that day.
And over time, details got lost. And, I think, around this part, the Scarlet King finally turned from something that resembled a loose misconception to something that had basis. You’ve read the analysis of the castle. You’ve read the ghost’s account of the army who came marching to the Red God’s home and tore him to shreds and built him back up anew. Yes. It was around this time that the Scarlet King was forced into being, with the Red God’s corpse and the legends of the Devourer. That’s when the name started having power. That, we figured, was when the meaning of Montauk was changed.
The O5s themselves were probably in the worst shape. Probably the first actual casualties. Russell stared at the collection of strange people at the table. A man with four eyes and a hole through half of his head. A machine-thing lies hunched over, three-fourth of its limbs missing. An broken jar that used to contain a brain, which was probably a splatter somewhere on the floor.
They were all dead, or at least close enough for his purposes. However, Russell counted the bodies again. There were only twelve of them.
He found the last one hiding under the table.
They wanted a God to answer them, so they built an automated answering machine. In the end, it was little more than a thaumaturgical engine. The ritual was never really completed. Perhaps there was something missing. Perhaps it wasn’t enough to bring back the Devourer, you had to bring back his mates too. Who knows.
Fast forward to our time, and we still had little worshippers running around thinking they’re in the service of a powerful and ancient deity. The whole time, no one realized the truth. No one even realized that for some reason, the magic they were invoking in the deity’s name kept blowing up in all of their faces. There were two reasons for it. One was, again, the unfinished ritual. The merging was incomplete. The other was because none of them really grasped what Montauk was.
“Easy, easy.” Russell says. “I came as soon as it was done. Tell me what happened.”
“Oh, dear Christ, kid-” O5-7 wheezed. “Your hunch was right. The damn thing was a- Fuck!”
“What happened?” Russell repeated.
“It was Five!” O5-7 screamed. “The mad fucking idiot, he ordered his guards to open fire on all of us!”
I wasn’t lying about the meaning of Montauk being changed. The problem was that no one outside of SCP-9317-Ω at the time really knew what it was changed to. Look, what do you all think it is? Okay, okay, see? You all got it wrong. Montauk is not the fear in the name of the Scarlet King.
It did sound likely, right? Fear is the big bad thing in the dark. Fear is the oldest emotion. Fear of the unknown. And yet, how is it that of all the groups that’s ever utilized Montauk magic, the Foundation was the group to have the highest chance of success? Our methods are not worse than some of the Urdalist groups that existed, despite what we’re willing to do. And yet, we have lasted this long. What were we doing that was more correct, more efficient than the most devout practitioners of Montauk?
O5-7 leaned against a wall. He couldn’t walk quite yet. He told Russell that they kept some stuff in the back storage for emergencies like this, but Russell told him to wait. Help was on the way, and they didn’t know if the rest of the facility was also compromised. While they waited, it might be a good idea to keep talking. It’d at least keep him conscious.
Maybe it was the blood loss, or lifetime of isolated privilege, but O5-7 didn’t seem to think twice of it, nor was he asking why Russell was rifling through the pockets of all of his dead co-workers.
“Three’s guard stood up immediately and fired back,” O5-7 gasped, “But it was too late, because Seven’s head was just gone! My guys lasted a bit longer than Twelve’s did, because I told ‘em that the other O5s might get antsy, but then-”
“Sebastian,” Russell said. “I’m going to try getting into the back. I’ll get you your… healing liquid, or whatever. But I’m going to need your totem for it, is that okay?”
No. The change to Montauk was not the replacement of one emotion with another. The change was a lot more subtle than that. It was merely the spinning of the wheel. From one point of view of the dynamic to another. From that of the prey to the predator, the warrior to the king, and the slave to the slaver. And what did this have to do with the Foundation? What does Montauk mean now, now that the ritual is finally complete? Well, it’s quite simple.
“Thanks, kid…” O5-7 murmured, as he handed over the silver key that he always carried on his person.
It was an outdated system, truly. One of those little novelties that might’ve made sense when mystique and ideals still held a higher place than practicality and efficiency. They were quite like them, Russell supposed.
Of course, Russell thought, even if he thought the concept was stupid, he was quite grateful that it all worked out to his favor.
Maybe O5-7 noticed something was wrong when Russell started fiddling with the computer mainframe instead of opening up the back door.
Maybe O5-7 figured that things were not the way they were supposed to when Russell held up all thirteen silver keys when the computer mainframe asked for verification.
And just maybe O5-7 might’ve even protested a little when Russell seemingly left the room and closed the gate behind him, before the lights started shining red and the intercoms started blaring about how every single room in the facility was to be quarantined and sealed indefinitely.
Russell certainly didn’t pay attention.
Montauk is apathy. Montauk is the predator’s indifference to the suffering of the prey. And though we are not a frightful bunch, we are certainly apathetic. It is engrained as part of our job. It is in our very nature to be cold. And that's why it worked for us, and not them. Because we didn't care to begin with.
A week afterwards, a group of very important men and women streamed out of the room, and each of them shook Russell’s hand as they left. When they were gone, he went back to his air-conditioned office at Site-01, and sat on the couch.
There was lots of work to be done. Speeches to write, departments to establish, and careers to be made. He still had some sigils that he needed to replicate, further explorations to approve, and containment procedures that needed to be established.
But for now…
So, why are we here, you ask. Are we believers? And the answer is no. We will never be believers. We do not serve the irrational, we serve nothing but the Foundation, and the Foundation serves nothing but the greater good.
For now… he could rest. He poured himself some wine, and looked at the new painting installed above the fireplace mantle.
It was a genuine Krakolche piece. He’d asked O5-11 to pull a few strings for him to get it. They’d discussed it over their meeting at the opera, a few days after his meeting with O5-3, and just before his meeting with O5-5. Conflicting information at each of the meetings about when to act, of course.
We are scientists, pioneers on a completely new frontier. Researchers of a wholly new form of resource that could be used to benefit all of mankind, a resource that, thanks to the REDSIGHT Department, we have exclusive rights to. We strive towards a future in which containment is maintained, not only by the certainty of steel and technology, but also divinity.
In the end, it wasn’t just the O5s. It was decades of work in the making, and over that period of time, there must’ve been tens of thousands of co-conspirators. They worked their way up to the top. It surprised them how easy all of it was to pull off. So many people were willing to turn their head away from so much darkness for such cheap prices. Everyone from RAISA to the Department Heads to Site Directors to the odd doctor or researcher who was willing to take a hike every so often.
Everyone sold each other out so easily. It was just in their nature.
And that’s the only reason they were going to get away with all of this.
This is not a God. It is a private high-value asset.
That’s why he chose this painting. That’s why it resonated with him. Because Krakolche had understood. The painting was still as good as it had looked, hanging above Kingsley’s bed.
This is not a Deity. This is a Thaumiel-class anomaly.
See, the real horror wasn’t the Daevite slaves being torn apart in the painting.
This is not a Supreme Being. It is Phase 1.
It wasn’t the remorselessness of the army that was annihilating them.
It is not just the Scarlet King. It is ours. And it serves us.
And it wasn’t even the cruelty of the callous nobleman who led them, either.
But then again, after all, why not?
The real horror was the crowd of onlookers, who outnumbered the army almost threefold. Who did nothing as they watched their fellow man crushed underneath. Some looked away, some laughed, but the rest, they just stared.
Why shouldn’t the Foundation have its own patron god?
Russell contemplated things for a while, then he raised the glass of wine to the painting, smiling genuinely for the first time in ages.
Smiling like the cat who ate the canary.
ACT VII
THE MONTAUK MACHINE
Wake Up Call
"It's been a long sleep."
He kept feeling his way through the darkness. How long has it been? Hours, days, months? Years? Decades? It was as if no time and all of time was passing through all at once. How much more was there to go?
He kept moving forward. There was definitely something here, something that rippled upon being touch, some with which he could guide himself forward, and just maybe, just maybe, this is the right path…
And then he sees it.
The light.
He goes towards the light.
He opened his eyes to a stone ceiling. There was an open window just above his bed, and he could see rainbows reflected on the ceiling. His eyes drank in the colors. So many pleasant shades that he’d nearly forgotten after so much time seeing red.
And then he sits up, and he blinks.
Dozen of men and women stood in his room, all of them staring at him. He looked around. His mind was still a fog after so much darkness, but it all seemed familiar somehow. It all seemed…
“A-Alberto? Alberto Weider-Hoffman?” says one of the men. A middle-aged man in black uniform. He comes up to his bed and shakes his hand. “Do you… do you remember us?”
And he’d say something, but his mouth tasted like sand. The man in black seemed to understand though.
“Get this man medical attention, please.” He says, and some of the men left the room. “Mr. Alberto. I’m Father Crane. From the Horizons Initiative, and the Oneiroi Collective. We… we never thought you’d wake up.”
Oh. Right.
And it started flooding back. The search, the god, the realm, the castle. Everything.
“You’ve been dream-projecting for the better half of a decade. It was unprecedented. We never expected it to go on for so long- We’re not sure if you even remember anything, but-”
“I do.” Alberto says, and everyone in the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Alberto, look.” Father Crane says. “Look, it doesn’t need to be right now, but we were wondering if we could interview you, if that’s-”
“Crane.” Alberto croaked. “Could I ask you for a favor?”
“Yes, I…” Father Crane says. “Anything. Anything you need.”
“Can I… borrow your pen?” Alberto asks. “I need to write some letters. A lot of letters.”
Casualty Report
I don’t really know why I do it. They tell me it was just one of these things that everyone in the Foundation gets around to doing, when they’ve worked here long enough.
One day, when I had free time, I just turned on my computer, and I started going through all of the files that I had access to. Just… flip through them. One by one. Then I started taking notes of each incident, everything listed in the testing logs, everything in the addendums, and then I’d move onto the next one.
Nothing really compelled me to do it, I just felt like I had to know.
I’d keep doing it, a few times a week, just working through the information that I got with my clearance level. Sometimes, I’d get promoted, I’d get access to more files, and I’d repeat the same process for those ones, too.
Maybe I should’ve told someone when I was promoted to Level 3, but it didn’t occur to me for some reason. And now I’m at Level 4 already, so…
…it was when I started going through the historical records that it became a problem. Because then, I was looking so deep into every detail. Certain… certain political actions. Widespread containment protocols through the ages. The funding of certain candidates, certain groups, and certain wars.
There was a method to it, of course. I knew my history, and there was a process I went through. Which decisions had how big of an impact, how likely was something to be affected by something else…
So, uh, after that, I started going to my on-Site psychologist, because at that point, the number grew too big, and I just… I couldn’t handle it anymore. So I told him about it.
I told him that for several years now, I’d been trying to calculate the total number of people that the Foundation’s killed over the years, and that I’d gotten into the tens of millions.
And he tells me that everyone who’s worked at the Foundation long enough does that. And that it was normal.
And then he recommended that I not think too hard about it anymore.
And that’s stuck with me for a very long time, because, you understand, I was a Level 4 researcher. I had access to lots of information, but even for Level 3s and Level 2s, the numbers that they could’ve added up…
The thing is, there was still an entire Level above me. People who had all the pieces. People who know the whole tally. And sometimes, that’s all that keeps me sane. The idea that there’s people smarter than me, above me, who knows the full price of everything we do, and they’re confident that all of it is worth it. That we’re the least awful option that the world can afford.
But sometimes, I get the feeling that it’s not true, but I can’t accept that, so I try to put it out of my mind.
It was the last thing he said that terrifies me the most, however. He must’ve been mistaken. How many people in the Foundation have gone down that same road? How many people tried to get the numbers, just like I have? Could it really be everyone? Because it doesn’t feel like it. I feel like I’m the only one who thinks about these things, and I’m terrified of that. The idea that I’m the only one to ever entertain the thought feels like the most awful thing in the world.
…but the alternative scares me even more. The idea that he was right, that these thoughts came to everyone, that everyone else had also tried to seek out the numbers, that everyone else had the same thoughts, but that they were just completely unbothered by it.
Notes: Discarded journal entry recovered from Dr. Harley Rowe’s room. Possible motive for her sudden disappearance. Filed as evidence in on-going investigation.
New Job
"MON TUE WED THU FRI SAT SUN"
Rufus grimaced as the migraines came back. They always seemed to strike at the worst times possible, such as during his job interviews, at family dinners, and this exact moment right now, when it was supposed to be his big day at his new job.
“What’s wrong?” says the blonde woman standing at his desk.
“Just my head killing me,” he bends down and grabs the pill holder from his suitcase. “Anyways, as I was saying. Uh, that place, it was a good enough marketing gig, just before it shut down, but what can you do about it?”
“Right, right,” the blonde woman nodded along.
The thing you have to understand about what we were planning was that we weren’t doing anything that’s never been done. These conditions had already existed since before the Foundation was even conceptualized. All we were planning on doing was tapping into what was already there. What was always there, lurking below the surface.
He’d pop two more pills before the end of the hour, and he wondered if he was going to have to check-up with his doctor, because it wasn’t usually this bad. At that moment, someone else struck up a conversation with him, they discussed how their day was, how excited Rufus oughta be for the broadcast later on, the political landscape, and then the migraines flared again just as they were talking about their previous jobs.
Another pill, and Rufus moves on. He doesn’t yet notice the pattern yet that the migraines only came when discussing his previous job as a salesperson at the Spencer, Courtney, & Preston media firm.
Then again, part of that inattentiveness was also thanks to the pills.
We did not build these structures and these systems, the ones that fostered endless human suffering throughout the ages. If anything, we rose in opposition to them. We rose to be beyond them. To see things as they truly are, to have the wherewithal to distance ourselves for the common good.
There are many people like him. Thousands. And it was a painstaking process for the Foundation, too. That was always the problem when something big happens and there needs to be a cover-up. Isolated incidents are hard as it is, having to track down all of the witnesses and amnesticizing them.
But for a cover-up job for something as big as Kingship LandBridge? A multi-media company that employed thousands of employees across dozens of buildings throughout the nation? It was a disinformation nightmare. All those employees who’d spent years and decades in the employ of a non-existent company? All the paper trail from years of operations?
For cases like Rufus Birch, he got it easy. Just a few blockers in his brain to stop him from thinking too hard about the work he did for the last 5 years of his life, and a few pills to distract him when the subject couldn’t be avoided.
We were profiting, yes, but it was off of processes that had gone on for thousands of years before we were here, and will be here for thousands more after we’re all dust. Processes that would’ve happened anyways had we not existed. So, if the things we did were a net good, and everything would’ve gone on as it always has regardless of our interference, what moral right did we have to abstain from action?
Dealing with situations like that, during the clean-up operations, you usually couldn’t process everyone as thoroughly as you’d like. Extensive background checks required days, and it was a matter of an entire company’s worth of employees. And it certainly didn’t help that prior to their self-obliteration, Kingship LandBridge had been highly competent at hiding its sub-Veil operations.
Case in point, had the Foundation spent more time examining the business deals that the Kingship had been involved in in the recent past, they might’ve noticed signs of discrepancies. They might’ve noticed signs of coercion, and possibly, they might’ve noticed Rufus Birch’s fingerprints on some of the more questionable details.
In reality, Rufus had been part of one of Kingship’s more obscure departments. More specifically, one that was in charge of hostile acquisition of rival companies through covert means, both physical and psychological.
Out of the six most recent companies that Kingship had acquired prior to its dissolution, three had recently had their CEOs subjected to career-shattering scandals, while two had involved a suicide.
The world has always been cold. The world has always been uncaring, and the world has always been heartless. Our indifference towards our fellow man, our perceived inferiors. This is a trait as old as civilization itself. Man is cruel and apathetic. It always has been, and always will be.
All we’ve done is channeled it for a greater cause.
…but on paper, Rufus was referred to as “Chief of Telemarketing” so when the Foundation agents burst into his apartment and gave him the little red pills along with the scripts he had to recite, he was all too happy to oblige.
It was time, so Rufus sat down at one of the tables at the packed bar, and waited for the show to begin. There was the stage, and the candidates, and the candidates coming on stage. In no time at all, the debate had begun, and everyone turned to look at Rufus as he began to mouth the leading candidate’s speech, almost word for word, line for line.
They knew the debate was over about 5 minutes in. The rest of it was just gloating. Slow, deliberate, in-your-face gloating. After that, Rufus just enjoyed the rest of the night as everyone came up to him, shook his hands, and thanked him for winning them that Senate election.
Ultimately, from an above-Veil perspective, what had actually changed compared to before we started? Absolutely nothing. Nothing from a sociopolitical perspective, nothing from a geopolitical perspective… for the average person, with the average job, our current actions are completely undetectable and unnoticeable in any aspect of their daily lives. Blame neo-liberalism, blame the FCC for repealing the Fairness Doctrine, blame Reconstruction, blame the evil at the heart of men… but don’t blame us.
He stayed humble, of course. It was just a matter of timing and ridicule. The feigned outrage, the rhetorical tactics, the timing, and boasting. It all boiled down to appealing to certain aspects of human indecency, and it was a job that he excelled at.
That night he went back to his apartment and checked his emails. Almost a hundred new messages from prospective firms and campaigns that would like to hire his services. And he smiled, because he was finally feeling like he was growing into the job here. Being a political consultant was probably the most at-home he’s felt in a while.
And here? Below the Veil? From the results we’re getting, and the timeline we’ve proposed, assuming that everything goes according to plans? In 5 years time, we’re expecting to have doubled our containment capabilities. In 10 years time, we’re expecting to solve the spacing issue entirely. In 20? We’re looking at a Foundation that’s thrice as big as our current one, in terms of staffing and operational capabilities. After that, it is anyone's guess.
In the long term, it was probably impossible to determine of the 7,000 or so Kingship LandBridge employees that the Foundation relegated back into civilian life, how many were genuinely unaware of their employer’s true motives, and how many were part of the operations themselves.
Some would end up in high-ranking jobs and areas of expertise, unaware of where some of their skills originated from. Some would apparently report night terrors and visions of things that they did not do or experience. Some would appear to lead ordinary, decent lives, before disappearing completely from Foundation monitoring.
But as for professional political consultant Rufus Birch?
But all of it boils down to one thing: A more capable, more functional, and more productive SCP Foundation. And in the end, isn’t that all that matters?
Well, personally, Rufus Birch simply couldn’t wait to do more.
Marches Onward
"Explore new worlds from the comforts of your home!"
Joey was a child of the Internet, and like any kid his age, he knew that if you just knew where to look, you can find almost everything on there. His older brother, Tom, had taught him that when he was eight. One night, when their parents weren’t home, Tom would lead Joey to the family computer, where he was shown a video of a woman in some far-off country being dragged from her home, and beaten to death with a hammer.
“Ain’t it the sickest shit you’ve ever seen!?” Tom had laughed, ruffling Joey’s hair. “You won’t believe the things you can find here.”
And Tom was right on that part, that entire night, Joey was in complete disbelief as Tom helped demonstrate to the darkest depths of being. After the first 30 minutes, however, he stopped protesting, and learned to just roll with it.
About 2 hours later, when their parents came home, Tom wiped the browser history, and then they had dinner. His father complained about work the entire time while his mother stared blankly at her plate. It was an evening like any other.
Eight years later, their parents were divorced, their father was serving time for attempted murder of one of their neighbors over a zoning dispute, and they were living with their uncle Marty, who was probably not one of the best influences, either.
Joey would often wonder what messed him up more. That one night at the computer, or everything that happened afterwards. But every morning, when Tom slammed the door shut and headed out with his red shirt, sunglasses, and white mask tucked into his pockets, Joey retreated to his room and tablet. Today was an especially interesting occasion, however, because he was awaiting something.
He held his breath as his secure email account slowly loaded in.
His application had been accepted.
He’d first heard about it on a gore forum a few months back, but it wasn’t until one of the users on his developer group chat brought it up again a few weeks ago that he realized there might’ve been something to it. That it might be legitimate.
GrUP88: real magic.
GrUP88: not the jew voodoo shit that your brother thinks is real
ZEm23: *israel ftfy
PJJJ2: >doesn’t believe in the jewdoo
JoKS64: Stop smoking man
GrUP88: it doesn’t matter what you think.
ZEm23: are you smoking your backyard again because you had like one fukign job
JoKS64: Look, I just posted the rest of the code to the forum, ze can you check it in the morning
ZEm23: yeah lol see ya
GrUP88: suit yourself. One day you’ll see.
PJJJ2: ^ skill diffed
And that night, while listening to Marty screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night in the other room, Joey reached out again in private messages.
JoKS64: Do you really believe that shit?
JoKS64: Because that’s just sad
GrUP88: it worked for me. That’s how I know.
JoKS64: okay maybe you are actually snorting your own shit again
GrUP88: do you want to see proof?
JoKS64: Do you really think that’s gonna work on me lmfao
GrUP88: that’s not what i asked
GrUP88: do you want to see?
And Joey thought about it for a while, but not as long as he might’ve thought.
JoKS64: sure.
And they turned their webcam on for Joey to see, and Joey did see. And Joey believed.
The website loaded, and Joey was on the Red Pages. Or at least the front page of it. It was pure red, and right in the middle of the screen is a single graphic, some kind of circular pentagram thing with arrows and sevens.
Right below that was a single textbox. Nothing fancy, no buttons, just click on it, and type a very specific phrase in. That’s what the instructions had said. You just had to write what you were looking for, and you’d find it. So Joey thought for a while, then he slowly typed out what he desired, then pressed enter.
“Are you sure this is correct?” said the black text that appeared.
And Joey clicked “Yes.”
When it was all over, it ran on the news for about a day, and was quickly forgotten about. The investigators sorted through his belongings after, trying to catalogue everything that looked suspicious. After getting their hands on his phone, they’d search through the usual social media accounts and everything, scroll through the photos to see if he’d taken any incriminating pictures beforehand, and turned it in for storage.
They briefly paused at some of the photos he had taken, of his bedroom, of his uncle’s guns, but everything else was considered to be of little importance, including the dozen or so images of psychedelic text instructions on grainy red backgrounds that he had saved over the last few months of his life.
When the evidence was done being processed, embedded agents would write a report, and that report would find its way to a data farm somewhere in Alaska, and the man who received that report would mark down the incident as a successful trial run.
Innovation marches onward.
The Fire
"Do your patriotic duty today! Vote Rep. Fitzgerald!"
“…and I’d like to thank my good friend, Adrian Green, who we all know and love, for sponsoring tonight’s event! Of course, the man’s swamped in work, what with his recent business acquisitions and all, but we all love a man who knows to put his money where his mouth is, don’t we, folks?”
Liam Fitzgerald soaked in the thunderous applause. In the end, he was never destined to be a scientist. He knew that. He coulda’ told you that out of grade school.
“And finally, I’d like to thank you all! You wonder, wonderful people! You know what I see today? I see the old America. The good America. I see the foundations of truth. And I swear to you all, as God as my witness-
Liam enters his trailer, still riding the high from the speech. It was certainly a good thing that he didn’t write his own speeches, and the subtle memetic agents embedded into the stage lights certainly did help. He immediately took his suit jacket off and hung it in the closet, right next to his lifting weights, wine glasses, and training shoes.
He closes the blinds, turns on the air conditioner. He’d be in here for the next… six hours or so, then they’d head off to the next event. During that time, he still had to take care of some Foundation work, and possibly brainstorm some talking points. So, it looked like it would be a busy day…
…oh, he almost forgot. The most essential part of his day.
He plugs in the aux. He couldn’t go a day without the song.
Harry Truman, Doris Day. Red China, Johnnie Ray. South Pacific Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio…
Russell had said that they were starting small. Just local office, and then see if it works out, and then again, electioneering was nothing new to the Foundation. However, compared to all of that, what they were trying to do now was relatively unprecedented. It'd take a long time, but the results would be something to behold.
This was just a test run.
Rosenbergs, H-Bomb Sugar Ray, Panmunjom Brando, The King and I And The Catcher in the Rye…
A population could still worship something, even if they do not know what it is that they are worshiping, they’d learned. And it made sense, that’s certainly been the case for quite a lot of human history. Except now, the principles could be taken a bit further.
A lot further.
We didn't start the fire. It was always burning. Since the world's been turning.
We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it. But we tried to fight it…
Could a population still worship something if they do not know they are worshipping? Could a population be led to think that they were worshipping one thing, when they were in fact worshipping something else?
Could concepts be used as a stand-in for gods?
Well, they were still trying to figure it out. The new Tactical Divinity team was working on it. Eventually, they’d know. Liam checked the latest results on his SCiPnet. It was promising.
Very promising.
Joseph Stalin, Malenkov. Nasser and Prokofiev. Rockefeller, Campanella Communist Bloc…
Liam switches to Applied Containment Developments.
Containment efficiency was up about 37% ever since they started incorporating divinity-based methodology into their procedures. No one really asks what’s powering all the new machines, or how they work so well, and that just makes it more efficient.
They could be reaching completely unbreachable containment within just a few short years, judging by the recent humanoid tests.
Einstein, James Dean. Brooklyn's got a winning team. Davy Crockett, Peter Pan. Elvis Presley, Disneyland…
Liam switched over to the general SCiPnet channels and frowned.
More staff inquiries about unusual requests from up on high. A significant amount of protests about some of the new conprocs being passed through. Even a couple of petitions from one site or two.
That was a bit of cold water splash, and suddenly, Liam is reminded that despite his current position, they were technically in the middle of a coup that was barely being covered up by the fact that the previous O5s had spent an entire lifetime compartmentalizing the Foundation to such an extent that they could disengage for months without it having a noticeable effect on operations. If they weren't careful, things could still go wrong.
But frankly, he thought, it was just hypocritical. All the people who complained, acting like had they been in his shoes they wouldn't have all done the same thing. For all of it. And he knew that chances were, they'd been doing worse. He's seen how the sausage gets made. He's been in the room where it happened. Liam Fitzgerald knew.
They only got to where they were because of all the people who complained, who would've done the same exact goddamn thing. The only difference was that he had the balls to stand by his choice, unlike all the rats from their cubicles.
He continued scrolling on, but then something catches him off-guard.
We didn't start the fire. It was always burning. Since the world's been turning.
We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it. But we tried to fight it…
…something was wrong here. That can’t be right. Liam leaned forward and stared at the screen for a few seconds, trying to comprehend what he was reading on the SCiPnet notices. Then, he reached under his desk and retrieved his Foundation-issued secure communications system.
“Oz,” Liam speaks into the receiver. “Yeah, this is Liam. Liam Fitzgerald? Right. Uh, do you remember Reese? Yeah, from the… SCP-9317 team. Right, that’s the one.”
A pause. A response.
Liam Fitzgerald stood up, “What do you mean he’s missing!?”
Little Rock, Pasternak. Mickey Mantle, Kerouac. Sputnik, Zhou En-lai. Bridge On The River Kwai…
“No, Ozzie.” Liam rubbed his temples. “I didn’t know. I’m trying to get into the House Of Representatives, over here. Of course no one told me! I had to learn from the… the fucking SCiPnet notice board. Apparently he’s not been in for a week?”
Another pause, another response.
“Three!?” Liam shouted, “He’s been AWOL for three weeks!?”
Buddy Holly, Ben-Hur. Space Monkey, Mafia. Hula Hoops, Castro. Edsel is a no-go…
“Pru- Oz.” Liam laughed bitterly, pacing around the room. “Did you just say that you didn’t think it was prudent… for me… to know that someone’s been fucking disappearing my workers? Who else…”
“What…?”
“…No. No, I did not…I… how many?”
We didn't start the fire. It was always burning. Since the world's been turning.
We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it. But we tried to fight it…
Liam Fitzgerald hangs up. He’s completely deflated. At least four missing workers from the old SCP-9317 team. And that’s the ones that they still kept track of. He gets up and all of the sudden, he feels cold and fidgety. He takes a peek through the blinds. Nothing. Just a stream of people.
Okay, okay. No. Nothing. He’s safe here. There were armed Foundation guards all over the place. Loyal ones. The trailer itself was impenetrable, reinforced beryllum-bronze with a tele-kill coating.
He was safe. So he sits down, and makes another call.
Hemingway, Eichmann. Stranger in a Strange Land. Dylan, Berlin Bay of Pigs invasion…
It takes much longer to connect this time. And Liam tries to steady his voice.
“Russell,” he answers. “Russell, did you know about the fact that people from the old SCP-9317 team are disappearing? Did you have anything to do with this?”
Liam grimaced and closed his eyes.
“Of course you don’t. Look, you know what I’m gonna ask of you, right?”
…J.F.K. blown away. What else do I have to say?
“Not ready-” Liam groaned. “Russell, we have a damn god in our service. I’m not asking you to get it to raise the fucking sun. I’m asking you for help in finding- What do you mean, it’s low-priority!?”
And Liam felt like a fucking idiot for that part, because for just a moment, wearing that damn suit and standing on the stage and hearing the crowd chant his name, he actually believed that this wouldn’t be his life any longer, the constant nagging to do his bidding - but that was on him. What the fuck did a man need to do to get some damned respect here, right?
“Have faith, okay, okay.” He grits through his teeth. “Right, y’know what? You’re right. I’m sure it’s nothing. It’ll pass. Hey, y’know me. I’ve had more faith in you than anyone, yeah? And look where it’s gotten us, so far.”
And one day, I’ll rise above you, and I’ll have you skinned alive, too.
He hangs up.
We didn't start the fire. It was always burning. Since the world's been turning.
We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it. But we tried to fight it…
“Fucking have faith.” He muttered under his breath, opening the fridge to get at the liqueur inside. “I have faith in the hole I’ll leave you in. Then no one’ll stop me. I have more goddamn faith than anyone.”
And then he opens the closet to retrieve the glasses, but it’s dark. The light doesn’t turn on. And he’s not sure what he’s looking at here, but-
“So, Liam.” growled the thing standing in the closet. “How much faith do you have that you’re going to see tomorrow?”
Moonshot, Woodstock. Watergate, punk rock. Begin, Reagan, Palestine…
And before he can say anything, the figure kicks him in the stomach, sending him across the floor and into his dressing table. The mirror shatters, sending a sky full of broken glass all over his bruised body. He looks up in horror, and sees the jagged red scar, and it is a ghost that he sees, because Lucas Conley emerges from the closet, and in his hand-
Oh, God, no.
Heavy metal suicide. Foreign debts, homeless vets. AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz…
“No- Please, don’t-” Liam cried, and he looked up as Conley was about to bring the iron lifting weight down on his head, and then there is the impact and everything is white and it felt like his skull would crack-
I can't take it anymore!
And Liam is on the ground, shivering and and grasping his bleeding head that felt like it was about to explode, sputtering about how it wasn’t his idea, about how his entire life he’d been under someone else’s thumbs, and how they were only doing what they thought was best. They didn’t do anything that hadn’t already been done long ago, they just improved on what came before.
We added more fuel, he says, sure, but…
We didn't start the fire. It was always burning. Since the world's been turning.
And it was true. They didn’t start the fire. They were just following in the footsteps of countless men who came before them. Men who thought they had it all figured out. Men who thought they would never face consequences for what they’d done. Men who were just following orders.
But the fire is eternal, and it burns everything in the end. And now, it was his turn as fuel.
Nothing wins against the fire.
And it is in his agonizingly long final moments that Liam Fitzgerald finally learned this, in the almost-perfectly soundproof trailer that no one would be entering for hours.
We didn't start the fire. But when we are gone. It will still burn on, and on
When Conley was done, it was dark outside. He picked up Liam’s comms system, and pressed redial. He put it up to his ear, and waited for a response.
A voice came through the other end.
“I’m coming,” Conley says, before turning the comms off. He waits a couple minutes to admire the scenery, then he enters the closet again, and leaves through a shadow that wasn’t there before.
And on, and on
And on, and on.
And on.
The Faultlines
"Paper-thin cracks."
When he finally came back to work, none of Dr. Cameron Tatton’s colleagues at Brown University could understand what had happened to the jolly old history professor that they knew and loved. He had taken an extended sabbatical, and when he came back, the man was a husk of his former self. He no longer had that glint in his eyes, he was late to his own lectures most of the time, and anyone who talked to him could tell that he barely cared about anything, anymore.
For weeks, they tried to get him help, but nothing worked. He kept becoming more and more withdrawn, and eventually, he just spent most of his time, cooped up in his office. He rarely left, and even then, he came back inside almost immediately. Rumors started abounding that he was to be terminated any day now, as the administration had slowly given up hope on him ever recovering.
For all intents and purposes, their plan could work, in theory. The Scarlet King, after all, is not a sentient being. That’s what they were counting on. That was their initial suspicion, the hands-off nature of the deity despite the powerful thaumaturgical system that it possessed. Their further explorations confirmed it.
From inside his office though, Dr. Tatton knew that they would never go through with it. That they needed him here at his civilian job, within arms reach, just in case.
He barely did anything, these days. Most of the time he’d just sleep. Sometimes, he’d flip the bird to the secret Foundation cameras there were hidden in the walls to monitor him. One time, he just knocked over one of the huge bookcases on the shelf. The next morning he came in, it was put back to normal, and he received a horrific migraine every time the thought of “doing it again” even crossed his mind.
I heard they spent a month trying to communicate with the deity, if it could be called that. Pulled out every religious trick in the book. They quickly realized that it was effectively braindead. Sure, the Scarlet King was an entity that was alive, but it seemingly had no will of its own. That was certainly intentional on the part of the men who created him in the first place, and it was certainly the Foundation’s intention to keep him that way.
It was punishment for both of them, he figured. Him because he could barely remember the face of his niece and her fiancee, who they simply told him died in an undisclosed operation out of the blue, and that they’d had to amnesticize large chunks of both of their memory from his brain because of security reasons, and he dared protest the unfairness of it all. And it was also a punishment for them, because they had to assign some guy full time to watch some old man messing around in his room twenty-four-seven.
Well, put it like that… this really was just a punishment for him. Maybe that’s why they didn’t just fully wipe his memories and put him to pasture permanently. To punish him for something. Though God help him if he could remember what. It surely would be more believable than the idea that they’re willing to put up with this behavior because they might still need his Daevite expertise that they just can’t afford to lose. No one’s needed his Daevite expertise for a very long time.
No. No one’s truly needed Cameron Tatton for decades.
Imagine that, a god you could worship on the loosest of terms, that gave you all that you asked for, yet completely mindless and asked nothing of you. An entity designed solely to exploit the Blessing Mechanism, an automated worship-influence farm. Like Anna Newman had called it: A production line. A thaumaturgical engine, as they called it.
So one of these days, he’s decided that he’s taken up a new project: Making paper airplanes from every single page from every single book that he’s ever read. Another project that he decided to take up after a few more concerned inquiries from his colleagues who might as well all be Foundation spies, as far as he’s concerned.
And he’s just finished creating the 124th one from his dictionary, so he tosses it into the air, and watches as it flies. It makes a grand sweeping arc throughout the room, and then suddenly, it loses all momentum towards the end.
Of course, even an engine needs some source of power. That’s what their next phase was. Crippled by thousands of years of improper rituals and, and the everpresent gaping wounds of the unfinished conceptual merging of two oppositional supreme beings, what thaumaturgy they managed to get out of the King was certainly less than what they were looking for. So, what did they do? Industrialize worship, of course.
He watched as the paper plane dropped dead on his top shelf, knocking over one of his awards and another one of his books. The award crashes on the floor. He sighs.
He didn’t care anymore. One day he would cross the threshold, and they’d finally put a bag over his head and give him a dose that he wouldn’t recover from and dump him on the side of a road somewhere several states away. Or maybe they’d just shoot him. He’d let go of the idea of getting back at them. He’d never be able to cause any sort of trouble for them, anyways. He just wanted to stop existing most days.
Montauk flowed from the Foundation like the Angel Falls. All they needed to do was feed all of that errant apathy into their engine god. Worship feeds a god, you understand? Followers feed a god. And a well-fed god is a powerful god. And they could have all of that power for themselves. And when their magic started getting stronger, well, they could just do the whole thing again. End up with something even more efficient. End up with something even more powerful, and just as perfectly lobotomized. Ever-increasing infinite power, yet completely programmable.
He went over to pick up the award. It was one of the Foundation Press awards, one of the ones that he got for Homo Daeva when it was first published. He scrunched his face in disgust as he picked up the book. It was one of the book’s first editions. He’d forgotten that he’d had that thing up there collecting dust.
I’m sure you all can point out the gaping flaws in their logic, here.
As he put it back, though, a photo fell out from the inside jacket.
"…thought they looked like a comical pair…"
It must’ve been a while ago, and Cameron wonders if it was him that put it there, or it was Dani herself that did it. It was probably taken from around when she met first Val, judging by her hair. That was back when she still worked here.
It was a nice picture. The Foundation didn’t let him keep much stuff with them. Says it might cause side-effects after amnesticization. So, they’ll probably take this away, too, in the end, but…
God, she would’ve hated what he’s done with his life, wouldn’t she? All that time writing about dead people only to neglect all the living ones who were still in his life. It was too late, now, of course. Maybe it always has been. If he could take it all back. If he could. If he could.
Half an hour later, he decided he wanted to just try one more time. He had a large trash bag at the ready, he had a letter addressed to the Foundation readied. He’d pack up all of his sub-veil works, he’d resign, from his civilian job and the Foundation, and he’d just move somewhere. Anywhere else. Do anything else. He can’t keep doing this to his life anymore.
Perhaps it is simple hubris, or arrogance. Or perhaps it’s a lack of imagination, because even as they increasingly come up with outrageous ideas in order to strengthen their lobotomized deity, they never seem to remember the most basic things about the old gods. If they do not notice changes on their scientific equipment, they might as well not even exist. And all this time, they do not see what we see. They cannot see what they’ve done.
He walked around the shelves, dragging out his life’s work, and dumped it unceremoniously into the bag. All copies of Homo Daeva, and the six additional sequels he wrote in the years afterwards that became more desperate over time, desperate to recapture the spark. He’d dumped all of the maps and source books that he’d spent nights poring over, ignoring his only remaining family as he tried to divine the secret to life from old ruins and the remnants.
No, he’d given enough of his life to the Daevites. He’d given enough of his life to the Foundation. Never again.
The thing is, even gods change. Even gods evolve. Gods absorb the stories that are told about them, and they can become what they are thought to be. At what point does all the things that happen to a god become part of its mythology rather than just its documentation? Part of the thing that gives it its power?
All of the awards had to go next. All of the newspaper clippings, the other books, signed copies filled with notes of gratitude from the authors who had consigned him to the dust bin of history. I couldn’t have done it had it not been your work they said. You really did something special, they said.
He wished he could take it all back, but this would be the next best thing. This is what Dani would’ve wanted. And it would work, this time. It would work…
…but then he sees it.
And perhaps the Scarlet King is simply a myth, but then again, aren’t all gods? So where does the millenia-long historical revisionism fit? Is it the ending of the myth of the Red God and the Devourer, or is it simply the beginning of the Scarlet King’s own canon?
One last Daevite book on the shelves, and he picked it up and was about to toss it, but he paused, because it looked so unfamiliar.
It was so much different from all of the other Daevite books he had. It was different from any of the other books, period. The weight of it, as if it held inside something of cosmic significance, the feel of it in his hands.
And what happens when you strengthen a myth through the rigorous scientific methods of an organization larger and more efficient than any Daevite cult could possibly be? What happens when a myth reaches Apotheosis?
He could’ve just put it inside the bag as well, and not think any further of it.
He told himself that he wouldn’t give his life to the Daevites.
But in that moment, when he opened the book, he began shedding tears as he looked back-
And what happens when part of the myth is that it could all have been true?
-and realized that he’d already done so, years and years ago, and he didn’t even notice.
They didn’t discover his body until the next day. They found the book, and they found the photograph lying face-down with the note on the book, and they found his body, and no one could tell whether Dr. Cameron Tatton had died screaming, or laughing.
And for the first time, something began to reach through the faultlines.
Addendum 140a: SCP-140 was originally found in the office of deceased historian Cameron Tatton. The previous owner was discovered in his office at Brown University, having expired from self-inflicted lacerations on both wrists. There were no traces of Tatton's blood in the office. Tatton’s colleagues claimed during interviews they discovered a note in faded ink in Tatton’s handwriting next to SCP-140. All witnesses were administered Class A Amnesiacs and false memories implanted.
Tatton’s note read:
I have to know. I’m sorry.
On The Future
There’s a short story I once read. I don’t remember the name of the story. It was about these aliens. Or it was humans in the future. I don’t recall that part very clearly. Anyways, they’re extremely advanced, and what they did was they connected every single computer in the universe, about a hundred billion planets into one single supercomputer.
So, they turn a switch, and they turn on the supercomputer, this thing with the combined knowledge of the entire galaxy. And then they asked the supercomputer a single question: Is there a God? And then the supercomputer says, “Yes. Now there is a God.” And then they try to turn the switch off, but lightning comes out of nowhere and fuses the switch shut.
While the supercomputer becoming omnipotent is one thing, the part of the story that always struck me as interesting was the implication that the supercomputer had definitively come to the conclusion that there wasn’t a God before that moment. There’s a bit of an interesting thought experiment there. If God comes into being, and he is in everything, and he is everywhere, is he also everywhen? Does he exist in the time before he came into being, or is he bound by time as much as we are?
It’s just something to think about in relation to the Scarlet King. A deity defined by the concept of historical revisionism. The idea of an altered past. I know there’s been chatter among our community lately, about the book that the Foundation’s contained, about whether it’s already over, whether it’s already too late.
I say it’s not too late. I believe that when it is too late, it will always have been too late. I don’t believe that the coming of the Scarlet King is inevitable, and I know this, because I’ve walked outside today.
I walked outside today, and there was grass for me to stand on, and birds for me to hear, and sunlight to shine down on me.
I walked outside today, and I breathed in fresh air, and there was still a world out there where the sky is blue and the breeze is cool upon my skin.
I walked outside - and had it already been too late, and the arrival of the Scarlet King was set in stone, I would not be able to do this. I would just not be.
And as long as I am able to wake up in the morning, and the world outside still exists, I know that it’s still worth it to fight. Because as long as we are here, it is still worth it to fight. As long as I am here, I know that there is still hope.
We will fight.
We will stop the Montauk Machine - the SCP Foundation.
And as long as there is hope, we will win.
For Hannah, August, Anna, Telal, Val, and Daniela, and so many others.
Your friend,
AWH.
P.S. Wait, I just remembered. It was “Answer” by Frederic Brown. Crap.
The Furnace
"Shuttles pass in the night."
It’s the last night before the mission, and August Kilroy realizes that she’s been reading the same page for the fifth time without absorbing any new information, so she closes the casefiles and lies back in bed. After a few seconds, though, she pulls out her notebook and tries to doodle something. She flips to a blank page amidst endless geometric patterns and topographical maps, and puts her pencil to the paper.
This time, I’ll come up with something, this time.
But inspiration doesn’t come, like always, and after 5 minutes with her pencil still on the same point where she first put it, she sighs, closes the notebook again, and sits up on the side of her bed.
It was always tough, being alone with her thoughts, because now all she’s thinking about is whether she was really planning on going through with it.
(About 3 rooms to the right, someone else was also struggling with the same dilemma.)
Maybe it’d be better if she just threw in the towel now. Get an early start tomorrow. It was pretty late already. So she gets up and she’s planning on flipping the light switch, when she hears it.
Music.
And it sounded pretty nice. Was it coming from down the hall? Now that was a bit unusual, because it was a Foundation Site, and things were usually strict here. She peeked through the door, and there’s no one that she can see.
So, she has a choice to make here. She could just ignore the music and go to sleep, or she could open the door and check out what’s happening… but that could lead to all sorts of uncomfortable situations. And maybe her curiosity wasn’t that piqued.
So…
Before she knew it, she was in the hall. Now, where was it? Which room was it coming from? But before she could figure it out, she feels someone behind her, and she turns around and-
“Woah, hey,” says the tall blonde woman with tired eyes. She was carrying a six pack of soda and a load of snacks on her. “You’re going to the breakroom too, huh, Xekasmenos?”
“I… uh… what?” August stares at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“Oh, it’s our codenames.” the woman shrugs. “I guess they were pretty dumb anyways. August, is it? Haven’t seen you much since the meet n’ greet.”
“Uh, yeah!” August says, “I, well, I usually don’t uh, go out before missions. And… you’re Tatton, right?”
The woman grimaces at the mention of that name. “Uh, call me Daniela. Or just Dina, it’s fine.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that, Dina.” August smiles. “So… why are we going to the breakroom? I heard music.”
“Oh, that’s Anna playing the piano,” Dina says, leading the way. “Turns out there’s a bunch of antique instruments in that room that basically no one uses. And uh, my husband’s into that stuff, and I figure at least we could de-stress for a few hours before tomorrow.”
“Ah, that’s nice!” August says, “Is anyone else coming?”
“Uh, Telal, I guess. I’m not sure if you’ve met him-”
“I think I have. Uh, he’s the one who rode a cart across the hallway a few days ago and broke the front gate, right?”
“…That’s him.”
The Site Harkin breakroom was illuminated by warm yellow lights. A fireplace built into the wall completed the atmosphere. There was lots of antique furniture all over the place. A gold lantern hangs from the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a couch, placed behind a TV.
Dina’s husband Val greeted them when they entered, waving around a bunch of sticks with marshmallows on them.
“Guess who finally got the fireplace cover opened?” he shouts, waving a burnt marshmallow at Dina.
“Val, your mustache is on fire.” Dina says.
Telal was playing some exercise game, swinging his arms and legs all around, apparently playing it on the highest difficulty. He seemed to be failing miserably. The fact that half of his head was covered by an oversized MTF helmet probably didn’t help with visibility.
“Uh, Telal,” August asked from the couch. “Shouldn’t you take that off?”
“No fuckin’ way!” Telal says. “Dude, you know how rare this thing is? It’s one of those old-timey MTF helmets. It’s vintage! They don’t even make it anymore!”
“You pulled that out of a closet that hasn’t been opened since the 70’s, bud.” Anna Newman says, flipping through a list of music sheets that’s been left on the piano. “You’re probably breathing in some rare radioactive supercarcinogen right about now.”
“So, the Usher gets superpowers.” Telal grins. “That’s just the best case scenario!”
And Dina and Val were still talking about something, something about her uncle calling, and something about him convincing her to be on the mission, and it sounded a bit intense, so August just heads on over to talk to Anna.
“You’re playing that really well!” She says.
“Thank you!” Anna beams, “And honestly, really glad to see you here before tomorrow. I almost thought I wasn’t gonna be seeing you, there. You ready for tomorrow’s mission?”
August’s smile falters, and she’s not sure how to answer, but before she does-
“Yeah, trick question.” Anna says. “No one’s ever ready. But, y’know… we gotta take it on the chin. And whatever might happen tomorrow, well… the important thing is to always stick together, yeah?”
And Anna reaches out her hand, and August shakes it.
In the end, it was quite a fun night. There was certainly a lot more talking that she’d anticipated, but August was quite surprised at how much easier it was than she thought it would be.
They were mostly strangers, and maybe that was part of it. The knowledge that after the mission, they would probably never see each other again. Maybe that made it easier to talk. And August really did enjoy herself around these nice, polite, eccentric people. They told funny anecdotes and personal stories that never seemed to scratch too deep beyond the surface. They ate smores and played the piano all night long.
(In one week, August would be lying alone in a tent, stranded in a strange land, and half of them would be dead by that point, and she’d be replaying the scenes in her mind over and over again. But she’d drift back to the memory of that night, and she’d take out the notebook and try again, and this time she’d be able to create something that she was proud of.)
Even Arthur, their leader who showed up halfway through the night and only stayed on the couch watching everyone else, seemed polite enough.
Towards the end, August accidentally lets slip that she knew how to play the piano too, so Val and Anna insisted that she try out a duet. And to her immense surprise, she actually seemed to remember the notes to the song. And during that moment, everyone watched in silence as Anna and August played the duet together.
(In two weeks, all of them will be almost certainly dead. Each of their ends would be grisly and horrific. All of them would die screaming and betrayed.)
Mid-way through the song, she hears Val say “Lookit’ here! There’s the missing number seven!” and she looked over, and Hannah Xob was there. And she smiled and waved at everyone.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt you.” She says, motioning at August. “Keep going! That was really, really great just now.”
And looking at each other across the room, they made eye contact. And August smiled back.
(In three weeks, rough hands wearing cold rubber gloves would be sorting through her belongings in a sterile lab. They’d catalogued everything they found useful, and burned all the rest. When they opened her notebook, one of them would pause for a second upon seeing her drawing, before proceeding to toss it into the furnace with the rest.)
But that doesn’t matter now.
That doesn’t matter at all.
In the cosmic scheme of things, none of that mattered at all.
In that moment, playing the duet with Anna, August Kilroy was happy, and safe, and at peace. And suddenly, her hands are moving by themselves, so she closes her eyes, and enjoys the music, pretending that it would last until the stars burn out.
Greetings, Dr. Russell Pater! Please complete the following verification question to access your (1) new email!
HINT: His favorite flowers. (All uppercase)
To: You 23:17PM (0 minutes ago)
From: REDSIGHT
Subject: We might have a problem.
It took a while, but we managed to retrieve the data from the remains of the torn suit. The audio is completely fried, so we don't know what they talked about, but you should really take a look regardless.
I think your boy lied to you.
Get back to me, soon.
🔗AV-Suit.mp4
VISUAL RECORDS - GIGAS
[BEGIN LOG.]
[Agent Vaughan approaches Agent Xob. They are on opposing ends of the central chamber. There is what appears to be a large well in the middle of the room between them. He raises his blade and points it at her.]
[Agent Xob narrows her eyes, looking confused. Movement of camera indicates that Agent Vaughan is telling her something. He appears to wait for her to respond.]
[Agent Xob looks around, and appears to ask a question. Agent Vaughan replies, appearing to gesticulate wildly for 5 seconds.]
[Agent Xob begins to smile incredulously. Agent Vaughan appears to shout something.]
[Agent Xob waves her arms around exasperatedly, gesturing at Agent Vaughan. At one or two points, she appears to mock Agent Vaughan's mannerism. After 20 seconds, she ceases.]
[Agent Xob stares at Agent Vaughan, and speaks for 3 minutes and 26 seconds. Agent Vaughan appears to grow more distressed over the course of this duration. Agent Xob's emotion does not change over this period of time.]
[Agent Xob is silent for a few seconds, then, she steps on the edge of the well. Agent Vaughan rushes to draw his automatic and points it at her, then points to the floor, apparently gesturing for her to get down.]
[Agent Xob chuckles, before jumping into the well. Agent Vaughan rushes to the edge and peers down. The well is completely pitch black.]
[Agent Vaughan stares down the well for 1 minute and 43 seconds. When he starts moving again, camera movement suggests that he is shaking.]
[END LOG.]
Closing Note: After REDSIGHT team arrived at the location of interest, the well inside the central chamber was checked again several times.
The well was four foot deep, and was found to contain nothing inside.
A Light In The Dark
"Something where there should be nothing."
Hanna Xob doesn't remember how long she's been swimming through the darkness. In all honestly, she's stopped counting quite a while ago. She was content with that, to not know, to simply float among the void forever.
She'd chosen the darkness, and not a moment goes by where she regrets it. She knew it was the only thing to do. That it was the right thing to do. And that thought comforted her. She was somewhere that the god couldn't see.
She did not regret choosing the darkness, even as the darkness came and took away parts of her body away.
She did not regret choosing the darkness, even as the darkness came and took part of her mind away.
She was more presence than form now, one with the darkness, almost completely. But she was still there. Forever half-asleep. Nothing in her world, but the absolute dark.
Until one day, she spots something in the distance.
And that was usually impossible, because she had no eyes, and there is no light here.
So, she decided she'd examine it.
And she kept moving towards it.
And she kept moving towards it.
And she was almost there, so close, just a little more…
But then it was gone. And Hannah looked around to see where it had gone.
It couldn't have gone far, because she'd seen what it was. And she knew it was still around here somewhere, because she could still feel its presence.
She knew what she had seen.
It was a man. Or something in the shape of one.
And in his palm, he held a single blinking red light.
The Montauk Machine - The End.
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