9000contestfrankentropy 3

Link to article: 9000contestfrankentropy 3.

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+ Last Night

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"Calm before the storm."
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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.”

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“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.”

[[div class="blockquote"]]
**INTERVIEW LOG - ALBERTO WEIDER-HOFFMAN**

------

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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?

##grey|//[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?

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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-

##grey|//[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?

##grey|//[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?

##grey|//[Weider-Hoffman stares at Agent Newman for a few seconds.]//##

**Agent Newman:** ...Alberto?

##grey|//[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...

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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.

[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
**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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.//

##grey|//[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?

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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.//

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[Agent Newman and Agent Kilroy both starts to leave.]//##

**Agent Xob:** Auggie, do you…

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.//

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Xob:** Okay. You’re sorry.

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Xob:** I don’t forgive you.

**Agent Vaughan:** I understand.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Vaughan:** Did they ever catch who did it?

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Xob:** No. No DNA match. You know how the Foundation handle these cases.

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Vaughan:** I’m sorry. No one should have to go through something like that. It’s unthinkable. It’s… it’s horrible.

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Xob:** Thank you.

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Vaughan:** Have you told anyone about it?

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

[[/div]]

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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Moving Day

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/truck.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"Quick and speedy deliveries!"
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Such A Shame It Didn't Work

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/SectionA1.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"It's like a maze down there."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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.

[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
name=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/HomoDaeva.png|
caption="One of the most influential Para-history books, of all time."|
width=220px
]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]

**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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[Pause.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** I know, it’s already something you need to take care of.

##grey|//[Pause.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** If you’re sure, then there’s no reason to wait any longer. Get the note first.

##grey|//[Pause.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** We’re breaking up again. Look, signal is hell. Just do it. Get back to us when you can.

[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** What do you mean?

##grey|//[Pause. Dr. Fitzgerald grimaces and closes his eyes.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** Look, did you use the correct one?

##grey|//[Pause.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** Fuck. Maybe- Maybe it's a longer process, maybe it'll happen later, tomorrow?

##grey|//[Pause.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** No, no. Everything just goes as planned. It was worth a shot, anyways.

##grey|//[Pause.]//##

**Dr. Fitzgerald:** Not at all. We’re… it’s still consistent. Just go back to sleep, and don’t fuck it up tomorrow.

##grey|//[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.

[[/div]]

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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

[[div class="darkdocument"]]

+ SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL Analysis

[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
name=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/centraldoor.png|
caption=The door leading into SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL.|
width=240px
]]

**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.
[[/div]]

[[div class="darkdocument"]]

__**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 signifiers[[footnote]]A set of data associated with a given deific figure.[[/footnote]] 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.
[[/div]]

[[div class="darkdocument"]]

__**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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
“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.

[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
name=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/prayerdiagram.png|
caption=A simplified diagram of a worship-blessing exchange.|
width=300px
]]

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.//
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
“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.

[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
name=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/energy.png|
caption=Expected exchange compared to actual exchange measured outside SCP-9317-Ω-CENTRAL.|
width=270px
]]

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//
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
“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//
[[/div]]
[[/div]]


[[div class="darkdocument"]]

__**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.
[[/div]]

[[div class="darkdocument"]]

__**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:**
[[div class="table5"]]
||~ ##white|YEA##  ||~ ##white|ABSTAIN##  ||~ ##white|NAY## ||
|| || Vaughan  ||  ||
||  ||  || Xob ||
||  ||  || Kilroy ||
||  ||  || Newman ||
 @@ @@
[[div class="table5"]]
||~ ##white|STATUS## ||
|| ##white|**DENIED**## ||
[[/div]]
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

[[div class="darkdocument"]]
**Notes:** what have we done
[[/div]]

[[/div]]


------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Day After

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/Fire.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"The storm."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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.

------

[[div class="blockquote"]]
**AUDITORY RECORDS - GIGAS**
------

##grey|//[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.]//##

##grey|//[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.]//##

##grey|//[Agent Xob looks up.]//##

**Agent Newman:** It’s… she said… she said she did it to save us…

##grey|//[Agent Newman chokes up. Her leg trembles.]//##

**Agent Newman:** I… I’m so sorry, Hannah. I’m so, so, so fucking sorry… I…

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[Agent Newman tries to reach out to Agent Xob. Agent Xob flinches and waves it away.]//##

**Agent Newman:** Right, right… I’m sorry. I…

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Agent Newman:** We have to stay strong, Hannah. For //her//. God, for //all// of them. I…

##grey|//[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.//

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.]//##

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Oh, fucking great.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Goddammit, you were doing so well, girly!
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Turn the damn thing off, I don’t wanna go deaf. 
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
We’ll just check back in after a while, assuming the signal still holds. Should we report this?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[She finally manages to shred the blanket. She kicks at it for several minutes. At one point, she kicks the floor accidentally, and collapses.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
I don’t fuckin’ know, I look like the TV Guide to you?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Just hand me the remote, shithead.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[He does not notice the red inflammation due to the red light.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Hahah, holy shit. Did you see the look on her face?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Deer in the headlights. Absolute deer in the headlights. You gotta love it, and they do it to themselves, every time.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[Telal Usher, Daniela Tatton, and Val Sanders do not know where they are.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[August Kilroy does not know where she is.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Harsh. Let’s see what else is on here… huh, another shooting. Good lord.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[The thing inside the central chamber slowly undulates. It tries to reach out, but the chains are far too thick.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
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.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Actually, should we switch the comms back on?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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…]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Why? That bitch’s probably still screaming. It can wait after this is done.
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Goddammit, how the fuck do you miss a goal like that!?
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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.]//##

##grey|//[Arthur scratches at his body. What is happening to him? What is this feeling?]//##

##grey|//[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.]//##

##grey|//[Alberto exits the tent. Of course, they had no way of knowing any of this.]//##

[[div class="danke white"]]
Right, you fucking idiot! He’s coming from the right! Open your eyes!
[[/div]]

##grey|//[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…?

##grey|//[Sometimes, you just need one little detail to make it past. Sometimes, that’s all it takes for an empire to fall.]//##

[[/div]]

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.



[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Horizons

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/Sunset.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"Is there something beyond?"
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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.//

[[/div]]

------

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+ The New Empire

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/NewEmpire.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"People are good at adapting."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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 Site,” 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're lying.//” Rowe blurts out. Her legs feel as if they are melting. Oh God, why did she feel so afraid? “You… this… this //can’t// be… why…”

Russell Pater blinks, patiently waiting for her to finish her sentence.

“Why… is //everyone//… so…” 

Russell raises his eyebrows, a warm smile on his face. He shows her all the patience of a kindergarten teacher awaiting answers from a child. He waits for her to find the right words, and she's never been so horrified in her entire life.

//”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. None of this added up. That's not what the proposals said. This is not how it should work, and it seems Russell somehow sensed what she was about to ask but couldn't.

“No, you’re right. That’s not the whole story.” Russell sighs. “No, no, Harley, you were right. It //was// a trap. It just wasn’t meant for //us.// Besides, it's been a very long time since then. We continued your work, we made improvements, and that's what you see here today.”

“But… they’re not… they don’t seem //scared//, or…”

"No, they're not scared. In the slightest." Russell finished. "That's one of the breakthroughs, you see? They're not afraid."

“I… I don’t…”

"And y'know, that's the funny thing about Montauk, I suppose..." Russell pauses, then continues. "They never //needed// to be."

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."

She's not looking at him anymore. She's looking over his shoulder, into the distant hallway.

"...Why? For what purpose?"

"I mean, what else?"

"No, but you //said...//" Rowe whispers. She's still not looking at him. She swears there is something in the hallways. Something cruel and old. "You said they... they never //needed//..."

"Well, that's the thing, Harley." He says, moving his head to the side to catch her eye again. He steps forward. "We did figure it out, but doing a good job is one thing. Sometimes... well, we're //scientists//. Sometimes, we can recognize a research opportunity."

There's nothing in the halls. There never was.

"So, Harley, are you going back to orientation?"

"..."

“Well, suit yourself. I’m going back,” Russell says, as he begins to walk away. “As for everything else, you needn't worry too much. Everyone's fine with it. We're doing good work here. Don’t take it too personal. That’s the //secret,// you know? It’s not just Montauk. It’s a good philosophy for 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.

------

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 bottle 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 tears out her own intestines right in front of them.


[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
name=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/theydontcare.png|
caption=A final mockery.|
width=250px
]]

She takes off her blindfolds. The bus is clean and pristine. They were driving past some wheatfields - and it really was a beautiful day outside. She couldn't appreciate much of the scenery, as she was too fixated on the poster on the back of the seat in front of her.

It was one of the Foundation's cheesy motivational posters. A small little Foundation logo with a smiley face, with a finger to its lips. Beneath it was a familiar text. She remembers having read the text somewhere before.

Dr. Harley Rowe stares at the poster, and at the smiley little Foundation logo with the wink and the grin, and at the dumb little text beneath it, for what seemed like hours, but she knows it couldn't have been that long. Then, she finally uncaps the bottle of water. By then, it was already warm.

She takes the amnestics.

And behind her, everything is as it ever was, and everything is as it always will be.

[[/div]]



@@ @@
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= [[size 7em]]**__ACT VI__**[[/size]]
= [[size 3em]]**THERE IS NO GOD**[[/size]]

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Ichabod

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/Conley.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Orson Conley is an agent of the SCP Foundation."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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 away, 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 time.

//”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. 

[[div class="blockquote"]]
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.
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
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.
[[/div]]

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 lumpy 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…”//

[[div class="blockquote"]]
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.”
[[/div]]

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: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4179 SCP-4179]-2-40__ ##a52a2a|(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.||


[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Ortolans

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/dinner.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"Best fine dining experience that an Overseer can afford."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

“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 know //why// I'm doing it. 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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Dream Sequence

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/Dream.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"Whatever happens in your mind also happens."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]

**SOMEWHERE THAT ISN’T ANYWHERE - HANNAH XOB’S MIND.**

------

##grey|//[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:** ##grey|//[*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!

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[The stream of blood slows to a trickle.]//##

**Weider-Hoffman:** //Most// things happen in your head, Hannah. That includes everything //real.//

##grey|//[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.//

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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-

##grey|//[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!?

##grey|//[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-//

##grey|//[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-

##grey|//[Reality shifts again. There is nothing.]//##

[[/div]]

------

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.

------

[[div class="darkdocument"]]

[[size x-large]]**Weider-Hoffman Dream Analysis**[[/size]]
//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.

||~ ##white|Agent Xob##  ||~ ##white|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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div class="document"]]
[[size x-large]]**On Remembering**[[/size]]

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.
[[/div]]

------

[[div class="blockquote"]]

= **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?[[footnote]]That's not just it. The poem, doesn't it remind you of anything?[[/footnote]] ...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.// [[footnote]]You're looking in the wrong locations. Prophecies are always flowery like that. The big details don't matter as much as the little ones, and sometimes the order of things doesn't need to be the //same.// [[/footnote]] So what are you saying? It's a prophecy about //us// dying? So, what, is SCP-9317-Ω out to get us?[[footnote]]Maybe. I don't know. I think... I think the Foundation //sent// you all here to die. On purpose. For this prophecy. [[/footnote]] What does that even //mean?// The Scarlet King is the most //dangerous// god that the Foundation's ever faced. I personally helped hunt 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!  [[footnote]]I don't know, I mean, I think that part of it might be because- //augh!// [[/footnote]] //What!?// What's wrong?! [[footnote]] It's the damn cat. It's back! It's trying to stop me from //remembering// again![[/footnote]] Can't you just shoo it away? [[footnote]] I'm trying! I'm... oh my God. I remember.[[/footnote]] What? What is it?! [[footnote]] I just remembered what happened last night. When I went on the roof with Arthur... [[/footnote]] Okay, okay, I remember that. He said you were helping unlock the door, right? [[footnote]]No, no, that's what he told me we were doing... but then I panicked. The cat went away for a second, and I came clean about the poem. I told him that I thought something was really wrong, that's why I lied about it in the first place, but then...[[/footnote]] What happened after?! [[footnote]] Oh God. I think he attacked me.[[/footnote]] //What?// [[footnote]] He //knocked me out.// I- Hannah, I think it's Arthur. Arthur's behind this somehow. Arthur //knows.//[[/footnote]] No, stop, fucking slow down! Alberto, where the hell are you?

Alberto? Goddammit, where are you?

Hello?[[footnote]] //meow.// [[/footnote]]

Oh, //fuck you.// [[footnote]] [[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/CatSmall.png]] [[/footnote]]

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.

[[/div]]

------

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[[/html]]

[[div class="fakeprot"]]
[[module MailForm to="aaaa (DUMMY)" button=""]]
# name
 * title: ID Code
 * default: hannahxobo14@foundation.scp
 * type: text
 * rules:
  * required: true
  * maxLength:10
  * minLength: 100
[[/module]]
[[div class="passw"]]
[[module MailForm to="aaaa (DUMMY)" button=""]]
# affiliation
 * title: Password
 * default: meowmeowmeowmeow
 * rules:
  * required: true
  * maxLength:10
  * minLength: 100


[[/module]]
[[/div]]
[[/div]]
[[collapsible show="Login" hide="Logout"]]

= ##red|**ERROR:** Incorrect password. Fuck off, cat.##

[[/collapsible]]

@@ @@
@@ @@

------

[[div class="blockquote"]]

**SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW - HANNAH XOB AGAIN.**

------

##grey|//[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?

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[The kitten stares at her, then looks down and purrs.]//##

**Hannah:** Yeah, why a //cat// though? I don't really get it either.

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.//

##grey|//[Then she closes her eyes. She listens to the soft piano, and tries to get some sleep.]//##

##grey|//[An hour passes. She does not move.]//##

##grey|//[A year passes. She does not move.]//##

##grey|//[A decade passes. She does not move.]//##

##grey|//[A century passes. She does not move.]//##

##grey|//[A millennium passes. She does not move.]//##

##grey|//[The heat death of the universe passes. She does not move.]//##

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[She walks back down the hallway.]//##

**Hannah:** See you all later. Eventually. Thanks for the soda.

##grey|//[Then, she is gone.]//##

##grey|//[The piano stops.]//##

[[/div]]

------

[[div class="blockquote"]]

**EXIT - ALBERTO'S MIND.**

------

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[Alberto sighs. The village flickers.]//##

**Alberto:** I understand.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[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…

##grey|//[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.

##grey|//[Silence.]//##

**Hannah:** Alberto.

**Alberto:** We can’t //kill// him, Hannah. We need him, and-

**Hannah:** //Alberto.//

##grey|//[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//

##grey|//[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!?//

##grey|//[Alberto stares at her. He raises a shaky hand.]//##

**Alberto:** //Hannah. The weapons.//

##grey|//[He snaps his fingers. The universe ends.]//##

[[/div]]


[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ The First Acolyte

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/Acolyte.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"THE CREATION OF GOD"
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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.

##pink|**“Your own,”**## The thing croaked. ##pink|**“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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ Hannah Xob and the Eye Of God

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/EyeOfGod.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"God is watching."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

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. She looked back up at Arthur, and realized that he didn’t see it.

They met each other’s eyes.

“...Ah,” 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. She 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, excruciating pain at every moment 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 pupil 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.

[[/div]]

------

[[div style="border:solid 3px maroon; background:#000000; padding:15px; margin-bottom: 10px;"]]

+ You Can't Win

[[div class="scp-image-block block-center" style="width:100%;"]]
[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/scp-9317/EndOfAWorld.png link=#]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption"]]
"There is no escape."
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

“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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

And he kept reading.

And reading.

Until he found the first mention of it.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

He read it again.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Omicron-14 was subsequently used…//
[[/div]]

And again.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…used…//
[[/div]]

Then, he continued.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…promising personnel, as recommended by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald…//
[[/div]]

Conley swore under his breath. He could feel a vein about to pop.

How long?

How fucking //long?//

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

It was too much to bear. It was just too fucking much. His hands were shaking, his jaw was agape, but he kept scrolling.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…functional thaumaturgical system, without chances of sudden failures towards completion…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…IDEOSIG, and as such, complete control over the existence of Urdalism as an ideology in the general population…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//....believe that with enough resources, trained thaumaturges, and with the combined forces of the Paratechnological department, and the Tactical Theology department…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…manipulation, as well as incorporation…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…and establishment of complete Foundation control over the entity known as the Scarlet King for its own purposes.//
[[/div]]

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.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…All personnel were selected by Dr. Liam Fitzgerald to ensure maximum mission efficiency. Character testimonies were used…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Telal Usher (Deceased) - Believed to be the least troublesome option. Incredibly weak-willed, it was initially thought that the subject could be persuaded…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Val Sanders (Deceased) - Competent, but highly oblivious. See personnal account of relationship from A.V. for more information. Believed to be relatively easy to dispatch upon…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Daniela Tatton (Deceased) - Was not ideal choice. However, circumstances prevented the addition of a more compliant subject. Niece of author Dr. Cameron Tatton. Suggestions were to wait until…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Anna Newman (Deceased) - Highly competent, but combat skills were relatively non-existent. Suggestions were to wait until after secondary operations (research) to dispatch…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…August Kilroy (Deceased) - Moderately competent at topographical operations, but incredibly withdrawn. Sub-par social skills. Long history of depression. Highly motivated due to reliance on Foundation healthcare and gender-affirming care programs. Suggestions are to create a simulated…//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Arthur Vaughan (Deceased)...//
[[/div]]

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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 …//
[[/div]]

“No, no, please, please, god, //no…//”

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…Hannah Xob (Deceased)...//
[[/div]]

Deep in the basement, no one could hear what Lucas Conley yelled.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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…//
[[/div]]

No one could hear Lucas Conley breaking things, throwing computer monitors around the room, or punching straight through one of the screens.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
//…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.//
[[/div]]

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 this room.

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.”//

[[/div]]

------

9000contestfrankentropy 3

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