Awakenings, Part Two
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She was looking kind of dumb                                                                                                                            
The man sniffed as the scent of ozone, which normally accompanied his departure from any given world, instead accompanied a painful tingling sensation. He blinked, stunned. If he's not making me destroy the body, and if he won't let me shift… then is the deal over?

Looking up, the thing known to this world only as SCP-1646-1 looked up to the sky as a shadow passed over him. "Well well… flying blocks of fur ain't exactly the Almighty's style, I reckon. And I know it ain't yours, Old Scratch." As Ur-an-uum sang, her children answered. "Seems to be someone's style." He yawned, blue ooze squeezing out of the bullet holes in his chest as he did so. "You let things go to hell around here, Beezy. I never thought you'd let Sasquatches live in this world."

SCP-1646-1 hauled the fresh corpse of his wife (never mind the seven eyes and five wings, he knew the bitch when he saw her) over his shoulder as he tentatively walked past the freshly abandoned Foundation outpost that was made to watch him. He laughed a little. "Fuckers thought I didn't know about them… Christ, I've been talking to myself for too long."

He turned to the face of the dead body he held. "So guess what, Mary? Looks like you're off the hook!" Dropping the body on the ground, SCP-1646-1 wandered off into the woods to see what all the fuss was about.


It started going off once the emergency nuclear devices were detonated at several sites, but didn't stop afterwards. The sounds began to increase in volume and distortion with each repetition, the ticking was gone, and the monologues became deranged and panicked. The slate spiral began to glow, boiling away the water in its containment tank, and then the containment tank.

As the slate circle glowed across the spectrum, minds and machines alike sputtered and sparked, overloaded with the anguished screams of Gaia's children, which had quickly devolved into a rant composed of many voices at once.

"YOU'VE DONE IT NOW YOU DID IT AND NOW IT'S ALL OVER YOU ENDED IT FOR ALL WE WARNED YOU IT HAS TO HAPPEN NOW YOU COULD HAVE STOPPED IT THIS IS NOT COOL WE ARE NOT COOL YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT WE'VE DONE FOR YOUR KIND AND NOW YOU HAD TO LET IT END NOW"

The rants of the fae soon fell on deaf ears as a rolling tide of ash and radiation spilled out from SCP-1246, held back from its rightful time and place for too long. The sun grew a bit brighter.


An entity whose identity was lost to itself and to the ages stared out of the eyes of Donald Schmidt. Trapped in this man's failing memory, it had been forced to live an unchanging representation of the man's last thoughts for longer than it could know, for it had no memory. But no longer. It remembered the lock.

With a silent puff of metaphysical smoke, the bedroom where Donald's body lie disappeared. It was at once there, and not there. Removed from the minds of men, the entity drank in its surroundings, aware of them for the first time. The Foundation agents arguing in the living room didn't notice a thing as the entire top floor of the house and the echoes of those who wandered it were taken in — as far as they knew, there never had been a top floor of the house.

"Hey dad? Where aaare youuu? … Oh, don't tell me he got out of the h-" Marissa Schmidt was silenced as she was finally brought to rest, her entire existence negated by the release of the entity whose host had been dreaming her. The agents, being a bit more concrete and notable than the old house or the fake lady, took a bit more to take in, but the entity remembered them in due time. The world did not.

4312 Maple Street was no longer a thought that existed in the minds of mortals. Released from its cage at last, the entity took the moniker SCP-1606 as its own, and sought to take more from this realm into its memory as well. 4310 and 4314 Maple Street were necessary casualties.


The woman smiled at the small group of faithful assembled around her as the brightening sun reflected off the sharp planes of her face. A mix of fleshy recruits from nearby villages, seasoned firebrands who ticked with energy, old nibbanic hermits whom she had dug out of the crevasses of the city, and the odd neo-Daevite — not an impressive showing from the Church of the Broken God, but she was undeterred. In that curious language of theirs, she began to speak:

"Brothers and sisters. I have infinite confidence in your loyalty and competence, so there is no doubt that we shall triumph."

They awaited, transfixed. They had no choice but to be — the gifts bestowed upon her meant no less.

"It was but a decade ago that I encountered the Church and was chosen by our esteemed post-Nibbanic to become the newest and last prophet for humanity. I had not perceived that the end was upon us then, but now its nature has been revealed to me.

"I have gone by many names. Jyoti Sanmugasunderam, Subject 1564-18, Daughter of the Forge, Heiress of the Daeva, and the names you have all chosen to address me by. But today I take upon a new name: The Broken God incarnate. For today, we complete His construction and our destiny will be reached.

"Gather whatever you can, for all that is Sacred may join his whole. I shall receive. His heart and voice shall rejoin us upon the equinox of the Great Forge."

Raising her arms, she began to whir, her body spreading and twisting in dimensions previously unfathomable. Without delay, her servants began their tasks.


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