This story/episode is based on the SCP Tales: Quiet Days, Empty Nights, Thrice

It is also based on There Will Come Soft Rains (short story) by Ray Bradbury

Credits go to the original authors of these stories.

Fictions Mentioned:

Death is not the greatest of evils: rather, it is to wish to die when one cannot.

- Sophocles

Episode 1 - Quiet Days and Empty Nights

OP Song:

Adele - Skyfall (Lyric Video)

Insert Song: Start

Harappa · E.S. Posthumus

In the beginning, when the Known and Unknown Multiverse was quite young, there was death. Then, and forever after. The first was Lord All-Father Grimm Reaper Death, the first Primordial God to be known as Death who was once known by the name of Life. The second (one of many) was creation's most ancient of beings, the Brother's Death, consisting of Lord All-Death, Lord Great Death, and Lord Small Death, and there are very few things these Brothers do not entirely understand.

Oddly enough, one such thing are their own creations.

Born from mass grave at a time of plague, the Children of the Barrow forever owe their allegiance to Death, they who gave them life.

Born from conflict and into conflict, the Children of the Barrow seek always to create a world without it. A world where they would no longer be needed.

Born with skill in medicine and healing, the Children of the Barrow name themselves plague doctors, a name fitting for more than one reason. For each plague they cure, another is brought forth from their very existence.

The Children of the Barrow wish only to heal, but the Brothers Death may have other plans for them.

As does life.

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o 'clock! as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!

In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunny side up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.

"Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, California." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills."

Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go away; umbrellas, raincoats for today. .." And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.

At eight-thirty the eggs were shrivelled and the toast was like stone. An aluminium wedge scraped them into the sink, where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.

Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean.

Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were a crawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their moustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.

Ten o'clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.

Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted window panes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned, evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.

The five spots of paint - the man, the woman, the children, the ball - remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.

The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.

Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, "Who goes there? What's the password?" and, getting no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.

It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!

Twelve noon.

A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.

The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.

For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped into the sighing vent of an incinerator which sat like evil Baal in a dark corner.

The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here.

It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich baked odour and the scent of maple syrup.

The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.

Two o'clock, sang a voice.

Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.

Two-fifteen.

The dog was gone.

In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.

Two thirty-five.

Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played.

But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.

At four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.

Four-thirty.

The nursery walls glowed.

Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp, cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched grass, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes. It was the children's hour.

Five o'clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.

Six, seven, eight o'clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o'clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here.

Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: "Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?" The house was silent.

The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music rose to back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favourite...

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn

Would scarcely know that we were gone."

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o'clock the house began to die.

The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant!

"Fire!" screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: "Fire, fire, fire!"

The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.

The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistolled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was gone.

The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings.

Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes!

And then, reinforcements. From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemical.

The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake.

Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.

But the fire was clever. It had sent flame outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronze shrapnel on the beams.

The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes hung there.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed. Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river... Ten more voices died.

In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in, the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the stove working again, hysterically hissing!

The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlour. The parlour into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze, armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered mound deep under.

Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke.

Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped rubble and steam:

"Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is..."

It was over. At least, for this narrative multiverse canon.

No one in the SCP Foundation, from the lowliest security guard to the O5 Council of this multiverse, could quite explain exactly what was over. If they were to hazard a guess, a likely answer would have been "everything".

It was generally agreed that the first one to notice this was Dr. Victor Balakirev. Dr. Balakirev, though a veteran of many a dangerous experiment and not one to be easily surprised, couldn't believe what his eyes, or rather his high-power telescope, were telling him. What Dr. Balakirev couldn't quite believe was that a routine scan of the Crab Nebula revealed nothing but empty space where a rather conspicuous and rather hateful star was supposed to be. The alarm was raised, a dozen more telescopes were commandeered from various facilities and agencies, and there was no small amount of shouting and running around. The star, however, stubbornly refused to reappear, despite Dr. Balakirev's insistent claims that "a star isn't a bloody remote control, you don't just lose it!"

The next one to experience this strange lack of all things strange was D-682-1356, though he couldn't quite appreciate the magnitude of the occasion. He didn't know he was supposed to be the bait in what most assumed would be just another futile attempt in an endless series of failures. D-682-1356 also didn't quite know what to feel when he entered the armored vault to discover nothing more than a badly mangled skeleton when the acid bath was stopped. "So, what do you guys want me to do with that? Do you have a bone to pick with me or something? Heh."

The joke was lost on the assembled researchers, who now had more important things to worry about than D-682-1356's poor sense of humor.

So began the end. When SCP-294 was prompted to produce a cup of Joe, it made a serviceable cup of cappuccino, which utterly failed to contain any D-Class flavoring. In SCP-1981, Ronald Reagan spoke only of evil empires and managed to keep a perfect complexion throughout his speech. SCP-902 was opened and discovered to be empty, and no one could quite remember why they feared it so much in the first place. SCP-076 was found to be similarly empty, though no one forgot what scared them about it.

When SCP-1867 was asked if it realized it was a slug, it didn't think for a second to object, since it very clearly was. Besides, it didn't understand the question. SCP-085 was gone from its canvas, and its inky plains and fields felt bare and empty without the presence of the young woman who once inhabited them. They found the clothes which once belonged to SCP-1440 near the top of Mount Everest. Next to them, a single word was written in the snow. "Free".

Around the world, the echoes of the end became seismic shocks, and no one was spared from their influence:

The Church of the Broken God was wiped off the face of the earth. It isn't easy to maintain a working religious organization when all of your artifacts crumble to dust, and it's even more difficult to do so when half of those artifacts are inside your head.

Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd, having lost most of their stock and shortly after most of their members, soon faded into obscurity. Their once busy clubhouse, a hub for all things mysterious and expensive, became a place for elderly gentlemen to read the Sunday paper in peace and doze in comfortable leather chairs.

The Global Occult Coalition, after it became clear that the threats it was created to thwart were gone, was soon disbanded. The budget once dedicated to fighting the forces of the unknown was allocated to some of humanity's more mundane needs, such as the prevention of global warming and the development of more advanced nuclear weapons.

No word was heard from Doctor Wondertainment for a long time. A year after the end, a new line of Doctor Wondertainment toys was released. While "Doctor Wondertainment's Shooty Man's Vengeance" was a perfectly decent game, it was clear his/her heart wasn't in it.

When Foundation agents arrived at the current supposed location of the Factory, they found nothing more than an ordinary canned vegetable factory. The capital F was clearly no longer needed.

The Serpent's Hand lost a considerable number of its members, and with no cause to rally behind, was destroyed by the Chaos Insurgency. The Insurgency itself soon tore itself asunder like a mad dog biting at its own innards. Very few were left to be caught and executed by the Foundation.

The members of Are We Cool Yet never did become cool.

Nobody was never heard from again.

The Unusual Incident Unit continued chasing flying saucers and reports of Bigfoot (this time entirely unrelated to SCP-1000). Its agents didn't really notice.

The Foundation, as resilient as ever, was the last one standing. As the years passed, however, the reasons for its continued existence grew fewer and fewer. With all things anomalous gone, the Foundation had lost its purpose. Site after site was closed down, personnel were let go or, in the case of the few remaining D-class, terminated. Soon, only one part of the organization remained.

It was the last meeting of the O5 Council of this multiverse canon. There were no heartfelt speeches or commemorative plaques, because even at its end, the O5 council was a serious body of men and women who didn't muck about with nonsense. Instead, there were a few handshakes, a few quiet words, and mostly a whole lot of silence. Finally, one at a time, the former members began to leave, until only two were left.

"So, that's that, I suppose," said O5-04, rolling a cigarette. Smoking wasn't allowed in the boardroom, but there was no one left to object.

"Is… is this it? Everything we worked for, all of our sacrifices… just worthless?" asked O5-11, staring glumly at the floor.

O5-04 could only sport a grim expression, before eventually sighing heavily, saying. "Now, I wouldn't say that. We have one other person to call for this particular problem and he is by far the only hope that we have left in this situation, and the only hope that we could truly count on since Prime O5-12 (Councilman Max Walker) had recommended him to us in situations like this."

"..." O5-11 could only gasped, recognizing the proposal that his fellow council member is now proposing to him. "You mean... we're going to call the Consultant for this one?"

"Should you be surprised?," O5-04 raise an eyebrow. "After all, this is his known expertise."

And thus shall it be that the O5 Council of this narrative multiverse canon would call in the man who is experienced in the ways of anomalies and mystery, one who's name brings about a question that is of itself a question.

Doctor Who?

The Old Man woke, and his failures flooded his mind once more. The destruction of the Foundation base was just another drop in an ocean of guilt. Sometimes, he didn't know what still kept him afloat, what stopped him from drowning in the depths of despair and madness, from simply ceasing to care about the race he could so easily destroy. Perhaps it was nothing more than simple spite, the dying memory of defiance against his tormentors. It did not matter much.

The desert he found himself in was a lonely, empty place, and for that he was glad. Out here, he could do little harm. He started walking towards a distant chain of mountains, driven by a compulsion he learned long ago he could not resist. Once, he would throw himself into deep gorges, into rivers, into the sea, hoping the elements could keep him from causing any more damage, but the Brothers were stronger even than them. He would lie in depths of the earth, thinking he could finally rest in the dark, only to blink and find himself in the world above once more, making his way towards humanity like the bearer of a plague. The Brothers were nothing if not persistent.

As the soft desert sand crunched beneath his feet, he remembered that thrice accursed game of cards that led to all of this, to the three follies that sealed his fate.

First came the game: he should have never challenged them, he should have known better. But he was young, and full of pride, and had much to lose. He was a man in his prime when he lost his life in a meaningless war, and found himself in the Brothers' dark halls. Around him, his fellow soldiers walked silently towards the distant light, not even glancing at the three gaunt figures that showed them the way. But not he. He could not accept his fate. He had a young, pretty wife, a prospering farm, he could not lose it all, would not. He thought the others were fools, weaklings, to accept their demise thus. In his vanity, he challenged his guides, and refused to go forward until he was given the chance to fight. He got his chance, and he won. He won too much.

Second came his greed: the Brothers could not have known how good he was. He took every hand, broke every gambit, stole life from Death's grasp with guile and skill. The Brothers were displeased, but they accepted their defeat, and showed him the door back to the world of the living. As he stood at the exit, he suddenly thought, why stop now? He was the best card player to ever live, he could have it all! Why settle for life when he could have glory, power, immortality! He turned and sat back at the table. "Double or nothing", he said. And he won again. And again. And again. The Brothers were less gracious now, but still, they admitted their defeat. Three prizes he won from them: the cup, the cards, and the sack. They were the Brothers' prized possessions, and they offered him much if he would only return them: wealth, and luck, and health, and glory, but he wanted to humiliate them, to make Death grovel before him. So he took the prizes and left the Brothers seething in rage. He would pay dearly for his vanity.

Third came the waste: the prizes were items of immense power, for they could keep the Brothers at bay: the First's cup held the elixir of life, and a drop of it would banish him, saving even the sickest of men from his grasp. Every time he saw the Small Death lurking behind the shoulders of a man, he would sprinkle a drop towards him, and the First would flee, cursing and spitting. A drop seemed like such a small thing, and the cup held so much water, so he used it carelessly. He banished the First from those too old or frail to keep on living, from those the First rightfully owned. And eventually, the cup ran dry. When his wife began wasting away from the consuming illness, he had no water left for her. The First sneered as he took her away.

The prize of the Second was greater, like the Second himself. With the cards, he could challenge the Second's authority, hold the power of the Great Death at bay. When war was brewing, when man turned against his brother, he was there, to challenge the Second, to turn the tides of fire and steel. But like the waters of life, the cards of fate were wasted- he used them for every border skirmish, every civil dispute, every growing revolution, and the cards became more worn with every passing use. Though they lasted for longer than the water, eventually the Second refused to heed their call. He watched the world plummet into wars greater than he could ever imagine, watched millions die for nothing in the mud, watched the innocent suffer and bleed and burn. The Second laughed when he took them away.

The prize of the Third was the greatest. The sack of the All-Death could hold anything within it, contain even the greatest catastrophes, stop even the most dire forces from ever releasing their fury upon the earth. With the sack, he curbed the fury of storms, drowned fires that threatened to consume entire cities, held creatures most unnatural and fell, whose origin was not of this world. The sack held longest of all the treasures, but it too grew weak- its seams could not hold such mighty powers forever. He used the sack as foolishly as he used the lesser treasures- he stopped storms that would have passed, held fires that could have been contained. His sin was greater than mere wastefulness, though. The sack still held one last use, could hold one last being. In his search for the Third he saw the forces of darkness grow ever stronger, saw brave men and women like those of the Foundation risk their lives in order to contain them. Yet, he would not spare the last use of his sack. It was all he had left, his final hope. He knew the only way he could force the Third to release him from his endless torment was to capture him in the sack, and thus force him and his brothers to let him die. The All-Death never appeared, though, not even to mock him. When the forces of the unknown claimed a victim, only silence greeted them.

Once the prizes ran out, the true horror of his fate became apparent. The Brothers feared him no longer, and did not forgive his vanity, his wastefulness, his lording over Death. They wanted him to suffer, and death was far too good for him. Instead, he brought death upon everyone else- forced to seek the Third forever, and to watch humanity crumble in his wake. His curse, like his follies, was triple- never to die, always to seek, always to destroy.

The mountains grew closer and closer, and the Old Man allowed himself a moment of rest. His compulsion could be controlled, if but for a short while. He sat down in the sand and turned his gaze upwards, towards the stars. In the dark blue, early morning sky, only a few remained, but they shined brightly and cleanly. Looking at them, the old man remembered why he kept his head above the water. Perhaps this was the greatest of his follies, but it was one he was willing to allow himself. The world was too beautiful for him to allow its destruction without a fight, and humanity deserved better than to perish because of the mistakes of a foolish old man. He could not stop himself from hurting them, but he could give them one thing- his hope. He would stop himself, even at the price of oblivion.

Far from streaks of scattered lights

the end to all of mankind's plights

few would share these desolate sights

for naught was left but empty nights.

Beneath the ashen skies of a soon-to-be dead planet, stood a mountain, a stark form against the flatness of the wasteland surrounding it. Upon the mountain was an old man, sitting on a sun-bleached rock, watching the dust clouds dance amidst the stones. For the first time in what seemed like forever, the Old Man felt no need to go anywhere, no compulsion driving him to plague the innocent with his presence, no deathly Brothers destroying everything in his path. It was a small comfort, since there were no innocent left to plague. No guilty either. Nothing at all.

After some time, though judging exactly how much was impossible and indeed pointless, the Old Man spotted a figure beginning to climb the solitary mountain with some difficulty. As it finally ascended to the top to collapse in front of the Old Man's rock, he saw it was another man.

This man carries a stern and determined cleanly shaven face, green-brown eyes and clean cut brown hair. He wore a dark brown leather trenchcoat, a dark green-brown double breasted moleskin waistcoat, with 10 brass buttons and a fob chain attached to it. He wore tan corduroy trousers, a box-frame belt with several fastener pins and studded pinholes, and dark brown combat boots adorned with charcoal leather gaiters. For neckwear, he wore a knitted in a burgundy and ivory herringbone pattern. There was a bandolier that he wore across his left shoulder, taken from the body of someone that he had failed to save, as a firm reminder of his roots.

Slowly but surely, the man who was both young and old, once known as a healer and wise man was now presently a warrior born through the fires of battle and war, climbed to his feet and sat on a second rock, facing the silent elder, making a respectful nod towards him to which the elder could only respond in kind as he made a smile of relief and recognition on his aged face, feeling the familiarity of meeting this man of long ago who carried many different faces, and yet it was his eyes that despite the color remained forever the same, for the saying "the eyes are the window to the soul" would be quite true in the case of the man that is now sitting alongside him. After that was a seeming silence that brings about the contemplative which passed on to a few minutes at most, simply observing the edges of the mountain that stretched as far as the eyes could see, with their entire surroundings simply being very quiet and peaceful. Too peaceful.

And after the same minutes had passed, the man simply said with a sad smile. "It's been quite a while, Nowhere."

The Old Man from Nowhere - SCP-1440 could only sadly smile in turn. "So it has, my Lord Doctor," he said, looking towards the face of the man who seemed to carry another face. "And yet another interesting face to encounter. What brought it about this time I wonder?," he asked, wondering as to how did the man suddenly regenerated once again and on what kind of near instant injury or death had brought it about.

The man could only bow his head in sadness, simply saying. "Firstly, Nowhere, as much as possible, try not to call me the Doctor as that is no longer who I am anymore. Secondly, this face was created because of a promise that I intend to keep."

"Ah, I see," the Old Man could only nod out of respect and empathy, keeping silent as he could feel the heaviness that his old friend of long ago would seem to carry. Something must have happened, he thought. And it was something that he would not inquire to out of respect for his old friend of long ago.

Then comes another silence that lasted for a few minutes. Then the conversations resumed.

"You know, I wasn't surprised that it was you all things considered," the Doctor replied grimly.

The Old Man could only sport a saddened expression. "Would you have expected anything less, my Lord Doctor?"

"Not really, and I can definitely tell as to why," the Doctor continued with a grim tone, sighing heavily as he looks towards the Old Man, speaking in a tone of inquiry. "Nowhere. What had happened to this narrative multiverse while I was gone?"

The Old Man could only sigh in sorrow, bowing his head low. "Why do you care so much, my Lord Doctor? It's not like it matters anymore."

The Doctor considered this for a moment, absent-mindedly pulling on something hanging on a chain around his neck. "I guess asking questions is a hard habit to lose even with this face. Like living, in my case. So, let me repeat the question: what happened?"

"The rules have changed," the Old Man answered simply.

"That much I figured. Your anomaly used to take some amount of time to manifest. How did it become instantaneous? Why?," the Doctor asked in a tone of inquiry, although he could already guess the answer and the truth of the matter based on how he would foresee the many countless timelines as to where and when would this conversation come about. For that was the trouble of being a Lord of Time. One could quite literally see everything which was a torment in and of itself for renegades like him.

"Oh, I think you would know the answer to that question considering that I could only assume that you have seen the handiwork that it had brought about to this multiverse canon. I do not know why the Brothers decided to end mankind and every other sentient life in this narrative multiverse, or why they chose me as their instrument, other than to torment me. I never thought they would go this far to do so. As much as they hated me, their duty to the cycle of life and death was always more important to them. And yet, here we are. It is tragically simple, really. Throughout the eternity of my search for the Third Brother, the First and Second only came to haunt me when I stayed around humanity for too long. They did that to isolate me, to make me hurt, to spite me. Coming and going, and always mocking me as they took someone away because of my folly, never allowing me to stay in one place. Until that day," the Old Man said grimly as he turned his gaze to the horizon, though the smoke made it difficult to see very far. "That day, they came and never left. They didn't mock me, or taunt me, or say anything at all. No mention of my failures in the past, or the ones still to come. No, they simply pushed me towards a specific location, with a force I couldn't hope to resist, like a moth before a maelstrom. A bunker, built into the side of this mountain."

"Armed Sector-25. No one was supposed to know about it. But then again, this is the Brother's that we're talking about," the Doctor spoke grimly.

"Well you should probably know that I saw them… doing things to the guards and the facility as they led me in. I'm not quite sure how to describe it. 'Destroy' is too weak a word. I have seen them commit countless atrocities throughout the years, but never with such purpose and efficiency, and yet with so little appetite for their work. When they were done, and I reached the bunker's inner chamber, I saw why they led me here," the Old Man continued grimly.

"Armed Sector-25 held at least thirty-three percent of this narrative's SCP Foundation's nuclear and esoteric devices in the northern hemisphere, sending it to their proper coordinates and would initiate a Judgment Day as far as this narrative multiverse could see. Damn." the Doctor continued grimly, simply cursing at the last part out of realization.

The Old Man nodded. "And the warheads and the kill switches were needed to carry them."

Following the Old Man's example, the Doctor tried to look around as well, seeing the devastation all around him with his own eyes which were no longer surprised but angered at the atrocity that had just engulfed this narrative multiverse.

"If it were anyone, I'd have asked as to how did you survive? But then knowing you, you were either too far off from this narrative multiverse entirely or that you were being protected by much higher powers," the Old Man could only look at his old friend of long ago in amusement and with a shaking of the head, knowing just how much his old friend had danced with death for what amounted to so very long to the point where and when numbers seem quite arbitrary and pointless.

Giving the elder a humorless smile, the Doctor could only respond. "Oh it was the former. I was from somewhere a few clicks away from this narrative multiverse taking care of a few dangerous devices and enemies, preparing the clone troopers and other soldiers under my command when I suddenly heard about this through the official reports that were sent to me by the O5 of this narrative multiverse. And the official reports were unfortunately quite right on that the more I checked and looked through the scanners from my TARDIS. There really isn't anyone left. Which reminds me," he looks towards the Old Man's possessions, finding a small sack still hanging on to the latter's belt. "You still carry that old sack as I see."

The Old Man frowned. "This sack was supposed to save me, one day. I was supposed to use it to catch the Third Brother and gain my freedom. One last use, and no more. What use is freedom now, my Lord Doctor?"

"Everything," the Doctor muttered with grim determination and an understanding face, bringing out what appeared to be an ornate amulet that he got from somewhere before stopping here, belonging to that of a broken man who entrusted it to him, offering it towards the Old Man, recognizing the mysterious object immediately, who gently it took it with care, opened his sack, and tossed it inside. The sack's rope tightened around it, with a sense of finality. The Old Man knew it would never open again.

It was silent, for a while. And in that silence they could only simply watch from the edge of the mountains in contemplation, with none to disturb them.

Until someone laid a gentle hand on the Old Man's shoulder, and a cold voice is heard by him and the Doctor as they both turn to look at the tall cloaked figure of great stature that suddenly appeared before them, with the Doctor narrowing his eyes, instantly recognizing the figure from anywhere as his multidimensional senses felt the aura and presence of death itself.

"It is time to go, Nowhere. And as for you, my Lord Doctor, you cannot be allowed to intervene at this particular moment," the cloak figure spoke with formality.

"Oh I would beg to differ, Lord All-Death," the Doctor simply stood up, standing his ground, steeling himself and embracing the fear that is now gracing his twofold hearts and turn it to a burning resolve, walking a few meters of appropriate distance. "Seeing as how the Princess of the Heavenly Hosts herself had assigned me to the task of being the Ambassador that bridges the gap between the Higher and Lower Spheres, and thus this makes this my official business in terms of the Senate."

"Ah, of course," Lord All-Death muttered in subtle recollection, bowing his head low. "Your mother among the Angelus. How could I ever forget considering that I and the rest of my Brothers were there when that sacred duty was imposed upon you for all to see."

"So you finally come, Third Brother, All-Death. I have searched for you for so long, and you come when I have nothing left to give you. The gifts are all gone," the Old Man explained, narrowing his eyes.

"They are of no importance. It is done," Lord All-Death spoke simply.

"Of no importance!? You have tormented me for eons because I dared win them from you, destroyed the lives of countless others in your grudge against me, and now you have betrayed your duty and purged all life from this planet just to do so again! How dare you tell me they are of no importance!," the Old Man shouted in controlled justified anger.

"With respect, I would have to concur with my old friend, Lord All-Death," the Doctor said, narrowing his eyes at the figure that embodied the concept of death. "What you have just done to this narrative multiverse is an act of genocide that I simply could not just condone, ranks and formalities be damned."

"You fail to understand our purpose. Both of you. We did not gather all of sapient life into the silent halls to spite you, Nowhere. We did it to save you. All of you who lived in this narrative multiverse, and soon other narrative multiverses that belonged to our jurisdiction would follow."

The Doctor could only further narrow his eyes at that. "And what prey tell had passed onto your mind that this so-called plan that you have concocted alongside your Brothers is saving anyone?"

"Yes, that's what I like to know as well," the Old Man said, beginning to weep a few tears, falling on the barren rock at his feet. "What is there left to save? Everything is gone. You killed them all."

"A physical death," Lord All-Death corrected. "The physical form is a temporary, fleeting notion. Other things endure. Both of you would know this better than anyone. In the silent halls, they will be safe from what is to come."

"What kind of safety is death? What could possibly be worse than this?," the Old Man asked, seemingly having no amount of clue as to how could this get any more worse if death itself is considered to be a far more safe option to the alternative.

"He's talking about the War, Nowhere," the Doctor spoke grimly.

The Old Man could only look at his old friend with concern and alarm. "War?! What war?! How much do you know of this, my Lord Doctor?!"

"He is talking about the War that rages on from all of space, time, and everything in existence; one that Lord Doctor has been fighting for quite a long time despite his younger appearances to the contrary," Lord All-Death explained solemnly.

And it is in that moment when Lord All-Death would begin to utter in a grave and solemn tone, with a tinge of kindness that felt strange to the Old Man.

"The Last Great Time War. A conflict unlike any other. One that is destined to stretch throughout every single narrative multiverse, and the multiverses above, below, and beyond throughout the Known and Unknown Multiverse. A War Against Death Itself taken shape and form. A War that would bring about the endless cycle of life and death upon all in an instant repeatable act. A travesty of both life and death in an endless recurrence. One that I and my Brothers could not allow to happen for life and death itself, to which was why they were to be provided for from within the silent halls. For death itself is far more preferable to the fates that await those who succumb to the storms of madness that is embroiling upon the dark horizon that is clouded from within and without."

Lord All-Death would turn towards the Old Man, speaking a hint of kindness which bewildered the latter. with the former leaving his hand on the latter's shoulder and is now extending towards him. "Come, and be comforted. Our grudge is finally done. You are the last of the deathless. The rest have been taken already. It is time for you all to finally rest."

The Old Man could only look back at the Doctor who was sporting an understanding expression, with a sad smile to accompany it.

"Go old friend," the Doctor encouraged. "As much as it pains me, Lord All-Death speaks the truth. The silent halls would be a far more safer place than anywhere else at this current moment."

The Old Man, sporting a hesitant expression for but a moment, eventually agreed with a sad smile. "Then this is the end of the line for me. Goodbye, my Lord Doctor."

"No," the Doctor shakes his head, smiling sadly. "Not goodbye. A good morning to you and to the rest that come from the silent halls."

And at that moment, with a resolve to finally enter his rest and with a smile that was directed towards his old friend of long ago, the Old Man would eventually take the offer and would eventually find eternal rest upon the silent halls were the rest were now awaiting him, vanishing like mist as if it were never there, leaving Lord All-Death and the Lord of Time alone.

"I could only assume that you remained just so you could speak to me and me alone about what you and your Brothers have seen," the Doctor inquired in a grim tone.

"Yes," Lord All-Death nodded. "There is something that you must know, Lord Doctor. Something that concerns the fate and destiny of everyone that has and ever will have lived. As you have may known by now, the War between the Allied Forces and the Axis Powers is threatening the balance of life and death. Time is now being twisted to the point of no return, being shattered into a million micro and macro fragmentation of its own nature. Billions of narratives being created randomly in unreachable directions. Creatures of horror and abomination, the likes of which were never seen since the ancient days, have been returning one by one, slowly but surely. Marauk the Great Totalitarian Deceiver and his army of High Elder Gods and hosts of Unreal Entities. Many anomalous beings; gods of ancient power and divinity that are documented under the term SCP-001. The Monsters that reside from Todash Space, the endless Void between Universes in the Dark Tower. Other gods, monsters, demons, and other beings of many shapes, sizes, and abnormality that are now being brought back one way or another as the LOCKS surrounding and separating the aeons are now being breached and brought asunder. And even in spite of all of this, there is also the Dark One to consider that still remains from within his prison of long ago."

"The Scarlet King," the Doctor muttered in seriousness, with a hint of dread and anger.

"Yes," Lord All-Death nodded gravely. "And it is only a matter of time before he becomes free from his prison once more in order to do his master's bidding. You know as much as I how terrible of a day it would bring about to the Known and Unknown Multiverse. His escape is inevitable, and it cannot be overturn. However, hope is not yet lost for it can be alleviated and fought back just like the ancient aeons before. And that is where you fit in."

"I'm going to have to fight him eventually so I'm not surprised at the very least," the Doctor sighed. "And in some ways, I've been preparing for this moment for a very long time already even before the Time War came to be."

Lord All-Death would eventually look upwards, saying. "...Then if you were to heed my advice, my Lord Doctor, I would suggest that we would postponed any further discussions and trivial matters for the Senate hearings and for you to leave this narrative multiverse as swift as possible for it would appear that your old enemies that utter continuous cries of death and extermination are now about to take this narrative multiverse by storm, claiming it as their very own, just like other narrative multiverses before them."

The Doctor could only narrow his eyes at that, simply muttering "Of course they would," before eventually using his sonic screwdriver in order to summon the TARDIS to his location, with the wheezing sound eventually picking up little by little as it materialize within his line of sight.

Vworp Vworp Vworp

Sometime later, a small silvery object fell from the sky, and dug itself into the ground. It examined it and the air, and determined that, despite the elevated levels of radiation and the regrettable lack of sapient life, this planet was still perfectly suitable for experimentation. It sent a signal, and with it a broadcast that is now ripe for the taking.

"PROCEED TO TERRAFORM THIS WORLD AND THE REST OF THE NARRATIVE MULTIVERSE INTO THE DALEK IMAGE! INITIATING TERRAFORMER SYNSTHEZISERS FOR THE CONSTRUCTION AND REPLICATION OF PROPER INFRASTRUCTURES FOR THE PURPOSE OF FULFILLING PRIMARY AND SECONDARY OBJECTIVES! DALEKS COUNQUER AND DESTROY! DALEKS CONQUER AND DESTROY! DALEKS CONQUER AND DESTROY!"

And in the ashen sky was now a hint of metal.

Insert Song: End

ED Song:

Terminator Salvation - Break The Silence (Soundtrack)

Characters:

The War Doctor - A: John Hurt

The Old Man from Nowhere - SCP-1440

Lord All-Death

The Daleks - A: Nicholas Briggs