Notes:

"The difference between gods and daemons largely depends upon where one is standing at the time."

— Dan Abnett

WARNING: Contains Belos being a backward xenophobic asshat.

The Collector floated through the vast expanse of shimmering stars, his ethereal form a striking contrast against the swirling darkness of the Archivists' realm. Drawn by a blend of curiosity and trepidation, he glided toward the grand hall, eager to reunite with his kind. But let it not be misunderstood; he knew they would miss the mortal friends they had made along the way. This was not a permanent farewell—after all, among them, only King was immortal, and he would visit soon.

As he journeyed, an inexplicable disturbance rippled through the cosmos, like a stone dropped into still water.

"What was that?" the Collector wondered aloud, puzzled by the strange sensation. He pressed on, hoping the other Archivists might have some insight.

Yet, upon reaching home, as he stepped into the vast, dimly lit chamber, an unsettling chill enveloped him.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he immediately noticed the eerie absence of sound that hung in the air—a silence that felt decidedly strange.

Curious, he quickly donned his attire and left his room, only to find the place utterly deserted.

The Collector scratched his head in confusion, struggling to comprehend the unusual circumstances. Then, a thought struck him: what if everyone had conspired to surprise him? After centuries of exile, they had made a tremendous effort to ease his loneliness; perhaps they had planned something extraordinary to entertain him. Indeed, it would be just like them to do something so delightful.

His heart began to race; if there was one thing he cherished, it was surprises, and curiosity bubbled up inside him like a sweet thrill.

But there was no one there—just the emptiness that lingered in the shadows and one person.

At the center of the room stood a figure sitting on a stair—a boy, seemingly no older than ten. His skin was pale and gaunt, and his messy hair hung in tangled strands, obscuring his face. Crimson red eyes glinted from beneath the disheveled locks, radiating an unsettling intensity. He wore a tattered tunic that clung to his frail frame, and his feet were adorned with beaten sandals, stained with a substance that looked disturbingly like dried blood. Atop his head rested a grotesque crown of twisted antlers, resembling branches torn from a tree, giving him an otherworldly presence.

The Collector, drawn in by the boy's eerie innocence, approached cautiously. "Uh, hi? Who are you?" they asked, their voice echoing in the hollow space.

"I'm just a friend," the boy replied, his voice soft yet laced with a disquieting undertone. "I've been waiting for you. It's been so long since I had someone to play with."

Collector awkwardly sat near the strange boy.

"So…you're not an Archivist, are you a friend of theirs?"

The boy shrugged, "More like, an acquaintance."

Overtime, he and the boy stalked and conversed with each other. They did not know why but there was something about the boy that was both mysterious and disturbing. A paradoxical aura that told him to be very cautious and yet magnetics. At first, it seemed innocent, yet overtime the conversation became darker and darker without the Collector realizing it until the boy talked a bit about himself.

"I had siblings once…yet, they disappointed me." His tone was that of disdain "Animals, all of them, slaves to their basic instincts. Even now, I do not miss them at all…" he uttered with a calm yet disquieting voice.

That was when the gradual shift of the conversation spiraled into dark musings about existence and the futility of life. The boy spoke of the emptiness that permeated the universe, weaving tales of despair and nihilism that sent shivers down the Collector's spine. What began as an innocent exchange slowly morphed into something far more morbid, the boy's facade cracking to reveal a deeper essence.

Collector tentatively wondered "Isn't it strange? We search for meaning in everything we do."

The Boy tilted his head, a small smile on his lips with no warmth. "Meaning? What a terrible lie. Like a moth drawn to flame, we chase it, but in the end, don't we just burn?"

"But isn't there purpose in our stories? In creation?" Collector frowned.

"Creation? Oh, my dear Archivist, it's simply a mask we wear to distract ourselves from the void. Just look up—every star is a mere echo of something that once was, flickering out into nothingness." his words sent a chill at them.

"You speak as if nothing matters. Surely, we create connections, memories…"

"Connections? Memories? Temporary distractions from the relentless tide of oblivion. They wither and fade like autumn leaves, swept away to join the desolate earth."

"But we have choices! Our actions can shape reality!" Collector growing unease, protested.

The Boy's grin fell into a scowl and his eyes darkened "Reality? A fleeting dream! A façade built upon the bones of the forgotten. Each choice leads us deeper into the labyrinth of despair, where hope is but a faint flicker, easily extinguished."

"You can't believe that everything is pointless… Surely, there's beauty in existence." Collector tried to keep calm.

The Boy leaning closer, his voice barely above a whisper "Beauty? A mere illusion we conjure to comfort ourselves. Just as every sunrise is followed by the inevitability of twilight. What's the use of beauty when it too will decay, swallowed by the insatiable maw of time? What even is beauty is a subjective concept."

The Collector grew increasingly anxious "You… you can't think that way. There must be a chance for something more, for a brighter future…"

The Boy grinned again, revealing jagged teeth that made the Collector even more unease "Ah, bright futures… Just more lies we tell ourselves. Shadows shall always linger just behind every light, waiting for their moment to consume." noticed the increasing unease of them, he said "Why do you seem so… uneasy?" the boy asked, tilting his head, his crimson eyes narrowing. "The game just started, after all."

The Collector's heart raced. "Game? What do you mean?" He struggled to maintain a calm demeanor, but an instinctual dread began to creep in.

With a flick of his wrist, the boy shifted the atmosphere. The air grew thick, heavy with an oppressive darkness. Suddenly, the floor beneath them glistened with a viscous, starry liquid that dripped from the ceiling like cosmic tears. The Collector leaned closer, horror dawning on them as they muttered, "That's not jelly…"

As they looked up, the scene before him shattered his sanity. The once-majestic Archivists lay strewn across the ground, their forms grotesquely torn apart, their insides ripped out, blood pooling around them like a macabre tapestry of despair and whatever they had for organs splattered like decoration.

The very beings who vanquished the Titans, held the very power of the stars, bent reality to their will and could move entire planets…. slaughtered like animals.

The boy's expression shifted, eyes glimmering with grim glee as he surveyed the carnage, making Collector jump back helding a shriek.

"Look at them," he said, his voice dripping with grimeness and contempt as he walked around . "They were my last playmates, but they're… indisposed now. Their Ivory Tower drowned in their own blood. Oh they thought they were the apex of the cosmos, but like always ... .there is always a bigger fish as humans would say."

The Collector's gaze snapped back to the boy, and in that moment, he saw the truth. The boy's crimson eyes transformed into fiery pits, glowing like scarlet furnaces, and the air around him crackled with dark energy. "Y-you… y-you're n-n-not a boy…" the Collector stammered, almost falling backwards in fear. They were struggling to breathe, so much so that they could barely speak, realization dawning upon them like a bucket of ice falling at his head, he was no boy, he was a monster other Archivists told them when they were younger, a boogeyman the elders told the young Archivists to discourage them from misbehaving and he was now in front of him. "You're- !

"K̶̨͚͔̲̬͇͉̞͉͇̙͇̯͐͋̂͑ḩ̵͔̘͈͕͍͈͖̗̟̱̗̖̀̊̿̉̌̊̇͂̆̓̚̕͜͠ä̷̟́́͝h̷̡̨̝͕̭͖̫͕̬̦̻̮̔͜ͅr̴͕̖̻̫̒̉̏́͠͝ȁ̸̲̘͔̦̉̈͒̓̒̕ḥ̶̺̳͐̉k̵̟̤̺̳͔̻̖̻̝̙͂̀̍̿͌̉̓̈́͆͛̇̅̎͘̚͠͝͝."

The boy's grin widened, revealing jagged teeth that seemed far too large for his mouth and the very mirror that was between him and the Collector shattered into pieces without even touching it as if the very words defied its atomic structure. The whole world seemed to tremble as soon as he uttered it. It was as if thunder had exploded without warning right above them.

As the shadows deepened, the Collector felt themselves being engulfed by darkness as every hair of theirs stood on their end. The boy's figure loomed larger, casting an eclipse over the petrified Collector, who stood frozen in terror, they tried to move their legs again, but they seemed to have turned to stone from sheer terror.

The air thickened with an oppressive energy as the boy's form shuddered, rippling like a mirage in the heat. Shadows and then Brimstone twisted and contorted around him, elongating in unnatural angles that defied the laws of nature. His once-innocent features warped, the edges blurring and folding into themselves, revealing glimpses of vast, chaotic voids that pulsed with a malevolent light.

As he moved, the atmosphere crackled with a low, ominous hum, resonating with a primordial force that resonated deep within the Collector's very essence. Tendrils of darkness coiled from his frame, each one a chilling manifestation of despair, slithering across the ground like the arms of an ancient deity awakening from a slumber long forgotten.

The boy's eyes burned brighter, morphing into twin suns of scarlet fury, igniting the shadows like a warning beacon in an abyss. Where once he stood small and frail, towering shapes emerged around him—twisted, unnameable forms that defied comprehension, their angular bodies writhing as if composed of living darkness and fire.

And as the transformation reached its climax, it was clear that this was no mere boy. He was a harbinger of nightmares, a vessel of the indescribable, embodying a dread that transcended human understanding—a fear that clawed at the very fabric of reality and a bottomless hatred that promised an end to all existence as the Collector knew it.

"A̶̙̹͉̽̈̈͜͝r̸̪̠̃͑͐̏̍̀̓̑̒̍̀͆̅̌̀̃̕͘̚͠ç̸̖̬̠̤̗̖̱̥͎͓̥̖̦̓̐̎̐̇́͘͜͜͜h̶̬̟̠̖͓̼̗̏̐͒̋̑̉̈̌̂͒͌͐̌̃i̶̘̫̱̺̬̯͖͆̒ͅv̴͚̪̙͓̞̗͉̮̼̳̟̤̜̻͕̗̓͑̍͛͜͜͝ͅi̴̡̨̩̫̩͎͖͓̠̺̭͂̄̐̓̈͂͌͐̈́͆̏͗̃̕͝s̸̟̥͔̤̝̲̦̘͐́ͅͅt̷̨̢̛̼̖̤̪̟͔̞͚̭͚͉̥̫̟̻̠́̑͂̊͒̀́͂̊͗̈́̎̆̿́̿̊͘̚͠…." A voice—deep and resonant—echoed through the chamber, reverberating with the weight of eons and the whispers of madness. It carried the weight of uncountable souls lost to the void, filled with the whispers of eldritch knowledge that should never have been known with furnace eyes hotter than the deepest pits of Hell.

"Ẇ̶̳̺͎͚͈͂̈́̀͒̀̽̆͗̈́å̵̘̠̺͚͓̥͓̙̭͉̤̖̜͚͇̙͆͛͐̿̒̿͜ņ̶̧̨̗̖̝̲̘͚̤̟̦̟͖̳͆͌͌̐̈͌̊͜͠t̸̥̹̫̟̺̂̌̇̋̎̀̀̍͂̅̉̈́̂ ̸̤̀̌͒̈̔̿́̓̑̈́̚t̶͍̺͌̌͐̒̾̚͠ͅò̴̡̮̖̹̼͖̦͈͚̏̓͂͘͜ ̵̱̞̫̞̖̲̙͙̘́͜i̸̡̜̤̹̗̰̰̰͇͇̾̿̈̅̚͝n̶̢̛̲̙̺̿͆̀͗̍͋́̔̅͆̎̆̇͠d̶̢̘̘̰̼̩̦̳̱͕͈͐̽́͗̒͛͊̓͆͊̌̾̚͜͝ͅų̵͖̠͖̰͉̈́̾̀̋͌̇̅̔̅͋́̾̂͝l̴̜̩̝̈́͑̓̈́̓̂̓̆͒̏͑̏̾̀̀̚͝g̶̨̪̹̳̰̠̼̰̮̥͂͒̉͑̒̑̈́͑̈́͆͂͘̕ͅe̸̜̒̈́̍̂ ̸̜̝̲͌̈̀̀̉̿̑̐̅͋͒̿̆͗͛͜i̷͔̲̲̾̔͋̆̍̓̈̉̂̈͒̀̕͝͝n̴̡̧̗͙̮̳͕͓̣̣͚͇̺̼̊̍͛͑̓͋͛̽̔́͊͘̚͜͝͝ ̸̢̥̖̺̦͍͙̙̲̘̤̠͕̺̪̖̝́͆͠ä̶̧̗̪̐͆̓̉ ̴̢̢̡̡͕̺̪͎̱͎͎̘̩̯̫̠̬͛́̆́̇̈̄̒̄̒̒̍̑̎͛̕͝l̶̛͖̖̞͎̣͍͕̫͔̮̀̂̓̏̈́̉͌i̸̮̝͒̈̉͐̓̾̇͆̎̓͌̿̚͘̚̕͘ẗ̸̢̺̜̬͕̪͚̜́͌̎̾͒͑̍̍́͂̄̔̚̕͘͝ţ̵̜͕̔̽l̷̢̯̗̠̻̹͍̱̯̭̬̏̏́̑̈́̓͋̓̀͐̾̆͜e̴̢̳̬̼̳̠͋͂̈́̈́̆͗͒̓̇̓͂͝ ̸̢̖̫͉̼͙̖͍̾g̴̛̟̗͓̮̳̺͙͂͜â̷̡̨̡̨̙͖̩̳̟̞̝̙̝̈̄̃̈́͛̌͆̕͝͝͝ͅͅm̶͉̭̰̀̅͆͆́̀̓̄̌͋̀͆͐͘͝͠e̵̢̢̨͈̘̥̼̤̲͚̓̅̽̅̎́̎̏͒̒̆̈͝͝?̵̡̲̗́͒̂̓̆̈́͆̂̀͘͠"̴̢̮͉̱̠̺͊̋͌̉̿̐̂̿͋̈̚

The voice said with infinite malice as the ever growing shadow eclipsed the petrified Collector.

SCP-2408….

This once served as the headquarters of the Hunters Black Lodge, an infamous Neo-Sarkic cult intricately linked with the Russian Mafia. This anomalous criminal organization, primarily active in the post-Soviet states, had amassed a notorious reputation for engaging in grievous crimes—robbery, extortion, murder, slavery, and underground fighting rings filled with bloodlust and brutality.

The members of this criminal alliance were not ordinary men; they had the terrifying ability to undergo grotesque physical transformations, rendering them stronger, larger, and far more resilient than typical humans. With enhanced reflexes, superhuman speed, and advanced senses, they could even adopt various non-human physical traits, making them formidable opponents capable of testing even the most seasoned operatives from the Foundation and the Global Occult Coalition (GOC). Whispers among the shadowy circles spoke of their monstrous attributes, where a thin man could become a hulking giant, and the weak could emerge as apex predators of the night.

Yet, now, the once formidable hunters lay slain, their bodies sprawled across the cold, hard floor, lifeless and unrecognizable. Their skin, mottled and bristled, resembled that of victims afflicted by the Bubonic Plague, as if the very essence of their power had been cruelly stripped from them.

Those who did not succumb to death had either fled into the darkness, their instincts for survival kicking in, or had fallen prey to a far graver fate—transformed into mindless zombies, monstrous extensions of the intruder's will. They moved with clumsy aggression, devoid of free will, compelled by an unseen force to attack their former allies, tearing through flesh and bone with the ferocity of wild beasts.

The intruder himself moved with an unsettling grace reminiscent of a preacher, exuding a charisma that masked the horror lurking beneath the surface. He appeared to be an ordinary adult man, with a black beard that obscured his true nature—something far more ancient and sinister lay beneath that human exterior. This was merely one of the many faces he wore; in truth, he possessed the unsettling ability to inhabit multiple human bodies, shifting his appearance to suit his needs. Within the ranks of the Foundation, he was known simply as SCP-2075, a name that sent shivers down the spines of those who had encountered him.

As the preacher advanced deeper into the shadows of the once-grand hall, he suddenly halted, his senses prickling with awareness. He felt a presence looming, one that held a weight of authority and age far beyond his own.

"Who… dares to intrude?" a guttural voice demanded, resonating from the darkness with an intensity that seemed to shake the very air around them.

"I am Karcist Varis, oh Great One. I've come to free you," Varis proclaimed, bowing deeply as an act of utmost respect, his voice unwavering despite the enormity of the moment.

"The Heretics… are you not?" the voice rumbled, a deep suspicion threading its tone, reverberating through the chamber like thunder.

"No, I am Nälkä. I would sooner slit my own throat than join the ranks of those degenerate monsters," Varis replied, his voice firm as he straightened, unwavering even in the face of such dark power. "We have all been hunted for centuries. What we have done to survive has not always been palatable… but we survived. I was visited by Grand Karcist Ion, who enlightened me about the ways of Nälkä. I seek a new path, a way to reclaim our power and pierce the veil of the oppressors."

A deep growl vibrated through the air, weaving a tense silence that followed Varis's declaration. "I sense no lies… has the hour of our reckoning come?" From the inky darkness, a single, ominous eye glimmered back at Varis, belonging to something massive, a creature that loomed larger than life itself, made all the more imposing by the thunderous sound of heavy footsteps that accompanied its approach.

Varis looked up, unfazed. If anything, he appeared to be experiencing a religious epiphany, a moment of purpose igniting within him. With an enigmatic smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, he announced, "Orok, the Brute of Grand Karcist Ion. It has come. Our liberation is nigh."

With those words hanging in the air, the shadows deepened, and the tension crackled like electricity, suggesting that a new chapter of the Nälkä was about to unfurl.

Belos jolted awake with a shock, his heart racing as the memories of his brutal death flooded back. His eyes darted around, but all he could see was an endless expanse of darkness.

Was this the afterlife? The thought struck him as utterly preposterous. He had so much yet to accomplish. Where were the welcoming angels and the pearly gates of Heaven, ready to greet him warmly for his relentless crusade against witches and demons? Instead, he was engulfed by an oppressive void. Was this Hell? It couldn't be. After all his sacrifices and tireless efforts against the heathens and heretics, he expected a reward, not punishment. Moreover, Hell was a realm of eternal fire and brimstone; if this was the afterlife, where were the anguished screams of the damned? Where were Satan's torturers, ready to inflict endless pain?

As he pondered his fate, he began to reflect on his actions during his life. If there was one significant mistake he made, it was becoming so consumed with the Demon Realm that he had neglected Earth. When he finally returned home after centuries of exile, he was horrified by the changes that had taken place. Everything he saw filled him with disgust to his very core.

There was a perverse freedom of religion allowing pagans and practitioners of magic, such as Voodoo and Wicca, to roam freely. Cultures that weren't even rooted in Abrahamic faiths spewed their vile lies and twisted philosophies. The unfaithful dared to deny the existence of God, cheapening both faith and enlightenment in a society driven by the insatiable greed of capitalism. The idea of men and women enjoying equal rights was laughable to him. He was particularly appalled by the sight of men engaging with men and women with women, their depravity celebrated during holidays meant for righteous worship!

His mind flashed back to Luz, a child of tanned skin who managed to find her way into the Demon Realm and make a name for herself. While it was surprising, he felt an overwhelming disdain for the fact that she had been embraced by such a wretched society. He had endured so much time surrounded by these base creatures that he would take any human, regardless of their skin tone—no matter how much they resembled those detestable gypsies. Yet her affection for another girl, rather than a boy as God intended, exemplified a disturbing trend that he had witnessed in that cursed realm. It filled him with revulsion; he suppressed the urge to express his disgust in front of them and instead contemplated his return to Earth.

But Earth was even worse than he had imagined.

Had he known the depths to which the world would descend into depravity, he would have rushed back centuries ago, purging every single degenerate, heretic, witch, deviant, and subhuman by burning them in holy fire! For each fleeting moment of this darkness, he vowed that if he ever found a way back, he would not rest until the wicked were cleansed and the righteous were restored.

Once more Belos got jolted, but for a different reason like he had the dream of a dream, it was disorienting. It was like flashes of a whole lifetime each with emotions passed in front of him with a life that he had led…only to diverge. Caleb Wittebane….his brother consorting and even fraternising with a witch, he never killed him, that day Philip Wittebane with disgruntlement had to learn tolerating having witches around, because of that one decision Philip Wittebane never became Emperor Belos, because of that decision alone he never had to create Grimwalkers of his brother, failed trying to make him understand his folly only to then kill him over and over again straining his sanity and because of that decision alone where he did not killer his own brother as did Cain to Abel….he lived happily, he lived as a happy man who also overtime his mere tolerance for the embodiment of heresy that is the Demon Realm became acceptance, even fondness finding new friends that he should have hated, growing old with his brother, becoming uncle he never was and embracing his life on the Boiling Isle.

Belos was feeling a turmoil of emotions: hatred, disgust, confusion, outrage, envy, regret, guilt, anger and so many. Seeing a life of what could have been if he didn't commit kinslaying leaving his holy crusade, becoming a heretic himself and yet…living so content. Was this the true price of happiness in life? If he can do without it, his reward shall be in the afterlife and yet….this limbo was neither Heaven or Hell.

"Beautiful life, isn't it…?"

A guttural voice that Belos saw as one of the most repulsive voices he ever heard came, frantically looked around and saw no one.

"All of this….could have been yours. And yet, you have imprisoned yourself in your own built identity, how ironic that you, a man of faith, slayed your brother just as the son of Adam did to his brother…"

"Are you….Lucifer!" He accused, of course the Devil himself would be there to tempt him with what-ifs, it explained all of this!

The voice said otherwise "No…unlike the Morningstar…I am a good son, the one you worship…I am her Archon…I'm an Angel of the Demiurge."

"Foul deceiving demon! I worship only the Almighty! You're no angel of his! I serve no false god!" Belos spat, maybe this being was one of the blasphemous Titans' messengers? How ironic that he pretended for centuries to be the herald of the Titans, only to die by the real one who was Luz before the girl got corrupted by the foulness of the Demon Realm and the Depravities of Earth.

"Your God….does not love unconditionally. He doesn't love you…."

"More lies! My life's work was in his name!"

"Your life's work makes him puke."

"They were Witches! Evildoers! Their very existence tainted all that is holy!" He thundered in.

"Lies? Using name of your Lord? In vain? No wonder he abandoned you….But…I love you…"

"What…" rage and fear shook Belos feeling a chill coming through his spine freezing him, his mind refusing to comprehend what he just heard.

"Yaldabaoth loves you…."

"What…" Belos's words of horror were merely whispered, he knew that name, it was a name he heard of a heretical Christian sect that meant-

"We love you…you have honored the Demiurge in your actions, in your transformation, in your devotion to your basic hatreds and fears and for that…you're rewarded to see one of his messengers. Now behold, the true form of an angel!"

Suddenly, a being materialized in front of him and Belos wished he did not see. A true abomination with no comparison. He thought he saw what real abominations were like in the Boiling Isle, yet this entity shattered all his preconceptions.

It emerged from the swirling mists of forgotten nightmares—a grotesque spectacle beyond the feeble grasp of human comprehension. This towering behemoth, a pulsating mass of cephalopodic horror, twisted defiantly against the very fabric of Euclidean space, its form a chaotic lattice of writhing tentacles that seemed to dance to a rhythm of dread. Each appendage was a slimy, undulating serpent, adorned with glistening, otherworldly barbs that shimmered in hues too bizarre for the mind to process.

Atop this cyclopean monstrosity, the head presented itself as the most terrifying aspect of its existence. Four multifaceted eyes glistened with a malevolent intelligence, their depths swirling with unfathomable abysses of madness that threatened to engulf the souls of any who dared to meet its gaze. Crowning this horror, a grotesque array of bony horns jutted outward like ribbed appendages, a grotesque coronet of death that suggested both dominion and decay. The entire countenance was elongated beyond the bounds of nature, an impossible parody of humanity that instilled a primal fear within the deepest recesses of human consciousness.

The mouth, a cavernous maw, perpetually twisted into a grimace of unspeakable agony, seemed to be more a portal to the abyss than an orifice for nourishment. It churned with an eldritch hunger, ever eager to devour the sanity of all beings that strayed too close. As it loomed, shadows writhed about its form, whispering the secrets of an age old and forgotten, a testament to cosmic horrors that should never have been. In its presence, the air grew thick with the taste of despair and the lingering scent of ancient decay, sealing the fates of those who dared to linger in the darkness.

"̴̧̧̮͈͚̘̬̤̇̔͊͋ͅB̷̧̢͖̬̣́̆͑̌̓̾̿̂ͅě̸̗̞̤͗̔̀̈̔…̶̘͍̝̬͎̠́̃̄͐̓̽́̐̃̆̋̀͆͘ǹ̷̡̡͇̬̤̘̟͇͎͈͓̺̻͔̇̇͑̀̀̌͐̎̚͘̕͝o̵͎̟̖̩̺̖̬̱̦͛ͅt̷̡̫̰̤͕̻̮̦͓̮̟̪̣͒͜ ̴͕͕̪͍̠͖̄̓â̸̘̞̤͚̝̗̽͊̏̔̉̿́̓̐̇̑͜͝͠f̶̝̣̬̤̟̙̺̆̉r̴̨̠̜̙̻̒͆̀̒̅̎ả̸̘̭̩̳͊̾̈́̊̈́̈́́̄̈̀͘ͅï̷̢̖͔̹̘͎͈̙̹̻̫͈͓̥͍̜̐́͗͗̑̑̀̋̀̈͋́̚̕̕̕d̴̡̞̻̜̘͇̻̯͍̲̹̗̙̤̠̻̆̍͊͐̇͌̀̈͋̀̃͆̀̌̀̔͘͜!̷̡̧̧̛͇̫̼̤̱̼̮̻͎̜͑́̀̉͗̊̐̔̈́̒̀̕ͅ"̵̻̪́͑̈́̇̄̑̓̎͘͠

Belos tried to flee but before he could get the chance one of the tendrils caught him wrapping around him, he struggled and lashed out like a wild animal and it was not enough as he got closer and close to the abomination's face making Belos able to see more details of the Archon's face filling him with primal revulsion and fear likes of which he never experienced in his entire life.

The Mouth impossibly opened, filled with razor sharp teeths came down as Belos screamed.

"D̵̫̤̼͉̞̰̱͎͋̇͐̋̆̀͂̈́́̎è̶̢̠̺̞̤̭̩̩͍͚̯̑̌̏̏̑̚͠u̴̙̘͉̯̬͎̻̮͎͓͆̾̾̂̔͌̓͜s̴̱̝̫͕̹̈́͌̒ ̷̛͖͂̉͆̋̓̌͝V̵̡̦̥̥͇̣͇̥͉̽͜ư̷͔͓͔͎̋̌̿̽́̽ļ̶̦̣̦͔̣̦̭̪̽̆͛͠t̴̹̙͉̹̍̎̑͒̇͋̊̕͠͝͝͝!̷̨͚̻͙͚̝̳̩̱̹̮̙͖̽͂͐̓̈́̌͛."

In the Void, no one hears you scream.

SCP-6265….

In a massive underground facility, the floors were slick and bloodied, strewn with the fresh corpses of Foundation guards and soldiers, mingling grotesquely with the lifeless bodies of Sarkics and twisted centaurs. Despite the carnage, the invaders stood triumphant, their victory echoing through the darkened halls.

The blaring alarms filled the air with a cacophony of chaos, a desperate warning that fell on deaf ears. The living Sarkics, a wide variety of twisted forms, moved with a grotesque confidence alongside their equally monstrous companions. Some had taken to "snack times," feasting hungrily on the remains of the fallen Foundation personnel, their glee a stark contrast to the horror surrounding them.

Among these grotesque companions were the Orcadians, also known as the Horsemen, classified as SCP-3456. These abominations bore translucent skin that grotesquely mimicked the appearance of skinless horsemen, exposing their insides in a horrifying display. Each Orcadian was a nightmarish fusion of one or more humanoids melded to the equine form, rather than existing as separate entities.

The arms of the Orcadians were disturbingly elongated, twice the length of their bodies, ending in sharp, bone-protruding fingers where human digits would normally reside. Their equine halves sported three-toed hooves, a bizarre juxtaposition to their human-like torsos. The humanoid components of these creatures lacked noses entirely, featuring only two gaping holes in their faces that suggested a grotesque parody of humanity. Towering over any standard human, the height and length of these abominable creatures reached staggering proportions, with some measuring up to 15 meters in length and others standing as tall as 30 meters.

These Nuckelavees were creations of an evil god named Teran, imbued with a singular purpose: destruction. Once, they had posed such a dire threat that the Daevites, Mekhanites, and Sarkics had set aside their ancient animosities to unite against the menace they represented.

Typically, Nuckelavees manifested only in the midst of war, yet they could sense an impending conflict brewing—a war unlike any the world had seen since the last Occult War. This foreboding sense of battle drew them forth, alongside their so-called companions, the Neo-Sarkics. The latter had taken advantage of this dark omen, employing forbidden arts to bind a select few Nuckelavees to their will, the arcane Sarkic words burned into their flesh serving as chains of control. The Horsemen would have torn themselves apart before ever submitting to anyone but their god if not for one shared common enemy: the Foundation, located within this very underground facility.

With a ferocious determination, the Nuckelavees stormed into a room, their massive forms breaking through the door with ease, only to find that their intended targets were not present.

Before them lay an incubation chamber that had emerged from the wall, its door ajar and empty, with traces of viscous liquid pooling on the floor beneath. The sterile environment was marred by the remnants of a struggle, and on the chamber's monitor, a stark message flickered ominously:

"Subject 47-A: Extraction Protocol Initiated. All personnel advised to evacuate immediately."

The words pulsed with urgency, a stark reminder of the danger that still lurked within the facility. As the Nuckelavees surveyed their surroundings, a low growl reverberated from their throats, a mix of frustration and anticipation. They had come for a hunt, and the scent of their prey was still fresh in the air.

NAME

Arthur

PURPOSE

King

ASPECT

Father

STATUS

YOUNG ADULTHOOD

VISAGE

"Magnificent."

Suddenly, the writings changed.

Guinevere : Awake….Arthur Pendragon…Son of Stielenōt.

Just as the Nuckelavees began to process their surroundings, a dislodged section of the wall erupted violently, as if the very structure of the facility was rebelling against the intruders. A massive hand, muscular and clawed, broke through the concrete, grasping a shrieking Sarkic by the throat. The creature's eyes went wide with terror as it was yanked forward, and before it could register what was happening, a gleaming sword sliced through the air, cleaving the Sarkic in two with a sickening crunch.

The sound of crashing debris and the splatter of ichor filled the air, a grotesque symphony that momentarily quieted the chaos around them. The remnants of the fallen Sarkic slumped to the ground, lifeless, and the Nuckelavees shifted uneasily, their attention now drawn to this new, formidable presence.

King Arthur emerged; Clad in an intricate suit of brass and copper, his armor resembles a patchwork of medieval elegance and mechanical precision. Each plate is engraved with ornate patterns reminiscent of ancient runes, glowing softly with an ethereal blue light that pulses in time with his heartbeat.

His helm, a marvel of engineering, is adorned with delicate filigree and showcases a visor that can slide aside to reveal piercing emerald eyes—eyes that hold the wisdom of centuries and the relentless determination of a ruler. A plume of vibrant crimson feathers bursts from the top, fluttering like a standard of old, symbolic of his royal lineage amidst the mechanized wonder surrounding him.

Arthur's right arm bears the intricate mechanics of a clockwork limb, seamlessly blending flesh and steel. Subtle whirs and clicks accompany his movements, with delicate pistons mimicking the sinews of muscle, granting him uncanny strength and dexterity. At his side hangs Excalibur, a magnificent longsword with a blade forged from a rare alloy, its edge sharpened by both ancient magic and advanced metallurgy gifted to him by the Lady of the Lake, a patron of Mither the goddess of Finnfolks, it's blade growing blight from its sheer heat. The hilt is embedded with intricate gears, allowing the sword to transform, its configurations adapting for both combat and ceremonial displays.

His cloak, a deep shade of royal blue, drapes elegantly from his shoulders, trails like a living shadow, and is lined with embedded circuitry that glows faintly, resonating with the energy of the land itself. The fabric subtly hums, providing him with an aura of grandeur while shielding him from the elements, as well as the ever-present threat of treachery.

Around him, the air is thick with the scent of oil and steam, punctuated by the distant clanking of automata and the whirling mechanisms of his fantastical realm. King Arthur stands as a beacon of Stielenōt, the duality of tradition and progress, a true knight of legend.

Orcadians screeched in hatred, recognizing Mither's work on Arthur's sword. Three of them rushed toward him, their talons ready to tear him apart, Arthur dodged, ducked and with one swing of his sword slashed them apart from between their humanoid part and the horse part ironically separating the man-things from their horses part. As they laid dead, Arthur's emerald eyes glared at the others with cold contempted and growled.

"All I am surrounded by is Fear and Rotten Meats."

The Horsemen and Sarkics with animalistic roars ran attacking him as he readied Excalibur to vanquish those who dared invade Camelot and swinged.

In an average low-pay apartment, an unassuming woman with light brown hair lay sprawled on a worn couch, a half-eaten tub of ice cream resting on her stomach. Her hair was disheveled, and she stared vacantly at the flickering television, boredom etched across her features. To any passerby, she might have seemed like just another slothful young woman in her twenties, lost in the mundanity of life. But beneath that ordinary facade lay a history steeped in darkness and power.

This young woman was older than she appeared, for she was once known as Saarn the Coiled Shadow, the top assassin of Grand Karcist Ion, one of the most feared Klavigars in the annals of Nälkä history. She had walked the halls of Kalmaktama, witnessing its splendor and glory as she and her fellow Nälkä waged relentless war against tyrants and the gluttonous, selfish gods who sought to oppress and control.

Saarn had been there when Ion led them to freedom, breaking the chains of Daevite tyranny and slavery. She remembered the exhilaration of that moment—the taste of liberation, the thrill of fighting alongside her comrades, who had become more than just allies; they were family. Together, they had carved out a place in a world that sought to crush them.

But that world had changed. She had witnessed the fall of Adytum, the moment when the enemies of the Deathless Empire, united with their sworn foes, the Mekhanites, marched upon them. The devastation was catastrophic. She had watched as everything they had built crumbled to dust, her people scattering like leaves in the wind, divided and desperate. Some had succumbed to the lies of the gods, particularly the vile god of flesh, Qlippoth, while others were hunted down mercilessly, branded as demons disguised as men.

The Klavigars—her family—had vanished without a trace. They were not mere co-workers to Saarn; they were the only family she had ever known, far more meaningful than the depraved, abusive Daevite household that had taken her in as a servant. In a fit of vengeance, she had poisoned them, garrotted the overseers, and plunged a dagger into the heart of her abuser, relishing the sweet taste of revenge. But that taste had nearly cost her everything. Near her execution, when all hope seemed lost, Ion had appeared. His presence was a balm to her soul, a reminder of her true purpose. "The winds whispered of your actions. There is no evil in the Judgment. You did not choose to be the vessel of our will. Many will die this day, but you are needed alive," he had said, freeing her from her chains and offering her a chance at redemption.

Now, as she sat in her dimly lit apartment, the memories flooded back, a bittersweet tide that left her feeling hollow. She missed them dearly—Orok's dry humor, Lovataar's sly tips on seduction, Nadox's philosophical musings that challenged her worldview, and Ion's unwavering encouragement that had once fueled her spirit. The years had stretched into millennia, and she had wandered aimlessly, engaging in acts she was not proud of, all in the name of survival. The lines between good and evil had blurred, leaving her despondent and melancholic.

Just a few days ago, a group of Neo-Sarkics had approached her, eager to recruit her into their ranks. The audacity of it had ignited a spark of outrage within her, and she had vehemently refused their offer. They had not taken 'no' for an answer, launching an attack that they would come to regret. They had underestimated her, mistaking her for just another average Sarkic, a rookie among their ranks—a fatal mistake that had cost them dearly. With a swift, practiced grace, she had dispatched them, relishing the irony of their downfall.

The sheer irony of the term "Sarkic," derived from the Greek word for meat, used by the Mekhanites as a derogatory label for the Nälkä, now being the official designation for her people, weighed heavily on her heart. It felt like a cruel reminder of their degradation, a way to keep her people shackled in the eyes of the world.

As she sat there, the television flickering with mindless entertainment, Saarn felt a deep yearning for the days of old—when she had fought alongside her family against the tyranny of the world. The simplicity of those times seemed like a distant dream, overshadowed by the complexities of a fractured existence. She longed for purpose, for the thrill of battle, and for the camaraderie that had once filled her life with meaning.

But now, all that remained was the echo of her past and the crushing weight of solitude.

Knock knock

This better not be the landlord.

"Get lost!" Saarn hissed as he took a scoop from her ice-cream.

Knock knock

"Ugh… I'm coming!" Saarn groaned, reluctantly dragging herself off the couch. She wore a loose T-shirt that read 'Life is Not Fair,' a fitting emblem of her current state. With a sigh, she shuffled toward the door, irritation bubbling beneath her surface. "I swear if this is—"

She froze as she opened the door, her bored expression transforming into one of shock. Instead of the landlord, she found a face she hadn't expected to see in this lifetime. It was a familiar visage, yet altered by fresh attire: an olive-skinned woman with long black-brown hair, clad in gray denim tights, a silk blouse, and a leather jacket.

"Hello, Lovataar is here," the woman greeted, a playful smile on her lips.

Saarn stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Moments stretched into what felt like an eternity before instinct took over. Organic daggers sprang from her palms, lunging at Lovataar with lethal intent. Lovataar reacted swiftly, dodging to the side, but Saarn was relentless. She aimed again, only for Lovataar to block her strike, their blades clashing mid-air. The impact sent a jolt through Saarn's arms, blood oozing from her palms where the daggers had pierced her skin, the potent poisons within them ready to do their work. Had Lovataar not been a Klavigar-level Sarkic, she would have collapsed from the venom coursing through her veins.

"WHO ARE YOU!? SHAPESHIFTER?? A FAE? HOW DARE YOU WEAR HER FACE AND COME AT ME!" Saarn growled, disbelief fueling her rage. "Was it the Jailers sending you!? The Madmen?? The book burners? Oh! The choir boys! Came to nail me like the freaking Romans!?"

"It's me, Saarn!" Lovataar insisted, her tone a mix of exasperation and fondness. "When you experimented with venoms for the first time, you vomited blood, and Orok had to carry you to us to help you!"

"Nice try! Anyone can know that with a bit of research!" Saarn spat, still not convinced.

"Before you got freed by Ion, he said, and I quote, 'The winds whispered of your actions. There is no evil in the Judgment. You did not choose to be the vessel of our will. Many will die this day, but you are needed alive.'"

"Try harder, deceiver!" Saarn shouted, her voice trembling with fury.

Lovataar raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "Oh? How about that time that Finnfolk pirate took a liking to you? I believe he wrote poems about how slithery you were in your serpent form. Now, thinking about it, how about that incident in Amoni-Ram when you single-handedly tried to kill Emperor Bumaro only to instead wake up 'tying the knot' with that Mekhanite young noble—"

"YOU PROMISED NEVER TO MENTION THAT EVER AGAIN!" Saarn snapped, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She instinctively dropped her daggers, stepping back in disbelief. "That SCP… SCP-2191 the Jailers called, they said you…"

"I wasn't really turned into a Dracula factory, if that's what you mean. A group of misguided Nälkäns found the remnants of me, thinking I was dead, so they tried to resurrect me instead of creating a messed-up Croneberg factory under Romania's forests."

Saarn stammered, finally starting to believe that Lovataar was real. "I…I…KILL YOU!" she roared, her voice thick with murderous intent as she turned to grab something from her cluttered room.

"Okay, that's not the reaction I was hoping for—!" Lovataar barely managed to dodge the television that came flying toward her head, shattering against the wall behind her. In a fit of rage, Saarn tackled Lovataar, bringing them both crashing down onto the couch.

Instead of being dismayed, Lovataar burst into heartfelt laughter, a sound that echoed through the cramped apartment. Saarn, still seething, glared at her. "YOU—YOU BLUE BLOOD BASTARD LAUGHING!? AFTER THOUSANDS OF YEARS YOU DARE TO SHOW YOUR FACE NOW!? I'M GONNA FINISH WHAT THOSE TOASTER WORSHIPPERS COULD NOT FINISH! I WILL—I WILL—!"

She stammered, her anger dissipating as she inhaled shakily. "I need to… lay down a bit." With that, she swirled away and collapsed onto the table near the couch, not caring that empty bottles and remnants of ice cream were now staining the back of her T-shirt. Lovataar continued to chuckle, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

"I missed you too, Saarn," she said, her voice softening.

"Don't 'Saarn' me! I'm still furious! I'm at a new level of outrage never seen before!" Saarn groaned, burying her face in her arms.

"Would you believe me if I said that until two weeks ago, I didn't know where you were?" Lovataar continued, her tone shifting to one of earnestness. "I had to follow the dead trails of the so-called 'Neo-Sarkics,'" she spat the name with disdain, "to find you, and even then, you kept changing addresses."

Saarn lifted her head slightly, curiosity piqued despite her lingering anger. "You… you really came looking for me?"

"Of course I did!" Lovataar replied, her expression earnest. "You're family, Saarn. No matter how much time has passed or how far apart we've been, that doesn't change."

Saarn's heart ached at the words, a mix of warmth and pain flooding through her. "Family," she echoed quietly, the weight of the word settling heavily in the air between them.

"Now, can we please talk about how you've been living in this…," Lovataar gestured around the disheveled apartment, "this glorified trash heap?"

Saarn rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. "It's not a trash heap, it's a… creative living space."

"Creative? More like a disaster zone!" Lovataar teased, her laughter infectious.

As the tension slowly ebbed away, Saarn found herself smiling, the warmth of their shared history rekindling a spark of hope within her. The world outside may have been dark and chaotic, but for the first time in ages, she felt a flicker of something she thought lost—belonging.

"Perks of living in a modern age with satellites and cameras to track you down and being a 'Sarkic,'" Saarn drily commented, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Please tell me that 'Hello, Lovataar is here' thing wasn't Nadox's idea of a bad joke." At the mention of his name, Lovataar's expression shifted, growing more serious as she adjusted her position on the couch.

"I think… I know where he is," Lovataar said, her tone heavy with implication.

"You think?" Saarn raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across her features.

"My last lead suggested he's searching for the Lost Tribe. He believes they're not gone; they're in the realm of Nethak'tal, the graveyard of Titans. He received a message indicating that the Cogworshippers are planning to unleash Važjuma in their quest to free their Broken God. The followers of the Scarlet King are also mobilizing, planning something big."

Saarn leaned back, her head tilting in disbelief. "Uh huh… not that I object to finding our lost brethren, but how is a tribe that's been out of touch for thousands of years, or likely dead by Daevite pursuit, going to help us? In case you haven't noticed, the Suits have technological and thaumaturgical weapons specifically designed to kill us, complete with whole MTFs targeting us 'Flesh Worshipers.' I know that too well; I nearly got killed a couple of times by them."

Lovataar smiled, a glint of excitement in her eyes. "He also said… that our hour is coming, that he found a way to bring him back."

"Bring who back?" Saarn asked, her curiosity piqued despite her reservations.

Lovataar leaned forward, her grin turning savage. "The hour has come, sister… Grand Karcist Ion will return."

Saarn stared in disbelief at first, the weight of the words sinking in. Then, slowly, a spark ignited within her, and she felt her heart race. "Are you serious?" she breathed, hope mingling with disbelief.

"Yes!" Lovataar exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious. "He's found a way! We won't have to hide anymore, Saarn. The Nälkä will rise again!"

A grin spread across Saarn's face, and she felt a rush of exhilaration. The thought of Ion returning, the leader who had once inspired them all, filled her with a renewed sense of purpose. It was a glimmer of light in the darkness that had enveloped her for so long.

As their excitement mounted, both women's expressions morphed into wolfish grins, their teeth sharpening into predatory points, glinting in the dim light of the room. Their eyes glowed like the eyes of cheetahs in the dark, reflecting the fierce determination brewing within them.

"Soon," Lovataar said, her voice low and thrilling, "the Nälkä will no longer have to live in the shadows and fear. At long last, Grand Karcist Ion shall return to guide his people once more in these trying times."

Saarn felt a surge of adrenaline, the anger and despair that had weighed her down beginning to lift. "We'll show them," she said, her voice steady and resolute. "We'll show the Veil-keeprs, the followers of Mekhane and the wannabe Daevites what it means to fear us."

"Yes!" Lovataar echoed, her enthusiasm igniting a fire within Saarn. "We'll reclaim what's ours. We'll rise from the ashes and take back our place in this world!"

As they shared a fierce laugh, the bond of sisterhood strengthened between them, a sense of unity and purpose igniting their spirits. They were no longer just survivors; they were warriors, ready to fight for their people and their legacy. Together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead, and with Ion's return on the horizon, their destinies intertwined once more.

In the vast ether of Cipher City, surrounded by shifting algorithms and pulsating data streams, the air crackled with anticipation. Saint Hedwig's bioluminescent eyes narrowed as she regarded the figure of Robert Bumaro, his presence a jarring disruption in her meticulously crafted digital domain.

"Robert Bumaro," she greeted coolly, the name laced with years of accumulated resentment.

"Saint Hedwig," he replied, his voice smooth yet distant, as if he were merely a projection of himself rather than fully present in this ethereal realm. Deep within the meandering circuits of Cipher City, Robert's mind flickered between this virtual world and the gritty reality outside, each second ticking away as he sought to convey his message undetected.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shut you off right now," Hedwig hissed, the bitterness in her voice palpable. The memories of their tumultuous past weighed heavily on her, manifestations of betrayal and manipulation surfacing in her mind.

"Ion is going to return," Robert stated flatly, the conviction in his voice pulling Hedwig's attention like a moth to a flame.

That simple statement caused her to stiffen, her eyes narrowing in a mix of disbelief and intrigue. "Do you have any proof?" she asked sharply, her composure barely holding amid the tempest of emotions raging within her.

"I have. Read what the files have; you'll see that I'm telling the truth," Robert replied, the urgency in his tone cutting through the tension between them.

Without another word, a notification materialized before Hedwig, a file materializing from the depths of Cipher City's vast informational landscape. She stared at it, hesitating before the weight of the unknown. But before she could access the data, she glanced back at Robert, her gaze icy and filled with unyielding resolve.

"Don't think for a moment we would ever be friends again," she said, her tone chilling and resolute. "You have done your best to ruin me, to cage me to you. You have failed."

Robert met her gaze, understanding the gravity of her words. "I know, and I'm glad I have failed," he replied, a hint of regret threading through his voice. With that, he severed the connection, leaving Hedwig suspended in a cascade of digitized light and swirling data, the remnants of their shared history pressing heavily upon her.

As the communication channel closed, the digital environment around her shifted slightly, reflecting her internal tumult. She accessed the file Robert sent, its contents unfurling in front of her like petals of a dark flower. Each line of code, each fragment of information, revealed the intricate possibilities of Ion's return from the void of forgotten legends.

The idea was audacious and frightening. If Robert was telling the truth, if Ion truly was poised to emerge once more, everything could change. Cipher City had been a sanctuary, a war room for the Maxwellists to evolve and create, but it could also be a battleground if old loyalties and rivalries were to surface once more.

Hedwig's fingers danced over the holographic interface, absorbing the information meticulously. She recognized names of various Groups of Interest, ominously intertwined with the resurrection of the Grand Karcist. The tensions between them, long buried under cycles of distrust and vengeance, threatened to erupt anew.

"Ion…," she whispered under her breath, the name stirring something within her—an old allegiance wrapped in the bitter taste of betrayal. Wouldn't it be just like him to return when the chaos of their world swirled into view?

As the lights of Cipher City pulsed around her, reflecting the chaos brewing within, Hedwig found herself at a crossroads. Tensions between the Church of the Broken God and the Maxwellists had grown ever more strained, but if Ion were back, he could unify their fractured beliefs once more… or shatter them for good.

"Robert," she murmured softly to the empty space, the echo of his presence still lingering in her mind. "You've played your hand, but the game is far from over."

Hedwig closed the file with a definitive gesture, her resolve hardening anew. She was a leader of her own design and could navigate the uncertainty ahead. If Ion were indeed returning, she would be ready—not out of camaraderie or friendship, but as a Sentinel of her own faith and strength.

With new determination coursing through her virtual veins, she encoded a message to the other Maxwellists, alerting them to prepare for the unknown. Her bioluminescent form pulsed brighter, the vibrant glow signaling the shift in Cipher City's atmosphere as ripples of anticipation began to spread. Whatever came next, she would face it head-on, armed with the knowledge that the past could not imprison her forever.

As the neon skyline of Cipher City shimmered around her, one thing became clear: the balance of power was about to change, and Hedwig intended to stand at the forefront, ready to carve her own destiny in this brave new world.

WARNING: Level 4 Clearance Needed.

Accessing…

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ACCESS GRANTED.

Description: A surge of activities has been observed within Sarkic Cults and the Children of the Scarlet King, all seemingly aimed at targeting Sarkic-related anomalies or those considered threats. This unsettling trend is compounded by a suspicious silence from the Church of the Broken God, which appears to be converging at the unexplored anomalous nexus designated as OH-Nx-777. This nexus likely has ties to the ancient three-way war between Sarkics, Mekhanites, and the Daevites, and houses a pocket dimension inhabited by an unknown civilization.

Several individuals have been suspected and some even confirmed to be related to this anomalous nexus. A few of the confirmed candidates are:

POI-OH-13 "Vee": Possibly an instance of SCP-1076 or a Sarkic creation designed to masquerade as other beings. This entity has been observed disguising herself as POI-OH-1 Luz Noceda.

POI-OH-1 Luz Noceda and her mother POI-OH-2 Camila Noceda appear to be central figures in this situation, potentially bringing entities from the undesignated anomalous nexus into our reality.

POI-OH-4, using the alias 'Marilyn', is the ex-wife of POI-GF-2 Stanley Pines, adding another layer of complexity to the investigation.

Request for MTF and a team of doctors to investigate:

MTF- REQUESTS

MTF-Alpha-9 "Last Hope" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF-Tau-5 "Samsara" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Epsilon-11 "Nine-Tailed Fox" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Mu-13 "Ghostbusters" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Xi-5 "Newton's Bullies" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Sigma-3 "Bibliographers" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Titan-1 "Off the Books" - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Beta-777 "Hecate's Spear" - REQUEST PENDING…

MTF Tau-9 "Bookworms" - REQUEST PENDING…

MTF-Psi-13 "Witchhunters" - REQUEST GRANTED.

Notes: Here it is the next crossover I promised. Though, for the record I at times alternate between this and my IZ/GF crossover to get a breather away from grand stuff into small scale fun.