SCP Foundation

"Smoke and debris dead-ahead!"
A boy hollered his warning from the bridge of the COM Brigham Young. The gargantuan cogwork landship roared ahead under a blanket of smog belched from the bronze cylinders on its aft. "Outside of that shoddy township, northward," he continued.
"Doubtless, the whirlwind rings match none other than that of an Ophanim," tutted Ernest, quickly making inputs on his cogitator. He spoke into another speaker: "Tell the indentured and the coloreds they won't receive a moment's rest from piling coal into the hearth until we reach our destination. Alert Father Maxwell and standby for further orders."
The desert sands were assailed by the industrial clash of steel rubbing steel. Boulders shivered, cacti collapsed; the tar-black trackwheels of the Brigham Young made flat all obstacles in its wake. Its bowsprite's basin was a silver bust of Saint Bumaro. Stainglass windows lined the auburn hull on each side of the ship. Atop its stern loomed a porcelain temple trimmed in gold edifices, cherubs, crosses, and tubes. Four grand steeples scratched the skyline.
Below the stern, a chorus of praise broke out. "God is here," a nun sang. "Praise be, God is actually here," a former veteran stammered. Uproarious laughter, crying, and prayer erupted in the crew's quarters from Father Maxwell's Fellowship of the Broken God. When the hummercoms broadcasted gospel music, they fell to their knees and wept. For Mekhane's divine intervention led them away from the Fires of Baltimore, the naysayers in the Cogwork Orthodoxy, and the violent grudges of the Old World — into the arms of His holy framework.

Charles entered through the vault door separating the hallway from the dimly lit room Ernest had sequestered himself to. Ernest had been busy relaying messages to the boy stationed on the Crow's Nest. He jotted notes using a typing interface perpendicular to a bright green display.
Charles tapped on Ernest's shoulder with his good hand. It creaked like a small scrapheap; several fingers were still missing at the nubs. "Been a long time since I saw the ole' pipe organ used for anything else than decoration. Everyone's dancing, hollar'n, sing'n to the Lord," Charles said, his smile wide and toothsome. Hardened black grease stains cracked from his cheeks, of which sprinkled his cup of piping hot black coffee before he took a sip.
Ernest turned off the modified gramophone. "None the wiser to our political shimmy-shammy and jury-rigging of supplies," he grunted, brandishing the silver of his sidearm from his hip. Charles nodded in silent solidarity. Ernest went on, "Funniest thing is, the shepherd did all the leg-work to convince those thirsty bastards to join us." He produced a leaflet stamped in orange from his pocket, then tapped on the regulations that forbade prostitution and alcohol.
"Faithful as his flock is… our fellows ain't got a brain cell to 'em when it comes to making money. Real shame, that is." Charles took another sip of his coffee. He looked out of the half-opened window and peered at the cloudless blue skies. "Praise be to Fortuna. We lucky enough, we won't need to share wit the lot of 'em. You and me come outta this rich as Rockefellers."
"Praise be to Fortuna," Ernest said in a low baritone. Several of his dainty limb extensions, reaching out from his spine, lingered over dials. Their pincer tips rotated nozzles and flicked switches. This prompted screens to flicker on images of the Ophanim's trajectory and sightings from months prior.
Maps, logs, and letters scattered on Ernest's desk did not mark the destination of the holy artifact as either a town or an outpost. It was unknown territory. Which suited both entrepreneurs just fine. Sharing wasn't in their nature. Charles looked towards the sand below; his shovel-hand itched. While Ernest read a missive he intercepted with the words "BEWARE: Ion & Sons Housing" made out on the header.

"Father Maxwell! Oh, Father Maxwell!" chirped Margarette, fumbling through the temple's front doors with renewed vigor. Nothing truly rekindled the woman's prosthetic eyes quite like making landfall near God.
The room's oil lamps were barely lit. Sprawling brown pipes, whirring steam exhausts, and deteriorating copper cables led to the rosewood aisles, which led further to a heavy duty combustion engine that acted as a religious altar. A tall, modestly dressed man in a bespoke black suit stood by it, reading the Holy Script by diesel light. To his flock, he was an Atlus shouldering the burdens of flesh and metal with the cadence of a songbird.
John Maxwell turned towards her and spoke, "Under Clockwork Skies, Sister Margarette. What on Earth are you doing here?"
"Under Clockwork Skies! I, I know, and I—" Margarette stuttered.
"— without bringing me your world-famous spearmint tea!" Maxwell chimed as he strode to her. The two embraced each other. Maxwell leaned in and kissed the sides of her cheeks, pulled back and said, "Even with your new face, your temperament and blush show kindly."
"Oh, Father," chortled Margarette, feigning a light slap to his shoulder. She was still tender from the surgery that blessed her with a ceramic mask. The nuts and bolts pinning her cranium chafed at times. Her charred black wounds still needed constant medication. Sometimes, and only when applying fresh bandage wraps over her non-mechanized skin, she saw the burning General Goods store appear from her dressing mirror. Black and pink bodies. Husband and child. Screaming and scratching. Then, what scared her the most. The long silence.
Baltimore was dead. The Church was all she had, and Maxwell's touch made her light as air. Light enough to escape her mind, momentarily.
"Did you make the necessary arrangements I asked for yesterday?" Maxwell said, folding his arms.
"Five autocannon wagons, fifteen Union riflemen, several semi-operational Anderson silicate steeds, and twenty untrained Scribes from our own fellowship - all augmented," Margarette recited from her small clipboard. "Though," she continued, "MC&D Railroads don't have a census on this place."
"Free real-estate," Maxwell replied, shrugging optimistically. He walked towards the umbrella rack near the front entrance containing his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.
"Father, it would be difficult to set up monetary means for our survival. No towns, no companies, nothing for miles around."
"The first hammers strike the pillars to shape, Sister."
"Nary a peep out there," Margarette said, folding her shoulders. She shook her head and murmured, "what if the town was raided? By Scarlett Shoshone, no less! Or worse, the Devourer's snatchers might have stolen away with all the good folk already."
"We will endure, Sister." Maxwell turned the door handle and opened the door to a roaring crowd. His arms outstretched as if embracing them all.
"Lord, Mekhane Almighty!" he bellowed, declaring to the very heavens. "I see all of you have heard the good news, brought to you by our esteemed navigator, Brother Ernest."
He nodded to Ernest who stood below the rafters on the left. He took off his straw-hat with a deft augmented limb and bowed.
"By the day's end, we will witness the body of Christ not seen since the First Augmentation, nor since Maksur's Dusk." Maxwell said, gesturing his hands to accentuate the latter words.
"I swear to all godfearing Children of Amoni that today we will claim our birthright, our truth, and our God!"

The expedition team did not expect to find a hovering fetus today. The Ophanim lay naked, unembellished. The rings, once circumvolving circuits, shivered gradually on the ground. They were seven sets of still-smoldering topaz circles embedded into the sand. At the epicenter hovered a foetal core, and orbiting it were small conduit extremities, refusing to fall to their own weight.
Though the heat blurred Maxwell's sight, he saw what he saw. So did Margarette. So did the entire Fellowship with them. Words did little to justify the sight of it as they watched the foetal core disintegrate and reform itself in tandem with the ambient chiming of Church bells.
Onlookers pondered. Did the dizzying dissonance resonate from the intersecting polyhedrons that made the Ophanim's spine? Or from everywhere around? The bells rang close to the ear yet none could spot the steeple nor the ornament that produced it.
Gasps and befuddled groans spurred anxious air.

Beyond the Ophanim's core lay fragments of twisted metal a good five meters away. Attempts to investigate a contiguous set of gears by a soldier were made. A shriek followed. His prodding fingers melted clean, replaced by integument layers of animate silver that climbed the raw bone. If a simple component abhorred flesh, what madness did the whole possess?

"What in hell's bells is all this?" Charles exclaimed, breaking the silence.
Ernest traced the rim of his hat. "Rather faint, but I reckon the chimes weren't expected, Father?" His pincer pointed at vibrating air.
"Feels like I drunk a gallon of cider," Charles added, the vibrations riding up his plastic joints. He tried, then failed, to light his tobacco stick and yelled, "SON-OF-A-GUN" as it tumbled to the ground.
Maxwell's face creased. "On the contrary, my esteemed Brother Ernest, it is a sign."
Charles grimaced at being skipped over. Ernest simply nodded.
Maxwell continued. "Genesis 11:1-9. That is why it was called Babel —because there our Lord-God twisted and separated the Schema's binary. So that someday, the common Signal, God's Signal, would be found once more. We are pioneers are we not? Leading the path, sowing the seed."
Maxwell paused, bent-down, and shoveled clumps of desert into his hands, and upon rising, he stared at each member of his congregation. He did as all Shepherds did when the sheep meandered and their attention strayed. Set the boundaries and show them the fence. He spoke with renewed fervor, shaking the "gift of land" in his hands as sand leaked through the gaps between his fingers.
"Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today — what I hold in my hands — is a gift of God. In lucid dreams, the Angel Amoni told me of the grand Schema and that it's central processing node starts here. At the very spot God made landfall, at this very spot, we will forge the Temple to Zion. Not Babel. ZION. Like Noah who christened the first cogwork hull to the first Ark. Like the exodus of the Israelites to the Promised Framework! When the Tribes of Mekhane unite, they will hear God's Signal, and it is we who will usher paradise from the garden of Gethsemane!"
Maxwell stood stoically, planting the butt of his rifle into the ground. When it audibly clapped the ground, he expected the casual applause. However, coughs and murmurs hung in the air as if stifling the heat from his oration's ignition.
Several seconds passed and the Scribes adjacent to Maxwell began kneeling and praying. They were the ones who prostrated themselves underneath majestic wonderments shaped from iron. Back when Bumaro cast consecrated oil over them, molding them into a liturgy.
Others stood, gazing at Maxwell in skepticism. They were recent converts. Trinitarian hold-outs. Those who still fixated on the son's crucifixion, the father's forgiveness, and the spirit's contract. They were the ones who joined along the way — benefiting from the safety, food, firearms, and surgery only the Fellowship provided — now silent and dissident at the end of the journey.

Margarette blinked profusely. She gawked at the small conduit extremities that hung in the air. They were hovering, dipping and diving like a merry waltz.
Margarette leaned forward, reaching out her fingers unevenly. Some part of her wished to melt. She bent down, gasped for air, fluttered faux eyelids, peering at something.
The vision was only meant for her.
Her chest pistoned, her arms creaked.
Reality's fabric slipped underneath her gasp, and in its place, she felt herself melting into liquid ore, which further bled into molten rivers that led into a smelting furnace.
She shuddered, in isolated elation, awe, and fear.
O daughter of Babylon, doomed to be destroyed, blessed shall she be who forges you with what you have done to us! The whispers rolled down vacant bronze cylinders that allowed her to hear.
She yearned to experience the loving heat of the hypnotic stars caught in their dazzling dance. Faces illuminated themselves in the spin.
"Made in heaven," she whispered. "I see Gerald and my son, remade in heaven."
She muffled her mouth, fell backward, and held herself. Once empty sockets twitched as tear-ducts flooded by the crest of her eyelids. Maxwell went to her, oblivious as the rest of his flock. What they saw was a heat-stroke or a twinge of mental exhaustion due to the fragility of her gender as she spasmed on the ground. The Signal was lost to them.
She waved him off, going "I'm fine" with her attempts at a reassuring smile.

Silicate steeds escorted the autocannon wagons to the left and right flanks of the team. Each faced away from the commotion and purveyed the view beyond the "Rhyolite Mercantile" sign. Since arrival, the buildings seemed damp, soft like skin. The pungent aroma of death and decay lingered everywhere, but bodies? Nooses hung from the vacant gallows. Inside the saloon, scantily clad corsets rested on the floor. Bowler hats sat on bar tables next to tall pint glasses, half-full of lukewarm whiskey. Clearly, the reaper had visited but hid the coffins and the graves.
By the day's end, the Shepherd allowed those on the expedition team to scour the ghost town entirely. They were even welcome to stay inside the odd households after Ernest checked them for stability and potential dangers (which he assured all that there were none.)
Diggers, gun-toting militiamen, the pious from Utah and the pious from Baltimore all seemed to quickly volunteer to explore the Saloon (and liberate its unguarded alcohol cabinets), much to the chagrin of the Shepherd. He could not arbitrate his negative views on over-indulgence, nor could he sacrament their wine — his flock needed time away from the Ophanim.
Away from that ringing heart on the outskirts of town.

Item #: SCP-1548-НЯ

Object Class: Adorable Imminently Adorable

Звезда! Иди сюда, девочка! Посмотри на камеру!

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1548-Cu is currently uncontainable due to her love of waddling around in that cute little way she does. She is to be observed by everyone who loves it at Research Unit-█, currently located at ████████, Sark. Three small-scale pillows and blankie piles are currently in use to allow for 24-hour cuddling. All received cuddles are to be photographed and transmitted to the SCP-1548-Cu database at Site-█. MTF Gamma-5 is currently assigned the task of feeding her every day, and making sure her milk is warm otherwise she gets hiccups.

Description: SCP-1548-Cu is the Foundation term for Star, a two-month old Welsh Corgi puppy who is just so wonderful. Originally born in 19██, the gorgeous nature of her fur was not known until 19██, when Agent M███████, then a dog enthusiast at [REDACTED], saw her napping in a sunbeam. Observations revealed that she was, in fact, snoring. The first fully transcribed message related to SCP-1548-Cu, translated from Russian and broadcast in three bursts, reads as follows: "She's awake! Awww, she's looking around! I think someone's hungry~!". SCP-1548-Cu normally moves at a rate of approximately 0.85 waddles/second, although higher waddle rates have been recorded (see Дополнение SCP-1548-Cu-A).

Over the course of the next ten minutes, Star was observed to accelerate to as fast as her little legs could carry her. During this period, she began to make these cute little yipping noises, and oh gosh you had to be there we all just wanted to squeeze her. Having reached her apparent maximum velocity by unknown means around lunchtime, she began to scamper around the Puppy Playroom and bumping into cushions.

It was at this point that SCP-1548-Cu began to demonstrate awareness of those observing her. She looked up at Agent M███████ and made this grumbling noise and then he leaned down and she started trying to eat his finger and then we were all like "D'awwwwwww~!". The means by which SCP-1548-Cu apparently predicts the future in order to make everything she does as precious as physically possible is unknown.

Дополнение SCP-1548-A: On █/█/198█, O5-█, on medical leave from Foundation duties, visited the Puppy Playroom and began playing with SCP-1548-Cu. Playroom cameras observed her moving across the room but she kept on tripping and getting back up or bumping into things or getting distracted but she really just wanted to snuggle with O5-█, we could tell. O5-█ was all like "C'mere, you! C'mere! Do you want to play? Yes you do! Yes you do, girl!"

Following this transmission, the precious little bundle of joy's waddle rate increased from 0.85 waddles/second to well over 1 whole waddle/second, necessitating the use of high-speed cameras to record every time she bounced and made that happy little noise she makes. You know, that one. Over the next eight hours, SCP-1548-Cu cuddled over [DATA EXPUNGED], totaling more than a gigabyte of really, really snuggly photos. This was the longest continual cuddle to date.

Дополнение SCP-1548-Cu-B: SCP-1548-Cu is reclassified as Imminently Adorable by order of O5-█

I don't care if she gets across the Playroom in 5,700 years. She's just so cute! -O5-█

Дополнение SCP-1548-НЯ-Я: After feeding time on 11/4/19██, she burped!