nn5n Foundation
Branch of SCP Foundation
nn5n: God Eat God
God Eat GodRate: 12
God Eat God

Five thousand meters in the air, It stood on a floating island of its own making. Big, white and triumphant, It looked down as the conglomerate of rock, dirt and most of Site 31's remains carried it towards the second of many final victories. It was once a feeble existence fit only to be stomped on by greater deities of another universe but, now, things were different.

If It had one true mouth and if its voice was not a nightmare that reverberates through the air, one should be able to tell the sound It made was, in fact, something akin to laughter. It came from a misshapen head that became even paler under the moonlight. It looked like that of a clown, at least for those brief moments, which sported a terrible smile.

Ghost no longer: It paved the road to apotheosis using the sacrifice of the ignorant. That whichever gods patron the fools bless Vincent Young's stupid, stupid soul while they could still hide within the fabrics of reality.

From the edge of its personal, twisted Eden it gazed at everything It would ruin for the second time and found it funny - of such hilarity that only the machinations of an eldritch mind such as its would be able to process.

And then it got hit by over seven metric tons of steel and aluminium in the form of a giant fist, right in the face.

Some Lacertilian part of his brain was calmly considering how fortunate it was that, indeed, the eggheads had actually managed to pull that off. Robert promptly told that reasonable string of thought to got fuck itself as he wiped the blood from his nose and checked a few of the panels inside the cockpit of his metal coffin.

"Son of a bitch."

At least one his prosthesis had gone to shit because there was coolant all over his uniform. Conveniently, it made it look like he pissed himself - good, Margaret didn't need any extra material to work with when it came to snark. He would never see her again but, hey, it's fun to fantasize.

The thing they Rocket Man'd him to kill didn't seem impressed: Sure, a giant robot had just splattered its mimicry of a head all over the surreal landscape they were in but the remaining body barely moved. It was higher than the machine itself given the lack of legs and unsettling exactly like you'd expect a reality bending inter-dimensional freak show to be.

Scranton Reality Anchor is within reach. Initializing Protocol Jörmungandr. Remain within effective range to induce total awakening. ETA: 15 minutes.

Because it's not a Foundation protocol without an ominous name. The pilot brushed the warning away and checked the radio once just to confirm it - mute. Between the distance and the anomalous bullshit, it would take a miracle for it to work.

XK-Zeta, as both Foundations called it, became a blurry silhouette to the eyes before it could be identified again - this time as a white tarantula covered by furry feelers, which each ended on a pink sphere. It then stood on its hind legs before projecting gallons of something towards the robot. Robert imagined himself jumping away and, just like that, ATL-01 propelled itself sideways - a faint rainbow-colored collection of arcs the only outward evidence of the anomalous mechanism.

The whispers were getting louder now.

There would be guilt to be felt for the constant deposition and sublimation of a thousand souls if he could only stop and think about it, which he could not. SCRAMBLE filtered out the spheres three seconds ago; the liquid the imitation of a spider spat corroded the floating ground until it seeped on the other side. In another world, meters below, a Foundation employee already scratched her head thinking about which cover-up protocols detail the appropriate procedure for "anomaly just liquefied an entire city block".

ETA: 9 minutes

"How do we know it won't cross?"

"We don't."

A senior researcher and a site director sat by the same table. The bourbon was nearly gone and the terminal displayed a simple message - an alert, dutifully emitted by something that was equal parts computer science and esoteric paraphernalia.


John nodded, Hanh pressed "N" and both took a sip. The phone rang: O-8.

ETA: 5 minutes

He would rather not know where It learned about it, but the thing looked like the heart now. It was an imitation, like all the rest, but it was a good one. The form of a white bovine organ charged the giant that couldn't dodge this time - both dragged through the debris-ridden flying waste. Robert wondered briefly if It was trying to push him off the edge, realized that didn't matter and then dreamed of a huge knife.

He couldn't tell when it happened, but at that moment he noticed three of the robot's left fingers were now over-sized infant heads. Sick. He focused more, the impossibly loud sound of rock and metal displaced making it none the easier, until something made for stabbing had replaced most of the giant's right arm.

That talk about "waiting until complete induction and stabilization of the essokinetic phenomenon" went straight out the window the second he landed on that rock. The clunk the arm made when the pounding began was even louder than the cacophony outside and satisfying in a twisted yet wholly welcome way. The pale heart slowed down with each forceful incision, eventually grinding to a halt - the titan gave no respite: What was a knife became a cannon, recognizable as such only because form dictates function when it came to a honest-to-God reality bending mecha.

There was irony in that cartoon of a weapon, shaped by the thoughts of a cyborg and bent into reality by the sacrifice of countless felons. The Ethics Committee sure could write an essay about the thing. Later, they actually would.


Gods are concepts given form. Granted, It no longer remembered which concept It was supposed to represent, but the fact remained all the same. Maybe It stood for mischief once, or perhaps even essokinesis itself - pointless speculation. Their efforts were commendable though, much like those of their predecessors: A massive, moving warrior that shifted the truth until it accommodated the will of a smaller warrior inside, powered by crystals and blood and minds.

Crafty. Heartless. Silly. Ultimately futile.

It assumed the smaller warrior felt pride right now. It assumed correctly. Although It preferred the more nuanced terrors that the reckless warp of the Things That Are could create, relentless destruction never lost its charms. Most of Its body was gone, vaporized along all that stood behind it, leaving the once cohesive island in the skies bisected.

The anchor was fine, however. Unfortunate for the man in the machine, because the device was now a part of It, and as such a locus from where reprisal could strike from. It chose teeth this time and it were innumerable teeth from all shapes and sizes that poured forth, ripping apart both arms of the iron man without legs. It was not even an imitation of a man anymore.

Slowly, It reformed - big, white and triumphant once more. It looked down and imagined It would feel pity now if only It could.

But something is not right, is it? No, there are too many clouds around them. The island, once a vessel flying though an unsuspecting blue sky, dove into the crimson. "Oh." It thought. Maybe they were trying to send it away, like the others tried. "Oh." It kept thinking, or doing whatever gods do for new realizations to come to them.

Why is this crystal, a repository of death, glimmering so? Where has the anchor gone, its comforting warding replaced by the emptiness of something amiss?

The thing both Foundations referred to XK-Zeta turned and its humanoid form, a deliberate insult, shook. A single eye stared back at it, even though entities such as them needed no puny rituals to acknowledge each other's presence. The enormous eye stared further, emerging ever so slightly through a nauseating rift.

It thought of an anglerfish. And then It screamed. And then It was gone.

ETA: Imminent.

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