"Greetings, Initiate. I trust the travel has been smooth," the Chapter Master said to the young man before him.

"I can't complain, my lord," the man replied respectfully. "I'm eager to prove myself, my lord. I've only heard... rumours about the nature of our work here, but I can assure you that I will do my utmost-"

"There'll be time for that, yes," the Chapter Master rushed to say. "Now - let's get the introductory tour going, shall we?"

The young man nodded enthusiastically and the two walked into the grand, ornate halls of the Imperium Anomaliae.

"Here in the Imperium Anomaliae," the Chapter Master started reciting effortlessly, having given the introductory speech, "you will work alongside others to protect the Imperium and the Galaxy from hostile forces that are of... alien nature."

"Xenos, my lord?" the man asked.

"No, Initiate," the Chapter Master laughed. "We're older than that. And no, not the forces of Chaos either. What we do is... more important than that. We are talking about things that break the rules of the universe itself; that even the Warp would fail to understand. We are all that's between the Galaxy and utter bedlam."

"I'm... not sure I follow, my lord."

"You must understand that our organization predates The Imperium itself. We've kept humanity safe throughout its ancient history, throughout the Dark Age of Technology, throughout the Horus Heresy, and we shall continue to do so before."

"But if this is older than The Imperium itself... what was this called before?"

The Chapter Master turned to him with a subtle smile on his face.

"The SCP Foundation," he said. "Now - let's meet your supervisor."

He opened the door and the two saw a horrific sight - a tall, metal figure stood in the dark room, clutching a staff buried halfway into a human corpse. The figure turned to face them, the green light emanating from their face showing what resembled a blank expression. The Initiate immediately drew his weapon but the Chapter Master grabbed his hand with a vice-like grip, preventing him from taking aim.

"Chapter Master," the figure said in a cold, emotionless voice.

"Namaerekh," the Chapter Master responded politely. "This is the Initiate we have talked about."

"Ah. Very good," Namaerekh replied and turned back to the corpse, the green crystal atop his staff glowing lightly.

"My lord, this- this is a Necron!"

"Correct, Initiate," the Chapter Master replied, still holding his hand.

"The Xenos must be here to destr-"

"Initiate," the Chapter Master interrupted, "you must leave behind your old hate and prejudices. What we do here transcends these petty squabbles. We are here to protect life itself," he said and cast a quick look at the Necron Lord, "in all its forms."

Finally, the Initiate eased his grip on his bolter and slowly holstered it.

"Good," the Chapter Master commended. "You said you wished to prove yourself. A good way to start is not to fire at your superior. Lord Namaerekh is our chief Xenobiologist. You will answer directly to him."

The Necron pulled the staff out of the human body and turned to the two humans.

"Initiate Pelagius. I have seen your records. You have shown excellent aptitude and I trust you will perform your duties to the best of your ability."

Pelagius nervously looked at the Chapter Master who gave him a reassuring nod.

"Thank you... my... lord," Pelagius answered with audible uncertainty.

"News, Namaerekh?" the Chapter Master asked.

"As we feared. The body shows clear signs of Theta-Alpha-07 corruption. Another instance of it must've been created. It must be apprehended at once."

Pelagius, feeling a bit more in his element, spoke up.

"Just tell me the target and I will see it destroyed," he said.

"Destroyed? No, Initiate," the Necron explained. "We do not destroy things we do not understand; the repercussions of that could be a hundredfold worse than their existence."

"Then... what do we do?"

"We Secure. We Contain. And," the Necron said and looked at the Chapter Master, "we Protect."

O5-Council Chambers, Site >!REDACTED!<
Members Present: O5-1, O5-4, O5-13
Personnel Present: D-Class Transcriber D-38876

"Please make sure that thing is working," said O5-1, "I really don't want to have to deal with the Mechanicus again. Letting them in here is inviting disaster."

O5-4 approached the servitor and confirmed that it was correctly recording the details of the meeting without incident. She nodded to O5-1, resuming standing next to him as quickly as she could. O5-1 was a powerful psyker, but within the center of this critical site, with the raw substance of the immaterium pulsing through the air, standing next to a blank was far more preferable.

O5-13 said to himself, barely audible in his voice worn from centuries of disuse, "A meagre shadow of our once great AICs."

Neither O5-1 nor O5-4 knew what O5-13 was talking about. Their 13th member was one of the oldest beings in existence, and was sometimes inclined to speak aloud thoughts which made no sense to them.

"I'll get straight to the point," said O5-1, "We're losing anomalies at an astronomical rate. Our council members themselves are missing, presumed dead, and entire MTFs are being snatched away in the performance of their duties. And worst of all, there doesn't seem to be anything we can do. To be frank, we're losing our organization through attrition alone. O5-13, we need your help. We would not be here if there were any other option."

"How did the problem grow so large?" said O5-13.

O5-4 shook her head, "It went unnoticed at first. Chaos cults were blamed for a majority of the raids and disappearances. Our adversary was cunning enough to disguise their methods. Eventually, we reached a tipping point. Probably when we lost O5-6. We know he was using a great deal of Safes - even Thaumiels - instead of extending his lifespan through other means. Those naturally ended up in the hands of our opponent."

O5-1 slammed the nearby machinery with a fist, "We should never have let him. O5-8 knew this would happen. But even with his contingencies, he was snatched all the same. 13, we're on borrowed time here. You know how much it has cost us to wake you for a moment. We need guidance - or intervention. Did you forsee this?"

The form of O5-13 shifted where it sat slightly, dust rising from its seat - an SCP object itself of great power. "Some events can be hidden from my sight," he replied.

"Thank you for confirming that," said an unfamiliar voice from next to them.

O5-4 wasted no time in shock - she sprinted towards the source of the threat, shrouded in the darkness and drew her polearm. She made it less than five feet before her form simply stopped moving, suspended, without movement in mid-air.

O5-1, despite the hazards involved, drew up his full might as a psyker and channeled a massive bolt which gathered more latent energy as it travelled. The mysterious figure raised tossed a prism from his cloak which projected a strange cube into the air, capturing and re-directing the energy bolt, which then coarsed out and hit the Servitor instead, dissolving it into ashes.

"Shame," said the voice, "I wanted one of those."

O5-13 was the one to stop the conflict - not using his own colossal powers, but with his sheer force of will. "Stop," he said simply, "Let us parley."

The figure stepped out of the darkness, his living metal form shrouded by a hood and scaled cloak. His entry into the Site should not have been possible - but if what O5-4 said was true, and the anomalous was being used to enhance his already-impressive abilities...

"It has been some time since you last visited Terra," said O5-13, "Trazyn the Infinite."

Trazyn gave a curt bow to the immobile O5-13, "You're looking very well, I must say."

"What do you want?" said O5-1, surprise at the intruder now controlled following 13's guidance, his tone still dripped of the hate that he had for the Necron.

"My aims are quite noble, you'll find," said Trazyn, placing one foot up on a machine, "I seek to maintain a cultural record of events - to preserve antiquities for future generations. I am just now working on an exhibit which you would be very interested in."

"I'm not interested in seeing any of your Xeno perversions," said O5-1.

"Seeing?" said Trazyn, "I think not."

There was a brief staring match at that. Only a pulse of energy from beneath O5-13 was enough to break it.

"You must think yourself confident in your new acquisitions to be standing here," said O5-1, "Out with it. What do you want?"

"Only what I have said," stressed Trazyn, now leaning on his Empathic Obliterator, "To preserve culture for future generations. It is simply that I am working on a new, grand wing of my galleries, dedicated to an area of history I have only recently learned of. The anomalous. SCP-914 is the current grand exhibit."

"You're displaying anomalies?" said O5-1, his voice now dripping venom, his hatred for both the Xeno and the uncontained now combining into a new brand of vitriol.

"Yes, and with far more success than you, I might add," said Trazyn.

"1," said O5-13, "Trazyn is not here through anomalous manipulation. He is here because I willed it."

O5-1 pivoted towards O5-13, his features writ with shock despite 13's standing. He composed himself as best he could. "Explain," was all he could say.

A shudder rang through the chamber, as if the very site itself were taking a breath before speaking. That wasn't far from the truth. 13's tone was low and halting as he spoke. "The SCP Foundation is failing. In the darkness of the 41st millennium, there is only war. The resources required to sustain our anomalous containment efforts must be spent elsewhere. Material and immaterial threats require them. It was I who invited Trazyn here today - though I did so under an alias. His galleries have... merit."

"Note," said Trazyn, "That despite my galleries holding roughly nine-tenths of the Foundation's entire supply of anomalies, we have suffered but a mere handful of containment breaches. A fairly straightforward process, when proper display procedures are observed."

"You've got to be kidding me," said O5-1.

"No," said 13, "You know that I have always guided humanity - and the O5 council before them - down the best path. This is the only path."

O5-1 looked at the frozen form of O5-4, locked in stasis. But even in the face of what was to come, he could not doubt 13. The SCP foundation under him had always been about securing and containing. But 13, he alone could say he protected humanity.

"Well..." said Trazyn, "I understand you've come to a decision, but given you've failed to consult me about it, what is to stop me taking the Golden Throne with me as I leave?"

"You will be allowed to finish your collection," said O5-13, "Including your most recent exhibit - the O5 Council. And Trazyn - you are truly only here because I willed it. If you step again into this chamber without permission, I will crush you where you stand, and no Teleportation Matrix nor Necron anti-death measures will bring you back afterward."

There was a rush of psychic power into the room to accompany the threat - a suppressed energy was now overwhelming the senses, to the extent that even Trazyn, completely blind to the immaterium in his necrodermis form, could see the sparks forming in mid-air with his oculars.

"That fate will also await you if you allow your gallery to fail."

Trazyn smiled, "If the gallery fails, it will be because I am already dead."

With the activation of a final Tesseract Labyrinth, Trazyn claimed both O5-1 and O5-4 and fled to orbit. Things had not gone as planned - he had been manipulated and had things played out differently, he may have found himself ground to dust on Holy Terra. But in the end he found that he simply didn't care. With the SCP Foundation now out of the way, the entire universe's anomalies would be safely displayed in his galleries for all eternity.

"Secure their weapons." The mortal commanded, gesturing to his subordinates.

The three Grey Knights balked, dropping into combat stances. Artorias spoke, "No one disarms the Grey Knights of the Holy Emperor."

The mortal drew himself to his full height, diminutive in comparison to the Space Marines, but his sheer force of will shone like a beacon to their Warpsight. "By order of Malcador the Sigillite, primogenitor of your order, by order of the Emperor of Mankind, and by order of the O5 Council, I demand the surrender of your weapons. There are... Things far more dangerous than Chaos in our vaults. Our remit is unmatched, our authority absolute." He held up a signet ring, and placed it firmly in the lead Knight's gauntleted fist.

The Knight looked at the ring and immediately surrendered his Null Stave. The others paused significantly but followed suit.

The Mortal nodded, "You would not be here if it wasn't absolutely necessary. We require your expertise." He turned and strode briskly through the enormous baroque doors, which opened for him silent and smooth.

They followed.

An interminable march of twists and turns past doors labeled with alphanumeric signifiers later, they came to a door. A brutal slab of adamantium and titanium alloys, with a variety of esoteric warnings on the wall nearby.

KETER HOSTILE LIFEFORM

The Knights shared a look as the Mortal spoke again, "When you enter this room, you will encounter an organism. It is nonhostile to Psykers. Please attempt to ascertain it's True Name and banish it."

The door slid open, revealing another massive door. The Mortal gestured and they entered. As the door swung shut behind them, Damocles voiced the thought they shared, "They sent us to a Daemon, unarmed."

Silence greeted him as the second door opened.

Within the next chamber was a large transparent container of boiling acid, the fumes filling the room were lethal, and the armor threat sensors of the Knights went berserk.

Inside the vat a distinctly inhuman skull bumped the glass, eyes rapidly forming and dissolving. A raspy, gurgling voice emanated from the tank, "Humans."

Artorias stepped forward, "We are His Holy Grey Knights, the Blade of the Emperor, Chamber-Militant of the Ordo Hereticus."

"You've come to kill me." It wasn't a question.

Regulus cut in, "We've come to send you home."

The creature considered, floating in it's deadly bath. "If you're being truthful, I welcome you. Let me out."

Artorias silently disengaged the systems filling the vat, from a nearby control panel. The acid drained, leaving a pitiful but large corpse. It's legs planted themselves as it leveraged itself up, tendons and muscle and flesh rapidly racing across bones to recreate it's body.

The beast regarding them was reptilian, huge, powerfully muscled, and clearly intelligent. It paced around them, menace exuding from it like an odor.

Finally it stopped and sat, somewhat like a dog. "How do I go home?" It intoned coarsely.

Artorias nodded, "Tell me your name. Your True Name."

The beast spat a disgusting sounding litany of guttural, unpronouceable noises. "Good luck repeating it."

Artorias nodded at Damocles, who concentrated his psychic might and started reciting the name, each sound an exact copy of the Creature's.

As he finished, the Beast stood, almost alarmed. Damocles spoke, "I command you to return from whence you came, in the name of the Emperor."

It started to rush forward as an unseen force gripped it with strength beyond reckoning. "WAIT! I CAN'T GO BACK! I DON'T KNOW THAT WORLD ANYMORE!"

Damocles looked at Artorias, at the beast that was desperately clawing to remain in the Material realm. Then he intoned with fervor, "You are banished!"

In the observation chamber, the O5 Council watched in amazement as SCP-682 finally died, at least in their estimation. An ancient file was retrieved, opened, and stamped with two new classifications, "Neutralized" and "Safe".

Deep in the bowels of the Warp, the Beast was home.

WARNING: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION.

SCP-40000

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-40000-1's vital signs are to be monitored at all times by MTF EX-4 (Adeptus Custodes), and the life support systems of SCP-40000-2 are to be maintained to the best of the Foundation's ability. Currently, there is no way to repair SCP-40000-2's failing systems fully and is estimated to completely fail in [REDACTED].

Description: SCP-40000 consists of two anomalous objects: SCP-40000-1 and SCP-40000-2 SCP-40000-1 is currently the most powerful human being to ever live on record. Due to injuries sustained by [REDACTED] eleven-thousand years ago, SCP-40000-1 has been connected to the archaic life support device known as SCP-40000-2.

SCP-40000-2 also known as: "The Golden Throne" is a life-support system that is at most twenty thousand years old and utilizes technology that is long lost to the human race. Research for possible repairs to SCP-40000-2 is of high priority as it is showing signs that it will fail in the next [REDACTED]. All attempts to fully repair SCP-40000-2 so far have failed, and research is still ongoing. Information about SCP-40000's current condition is highly confidential and any breach of security must be dealt with swiftly.

SCP-40000 is currently located deep within Site-[990] (The Imperial Palace) and is to be guarded at all times by MTF EX-4 (Adeptus Custodes).

It had not been Guardsman Yarmoth's day, or even week. The unfortunate soldier had woken up to mud soaking his boots, before being reassigned to go attend the Basilisk vanguard. The Guard had been shelling the position of the Chaos heretics for much of the past month, but in truth there was a mere scratch upon decades of shelling that had reduced their myriad warren of tunnels and strong points to little more than a smoking craters and rubble.

But still, the Chaos filth persisted and took hold like a weed, or so their Commissar had told them, and as a result they were needed to push for a new strike. The heretics had become emboldened, apparently receiving a trio of Thunderhawks the previous fortnight. Yarmoth had heard from some of the Ratlings at the dining bunker that the Thunderhawks had deposited some Chaos Space Marines, a comment that sent chills up Yarmoth's spine.

However, he felt somewhat more secure when he caught sight of the enormous cannons, the thunder audible for miles away, and rattling his very chest from this close. Even a Space Marine, as terrifyingly mighty as they could be, was little match for a shell the same size of them, landed with unerring precision on their position. So it was with some surprise that he was forewarned of his fate by only the unnervingly close rev of the saw blade, before his skull was split in half by the grinding teeth of the chain axe Gorecleaver.

Khârne the Betrayer laughed, a noise not filled with mirth but merely unhinged satisfaction, as yet another spray of blood stained the countless layers darkening his armor. He was among the crews of the Basilisks like a hurricane, cleaving men and steel and flak armor like it was little more than cumbersome paper. Yarmoth's body had barely begun to cool by the time Khârne had finished obliterating the remainder of the Basilisk detachment. Three dozen artillery pieces devastated and over a hundred men dead in the span of just a few minutes, and not even enough of bloodbath to warrant a footnote in his own personal history.

It was as he stood atop the smoking husk of the final Basilisk that the Betrayer caught sight of a Rhino barreling towards him. He laughed again, gunning the motor on his chain axe as he watched and readied himself for another charge into battle.

To his disappointment though, the Rhino stopped several hundred yards away. There was no large weaponry installed on it, and even the front bolter was angled downwards, unmanned. A quick triggering of the thermal sensors in his helmet revealed only a single occupant, a mere human unclad in anything more than the robes of the sniveling Inquisition. However, the insignia on the front of the rhino was not one that he recognized. It was a trio of gilded arrows pointing inwards, but confusion rapidly gave way to anticipation as he obligingly charged his plasma pistol and leveled it at the target that had been provided. He saw the lone human pop the hatch of the rhino, bracing something against their shoulder as they prepared to fire it.

Khârne growled in response, ready for some painful hellish fury to be unleashed. But instead, there was just a quiet thunk and something was lobbed out of what appeared to be a converted grenade launcher. The cargo landed a few paces from him, before cracking in half with a hiss and puff of harmless smoke. Within was some sort of printout, a picture of an unoccupied mountainside, but little else. He cocked his helmet in confusion, the threat having apparently been harmless, but looked up as he heard the distant vox squawk of the Rhino driver saying "Cargo delivered, my lords."

The Betrayer snorted, and in a span of heartbeats closed the distance to the Rhino, rending it and the feeble human inside into little more than metal scraps and bleeding offal within moments. Still, for the first time in more millennia than he could count, the betrayer shivered with unease.

Dozens of light years distant, there was a series of loud rumbling thumps from deep within the Imperium Anomalies fortress-bunker, as hundreds of bulkheads and redundant defenses for breached by the passage of something unstoppable. The tunnels and passageways had been mostly abandoned, but they were the occasional shrieks of pain and splintering wet sounds of brutal death as the entity passing through encountered more prey to destroy.

Finally the destruction reached the surface of the dusty moon, and after pacing in a worried circle for almost an hour, the entity began digging straight down. It proceeded to do so for another hour, making almost a full kilometer of distance in a ragged hole, unimpeded by dirt, rock, concrete, or steel. Having apparently reached the necessary depth, it turned, and with a final howl sprinted faster than the eye could see and launched itself out of the hole and into the stratosphere, quickly disappearing into the cloud layers and beyond. From a secure observation room below, the Lord Scientist Bright keyed his vox recorder:

"Well, I suppose this is a new behavior we can add to this SCP's capability. Now all we have to do is wait."

314 years later:

Air Caste pilot Kor'la Kit'Au choked a curse into her helmet as she urged her Manta to bank, the Chaos Heldrake that had been soaring directly at her passing under a wing and leaving a scraping trail already starting to sputter and catch fire. A dozen auto turrets and drones pivoted and began raining fire on the offending craft, quickly reducing it to a ball of plasmic flame that immediately cratered towards the distant surface below.

She had registered the damage diagnostics and just begun the nanotech repair protocols, when her stellar positioning sensors warned her of an incoming projectile from far above. It was traveling too slowly to be a spacecraft, but too quickly to be a mere high altitude bird or other native fauna. As she keyed in the camera clusters to focus in on whatever this might be, all she can make out was a distant, roughly humanoid shape, limbs uncomfortably long and covered with matted hair. It opened its mouth as she saw it, and even though she could not hear the howl she could tell it was screaming at a volume that would have ruptured her eardrums had she been close enough.

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