Clef felt a little regretful, he would have to admit. He'd always found Rights very agreeable, if not the brightest bulb on the chandelier. At the very least, he felt sorry enough to sit at her bedside with a small sigh and take his time prepping the weapon. It really was regretful, he sighed, that it would come to this. Of all the people to ever get out of the foundation, Rights seemed like a good candidate to be able to stay out.
She had chutzpah.
Hell, anybody who left the Foundation without the Foundation's express approval or a full memory wipe had chutzpah to spare.
And very good friends to smuggle herself out.
He absently hummed to himself as he screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of the gun, checking it over and re-checking it, before glancing back at Rights. She was still asleep, brow furrowed in fitful dreams. He paused, and wondered what life must have been like for her outside of the foundation, raising her little monster.
The years had taken their toll on both of them, it seemed. In forms of grey hair and deep lines and arthritic hands. He mused over what sort of strange traits the years and years of exposure to SCPs had awakened in her.
He had to do this quietly.
After all, even he wasn't bullheaded enough to consider going up against even a low-level reality bender head-on anymore, if there was a choice. Especially one that knew him. He was getting far too old for that.
For too old indeed, he thought as he stood, feeling his joints creak a little.
Old, but still the best.
He leveled the weapon to her temple, and pulled the trigger with a dulled pop, like a car door slamming. She twitched once, the reflex tossing the blanket off her, and then went still permanently.
Clef took the time to say “I'm sorry.” And rearrange the blankets back around her.
After waiting a few seconds and listening to make sure nobody else awoken or was listening in, and then he crept back to the hallway, moving slow and checking the rooms as he passed them. Bathroom. An empty guest room. Work studio. Nursery…
He slipped into the nursery and glanced over the edge of the crib. The tot was fast asleep, thumb in mouth, holding on tight to a handmade quilt, entirely unaware. Clef sighed. This was too easy, but he'd rather too easy than too hard any day. He reached into the crib with the weapon, and with another dull pop, the porcelain head of the doll burst into fragments.
And he reeled back.
This wasn't the target.
He reached into the crib, and his fears were confirmed. A doll, just a doll. It may have looked like a toddler in the dim light, but it was just a doll. He pulled the quilt off, and froze. A small black box with a post-it note on it sat there, amidst the broken doll and baby clothes.
He picked it up.
“Clef,
I knew you'd come for me,
I never did get to say goodbye.
-Hugs and Kisses
The former Dr. Rights”
There was a long moment of shocked silence, followed by intense cussing.
The man sat in his car across the street, window rolled down, and glanced up quietly as he heard Clef's voice carrying, and rolled up the window. This was going to be loud.
Clef paused as he heard a noise, just a faint, high-pitched pinging, and glanced down. On the little black box, a red circle lit up. Followed by another. And another.
“Oh, come on-“
The man smirked slightly as the explosion rocked the car, before frowning when the child sleeping in the backseat stirred and let out a wail. “Oh, oh…hey, hey girl.” He murmured as he climbed into the backseat with her, offering a soft smile and taking the little girl's hand, his middle-eastern skin so much darker than hers, pale as porcelain. Even this young, Bijhan could see the resemblance to her mother. “Shh, shh, shh…don't you worry, Ophie. Lets get you to your new home…”
She looked up at him with such pale, pale eyes with no shine to them at all, glassy and inhuman, and sniffled.


A cold sweat had been coursing it's way down Dr. Gerald's spine for the last 20 minutes as he waited outside Dr. Bright's office. The hallway seemed to darken by the second, lights dimming into incomprehensible blackness as he stared at the nameplate on the door. He was going to die. This was it. The summation of 30 years on Earth. Dying because of one stupi-
"Come in."
Gerald couldn't help it. He yelped a little, his frayed nerves causing him to jump at the sudden noise. He scuttled into the office, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Jack Bright stood facing the wall, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't turn as he spoke.
"Doctor Gerald, you know why you're here."
"Ah, Yes. Yessir."
"Don't cower. I hate it when you cower."
"Sorry sir."
"Now. Care to explain what happened?"
"…Well…"

Alto Clef was in a good mood. The sun was shining, 173 hadn't escaped yet, and the vendor down the street had been selling ice cream at half price. As he walked down the corridor of the hospital, he glanced at his companion. "What's eating you?"
"…Strelnikov. I'm worried. The coma-"
"Will be ended as soon as we get 590 down here. This is just a visit to check on how he's doing in the meantime."
"Yeah. I guess you're right."
"Of course I am. Now, put on a happy face! It's a beautiful day!"
Gerald's burgeoning smile was crushed by the sight of the Russian man in the bed. The tubes covering his body made him seem smaller than usual. A titan reduced to just a feeble patient. Clef strode over and looked down at his friend. "Hey big guy. How's it going?" He glanced back at Gerald, noticing his stricken face. "Hey, don't worry. He's survived worse than this."
Gerald sighed. "Yeah. You're right. I mean, compared to Chechnya how ba-" His face froze. The sound of creaking tubes echoed like gunshots in the suddenly silent room.
Clef's face contorted. "Motherfu-"
The hand that reached up to wrap around Clef's throat was worn and muscled, and bleeding freely from a tear given by a torn out IV. "ВЗВОД! К БОЮ! МОЧИ ДУХОВ!"
"OH SHI-" The rest of what Gerald said was drowned out by the cracking noise made by Strelnikov snapping Clef's neck.

"…And then I ran."
"I see. Consider yourself on suspension until further notice."


They sat across from one another, between them a table with a chessboard, two glasses of vodka and one ashtray. The elderly man rubbed his stubbly chin, bushy grey eyebrows furrowed in consternation as he plotted the advance of his queen. His counterpart, the very image of youth, sat quietly, patiently, as he waited for his turn. He had plenty of time.
The old man placed his queen delicately in the center of his chosen square; the younger man immediately swiped it away with a pawn.
“Fuck you,” Dmitri said in Russian as he toppled his king in forfeit.
“You always say that,” responded Bright with a tepid smile.
Dmitri tapped some loose ash from his ever-present cigarette, leaning back in the chair and sighing tiredly. “How are you, Jack,” he asked, again in Russian.
“Alright, still getting used to this body. I think it's a bit too young but, it was next in line, so…” He trailed off, eying Dmitri intently. “Are you going to ask me, or not?”
“Fine,” he grunted. “Did she say anything about me? Anything at all?”
“She hasn't said anything in years, Dmitri,” he answered without emotion.
“Karen always was tough.” Dmitri shifted in his seat. “I had to send her in, you know. There was no other choice.”
“I know, I've read the reports. Oh, while we're on this topic, Everett sends his best wishes from his containment cell.”
Another grunt. “I always told him, you know. I told him that too many of those experiments were going to get him locked up. I told him.”
“You did, Dmitri.” Bright began putting the chess pieces away.
Dmitri swirled his glass of vodka slowly, looking into the clear liquid as if it were a crystal ball. “What about little Agatha? Is she out of school yet?”
“She graduated from college two years ago, you know that. I told you that last week.”
“Are you going to-“
“No. We are not going to recruit her, Agatha left very specific requests against that,” he interrupted, his exasperation with the old man growing clearer in his voice. With that, the two lapsed into an awkward silence. Dmitri took a sip of his vodka and looked out the window, admiring the beauty of the spring day. The lilacs on his windowsill were blooming, and it reminded him of home and better days.
“…Jack?”
“Yeah, Dmitri?”
“Whatever happened to Alto.”
Bright stood and folded the chessboard. “I can't tell you that, Dmitri. You're retired, remember?”
“Fuck you,” he said with a raspy cough, taking a long, spiteful drag from his unfiltered cigarette.
“Watch it, or I'll tell the nurses on you,” said Bright with a wagging finger. “I have to go, Dmitri. Gears is just down the hall and I promised I'd bring some technical manuals for him to read.”
He sighed again, standing and hobbling to the window with his cane. “Alright. Tell him Mitya said hello.”
“I will, Dmitri. See you next week.” And with that, Bright left to continue making his rounds of South Cheyenne Point Retirement Center.


I've been sick for days now. That bubbling nausea that fills your throat, makes you feel as if you're about to throw up every time you burp or so much as breathe out your mouth. Holding the toilet, resting my head on the cool, cool porcelain, I really question why in the hell I don't make myself throw up and just get it over with. It's just not something I can do…thinking of forcefully gagging myself…ugh, it's almost worse then I feel now. Almost.
Suddenly it hits me, and this is it, this is IT. I feel that slick, sour spit coat my throat, my belly tightening up as I push my head over the bowl and spit. For a split second before I explode, I realize this thing has not been cleaned in a while. Then I vomit. Hard. Mucus-rich and acidic, it pours out in a hard, jetting stream from my mouth and nose, burning my nasal passages like fire. It hits so hard, it feels like it should be coming out my eyes, too.
I vomit again, and again, the third time bringing up just some thin, reeking slime, and I gasp a bit, getting my breath back before the next wave. I pitch forward again, eyes tearing as they squeeze shut, and I feel another hot jet of filth pour out. Opening my eyes, it seems…different. A tarry black, and there are…things bobbing in it. I don't have time to look too hard, before two more hard retches double me over the bowl. These are more pinkish, and I can definitely see some kind of meat in these. Hamburger, maybe…
More vomit, more oddness. I don't remember eating any kind of jelly, especially cherry. It's starting to hurt, a deep spike each time. God, how much can a person throw up? When did I eat noodles that long…or that big? The goo in it is getting thicker too, and pink…starting to feel at least a little better. Ugh…when did I eat a balloon? My belly is feeling better now, really light. Jesus…whatever that was is floating still…almost looks like it's pulsing, or beating…going to have to move to the sink, toilet's almost full. Feeling better now…hungry, actually. Very hungry. Starving. Ravenous.
I feel so empty.


"Awaken, Brother."
The man on the altar slowly opened his eyes. He was certain he hadn't moved, yet the surroundings were clearly different. Before, he had been in what had seemed at first to be a church, but with all religious symbols removed. Now, although everything was in the same place it had been before, it appeared…warped, somehow. Twisted and distorted in a way that he couldn't quite describe, but at the same time felt right. Like he was finally seeing this place as it truly was.
The church wasn't the only thing that had changed. The people that had brought him in here had seemed like ordinary, if a bit strange, citizens of this uncharted city in the middle of nowhere. Now, though, they took on the appearance of scaly beasts with gleaming red eyes. In their eyes, he thought he saw the images of the people they had appeared to be before the ritual, their faces contorted in a perpetual silent scream.
The priest, who had spoken, and who had led the ritual, raised a large mirror. He saw in the mirror another of these scaly demons, but with a television in place of a head. In the static of the television's screen, he could almost make out the image of a similarly-headed human.
"What did you bastards do to me!?" he demanded.
"Isn't it obvious?" asked a resounding voice that seemed to come from all directions at once. "You have become one of the Followers."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means that you are now part of the greatest thing to ever happen to this dreadfully dull world of yours," the voice responded, seemingly coming from the very walls and floors of the church. "The man you once were is dead. I am your life now. You get to be a part of me."
"Where are you? Show yourself, you damn coward!"
"I revealed myself to you the moment you opened your eyes." The doors of the church opened on their own accord. The former doctor stumbled out of the door, unused to his new clawed feet. Where had once appeared to be a normal-looking small town, was now a twisted mess of what could only be described as organic structures. The former buildings now seemed like appendages of a colossal, grotesque living being.
"You get to be a part of my great rebirth," the voice said, causing the buildings to shiver slightly. "Long have I waited to recruit one of your Foundation. The first one may have been a nobody that nobody missed, but you? They will investigate your disappearance. You will bring in more. And when I have enough Followers, I shall shed this sessile form, and the world shall know my true glory."
The doctor simply yawned in response.
"You do not seem impressed by my glory."
"I've heard it all before," he snarked. "In my line of work, I've seen the very worst this universe has to offer, and frankly, as far as eldritch abominations that pose a threat to all existence as we know it go, you're…slightly above average, if I'm feeling generous. And let's be honest…I'm not."
The buildings trembled slightly more. "You dare to look upon my infinite greatness and not prostrate yourself in total service?"
"Frankly," the man said, "I'm more pissed off that you killed me over this than anything else."
"Your death was a necessary means to this end. The living cannot yet see my true form. Your death, and rebirth as a Follower, was the first step in the path to your destiny!"
The man crossed his arms. "Yeah, um…no."
The buildings expanded and contracted, as though the great monstrosity was sighing. "I suppose I should have expected resistance from you. My Followers! Restrain him!"
With a collective snarl, the Followers burst from the church, and all the surrounding buildings, running on all fours, looking more like giant monitor lizards than human beings. The man shook his head, reached into his pants, and removed a gun. Without so much as flinching, he fired, and hit the priest squarely between the eyes.
The other Followers stopped dead in their tracks, staring in disbelief at the unmoving, bleeding priest. "He…he's dead," one of the other Followers said.
"How can this be?" the voice asked. "You cannot kill that which is already dead."
The man cocked his gun and took aim at the nearest Follower. This was going to be fun.


Russel sat on the porch and watched the paper boy ride past. He waved.
After a few moments Russel heard his wife of thirteen years call from within the house. He pulled himself to his feet and took one last breath of the cool spring air before returning inside to answer her.
Lunch was ready.


Agent Jason Suthers woke with a start, thinking that the only way he could feel this way would be if his face were on fire. From what he could tell, his head was covered in heavy bandages and he felt as if his whole face was disfigured, his nose swelled up and his mouth feeling like it had been torn open. Sitting up, his instincts screamed at him to get a good look at the surroundings and figure out where he was.
Well, it looked so far like he was in an empty surgery room at the Site 18 Medical wing. It was completely empty save him, a some medical equipment, a briefcase on a nearby counter, and a dozen or so television monitors mounted on the far wall. Only one of these was actually turned on, and on it was a man in a similar room with bandages covering his head, much like Suthers.
Peering closer at the one active screen, he realized suddenly that it was him. Glancing down at the rest of his body, Suthers saw that his whole body had went through some kind of surgery, he could barely recognize himself. What the hell had happened?
Oh….right. The raid.
Earlier that day, Suthers had been working on moving some of the more dangerous Items to new containment units with several other Agents, supervised by none other than the legendary Dr. Clef. Suthers had always idolized the infamous stories about the good doctor, and being one of the most senior Agents on site, jumped at the chance to actually be able to work under him.
The move had started off so smoothly, too, right up until the hallway they were moving through exploded, blown apart with a monstrous clang. It was a Chaos Insurgency raid. The agents had tried to mobilize, but the terrorists came in like the hammer of god, tearing through them before absconding with a highly dangerous Item. Suthers and Clef were hit the hardest, both of them caught in the initial blast.
Thanking his luck that he was still alive, Suthers tried pulling himself out of the bed, testing to see if he could stand on his two feet. As he got up, the other monitors that were on the wall flickered to life, each one with a barely visible figure covered in shadows. Suthers stared. He had seen the occasional glimpse of one or two before, whenever he had to report a particularly important mission or engagement. But never so many before, he counted ten…eleven…twelve. All twelve of them.
O5s. The entire Overwatch Council had decided to speak with him.
"Welcome back to the world of the living, Agent. You are very lucky to be alive today." From the way they were covered in shadows, Suthers couldn't tell which one of them was speaking, or if any of them were speaking at all.
"Uh, sirs." He saluted, noting that he could barely hear his own voice from under the bandages.
"No need for that, Agent, we're here to inform you that you've been promoted to a considerably unique position within the Foundation. You have an exemplary record, hundreds of successful missions under your belt, along with numerous Items captured and contained, and in light of the recent raid, it's been decided to give you a higher ranking position, namely, that of Dr. Clef."
Suthers paused. "Excuse me?"
"Dr. Clef was killed in the raid earlier today. You have been chosen to replace him."
"That's impossible, Dr. Clef is a person, not a position."
"Dr. Clef is a collection of stories and legends. His….antics….have often worked favorably towards the Foundation, giving us a certain image of employing people with seemingly super-human capabilities. The original Clef's savviness, cunning, and history for flagrant lies, such as claiming he was Satan, had a tendency to inspire others and awe those he worked with. Therefore, we decided to maintain the idea of certain personas under our employ to keep up the image Clef had given us. When the original Clef died fifteen years ago, it was decided that the best course of action was to cover up the death and find a way to continue the legends. So far, it has been successful. You are the fourth man in line to take over the position of Alto Clef."
"I….I see." Suthers looked at the monitors. "I understand now, I'll be more than willing to take this position."
"Excellent. In the briefcase before you are all the necessary documents needed to become Dr. Clef. From this point onward, Agent Jason Suthers died in an Insurgent raid. Remove the bandages, take the documents, read them, and destroy them afterward."
Tearing at the bandages over his head, he looked at the monitor viewing his room. It was the same, except the man sitting in it had a bright red tomato where his head would normally be. He felt the bulbous nose and grinned, feeling the corners of his mouth reaching up towards his ears. And while it was Agent Suthers that was first brought into the room, out of it walked Dr. Alto H. Clef, Father of Lies.


Disclaimer This was a joke. Please don't shoot me.
Alto Clef waited. The lights above him blinked and sparked out of the air. There were SCPs in the base. He didn't see them, but had expected them now for years. His warnings to Docter Broight were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway.
Clef was a agent for fourteen years. When he was young he watched the containment and he said to dad "I want to be in the Foundatin daddy."
Dad said "No! You will BE KILL BY SCPS"
There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got oldered he stopped. But now in the Site base of the Foundation he knew there were SCPs.
"This is Broight" the radio crackered. "You must fight the SCPs!"
So Clef gotted his palsma rifle and blew up the wall.
"HE GOING TO KILL US" said the SCPs
"I will shoot at him" said 682 and he fired the rocket missiles. Clef plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.
"No! I must kill the SCPs" he shouted
The radio said "No, Clef. You are the SCPs"
And then Clef was 076.


And then the sun went out.