It had been dark for hours, and it was starting to get to him. Sitting at the computer, he'd caught himself glancing more and more times at the nearby window, the space beyond so dark it acted like a weak mirror. He hated having big, black open spaces near him. Childish, he knew, but knowing that didn't lessen the fear of walking past an open, dark doorway in a dimly lit hall. Which was probably part of why he was still up. He clicked off the page he was on and rubbed his eyes. The worst was, as it got darker, every site he browsed seem to take on a slightly sinister edge. Even the bright, garish social network sites seemed to be tools to help illustrate that, even with 184 friends, you are still alone, in the dark.
He leaned back in the chair, sighing as he noticed someone or something walk by the window. Instinctively, his eyes flicked to the computer screen, checking for any incriminating tabs. Probably a deer or something, they did live…he paused, suddenly looking around as if seeing the room for the first time, rocking to his feet hard enough to shake the computer desk.
The thing had had a face.
He was on the second floor.
And the face was back.
In the few seconds he watched, it was the absences that struck the strongest. No nose. No hair. No ears. No lower jaw. The additions were equally horrific, with the teeth, the too-long neck, the vertical mouth and yawning eyes, but it was the missing things that stuck the hardest. He sat, feeling drugged, hypnotized, even as the spidery, too-wide fist rose and pulled back.
The glass exploded in, the sharp slashing pain breaking the spell, but the thing was already there. It grabbed, the skin feeling electric and slimy-cool like a reptile, the last coherent sensation he experienced. The rest were Impressionist: Pulling. Pressure. Tearing. Liquid sliding. Sudden numbness. He finally passed out as his ribs were being worked slowly and methodically free. Idly, he wondered why it was tossing them in to the hall.


The oil smoke rose as if it would never stop. Boiling from the massive hole in both the earth and the pipeline, it had blotted out the sun hours ago, and still showed no sign of stopping. As Tyler suited up to go down and inspect the damage, he mused for the hundredth time since the accident that his was truly a blessed life. Not in the arctic for more then a month, and after a disastrous incident in Texas preceding that transfer, he suddenly gets reports of an explosion on the line. Then he's told that it's not just an explosion, but a meteor has impacted the line. His superiors were still trying to determine the exact probability of that event when he'd left to check the damage.
Sucking on the canned, stale air and slowly easing his way down the safety line to the bottom of the hole, he shook his head. The goddamn pump control workman had been both drunk and asleep, and had let the line belch oil for nearly six minutes before someone had finally booted in the door and manually shut down the line. What's more, the crater hadn't overflown, which meant the hell-rock had popped into another line of some kind, or a natural cave…or god forbid, some kind of underground river. Tyler winced, already feeling the ax on his neck, made of lost profits, damages, bad press, and the need for a scapegoat.
The heat steadily rose as he got closer to the bottom, and by the time he released the security cable and stood, he was sweating in his containment suit. The thick, sludgy oil was nearly up to his knees, a black pond with a huge, round bulge in its center. He stumbled forward, pulled by the vague current of the oil as it slowly oozed away in to…whatever it was under the big rock. He approached slowly, judging the rock to be nearly ten feet tall under its coat of oil and sludge. Oddly rounded, it looked like a massive, lumpy eight ball. That he was now positioned directly behind it was an irony that Tyler refused to appreciate.
Leaning closer, the oil smoke oddly not as dense this close to the bottom, he tried to spot where the oil was flowing out. He put one suited arm down into the murk, careful to keep his mask clear of the ooze, and felt the unmistakable suction…but not down. The oil was being pulled up…into the meteor. He moved his hand a bit closer to the massive stone, thinking it was some vague trick of the current, when he finally noticed where most of the smoke was coming from. The billowing, black column of smoke wasn't issuing from the oil…but from the top of the stone. Four great holes were belching the fumes to the sky from inside the stony orb. As he watched, mystified, he saw one the holes quiver, then slowly flex shut for several seconds, before reopening with a fresh blast of smog and grime.
“What in the name…” he started to whisper, before quickly changing to an inarticulate shriek of pain and surprise. His hand was trapped. Tyler's entire world was now defined by this fact. Something hard, and sharp, and crushing was clamped over his hand, and he could not get it free. There was a sudden pause in both the exhaust of smoke and the slurping of oil as the stony mass seemed to savor this new, more substantial feed. Then, it sucked. Hard.
Tyler's last coherent thought vanished as he felt the flesh of his hand being pulled free like a used latex glove.


“…Please be seated. Let's get to business, I know you are all busy, and I appreciate all of you taking time out…”
“Cut it, Three.”
“…Very well. I think we all know the issue at hand. What with the recent…unpleasantness that occurred during our military disentanglement…”
“Oh yes, unpleasantness is just the word I would use. You know, because a near-total shutdown of all sites due to a military intervention is…”
“May I continue, Eight? …Thank you. As I was saying, recent events have caused a…relaxing of protocol. Many of our sites have had to act in near-total isolation from any major command structure, and administrative decisions have been falling to staff members who would not be in any sort of command position under normal circumstances. We've managed to set major sections back to normal, and Site Security is now under our sole jurisdiction.”
“With all due respect, Three, we know this already. Please get to the point, sir.”
“…One major hub site, our primary staff facility, and two of our major humanoid SCP-class item storage facilities have come under the sole administrative control of one Doctor Kondraki. During his period of command, the total number of security infractions, information leaks, misuse of resources, and containment breach events for his area have exceeded the sum total of all the infractions and security events of the whole Foundation for the past five years.”
“While under normal conditions, this would result in immediate termination, this has proven…difficult to do. Doctor Kondraki appears to command a level of respect and fear that could cause a minor rebellion in his commanded sites in the event of his hostile removal. He also has an uncanny knack for avoiding danger and near-certain death. Even in the event of non-terminal retirement, Marshall, Carter and Dark has made motions that lead us to believe that they would recruit or capture Doctor Kondraki.”
“So, what you're saying is that we may have a second Insurgency brewing?”
“Oh for fuck's sake, you know that whole thing is a goddamn cover for-”
“I am not saying anything of the kind, and I would remind everyone that we are in polite company. What I am saying is that we need to mobilize a deep operative. Someone who can cause Doctor Kondraki's death in a way that will leave no trace of foul play, and be absolutely exempt from suspicion. Someone who can act with total focus on the mission. Someone tried, tested, and sure of success.”
“The thing about that is, everyone's deployed currently. Who do we have on-site there who could carry out the order?”
“I know just the person.”

“Hey Cleffy!”
“Hey Draki, how'd the test go?”
“Oh man, it was great…we had a D-Class turn into vapor!”
Doctor Clef nodded, the motion always causing a slight, disconcerting blur around the edges of his head. His flickering smile widened as he continued to walk past Doctor Kondraki. “Sounds like a blast. I gotta run for the moment, but I'll catch up with you a bit later.”
Doctor Kondraki laughed, cracking his knuckles, “Ahh, no big deal…I'm going for a nap in the office anyway.” He strode away, whistling as a small cluster of butterflies suddenly appeared from a wall and started to follow him.
Had he turned, he would have seen Doctor Clef staring at his receding form, his face pinched in what could almost be called regret…if not for the smile.
Kondraki was on top of the goddamn world. He'd managed to shift all his research duties off to Bright and Iceberg, and he even had most of his actual administrative duties farmed out to terrified, hard-working cube slaves. He hadn't even heard from the bigwigs at central command for weeks…it seemed like he'd finally gotten through to them that his methods, however brutal, worked. SCP-408 flitted ahead of him, the small swarm of butterflies flickering colors seemingly at random as he reached his office door.
He strode in, tossing his beaten-up ball cap onto an awaiting hook, and started over to his desk. He was nearly seated before he noticed Doctor Gears standing near the right side of the desk, folder in hand. He stumbled in mid-step, the SCP-408 swarm flickering around him, ready to decoy at a moment's notice. “Jesus, Gears! Fucking say hi or something, I could have shot you!”
Gears nodded slightly, holding out the folder. “Duly noted. I will attempt to be more conspicuous about my presence in the future. There has been a development with SCP-408 that you need to be made aware of immediately.”
Doctor Kondraki took the folder grudgingly, muttering as he sat and flipped through the folder. He stopped two pages in, and rocked forward in his chair at the half-way point. “The hell do they mean 'third lifestage'? SCP-408 has NEVER given any indication of that!”

“Why has this even become an issue? We've known about his instability for ages, but just sat on our hands.”
“Doctor Kondraki has a unique bond with SCP-408, one that The Foundation found intriguing. It turns out a mild chemical imbalance has given Doctor Kondraki a pheromone signature that has a mildly hypnotic effect on SCP-408.”
“Hence why they follow him about all the bloody time.”
“Exactly, Six. Initially we were unable to find the precise chemical signature, but we have recently cracked it and found it rather easy to synthesize. We should be able to roll out a prototype treatment spray to some Mobile Task Forces within the year. With this development, Doctor Kondraki's continued existence has been deemed…less than paramount.”
“That still leaves us with the problem of “King of the Boooterflies” Kondraki. Those things never leave him alone for a second.”
“We already have that situation in hand. A report about a 'third life stage' that may be a Keter-level threat will be issued to all sites. Any and all SCP-408 will be collected and contained without exception. Kondraki will comply, or be held before the Review Board. Once SCP-408 has been properly contained, stage two will be engaged.”
“I still question that, by the way. He's bound to catch on, I mean your so-called 'special agent' has been on more or less desk duty for some time now. Plus, Kondraki is bound to suspect something.”
“Yes, our agent has had some down-time, but this is not his first action in this capacity. Plus, despite their initial differences, Kondraki trusts him to a certain extent. He won't let us down.”

“What do you mean, I can't enter the containment cell? I've ALWAYS had access to SCP-408, you KNOW this report is bullshit!”
Dmitri smiled uncomfortably, holding up his wrists held together. “I am sorry, Doktor, but I am in the handcuff. Command says 'no entry', I must give no entry. Security Head must set example, am sure you understand.”
Kondraki swore and kicked at the containment door, then turned and stood directly before the Russian. “Listen, how many times have I gotten you out of jams, huh? Just let me check on them, to make sure everything's ok, yeah?”
Dimitri shook his head, forced smile firmly planted on his face. “I am of the regretting, sir, but orders are orders. Nobody in, nobody out for three week. Order signed by O5 level, is nothing to do for it.”
Kondraki roared, grabbing his hat and raging for several seconds, before grabbing the big Russian's shirt. “Listen, I'm the goddamn head of-”
He was abruptly cut off as Dmitri grabbed his arm and twisted him away. He then positioned himself in front of the containment access door, arms behind his back, feet planted at parade rest. His face was a stony mask. “Was speaking as friend, Doktor. Am now speaking as Security Head. Leave area immediately, Doktor Kondraki, or you will be removed.”
Kondraki was still fuming hours later, when there was a sharp knock on his door. Before he could say “fuck off”, Clef slipped in, shutting the door behind him. He looked around the office, whistling. “Wow…did you really have to shoot the ceiling that much? I mean, the computer is still semi-recognizable, wouldn't that have been better?”
Kondraki shook his head, twirling a spent shotgun shell on his finger. “Not now Clef, I'm really not in the mood.”
Clef slid into one of the few remaining undamaged chairs, and grinned at the smoldering doctor. “Shit happens Kon, you know this. It's probably some screw-up somewhere down the chain, you know how bureaucratic shit gets up at the top. Just…roll with it.”
Kondraki rose, starting to walk around the room. “I know what they're up to. They've tried to kill me before a few times, but I always get loose. It's so fucking stupid…they recall all the research work, try and delegate everything out so when I go, I won't leave a hole…but I'm not about to let some dusty stuffed shirts brush me out of the way. I've shown the weapon potential for countless items…plus, I always have an ace over them.” He grinned coldly, looking at nothing. “They think that cutting me off from SCP-408 is going to leave me defenseless? Bullshit. Bull SHIT! Plus, nobody has the balls to try and go toe-to-toe with me!" Kondraki continued. "Hell, I rode fucking 682!” He laughed, looking to Clef.
The other man nodded, his eyes flickering slightly as he looked away. “Yeah…you're really just too nuts to kill…”
Both men chuckled for a few moments, before drifting into silence. Kondraki stared at Clef, his smile slowly fading as he warily moved back behind his desk. “So…tell me, friend…why is it you've been such a desk jockey lately? Seems weird for a…man…of action like you to just take being benched without a fight.”
Clef shrugged, his smile frozen inches from his ears. “Oh, you know, just recharging the batteries, molesting demi-humans, the usual.”
The laughter was forced, the remaining conversation false. When Kondraki pulled his shotgun and put a slug past Clef's ear, it was almost a relief.

“Isn't there a concern about fallout? Kondraki is somewhat well known for his… tendencies towards collateral damage.”
“It's been decided that, in light of the continued threat potential posed, the one-time costs are outweighed by the long-term benefits.”
“…Is the damn site nuke mentioned anywhere in the contingency plans?”
“Not in any of the primary ones, no.”

-SECURITY BREACH ON STAFF LEVEL 1-
-SHOTS FIRED-
-SHOTS FIRED-
-STRUCTURAL DAMAGE TO STAFF LEVEL ONE: STAFF DOORS 1-3-
-SHOTS FIRED-
“Son of the bitch…what is going…” Dmitri hunched over the site alert console, watching the alerts pop up, several security screens switching to the site of the action. It appeared Clef and Kondraki were locked in a gun battle. Again. Still, this seemed more…vigorous than normal. For one thing, they were using real bullets this time.
Dmitri flipped the sound toggle on, letting the room fill with the sound of screaming and gunfire.
“-onna creep up, blind-side me? Oooh, you're slipping…”
<Three loud reports>
“Kon, I swear, I have no idea-”
“Oh, and now I'm going to believe a word that comes out of that polymorphic pie hole?”
<Single report>
“Kon, calm the shit down!”
Dmitri sighed, rubbing his temple as he reached for the security intercom. “Is to be much paperworks…” he muttered, picking up the receiver.
Before he could dial up the security team, however, it rang in his hand. Shocked, he nearly dropped it before hitting the transmit button. He listened in silence for thirty eight seconds. He nodded once, then replaced the receiver. He looked at the screens, the intercom, and swallowed hard.
He then switched everything off, and went to get a coffee. It was the first coffee break he'd taken in nine months.

“Too much seems left to chance. What if he somehow avoids the operative? Kondraki has shown some combat prowess, this could backfire rather quickly.”
“If you'll go to page eighteen of the third section, you'll see the actions detailed much more clearly. The main combat event is to assess the level of decay Kondraki's combat capabilities have undergone during his prolonged SCP-408 use.”
“…fair enough, but won't he be more on alert?”
“Yes. On the wrong subject.”

Kondraki raced down the hall, keeping to the side. His bleeding arm throbbed, but he kept running, the gradual slant keeping him at a good pace. He couldn't hear Clef any more, but he knew he was there, somewhere, waiting for an ambush. He smiled with bloody teeth as he rounded the corner. He knew where he'd be safe, be able to regroup. The one place nobody would dare fire a shot, never risk the full wrath of The Foundation for any collateral damage.
Lurching forward, he pitched himself against the solid steel door. Panting, he fumbled for the knob, smearing blood over the brass plate reading “Dr. Gears”.
Gears looked up quickly from his screen as Kondraki stumbled in, blood splattering as he slammed the door shut. “Doctor Kondraki. You appear distressed. And injured.”
The bleeding man laughed, then panted, leaning on the door. “Ooooh fuck….Gears, you have…no idea…how happy I…am to…hear you.”
Gears rose and crossed quickly to the door, easing Kondraki across the office. “Sit down. You need immediate medical attention. Is there a breach event in progress? I will contact site security.”
Kondraki tensed as Gears spoke, then grabbed the older man's lab coat. “No…no security…just…let me sit.”
Kondraki flopped into the office chair, sighing and wincing as he rubbed his shoulder. “They…they tried to send Clef after me…can you believe that? I knew they'd try it eventually. God DAMN but that hurts…Got any pain killers, Gears?”
The older man shook his head slowly, watching Kondraki. “I am sorry, but I keep no medical supplies on hand in my office. Any chemicals required for testing are kept-”
“I know, I know…Jesus…” Kondraki waved Gears away, panting and closing his eyes as he rubbed his face. “Just…need a second to regroup. Then I'm going up to master control…pop some doors…” Kondraki sighed, getting his wind back.
He didn't hear the click of the trigger until the bullet was already in his temple.
The .45 caliber slug tore through the thin tissue of his scalp and snipped a neat hole through the skull bone just as Kondraki thought “what…”. As it shredded through his collected memories, dreams, and plans, he was simultaneously aware of the location of a book he'd misplaced weeks ago, and the vague smell of wood shavings. Then all of it, wood, book, and mind exited through a much less neat and much more explosive hole in the left side of the now former doctor's skull. He twitched once, then fell forward, hitting the desk hard enough to bruise, if he had been still capable of it.
Gears shifted, replacing the gun in his coat pocket. He looked down, stone-faced, as the man emptied his life's blood and work onto his desk. He raised his hand, slowly, and placed it on the dead man's shoulder. He blinked once, slowly, eyes closed for several seconds, before opening them again. He then set about cleaning the gun, and re-positioning Kondraki's hands.

“I still question the operative choice. His last combat action was…four years ago?”
“Combat, yes. Rogue subject control is not considered a combat action.”
“…when…when was he last active for that, then?”
“I'm afraid that's still sealed.”
“…alright. Let's go with it. What are we going to do for a cover?”
“In this case, the old ways are the best ways.”

-Notice of Staff Death-

Name: Dr. Kondraki
Cause: Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wound
Information:
Subject has been known to exhibit extreme bipolar and paranoid disorders consistent with extreme chemical imbalance. Subject entered a psychotic episode/break down during a conversation with a fellow staff member. Subject attempted to kill several staff members, then attempted to take a senior staff member hostage. Subject was reported to be incoherent and extremely agitated, and threatened to take his own life several times during the event. Subject made several motions to execute the senior staff member, before turning the gun on himself. Security teams reported too late to prevent subject's action.
Post-Action:
Burial services to be held immediately. Position replacement interviews underway.
Status:
Closed

“Shot himself? Really Gears? Really?”
“Yes.”
“… You look me in the eyes. You look me in the eyes and you say that to me.”
“He shot himself.”
“You can't bullshit a bullshitter Gears.”
“…”
“…Was it at least hard for you to do?”
“…”
“You know what…don't answer. I really don't want to know."


I shivered like a jackhammer, even with my heavy down jacket drawn up around my neck. It felt like at least ten below zero, thanks to the wind chill, which by all logic should have been stopped by the snow covered trees. Winter hates logic, I think. Why else would it snow so damn much?
"Move!" I shouted at the others, and the pickup truck rumbled forward, muffled by the thick snow. Something thumped in the back, making its large, tarp-covered box shake from side to side. Ropes held it in place. I took a cask from my belt, smelled it. No drinking on the job.
Yeah, fuck that.
I took a heavy mouthful, and waited for something a little like warmth to hit my bloodstream.
…
"Thank you, Agent. The research division will take care of the rest. The, ah, replacements for Jekowski and Phillips are waiting in the… um, the Cafeteria, I think. For introductions."
She waved me off. She was new, still nervous in her job. Didn't remember to ask me if I had found any new risks with this one.. "When it starts drooling yellow, get everyone as far away as possible. It can spit poison."
She blinked, then nearly dove for the phone.
"We gagged it."
She relaxed.
…
The new kids were sitting across from each other, each with a stack of papers in front of them, and no food in sight. I didn't go to them at first. First, food. Then, my plate piled high and held in the palm of my left hand like some ritzy waiter, I took a handgun from my side, stepped behind one of the new kids, and pointed it at the back of his head. He had cropped dirt red hair.
"You just died," I said in a bored voice. To his credit, he barely flinched. Could have just been a silent hiccup. The boy across from him didn't do so well. though. Nearly tipped his chair over.
"Geez, are they recruiting out of high school now?" I asked him after an awkward second's pause. He looked like he was. As I'm getting older, they're getting younger.
"Um… Director. You're… I mean, Captain Bark. We were told to report to…"
I cut him off with a "Yeah, yeah. Now, tell me what you could have done to keep from getting killed just now."
No one spoke for a second. I jabbed carrot top in the back of the head with my gun, and he finally spoke. "Pay attention to my surroundings. When someone enters the room, check for weapons." He had a thick Scottish accent. "Now could you please…"
"No," I said. "Besides just seeing me, what would you do? I have a gun. You don't even have a toothpick."
"Run and hide, probably, sir."
"Good. Remember that. Fight when you have either one hell of an advantage, or no choice in the matter. Of course, you're still dead." I drew back the gun, and sat on the table beside them.
"I hope you weren't waiting for me in order to eat. I hate that. Don't go all formal on me or you'll find yourself on Keter duty for whatever the hell excuse I can find. And lose that damn accent. You make me think of a leprechaun."
"I…"
I didn't let the leprechaun finish. "You, Youngblood." They were both staring at me now. "If I had pulled the trigger on your friend the leprechaun, what would you have done? I see you came out here naked as well. No gun, not even a god damn butter knife. And wetting the bed isn't an option, no matter how much practice you have."
"I…"
"Don't finish that. If your next sentence doesn't start with a verb, you're talking too much."
I raised the gun to the leprechaun's face again. "Now, Youngblood, what do you do?"
"But…"
"Wrong!" I shouted, and pulled the trigger, discharging the blank with a loud bang.
This time, the leprechaun jumped.
…
"So, twelve legs with claws, four legs with pincers, and a pair of pincers… erm, normal, mouth pincers that is, which… deliver an electrical current that disrupts the prey's heartbeat."
"You call that normal?"
"You know what I mean."
"I'd know what you meant if you weren't talking like some kind of drunk pixie."
I had to credit him. He could control his temper.
"So, they never mentioned what the other…" he paused to think, "eighty six legs do."
"They walk," I said. "Suit up. The weather's a bitch out here."
The truck rumbled and shuddered to a halt. The door gave a metallic whine in preparation, and before it could open into hell frozen over, I zipped my coat up around my neck.


Document recovered in the canteen of Site-██. Current source of writings are unknown, but at this time theorised [REDACTED]. Item appears to be some form of diary, however as the possibility of it actually being sourced from [REDACTED] are unlikely, it is kept on record as a hoax.
However, entry 1,900 correlates directly to [DATA EXPUNGED].
Excerpts from the text follow.

Day 1,450
Nice day. Woke up, but wasn't particularly hungry, so I just helped myself to a snack. No-one ever seems to ask me for payment, but then again I haven't got a job, so that's probably a good thing. The canteen is nice, and I saw that nice lady again, she always seems to be helping someone. This time she was talking to that weird guy who always has a gun with him. I don't like him.
Well, that's it for today, can't think of much else to write.
Day 1,451
Had a sausage sandwich for dinner today. They make really nice food in that cafe down the hall from my room. Those two guys who stand outside my room sometimes were there again today. I dunno why they're there, although that nice man who gave me the room did mention people would stand outside sometimes to keep me safe. Or was it to keep someone else safe? I can't remember.
Either way, they're never very talkative, which is boring. I just wish someone would come and actually have a proper conversation with me. Instead of just walking into my room (WITHOUT EVER KNOCKING!) and then look surprised I'm in here.
I mean, they must know I'm in here, otherwise why would I have this room?
Day 1,500
I'm another year older! No-one brought me a cake though. There was a big boom somewhere else today, must have been that guy in the weird pixelly clothing. He's always making things explode.
It being my birthday did mean I wasn't as bored today. Had to take some more paper and pens and things out of the store-room though. Everytime I asked, nothing happened, so I did it myself.
I know this is some kind of research place, and that I shouldn't go outside because of the disease, but it's really boring being ignored all the time. I wonder what the disease is? He said it was bad, but never said more when I think back about it. Hope it's not too bad.
Day 1,759
I swear to god the next person to walk into my room without knocking is going to get my chair thrown at his head.
Day 1,761
Throwing a chair at someone's head does not get their attention. Or make someone come and shout at you. I could live with shouting, as long as someone actually talks to me.
Day 1,830
Drew on the walls today, make my room a bit brighter. Just need to find some paint and I can make it look good. This was this guy walking past today wearing a really shiny necklace.
Looked expensive, I wonder why he's wearing it in a lab?
Day 1,850
Painted my walls after finishing the drawings. Looks really good. Hope the next person to walk in likes it.
Day 1,899
Meh, looks like another dreary day ahe
Day 1,900
OH MY GOD YESTERDAY WAS THE BEST DAY EVER. I was just sat in my room, filling in my diary as usual, expecting another boring day of nothing, as always. Suddenly, there's this massive BANG and a lizard thing breaks down the wall with my door in it. It had some guy on it's back shooting at it, and then another giant (he has to be a giant, he was too big to be a person like me) pulled a sword out of NOWHERE and starting hitting the lizard and it was the best thing ever. I might try drawing a picture of it.
Day 1,903
Finally finished painting my walls again after that lizard thing came through it. They look really good again now.
Day 3,050
I wish someone would remember me.


Outside the apartment's windows, the sound of children laughing drifted from the park, a block away.
Professor Ian Thomas sank into his couch without really looking around the room. He closed his eyes. It had been a long day. The historian could not remember the last time it had been a short day. He let out a long sigh and rubbed at his temples, reaching for the bottle of bourbon he saved in the cabinet nearby for serious emergencies.
It wasn't there.
“Check the coffee table, Professor.” It took a moment for the voice to register for him, and when it did, it was nonetheless peculiar. Adjectives filtered into his mind without actually corresponding to definite details. He knew the voice was even, cultured, the slight hints of a strange accent … but he could not identify a gender, an age, or a precise tone.
His instincts screamed at him, but he found himself reaching leisurely for the filled glass on the glass surface all the same. Like a man struggling against the tide, he tried to focus on the source of the voice and found a pair of eyes in a face that, like the voice, his mind refused to describe.
“Relax, Professor,” the black-red eyes said. “Have a sip, it'll make this go easier. It's quite good, if you don't mind me saying so.” The eyes raised a half-filled glass in a slender hand and tipped it towards him. “I've been sampling it. You will pardon me my transgression, I hope. I was raised in slightly different codes of hospitality.”
The historian brushed away the cobwebs of his mind and sat up straighter. He knew his uninvited guest; his mind was racing down remembered pathways … accounts of blood and fire. He swallowed and set the glass firmly down. “I think I will wait,” he said in a quavering voice. “How did you find me?”
“Come, Professor, you're well-acquainted with me,” the visitor said. “I'm pleased to see you and your colleagues so enthusiastic about my memoirs. The amount of energy you have put into collecting them astounds me.”
“You are-”
The eyes narrowed slightly. “Let's use your colleagues' term for me, Professor. Keep this professional.”
Thomas swallowed hard. “You are SCP-140-A,” he said.
“Quite so. Are you surprised?”
The historian shivered. Despite his best efforts, his fingers began tapping nervously on the coffee table. He felt the other's wry amusement and cursed the weakness of his knees. This was not supposed to be his element. “I'm …” he swallowed, licking his lips, “I'm sorry, but you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Of course I do. I would not be here if I did not.” SCP-140-A's eyes were hard to read, but he felt the amusement growing. “Professor, I have not survived for centuries by being incautious. I learn. I listen. I adapt. I have no interest in exposing myself to unnecessary risk. I chose you because you are an educated man. Because my sources indicate that unlike some among your colleagues you have no proficiency in the use of the regulation pistol you are presently fumbling to grasp, while I have killed before and will do so again with a smile.”
It laughed, and something about the sound made Thomas think of breaking glass, skittering across his nerves. “Relax, Professor. You are my host. I have no interest in violence tonight, but in the event you attempt a facsimile of cheap heroism, my snipers will put a bullet in your brain before you hear the crack of gunfire.”
Thomas dropped the useless pistol with the faintest flicker of secret relief. He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and did his best to look the well-dressed intruder in the face, though his eyes smarted when he tried to look too closely. “Then why are you here?”
“Your Foundation has sought me for some time,” SCP-140-A replied, “much as the Inquisition and the Templars and the ghazis before them. In my time, leaders met each other face to face.” It smiled with teeth like a row of gleaming knives. “I felt it necessary to provide you the same courtesy.”
The historian swallowed again and nodded. “I see,” he said. “I don't suppose you would be interested in formal negotiations with Foundation authorities.”
“Somehow, I doubt they would be conducted in good faith,” SCP-140-A replied. It sat back on the couch opposite Thomas', looking uncomfortably at home. The … whatever it was let out a sigh and set its drink down. Thin hands pressed tightly together before their owner's face.
“Yours is a strange era, Professor,” it said. “I've learned much of your colleagues. My time was an age of kings. Blood was spilt in the name of gods and glory. Your colleagues do not fight for either.” It laughed sharply. “I don't pretend to understand all your methods, and yet I know your capacity for ruthlessness. But not in search of land, power, not even peace. Your sacrifices are in the name of …” it made a disgusted sound, “'normality.' Could you think of no better cause but the preservation of the mediocre?”
“Is that why you wrote it?”
“Need it have been in the service of some nefarious plot?” SCP-140-A replied. It crossed one long leg across the other; the red-black eyes half-lidded. “Perhaps I was merely lonely. Nostalgic.”
“Yes. The good old days. How I miss my ritual sacrifice.”
“Come, Professor, you're wiser than that. You know how brutal and violent the ancient world once was.” SCP-140-A sounded thoughtful. “And yet from the wreckage of an empire that salted fields and killed one in ten for disloyalty, your people built this age of technological wonders. Do you think these marvels of science and steel any less forged in blood?”
“We didn't do it literally,” the historian replied. He took a sip of his drink, despite knowing he should stay on his toes. “You had your chance.”
“And yet you remain curious,” the guest said. “The Foundation snatched you from a promising career in academia, if I recall correctly. I know you've mused about what would happen in the case of another … I believe you call them ‘expansion events,' yes? Any honest historian would.” It smiled. “But you haven't really been a historian for years, have you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You resent your employment,” it replied. “I don't blame you. How many of your colleagues share your passion?” It took a sip of its drink and shook its head. “Your expertise is met by disdain, even contempt. I saw Alexandria burn, Professor, and the Bonfire of the Vanities, and the fires in Munich. And I wept. So much knowledge destroyed. Your colleagues would have you preserve a new Dark Age.”
“And your alternative is … what, exactly?” the historian asked, trying to ignore the uncomfortable, nervous way the other's words bit at him. His fingers drummed unconsciously on the table's surface. “Usher in one myself in a fit of pique? Or are you just suggesting I make it public?”
“Why else didn't you warn them about the dig site, Professor?”
A lump of glacial ice dropped into Thomas' guts. “I don't know what you're talking about!” he snapped. The bourbon in his hand was beginning to look more tempting by the moment.
“Oh, pardon me, I didn't mean to be rude.” The visitor leaned forward, cupping its narrow chin in a long pale hand. Black-red eyes seemed to sparkle with interest. “It's a natural assumption. Surely you foresaw some danger. One of the Foundation's few historians would be considered enough of an authority on the subject that it's hard to conceive of his warnings being ignored by his colleagues. I don't blame you, Professor. You can't exactly publish material on the subject, nor can you teach, so all you have left is …” it shrugged, “research.”
“I warned them,” Thomas hissed, the memory hot in his head. He licked his lips nervously and downed the remainder of his glass' contents in a swallow. The glass and the hand that held it trembled as a tide of memories flickered through his brain.
He had seen the photos taken at the ill-fated dig. They held the kind of uneasy fascination fever-dreams possessed, beautiful things and horrible things still artful in their craft. And he had listened to the recordings. They kept him awake at night.
“I'm sure you did,” the visitor said comfortingly, and reached out to pat Thomas' shoulder. Beneath the fabric, his skin crawled at the contact. “It's on the record, after all. ‘Professor Thomas advises caution.' Very matter-of-fact phrasing. It's hardly your fault if you expected them not to listen.”
“This conversation is over.”
“Is it? Well, I suppose that's fair,” the visitor said with a strange half-smile. “You need some time to think, no doubt. I've enjoyed our time together, Professor. It's a pleasure to talk to a man who knows who and what I am. A man who truly appreciates my work. I'll stop by again another time.”
It rose from its seat and stretched, producing a small piece of paper looking like it had been torn from a notepad. There was a cellphone number written in a neat hand. “If you change your mind, Professor, you'll know where to find me.”


Today
MisterBibs, Agent of the Foundation, was having string of good luck for the past month.
This, naturally, gave him an astonishingly bad mood. Bibs wasn't an entirely spiritual person, but he did believe that there was a finite amout of good luck in the universe, and a string of positive events in a row meant that one's luck was running out. It was the sort of belief that was confirmed no matter what happened: if things kept going well, it was just proof that something bad was soon coming. If something bad did happen, it justified his belief.
As he followed the blinking lights directing him and other staff members to the emergency, he knew his string of good luck had run out. Since "running towards a major threat" was something Bibs did all the time, it gave him the time to mentally tick off all the good events in the past month that (in his own opinion) caused whatever Bad Thing had just happened.
At the start of the month, he discovered a new way of containing SCP-409. Bombarding a source of 409 with high-impact sonar waves causes the crystals to dissolve into a non-contagious gel. It made complete sense to him, since 409 was just White Tiberium, but it was a surprise to everyone else. Last Bibs heard about it, the eggheads-with-actual-eggs-in-their-heads were working on figuring out why it worked.
A week or so later, he had done… something about SCP-055. He wasn't sure what he did, or anything, and regularly forgot that he had done anything. All that remained of the event in his memory was the existence of 055 itself. It was a strange feeling, Bibs thought, to have a memory that actively wanted to escape. He could feel the the memory of 055 rattling through his brain, careening off memories and mental fanwanks and creations, trying to find a gap. So far, all it had accomplished was leaving residue of itself on other memories of his.
A little bit after that, there was that… thing with Rights. Even in his head, he refused to actually specifically mention it. Every once in a while, when he was all alone, he did a little dance in celebration. It was almost worth the beating Bright gave him when he found out.
Of course, the pride of the month was a few days ago. Abel knew that Bibs was a jumpy person, and since Abel was a prick, he enjoyed taking advantage of that. Without fail, the outcome was the same: Bibs jumped upward, urine flowed downward, and Abel laughed. But one time, one rare and precious time, only jumping happened. So proud that he hadn't wet himself, Bibs proceeded to dance a finely-tuned jig in front of the Sumerian warrior. Since Abel was a prick, though, he didn't appreciate it.
At the end of the mental voyage, he jumped through the double-doors to where the emergency was. The scene was chaos, as to be expected. When the blinking lights and klaxons announcing a containment breach were going off, chaos always springs up. Something was very, very wrong, and very unexpected.
One of the few things that kept Bibs employed by the Foundation was that his sense of fear was off-kilter compared to everyone else's. Things that scared everyone else didn't phase him too much. It wasn't bravado or courage, it was simply that almost everything the Foundation dealt with had some analogue, even distant ones, to some story he read at one time or another. Even if there wasn't, his mind created one. What scared Bibs were the warning signs that something the Foundation was handling reminded him of a Bad Event from something he'd read. The rate of such worries weren't extremely high, but they were high enough that he wasn't fired when performance reviews came up.
What was in front of Bibs and the rest of the Foundation was a perfect example of this. To everyone else in the room, the frightening aspect was that the SCP attempting to escape confinement was SCP-682. They were afraid of how it was spewing forth thick gobs of acidic blood from its mouth and eyes, threatening to dissolve the walls of its containment. They were afraid of how any weapons fired at 682 were bouncing off its flesh with a flash of light.
Bibs, Agent of the Foundation, wasn't phased by that too much. He trusted his fellow co-workers to contain 682 by itself. But what did frighten him was what was around 682's neck. It looked like a rusted iron necklace, digging into 682's flesh. It didn't look right, but it didn't take an idiot to know what it was.
It did, however, take an idiot (Bibs himself) to fix it. So he ran back to his office, knowing he had the tools to stop the problem.
There was one more thing he was afraid of. He was afraid of getting blamed for the containment breach.
It was his fault.

Two Weeks Earlier
Bibs stood near SCP-914, holding what he wanted to refine in his hand. He was childishly excited to be given permission to do so. As with most of his suggestions, the O5s were hesitant to allow him to do it. They had every right to be, since it was a vanity experiment, with little actual benefit to the Foundation. Bibs made as such clear during his proposal. But in knowing that, he provided as much information explaining the objects to the higher-ups, so they understood what he wanted to do. These were good ones, not the bad ones, and he was only going to set 914 to Fine. There was very little chance of anything going wrong.
Eventually, he was given permission. If there was a line between "Giving Bibs Permission To Do Something Because It Had Value" and "Giving Bibs Permission To Do Something To Get Him To Stop Asking For Permission", he didn't know about it. Thankfully, such distinctions only occasionally depressed him.
Bibs, Agent of the Foundation, stared briefly at the 914's knob, set to Fine. The setting Very Fine was tempting, but really, it had taken him too long to get permission for Fine, much less Very Fine. To get permission for Very Fine, he'd have to start the approval process all over again. Even if he wanted to do that (and he wasn't sure he wanted to, really), it'd mean a whole bunch more paperwork and begging. He wondered which one he'd have to do more.
Well, it didn't hurt to ask, did it? He turned around to ask the guard, required by policy to be with him during the experiment, a question. To his surprise, he wasn't there. Odd, he thought. He turned around and went through the door. He went to the door to 914's containment room to find out why, and the two guards there were gone too. Damned odd.
Bibs wasn't the kind of person who complained when rules weren't followed - after all, he was usually skirting the occasional rule or six - but never the big ones. Containment Procedures were the biggest of the big rules. With 914, one guard was always with the guy doing the test, and two were positioned outside. Three guards, all away at the same time. He groaned. More likely than not, the Observation staff in the booth above 914 had let them take a break. Yeah, Bibs whined to himself. It's not like I'm in need of protection or anything..
Time to call the folks in the booth. He flipped open his communicator. "Hey, it's Bibs. We got an O5 on-site? Last minute request to alter my experiment a bit. It's against the rules to change an experiment on the fly, and I'd rather not be shot for doing it without permission."
Nothing.
Groaning, he craned his head to look at the booth. He just barely was able to make out a crudely-written sign saying "BRB COFFEE" on it.
Now, Bibs was annoyed. Sure, his uncanny ability to infiltrate and investigate without being noticed was invaluable in his role as a Foundation Agent. He could get into places, go where he wanted, and nobody bothered him because he always acted like he belonged there. Or lost and confused. Or like he belonged there, but lost and confused.
But that 'gift' became really annoying when he wasn't in the field, and people forgot that he was around. Like today.
He looked at the objects he planned to run through 914. Little toys, of no value to most people but himself. Shiny plastic promotional items. He figured 914 would turn them metallic on the Fine setting. Maybe fit a little bit better, since they were designed to be worn by much fatter people.
He waited a few more minutes for someone to come back. He kicked the wall a few times. He contemplated peeing on the wall, figuring that would get someone's attention. But there was a fine line between "I Told You Not To Leave Me Alone" and "Actually Crazy."
Bibs was annoyed at being ignored. He had an experiment to run. The Observation Staff and the Guards were AWOL. They were the ones breaking all the rules.
The Very Fine setting was very tempting.

Today
Bibs had already worked out how this all happened by the time he returned to the containment breach.
His first assumption was worked out, contemplated, and rejected before he even reached his office. Someone else had found out what he did with 914, and replicated his methods. Whoever it was, the ignorant fool decided it would be a great idea to use a different ones than he did. They used one of the bad ones, it got away from them, and it chose the finest bearer it could.
As he reached his office, he had already judged that assumption as false. Nobody knew he what he had done. Sure enough, it was the guards and the Observation Staff that got reamed out for dereliction of duty. He was Bibs, Agent of the Foundation, so nobody doubted him as he filled out the test results. Two objects, fine setting, Two objects, metallic. No other change, with a "Aw Shucks, It's A Shame It Didn't Do What I Had Hoped!" note.
No, this was his fault, albeit indirectly. He, using 914, had created two of them. Good Ones. But just like the stories they came from, the Good Ones' existence brought forth other ones. Bad Ones. Nature abhors a vacuum, a vacuum created by his own hand.
Bibs slammed into the door to the containment booth, and 682 was still trying to escape. The Guards, reduced in number but no less determined, had kept the reptile contained. Its cage had seen better days, missing sections but still keeping the beast contained. The walls steamed from the acidic blood 682 continued to burst forth.
The red-iron necklace was still clamped to its neck. Nobody else would understand what was going on, but to Bibs it was clear as day. The red necklace was demanding control and ownership over 682, and 682 was having none of that. Its physiology was not only rejecting the necklace, but attempting to assimilate it.
Bibs found a big enough hole to fit his fist through. He slipped one of the rings onto his finger and stuck his hand in. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Whatever 914 had turned them into, they didn't work as they were supposed to. But they worked.
The weapon Bibs used was supposed to make anything he thought of, but that one of the ways the ring didn't work quite right. It chose whatever images it wanted to, which is why everyone saw a massive green Abel suddenly appear in 682's cage. it was wearing a hardhat, though, and instead of a massive blade, it was wielding a giant wrench. That's odd as all git-out, Bibs said to himself.
The Green Abel pinned 682 underneath its knees, holding 682's head down with its free hand. With the wrench-hand, it grabbed at the red necklace on 682's neck, twisting and pulling in an attempt to remove it from 682. With thick wet snaps of flesh and sinew, the necklace released its hold on the neck of the beast in fits and starts.
When it seemed that the necklace would be completely freed from 682's neck, the horrible reptile flesh twitched and shook underneath the giant green Abel. Its flesh became smooth and shiny, with a sickly yellow tint to it. With a Sumerian curse Bibs was unaware of, the green simulacrum of Abel released its grasp on the beast, looking at its steaming hand and wrench. With a thick plop, the necklace reattached itself to 682. It spoke to 682, telling everyone his name and origin in the process. Fascinating, Bibs thought to himself. Profoundly pointless, unless I get that thing off it, but fascinating nonetheless…
682 changing his flesh a different color to thwart the Big Green Abel wasn't surprising, to Bibs, at least. 682 was very good at adapting to things, and the rusted necklace that had been forced onto it. That necklace must have dumped all sorts of knowledge into its brain in the process, and 682 was using it. Sighing at having to use the other illegally-made weapon, he slid it onto his other hand, he shoved it in into the enclosure, and thought.
With a flash of light, the Big Green Abel became Big Blue-Green Abel. With newfound confidence in itself, the giant again proceeded to pin 682 down. This time, its coloring did the beast no help. The wrench found purchase on the necklace on the reptile's neck, and pulled. It was still a struggle, but not a large one.
The excursion was getting to Bibs, Ringbearer of the Foundation, and he struggled to maintain composure. He got a second wind when, with a final skkr-ktt, the Giant Cyan Abel succeeded in its task. The simulacrum raised the red-iron necklace over its head, screamed in victory, and crushed the object between its fist.
The enclosure, or what remained of it, ignited in heat and flame. Some would say it was unholy. Some would say it was simply one facet of a spectrum that a certain Agent of the Foundation accidentally unleashed upon the world. Most, however, simply described it as a big fireball.
When the flames ended, only one thing remained in the enclosure. An ash pile, in the shape of 682.
The crowd, who up until now had fought with every fiber of their being, stood silent for only a moment. It was not a moment of silence for a fallen foe, but the quiet sound of a paradigm shifting without a clutch. SCP-682 must be destroyed as soon as possible. At this time, no means available to SCP teams are capable of destroying SCP-682. SCP-682 was a pile of ash. It was impossible. Improbably. Profoundly unlikely.
Before long, a cheer ran out. It started with some clapping. Then laughing. Then a full on celebration. People celebrated. Hugged. Kissed. Swarmed around Bibs, who didn't like this. As much as he refused to admit it, he hated attention.
He felt hands around him, lifting him up. Carrying him. It wasn't for long, though, and before he even had a chance to enjoy the experience, he was dropped on his ass.
"Jesus wept! Aren't you supposed to warn a guy when you decide to stop carrying him? I mean… oh." He understood why he was dropped, and why his carriers suddenly regained their emotional composure.
An older man, in a well-fitting and expensive-looking suit, stood before him. An O5. The crowd, joyous moments before, suddenly looked like children who had been caught playing when they were supposed to be working.
The older man looked Bibs over. "Good job, Agent Bibs."
Bibs blushed. he hated compliments. "It's… it's not as amazing as it looked, sir, anyone could have-"
"Nonsense, Bibs. If it wasn't for you, there's a good likelihood that we would have had to nuke the entire Site from orbit. You're a debt to the Foundation, sir. And please, Bibs, it's Fred." He smiled.
A pause.
"Your name is… Fred?"
"Indeed. A bit against policy, I suppose, but in this case, I think you've earned it." He smiled again.
He looked over at the smoking, steaming ash pile of 682.
Figures, Bibs sighed. Fuckin' figures…


More recent reports on brain activity suggest that SCP-239 is developing a complete resistance to the rotation of drugs we've used to keep her comatose. This could easily result in her reawakening. Since Dr. Clef's nearly successful attempt in 2008, all attempts at termination have failed. SCP-239 has resisted all practical methods of attack subconsciously, and all other methods of destroying reality shifters suggested by the G.O.C. envoy have proved fruitless. I am now forced to request the O5 for the immediate release of Dr. Alto Clef from his current confinement and his immediate assignment to this case.
Dr. Jack Bright
Foundation Director

Clef's eyes opened slowly, and then shut immediately as the bleary light blinded him. He felt cold and naked, his flesh crawling with barely remembered frostbite and a decade of immobility. Was he awake, now? Was this another of the cold dreams?
He felt a hand on his wrist—warm, soft, female flesh. His eyes opened again, and he blinked hard, staring directly at the large, perky breasts.
“Dr. Clef?”
Clef's eyes never left her chest. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss…?”
The woman adjusted her top. “It's doctor. Doctor Lore.”
He watched her fumbling modestly. She was lying, he knew. That was not her name. Chances are, he'd never know what it really was.
“What happened?” asked Clef.
“You've been released from cryogenic incarceration,” said Lore, handing the naked doctor a towel. “We need your help.”
“Old problem or new?” asked Clef.
“Old.”
“239 or 343?”
“239.”
“About time they killed the little brat.”
“She's not so little anymore,” Lore said, passing the file to Clef.

“You just keep reality benders around, Dr. Gears? That seems a little foolish, even by the Foundation's standards.”
“I can assure you, she is completely under our control, Commandant Schmetterling,” replied the shorter, bald man.
Schmetterling appeared unconvinced by Gears' assurances. Gears knew that the Coalition officer was not the happiest envoy the Foundation had ever received, especially not since he was informed of 239's continued existence.
“We thought your operatives had subdued her,” said Schmetterling, irritably. “We knew you killed the other one. We saw it from one of our observatories. I was under the impression that this one was also eliminated.”
“I'm afraid not,” said Gears, evenly.
“Well,” said Schmetterling, “I'm afraid I'm going to have to let my superiors know that the Foundation has still yet to come to its senses.”

Clef tied the robe around his midsection, not bothering to attempt to hide the erection he'd sported since he woke up and saw Lore.
“Where to now, Sugartits?”
“I'm to take you to be briefed, Dr. Clef. You'll be meeting with the current head of 239's project.”
“Karrington?”
“Dr. Karrington was killed by 239-X in the 2017 attempt. It's all in the report.”
Clef shrugged and looked around him. For five stories up, elongated tubes of glass and cryogenics held the Foundation's prisoners. When he'd been imprisoned, the facility had been a third this size, newly implemented for cost purposes. When the O5's found out it was cheaper to freeze them than feed them, dozens of prisoners were transported here.
Clef stopped short, suddenly looking at the familiar faces behind the glassy ice. There was Imants, a slight smirk passing over his pale face, as if he'd just heard a joke that only he had understood. Next to him was Glass, sporting a look of shocked surprise.
Clef turned to Lore. “What sort of look did I have on while I was frozen?”
“You looked horny,” said Lore impassively. Clef smiled and turned back to the tubes.
The next one was no surprise. Clef was shocked that he himself had been 'contained' before Kondraki, one of the earliest results of the Foundation's changing ambitions. The face of his sometimes friend was twisted with rage, open in a still silent scream, eyes narrowed with anger and disbelief. Next to him, frozen alongside his static form in the clear, perfect ice, a few butterflies remained, still shimmering. Clef raised his hand and placed it on the unit.
A few seconds later, he removed it and smiled. “You always were a son of a bitch, Kondraki.”
He turned back to Lore. “You bastards have anyone else I know in here?”
“Not really,” said Lore. “Mostly a few witnesses who were immune to Class-A's. One or two trespassers, some of Dr. Bright's other selves.”
“Jack's still around?”
“No,” said Lore. She was lying again, Clef knew. He always knew.

Clef sat across the table from the short, dowdy woman in the white lab coat. She had been scowling at him since he walked into the room. Clef, for his part, wasn't paying attention. He'd sat with the robe at its most revealing, reading the file he'd been given as slowly as he possibly could. Once or twice, he looked up at the woman, smiled, and returned his attention to the file.
After a while, he stopped, laid the file down and looked at her.
“Are you all complete fucking morons?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” said the woman, whose name Clef hadn't even bothered to learn.
“Psychological tricks? Crushing force? Stabbing her with a knife? Shooting her with a gun? Where the hell are the backup plans?”
“Each test was approved by a majority of the O5 command and I don't see—”
“Do you know how to read?” asked Clef suddenly, dangerously.
The woman didn't reply.
“I'll take that as a no. I've completed, either alone or with some aid, the disposal of more than fourteen reality shifters for the Foundation alone. More than fourteen confirmed kills. I can't say more than that, because no one will tell me what's still classified, but I'm sure that even with what I must assume is your piteously low security clearance, you were allowed to read at least some of my exploits?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I've read the termination reports for several of the SCP's you were inv—”
“Did you pay attention?” interrupted Clef again.
“What?”
“Did you pay attention to a single, goddamned thing I wrote in them?”
“Of course. The methods you used have been tested and found lacking for our purposes.”
“Those ‘methods,' as you call them, are merely scaffolding. You have to build on the scaffolding for it to hold up anything. Did you all just freeze everyone who was worth a damn around here?”
The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not looking at Clef. “Then what do you propose, Doctor?”
“Simple,” smiled Clef grimly. “Since her subconscious defenses have been refined so far… I'm going to wake her up.”

“You're waking her up?” yelled Schmetterling, turning suddenly and looking through the ten inches of transparent steel, as if the figure on the other side might have heard him. He dropped his voice, but his anger remained. “Are you all insane?”
“No,” replied Gears. “We have our best operative on the case.”
“Who?” snapped Schmetterling. “Who the hell do you think is capable of removing a Type Green that you've allowed to progress this far?”
“Dr. Clef,” replied Gears. “We've released him from confinement for this task.”
“Clef?” asked Schmetterling. “Alto Clef?”
“Do you know any other Clefs, Commandant?”
“Well, yes,” the representative replied, looking back through the steel at the sleeping form. Gears made a mental note to check in Schmetterling's claim, and then moved to stand next to him.
“You've nothing to fear, Commandant,” replied Gears. “The situation is well in hand.”
Schmetterling's jowls quivered as he turned back to Gears. “So you say, Doctor. Tell me. Aren't you worried about this?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gears, his expression unchanging, his voice perfectly, almost supernaturally level.

Dr. Clef is to be given access to any materials he currently requires. All personnel are to assist Dr. Clef by any and all non-carnal means. However, Dr. Clef is not to be informed of the continued existence of any personnel involved in his capture. Dr. Lore is designated as go-between for Clef and any wishing to contact him.

Clef walked into the Victorian styled study and smiled at the fragrance of pipe smoke and old books. The old man was seated in high-backed chair with a hardbound copy of Don Quixote open in his lap. The old man looked up and started with surprise before smiling.
“Doctor Clef!” he exclaimed, his grin widening until the wrinkles of his face became subsumed by it.
“Hello, 343.”
“Oh please,” said the old man, waving away the designation. “No numbers between friends. Sit. Please.”
Clef knew the chair would be there before he even bent his knees. He settled into a comfortable, overstuffed chair and looked at the elderly gentleman.
“We both know what you are,” said Clef, as seriously as he could. “I've never said anything about you, not to anyone, nor recommended your termination, mainly because you stayed at Level 3 and never posed a significant threat.”
The old man continued to smile happily.
“You remember me from the G.O.C., then? Geneva? 1989?”
The old man nodded, not quite as happily as before.
“And you remember that you owe me a favor?”
The aged gentleman's smile faded slightly. “Yes, Doctor. I remember.”
“I've come to collect. There's another Type Green. This one has progressed to Level 4.”
“I'm very old now, Doctor. I'm not sure how useful I can be. Sometimes, I look for books, but I can't remember their names. And they're just not there anymore. Just the other day, a young man came in here to ask me about… about something. And I forgot he was here. And then he wasn't. Just gone, and I can't remember him. No one wants to say anything…”
Tears formed at the corners of 343's crinkled eyes. Clef almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Until he remembered Geneva.
“Your aid will be necessary.”
“I am a man of honor, Doctor. I will do whatever you need.”
Clef stood to leave. The hard part was over.

Clef sat at the table, going over his plans once again. SCP-343 would be located in the middle of the fallout zone. Clef himself would be the bait. 239 should remember him, and once awake, her subconscious defenses would be significantly weaker. That should allow him to—
Clef heard the door open and looked up as Schmetterling entered.
“I didn't think you would ever be released, Doctor Clef,” said Schmetterling.
“Do I know you?”
“I'm not surprised you don't recognize me,” replied Schmetterling. “It's been a long time.”
Clef merely shrugged. “What do you want?”
“Only to give you something. A reward, for your service to the G.O.C.”
Schmetterling reached toward his pocket, but stopped as the shotgun suddenly became leveled cleanly at his face.
“The outline of your pocket looks like a gun,” replied Clef.
“It is a gun,” said Schmetterling. He reached into his pocket, and slowly pulled out the purple revolver. He turned it slightly―handle first―and passed it to the other man.
Clef smiled. “This used to be one of ours, didn't it?”
“The Atomic Revolver. Reported lost by your Foundation several years ago. We found it.”
“And you had nothing to do with the original disappearance?”
“The G.O.C.? Of course not,” said Schmetterling.
"I wasn't asking about the G.O.C.," replied Clef.
Schmetterling merely shrugged.
"It was good to see you again, Doctor Clef. I wish you the best of luck."
Clef nodded, watching the other man's back as he left the room. He quickly picked up the purple revolver and slid it into his pocket.
Lore walked in carrying two drinks and set them down between Clef and herself. “What'd the Commandant want?”
“To talk about old times,” replied Clef.
“Funny,” she said. “He never mentioned that he'd worked with you.”
“He didn't,” said Clef.

Clef shut the safe, taking the small box carefully in his hands. He smiled. His trump card was ready, and everyone would soon be in place. He still had no idea what exactly he was going to be walking into, but he owed the Foundation this one.
He shivered, remembering the coldness of his preemptive coffin, and cracked his knuckles.

“Do you really think this will work?” asked Lore.
“It should. She shouldn't be able to do anything about it from the other side.”
The mirror was slowly raised into place by the workmen as Clef palmed the jasper colored disk back and forth in his hand.
“And if it doesn't?”
“Then break the mirror before I get back.”

Clef looked at Gears, examining the shorter man briefly.
“Dr. Clef. You are looking well.”
“Gears. You look old as shit.”
Gears merely handed the keycard to Clef.
“This will get you all the way through the designated path. You'll find the telekill body armor in the observation room, as well as the equipment you requested. Good luck, Dr. Clef.”
“Is that all, Gears?”
“Pardon, Dr. Clef?”
“You locked me in a frozen hell for eleven years, and I don't even get an apology?”
“You were trying to kill our colleague, Dr. Clef. I was ordered to assist in your capture.”
Clef grimaced at Gears and turned to walk into the Observation Room.
“Alto?”
Clef stopped. “What, Gears?”
“It was… a regrettable set of circumstances.”

The chamber was quiet, except for the quiet hum of a dozen computers. This was the core of the facility, where everything was stored. Dozens of firewalls, hundreds of security protocols. All of them bypassed.
The man at the control panel typed for a few moments, laughed, and typed again. He walked over to the nearest set of panels, pulled out two of them, and slid the archival system into place.

Clef watched Gears walk away, heading to the last of the evacuation choppers. Site 19 was now abandoned, mostly. Those handful remaining were either vital to Clef's plans or wouldn't interfere with it.
He waited for perhaps fifteen minutes, looking through the steel at 239's sleeping form. She was a young woman now, mature. And thanks to years of wrongfully committed attempts, particularly hard to kill. He watched her, watched the fading phantasms of her id flicker about the room, scratching at the telekill walls.
He turned and picked up the thin helmet, strapping it to his head. The body armor was a little bulkier than he'd anticipated, but it fit well enough. He pulled on the gloves, fingered the purple gun underneath his jacket, and felt through his pockets until he found the tiny box containing his emergency backup.
He grinned and picked up the keycard Gears had given him. Sliding it into a control panel in front of the glass, he flipped the switches all down into their off position and pulled out the revolver, bringing it up to point at the slowly rousing reality shifter.
The hammer fell, and a loud crack echoed through the room as the steel bent and shattered inward.

Clef was running very quickly. He could feel her back there, floating somewhere. He risked a glance backward, watching the floors buckle into water and piss, dirt and air. He hoped she would be off-balance enough from the medications that she would be less capable, less able to affect the environmental changes on the universe.
He was pretty sure it was a pointless hope, now.
He rounded the corner as the walls slid into chunks of burning babies, the smell of human flesh turning his stomach slightly, then making it growl uncomfortably. One more turn, and he'd be at ground zero.
Another ten feet, nine, eight, seven…
He burst through the doors, looking expectantly for 343 to be standing in position.

Lore was waiting next to the large mirror as Clef pounded through the double doors panting. He looked at her, incredulous.
“The fuck are you still doing here?”
“You guys never work alone, right? I'm here to help.”
“I'm not alone!” screamed Clef, as the doors behind him became a series of kittens with Barbie Doll arms sticking out of their eyes. “Where's 343?!”
The doors opened slowly.
The being floating through them didn't look like it was now or had ever been a little girl. Years of atrophy had turned her limbs into spindly wires of flesh wrapped around bone. She wasn't able to lift them, or even to turn her head. The tubes that had hung out of her arms were now crawling over her body like centipedes. The wall of kittens began to mewl, plaintively.
She opened her mouth, trying to say something, but only a gurgle came out. She looked at Clef and gurgled again, louder, angrily. Her bowels began to empty black, blood smelling feces onto the floor, which in turn morphed into coals, and began to spread out slowly, burningly. Clef was preparing to make a mad dash when the floor's progression slowed and stopped. He blinked twice and looked around the room.
343 was standing just behind Lore, his face knit in concentration. The old man's nose had a drop of blood forming from the left nostril, slowly running down over the crest of his lip, and dropping to his shirt.
343 flinched. “If you're going to do something, Doctor…”
Clef raised the gun again, and clicking the hammer back, let it fall.
The gun popped slightly, bars of energetic power running over its metal surface.
“FUCK!” screamed Clef. “A goddamned recharge rate?!”
The girl screamed in rage, and 343 cried out, staggered by the changes she was forcing into the world. The drugs in her system were quickly dissipating, her control over the world around her returning.
Clef grabbed Lore and pushed her hard, leaving her tottering toward the far wall of the wide room as he madly dashed for the opposite side.
The floating woman turned the air into chlorine for a moment, just a moment, before 343 could stop her. A child in an adult body, broken and beaten over the course of a decade, lashing out with her shattered mind. The older SCP was kneeling on the floor, ears bleeding. His knotted hands were clenched, as his foe turned for the moment from Clef to float toward him.
It was almost beautiful to watch, Clef thought, stopping for an instant to observe what he hoped was a rare circumstance. The distance between them crackled as the hovering female changed things, reversing the laws of physics and existence as 343 set them back into place. It was like watching a petulant child throwing her toys to the floor and her patient grandfather picking them up and setting them right.
Clef edged around near the now dead kitten door, raising the revolver again. He fired, the painful report running up his arm as chunks of the hovering menace were ripped from her body and thrown behind her to the mirror. She screamed as the cancers started to form almost instantly under her flesh.
“Don't care much for that, do you little girl?” shouted Clef, as 343 suddenly locked the universal order back into place.
Clef dropped the gun and bull rushed her before she could recover, hitting her tiny midsection sharply and pushing her toward the mirror, grasping the red disk and shoving.

They fell into a strange field, with rolling wheat and smells of emptiness. The girl was rolling on the ground, willing herself up off the ground pitifully. Clef stood nearby, knocking the bits of wheat and grass off his armor. He walked over and forced her body over, straddling her small, heaving chest.
“Sorry, dearie,” he said, smirking. “Different world, different rules.”
He placed both his hands around her neck and brought his thumbs up to her trachea. Tears ran down her face, her quivering lips pleading wordlessly with him to reconsider. As the brittle, malnourished bones snapped, her eyes thankfully glossed in the pleasant emptiness of oblivion.
Clef stood and walked back toward the mirror. "Should have done that years ago…"

Clef stepped back through the mirror, unlocking the telekill body gear he was wearing and dropping it to the floor. 343 leaned against the wall nearby, being tended to by Lore. Clef watched as she dabbed the blood away from the old man's eyes before he cleared his throat.
Lore looked up, smiled, and ran to the edge of the mirror.
“239's status?”
“Eliminated,” said Clef.
“Good,” said Lore. She brought the gun only as far as Clef's midsection before she fired.
Clef felt parts of him tear out of his back and staggered backward to the frame of the mirror. He looked up at Lore, the smiling face holding the violet pistol, feeling a tugging sense of recognition.
“Jack?”
Lore smiled, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, of course, Alto. Who else?”
Clef was sagging now, his legs giving out as the internal and external bleeding set in.
Dr. Bright jiggled happily as she sneered down at the bleeding, middle-aged man laying on the floor. “I don't take kindly to people who try to kill me, Clef, regardless of the circumstances.”
"Really, Jack? But they were very good circumstances. Not even friends?" asked Clef. "What's a little murder between friends?"
"Especially not friends."
“That's too bad, Jack,” said Clef, throwing up parts of his stomach. “You look good enough to fuck.”
Clef rolled over, struggling to stand up. Bright let him, if for no other reason than it made the blood pour out of his gaping body that much faster.
“You forgot one thing though, Jack,” said Clef, feeling his muscles twitching around the cancers forming in his midsection.
“What's that, Alto?”
“You're jewellery.”
Clef stood in front of the mirror, smiling bloodily as he held SCP-963 at arm's length in his gloved hand.
“Goodbye, Jack.”
As Clef lurched back through the mirror, Bright brought the pistol up a second time, pulling the trigger. The gun popped, electrical arcs running up and down its length. Bright screamed and rushed toward the mirror, but as she did, a loud shot―gunpowder and copper―echoed through the room, striking the disk hovering in the center of the glass. As Bright reached the mirror, she saw the disk chip, ever so slightly, and cease glowing.
She whirled around, looking for the source of the shot, raising the pistol over her head in rage. She found no one.

The room was cold as Schmetterling walked down the hall, shouldering the sniper rifle. It had been a while since he'd done any shooting, and he was proud that he still had the touch. He walked methodically toward the frozen tube, entered the old password they hadn't thought to delete, and smiled boldly as Imants fell bodily to the floor.
He leaned down and slapped his face a few times. “Imants. IMANTS!”
“Whoza?”
Schmetterling sighed and picked up the larger man, resting him on his shoulder. He left the rifle behind and picked up the data backup, stashing it in his pocket. As he passed Dr. Kondraki's tube, he stopped, looking at the frozen visage.
“C'mon,” he said. “I'm going to need all of you to help cover our escape.”
The tube shimmered as the butterflies flapped away from the empty containment chamber, floating around Schmetterling and his rescued friend for a moment before both of them vanished.

Jack Bright sat in the director's office, tapping her polished nails on the desk. This would be a set back. The amount of time needed to repair SCP-093 was unknown, if it could be repaired at all, and the disappearance of Kondraki from containment was highly unsettling.
Bright stood and walked to the far wall, entering the long and complex code that was required for someone without stable voice recognition or handprint.
The door slid open, revealing a carefully crafted box. She opened it, revealing the almost circle with the three, inward pointing arrows.
‘Only a set back, Alto,' thought Jack. ‘Only a set back.'

Alto Clef sat breathing heavily in a field of wheat and emptiness. He could feel the effects of having a Higgs boson thrown through his midsection, knew he didn't have too much longer to live, and that what time he did have would be unpleasant. If he'd still had a gun, he might have shot himself, but since he didn't…
Clef looked at the amulet. Tilting his head back, he positioned it perfectly over his mouth, and dropped it down his throat, thinking in his last moments how much nicer oblivion would be than the perpetual, eternally cold dreams.
And somewhere, somewhere on the other side of our world's mirrors, a cancer ridden, bleeding body shuts down―and reawakens screaming.

Unfinished Business II


Grandson, you're a small child now, and you've started asking about them. You're far too young to be told, so I've brushed you off. I've decided to write you this note, for when you're older. How I wish I could be there by the time you are old enough to understand, but I know that won't happen.
I was born in what your history teachers call the Golden Age. As a child, I never questioned anything about the situation. It was a time of innocence for me and humanity in general, and I never really focused on things. Our teachers taught us about The Enemy, and how we had our Defenders to protect us. They sacrificed for us, keeping our world safe. We appreciated them, and they enjoyed it.
… I can't remember when we, as a people, started calling them Defenders. I know them as something else, but it would hurt me too much to call them that.
I was a young man when the Golden Age ended. Everyone will tell you that it ended like a flick of a switch, but don't believe it. People talked. We knew how horrible The Enemy was, and what they would do without our Defenders. But over time, we questioned them more. Rationally, we knew that the sacrifices were worth it. Some deaths were expected, damage was predicted. But in the face of total destruction, was it worth complaining about?
But our Defenders knew we were talking. Maybe that was it? Maybe that was why they didn't stick around for people's praise as long? Maybe they were beginning to see us as a burden that they had to defend, rather than their people that they wanted to defend?
It wasn't until the Attack of… I'm so sorry, but to this day I can't say the name of that old city. You can look it up if you want. I'll call it the Attack of the Great Hole, since you know that place as the Great Hole.
Our Enemy had attacked, as they had often did. The police, the armies, they defended us as well as they could. Don't believe that we, as a people, became complacent. Don't believe it for a moment, child. We never expected or assumed our Defenders would arrive. Ultimately, though, the police and armies were only stopgaps, keeping The Enemy contained until our Defenders arrived.
Arrive they did, in their ships. But this time, it was different. I wasn't there, of course, but I saw the vids, just as you did. I saw the attack.
Not from The Enemy. Our Defenders. They didn't attempt to combat The Enemy from the ground, as they always did. They didn't respond to the enemy's escalation by escalating in turn. From high in the air, they attacked with the greatest weapons they had at their disposal.
In a moment, that sacred city became the Great Hole. Do you know how many people lived in that city? Millions, child. Men, women, and children. Innocents, all of them, and all of them dead. And our Defenders? A press release. "We do not have the time to focus on secondary goals such as removing civilians from the combat zone. Our primary goal is now our only goal: defeating The Enemy. Adapt to this."
The nations of the world reacted as you think they would. They tore into our Defenders. To their credit, the Defenders attempted to explain their reasoning for their change in attitude, but it's hard to believe someone with the blood of millions of innocents on their hands. When the UN demanded that our Defenders defend us from farther away, they agreed. I think they were happy. They mentioned that they had other missions to accomplish.
That was… a long time ago. The Enemy still exists, and occasionally they get through Our Defenders. We've fought them off by ourselves, you know. You'll rarely see mentions of the Conflict of Chicago, the Delay of Oregon, or the Stalemate of Brazil, but they happened. I was there, and I have the scars to prove it.
Sometimes, Our Defenders regroup and destroy The Enemy. Sometimes, they ignore the breach and let us handle it. There are some among us that still believe that they are helping us by making us defend ourselves. Most of us believe that they hope we get wiped out, so that they can defend elsewhere more efficiently.
I'm an old man, child, and my time is short. I can't say I've lived a good life, because the memories have sapped my soul. You grew up seeing our Defenders raze entire cities to defeat The Enemy. You've seen them destroy our spacecraft to keep us in the solar system. You have Enemy Assault Protocols in your school, and you have Defender Guard Protocols. You won't blink or twitch when you're old enough to know that they are the same protocols. All of those things, though, child, hurt me more than you'll ever know. They haunt everyone my age who still lives.
Even the name hurts people my age, child. Defenders? They used to be called something else. Everyone my age remembers.
We remember when they were called the Power Rangers.


Day 2 of Containment cycle 366
"Wait, so are you actually… ?" Agent Xavier Garcez asked with that same incredulous, gushy tone that the new staff always had when they saw the nameplate on the desk.
"Yes, I am Doctor Alto Clef. No, those stories were all greatly exaggerated," the man in the plain brown civilian security officer's uniform responded with a hint of resignation. "Agent Garcez, why are you still wearing that black suit? Didn't the Requisitions department issue your cover uniform before you arrived on site?"
"Sir, no sir," Agent Garcez responded, tearing his eyes from the stylized nameplate bearing the musical inscription that was such a huge part of the Foundation mythos. Snapping stiffly to attention in the manner of one who was addressing a drill sergeant, Garcez continued, "I was told that a uniform and cover identity would be provided on location."
"Jesus Christ… at ease, Garcez." Clef stood up and paced across the grimy old security office and opened a rusted locker. "You're way too big to wear one of my extras. And I don't have your cover identity. So guess what? You're camping out here for the next few days. I'm not having you shuttle back and forth from this facility looking like one of the goddamn Men in Black. I can't believe Requisitions screwed this up again. Please tell me they at least sent you in with the necessary supplies."
"Yes sir, Doctor Clef. They're in the back of my truck."
"Let me guess, you drove in here with a big shiny black SUV with out-of-state plates, and you parked it out in the old lot outside right next to my Toyota."
"Er, yes sir, Doc-"
"Garcez, this site is an abandoned federal penitentiary with a really gruesome past. To ghost hunters, this place is like a blonde holding up a sign that says 'Free Blowjobs.' You are supposed to be part of the skeleton rent-a-cop staff that keeps horny teenagers and thrill-seekers from trying to sneak into this building. Do you know what happens to people who sneak into this building?"
"Entering the restricted rooms in this building is invariably fatal. Regulations state that any persons who enter SCP-450 are to be considered lost," Garcez recited from memory, still standing at attention with his square jaw thrust up into the air.
"Do you look like a rent-a-cop? Are you driving the shitty kind of car that a rent-a-cop would drive?" Clef limped up towards the younger, taller man, narrowing steely eyes that had already witnessed more than a lifetime's worth of horror. "No. I'll tell you what you look like. You look like the fucking new guy who doesn't quite understand what he is dealing with yet. You're here to learn that really fucking fast, or else you are going to die in here like one out of four fucking new guys that come in here to learn the ropes. You cut any more corners and you will wish that I was the goddamn devil that 732 made me out to be, because that guy would just put a bullet in your worthless ass and bury you in the parking lot. But I am not that man. So if you fuck up in the slightest bit from here on out, you are not only going to die inside of 450 but the gates of Hell are going to open up so wide that the clean-up crew that comes in here to pick up the pieces is going to have to fake a natural disaster big enough to wipe the neighboring three towns off of the map. Am I clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" Garcez said, eyes staring off blankly over the top of Dr. Clef's receding hairline.
"This isn't the army, Agent." Clef sighed wearily and returned to his desk to send an equally nasty letter to the Requisitions officer who had sent him a new agent without the proper gear.
"Uh, s… sorry Doctor," Garcez replied. Receiving no answer, he slumped his shoulders and sat down on the musty tweed sofa in the office. Finally he spoke up again. "So what are you doing here, Doctor?"
Clef looked up from his monitor and squinted. "Retiring."
Day 17 of Containment Cycle 366
"I'm getting old, Garcez," Clef explained. "It was just over thirty years ago that we first secured this site. I was the first person to walk that mile, you know. Devised the containment procedures myself."
Garcez said nothing. He was dressed in the proper plain brown uniform now, his eyes locked straight ahead down the dilapidated hallway. His pace was measured and calm, his footsteps almost silent in comparison to the doctor's shuffling limp and the clack of Clef's cane.
"I based the containment pattern on the Seal of Solomon," Clef continued in a relaxed tone. "Thought it would have some sort of arcane power over the entities trapped inside death row. It seems to have worked, they've only gotten loose once, and that was seven years ago when some fucking new guy didn't make it to the chair in time. Once I kicked Bright into the containment zone, as a joke. You could smell nothing but burning chimp for the next three months, even in the safe zone. Fucker said he'd kill me one day for that, heh heh. Good times. Also, I fucked your mother."
Garcez flinched and looked sideways. Clef smacked him in the shin with his steel-tipped cane.
"Don't react, Garcez! Don't react to anything while you are taking this walk," the doctor hissed. "You just keep on tuning me out and finish the practice run. We've got three more to do today. You need to execute this task perfectly or you will die, do you understand me? Now come on, back to the starting line."
Clef and Garcez turned around and walked to the end of the empty cell block in silence. They were in a safe wing of the facility, one that was secure enough to have electric lights overhead. The air was thick with the smell of rot, strongest at the far wall where the practice symbol was painted in pig's blood over and over on a daily basis.
Clef paused, holding up his hand before Garcez started his walk again. His chest heaved and his hand clenched the handle of his cane so roughly that it shook.
"Are you alright, Doctor? Do you need to rest?" Garcez asked gently.
Clef looked down at the grimy concrete floor. "You know, I wonder if it even matters. The pattern. We've been tracing it in death row once a month for thirty years, but I don't think the entities care about the pattern. All they want is the blood."
"Doctor?"
"It's the walk that is important, Agent. You have to walk calmly and at the perfect rate. Not too fast and not too slow. Don't look to the sides. Just go in, smear blood on the walls, and get out. Do that and the entities will not see you, and you'll live to do this again next month. Maybe get assigned to contain something less shitty later."
"Yes, Doctor. Did you need to rest?"
"No, no. I just needed to think of something new to torment you with while you practice. Something really good." Clef's face split in a wrinkled grin. "Let's get going."
For the next four hours Clef yodeled nonstop. Garcez managed to complete one practice walk successfully.
Day 30 of Containment Cycle 366
The doctor and the agent stood at the threshold of death row. A pair of brilliant floodlights shone behind them in the safe zone, casting their shadows starkly against the painted steel containment doors that blocked the path to the pitch black execution chamber. Garcez clutched a white plastic bucket containing a paintbrush and three blood packs generously donated by the people of the neighboring town in one of their frequent blood drives.
"What if they attack me anyway?" Garcez finally asked, staring at the door blankly.
"They shouldn't, Xavier. But if they do, I promise I'll finish the job. We'll keep these things contained." Clef waved his key card over the electronic lock, and the steel doors swung towards the two men. A rush of gibbering voices seemed to pour out of the stark darkness of the death row cell block. One hundred and sixty-six meters away, the door to the execution chamber stood open, barely illuminated by the powerful flood lamps behind the two men.
"Everything seems normal." Clef nodded as the doors of every cell on the left side began slamming open and shut in unison. "Go get it done, kid. Remember, the pattern isn't important. The walk is."
Garcez's breath was calm and measured as he stepped into the darkness. Clef watched as his partner briskly strolled past the remains of an agent who had failed to execute his task perfectly three years ago.
After passing seventy-three yards down the hallway, Garcez spun his head sideways with a short exclamation. "Mom?"
Abruptly his body was yanked to the side, smashed against the rusted metal of a closed cell over and over until it was limply dragged between the bars in a smear of gore. Clef narrowed his eyes and grimaced. He had really thought Garcez was going to work out.
June 22nd, 20██ 7:53 PM
Clef walked with his cane tucked under one arm. His other swung the white plastic bucket in time with his measured steps. Exactly eleven minutes after entering SCP-450 he came to the old electric chair, rattling and shaking in its fixtures. With the exception of Garcez's screw-up, everything was going as expected.
Clef knelt behind the shuddering electric chair and examined the bucket's contents. Two of the blood packets had been torn when Garcez was taken. Looking back the way he came for the first time, he could see the trail of bloody footprints he had left behind. Doctor Clef pursed his lips—the one remaining blood packet would not be enough to draw the containment pattern he had devised thirty years ago. Digging into his trouser pocket, he produced the old hunting knife Dmitri had given him as a present after their vacation in Tijuana. Clef rolled up his sleeve, laid the blade against his wrist and set about his task. He doubted he would have time to walk out safely after this…
Day 1 of Containment Cycle 367
Doctor Yancy sat in the security office, feeling very small in front of Doctor Clef's laptop. A progress bar slowly filled as a series of high-resolution photographs was attached to a report for the O5 Council.

Agent Xavier Garcez is confirmed to have perished while executing secure containment procedures at approximately 7:42 PM. Attached image [Incident 450-34-a] was taken by Researcher Darrin from outside SCP-450 containment. It appears that Doctor Clef personally completed containment procedures with his own blood. Of note is the phrase that Doctor Clef painted upon the rear wall of the execution chamber in place of the decayed containment pattern: "Come and get it mother fuckers."
The entities within SCP-450 are confirmed to be contained. This appears to verify Doctor Clef's recent hypothesis that the specific pattern is not relevant to containment. The entities will be contained as long as human blood is applied to the walls of the execution chamber.
Attached image [Incident 450-34-b] is of the floor before the electric chair. From this angle it is hard to determine the nature of the markings, but we believe they are multiple hand prints and a large blank area in the shape of a human body. Doctor Clef's whereabouts are unknown. He is presumed dead.


It's not every day that the Foundation hosts a funeral. Occasionally, a loyal agent or staff member receives a small ceremony and a burial on Site 19, but not often. The family might get the belongings and a letter of consolation. Never the body, though. Most times they wouldn't want it. The D-class get nothing but standard termination procedures at the end of the month.
But this was just plain unheard of: not only the funeral of a senior staff member, but the funeral of Dr. Alto H. Clef. Everyone not needed to keep security up was there. Some, I'd presume, were there because they were afraid that Clef would haunt them if they didn't. The eulogies were what could be expected, from some of the senior staff and a few members of the O5: reminiscing on old missions, glowing testimony to his accomplishments, and the like. Mostly just for show, because you can't really eulogize a man like Clef.
I didn't find it very strange that everyone had dry eyes: Clef was more valuable as an employee than a person. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and clearly insane, causing millions in damages, numerous personnel deaths, and just barely avoiding several XK events, but he was also responsible for dozens of successful recoveries and several critical decommissions, and that was at least worth something. Sure, there would be those who would miss the humor he lent to near-death situations, or his enigmatic, genre-savvy ways, but for the most part, no one cared about him personally. Clef's funeral was practically equivalent to presenting him with an “Employee of the Month” plaque.
However, there was one thing that made it all stand out, one final act to cement Clef into Foundation legend. When the eulogies had been finished, the silhouette of O5-█ on the monitor cleared his throat and announced:
“As per Dr. Clef's final wishes, his body will be fired out of SCP-1543-J.”


I have not been here long.
I do not know much.
But if there's one thing I know, it is this:
Alto Clef cannot die.
The guy is immortal, I swear. He can sit in 682's containment cell for an hour and not get eaten. He can mess with that witch kid and not be ripped limb from limb. He can pull off basically anything and the O5s can't do a thing other than give him a slap on the wrist. Now I was cool with all this.
Until he took my hat.
Clef said that it was nifty enough for him to claim as his own. But that hat. That hat was ME. That was what made me, a lowly level 1 researcher, memorable. I was the guy with the hat.
And now I'm no one.
So I went to get the hat. I begged. I pleaded. I bribed. I offered my soul to the man. And he said that the only way I was getting this nifty hat was to kill him.
So I shot him in the head.
My hat reclaimed, I was happy for once. I went about my business then. I mean, I wasn't going to defame his body and carve ‘I WAS HERE. CLEF IS A LOSER!!!' into his chest. I left him.
And the next day he walked up to me and said, “You'll have to do better than that.” He walked away, my hat on his head.
Something snapped then. I was on a mission. I walked to his office and shot him at least eight times, emptying the magazine in my handgun. I doused his office in gasoline and threw a couple of lit matches in there. And he came back the next day, simply taking my hat off of my head. I tried everything I could think of. I filled his office with water and watched him drown. I poisoned every thing he ate or drank. I sent 076-2 in there after a while. And every time he ‘died', he was back again the next day, the same old Clef, looking like he had never been burnt or shot or drowned or sliced into itty bitty little bite sized pieces.
So finally I went up to him. He asked casually, as if it were all a game to him, “How are you going to try and kill me today?”
I replied, “I'm not. Keep the damn hat. It's lame anyway. I got a different one today. It's better than that one.”
Clef removed the hat and said, “You're right. Sombreros are so last season.” He threw his hat at me, then walked over and took my hat, saying, “Jester hats are what's in, you know. Big in France.”
And that time I just shot him because he had been fucking with me.