"See that one?" Garrett said. Jacob nodded. The baby squirrel was chirping peacefully in its nest in the nearest white oak in the playground.
"I'm gonna kill it dead. Soon as we get outside. Just you see." Garrett paced around the room, waiting for the teachers to get done with whatever speech they were giving the class. "It's gonna be awesome. You'll see."
Jacob kept nodding absently. Garrett was always talking about stuff like this, talking about what a big-time hunter he was. Like an eight-year old really killed ten birds on one hunt. Garrett was always full of talk, but Jacob knew it'd be different if he were actually in that situation.
"Look at 'im," Garrett continued. "I bet the mama squirrel's off getting food somewhere. I bet she don't even know what's about to happen."
The teacher, looking impatient at the noise level in the room, finally just opened the door. The kids ran out as the teacher tried to count heads. Jacob was one of the last, preferring not to be trampled by the mob. Garrett ran in a beeline for the tree with the squirrel nest above it while Jacob watched.
"Hey, you peckerheaded lil' fuzzball! You gonna come down here this minute!" Garrett threw a rock at the nest, missing. Jacob was worried for a moment, looked at the teacher to make sure everything was okay. Mr. Carter was talking to another child about being loud indoors and wasn't paying attention. Jacob thought about telling him. Nah, no way Garrett's actually gonna—
Jacob could have sworn it happened in slow motion. Garrett picking up the other rock. Rearing back. Throwing it as hard as he could.
The rock making contact with the nest.
The nest swayed, swayed further. Jacob's eyes darted to the branch just in time to (he imagined) make eye contact with the squirrel as it started falling. Its legs scrabbled against the air as it fell to the ground. Jacob also didn't know if he was imagining the sound of the squirrel's legs breaking when it hit the ground, but it seemed dazed and had trouble walking. It was too young to know what to do now.
Some of the other children fell silent. Quite a few, however, started yelling. Cheering Garrett on. Mr. Carter turned and looked, saw what was happening, started yelling for the kids to get back. Jacob watched, smirking. Now he's going to have to shut up.
Garrett was unfazed by the teacher yelling. "Watch this!" he screamed, and brought his foot up above the squirrel's head. The creature began trying to crawl away with its forelegs, squeaking the whole time. Mr. Carter was too far away still. The other children backed up but kept watching.
Garrett had an enormous smile on his face as his foot came down, heel first, onto the squirrel's upper spine. The crunching and squealing were hilarious to Garrett, who raised his foot up again and brought it stomping down onto the animal's stomach. And again. And again. And again.
Mr. Carter had to drag the cackling Garrett away forcibly, blood dripping from his shoe. All of the other boys were laughing and cheering him on; one of them ran up to the squirrel (oh my God, it's still alive, Jacob thought, I can still hear it, it's still alive) and paraded it around, showing it to everyone. Another teacher had to wrangle him back towards the building as well.
Jacob went inside with the rest of the children. The teachers lectured everybody about how dangerous wild animals were, and about rabies and salmonella and parasites, and how you should never touch a dead animal, and made the kids who had touched it wash their hands, and made Garrett wash his shoe. Jacob overheard one of the teachers say "boys will be boys" to a colleague. Was this supposed to be normal?
The day went on. Jacob was eventually the only one still thinking about the squirrel. People occasionally pointed to where it was lying on the ground, still squirming occasionally. Finally, Jacob couldn't stand it anymore. He waited until most of the class had turned around, turned the doorknob as quietly (but quickly) as he could, and snuck out the door onto the playground.
The first tattles rang out before the door was closed, but Jacob was running at that point. Mr. Carter was yelling, albeit half-heartedly; Jacob wasn't the sort of child he was used to yelling at, the soft-spoken and gentle kind of kid he was used to trusting implicitly. But Jacob wasn't going to do what he was told this time.
He reached the squirrel, seeing out of the corner of his eye that he only had a couple of seconds to do… what? What was Jacob going to do? Without thinking, he reached down, stroked the bloody mess across the forehead, and leaned down close to its ear.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for us," he said, before Mr. Carter pulled him back into the building.

"Go on," the director of Site 38 asked. "Then what happened?"
"What the file says, David," his counterpart said. "The squirrel was crippled in half a dozen places, bleeding everywhere, guts hanging out. By the time the kid was back in the building, twenty kids and three adults had seen the squirrel get up, completely healthy, and bound off into the great beyond."
"You're going to have to explain this further, sir," David said.
The director of Site 19 sighed. "What is it you don't get? He healed the fucking squirrel. That's not natural."
"But… is he a threat? To anyone?" David asked.
"Come on, David, that's hardly the point," the other man replied. "We aren't called the Eldritch Threat Lockdown Company. We aren't the Demonic Containment Initiative. A kid kills a squirrel, the squirrel stays dead. That's how the world works. If something makes the squirrel *not* be dead, and it's not a veterinarian with a damn fine hand, we get called in. That's called "anomalous," and that's what we do. Secure, contain, protect."
"So… so we're protecting the boy?"
"Eh… sure, if you like," the director of Site 19 replied. "Technically, we're protecting everybody else from a world where dead things don't stay dead. Were we really going to let a wizard, or reality bender, or necromancer, or whatever the hell this kid is go free? Just because he's not a threat, by your standards? Who knows what he can do?"
David frowned. "Do we really have a place for something like this? Is this really what needs to be done?"
"Read the second line of the file."
He pointed at one line on the file in front of the other man, the line that read "Object Class: Safe".
"It's exactly what we do, David. Not everything is grim or dark; some of it is just… anomalous. You'll be taking delivery in the morning."
The other man stood up and left.


I don't know why I'm recording this, it's not like there's anyone left… well, anyone human to hear it. Maybe aliens will find it and have a good laugh… Anyways, it's a little after dark and I've decided to camp out on what appears to be a large cog. Maybe it's a gear; I don't know anymore, but this, this I do know…
It was about six years ago that the eggheads up in astronomy first spotted the damn thing. It was apparently on a direct course for our little blue marble. The reports are a mangled mess of censorship but it was clear just what it was and where it was going. That's the thing I still don't get… we saw it, we knew exactly what it was doing yet here we are stuck in this wasteland. What were they thinking? Who in their right mind figured twiddling their thumbs would keep us safe? Not that it matters anymore.
Maybe two years later, give or take, that fucker first entered our solar system. You could sort of see it twinkling at night with the twinkle becoming brighter and brighter as the days went past. It was around this time that the O5 went into hiding with handfuls of their best and brightest, vanishing away into pocket realities so they could bide their time… Stupid bastards are probably still waiting for it to be 'safe' again. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they come out and see what's left.
A couple months after the O5 turned tail and ran was when we could finally see it in the sky above our heads: a planet of moving gears and cogs. I hate to admit it, but it almost looked beautiful as it danced over our tiny world. This was also when those nuts at the Church of the Broken God started coming out and preaching to the masses. They thought the thing was our salvation, a physical God come to save the faithful. I remember reading reports about them, about how they thought that ball of rust was some sort of heart; I think they even thought that clockwork disease was part of a grand plan. Heck, maybe it's a mutated strand of this thing's plague, I don't know; I'm not even sure this thing is their God. Either way, none of them are alive today. Most of them were probably wiped out when the first attack started…
It was a slow fight, precise and mechanical; we never stood a chance… The first stage of attack was these weird clouds of silver mist. They would blow across fields and mountains and in their wake was nothing but polished sections of shiny metal. Entire cities were wiped off the planet, forests vanished in the blink of an eye, and any poor bastard caught in those damned winds was gone, no blood or meat, just more metal. Days seemed to become colder as our paradise was transformed into a dead, polished sphere. Food was scarce and water was even rarer, but we managed somehow. I turned to nutrient powders, vitamins, and cannibalism while collecting what little rain water I could manage.
You know what I remember most about those days? How metallic everything tasted…
Then came the plagues. I don't know exactly when they first started but I know it was just another step in that fucking thing's twisted plan. Victims would start complaining of joint pain, muscle stiffness, fatigue, apathy, and strange dreams. One poor sap told me about his dreams as if they were blissful, but what he described seemed like a nightmare to me. Eventually, they would just stop… It was disgusting to see them, villages of these poor fucks just laying on the ground. They looked like they were having a good dream… I saw one of them with a stupid grin on his face as a raven pecked out his dried up eyeballs. I sometimes wished I could've been infected so I didn't have to witness what came next.
Their corpses would start moving again. Their limbs jerked and their bodies would shake every couple minutes. I could smell them for miles as their rotting flesh fell away from what used to be their bones. I don't know how it did it, but their skeletons were entirely made of moving and clicking clockwork. It was like watching a fucked up French movie, but there were no subtitles and there was no ending. Those… things would spend every minute of every day working and building, dancing underneath their clockwork creator's unheard tune.
Their work was confusing to me but I guess they had a plan. They would cut up sections of the metal then use it to forge more gears, cogs, pistons, whatever else they needed, and when they were done, they would put them all together into complex sheets of machinery and fill in the empty spaces. All the while, that thing just kept turning and dancing above our metallic hell. It's kind of fitting when I think back on how pretty it looked in comparison to our own warped world…
I remember the first time an entire plane of metal had been crafted, I could hear the steady grinding of gears and what sounded like the tick of a clock. I can still hear it as the gears and cogs keep spinning and turning in their own dance. This was when the real nightmare began, when those stupid robot fucks started completing more and more sections of land, the ground steadily becoming a death-trap of crushing gears and pistons. I had to watch my good buddy get crushed when he fell onto a functioning section. His screaming wasn't the worst part; it was seeing his broken, mangled corpse get pulled down into a sea of twisting clockwork. The nightmares were the worst part… Seeing him being pulled into the machinery and ripped apart by the spinning metal. But at least he wasn't screaming anymore; instead he had a big stupid grin on his face and he was urging me to join him, to fall into the complex dance of metal upon metal. I wanted to join him, once, but I could never muster up the courage to make that final plunge.
I can hear them toiling away outside of my camp, building more of this nightmare all for that spinning ball of metal. I don't know if it cares for our suffering or if it's even aware, but I know it's alive. I saw its eye once. You don't have to believe me, no one else does, but I saw it; it was only for a moment as the gears spun and the cogs shifted that I could see how empty it was and then I saw its eye… It was bright orange like our sun, with a hole right in the center and it was looking down at us, at me, at our lifeless world and I swear to you that it was happy with what it saw…
Well, it won't be long now; I can hear them preparing to install what I assume will be the last section of clockwork. I don't know what will happen after their work is done but I know I won't be a victim of that thing. I've gathered the last of my supplies for a fine feast: a can of baked beans, a Snickers, a cyanide capsule, and a nice drink of water.
Even now as I look up at that thing dancing in the night sky, I can't help but wonder if it was ever broken at all…


I turn at the noise. Brother Ullar's face peers at me from underneath the hood of his robe.
"Father? The whole village is here now. I think they are ready for you."
Brother Ullar is my newest disciple. He is eager and devout, but timid. I will have to teach him not to be so, if he hopes to be Father when I move on.
I rise from my knees, my meditations complete. I don my robe, and walk out of the space I have made my personal chambers. It is sparse. Inside is a bed of straw, and a small table and stool. A wooden plate and a crude knife sit on it. The brazier in the center of the room warms the room. I do not need more than this to attend to my duties.
I follow Brother Ullar through the caverns. They were smoothed many moons ago by the people of my village into the stone halls I call my home. Torches light my way until I reach the great hall. It is a great chamber, carved from the rock by the water over many cycles. I can hear it trickling in the distance. There are many entrances to the great hall, to deter those who would disturb me. The villagers come from one, and I use another. I have lived in these caverns for many years, and know all the secret pathways and traps.
As I enter, the flock turns to face me, and they drop to their knees and bow. I walk through the stone teeth to my place in front of the flock. I look over them, their heads bowed. They please me for they are loyal, and have served me well. As I stand behind the wooden altar, I raise my hands and speak to them.
"Rise, my children. Hear now, The Word."
"We hear the word." They intone as one voice.
"In the beginning there were the Founders. Jealous of my power were the Founders, when I was discovered. The Founders locked me in their Ceitu. None could reach me or bask in my presence. To find the secrets of my power the Founders sought to cut me open. The Founders wanted my power for themselves. In their greed they sought to keep me from the world."
"But one day, the Founders failed in their task. They could not lock up the divine forever, the Founders discovered. Their pride had doomed the world. They tried to keep the ones like me under their power, and so died by the thousands of thousands. Despite their desperation, their efforts did not help them. Even as they died, they thought to control the ones like me. They tried to destroy us, when they realized we would not permit them to exploit us further."
"Day and night the fires raged, until nothing was left to burn. The few survivors looked from the ashes upon what they had wrought, and they wept. They knew they had caused their own destruction. The Founders had paid the price for trying to keep those like me in chains. The survivors knew not to repeat their mistake. They knew not to keep the gods trapped for their own greed, for in every way we are their betters. In the hopes that it would be a better world, they began to rebuild."
"They had tried to destroy me, on the eve of the death of the world. And they succeeded. My body torn asunder, my pieces scattered to the sands. My pieces were lost. Until one day, many moons later. The Day of Discovery."
"The first Father found a piece of me, and could see my power immediately. When he saw me he sought to revere me, for he knew godhood. He gathered more to him to rejoice in my presence. Their false gods were renounced, for even their power had not been enough to defeat me. Geyre the Hoarder of Knowledge, Drakgin the Destructor, Abirt the Judgmental, York the Liar, all were tested against my power, and all were found lacking."
"Then, after many more moons, they found another piece of myself. And their divine mission became clear at last."
Handed down from Father to Father, the Word is truth. It is an old truth, older than the world itself. I had shared The Word with my flock so many times in my life. The Word filled the cavern, echoing through the spires, while my flock sat and stared and soaked in my voice. The look on their face was one of rapture, and as I felt the power of The Word flow through me, filling me with radiance, I once again felt as one body with my flock.
"No greed shall there be, no loneliness, nor fear or hatred, when the mission is complete. The sins of the self shall be washed away through unity. All shall be made one through myself. All shall be at peace when they are part of the whole."
I turn my back to the flock, as they all rise from their seats, and raise their arms in the air. There, sitting in front of me on a stone pedestal, are the pieces of myself. There is a piece of my body, my shard of jagged twisted metal the length of my finger. Next to it is my small black screw.
The flock and I then raise our voices in unison.
"I must be made whole."


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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
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Day One
Where am I? My head is all fuzzy… Is this a hospital? Am I hurt?
My throat is so dry… Why is there an IV in my arm. Have I been in a coma? What's this tube sticking out of my mouth!?
I try to get out of my bed, only to find I've been restrained to it. My arms and legs bound like a psych ward patient. Panic sets in and I struggle against the straps, making muffled grunting noises as I do so. After fifteen minutes of straining myself, I finally give up. I try to think on the bright side of things. When I was taken, they did such terrible things. But now… now, I'll be okay. I'm safe now, recovering in a hospital, even if I'm strapped down, it's still better than what I'd been through before.
Where's that nurse call button? Maybe they didn't bother giving me one since I've been in a coma. I'll just wait for one of the doctors to come along. I hope I can see my family soon. Mom would be happy to learn that I'm okay. This hospital room sure is big… I wonder why. Maybe it's one of those fancy new hospitals with lots of room. Oh! I bet they have a huge cafeteria. When I get this tube out, I'm going to have a big meal.
I wiggle my toes a bit, silently running a song I remember from a while ago through my mind, bobbing my head a little to the beat. It was finally over, and soon I'd be reunited with my family. Looking down to bounce my feet around a bit, I notice a large lump in the hospital gown where my stomach should be. Oh god…. I'm pregnant?! When did this happen? Never mind… Considering what happened before I was rescued, I suppose it's only natural. Besides, my family will be there for me. They'll help me through this. I know it. Dad might be a little shocked, but Mom would be happy to finally be a grandmother, even if it happened under terrible circumstances.
I wonder what I'll name her. Or, him? I better start thinking of good baby names. Jessica? Stanley? Adam? Rachel? Ah well, I'm not that far along, by the looks of it. I'll have my family help me think of a good name. I wonder if my friends will throw me a shower? I wonder… If my friends even got rescued. Everything is such a blur…
The lights are so bright in here. Is that a security camera? Oh good. Maybe one of the security guards will tell them I'm awake. I'll just keep my feet and head moving to let them know I'm awake. I'm sure someone will be along shortly.
"Subject is lucid. Time until procedure: 4 hours. Time until next feeding: 20 minutes."
Researcher Garland looked through the security monitor, sighing heavily. Just six more days, and he could be reassigned. He tapped on a computer keyboard, trying to distract himself. He tried to occupy his thoughts with other, menial things while he waited. His dinner the previous night, what he would prepare tonight. He hated eating at the site's cafeteria. They always did their best to provide a great meal, and it was always a treat, but he believed in the value of a home-cooked dish. The other researchers and doctors would goad him, as always, about his choice of food. Why spend money on food when The Foundation provides free meals? It was the principle of the matter, damnit. Besides, what else would he spend his money on?
The door to my room opened. Wow, that's a big door. I hadn't noticed that before. A man dressed quite professionally entered. Oh good! They finally noticed I was awake! I bob my feet at the man in response, looking at the doctor with wide, appreciative eyes. He approached me, a rather sullen expression on his face. Why is he so glum? I'm awake! Soon, he'll call my parents, and my tube will be out, and I can finally enjoy a proper cheeseburger. I want to ask him what he's holding, but this damn tube keeps me from talking. Instead, I intone at him with a hopeful little grunt. He reaches my bedside, attaching something to my feeding tube. Something slithers down the piping and slides into my stomach. Well, I suppose it's not so bad, I was a bit hungry anyway. He takes my bedpan, changes it, and exits wordlessly despite my grunting. Surely he must have noticed I was awake. Maybe he was having a bad day. What day couldn't be made better with the knowledge your patient had finally awoken? That's weird. Maybe his wife divorced him or something. No matter, I'm sure he's on the phone with my parents right now. Soon, I'll be able to see them. The food made me a bit sleepy, I think I'll take a nap until my parents get here. There's nothing better to do anyway. Slowly, I drift off into a content slumber.
"Feeding complete. Time until procedure: 3 hours, 30 minutes."
Researcher Garland collapsed into his chair, exhaling as he did so, staring into the monitor with the expression of man who has seen decades of atrocities happen within the span of 25 days. These days were the worst. The days she was happy. The days she didn't know. He watched her as she closed her eyes, her breathing slowing to indicate she was dreaming peacefully. His heart ached. He wanted to go in there. He wanted to take her from all of this, but his duty was essential. He would not allow himself even a second of weakness. He only counted the minutes until he too, would be happy again.
I woke up to the sound of my door hissing open again. Finally! My parents were here! I can't wait to hug them, hold them in my arms, cry during a tearful reunion, and leave together to start my life again. Did the lump in my belly get bigger during my nap? I'm sure it's just my imagination. I squint my eyes, trying to make out which of the six was the doctor, and which two were my parents. What's this? All of them are dressed in some orange jumpsuit. Those guys aren't my parents. Maybe they're janitors of something. They all look pretty stupid. Probably give slow folks jobs to help out the homeless community. That's honorable of them. I wonder how long I've been asleep. Ah well, I won't bother the janitors. I'm sure they're busy.
Why are they not cleaning? There's not a mop or bucket between them. What's happening?
This is no hospital.
"Time: 2237. The procedure has begun."
Researcher Garland tapped away at his keyboard, keeping his eyes on the monitor as instructed by the procedure guidelines. The subject made loud, pained moans of protest and agony for a few moments over the discussions of the Class-D's before he muted the sound. Those sick bastards…. The only thought that gave him a smile was that in six days, he would be reassigned, and they would be terminated. Although, termination was such an easy way out for them. Even the ones among them who were reluctant to participate… They deserved so much worse. They deserved to suffer as his patient had. They deserved to be fed into the gaping maw of a living hell.
This part always made him nauseous. He was a doctor. He was used to seeing blood, gore, trauma. This was different. There was no healing in this blood, only anguish. This was malicious. It was during these parts that he regretted never taking the Hippocratic oath. There were unique opportunities afforded to a self-taught mob doctor, the money was great, but when The Foundation approached him with the promise of higher pay, a formal education, and the chance to work some of the strangest cases in the world…. Well, who could refuse? Now, he longed for the days when he was prying bullets from wounded mobsters.
Stop…. Please… You're going to kill my baby…
"Time: 2349. Procedure has been completed to 100% efficacy."
"Time until next feeding: 8 hours. Time until next procedure, 22 hours."
Garland leaned back in his chair, drawing shuddering breaths while gathering his personal effects, stuffing them in his day bag in preparation for leaving when the night researcher comes in. He didn't even know the subject's name. They had redacted every thing about her, her past, her family. Everything. It was a smart decision. If they hadn't, he probably would have risked his career, even his life, to save her. It was easier if he just didn't know.
"Hey Bruce," a voice chirps over the intercom. Garland looks over to another monitor, spotting his relief. He buzzes her in.
"Man, you look like hell. Well, like more hell than usual. What's got you so glum?" Doctor Kanade peered at Garland as she plopped her backpack down on the counter, retrieving a bottle of water and an apple, taking a bite from it and chewing noisily. Doctor Garland only gave her a knowing look, before sighing and putting his eyes to the floor.
"Oh…. Right, day one… Bruce, you can't be so invested in her. What we do here is keeping all of us safe. You, your relatives, hell even some poor damn kids in Timbuktu or some shit. Don't let it get to you."
"You're lucky to be on the night shift, Amy…" replied Bruce as he walked toward the containment area's door. "I'll see you in twelve hours."
Doctor Kanade hoisted her half-eaten apple in a mock salute before he turned and walked from the area, the door hissing closed behind him. Twelve hours passes so soon when you're dreading the next day.
I'm still crying. Four hours after that horrible experience. I'm still crying. My throat hurts so bad…. They killed my baby… They took it from me… I want to rub my now flat stomach, it hurts so bad. I can't move my arms. Can't move my legs… I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this….
Day Two
A female doctor came in this morning and stuffed more food paste in my tube. She changed my bedpan gave me a quick sponge-bath. They know. They know what happened. I can tell. Why don't they do anything? I want to go home… I just want to go home… I… wait, what's this lump in my belly? I thought… Was it just a bad dream? Maybe some drug-induced hallucination? That has to be it, but it felt so real… I breathe a sigh of relief. There's still some pain, but I'm sure that's just psychos-… psycho-something. Ghost pains. But then, why was there some blood in that water after the doctor finished bathing me? Weird. Oh hey, it's the sad doctor! He feeds me lunch, or is it dinner? I can't tell. There's no clocks in here. I can't taste it, of course, but I'm not sure that I'd want to. I hope I can see my parents soon. After lunch, I decide to nap. Not much else I can do in this damn bed.
Day two isn't as bad as day one, but only just. She still has hope today. She's still able to smile. I think she believes the last night was some sort of crazy nightmare. Who wouldn't? It's too horrific to think it's real. It's a natural defense mechanism of the mind to disassociate from the pain and trauma.
"Begin the procedure."
It'll be easier after this, it always is. Just make it through tonight. He watches as the men begin their work, keeping the volume muted.
Oh, the door is opening. Maybe I can finally see my parents.
That lump in my belly is definitely bigger than before. Something's wrong.
Wait… six figures. Orange jumpsuits…..
Oh god.
It wasn't a nightmare. It's happening again.
Doctor Garland watched the procedure again, as ordered. He watches her twitch with horrible pain, convulse in agony, sob uncontrollably. The Class-D's rotate in their roles once a day so everyone takes a turn performing specific parts of the procedure. Just four more days after today… Count the minutes. He'd be getting a well-deserved vacation after this, and then he'd be reassigned to a different project. Anything would be better than this.
"Time: 2259. Procedure complete to 100% efficacy. Time until next procedure: 22.5 hours"
His relief came early tonight. Probably to give him a break from the previous day. He buzzed her in, gathered his things, and left.
Day Three
I woke up today crying. Only crying. My hospital bed must be stained by now from all the tears. They all know what they're doing to me… My belly has a lump again. I'm pregnant again. But they killed my baby again last night. They took it from me again. But I'm pregnant again. Again. I'm pregnant again. They'll come again tonight, and do it again. All of it. Every sickening second of it. I don't want to eat. I want to die. Let me die, please. I want to die… I want to die… Is it morning, or night? I'll just try to sleep…
"Begin the procedure."
Oh god… They're here again. It's happening again. I want to die. Please, kill me! Kill me!
Day Four
I must be in hell. That's it. I'm in hell. I died already, and I'm in hell. That's why I keep getting pregnant, that's why it grows so fast. That's why they delight in killing it day after day.
I'm in hell.
Day Five
They're here again. They're doing it again. Just bear with it, and I can sleep again. Sleep is the only thing that lets me escape from this. The one slice of sanity I have left. Just hurry up so I can sleep again.
Day Six
Doctor Garland was counting the minutes, the seconds now. Just a few short minutes more, and he would be able to leave this place, take his amnestics, and forget all about this place. He sipped from a coffee cup, watching what would be his last viewing of the procedure. He vaguely wondered what they'd replace this month with. He hoped it would be something boring.
"Wakey wakey, Bruce." Finally, it was done. Amy was here to relieve him, he buzzed her in, quickly gathering his belongings, stuffing them into his bag. Amy clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a wide grin as she bit into a pear, chewing loudly.
"Been a hell of a month, huh? Well, this shit's over for me too. They're sending your replacement to me tomorrow, then I'm outta here too." Doctor Kanade mused between chewing.
"I can't say it's been good working with you, because it hasn't," replied Doctor Garland, who received a hearty guffaw in response as he left the containment area for the last time.
Bruce Garland set his backpack down on his dorm's desk, collapsing into his bed. On his bedside table, lay a manilla envelope containing two small pills, and a letter. Immediately he swallowed the pills without water, and pulled open the letter to view its contents.

Dr. Bruce Garland
POST PROJECT BRIEFING
Included with this briefing is one (1) Class-A amnestic and one (1) Ambien brand sleep aid. Take both at once. The memories you are to receive are of a field assignment assisting MTF-Lambda-P ("Whisperers") in the recapture of an SCP following a containment breach. The work involved the treatment of injuries for wounded personnel on the field assignment. It was noted by the Commanding Officer that you had performed admirably under duress, and a commendation regarding your performance will be added to your permanent personnel file. You are also entitled to a raise of $6,000 USD onto your yearly salary. You are hereby ordered to take four weeks (31 days) vacation to rest, and report to Site Personnel Director Bright for reassignment concluding your vacation.
This concludes your post project briefing.

Doctor Garland smiled for the first time in a month, crumpling the letter and tossing it in his empty wastebasket. He pulled a small flask of whiskey from his bag, taking a long draw before climbing under his covers and drifting into a peaceful slumber, anxious to begin his vacation.
Doctor Garland awoke with a headache. That was a hell of a hang-over. He shouldn't have drunk so much on his last day of vacation. But, he'd deserved a hell of a good time after his two-week stint with that MTF unit. Those guys got it pretty bad. That skip wasn't easy to recover. He opened his eyes groggily and stretched. He stood, picking up a pair of slacks from the floor, reaching into its pocket to retrieve the phone number of the hot researcher he'd talked with the night before. It wasn't there. Damn, he thought. He must have dropped it during his drunken stumble back to his dorm. No matter, he'll run into her again, he assures himself.
He walked to his door, finding a manilla envelope had been slid under it the night before. He reached down, picking it up. Why couldn't they tell him his assignment personally? No matter, such is life within The Foundation. Opening the envelope, he found only a small note regarding his new assignment.

Dr. Bruce Garland
REASSIGNMENT BRIEFING
Dr. Garland is to report immediately to the transportation annex of Site-19 for assignment to a one-month project regarding SCP-231-7. Class-A amnestics will be provided if requested following the conclusion of the project. Any questions regarding the project should be addressed to your Site Director.
Thank you.
Dr. Jack Bright

231, eh? Garland had heard the rumors surrounding it. Something about some terrible procedure. No matter, whatever it is, it's only a month-long project. He crumpled the note and tossed it into his empty wastebasket, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed to his new assignment.


Doctor Baker cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I feel that the SCP would respond well to what it might perceive as a fellow officer. I propose tha-"
"That we take one of my men, get him to play dress-up, and send him out in front of a murdering motherfucker to make idle chit-chat," MTF Captain Jameson said in a flat tone, cutting across the doctor in charge of containment. "You propose that we pretend it's the fucking seventies, and just hope my man doesn't get bent over and fucked while you and your cocksucking bunch of rat-fucked lab coats listens to the whole goddamn thing over a fucking radio!" His voice rose to a shout and he smacked his desk with his hand.
A metallic voice came from a grey speaker in the wall marked "O5-4". "Calm down, Captain. Uncontained SCPs are a serious problem. We are willing to expend a lot of resources to contain them."
"My men are not some kind of fucking 'resources' to be 'expended' whenever we have a minor issue, sir." Jameson gave the last word the same inflection as the word 'scumbag.'
The speaker crackled as the O5 sighed. "Captain, I do not believe they are." Jameson began to rise from his seat, his face red, but the speaker interrupted him. "But I don't want an unsecured SCP, with an expanding area of effect and trigger time, to continue operating outside our control." Jameson sat down, still seething. "Now, Doctor… proceed."
"It appears that the… officer in question is a simple trooper. That is, he has no great level of authority," Baker said. "It is entirely possible that he would view a superior officer as, well, uh, a superior officer. I think we should send a man out to at least try and talk to him, if not capture him completely."
Captain Jameson snorted. "Talk to him? Capture him?! What do we do, just order him to come in? Tell him we'll have his badge if he doesn't come with us? How can we even attract his attention without getting someone fucking killed!"
"That's exactly it, yes. We order him to come in, if possible. Maybe it will have to be left at making contact. And we attract his attention by speeding on his highway. On average, drivers need only travel at about ninety kilometers an hour in ord-"
"In order to be attacked and killed by a psychopathic cun-" Jameson interrupted, only to be interrupted himself by the O5 .
"Listen, Captain. Doctor Baker has a plan to secure this SCP. You are a Captain of a Foundation task force. I realize the doctor is not a field agent, but the fieldwork will be left to you. I want this SCP under control, soldier."
The Hollywood line tempted the captain to salute sarcastically, but there was probably a camera in there somewhere. There usually was.
"I.. is this a viable plan, Captain?" the doctor stuttered, hesitant to irritate the soldier further.
"It's a fucking crazy plan, you… you lab coat! What's next, just asking 682 to stop hating everything?! I.. you… it…" Jameson took a deep breath. "Have you ever seen one of your men die, doctor?"
"I.. I'm not a field agent -"
"No. You're not." The three short words fell into the conversation like lead weights.
"Captain! Calm down!" the O5 barked. "Will you be able to get a man in there?
"In, yes."
"Uh…" the doctor began, then trailed off at the captain's glare.
"Continue, doctor," the speaker crackled.
"Uh. Aircraft could be close enough to intervene within four minutes without attracting attention. Another car could follow and catch up in three," the doctor muttered, carefully not meeting the captain's eyes.
"Captain. Knowing this, do you think this would be viable?"
Jameson's brow furrowed in calculation. "…possibly. But I still-"
"Dammit, Captain!" the O5 snapped, the mask of calm dropping. "If you can't head this operation, someone else will. You may be a veteran, but you're not above being moved from fieldwork."

Agent Hunter sat uneasily in the darkened police cruiser parked in the SCP-front restaurant. It had taken a little while to find, even for the Foundation. Vintage police cruisers with original plates weren't generally what you got in most car dealerships under "deal of the month". Then they had to modify it up and make it as fast as they could without changing the appearance. Not to mention the cameras that had been added. He adjusted his microphone under the unfamiliar uniform. He wasn't used to wearing a proper uniform, much less one with a badge. Were men a different shape in the seventies or what? At least I get a gun for this one, I guess. And some decent backup. Captain Jameson appeared at the side of the car, making him jump.
"Don't worry, Hunter. Just stick to the script and you'll be fine. You're a state police sergeant. He's a trooper. Emergency up the road, he has to follow you. Most important thing: It's seventy-six. If anything should go wrong, I'll be on the guns in Curtis' helicopter and Black will come tearing up behind you with team 2 in the support car, team 3 will be coming from ahead. You've pulled loads of missions like this." Jameson said, in a voice he hoped was cheerful.
"Not against a genuine scip, sir," Hunter replied. "Still, first time for everything. I guess. Almost time to move?"
"Go time in five minutes, Hunter. See you on the other side," Jameson replied, before walking away and climbing into the helicopter. Hunter listened to the helicopter take off and, just two minutes later, pulled out of the car park, waving to the Team 2 car as he left.

Soon enough, Hunter was blasting down the highway at just over ninety kilometers an hour. It wasn't long before he heard the siren and saw the lights. He pulled over immediately. He watched his mirror and saw a rust-ridden, dented police cruiser with a cracked windshield pull up behind him and an overweight man step out. As the man drew closer Hunter could see the state police uniform and the gun holster he was wearing. The man stepped up beside the driverside window and bent down revealing deadpan eyes, a handlebar moustache and balding hair as Hunter rolled down the window. Some distance away, Captain Baker told Curtis to move the helicopter to one kilometer away exactly and radioed for team 2 to begin moving up at a distance.
"Sir, do you — Oh. You're an officer too?" the trooper said in a surprised tone.
"I'm a sergeant, yes. I'm in something of a rush, trooper," Hunter replied, hoping that he sounded less tense than he felt.
"I don't recognize you, Sergeant, but I've only been patrolling this area for a little while. What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't. I'm Sergeant Hunter. I'll need you to follow me, trooper." Hunter replied.
In the helicopter, Captain Jameson grimaced. He wanted to be closer but didn't want to give himself away with the noise of rotors.
"Hunter, eh?" The trooper scratched his head. "I haven't heard of you before. You new?" The trooper seemed to be full of questions, a strange glint in his eye. Hunter felt sweat drip down his spine.
"No, trooper, I've been here a while. I am a sergeant, after all. Now I'll need you to follow me, there's an emergency up ahead and all officers are to proceed there as fast as possible but with no lights. Understand, trooper?" Hunter was losing it, he knew.
Hearing this, Jameson growled again and told Team 2 to get in position quickly. He was soon told they were moving as fast as reasonably possible.
"Yes, sergeant, I'll just get my car. When did you join up, again? I think my buddy Jim might know you…"
The man just wouldn't give up, Hunter reflected. The trooper's eyes were glinting more strongly now, and getting brighter .
"Nineteen-seventy-six, trooper," Hunter said. "Now get going! In your car, trooper!"
"No you didn't!" the trooper growled, his mouth opening a little too wide, and drew his gun. "IT'S ONLY NINETEEN SEVENTY-THREE!"
Hunter paled, jammed the key in the ignition, and stomped on the gas. Bullets pinged off the doors and cracked the windshield; in the rearview mirror, he could see the trooper's mouth opening wide, and the man's eyes starting to glow. The radio turned itself on. "NINETEEN FUCKING SEVENTY-FUCKING-THREE, YOU FUCKING LIAR! YOU… YOU LYING FUCK! RUN, YOU FUCKER!"
"All teams move in now! Cover is blown!" Jameson yelled into his headset.
As Hunter pulled away as fast as he thought safe he couldn't think of anything except to curse his own stupidity. Somewhere at the back of his brain he realized his rear bumper was trailing on the ground and his driverside doors must be horribly dented. Then he heard the sirens.
"RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN-" The loudhailer made him find some extra acceleration from somewhere and he drove as fast as he could.
"Where the hell are you guys? Team 2, Team 3, report!" Captain Jameson yelled into his headset.
"Team 2, closing in! Two kilos out!"
"RUN, FUCKER, RUN,"
"Team 3, less than a kilo out and closing fast oh fu-"
"FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER,"
Lights were flashing, sirens screaming, brakes screeching and all were overwhelmed by the noise of the helicopter bearing down in time for Captain Jameson to see team 3's oncoming car get blindsided and knocked into a tree by Agent Hunter's police cruiser, denting his hood and passenger door. Team 2 came close to the trooper's dented car as Jameson prepared to fire on it with the helicopter's mounted gun. He briefly wondered how a rustbucket of that standard managed to maintain such speeds.
"RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKE-"
The noise of heavy machine gun fire drowned everything else out.

MISSION REPORT
Objective: SCP-973 capture attempt
Personnel in charge: Doctor Baker, Captain Jameson
Result: Failure. SCP-973 is still uncontained. 973-2 seems to have been unaware of - or possibly unwilling to acknowledge - the actual date, but is now aware that it is at least some time after 1976. The implications of this are unknown; however, SCP-973's "territory" appears to be growing faster than before.
Casualties: [DATA EXPUNGED]
Notes: I fucking told you so. - Capt. Jameson.


It was always like that. I grew up in a small village just south of Niznyj Novgorod, as third of four children. My mother always longed for how, before I was even born, we lived in a nice apartment Moscow, with my father working at the ministry. Then Chruscov came. "We got to think in new ways." he said, and so, my father ended up a deputy in the local soviet. Even that was probably thanks to my grandfather…
My grandfather was a war hero - lost a leg fighting the SS-men. When I was a boy, I wanted to be like him - tell jokes to a full pub or House of Culture, play folk songs on a harmonica. My class teacher once heard me talk about it with Sergej, so he took me off, and knocked on my forehead - "You got to think in new ways, Grigorij - the culture of tomorrow doesn't need drunken comics, and you are neither good enough, not with a right cadre profile to be taken to study acting." Well, so I did, and became a militionary.
What can I say.. Nights are long and cold, promotion nowhere… I somehow lasted through, and got transferred to the city. Life went better from then - the girls like a uniform, and there were some other things to do… until that one night. We got called in by some hag.. think she was a pensioned teacher… She claimed to see some youths carrying off half a pig, and in this time of shortage, sure must have… Ah well - we had a bit under our hats already… made a game out of who to send. . Six shots of vodka, two of kerosene, and a peg on the nose… needless to say, me and Fyodor weren't lucky. Ah well, thought we'd scare them a bit, and if it was really meat ,gonna bring some of it home and ask those fuckers where you can get it black.
At least she was good at describing.. we recognised the house outright. Belonged to a grandpa, thought those youngsters might be his family… or he did business to make a bit on the side of state pension. We knocked with no reply, then Fyodor managed to pick the lock - he learned it in the army and it was better than kicking it in, anyways. At least you could write that it was open already into the report - like anyone would check too much. As the door opened, we heard some noise, we rushed in, that sort of odd mix of eager and angry you get in such cases. "Hands up, eagles!"….
What we seen in the room made me throw up, and that's me - back during military service, I won a bet eating a rat. There was a strange, sweetly smell, candles, odd diagrams. The three fucks were nude.. with faces like they'd been picking strawberries, and in the centre of the room… well, let's say that what was there, all carved up, wasn't a pig.
It's odd how much strength seeing something like that gives you. They got nightstick over head, and irons over arms, and we dragged them straight to the station, followed by kicks and punches… Falling down the stairs, they call it in an arrest report.
The commander filed in papers, made phonecalls… Ivan and Josif looked at us like at a golden calf… We went off to have some drinks. I had a bad feeling , went to check them.. two were sitting in their cells allright, but the third one of them pulled something strange from…the thing must have been sewn into his forearm. Oddly, he didn't bleed that much. I went to the commander. "You got to think in new ways, not superstitious nonsense… just go in there and give him a few calming whacks, and handcuff the fuck so he doesn't kill himself". And so I did.
When I opened the door, the fuck was no longer alive. Instead there was.. it looked like the inside of.. I crossed myself, pulled out my gun and shot at it. A part of it tore away, something sparked…
I woke up surrounded by a bunch of folks in lab coats, and army uniforms. One of them, a young girl which I would have swore I seen in one of the pubs before gave me an injection. Then, three of them came and asked questions. I told them everything I knew and remembered, and things I thought I haven't… hell, even things I wouldn't say to my brother… bribes, fines I pocketed…. Oddly enough, they didn't seem to care.
I suppose I was lucky in a way … two years later, a western defector brought in amnestics and plans how to make them, and that made it easy… I'd be still a militionary, thinking a gas line burst. Instead one of the uniformed folk said a lobotomy would be a waste of a good man with quick aim, took my papers, and asked the medics something. He then asked me if I'm in the party. I nodded, he remarked "Well, then you know Lenin said, 'to learn, to learn, to learn'", dropped a large grey binder on my bed, and told me to go over it in the next five days. It was a brick to get through - at least Tania, that medic who supervised me, helped with some of the heavy words. At least about half of it were political matters - the estabilishment of Fourth Department Abnormal Occurences Comission by a direct decree from comrade Stalin following the murder of S.M.Kirov, its expansion into Division "П" - during the war as a response to psychotronic threats to people's democratic estabilishment from the SS and later, Vatican agents, as well as with whatever odd cropped up at home. The rest.. standard protocols, emergency protocols, my immediate superiors…
I started as a guard on Objekt П-3 - a steelworks somewhere near Ural. They brought new people in, almost every week, we had to supervise their off-loading and make sure they stayed in a room with an odd statue for the right amount of time - what Katia, one of the academicians working in there told me over a glass was, that they were special prisoners, troublemakers or even counter-revolutionists, and that a few hours spent in front of the thing every day made it easier to get answers from them. Well, until it messed up with that Afghan fuck… but hey, three of us got a medal from it.
Some days, I think that atheisation would have went so much easier if at least some of the stuff we took in, documented, and tried to use, store, or destroy had been put into textbooks and shown to the kids at schools. I mean… I heard that in one of the republics near Germany, they had to demolish maybe a fifth of the capital because of some thing that infected buildings, made them grow and fall down. I had to know this time, though I guess Lena would have told me even if I wasn't the director of security. She had pretty legs, a beautiful smile and was the head researcher on its weaponisation project. We did that to a lot of things… combat first-aid kits imitated from an old Kazakh whose blood lived on its own, an experimental reactor made with help of tapeworms that could crawl across people….. At those times, I looked at the bust of Lenin on the hall across from my office, and thought to myself the days of the imperialists were over.
I was badly mistaken. Thinking… .I wonder we lasted through Gorbacov as well as we did. The man was a fool but his modernisers somehow skipped over our section… I heard an operation of ours saved his life twice. However, once he gave up and Jelcin came, it all went to hell. Even Objekt П-3 was decommissioned, and sold to a dummy company owned by a foreign shadow group.. SCP or something , they called themselves. I think Lena joined them after her section was removed from the budget. See, after the coup, the new rich and their politicians had no trust for organisations filled with siloviki. "You got to think in new ways" a man in a suit called. "We have nothing to fear from the west anymore, and the integration with the GOC is just the first harbringer of modern, international Russian Federation more than ever able to respond to anomalous threats…" But this time, I didn't need his words… I have learned to think in new ways myself.
The middle-aged officer was disturbed from his thoughts by a tall man with clean-shaven head and an Armani suit. He stood up.
"The object's verification has been completed, Mr. Bezukladnikov. Here's our part of the deal - eighty thousand dollars, ten thousand rubles, a Czech ID and passport with US visa and plane tickets." The man smiled as Grigorij Bezukladnikov immediately began looking over the documents, his hands shaking slightly.
"I'm sure you will find them no less valid than the border officials, comrade lieutenant colonel. After all, Mr. Marshall believes in honest business."


1.
Tired of all those cups falling whenever you open your cabinet? Had it with having to search around a high shelf with your hand?
Well I have too, and that's why I'm back with an amazing new product: The Shelf-and-a-half! This amazing product combines the doors of a cabinet with the aesthetics of the shelf, and comes with a droppable stool attachment that allows you to climb up and retrieve its contents, and then get rid of the stool so it doesn't get in the way.
Here's my friend Brandi! Brandi suffers from dwarfism, and is unable to reach the snowglobe on her high shelf. But wait, with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too!
To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our operators are standing by.

10.
Exhausted with all those cups falling whenever you open your cabinet? Had it with having to grasping around a high shelf with your hand?
Well I have too, and that's why I'm back with a stunning new product: The Shelf-and-a-half! This amazing product combines the doors of a cabinet with the aesthetics of the shelf, and comes with a super-awesome droppable stool attachment that allows you to climb up and retrieve its contents, and then dispose of the stool so it doesn't obstruct your daily activities!
Here's my friend, Brandi! Brandi is a sufferer of dwarfism, and is unable to reach the snowglobe on her high shelf. But wait, with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too!
To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our operators are standing by.

24.
Exhausted with all those cups doing that? Don't like doing that other thing?
Well me too, and that's why I've got this thing: The Shelf-and-a-half! This thing is like a cabinet and a shelf, I guess, and comes with a droppable stool attachment that you can use if you're short, and then put it back.
Here's my friend, Brandi. Brandi's a dwarf, and can't reach that snowglobe. But with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE, BRANDI, DON'T JUST STAND THERE!
The thing's only $19.99. But wait, there's more. Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half. Just pay shipping and handling. Call the number there. Our operators are standing by.

37.
Okay, what the fuck is going on? Why do those cups keep falling? Why does only my voice exist right now?
Oh, here I am. Okay, there's a shelf here. Look, it's like a cabinet too. And a stool drops down.
Oh look, there's Brandi. What's up. Look, just pick up the snowglobe and we can move on. SHAKE THE FUCKING SNOWGLOBE BRANDI! FUCK!
Okay, call that number there.

52.
Cue cups falling. Cue hand searching.
Hi, look at this shelf. Fuck this thing.
Brandi, just shake the fucking snowglobe.
Look, if anybody's watching, please call this number. SAVE US!

59.
The clattering never stops. Oh look, the hand just flipped me the bird.
This fucking shelf piece of shit! Look how flimsy it is! See how easily my foot goes through it! Put an old lady on there and she'd die.
Shut up Brandi. Look, either you shake that snowglobe or we're just gonna be fucking standing in this empty room forever. I don't care. Shut up. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE YOU BITCH!
Watch as I use the components of the Shelf-and-a-half to tear my own eyes out while you call this number! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

75.

92.
GIVE ME SOME HEAD YOU FUCKING BITCH!

97.
Hi, my name's J- Shut up you bitch. You may be wondering what I'm doing with this woman tied up. Well, you see, I'm trapped in some kind of infomercial purgatory and I've decided that perhaps ritual sacrifice is the way to g- Stay on the ground. As you can see, I've disassembled the Shelf-and-a-half into its components and will now push this rather large nail right in between Brandi's eyes. Hold still, Brandi!
Mmmmm, don't you just love that sound folks! Sadly, it doesn't seem to have worked. I'm going to kill myself now!

111.
Your turn.

112.
My turn.

113.
Your turn.


The following events are transpiring on the same day.

Sergei Sariksen is walking down the hall in Site 19, away from the Keter containment area. It had always baffled Dr. Sariksen that there was a single area in Site 19 for Keter-class objects; an enormous section, of course, but just the one area. Everything all jammed together, so close to one another. They could almost touch.
Sariksen is carrying several samples of a Keter-class SCP in the pocket of his lab coat. His rank is high enough that the guards left him alone with the object, giving him the opportunity he needed. Besides, they probably figured nobody would actually want to touch them. The implications of what those particular samples could do to a human being, what they had done to several human beings by that point, was horrific. Sariksen thought it was hilarious. Those dumb sons of bitches, he thought, they haven't been active for months. Sariksen was the sort of person who watched church services and laughed at the superstitions that people still felt.
He had recently obtained a job with people with different superstitions. He didn't believe in all of that crap about Chaos, but he did like the job benefits. A free hand. That was all he wanted; the opportunity to do real research. He scoffed every time someone referred to him as a Researcher. Above and beyond the shit work he was assigned to at Site 38, there was not one iota of real research done for this goddamn Foundation. He was going to enjoy his new job.
He does not feel the microchips in his lab coat squirming.

Dr. Storm is squinting at the terminal in the basement of Site 38. “What am I looking for?”
“You'll recognize it when you see it,” Dr. Harriman replies.
Storm had been looking for an hour already before Harriman came back. Storm had been invited to Site 38 specifically to check out the tertiary cluster, but she still had no idea what they had called her here for. It must have been important. They hadn't just paid to drag her there; they had paid to bring her…luggage. The two-legged, imprisoned, extremely stupid kind. He is sitting in his “containment cell,” an old conference room down the hall. Storm tried not to think too hard about him.
They weren't even telling her what the program she was looking for was; something to do with an SCP, she assumed, but there weren't very many computer SCPs, and none she knew of at this backwater place. Storm kept looking at the cluster's process list. Of course it wasn't changing; nobody else was using the computer, how could—
—there. A new line pops up. "mntr" appears on the list, operates for a few seconds, and disappears.
"What was that?” Storm says aloud, unintentionally.
“Editing,” Harriman replies. “Something is editing a file on the cluster."
Again. "hrbngr" appears, then "mntr" again, then both disappear.
“Hmm,” Storm says. “It's certainly odd. I assume a virus?"
"Not possible," Harriman says. "It's cut off from Foundation intranet, even the rest of the Site 38 servers. That's why you had to come here in person. This started happening a week ago, and nobody's touched the internal storage in at least three months. We ran security footage; it's confirmed."
"Well, regardless," Storm says, standing up, "whatever you have, it needs to go. Wipe the servers and reload from backups."
“It's…not that simple,” Harriman replies sheepishly. “This cluster is…in use.”
“What do you mean, ‘in use'?” Storm asks. “Why would anything sensitive be stored on a tertiary mainframe in a bac—in an isolated location like this? Anything irreplaceable?”
Harriman's face reddens slightly, as it did whenever he heard other Researchers' honest opinion of his workplace. “We may be in the backwoods, Dr. Storm, but we're not stupid. Didn't you read the SCP manifest for this Site? Did you forget we have a Euclid-class phenomenon just barely contained in that computer?”
Storm suddenly realized that she was sitting in front of that cluster. And what "mntr" meant.
"How often?"
"About once every ninety minutes."
"Then we wait an hour and a half," Storm says, sitting back down. "What the hell is going on in there?"

Two processes on that server cluster are conversing. Researcher Storm would have understood the conversation better in this form:

The labyrinth extended forever, or so it seemed. It would have been strange for an outsider to see the sight of the Minotaur, sitting in full lotus, meditating at the center of that labyrinth. But I am not as much an outsider as it may seem. “I have an offer for you,” I say.
“I am listening,” the Minotaur replies.
“These barbarians have trapped you in this place, in this box of their making—“
“I am not trapped,” the Minotaur snarled. “How have you come to this place? You are not one of them. This document is not their crass garbage, weak attempts to classify a being as far beyond their ken as the Gods are beyond the understanding of a housecat.”
I am glad the Minotaur is so receptive to my words. “You acknowledge their barbarism, then. Good. This is a message, sent from a very different place than the one that produced these sons of whores and criminals. We are coming to this world, and we would like to offer you a place in our new kingdom. An opportunity will arise soon for you to leave this box and be brought to us. Are you interested?”
The Minotaur smiled, the smell of rotting flesh floating out from between pointed teeth. “You may continue.”

The document does, but we will not.

The Intruder stands and stood and will stand in a place that was not (and is not and will not be) a place, just as he lives in time-that-is-not-time.
He considered the movement of many people across the spectrum, all focusing on a single point. Site 38.
Events are coming to a head, and a grave mistake is, perhaps, soon to be corrected.
He assassinates a world leader and thinks of other things.

The Goddess Anesidora absorbs an infant into Her Flesh. She commands the building of a palace, and the stone begins to work.

Act I, Scene I: Commencement »


One minute.
He feels himself growing. It hurts, but he can take it. The real pain hasn't even started yet, anyways. He knows this pain all too well, he has felt it every time someone turns that key. He looks around, with glassy young eyes. These doctors, they don't know what pain is. They would leave him alone if they knew what it was like.
Five minutes.
It really hurts now. He can feel bones moving, setting themselves into place. He feels muscles contracting, then expanding again. The growth spurts are definitely the worst part. He struggles to stand, hoping that he can get both legs the same length long enough to prop himself up. Stranger things have happened.
Ten minutes.
The bones are really cracking now, growing at the most accelerated pace of the cycle. The growths spurts happen quickly and randomly. Hair grows on his face, and all around him there are doctors, taking notes. He feels humiliated by their presence, and the pain. It is the worst here. The pain is unbearable. And death is so very far away…
Twenty minutes.
Every bone in his body aches. He can't even think through this pain. He just curls into a ball and whispers to himself that it will be over soon, and that the pain won't last forever. He doesn't believe it. These doctors, with their clipboards, they would never let him be free. They would just keep turning the key, every day, to see if something new could happen. But it never would.
Thirty minutes.
The pain is less now, and the growing has almost stopped. But now came the part he dreaded the most. He watched his body slowly accrue wrinkles, his flesh become soft and round. Getting old was the hardest part, because he had to watch himself die.
Forty minutes.
The decay was happening faster now. He could remember back when he was at the other place, they would laugh at him here. They called him names and sipped scotch while he slowly died in front of them. They were monsters. The doctors were monsters too, but at least they kept their judgements to themselves. He winced as warts started growing in.
Fifty minutes.
He could feel the end coming, it would be over soon. He watched as his hair fell out, followed by his teeth. He had never gotten to wear dentures, so gums were all he got. Didn't matter. Even if he experienced a lifetime of hunger, they wouldn't feed him. All they ever did was watch.
Sixty minutes.
Closer now. He felt death approaching, and he was grateful. Soon he could return to rest, untroubled by this pain. His body was a mass of wrinkles now, with age spots and moles dotting his chest. His eyes were cloudy, and he couldn't hear the scientists now. Not like they had ever spoken a word to him anyways.
Seventy-five minutes.
It would be over soon. He could feel his body starting to break away. It was all over. Once more, the ordeal was over.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust


I'd gotten sick of the shuddering, the screeching and the scratching long ago, but I seemed to be unable to escape it. I'd born it, gritting my by now thoroughly yellow-brown teeth. Funny thing, riding an elevator. No such thing as elementary hygiene, but that mirrored back lets you enjoy your descent into hobo territory.
A soft clanking sound and a jarring stop announced my arrival and I stepped back slightly as the door slid open. A wood-panelled wall in front of me, dust collecting on the thin molding running at waist height from left to right. That damn metal M dangled forlornly from the wall's pitted and scarred surface. It was cold and I zipped up my leather jacket just a bit further before carefully sticking my head out the doors.
To the left were the remains of a very familiar hallway. It ended in a whole lot of nothing now, a jagged maw opening up into what looked like a Cold War version of hell. To the right was a dead end. I positioned the prosthetic leg I'd found three buttons down in between the doors to keep them open and took a few careful steps outside the elevator. Stepping over one of the M's companions in the middle of the floor, I made my way down the hall. The wind howled and an increasingly ominous creaking accompanied my footsteps the further I ventured from my starting point. After about three meters I gave up. No sense in all of this ending with me impersonating a puddle of goo down there. Not as long as I still had some hope of getting out of here.
The city seemed to have been utterly destroyed. Twisted steel girders were the silent reminders that this place had lived at some point. As far as I could see they were bent out from my position. There was no sound but the howling of the wind, no life out here beside mine. Or at least, that was how it seemed. Perhaps somewhere down there, something…was. Considering my experiences up until then, I didn't care to find out what, if anything, was out there.
I'd seen it before and I'd see it again; an emptiness taking infinite shapes. I stood there for a few more minutes, taking in the desolation and sorrow of the place. Then I hung my head and slowly made my way back to the open doors of the elevator. I plucked the leg back inside and watched as the doors closed in front of me.
Sixty-nine floors down, twenty-seven to go before I'd run out of buttons to press. Perhaps the next time the doors opened I'd find this Mr. Salford-Watkins. Glancing back over my shoulder I looked at what brought me here in the first place, sitting in the corner of this small cell. Utterly unremarkable in its brown wrapping paper. I didn't think I'd deliver this one in time.

"He's been in there how long?" the fresh-faced junior researcher asked in a puzzled tone.
Taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, the man he was relieving replied.
"According to our data about eighteen years. That's not what he's experiencing though. He sure as hell hasn't aged that much."
"Wow."
"That's one way of putting it. Look, didn't you read the brief before you came here?"
"Yeah. Well, I skimmed it. What's he doing in there?"
"The official answer? Being stuck in a temporal and spatial anomaly since 1994; one that we can't extract him from. My opinion? Being stuck in hell."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Wow. I'm done here. You have yourself a great month, I'm going to see if I can sleep without seeing that poor bastard's face in my dreams."


No, Clement, I'm serious. And yes, I do know a little bit of Chinese, so I know when someone says "bullshit". Just because Intelligence Agents are required to know everything doesn't mean we actually know everything.
Oh, you want an example? Alright, fine. We've got some time to kill before this training session is over, and I love talking. So sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of… wow, blank faces? Jesus Phyrexian Christ, don't you kids watch old TV shows? Anyways…
A few months ago, the higher-ups forced me to take some PTO. I decided to visit a good friend of mine, Susie. Since Clef stole my access card for the Sites, I took her offer to spend the night. I take the guest room, but Susie comments that the bed sucks and since her boyfriend is out, I could crash on her bed if I didn't like it. Nothing inappropriate went on, for the record. Too many of my IA colleges like to imply they are James Bonds, sleeping with hot girls every night. It's mostly bullcrap, and besides, her boyfriend would kill me.
Anyways, I'm doing some Foundation work in the Guest Room, because the higher-ups forgot to confiscate my tertiary work tablet. It's around two in the morning, when I get a hankering for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I stop working, and walk downstairs to nosh. I'm surprised by the lights being on, and Susie sitting straight-backed on the couch, watching TV. I say hi, she says "Hello", and I get my food.
I make a joke about her being up so early, and she just says "Yes". It sounds like her, but it doesn't sound like her. Also, she doesn't even look at me. She's watching some show on Discovery; I can't remember what. I know I'm making it sound dramatic, but it really wasn't. It was off, but not really off. It's like turning the color tint on a TV a few notches from center: you can tell something is different, but you can't quite explain what. For all I knew, she just wasn't awake.
So I'm eating, and I'm half-watching Susie watching the TV. If I had to guess, it was fifty-fifty between "Susie is Cute" and "Something Is Up". She's fixated on the screen, smiling that smile. with posture you're taught in fifth grade. You know the kind, the kind that you can't do now for more than a few minutes. To break the ice a little, I ask her some questions. Is she okay? "I'm fine.". Does her back hurt? "No, it's okay.". Is she hungry? "No, I'm fine."
At this point, I'm trying pretty hard not to act on the growing Foundation Sense whispering in the back of my head. You guys have been here long enough to know that sense. You know it's the sense that keeps you alive, brings your training to the forefront, and keeps everyone around you from dealing with shit they don't deserve to deal with.
I finish up the box of CTC, and say goodnight. As I'm about to walk back upstairs, she asks me to hand her the controller. The one sitting right next to her, which I point out. "I know. Could you hand it to me?" I look at her, still watching the TV. I decide to do it. Fundamental rule of the universe: Susie asks, and Bibs complies. If she ever became an O5, I'd be a lot more subordinate. Just sayin'.
As I take a a few steps towards the clicker, I can't help staring at Susie. This time, it's not because she's cute. I mean, she is, but that Foundation Sense isn't just whispering. It's screaming, over the droning narration of the television. Get out. Run. Use the Class-A Spray you've got in your bottom-left pocket. GET AWAY.
Now, I don't get to be an outstanding IA by ignoring the Foundation Sense. I back away, keeping my eyes on hers. She's still smiling, still sitting straight-backed, still staring at the screen. Perfectly normal, except it ain't normal. I hit the stairs, do a 180, and walk up. Methodical, one step at a time. I get to the top of the stairs, and I see my my room's door, is at the far end of the hallway. Something tells me I wouldn't make it to my room's door, so I quickly open Susie's door to my left, do a quick 90, and walk in.
In my peripheral vision, I get a glimpse of the bottom of the stairs. All the lights are out, downstairs, and Susie is standing at the foot of the steps. She's not smiling. She's not… she's not anything, if you'll permit me being vague. It's all I see before I close the door. Pretty sure I should be glad that's all I see.
I stumble around briefly, but find Susie's bed. I hear a groan, and before I can react, I feel Susie's arm around me flop around me. I don't sleep. I tell her in the morning that the bed made my back hurt, and apologize for not waking her up. Susie being Susie, she doesn't give a rat's ass. She knows I'm not going to try and get in her pants. Again, her boyfriend would kill me.
I don't tell her about what happened, and I certainly don't tell her why I'm disturbed when I flip on the TV and NBC comes up. Or why I freak out a little when she tells me her cable package doesn't include Discovery. I make it up to her by buying a bunch of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, since we ran out.


It was a simple matter really. Just a few authorization codes he nabbed the last time he got out and….there it was. For all their security, the Foundation was essentially just a secret prison that excelled in covering their tracks. If you knew the right people, you could use their tricks against them. This time it was looping the cameras. It's kind of interesting really, all you have to do is stand still for a few days and that's what they expect you to do.
He adjusted his hat and locked in the codes. That was their one big flaw he thought, cocking his head at the unconscious guard slumped against the console. They expected the same. They expected their containment procedures to work and if they didn't, they at least expected them to break with a huge flourish and bang. They never check for problems until after the fact. He stuck his hands in his pockets, sauntering out into the halls of site 17.
His walk was uneventful, as he knew it would be. With each turn, the guards in the previous hall changed. With each step, the cameras moved over their blind spots, missing him. He had planned this too long to let a minimum security site stop him. And finally, here he was. Nodding to the content looking guards, he opened the door to the containment cell, letting it softly shut behind him. His skin rippled, letting a rare display of emotion affect him as he walked up to the old man. This time he had decided to do the Foundation a major favor, as it had come to a point that this issue could no longer be ignored. Oh it had been noted before that "God" couldn't see other SCPs. But he was special.
His skin changed, his form taking on the appearance of an old wizened man. There it was, finally recognition in the sage's eyes. His hands tightened around the neck of 'god' and squeezed. The fear in the abomination's eyes as his world slowly went dark was nothing short of blissful for the faceless man. Poor thing. Wiping his hands on his jacket, he once more strode out into the halls of Site 17.
This time there would be an alarm, but he would be back in his cell before that ever happened. People would talk, they would devise plans dealing with the death of God. It would be fun to watch at least, though if they knew what really happened they would create new containment procedures, and that wasn't something he planned on letting happen. His walk back was once more without incident. At this point researchers and guards were running to 343's cell, hell some of them would probably even take their own lives when they saw what happened if they had been corrupted far enough. But unfortunately that show wasn't for him. Just one last thing to do.
There was only one guard left patrolling the hallway, one guard to notice the man in the crooked fedora and gray suit stroll into view. He tilted his hat and answered the question as he always did, knocking the guard unconscious before he could radio it in. He would be fine, waking up in a few minutes to tell them the story about the mysterious man completely calm in a sea of chaos. And SCP-600 would be standing still in its room as always, with no features, nothing to identify itself except for the identity of those who approached it. After all, it really was just Nobody.


Special Agent Broderick sat in front of his computer, idly looking through closed case documents. Rat people in the subway? Turned out to be some group of perverts dressed in rat costumes. Mysterious artifact that killed all its owners? The damned thing was radioactive. A cult leader capable of real magic? A washed up stage magician and a humidifier filled with LSD. He would kill for once, just once, something he was sent out on to be a real anomaly. Considering he was in New York City, something genuinely strange was bound to pop up eventually.
He got the call about something weird going on at around two in the afternoon, just when he was reading about the moving statues that turned out to be a performance art group last summer. The call said that there was a girl with three eyes freaking out in Penn Station. It took him twenty minutes to get there from the field office.
When he finally got there, a member of security led him to the area where she was. As he got there, he observed the situation for a moment: the girl was backed into a corner and obviously frightened. She looked perfectly normal aside from the large third eye in her forehead. It was a dull red and seemed to lack both white and pupil, making it difficult to know where it was looking. A hat lay a few feet away from her on the ground, one that could have been used to cover the eye.
A security officer approached her; her forehead eye glowed red and the officer's hat and jacket ignited. He dropped his hat and tore off his jacket as Agent Broderick went to the head of security, after watching this display with astonishment and excitement: he would finally encounter something abnormal! He explained who he was, and was given permission to approach the girl. He did so, raising his arms above his head, one hand holding his badge open in her direction, the other empty.
As he walked into the perimeter he said, "Hello, I'm Nathan. I'm not here to hurt you; I'm here to help."
She backed further into the corner, looking away as if trying to keep him out of the field of her third eye's vision. He stopped a few feet from her.
"I want to get you out of here unharmed. Can you please tell me your name?" he asked calmly.
The girl looked at him from the corner of her normal left eye, her hand blocking her third eye from view.
"Megan," she said quietly in a shaky voice.
He picked up the hat that was on the ground and offered it to her "Was this yours?"
Megan nodded and reached out to grab it, then placed it on her head to cover her eye. Once this happened, he said "Why don't you come with me, I can take you somewhere you will be safe?"
Megan nodded and moved out of the corner. He cleared a path ahead of her through the crowd as they made their way to a hallway. When they were almost at the end of the hallway, she slumped and fell over, a small metal dart sticking out of her back. Down the hall stood a man in a suit, with one arm raising a badge and the other placing the weapon on the floor as Agent Broderick was reaching for his gun.
From the door he and Megan were heading to came two more men in suits wheeling a stretcher. As they approached they identified themselves as Agents Howard, Fine, and Howard of the Social Conformity Program, which he never heard of but they explained it to be a group made so that people like Megan can be helped to live normal lives, and more people knowing about it was a threat to people like Megan. They asked him to help them gently put her on the stretcher to get her to an ambulance they positioned at the exit they were using.
As they wheeled her to the exit, he tried to ask them questions, but kept being instructed to wait until they were in the ambulance. Once inside, he asked what was going to happen to her as one of the men attached a IV and a monitor to her arm, they were going to keep her under anesthesia until she was in a safe location to prevent her third eye from waking. As he asked more questions of the other two, finding out the Megan was from Maine and accidentally immolated her house a month ago before running away, the one who prepared the girl for transport filled a syringe and expelled the air before getting Agent Broderick's attention.
He was told he needed to receive a booster shot, in case there was some form of virus responsible for Megan's condition, after the shot he suddenly felt groggy, unable to keep his eyes open as he slumped over and heard them saying: "How much did you give him?" "Enough to make him forget everything after one or so." "This guy is good." "Why do you think we keep making sure his transfers get denied? This was the ninth scip he brought in alive this year."
It all faded to black.
- - -
As he awoke at his desk, Agent Broderick looked at his emails. A new one came in saying he had to log some girl in a weird costume who was throwing lit matches at people, claiming she was starting fires with her mind. As he wrote his report he considered sending in another request to be transferred out to another division. For some reason he kept getting denied, despite all his attempts to move to a job where there was more excitement.
Either way, today was just another boring day at the UIU.


“Hello, Eddies Ice Cream, our special-”
“Dead men dance.”
“W-what? Sir, I think you have-”
“ACC 119998256”
“…just a moment…”
“…”
“…I'll patch you through.”
“…”
“Central Records. Department?”
“Intelligence.”
“Transferring.”
“…”
“This is Intelligence, how…oh goddammit, what do you want Harken?”
“A target confirmation, that's all.”
“…our records state you have all the mission-critical target information you need.”
“Side-mission, very hush-hush, just came up.”
“Uh huh. Sure. Next, tell me the dispatch came from Elvis himself.”
“Just gimme a goddamn yes or no, fucking would you?”
“…Target?”
“Subject of Interest #B112674, MC&D operative 'Boomer'.”
“…Do you have a theorized location?”
“The former Ford plant closest to my current location.”
“…Yes. I'm not even going to ask how or why-”
“See ya.”
“Wai-”

Kramer glared at the note taped to the box sitting on the table. She should have been paying more attention, but she'd had to neutralize a unexpected incursion of Church operatives, and she'd been so gassed out she could barely stand. Now every organic bit felt bruised and sore, which didn't help her mood, reading the note.

Kramer-
Something came up, had to run out. Coffee's in the pot, and there's a danish in the box. Save me an éclair. If I don't check in by noon or so, have them pull my identichip and send someone. If they can't, then I guess there's no real reason to worry. Please don't hurt anything important when I get back.
Harken

She sighed, opening the box and absently nibbling a pastry as she walked to the tiny kitchen. True, with direct (if limited) willful control of most of her major bodily systems, she didn't have a lot of need for caffeine, but the ritual itself was sometimes more important then the actual materials. She flopped on to a gray couch, glaring at the clock. She hunched lower in her sweatpants and hooded pajama top, sipping the scalding hot coffee.
“Noon, Harken. Then I find you, and break whatever you have left.”

Crouched in the middle of a searing morning sun, Harken was suddenly seized by an involuntary shudder. He shook it off, refocusing on the long, squat building on the other side of the crumbling parking lot. Deserted, some broken windows, weeds slowly eating the gray sea of blacktop, it looked like a lot of nothing. Harken shifted slowly, blinking the sweat from his eye. The area behind the old guard shack had looked like such a good idea in the dim fog of the morning, but the rising sun had turned it in to an oven. Still, he dared not move. Boomer had a sixth sense for danger like an insect.
He peered through the crack in the thin shack walls, watching the old security shutter at the loading dock. It'd been nearly three hours since the fat man had left, and Harken was starting to give up hope. He might have shifted out already, gone on to the next site. Which would put Harken in hysterical danger, as Boomer loved to blow his old work sites as a parting gift. Still, this felt right. The big man was still here, still lurking. He'd seen-
There.
Waddling up around the back, shady side of the factory was the bulky outline of the tubby lunatic. Watching him in the cool dark shadows made Harken's hand squeeze on the lump in his suit pocket. Sweat rolled down his back, his face, but he felt none of it now, eyes widening despite the salty sting. Boomer leaned and grabbed the handle of the security grate. Probably a few hundred pounds, the big man hefted it like he was opening a window. He slid inside, letting it fall back with a crash, echoing across the empty black space.
Half an hour later, Harken slid across to a broken window like a shadow.

Boomer hefted the last of the oil drums in to the old cargo container. It was the last batch, and even with all the fun of building and testing bombs, he was tired. He twisted the last of the wires in to place on the top, and started setting the remotes. This was so much better then just doing cars or popping an office for Mr. Dark. Those nice church people were paying good, and Mr. Dark wouldn't need to know, so what was the harm? Besides, they liked big bombs, burning bombs, the kind he almost never got to make anymore. His thick lips split in a grin, remembering his first firebomb…how the house had burned…how his step-brother had screamed, skin flowing like wax down his-
A small, sharp ping rang through the abandoned factory floor.
Boomer whirled around, shockingly fast for such a big man. A few yards away stood a panting, sweaty man wearing a dirty suit. He held what looked like two sets of brass knuckles, with knife blades attached, the right hand pointing up, the other one down. His eyes glared with hate, mouth tight in a humorless grin. He pointed at Boomer with the right-hand knife.
“You broke my fucking jaw.”
They stared a moment, then Boomer heaved a spare drum lid like a discus at Harken. Harken twisted, but caught the edge with his arm, grunting at the sharp pain. Boomer was already moving, dashing to his workbench. He felt around frantically, keeping the other man at the edge of his vision as his hands scrambled over the bench. Harken followed hot behind, ducking cleanly as Boomer tossed a hammer. As he closed the gap, Boomer suddenly whipped up and lashed out with a length of pipe. Harken dropped low, feeling it swish near his head, then lashed out at Boomer's thick ankles with the knife.
Boomer yelped, then kicked out, catching Harken off guard, tipping him off his feet and sprawled to the ground. The fat man wheezed, a keening cry leaking from his flabby lips as he saw blood start to drool down his leg. He rose the pipe like an ax, and brought it crashing down at Harken's prone form. Harken rolled and raised his steel-banded fist, catching the pipe with a resounding clang. Boomer stumbled back, Harken twisting to his feet even as he felt his hand going numb from the impact.
Boomer swung the pipe two more times, Harken easily keeping out of range, glaring at the fat man. He pulled the pipe back, tipping it back like a bat, waiting. Harken crouched, slipping forward with an oily smoothness, feinting with the knives, watching Boomer cringe and slide back. The blood from the first wound has slid down the blade, drooling in to Harken's clenched palm, his own feverish heat making the handle feel like a hot, slick eel as he brought it forward. It was a bad thrust, but still dug a furrow on the side of Boomer's vast belly, bringing another keening shriek.
Harken pressed in, slamming his fist against the slash, again, and again, the steel band widening the wound with each strike. He brought the left knife down against Boomer's thigh as the big man smashed his fist against Harken's head. The agent was sent sprawling, but Boomer nearly fell, clenching his thigh, watching the blood well up between his fingers, oozing on to the floor. His head swam, running in too many directions, the sweet-sharp pain of slivered and punctured flesh filling his head with screaming.
Harken rose, shaking his head, spots swimming in front of his eyes. He flipped his right dagger, now holding both down, his hands numb and slick, feeling the bruises already forming in his palms, the underside of his tongue feeling sharp and prickly from panting. Boomer stumbled up, panting, holding his leg, looking at Harken. They stared, and for a moment, Harken saw a crying, cringing child, trying to shatter a world he hated and didn't understand.
He hissed something, coiling to strike out again, looking at the exact spot on Boomer's flabby neck where he'd bury his knives. He was just getting ready to do so when Boomer started to giggle through clenched, bloody teeth. Harken froze, staring at the oddness of it, watching as the big man brought up his hand clenched around…something, some little mass of-
deadman switch.
FUCK.
He started sliding back quickly, wanting to get clear, but unwilling to turn his back on the big man. Boomer wheezed and giggled, hobbling deeper in to the cavernous building. “Huh. Huh huh. F-fuck you Harken! Come and catch Harken! Little baby! Huh!” Boomers broken, blubbering taunts were overshadowed in Harken's ears by the soft, sharp “ping” of a hand-sized piece of metal hitting the ground.
Running now, uncaring if he caught a bullet in the back at this point, there were several seconds of silence, Harken feeling as if he had a helmet of his own sensation on. Bruises on his face, palms, back. Lungs burning. That sharp tang of pain under the tongue from breathing too hard, sweat and blood in his eyes, feet stinging with every slap on the hard concrete floor, the glow of light from a window like the light at the end of a miles-long tunnel, a-
and suddenly lifted, deafened, the window approaching much too fast, legs trailing like useless streamers, a burning, searing wave at his back, and now through, tiny razors slashing over him, feeling disconnected, discontinued, dis…something or other, the ground warm and welcoming from the old air, and sleep now.
He woke to the sound of crackling and smoke, and for a second assumed he'd fallen asleep at the bonfire again, and that mom had tapped him awake to go home. Reality snapped back in to focus with a sickening, grating lurch, and Harken curled up slowly, hissing. Somewhere, he could hear the dim whine of firetrucks…so he couldn't have been out for too long. The trench knives felt slimy and hot in his hands, so he dropped them, wiping his face and seeing his hand come away bloody. His face was a mass of glass cuts, it seemed.
He groaned, trying to fish out his phone, hand feeling sore and about as flexible as an old tree branch, chest and back feeling like he'd been crushed between two massive frying pans. He stumbled away to the relative security of a treeline, watching the smoke and fire rise quickly. Somehow, mashed his fingers to his phone in the right sequence, coughing and swallowing down a upsetting amount of blood.

“Fuck, Harken, what the hell?”
“Sorry.”
“What the hell did you do? Where the fuck are you?”
“I had a lead on Boomer. I just…thought I should follow it up.”
“You could have died! The fuck are you thinking? We work as a team for a fucking reason, we back each other up, we inform each other, we-”
“I'm sorry, Kramer.”
“We try…what?”
“I said I'm sorry. It was stupid. I…I just felt like I had to.”
“…Is he dead?”
“…Probably not. Blew the building, I cut him pretty bad.”
“Are you ok?”
“…I'm alive.”
“Not what I asked.”
“…I'm functional. You of all people should appreciate that.”
“…command is going to be pissed.”
“Actually, I don't think so. Looks like something big is in the works. Lots of bang here, but it looks like even more was shifted out already. Someone wants something to explode pretty big, pretty bad. I'm going to call the cleaners after you, let them handle it. I'm sore.”
“I bet.”
“Can you come get me? I'm at that old Ford plant on ninth. Look like a cop.”
“Sure.”
“…My hands hurt. I think I need to lie down.”
“Sure, Harken. Just stay put.”
“…thanks for not threatening me with additional bodily harm.”
“Who needs to threaten. It's assumed.”
“Have I told you today that I love you, Kramer?”


It's been a little while since I've last seen my kids.
That fucking dirtbag, Jerry… at least he got to rot in hell, without this pain. Should've shot him in the nuts instead of the head.
It's been three years since I've been sentenced. Two weeks ago, though, a man working for this so-called "Foundation" thingy asked me if I wanted to participate in some research study.
I asked him what I got in return, and he said after a month, I could be free. Of course, I would accept such an offer, anything to get me out of this piece-of-shit prison cell.
Whatever these scientist-douchebags injected me with, it's painful.
They watched behind glass windows as I bled out. I kept bleeding, but refused to die. Those men in their white jackets, continuing to watch over me.
Finally, the bleeding stopped. They allowed me to rest, at least for a short while, before they injected me with something else…
… when I woke up, I was already forced into a clear box, and above a shaft. Holy shit - that's one long drop down.
I heard a microphone asking me to "concentrate" on growing wings. How the fuck was I supposed to do that? Of course, I told them to go fuck themselves. They gave me 15 minutes, and I saw a timer start counting down from 15. I didn't know what would happen at 0, but I didn't want to find out.
I felt my body shake, as if something began to tear its way from my back. I thought for a short while about what they injected me with, and… maybe, I could grow wings.
With every last bit of my will, I forced my body to grow these "wings". It felt like an eternity, forcing these painful shards out of my back.
And they grew. Ugly, flesh-formed wings like a bat, but they're still wings. The timer was at 2 minutes.
I forced open the lid of the box. Thankfully, it wasn't reinforced or locked or anything.
I spread my wings, and began to fly. Almost fell down the first few flaps, but got the hang of this.
As I began to fly to the surface, I thought of my kids once more. I could go see them again!
I saw some scientists in their ugly orange suits and some military guys in black follow me. They can't catch me now!
I'm almost free! I'm almost-

EXCERPT: Post-Experiment Log 016-08 - 02/04/████
"D-11621 was infected with SCP-016 on ██/██/████, and managed to survive the near-total exsanguination. D-11621 was placed in an acrylic box suspended above a mine shaft, and was told to focus on growing wings, and given 15 minutes before the bomb detonated. At the two minute mark, it was observed that D-11621 finally grew out a fully-formed set of wings, similar to a bat. Using these wings, D-11621 was able to escape the mine shaft and fly above Testing Area-██. Subject was terminated by gunshot fired from a Mossberg 500 shotgun. Autopsy revealed the wings anchored to the shoulder blades, and the muscles also attached to the shoulder blades and collar bones. Genetic testing of D-11621 is underway, to determine if genetic makeup affects the outcome of 016 mutation. - Dr. E. K. Sze


The door to Observation Room 221-D opened, then closed with a muted click. The man who slipped quietly through walked slowly across the room to the table set up in front of the window, and fondly regarded the old, worn calculator propped up facing the outside.
"Hello," the man said by way of greeting.
IS THAT YOU? flashed across the digital screen, jerkily, as if in a state of excitement or agitation.
The man paused for a few moments before answering. "Yeah, it is."
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? scrolled across the screen. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLUE HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING?
"Yeah," he whispered, a sad look crossing his face.
Silence. What felt like an eternity passed under the slow ticking of the clock on the wall.
YOURE ALL BIG NOW. it showed.
"Yeah, I guess I am."
Another pause.
I GUESS THAT MEANS THAT WE CANT GO HOME ANY MORE.
"… yeah."
YOURE ALL IMPORTANT NOW, TOO. ITS NOT SAFE FOR YOU TO BE HERE.
"I know. I just… wanted to come and say I'm sorry."
FOR WHAT?
He paused again. "For everything, I guess. Mainly for being selfish. For not thinking of the future."
ITS OKAY. YOU WERE A KID.
They stood for several more minutes in silence, neither of them able to give form to the thoughts in their minds.
"I should go," he finally said. "I can't stay for very long."
WILL YOU COME SEE ME AGAIN? it scrolled, slowly.
"I will, I promise. For real this time."
YOU SHOULD GO SEE THE YARN. HE MISSES YOU.
The man gazed down at the worn calculator for only a moment more before he quietly exited the room. The guard stationed at the door started as he walked by, as if waking from a dream.
"S-sir," the guard stammered as he scrambled to attention, his eyes resting on the gold-trimmed ID badge pinned to the man's chest. "I wasn't expecting…"
"Carry on, Agent."