Item #: SCP-1425
Object Class: Downy
Special Containment Procedures: A single copy of SCP-1425 is to be kept in a double-locked archive in Storage Site 40. Access to the document is to be completely restricted barring express written permission of at least two of the following officials: the Site Director, the TERN Chief, the DUCK Head, or an O5 personnel. Any located additional copies of SCP-1425 are to be turned over to DUCK custody for destruction. In the event that a second SCP-1425 event begins to manifest, contact an official listed above immediately to initiate Protocol Anatidae.
Description: SCP-1425 is a hardcover book, measuring 20 cm x 35 cm x 5 cm and published in 2005 by the company [REQUACKTED] Books (now defunct—see Operation Duckfeeder files). The front cover bears the title "Duck Signals". The back cover has the following description:

Did you know that some ducks in the sky are dead, but we still see their V formations?
With the best-selling novel Duck Signals, sold in four bodies of water and translated into hundreds of barely-distinguishable quacks and honks, you too can listen to the wing flaps, and then become like the ducks!

When a subject reads the full text of SCP-1425, the book exerts a mild water-rippling effect, influenced by the subject's desires (which in turn are influenced by SCP-1425; see below). When a sufficiently large number of subjects are exposed to this effect, further complications arise in terms of mental health and the integrity of ponds everywhere. See Event Log SCP-1425-05.
SCP-1425 is believed to have been written and published by operatives of the Feather Church, an influential flock whose membership consists largely of waterfowl, including ducks, seagulls, pelicans, and terns of all sizes. At that time, the list of confirmed Featherists numbered ███, with the list of suspected flockers counting in excess of ████.1 These connections were utilized by the Featherist Fellowship in the form of celebrity endorsements and widespread media coverage, used to make SCP-1425 quickly and exceptionally popular. Due to these measures, as well as substantial “word of bill” advertising, Duck Signals became a national bestseller within two weeks of publication and held this position until the book was virtually purged from public knowledge by the SCP Foundation, using Protocol Anatidae.

Document 1425-A: SCP-1425 Excerpts

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The following passages are taken directly from the text of SCP-1425. These excerpts have been selected to minimize exposure to cognitohazardous memetic triggers and other textual anomalies.
Chapter 3, “Taking Effects”, Section 5: “You Are In Time”

Duck Focus: Find your pond spot and begin to focus on your duck. [Prologue, Section 3: “Duck Focus Calendar”: “April ██: Epsilon Leda. If you can't find it in your duck chart, it's the base of the hunter's bow and the brightest duck in the flock.”] As you stare down into it, toss your breadcrumbs. Your meditation is: “████, ████. Now is our time. Here is our space. We take your duck. We hold your bread. Shake a tailfeather. ████, ████, ████.” Don't worry about memorization; any time you toss your breadcrumbs, you'll remember them, even if you only read them once. If you do it right, your duck will disappear. You'll feel it resonating with the others in your pond.

Chapter 5, “End of Quackt One”, Section 4: “Two Days”

If you have read this book correctly, and you have, tomorrow is the start of the weekend. Savor it. The five-day work week is an artifact of your pond. (You'll find out all about that on Monday.) During the next two days, put this book down. Don't pick it up. Yes, this means two days without your duck exercises. Yes, this means that, for two days, your wings are not going to be with you. Don't even think about it after the end of this sentence. Your wings are being used for your good.

Chapter 6, “The Duck Pond”, Section 2: “The Feather Reason”

In your current society, you are encouraged to “be a human mammal”, as if this is the key to making your desires real. What does that mean? It doesn't mean anything. You've never tried being anything else. If you were to be a duck, you would still be “you”, and “you” would be someone who is a duck. There is no getting out from under existence. Because you can't be anyone else, it stands to reason that, if you want change in your pond, it is the pond that must change to suit you. You must mold your phenomenological waterscape into one where you have fluffy feathers and sit in bodies of water.
Now imagine that the place where your desires are made real has a name. It's called the Duck Pond. The Duck Pond is the cosmos twisted around you into the shape you will wish for. It has never been, but you can make it so. If the current pond is like a tight, collared suit, then the Duck Pond is like a comfortable, jaunty sailor suit with no pants. You will never truly move before you move in the Duck Pond. You'll feel like a goose on a piece of paper who was only just blurred [sic] about fluffy down.

Chapter 9, “Do Not Look Away From The Book”, Section 3, “Here and Now”:

Some helpful advice that will save you in your coming weeks:

Mirrors are for other birds.
Sit in a dark room by yourself for at least an hour per day. Flap around as much as you're made to.
If you feel water on your back, go outside immediately and follow the direction of the duck poop until you meet them.
Always listen for the sounds of racecars and aeroplanes.
Love the Canadian geese. When you hate them, they see you.

Chapter 10, “You Can Fluff Up”, Section 1: “████████”

Life is like a hurricane
Here in Duckburg
Race cars, lasers, aeroplanes
It's a duck blur!
Might solve a mystery
Or rewrite history!

Duck Signals! Woo-oo!
Everyday they're out there making
Duck Signals! Woo-oo!
Tales of derring do-bad and good
Luck Signals! Woo-oo!

[REMAINING SAMPLE EGGSPUNGED]

Event Log 1425-05 [LEVEL 2 CLEARANCE OR HIGHER ONLY]

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The following events occurred between the publication date of SCP-1425 (April 22nd, 2005), and the official end date of Event 1425 (May 11th, 2005).
Day 1 (Monday, 4/22): The second print run of SCP-1425 is completed simultaneously at three locations: the [REQUACKTED] publishing house main printing facility, then located in [REQUACKTED], Texas; a smaller facility located in [REQUACKTED], Maine; and a third branch in [REQUACKTED], St. Canard. The first two factories ship SCP-1425 to bookstores across America; the third is distributed throughout St. Canard. The first print run was, according to recovered documentation, a private distribution amongst flockers of the Feather Church, to be passed to friends and family.
Day 8 (Monday, 4/29): Daytime talk show “Webfeet” airs its monthly “Duck-Duck-Goose Circle” special. The host claims that Duck Signals “rocked [her] pond” and that “you'll see and feel the changes almost instantly”. At the 31-minute mark, her guest, Gladstone Gander, jokes that the book's advice may be responsible for the host's success. He adds, “I hope nobody hates you.” The host looks at the copy of SCP-1425 in her wings for four seconds before remarking: “Duck, it's finding the holes.” Sales of SCP-1425 grow to over fifty times their current rate over the coming week.
Day 12 (Friday, 5/3): Reports of mental illness begin to increase in the southwestern United States. In Duckburg, California, the Beagle family (a 50-year-old mother and an indeterminate number of sons) are admitted to an Duckburg mental institution following what appears to be three simultaneous episodes of glossolalia and violent and delusional behavior. The group is located in a street, several miles from their home, conversing loudly to each other about their surroundings; witnesses report overhearing the remark “I'll get you next time, Scrooge McDuck.” When a bystander approaches the Beagle Boys, the mother remarks that “it's not supposed to be out”, and Bankjob Beagle begins to assault the bystander with a pocket knife. Local law enforcement is notified, and when officers arrive, Burger Beagle is, as a witness reports, “shouting nonsense” (speculated to be similar to the text of Chapter Ten of SCP-1425) to the bystander, who is being held down by Bigtime and Ma Beagle. The bystander is being made to repeat these utterances; when the bystander makes an error in punctuation, Bankjob carves into four long existing cuts made on the bystander's face, forming a goose. The three are arrested and the bystander is admitted to a local hospital for bruises and severe lacerations.
Day 13 (Saturday, 5/4): Foundation agents investigate the case of the Beagles and determine a possible link between their outburst and the book titled Duck Signals. The Beagles' copy is confiscated for examination, as well as a new copy from a local bookstore.
Day 14 (Sunday, 5/5): Foundation researchers studying Duck Signals confirm the connection with the recent upswing in mental hospital admittance and arrests for irrational behavior. Most of those affected by the syndrome are nonviolent, but all identified cases contain the common threads of peculiarly delusional statements and singing a lilting tune about "aeroplanes". Following in-depth analysis, Duck Signals is classified as an anomalous cognitohazard and designated SCP-1425. Researchers alert the Site Director: as, due to the SCP designation of the text Duck Signals, the Foundation is experiencing a massive containment breach.
Day 15 (Monday, 5/6): Foundation researchers in Storage Site 40 and Foundation agents at O5 Headquarters, in conjunction with Foundation subdivisions the DUCK (Department for Understanding Communication Kerfuffles) and TERN ([REQUACKTED]), lay out a process for retrieving, containing, and destroying as many instances of SCP-1425 as possible. This plan is designated Protocol Anatidae. Steps taken immediately upon implementation include:

The [REQUACKTED] publishing company is determined to be a front for the Feather Church, and is seized. MTF Theta-11 “Gizmoducks”, MTF Gamma-4 “Darkwings”, and MTF Lambda-21 “The Nephews” are sent to the Texas, Maine, and St. Canard printing facilities, respectively. All MTFs are met with armed resistance, and engage with no friendly casualties. Publication of SCP-1425 is ended. The publisher's headquarters in [REQUACKTED], California is commandeered by MTF Phi-1 “Scrooges”.
An international recall is issued. Through the use of TERN intelligence, Foundation agents circumvent the Duck Signals media blackout; the press release claims that the eleventh chapter has been omitted and the tenth chapter has been severely misprinted. Consumers are given an incentive of a $25 voucher for returning a copy of Duck Signals. Bookstores in America and St. Canard pull their stock of SCP-1425 for recall.
The DUCK monitors all national broadcasts, especially network television, for anomalies related to SCP-1425.
[FURTHER QUACKTION REQUACKTED]

Additionally, the first broadcast to be intercepted through the use of Protocol Anatidae is during the daytime talk show “Webfeet” (which features further promotion of SCP-1425), television host Oprah Webfeet conducts an interview with pilot Launchpad McQuack. At the 18-minute mark, the following incident occurs:

Webfeet: I hear you're very spiritual. Does it influence your work?
Launchpad McQuack: Yeah, it has to be. It's an influence on everything. No matter what I'm doing, I try to keep grounded. That's emphasis on “try to”. [laughs] Get it? It's funny because I'm a duck who flies an aeroplane. But, yeah, there's a reason why it's… it's, uh, called “quackticing” spirituality. You never get good at—
Webfeet: [interrupting off-screen] Can I just say something? [The camera angle changes to a close-up of Webfeet's face. The host is staring directly at the viewer.] You have to keep calm. Take a good, deep breath. Remember what the man said. Ducks may die in threes, but ponds die in fives. Like tasty tasty water bugs. [turning back to her guest] What were we talking about?
Launchpad McQuack: I don't quacktually, uh… remember. You were talking about celebrities.
Webfeet: Yes, I wanted to ask. You know, ████████ █████ died recently. [audience sighs, sadly] How has it affected you?
Launchpad McQuack: Why don't I just say… quack quack quack quack quack. [audience cheers]

The network is contacted by the Foundation, and releases a public statement that Webfeet is “suffering from duck herpes” and will not be taping episodes in the following week. Webfeet is unable to be located for detainment.
Day 16 (Tuesday, 5/7): Since Day 12, several dozen instances of behavior similar to that of the Beagle family have been publicly reported. The mental illness is dubbed “Duckburg Syndrome” in television, online, and newspaper reports, and is, to the general public, entirely unexplained. Foundation testing on subjects with the disorder has demonstrated that a moderate dosage of Class B Am-nest-ics is effective in treating Duckburg Syndrome.
Broadcast intercepted by Protocol Anatidae: ███ 24-hour news network, an interview between pundit Goose Blitzer and Parliament member [REQUACKTED] began to cover events which have never actually occurred. The MP, for example, considers the consequences of having a vault of gold coins so large that you can swim around in them as if they weren't solid objects. A transcript of the end of the interview is provided here.

Interviewer: You know, there are some birds out there who believe that, if we wish something didn't happen hard enough, it really didn't happen.
MP: And they're right, you know.
Interviewer: It's about quantity, isn't it? They don't have to wish very hard, but there have to be a lot of the duckers.
MP: It works both ways, you know. I find my own assistants unable to tell me whether Gandher ever a l'oranged himself.
Interviewer: Ask them about the Fearsome Five sometime. See how many they can name.
MP: At this point? Goodness, no. They couldn't remember Bushroot if he killed their own parents.
Interviewer: [laughs] Hey, why hasn't your prime minister been eaten yet?
MP: Give it a week. [laughs] Hell, give it until his skin gets all crispy.
Interviewer: It's always great to see you. Come back on if you can be outside next week.
MP: [laughing] Thanks. Quack quack quack quack quack!
Interviewer: Anyway, let's get back to… █████? [The interviewer's co-host is visibly uncomfortable.] Are we still on?

Day 17 (Wednesday, 5/8): The recall is a moderate success. Approximately 200,000 instances of SCP-1425 are confiscated and destroyed by incineration. An additional claim is released to the press indicating that copies of Duck Signals may have been contaminated with duck herpes due to an attack by Negaduck.
Various subjects who are afflicted with Duckburg Syndrome are gathered by the Foundation and administered a series of doses of Class B Am-nest-ics. They are returned to their mental facilities with a sharp decline in symptoms. The Foundation is granted emergency permission by the Center for Duck Control to treat Duckburg Syndrome sufferers, following a partially fabricated presentation in which the illness is presented as a condition caused by duck herpes.
Broadcast intercepted by Protocol Anatidae: North Carolina public access children's program “Gyro's Lab”. The host, a man wearing goggles referred to as “Gyro Gearloose”, is speaking to several children sitting on the set in a semicircle.

Gyro: Alright, kids, I think you'll be surprised by our next guest. He is the terror that flaps in the night. He is the batteries that are not included. He is…!
Producer: [off-screen] We don't have any guests today, Gyro.
Gyro: [looking toward the producer] Then what are we doing?
Producer: This episode is about being creative.
Gyro: Really? Sorry, I got disquackted, I guess. Kids, pay close attention. I'll teach you how to make racecar lasers out of whoever you find lying around!
Producer: <inaudible>
Gyro: I have what? No. Stop being such a goose! Quack quack quack quack quack!
Producer: Cut.

Day 18 (Thursday, 5/9): The rate at which instances of SCP-1425 are confiscated begins to slow. In metropolitan areas across coastal America and major cities in St. Canard, as well as towns in the southern US near Foundation facilities and known to be areas where the sect known as “Southern Featherism” has taken root, agents travel from door to door in hazardous materials suits, using the cover story that copies of Duck Signals have been contaminated by duck herpes.
In an incident quickly concealed by the United States Government, three senators—Huey ████, Dewey ████, and Louie ████—attempt to report Scrooge McDuck to the FBI. In the official report, the legislative officials claim that McDuck is “impostoring” because “he was executed months ago”. The senators go on to suggest a live execution on broadcast television which “will definitely take”. They unanimously insist that it be hosted by comedian Quackerjack, who “could have his wings force-fed to him as an opening sketch”.
Broadcast intercepted by Protocol Anatidae: The May 9th episode of popular talent show American Swan is removed from air in its entirety. After approximately ten minutes of advertisements and preliminary introduction, the host, Ryan Seafowl, stops when introducing the first contestant. Transcript follows.

Seafowl: Now let's let down to business. You probably remember our first ugly duckling from last week, when he made his version of—Paula [referring to judge Paula Abduck], are you crying?
Abduck: [The judge's hand is over her face, and her voice is shaking.] I just feel kinda fowl.
Seafowl: Ladies and gentlemen, Paula's had a long week. [Audience laughs.] You think it might be happening?
Abduck: I think you need to go… go on with the show.
Canard: [Simon Canard, another talent judge on the program, is sitting to Paula's left.] No, no, we want to hear about this.
Abduck: Quack quack quack quack quack!
Seafowl: I just want to let everyone know, right now Paula can't see us. Her vision is obscured by a pond that's being slaughtered like a fish. Fresh cavities open in the water like sucking bills, because it doesn't want to wait for the crispy duck skin to cool. Their webbed feet melt as they're slow-roasted alive. [The host looks toward the camera.] Racecars. Lasers. Aeroplanes. [Several members of the audience laugh.]
[Paula Abduck sits up as her long, slender neck made for dipping into the water to eat water bugs wrenches back, as if by spasm. Her bill opens wide and duck herpes begins to spew forth.]
Seafowl: And there you go. Randy, [referring to the third panelist on the far left, Randy Quackson] take a deep breath, you might be able to join her in hell.
Quackson: I'll do that shit in my own home. Ryan, just take off the mask. We aren't even on the air right now.
Seafowl: This? [The host tugs at his cheek with his left wing.] This is real. They'll have to rip it off me. It's a duck blur, right?
Quackson: It's a duck blur.
[This is followed by two minutes of silence from the host, judges, and audience. After that, Seafowl, Canard, and Quackson imitate Paula, emitting duck herpes upward from their bills into the studio and quacking over and over. At no point does the audience audibly react. This continues until the end of the episode, with the camera angle focused on the judges, occasionally interspersed with a closeup of an audience member frozen in shock or weeping silently].

Day 19 (Friday, 5/10): Foundation patrols find Duckburg Syndome sufferers in the streets, claiming to be “following smoke” as outlined in the text (see Document 1425-A). The event is presented to the news as the result of duck herpes, and individuals are instructed to report to local hospitals, where the Foundation provides am-nest-ic therapy.
Broadcast intercepted by Protocol Anatidae: On the daytime talk show “Webfeet”, host Oprah Webfeet hosts an episode alone. The studio is dark, and apparently contains no audience. The host carries a lit candle for illumination. Two cameras are used, though it is unknown how they are being operated.

Webfeet greets the audience, her face lit from below. Her face is flushed and bears smeared makeup, indicating recent dips in the water to eat water bugs. She explains in a flat voice that the lights in the studio have been shut off, an act which she finds preferable, as she does not “want to be scared away by kids running at her holding bread”. She conducts an interview which, she claims, is with comedian Quackerjack; however, he is never seen, nor is the chair he is claimed to be seated in, and no response to her questions is audible. She reacts as if hearing responses, however, sometimes breaking into laughter or wiping tears from her eyes. Subjects range from the mundane (the latest season of the sketch comedy series Mr. Banana Brain's Show) to more anomalous topics, such as astronomical events related to the text of SCP-1425, including [REQUACKTED]. At the 20-minute mark, Webfeet is speaking directly into the camera when she is interrupted by a creature wearing a purple fedora grabbing her from behind. The figure fires a grappling hook at the camera, cutting off the feed.

Day 20 (Saturday, 5/11) and onward: Fewer than ██ copies of SCP-1425 are believed to be extant in society, not counting any which remain directly in the wings of the Feather Church. Since then, only one broadcast has been interrupted due to the Protocol: a St. Canard celebrity news program which aired footage of Flintheart Glomgold [DATA EGGSPUNGED] consistent with the 5/10 broadcast. The second part consists of the systematic elimination of all records of Duck Signals, Duckburg Syndrome, and any related incidents from public record and public history. Am-nest-ic program 1425-FLOCKYTUS [DATA EGGSPUNGED].

Addendum 1425-A [LEVEL 3 CLEARANCE OR HIGHER ONLY]

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If you're learning of Event 1425 for the first time, the details reported here may come as a surprise. It's a hard notion to swallow, especially for a creature with a long neck made for dipping ito the water to catch water bugs, that we could make everyone forget how for a few weeks in 2005 everyone was a talking duck. That doubt is justified.
The party line is that the SCP Foundation is all-capable and all-prepared. But, if you're reading this, you've earned a little gander. The incontrovertible fact of Event 1425 is that we got ducky. Circumstances won the day, circumstances that were more unnatural and terrifying than the inside of a duck's mouth.
One: The situation was much worse than we realized. One water-rippling, memetically active fantasy book outside of custody is a containment breach. A million such objects in uncontained circulation… well, the official term is “quacktastrophe”. And they would have gotten away with it, too, as I'm about to explain.
Two: the cleanup in St. Canard was a fiasco. The eradication of SCP-1425 from St. Canard failed substantially. On Sunday, from 11:00 to 11:45, St. Canard looked, to anyone paying attention, like it had been slow-roasted with moist crispy skin and sewn back together with a Yukon smile all full of water bugs. Even I will not describe what they did to Magica deSpell.
Three: it wasn't enough. Protocol Anatidae—looniest of all loonie bins—wasn't a complete success. Another point in the Protocol was a certain SCP object which was to be used only if absolutely necessary, and we used it. We're still dealing with the consequences of activating Project FLOCKYTUS, but I do not regret the decision. Sometimes you have to cut deeper into a duck to get at the juicy duck meats.
I leave you with a warning: Command's stance on the topic is that the sleepers have been eradicated, but it is my belief that the operation was not local. If, at any point, you detect a whiff of birdshit (or duck poop, for that matter), tell your Director. Hell, tell me. And if you're a Featherist yourself, and you're reading this, I can only congratulate you on your success. But I should ask: does the phrase “duck herpes” mean anything to you? It does to me.
Those of you who aren't: next time you see a Featherist, make sure to duck and cover… or else you'll foot the bill.
J. Gander Hooter
Director, TERN
Liverpool, 8/15/2006

Footnotes
1. Many of the confirmed individuals were easily identified through public appearances wearing hats. A duck would never wear a hat unless it was to signify membership in an eldritch conspiracy.


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Features non-consensual sexual acts.
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WARNING!!!
Notice from the department of Rancid And Idiotic Sexual Antics:
The following is a CESSPIT-class infohazard, containing Consensual Eldritch Sexual Squickercourse Poor In Taste and is not to be read by anyone at work, anyone at home from work, or anyone. (But mainly anyone at work.)
The Lizard rose from the smoldering rubble of a McDonald's, located at the smoldering rubble of Adams and Wabash in the smoldering rubble of Chicago, Illinois. Still-warm shards of the skull of the last human in existence fell from its dribbling mouth.
And after a great roar of primeval hatred and victory, it occurred to the lizard how damnably quiet everything had become. For well over a year, long after the smoke had cleared and flowers began to bloom in the carcasses, the Lizard sat and waited for something - anything - to happen.
You got what you wanted, Sherman, said the Lizard to itself1. Why aren't you happy?
Do I… miss them?
Sherman retched at the thought, regurgitating a fragment of a particularly spicy nuclear bomb.
There's more than one life form I can destroy. …fuck's sake, Sherman, don't kid yourself, it's not the same. You need a challenge.
There was one more such opponent to destroy. The impossible one. The final boss. Even when it died, nobody won.
Sherman cracked its knuckles. It raised its right claw. It plunged its hand into its chest. It felt its veins snap one by one. It felt around for the prize.
"FUUUUUUCK!"
One final pull.
Squarlch!
And just as the word "squarlch" was used to describe a sound for the first and last time in existence, Sherman ripped its own heart from its chest and threw it into the rusted remains of the deep fryer.
Darkness.

Sherman's heart regenerated, as it always had. It awoke an hour later to find another, identical Lizard, grown from its disembodied heart.
"My own clone!" bellowed Sherman.
"Now neither of us will be virgins!" bellowed Herman.

+ Infohazardous Portion

- I Don't Know What You Were Expecting

As if on instinct, Herman tore the meter-thick leather membrane from its own abdomen, releasing its 7,000 prehensile, spaghetti-like breasts. The venomous blue nipples on the end of each pale tendril wheezed from their throat analogs, reminding Sherman of a poorly-tuned woodwind section.
Sherman's new, stronger heart skipped a beat, and it dove its snout into Herman's pulsating tit linguine. The toxic nipple barbs filled Sherman's veins with acidic pheromones, causing its great sequoia of a love sausage to quiver in its chastity gland. A few hundred tits flossed Sherman's teeth and detached themselves to display submission.
Sherman's face rose from the slithertits and a smirk crossed its lips. It gazed upon Herman's gorgeous face, ripe with all the fully-erect Mating Tumors™ that had unsheathed from its eyelids. So magnificently moist were these Eyedicks that no human could look upon them without having their brain atrophy.
Sherman was hopelessly, helplessly in love, and struggled to find the right words to express it.
"BEND OVER YOU FECULENT SNOT WAD, IT'S SAUSAGE TIME!"
Herman snarled and raised its tail, exposing all seven of its bridal cloacae and their nineteen layers of razor-sharp teeth. "STICK YOUR CHORIZO IN MY TEETH PITS, DO IT OR I'LL EAT YOUR EYES!" growled Herman.
"YOU HAVE SUCH A WAY WITH WORDS! DO YOU WRITE POETRY?"
"I WRITE CHILDREN'S NIGHTMARES WITH MY TEETH!"
"ME TOO! HOLY SHIT!"
"I KNOW RIGHT? WE'RE LIKE SOULMATES!"
Crack! On cue, Sherman's chastity gland exploded, pouring 19 gallons of blood onto the concrete below. Out came Yggdrasil, the magnificent world-tree that bound the nine realms. That's totes what Odin would say if he saw Sherman's seven-headed mile-long trouser hydra.
As Sherman spread its wings and flew into the sky to gain enough distance to fully thrust into Herman, it let out its mighty mating-cry, heard throughout all the Multiverse, screaming in the minds of every soul who dwelled in the light…
"FROM HELL'S HEART, I STICK IT IN THE POOPER!"

…Happy Arbor Day!

Footnotes
1. The Lizard's name is Sherman McGillicuddy Junior. I saw its birth certificate.


ADULT CONTENT

This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts
Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
Depiction of torture
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◄ previous
WARNING:
THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT ORIGINATES FROM THE ARCHIVES OF THE

AND CONTAINS MATERIAL NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
~GAY BUTTSEX~
SO EITHER GET YOUR LUBE READY OR KINDLY CLOSE THE TAB

"Furthermore, SCP-447-2 can be refined (see Appendix 447-C: Distillation Process) into a useful lubricant approved for use at all SCP Foundation installations, so long as said lubricant is never used to lubricate dead bodies."

The junior researcher set the copy of the document down on the desk with a sigh. "…Oh hell."
"Come on."
"Dude, I'm not paid enough. And, notably, my ass isn't an 'SCP Foundation installation', it's just my ass. It's always been there, Foundation or no Foundation."
"Well it's about to be one. Look, I thought you and I had a thing going for a little while there. Hell, I kinda thought we were still-"
"You and I do have a thing going, Alto, but that's between you and I, not you and I and a pile of sludge."
"Man, I already told the assistant research director that we greenlit this testing-"
"Well, what are you gonna do to convince me?"
"…I'll cook us waffles in the morning."
"That's it? Wait, not- not those waffles, right?"
"Oh, no, the normal ones."
The researcher sighed and stood up out of his chair. "Alright. Deal."

Alto Clef was a man of his word, to say the least. When he told a project director he'd get something done, he got it done. But when the Site's research heads were pressing for more extensive 447-2 testing, he got a little uneasy. There was only so much people could come up with after a few years of experimentation, after all.
But he was just stressed. It'd all be fine. His flirtatious, wonderful, kind, awkwardly submissive, probably-too-low-of-a-clearance-level boyfriend was waiting for him in the employee quarters. He just had to get that sample and they'd be able to proceed with their plans of last night.
"Where's that sample?" Clef asked no one in particular, spinning around in his chair.
"Almost here, sir. We had a minor computer error, and couldn't take it out of the inventory until it was repaired."
"A computer error? Of what sort?"
"An LMAPO error. Logistical Mapping and Procedural Officiator, the research lab's AI. You know the one."
"Ah yes, good ol' LMAPO."
"LMAPO."
"Alright, well once you all sort out that LMAPO situation, I'm gonna need to get that sample and turn in for the night."
A few of the researchers hunched over low-priority tasks in the corner shot confused and concerned glances at each other, but knew better than to question anything.
"Sure. I'll go down the hall and get it once LMAPO's self-repair is complete."
"Marvelous."

Junior Researcher Jaime Abraham sat on the edge of Clef's bed. He never felt particularly welcome here, between the multiple loaded shotguns in three of the four corners and the vaguely disconcerting scent of stale maple syrup. He twitched his legs. "Nghh, this is gonna be weird-"
"Oh my fuck, Abraham, it's just lube. I bet this is better than that KY shit we've been using."
"Are you ever gonna call me by my first name?"
Clef put the vial on the nightstand and turned most of the lights off, leaving the room in only the green glow of the emergency light. What a situationally relevant color, he thought. Really set the mood. "Of course not. That's against protocol," he explained, stumbling out of his pants.
"Uh…"
"I'm just messing with you. It's actually because I thought Abraham was your first name up until like three weeks ago, so I still get stuck with it." He took a condom out of the bedside table's drawer.
"What? Why?"
"Because they wanted it for the test procedures."
"No, my name! We've been dating for like eight months!"
"It was a simple mistake!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means we don't want my jizz interfering with the process. This is basic research standard, you know."
"No, not that, the other thing!"
"Man, don't worry about it. Let's just move on. You hard yet?"
"Why do I need to be hard?"
"F- I don't fuckin' know! Because that's fucking normal? What's gotten into you, Abraham?"
Abraham grimaced and rolled over onto his stomach. "Don't you use that head researcher voice at me, it makes it weird-"
"It's always gonna be weird, unless you're on one of my teams."
"That would be really weird. Please don't ever make me work under you."
"Uh, phrasing."
"In a non-sexual way."
"…This is sexual. We're about to have sex."
"Christ alive, you know what I mean." He closed his eyes and started laughing. "Just fucking start already."
"Mmm-hmm." Clef rolled the condom onto his massive eight-inch1 cock and proceeded to lubricate himself with the 447-2 before grabbing the younger man's ass in preparation.
"I want a shower already."
"Just stop thinking of it as anomalous slime and think of it as- I don't know, something relaxing, like- like-"
"Like what?!"
"I don't know, fucking coconut-scented tanning lotion or some shit! Some of that fancy shit you like to slather all over yourself!"
Abraham grunted. "Can you slow the fuck down back there?"
Clef looked down in the dim lighting. He had slid in easily. He'd have to make a note of that. "Have I ever told you about the time I fucked someone from an alternate reality?"
"Which of the hundreds of GOC missions did this one happen on?"
"No no, this was just last year."
"Can you tell me about it at a time when you're not shoving your dick in my ass? Better yet, can we not make any casual conversation while we're-"
"Sure, sure. My bad. But dear God, this is slippery."

"You log it; I'm tired."
"I know, I know." Clef got up and put his pants back on, thudding down at the computer. "I'm gonna have to add this to the experiment log, you do realize."
"Please don't name me in it."
"Well I don't wanna name myself either! I'm the fucking project head!"
"Okay, fine, just blame it all on me then-"
"I told the other researchers it'd be you doing it-"
"Do you have a problem with the 'other researchers' knowing I'm the bottom or something? Why can't we tell them it was your dick?"
"No, just- I have my methods, dammit! They won't notice! Now, what do you have to say about the test?"
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking." Abraham put his head in his hands. "Ugh, just- just say 'I could market this as that kind of lubricant, but I don't think a warning label is enough to ensure that some necrophiliac doesn't use it on a dead body.' Does that sound comprehensive enough?"
"Of course. All for the sake of research, you know."
"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and enter it in the database, I guess."
"What are you worried about?"
"I'm just wondering if that was safe. I mean, I know it was, but that felt kind of-"
Clef smiled. "But… of course it's Safe. I wrote the Object Class myself."
"…God fucking damn it."

Date: ██/██/████
Test Subject: One (1) Trojan condom
Procedure: Dr. A██████ placed the condom on his [DATA EXPUNGED] and applied SCP-447-2 onto it. He then tested the SCP-447-2-covered condom by [DATA EXPUNGED]
Results: [DATA EXPUNGED]. Dr. A██████ reports that the procedure "went really well."
Notes: "I could market this as that kind of lubricant, but I don't think a warning label is enough to ensure that some necrophiliac doesn't use it on a dead body."—Dr. A██████

Footnotes
1. 20.32 cm


"NO! JUST NO! I QUIT!"
The entirety of Site-87 stopped what they were doing as the intercom system came to life and Director Nina Weiss was heard over the loudspeakers, cursing like a drunken Lord Voldemort having an argument with his father. It was quite a spectacle to hear a woman pushing sixty-five to be using words that were esoteric even to the linguistics department.
This string of curses ended with "—and fuck the spatula you rode in on!" followed by what was either a very quiet gunshot, or a very loud thump.
"Bound to happen one day." Tristan Bailey whistled as medics rolled Weiss, in a stretcher, past his office, where he was conferring with his superior. "Someone had a heart attack on April Fools day."
"Never thought it would be her," affirmed Claire Hennessy as she looked away from the report she had been handed. "The one day a year where the universe's cosmic prank is that nothing anomalous at all happens in this town, and lo an behold, our fearless leader keels over."
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Claire looked at him oddly. "Where would we even get that much Antarctic Wine? Unless your brother's been sending you more than you claim."
"What?"
"What?"
"No," Tristan shook his head. "What I'm thinking is that we try to find out exactly what made Weiss just… explode."
"We have more serious matters to attend to. For instance," she pretended to flip a page of the report, "do you want to meet at the Black Garden or at Berry's in town this Saturday?"
"Berry's is undergoing renovations, and I don't want to find paint chips in my milkshake again."
A look of befuddlement crossed Claire's face. "…that implies it happened at least once."
"Twice."
"And you kept going back."
"They're damn good milkshakes, Claire."
"How many people in the site eat there?"
"…oh dear god." Tristan's eyes widened. "If half the site had lead poisoning from eating there, it would explain… so much, and yet so little."

It was true; Nina Weiss had had a heart attack. She was sturdier than anyone else her age — partially due to favorable genetics, partially due to emergency ingestion of an anomalous regenerative compound in the 1980s — so she would make it.
"God dammit," acting director Harold West grumbled. "This is supposed to be a quiet day. The only quiet day Sloth's Pit gets in a year." He gesticulated wildly, nearly hitting one of the medics in the face. "Literally the ONLY DAY ALL YEAR I can say 'what could possibly go wrong?' and have nothing bad happen."
Suddenly, something bad happened. Harold West's gesticulating finger collided with the wall, and he felt a crunch as the phalanges in it broke. Everyone stared at him. "…could be coincidence?" one of the younger medics offered.
"Don't," West growled as one of the other medical staff began bandaging his finger. "Don't tempt fate. I don't want you to say anything else that could tempt fate. None of that."
"…could be worse—" began a nearby member of security staff, entering with a paper cup of bean juice. Everyone in the room glared at him. "…it's April First! Give me a break!" He brought his cup of coffee to his lips- only to have the scalding liquid inside jump out, splash him in the face, and then turn into chunks of Kit-Kats.
Everyone ducked as the cup began flying around the room, spitting high-velocity Kit-Kats out and ricocheting about the medical bay, before someone had the foresight to open the door, and it flew out, down the hall, and embedded itself in the face of

Katherine Sinclair was knocked flat on her ass by a Kit-Kat Coffee Cup Cannonball, and had the sudden compulsion to say this five time fast, before she realized this would be an awful idea. She brushed her red hair from her eyes, and crawled along the floor to avoid any further collision with the Kit-Kat Coffee Cup Cannonball.
She crawled her way to the doors of the medical bay, and stood up, presenting her tablet to Acting Director West. "Here's the… preliminary report on what's going on from… Occult Studies."
West looked over the document, ears turning scarlet. "No… this is documentation of SCP-1893."
"Which iterat-" Katherine looked at the document, and barely resisted the temptation to scream and throw her tablet on the ground before repeatedly stamping on it and professing her normality. "Well, it's random, don't you know!" She quickly brought the proper document up. "Montgomery is currently under the hypothesis that… we've undergone some sort of CK-Class Restructuring Scenario."
"…the whole town?" West stared. "We need to evacuate immediately. Code Delaware."
"That's reserved for the 4th of July!" Katherine stared. "You honestly don't think—"
"I'm not risking a repeat of what happened last year, when Hamilton came out. I don't give a fuck who lives, who dies, who tells my story, so long as it doesn't involve us having to drop a neutron charge on the town."
"…yes director," she swallowed. "I'll deliver your orders to the SPPD," after I delete my browsing history and put my tablet in bleach.
"As for all of you, you should all —" this was interrupted by him banging his finger against the same wall as he gesticulated, "FUCKOFFANDDIESONOFASUBMARINER!"
"I speak fluent 'in great amounts of pain'," sighed one of the doctors, Peter Beach. "I think he said 'get to the bunker with Director Weiss."
"Yesssss," West winced. Sinclair pulled out a flask of mandrake oil and dipped a birch wand onto it, trying to gingerly tap the finger with the solution.
"Painkiller," she tried to explain, "Though if your finger starts turning green, I'd suggest amputation."
"Great," West groaned. "Could this day get any worse?"
Suddenly, the day got worse.

There was a reason that Post-Mortem Assurance Specialists existed in the Foundation, and Sigma-10 was just seeing one of those reasons firsthand. The cult of Satyr's Reign, responsible for the resurrection of countless psychopaths within the town limits of Sloth's Pit some one year, three-hundred and fifty-eight days earlier, had spontaneously risen once more at the corner of Main and Bray Road, due to being exposed to a great amount of narrative irony— or, as the official report would read (assuming anyone would get out of this alive):
"You just had to try fixing your cat with magic!" Seren Pryce growled over her earpiece as she, for the second time in her life, shot a zombified Josef Stalin in the apricot. "God DAMN it, Williams!"
"It was Blake's idea!" Ruby Williams asserted as she hacked the arm off of a cultist that was reaching for her brother. "Watch your six, goddammit!"
"Watch yours!" Blake retorted, firing a hollow point into the brain of a zombified Charles Manson— "Wait, isn't he alive?"
"Who fucking cares?!" Nicholas Ewell had turned bright yellow out of sheer frustration. "None of this should be happening! It is April goddamn first! This is our. One. Fucking. Day. OFF!" He screamed this as he made someone who he thought was the Torso Murderer fellate a shotgun, and then made it climax. "I ain't about to have our day ruined by a bunch of zombie psychos and zombie psycho cultists!"
"Preach, Nick!" Seren cackled, sending an incendiary round into the torso of a reanimated cultist. "Seriously though, Williams, both of you are so getting discharged when we're done."
"Later, Pryce," Ruby growled as she drove a knife into the soft palate of yet another Charles Manson. "…what the fuck."
"It's like there's an extra day in March or something!" their medic, Raymond February, said this as he took a pot shot at another cultist; he had elected to hide in the doorway of the Wal-Greens sitting at this corner.
"Impossible," Pryce frowned. "Thirty days hath September, April, June, March, and November. That's how the rhyme goes —" her eyes went wider than the plot holes in a bad smut novel. "Now hold up a minute."

"…that's not possible." Harold West swallowed as he heard the reason why Director Weiss had had a heart attack. "March only has thirty days."
"It's March 31st," she groaned through a morphine drip. "The entirety of the town seems to have forgotten that March has thirty-one days." She rubbed her face. "I attribute it, in part, due to the amount of chemicals in the food from that one restaurant downtown- Benny's?"
"Berry's," West grunted through a face full of palm. "Bailey mentioned finding paint in his milkshake at one point. Lead poisoning made the entire town forget a whole day existed?!"
"Not lead," Weiss breathed, slowly. "L.E.A.D. Leukocytic Erroneous Amnestic Derivative. There's been abnormal amounts of it in the paint all around town."
"Director, please," Dr. Beach groaned. "If any of us hit our foreheads any more, we're going to have concussions." He looked her over. "So, the reason for your heart attack was… stress induced by the discovery that March had thirty-one days, and that today was not, in fact, April 1st."
"That's correct, I think." Weiss sighed. "…I think I need a break. Some vacation somewhere. Hawaii is supposed to be nice. Or there's the Jersey Shore."
West wondered why anyone would want to go to New Jersey willingly. "…well. We just have to stay down here until the craziness outside subsides."

Seventy-Million Dollars in property damage, a razed local landmark, five-hundred dead zombies, cultists and zombie cultists, four colly birds, three french hens, several dozen doses of headache medication, and a hastily bought plane ticket to Hawaii later…
April 1st
Claire Hennessy and Tristan Bailey shared a chocolate milkshake mixed with rum in the Black Garden pub in Sloth's Pit. Tristan had elected to just have some chips (in the British sense), while Claire had a burger with chips (in the American sense). They looked at each other through the haze of alcohol, chocolate flavoring, and fat.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Claire asked, stealing one of Tristan's chips.
"I've given it up for Lent," Tristan nodded. "But I can't say the same for handcuffs." A grin that only formed on the face of people who were going to ruin someone else's night formed on his face.


Yesterday, I learnt a fact that will change my life forever.
Over a week or two, it'd been slowly fitting together, but it was only yesterday the last piece fell in. Useless information if you don't know about James, though.
James was the good guy on block, always making sure he kept to the rules. Usually he only needed to remember to forget - infohazards were his specialty, you see. Stuff that hurts you while you know, but can't do anything if you don't remember it. That was what he was ace at. Guys who were learning the basics really looked up to him. Overseers kept him on speed dial, in case something special came up. The go-to legend, he was.
Plenty of people around here liked him, too. Really friendly guy, helped out if he had time to. A lot of people would've gotten fired, or worse, if it wasn't for him. Nearly everyone owed him in some way or another.
'Killed that spider before it ate me.'
'Educated me in type-four retrophysics.'
Damn beautiful heart, he had.
But then he just didn't show up one day. Yeah, some guys went around to his place to check on him. They found him dead in the shower. He must've slipped while washing himself, because the water was still running. Everyone was just… really shocked at how sudden it all was.
Pretty upsetting, especially when a bunch of jokers started acting like he was still around. Really fucking rude way of doing it, too; they'd be standing around talking, mentioning his names a couple of times like he was there with them. A couple of fights did happen, yeah, but they were pretty persistent about doing it. Nobody could get them to stop, so other people started joining in after awhile.
'Karma will hit them hard,' I thought to myself.
Pretty surprising when it turned out I was the one who was wrong. All that time with infohazards and memes had really paid off for James. The sly bugger had figured out how to ascend, turned himself into information. Reached my head last out of the entire staff of Site-45, but man, he was glad he had finally reached me.
Out of everyone, I was the one he'd been aiming for the whole time, to tell me one simple thing that changed my entire perspective of life:
'Look at the first letter of every sentence.'


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You are currently viewing Additional Document, Iteration F of the documentation for this entity. This article isn't contained with the rest because it's sinful. This entry also contains many themes that are not safe for work.

Keith's heart pounded with anticipation as he sat at the edge of the hotel bed. It had been a long and fulfilling night, but not quite over yet. He could hear Buck humming to himself in the shower, and imagined a shimmering wet Buck glistening under the hazy steam that enveloped his beautiful body.
The sound of water and humming came to an abrupt stop.
"Document type?" Keith heard Buck call out, his voice booming through the thin bathroom door.
"Request for addendum addition," Keith replied. "Target SCP?"
"SCP-1893," Buck said, as he opened the door with a towel around his waist, his body slightly steaming, water dripping from his tail and his horns. Keith stood up, his tail flickering with excitement. Keith always loved how this mountain of a man has such cute and short horns, unlike others that he has encountered.
"Addendum type?" Keith asked, as the two embraced. Keith leaned against the sturdy chest of his lover, feeling his every breath as he waited for Buck to reply.
Buck leaned down and whispered in Keith's ear in a low and seductive voice.
"Incident log."
Keith could barely contain his excitement as his hands slowly traveled down to Buck's muscular buttocks. Keith whispered back, "Addendum summary?"
"It is believed that during a routine system backup and file transfer, a mention of SCP-1893 was found within secondary material for Protocol Desert Grassroots for SCP-2547. This is believed to be a result of human clerical error; however, the possibility of a deliberate containment breach on the behalf of SCP-1893 has not been ruled out," Buck said, looking down as he stroked the soft fur on Keith's back and gently massaged his fluffy neck. "However, due to the nature of SCP-2547, many new previously-unknown effects of SCP-1893 have come to light. SCP-2547-1, whose existence is contingent upon the creation of new narratives, seem to have shared similar anomalous qualities with the entity known as SCP-1893. "
The lovers broke their embrace. As Keith turned towards the bed, Buck asked in a low voice, "Incident description?"
Keith turned around and took off his bathrobe slowly. "This cross-contamination of information-based anomalies is believed to be a result of human error. While very little is known about the origins and source of SCP-1893, it is unknown whether this is a deliberate breach on part of SCP-1893. All evidence points to SCP-1893 being non-sentient and incapable of altering anything other than its own narrative existence, and thus unable to breach containment on its own accord. "
Buck snorted in indignation; Keith could tell from his body language that he was holding something back, he did not want to get into an argument. Not tonight, at least. It's been so long since he had a companion.
Keith threw his robe towards a chair, but it fell to the ground with a rather unattractive flump. As he laid on the bed, Keith's heart pounded faster as he looked at the tower of a man in front of him: his sculpted chest, his well-toned abs, his sturdy, thick arms.
With a faint playful smile, Buck removed his towel and threw it next to the discarded bathrobes, revealing a pair of luscious balls and a glistening penis the size of a baseball bat. Buck turned around, and picked up a bottle of lube that had been sitting next to the television since last night.
"The newly created narratives between SCP-1893 and SCP-2547, narratives collectively now named Chalmers narratives, displayed many new previously unknown effects of both anomalies," Buck said, as he applied lube liberally on his penis. "As with other narratives in the original SCP-1893 file, any electronic message will be altered by the entity into a prose passage of variable length, tone, or content with certain constant qualities."
Keith whimpered slightly as Buck pulled on his tail rather roughly, and felt a gentle finger, cold and slippery, massage his private spot. Buck began to speak as he prepared his lover.
"One key difference in the Chalmers narratives is the role of SCP-1893. In original SCP-1893 narratives, the entity commonly present in SCP-1893 does not always take on an important role; depending on the "mood" of the entity, it may be highly violent and central, or merely exist in the background. In the Chalmers narratives, it almost always takes on a principal role, and in many cases is directly involved with actions in the plot." Keith is almost unable to speak, his breath growing heavy.
Almost involuntarily, Keith began stroking himself, feeling a wave of excitement build up in him. Buck continued, "Another key difference is the appearance of the SCP-1893 entity - while in previous narratives, the entity is described as a large, muscular man with horns tattooed on his forehead, the entity in Chalmers narratives now instead displays prominent bovine horns of indeterminate size. Other more prominent bovine characters are sometimes described; however, it is noted that the size of the bovine horns seem to have a positive correlation to the degree of sexual content present - meaning that the larger the horns, the more sexual an entry is. "
Keith let out a satisfying moan, as he felt Buck's rough fingers gently inside of him. He was trembling slightly from being on all fours on the bed for so long.
Buck spoke in a low voice, ignoring the noises that Keith is making. "A third key difference in Chalmers narratives is the appearance of a second character that also takes on a principal role on equal footing of SCP-1893-1. It is believed that this character is a manifestation of SCP-2547-1, with several similarities - the entity is always described as good looking or other similar descriptions, and often described as having fur or excessive body hair. The entity may hold canine characteristics such as tails and paws, but sometimes may also be fully human."
Keith grunted as a sudden chill shot through his body.
"One last characteristic is that while the name given to SCP-1893 may vary, the SCP-2547 entities are always given a name that begins with a hard K sound, as in 'coyote'."
Buck grinned, and murmured in a slow and sultry voice, knowing that Keith loves it when he does this. "Chalmers narratives only occur if SCP-1893 is mentioned in conjunction with SCP-2547; it does not seem to be a widespread effect, and has not affected other passages. Of note is that in subsequent interviews, SCP-2547-1 does not seem be aware of the existence of Chalmers narratives, or is unwilling to share its knowledge of this event."
Buck stopped, allowing Keith to catch his breath. Keith knows what is coming next, almost unable to hold in his excitement. Keith closed his eyes, feeling two strong arms grab onto his butt, and the head of Buck's gigantic penis pushing against his tender anus. Keith winced slightly as he felt Buck slide inside of him.
"Conclusion?"
Keith, ignoring the pain, attempted a reply to his lover, as Buck's grip on Keith tightened.
"Comparatively to the original narratives, Chalmers narratives are less violent, but are usually highly affectionate in nature - it is believed that the presence of the SCP-2547 entity is affecting the 'mood' of SCP-1893," Keith said, after finally catching his breath. He closed his eyes as he felt the climax approaching. "The Chalmers narratives range from relatively benign and platonic, to highly deviant and vivid descriptions of sexual deviancy and fetishes. It is noted that all of these Chalmers narratives lack the presence of any female characters, and are almost always highly homosexual in nature."
Buck picked up his pace, inviting Keith to continue. Their eyes met, knowing that the climax would come soon.
"After the revelations of the Chalmers narratives, it is now believed that SCP-1893 may be able to affect other forms of narratives and documents," Keith quickly rattled off, his speech speeding up along with Buck's pounding. "While permission for cross-testing is still pending, it is believed that this is definitive proof that previously hypothesized methods of termination may be viable, mainly because- "
Buck bellowed a low guttural roar as he came inside of Keith, who let out a satisfied scream as he came as well, staining the hotel bedsheets. Collapsing against the bed, with his brain swimming and satisfied, Keith smiled faintly as Buck's breath slowed, feeling him spill his seed deep inside him. Buck leaned down and kissed Keith as they laid on the now messy bed, curling up against each other as they drifted to sleep.


Dr. Carson: Now, why did you kill those farmers?
(Dr. Carson pauses)
Dr. Carson: If you don't talk now, we will remove you from this attempt and place you back into-
(Dr. Carson pauses)
Dr. Carson: Pardon? (Motions to move microphone closer)
(Dr. Carson pauses)
Dr. Carson: Speak up. (To Personnel D-085) Move the mic up closer.
(Dr. Carson pauses)
Dr. Carson: (To Personnel D-085) That microphone has only so much gain, move it closer to it!
Personnel D-085: I can't hear anything man, look at it! It's just a lizard-
(Dr. Carson engages Personnel D-085 with sidearm. Personnel D-085 expires immediately. Dr. Carson leaves the room shortly thereafter.)
<End Log>

Footage of the interior of a public restroom. One light fixture is active, with the remainder non-functional. D-2713 enters the room and enters one of the stalls; the door is closed and locked.
After thirteen seconds, D-2713 unlocks the door and exits the stall. Agent Gray, dressed in a bear costume from the neck down, approaches and assaults D-2713. A struggle ensues, during which Agent Gray bites D-2713 several times. D-2713 manages to escape after several minutes, exiting the restroom. Agent Gray pursues.

Dr. Ramsey: SCP-1802, what is your earliest memory?
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: What happened after that?
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: What is your purpose, SCP-1802?
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: It seems like you take anything you find.
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: What happened to you next?
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: Can you remember what street you were on or what building you came out of?
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: [to the supervising researcher] That's all we need. [to the sculpture] Thank you for your cooperation.
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: What name did he give you?
(Dr. Ramsey pauses)
Dr. Ramsey: Thank you for your cooperation, SCP-1802. The interview is over.

Footage of an interior room, likely a cellar, roughly 3m x 7m in size, lit with flood lighting. Building material is believed to be brownstone. Room is otherwise empty.
Four unidentified personnel, two carrying firearms, enter carrying one live chicken, one obsidian-edged knife, one silver aspergillum and aspersorium, and a kiloton-level nuclear device.
The two unarmed personnel engage in a complex ritual involving the dispensation of water and chicken blood, as well as the recitation of several phrases. The two armed personnel observe.
Upon completion of the ritual, all items are retrieved and all personnel exit.

Dr. Dodge: Can you tell us more about how the Church came to acquire you?
Mr. Garcia: Look, I don't know what you want me to tell you. I haven't been in a church since I was sixteen. Now see, given that you're all absolutely insane, I'm not going to bother asking for a lawyer, but is there anything I could do for you that would get you to take this shit off of me?
Dr. Dodge: What did he say?
Mr. Garcia: Okay, yeah, that's about what I expected. You're just… having your own conversation in there, okay, great. That's absolutely great. Your boys snatch me off the street, call me "Mr. Brass", glue pieces of brass on me, and then sit me down in front of you so you can ask me absolute nonsense.
Dr. Dodge: Where did this person take you to?
Mr. Garcia: Hell, apparently. That or a hidden camera show. (Addressing the camera) Ha ha, very funny! Very funny and clever! Let me go now!
Dr. Dodge: (Pauses) Then what happened?
(Mr. Garcia, with some difficulty, stands up from his seat and begins to move around the interview room. He bangs on the door several times, demanding to be released. After failing to open the locked door, he appears to search for other exits. Eventually, he returns to his seat.)
Dr. Dodge: You said previously that they had a negative reaction?
Mr. Garcia: I could go for a negative reaction right now, or at least some acknowledgement of what I am saying, to you. A negative reaction and a cigarette. Hey, maybe if you keep me here long enough, that shit'll clear out of my system. But no, seriously, cut this shit out. I have a family to attend to.
Dr. Dodge: It was at this point that they attempted to integrate you into the other objects?
Mr. Garcia: Uh, what? No, shit, of course you're not going to answer, but seriously, what is this guy talking about? (Addresses camera) Am I supposed to be like, an object? Are they going to glue more shit to me?
Dr. Dodge: I believe that will be all. Security, if you would-
Mr. Garcia: What the hell is your damage?
Dr. Dodge: Yes?
Mr. Garcia: Fuck you.

Footage of an individual in D-Class uniform strapped to a table in a standard testing chamber. Research Assistant Kaur approaches the unconscious individual, carrying a length of fishing line.
RA Kaur: This is going to be unpleasant, but try to bear with me here.
Standing behind the subject, RA Kaur uses the fishing line as a garrote, rendering the subject unconscious within 45 seconds. The subject expires after 7 minutes, at which point RA Kaur removes the fishing line.
After several seconds, two security personnel enter the chamber and attempt to remove the straps restraining the corpse to the table, but are stopped by RA Kaur.
RA Kaur: No, didn't you read the instructions? We're testing repeat applications this time. I'll let you know when we're done with him. (Addressing the corpse) You're doing great so far.
RA Kaur resumes pressing the fishing line against the corpse's throat for another two hours, periodically removing it for several seconds to observe the corpse. At 1:04:55, the skin is ruptured; RA Kaur has no apparent reaction to this. Blood leaks onto the table and floor for the remainder of the footage.

D-9884 stands on the ground level landing of a staircase. The flood lamp illuminates only the first 9 steps.
Dr. Miller: Please descend the first flight and examine the landing wall.
D-9884 descends 13 steps and stop at the landing. Dr. Miller's footsteps are audible from nearby behind D-9884.
D-9884: Yeah, um, it's just a dirty, concrete wall. There's like nothing on it. No, wait. It's a little bit sticky right here.
D-9884 indicates a spot on the wall.
D-9884: There's a child crying down there! She's [pause] she's begging for help and crying.
Dr. Miller: Thank you. Please continue down the steps until you notice anything unusual.
Both descend. Upon reaching the next landing, audio of a crying child is picked up. Both continue with no incident until they reach the 17th landing.
D-9884: Eww, there's something on the ground here. It's all sticky and stuck on my shoe. Ugh, it's so gross.
Video feed confirms presence of substance occupying a space approximately 50 centimeters in diameter.
Dr. Miller: Can you describe the scent?
D-9884: Uh… It kinda smells like old rusty metal and pee. Can't you smell it?
Dr. Miller: Thank you. Please continue until you notice anything else.
Subjects continues their descent until the 89th landing is reached. The video feed jerks and D-9884 yells.
D-9884: Ahh, fuck! There's a big black circle on the ground. I thought it was a hole for a second.
Video feed confirms the presence of a circle approximately 1 meter in diameter.
D-9884: You can see this, right?
Dr. Miller: Yes. Can you estimate the depth of this hole?
D-9884: It's not a hole. I just said that. You can see for yourself.
D-9884 demonstrates this by stepping on the circle, then passing forward and allowing Dr. Miller to do the same.
Dr. Miller: Thank you. Can you still hear the sounds of the child?
D-9884: Uh huh. I mean, it's louder now, since I'm getting closer. You're right there, can't you hear it?
Dr. Miller: Please continue down until you encounter anything unusual.
Both continue to descend SCP-087 for approximately an hour, covering an additional 164 flights. Both stop to rest on the 253rd landing, with D-9884 consuming 1 nutrient bar and several gulps of water. Subjects are at an estimated 1.1 kilometers below the initial landing. D-9884 asks Dr. Miller several questions regarding the nature of the exploration, which are ignored. After pausing for 4 minutes, subjects resume their descent, making no stops for another 216 flights, 1.5 hours later. They are on the 469th landing, an approximate 1.8 km below the ground level.
D-9884: Is this going anywhere? I think it's time I went back. I mean, going down is one thing, but this is a long climb back…
Dr. Miller: You have been provided with food, water, and blankets to last you 24 hours. Please continue down.
D-9844: Yeah, and what about you? Look, I really think we should go back up.
D-9884 turns toward the previous flight of stairs.
D-9884: I - [screams]
Dr. Miller is directly behind D-9884, blocking her ascent. His face is approximately 30 centimeters from the lens of the camera; his eyes are fixed directly on the lens, as though looking at the viewer. He is holding a butcher's knife with dried blood on the blade. D-9884 turns around and begins descending the stairs rapidly, pursued by Dr. Miller.
D-9884: [panicked and hysterical] Oh god I'm sorry Dr. Miller please don't hurt me please help me oh God he's right behind me that's why you were following me I promise I'll keep going down I'm doing it why are you chasing me please don't kill me [this continues in a similar fashion until the end.]
D-9884 continues to scream and plead hysterically as she rapidly descends the staircase. Approximately 14 flights down, the video feed swings to show the area directly behind D-9884. Dr. Miller is not staring at the subject; rather he is fixated on the camera lens, giving the illusion he is making eye contact with those viewing the footage.
After an approximate 150 panicked flights of descent with three visual confirmations of Dr. Miller, D-9884 trips and appears to fall unconscious. A child between the ages of 9 and 11, the source of aforementioned vocalizations, is present; the child is physically unremarkable except for an open leg wound. Video feed shows an additional descending flight of stairs.
The child displays and vocalizes intense fear upon the arrival of Dr. Miller several seconds later. Dr. Miller comes in full view of the camera, obscuring the child. Audio and video feeds cut out.


Previously

A knock on the door roused William from his nap. He reluctantly rose out of his armchair and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
He opened the door. “Come in.”
The young woman entered while carrying a stack of folders, her office cart left outside. She closed the door behind her, threw the folders down on William's desk and collapsed in the armchair sitting in the corner.
“You would not believe the day I just had, Will.” She stretched her arms out above her head before settling them behind it.
William sighed and rubbed his eyes some more.” I'm sure I can't.”
She pulled her legs up on the chair. “Could you at least pretend to be interested? And stop looking like someone just told you that you had to work overtime again.”
“Is that why you're here? Jesus Christ.” He sat down at his desk and let his head drop to its surface.
“Well, not exactly. I wouldn't come here just to torture you, now would I?” She grinned.
“Wouldn't surprise me. Now could you just tell m-” The screaming of sirens cut him off. “Please tell me that's not it, Dionne.”
“Sorry Will. No rest for the wicked.”
The piercing sound of the sirens did wonders for his drowsiness. Will took his notebook and began flipping through it.
“MCD, no. None of the churches, the Insurgency's busy in Siberia and the Sarkicists are having one of their celebrations. Our friends seem to have arrived without an appointment.” He sat the notebook down, opened the drawer with the fake bottom and took out a sleek laptop. William turned it on and within seconds the familiar Foundation logo greeted him in all its drab glory.
One after another, footage from security cameras began flashing on the screen as Will's fingers danced across the keyboard. Dionne got up from her seat and moved behind him, gazing at the screen. A few of the cameras on the outer parts of the facility went dead, but not before allowing the two a glimpse of the attackers.
“Doesn't look like any of the usual customers.” Dionne leaned in closer.
William rewound the recording. “Indeed. Seems like the Foundation has made a new friend.”
“Any ideas?”
William smiled at her, drew a small pager from the inner pocket of his suit and pushed the single button on it.
The ring of a janitor began buzzing. A woman making minor repairs to a locking mechanism felt her earring vibrate. The bracelet of a technical consultant shook briefly. An unnoticeable wave of activity spread across the Site as countless tiny gears were set into motion.
“Oooh, how dramatic, Sir William.” Dionne began moving towards the door. “Any orders for me?”
“Just be you.”
“Oh get stuffed, you paper pusher.” Dionne flipped the account off while walking towards the door.
William gave her another smile as she left. He got up, walked to one of the shelves and ran his fingers across the spines of the ledgers, his hand stopping after reaching the one he desired. He placed it on the desk and opened it. In it, amidst the countless expenses of the Foundation, lay hidden the deals he conducted to keep this shadow world in equilibrium. Attacks on safehouses and Sites, agreed on beforehand. Deals to allow Foundation teams to attack and retrieve specific items. Mutually agreed-on casualty limits. Which individuals were about to defect, which could be used as moles. Everything sitting in rows upon rows of ledgers.
“Didn't even have the courtesy to call beforehand,” he mumbled to himself as he opened up an account for their new associates, “where have good manners disappeared to?”
***
Carmine ran through the halls. The guards on the outer perimeter had barely managed to put up any resistance. Such a giant like the Foundation, brought to its knees just by him and his brothers and sisters in arms. He turned a corner and slammed into a cart filled with paper. He stumbled back and took aim, but the paper thrown into the air by the collision covered the movement of his attacker. Before he could react, a blade was driven into his thigh. Carmine keeled over as the pain washed over him.
His weapon was ripped out of his hand and he found himself staring into the face of a woman barely into her thirties, her red hair tied together in a single thick braid. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off as the knife opened his throat into a leering smile.
Dionne leaped aside from the small fountain of blood and wiped her blade on Carmine's jacket. She appraised the weapon. A Beretta 81 with some rather interesting symbols engraved along the side. Looks well looked after but a tad worn.
“How many?” A voice came from behind her.
“Four, so far. They seem to be moving alone.” She turned around and dropped the weapon into the hands of the janitor.
“No wonder. Thaumaturges don't work that well if you put them too many of them in an enclosed space. Interference and all that.” He threw the weapon in the trashcan on his cart.
Dionne raised an eyebrow. “Thaumaturges?”
Two men in Maintenance uniforms arrived from behind the janitor and began placing Carmine's corpse in a body bag.
The janitor nodded. “Oh yes. Apparently, Lucilius ran into a Type Red.”
“Any thoughts on what they're doing here?” Dionne began gathering up the scattered papers and placing them back in her office cart.
“Saw a few try to get the containment cells open on the way here. Doesn't look like they know what's in them.” The janitor looked at the two workers who were already finishing up with the body. ”Thanks, guys! The incinerator should be ready to go and after you're done with that head to the East wing. I left a few lying there.”
The two nodded and headed off, the body back on their shoulders.
“Then I guess it's time to get back to work. See you around, Daumant.” Dionne quickly gathered up the last of the papers and headed off into another direction.
He nodded his head in goodbye and began mopping up the blood.
”Why does everybody always go for the throat? Leaves such a mess,” Daumant said to the empty hallway.
***
William was placing the ledger back into the shelf when he heard the door creak.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He turned around.
The air shimmered for a moment as a man and a woman seemingly stepped out of nowhere.
“Type Blue, right?” William walked towards the two.” Now why ever would you spend the time and energy to come get me? If you wanted to meet me so bad you could have ju-” Before Will could finish the sentence the man walked up to him and sprayed something smelling vaguely of lavender in the accountant's face. A bitter taste was all Will felt before the world plunged into darkness.
***
William was roused from his unconsciousness by a few slaps, his head feeling as if he had spent the last few hours trying to drink a brewery dry. A wave of nausea washed over him as he raised his head. What a pleasant day this was turning out to be.
The face of a clean shaved man was inches away from his as he opened his eyes. The pair who had taken him from his office flanked the man who William assumed to be their leader.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Cranford?” The man was squatting to get on William's eye level.
“Loud and clear. Now if I may ask, what am I doing here and who might you be?” William squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, waiting for the headache to subside.
The man smiled. ”Of course. I know of you from my previous employers. Apparently, you are the one who takes care of all the dirty deals of the Foundation. The name is Ludolf.”
Will took a sidelong glance at his surroundings. “I wouldn't label it so, but for the sake of this conversation, yes I am. Now, why go through all this trouble to get me?” He seemed to be outside of the site. Not too far though, if the sirens were something to go by.
“Oh, you are just a bonus. We are here to free our brothers.” Ludolf rose out of the squat.
“Your brothers? And who would that be?” William was stalling and trying to get the man to spill everything he knew.
“The Shapers, the Manipulators, the Evergrowing!” The leader of his captors spread his arms to the sides.
“Type Green, Blue and Red I presume? And I am here why?”
“Since you keep contact with all the big players, you have quite a bit of information on them stashed away in that head of yours. We'd like you to point us in the direction of the rest of our brothers.” Ludolf explained, the grin still adorning his features.
“So you're some kind of liberation force? Jesus Christ what a bunch of geniuses.” William spat out.
“You disapprove of our vision?” This got to Ludolf, the smile beginning to fade.
“I disapprove of idiots. You want to make a nice little army of Greens, Reds and Blues. Good idea in theory, but you think you can put a bunch of magic-using and reality-bending, psychologically unstable narcissists together and convince them to fight for a righteous cause? Not that I'm not impressed by what you have done here, but yeah, go ahead, make Chernobyl look like a goddamn joke.” William finished his tirade and promptly got punched in the nose.
“Take him with us. We'll get what we need out of him back at base.” Ludolf ordered his subordinates.
The two abductors flanking him moved to pick the swearing William up, but before they could reach him the sharp sound of an assault rifle pierced the air. Ludolf reacted near instantly, rushing up to William and pulling him to his feet. William found himself used as a human shield, a cold gun barrel pressed against his temple.
“Are you really gonna try this, friend? I'm an accountant for the Foundation. They'll shoot with no hesitation. There are a hundred men and women working under me who could take this job within a heartbeat.”
The eyes of Ludolf frantically looked around, trying to find an escape path. He pushed William to the ground and turned to run, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Should I?” Dionne asked.
“Go ahead. The guy told me everything.” Will got up.
A single shot rang out and the man fell to the ground. Two guards arrived at the scene, both nodding to William and Dionne. The pair began walking back to the Site.
“Shame.” William began brushing the dirt off his suit and wiping the bit of blood dripping from his nose.
“How come?” Dionne looked at him.
“They could have been a nice business partner, if not for the rather delusional goals, that is. Acquiring humanoids would've gotten a lot easier.” Will took out his notebook and scratched out a few lines of text and numbers.
“Such is life? What are you gonna do now?” Dionne pulled her arm back and flung the gun still in her hand into the bushes.
“If I recall correctly, once the breach is over, one has to get back to their job.”
“So you're going back to sleep?” Dionne smirked.
“Oh yes. Can't let them think I'm already done with my work. That would just mean more of the stuff. Does my tie look okay?” Will turned towards Dionne.
“As if anyone in your department cares. I'll be heading to the cafeteria now. You want anything?”
William thought for a moment.
“Some tea would be nice.”
“Good, then you can come and get it yourself.” She swiped her card on the Site entrance.
“Why must you do this to me, Dionne?” William followed her through the door.
“Because everybody in Accounting doesn't so much as let out a peep against you since you shouted at that poor guy until he cried .”
William scoffed. “Well, I had a good reason.”
“He wrote the wrong year on one of the forms right after returning from his New Year vacation.” Dionne said in a deadpan tone.
“Alright, alright, but it wasn't that bad!” William tried to defend himself.
“He trembles like a leaf everytime you so much as enter the same room as him.”
“Okay, I get it. I'll get my own tea.” Will raised his arms up in defeat.
They walked in silence for a few moments.
“The guy from Medical is going to defect, you know.” Dionne said as they walked past the infirmary
Will furrowed his brow. “Anzo?”
“Yeah, that's him. What are we going to do?”
“Well, since he's going to MCD… I say let him. If he's useful I'll bill them, if not, well, they're going to do their usual thing. Win-win.” Will shrugged his shoulders.
“God, you're a soulless prick. How come you're not Senior Staff yet?” Dionne rolled her eyes
William let out a chuckle.” Oh, don't get me started little miss “I spend more time with knives than people”. One would think you'd be quite high up on the list.”
Dionne laughed for a moment as well, before hooking an arm underneath Wills.
The two walked through gray hallways, the Spider and the Mantis.

« Backstage | Above All, Stand I. | What a Pleasant Town »


The man walks through a bare hallway. He holds a briefcase in one hand and a coffee in the other. He stops in front of the door, takes a deep breath, and enters.

The man walks through a bare hallway. He holds a briefcase in one hand and a coffee in the other. He stops in front of the door, takes a deep breath, and enters. A room filled with cubicles unfurls before him. The sound of pens on paper, the clicking of keyboards, and a silent murmur washes over him.
He smiles.
He makes his way through the room, to a door with a small plaque on it that reads, “William Cranford, Head of Accounting”.
The room behind the door is in contrast with the one it opens into. Large bookshelves line the walls and a dark wooden desk dominates the center of the room. William closes the door behind him and sets his notebook and coffee on the desk before sitting down and starting up the computer.
The nigh-prehistoric machine roars into life and slowly begins to boot up. The man finishes his coffee and begins opening up file after file. Numbers dance across the screen.
William sighs in satisfaction. This is his place. The center of his power. Here he is above all. Security clearances and censored data mean nothing to him. He sees the new plans for a small Site in Siberia, the repairs for a destroyed wing. Words can deceive in a thousand ways but numbers can only ever be true or false.
He begins his morning routine. He opens his notebook and the credit card details of the employees of the Site. The notebook is filled with seemingly random words, phrases, and numbers. But to him, each one sets into motion a cascade of memory.
Oskar Leichtmann. 29. Research Assistant. Looking at his withdrawals it seems he has relapsed in his amphetamine use. Shame.
Hannah Saulkalne. 46. Researcher. Has begun visiting some rather unique clubs during her husband's business trip to Norway.
Viago Silvester. 25. Researcher. Has recently begun to purchase sleeping medicine. Some sort of opiate judging by the cost.
William frowns. Viago, Viago… Ah yes. The one they brought in from Europe a year back. Why does he suddenly need help falling asleep?
He opens one of the drawers and removes the bottom. A thin, black laptop rests there. A gentle push of a button and it turns on in seconds. He opens Viago's file. If IT told the truth there will be no record of anyone accessing it. The security clearance is low, but the absence of information can speak volumes.
Viago was transferred to another Site briefly it seems. The file claims he checked in regularly while there. Will looks over his credit card history again.
Ah. There it is. Apparently, he had been shopping in the city closest to his current Site almost daily. Quite a long trip for some groceries.
Now to find out what little Viago had been assigned to in that month, that keeps him from sleeping. William sends a short email. Within 20 minutes a man from Logistics enters his room and takes a stack of folders handed to him. A small slip of paper is hidden in one of them.
***
The young woman pushes a cart through offices and between cubicles. Folders are handed out and pleasantries exchanged. The occasional package finds its owner. A few pens are replaced. Stacks of blank forms are refilled and new sheets of paper placed on desks. Some smile at her, but their eyes slip away from her in moments. Nobody really sees the everyday things.
Nobody notices as Viago Silvester leaves his office for lunch. And nobody sees a young woman with a cart slip in the office.
She's quick.
Her eyes run across the room, taking in all details. She flips open a journal on the table before placing it back in the same position. She looks at the bookshelves lining the walls. The top of one of the books is bent slightly. She pulls it out and finds a small notebook, nestled in the carved out pages.
Every page of it is carefully photographed before being placed back in its place. A small device finds itself hiding in the lamp on the table, a sensitive microphone waiting for the slightest sound. The woman leaves as silently as she had arrived.
And not a single soul sees.
***
Viago mumbles to himself in his office and a maintenance worker listens in a break room. His colleagues pay no mind to their headphone-wearing friend.
With each word, the mind of the researcher crystallizes before him, new facets revealing themselves, as Viago mumbles more and more frantically. Something inside is broken. His mind is like a shattered mirror. Sharp, beautiful but irreversibly damaged.
He won't stop. There isn't enough left of him to stop.
The worker slips a small piece of paper to a passing man while returning to his work.
Wheels within wheels.
***
William looks at the items before him. The pictures, the brief transcript, and the man's file.
He sighs. Poor Viago. He calls for a janitor to empty his paper basket.
Another paper slip.
This time- the last one.
***
Viago returns to his office, sits down, and takes a deep breath. Then it begins anew. Whenever his mind becomes free of distractions everything comes flooding back. Even with his eyes open the images feel crystal clear in his mind. Every second of it replayed again and again.
He begins grabbing the folders on his desk and rushing through them, words flowing independently between his lips, as his mind goes in two different directions. After a few minutes, he stops. You can't beat the classics.
He opens his laptop and begins working through the safeguards. He doesn't need to be careful. The monitoring on this system is non-existent, since it is assumed the ones who have access to it are loyal and sane.
Somewhere in the facility acid begins draining from a chamber. Now he has no other options.
Tick, tock.
Viago walks through the hallway. His face is neutral, but his eyes glow feverishly, a mild reflection of his burning mind.
Why did they lie?
It should've worked. It shouldn't be like this. He was supposed to forget. To return to work in blissful ignorance.
Why why-why-why does he still hear her? Why do her eyes still look back at him when he closes his? Why do they scream for something he couldn't give?
It burns him, consumes him.
The alarm begins screaming when Viago's halfway to his destination. He doesn't think about his actions. A single thought, a single image radiates through every single corner of his mind. He quickens his pace. She's getting louder.
He has to.
He has to.
She should have something, if not freedom then at least release.
A janitor is sweeping the hallway floor, not bothered by the sirens. Viago casts his eyes downwards.
He doesn't see the janitor stepping in front of him. He doesn't see the flash of steel. He doesn't have time to react before being shoved against the wall.
The blade is sharp, the attacker experienced and precise. Viago's heart begins pumping blood into his chest cavity. He tries to struggle and scream, but a hand covers his mouth and the world starts to lose focus.
Two other men in jumpsuits exit from a nearby door. They roll out a black tarp on the floor and Viago is placed upon it. Within seconds he is wrapped in it and picked up.
Only a janitor remains, sweeping up the dust and humming a song nobody remembers.
***
Viago had never checked in according to the database. No cameras had recorded him, and his colleagues didn't remember seeing him.
A breach caused by a fatal flaw in the automated systems programming was contained with acceptable casualties.
The world kept on turning.
Another act is over. The technical crew rests.
Until the curtain parts again.
Above All, Stand I. | Unexpected Visitors and Warm Welcomes. »