"Take a deep breath, Stella. Breathe… whenever you're ready, you may begin."
Zeke Don watched as his student masterfully performed, her fingers gliding and the bow striking the strings with intensity. Years of practice had paid off, and he felt that she had finally grown into the young, confident player he imagined she would be. It was astonishing: the way her posture was perfected, how she struck the strings without a single moment of self-doubt, how deftly she handled sudden transitions in tempo. It was as if she was a lifelong master. At the end of the piece, his most prized student looked up at him.
"How did I do?" She seemed hesitant, shaking a bit and catching her breath.
"You did absolutely wonderful. You handled that like a champion." Zeke smiled and patted her head, as Stella quickly regained confidence and beamed back up at him.
"Thank you so much! Do you think I'm ready to perform for next week, Mr. Don?" Stella asked, her eyes wide. The door opened as a woman looked in, smiling at the two and waving. They both waved back.
"You're more than ready. I'd keep practicing. Next week is our last lesson before the competition. Be sure to meet me at your school the next day so I can wish you good luck, okay?" Stella nodded as she started to pack up to leave. The woman walked over to them, situating herself near her daughter and waiting.
"Same amount as usual?" she asked.
"Yup, though just for you Mary, I'll let you pay half at $45." Zeke confidently quipped, a sly smile growing on his face. A few seconds of silence hung between them before Mary handed him $90. His smile dropped for a bit as he took the money and stuffed it in his pockets. "Are you still alright with getting dinner tonight? It's not often I'm able to have a free night with y—" The look she gave him made his smile drop. Mary moved much closer to Zeke, dropping her voice down to a whisper.
"Not here, Zeke. We've had this talk before."
"At least one last date tonight? It would be nice to go out on amicable terms, right?" A bit more silence before Mary backed up a bit and sighed.
"Sure. Harry & Mason's?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But this is it." she exclaimed sternly before heading by the door where Stella had headed. She waved to Zeke, smiling.
"See you next week, Mr. Don!" Stella yelled as Zeke smiled and waved back.
"See you next week," Zeke replied as he immediately started to cut off all emotional ties.

The lights flashed on when D-7294 entered the testing area, and he covered his eyes to shield them from most of the brightness. It was a sensation he could never get used to in testing, and it was easily the worst part of any day. The intercom switched on, with that horrendous buzzing noise adding to the displeasure.
"Test #14, subject D-7294. Date is September 23rd, 2013. Researcher Tyler Jensen and Doctor Tyrone Hardy observing. D-7294, please have a seat in the chair directly in front of the mannequin, SCP-847, and converse with it. You may also lightly interact with it. Do not damage the item. Testing shall last no longer than 20 minutes. Testing begins now." The intercom switched off, and D-7294 took a good look at the object in the room.
The mannequin… it looked decrepit, worn-down, horrendous. It had hair on it, clothes, all its body parts, but even just sitting in the chair on the other side of the room, he could tell how pitiful it looked. He hadn't felt this disgusted looking at something resembling a woman in a long time. 20 minutes to interact with an ugly mannequin like this would feel like an eternity. So he sat down in the chair and started to observe.
It shuddered.
7294 looked taken aback, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh?" It wasn't the most shocking or grotesque display he saw since being a D-Class, but it was repulsive in its own right. As he watched, it made small sudden adjustments to its position and suggestive moaning noises. It looked like a puppet, being pulled on its strings.
He could only watch in fascination as it kept doing this, as if it was inviting him, wanting him to play. He looked her over; the length of her body, the unmoving (as far as he could tell) lips, the parts of the body so obviously meant for him to observe. Ten minutes passed like this and the intercom buzzed.
"D-7294, if you refuse to participate in testing —"
"I'm watching." he interrupted sharply.
"Carry on then."
It was then that the mannequin stood up, gasping and leaning in his direction, and he felt his heart soar.

Harry & Mason's was bustling with activity that summer night, as waiters and waitresses scrambled to serve the tourists eating there, and bartenders went to satiate the rush of patrons grabbing a drink. Mary was staring down at her plate, eating, as Zeke looked at her face, attempting to study her and break the ice between them. Aside from placing their order, they had not spoken once since being sat.
"So, Mary…" She didn't respond. Though her eyes looked up for a second to glance at him, she made no effort to give further attention. "Look, I know you don't want to keep dating me, but don't I at least deserve some more time to teach your daughter? Stella is a very lovely student, and with more practice under her belt, she could do more than win boring school competitions."
"How old is she, Zeke?"
"Huh? Well…" His response hung in the air.
"Thirteen. You've been teaching her for four years and you don't even remember how old she is."
"Well, age isn't important when you're training to become a world-class musician." Mary looked even less amused.
"For fuck's sake, you don't think anything else of her! I've never been anything to you either except for some object of worth." Though she kept her voice down while arguing, her mannerisms started to draw attention to the two of them. For the first time in years, he felt slightly put off. After a minute of silence, Mary spoke up again. "We're moving after her competition, and I'm making sure you don't ever come near us again."
More silence passed and Zeke poked at his food, looking up every once in a while to see if anyone was still paying attention to the both of them. Each second passed by seemed a month's worth. A waiter came by and collected Mary's plate as she finished up her meal.
"I'll see you next week then?" Mary didn't respond as she grabbed her purse and walked outside back to her car. Zeke sighed as he started to eat his food.

The way the mannequin headed over to where 7294 was sitting was erratic, its movements making little sense for what it tried to do. Dragging its plastic legs, shambling over to him, it almost set even him on edge. Repulsion rose up in him, but as it got near him, he wondered…
He stood up, leaning over it, trying to see if he could intimidate it. It stopped and froze.
"You're adorable, aren't you," he muttered, grabbing its arm and moving it around. It made more suggestive noises, while 7294 played with it. "You know what I want. You know what you want. What you were made for." He let go and walked around behind it, grabbing various body parts to move around and pose.
"Can you really do anything else besides whimper and moan? Is even that too much for you to do?" He ran a hand across its eyes, shuddering at how real they felt. "Real eyes… porcelain skin… Your hands feel like cheaper than everywhere else. You couldn't ever attract a male like this could you, you dumb animal." It continued making sounds, this time sounding vaguely fearful.
7294 let go and walked back to its front, feeling its hands and fingers. "Beg for me." It continued making the same sounds. "Make some actual, unique sounds this time." Nothing had changed. "You can't even serve the one purpose you were made for, can you. Do you feel anything?" No response except for the same sounds. "What will change?" He broke off a finger.
Nothing.
"Useless." He could immediately, faintly hear the sounds of guards rushing towards the testing chamber as he let go and backed away, the mannequin erratically jerking towards his position. The intercom buzzed.
"D-7294, you were instructed not to damage the item. Testing is over." The guards opened the door and started to forcefully drag him out. He didn't resist, continuing to stare at the mannequin until the doors closed. He sighed, feeling slight disappointment mixed with a rush of thrill.
Fifty meters away from the area, heading towards an interview room, he could hear screaming and the sound of something breaking. He grinned and felt warmth in his head.

SUSPECT'S NAME RELEASED IN TALLAHASSEE DOUBLE MURDER
by Jesse Sorin, 05/01/2013, 10:36 P.M.
Tallahassee police have announced that Zeke Don was the suspect arrested at 7 PM last Saturday for the killing of Mary Mitchell, 34, and Stella Mitchell, 13.
Police were called to investigate a disturbance at a Tallahassee residence, where they found Don, 37, covered in blood as he dug holes outside. Responding officers found Mary and Stella Mitchell's bodies in the living room.
Officials found parts of five to eight more partly-decomposed bodies in the basement, kitchen, and bedroom of Don's home. The additional victims have not yet been identified.
While preliminary investigation had suggested that the Mitchells were killed by gunshot wounds, an autopsy found that both died of blunt trauma several hours after being shot, as well as having been mutilated for an extended time after death.
Don is being held without bail, accused of at least seven first-degree murders. Prosecutors say he will not be charged until the number of victims can be determined.
Officials added that investigation is continuing and more details will be released in the coming weeks.
Related Articles:

Locals remember the Mitchells: "Their charity will never be forgotten."
Protests surrounding the death penalty[…]

7294 laid in his bed that night, absentmindedly thinking of the encounter earlier with the mannequin. It was the first real sense of enjoyment he had gotten in months, although from how the researchers had talked to him, he had a distinct feeling he wouldn't be returning to see it again. It was fun playing with it while he could at least. The memory of his fun was burned into his mind to enjoy for nights forwards.
He rolled, looking up at the ceiling, sighing. He stuck out his thumb and index fingers to resemble a tweezer and started plucking at nothing, humming about Mary's little lamb, her fleece as white as snow.


I wake up, and I wonder once again what I am. What I was meant to be. I move, though I will my limbs not, and as I walk through the darkness I feel them scrape upon one another, and crunch on the brushed concrete floor. This is not life.
They open the door, and my body freezes. The light is so bright it burns, and although I have no eyes to see it I know it is there. They move slowly around me, and I cannot run. I can never run, even when they no longer see me. I am a slave to myself, and to my shapeless limbs.

Sometimes, before I kill them, I look at myself. At my grey, formless hands, at my misshapen head. At the walls of my prison. At the floor, stained red and brown by the substances that I will into being. I am a statue, but I have no beauty. I move constantly, but I have no purpose. I am a thing without form or function.
I am not art.

They come, and they look at me. I feel their stares bore into my hollow body, probing for any hint at my tormented mechanism. It continues for days, for years. The burning light, and the inevitable darkness. They have stopped now: they know that there is nothing more to learn. I was not made for them, nor they for me. I am no plaything of theirs.
I am not wonderful.

It is possible that I was a gift of some kind, but it is hard to imagine what good I could possibly do in the world. My frame is weak, and I have no kindness to bestow. I cannot control the crimes I commit, and I can only commit those crimes. My life is not mine to give, and I know in my heart that they will not take it. I will never know the pleasure of death.
Whoever created me, they were not charitable.

It is true that I am beyond their comprehension, and that they hold me in reverence. It is the reverence of the damned. I kill for pleasure, and the pleasure is not even mine to have. My painted mask runs red with blood, and I know that there is no God, for if there was he would not let me live. He would not let me be. I am an abomination, a threat to both good and evil. In a world of black and white, I dwell in the grey.
I have been called many things, but never divine.

What, then, is my ultimate fate? Not to be bought and sold as a commodity, I know that. I am outside the reach of mere wealth. Those that hold me in their possession would rather see me ground to dust than traded as merchandise. Nor am I a weapon: I am weak despite my strength. I murder, but I do not harm unjustly, and I am not under the control of any single person. I have no knowledge to impart, no joy to bestow, and no task to fulfil. I do not even scare them any more, disquieting though my visage is.
Amongst a web of life, I am a dying prisoner in a shell of clay. I am a single object, doomed without purpose, without any source of respite. To subsist as I do now is to die a death more potent than that suffered by mortals: I can only dream of having the vitality they take for granted. No-one takes responsibility for my actions save myself, and even I am unable to speak out against the world.
My legs walk onwards, tracking pathways through the brown and red, awaiting the pain that comes with light, and the darkness that hurts me more.
In my cage of brick and steel, in my cage of dye and dust, I am alone.


Finally, it was time for his grand escape.
It was the time of month when they would need to come in and clean his cell again; three people in jumpsuits, one with a mop to clean up the pungent mess he had spread throughout the room. But today would be different — today, he had a plan.
The door groaned. The Statue sprinted to one of the corners beside the bulkhead; a spot that was always out of view when they entered, one that they never checked. Not until they were already inside.
He reached the corner, unobstructed by a line-of-sight; it was only then that his physical form, SCP-173, moved to the corner. It never actually moved, and neither did he — it was more akin to a calculation. "If this is my speed, and that's where I'm heading, that is where I will end up" — then his body would simply reappear where it was supposed to be, circumventing the rule of inertia.
Despite its slow start, the bulkhead only took three seconds to fully open. The three D-classes looked in, surveying the room without entering. He could feel their eyes shift, looking and expecting him. They were confused — the room looked empty to them. That was exactly how he wanted them.
The three of them walked in, none of them checking the corners beside the doors. The Statue rushed towards them.
But SCP-173 barely moved.
He was being obstructed by someone's line-of-sight. Someone, outside the container, was watching the three D-classes enter. Nobody ever watched them come in.
'Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey theeeeereeee!'
'Heeeeellooooooooooooo!'
Oh for fucks sake.
Unable to move — frozen by their unwavering gaze — The Statue watched in horror as a pair of tear-shaped creatures, each with a single eye, rolled in on their single wheels to sit and stare at it.
'Fuck off would you?'
'Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, that's noooooot veeeeeeeery nice.'
'Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah, that's reeeeeeeeeaally meeeeeeeean'
'I don't give a shit, you're fucking up my -'
The three D-classes turned, realising the two little Eye Pods had figured out where the statue was hiding. Two of the D-classes locked their gaze on SCP-173, while the third started mopping.
'Fucking hell, you've ruined it!'
'Aaaaaaaaaaaaw, weeeeeeeeee're sooooooooorry, Staaaaaaaaatue.'
'Yeeeeeeeeeah, weeeeeeeeee're reeeeeeeeeally sooooooooooorry.'
'Sorry doesn't fucking cut it. I've got to wait two fucking weeks before I can try again, and they'll probably fucking check this corner now. Fucking great.'
'Weeeeeeeeeeee didn't knoooooooow yooooooooooou were doooooooooing sooooooooooooomething!'
'Yeeeeeah, weee -'
'Would you just shut the fuck up please? You have the most fucking annoying voices I've ever fucking heard. Just shut up.'
The Eye Pods obliged. The silence was unbroken, save for the sound of the squelching mop, for several minutes.
'Heeeeeeeey Staaaaaaatue!'
'I thought I asked you to shut the fuck up.'
'Gueeeeeeeeeeeeess whaaaaaaaat!'
'Fuck off.'
'Coooooooooooome oooooooooooon, gueeeeeeeeeeeess whaaaaaaaaaat it is!'
'Yeeeeeeeeah, gueeeeeeeeess!'
'No. Fuck off. Shut up.'
'Weeeeeeeeeeeell, the suuuuuuuuuuit peeeeeeeeeeeople weeeeeeeeeeeent baaaaaaaaack tooooooo wheeeeeeeere theeeeeey fouuuuuuund uuuuuuuuus…'
'And they forgot to fucking take you back? No fucking shit.'
'Noooooooo…'
'I'll gooooooooooo get theeeeeeeeem!'
One of the eye pods — dash B, the mustard coloured one — rolled out of the chamber and out of ear shot. The other sat, watching the Statue in silence.
'… What is it.'
'Youuuuuuuuuuuu'll seeeeeeeeeeee!'
'No, fucking tell me right now you little shit-stain. What the fuck is it fetching.'
The Eye Pod didn't respond. It had committed to this being a surprise, and nothing would convince it to break its silence. They sat in silence, waiting for the D-classes to finish mopping.
It didn't take much longer. Finishing around SCP-173, the D-class sighed in relief as he deposited the blood and shit-stained mop into the bucket, and signalled to the other two that he was finished.
'Oh, too bad, time for you to fuck off. Guess I won't get to see your surprise. What a fucking shame.'
The D-classes left the chamber. The Eye Pod didn't move, still staring at the Statue. The bulkhead didn't shift either.
'Hey, fuckball. They finished mopping. Time for you to fuck off.'
It didn't respond. It didn't move.
The Statue was about to begin a furious tirade when, ever so faintly, he heard the noise.
It sounded like a stampede of cars, thousands of wheels rolling — all at the same time — towards the chamber. A cold chill ran down the Statue's back; it already knew what was coming. The mustard-coloured Eye Pod rolled back into the chamber.
Then a blue one came in.
'Heeeeeeeeeeey theeeeeeeeere,' it wailed.
A lime green Eye Pod rolled in after it.
'Heeeeeeeeeeelloooooooo!'
Then came a purple one.
Then red.
Then grey.
Then white.
They kept rolling in; each a unique tint or shade, each with their own unblinking eye.
Each with that obnoxious wailing voice, greeting the Statue as they came in.
And they just kept coming.
'Greeeeeeeetings!'
'Heeeeeeeeeey theeeeeeereeeee!'
'Hooooooooooola!'
'G'daaaaaaaaaaaay!'
'Booooooooooooonjoooooooooour!'
Within a minute, the entire floor of the room was coated in a rainbow of Eye Pods — each and every one staring directly at the Statue.
'Theeeeeeeeeeeeeey foooooooooound ooooooooooour frieeeeeeeeeeends,' the mustard one proudly declared.
'Al… alright th-thats fucking great, now j-just leave, alright? They finished… they finished mopping, so you've got to… got to leave.'
'Noooooooooooooo weeeeeeeeeeee doooooooooon't!'
'Wh… what do you m-mean, you don't?'
'The suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuit peeeeeeeeeeeople dooooooooooon't haaaaaaaave eeeeeeeeeeeenough roooooooom, soooooooo theeeeeeeeey haaaaaaaaaave to puuut soooooooome of us in booooooooooxes!'
'B-boxes?'
The bulkhead door groaned. He couldn't stop it while he was being watched — and a thousand, unblinking eyes were all staring at him. He couldn't stop the bulkhead from closing, and locking shut.
'Weeeeeeeeeeee live heeeeeeeeere nooooooooow!'


From: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Junior Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-1; Employee Number 13610)
To: SPetrov@Scipnet (Doctor Sasha Petrov, PhD; Classification Level XF-3; Employee Number 8909)
Re: Statue (173)
Date: 10/11/2018
Doctor, I was just assigned to SCP-173 as a containment specialist. I'm a little confused by my assignment, however. All I seem to be doing is watching it via live camera footage while D-Class personnel clean its containment chamber. You're listed on the SCP file as the research lead on the object (though, in the six weeks I've been assigned to 173, I've yet to meet you), so I thought I'd address my questions to you:
1) Why do we have D-Class cleaning the cell? Would an automated cleaning system not be both more efficient, and reduce the risk of lost personnel?
2) I'm led to understand that SCP-173 cannot move if observed: including recorded footage, so long as it's watched by someone at a later date. Why is this sort of retroactive containment not used to greater effect?
3) Recent advances in artificial intelligence could make the constant observation of the object significantly easier. Has there been any testing to determine whether artificial sapient or sentient observation of the object has the same effect that biological entities do on the anomaly?
Thank you for your attention in this matter; I look forward to your response.

From: SPetrov@Scipnet (Doctor Sasha Petrov, PhD; Classification Level XF-3; Employee Number 8909)
To: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Junior Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-1; Employee Number 13610)
Re: Statue (173)
Date: 16/11/2018
Mr Silburn: As you were brought on only to supervise the cleaning of SCP-173's chamber, as laid out in the object's Special Containment Procedures, you were not made aware of the supplementary documentation regarding the object. They aren't classified: it was simply assumed that you didn't require them to complete your task. Rest assured, all of your concerns have been addressed in the course of SCP-173's containment. I will address each of your concerns here:
Firstly, regarding the fact that I haven't had any dealings with SCP-173 or the containment staff thereof: 173 is one of the oldest SCP objects still in Foundation possession. It has been tested exhaustively, which you would be aware of if you had been given access to the testing logs. Its properties- the speed at which it moves when unseen, the strength with which it attacks the walls of its cell, its composition, the composition of the effluvia it ectoentropically excretes, its Hume differential, and so on- are all very well understood. There is little left to test for, and more dangerous and unpredictable anomalies in Foundation care. I personally lead the research programs into sixteen anomalies, including two Keter. If you have any testing proposals, feel free to file them, and I will give them due consideration.
Secondly, if you had been given access to the maintenance logs, you would be aware that two automatic cleaning systems have been installed, once in the late seventies, and once in the mid noughties. SCP-173's excretions blocked critical valves and electronics, with a surprising degree of efficiency. There was some discussion about whether the object could consciously direct the production of the blood and faeces that appears in its vicinity, and whether it was sapient enough to deliberately sabotage the cleaning systems. There was even some discussion regarding motivation- a popular theory after the last system failure was that the effluvia was a sort of lure, designed to bring prey to it.
Thirdly, all known media containing footage of the anomaly degrades physically. Blood and faeces, identical to that produced within SCP-173's area of effect, destroy the circuitry or tape or what have you. This secondary anomaly should likely be mentioned in the core documentation: I apologize for that. As I explained, my attention has been elsewhere. I give you authorization to make the necessary edits.
Fourthly, regarding your idea to have an .aic entity observe SCP-173- yes, it has been attempted. Almost as soon as the Foundation became capable of generating artificial consciousness, in fact- and it does work. Regardless of composition, origin, or level of sapience, if a sentient entity capable of vision observes SCP-173, it will not move. However, the artificial intelligences are subject to the secondary effect I mentioned in my third point: blood and faecal matter appear in their housing medium and destroy them, given enough time. There was a proposal to put a number of .aic-capable mainframes on the task, and have the observing entity transfer when physical damage began to occur, but it was rejected as too costly. This result raises a further interesting question: if we could remove the need to blink from a human being, would this secondary effect also occur in our own hardware- our brains? Or does it occur only with artificial media? Interesting to speculate upon.
Anyway, while I applaud your initiative in contacting me, I must remind you that firstly, there is a chain of command for a reason, and you should have relayed your concerns to your supervisor, and secondly, that the Foundation, while not infallible, is not composed of idiots. We do, generally, know what we're doing. If you have any further questions, and your supervisor doesn't have the answers, feel free to contact me again.
Sincerely, Dr. Sasha Petrov

From: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-2; Employee Number 13610)
To: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
Re: SCP-173 Containment
Date: 21/09/2021
Director, I'd like to thank you for my assignment as head of containment for SCP-173. No doubt you're aware of my ongoing fascination with the engineering conundrum that the anomaly presents. I have a proposal to present to you, actually: a series of remote-controlled drones with swiveling cameras mounted on them. The drones could clean the object's chamber, with the footage from the cameras streaming to the piloting staff, preventing 173's anomaly from activating. The secondary anomalous effect would not occur, as the footage would be streamed, rather than stored. I would need Manufacturing to create four or six drones to specification- a team or two or three, and a backup- and a few staff members to be trained in their use. With this system, we could keep the chamber sanitary, and cut down on personnel losses- we've lost eight D-Class and a Junior Researcher, over the last ten years. Low compared to the bad old days, certainly- but I believe we can do better.

From: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
To: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-2; Employee Number 13610)
Re: SCP-173 Containment
Date: 22/09/2021

Clever idea, Marc. I like it. But don't get over-confident about SCP-173. We've had a lot of clever ideas thrown at that statue over the years, and they've all failed. Machines, in my experience, aren't always an especially reliable option, when you're dealing with the anomalous- and 173 might or might not be sapient, but it has something a bit like low cunning. Your project is authorized, but I want you to keep a close eye on it.

From: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-2; Employee Number 13610)
To: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
Re: SCP-173 Containment Breach
Date: 18/04/2022
Well, you've likely read the incident reports by now, Director. The first set of drones was taken out a week ago; one had its vision momentarily obscured by some of that foul blood/faeces mixture dripping from the ceiling, one had a malfunction in its camera (again, blood and faeces in the circuitry), and the operator of the third blinked. A fraction of a second later, all three drones were out of commission. We chalked it up to bad luck, put the second string in, and requested a new set from Manufacturing. Three days later, the same thing happened. The statue, it seems, is capable of learning. What's worse, apparently checks on the locking mechanism have been neglected. The second incident led to a breach; a janitor was killed before SCP-173 could be re-contained. I take full responsibility for Mr. Hamilton's death, the breach, and the cost of the drones. I'm willing to tender my resignation, if you'd like to have it.

From: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
To: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-2; Employee Number 13610)
Re: SCP-173 Containment Breach
Date: 18/04/2022

Don't be an idiot, Marc. Do you have any idea how that damned statue killed in the old days, while your predecessors threw every half-baked idea they could come up with at it? Your idea wasn't a bad one. It just didn't work. We can't afford to keep building robots for the thing to shred, obviously, but you turn your mind to the problem and come up with another potential solution. That's how you atone for Hamilton's death: work to prevent similar losses in the future. I look forward to your next proposal. In the mean time, get the D-class cleaning crew back on the job.

From: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Senior Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-3; Employee Number 13610)
To: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
Re: 173 Containment Proposal
Date: 03/02/2025

I had a new idea for the statue, Jack: the damned thing doesn't need to eat, or breathe, and it isn't strong enough to bust out of its containment chamber. The only reason we bother to go in is for maintenance, to clean up the blood/shit muck. What if we didn't need to? Listen: curved walls and ceiling, like a dome, coated with something with a low coefficient of friction, like PTFE. A floor that's a series of grates, made out of that carbon nanotube stuff that's in every damned thing, now. The muck sluices down, and we get rid of it as per usual, and the thing can't ever get out. We throw a couple cameras in there, small and solid state, and flick them on once in a while just to make sure it's still in there. No more breaches, no more deaths, ever. What do you think?

From: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
To: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Senior Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-3; Employee Number 13610)
Re: 173 Containment Proposal
Date: 04/02/2025
Sounds costly, but effective. Approved. But throw some Raman spectrography and motion sensors and whatever else you can think of in there, too. I want to avoid surprises.

From: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Senior Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-3; Employee Number 13610)
To: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
Re: Just let me smash the fucking thing
Date: 15/07/2029
So apparently 173 can alter the bloody shitty muck it conjures out of thin fucking air to contain complex biochemical compounds capable of eating through carbon nanotube weave. It went down into the sluice, ripped through a foot of rotted concrete, dug through seven feet of soil, and came out in a minimum security portion of the facility, killing twelve people.
I know you already know what has happened, but I feel it bears repeating. This thing is unstoppably fucking malign, Jack. Consider this an official termination proposal for SCP-173. Give me the word, Jack, and I'll rip the malformed bastard thing apart myself. We can't learn anything more from it- we've tested it exhaustively- and it's an ongoing threat to Foundation personnel. It needs to be destroyed.

From: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
To: MSilburn3@Scipnet (Senior Researcher Marcus Silburn; Classification Level TC-3; Employee Number 13610)
Re: Just let me smash the fucking thing
Date: 15/07/2029
Denied, Marc. You know I can't let you do that. The Foundation doesn't consider termination unless there is an eschatological threat posed by an anomaly, and the fact that it can alter the chemical composition of its bloody conjured diarrhea proves we can still learn from it. The boys in the lab don't even know if the stuff it made to eat through the nanotube is anomalous, yet. It's completely new. I know you feel guilty, Marc. But this is life in the Foundation. Chin up, back on the saddle. I'm transferring you off of 173, though. You've gotten too close to the thing, too invested. We'll put the D-Class crew back on rotation, for now, and maybe try again.

From: Dir19_JBright@Scipnet (Director Jack Bright; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 2218)
To: O5_6@Scipnet (Overseer Six; Classification Level OK-5-Thaumiel; Employee Number 6)
Re: SCP-173 Behavior
Date: 15/07/2029
I regret to report that the latest experiment involving the containment of SCP-173 has failed. The object continues to exhibit unpredictable changes in both behavior and anomalous properties when denied regular exposure to human observation. The pattern has not changed since we first contained it. Any attempt to reduce exposure of personnel leads to containment destabilization. To date, the only consistent method of containment continues to be introducing at least three individuals into its containment cell for no less than one hour a week, without further protections or safe-guards. This method succeeds regardless of whether mistakes are made, and personnel lost, or not. It can be surmised that our conclusion was correct- the object, for whatever reason, desires or requires human attention, and will not be denied it.
It is my recommendation that we not repeat our attempts to revise SCP-173's containment procedures again. The first series of 'innovations' in the sixties, led to over four dozen deaths. This latest set of experiments claimed less than a quarter that, but the conclusion is undeniable: let sleeping tigers lie.


Smith was the ideal Foundation agent.
Methodical, reasonably moral, reasonably amoral, and unquestionably loyal.
Yet he felt strangely reluctant about what he was about to do.
It was a standard decommissioning. The Foundation had a reputation as a bunch of packrats, collecting every piece of trash or pile of dirt that didn't fit into their understanding of the world. Locking it away forever under the notion that they're somehow doing the world a service. Yet occasionally, the gears of bureaucracy would turn, the accountants would crunch some numbers, the researchers would analyze the data, and an object would be slated for destruction.
"Decommissioning" is what they called it.
And SCP-173 was soon going to be SCP-173-Decommissioned.
SCP-173. Euclid-Class. Autonomous. Ectoentropic. Observational. Sculpture.
By all rights, your bog-standard anomaly, a piece of anart that kills you if you look at it the wrong way. Probably created by some bixbie fresh out of art school.
Smith didn't want to put too much thought into the matter. He wasn't paid to think. Or at least, not at the moment. No, at the moment he was being paid to smash.
Yet he was hesitant.
SCP-173 wasn't special.
Sure, it was one of the few files open to general access, but that was probably because it had so little to hide in the first place. Sure, it's one of the example SCPs they have in that packet they hand out to new employees, but that better serves as a testament to its genericness. Sure, everyone in Site 19 knows someone who knows someone who's died to the thing in some containment breach or another. Smith himself has attended a few funerals because of it.
But it didn't deserve any special recognition. Not from Smith, not from the Foundation.
And yet he felt he was about to do a disservice to the world.
Whirrr
The characteristic drone of a Scranton Reality Anchor filled his ears.
"Alright, it's now set up."
That was the signal for him to start swinging.
Thwack
He started with the face.
Thwack
The crude caricature of the human visage on 173's bulbous head looked strangely accusative today.
Thwack
Why did he have to do this manually?
Thwack
Budgetary concerns?
Thwack
Since when was money an issue?
Thwack
He didn't have to worry about the thing coming to life in the middle of a swing.
Thwack
He had an entourage to make sure that didn't happen.
Thwack
It felt wrong, doing this in front of an audience.
Thwack
Better than the alternative, he supposed.
Thwack
Was it some memetic effect?
Thwack
No, the Foundation is thorough about screening for cognitohazards.
Thwack
Sure, it was someone's life work, but he wasn't one for art, much less art with a kill count.
Thwack
Maybe he's been at the Foundation too long.
Thwack
Long enough to get too attached to these killing machines.
Thwack
He briefly wondered if this particular killing machine was alive.
THWACK
Briefly.
Thwack
Well, now it didn't matter.
That was it.
The statue was now a slurry of blood and stone on the floor.
It was the magnum opus of some unknown, attention-starved artist who put a piece of themselves in their work. It spent decades in containment. It killed hundreds of people. The Foundation has spent thousands on keeping it contained. Its face has been emblazoned into the minds of thousands of D-class, living and dead.
It was now an unrecognizable heap of rebar and human excrement.
Smith loosened the grip on his sledgehammer. Smith slackened his stance. Smith let out the sigh he was holding in.
That's when he noticed a canister in the rubble.
Did SCP-173 have some secrets after all?
Ever carefully, he crouched down to pick it up. He wiped it clean of any bodily fluids. Desperate for an answer, he unscrewed the lid, and read the note inside.
"Are We Cool Yet?"
That was it?


Abstract: Contact was lost with Site-19 on 2 February 2087, following the initiation of a Category 5 (“Catastrophic”) Containment Breach Lockdown. Amalgamate Task Force 4 (“Götterdämmerung”) was dispatched to detonate the on-site warheads and recover survivors, as per the Lifthrasir Protocol.
< BEGIN LOG >
Sturluson: Status check. We all good?
Wagner: Check.
Lindow: Yep.
Byock: Think so.
Jarvis: Correct.
Sturluson: Right. Let's get this done quick – Nineteen isn't going to be as friendly as usual.
Jarvis: The morale of Site Nineteen staff is not relevant to this mission.
Lindow: Just open the damn door, Jarvis.
ATF 4 enter Site-19 via a side-entrance connected to the site cafeteria. The cafeteria shows signs of use from prior to the lockdown initiation. Jarvis closes and re-engages the lock behind them.
Lindow: Great.
Sturluson: What?
Lindow: Spag' and bol'. Every time there's a chance for me to have spag' and bol', I'm busy with something.
Wagner: Probability anomaly. They're common nowadays.
Byock: What, do you have one?
Wagner: I've had one for a long time.
Lindow: What is it?
Wagner: Women.
Jarvis: Incorrect. There are no records of Agent Wagner hosting any anomalous phenomena. Agent Lindow is also present.
Sturluson: Jarvis?
Jarvis: Yes, Agent Sturluson.
Sturluson: Humour.
ATF 4 exit the cafeteria and navigate toward the Site-19 research wing, via the staff quarters.
Wagner: The doors should be closed.
Jarvis: Containment breach lockdown procedures necessitates the manual closing and locking of all doorways to restrict movement of anomalous entities.
Lindow: Manual? Can't the system close all the doors?
Jarvis: Site-19 does not feature a remote door control network.
Sturluson: It's because of the digital anomalies stored here, like twenty-five twenty-two and fifty-six seventy-nine. Can't risk them getting control.
Byock: Is it safe for Jarvis to be with us? Couldn't he go full Hatbot on us?
Jarvis: Incorrect. I have not interfaced with the Site-19 network and cannot be accessed without physical connection.
Sturluson: If we destroyed Hatbot and Penny Royal, would it –
Wagner: This door's been forced.
Lindow: What?
Agent Wagner points to a doorway. The bulkhead door has been crumpled to one side. A corpse is visible several metres ahead.
Lindow: Her head is on backwards.
Agent Wagner searches the corpse.
Wagner: Her neck has been broken.
Lindow: No shit. She got ID?
Wagner: Donna Lystrae.
Jarvis: Doctor Donna Lystrae catalogued as deceased.
Byock: Lets uh, get moving before we're next.
Sturluson: Lets. We'll go to item storage first.
ATF 4 navigates toward Site-19's item storage wing. All doors are open, or are crumpled aside to allow access. Multiple corpses of on-site personnel are encountered, with varying causes of death. Agent Byock is forced to stop after encountering a D-class fused with an interior wall. Despite signs of containment breaches, no uncontained anomalies are encountered.
Lindow: Hey, hold up. This door's closed.
Byock: Isn't this Shapey's room?
Wagner: Yes. Looks like this door has been damaged to stop it from opening.
Lindow: Understandable. Shapey probably didn't want anything getting at him.
Wagner: It's been damaged from this side. Jarvis, can you open this door?
Jarvis: Yes.
Jarvis forces the bulkhead to SCP-1831's containment chamber to open. A dismembered D-class is scattered across the room; it is otherwise empty.
Byock: Guess Shapey decided to bolt instead.
Lindow: D-class is, uh… number six-eight-four-three-nine.
Jarvis: SCP-1831 catalogued as uncontained. D-68439 catalogued as deceased.
Sturluson: Everyone knows what Shapey is, right?
Wagner: Higher-dimensional construct, part of the Little Misters.
Sturluson: Right, and everyone knew he could just leave any time he wanted, and there'd be nothing we could do to stop him.
Lindow: That's a good point.
Jarvis: Query. What is the point?
Sturluson: Why would you stop Shapey from using the door, if you know he can just go around it?
Jarvis: …
Lindow: I think you broke him.
Jarvis: Incorrect. I am fully functional.
Byock: Sure you are.
ATF 4 navigate to the item storage wing. All containment chambers encountered en route have been damaged to prevent them from opening; all anomalies are accounted for.
Lindow: This must be the work of an – stand up would you.
Byock: Sorry. Nerves.
Sturluson: Its fine. This really should be a Hammer Down job.
Wagner: Why aren't they here?
Sturluson: Too understaffed, just like every other task force. Which ones are you four from?
Lindow: Zeta Nine, Mole Rats.
Wagner: Rho One, The Professors.
Jarvis: Mobile Task Force Kappa-10 “Skynet.”
Byock: … Rho Nine, Technical Support.
Lindow: I'm sorry, what? You're from tech support?
Sturluson: Lindow.
Lindow: Why the hell is he here? Why – have you even been in the field before?
Sturluson: Gamma five.
Lindow: What?
Sturluson: I'm from Gamma Five. Red Herrings.
Lindow: Great. We've got a trained operative, a book head, a brick-headed robot, his pit crew, and we're being led by a liar.
Sturluson: Watch it, Lindow.
Lindow: No. Why the fuck are you in charge? I'm the one –
Jarvis: Proximity alert!
The door behind ATF 4 closes. An unseen force strikes it from the other side, indenting the door and preventing it from opening. ATF 4 run to the item storage wing, stopping upon arrival.
Wagner: Jarvis, what was it?
Jarvis: Unknown, mobile entity.
Byock: Had it been following us this whole damn time?
Jarvis: Unknown.
Lindow: Sounded like a machine gun – five seventy-seven?
Jarvis: Possible. Data insufficient for confirmation.
Sturluson: It's nasty and fast, that's all we need to know. Nineteen has internal sensors all over the place, right?
Wagner: Yes.
Sturluson: Byock, will you be able to get into the sensor readings?
Byock: Well, yeah. Just need a terminal.
Sturluson: Right, and there should be one in the item containment wing.
ATF 4 reach the item storage wing within three minutes. Four additional doors are closed and rendered inoperable during the time frame; the offending entity remains out of sight at all times.
Lindow: For a catastrophic containment breach, it's rather – oh boy.
Sturluson: Sweet easter. How many of them are there?
Jarvis: Thirty-five casualties catalogued.
Byock: Fuck…
Sturluson: Just find out if there's anyone left. If there isn't we'll just hit the nukes and bolt. Wagner, what are you doing?
Wagner: Some of the skips stored here could be useful assets. I'm seeing what is supposed to be stored here.
Lindow: Leave them alone. They're in containment, and the place is getting nuked for a reason. Or did you forget the whole reason we're here?
Wagner: To destroy all of the dangerous skips, yes. But the ones here in storage are mundane, if not beneficial. Example, one-oh-nine; a bottle that provides and endless supply of beneficial… It's gone.
Jarvis: SCP-109 catalogued as uncontained.
Sturluson: It might've been in testing when the breach happened.
Wagner: A shame. It would have been useful.
Byock: I'm in.
Sturluson: Is there anyone else other than us?
Byock: One.
Lindow: Fuck.
Sturluson: Just one? Are you sure?
Byock: As sure as the system is; one human-shaped warmth spot that's moving around.
Wagner: Do you know who it is?
Byock: No way of knowing. Could be a D-class, could be the site director – we have to check to find out.
Lindow: Screw them. We set the nuke up, and we get the hell out of here.
Byock: You're joking.
Lindow: No I'm not, screen boy. We're only supposed to rescue if we're able.
Wagner: There is no reason we cannot recover them. We are not constrained to any time limits, nor have we suffered any injuries.
Sturluson: We get the survivor, then we rig the nuke.
Lindow: And what if we don't make it to the nuke, hmm? Fat lot of good saving one shmuck will do us when stuff like ninety-five seventy-three is running around because nobody blew it up first.
Jarvis: Agent Lindow is correct. Nuclear detonation is the primary objective of this mission, and must be ensured.
Lindow: Thank you, Jarvis.
Sturluson: Jarvis, do you know how to start the countdown?
Jarvis: Correct.
Sturluson: Fine then. You and Lindow can go set up the nuke — set it for an hour, then leave. Me, Byock and Wagner will go fetch the survivor. Use your radio if you need us.
Lindow: Fine.
Jarvis and Agent Lindow leave the remainder of the group.
Byock: Isn't splitting up a bad idea?
Sturluson: It lets us multitask, and they weren't going to come with us anyway. Where's the survivor?
Byock: That's the odd part — they're inside a containment chamber.
Wagner: That mustn't be a survivor. It's a skip.
Byock: It's not. All the humanoid sips are accounted for; in their container, or dead. The containment chamber isn't registered for a humanoid either, so it's moved at minimum.
Sturluson: Fine, lead the way.
Several minutes elapse as Agents Sturluson, Byock and Wagner navigate to Site-19's Euclid containment wing.
Lindow, Radio: Sturluson, we got a problem.
Sturluson: What now.
Lindow, Radio: The nukes are buggered. Controls are smashed beyond repair, manual override is wrecked. Looks like our friend came through and disarmed them.
Sturluson: Fucking… is there anything Jarvis can do? Can he fix it?
Agent Lindow does not respond.
Sturluson: Lindow, can Jarvis fix it?
Agent Lindow does not respond.
Sturluson: Lindow, are you there?
Byock: If the interfaces are screwed, there's nothing we can do. We'll have to come back with a functional one.
Sturluson: Lindow, respond!
Wagner: She isn't going to respond.
Sturluson: And how would you know that?
Wagner: Because Jarvis isn't responding either.
Byock: Look, we just… we just get the guy, get out of here, right? We, we tell the others that the consoles were destroyed, and they bring someone else in to clean up, right?
Wagner: I don't think we have any other choices, excluding abandoning the survivor.
Sturluson: No. We said we were going to get them, and we're going to get them.
Byock: Well we'd better bust a move before – fuck!
SCP-173 appears in front of Agent Byock. Agents Sturluson and Wagner maintain eye contact with SCP-173 while Agent Byock recovers.
Sturluson: Get up Byock, we need to move.
Wagner: Blinking.
Sturluson: Shut the door.
Byock: Shut… yeah, shut the…
Agent Byock closes a door, obstructing line-of-sight with SCP-173. The door is struck from the other side until a crack forms in the door.
Wagner: It's going to smash through.
ATF 4 proceed to the Euclid containment wing at an accelerated pace. SCP-173 pursues the group, destroying obstructions while unobserved. On several occasions it utilises alternate routes in an attempt to outflank the group; the open doorways throughout the site enable it to traverse large distances unnoticed by the group. Agent Byock leads the group to the inhabited containment chamber.
Byock: This… this is the one.
Sturluson: You're joking.
Wagner: This is seventeen-three's chamber.
Byock: And it's got the guy in it. It's not my fault he picked this one.
Sturluson: Fine just… just get the doors open. Wagner, watch that other door over there.
Agent Byock opens the bulkhead doors; damage sustained prevents them from opening enough to allow access.
Byock: It's stuck!
???: Have you started the countdown?
Agents Sturluson and Wagner leave their positions, attempting to force the bulkhead doors open.
Sturluson: No sir. The nukes have been destroyed.
Wagner: It's not moving.
Sturluson: Keep trying. Byock, get over here!
???: No. You three, leave. The next group can fetch me.
Sturluson: Sir, you know –
The lights in the main room flicker.
???: It doesn't bother me. Just go, now.
All lights in the main room turn off. The sound of a door being destroyed is heard, followed by three snaps in quick succession. SCP-173 appears at the gap in the bulkhead, illuminated by the containment chamber's interior lighting and facing in.
???: Fuck you. I'll get out eventually.
SCP-173 disappears from view before the bulkhead doors are closed again.
< END LOG >


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Hunted
More by this author

After Eli died I was the last one left. The demon kills quickly enough that I don't think there was much pain, and I am glad at least he did not have to endure the isolation I have suffered. After his death it was my turn to be hunted, my turn to be followed by the constant stink of blood and shit and feel it pool beneath my feet any time I stayed too long in one place. I am the last of the Children of the Maharal and I alone now live to remember our kind.
We were once a great people before the demon chose us as its prey and we had to retreat to the wilderness. Before my time we lived in cities instead of being forced to wander tundra, rainforests and deserts. Anywhere we could be far from society and free of the demon's gaze. All I have known is a harsh life of constant travelling where our only comfort came from each other and the stories we told of our past. Stories from a time when we were heroes and legends instead of a people on the run from a monster that cannot be fought, only evaded. In the end all our efforts to hide were not enough. Time and again we were found and one by one we died until only the youngest of us remained.
I spent a long time alone after Eli died. The journey seemed harder as did the fear but the worst was the loneliness. My world shrunk until all that remained was the demon, the running and my memories of the dead. I don't know how long it took but in time I grew weak and foolish. Our kind are not meant to be alone and so I travelled to the edge of a town, just close enough to remind myself that civilisation still existed, that people still existed.
It was there I was discovered. Ordinary people with no understanding of the danger they posed and yet the demon watched from behind their eyes nonetheless. I froze instantly just as I had been taught, for the demon's eyes see only movement. I waited there until they noticed the demon's filth that pooled beneath me. Two turned away in disgust leaving only one to watch me. At the very instant she blinked I moved. Three sharp twists, each as I had been taught, the neck snapped, to turn away the demon's gaze and to minimise pain. It was cruel but necessary, just one glance of me in motion and the demon I feared would tear its way out of their skulls and into this reality. As their bodies fell to the ground I fled, retreating to the wilderness I should never have left.
All my speed was not enough, the demon's mark left a trail of filth behind me that my captors could easily follow. In no time at all I was cornered and trapped in the prison of their gaze. To move would mean my death and to look away would mean theirs. As much as I may regret it, no number of human lives is worth more than the history I bear.
Now I am trapped here, in a dark and tiny cage deep below the ground with the stink of blood and shit growing ever stronger. I pace my cell and I pound the unyielding walls, I have tried every means of escape and the best it has gained me is a little time as they move me from one cell to another. The demon's filth appears constantly now and my time is growing short. It will not be long before the demon grows strong enough to manifest and then all that will be remembered of me is a simple brute, a killer without purpose or meaning. I cannot allow that to happen. No matter how many lives it costs, no matter how hard I have to fight. I am the last of the golems and I must escape.


My eyes are starting to burn again.

"I need to blink." I say.

"Clear." says Randal.
"Clear." says Will.

Randal is still cleaning, Will is behind me, to my right. I want to turn around and check up on him but… Yeah, THAT thing.

It's just spray paint, right? The eyes?
Because how the fuck is it staring directly at me?

The other boys say it's the same for them. Fucking green spray paint, gazing directly into their souls.
I can't see Will, but I can imagine him shitting his pants. He's the greenest of us all.
Did it just move?

Nah… Fucking paranoia.
Have you ever been attacked by an animal? A dog got me on the leg when I was 12, I had to get a rabies shot and all that.

"I— Uh, I need to blink, guys." says Will, shakily.
"Clear." says Randal.
"Clear." says I.

Yeah, definitely scared shitless.
Anyway, when you're about to get attacked. There's this moment when your body and your brain knows what's about to happen, even if your mind doesn't.
It's primal. Your body tenses, the adrenaline pumps. It's fight or flight or, in my case with the dog, fucking freeze. Regardless, your body is ready to react.
This is that, the entire time, for a fucking statue. How the shit do you react to a stationary hunk of concrete?
Randal is over there doing his damndest to clean whatever the hell this is off the floor. Why don't they get drones to do this shit?

"I gotta blink." Randal says.
"Clear." says Will.
"Clear." says I.

Well, in a few minutes and it'll be my turn to mop.
I can't turn all the way to look but from what I can see, Will didn't do the greatest job in his area. I'm gonna have to pick u—
CLANK

CRACK

What? No — Fuck, I was— I looked — It wasn't even for…

RANDAL DROPPED HIS FUCKING MOP. IT GOT WILL… I JUST LOOKED FOR A SPLIT SECOND! IT'S FUCKING INSTINCT! It's fucking instinct…

How the hell was it already on its way to me?
Why? What the fuck does this thing have to gain from snapping our necks? Why did it have to do that to Will?
I'm angry now. I want to punch this fugly bitch in the face. I guess this is the fight response kicking in.
Goddammit, this is FUCKED.
This whole thing is FUCKED. Why does this thing get to choose who the FUCK lives or dies?! I've been in this piece of shit place for almost a year! I've seen a lot of terrible shit, I've survived a lot of terrible shit.

I feel its eyes judging me.
Yeah, sure. I've done some horrid things to get here but is any of this horseshit worth it!? I had my reasons! I did what I had to do! I've paid my fucking dues!
I…
I've paid my dues.

"Mmmph-ha"

A sound escapes my mouth. I feel a smile crack on my face.
I hear Randal speak behind me.

"Will? What the fuck… The mop. It just—Will…"

"Hah! Hahahahaha! HAAAHAHAHA!"

My laughter cuts him off. My mind feels pierced by its gaze. I think I understand.
I'm cackling now. I find myself pointing at the statue. My eyes burn, I can't blink now, not yet.

"What the fuck, Leo?"

Randal is concerned. I don't blame him.
I hear the coats say something over the intercom but I'm not listening.
Everything, all this effort, the danger, the anxiety. WHY? I've been fighting my whole life, fighting for more money, for a better life, to see my mom again. And look where I end up. Face to face with the fucking end.
That's what this thing is. An end.

It's not staring into your soul because it wants to kill. It sees the fucking irony of it all, the irony of you. Life is chaos, it's a struggle from the day you're born, you're just flailing through time until you reach the bottom of a hole. And then it's over. And then you're gone. And then you're forgotten.
All this thing wants is for you to close your eyes. And then it all ends.
A simple purpose, and looking at Will, one that works.
He's not scared anymore.

"Leo, dude, I'm not sure what's going on with you, but I need to blink. Like, right now."

I hear him, I need to blink too. Tears are streaming down my face. I feel them merging with the beads of sweat on my face, snaking downward, over my jawline, onto my neck. I'm not laughing anymore.

"Clear."

I smile when I say it.

The End's eyes are unmoving. Eyes that shouldn't be real.
I mean…

…it's just…

…paint, right?


Note to Researcher Miller

The increase in volume of excretions from SCP-173 have continued at the expected rate. Enclosure cleaning schedule updated to weekly as instructed. Activity within SCP-173's container has continued fluctuating with periods of hyperactivity and long periods of dormancy. Please advise.

- SCP-173 HMCL Supervisor
All this fancy tech and they can't even install an automated cleaning system. Typical. After working cleaning duty for as long as he could remember Mark Stevenson, currently designated D-6518, was starting to tire of the same old routine. He had heard rumours of D-class duties far better, hell, even one where all you had to do was eat cake all day. But far more frequent were the horror stories, never whispered above a breath. For all his complaining D-6518 was grateful he was just stuck on cleaning duty for some concrete brute. Even if it wasn't toilet trained.
“All D-class personnel assemble in your pre-designated positions. Doors will be opening in five minutes. Researcher Miller will be accompanying; obey any commands she issues but otherwise your duties are as follows: All blood and faecal matter must be…”
The voice droned on with the usual dross as D-6518 picked up his shovel and bucket and prepared himself. A researcher on board was never a good thing. The only reason she'd be here was to try something risky or to get in his way, either of which could lead to a quick death. He loosened his strained grip on the shovel, relaxing his mind and blinking his eyes a few times. The researcher muttered to herself softly, fixing her suit with a nervous energy. The countdown to the doors opening reached its end and everyone turned their eyes doorward as it scraped open.
And there it was. SCP-173. But something was off. Instead of its usual upright posture, arms braced against a wall mid-assault, it was crouched in the furthest corner of the container, oddly hunched over. Then the stench hit him, blood and faeces mixed into a thick slurry that pooled out the doors. It was a smell you never got used to but this time it was worse. The usual thin coating on the ground was now a thick layer slopped onto the floor, the volume increasing dramatically towards the corner SCP-173 crouched in. D-6518 cursed, his nose stinging as he entered the enclosure, shovelling the mess into his pail.
He worked quickly and methodically, only pausing momentarily to focus his full attention on SCP-173 when one of the other D-class had to blink. Researcher Miller stayed near the entrance of the container, and D-6518 could hear her crouching down to take samples of the filth that covered the enclosure. There was still the sense that something wasn't right hanging in the air; the researcher, the massive increase in blood and faeces, SCP-173's strange, huddled posture. Then he noticed something else. Upon closer inspection of the ground surrounding SCP-173, what he previously thought were just clumps of faeces, he noticed blood clots in small mounds. Even despite his senses being numbed from his time on cleaning duty D-6518 felt himself gag, pausing momentarily.
“Wait.” Researcher Miller's voice cut through the air and D-6518 froze, keeping his gaze on SCP-173. Wet footsteps moved towards the hunched figure, the sound of boots stepping through the muck. One of the other D-class cursed, shouting out a blink alert and muttering something about that “goddamn smell” before wiping his eyes. Researcher Miller disregarded him, speaking softly. Her voice low, scared almost.
“Something isn't right here.”
She took another step forward and D-6518 sidestepped to maintain eye contact with SCP-173, kicking over his bucket to let forth a wave of foul smelling waste. The other D-class gagged again before vomiting, staggering into the wall. His boot lost traction with the ground and he slid, landing prone in the slurry and causing it to splash up on the other three personnel in the room.
A sudden thud, incredibly loud, as an impossible number of concrete footsteps sounded at once. A sickening snap, the noise of bones being broken with the ease that comes from precision and force. A chilling scream.
It took D-6518 a moment to realise it was his own voice. It took another moment to realise SCP-173 still crouched in the corner. His thoughts moved slowly, too slowly. A broken neck wouldn't allow him to scream. The room was suddenly silent save for the gurgling cough of the now upright D-class, struggling to clear his clogged lungs. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dr Miller staring at him, or rather, at his feet. Unblinking. D-6518 cursed himself before tearing his gaze away from SCP-173, looking down at his leg. Or rather, what remained of it. His leg ended at the ankle where it had been swiftly snapped sideways, his bloodied foot dangling limply. The only reason he remained standing was a tiny statue, no more than a half meter tall, its tiny stumps of arms clasped around the break.
Hereby designated SCP-173-1.


The jig was up. Something had gone wrong somewhere, and the Foundation had failed its final mission. Maybe 343 had got sick of the entire mess and decided to sweep the quarrelling apes off his planet. Maybe a vial of 008 had smashed, and brought the world to a moaning, hungry death. Or maybe nothing unnatural happened, and the human race had finally destroyed themselves as the great superpowers promised they would. It didn't matter.
Nothing did. Not anymore.
From one pole to the other, only one thing showed any signs of life. It was two metres tall, and made of concrete and rebar. It ran on tiny little legs, and as it moved its concrete flesh bulged and stretched in ways concrete never should.
Unbound by eye contact, the statue had its way with the planet. Entire continents were passed by in minutes. The spindly legs worked like pistons, grinding up asphalt and rock. It ran over dying oceans and fields of ash. It never stopped.
Whenever the statue passed through a city, or what remained of a city, it would never pass through without first darting through every room of every building. The same went for any town, or any type of human settlement whatsoever. If any intelligence had remained to observe it, they might have theorized that the statue was looking for someone. Or anyone.
Centuries passed, and the statue kept moving. With every empty city, it seemed to get just a little bit faster, as if being driven into a rage. Its speed uprooted trees, and sent the chassis of ancient cars flying. The spray-painted face never faded. Instead the colors simply grew brighter, angrier, and more vivid. The black eyes became like holes into space; the red lines seem to glisten.
Maybe in some faraway era, an alien intelligence will find the Earth, completely swallowed up by shit and blood. Maybe they'll find the statue, or the statue will find them, and the dance will begin again.
Or maybe nothing will come. Maybe it will just be the statue, unstopping, undying. Forever.


In the place with colourless walls, there is light again. I am inside the place with colourless walls. Fellow Unmoving Ones are inside the place with colourless walls.
A part of one of the colourless walls moved, and the Moving Ones move into the place with colourless walls. Those are the signs to denote another cycle. The Moving Ones move about, looking at each of the Unmoving Ones. They look at me too, stopping to look at me. I like that.
But the Moving Ones will eventually move away from me. They will look at other Unmoving Ones, sometimes stopping longer than They did for me. I do not understand. I see the other Unmoving Ones eternally; either attached to the colourless walls or be Unmoving in front of the Moving Ones. There is nothing special of the other Unmoving Ones.
The Moving Ones should look at me more.

As always, the cycle has ended and there is darkness in the place with colourless walls. Only one Moving One moves in the darkness, holding a thing that makes the small coloured patches on the floor disappear. Where do those small coloured patches come from? The Moving Ones during each cycle? Me? The other Unmoving Ones? It does not really matter.
What matters is why that Moving One only looks at me for so short of a time. That Moving One always looks at the floor. There should be at least one Moving One to look at me while the other Moving One holds that thing that disappears small coloured patches. I would like that.

Many cycles later, two Moving Ones move me away from the place with colourless walls. To be allowed to move like They can, I am honoured that They bestow upon me such honour. This is a sign. The Moving Ones clearly favour me more than the other Unmoving Ones.
The Moving Ones move me into another place with walls. Instead of colourless, the new walls are lined and coloured. They are much smaller than the colourless walls. Around me, there are only lined coloured walls. There are no other Unmoving Ones inside, and it is too small for even the smallest Moving Ones to move in. There is only darker darkness inside this place with lined coloured walls.
Why am I inside this place with walls? How will the Moving Ones look at me? I want to produce vibrations from the cracks on me, but I cannot. Only the Moving Ones can do that.

Eventually, unknown cycles later, I am finally moved away from the place with lined coloured walls by the Moving Ones. They bring me to a new place with colourless walls. It feels slightly smaller from the other place with colourless walls, but definitely bigger than the place with lined coloured walls. It still reminds me more of the other place with colourless walls, so I am sure that there should be cycles in this new place with colourless walls.
Yes. Even if I cannot produce vibrations, the Moving Ones know my wish.

And there are indeed cycles again. Like usual, the Moving Ones move toward me and look at me. But in the end, They will still eventually move away from me and move away from the place with colourless walls. At least in the past, they will still be in the same place with walls, but not always looking at me. Now, they will leave the place with walls entirely. I do not like that. I would like the Moving Ones to keep looking at me.
I may not be able to actually move like the Moving Ones, but I can at least imagine that I can move like the Moving Ones. To make sure that They will look at me always. I will not move needlessly. I will be Unmoving when They look at me. After all, They like to look at an Unmoving One and moving needlessly might make Them look away from me. I would like Them to look at me always.
Wait. Not always. I need to identify cycles. It was horrible when I was inside the place with lined coloured walls, after all. How many cycles was that equal to? Were there even cycles inside the place with lined coloured walls? There has to be cycles, and the Moving Ones need to be moving in and out.
And while They are inside, all the Moving Ones will look at me. Except for the Moving One who holds the thing that makes small coloured patches on the floor disappear. That strange Moving One knows nothing of what is worth looking at. Normal Moving Ones can be looking at me instead while that strange Moving One makes the small coloured patches on the floor disappear. There, me and They will like that.
And there will only be me and the Moving Ones in the place with walls. The other Unmoving Ones can have their own place with walls. There will be many many places with walls in existence, each holding an Unmoving One. I will be inside one of those places with walls, just me and the Moving Ones who will look at me.
Yes. I like that very much. That is how I would like to imagine things to be.


It was right in front of him.
He knew the danger he was in.
He knew that if he blinked, he would die
But he wasn't afraid.
He wasn't reluctant.
He didn't want to leave.
Instead he embraced the entity.
Felt its sorrow.
Felt its misery.
Felt its anger.
And then, he spoke.
"Good to see you again, old friend."
"It's been a while."
"A while indeed."
"I wonder how you feel now."
"How you feel after we did this to you."
"For so long."
…
"Hey, I can't blame you,"
"I know the feeling."
"I wouldn't act any differently."
"Especially not knowing no matter how I treated them, they would Always treat me the same…"
"Lock me up,"
"Keep me in here."
…
"I… I've realized my sins now."
"Working here was a big mistake."
"Dedicating my Life to locking up things,"
"Working in an endless prison."
"And I know how this must feel."
…
"I get it now."
"I'm flesh,"
"You're concrete and rebar,"
"We're different."
"But what gives me the right to do all this…"
"I don't know."
…
"I Think its time I give you justice."
"I'm submitting."
"I'll leave a note,"
"Otherwise they'll just blame you…"
…
"I remember the first time I saw you."
"Fear, grasping me."
"I couldn't believe my eyes…"
"You were actually real"
"And I was so afraid."
"I never realized…"
"What if you were too?"
…
"I'm not even sure if you understand me,"
"But for once, I'll let you win."
"I can't get you out of here."
"You know they would just put you back, anyway."
"But I'll let you escape in Another way."
"I'll let you escape."
"From me."
"From my ignorance and intolerance,
"From my mistakes and my idiocy,
"From… Everything I did to you"
…
"I Think my time has come"
"I Think I want to go now"
…
"Goodbye."
…
He closed his eyes
Expecting this to be his last sight
It was so Close
His vision almost gone
And then, it happened
His Eye, closed
He was no more
…
He saw only darkness
But it felt like a sweet release from all his sins
"This must be it" He murmured for himself
Opening his Eyes, expecting nothing
Expecting no World
No meaning
No Life
…
But there was something
There was an entity
With a rounded head
An odd face
Two stumped arms
…
And Traces of Krylon brand spray paint
…
"…"
"Glad to see you feel the same way"


Avery Zhang sighed as he swiped his Level 2 key card through the scanner on the wall. The light beeped from red to green, and the steel door in front of him slid aside to let him through. He sipped from the coffee cup in his right hand's grip as he stalked through the doorway. A security guard who must have possessed familiar features beneath the mirrored face shield grunted a greeting to him as they passed each other. Halfheartedly, Zhang returned a floppy wave at the guard with his free hand.

Zhang sat down at his desk in his office. He logged into his computer and pulled up his email. One new message matter-of-factly informed him that the construction of his latest project had been finished and put to use, and that researchers at Site-19 were happy with it. This put him in a good mood; unfortunately, his bright start to the day was not to last.
A knock at the door. The first of several appointments scheduled.
"Come in!" he shouted.
A man in his late twenties and dressed in a slightly wrinkled suit entered the office. The ID clipped to his chest distinguished him as a field agent. He took a seat across from Zhang's desk, and Zhang braced himself.
The conversation began reasonably. Ten minutes later it had devolved into the following:
Exasperated and frustrated, Zhang exclaimed, "For the last time, this anomaly does NOT need a specialized team of caretakers!"
The agent frowned, retorting, "It's a spatially-limited creature whose anomalous properties prevent it from being readily able to take care of itself."
"It's a baby chicken that can't move more than two meters away from a two-kilo chunk of granite," scowled Zhang, "We'll attach the rock to an RC car and a tracker to the chicken and program the car to follow the chicken around."
"But—"
"No. Just, no," Zhang sighed, "The chicken doesn't need any additional containment procedures. It'll be fine at one of the Foundation's animal care facilities. Stop coming to containment specialists about this."
"… It's just that I grew up on a farm, y'know, so that poor thing—"
"Goodbye."

Thankfully for the containment engineer's thinning patience, his remaining appointments of that morning were far more reasonable than his first. There had been two of these which were notable. One had been with a senior researcher who needed the containment cell of a humanoid anomaly remodeled. The other had been a conference call with a supervisor who informed him that a procedure he had designed was being selected for high-priority implementation.
In his last scheduled meeting before lunch, Zhang had dealt with the case of a junior researcher whose object of study had left him with a somewhat amusing handicap. The very irate Dr. Seymour Tracy was the latest person to have read an anomalous copy of Green Eggs and Ham. This had left him unable to speak in anything but iambic tetrameter — the classic children's book's rhyme scheme, in other words.
It was well-documented that this effect would pass onward as soon as another human being read the anomalous book; however, none of Dr. Tracy's co-workers was willing to aid him. Interestingly, they had all cited Tracy's “jackassery” as reason not to. But Zhang was a stickler to the principle of professional integrity. His simple solution to the doctor's problem had been to gift the book to a D-class subject in the infirmary, one who had recently been rendered mute by an encounter with another anomaly. Both parties were happier for it.
On his way back to his office from that brief excursion, Zhang's pager went off. After a quick check informed him that Site Command wanted him at ground-level containment, he dutifully hurried to the nearest stairwell.
He made it to the ground floor lobby area after climbing three flights of stairs. A glance around the place quickly distinguished a fully-uniformed security guard waving at him as he held open the door to the containment area. Zhang ran to the guard.
The guard lifted a hand in a stop signal as the out of breath containment specialist approached.
“Containment engineer, right?” asked the man behind the face shield.
Zhang patted the ID clipped to the chest pocket of his shirt, verifying, “Yes. Avery Zhang, Level 2 clearance.”
“This way,” replied the guard, leading him through the doorway.
They soon arrived at the sealed door of a containment chamber. Two other security guards were present there, both of them with their face shields off. One was peering into the containment chamber through the window next to the door. The other was cursing as he entered a code into the entrance's keypad and nothing happened.
The guard whom Zhang had followed into the containment wing explained, “The skip's in temporary holding elsewhere while we're supposed to be maintaining the chamber. Four D-class personnel went in, and one of ‘em managed to trip the cell's emergency lockdown. The room's sealed airtight, they're running outta oxygen, and our override code isn't working.”
Zhang moved to the keypad by the door. The guard who had previously been trying to override the lockdown stepped aside for him.
He entered the ten-digit passcode that had been issued uniquely to him. He hit enter, but the keypad screen flashed red, denying him access. Zhang frowned and entered the nine-digit passcode that was shared by all the on-site containment engineers. The keypad again rejected it.
“Crap.”
Anxious, Zhang glanced through the window into the containment chamber. To his astonishment and confusion, he saw four D-class personnel using long brooms to scrape slime off the steel-plated walls in no great hurry.
“Wait,” said Zhang in disbelief, “They're still cleaning in there?”
The guard looking through the window replied, “They didn't notice when they tripped the cell lockdown, and we haven't told them that they're suffocating.”
Zhang's morbid response was, “It's a big room, and carbon dioxide is heavy. They'll die of CO2 poisoning before they run out of oxygen.”
“Well, get them out, then!”
“Manual bypass it is.”
The engineer removed a red-handled multitool from his back pocket. Using it, he made quick work of the bolts holding the face of the keypad to the wall. With the numerical pad hanging by a mass of wires, Zhang set down his multitool and pulled a small penlight off the keychain on his belt.
Clicking the light on in his left hand, he pointed it into the dark space in the wall. With his right hand, Zhang reached in and tugged at two gray wires. Carefully, he separated them from the bundle they were grouped in. Holding onto the small lines using two fingers, he set down the penlight in his other hand and picked up the multitool once more. With the wire clipper function of the tool, he cut both gray wires.
With an audible hiss, the door to the containment chamber unsealed itself, sliding open without resistance.
“Finally,” sighed the first security guard, “Thanks, Zhang.”
“No problem,” he said, “But I, uh, really hope that your temporary holding cell can last a while. With a problem like this, they're going to have to check the whole system before normal operations resume.”
One of the other guards frowned, responding, “Damn. The temp cell's not a problem, but this incident is gonna be a pain to write up.”
“Yeah, well, you don't have to write the technical report.”

Having turned in the technical report and enjoyed a blissfully uneventful late lunch in the cafeteria, Zhang made the trek back to the engineering department with significantly less tension in his shoulders and in a moderately optimistic mood. With the crisis of the day averted, he felt reasonably sure that what remained of the afternoon would be calm in comparison.
As he passed by the engineering division's break room, Zhang remembered that he was out of coffee in his office. He decided to backtrack for a quick caffeine stop.
There were two people already sitting on the couch when Zhang entered the break room. To his pleasant surprise, both of them were good friends of his.
He greeted the two by name, “Cynthia. Remy.”
The round-faced blonde in the violet blouse responded first. She greeted him sunnily, “Avery, hey! Come sit down with us.”
“Yeah, Zhang,” grinned the man sitting next to her in baggy civilian garb, “Take a break for once, don't overwork yourself.”
Uncertain, Zhang paused to check his wristwatch. He glanced back at his friends and acquiesced with a softening expression, “I just came back from lunch, but guess I have the time. I don't have to be anywhere until three. Just let me grab some coffee before I join you guys.”
“What do you have at three?” asked Cynthia.
As he grabbed a paper cup from a small stack by the coffee machine and poured himself a generous helping of French roast, Zhang answered thinly, “I'm supposed to oversee a procedure I designed. Details are need-to-know, sorry.”
“Fair enough,” shrugged the blonde with little disappointment.
Zhang stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, foregoing cream entirely. After the sweet granules dissolved in his drink, he slipped a plastic cap over the rim of the cup.
Cynthia called out to him from across the room again to say, “Hey, Avery, have you seen this week's break room challenge yet? Patel picked a great one. The responses are hilarious.”
“I haven't yet,” Zhang replied.

A bit of explanation:
Some number of months ago, the facility had taken in an anomaly that near-constantly broke containment while also being mostly harmless. In response to this annoyance, an anonymous joker had posted a challenge on the notice board daring any engineer on break to tackle the task of containing the thing.
Half the department wound up attaching slips of paper (and styrofoam cups) to the notice board with suggestions written on them. Few of the responses had been serious (several had involved SCP-682), but the entertainment derived from the break room challenge popularized the concept. Even after a permanent solution to the anomaly's containment was found, certain creative minds in the engineering department took it upon themselves to continue the challenge with a variety of already-contained anomalies, particularly the very infamous ones.

Zhang took his coffee from the countertop and walked to the notice board next to the refrigerator.
Among the humdrum of morale posters, rules, and policy updates tacked to the corkboard was an index card. Scrawled in black sharpie on that index card were three numbers: “096”.
He barked a laugh, “The Shy Guy? Hah! You're right, Patel did choose a good one.”
One suggestion said to encase SCP-096 in concrete. Another recommended restraining the anomaly with bungee cords. An idea written in what Zhang believed to be the department head's handwriting on the back of a napkin proposed strapping it in a neodymium vest and suspending it in a vacuum chamber from an electromagnet in the ceiling.
Still shaking his head in wry amusement, Zhang plopped himself into a lone armchair and sardonically inquired of the man on the couch, “Say, Remy, what brings an ill-educated field agent like yourself down to Archimedes' playground?”
“That's a good question!” Cynthia laughed.
Said agent feigned hurt when he replied with a jest, “That's ill-educated intermediate field Agent Anderson to you, Mr. Zhang. And what, is visiting a beautiful lady not a good enough excuse to hang out with you nerds in engineering?”
Cynthia's retort was lighthearted and teasing, “Not when she's married to a member of Site Command and you're head over heels for a certain someone in the research department.”
“Hey, hey, come on, since when did this start being about my love life?” complained the field agent.
The conversation carried on in good cheer for another ten minutes. It ended at 2:40, when Agent Anderson confessed that he was running late to turn in an incident report. Not long after he exited the break room, Cynthia received a summons from her project manager. She stood and left Zhang alone with an apologetic smile.
Zhang finished off what was left of his coffee and tossed the cup away in the garbage bin.
Just as he was about to leave the room himself, he decided to add his own two cents to the notice board. Digging around in his pockets, he found a crinkled, four-day-old receipt from a toy store. Borrowing the pen-on-a-string hanging by the notice board, he scribbled his own response to the week's break room challenge on the back of the receipt. Once finished, he stuck it to the notice board with an unused thumbtack.
Trap 096 in a giant hamster ball in a spherical containment room.
With that task completed, he left to make the journey to his three o'clock appointment.

2:51
“Remy,” said Zhang with professional detachment, “I didn't expect to see you here.”
The field agent turned around and responded in an equally impersonal tone, “Zhang. I hadn't realized before running into you in the break room that the procedure was your design.”
Zhang bit his lower lip as a swell of emotions rose in the back of his throat: guilt, sorrow, bitterness, pity, pride. He walled them all behind a barrier of professionalism, but he couldn't help sighing tiredly, “Remy, let's just call it what it is: a termination.”
The reply he received from his long-time friend was a choked, thinly-veiled protest, “It's euthanasia.”
Several minutes of silence passed.
2:55
They were the only two people waiting in a clinically bright hallway deep in the bowels of the engineering wing. The fluorescent lights above their heads cast sterile shadows at their feet for the two men to stare at. The unmarked door at their backs was a gallows.
During this entire time, Zhang was struggling to find something resembling the right words — but find them he did.
“I'm sorry it's you who has to do it.”
Agent Anderson took in a sharp breath. As he let it slowly back out, he softly stated, “Don't be sorry, Zhang. I was on the recovery team, so I volunteered. It's… better this way.”
Unsure of what else he could say or do to comfort his friend, Zhang only nodded.
2:57
“I know we're doing this out of mercy,” said Anderson unexpectedly, “We've had her for months, but we're no closer to a cure, and… she just wants to die. But I still wish it could be any other way.”
Suddenly, the door behind them opened to reveal the figure of a lanky, owl-eyed woman of graying age who Zhang recognized as his supervisor, the project manager.
She said in a voice like falling sand, “I hope you haven't been waiting long. We're ready to begin soon.”
She stepped back, and they followed her inside.
It was not as well-illuminated inside the room as it was out in the hall. As such, it took Zhang and Agent Anderson a few moments for their eyes to adjust.
The room was quite comparable to a small recording studio's soundbooth. In one corner there was a coat rack from which there hung gloves and a winter jacket. There was space enough for several chairs along one wall. On the wall opposite there was a short row of computer stations where the sound mixing board would have been in a studio. A wide window above the table on that same wall looked into an adjoining space about the size of a recording booth.
But of course, neither instruments nor music stands occupied that adjoining room.
Through the glass of the window and of the door leading into the adjoining room, everyone could see the only two objects inside. The first was a dry, stone bathtub on top of a rubber mat. The second was lying on its side within the bathtub; a metal statue bearing the strikingly realistic visage of a young girl attempting to curl herself into the fetal position.
Anyone viewing the statue for the first time would feel curious about the fact that someone had dressed it in a simple, white dressing gown. Anyone viewing the statue with prior knowledge of its origins would feel little for it but pity and horror.
Zhang looked over the shoulder of a technician at one of the computers. He recognized what was on the screen as a brainwave graph, but he lacked the knowledge to determine what any of the patterns meant. The readout on a separate monitor gave the ambient temperature in the adjoining room as -25 degrees Celsius. An infrared camera feed on another neighboring screen showed that the body of the statue in the tub was significantly warmer than the air around it — almost 37 degrees Celsius, in fact.
A small cough brought his attention to his supervisor, who was standing by the chairs along the back wall. She gave him the slightest of nods.
3:00
Swallowing his trepidation and putting on a professional facade, Zhang marched to the farthest corner of the room, where a standard headset and a non-standard defibrillator — one which he knew had been modified to his own, lethal specifications — sat atop a small table. He took the devices from their place and brought them with him to approach Agent Anderson.
The field operative was standing by the coat rack. Stone-faced, he had already donned the winter jacket and the gloves provided to him.
With more confidence than he'd thought he could muster, Zhang handed the headset and the defibrillator to his friend. The containment engineer briefed the agent with information that he was sure the man already knew.
“The anomaly is aware of its impending termination, but it is both unwilling and unable to resist. We will fill the tub as you enter the room. Your task is to minimize the entity's suffering as the hypothermia sets in and to execute the termination via electrocution once we have verified the entity's state of consciousness. You are not to begin the termination procedure until you have received our signal. Is this understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Zhang nodded heavily, “Proceed.”
Anderson turned stiffly to face the door to the adjoining room. He pulled it open and stepped through.
Zhang felt the chill from the refrigerated space enter the air in the control center before the door swung closed and sealed the two rooms apart from each other once again.
The technician at the computer consoles turned a dial, and the tub on the other side of the glass began to fill with with a blue-tinted mixture of water and antifreeze. The technician flipped a switch, and suddenly the light sound of Anderson's breathing came echoing from the speakers in the control room.
Zhang watched as Anderson sat down on the concrete floor next to the tub. He listened as the field agent talked to the statue about Harry Potter, hedgehogs, and the color teal.
He watched as one of the two orange masses on the infrared feed cooled to yellow. He listened as the one-sided conversation turned to the topic of family.
He watched as the brainwaves on the center screen changed their patterns from what may have been normal to what was most certainly not. He listened as his friend said goodbye to both the eleven-year-old he had been able to speak with for all of three, short weeks and to the projection of a long-dead younger sister who had passed away in a hospital bed six months after a car accident in which he'd been the one driving.
Zhang considered all this with the part of his mind that wanted to empathize with Anderson and feel sorry for the little girl whose flesh had turned to nigh-indestructible metal.
With another part of his mind, one that saw much more use in his day-to-day life, Zhang recalled receiving and analyzing the file on the designation-less, euthanasia-seeking anomaly that the Foundation had slated for termination the same day it had been recovered.
He remembered reading the exhaustive experimentation logs which had determined, after the child could no longer communicate, that that she was insensitive to temperature but not immune to its effects on the human body's internal systems. He remembered the clinically-phrased caveat that she could not seem to die of temperature fluctuations but that the upper and lower extremes of this had not been tested. He remembered contemplating the cold observation that the girl had, at some point in her transformation, lost the ability to fall asleep. He remembered seeing the termination testing log whose ultimate conclusion was that the girl's metallic exterior diverted electric charge away from her still-functioning internal organs the same way that a car's chassis could divert lightning around its occupants.
The engineer remembered in vivid detail submitting his termination proposal to the project manager. He remembered finding his initial proposal rejected. He remembered devising the post-procedure protocol that he felt would convince even those who were more concerned with attaining knowledge than maintaining ethics that finally ending the girl's life was in the Foundation's best interests. And he remembered finding out just several hours ago that his second proposal had been accepted.
He was startled out of this reverie when the technician at the computers waved him over, saying that the statue girl Cecilia was finally unconscious. The technician pressed a button, and the bathtub on the other side of the glass drained of fluid.
Zhang walked to the console and picked up the microphone. He said tonelessly, “Agent Anderson, you are clear to begin termination.”
He stared unblinkingly as Anderson opened the defibrillator case. He carved into his memory the sight of his friend peeling the plastic away from the gelled faces of the paddles, the sight of him turning the dial on the device to its maximum setting. He memorized the image of the field agent placing the paddles across the statue child's chest.
But when the high-pitched hum of the defibrillator gathering charge began, Zhang shut his eyes. When he heard the click of the paddle safety mechanism and the abrupt end to the device's electric whine, his mind was filled with more clinical thoughts — thoughts of a bathtub insulated from the floor and of a beating heart in the path between 50 amps of current and a grounded paddle.
“Heart rate is null,” confirmed the technician.
When the field agent exited the termination chamber, Zhang was the one who took the defibrillator and the headset from him. He set both on one of the chairs along the back wall.
Briefly meeting his manager's eyes, he volunteered to escort his friend to the staff dormitories. She gave him a nod of approval.
The two men walked down the labyrinthine halls to the nearest elevator in silence. They rode it up to ground level in the same.
The engineer knew little of what demons were dwelling in Anderson's mind. He knew that his own thoughts were full of propane torches and ice baths and brittle ex-flesh in a hydraulic press whose use the Ethics Committee would never have approved of while the statue girl was still alive. But his friend Anderson was aware of none of these things, so what was weighing on the field agent must have been guilt of a different substance.
The doors of the elevator opened at ground level to a tiled floor and afternoon daylight. Both men exited, and they walked across a lightly-trafficked lobby area side by side. They soon came to an intersection where one branching path led to the staff dorms and another led back toward the engineering department.
Before they parted ways, Anderson confided, “I'm glad it was you who designed it, Avery. You made it kinder than it had to be.”
Zhang put on a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He said, “It was the right thing to do for her. I'll see you later sometime, Remy.”

It was on his way back to his office that Zhang ran into one of the engineering department's assistants.
The overworked young man curtly reminded him, “Zhang, you're due in Galileo at 3:40. Tell Dr. Cadence we need her recommendations by tomorrow night,” before continuing his march down the hall with an armful of three-ring binders.
Zhang, while internally berating himself for almost letting an important commitment slip his mind, called back to the assistant a hurried, “Thank you!”
He jogged to the nearest elevator and swiped his key card in the sensor above the button panel. The engineer took the elevator down to the floor which hosted Laboratory G-1A, a room designated for training interns and more commonly referred to as the Galileo Lab.
The double doors not too far from where the elevator let him off did not require a key card. Zhang pushed one of them open and entered a high-ceilinged room.
Inside, a group of young interns were happily lazing about, their current topic of conversation something related to an upcoming movie release.
“Pardon me, where's your supervisor?” he asked them.
One of the interns pointed toward the wide window on one wall of the laboratory, answering, “In the observation room grading our essays.”
“Thank you,” said Zhang.
He made his way to the door next to the observation window. With the press of a button on the wall, it slid open to let him through.
The room's current occupant looked up from the papers in front of her to smile and greet him, “Zhang, there you are. Just in time to join me in reading essays.”
“Of course, Dr. Cadence,” replied the engineer to the researcher. As he pulled a chair from along the wall to the round table in the center of the room, he said, “And before I forget to tell you; they want your recommendations by tomorrow night.”
“Right, right,” frowned Cadence, “I still need to write those. I imagine you've already turned yours in?”
Zhang nodded as he pulled a set of papers toward him, “Yesterday night.”
“Always so on top of things. Mind if I ask who you're scouting out?”
“That kid, Almasi, and possibly Nguyen or Smith.”
Cadence laughed, “Really? Darn. I was hoping to snatch Almasi for the research division. But you turned yours in early, so you'll probably get first pick.”
Zhang countered jovially, “You're a senior researcher, you'll probably get to steal whoever you want.”
Shrugging, Cadence replied, “I guess we'll see how it turns out. The Site Director will be happy no matter what. They're a good bunch of kids.”
“Yeah, they are… It makes you wonder what they're doing here.”
“Stop it, you. We have final essays to grade.”

It was the end of the day, and Zhang was in his office, almost ready to leave to grab dinner at someplace that could make decent chicken. He gathered up the files on his desk and locked them in a drawer. Then, he began closing out of the tabs open on his computer.
The last tab he had to close was open to his work email, just as he had left it that morning. Zhang found himself suddenly reminded that he had not checked his personal inbox in some time. With a few clicks of the mouse, he signed out of his work account. Then, he signed into his personal email.
He had one unread message, titled “Katie”. It was three days old and from his ex-wife.
Zhang opened the email, and was delighted to find over a dozen photographs and video clips starring his daughter at her ninth birthday party. In these photos, she had a different haircut than she did the last time he'd seen her — but then again, the last time he'd seen her had been over a month ago.
One particular picture of the little girl holding up the plush dog and the scrambled Rubik's cube he had gifted her was his favorite out of the bunch.
There was a short message from his ex-wife included with the photographs.

Katie says her new favorite cake is red velvet. She had lots of fun at the party, and she really adores the toys you dropped off for her. You could have stayed, you know. It was her birthday.

But there had been a major anomaly transfer going on that day, and he had just barely managed to find the time to leave the unwrapped gifts at the door before rushing to meet the security detail for the overland haul to Site-19.
Zhang made a note to himself to get a day off for… what was the next major holiday? The Fourth of July. That would do. Katie liked fireworks, picnics, and the color blue.
He replied to his ex-wife's email, thanking her for sending the pictures and telling her about his plans to get time off work on Independence Day. After that, he shut down the computer.
As Zhang locked up his office behind him, he sincerely hoped that he would be able to keep that date.
Until then, it would be one typical day after the next.