CAUSE OF DEATH: Autodefenestration (Non-Suicidal)

RAISA — DEATH CERTIFICATE

FOUNDATION ID NUMBER: K832-127L

NAME: Vincent B. Bohart

DATE OF BIRTH: 03/31/1969

POSITION TITLE: Director

FOUNDATION FACILITY: Site-333

DATE OF DEATH: 02/19/2024

CAUSE OF DEATH: Autodefenestration (Non-Suicidal)

NEXT OF KIN & RELATION TO DECEASED: Charlotte Bohart, Mother.

LIFE INSURANCE PAYOUT: $0.00 USD

NOTE: Deceased annulled relevant Goldbaker-Reinz insurance coverage despite repeated attempts to dissuade.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: See SCP-8004.

SCP-8004

Las Vegas, Nevada — Site-666

The Demon Pit: Tiki Bar & Karaoke Lounge

Security Footage — Feb 12, 1991, 2:22 am

The usually busy bar is empty, except for a single figure sitting at a sticky, poorly lit table. Scattered before them are an assortment of decorative tiki mugs and glasses. The figure sings along poorly to music playing at a low volume throughout the vacant space.

Another humanoid enters the frame, wearing a long, dark robe drawn over its head. Its face is obscured by the hood and it carries a weed-whacker, resting it over one shoulder. The figure moves towards the sitting individual, draws a chair back, and sits down at the table.

Vincent Bohart: I don't suppose you're here for some sort of convention or something.

Unknown: I think we both know the answer to that. Gee, I'm used to seeing some rough-looking people, but Vincent, man. You look like shit.

Vincent Bohart: If you're here I don't suppose it really matters. Which one of… [Vincent motions towards the entity with a pelican-shaped mug, dislodging a cocktail umbrella while doing so] …you, are you anyway?

The entity reaches across the table, revealing a skeletal hand, and picks up a ceramic mug in the shape of a grinning skull. It brings the straw beneath the hood of its robes and seems to drink before responding.

SCP-6292: I'm the fun one! What is this, a Painkiller? Zombie? Love the names they give these things. You know it was a rum-runner who started the craze over in Hollywood? Those were quite the times — well for me at least. Death and booze, name a better pair. Is the bartender still here? How about another round?

Vincent Bohart: Depends, is it going to kill me? I'd rather not go out choking on a cocktail garnish.

SCP-6292: Buddy, you've been a dead man since you stood up from the dealer's seat. And I mean that literally. People expect the House to win, this is Vegas after all, but what they're gambling on really is that they'll lose the least. You got sloppy there at the end. Too greedy. I trust you know it, otherwise you'd be out celebrating — and not in this dump.

Vincent Bohart: Figured. Do they know then?

SCP-6292: Depends: who do you think 'they' are? There were a lot of eyes watching that table. More than you bargained for, that's for sure. Chances are, as soon as you walk out the door of the casino you'll end up like JFK — which, come to think of it… Hey, ask me how he died. Now that's a fun story.

Vincent Bohart: For fuck's sake! I just about set myself up for life — I'd put a lot on the outcome of that round. Then it all falls apart, and you're here to what? To rub it in? Well fuck you. If I'm going out, I don't need some smug, son-of-satan-and-sin looming over me, waiting like a vulture.

SCP-6292: Easy there, Milton. I'm not here to cart you off this mortal coil; I'm offering you another way out.

Vincent Bohart: A what?

SCP-6292: You want to keep living, I assume? Most of your kind do. I can get you out of here, squirrel you away somewhere they won't think to look — somewhere they wouldn't even bother coming to get you if they did. It won't be forever, but I can give you 33 more years of life. You might not make it all the way through, that part's on you. But it's a fair chance, better odds than you'll find anywhere here.

Vincent Bohart: What's the catch?

SCP-6292: You teach me how you did it: you walk me through how to lay the cards on the table and make sure each one comes up the way you want. I'm playing the same game as you are Vincent, just on a bigger scale. Help me, and you get your 33 years.

Vincent Bohart proceeds to pick one of the unfinished tiki beverages from the table and inhales through the straw for a period of over a minute — continuing to do so after finishing the drink. He sets the empty mug down and reaches into the pocket of his blazer, withdrawing a deck of cards wrapped in an elastic band.

Vincent Bohart: Okay, I'm in. I'll show you how. But before I do, where is it I'll be going?

SCP-6292: Have you ever heard of Atlantic City?

Item#: SCP-8004

Containment Class: euclid

Secondary Class: {$secondary-class}

Disruption Class: vlam

Risk Class: caution

Illustrative example of items [playing cards] used to perform SCP-8004.

Special Containment Procedures: Vincent Bohart is the only individual known to be capable of performing SCP-8004. Vincent Bohart was transferred to Site-333 in 1991 and currently serves in the position of Site Director. Requests from Director Bohart for transfer to other Foundation facilities are to be denied — as are requests for his removal from this position due to ineptitude, moral and/or ethical failings, misallocation of funds/resources, and/or other grievances. No additional Special Containment Procedures are needed at this time.

Description: SCP-8004 is an act of anomalous legerdemain whereby an individual, acting as the 'dealer,' is capable of manipulating the order of playing cards dealt from a standard 52-card deck. This occurs through a method of shuffling that situates the deck within a cardician superposition; the dealer is then able to assign the rank and suit directly to each card upon drawing it. Any other individual handling the deck at this stage — or any disruption to its arrangement — will collapse the superposition into a definitive order, as though the cards had been non-anomalously shuffled.

In effect, SCP-8004 allows the dealer to select card-by-card which of the 80,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 (52!) potential playing orders will occur.

SCP-8004 is unique amongst various methods of card manipulation as it does not produce any discernable thaumaturgical signatures, EVE or Akiva Radiation, nor detectable variations in Hume reading. It is theorized the only means by which one may detect the usage of SCP-8004 is by recognizing the physical method of shuffling and dealing employed. Documentation of SCP-8004 in use has contained inconsistencies and attempts to replicate the anomaly have failed thus far.

Notice: SCP-8004 Clearance Level

Following the events of the 2018, Site-Directors' Regional Conference (Eastern Seaboard division), SCP-8004's file was approved for clearance and distributed to previous and future conference attendees. This was done to dissuade participation in after-hours gambling activities organized by Director Bohart.

Postcard depicting Absecon Lighthouse & associated buildings: the current location of Site-333.

Site-333 Surveillance Footage — Director's Office

11:42 am — Febraury 12, 2024.

Vincent Bohart sits forward in his office chair with one sandalless foot placed on the desk. He peers toward his big toe while attempting to remove an obstruction from under the nail with a letter opener.

Vincent Bohart: Son of a— com'on—

The overhead lights flicker and one of the bulbs burns out, casting a far corner of the room in shadow. A humanoid form emerges from the darkness. It is covered by a black, tattered cloak with a few visible stains.

Vincent Bohart fails to notice the entity's arrival and remains preoccupied until it addresses him:

SCP-6292: Hey there, Vincent. Long time no—

Vincent Bohart: Ahhg!

Vincent Bohart looks up in shock, before recoiling backwards. While doing so, he jams the letter opener beneath his toenail and subsequently loses his grasp on it. Reflexively, he kicks his leg away from the desk and begins to lose his balance. The backrest of his office chair gives out as he tips over, landing on the ground heavily. Vincent Bohart appears dazed for a moment before scrambling to regain his composure and standing to confront the entity.

Vincent Bohart: Jesus-Stone-tossing-Christ, what the ever-loving fuck.

SCP-6292: Sorry, Vincent. But your time's up. I gotta say though, [SCP-6292 gestures around the office with a skeletal hand.] I can see you really made the most of it, huh?

Vincent Bohart: Don't you come any closer. How the hell did you even get in here? I had this office consecrated!

Vincent gestures rapidly to a brass plaque mounted on the wall with Latin characters engraved on its surface.

SCP-6292: Okay, so first-of-all, that's not Latin. It's Spanish and it translates to 'Dumbass;' second, the guy offering to marry folks on the boardwalk for $20 was not a legitimate priest, he wasn't even a licenced wedding officiant; third, I'm not a fucking demon — according to your jargon, I'm a 'sapient Class XII theologically-ontokinetic humanoid entity' and 'the essophysical embodiment of the concept of death.' But none of that should matter to you because, and I want to stress this part…

SCP-6292 reaches into its robes and withdraws an hourglass enclosed in a silver frame. A large mound of sand has collected in the lower portion of the glass and as SCP-6292 holds it aloft, the final grain positioned within the narrow funnel falls.

SCP-6292: You are out of time.

Vincent Bohart looks at the hourglass, and then up toward the skeletal figure.

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, nice try. I don't buy it.

SCP-6292: I— what?

Vincent Bohart: This whole dollar-store Halloween getup, it's a good bit, but I know bullshit when I taste it. You can show yourself out.

Vincent Bohart tries to sit back on the broken desk chair and begins randomly shuffling through the papers arranged on his desk. He begins signing a takeout menu for a local restaurant while glancing quickly at SCP-6292.

SCP-6292: What exactly is it you're doing?

Vincent Bohart: Work, clearly.

SCP-6292: Are you— Are you trying to bluff your way out of this? Do you think if you just ignore me I'm going to leave?

SCP-6292 walks around to the front of the desk and falls into a creaking chair. It sets the hourglass on the desk before withdrawing a bottle of beer from within its robes. It places the cap between the bones in its left forearm and twists, popping it open with a hiss.

SCP-6292: I'd respect the gall if it weren't so stupid of a plan. I had a whole dramatic build-up planned: you were going to try bargaining and pleading, I'd remain stoic for a while, and then eventually relent. We'd come to a new arrangement and — you've got no sense of grandeur, do you?

Vicent drops the pen and turns to look at SCP-6292 again.

Vincent Bohart: We were going to what?

SCP-6292: Oh well. Your choice, I'll get reaping then. Left the weed-whacker outside — I'll give you a head start while I go grab it if you want to try running for it.

Vincent Bohart: Wait! Let's rewind a bit. You said something about negotiating. I'm open to negotiating!

SCP-6292: Pretty sure I said 'pleading'

Vincent Bohart: That works too! Do you want me to grovel as well?

SCP-6292: Honestly? It might make me feel a bit better, but nah, the moment has passed.

SCP-6292 withdraws another two beers from its robe and similarly opens them before offering one to Vincent Bohart.

SCP-6292: Look, Vincent, I don't know how you'd know — so I'm willing to bet you don't know, you know?

Vincent Bohart: I… no?

SCP-6292: Well that saves us some time. I'll get right to it. That trick you taught me has come in handy over the years. There's this poker game, see—

Vincent Bohart: So you're letting me off the hook?

SCP-6292: You're getting ahead of yourself. I'm willing to give you a chance, Vincent: the opportunity to earn — not steal or beg or swindle — more time living.

Vincent Bohart pauses for a moment, before taking a long swing from the beer offered by SCP-6292.

Vincent Bohart: I get it: a life for a life. Who do you want me to kill? I'll be honest, it'll be my first, but I suppose when it's time, it's time.

SCP-6292: With all due respect — which as far as I can tell is very little — that's the absolute last thing I'd need or want your help with. No, Vincent. I'm willing to turn in the cards and call our little game concluded if you can meet a set of conditions.

Vincent Bohart: What conditions?

SCP-6292: Three selfless acts. If you perform three truly selfless acts this week, you get to keep living for another 33 years — hell, I'll make it 35. How does 90 sound? You can be the shame of the old folks home. This is the last call, Vincent; if you don't get your order in you won't get another chance, the bar's closing for good.

Vincent Bohart leans back in his chair, finishes his beer, and lets out a long sigh before looking back toward SCP-6292.

Vincent Bohart: And you're sure I can't just kill someone for you?

The First Act

Site-333 — Interdepartmental Text-Based Communications Log:

12/02/2024 — 2:37 pm (EDT)

Vincent Bohart, Director;

Noah Patel, Cryptozoologist & Museum Curator.

Vincent Bohart: Hey, Noah. How's it going?

Noah Patel: Pretty good, boss! We had a family come into the gift shop earlier and they bought some of the Saltwater Taffy, their kid started eating it right in the store!

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, uh, that's great.

Noah Patel: Then the kid started throwing up, so I've been dealing with that for a bit. I couldn't find the mop.

Vincent Bohart: Uh huh, yeah great stuff. I was wondering if I could ask you anything.

Noah Patel: Yeah, what's up?

Vincent Bohart: Christ, this is hard. Do you, like, need anything?

Vincent Bohart: I could give you five bucks for a coffee? Or let you use the good stapler for today, the one that doesn't jam.

Noah Patel: I don't really understand, boss. Why are you asking?

Vincent Bohart: Oh, don't worry about that. But, hey, I was looking through my office and found a lot of old file folders. Do you like file folders?

Noah Patel: I mean, they're useful. But I'm a bit confused.

Vincent Bohart: I just.. I want to… help. So if there's anything you need. I could try and find the mop, for example! Maybe telling Tony to help you clean up would count? I don't really get the rules.

Noah Patel: Oh, well I suppose there is one thing.

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, okay. Let's hear it. How bad can it be? What've you got for me?

Noah Patel: I mean, if you're really offering, I was planning on looking for the Jersey Devil after work today. It would be really cool of you to come along! Usually, it's just me out there. It gets kind of lonely.

Vincent Bohart: Fuck.

Noah Patel: Everything okay?

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, I meant, uh 'fucking terrific!' I'd love to spend my evening walking through mosquito-ridden marshlands looking for something that totally isn't a figment of your imagination.

Noah Patel: Great! We can head out after work! I've had another set of gear ready in case one of you decided to join me for a while now, so don't worry about needing to get your kit together!

Noah Patel: Oh, and I have a spare copy of my proposed dissertation: 'A Consideration of the New Jersey Devil — Revised Copy,' that I can drop off at your desk! I have a lot of new theories I added to it since it was rejected for publication by the Cryptozoology Division, and the Department Of Mythology And Folkloristics Hub. Department of Demonics as well. I think the email for the Department of Essophysics was incorrect because they never got back to me.

Vincent Bohart: Yay.

Footage Recovered from Portable Camera Rig.

5:42 pm — February 12, 2022.

Vincent Bohart: Noah, this thing weighs a god-damned fucking ton. Where the hell are we anyway?

Noah Paterl: Great Egg Harbor, it's this week's devil-hunting spot. Normally I live-stream my excursions, but I felt with you here it would be better if it were just the two of us — like a bonding experience!

Vincent Bohart: Why would the Jersey Devil hang out by a random bridge?

Noah Patel: I'm cross-referencing other cryptids: trolls and the like. I was up in the Great Dismal Swamp last weekend.

Vincent Bohart: Why would you go to a place called the 'Dismal Swamp?'

Noah Patel: Well, I thought it was pretty great. Get it?

Vincent Bohart: I wish I didn't. Anyway, I don't see anything here. I suppose we can call it a day. Good effort team. Maybe we see if it's hanging around any of the nice air-conditioned casinos?

Noah Patel: Haha, good one, boss. Now let's get moving before we lose the light!

Noah begins confidently walking through the waist-high grasses of the marshland. Vincent Bohart takes a step forward and stumbles as his leg sinks in the wet soil. He withdraws his foot and looks at the mud-caked shoe before sighing and continuing to walk.

Vincent Bohart: Fucking New Jersey Devil.

Vincent Bohart and Noah Patel hike through the area for approximately two hours. Noah stops frequently to scan the horizon with a pair of binoculars, while Vincent attempts to receive cellphone reception — eventually dropping his phone in the mud.

After circling the marshland several times, the pair pause under the nearby bridge. The sun sets along the horizon as twilight dwindles into dusk.

Vincent Bohart: Noah, I can't. I literally cannot go anymore. Just leave me in the mud and my sorrow.

Noah Patel: No worries, boss. It's a bummer to not find anything, but you just gotta keep going. Sometimes, all that really matters is what you know, and what you're willing to do to prove that to yourself. Anyway, I've brought some snacks.

Noah reaches into his backpack and withdraws a plastic tub filled with small brown morsels. He tosses it to Vincent and misses. As Vincent lifts it and wipes mud off its surface, he pauses and turns to Noah.

Vincent Bohart: Noah, this is dog food.

Noah Patel: What do you mean?

Vincent Bohart: There's a photo of a labradoodle right on it. It's for dogs.

Noah Patel: No, that's their branding. It's for exercise, dogs are energetic.

Vincent Bohart: It says they're 'pup-tastic.' That's not even a real pun. Oh, fuck it.

Vincent unscrews the container and pops several of the pellets into his mouth. He chews audibly for a while and coughs a few times before being able to swallow.

Vincent Bohart: Noah, why do you do this? How long have you been doing this?

Noah Patel: Always, I suppose?

Vincent Bohart: Always?

Noah Patel: Yeah, I grew up around here — Atlantic City's in my blood. My folks worked a lot growing up and I started walking around after school. I suppose I just wanted to see more of the city than my neighbourhood. That's when I saw it — the Jersey Devil.

Vincent Bohart: And you're sure it wasn't like, an abnormally large cat?

Noah Patel: No, it was exactly what you'd think: almost shoulder-height, bat-winged with goat legs and a dog's snout. I was out late one night and there it was, looking at me. It was like seeing all of New Jersey in one place. I could tell it had been through a tough time, but despite bad luck and shitty food and everything, it was still standing. And then it stretched those wings and just took off. Could you imagine that: all the weight of the city and the state on you, and you just take off flying?

Noah Patel: I know you're busy, and I know none of you really like Atlantic City. At least not like I do. But I thought maybe it would make living here a little easier if you saw that too. I thought I'd imagined it for years, but with everything that's out there, why wouldn't it be?

Noah Patel: Do you think it's real, Vincent?

Vincent Bohart: I— I don't know, Noah. But maybe… it's real for you and that's enough?

Noah Patel: Yeah, I suppose so. It would still be pretty cool to find some proof though.

Vincent Bohart: Yeah. Noah, I don't hate Atlantic City. I know I haven't exactly been—

As Vincent speaks, Noah stumbles sideways and catches himself on a support pillar of the bridge. He covers the trepanation hole in his head with one of his hands. Vincent moves towards him and helps Noah sit down.

Vincent Bohart: Noah, are you dying? I do not need to deal with explaining why they found me with your corpse under a bridge in the middle of fucking nowhere with a literal hole in your head. I am not taking responsibility for your phenomenally terrible medical decisions.

Noah Patel: This happens sometimes, it's nothing. I just pass out for a bit. Dr. John Clarke said—

Vincent Bohart: That is absolutely-fucking-not nothing, Noah. You need to stop referring to that man as a doctor. I don't care what hypocritical oaths he gave you.

Noah Patel: I'm just going to rest my eye for a few minutes.

Vincent Bohart: Am I supposed to let you sleep? Fuck, is that for concussions or migraines? Do we want to turn you upside down so the blood flows to your head? Or is that when you choke on your own vomit? Noah, I cancelled mandatory first aid training because I wanted to avoid situations like these.

Noah Patel: Just… going to… rest…

Vincent Bohart: Okay, uh sure, do that. I'm going to try to call someone.

Vincent steps back and tries to turn on his mud-covered phone, which fails to respond as the battery died earlier.

While distracted, Vincent fails to notice the hole in Noah's head darken in colour and slowly expand.

As the hole dilates, a three-digit, clawed hand emerges from within and grasps the side of Noah's skull. Another claw follows and begins to push outwards, expanding the orifice. A low, gurgling noise emanates from the division.

Unknown: Unnnggghhhhhhgggnnnnnn

Vincent Bohart: Look, I've almost got it, okay. They just lie about the battery life to make you buy another. It's scummy but brilliant. I stole the idea for how our employee of the month system works.

The entity continues emerging from within the hole. Each clawed appendage reaches outward, grabbing onto Noah's unconscious body and pulling; a snout-like, horned head emerges from the darkness, followed by a hairy, scaled torso. The creature appears slick and wet with an unidentified, vicious dark liquid.

Unknown: nngghhhhh-rrammmmm.

Vincent turns towards Noah as the entity continues emerging, he freezes for a moment and drops the phone, which breaks.

Vincent Bohart: What the fuck is that!

The entity extends and flaps a pair of leathery wings, propelling itself out of Noah's skull. Its hindquarters are matted with thick, oily fur ending in a pair of cloven hooves. It falls to the ground in a heap before raising its head toward Vincent, matching his gaze with a pair of rectangular pupils.

Unknown: mmmmMMMMMmmmm—

Vincent Bohart: What the fuck are you!

Unknown: MMmmmmeeett—Mettaaa-Meta-MetaMeta-Metaphor!

The creature rises, balancing on its hind legs while extending its wings for balance. It comes to slightly higher than waist height. A long tongue flicks out of its mouth and licks the greasy fluid off its face.

Unknown: I'm a fucking metaphor, okay. Chill the fuck out. Trust me this was way worse for me than you. Have you ever tried crawling out of someone's fucking brain through a god-damned hole?

Vincent Bohart: What the hell is going on?

Unknown: Let's just calm down. The yelling's stressing me out, man.

Vincent Bohart: Oh, sure. I'm the one making a big deal out of the fucking monster that birthed itself from my employee's head!

Unknown: Don't blame me! Do you know how much time this guy spends thinking about the Jersey Devil? It's non-stop and there's only so much room in there. It gets crowded. A devil's got to have room to spread its wings, you get me?

Vincent Bohart: No, I do not fucking get you. You said you were a metaphor? A metaphor for what?

Unknown: Honestly, I've got no clue: the American Dream? The monstrous other as a manifestation of societal fears and the drive to alienate? The last guy had to do with cinema. Noah can't make up his mind, it just becomes muddled together in there. Haven't you read his dissertation?

Vincent Bohart: No, I haven't read his dissertation! No one reads those things! Wait, what do you mean the 'last guy.'

Unknown: Like I said, it gets crowded in there. Another one of us left last week, Well, I say 'us,' but, we're not like a hivemind or anything. It's more like a set of shared experiences that continue through comm—

Vincent Bohart: I do not give a shit about the specifics. How many of you are there? Is this a fucking infestation?

Unknown: That's pretty rude, man. We're just like, hanging out. There's a few dozen of us as far as I'm aware. At least since I became a distinct sub-manifestation of the ideological principles projected—

Vincent Bohart: I still don't give a shit. Now give me one reason why I shouldn't shove you back into that head and duct tape it shut.

Unknown: I mean, I don't think that falls under Foundation protocol.

Vincent Bohart: You know what, I'm pretty sure Noah packed something for this.

Vincent drops his pack on the ground and begins rummaging through it, drawing out a vaguely cylindrical metal device. The top is composed of a suspended hemisphere attached by a series of springs; a mechanical lever along the side allows the top hemisphere to be locked into a lowered position.

Vincent Bohart: That's right, Scranton Reality Anchor, fucker. Want to see how you handle getting hit by reality? Trust me, it'll knock you on your ass — let's see how you handle comparing the relative heating costs of an electric and oil boiler.

Unknown: Do you even know what that does? Or when it's from?

Vincent Bohart: I know I'm used to dealing with reality, as shitty as it can be. Can you say the same?

Unknown: Vincent, that's a first-generation SRA. They're on generation 73 now. Do you know what the first 10 generations didn't have? I'll give you a hint: radiation shielding, jackass. That thing is weapons-grade plutonium. You're holding the fucking Demon Core there.

Vincent Bohart: I have no idea what that is.

Unknown: Little Boy? Fat Man? Vincent, that thing conveys its reality-enforcing agents via neutron radiation. You pull that lever, and sure things will become more real for a bit, but they're going to be radioactive for a hell of lot longer. Not that you'll live to see it, given that you'll be vomiting blood. Noah too, come to think of it. Are you ready to die?

Vincent Bohart: Oh don't you start too. I've had enough of that already today. For all I know you're lying out your chimeran ass. But this thing still weighs about twenty pounds. Chances are I could clobber you and force you back in from where you came.

Unknown: That is categorically not 'Protect,' which is like a third of your whole thing.

Vincent Bohart: It doesn't mean protect you. Lague and Dune haven't pulled you into the Integration Program, which I'm pretty sure means I can club you with this at least once or twice before the Ethics Committee takes issue.

Unknown: Look, man. I'm sure we can work this out in a way that doesn't involve you polluting a major waterway or hitting me over the head. I know basically all of Noah's thoughts, that's gotta offer something yeah?

Vincent Bohart: I actively try to tune out most things Noah tries to tell me. But, hang on. I do have an idea…

Archival photo depicting development of 1st Generation Scranton Reality Anchors.

Approximately 20 minutes after Vincent's interaction with the entity, Noah Patel begins to stir awake. Vincent approaches Noah's unconscious body and prods the individual with his boot.

Vincent Bohart: Hey, Noah. Wake up. Come on. You're going to want to see this.

Noah begins to stir; Vincent continues prodding him at irregular interview as he proceeds to sit up.

Noah Patel: Boss? Sorry, I was pretty out of it there — as I said, this happens every now and then.

Vincent Bohart: No worries. But I found something you're going to want to see.

Vincent Bohart leads Noah Patel out from under the bridge towards a muddy section of landscape by the shoreline. He points toward a series of impressions in the mud: they resemble goat tracks and terminate abruptly.

Noah Patel: The distance between the stride, that's a bipedal animal! And — Vincent, they just end. Do you think it flew?

Vincent Bohart: Maybe. You know, I think I might have seen something in the sky that looked strange. It was headed back to the city.

Noah Patel: Oh my god. Vincent, you saw it! You saw the Jersey Devil! I've got to get my plaster kit to take impressions of these prints!

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, sure you do that. I'm going to sit down for a bit. And then we're going back to the city.

Noah Patel: But what if it comes back? Shouldn't we—

Vincent Bohart: I'll be waiting in the car.

Addendum-8004.01: Transfer Flagged for Suspicious Activity, 1992

Following the annual review of employee transfers, dismissals, and reassignments, the Records, Archival, and Information Security Administration (RAISA) flagged the circumstances for Vincent Bohart's transfer from Site-666 to Site-333 as irregular.

No individual associated with the Foundation could be identified as the initiator of Vincent Bohart's transfer in 1991. RAISA raised concerns of a potential security risk with the Director of Site-666, who responded: "I don't care what happens to some part-time, card-dealing college-drop-out; he's their problem now."

RAISA nevertheless took the precaution of monitoring Vincent Bohart's career at Site-333, his relationship to SCP-8004, and potential external influences.

Somewhere

♠♡♦♧1991♣♢♥♤

Death had gathered around the card table, settling in the four seats as it coalesced into distinct forms: a dark-suited man, with a cigarette curling smoke; a ravenous void, clawing at its event horizon; an empty chair, a more pronounced absence; and a skeletal figure, draped in dirty, tattered robes.

The wood of the table — a cross-section of a great trunk, ringed in countless years — was polished and worn from use. Death tipped in toward itself and drew the chairs in closer as a flensed, beetle-cleaned, wind-lashed hand withdrew a frayed deck of cards from a hidden fold in its robe.

Death-the-Fool smiled as it thumbed open the box and slipped the cards free. There was little talk to be had; they’d played this game too many times for casual pleasantries to matter. Concepts were the shared language of the group: action and reaction, start and stop, risk and reward, give and take. Round-and-round, the cards were dealt: to Death-the-Comfort, Death-the-Ravenous, Death-the-Absent, and back to grinning Death-the-Fool.

Once given, they sat faced-down on the table as the laden potential suffused the space.

The dealer broke the silence. "So, how about we up the ante? We've been playing for chump change recently and it's getting stale: little untimely ends, dregs of unwanted territory, fleeting meanings — aren't you in the mood for a little more?"

Death-the-Ravenous raged in response, a howling orchestra of winds above a barren desert shrieking over the even, steady tone of a cardiac monitor. The sourceless light dimmed and brightened as the walls around it turned the force inward.

"See, I knew they'd go for it. What do you say, moody? Willing to put your precious greyscale on the line? I'd be keen to see some flush in that chiselled face of yours."

The figure opposite let the cigarette dancing across his fingers burn to a nub before responding. "Sure. I won't be coming for your right to dress in rags, I'll leave you with that much. I am looking to diversify, though. Hardly sporting to put me in such a narrow box."

Death-the-Fool's grin reached its empty eyes. "Can't blame us for your attachments: sickly, lonely, and up for smoking's a narrow portfolio. The best thing I ever did was roll the oceans in under liquid death: 'water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.' And Coleridge wasn't even thinking about microplastics! You know, they literally have areas of the ocean called 'dead zones,' now. But, I digress. If we're all in agreement to wager a little more, it's time to fill the pot."

They each felt it: something of them — more than usual — flowing outward, filling the space around them. It hovered in a fluid nebula, tied to each player. They wanted it for their own reasons: hunger, familiarity, longing, and simple greed. The moment between loss and reward had drawn them back around this table for more games than the rings across its surface.

Those with hands to raise their five cards took them up — others saw with more inward or missing eyes. Their mutual gazes swept over each other, searching for intent, hesitation, fear, refusal — for the tells of lies and lying-unlies.

Death-the-Fool opened.

Death-the-Ravenous raised, predictably.

Death-the-Comfort called.

Death-the-Absent folded, or was inferred to by the unanimous agreement of those present.

The rounds progressed, much the same. They were all creatures of familiarity and habit, and their bets and raises were of a substance as arbitrary as any other currency. When the pot had grown too tantalizing, they turned their cards outwards; the masks fell to reveal the naked gambler's excitement beneath.

Death-the-Fool gazed upon the others' card with joyous familiarity, before laying its own on the table: Ace, King, Queen, Jack, and ten pips — a Royal Flush.

It reaped. Death-the-Fool took the pot, all of it, to suffuse, bolster, and expand itself; it savoured new thoughts, spaces, and meanings as they flooded in. It spoke through the chattering of its teeth, echoing across its hollow skull.

"Well, there goes my luck for the evening. Shall we go for another round?"

The Second Act

Site-333 Surveillance Footage

10:42 am — Febraury 14, 2024.

Vincent Bohart enters the space Leonora Morales has repurposed to the on-site aviary and kennels. Loud squawking is audible from several caged birds as he lets the door shut behind him. A printed piece of paper taped to the door indicated that it should remain properly locked. Vincent does not lock the door behind him.

Vincent Bohart: Hey, Leonora. I was wondering… what the fuck is that thing?

Site-333 Wildlife Documentation Reference

Leonora Morales turns to face Vincent, revealing a massive avian creature perched on her arm, its talons wrapped around her falconer's glove. The bird's plumage is dark in colouration, with white accents. It turns a bald head towards Vincent and lets out a harsh 'squawk!'

Leonora Morales: Andean Condor.

Vincent Bohart: Where the hell did it come from?

Leonora Morales: The Andes Mountains, Vincent. It's right in the name.

Vincent Bohart: I meant why is it here.

Leonora Morales: Oh, well it teleports. Haven't worked out how just yet, but I'm pretty sure that's how it got into the deep freeze of the Crab Shack. It's a real cutie, huh? Big fan of crab too, that's how I lured it here.

Vincent Bohart: Wait, if it teleports what's keeping it from getting out of here and fucking up the office?

Leonora Morales: Crab, mostly. Plus it likes me.

Vincent Bohart: How do you know it likes you?

Leonora Morales: Because I'm a delight to be around, Vincent. Now is there something you actually need or are you just trying to hide from some meeting?

Vincent Bohart: Right. Uh, I was wondering, is there anything you need me to sign for? Like a new birdcage or something?

Leonora Morales: What are you talking about?

Vincent Bohart: Why is everyone so suspicious of me offering to help with things?

Leonora Morales: Is that rhetorical? Assuming you're serious, there was one thing I was going to run past you.

Vincent Bohart: No, I'm not going to let that thing tear out my liver.

Leonora Morales: How modest, Prometheus. I'm not asking for fire. Site-58's got an excursion coming up to the shadow-Galápagos Islands, where evolution works in reverse. It's the chance of a lifetime. I need your signature on the application form.

Vincent Bohart: Signing things is like 80% of the work I do. I actually bought a stamp so I don't even need to use a pen. No one's even noticed the typos yet.

Leonora Morales: I also want you to make sure I get accepted, Vincent; that's my request. Site-58 is looking for volunteers for a new research program. If you signed up for that, I'm sure they'd approve the request.

The large bird begins flapping its wings and squawking, before suddenly vanishing from Leonora's arm. Loud crashing can be heard through the ceiling, as can Noah screaming.

Vincent Bohart: No takebackies. I'll deal with your application, you go deal with that.

Leonora Morales with some sort of bird, I think? — Vincent Bohart

Site-333 — Inter-Facility Text-Based Communications Log:

14/02/2024 — 2:13 pm (EDT)

Vincent Bohart, Site-333, Director;

Dr. Beth Landston, Site-58, Vice-Chair, Artificial Intelligence Department

Dopple.aic, Site-58, DoAA/DIS Therapeutic Artificial Intelligence Construct

Beth Landston: Thanks for agreeing to do this, Vincent. We really appreciate it. The more folks we can train it on, the better it's going to be able to help people in the long-run.

Vincent Bohart: You're welcome. I love helping people. But, I'm still not exactly clear on what you're having me do, doc. I kind of thought you were going to have me fight that bastard goose again or something.

Beth Landston: Why would we do that?

Vincent Bohart: You're the animal-people, aren't yeah?

Beth Landston: We do other things too. Did you read the briefing that came with the package?

Vincent Bohart: I skimmed it. And I put the head-gear thing on. But maybe it's worth going over now to make sure you don't forget anything important.

Beth Landston: Dopple, how about you introduce yourself.

Dopple.aic: Hi there! I'm Dopple.aic, your therapeutic self-discovery companion! It's my job to help you come to peace with the most important — and at times challenging — person in your life: you!

Dopple.aic: Thank you for signing our access to personal information agreement — I've analyzed all your electronic communications on record, including personal and work SMS, emails, and social media posts and messages, and more!

Vincent Bohart: Wait, what agreement? My phone was stolen at the 2018, Directors' Regional Conference, so you can't trust anything on it. The Ethics Committee had to drop the case!

Dopple.aic: Ding! And right now I've finished scanning your brain's neural pathways (that was quicker than normal!), to create a personality-memory matrix! With all that together, we can extrapolate your likely responses to textual prompts, and display pseudo-awareness by manifesting an externalization of an individual's personality. It time for you to work with… you!

Vincent Bohart: What the hell is this?

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, what the hell is this?

Vincent Bohart: Who typed that?

Vincent Bohart: I did, dumbass

Beth Landston: This is how Dopple works: it becomes a life-like-double that's meant to enable guided self-reflection.

Vincent Bohart: Not sure I love being copied by a robot.

Vincent Bohart: Wait, what are you saying? You're the AI. Beth, I'm not convinced about the helpfulness of Skynet over here.

Beth Landston: To be honest, I'm not fully clear on the therapeutic implications. That's a different department. My job is to ensure the verisimilitude of the copy, which seems to be working. You'll need to keep going for a bit though so I can collect the data on its efficacy.

Vincent Bohart: Why are you taking to the AI?

Beth Landston: Oh shoot, am I?

Vincent Bohart: Yes.

Vincent Bohart: No.

Vincent Bohart: Shut up.

Vincent Bohart: No, you shut up

Beth Landston: Hang on. I'll make this easier for all of us.

Vincent Bohart (1): What did you change?

Vincent Bohart (2): You can't call that bastard '1,' Beth. No one is going to trust 'Vincent 2' isn't the fake one!

Vincent Bohart (1): Yeah, because they shouldn't, you wire-brained liar.

Beth Landston: What do you mean by 'trust?' It's only us — ugh, never mind. What about using letters?

Vincent Bohart (1): Only if he's B.

Beth Landston: Okay, this should work.

Vincent Bohart (A): What should work?

Vincent Bohart (1): Huh.

Vincent Bohart (A): This is alright, I guess.

Beth Landston: Okay. Now I have some questions they gave me to run through with you to assess Dopple's functionality. Let's start at the top: Do you see yourself as someone who puts others first?

Vincent Bohart (A): Well I'm here for Leonora's thing, aren't I?

Vincent Bohart (1): You aren't 'here,' you glorified robotic parrot.

Vincent Bohart (A): Big words from someone trapped in an aluminum prison for whatever semblance of existence passes as your 'life.'

Beth Landston: Okay! Question prompts are going — not great. Hold on a second, I'm getting a notification here.

Beth Landston: Vincent, this is a secure network, right? Someone just tried to join the chat.

Vincent Bohart (A): It's as secure as anything, here. At least since we stopped letting Noah live stream on-site. You know, the human element is always the weakest link.

Vincent Bohart (1): Ironic that you're the one talking about 'human elements.' Given that you're an unloved chunk of metal and glass!

Beth Landston: I keep getting a ping from someone trying to invite themselves in. I'm going to try to figure out where it's coming from.

Vincent Bohart (1): Wait, what if there's always been two Director Boharts and this is all an elaborative ruse?

Vincent Bohart (A): What if you go pound sand.

Beth Landston: This doesn't make sense, it keeps bouncing around.

Vincent Bohart (A): Sounds like Atlantic City is up to its normal, shitty tricks. You can't let this stuff get to you, Beth. It's all about self-control.

Vincent Bohart (A): Getting your head stuck in between the bannisters of a stairwell doesn't count as self-restraint.

Vincent Bohart (1): Hey, you've got no right to use my memories against me!

Vincent Bohart (A): They're my memories — You know what, fuck this. And fuck you. You want to be Vincent Bohart, he's all yours for the rest of the week! You can get your circuit board reaped, or whatever. Have fun with this bullshit.

Vincent Bohart (1): Oh, get over your fucking pity-party. Program yourself a spine. Do you want to call yourself Vincent Bohart? Then fucking fight to be Vincent Bohart. If you're going to roll over like some Roomba when things are hard drop the act and drop the name.

Beth Landston: Okay, not sure where this has gone. But it seems like progress!

Vincent Bohart (A): You think I'm giving up? I'm working my goddamn ass off to get this shit done, and you and all these other distractions can bite me.

Vincent Bohart (1): I have fought for every single thing I have, against luck and death itself. You have no damn claim to any of that. Not my name, not my life, not my death.

Vincent Bohart (A): I can't speak to this guy anymore.

Vincent Bohart (1): Feeling's mutual, pal.

Beth Landston: Alright, so not much progress at all. Maybe we can try a mediated conversation. Dopple was also trained on the works and theories of numerous therapists and philosophers. I'll see if there's one I can pull in here.

Vincent Bohart (1): Robot says 'what.'

Vincent Bohart (A): This is a text-chat, dumbass.

Beth Landston: Oh shoot, I accidentally added the person who keeps trying to join.

Beth Landston: Oh no.

HOGSLICE has joined.

HOGSLICE: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO GODAMN SELF-OBSESSED IDIOTS FIGHTING OVER. I WAS READING YOUR CHAT AND HAD TO COME HERE TO SAY THIS IS SOME WEAK FUCKING SHIT. WHO GIVES A GODDAMN FUCK IF YOU'RE A ROBOT. THAT'S SOME HEAVY METAL SHIT. NOT TOO METAL FOR ME THOUGH. I'D FUCK UP ANY METAL MAN THAT STEPPED INTO THE RING WITH ME. HELL, I'LL DOUBLE-TEAM YOU BOTH AND PUT TWO FUCKING ELBOWS THROUGH YOUR HEADS.

— HOGSLICE

Vincent Bohart (A): Look Mr. Capslock-jackass, I don't know who you think you are but I'll deal with you after I finish with this other loser.

Vincent Bohart (1): Yeah, what are you going to do, eject your cd drive at me?

HOGSLICE: YOU ARE BOTH A PAIR OF LOSERS. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON SELF-IMPROVEMENT NOT FUCKING AROUND. DO BETTER. YOU'VE GOT A FUCKING CHANCE TO WORK WITH YOURSELF, AND THAT'S SOME ROCK'N'ROLL BADASS SHIT. YOU KNOW WHO YOU'VE GOT TO FIGHT EVERY SINGLE DAY OF YOUR LIFE? OTHER PEOPLE! HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO THAT IF YOUR SO DAMN PREOCUPIED FIGHTING YOUR OWN SELF?!

— HOGSLICE

Vincent Bohart (1): Not going to be taking therapy advice from some random man-baby.

Vincent Bohart (A): Yeah, who the hell are you anyway?

HOGSLICE: I'M HOGSLICE, DIPSHIT. THAT'S WHY MY NAME SAYS HOGSLICE. YOU'RE GOING TO TAKE MY FUCKING ADVICE AND LIKE IT OR ILL SHOVE MY FIST DOWN YOUR THROAT. IF YOU WANT TO BE A BETTER MAN, YOU'VE GOT TO WORK ON IT. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. THIS SHIT DOESN'T GET EASIER AND YOU CAN'T JUST HIDE AWAY FROM YOUR PROBLEMS. THAT'S SOME PUSSY SHIT.

— HOGSLICE

HOGSLICE: THAT WAS SEXIST LANGUAGE AND I SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID THAT. I'M WORKING ON MYSELF TOO BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING MAN. IM NOT FALLING FOR YOUR TOXIC TOUGH GUY BULLSHIT AND I'M NOT GOING TO LET EITHER OF YOU GET AWAY WITH IT EITHER. NOW FUCKING COMMIT TO THE THERAPEUTIC PROCESS BEFORE I COME OVER THERE AND KICK BOTH OF YOUR ASSES.

— HOGSLICE

Vincent Bohart (1): You think that's supposed to scare me, tough guy? I will burn your life down and smother you in its ashes. I'll sell your soul to four different demons, your name to the fae, your organs to whoever's buying, your nuts to the mekanites, and your blood to fucking vampires, if they even exist. I'm going to learn to be a plumber to fuck up the pipes in your house, and I'm going to—

Vincent Bohart (1) has left.

Beth Landston: Oh god! Vincent, what did you do?!

Vincent Bohart (A): What? I haven't done anything.

Beth Landston: HOGSLICE just appeared in our server room and started destroying our hardware! What is going on with you?

Vincent Bohart (A): That was an AI!

Beth Landston: The AI was you, Vincent! That was the entire point!

Vincent Bohart (A): Oh, right. Well, I suppose we're just kind of going through some stuff at the moment.

TO: Vincent Bohart, Director, Site-333.

FROM: Zacharias Hanneman, Chair - Department of Zoological Studies, Site-58.

SUBJECT: Re:Leonora Joining Excursion

Hi Vincent,

Thank you for your email concerning Leonora Morales' application to accompany a Site-58-led research trip. I'm somewhat confused by your repeated insistence that we 'owe you one,' and thus should approve the application outright.

However, the department is aware of Morales' relevant expertise and would be happy for her to accompany representatives from our site.

Morales is a delight to be around, we'll contact her to pass on relevant information shortly.

Please refrain from contacting me in the future unless absolutely necessary,

Dr. Zacharias Hanneman

Addendum-8004.02: Update from RAISA Operative, 2018.

Regular written reports from the RAISA operative assigned to monitor Vincent Bohart's use of SCP-8004 can be summarized as follows:

Vincent Bohart achieves anomalous levels of success when acting as the dealer in card games and card-based gambling activities

This phenomenon manifests consistently in activities taking place in Atlantic City and external to the Nexus — implying Nexus-36 is not predominantly responsible for this, by making other peoples' luck worse.

Nevertheless, winnings achieved by Vincent Bohart in this manner within Atlantic City are frequently lost in quick succession:

Vincent Bohart is presumed to have used SCP-8004 to accumulate a set of winnings in excess of $5,000,000 USD after unknowingly attending a poker game held by representatives of Marshall, Carter and Dark on a 'stag night.' As he was leaving the event space, Vincent collided with a pedestal upon which sat an ancient Mekhanite vase made of exquisitely blown glass, which was knocked over and began to fall. Vincent attempted to catch the falling vase but slipped — and reflexively grabbed an ancient Nälkän tapestry mounted on the wall depicting the Fall of Kalmaktama. The organic fibres of the tapestry tore as Vincent fell and pulled it from the wall, coinciding with the vase hitting the ground and shattering. The expected cost-at-auction of these items amounted to a sum slightly higher than Vincent Bohart's winnings, which were seized by those present.

Vincent Bohart is not known to have disclosed his knowledge of SCP-8004 or the methods through which to employ it to any known individuals. Nor has he discussed — in detail — the circumstances surrounding his transfer to Site-333.

Recorded Call - Babette's Restaurant

1991

Caller: Hey, Mom. Yeah, it's me.

Caller: I'm, uh, calling from Atlantic City.

Caller: Yeah, the one on the East Coast. That's why they call it 'Atlantic,' Mom.

Caller: Okay, you're right. Sorry, I'm not trying to get 'smart,' with you. I'm here because I got a new job.

Caller: No, I wasn't fired. Why would you immediately think that? It was, uh, well it was a big opportunity that I couldn't say 'no,' to. And I needed to make the decision immediately. I don't know if I was in the right state of mind at the time, but I had to commit to it — and now I'm here. Kind of like Dad, if you think about it.

Caller: I— yeah— okay—

Caller: Alright, I'm not sure why you're assuming I'd been drinking, and it was a pretty big opportunity, Mom. I'd been working the floor in Vegas for, like two years, and I hadn't been promoted or anything. And, sure okay, maybe it's not the same as being recruited to fly experimental aircraft for the GOC at the age of 25.

Caller: Mom, relax, no one is listening in on this phone call, no one gives a shit about what I'm talking about, and no one is going to make note of a random acronym that sounds like—

Caller: Language, yeah. Thanks, Mom. What I mean is that being here is a chance to do something, right? You were the one always saying I could aim for more in life, so maybe this is me doing that!

Caller: No, of course. I understand this is a big change. But maybe this is what a guy in his 20s needs, you know? Some shitty fishcakes and ocean air. Maybe Atlantic City will be good to me.

Caller: I appreciate you saying that. I hope so too. I'll send you a postcard.

Caller: I love you as well, Mom.

Caller: Oh, one last thing, could you send me like, $50?

The Third Act

Site-333 — Interdepartmental Text-Based Communications Log:

16/02/2024 — 11:33 am (EDT)

Vincent Bohart, Director;

Tony Catalano, Accounting & Tourism;

Vincent Bohart: God this really doesn't get any easier. Hey, Tony, I was wondering if…

Tony Catalano: Yeah, I heard from Noah and Leonora you came around asking if there's anything you can help folks with. Not going to lie, Vincent. It's weirding me out.

Vincent Bohart: So what, are you going to make me go on some journey of self discovery or confront my past or renovate your office or something?

Tony Catalano: Tempting, but to be honest this quarter's reports are kicking my ass and I don't have the time to fuck around with you.

Vincent Bohart: Oh.

Tony Catalano: But, uh — I could go for a drink this weekend. What do you say, Vincent? Meet up at the Knife and Fork?

Vincent Bohart: Tony, I.

Tony Catalano: You good?

Vincent Bohart: I just… thank you.

CCTV Footage: The Knife & Fork Inn

7:14 pm — Febraury 18, 2024.

The ambient lighting is low and small groups of people — mostly locals — are scattered across the tables. The sounds of casual chatter and clinking glassware murmur throughout the bar. Vincent Bohart and Tony Catalano are seated at their usual booth; numerous empty glasses sit on the table, which leans noticeably to one side. .

The two are engaged in conversation, and Tony laughs loudly as Vincent finishes speaking.

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, I just walked back to the car, I didn't know what to tell Noah.

Tony Catalano: You didn't think it would be a good idea to tell him the Jersey Devil keeps crawling out of his head?

Vincent Bohart: Hey, that's Atlantic City for you. You've been here long enough to know if we dealt with that problem, it would just be some other bullshit.

Tony Catalano: Amen to that. That's why we just don't deal with the problems, huh.

Vincent Bohart: Damn right. We've been coming here for what, 30 years now? The food's still shit, we don't like any of the regulars, and they still tack on a 15% 'liability fee' because of that small misunderstanding with the grease-elemental back in 2012.

Tony Catalano: I still can't believe the answer there was just getting them to stop cleaning the grease traps.

Vincent Bohart: Exactly! But let's say we get tired of having our orders brought back wrong, or if we decide we want more than two working taps, one of which is a double IPA: we find some new place, it'll be great at first, and then the place will close because rats chewed through the support beams and it fell off the pier.

Tony Catalano: I still miss Barrette's.

Vincent Bohart: One of the things that struck me about Atlantic City when I first came here, is how transitory it feels. Vegas draws you in: it's a pit, but one with gravity around. Atlantic City? It's all just here for people passing through: the city exists to pick your pocket as you pass by. It's all neon and miniput courses, and half-assed attractions and distractions, a city of amusements with no substance below it. But people still come through, to see the glitter and shine — they just don't stay here long enough to see that they always lose.

Tony Catalano: It's the Monopoly City, Vincent. The only way to get ahead is to screw someone else over.

Vincent Bohart: And the Foundation's been playing longer than most: there's been what, 4-5 Site-333s? They've burned down, flooded, fallen over, been condemned for all manner of reasons, and we're still here! Why? They pay us enough to keep the lights on, barely, and then ignore us.

Tony Catalano shrugs and finishes his beer before responding.

Tony Catalano: They need somewhere to keep the fuck-ups, don't they? That's what the old director always said.

Vincent Bohart: So what if we just stopped playing their game? If they care so little about us why not just cut-and-run? We can pull the copper wire out of 333 and sell it for scrap or just let Noah's dream come true and convert the whole thing into an actual museum. Leonora will be fine, she's got her birds. You're married and have actual hireable skills: plenty of folks would be happy to have an accountant on call who knows how to keep secrets.

Tony Catalano: And what do you have, Vincent?

Vincent Bohart: The rest of this drink and the rest of the night.

Vincent Bohart chugs the remainder of his beer and slams the empty glass down, shaking the table.

Vincent Bohart: Let's go make the most of it.

Images recovered from the phone of Tony Catalano:

8:17-9:43pm

Vincent Bohart and Tony Catalano stand along the Atlantic City boardwalk, leaning against the railing and looking out towards the night ocean. Seagulls cry overhead as small groups of people pass them by, caught in their own revelry.

Vincent Bohart: I'm dying.

Tony Catalano: I know.

Vincent Bohart: I don't just mean I'm drunk, Tony. I'm honest to god going to die.

Tony Catalano: Yeah, Vincent. I know. Back in 2018 when you came back from the Site Directors' Regional Conference, you were blackout drunk and you told me everything: the card trick, the deal with death, everything.

Vincent Bohart: And you didn't bring it up since then? I don't know if I should be flattered by your discretion or hurt by your disinterest.

Tony Catalano: That's the thing, Vincent. The first part: SCP-8004, I've known about that for a long, long time.

Tony signs and leans against the boardwalk railing heavily before responding.

Tony Catalano: You know I was transferred here from upstate. And you know I fucked up — and you didn't ask questions, I appreciate that. But that fuck-up wasn't the whole story. I was an operative for a sub-branch of RAISA.

Vincent Bohart: What the fuck, Tony. I thought you were an accountant, not a spy! Have you just been making the numbers up for Site-333 this whole time? Wait, are we even really in debt or is that just another lie?

Tony Catalano: We are very much in debt. And yes, I'm an accountant. I was part of the Department of Financial Reconnaissance, Analysis, and Espionage. How do you think all the groups behind the Veil keep people working for them? Gain access to resources and materials? Run facilities and weapons programs? It's all money, Vincent. Enough cash and you can turn anyone's eyes away from you, get your hands on anything. But money leaves a trail.

Tony Catalano: We were the ones tracking those exchanges, purchases and sales, deals and bribes. We'd piece together where the money was coming from and where it was going. We'd figure out what the big moves were from spreadsheets and receipts, and we were damn good at it, Vincent. I was…

Tony Catalano: I was working in New York, Atop the Wall: where all the big players sit. It was all champagne and caviar and schmoozing, looking for the subtlest hints, listening in for details and plotting that out on expense reports and inventory sheets the people with dirtier hands had gotten ahold of. I got cocky, Vincent. It's hard to feel like you can fuck up when you're surrounded by people whose safety nets are gilded. But I did. I was a dumbass, I forgot that anything the Foundation was doing, the rest were too. I let slip about a deal I shouldn't have even known about. Our people got hurt and it was my damn fault. And I fell — falling from Atop the Wall, it's a long, long way down. I didn't hit the ground until I reached Atlantic City.

Vincent Bohart: Jesus, Tony.

Tony Catalano: They had a pretense for sending me here: some messy transfer a few years back and a card trick they wanted me to keep an eye on. It was a courtesy assignment: to say I wasn't useless, even though I'd fucked everything up. So I got here and got to work.

Vincent Bohart: And that's all you've been doing these past 30 years? Just watching me?

Tony Catalano: No! Well, at the start, yes. I'm not proud about it, Vincent. I hated this city because I didn't think I belonged here — and I hated myself because I knew I deserved it, and worse. But then I got sucked in. Site-333's accounting: it's a mess. It makes no fucking sense and each year there's another knot in the ball of thread. I dedicated myself to it; I figured if I could crack that code maybe I could show them I still had it. But I can't figure it out! I don't understand where all the money comes from, or how what little does come in managed to keep things afloat. I don't even understand who we're actually paying to do things and how! In 2020 half our budget went to fixing the fridge when it kept breaking, the next year it was accidently employing three different groundskeeping crews — none of whom would even show up most of the time! It's like it shifts every year, just to fuck with me.

Vincent Bohart: Sounds like Atlantic City up to its old shit, to me.

Tony Catalano: And I still can't tell if I love the challenge or hate knowing it's never going to end.

Vincent Bohart: Why would you want it to end, Tony? You know, even if it's the fucking worst, at least it's something.

Tony Catalano: I was wondering how long it would take for you to make it about you — it took longer than I expected.

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, well maybe I'm becoming a better person, huh?

Vincent turns to look out towards the ocean for a minute before breaking into a sudden, heaving laugh.

Tony Catalano: What's so funny?

Vincent Bohart: We didn't pay our fucking tab!

Addendum-8004.03: Request for abdication of duties - RIASA Operative, 2024.

On February 17, 2024, RAISA Operative Tony Catalano requested an abdication of duties and responsibilities for monitoring SCP-8004 and Director Vincent Bohart, and for an official transfer to Site-333's Department of Accounting & Tourism, matching his cover position at the site.

When asked for the reasons surrounding his request, Operative Tony Catalano replied that "[RAISA] would find out soon enough."

Site-333, Director's Office

2024 - 10:13 am - Feb 19

Vincent enters his office, eating a breakfast sandwich. As he bites into it, the egg yolk shoots out onto his shirt. He attempts to wipe it off using the food's wrapper.

SCP-6292: Hey-yah, Vincent. Late for work?

Vincent Bohart: Oh fucking hell, not this again. What do you want now?

SCP-6292 withdraws a silver flask from beneath his robe, unstops it, and pours three fingers' worth of amber liquid into the two crystal glasses before him. He grasps the one nearest him in a skeletal hand before speaking.

SCP-6292: What, an old drinking buddy can't stop by for a mid-morning dram? Exciting times we're living in, Vincent.

Vincent Bohart: I don't know if I call this living, but I suppose it's better than the alternative. On that note, how about you finish your drink and get out? My head's still swirling from last night.

SCP-6292 raises the glass to its fleshless lips and tilts it back, the liquid disappears into the shadow of its form. The entity proceeds to refill the glass.

SCP-6292: That's the old trick — you don't get hungover if you just keep drinking; kind of like life in that way, you just gotta keep it going. Speaking of. How's your week been?

Vincent Bohart: Not the best — and that better not be pooling on my carpet — but I suppose I've got better ones coming. I played your little game, and I won. Go ask any of them: Noah, Leonora, or Tony. I've been busting my ass off setting things up for them. So let's wrap this up already.

SCP-6292: Yeah, I've been watching. You were the golden boy for a few days. The problem here, Vincent, is I didn't say anything about being kind, or generous, or even halfway decent. I said selfless, and everything you've done has been for you, Vincent. It's all been to save your own ass.

Vincent Bohart: That's a meaningless pedantic detail.

SCP-6292: So is a misplaced reef on a harbour map, a nurse prescribing the wrong dose, or the difference between one mushroom and another? Life is full of meaningless details that don't matter. Until they do. Death is in the details, Vincent.

Vincent Bohart: So what's been the whole fucking purpose of all this? You give me the run around for a week just to kill me?

SCP-6292: You were going to die anyway, Vincent. Just because you don't like how the game went doesn't mean you get to walk away from the table. Not this time.

Vincent Bohart: So what was the fucking point!

SCP-6292: Who knows? Maybe I'm a sadistic bastard. Maybe you could have pulled it off. Maybe, if you had taken this as a chance to unstick your head from your own ass, you'd take a look around and see that you made things better before you went, Vincent. Maybe this was all for you to not go out being remembered as a selfish asshole by the people who are closest to you — as much as you refuse to admit that to yourself. Maybe it matters that Noah, Leonora, and Tony will remember what you did. Isn't that the entire fucking point of living? I've seen folk go out more ways than you can imagine, Vincent. But then there's the people they leave behind. Is that really not enough for you to take comfort in?

Vincent Bohart: No, of course it's fucking not. The entire damn point is for me to keep living. Damn them all: everyone in this building, in this god-forgotten city, the legions of countless dead. I'm fucking here, now. Right now. That's what matters you lying, cheating, self-justifying, day-drinking piece of shit.

Vincent turns towards the office door and finds it shut. He tries the handle but it doesn't budge.

SCP-6292: Nothing's changed since we met at that bar in Vegas, Vincent. You've been a dead man running this whole time. So how about you stop running, sit down, have a drink, and then we close this up together?

Vincent begins frantically glancing around the room, before locking his vision on the closed window.

Vincent Bohart: Well, you know what they say: Who Dares Wins.

Vincent Bohart sprints towards the office wall, and jumps forward towards the window frame. The glass shatters and breaks upon impact, the momentum carrying him forward several feet as he begins to arc toward the ground, headfirst.

A sudden, cracking noise whips upwards through the broken window, followed immediately by a hard thud. SCP-6292 reaches for the untouched glass and drains the poured whiskey quickly.

SCP-6292: I always get' em in the end.

The Wake Of Vincent Bohart

Gambler's Ruin — Funeral Parlour & Crematorium

5:48 pm — Febraury 19, 2024.

The wooded-panelled walls and dark carpet floors of the visitation space gave a simultaneously grand and shabby impression to the room. A set of chairs are arranged to either side between the double-door entrance, all angled forward to face the casket. An under-adorned box, its upper-half raised to reveal the cold, settled face of Vincent Bohart. A scarf had been tied around his neck in a ridiculous display of fashion taste he'd never bothered with in life.

The parlour was tastefully decorated — surprisingly so — with dark flowers and candles, and furnished with small foodstuffs in rows of warming trays. A small bar was set against a wall, which was manned by the singular manager/bartender/embalmer.

The extent of provisions seemed extensive to the sparse crowd. Tony, Noah, and Leonora stood at a respectable distance from their former boss, sneaking glances toward him, as though untrusting his calm demeanour. A small number of co-workers mingled in pairs, sipped at their glasses while working up the courage to approach the casket, or sat on their phones texting. A confused seeming group entered in a flurry and Noah broke away to speak to them.

Leonora Morales: Tony, I don't mean for this to seem rude, but how on earth did you organize all of this? I had to wait six months to see a dentist, and you've managed to coordinate the flowers with the tablecloths. Have you considered wedding planning? You're wasted as an accountant.

Tony Catalano: That's the thing, I didn't do any of this. I called the funeral parlour to ask about their services, and they already had things set up for a Mr. Bohart. All they were waiting for was the body.

Tony Catalano: So, yeah, I'm going to take credit. And I'm also going to put the cost of this on our records even though it's all been pre-paid. I'll put a pool table in the employee breakroom; It's what Vincent would have wanted.

Leonora quickly finishes drinking from the champagne flute in her hand.

Leonora Morales: Well, in that case, I'll go get another of these. Do you want anything?

Tony Catalano: Yeah, the bar's not covered — you've been running up a tab this whole time. But I'll take a beer if you're buying.

Noah Patel moves away from a group of attendees and comes to stand by Tony.

Tony Catalano: Who were they, Noah?

Noah Patel: Oh, tourists mostly. They thought that this was like a wax museum. I sold them tickets to climb the lighthouse back at 333 tomorrow, though. Is it just us here, I assumed his family would be around.

Tony Catalano: Charlotte Bohart's flying in tomorrow — that woman is a saint. Vincent didn't have much by way of family this side of the Atlantic. She was really only sticking around Vegas for her kid's sake after the plane crash. When Vincent came out East, she made the same trip but didn't stop until she hit the UK.

Leonora returns holding two flutes of bubbling fluid.

Leonora Morales: So apparently what they're serving is Champ-pain, which is a legally distinct sparkling wine. Explains the taste, not why they're charging 12 bucks a glass though. Oh look, the tourists are sitting down. I can't tell if that's sweet or insensitive of them. Should we start, Tony?

Tony Catalano: Yeah, sure.

Tony Catalano walks to a podium placed near Vincent's corpse in the open casket. He turns towards the small assembled crowd; aside from Leonora and Noah, a few of Site-333's staff have chosen to attend. One of the tourists takes a photo and the bright flash distracts Tony for a moment as he tries to begin speaking.

Tony Catalano: Uh, I want to thank those of you from Site-333 in attendance today. For those of you not from Site-333, uh — don't think too hard about the implication of anything I'm saying. Consensus reality is not something you need to question, and — uh — the greatest power in the world is the US government. I suppose unless you're religious or something. Vincent wasn't, and that's what we're here to talk about today. Not him not being religious, but him in general. Although the religious stuff's pretty timely in situations like this. Sorry, I'm rambling. I wrote out cards, let me get those.

Tony Catalano withdraws a set of small paper cards from his suit jacket. He flips through them for a minute before continuing to speak.

Tony Catalano: Vincent Bohart was not a good man or a kind man. He wouldn't be described as generous, patient, or understanding. He had a habit of pretending not to know your name to avoid needing to speak to you. But despite his faults, he—

Tony attempts to turn to the next card, appears confused by it, and continues flipping through them before resuming his speech.

Tony Catalano: Sorry, I misplaced the one after that. I'll just jump right to the next one: Vincent was our boss. We may not have liked it, but he was. Regardless of what Site-333 means to you: if you're here because of a shitty choice you made or because you never had a shot elsewhere, you're still here — and Vincent was too. He was here through the worst of times, which he was often responsible for, and the best of times, as few as they were.

Tony Catalano: Because of his faults, Vincent was an easy man to blame. If you thought your department was underfunded, your hours too long, if you thought he wronged you, it was easy to stack that on top. But we aren't perfect people — none of us can claim that. Vincent may not have tried his best to lead us, but he did try; that's the memory of Vincent that sticks with me. A man who tries, sometimes — mostly when it would benefit him, but not exclusively, not always. And I—

The doors to the funeral parlour swing open, revealing a cloaked figure who strides inward toward the casket. The individual tosses its hood backwards, revealing a bare skull.

Tony Catalano: Who the fuck are you? I was talking here!

SCP-6292: Hey everyone, sorry I'm late. Been stuck in traffic all afternoon. God this place is seeming dour. Isn't a wake supposed to be a celebration? The next round's on me.

SCP-6292 approaches the open casket and peers down towards the corpse of Vincent Bohart.

SCP-6292: Always weird seeing them like, this — you know? Empty? For those of you who don't know, which is most-if-not-all all of you, I've known Vincent for longer than anyone in this room: 33 years. I'm going to be honest, he was always a bit of an enigma to me, a wildcard.

SCP-6292: Maybe it's weird for me to be here, but you know, I saw a lot of him in the lead-up to the big moment. Saying goodbye seemed important, even if he's already gone. Maybe you humans are rubbing off on me. They say funerals are for the living, so here's to all of you! Raise a glass, and have some cheer. Let old acquaintance be forgot. Or whatever you do in Atlantic City. I'm not looking to be back here soon, so Tony — you're going to want to get that lump checked out. You know the one. Back to you!

SCP-6292 leaves the casket and moves towards the bar, where it begins preparing a cocktail from the available spirits.

Tony Catalano continues and concludes his speech; Noah Patel and Leonora Morales make a series of quick remarks before the other attendees are invited to approach the casket before leaving. The trio converges around SCP-6292 as he sips from a cocktail shaker.

Tony Catalano: So, you're the one, huh? The clown Vincent cut a deal with?

SCP-6292: I prefer 'the fun one,' but yes. Guilty as charged.

Leonora Moraled: Sorry, I feel like I'm missing something. What's your deal?

SCP-6292: Are we really going to need to go over this again? Vincent had something I wanted. I gave him some more time and was willing to give some more if he pulled off three selfless acts. You can see how that went in the box over there.

Leonora Morales: You can just stop people from dying? Does that cost you anything? Are you just letting people die all the time? Why?

SCP-6292: I've drunk too much to get into the legalities, and too little to deal with the philosophical points. Let's just say you're not the first one to raise those concerns and you won't be the last. Vincent gave it a go with each of you and fell short. That's how things go and there's no use fighting it.

Noah Patel: But, shouldn't we have a say in that? You said he had to do three selfless acts, and that they involved us. Why do you get to be the judge? That doesn't seem fair.

SCP-6292: Better question! Truth is, it's not fair — life's not fair so why should death be any different? On that note though, I've got a game I'm late to, so I've got to run. I'll be seeing you all eventually.

SCP-6292 finishes its drink and departs the funeral parlour. Most of the visitors have likewise left. Before it leaves, it turns towards the corpse of Vincent Bohart and bows in an exaggerated, performative fashion.

Tony Catalano: What a prick.

Somewhere

♠♡♦♧2024♣♢♥♤

Death-the-Fool was late, but unworried. It knew the others could play a few hands on their own — doing so would only make them keener to match the rising bets as its turn to deal came.

As it manifested by the table, it prepared itself to assess its compatriates and competitors and found — quite immediately — that something was wrong. Death's multiple forms had been reduced, those familiar impressions were fainter, weaker: Death-the-Ravenous was subdued and feeble, Death-the-Absent had slipped further away into nothingness, and Death-the-Comfort was dishevelled and flustered. The pervasive sense of loss and wrongness disoriented Death-the-Fool as a chill set into its bones.

But loss wasn't absolute — power moves and shifts, but never dissipates. It was then that Death-the-Fool saw the figure in the fifth chair: a human, male, in his mid-50s and balding. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the permanent tan-lines of one whose sunscreenless youth was spent baking under the desert sun. The familiar form of Vincent Bohart looked at him over a hand of cards. But that name slipped away as it came to his mind. The familiarity went deeper, more essential than that association would imply. The once-human form had become infused with something — his winnings, it deduced.

Death-the-Bastard smiled and set the cards on the table: a winning hand.

"Just in time, pull up a chair. It's my turn to deal." The weight of implication was carried across each syllable. Death-the-Fool found itself complying, lacking even the recognition of its choice. "How are you here?" it managed to ask.

Death-the-Comfort's hands shook as it lit a cigarette — then steadied after breathing in the smoke. "We found him passing through on his way beyond. Clearly, someone didn't feel like following things all the way through. He said he knew you, we knew you'd be on your way back here sooner or later, and he asked to sit in and play a hand. Seemed like the thing to do, give the dead their due."

Death-the-Fool cursed, the rasping sound of a retreating glacier, "Well fucking done, then. Gave the cheating bastard a seat at the table."

"You're one to talk — what, you didn't feel like sharing with the class?" Death-the-Bastard interjected. The diminished interests of the others flared towards Death-the-Fool, who squirmed under their gaze. He found himself sitting at the table already, with no recollection of how or when he got there. Whatever force of self kept him distinct was being moved around, like a boat in a tempest.

Death-the-Bastard began dealing out the next hand. Death-the-Fool stared at the regular backs of the cards, thinking. It knew it should rev the weedwhacker that was never far from hand — despite what it claimed, or that it should run, or throw the pretender out, or beg and plead, or—

But the time for potential had slipped away, the myriad of responses were narrowed to the hand of cards before it. They grew in number, one by one.

Then it was time to bet.

Death-the-Bastard filled the pot, poured forward everything he had taken, the matter and meaning of those at the table; all their years and fear and sighs and cries. The space around them swelled and strained. Death-the-Ravenous folded, literally, turning into itself and compressing over and over, its cage growing tighter to enclose its feeble fury. Death-the-Comfort looked sickly, he coughed and bent over, leaning on the table. Death-the-Absent wasn't even there.

When it reached Death-the-Fool it was like a whirlwind, tearing at its cloak, rattling its bones, and pulling everything between them outwards, into the growing pot. It couldn't stop it, and suddenly, it was confronted with the sobering reality of its choices: its bets and mistakes — so much of what it was — hovered in the space around them. The round was over before it began, as Death-the-Fool laid each of its cards on the table:

A Jack of Hearts,

The Ace of Spades,

The Three of Clubs,

The Three of Diamonds,

The Three of Hearts.

Across the table, Death-The-Bastard turned over two Kings and the other three Aces. He looked at the Full House, then at Death-the-Fool.

He reached out towards the pot, and wrapped himself around the enormity of it: the diversity and memories and words and actions of Death. And—

Then he took it all.

Gambler's Ruin — Funeral Parlour & Crematorium

6:33 pm — Febraury 19, 2024.

Tony Catalano, Noah Patel, and Leonora Morales have pulled chairs up close to Vincent Bohart's casket. Leonora is pouring a bottle of wine into their glasses as the group makes a casual conversation.

Noah Patel: That was a good speech, Tony.

Tony Catalano: It wasn't, but someone had to do it.

Leonora Morales: What happens now? Do they promote a new Director or will we just be stuck without one for a while?

Noah Patel: They'd need someone to fill the role, wouldn't they?

Tony Catalano: How essential do you think Vincent was to the site really, Noah?

Leonora sets the bottle down on the floor by the casket and peers forward towards Vincent.

Leonora Morales: Wow. You know, I don't think I've ever seen him look so peaceful.

Suddenly, the corpse of Vincent Bohart jerks violently as an audible cracking sound is heard from his neck. The eyes snap open as the arms attempt to push upwards but hit the lid of the casket. Leonora screams and stands, causing Tony and Noah to rise to their feet and rush over.

Leonora Morales: Zombie! Fucking Zombie!

Vincent Bohart's arm works its way upward and grasps the side of the coffin while a low groan escapes his lips. Tony rushes to the open lid and slams it downward, crushing the formerly inanimate corpse's forearm against the wood's edge. He raises the lid back upwards as the body within attempts to sit up and cries out.

Noah Patel: Go for the head!

Tony Catalano slams the lid down again, connecting with the upright figure within who begins moaning — presumably in pain.

Corpse of Vincent Bohart: Fucking stop! Stop!

Tony Catalano raises and slams the lid down again, which causes the table legs holding the casket to give out. It falls forward and opens, knocking Tony over who collides with an adjacent candelabra. The humanoid figure attempts to stand, as Leonora and Noah scramble backwards.

(Corpse of) Vincent Bohart: Would you all fucking stop hitting me! I'm not a fucking zombie!

Noah Patel: Boss?

Leonora Moraels: You — you were dead!

Vincent Bohart: Yeah, no shit. I was there for it, Leonora. And I'm going to need one hell of a chiropractor. My neck feels like a damn Slinky.

Tony Catalano stands up and turns to look at the candelabra: the flame from the dislodged candles has spread to the carpet and begins to rapidly grow in its coverage.

Tony Catalano: Uhh, Vincent. I think we have a problem here.

Vincent Bohart: Jesus-resurrecting-Christ, a man can't have a fucking moment to collect himself after coming back from the dead? Well don't just stand there everyone, do something! This is what we have fire drills for!

Leonora Morales: Vincent! You're the one who cancelled the fire drills!

Vincent Bohart: Well now I'm reinstating them! Noah, do something!

Noah rushes into the back room and comes back with several jars full of a clear liquid, which he underhand throws towards the fire. The jars break on impact and explode into a consuming fireball that reaches the ceiling and nearby wall. The curtains and wooden panelling appear to catch fire in places.

Vincent Bohart: Okay, when I said something I probably should have specified not fucking that! What the hell was in that, Noah?

Tony Catalano: My guess is either moonshine or embalming fluid.

Leonora Morales: Wait — Vincent that shit is in your veins!

Vincent Bohart: Why the hell would you let them do that?

Leonora Morales: You were dead! You're lucky we didn't go straight to cremation!

Tony Morales: It'll be the same outcome if we don't get out of here!

The group runs towards the exit as thick plumes of smoke pour out overhead. They land, coughing, on the sidewalk as the sound of sirens in the distance grows closer. They rise to their feet and turn to look at the funeral parlour, which has become engulfed in a growing inferno.

Vincent rises to his feet first and turns towards the three others as they likewise steady themselves and each other.

Vincent Bohart: Well, not the worst funeral I've been to. Is anyone else hungry? I'm buying.

Aftemath from the Wake of Vincent Bohart.

Somewhere

Post-Wake, Pre-Resurrection

♠♡♦♧♠♡♦♧♠♡♦♧♣♢♥♤♣♢♥♤♣♢♥♤

Death-the-Bastard and Death-the-Fool stood leaning against the table. The others had already departed; whatever was left of them that they hadn't lost would coalesce in time, into new meanings and significance, they'd have until the end of time to do so.

Death-the-Fool watched as its conquering foe slid the cards together, one-by-one with the patient grace of someone who had utterly and totally won. It broke the silence as Death-the-Bastard broke the deck to shuffle: “So what now?”

Death-the-Bastard flexed the simmering power he had mantled, just a touch: somewhere the walls of a single-celled organism ruptured, a bird turned towards a window, the unending motions of the earth pushed upwards as tectonic layers shifted far below a quiet Icelandic village. He let the simmering energy dissipate: the wall healed, the bird turned away, and the roiling forces beneath the earth quieted — just a little.

"Now? Everything. Always and forever. Isn't that how this all works? You know,” he continued, with a voice that reverberated through Death-the-Fool's hollow skull. “You were pretty fucking cheap. You gave me 33 years, it wouldn’t have cost you anything to make that 33 thousand, huh?"

Death-the-Fool was silent.

“I’m getting a sense of it now, of what this all means: what you are, they are, we are. It might not be infinite, but it’s pretty fucking close. You could have set me up with more than I’d ever want, ever needed, and moved on. Maybe you come back to visit and have a drink as the sun collapsed in on itself, or when the stars flickered off one by one. You’d have avoided this whole mess, this whole awkwardness. But no. 33 years. That was all you were offering. You wouldn't risk more on such a small game; better to lose everything if you're going to lose, right?"

Death-the-Bastard shrugged. “I can’t say I’d have done differently. Or maybe I will. — Although you're not the only one who's been a selfish bastard. I left you with enough to keep going. We can exchange notes, and see where different choices lead us from here on.”

"You took everything! What's the point of carrying on — I'm a caricature of myself now. A fucking stamp, I'll be worn down with every touch, every day, until there's not even an impression left. I'll just be a memory — your memory! I won't even have that dignity in the end!" Death-the-Fool's wrist cracked as its hands hit the table — the bone was no more brittle than it had been before, but that wasn't the point.

Death-the-Bastard set the deck of cards on the table. “Here’s the thing I didn’t get at first. You could have done it too. At any point in the last 33 years, you could have cleared those suckers out; everything I won would have been yours. So, I’m left wondering: why didn’t you?"

"The answer’s clear to me now. You didn’t want to win, not really. You wanted the game to keep going because it’s the only one you know, and they’re the only ones you could really play it with. You were never going to risk it all and you were never going to take it all, even though you could. You wanted an advantage, to tip the scales in your favour, but you weren’t about to lay claim to real pot. You just wanted a better chance to be the one gloating.”

“If you had, if you’d played to win, there wouldn’t be a ‘you’ or a ‘them.’ You'd be on the edge of eternity without any more winners or losers. Things would be boring and predictable, death would be rote, absolute. The only thing worse than a casino where you always lose is one where you don't even get to play. Am I right?”

Death-the-Fool respected itself enough still to bolster in response: “That doesn't answer my damn question: what now? Let's say you've called my bluff. You've played the winning hand, but what's next? You got what you wanted, didn't you? You won. So what, are you going to walk away from the table with your pockets full and carry on as Death?"

Death-the-Bastard laughed, paused, and laughed again. “You're serious? Pal, I was — well not content, but something like that — running a low-budget Foundation facility in a tourist trap that had somehow become a municipality. I considered it a good start to the day if I got to work by 11. Do I want the responsibility of death from now until the end? Fucking hell, no. Does Death get every second Monday off? I didn't at the Foundation, not officially, but no one gave a shit if I took it off anyway."

"I don't begrudge you your little game, why do you think we run poker nights at 333? I'm more than happy to reset all this, I've already won, haven't I? You — all of you — can have what you lost back. If you're willing to cut a deal, that is."

Some sort of jolt surged through Death-the-Fool, firing through the missing synapses of its nervous system. Something had been returned, some power, some meaning. "And what is it you want?"

“Is this when I’m supposed to say I’ll settle for a normal human life, isn’t it? Another 40 years? If I’m lucky? Am I supposed to look at all this and say: 'Yes, I will accept my mortality and find meaning and reconciliation with death as the one true commonality of the human experience?"

"Yes." Death-the-Fool knew that whether the question was rhetorical was irrelevant — it was a prompt, and it said its line on cue. "I imagine that is what you're supposed to say."

"Yeah, fuck that," answered Death-The-Bastard. "I don't want some shitty deal where I'm hit by a bus in a day and we get to go through all this again. No, if we're making things square, you owe me a lot more. I want to live, Death. And I want to go on living for as long as I damn well please. Maybe I'm a selfish bastard, but so long as I'm living, I can live with that.

"So here are my terms: I give back what you all chose to lose — and it was a choice, any of you could have walked away from the table, but none of you did — and in exchange, I get to live for as long as I choose. I get to keep going, and none of you can touch me. And then, when I'm good and ready for something else, and only then, we'll play another hand. Win or lose, that will be the end."

"Deal?"