“Yes, our agent has had some down-time, but this is not his first 
action in this capacity. Plus, despite their initial differences, Kondraki 
trusts him to a certain extent. He won't let us down.” 


“What do you mean, | can't enter the containment cell? I've 
ALWAYS had access to SCP-408, you KNOW this report is bullshit!” 


Dmitri smiled uncomfortably, holding up his wrists held together. “I 
am sorry, Doktor, but | am in the handcuff. Command says 'no 
entry’, | must give no entry. Security Head must set example, am 
sure you understand.” 


Kondraki swore and kicked at the containment door, then turned and 
stood directly before the Russian. “Listen, how many times have | 
gotten you out of jams, huh? Just let me check on them, to make 
sure everything's ok, yeah?” 


Dimitri shook his head, forced smile firmly planted on his face. “I am 
of the regretting, sir, but orders are orders. Nobody in, nobody out 
for three week. Order signed by O5 level, is nothing to do for it.” 


Kondraki roared, grabbing his hat and raging for several seconds, 
before grabbing the big Russian's shirt. “Listen, I'm the goddamn 
head of-” 


He was abruptly cut off as Dmitri grabbed his arm and twisted him 
away. He then positioned himself in front of the containment access 
door, arms behind his back, feet planted at parade rest. His face 
was a stony mask. “Was speaking as friend, Doktor. Am now 
speaking as Security Head. Leave area immediately, Doktor 
Kondraki, or you will be removed.” 


Kondraki was still fuming hours later, when there was a sharp knock 
on his door. Before he could say “fuck off”, Clef slipped in, shutting 
the door behind him. He looked around the office, whistling. “Wow... 
did you really have to shoot the ceiling that much? | mean, the 
computer is still semi-recognizable, wouldn't that have been better?” 


Kondraki shook his head, twirling a spent shotgun shell on his finger. 
“Not now Clef, I'm really not in the mood.” 


Clef slid into one of the few remaining undamaged chairs, and 
grinned at the smoldering doctor. “Shit happens Kon, you know this. 
It's probably some screw-up somewhere down the chain, you know 
how bureaucratic shit gets up at the top. Just...roll with it.” 


Kondraki rose, starting to walk around the room. “I know what 
they're up to. They've tried to kill me before a few times, but | always 
get loose. It's so fucking stupid...they recall all the research work, try 
and delegate everything out so when | go, | won't leave a hole...but 
I'm not about to let some dusty stuffed shirts brush me out of the 
way. I've shown the weapon potential for countless items...plus, | 
always have an ace over them.” He grinned coldly, looking at 
nothing. “They think that cutting me off from SCP-408 is going to 
leave me defenseless? Bullshit. Bull SHIT! Plus, nobody has the 
balls to try and go toe-to-toe with me!" Kondraki continued. "Hell, | 
rode fucking 682!” He laughed, looking to Clef. 


The other man nodded, his eyes flickering slightly as he looked 
away. “Yeah...you're really just too nuts to kill...” 


Both men chuckled for a few moments, before drifting into silence. 


Kondraki stared at Clef, his smile slowly fading as he warily moved 
back behind his desk. “So...tell me, friend...why is it you've been 
such a desk jockey lately? Seems weird for a...man...of action like 
you to just take being benched without a fight.” 


Clef shrugged, his smile frozen inches from his ears. “Oh, you know, 
just recharging the batteries, molesting demi-humans, the usual.” 


The laughter was forced, the remaining conversation false. When 
Kondraki pulled his shotgun and put a slug past Clef's ear, it was 
almost a relief. 


“Isn't there a concern about fallout? Kondraki is somewhat well 
known for his... tendencies towards collateral damage.” 


“It's been decided that, in light of the continued threat potential 
posed, the one-time costs are outweighed by the long-term 
benefits.” 


“...ls the damn site nuke mentioned anywhere in the contingency 
plans?” 


“Not in any of the primary ones, no.” 


-SECURITY BREACH ON STAFF LEVEL 1- 

-SHOTS FIRED- 

-SHOTS FIRED- 

-STRUCTURAL DAMAGE TO STAFF LEVEL ONE: STAFF DOORS 
1-3- 

-SHOTS FIRED- 


“Son of the bitch...what is going...” Dmitri hunched over the site 
alert console, watching the alerts pop up, several security screens 
switching to the site of the action. It appeared Clef and Kondraki 
were locked in a gun battle. Again. Still, this seemed more... 
vigorous than normal. For one thing, they were using real bullets this 
time. 


Dmitri flipped the sound toggle on, letting the room fill with the sound 


of screaming and gunfire. 

“-onna creep up, blind-side me? Oooh, you're slipping...” 
<Three loud reports> 

“Kon, | swear, | have no idea-” 


“Oh, and now I'm going to believe a word that comes out of that 
polymorphic pie hole?” 


<Single report> 
“Kon, calm the shit down!” 


Dmitri sighed, rubbing his temple as he reached for the security 
intercom. “Is to be much paperworks...” he muttered, picking up the 
receiver. 


Before he could dial up the security team, however, it rang in his 
hand. Shocked, he nearly dropped it before hitting the transmit 
button. He listened in silence for thirty eight seconds. He nodded 
once, then replaced the receiver. He looked at the screens, the 
intercom, and swallowed hard. 


He then switched everything off, and went to get a coffee. It was the 
first coffee break he'd taken in nine months. 


“Too much seems left to chance. What if he somehow avoids the 
operative? Kondraki has shown some combat prowess, this could 
backfire rather quickly.” 


“If you'll go to page eighteen of the third section, you'll see the 
actions detailed much more clearly. The main combat event is to 


assess the level of decay Kondraki's combat capabilities have 
undergone during his prolonged SCP-408 use.” 


“...fair enough, but won't he be more on alert?” 


“Yes. On the wrong subject.” 


Kondraki raced down the hall, keeping to the side. His bleeding arm 
throbbed, but he kept running, the gradual slant keeping him at a 
good pace. He couldn't hear Clef any more, but he knew he was 
there, somewhere, waiting for an ambush. He smiled with bloody 
teeth as he rounded the corner. He knew where he'd be safe, be 
able to regroup. The one place nobody would dare fire a shot, never 
risk the full wrath of The Foundation for any collateral damage. 


Lurching forward, he pitched himself against the solid steel door. 
Panting, he fumbled for the knob, smearing blood over the brass 
plate reading “Dr. Gears’. 


Gears looked up quickly from his screen as Kondraki stumbled in, 
blood splattering as he slammed the door shut. “Doctor Kondraki. 
You appear distressed. And injured.” 


The bleeding man laughed, then panted, leaning on the door. 
“Ooooh fuck....Gears, you have...no idea...how happy I...am to... 
hear you.” 


Gears rose and crossed quickly to the door, easing Kondraki across 
the office. “Sit down. You need immediate medical attention. Is there 
a breach event in progress? | will contact site security.” 


Kondraki tensed as Gears spoke, then grabbed the older man's lab 
coat. “No...no security...just...let me sit.” 


Kondraki flopped into the office chair, sighing and wincing as he 
rubbed his shoulder. “They...they tried to send Clef after me...can 
you believe that? | knew they'd try it eventually. God DAMN but that 
hurts...Got any pain killers, Gears?” 


The older man shook his head slowly, watching Kondraki. “I am 
sorry, but | Keep no medical supplies on hand in my office. Any 
chemicals required for testing are kept-” 


“| know, | know...Jesus...” Kondraki waved Gears away, panting 
and closing his eyes as he rubbed his face. “Just...need a second to 
regroup. Then I'm going up to master control...pop some doors...” 
Kondraki sighed, getting his wind back. 


« SCP-960 | SCP-961 | SCP-962 » 


He didn't hear the click of the trigger until the bullet was already in 
his temple. 


The .45 caliber slug tore through the thin tissue of his scalp and 
snipped a neat hole through the skull bone just as Kondraki thought 
“what...”. As it shredded through his collected memories, dreams, 
and plans, he was simultaneously aware of the location of a book 
he'd misplaced weeks ago, and the vague smell of wood shavings. 
Then all of it, wood, book, and mind exited through a much less neat 
and much more explosive hole in the left side of the now former 
doctor's skull. He twitched once, then fell forward, hitting the desk 
hard enough to bruise, if he had been still capable of it. 


Gears shifted, replacing the gun in his coat pocket. He looked down, 
stone-faced, as the man emptied his life's blood and work onto his 
desk. He raised his hand, slowly, and placed it on the dead man's 
shoulder. He blinked once, slowly, eyes closed for several seconds, 
before opening them again. He then set about cleaning the gun, and 
re-positioning Kondraki's hands. 


“| still question the operative choice. His last combat action was... 
four years ago?” 


“Combat, yes. Rogue subject control is not considered a combat 
action.” 


“’..when...when was he last active for that, then?” 
“I'm afraid that's still sealed.” 
“...alright. Let's go with it. What are we going to do for a cover?” 


“In this case, the old ways are the best ways.” 


-Notice of Staff Death- 
Name: Dr. Kondraki 


Cause: Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wound 


Information: 

Subject has been known to exhibit extreme bipolar and 
paranoid disorders consistent with extreme chemical 
imbalance. Subject entered a psychotic episode/break 
down during a conversation with a fellow staff member. 
Subject attempted to kill several staff members, then 
attempted to take a senior staff member hostage. 
Subject was reported to be incoherent and extremely 
agitated, and threatened to take his own life several 
times during the event. Subject made several motions to 
execute the senior staff member, before turning the gun 
on himself. Security teams reported too late to prevent 
subject's action. 


Post-Action: 
Burial services to be held immediately. Position 
replacement interviews underway. 


Status: 
Closed 


“Shot himself? Really Gears? Really?” 


“Yes. 


“... You look me in the eyes. You look me in the eyes and you say 
that to me.” 


“He shot himself.” 
“You can't bullshit a bullshitter Gears.” 


“ ” 


“...Was it at least hard for you to do?” 


“ ” 


“You know what...don't answer. | really don't want to know." 


The King of Coins, in The Cups 


Patrick slipped through the streets of London like a forgotten 
memory. Young, handsome, and free (for the moment) of both limb 
and responsibility, he strolled the evening-lit byways of the city with 
the ambling grace of a man who has nothing at all to lose. His life 
before this morning seemed like something of a murky memory, like 
a poor daytime drama. Nearly everything gone, and so quickly, and 
so totally...he felt he should be looking for a place to drown himself, 
but there was such an airy sense of freedom in his heart. Perhaps 
ride the cloud until it finally dumped him into the river, or a bullet. No 
need to rush, however, plenty of time, yet. 


The city seemed to have reordered itself to better feed his giddy, 
masochistic high. Twilight lingered in the sky like a smear, a deep, 
low fog curling and slithering through the streets like a living thing. 
The damp and the cold seemed to be keeping people inside as well, 
the few figures shuffling through the fog little more them dark ghosts. 
This was old London. The London of Sweeny Todd, Dr. Jekyll, of 
Jack the Ripper and penny dreadfuls...Patrick smiled, wondering if 
perhaps the fates would favor his recently ex beloved with a visit to 
the barber, or good doctor...perhaps too much to hope for. 
However, as he slipped down a side street into a gloomy alley still 
clad with cobblestone, high row houses clustering overhead as if 
trying to peer at his face, he couldn't put it totally outside the realm 
of possibility. 


The pub announced itself shortly after he entered the tiny sidestreet, 
a dingy, faded sign proclaiming it “The Night's Shade” with ivy- 
latticed block script. The door was scuffed and dull, the tiny windows 
clad with warped glass, too coated with nicotine and despair to let 
more than outlined shadows through. The wood was dark and 
scummy, the stone steps bowed with generations of drunks. Patrick 
could feel the place pull with the same nauseating allure of a high 
cliff. This place was an elephant graveyard of drunks, the final home 
for those who seemed too broken to truly die. He admired his turn of 


phrase as he pushed open the groaning door. That same poet's 
heart his grandmother had lauded had likely earned him that final 
“failure to perform to expectation” review as well. Well, as The Bard 
should have said: “Fuck'em.” 


The inside went sublimely beyond even his lowest expectations. 
Dark, fly-spotted lighting. Grimy posters and black-streaked 
paneling. A formica bartop, stained to a murky nicotine gold, 
scratched and chipped. Split and patched chairs, leaking foam like 
pus. The radio warbled sounds that could only be called music by 
the most tone-deaf. The barman looked to be an impostor, obviously 
a well-fed boar who had managed to balance on his rear trotters, put 
on overfilled flesh toned gloves, popped a hearing aid into one ear, 
and wobbled out mere hours ahead of slaughter. The sole patron 
was a balding, sallow old crow, wearing a thick, shabby fur coat, the 
knobby hands holding a half-dead pint with a drunk's shivering 
tenderness. Judging by the empty glasses, he was already well on 
the way. Patrick couldn't think of a better place to drink oneself into 
oblivion. His suicidal bliss was nearly shattered as the old man 
turned, and favored him with a long, jagged, yellow-toothed smile. 


“Ahh, Patrick Franklin, good lord. Never trust a man with two first 
names, eh? Must be why people like me so much, I've neither. Well 
don't stand there like some prized castrato waiting for a pat on the 
head, sit down, you sodding bastard.” 


Patrick blinked several times, sitting on the next barstool like a 
sleepwalker. He had never met this man in his life. As he watched 
the elderly man produce, light, and drag a deep pull from a cigar ina 
single motion, letting the smoke curl from his long, sharp nose, 
Patrick was damned sure he'd remember whoever this was, if he 
had. 


“I'm not sure-” 


“No, I'm sure you're not, which is why you're here, but you've picked 
the worst bleeding time you could have. Oh don't make that damned 
face, you come by it honestly, you damned Franklin's always 
jumping the rotting gun. Doesn't mean | have to like it. Bah, bleeding 
tosspots, all...” 


The old man's bizarre rambling trailed off as he took another drink, 
Patrick looking to the bartender, seeking some sort of aid, or at least 
acknowledgment. The jowly face wobbled in time with the tinny 
music of the radio, the tiny, pinched eyes seeming absorbed with 
cleaning various glasses. He didn't look to even be aware of the two. 
Patrick finally had a drop of real concern penetrate the dense filter of 
his joyful nihilism. Nobody knew where he was...hell, he didn't even 
know where he was. If something were to happen, this place was so 
isolated...his smile was still wide, but there was a growing ember of 
worry behind it. 


The old buzzard seemed to scent it, and grinned that death's head 
smile after dragging on his vile cigar again, letting the smoke ooze 
between his gapped teeth.