The sky flashed briefly, and a moment later came the thunder. When 
it ended, a homeless man fell onto the sidewalk, blood washing into 
the drains by the heavy rain. As Toby walked away, for the first time, 
there was a pain in his chest. It hurt. For the first time since he 
started working as a hitman, he wondered about the man he'd killed. 
Why did he look at the clouds that way, the same way that he did? 
Why did he have to look at them the same way he did? 


The rain stopped being something that Toby looked forward to after 
that. Whenever it did rain, he felt a strange pain in his chest that 
hadn't been there before. The rain was no longer something that 
brought him back to his childhood, but instead reminded him of what 
he'd taken. 


Another Star On The Wall 


The Foundation buried another of my friends today. 


He wasn't the first. And, knowing how this line of work goes, | doubt 
he will be the last. 


| first met him when he was giving an orientation to a new batch of 
recruits. Most of the folks in the audience were young enough they 
could have been my kids — heck, he was years younger than I. 
Reminded me of a Staff Sergeant who served under me back, oh, 
must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Solid as a rock, seen 
everything, the sort of fellow you want watching your back. My friend 
told us he’d been a Foundation agent for over a decade, working 
mostly in retrieval. His eyes made me believe him: you get eyes like 
his from seeing the worst the world has to offer, walking into hell, 
spitting in the face of the devil, and walking back. 


We worked together on a few occasions after that. Not too often, 
since | was working mostly in intel and operations planning. We'd 
have drinks and trade stories after hours, mostly. He forgave me for 
being a REMF once he learned about what I’d been through back in 
Ukraine. And in Kashmir. And in [REDACTED]. 


The service was subdued. Empty casket — no surprise, considering 
the size of the explosion. The sweep-and-clear team never found a 
body, just a twisted bit of metal that used to be his dog-tags. Or so 
they say. Honestly, I’m skeptical; my friend’s been working for the 
Foundation for so many years now and come home so many times 
I’m not going to believe he’s dead until the DNA matches. They 
apparently didn’t find any of that, either. 


The service was in the site's north amphitheater. | slipped away 
afterwards to visit the Memorial Wall. The Wall is actually an entire 
room, duplicated at all the large Sites. On three walls there is a star 
carved for every member of the Foundation who has died in the line 
of duty. A small, leather-bound book sits on a stand before the wall, 


listing the fallen in chronological order. Most of the names are blank, 
identities remaining secret even in death. 


The remaining wall has small inlaid bronze valor medals for every 
such award given posthumously. Most of these are Distinguished 
Crosses or Foundation Stars. | looked; my friend’s award had 
already been added. 


Foundation Star 


Awarded Posthumously on This Day 28 February 
2012, 


For Voluntary Acts of Courage Performed Under 
Hazardous Conditions, 


And For Outstanding Achievements and Services 
Rendered With Distinction Under Conditions of Grave 
Risk. 


He Gave His Life That His Team Could Escape. 


As expected, there was no name. Understandable; everyone at the 
Foundation knew their names might never be chronicled. But in the 
quiet, dimly lit marble room, they were remembered. 


We Secure. We Contain. We Protect. 


And We Never Forget. 


Another Thursday 


The office of Dr. Isaac Seidelman was quiet in the early evening, the 
pale yellow light of his desk lamp warming the building’s old walls. 
The sunset was vanishing beneath the veil of night, the last of the 
red and orange light fading from the sky out the windows of his 
corner office. The old security lights outside began to flick on one by 
one as the sun fell, as Bio-Site 66 settled down for the night. 


Seidelman was a thin, tall man, dressed in a pale old grey suit. He 
and Dr. Bridge were co-directors of this site, and while Bridge 
headed most of the... hands-on research, Seidelman handled inter- 
site communication and a host of administrative duties. Somebody 
had to, after all. 


He sat back, feet up on his desk, reading the paper as he waited for 
his usual visitor. He was the first person in every day, and tonight 
he'll be the last one out. 


There was a knock at the door as the clock hit seven-thirty, and 
Seidelman’s guest let himself in. A tall, older man, older than 
Seidelman, balding and fair skinned, wearing a heavy brown 
overcoat. He carefully shut the door behind him, as Seidelman 
pulled himself to sit upright and fold his paper. 


“Good evening, Administrator.” 
“Good evening, Dr. Seidelman.” 


Seidelman smiled, gesturing to the admin’s usual worn old chair in 
the corner. The Administrator's hands were folded, as usual, as he 
sat back in the chair, letting out a quiet breath. Seidelman, in the 
meanwhile, produced a bottle of scotch from beneath his desk. 


An odd tradition manifested between the two, some time long ago. 
Once weekly, they would spend a few hours and enjoy one 
another’s company. If Seidelman brought the booze, the 


Administrator brought the stories. The doctor was sure that some of 
them were true. But the man across the room never seemed to keep 
it all consistent from week to week. Not that either of them minded. 


Seidelman poured them each a glass, and set both on his desk, 
leaning to set one near the closest edge to his guest. The two sat in 
silence in the dim office for several long minutes, before Seidelman 
finally broke the silence again. 


“Another bad week, my friend?” 


“Every week is a bad week somewhere, Dr. Seidelman,” an arm slid 
from beneath the Administrator’s coat, stretching and reaching 
across to pick up his scotch. “You already know that.” 


“Mmm. Shall we talk about it? Or about something else?” asked the 
doctor. 


The Administrator took a sip of scotch, the glass still held daintily 
from the peculiar tanned hand, extended from his coat of arms. His 
own two remained close to one another, clasped in his lap. After a 
moment he stood up, out of the weathered armchair, and stepped 
towards the window, his own hands drawing to clasp behind his 
back. 


“I'd like to talk about something else tonight, Dr. Seidelman. If you 
wouldn’t mind.” 


“Not at all,” Seidelman sat back in his own chair, a fingertip tracing a 
circle around the lip of his glass. “What kind of ‘something else’?” 


“How about something terrible, Dr. Seidelman?” 
“Personal demons?” 


“... ina manner of speaking,” the Administrator turned to glance 
over his shoulder, his own little grim smile apparent even in the 
dimmed office light. “Tell me, Dr. Seidelman. This Site specializes in 
biological SCPs, right?” 


“... Why yes, it does.” 


“What do you know about number two-three-one?” 


There was a palpable silence on Seidelman’s side of the room, as 
he straightened up and set both hands on his desk. 


“... /m vaguely familiar. Outside my wheelhouse, but most Level 
Four personnel know of -” 


“You don’t need to pretend | don’t already know of its notoriety, Dr. 
Seidelman. Many Level Threes know of it as well. Rumours spread 
like a pox in our line of work,” the Administrator took another sip of 
his drink. “Relax, please. We’ve had more interesting chats.” 


Seidelman took a breath, relaxing a bit. It’s true, they have had 
more... interesting discussions. This shouldn’t be any worse, just 
because it happens to be... that story. 


“... Okay, Mr Administrator,” Seidelman reached below his desk, to 
pull out a plain bottle of water. “Where shall we begin? The secure 
containment document, or...?” 


“It all started with God,” the Administrator said. He said it with a kind 
of finality, even at the beginning of the story. 


“'.. Three four three?” 


“No! Not that God. The other-other one. The Catholic one,” 


” 


“Mmm. 


“... One of the Catholic ones,” the old man glanced back at 
Seidelman with a shade of grim humour in his eyes. Or at least, 
what Seidelman thought could be humour. 


“You know this nearly as well as | do, but there's always somebody 
contrarian, Dr. Seidelman. Contrarian to evil, and contrarian to good. 
Sometimes they’re driven to it themselves, sometimes 
circumstances press them in some new direction,” the Administrator 
looked back out the window. 


“One of these contrarians was against faith, and everything good it 
brought. He wanted to bring about Armageddon, or some silliness 


like that. You know the type, I’m sure,” he took a sip of his drink, 
pausing both for effect and to help him decide what to say next. 
“And so he decided to do some... light reading. You’ve read two- 
three-one’s redacted report, correct?” 


“ ” 


“Yes or no, Dr. Seidelman.” 

“.. Of course, | have.” 

“Mm-hmm. So you recall the part about the Satanic sex cult?” 
“Yes. Quite starkly.” 


“Seven ‘sisters’, Dr. Seidelman. Not literal sisters, of course, but 
sisters of their ritual. Hell on earth, in more ways than one.” 


The Administrator took another sip of his drink, the tanned arm 
reaching and twisting behind himself to set the glass down on 
Seidelman’s desk, gracefully and silently. It quickly slipped back 
beneath the coat, vanishing before its wearer began to speak again. 


“We weren't entirely sure what we were dealing with, when the raid 
was initiated. We knew there was some sort of supernatural 
disturbance, and the calling cards of religious ritual behind civilian 
disappearances. But... we were unprepared, and learned a lot from 
the experience. Resistance was met, struggled against, and 
overcome,” 


His hands behind his back shifting to clasp more comfortably. “And 
the first born of the seven became one of the earliest blackbox 
artifacts. I'll be visiting that site next month.” 


Seidelman nodded, listening quietly. He wondered what became of 
the mother. He knew better than to ask. 


“The second was a shame on our part. You can’t abort evil, Dr. 
Seidelman. There’s no such thing as nipping it in the bud, when it’s 
True. Contrary to goodness at such a primitive level.” 


“Mmm.” Seidelman nodded again, his eyes following his friend. 


“Needless to say, we never made that mistake again,” the 
Administrator murmured, as a moment of melancholy passed across 
his face. “The third sister killed herself, to avoid our containment 
procedures. It was a dark day for everyone on-site. Very dark.” 


“And... the fourth?” Seidelman asked, a careful curiosity in his voice. 


“... and then somebody decided it was a good idea to try and heal 
one of the poor girls. You can't heal something that broken, Dr. 
Seidelman,” the Administrator looked out through the blinds, 
bitterness in his voice, the yellow of outside lights crossing his face. 
“Something that was made broken.” 


“What happened?” 


“Overseer Command decided to try and utilize our panacea to heal 
the poor girl,” he closed his eyes, turning as if looking out the far 
window again. “Their logic was sound, of course... Her child was an 
affliction, Dr. Seidelman. It cured her, causing her to... reject the evil 
within her. And the evil did not take a human form. It never has, and 
never will. It loathes everything pure and good in this world, for it 
was cured of goodness as its mother was cured of evil.” 


He inhaled deeply, his gaze out the window and towards the night 
sky. After a moment, he sat in the old worn armchair, his hands 
clasped in front of him. 


“The dragon, Dr. Seidelman. The fourth is a bastard against nature, 
and remains one to this day. You know exactly which | mean. The 
great beast.” 


“.. that beast?” 


“The only one. Of course, we can't say whether it would have been 
better or worse if nothing had been done. It's sister is nearly as 
terrible.” 


Seidelman’s heart skipped a beat, and he coughed in stunned 
surprise. 


“It’s sister?” 


“The fifth sister's fate remains a shame upon the Foundation,” 
continued the Administrator. “The ritual was botched, and she bore 
her child, which was born to a human mother in the human fashion. 
And so the evil took a human form, human in origins not its nature. 
I’ve fought to have it black-boxed, but Command sees differently.” 


He sat back in his chair, looking across the office to meet 
Seidelman’s eye. 


“And so we contain it, as item number zero-five-three.” 


It took a moment for Seidelman to connect the dots, recalling what 
number zero-five-three was, and what - 


“... the Young Girl.” 


“But with every mistake, we learn something, don’t we?” the 
Administrator leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped together 
in front of him. “Everything must be born eventually, Dr. Seidelman. 
Even things that aren’t really born at all, in the real sense of the 
word.” 


“... Do you know what the worst part of this is, my friend?” the 
Administrator suddenly asked. “It’s the pain. The humanity being 
scorned, innocent souls being harmed without mercy, to save this 
earth. Mercy is the bane of safety in our line of work, Dr. Seidelman. 
But there it is. Without mercy, we aren’t human. The absence of 
mercy in one man’s heart sparked this entire saga of hell on earth.” 


He sat back. “But then, a friend, a good man - a good man - wanted 
to save the sixth sister’s life. Save her from the hell on earth he saw 
each day, in that concrete prison we keep them in. And in his mercy 
and stupidity, they both died, and the sixth child was born.” 


Seidelman opened his mouth, before his friend spoke again. 
“| would like to say that many died that day,” said the Administrator. 


The Administrator fell silent, as Seidelman shifted and looked out his 
window. 


What felt like hours passed, before the Administrator spoke up 


again. 


“... You had an interesting way of starting this conversation off, Dr. 
Seidelman. Personal demons.” 


“Oh... oh, dear, I’m sorry sir.” 


“No, don’t apologize. It would be worth a chuckle, if it wasn’t so 
terribly accurate.” 


The Administrator stood up, stepping off towards Seidelman’s desk, 
a long, thin, pale arm extending from within his coat. 


“I'll be off, with that. | need to be in Uluru tomorrow.” 


Seidelman shook the hand, standing up. “Thank you for the visit, my 
friend. Safe travels. Same time next week?” 


“Of course, of course. Goodbye, Dr. Seidelman.” 


The Administrator opened the door, and stepped out of Seidelman’s 
office. Seidelman sat back in his chair as the door closed - he could 
barely make out conversation, before it shut, leaving silence behind. 


He sat for a little while, before reaching for his newspaper and 
opening it up again. Just another Thursday night chat with a friend. 


SCP-788: Magma Carp 


Item #: SCP-788 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-788 is contained at Site 

in a high-temperature ceramic lined chamber 25 m in diameter, filled 
with molten lead kept at a temperature of 900 degrees Centigrade. If 
SCP-788 becomes active or attempts to break containment, its 
containment chamber is to be cooled until SCP-788 ceases 
movement. SCP-788 is to be fed 500g pellets of iron and 
magnesium on a daily basis. 


Description: SCP-788 is a creature resembling an African carp 
(Labeo coubie), approximately 3.2 m in length and composed 
entirely of ultramafic magma with a 'skin' of cracked picritic basalt. It 
is currently estimated to have a core temperature of approximately 
1475 degrees Centigrade, though its skin temperature is typically 
much lower. Samples obtained from SCP-788 have shown no 
differentiation or internal structure.