"Hey Prissy. How're the hormones treating you? Not so good, it 
seems." 


Priss set aside her coat, and stepped up to her sister. The way she 
twisted her back as she leaned her head up towards her made her 
want to slap the rest of her teeth out. 


"Go on. Make sure to buy me some shiny new ones. Porcelain is 
fine, I'm not fancy." 


"Why don't you just talk to me instead of acting like a freak? This is 
all for attention, isn't it. Why can you never just sit down and fucking 
tell people what's going on and let them help you instead of having 
these freak-outs and expecting us to guess afterwards what the fuck 
happened?" 


"Prissy, you swung first. | was trying to introduce you to some 
friends." 


"And | apologize for that —" 
"| don't accept your apology." 


"— But this isn't about me, Rhiannon." Priss leaned in closer, close 
enough to smell the lingering scent of liquor wafting through the gap 


where her front teeth had been, "Your boss says some racist things, 
so you have an existential crisis and drink all day?" 


She simply shrugged, "I'm making new friends. You only have 
Annie-poo. | bet she has a crush on you, but she doesn't know, does 
she?" 


"| have a friend | know and love and can depend on in any situation. 
When was the last time you had a friend who would even let you 
pass out drunk on their couch and make sure you didn't end up 
robbed or raped or," Priss lost it, and flung her notepad at the 
nearby floor lamp, knocking it over. "You don't have friends, you 
have people you drink with!" 


Rhiannon rose sluggishly, turning the chair, and sitting properly, 
scooting close to one of the couches so Priss could sit across from 
her, "I'm ready to talk, then." 


Priss clenched her jaw, and sat. Rhiannon always liked going to 
great lengths to pester, harass, disrupt, and disturb others, and 
there was never a "too far" with her. 


"| don't belong here, Prissy," she said flatly, then elaborated, "In this 
world. | can't handle the bullshit. The racism, the 'white pride’, the 
ultra-nationalism, the constant hostilities. Living in a country where 
every day is a paranoid delusion, 'the Qing are makin’ gains in Asia, 
it's gonna be world war three'’, 'the Africans are unitin’, they're 
gonna come for our lands, world war three!’, ‘Europe's gettin’ uppity, 
world war three!" 


"It's better now than it's ever been in human history. Less war, less 
violence, even less racism." 


Rhiannon shook her head. "No it's not. It can't be right. Just because 
there's less violence doesn't mean the world's gettin’ better. When 
was the last time income inequality was this high, with all signs 
pointing to it getting higher? When was the last time billions of 
people started willingly laying down and accepting the end of their 
democracy in the name of religion?" 


Priss crossed her arms and leaned back on the couch, "I could 


probably name quite a few instances." 


"You know women in Turkey and Syria used to wear bikinis to the 
beach not too long ago? Before the Ottomans fell and got replaced 
by those Islamist faggots?" 


"That's their problem. They'll get over it at their own pace." 


"You know, Prissy, it's not healthy sitting and stewing in filth 
because you're too much of a pussy to stir shit up and risk people 
getting hurt for something better. Someone wise once said, 'A just 


war is preferable to an unjust peace’. 
"What does that even mean?" 


Rhiannon rose again, extending a hand out to her sister, "I want to 
change the world for the better. Will you help me, Priscilla Locke?" 


She glared at Rhiannon, not buying this apparent sincerity, "When 
are you getting another job?" 


Rhiannon stepped aside, letting her hand gently brush along Priss's 
legs before moving to the door, "I'll see you on the other side, 
Prissy." 


Shi Mingxia watched as the little woman bowed, and scurried over to 
the console to input the visitor's name. She had such little feet, a 
relic from the previous century. So uncivilized, yet people still 
marveled at it as a sign of wealth. The fact that the woman was 
working now behind a desk belied the sense in the practice of 
footbinding in a time when wealth was so fleeting. 


"You are Manchu, yes?" The woman asked in a wispy little voice. 


Mingxia looked down at her own broad feet. Manchu hadn't ever 
practiced footbinding, "How did you know?" 


"Your accent," the woman smiled, and guided her over to the 
elevator. She waved as the doors closed, leaving Shi Mingxia alone. 


She stood almost two meters tall, and built like a supermodel. No 


one in her family could believe she wasn't secretly Jinyiwei or a porn 
star. Nope, I'm just a lab assistant, she'd tell them. That only made 
them joke more about her. 


So when the opportunity came up, she joined the Jinyiwei. 


The doors slid open, and she stepped out, bowing politely to Mr. 
Hung as he approached. He extended a hand out to her, and led her 
down the hall, into the meeting room. 


This was her second time meeting the group, and they had already 
started treating her like family. Even the fact that she was a woman 
seemed to have no bearing on how they seemed to respect her. 


I'm just a lab assistant. 


They entered a dimly lit room, with decorative Qing-style banners 
coating the windows, and a plush carpet covering the floor. The four 
men were kneeling around a heavily robed woman, her face 
covered, leaving only her nose and upper lip exposed. The woman 
motioned for Shi Mingxia to come and sit. She took a seat before the 
woman. 


"You are the lab assistant?" The woman's voice was dry and harsh. 


She nodded, then realized the woman's face was covered. The 
woman nevertheless went on. 


"To Dr. Sienowicz?" 

"Yes." 

"Dr. Sienowicz passed away last week." 
"| had heard, my lady." 


The lady gave a hiss, like air escaping a pipe. "My Lady’... You 
don't even know who | am." 


"My apologies." 


"You are aware he was doing work on a bacterial substance 


collected from the dead in Laos?" 

"Yes." 

"Have you observed the bacterial substance personally?" 
"| have." 

"Unusual, is it not? Describe it to me as if | were a child." 


Shi Mingxia quirked a brow at the woman, not sure if the woman 
would see her making the gesture. The woman's tone indicated she 
already knew what it was. Presumably she meant for the men 
around her to know as well. 


"The bacterium is unusually receptive to foreign environments. It 
thrives whether exposed to extreme heat or cold. And it appears 
mutates in highly suspect ways." 


"Meaning what?" 
She shrugged. "I don't know how to explain simply..." 
"It listens. Does it not?" 


"That is one way of putting it." At the woman's silence, she 
elaborated. "While discussing an unrelated bacterium with Dr. 
Sienowicz, | was observing the bacterium in question. | mentioned 
the rigidity of its nucleotides, making it very fragile and unlikely to 
adapt if exposed to a similar sequence from a synthetic sequence. 
As | spoke, the bacterium in question began to mutate. Its 
nucleotides began to break down and re-structure themselves. In 
short, it began to change itself exactly as | spoke, as if mistakenly 
believing | was speaking of the bacterium itself." 


Sharpe easily saw the humor in Priss's situation. "Just lay off, man." 


Priss glared at her. 


Sharpe winced. "Sorry. | mean it, though... technically it was you 
who threw the first punch." 


Priss grit her teeth, trying to move past into the building — the newly 
designated Site-804. Sharpe easily slipped in front of her. 


"Has she robbed anyone? Stolen anything? Killed anyone? Broken 
any laws? Done anything that might get you in trouble? Associate 
with potential lawbreakers?" 


"No." 

Sharpe again swept in front of her, arms spread. "Babe." 
Priss snorted, and tried to cover a smile. "No." 

"Babe. Let sleepin’ dawgs lah." 

"She's going to get worse —" 

"Let sleepin’ dawgs lah." 


Priss burst out laughing, unable to hold back, "You don't even sound 
like him." 


"| got the accent good, though. Still can't believe the cunt got re- 
elected. Fraud for sure." 


"Ari, look..." 


The school doors were open. Inside was murmuring, as if a small 
crowed were gathered just beyond view of the front door. 


"Speaking of cunts..." Sharpe lunged up the steps and went inside, 
her imposing frame making it easy. Priss followed after her. 


The interior hadn't changed, but now dust coated the walls. 
Schoolbooks were stacked on the front desk, and the computer was 
gone. Sharpe was well ahead of her, peering in to one of the 
classrooms facing the front. She waved Priss over to peer inside. 
The room was stacked with desiccated corpses wrapped in plastic, 
looking like hoary carpets placed in storage. Few of them were 
dressed, all of them looked badly decomposed and much too dry to 
have been laying about in a south Florida school for too long. 


SCP-989: Self-Defense Sugar 


Item #: SCP-989 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-989 is to be stored in 
secure Locker - in Site 22 until further notice. Secure Locker - 
is to contain an electronic scale, which is to report the current weight 
of the object at all times. Any change in the weight before testing 
and after testing that is +/- 1g beyond test materials removed is to 
be reported immediately, and Containment Breach protocols should 
be enacted. Level 2 clearance is required for research involving 
SCP-989, with written permission from a level 3 staff member. 


Description: SCP-989 is a compound of C12H22011 (Sucrose) 
interlaced with a substance with the chemical formula H7Xe204Cg. 
The method by which this molecule was created is currently 
unknown, as the current principles of chemistry disagree with its 
composition and structure. Research is ongoing. 


SCP-989 is within an ornate silver shaker, with the logo for Marshall, 
Carter, and Dark engraved on the bottom, hereafter referred to as 
SCP-989-2. There are no visible seams in the shaker, and as such 
there is no way known at the moment to refill SCP-989-2, though 
testing at this point has shown no measurable change in weight of 
the object, suggesting that the substance may replenish itself. This 
"replenishing" effect is only observed to occur if the object is left 
standing for more than two (2) hours without movement. Whether 
this is a property of SCP-989 or SCP-989-2 is unknown at this time, 
but it is hypothesized that the interaction of the second compound 
with the materials of SCP-989-2 create this effect. 


When SCP-9839 is elevated and released, SCP-989 enters 
suspension within the air. The crystals of SCP-989 surround 
whoever threw SCP-989 in to the air, and remain there for precisely 
seven (7) minutes, eighteen (18) seconds. This has shown no 


"Well shit," Sharpe remarked, eyes darting among the corpses. She 
cautiously stepped in, reaching out with one hand to see if she could 
touch them, if they were real. The noise of disturbed plastic being 
brushed by her fingers confirmed that. 


"Burial ground," Priss started piecing it together, "There must've 
been one nearby, in some universe or another. Anabasis brought it 
in. Really shitty way of storing corpses, though." 


That seemed to calm Sharpe. She even grinned, pulling aside the 
plastic over one corpse to look in its face, "Look at this one. 
Cheekbones on her. Speaking of cunts, this one reminds me of Dr. 
Marlowe." She pried more of the plastic off, then stopped suddenly. 


"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you even touching 
them?" 


Sharpe tugged the corpse up a bit. It was still dressed, the clothes 
looking just as decrepit as the body. A warped plastic nametag was 
attached to it. The remaining portion read 'Dr. Jaime’. 


"Dr. Jaime Marlowe, you think?" Sharpe glanced up at Priss. 


Priss sneered, and knelt down, rubbing the plastic tag. None of the 
rest was legible, but it looked similar to a Foundation-issue 
identification tag. "Like | said. Alternate universe landfill." 


"Not a burial ground anymore?" 


Priss led the way out, down to the basement where the Anabasis 
itself was being stored. Despite her strong front and assurance that 
the corpse pile was part of the Anabasis testing, she had been 
sufficiently rattled by the suddenness of it. Given the nature of 
Foundation business, enough doubt needled at her to make her 
steps stiff and rushed as she burst into the room holding the 
Anabasis. Seeing Dr. Marlowe seated near it, behind a computer, 
was a relief. 


"Oh hi, Jaime," Sharpe said to her. Marlowe glanced back at her 
placidly, cold eyes conveying just enough malice to indicate her 
distaste. 


"Just in case we're not being set up for a really tasteless prank, you 
know about the mess of corpses upstairs being stashed in a 
classroom?" 


Marlowe continued to stare blankly at her. 
"Oh for fuck's sake." 


Marlowe got up without a word, brushing past the two as she went 
outside. Sharpe and Locke followed after her. The building seemed 
to have changed — it was no longer caked in dust. The computer 
was back at the front desk. Sharpe guided Marlowe to the 
classroom. It was empty, filled with desks and chairs. 


"You say you saw corpses?" Marlowe asked in a firm tone. 


Priss responded, "Loads of them. Dried out, brown and gray. Each 
of them rolled in plastic. One of them..." She glanced at Dr. 
Marlowe, noticing her cheekbones then, "One of them was you. Had 
your nametag, | think." 


Out in the hall, Sharpe's voice echoed, "Ey! Who the fuck are you?" 


The women rushed outside, seeing Sharpe lunging at a small man 
carting a garbage bin, thickly bearded and bald on top, looking 
terrified at the tall woman approaching her. 


"Who the fuck are you?" Sharpe repeated. 
"| work here!" he cried out. 
"Sharpe!" Marlowe called in a crisp tone, "Get back here." 


Sharpe obeyed, but kept her mouth going, "I've never seen that guy 
here before — he did something, | fucking bet it. He must be some 
kind of... anomalous boogin' trying to fuck with us in some way or 
another." 


Marlowe needed only a stern glare to shut the taller woman up. 
Once she was quiet, Marlowe went on in a soft voice, "If this is what 
happens when you two skip work for a day, I'm having you two re- 
assigned. Sharpe, you do not go off screaming at people like that. 


You're supposed to be a Foundation agent, not a child." 


Sharpe squirmed uncomfortably, then Marlowe turned on Locke. 
"Write down everything you saw and give me the report as soon as 
possible. Do not discuss this with anyone else on-site until everyone 
else's stories are corroborated." 


"Meaning other people have seen this, too?" 


"I'm not at liberty to discuss this," Marlowe responded, shutting down 
any attempt at follow-up. She shifted a bit, "Now go. Ana's waiting 
on me..." 


Rhiannon squatted on the little futon in the center of the room. 
Everyone had equal voice here; respect kept others quiet while 
people spoke. She was the center of attention for as long as their 
patience would allow. It meant she had to entertain if she wanted 
her message to get through. 


"Let me tell you a story about a man of the times... 


"This story begins in a little household in Oklahoma, where two girls 

were raised in a little house by two little minds and little in the way of 
any purpose in life. Daddy was the son of a veteran, mommy was a 

nothing-nobody from someplace in Asia. 'All-white' she said, ‘military 
brat born on a military base’ which was just fine with daddy, so long 

as his pure white wife kept bein’ all sexy-fine.