The room was pulled apart—he watched as the blond guard, 
McGage, effortlessly picked up his mattress and threw it aside, and 
something in the motion reminded him of something he had seen 
before, but he was too sleep-befuddled to consider it. Taggart was 
there, too, hand on his baton, and he kept looking at Keagan with a 
nervous energy. Finally, McGage bent over the discarded mattress 
for a long time and announced he'd found something. What he 
produced was an object no more than eight inches in length—two 
contraband razor blades wedged into the handle of a toilet brush, 
blades angled together so they formed a sharp trapezoidal wedge, 
onto which the force of the object would be focused when it was 
swung. Keagan recognised the shape, which he had last seen 
impressed upon Wesley Kellogg's torso. 


"It's what they call a 'tomahawk'," McGage helpfully pointed out as 
he handed the object over to the waiting forensic officer. His eyes 
met Keagan's, and just for a moment there was a flicker there, 
something that had shriveled up small but never quite died until now, 
exhaling for the last time. Keagan stared in mute horror. He had no 
doubt they would find DNA evidence on the blades corresponding to 
the Judge's heartblood—and was sure they would not have missed 
the opportunity to use in the device's construction the toilet brush 
handle that Keagan had used every day for weeks. 


The enormity of it crushed him, made him want to weep. He had 
dreamed of freedom, he realised, the subconscious still buoyed up 
by hopes of habeas corpus writs and judicial do-overs that he had 
not quite yet accepted were finished. To wake, to realise you not 
only have no chance of clawing your way up from the pit, but that 
you have not finished falling, that you will fall deeper than Wesley 
Kellogg, deeper than Marvin Hagman, deeper than Creepy Bastard, 
until you reach the core of the planet—unbearable. Why? The 
question was the weight of the Earth, pressing him down until he 
thought he might be transformed into carboniferous diamond. 


Keagan howled then, howled and screamed and shouted and cried. 
He denied ever seeing the tomahawk, he variously accused Tim 
McGage and Patrick Goettsch of planting it there, he shrieked he 
had made it for self-protection against Marvin Hagman, and finally 
pointed at his cellmate, thin and pale in the shadow of the corridor, 


and shouted: "It's his! Of course it's his! He was in the Judge's cell 
before me, it must have been him! Look at the CCTV! Why aren't 
you taking him instead of me! Not me!". The hurt in Creepy 
Bastard's eyes scorched him, but he continued ranting until they 
took him away and placed him in solitary confinement. 


He was led to a blind-walled room barely five feet by three with a 
narrow raised section of floor for a bed. He curled up on it, wanting 
nothing more than the extinction of time, of life, of everything. 


It was two days before they woke him and told him that he was 
being officially charged with the murder of Wesley Kellogg. As was 
standard procedure for inmates charged with a further crime, a 
Legal Aid lawyer had already been assigned to him, and Keagan 
was half-led, half-dragged to a secure office to meet with his 
counsel. 


Wayne Reeves was a chubby black man who unlike Luke Vikkers 
had given up on the pretence of being a high-flying lawyer, arriving 
in a scruffy jumper with the remains of his breakfast on it. He got up 
as Keagan entered. 


"Mister O'Neill," he said, smiling reassuringly. Keagan didn't reply. 


"Now, I've been reviewing the case notes as compiled by Dr Gerald 
Wyncroft—I understand the murder weapon was found hidden in 
your mattress and has been conclusively matched to the injuries." 


Keagan grunted. 


"Okay. Now, the prosecution have a witness who they say will testify 
he heard you threaten Mister Kellogg for getting behind with 
protection payments. Now, I'm on your side—I need to work out 
whether their witness is likely to be credible or whether there are 
angles | could use to discredit him. Were you receiving payments 
from Mister Kellogg?" 


As Keagan listened, some part of his mind that had not been 
completely overwhelmed was still in action. The witness was almost 
certainly Patrick Goettsch, who he was certain hadn't known about 


the arrangement. That means he was being leaned on by someone 
else to testify—someone who knew about the payments, which 
meant they almost certainly knew about the scam as well. 


He remembered what the Judge had said about the prison phone 
mast—it had been his fault after all, then. He felt tears welling in his 
eyes at the feeling of sheer helpless guilt, which Wayne Reeves 
clearly took as an affirmative. 


"Okay. Now, the good thing is they don't claim to have a witness to 
the murder. The CCTV is also inconclusive—| haven't been able to 
get my hands on a copy yet but by all accounts several guards and 
prisoners go out of Wesley Kellogg's cell that morning; you were the 
last, but you've also been consistent in saying he was dead when 
you went in. Your cellmate in particular says he saw Mr Kellogg 
dead before you arrived—problem is, the last person before him to 
go near that cell on CCTV is a guard, so the position of the 
prosecution will be that your cellmate is lying to protect you. Your 
cellmate doesn't actually go in, so there's no possibility of using him 
as an alternative suspect to establish reasonable doubt, I'm afraid. | 
don't suppose there's any possibility we be able to get his word 
against the guard's?" 


Keagan thought of Creepy Bastard's eyes as the guards had 
dragged Keagan away. "No," he said. "I don't think he'd speak up for 
me now." 


"Okay," said Wayne. "Look, Mr O'Neill, I'm going to be honest with 
you. | will defend you in court if that's what you want—however, the 
CCTV means my defence will necessarily be a conspiracy on the 
part of the prison staff, and that rarely goes down well. If you 
indicate you'll plead guilty, | can get you back in general population 
before the end of the day. Of course, you'll likely be moved to a 
more secure facility on sentencing—there's nothing | can do about 
that—but | can fight to ensure you keep some visitation and 
socialisation rights." 


Keagan exhaled. "Guilty," he said. "I'll plead guilty. | can't face it. | 
can't—do—anything." His fingers drummed on the graffitied surface 
of the wooden table. 


Wayne patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. I'll see what | can 
do." 


"Sorry, Keagan," said Don Dacyk, holding the door shut behind him. 
"Any inmate awaiting sentencing is reverted to Basic status. That 
means no access to sensitive areas like the kitchen or library. If you 
make a fuss about it I'll have to call Taggart over." 


Keagan had hoped with his return to general population that he 
would be able to get back into the library and study the papers he 
had been able to salvage from the Judge's cell to look for any clues 
Kellogg might have missed as to the identity of the man he was 
blackmailing. But even that dim hope now seemed to be dashed. 


"Look—Don," Keagan said, "I just need to fetch something quickly. | 
left something in the library when | was working here and | need it 
back." 


If Don showed any indication of sympathy it didn't show in his face. 
"Maybe if you tell me what it is and where you left it | can get it for 
you. I'd need to run it past the guards first before | gave it back. You 
understand." 


Keagan realised that if he pressed the issue, the library would be 
ransacked to find whatever it was Keagan was looking for, and saw 
too that Don knew this, was pleading with him not to push it. 


"Nevermind," Keagan said. "It wasn't that important." 


"Thanks," said Don flatly, locking up behind him and nodding curtly 
as he walked off. 


As Keagan began to wander away, unsure what to do or where to 
go, Taggart flagged him down. 


"Keagan," he said, "I've been looking for you. You have a visitor—a 
woman. Very short notice." 


Lauren, thought Keagan, and despite his deep misgivings as to what 
she might say after his conversation with the man who answered her 
phone, he half-ran ahead of Taggart to the visiting room. 


something into the ground.] 


SCP-682: | haven't forgotten what the [DATA 
EXPUNGED] looked like though, here let me 
sh- 


[Observation booth personnel activated the 
emergency shutters, cut camera feeds and 
pumped soporifics into the chamber.] 


<End Log> 


Piecemeal analysis of the partial glyph drawn by 
SCP-682 indicates that while it was a 2140-1-D instance, 
it contained significant apparent errors that would likely 
prevent it from functioning. 


Since SCP-682 hasn't deployed these glyphs in the past, 
it is likely not able to do so and does not pose an 
immediate ontological threat. It remains possible that it 
could rediscover the methods of SCP-2140-1 
construction. 


SCP-682 should be prevented from making marks, symbols, or 
writing of any kind. 


Item: SCP-2935 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 

During exploration of SCP-2935, MTF E-13 discovered SCP-682 
within temporary containment at Site-81. Upon further investigation, 
entity showed no signs of life. 


Note: Due to the nature of SCP-2935, it is unlikely or impossible that 
this result can be replicated. This does, however, answer the 
question that other alternate realities have not been able to. What it 
means for ours is uncertain. -Dr. Harrison, Site-81 


He scanned the room but caught no glimpse of her face. Instead, he 
was ushered to a chair in front of a severe older woman with 
scraped-back black hair and a dark business suit. 


"Hello?" said Keagan uncertainly. "Are you with Legal Aid?" 


The woman chuckled. "Not exactly. My name is Fredericka 
Mendelbrot. I'm an agent of a private organisation with law 
enforcement and military connections that works with convicts. You 
recently turned up in one of our searches and | wanted to make you 
an offer." 


"This isn't about my case?" Keagan asked, irritated. "Look, there's 
obviously been some misunderstanding. I'm awaiting sentencing for 
a crime committed inside. | hardly think they're going to let me do 
some work-release programme." 


The woman smiled, archly. "Actually, you're exactly the sort of 
person we need, and we get a lot of cooperation from prisons. Now, 
there are just a few questions I'd like to ask—do you have any 
dependents, anyone who would be seriously negatively impacted if 
they were no longer able to contact you?" 


"Yes, of course—” snapped Keagan, then thought about Lauren. 
"No," he said, sullen. 


"Good," said the woman. "Have you ever had any affiliation with the 
following terrorist or paramilitary groups—” and she rattled off a long 
list of what were presumably such organisations. No 'Al Qaeda’, no 
‘IRA’, no 'ETA'—instead strange names like the 'Dadaist Art 
Violence Movement’, 'Protect the Wilderness Front' and 'Braydon 
Revolutionary Council’. 


"No," he said again, increasingly baffled. 


"Good. Now, last question. Have you ever had any experience you 
would characterise as 'supernatural'? That's any experience that 
doesn't fit into the mundane operation of the world as you 
understand it—” 


"What? What the hell is this? Why the hell am | listening to you?" 


Keagan's temper flared. "I'm about to get another life sentence 
added on the top of the two | have already. You can't do anything 
about that, so why should | do anything for you? Oh, and the 
answer's no, | haven't seen any fucking unicorns or sasquatch or 
whatever. Go to hell." He looked around for Taggart to take him 
back to his cell, but the guard was just standing, watching. 


"Actually," said the woman, completely unflapped, "I think you'll be 
very interested in what we have to offer. Convicts who agree to work 
with us take part in research trials and other activities that are too 
dangerous or unethical for universities or the military. They work 
with us for a month, and at the end of that month, we ensure that 
they receive a complete pardon for any or all crimes they may have 
committed." 


Keagan's mouth sagged open. 
"You're catching flies," she said drily. 


Keagan recovered himself sufficiently to soeak, though his voice 
was shaky and cracked. "This is some kind of joke, or reality TV 
programme, or else you're a fucking crank. The government doesn't 
just let multiple murderers go. Whatever you have in mind, I'm not 
interested. Taggart, can | go back to my cell please?" 


At last the guard deigned to approach the table. 


"Of course, this isn't compulsory,” the woman said coldly, "but | think 
you might find a leap into the dark is preferable to what you know 
faces you right now. When you realise that, you can contact us. I'll 
give you a card—” she extended it and watched as Keagan took it 
and tore it up with numb fingers "...aaand another to Mr Taggart 
here. You can ask him for it when you're ready." She passed the 
clean white rectangle over to the guard, who put it in his pocket. 


"Think carefully about this, Keagan," she said softly, as Keagan was 
led away. "A number of your fellow inmates have already signed up, 
including someone | think you know—a Mr Patrick Goettsch." 


Keagan looked over his shoulder at her in shock, but said nothing 
more. 


He was returned to his cell, where, as he had for the last week, 
Creepy Bastard refused to acknowledge his presence. Keagan had 
learned from Taggart that Creepy Bastard had made efforts to 
prevent Keagan from being returned to his cell on the grounds that 
he was in fear of violence, but as a repeated recipient of prison 
sanctions himself, he was told he was simply the most suitable 
subject for Keagan to be paired with. 


"Come on, you bastard," he said gently, trying to get his cellmate's 
attention. "| wasn't thinking straight when | said that tomahawk was 
yours. | hadn't even seen the thing before, so McGage or someone 
else must have planted it there." 


"Sure," said Creepy Bastard finally, reedy voice dripping contempt. 


"Seriously, | had no idea it was there. The Judge was involved in 
some serious stuff," he decided not to elaborate, "and | think 
someone outside had him killed." 


"Well done dear," said Creepy Bastard, "you're finally sounding like 
a paragon of sanity. So, did they pay the guards to do it, or just to 
look the other way? McGage put me through hell over this, dear, all 
because of you. You've never been able to accept it, have you? 
That you're not the victim of conspiracies or external circumstances, 
it's what you are that makes these things happen. Maybe you didn't 
kill the Judge, but you chose to threaten him—it's been going 
around the prison that he was behind on protection payments to 
you, God knows how he was supposed to pay you, dear—and you 
chose to get your hands on the murder weapon and hide it." 


Keagan didn't even bother denying it again. "I'm sorry, | really am. | 
won't talk about it any more if you don't want to." 


"Hmmph." 


"Look, | need you to do me a favour," said Keagan carefully. "It's not 
a big thing, really." 


Creepy Bastard began giggling, then dissolved off into coughing, his 
thin chest rising and falling. "Like when | let you know the Judge had 
been killed, you mean? You tend to pay back favours in an odd way, 


dear." 


"It's not even something for me. | just need you to get something 
from the library and keep it safe; | know you have loads of places 
where you hide papers—they didn't find your drawings when they 
tossed the room, did they?" 


Creepy Bastard fell silent fora moment. Then he turned his head, 
speaking slowly. "And how, exactly, am | supposed to do this for 
you, dear? I'm on Basic privileges too; there's nowhere | can go that 
you can't." 


"That's not exactly true," Keagan said. 


"Oh really, dear? How is that? Am | supposed to slip under the 
door?"