SCP- _ is currently held in its cell with two mice and a spider that it 
found yesterday. It has not synthesized them. They are waiting for 
you. You can know what a mouse thinks. You can see with a 
spider's eyes. It is better this way. 


It doesn't have to hurt. 


Agent 


J. S.: (Sobbing) |... don't remember a fucking thi... thing 
until sit-ting on the side of the highway. It... it was dark 
out. An officer was as... as... asking me questions... 
telling me to st-ay calm un... until an ambulance a-rrived. 
| was all... cut up, screaming ab-about red, beg... 
begging the officer to let me g-go, | had to get... a-away. 


Agent _ : Away from what? 

J. S.: The red! 

Agent _ : What was red? 

J. S.: 1... | d-don't remember. 
Agent — : What about your friends? 


J. S.: Th-they weren't with me. They th-think | did it, w- 
won't list-en to me, said | w-was high on something, th- 
that | was c-coming down off a bad acid t-trip. Said | k-k- 
kept scream-ing at the ambulance's fl... flashing lights, 
that they w-were going to get me. | d-don't remember 
that... b-but red makes me f-feel uneasy now. 


[SUPERFLUOUS DIALOG REDACTED] 
<End Log> 


Closing Statement: My team is ill-prepared to 
investigate further. We'll be returning to [REDACTED] in 
the morning to report our findings. A minimal coverup 
should be necessary, depending on what's found, at 
least for this particular incident. To this end, | suggest 
Mr.J S_ be strongly implicated in his friends' 
disappearances. Following his conviction, he could be 
recruited from the prison system as Clearance Level 0 
janitorial staff and transferred to whatever installation can 
use him. 


an eradication detail was dispatched to investigate. SCP-939 


reported the possibility of an SCP-939 den in the area and 


Slumbering 


“And who would you be?” 

“Oh, I’m new... Here’s my ID.” 

“You're the person working with that butterfly... One... one four... 
five something, right? Feeding duty or something of the like? Down 
the stairs, second hallway.” 


“1457. Yes, | believe | am.” 


“Good luck. As far as | know, it doesn’t bite, spit fire, snap necks, eat 
people whole, create—” 


“Well, that’s—good to know, | guess. Also, if you don’t mind me 
asking,” 


“Counseling is available.” 


“...can | contact anyone outside of the Site? Phone calls, emails, or 
something like that?” 


“Not sure. Might be able to send memos or something. What, to 
family?” 


“Actually, | pretty much have one person in mind. They can contact 
my family for me. Would that be too much trouble?” 


“I'll ask around. You probably won’t be able to discuss your research 
with anyone besides staff, though.” 


“Thanks.” 


Memo # 


It’s been awhile. | can’t thank you enough for seeing me 
off last month—I know it was abrupt, and I'll miss being 


able to talk with you as often as before. Really, we're still 
at the same college; I'll just be away for research. | 
promise I'll visit as often as | can. 

—K 


“Well, what memory did you receive today? Divorce again? The 
butterfly seems full of divorce stories.” 


“No, it was... well, something worse. A lot worse. | really wonder 
where the butterfly traveled since | didn’t recognize the setting.” 


“War? Murder?” 

“Something like that. Dead bodies.” 

“There are a lot of dead bodies found here too.” 
“... funny.” 


“| try to be. I’ve heard about that butterfly of yours, you know. A few 
others have too. It’s not an easy task. You're not breaking bones, 
but there’s always the chance that you'll be breaking your heart 
many times over.” 


“Thanks for understanding?” 


“Welcome. “The Foundation is cold, not cruel”, you know. You're 
new, but others here will help you out if you need anything. We 
understand.” 


Memo # 


| heard about Mr. _. As it is, and I’m very sorry, but | 
can't attend the funeral. | know we’ve both known him for 
so many years, and it’s thanks to him that we met, but 
the past few days have been really stressful for me, and 
truth be told | don’t think I'd be able to keep myself 
together during the funeral. Tell I’m sorry and I'll help 
her out any way | can, once | finish up the work here. 


Is that why you didn’t reply to my last letter? 
—K 


“You doing alright? It’s been what, two months? Those daily doses 
of loneliness can’t be good for you.” 


“I'll be okay. | mean, | Know these things happen every day to 
people all over the world, right? It’s not like they’re anything new to 
the human race.” 


“Suit yourself. The Foundation is depending on you. And really, if 
you need help or someone to talk to—” 


“lll be alright.” 
Memo # 


| just found out that you won't be able to write back to 
me. Foundation protocol or something. Again, I’m sorry 
—I didn’t know. | assure you though, once we meet up 
again, I'll listen to everything you have to say and we'll 
catch up over coffee at your favorite place. The staff here 
have been nice, but they can't compare to you. They 
don’t understand, | guess. 

—K 


“Researcher, I’m sorry, but medication cannot be prescribed at this 
point in time. The experiments have not been concluded. 
Counseling is available, though; | believe you have been informed of 
the hours...?” 


“I'd prefer to speak to someone | know well.” 


“’m sorry, that cannot be arranged at this moment. I’d advise you to 
wait for a few more days. There was a containment breach last 
night, and besides, 1457 seems to have taken a liking to you.” 


“Can't you find someone else?” 


“The fact of the matter stands that you scored proficiently in the El 
test administered at the beginning of your employment, and thus you 
are the best candidate to deal with this particular SCP.” 


“| asked... But no one... no one else bothered...” 


“What?” 
“Nothing.” 
Memo # 


| really thought I'd be able to meet up with you this 
month. If | had known it would be like this... | wouldn’t 
have bothered. I'll see what | can do. | miss you more 
than ever. | miss you and everyone and everything else 
at home. | can’t speak about my research, but apparently 
it’s going well, so there’s nothing to worry about. 

—K 


“So, who do you keep writing to anyway?” 
“Someone at home. Waiting for me, | guess.” 


“Must be pretty patient. It’s been almost a year. And you're the only 
one who can write, since the Foundation doesn’t want your mental 
state compromised.” 


“What?” 


“It’s for your own good. Everyone can see that you’re getting 
stressed out, so why bother forcing more strain on you? Also, on the 
off chance that someone working against the Foundation finds out 
about who you're writing to, it’s best that... never mind. Did you 
make any promises before you left?” 


“...we both did.” 


“Then I’d say you don’t have anything to worry about. Cheer up. 
From what | hear, your research is going quite well.” 


Memo # 


Just thought I'd let you know that I’m still alive, if tired, 
and | just found an old picture of us in one of my desk 
drawers. Made my day. Remember that first concert? 
The height difference was so obvious even then. 

—K 


“| understand that the latest memory was particularly jarring to you?” 


“Yes. Normally | wouldn’t bother asking for counseling... no offense 
intended... but for some reason, the containment unit seemed so— 
empty. There were people less than five feet away, walking around 
outside the containment unit, but | felt... well, | needed someone to 
talk to. Before was different, but now... the Foundation staff have 
been nice, but maybe if someone could share the memories I’ve 
been receiving—?” 


“Your request will be noted.” 


“| Know medicine is out of the question now, someone explained to 
me about experimental procedures, but | just... don’t know what to 
do, really. | have all these stories in my head, but | feel like it’s 
impossible for anyone else to really understand, because no one 
else has seen these images or felt all these years and years of... 
everything.” 


Memo # 


Good news! | think I'll be able to visit in about a week. 
Until then, | will continue to think obsessively, 
incessantly, ever only, of you. 

—K 


“Holding up alright?” 
“Not getting enough sleep. But I'll manage. Somehow.” 
“The whole “living day to day” approach, is it?” 


“Sort of. There’s just one thing I’m waiting for, and things will be 
alright after that.” 


“That person, huh? Are we Foundation staff not the best 
conversationalists or something?” 


“It’s not that.” 


Memo # 


3 


I’m really looking forward to being able to speak with you 
again, face to face. No more of these memos. And you'll 
be able to see if my humor has improved at all— 
remember how we used to joke about that every Friday? 
Or rather you would, and | would just make sarcastic 
comments. Of course, it’s better than when we were kids 
and | didn’t talk to you at all, right? | miss those times, 
growing up. And to think, in about two days, we'll have 
known each other for ten years! Amazing, isn’t it? 

—K 


"Finally got that break, huh? So, what happened? Did you meet up? 
Talk about your lives and how everything has been?" 


"Please don't ask.” 
“Did you talk at all?” 
“Just... leave me alone." 


Memo # 


| understand. Thanks for bearing with me all this time 
and telling to let me know what happened. Wish | 
could have said goodbye at least. 


My best wishes to you two. 
—K 


Small Town Problems 


Agent Denton flipped the slightly filmy paper up and over the end of 
the packet held tight by the steel jacket. "So you think this thing is 
some kind of vampire?" the obvious implication lingered in the air. 


"I'm not sure I'd use the word 'Vampire’," Agent McDowell's growing 
second chin waggled with each bump in the road as the unmarked 
pick-up truck sped down the highway. The two Foundation agents 
had been dispatched to the ass-end of Nowhere, Kansas, population 
fuck-all. "All we've got is reports of some kind of humanoid eating 
people. It could just be a run of the mill cannibal." 


"You know, it's kind of fucked up that in our line of work the words 
‘run of the mill’ and ‘cannibal’ can be so comfy in one sentence." 
Denton flipped several more pages, and looked up and out the 
windshield. The scenery going by was about as riveting as drying 
paint. Corn. Corn. More corn. Scarecrow. Corn. Farm house. Cows. 
People who /ook like cows. Corn. Corn. Denton rubbed his eyes, 
sighing heavily. "How much longer 'till we're there?" 


"We should be coming up on the town soon. I'm not sure exactly 
what we're looking for though, what's the report say?" McDowell's 
eyes slid over the stack of papers in Denton's hands. 


"Eyes on the road, Jim. Not much. A few bodies with 'parts missing’ 
and a local sherrif who won't say much. Probably nothing, but 
obviously the skipnet picked up enough flags to send out the best of 
the best." Denton reached forward to the cup holder, lifting his 
lukewarm soda to his lips, and taking a sip. The gold ring on his left 
hand shone a little too bright, as it caught the sun. The little circle of 
gold and several other more esoteric materials assisted Denton and 
McDowell in their role as two of the Foundations more prominent 
thaumic investigators. 


"Oh yes, best of the best. When was the last time either of us were 
on combat duty?" They had worked together for the better part of 


two decades, and Denton could feel the shit-eating grin without even 
looking over. 


"Fuck off and drive, that's when." 


McDowell turned the pick-up in to the parking lot of the tiny police 
station, pulling in to the only free spot, the others taken up by similar 
trucks, or police cruisers. "That's a hell of a police presence for a 
town this size." 


Denton grunted, "You'd be shocked what kind of budget police 
departments can get post 9/11. Come on." He flipped the lever, and 
opened his door, his feet hitting solid ground for the first time in a 
few hours. A groan passed his lips, as his feet ached, and his 
arches expressed their displeasure. 


"Copy that, Sam. My back is gonna give out one of these days. Too 
many years of chasing after C'thulu's little brothers, | think." 
McDowell put his hands on his lower back and leaned backwards, a 
faint crack coming from the vertebrae stressed by too many years of 
abuse, and too many pounds of bad food. 


"Enough with that stuff, we're still Agents. Let's go." He walked 
forward, McDowell taking stride next to him, as they opened the 
door to the tiny police station. They were greeted by a young man in 
a brown sheriff uniform, who was serving as both receptionist and 
dispatcher. 


"Uhh, can | help you?" The young man's eyes darted between the 
two agents, resting for a moment on the shoulder rigs they both 
wore. His eyes went wide, and he fumbled at the desk for 
something. 


Denton lifted his hands, and presented the false credentials they'd 
been issued, DHS this week. "Department of Homeland Security. 
Relax son. Special Agents Nora and Floyd," he smiled as he 
gestured to himself and McDowell, slipping in to the false identities 
as easy as breathing. 


"| uhh...sorry, I'm not really..." 


McDowell lifted a hand, "No worries son, could you tell the Sheriff 
we're here?" 


Down the hall, a head poked out of an office door, and a man in his 
mid forties grunted down at them, "You the boys from DHS?" 


Denton nodded down the hall, and the sheriff waved them back, 
"Come on then, let's have it." The two agents walked down the hall 
in to an office festooned with various ribbons, awards, and placques. 
Apparently this man was very involved in his local community. A 
prominent picture of the sheriff standing amongst a dozen young 
children was on his desk. They were holding a sign up that said 
"Community Brigade." Beside this was a picture of the man, witha 
young boy, which Denton filed away as most likely family. The 
nametag on his chest said 'David Perkins’. 


"Special agents Nora and Floyd, thanks for having us." McDowell 
smiled good-naturedly, and tried to put on his best "You can trust 
me, | am also law enforcement' face. 


"Skip the bullshit. We've got sixteen bodies in the last two months, 
and the usual body count for this county is four. Per decade. So why 
are you boys out here, and how can you help me catch this son of a 
bitch?" 


"David, I'll be hon—" Sheriff Perkins held his hand up. 


"Perkins, or Sheriff." He fixed them both with a granite hard stare. 
They both picked up the obvious subtext. 


"Right. Sheriff. We're here because we received a call from the 
district FBI office. As part of an ongoing inter-departmental joint-task 
force, we were asked to come and assist, as our office is 
significantly closer." Denton gave his best 'I'm sorry that we're 
stepping on your toes' smile, and leaned back in his chair. 


"| see. We don't have much in the way of forensics for these cases. 
Our coroner has been on vacation and one of his techs has been 
taking over. All we know is that there's been," Perkins moved his 
mouth in a vaguely disgusted gesture, "parts missing." 


"I see. If you can provide us with a full copy of the case file, we'd be 
happy to provide whatever assistance we can." McDowell's smile 
was genuine, and he meant it. 


"See McVey on the way out, he'll get you a copy of whatever you 
need. Let's try and keep out of each other's way and we'll catch the 
bastard, yeah? Four of the victims have been kids." 


Denton opened the door to the truck, followed shortly by McDowell. 
"So, you get the same reading | did?" 


McDowell nodded, lifting his left hand, the gold band on his ring 
finger vibrating slightly. "Yep. The report is obviously doctored. Two 
months is a hell of a vacation. Probably one of the early victims. 
Either way, I'm thinking sarkic?" 


Denton frowned, "I freakin’ hope not. Last time we dealt with them, | 
had to burn the suit. So where are we off to?"