When he finally felt he hit empty, he gulped down as much air as he 
could and backpedaled. His brain felt like something crawled inside 
of it as oxygen finally reached it again. Colors swam back in, almost 
more vibrant than before. Not that the colors in the room were 
particularly vibrant to begin with. 


Navarro stumbled through the doorway while the black gas 
continued to spread. More gunshots and zaps of discharged energy 
resulted in it twisting as it moved, but it remained taut. Once he 
could breathe a little normally Navarro sparked a small bit of fire on 
his fingertip. He closed an eye and pretended to take aim, shooting 
his little finger gun animatedly. 


The little fireball lobbed itself through the air, and while Navarro did 


SCP-904: A Short Poem 


Item #: SCP-904 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-904 should be inscribed 
on an ordinary sheet of typing paper when not in active observation 
or study. This paper should be secured in a secure locked non- 
combination vault and stored out of range of any recording devices. 
SCP-904 should only be handled or directly viewed by class-D 
personnel without backgrounds in literature, writing, or art. Any 
personnel viewing SCP-904 experiencing hallucinations or suicidal 
thoughts should be removed immediately from the situation. 


Description: SCP-904 was discovered scratched on a bathroom 
wall in the literature department of University, after reports of 
unusual behavior and difficulty speaking in approximately 300 
students and staff. Mobile Task Force Eta-10 ("See No Evil") was 
sent to contain it, after its viral nature was realized, and although all 
three class-D personnel involved in its transport were infected by 
visual contact, it was transported to Site- without incident. 


SCP-904 presents a slight memetic hazard to all who read it, but it is 
only harmful to those with a specific creative-type mindset. An 
infected individual can infect other individuals. Symptoms include 
the tendency to use end rhymes uncontrollably, in all speech. 
Reading SCP-904 multiple times, or being very close to it after 
reading it once, will result in the development of a more refined 
poetic form, containing iambic pentameter, a more complicated 
poetic form, or more fitting rhymes. 


The infection is not permanent. Some individuals will remain 
affected for up to twenty four hours, while others will shake off the 
infection within ten minutes. Typically, infections caught from other 
individuals will be shorter in duration than infections from the source. 


not actually see the result of its contact with the gas due to having 
frantically shut the door, he knew what the soft sizzle on the other 
side of the wood meant. There was a brief pause, and then a loud 
crack that shook the door. 


Navarro poked his head back into the room, fighting to get the door 
open as a thick layer of some tar-like gunk now coated... everything. 
He chortled to himself and shut the door again, then booked it in 
hopes of finding an exit. He followed the sound of pounding music. 


The first door he took let him out into a nightclub, or he supposed 
just a club, since the pocket reality didn't really seem to have a day 
cycle. His head already started to hurt from the level of noise. 
Bouncers took notice of him immediately and he sprinted for what 
looked like the exit, apologizing in horrible-sounding Japanese as he 
ducked and dodged through the crowd. Thanks to the level of noise 
it was unlikely anyone out here had heard the mess in the back, and 
thanks to the crowd he was safe from gunfire. 


He slammed his way out the front door and immediately took to 
running down the street. "Cartwright! | found out where the triads 
have a little hideout. If we deploy a strike team now they might be 
able to get them before they get themselves free." 


"Free? From what? And where have you been, how did you get 
there already?" 


"Talk later. Running hard." 


The entrance of the club exploded open. Literally, with a ball of fire, 
the doors exploded outward and off their hinges. A small group of 
men with guns raced out, one man trailing behind was floating in 
midair. He looked to Navarro and raised a hand. 


"Running very, very hard!" he hissed without hitting the comm. 


Navarro veered off down an alleyway at the first opportunity and 
turned onto the next street. Legs melting, he pressed onward as he 
pushed to the outer limits of the Attic. Occasionally he heard yelling 
and a few gunshots but they seemed to lose more and more vigor 
as they went, drifting farther and farther from their club. Eventually 


they must have decided they would draw too much attention and 
Navarro didn't see or hear anything of them. He hit the railing at the 
edge of the Attic and panted. 


"Please tell me you called in reinforcements," he said into the radio 
between gulps of air. 


"They're coming but they don't know where they're going." 
"Club toward the middle of town. Big, doesn't have any front doors." 
A static-filled pause. "Why does it have no doors?" 


"| didn't do that part!" Navarro felt himself grinning. He looked out 
over the railing. "| did, however, detain a bunch of them in one of the 
back rooms. Hard to miss, but will be a little hard to open. You'll 
know it by all the black stuff everywhere.” 


"| don't even know how to react." 


"| get that a lot. So, uh. I'm going to, um. Try to catch my breath. 
Maybe lay low in case they're still looking for me. I'll catch you later, 
Cartwright." 


"| swear if | get my ass chewed out for this..." 

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Navarro said. He dug into his ear and 
somehow managed to extract the earpiece. He leaned against the 
railing and looked down. "Huh. Is that Aldon?" 


To be tangentially continued in: Organic Organs ~NEVER~ » 


Mann with the Plann, or the Dog Gone Days of Summer 


“Stay close, Agent,” Dr. Crow said, trotting quietly along the edge of 
the forest. “Il am fairly certain that we can maneuver this way, find 
the object in question, and very quickly remove ourselves from the 
vicinity.” 


The agent was a young fellow, and Kain’s practiced canine nose 
could detect the tell tale scents of fear—sweat, with a hint of urine. 
He folded his ears, trotting closer to the trees and peering around 
them. 


“There. It should be near that—* 


The sounds of laughter reached his ears, and he turned quickly, 
looking as a small group of children started running toward the tree 
line, maybe a hundred yards ahead. “Damn,” he muttered, growling 
softly. “Agent, hurry down there. Stop them. They may be potential 
worshipers...” he said. The last thing they needed was to let the 
Church of the Broken God get their hands on more members, much 
less sacrifices. 


The Agent hurried off, and Kain leaned back, sitting on his haunches 
and watching him. The kid was young, and he might do well if he 
had a little more training. He just wished that he hadn't gotten paired 
up with the new kid. 


He was thinking about the children who might be lost in moments if 
the agent didn’t run faster when the net fell over his head. 


He yelped in surprise, twisting. His first thought was that the Church 
had found him, but as he was hefted into the air, he caught the 
clean, crisp uniform that could only be Insurgency. He was certain 
that he was about to be dissected when the old man holding the net 
smiled at him congenially. 


“At’s a good boy...” 


Kain stared at the twinkling blue eyes of the dog catcher. ‘God damn 
it, he thought. ‘Not again...’ 


“The mission is simple enough,” Lament said. “I don’t see why 
you’re bringing... that thing again,” he said, pointing to Mann’s 
medical bag. 


“Simply put, Agent, you carry the tools of your trade...” Mann said, 
gesturing to Lament’s gun belt. “And | will carry mine.” 


“Yes, but yours normally end up causing more harm than good,” he 
said. “Remember when we had to deal with those two Marshall, 
Carter, and Dark reps?” 


Mann nodded. “They were extremely interested in my collection of 
scalpels.” 


“You pulled them out and showed them to them, one at a time.” 
“They admired the quality workmanship.” 


“You did it during the middle of a negotiation. Completely 
unprompted.” 


“They were interested!” Mann insisted. 
“They were terrified.” 


“Bah! They had a professional, courteous curiosity about my position 
in the Foundation.” 


“Oh, yeah,” Lament muttered. “And then you just had to start telling 
them about their names...” 


“My scalpels are like my children.” 


Lament took a moment to rub his eyelids. “Not when you name them 
after people who died while you were using them. Then they’re more 
your corpses.” 


“Nonsense! Those people would be thrilled to live on in such a noble 


manner!” 
“| think they’d have been more thrilled just to live on.” 


Mann let out a long, sad breath. “Aye, but there’s the rub. Did you 
see my new one? Her name is Alice.” 


Lament cringed. “God damn it...” 


Lament listened as Mann described the lateral incision into the 
thoracic cavity with the sort of detail that only someone who truly 
and deeply loved their work could have expressed. He continued to 
listen to the story of the removal of the infected bowel, the careful 
preservation of the parasites, the implantation of the standard 
tracking device, and... 


“That is when we realized that one of the parasites had already 
moved to her heart,” he said. “It ripped itself free and started 
chittering around in her rib cage. And | am, as you know, not one for 
dealing with that kind of nonsense.” 


“Of course,” Lament agreed dryly. 


Mann nodded firmly. “I plunged my blade through her heart and into 
its heart!” He mimed the stab a couple of times. “It was a double 
whammy. | don’t think I’ve ever managed something like that 
before.” 


Lament paused for a moment. “You don’t... think?” 


“Well, normally, when | stab someone in the chest, | don’t get a 
chance to examine them closely,” Mann explained. 


Lament nodded, then started walking again. “Ahh. Of course.” 


“| know. Such a waste. You should have seen her kidneys. Loveliest 
shade of brown,” Mann mused, 


“Right. Yes. Well, I’m going to check out a car, if you want to start 
calling the local pounds.” 


Mann frowned. “What? Why do you get to pick the car? You got to 


pick the car last time.” 


“Because when you picked the car, you insisted on a fucking Toyota 
Avalon.” 


“The Toyota Avalon has sixteen cubic feet of trunk space!” 


“We aren’t transporting bodies across the border! We’re getting Kain 
out of the damned dog pound!” 


Mann chuffed. “I think you underestimate the danger of this mission, 
Agent. We might have dozens of bodies to transport.” 


“We shouldn't have any.” 

“Dozens!” 

Lament sighed. “If | get the Toyota, will you call the dog pounds?” 
Mann smiled broadly. “Of course!” he said. 


Lament nodded, waving Mann off as he trudged down the hall 
toward the motor pool. Some days, he wished he’d stayed on field 
duty. Psychopaths made so much more sense on field duty. 


When he got back, Mann was just laying down the phone. “Only one 
shelter has had any dogs matching Kain’s description. Judging from 
the report of the agent on duty when Kain was abducted, this should 
be fairly open and shut.” 


Lament nodded thankfully, walking to the car and heading toward 
the driver’s side. Mann coughed significantly. Lament raised his 
eyebrow. 


“As the senior rank, | should drive,” Mann mentioned. 


Lament laughed harshly. “I don’t think so. The last time you drove, 
we got pulled over. And the officer didn’t like your collection.” 


Mann frowned. “He liked it eventually.” 


“Drugging a man doesn’t count as making him like something. It 


doesn't count as anything.” 
“Semantics,” Mann said flatly. “I still insist on driving.” 
“No,” Lament repeated, opening the driver's side door. 


Mann glared. “Fine! | will, albeit reluctantly, allow you to drive 
without complaint... so long as | can pick the music.” 


Lament sighed. “No mariachi this time, right?” 
“No, no. | was thinking something more... classic.” 
Lament sighed again, then nodded. “Fine, fine,” he said. 


Mann rubbed his hands together triumphantly, walking to the 
passenger side and getting into the car. As Lament fell into the 
driver’s seat, Mann lovingly pulled a cassette tape from his breast 
pocket. “Today... The Bee Gees.” 


Lament cringed. “You can drive?” he offered. 
“Too late,” Mann said, hitting play. 


“More Than a Woman” came on as Lament drove out of the parking 
garage, and he decided it wasn’t that bad. Until Mann started 
singing along. 

“Want the cover story?” Lament asked. 


Mann pulled out an opened envelope, removing the folded paper 
and handing Lament two fake ID’s. “It seems that |am to be a 
Ricardo Mestabulan, and you are my loyal travelling companion and 
manservant, Percy.” 

Lament looked down at the identification. “Percy?” 

“Yes. Percy.” 

Lament bit his lip. 


“Percy.” 


Mann nodded. 


“You are aware that Percy is not a name that is used. By anyone. 
Ever.” 


“| grew up with a Percy,” Mann replied. 


“|... No. Just... do you have any concept of what someone my age 
would be named? I’m thirty-five. Percy... To be named Percy, you 
have to be... sixty. Minimum.” 


“Ahh, but you've forgotten. We’re travelers,” Mann said. 
“| fail to see what that has to do with anything.” 
“We're coming from a place where Percy is a very common name.” 


Lament stopped, gripping the wheel tightly for a moment. “And 
where is that?” 


Mann nodded. “Spain.” 


“Percy is nota common Spanish name. There is no one in Spain 
named Percy.” 


“| beg to differ. Census records show that ‘Per-cee-val’—” He said it 
with a pained accent. “—was used as a name seven times in the 
past decade.” 


“But not Percy.” 
“Well, no.” 


“My identification says Percy. You Anglicized the name. You 
Anglicized my name, but left yours Ricardo. You don’t even look 
Spanish. You look... you look Scottish or something.” 


Mann let out a long, flapping sound through his lips. “Scottish? 
Scottish?! Are you through being a racist ass, Lament?” 


“I’m not being a racist ass. Mann sounds Scottish. You look Scottish. 
| mean, you’ve even got the mustache.” 


Mann’s hand flew to his upper lip, covering it for a moment. “That is 
enough, sir!” he said sharply. “You were out there in the field too 
long, working with the Dodridge fellow. You have lost all sense of 
decency and propriety.” 


“I’m afraid that being named Percy does that to you.” 
“lam an Englishman, sir!” 
“Noted. Next time, I’m picking the names.” 


“Fine. Next time, pick the names. Pick the cover story. Pick the 
whole damn thing. | don’t care.” 


“Fine.” 
“Fine!” 
“Fine.” 


They sat in silence for perhaps seven minutes before Lament spoke. 
“So, what’re the cover occupations?” 


Mann pulled out a thick piece of manila paper, complete with 
embossed seal and golden lettering. “I... am a certified dog 
whisperer.” 


Lament pulled up outside of the Spokane Animal Control Office, 
sighing. “Was he equipped?” he asked. 


Mann shook his head. “No, no collar. We are going to be going in 
under the guise of recovering a client’s precious pet, which only | 
can identify thanks to my ability to understand dogs.” 


Lament opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. Opened it again, 
then stopped, taking a deep breath. He motioned toward the door. 
“All you,” he said. 


“Thank you, Agent,” Mann said, smiling and opening the door, 
striding into the pound as if he was entering a royal banquet hall. He 
stopped in front of the glass window, tapping on it with his finger as 


a fat, sour faced woman turned her eyes up at him. She had a forty 
year old face, though she couldn't have been a day over thirty-five. 
Her skin sagged, signifying that she’d once been larger. Much 
larger. 


“Name?”