“There are some things that are not supposed to be in this world— 
or, well, we’ve determined that they’re not supposed to, anyway. 
Which is reasonable, you know, because both of us have done 
enough work in this place to know that somebody has to make those 
decisions. And sometimes | guess that we pretend that we're trying 
to help...” 


The two men made eye contact for a moment as the reality of 
Garland’s occupation occurred to both of them simultaneously. 
“Well,” the supervisor said. “I mean, in some cases we probably do 
make decent efforts at helping. But, really, if we start thinking about 
questions of necessity, then things get messy. Humanoids...a friend 
of mine in retrieval said that she thought of them like shipwrecked 
sailors, and for a while we like to think that providing therapy and 
protecting them and whatever is like trying to guide them back 
home, but the reality of the situation is that we’re not home, we’re 
the island in the middle of nowhere. And SCP-2156 is going to 
realize that very soon.” 


SCP-842: Operations Table 


Item #: SCP-842 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-842 is housed at Site-19 
ina standard 10 m x 10 mx 5 mcontainment cell. All telephone 
lines, radio transceivers, internet connections, and other 
communication equipment to aid in the use of SCP-842 must be 
routed through a central server administered by Site-19 security. 
Maintenance of equipment is to be done on a monthly basis, or upon 
request of administrator. 


No security measures beyond a standard locked Foundation 
security door are required. Access to SCP-842 is to be restricted to 
researchers with Level 4 clearance or MTF Commanders with 
authorization from O5 personnel. Written proposals for use of 
SCP-842 are to be made at least one week before requested use, 
and must detail the purpose of the operation and the estimated time 
of use. 


All class-D personnel required for use of SCP-842 are to be 
escorted by no fewer than two Level 3 Security personnel. Backup 
class-D personnel are to be kept in the adjoining containment cell, 
and are to be prepped for use in SCP-842 by onsite medical 
personnel at least one day before use. No more than one class-D is 
to be allowed inside SCP-842’s containment area at any time (aside 
from the class-D in use by SCP-842), and must be restrained by a 
four point harness. 


Description: SCP-842 is a 2 m x 0.8 m dilapidated antique 
operating table capable of remote viewing and surveillance. 
SCP-842 will use SCP-842-1 to display terrain, buildings, objects, 
and entities within the chosen viewing area. SCP-842-1 will be 
altered to mimic the chosen viewing area in real time, and any 
alterations of the viewing area or updated information will be 


There was a long silence as Garland stared at the man. 
“I’m not sure...” Garland said. 


“Well, whatever,” the supervisor said. “Not our job to think about 
this.” 


SCP-2156 woke up to a lie staring her in the face. The bed and the 
walls and the drawer and her clothes all seemed to be the same, but 
they were not. SCP-2156 could look one layer—just one layer— 
down beneath the surface of the fagade and see the deception. She 
had been moved. The Foundation had changed its evaluation of her, 
and now the walls themselves muttered of containment instead of 
protection and of safety instead of welfare. How long had she been 
asleep? Thirty minutes, an hour? The Foundation worked quickly. 


She had dreamt about the matryoshka doll every time she had gone 
to sleep for the past—ten meals divided by three and rounded down, 
that was three days. The doll was calling for her, and if SCP-2156 
knew anything she knew that matryoshka dolls weren’t supposed to 
send out siren songs. 


She could see her entire past laid out in picture frames by the 
matryoshka doll. She could relive every weakness and insecurity, 
and in doing so, she grew one step closer and closer to the truth, to 
that nothingness that was inside her, and out of that void something 
of great design and inscrutable purpose would be born. For one 
instant everything would fall into order, and then she would be at 
peace. The only way forward was the doll. So long as she kept 
finding new layers within herself, she could keep shuffling, and so 
long as she kept shuffling, she would find order. So long as there 
was the chance that order would be found, she could maintain the 
delusion that everything would be all right. That was how critical the 
doll was to everything. To the universe itself. It was a small, wooden, 
painted toy that formed a pillar holding up the sky. 


She needed to be reshuffled again, but for that reshuffling to mean 
anything, she needed the doll. In the corners of her mind that the 
doll whispered to, there was nothing but silence. 


SCP-2156 stood and began to pace. She told herself that she 
needed to calm down—but who was really telling her that? Was it 
really her? 


“| just need some sleep,” she said. 


The Foundation wasn't giving her any sleeping meds. Why was it so 
hard? What was so difficult about giving somebody with insomnia 
medication? She wanted nothing more than for her brain to be 
pummeled into unconsciousness by a chemical cocktail. The 
snarling abominations of 3 AM doubts were prowling about her on all 
sides. She was continually hounded by them. An eternal hunt with 
herself comprised the entirety of her existence, and she was tired of 
running in circles. 


If everything could just shut up for a moment— 
She just needed some sleep. 


The Foundation had moved her. They had uprooted her out of one 
of its metal labyrinths and popped her straight into another. The 
matryoshka doll was gone, but something was whispering truths into 
her ear even now. The universe cascaded in a series of layers that 
she could sift through and examine at her leisure. Garland wasn’t 
coming back. She doubted any of the others were either. Deep in 
the roaring machinery of the dark, ancient monolith that called itself 
the SCP Foundation, men in white lab coats were typing away at 
computers, filing reports. These reports were aimed at changing the 
special containment procedures of the object known as SCP-2156. 
There would be restrictions imposed and precautions taken. An 
incident report had been filed when she had almost killed Garland. 
But the Foundation, for all its knowledge and its power, could not 
know everything, and in those twisting alleyways of ignorance, the 
Foundation’s power meant nothing. 


No matter what, they could not say how the deck would be ordered. 
Time passed. There were no meals, so she couldn't say how much. 


After time was finished passing, one of the room’s walls became 
transparent. An unfamiliar man in a white coat stood on the other 


side. 
“Good morning, SCP-2156.” 
“Why have you taken me here?” 


“You have been relocated because we’re concerned about your 
safety and the general well-being. Specifically, we have good reason 
to believe that there were unforeseen factors about your prior 
containment site that negatively influenced your mental health. 
These factors constituted an unacceptable risk of containment 
breach. As such, we have taken steps to minimize cross- 
contamination potential and—" 


“Why isn’t Garland coming back?” 

The doctor’s face scrunched up. “I’m sorry?” 

“Don't lie to me.” 

“| really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” 


She had seen muscle and sinew. She had seen bones, marrow, 
capillaries, veins, organs—its heart and all the chambers, the valves 
pumping all the sludge through the body—the nerves leading up to a 
brain that hid secrets from itself. She had seen it all. The Foundation 
didn’t even know itself. They were kindred spirits, like that— 


“Don’t lie to me,” she said again. She knew where she was. She was 
on the very fringes of the world, where everything that did not belong 
was placed so that it could continue on not-belonging inoffensively. 
For all of history the Foundation had kept everything safely on the 
sidelines so that society could function. She knew the truth. 


And of herself, what did she know? 
The doctor took a picture out of his coat. “Do you know what this is?” 
“It’s the doll.” 


“Where have you seen it?” 


“Everywhere.” 
“Everywhere? | don’t understand.” 


“In my sleep and in my dreams. Out of the corners of my eyes. It’s 
on the fringe, just like | am.” 


“Have you ever begun to disassemble this object?” 
SCP-2156 closed her eyes. “Over and over.” 


“Right. Why did you not report the reoccurrence of this object in your 
dreams to your therapist?” 


SCP-2156 was silent. 


“All right. | want you to understand that there have been new 
restrictions placed upon you. The luxuries of your previous 
containment protocols were contingent upon an incident-free record, 
a condition which has decidedly not been met. You almost killed the 
previous therapist. We will have to be much more cautious when 
dealing with you.” 


SCP-2156 looked up and opened her eyes. “I have a question. Are 
you going to give me sleeping meds?” 


“In all likelinood, no. We do not acquiesce to the demands of SCP 
objects when there is no good reason to do so.” 


“Right,” SCP-2156 said. “That’s right.” 


There was nothing resembling humanity here. The Foundation 
stripped it away from their own agents and researchers just as 
readily as it did so from its prisoners. She could feel the throbbing 
hum of mystery packed against horror packed against contradiction. 
The Foundation was a teeming, frothing ocean, filled from top to 
bottom with things that nobody could understand, an impenetrable, 
unknowable volume of liquid black. The Foundation did not care for 
anything or help anything because whatever agency of its own it had 
spent hiding its own secrets from itself. 


She felt a moment of truth and absolute clarity. There had been a 


festering, ugly emotion deep inside of her for the past several days 
—it had been the fear-anger of anxiety and insecurity. She had been 
laboring under the misconception that here she was out of place and 
that the world outside of these walls was hers. She had thought it 
was where she belonged, despite her ink-black skin spotted red with 
murder. But she had been very, very wrong. She did not belong in 
the world because it had one layer and no mysteries. When she had 
realized this truth she had been afraid, but the truth had to be 
accepted. 


There was a Foundation under the Foundation of sterile white lab 
coats and precisely operated mechanical cell doors. There was a 
Foundation of unspeakable inhumanity and cruelty, there was a 
Foundation of self-sacrifice and heroism, there was a Foundation of 
unreality and insanity and madness all lurking beneath the surface. 
Every single Foundation employee she had witnessed had only 
been the facade of the madhouse. They were being moved by 
purposes mysterious to guard objects unknowable. 


She felt the fear-anger build. There was no escape from the walls of 
this Foundation, not even in her own sleep. Everything might be 
plausibly acceptable if her masters were simple, knowable people— 
university deans, parents, supervisors—but this was not the case. 
Something in the contradiction of an organization trying to give order 
to the most absolute chaos had fractured the layers of the people in 
charge. One day, perhaps arbitrarily, these people had decided not 
to give her sleep. 


Sleep had been the illusory chemical sanctuary from the world in 
which she did not belong. It was gone. What remained were 
bloodshot eyes and a desert of a mind where the winds of fatigue 
and doubt constantly scoured the surface of the sand. SCP-2156 felt 
a cruel, vindictive satisfaction. Whatever happened from here on out 
was not her fault. The Foundation had not given her sleep. It had 
dragged her to the very boundaries of the waking world and then 
forced her to remain. Whatever happened as a consequence could 
not be avoided. 


Emotion drained from her. She closed her eyes and felt beneath her 
for the layers of the world. She could shuffle them however she saw 
fit. 


The doll was calling for her again. It was calling for her with a mind 
powerful enough to reach out of the wooden confines of the toy and 
invade the private sanctuary of the human soul. Within that mind 
was boundless potential for torture and sadism, for the violent 
restructuring of the pliable human consciousness, but it held within it 
only one thought. The doll wanted nothing more than to be taken 
apart, it wanted nothing more than to see the world fall apart around 
it—for her to strip away pretension after pretension until nothing but 
the dizzying void of the center remained. The Foundation had made 
a mistake. Distance was of no concern anymore. 


She moved the ace of clubs to the home stack; the face-down card 
underneath it flipped over to reveal the impassive face of the 
matryoshka doll staring back at her. See? There it was at her feet. 
Solitaire was easy. 


The researcher's eyes widened before the wall became opaque 
again. SCP-2156 didn’t care. This was exactly where she belonged, 
in this institution of horrors, in this room with the matryoshka doll on 
the floor. She would find all the layers of the Foundation, and she 
would find all the layers of herself. SCP-2156 began to cry. She 
couldn't remember being this happy. 


She knelt down, grasped the doll, and disappeared. 


SCP-2156 was dying. Death was not nearly as unpleasant as she 
might have expected. It was, in truth, rather relaxing to feel each 
memory and thought that had ever once comprised her identity be 
stripped away from her. She felt a sensation of impending peace. To 
death, to sleep, to the unknown oblivion—wherever the destination, 
she was falling... 


A stack of cards spread itself out in a fan before her and revealed 
the world. She could see the Foundation scrambling to evacuate the 
area. She could see the GOC detect a burst of Aspect Radiation at a 
Foundation Site and watched the legion of politicians and hypocrites 
begin plotting. She saw her family and friends, stumbling through life 
only marginally more ignorant than they had once been. She saw 
rain fall on the graves of the people she had killed. All of it was 
inconsequential. 


The doll guided the reshuffling of her layers. She was to be remade 
into something that would never have to beg its captors for sleeping 
medications, something that would never begin hyperventilating in a 
cafeteria, something that would never stay awake waiting for the 
morning to come. It would be neither better nor worse than her; it 
would neither be her nor would it not be her. It would only be, and it 
would belong. She would be made into something that could see the 
layers of everything for all its complexity and nonsense. 


There was an unpleasant moment when the last remaining thing that 
could be said to be her was destroyed, when she existed only as 
form without definition, before her parts began to collapse upon 
themselves, forming layer after layer of a psyche and a body. In this 
new body she felt the thrill of innumanity rush through her limbs. She 
saw the fan of cards and remarked how simple it was to shuffle them 
around. 


As the final layer of what she was to become clicked into place 
around her, SCP-2156’s first and last thought was that all she had 
wanted was some sleep. 


Extranormal Event-28-A ("Ifrit") Archives