| take the offered fork in my mouth and taste. Peppered, stringy 
meat sticks to my teeth in chunks, and | cough in surprise. Charlie 
treats my reaction with some concern. "I hope it's not that bad. | 
don't do this often enough." 


He motions casually to the apparatus in my hands. "If you're thinking 
of practice, it's alright. We can continue tomorrow." 


Lunch is the remainder of the rabbit stew and a sandwich. | sit at the 
pantry and make a second, smaller one for dinner; note with some 
concern that bread and cheese is running low. First the bread, then 
the ham, peeled from the pre-sliced puck between layers of 
waxpaper in the fridge. Lettuce from the Tupperware, then cheese 


and mayo, then another ham where a bread should go. Preserving 
symmetry, | finish the remaining layers in the reverse order, cheese 
mayo lettuce hampeel bread. | crimp the edges, kneading the crusts 
together to catch the stray flecks. 


In my mouth, the taste of rabbit lingers, persistent strips between my 
teeth. The smoky aftertaste of Charlie's seasonings. As | prepare it, 
Charlie looks back from the sink, his brows arched. There are suds 
in his beard, and he wipes them off with his sleeve. 


| finish the sandwich. Presently, Charlie turns off the faucet and sits 
down in front of me. "Is something wrong, Mol?" 


"It's fine." | shake my head, avoid his gaze. 
"Are you shaking your head because you don't know the answer?" 


| pick up the sandwich and set it down between two layers of 
clingfilm. 


Charlie continues. "It's okay to not know. It's okay to be afraid. Last 
night was rough. I'm sorry." 


He does not need to be sorry. 


"Kid." He looks awkwardly to the side. "It's, well, hard to get used to 
all of this. | Know it, you know it. And, hell, you're just beginning. We 
were scared shitless, the first time we went in there too. We're all 
scared in there still." 


The clock behind us ticks, twelve times, thirteen. 


"If you, um, ever feel like it's a little too much to bear - you don't 
have to talk to us, just - maybe let us know." He tries a smile. "We 
can work something out." Behind his brow, | can see him try very 
hard not to say the obvious. We need you. We need people like you. 
Don't leave. Stay. 


"| don't think | have any intention of leaving,” | say. 


He muses. "Hm. Guess that works in the long run. But now, | think 
it's important to take care. Keep yourself grounded, alright? Just - do 


as you have. You're doing well. Keep on doing well - keep at it, and 
then maybe the fear won't seem so great any longer. Does that 
make sense, kid?" 


| say nothing. 


"From the looks of it, I'd say you should lay off practice for a while. 
But I'm not going to stop you if you do, or feel that it's better or 
something." Charlie shrugs. "Up to you, kid." 


He gets up, and then leaves. 


When Charlie is gone, | clean up and return to the armoury, 
sandwich wrapped in my jacket. Nonetheless, he sees me as | cross 
the common area lugging the mass of wires and cotton wool and 
tape to my room. He watches me, and says nothing. 


| close the door. | do not need the apparatus to be switched on. In 
the dark, my hands trace the containment pattern in front of the 
wires, between the wires, looping forms - now not so much as 
physically reinforcement, but as a subconscious product of thought 
processes more felt than known. The mantras are in my throat, too, 
pulsing and dumb. 


To do without doing is the base state. | dredge and project the 
memory of the screen in the darkened theatre, five thousand metres 
on each side, spanning beyond my vision, expanding, bigger across 
than | can see, blinding black and blazing static - and on it | see 
myself extending teal-white lines of aura, probing, neutral repose. 
Flowing between me and the pattern on the ground. 


Gradually, | enlarge the screen and extend the lines. The screen has 
three sides now, three dimensions of the body's chakras, lending 
dimension to form. The screen, showing the ghost of me, showing 
the ghost of the pattern, the dissipation of the thing in the jar. The 
ghost of me, the pattern, the jar, again in new ways. The screen 
twists, rends to accomodate the new perspectives. And lo, the 
screen itself - 


- video screens, the ones | saw last night were small and blurred 
and lined with fuzz. Raspy voices: SHE'S HERE - 


Concentration breaks. 


Silver lines wobble, bend, flare out in a million ways and break 
contact. | open my eyes, seeing darkness (the real one), seeing 
nothing, then seeing the dead machine hunched like a gargoyle 
watching with blind dish-eyes. Sighing, | close my eyes and begin 
anew. 


Once again with the screen, once again with the lines, once again 
with the pattern and the spreading and the neutral repose, once 
again with the soul. 


The screen stretches before me. | extrude lines to make the pattern. 
The pattern is the self. Its lines are my limbs, its shape is my form. 
Thought flows between the two, like the figure and ground, the 
ground and figure. Figureground - Why? Why? | feel myself overflow 
into the ground until the figure and ground become one, 
indistinguishable, yin-yang-up-down-gray. 


| look down at the pattern on the screen in my mind, and it's like 
looking into a pool. My own eyes stare back at me and | see myself 
mouth, why? 


The pattern stares back. Ask, and ye shall receive. 
| ask the pattern, what went wrong last night? 
Absolutely nothing, it tells me. 

Then why am | so shaken? 


It's the thought of it, really. In darkness, the mind sees what the eyes 
cannot. That sets everything off. 


But why? It didn't involve you. 
Maybe because it didn't involve me? 


No, that can't be right. Charlie is right, it's fear, pure simple fear. 


Awe of the spectacle. Fear of failure. Fear of lack of success. Fear 
of irreversible ego death within a two hundred kilometre radius. Fear 
of being responsible. Fear of being not responsible. Fear of fear 
itself. 


Is that all? 
Fear of loved ones dying. 


Loved ones, returning, not knowing if they'll make it the next time 
they're needed. Tired hands on tired laps. Tired faces. Their eyes. 


Understandable, hums the pattern. Let us remain in this loop for a 
little more, so that you can know how you are afraid. 


| do. 


Good. Now from inside the fear, safe from the source of fear, | want 
you to try again. 


| try again. Probe three - breathe in! - and descend. 


Third time's the charm: contact loops into silver forms on the screen 
in my mind. The me behind the screen deftly tweaks invisible 
controls, micromovements in muscles, breath control and body 
moulded into one singular manipulation of the lines. | trace the 
pattern, now more in thought than in form. Containment, 
concealment, diversion, protection. | loop through the patterns, one 
by one, flipping through channels of control mantras. The Lord's 
prayer. Lorem Ipsum. Billie Holiday. Mind and body move as one. 
Sensing, in parts, of a bigger whole. 


| breathe. Repose. 
Things work out fine. 


| sit for what feels like hours. | hear Jorge's footsteps, sense his 
hesitation, his knock withheld. Deep in the trance, | try to signal. /t's 
okay, | think. I'm alright. Soon, the footsteps go away. 


| cannot remember eating the sandwich. Eventually, | fall asleep. 


Our Lord in heaven, hallowed be thy name. | run along corridors 
whose ceilings are as high as my head. My headlamp flares, 
illuminating my breath, cutting into the jagged corners of the walls. 
But really, at this point, there's no need for light, with all the house- 
ness of the house — even without the goggles, | can taste the ARad 
leaping from the walls, feel centuries of fengshui engineering strain 
under the pressure of redirecting the immense energy, the terrible 
energy, emanating from within. 


The walls scream. | leap over a pitfall lined with foam acoustic 
spikes, stumble under jutting inscribed beams, jettison two more of 
my sinks which stream out behind me in clouds of black sparks. The 
lady's behind me, somewhere in the dark and the screaming and the 
cold, and she's catching up fast. Contact means imminent death. 
The floor drops - | stumble - my headlamp clatters ahead of me - | 
see three lights staring back at me, two eyes and a mouth opening 
wide to deliver my perdition, my head is screaming your kingdom 
come, your kingdom come, inside-voice catching on the syllables as 
the lady screams, shattered glass filling vessels of thought 
overflowing, no no no no no no no NO 


Dearest the shadows | live with are numberless, floats the control 
mantra from the depths. 


Without thinking, I've triggered all seven of my defensive wards on 
overload, throwing the full brunt of dash-one's attack back into her. 
From afar, timber creaks as the architecture channels my spell into 
success. The lady blinks, eyes shut, temporarily blinded, and | back 
up on my hands, scrabbling against the uneven ground, control 
mantra spilling from my lips in full vocalisation now, spitting the last 
dregs of juice out of the wards until all that's left are fizzles of smoke 
from the pouches on my chest and back. The screams are softer 
now, but getting louder, up and up and up. | backpedal, get up, slip 
again, fall over my own feet. Tumbling - tumbling! Then she opens 
her eyes and she screams again. 


| fall. 


Miles below me spreads a darkness like ink. Above me, a cloud of 


(Jr. Researcher Hu Zhi and Agent Hu Bao), side-hugging one 
another and posing for a picture together. All three appear to be 
smiling towards the camera. Notably, Jr. Researcher Hu Zhi appears 
to be standing on his own, and his prosthetic is not seen in the 
photograph. All three of them are wearing red-coloured attires, with 
Dr. Hu An wearing a cheongsam. Red-coloured decorations are also 
seen in the photograph. 


Subject: Agent Kilroy MacLeod 

Photographed Activity: Lacing a boot in preparation for a nighttime 
training exercise. 

Photo Result: Agent MacLeod is seen sitting with his father and his 
younger brother at a campfire. Of note is the fact that Agent 
MacLeod's father died in a vehicle accident-induced coma while 
MacLeod was deployed in [REDACTED] with the United States Air 
Force prior to his recruitment into the Foundation. 


Subject: Containment Specialist Dr. Ne Enmeti 

Photographed Activity: Designing containment cell for SCP- 
Photo Result The entire scene has changed. Dr. Ne Enmeti is seen 
driving a large humanoid robot in a battle with SCP- . Closer 
Analysis shows that Dr. Ne Enmeti is also eating pizza whilst firing a 
shoulder-mounted missile at SCP- 

Note: /t's a quesadilla, not a pizza! - Doctor Ne Enmeti 


Subject: Dr. Levy 

Photographed Activity: Playing poker with five other personnel, 
holding the King and Ace of clubs. 

Photo Result: The Queen, Jack, and ten of clubs, along with two 
other unidentifiable cards are on the table. Dr. Levy is seen 
scooping up a large pile of chips. 

Note: 7o be honest, what poker player doesn't want that? Who 
cares, | still won that hand. - Dr. Levy 


Subject: Agent Davies 

Photographed Activity: Filing a report for an undisclosed SCP 
object. 

Photo Result: Subject is seen with the front half of SCP-2952 which 
was protruding through a hole through the office floor. Davies is 
seen caressing SCP-2952, and appears to be highly pleased. 

Note: / guess /| really do love that dog. - Agent Davies 


smoke. Around is the house, or what's recognisable of its crazy 
jutting architecture, and as | bring myself to my bearings | realise 
that | do not have much of myself left to be borne. 


The dream continues. Falling - then, abruptly, rising, rising now. An 
elevator dings. The cloud envelopes me, smiling vapour and all, and 
my vision becomes a false-colour sandstorm on a basement 
television screen. It fades, showing a face. The face of the lady. 


This time, her face is a softer face, a human face, and on it are the 
lines that make up not only herself, but all that she has touched. At 
once | understand: she is a construct, as all people are, a tarball of 
memories and emotions clustered as a function across time and 
localised space. Dreaming - as it were - like | am. Probing neutral 
repose. 


She gestures for me to seek. Now the picture is the sky. | look at the 
world. Space! The sensation of it, patchwork green, and falling 
around the hills beyond. Dark bushes, marking the edges of forest. 
Wind sweeps, invisible, betraying the moor's perfect stillness. Thin 
roads bearing the lives of other people thread through the 
landscape. Nothing else remains. 


In equal clarity, the house itself is small, the hut smaller still. They 
escape the shadow of hills, crouched on the edge of plain, 
unassuming, plain. The dirt road is barely visible, but | know its 
bumps and twists and turns, on the contours of my mind, drummed 
into the back of my head on the old van's seat cushions, know of its 
transect in segments of windscreen and tree trunks, flared white by 
the high beams at midnight. 


A strand - a root - approaching bedrock, a slumbering beast - the 
house itself. Built on contradiction, its architecture, paradoxical, 
maniacal. Internally it twists like a snake consuming itself, 
compacted into concentric squares of mathematical rigour. The lady 
knows this well, and as | squint my mind's eye | can almost see her 
face in the snakes, trace her eyes in the nested squares. The house 
- the lady - a landscape that | have known only in stories and 
dreams and screens alike - because, after a certain perspective, the 
three become one and the same, do they not? 


But it is not important now, motions the lady. She gestures, and the 
scene shifts. As a mouse stalks the cat, folded onto the top of a 
slight ridge - presently, the hut and its rooms. The walls are all 
painted beige and white. | do not need to see to know the shape of 
its insides - its basement, its eyes, its bowels. A complete whole, a 
small beast. Here the walls are bare and the floors even and clean - 
because here, monsters are fought, and the mind must not wander 
and the spirit must not yield. 


Or so they say. 


Now under dark, a thin man lies awake in his work clothes. He rests 
on plastic folders holding questions in numbers and structure and 
form. The shadow of the intangible hangs over him - secrets within 
secrets, doors within doors - he sleeps with his head in his hands, 
and sighs. Perhaps one day he will have the courage to learn. 


In the next room, a woman tidies by candlelight. First she arranges 
the items on her desk - markers, blank tags, books, picture frame - 
each in their proper place. Then she reaches for the calendar that 
hangs above, and tears off a single page. She folds the single page 
into quarters, placing it into the green plastic bin below her desk. 
Before she blows the candle out, she looks at the picture frame in 
which a young olive-skinned girl sits. She closes her eyes, whispers 
a short word, or aname. Then she returns to her bed and sleeps. 


Strains of music from another room. His door is ajar. Shirtless, the 
younger man nurses the new wounds on his side as he strums to a 
beat in the dark. He climbs up and down minor scales, melodically, 
then chromatically. Beside him he has uncorked his secret vice for 
the first time in months, its acrid tang fresh on the roof of his mouth. 
Together the smell weaves with the music as incense before a 
temple - for the first time in months, he forgets where he is, and his 
mind is still. 


A man with the countenance of a lion remains awake. He sits cross- 
legged with a book in his lap, eyes focused but unreading. He has 
seen the words too many times to do so. Besides, his mind has 
grown too hard. His fingers turn the pages one at a time. He relishes 
in the act. The light on his desk burns white and unyielding through 
the night. He does not sleep.