You're completely dumbstruck. But the little clock on the computer 
screen says 3:47 AM, and it suddenly hits you how late it is. You 
have to get up tomorrow. And in the morning we'll probably all get a 
PM from Gears about how the server crashed or something. So you 
turn off the monitor, and snuggle into bed. 


Maybe it’s the low rumble of vehicles on the street outside your 
window, or a faint creak down the hallway. You stir a little awake, 
and squint at the clock by your bedside. You pull the sheets up over 
your shoulder and groan lightly, dozing back to sleep. 


And then there’s a smash at your bedroom door, rocketing you 
upright. You throw your hand up over your face at the blinding light. 
Arms reach out and grab you, dragging you bodily from the bed. 
Your hands are wrenched behind your back, and you struggle 
against the limbs pinning you to the floor. As a black bag is pulled 
over your head and the cord is tightened around your neck, you 
scream and scream into the dark muffling cloth. 


CONFISCATED DOCUMENT 847-26, "CALENDAR" 


Document 847-26 was removed by security teams from Site 17's 
third floor break room after shots were exchanged between Agent 
and Dr. resulting in the requirement of a new clone body. 


While normal protocol would require all duplicate copies of 
Document 847 to be collected, it has been deemed that there are 
now so many of them in circulation that the effort required to execute 
such an order would be a waste. 


Staff are strongly encouraged not to pose for illicit photoshoots and 
are certainly not obligated to "strip for senior staff". Employee 
handbooks citing this instruction are not genuine and should be 
reported immediately. 


| love how they cut the display off at april. | can't wait for june to 
arrive. -yoric 


December is the real payoff. -Site Director Bright 


So this is why you guys wanted to revive the Chinese exchange 
program. - Zara 


| found like, twenty of these in Hatbot's charging station. There's still 
four or five not covered with oil stains. - Dr. Sorts 


| categorically deny ever utilizing anything so tame for erotic 
purposes. - Dr. Clef 


That's what you're worried about? Not possessing the calendar, but 
being afraid someone will think you were turned on by it? - Dr. Glass 


| have a reputation to maintain as a human bastard who only ever 
gets turned on by flipper-baby snuff porn vore. - Dr. Clef 


Memo: Due to multiple incidents at Site-19 and elsewhere, 
Document 847-26 (the "Break Calendar") may not be introduced to 
any SCP without Level 4 authorization. O5 approval is required 
before introducing Document 847-26 to the following items: 
SCP-040, SCP-085, SCP-343, SCP-423, SCP-826, and SCP-914. 
Please note that we have collected sufficient experimental results on 
914's Very Fine setting, as the ruins of Site- will attest. —O5- 


I'm sorry Dmitri, Rights had a copy and | kind of... well... you know 
how it is. - Lurk 


To whoever it was that told him that | had this hanging in my office, 
you'll be the one paying my medical expenses. And could you at 
least give me a copy of the thing | ended up getting shot for? - Dr. 
Gerald 


Can someone please explain why several hundred boxes of tissues 
have just been requisitioned? The form asks for deluxe man-size. - 
Aeish 


Screw the tissues: Can someone tell me why there is several 
gallons of lube missing from my hardware closet? And to whoever 
took them: you would probably want to get some soap and wash 
that stuff off cause it will cause rashes and boils after ten minutes. - 
Dr. Kensington 


Do not know who left copy of this on my desk. Will not make me like 
you better. Please retrieve it or | harvest your aorta. -Dr. Kald 


Who left this in my car? I'd like to not be horribly murdered as | 
sleep by a vengeful Agent Break. 

...and how did anyone even manage to get into my car? 
-Roadrunner 


Allright, who mailed a copy of this into the South East Asian branch? 
And didn't pay for the air delivery service? 

I'd better incinerate the evidence. Break is currently on good terms 
with us in the SEA. 

- Carriontrooper 


Indignantly proclaiming that you have a copy and then swearing up 


and down that you do not want it isn't going to protect you big 
babies. Also, anyone else who wants to inquire about the remnants 
of hatbot's stash better come cash in hand. -Dr. Sorts 


Breaking Dawn 


“Dawn... you'll never be alone in this world.” 


Kit’s words flittered around her head, above a dull headache and a 
noise of rushing water. Time flashed by - a vague memory of 
meeting in a graveyard, being together in a park after dusk, pills to 
mitigate the pain a little bit, weeks then months blurring together 
until they were in an abandoned house where Kit had stashed a 
sleeping bag. They had lain together, sharing one stained pillow and 
staring at the mould on the ceiling, making out faces that, to Dawn, 
were the faces of her bullies. 


She remembered turning her head and crying into Kit’s shoulder, 
and he stroked her hair. He smelt of tobacco, blood and salt. She 
could smell her own perfume scenting him, marking him. She 
calmed, asked him if he really lived here, and he went very quiet and 
said sometimes. They were all of fourteen years old and didn’t know 
much better. She didn’t know how to help, but she stole a teddy bear 
from her sister’s bedroom and surprised Kit with it on one rainy day 
after school. That day, she remembered it being especially cold in 
there and they huddled together for warmth, the teddy between 
them, staring with scratched eyes. 


It was cold in here too. She forced open her eyes and tried to make 
out the world around her. Her eyelashes clumped together from the 
mascara that had been smeared and became sticky when a 
blindfold had been forced over her eyes, so everything blurred. It felt 
like the morning after something, after something horrible, and 
something she couldn’t quite remember. The room was small and all 
cement, and she could see her breath coming out from the gaps in 
the gag that strangled across her mouth. 


What did she know of this place? Experimentally, she flexed her 
hands and found them chained at the wrist. Kit would be able to get 
out of this, or at least he boasted he could. Between his hypermobile 
joints and the hair pins he secreted in his long hair, he said that he 


had gotten his hands free of cuffs twice when police had arrested 
him for — 


Her thoughts were drifting, and it was hard to come back to reality. 
Normally, she was grounded — realistic. She was Kit’s anchor whilst 
he was a kite, making sure he never got too far away. But now, it 
took effort to focus on the here and now. It didn’t help that the room 
offered no focus points, nothing to keep her attention. 


Tipping the wooden chair slightly, she realised her ankles were tied 
to the legs of the chair, spreading her legs. She was still wearing her 
school uniform — skirt rolled up at the hem as was the fashion, and 
no tights because she had been finally allowed to shave her legs, 
and who cared that it was winter when she reached such a 
milestone, and she couldn't help but to feel painfully vulnerable and 
embarrassed. She was exposed to anyone who came in, to the 
people who had taken her, who had done God knows what after she 
had felt a prick in her neck and a sudden dizzy rush. 


Someone would figure out something had happened to her. Kit 
would figure out something had happened to her. But Kit, despite his 
bravado, was as scared as her — wouldn't know who to call, wouldn't 
want to call anyone, much less her father, who was as much of a 
monster hiding in her home as Kit’s was in his house. She felt less 
like a damsel in distress waiting for rescue, and more a hate crime 
waiting to happen. 


Suddenly, the door across the room opened, pushing in a wash of 
cold air. A tall, if slightly dorky-looking, man came in, holding a 
folder. He was dressed in a long white coat, with an insignia she 
neither knew or cared to know on the breast pocket. He paused, 
rustled some papers, and then shut the door behind him, coming to 
sit opposite her on a similar wooden chair to her. 


“Uh, uh... oh, yes, um, David. David Dean?” 


Dawn’s heart froze, then clenched, beating without blood. She 
couldn’t speak, and it wasn’t just because of the gag — her denial 
was swallowed, swallowed hard, even as he reached across and 
gently undid the rope, so she could talk. She took a deep breath, 
trying to appreciate the air, but the name rang around her head, and 


hurt her just as much as any punch. 
“...T-That’s my dead name.” 


Her voice came out weak, hoarse. She thought of sharing cigarettes 
with Kit in that abandoned house, where the mould grew freely, rats 
made their home, and the air was dusty. Her throat always hurt 
afterwards but it felt like such a grown-up thing to do, and she felt 
the need to impress the boy who often seemed years above his age. 


The man across her frowned and rummaged around in the papers. 


“No, uh, um... That’s what we have. David. | just want to ask you 
some questions, then, um...” More shuffling. This man couldn't, and 
wouldn't, feel sorry for using her dead name, a name she had 
abandoned over a year ago. He just pushed his glasses up on his 
nose and finally freed the paper he wanted. 


“So, David, um... You’ve been staying... visiting a house, 
sometimes, on Sparrow Avenue. | think number... uh, oh, yes, 
number 47. Can you tell me why you were there, David?” 


Why did he keep using it? Why did he keep saying it? She tried to 
ignore how it hurt every time, but the man in front of her 
transformed, just for a moment, into her father — towering over her, 
hand shaking as he held a skirt and asked what the fuck she thought 
she was doing with this in her room, his knuckles white and his face 
red. She shook her head, and the figure went back to the geeky, 
slightly nervous looking young man. 


“...Not David.” 


It was all she could say. She didn’t want to talk to this person. Much 
less if he was going to disrespect her like this. She could expect this 
from her dad, but somehow, it hurt more coming from someone who 
had never known David — someone who only knew Dawn, who only 
knew the woman in front of him, not the man she was long ago. A 
man that not even Kit had known, and Kit knew her inside and out 
by now — knew what hid under her bed, what monsters burrowed 
into her mind, what scared her the most and what amused her. 


being played on an antique vinyl record player in poor condition. 
Over nineteen distinct songs have been classified, while there 
remain a number more that analysts have been unable to identify. It 
is unknown what exactly causes this phenomenon, but it has been 
hypothesized that it is a form of psychological warfare meant to 
unnerve and confuse enemies, though this has not been confirmed. 


Addendum: Due to over forty-seven casualties since containment, 
all recon teams are now to consist of D-class personnel with military 
backgrounds only. 


« SCP-801 | SCP-802 | SCP-803 » 


“Uh. Uh. Okay. Um. Can you just tell me why you were there? Were 
you, uh...” Flickering through notes — it seemed more like a nervous 
habit than an actual search for information. “...Compelled to go 
there, for some reason?” 


“No.” She muttered. Her mind was drowsy again and fighting back 
with words felt just as impossible as fighting back physically — 
mentally tied down as much as her hands and ankles were bound. 
“...Just exploring. Listen, if I've been arrested, | think | should be 
allowed to make a call...” 


The man shook her head. “Mm-hm. No, uh, you’re not under arrest, | 
just have to ask you... I’m sorry, this is my first time.” He looked up, 
squinting at her. “They keep telling me it’s okay because you won't 
remember but, uh, um... still hard,” he mumbled to himself, though 
the room was so quiet and had such an echo that she could hear 
him regardless. “So, you weren't compelled, that’s okay, uh... did 
you notice anything weird at... 47 Sparrow Avenue?” 


“No,” it came with a heavy sigh and she tried to flex her hands 
again, because they were falling asleep. The man watched her 
every move as if he believed she could suddenly grow inhuman 
strength and break the metal cuffs. He seemed, if possible, even 
more nervous every time she so much as twitched. “It’s just an 
abandoned house. Look, I’m sorry for trespassing, | really am, 
but...” She had been about to say something she could never take 
back. 


‘...But my friend was there. Lives there. Needs to be there. Hides 
from the monsters there.’ 


She managed to contain it in her head, but it was more of a struggle 
than normal, like her mind wanted to spill all her secrets, to this 
stranger in front of her. Instead, she bit her lip and looked at him, 
waiting, waiting for something. 


“Um. Uh. Okay.” The man mumbled, nodding a bit. “There’s mould 
there, right? And... uh, spores? I-| mean, you may have been able 
to uh, see something in the air.” 


“Yes, | mean... of course there was, it’s an old house.” She shook 


her head a little, honestly amazed and slightly amused at the 
apparent situation she found herself in. Being interviewed about 
trespassing in the house that no-one wanted? It felt absurd and she 
wanted to laugh but kept that to herself when she thought of Kit, who 
had almost certainly been at the house. Was he somewhere, too, 
like this? He would be worse than her — struggling, maybe even 
escaping, making wild claims. What would happen to him? 


“U-uh, okay, um...” This man’s vocal tics were starting to get on her 
nerves and she wanted to say that out loud too but fought against it. 
Her headache grew more every time she didn’t allow herself to say 
some truth, but she figured it was better this way. “After you started, 
uh, going there... did you notice anything weird about... uh, you? | 
mean, uh, did you start seeing anything?” 


She frowned at him, but memories instantly flooded her. Seeing first 
the bullies in the mould, then sometimes hands that reached out to 
grab up her skirt or steal Kit away. Then the times she would walk 
down the face and every man she saw would turn into her father, 
clutching some piece of evidence of her transition — skirts, bras, lace 
knickers. They all marched the same way as silverback apes, 
shoulders hunched, fists firmly closed, faces red. They never said 
anything, but they were always there, and it was always just men, 
and it was only after she had been visiting the house for a couple of 
months. 


“... Yes.” She admitted, softly. Maybe this was some sort of mental 
institution. It would explain the restraints to some extent, and even 
why they were using her dead name. All official paperwork carried 
her dead name, after all, until she could produce that damn 
certificate. It didn’t mean she had to use it. 


“O-Oh, okay, okay.” The man marked something down — a dark 
black spot on a chart that seemed to have a list of names on one 
side, and a list of something else on the other. She had failed 
whatever this was, that was what this felt like, like failing an exam. 
“Um, okay, so... uh... “, He flipped pages again and, this time, 
seemed to come across something akin to a script because he 
stared down at it as he spoke, and he didn’t stutter and stumble over 
the words. 


“David, | have to let you know that the mould made you contract a 
disease. It is okay. It is not catching. It is not fatal. It can be cured 
by...” He flipped the page over. “...An injection, and then you are 
free to go home. We are going to bulldoze the house to avoid any 
further problems. We appreciate your co-operation in this progress. 
Thank you.”