“What?” His boyfriend looks at him with alarm. “Wait. James, just 
give me a second.” Draven throws the switch on the stove top to 
low, and James reflects on what’s transpired since he awoke: turned 
on his phone at his bedside. Couldn't read the notifications. Looked 
at the book Draven was reading on his side of the bed: couldn't 
comprehend the title. Staggered into the living room with alarm and 
looked at the main bookshelf. No understanding. Picked the book he 
recognized the most because he felt like it was closer to him than 
the rest, like it was part of himself at some point in his life, like it was 
something he created. Carried it into the kitchen. 


Held it uselessly and stupidly in his hands as his now very 
concerned partner turned back towards him. 


“Can | see it?” 


Draven lays the book flat on the kitchen counter, and James stands 
next to him, feeling something numb and shuddering in his chest. 
His boyfriend opens the cover, then flips past the title page (with 
large characters he can’t understand) and the table of contents 
(James swallows hard to keep tears back now; he can only tell it’s 
the table of contents because of the layout of the words themselves) 
and lands on the first page, page 1, which is actually page 10 
because James Talloran had written nearly 400 pages of original 
research content for his dissertation and this had constituted a 
considerable amount of chapters, but he only knows its page 1 
because of the layout and what he knows about books in general. 
Page 1. Okay. Page 1. Page 1. He tries to slow his breathing, and 
Draven holds the book open with one hand and touches James’ 
back with the other. 


“Hey, it’s okay. Just calm down, okay? The doctors said that Class 


Cs can do this kind of thing,” Says Draven. “It'll come back with a 
little work, yeah? Let’s just start with the first bit and work from 
there.” 


James swallows and nods and Draven is rubbing his back now, 
talking softer, being gentle but James is not to be handled gently 
right now Draven this is serious Draven | can’t read | can’t read this, 
please, Draven- 


He points at the title. It’s one word. It’s not even a title as much as 
it's a section designation. James has read this word hundreds and 
thousands of times in his life effortlessly. 


“Let's just start small,” says Draven, still rubbing his back, watching 
hot tears run down his partner’s face. “Hey, it’s okay. Just this one.” 


James stares at it blankly. He scans it, then looks at the characters, 
their individual shapes on the page. He’s supposed to read it from 
left to right. He rakes through his brain frantically, then feels stupid, 
so fucking stupid, and Draven must know that he just doesn’t know 
what it says because he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. 


“James.” 
He’s looking away now. 


He’s looking anywhere but the stupid fucking book. He’s looking at 
the floor, then rubbing his eyes again, then avoiding Draven’s gaze, 
too. He wants to run away. He wants to hide, or fall asleep. 
Whatever it was he went through, whatever it could have been- 
nothing could possibly have been worth this trying to erase. How 
was he going to work? He was a researcher. He wrote academically 
for a living- god, how much did he read and write per day at the 
Foundation? How incredibly crucial was that simple fucking skill of 
basic literacy to his job? To his life? To everything he did and was? 
How bad was it? Could he get it back at all? He used to be able to 
speed read technical writing with full comprehension and write lab 
reports six at a time; could he function in the Foundation, a place 
where the main kind of communication was written word, without 
that kind of skill? 


“James. Hey.” Draven’s voice is soft, coaxing. “Hey.” 
“| don’t know what that says.” 

“| know. It’s okay.” 

“It's not okay.” 

“James. Look at me.” 


He doesn’t want to look. He feels stupid, so endlessly fucking stupid, 
but he looks. He looks up at Draven and feels like a child and of 
course Draven is so fucking forgiving, the prick, who the fuck does 
he think he is being so calm and so nice and so cute at a time like 
this, who even does that, like seriously, he probably thinks James is 
stupid and not worth his time anymore, like really, honestly, who the 
fuck does he think he is, anyway- 


Draven covers up all but the first letter of the word with his finger. 
James is shaking with rage and frustration and grief and loss. 
Draven rubs his back and James wants to shrug him off but doesn’t 
because he wants that touch more than anything else in the world. 
Draven tells him to look at the book again. 


“What's that letter?” he says. 
“A,” chokes out James. 


“Okay, see? That’s right. You got it right.” Draven moves his finger 
over one letter. “What about that one?” 


“B.” 
“Hey, look at that, two in a row.” 


“Draven, this is so fucking stupid, | swear to god!” James explodes, 
but it loses effect because he’s sobbing and his voice is cracking 
hard on ‘god’ and he even sounds like a child, and he dramatically 
throws the blanket on the floor for emphasis but again it really 
doesn’t have much of an effect so to make up for it he turns and 
tries to storm out and Draven follows him a few steps and grabs his 
hand with a soft hey, hey, hey, babe, and somehow that completely 


subdues him, brings him back, reduces him to angry tears in front of 
the stupid book again, brings him back to the third letter with Draven 
holding him tighter now. 


“S.” He’s crying harder. Draven holds him close and tries to coax 
him to try the next one and he can’t, he just fucking can’t do this- 


“Babe,” says Draven. “Hey, listen. Hey.” James shakes his head no. 
“T,” says Draven. “R. A. C. T.” 

James swallows. 

“A-B-S-T-R-A-C-T,” spells Draven. “Do you know what that spells?” 
lt hits him. 


The meaning hits him all at once and he feels a surge of relief and 
comprehension, of understanding, of some small memory fragment 
of what that spelt and what it meant, how he chose to write it last 
when he had all of his data together, how he was afraid the section 
would be too long, all the little bits and pieces of those 8 letters that 
he most definitely recognized. James whips his head out of Draven’s 
chest and looks at the completed word and reads it once, twice, 
three times. 


“Abstract,” whispers James in a sort of disbelief. “It's my paper’s 
stupid fucking abstract.” 


Draven holds him tightly. James slows his breathing and finds his 
tears slowing with it. 


“That’s right,” says Draven softly. “It’s all still there, James. You 
need a little practice, but it’s not like you’re gonna have to learn how 
to read all over again from scratch.” 


“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, | was just-” 


“-Scared. | know.” Draven smiles and kisses him where he can feel 
it, the place where they hadn’t stuck wires and patches in the 
procedure, the shaved top of his partner’s head. “It’s okay. You 
know, when | first saw you after they finished in the hospital, | came 


in to take you home once they told me about everything and how to 
take care of you and stuff and you recognized me, but you couldn’t 
remember my name.” 


James laughs nervously. “Seriously? | don’t remember that.” 


“Yeah. You were having a hard time understanding me when | 
spoke to you, too.” Draven says. “That really scared me.” 


His voice is light, but James can hear the residual fear in his words. 
“I’m sorry.” 


“And then there was the whole, ‘you being half dead in the hospital’ 
thing.” He continues. “And before that, there was the whole, ‘you 
being missing for three months’ thing.” 


He’s serious that time - very serious. James’ heart drops in his chest 
in response. He didn’t remember any of that; all of that had been 
wiped with the amnestic procedure that had him laid up at home with 
Draven looking after him in the first place. 


But Draven remembered. And he had been scared. And he had 
waited, and then put up with his shit some more when he got back, 
and then was taking care of him now as he reeled from the 
procedure that wiped the memory of those past four months away. 


“Look,” says Draven before James can say anything in response. “I 
just don’t want to lose you again, okay? Like, fuck, James, /’m 
supposed to be the one who goes missing for three months on the 
job. Researchers don’t just do that, you know?” 


“Hey babe?” says James. “I would really love to have this deep 
conversation about our relationship and what it means now and all 
that, and how this affected both of us, and how we plan on dealing 
with any and all associated traumas coming from this portion of our 
relationship. | think it’s super important to address at some point. 
And I’m sorry that | hurt you, and we need to talk about how to get 
you feeling better, too, since you seem really shaken up by all this 
and | can totally understand why. But your pasta’s boiling over.” 


Draven’s eyes widen, and he lets go of James Talloran- previously 


the center of everything that happened to him, but not as much 
anymore- to address the loudly rattling pot on the stove. 


The Truth About 447 


"Why zombies?" 


Doctor Alistair, seated on a chair before the O5 council, tried to take 
up as little space as he could. He knew full well that was of no use, 
but actions like that have always happened on their own. Dr. Alistair 
was a common researcher in the Foundation's employ. He studied 
insignificant little things like the world's best toothbrush or a T-shirt 
with the Foundation's logo. The only thing that made him stand out 
of line was the study of SCP-447. And that seemed to be the reason 
why they called him on the carpet. 


"Why me? Wasn't it Clef who brought this shit into the Foundation? 
It's him you need to ask, but no! You're scared shitless of him and 
now you're taking it out on me, huh? What if | pull out a gun and 
shoot every single last one of ya?!" 


That's what he would have told him - if he could. But he was not 
brave enough. And he was searched several times, they even took 
his pen that could have potentially been used as a weapon. Alistair 
didn't have a gun, either. Neither a service weapon, nor one at 
home, not even a toy pistol from childhood times. So the only 
options left for him were sweating, sighing nervously, staring into the 
floor and patting himself on the neck. 


They wanted a reply anyway, so he cleared his throat and started 
speaking with all the courage he could muster: 

"Ww-w-elll... Uh-mmm. Ahem." After delivering such an impressive 
statement, Alistair sobbed and tried to move on to the next part. He 
began to whisper in a desperate voice: "Become a dentist, momma 
said, why did | not..." 


"Alistair!" - barked O5-2, interrupting what could have possibly 
evolved into a fit of hysterics. "What are you droning about?! Why 
does everyone think that SCP-447-2 applied to dead bodies causes 
them to reanimate and have a hunger for brains?!" 


"But that's..." - Alistair tried to excuse himself. 


"But what's?!" - shouted O5-1, gradually becoming enraged. "Half 
the Site thinks they have an Umbrella Corporation virus or 
something like that on their hands! We're sick and tired of reading 
Site Administrator reports, saying that at least twice a month they 
catch one brain-dead junior employee or another, trying to bring a 
dead hamster or a rat in there!" 


A rather heavy file of assorted reports marked the end of his speech, 
flying at Dr. Alistair. Reports fell out, scattered on and around him. 


"Who ever did spread this disinformation?" - asked O5-4, 
interrupting her colleague's stream of rage, then squinted in 
suspicion. "Or... Or is it actually true? Alistair, if you knew this all 
along and intentionally left the information about SCP-447-2 and its 
effects on dead bodies out, we'll have to take measures." 


"You see, |..." - the researcher was completely scared. He tried to 
stand up, to save the day, but his legs failed him and the only thing 
he managed was to shuffle on his chair. "You see, dead bodies..." 


"By the way, Alistair," - squinted O5-1. "What exactly happens when 
the slime from 447 contacts a dead body?" 


"Well, |... That's the... This is why it..." - responded the doctor and 
immediately felt drawn and quartered. The Council wanted the truth 
and it was high time he came up with something. He couldn't let 
them in on his secret. That would get him fired in no time. That 
wasn't really bad except for the termination or the memory removal 
that usually accompanied the dismissal. Once again he gathered his 
courage and made a second attempt. 


"I'm completely sure | have filed the information about SCP-447-2's 
effect on dead bodies. And I'm sure that information was in the 
report, as well as in the experiment log at the time | filed it. Seems 
like Someone redacted the data." 


"Whaaat?" - the Council members became slack-jawed. "What do 
you mean, redacted? Who? How?!" 


Date: / / 

Function to change the camera transmitting to individual 
group-2 monitors by means of the console was 
determined. Logs are now to be kept of unique camera 
viewpoints and their corresponding identification keys. 


Log-977-A-17 

Date: / / 

A systematic examination of group-2 identification keys 
revealed a previously unknown camera concealed within 
the security station itself. The camera tracked the 
movements of Dr. independently for several minutes 
after the cover was removed by Dr. __, but has since 
become inactive. The corresponding identification key 
will also no longer access this camera. 


Addendum: The discoveries detailed in Log-977-A-17, along with 
Incident 977-I-1, have necessitated the upgrade of SCP-977 from 
Safe to Euclid. Please refer to containment procedures for changed 
security precautions, commencing / / 


Incident Log 977-1 


Log-977-I-1 

Date: / / 

Incident 977-I-1 occurred during a routine inspection of 
the SCP-977 site by Dr. , who was alone on-site, 
against Foundation regulations. The incident occurred at 
2204 hours, during an inspection of the site's rear 
corridors. At this time, Dr. departed from procedure 
by taking a left at the end of the hallway instead of a 
right. Questioning suggests that this was a mistake and 
not deliberate, possibly as a result of fatigue. Personnel 
taking this route are expected to emerge in the hallway 
observed by monitor 2-3, though following this Dr. 

was not observed on any active monitor for the next 4 
hours. At 0221 hours, he is briefly seen in an agitated 
state moving past the far end of the corridor observed by 
monitor 2-11, and is not seen again for another 6 hours. 


At approximately 0830 hours, Dr. and Dr. 


"It means that someone deleted the relevant information on 
purpose, but was not fast enough, and thus part of the information 
eventually spread among the personnel, especially between Class 
Ds. Because of their monthly termination schedule, the information 
became corrupted and turned out like that. As for who did it... | have 
some suspicions. But | want to be sure my opinion stays 
anonymous." 


"The name!" - demanded O5-1 


"| suspect the one who captured the object was also the one to 
redact the information. As far as | know, his past is not really clear 
and we cannot be entirely sure in his loyalty. You know the man | 
mean."