"Because...I|'ve directed his life enough." Brian turned in his chair to 
face his colleague. "He's been competing with me every day of his 
life, and nothing | can do will change that. | made things the way 
they are for him, whether | wanted to or not. He perceives me as an 
obstacle in his self-actualization. As much as it pained me, tortured 
me, terrified me, | couldn't interfere with his decision to join the 
Foundation, because I've held him back for long enough." 


He bowed his head. "Even so, he's still mandating his life by his 
perception of me, and | can't even tell him myself." 


"Tell him what?" 
"How proud of him | am." 


Brian turned off the screen. 


For Old Time's Sake 


“Bloody hell, did Bennett have to pick such a cold place?” Abby said, 
rubbing her hands together for warmth. 


Larry placed a large crate in the snow in front of them. “It’s Finland, 
what’d you expect? Besides, we can’t exactly do it in the local 
Tesco, can we?” 


“Why not? | thought the idea was we’re supposed to make them 
think people got attacked. Why would anybody be out here?” She 
motioned to the surrounding area; a decaying concrete building 
stood next to a rusted chain link fence, all enveloped by snow. The 
sky and the ground met at an undefined point of grey, and the lack 
of a reference point gave Abby a headache. 


Larry took out his notes given to him by Bennett. “Something about 
a camping trip. Three people, all dramatically killed off one by one 
until only one person survived. That's you.” 


“Jesus, really? You really think they'll buy that? Sounds like the most 
cliché thing ever.” 


Larry pried open the crate using a crowbar. “People will believe 
anything if there’s enough evidence for it. Hold this.” He shoved the 
crowbar into her hands. 


“What's in there?” she asked. 
“Pig entrails.” 


A hideous smell hit the air, and Abby recoiled backwards. “Jesus 
Christ, that is vile. That is actually — Jesus Christ.” 


“Now you know how | feel sitting next to you for the whole bloody 
journey.” He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed a handful of 
pig organs, and threw them haphazardly across the snow. They 


stained the white red. “Come on, help me.” 


Wrinkling her nose up in disgust, she began throwing the organs 
around too. “Won't the police be able to tell they’re not human?” 


“Nah,” said Larry, moving the box back onto the truck. “Supposed to 
be some by-product of the creature.” 


“That doesn’t make any sense.” 
Larry shrugged. “Doesn’t have to, if they believe it.” 
“Will they?” 


“Probably. They always have. Besides, our men'll get here long 
before any Finns who know what they're doing do.” 


He walked back over to the truck, and dragged out a black bodybag. 
Pulling it open revealed a pale and lifeless face. 


“Who’s he?” 


Larry read off the name tag. “Daniel Denney. Random Class-D. 
Don't know how he actually died, and | don’t really care. What 
matters is the body’s intact.” He pulled the body from the bag, and 
threw it with a thump into the snow. 


“But, as far as you're concerned, SCP-8769 got him. Tore open his 
stomach, with its-“ he brought a knife down into the corpse’s belly, 
and sliced along it; a red mouth opened, but no blood came out. 
“Extremely knife-like teeth.” 


He did the same with another body, belonging to Kevin Connors. 
“Their names are now Jasper Kalio and Vlatter Hypiaa. Good friends 
of yours. Luckily for you, a side effect of SCP-8769 is memory loss. 
You won't have to remember a thing.” 


“At least Bennett did that,” she commented. 


“Right, well, that’s that, then. Nearest town is three miles away. 
Have fun walking. Blizzard’s coming in, but you should be safe and 


warm within the hour. We’ve got teams monitoring you, so if 
exposure gets you you'll be fine... well, at least from the snow. | 
can’t promise anything about Bennett going apeshit.” 


He climbed into the truck and slammed the door shut. 


The question had been lingering in the back of her mind since they 
arrived, and she finally gained the courage to say it. “Why are we 
doing this?” 


“What?” 
“Y’know, faking SCP attacks. What’s the point?” 


“Money, dear boy. We want it, the Finns have it, and we don’t get it 
unless they need something; namely, protection. You can’t sell 
protection from nothing. You know this, why you asking?” 


She sighed. “You ever see an anomaly?” 
“Yeah, all the time.” 
“| mean, in the flesh. Not on film or anything.” 


He let off a vague “eeeh” sound, before saying, “Yeah, once or 
twice.” 


“Which ones?” 


“The killer spoon one... uh... that bag of potatoes... erm...” He 
struggled in thought for a few moments longer, before clapping his 
hands and saying, “Oh, 173. Classic, of course. Can’t forget that 
one.” 


“See them do anything anomalous?” she asked. 


“Yeah, all the time! This D-class picked one of the spoons up, and 
BAM! On the floor, dead!” He turned on the truck’s motor and it 
revved to life. 


“He threw himself on the floor, and you think he’s dead? Not just 
faking it?” 


“And why would they do that, huh?” 
She shrugged. “For old time’s sake, | suppose.” 


His voice took a sharp edge, like a dagger formed from ice. "There 
are anomalies, alright? Alright? They wouldn't — they wouldn't just 
fake it, okay." 


"Okay," she lied. "Yeah, you're probably right." 


“Right, well, | best be off. See ya back at the site.” He dug a Mars 
Bar from his pocket and threw it at her; she smacked her hands 
together and awkwardly caught it. “That’s on me; | have to say, | 
wouldn't fancy that walk. Good luck.” He gave a little mock salute, 
and the truck started away into the distance. 


Abby spent one last moment looking at the bodies, then at the pig 
entrails. 


“For old time’s sake,” she said to no one, and began her long walk 
alone in the snow, eating Larry's Mars Bar. 


For Want of a Nail... 


A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily across the floor. If it were 
a bit more invested, it might have been upset at the rookie agent 
who carelessly let it roll away across the table in his haste to reload 
the magazine of his service pistol. But it was just a bullet, and didn't 
care. 


A mob of shambling figures forcing their way through the doorway. 
Former researchers, staff members, even guards that were once 
familiar to the agent, their faces were now horribly transfigured by 
the virulent contagion that coursed through their ravaged bodies. 
They swarmed him, and he fired his pistol at them as they 
approached. If the last one still had a mind left, it might have felt 
relief as the pistol's slide locked back, empty. But it was just a 
corpse, and it thoughtlessly latched itself onto the helpless agent 
and buried its teeth in his throat. 


A faceless horror older than the earth itself shifted in its containment 
cell as it felt the presence of others outside the shielded room. They 
felt a sharp twinge of surprise, followed by the horror of recognition, 
then mindless fear as they each winked out in turn, overrun by a 
wave of decaying flesh. If it had a human thought process, it might 
have silently thanked the fleshy, infected beasts for killing its 
captors. But it was alien, and it felt only hunger as it forced its way 
out from its prison. 


A site buried deep within the mountains heaved and shuddered from 
the violence that was occuring within it. Its human caretakers dead 
or dying, the computers that formed its brain knew that it had one 
last thing to take care of. If it had been more sympathetic, it might 
have considered an alternative to its established last resort. But it 
was only a machine, and without remorse it detonated its fail-safe 
warhead, vaporising years of work and hundreds of personnel. 


A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily down the side of the 
mountain. Half-melted from the intense heat of a thermonuclear 


SCP-849: A Perfect Day 


Item #: SCP-849 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-849 is currently contained 
in Storage Unit , located at Site . SCP-849 is to be kept ina 
sealed chamber measuring 5m x 5m, which is to be guarded by two 
(2) security personnel at all times. SCP-849 is to be checked for 
leaks every three (3) days. 


Any unauthorized personnel attempting to enter SCP-849 are to be 
detained by security and given scheduled visits with Site 
Psychologist . Use of SCP-849 must be authorized by one (1) 
member of Level 4 personnel. 


Description: SCP-849 is a sensory deprivation chamber first 
recovered by the Foundation from a health spa in : 

SCP-849 measures 3m x 4m, is white in color and is filled with an 
opaque, grey liquid. When touched by a human (hereafter referred 
to as the subject), this liquid instantly transports them and any items 
which are physically attached to them to a location designated 
SCP-849-1. 


SCP-849-1 takes the form of the subject's hometown or a location 
the subject considers to be their home’. This location is populated 
by civilian entities presumably produced by SCP-849-1, which take 
the form of individuals the subject is familiar with, even if said 
individuals do not reside in the location being imitated. Time passes 
normally in this location, which has been confirmed by researchers 
measuring the time the subjects have disappeared for. 


For the first seventeen (17) hours of being within SCP-849-1, the 
subject will experience an ordinary day with the exception that every 
situation the subject finds themselves in will be resolved positively 
through apparent luck. The subject will typically make amends with 


detonation, it tumbled as it encountered the rocks and plants in its 
way before finally coming to rest in the bottom of a ravine. If it were 
alive, it might have praised whatever powers may be and marveled 
at how it could possibly have escaped from such a horrific breach 
event. 


But it was just a bullet. 


Forgetting the Number of Dead Stars 


Name: Elizabeth Cooper-Hughes 
FID#: 715316 
Security Clearance: L—-3/TSQ/MDI 


DOB: January 8, 2031 
LOB: Hell, Michigan, United States 
Biographical Summary: [REDACTED] 


Pay Grade: E-4 
Current Assignment: MTF Alpha-1 
Current Location: Site-01 


Certifications: A-1 Marksmanship, A-1 Physical Fitness, 
Exotic Biohazard Safety, French Language Fluency, 
Heavy Machinery Repair, Nonstandard Reality 
Acclimation and Preparedness (Expired,) Operational 
Infohazard Safety. 


Additional Notes: Employment under review. 


Forgetting was a skill Wren had taken to quickly during her training. 
Alpha-1 field agents were all acclimated to it through hypnosis and 
medication, standard amnestic procedures, but mental exercises 
had always been enough for her. It was difficult to completely wipe 
something from her mind, but certainly not impossible. After all, she 
was as hale as she could remember being, and her mind remained 
free of whispering nightmares and festering secrets. With how bad 
some of the things she still remembered were, the missing weeks 
and months of her life must have been terrible indeed. She tried not 
to worry about the empty space too much, lest she accidentally 
remember, and there was no use in worrying over spilled milk or 
forgotten piano lessons anyway. 


Similarly, there was little point in worrying much when Wren found 


herself strapped to a chair in a dim room, a humming machine 
wrapped around her forearm and a superior officer sitting across the 
table. Obviously, something disastrous had happened, though she 
hadn't done a very precise job of forgetting what it was. Going back 
through her mind, the last two weeks were completely gone, and the 
month before was little more than a smear of crummy hotel rooms 
and frantic gunfire. Two pieces of her custom dentistry were gone, 
the explosive ones, and her back felt like it was covered in a swamp 
of dark bruises. 


"Wren, are you— No, excuse me, this is on record. Ms. Cooper- 
Hughes, do you need further medical attention?" 


"No, no. I'm okay," said Wren, trying to detect some hint of what they 
had just been talking about. 


"You've been staring at nothing for nearly five minutes." 
"This is just a weird situation to be in, sir." 
"I'm sure it is. We'll have it resolved soon enough." 


‘Resolved' was not necessarily a positive outcome, especially out of 
his mouth. Wren's superior twice-removed, Coxswain was a portly 
man with a kind face and a fearsome reputation. Even without 
knowing his real name, Wren had heard much of his involvement in 
the last great battle against the Insurgency and his systematic 
elimination of the Sarkic cults engulfing the West Coast. While he 
silently fiddled with dials on a blocky terminal, Wren began to resent 
herself for whatever she had done to end up in interrogation. 


"So, as | was saying: I'm going to ask you a series of questions. 
Please give the first answer that comes to mind, even if it's not 
knowing any answer. I'll know if you try to lie. Do you understand?" 


"Yeah. | mean, yes, sir." 


Coxswain cleared his throat noisily and straightened a thin stack of 
paper in between his thick hands. "Ms. Cooper-Hughes, does the 
Black Moon howl?" 


"| don't know." 


"Where were you on the 23rd of December?" 

"| don't remember." 

"Who did you meet with on the 23rd of December?" 

"| don't remember." 

"Where does the last road lead?" 

"| don't know." 

"What did you sell to the individuals you met with on that date?" 
"| don't remember." 


"Do you admit to making a transaction of some type on that date?" 
Wren could see Coxswain’s grip on the paper's tightening, sending 
tiny crinkles throughout them. It was hard not to think about those 
fingers closing around her throat. 


"| really don't remember." 

"Have you ever consciously mishandled classified information?" 
"No." 

"What came last from inside the Garden?" 

"| don't know." 

"Are you a faithful servant of the Foundation?" 

"lam." 

"Who knows the best course for the Foundation?" 

"The Overseers." 

"Are you a faithful servant of the Overseers?" 


"lam." 


"How many stars have already died?" 


Wren felt a slight hitch in her mind, a tiny tug as she opened her 
mouth to say that she had no idea what he was talking about. There 
was no way of knowing, of course, it was just one of those koans 
that everyone was always repeating. "| don't know," she said just a 
heartbeat later than she meant to. The machine wrapped around her 
wrist began beeping furiously. "Wait, wait, | really don't know." It 
beeped faster and louder, feverish pitch closer to a scream than 
anything a machine should be making. "I said | don't fucking know!" 
she screamed, struggling against her restraints to smash the 
damned thing. 


"That's enough," said Coxswain, pressing a button on the terminal. 
The noise ceased immediately. 


"| wasn't lying, | swear," said Wren, feeling her lips spread back in a 
nervous smile. It felt disingenuous, even to herself. It felt curdled 
and rotten, no matter how much she believed what she was saying. 


"I'm inclined to believe you." Coxswain sighed mightily and laid his 
papers down on the table. "That's even worse. We have irrefutable 
evidence of... well, it's not good. If things are as they seem, 
something else has been in control of you for nearly a month." 


"What?" 


"Something that's still in there, or at least left traces of itself behind. 
I'm sure you don't need more of an explanation than that after your 
time here." 


"It's just a stupid koan," whined Wren, gently testing her bindings 
again. The thick straps of the chair didn’t budge. "It doesn't mean 
anything." 


"That's all it should be, yes, but some part of you thinks you have an 
answer. They will figure out what that entity is during outprocessing. 
Hopefully something can be done to help you, but — " 


"Wait, wait, outprocessing? | can still work! You can't kick me out 
just for this!" 


"Just for this?" asked Coxswain, deadly calm.