| asked him what that meant, and he looked at me for awhile before 
going on. He said that's what they call a situation where everybody 
on earth dies, but the earth itself is still ok and can support life. | 
asked what did that matter if everybody's dead, and he smiled 
strangely. | asked him if anyone else on earth was still alive, and he 
said yes, but carefully spread out and contained. After that, | just 
sorta sat and digested things for a bit, and the man started 
stretching and checking his cuts. He was starting to pull his boots on 
when | asked what happens now. 


He said that they have to “reboot” things. Said they have the 
technology to recreate almost anything, and that making people is 
actually pretty easy. Said that they would clean out and contain 
things, rebuild the broken cities, and repopulate them. It would take 
a long, long time, but he said they would eventually get things back 
to the way they were before. Even said they could recreate 
memories and stuff. | just sat, kinda stunned, and watched him as 
he just kept going along, getting dressed like this was all no big deal. 
| told him he was nuts, that there was no way people could just 
forget, that this could all be just swept away. He stopped, looked at 
me, smiled, then said “Why not? It's been done before.” 


| don't know if that man was crazy or not, but | think he was sane. As 
he was leaving, he said something about putting my house 
underwater. Please, don't let them brush me away. Don't let them 
hide us. Try and find more, | know there's got to be more people 


designate which one they wish to address by speaking only when 
the desired face forms on the surface. This may take some time, as 
it is estimated that SCP-830 has consumed in excess of 800 
individuals in the span of its existence. Communicators should be 
trained extensively in human psychology and interrogative 
techniques. Chief characteristics of the faces of SCP-830 include 
remorse or regret for the actions directly leading to their 
consumption by SCP-830, and complaints of excruciating pain - it is 
extremely difficult to change the subject when communicating with a 
face of SCP-830. 


Non-Foundation personnel within SCP-830 are predominantly 
occultists of the and traditions, apparently 
eliminated by the Chaos Insurgency from the years of 19 to 19 , 
before SCP-830 was seized by Foundation personnel in 19 . 
Translators are on-site for any volunteers wishing to communicate 
with these faces, although prolonged exposure to SCP-830 has 
severely diminished their communicative ability - most faces from 
this period are incoherent or disjointed in their speech patterns. Over 
50% are suffering from various forms of aphasia. Information 
collected on the and traditions has been catalogued 
and is available for study upon request to Dr. Jonas DeWitt, head of 
research for SCP-830. 


« SCP-829 | SCP-830 | SCP-831 » 


who tried to leave something behind. Don't let the world die in vain. 
Remember us. 


Documents recovered from the residence of Agent 
Waters 


Please refer to [DATA EXPUNGED] for briefing about Agent Waters 
and Event [DATA EXPUNGED] 


These 432 pages of documents were recovered on // _ from the 
residence of Agent Waters (KIA) in , South Africa, three months 
after his disappearance. It is unknown whether the partial translation 
of the documents was done by Agent Waters or his partner, Agent 
Laker (MIA), or by an unknown third entity. The handwritten notes 
on the documents match the handwriting of Agent Waters, and the 
questioning of the other residents in the building leads to believe 
that Agent Waters was the only occupant of the residence for at 
least two months. Indeed the only evidence towards Agent Laker 
ever arriving in South Africa are short references to him in the 
handwritten notes in these documents. 


Examination of Crash Site B1 has found only destroyed remains of 
the craft, and the irradiated metal object classified as SCP- . An 
entry in the personal voice diary of Agent Waters (see file [DATA 
EXPUNGED] ) confirms the theory that the documents were 
somehow extracted from SCP-__, which makes further research into 
it crucial. It should be noted that Agent Waters claims the date to be 
25th September at the time of the entry, but the actual voice file was 
created two weeks after said date. Evidence collected by Agents 

and suggests that Agent Waters located and secured the 
Crash Site as per his original orders, but after his final report to 
Foundation staff on / , destroyed the craft and isolated himself into 
his residence in to translate the extracted data. 


Because of the large amounts of data in these documents, only the 
most coherent and notable parts are collected here. 


Page 52: 


Page 54: 


Page 99: 


Page 312: 


| am going to personally supervise the investigation into the 
information leaks apparent in these documents. All that information 
about the Foundation should have never been accessible to a single 
person. Class-A amnesiacs will be administered to all agents and 
other personnel who have had access to the original documents. 


O5- 


Dog Eat Dog, Part 1 


Note: since this tale is a continuation of Surfaces, it will be better 
understood if that tale is read first. 


And so, | reach my final conclusion, and if you weren't 
paying attention before, ladies and gentlemen, now is a 
damn good time to start. If we do not temper our wild, 
devastatingly irresponsible use of Thurman-Harrison 
Amnestics and their byproducts, the Foundation could 
soon find its ability to impose a normalcy of thought on 
the general population severally crippled, perhaps to the 
point of total impotence. Like bacteria developing 
immunities to even the most powerful of antibiotics, so 
will the human brain begin resisting this constant 
tampering of amnestics, the use of which became our 
standard modus operendi in dealing with the exposure of 
civilian populations to the anomalous over the last few 
decades. Indeed, our data indicates that this process has 
already begun. If we do not find an alternative, 
permanent solution to this problem of memory, well, 
ladies and gentlemen, | don’t think | need to explain how 
dire the consequences could be. 


Doctor Malachi Harrison, in his address to the O5- 
Council 


“Rememberer? That’s a damn stupid name.” 
“That may well be, Upcard, but that’s what we're calling it.” 
“Why?” 


Prosper sighed, reached for the can of lager at his right, lifted it to 
his mouth, only to find it empty. He sighed again. If Matthew 
Andrews was a man predisposed to sympathy, he might have felt 


sorry for the old man. Alas, he was not. 
“Because that’s what the reports call it.” 


“Hrm. | bet | could come up with a better name,” said Evening, his 
plump, bearded features positively glowing with mirth. If that was 
because of the undoubtedly idiotic name he’d soon come up with or 
because of the large plate of sausages in front of the big man, 
Matthew couldn't be certain. He recalled asking the man how he 
earned his nickname, sometime after their first acquaintance at the 
hospital. “It’s because I’m cool and shady,” was the reply he got. “It’s 
because he’s the dimmest bastard you're ever likely to meet” was 
Upcard’s. 


“How about ‘Repeaters’?” she now suggested, adding yet more 
sugar to her steaming mug of tea. Five packets so far, and the tea 
was fast becoming a literal saccharine wasteland. Upcard never did 
take any half measures. 


“| like ‘Truth-Seers’,” said Evening, a thoughtful expression on his 
face as he chewed. 


“oy 


Relapsers?” piped Hale, the gaunt, shaky little man gingerly 
sipping out of his red thermos. “Never drink anything | didn't prepare 
myself, that how they get you, with those tiny mosquitoes they put in 
everything,” he told Matthew shortly after they first met. “They lay 


spy-eggs.” 


Prosper was Clearly rapidly losing what little remained of his 
patience. “They’re not ‘Repeaters’, or ‘Relapsers’, and they're 
certainly not god-damned ‘Truth-Seers’! The reports call them 
Rememberers, which means that the people who pay me call them 
Rememberers, and if they call them Rememberers, that means that 
| call them Rememberers. And if | call them Rememberers, you can 
bet your sweet condemned asses that that’s what you’re going to 
call them as well! Do | make myself clear?” 


An uncomfortable silence, followed by three sullen nods. 


“| mean you too, Andrews. In fact, | mean you especially!” Prosper 
said, shaking his empty beer can at Matthew. 


“Yeah, got it. Rememberers.” 
“Good.” 


“Although... you have to admit, ‘Relapsers’ has a pretty nice ring to 
it.” 


Ah, it certainly did him good, watching that crusty geezer squirm. 
One had to take one’s pleasures where he could find them. Such 
was life on Permanent Expungment Crew 3. 


“Alright, let’s go over things one last time.” 


This was received with a chorus of groans. The Crew has been 
waiting in the hot, cramped van for well over an hour, and patience 
was running thin. 


“Don't give me that. Just because we’re not exactly working within 
standard doctrine doesn't mean you get to slack off. You have more 
to prove than anyone else, in case you forgot.” 


“How could we, with you reminding us every five seconds...” 
murmured Upcard. 


Prosper ignored her. “Andrews, since this is your first real stab at 
this, if you would be so kind?” 


“Oh, right. Our target is a, anm, a Rememberer, a person who 
belatedly proved to be resistant to standard amnestic treatment. 
Whatever we originally wanted her to forget, she remembers now, 
and she’s not being quiet about it. We believe she contacted 
someone, and if that someone gets their hands on her, it could 
mean trouble. Now, obviously wiping her memory won't work, which 
means taking care of her through...other means.” 


“Them other means is us, right?” asked Evening, raising a fleshy 
hand. 


“Yes, Evening, that would be us. Now, since the target is living ina 
densely populated area, and since the usual cover system isn't 
available to us,” here he glanced at Prosper, who simply shook his 


head, “we'll have to go about this carefully. I'll take point, you follow 
as soon as | gain entry. She'll be expecting a crew to come pick her 
up, So getting in shouldn't be too difficult. Once we’re in and the job 
is done, Prosper will bring around the car and we'll dispose of 
whatever needs disposing. ” 


Evening lifted his hand again. “Hrm. And what about the real pickup 
crew? What about the neighbors, what if they hear something? If we 
don't have the usual cover, they'll call the cops, and how do we 
explain that? 


Matthew was about to answer, but Prosper interrupted him, looking 
like he was barely stopping himself from slapping Evening. Matthew 
couldn't blame him. "We've been over this, Evening. We're arriving a 
few hours before the time the pickup crew is supposed to show up, 
so we shouldn't run into them. Taking care of them ain't our job, a 
real Task Force will be here for that soon. As for the neighbors, well, 
they'll be taken care of.” 


There was something about the expression on his lined face, and 
not for the first time, Matthew wondered just how the old man came 
to hold his current position as their operator. “We might not have the 
typical layered cover, but that doesn't mean we’re alone here." he 
continued. "I've managed to get us some special assistance, which 
should hopefully keep everything around us nice and calm until 
we’re done." 


“Wait, special assistance? What sort of assistance?” asked Hale. 


“They'll be waiting outside of her apartment building. Look for a 
brown semi. They've been keeping an eye on the entrance.” 


“You... you didn't really answer my question.” 
“No, | didn't. Now go.” 


As the four left the van and strode into the warm evening air, 
Matthew fell into stride beside Upcard, who shot him a 
contemptuous glance and began walking faster. Matthew persisted, 
until she finally slowed down and faced him. 


"What?" 
"| just need to ask you a few questions, relax." 


She bared her teeth in a way that instinctively made Matthew want 
to cover his softer bits. "Don't you tell me to relax, you slimy little 
bastard. Prosper might force me to work with you, but that sure as 
hell doesn't mean | have to treat you like a person. Because we both 
know you ain't.” 


"You're acting like you didn't do anything to get you dropped down 
here." 


"| did what | did, and I'm paying the price for it, but that doesn't make 
us the same, not by a long shot. You'd be wise to remember that." 


"Oh? And what if | don't?" 


She smiled at that. "You ever wondered what we did before we 
dragged your carcass out of the hospital? Who we used for our face 
man, that is?" 


"| assumed you did it yourself. | certainly wouldn't trust Evening or 
Hale with the job." 


"Prosper wouldn't hear of it. Says | have too much of a temper, that 
I'm 'unsocial-able'. So no, it wasn't me. We had Francis. Real 
sociable guy, was Francis. Could get just about anyone to open their 
door for him. Real friendly face. | suppose he found it useful in his 
extra-curricular activities." 


Matthew paused. "Wait, | think Prosper mentioned him once. Said 
that he got his skull caved in during a mission." 


Still smiling, Upcard suddenly pulled Matthew close, so only he 
could hear what she said next. "Well, that's half right at least." 


Evening and Hale went ahead, and now Hale was waving, probably 
signalling he found the brown semi. Upcard stepped away from 
Matthew and moved to catch up with the two. She didn't look back. 


So. That was how things were going to be. All right. She wasn't the 


only one with an experience in caving skulls. 


"Hey Matthew, someone here wanis to talk to you!" called Evening, 
who Matthew saw was now standing next to a old, beaten brown 
semi-truck. As Matthew approached the vehicle, he began noticing 
something odd about his surroundings. Although the hour was still 
early and the weather was pleasant, the streets around him were 
virtually empty. Stores and coffee shops closed and deserted, the 
windows of nearby apartment buildings dark, even of the stray cats 
who usually swarmed the area there was no sign. For some reason, 
Matthew had a suspicion that this unnatural quiet had something to 
do with whoever was sitting in that brown semi, a suspicion that gain 
credence when he ducked his head to peer at the couple sitting in 
the car. 


At the driver's seat sat a man the color and complexion of a prune 
left in the desert for a few centuries too long. He was wearing some 
kind of bizarre corduroy robe, which together with his complexion 
gave him the appearance of a snake that had a run-in with a cheese 
grater. The man was currently eyeballing Upcard, and it was clear 
that whatever he just told her got her pretty riled up. 


"-You see, this is what | like to see in a woman! Finally someone 
with initiative, some sass. It really is a breath of fresh air. | 
remember having to deal with that one, oh, it was just impossible. | 
mean, when | eventually decapitated her and scooped her brains out 
with one of those melon ballers, there wasn't even enough for one 
decent cocktail. It really is a shame you're slumming it up with 
Squirmy and the Orange Menace here. But | suppose it's just the 
cards nature handed you." 


Upcard was frowning at the man. "Is he always like that?" 


This was directed to the woman sitting in the passenger seat. 
Compact and short, her hair dyed in a peculiar mix of orange and 
white, she seemed half asleep, and Matthew could see dark black 
circles under her eyes. She was wearing a blue mechanic's jumpsuit 
with a bright red logo. 'BOB'S WHEELS AND PRAWNS’. 


"You have no idea."