"I'll hold off on the termination request for another week. But if he 
doesn't get better — and I'm talking parting-of-the-Red-Sea miracle 
better — within that time, I'm going to submit the request and after 
that — " The doctor pins the phone between his ear and shoulder 
and raises both hands in a gesture of defeat. "— | wash my hands 
clean. They can use him as fodder for the wasp factory far as I'm 
concerned. ... Yeah, I'll put it on your tab." 


The phone is hung up. He's still ripping at the bandages. Staples 
have popped loose along his ribs and blood sheets down his side. 
His left foot and hand burn with an itch so fierce it makes him want 
to attack it with a rototiller. 


An alarm shrills and he's aware that the doctor has turned his 
attention to him. He doesn't care, doesn't stop, he's going to 
combust, needs to get this gauze off before he goes up like a 
gasoline-soaked rag. 


The doctor moves over to his tent and trails his fingers along the 
outside layer of plastic. "What're you doing up, Crispy?" he says. 
"You hear what | just said? You better listen, not that you're going to 
remember any of it. In another week it's bye-bye Demerol, hello 
grandma. My, what big teeth you have!" 


"Here, | got something for you." D-29840 fumbled in his pants and 
passed Gucci a photograph under the table. He'd recently pilfered it 
from a philologist's desk and thought it would serve his purposes. 
"You get caught with that thing, you found it, got it? | don't know 
what they'll do to you, terminate you probably, lie to you if you're 
lucky, tell you it's not who you think it is." 


"This is her?" Gucci asked. 
He nodded. "That's her." 


"She's beautiful." 


D-29840 finished the last of his coffee and stood up to bus his tray. 
"Wait a week before you contact me again." Give it time, let that 
picture worm its way into his head until it was all he could think 
about. 


"Wait. What was that word you said | used to call her?" 


"Ingénue," he said. "You called her ingénue." 


Innocence 


MR MONEY AND GIRL 


The first thing that Latoya saw of this money man was a spray of 
diamonds firing out his nose as she was filing into the room. Black 
hair slicked back over his head and juxtaposed with the plain white 
robe he wore. Sweeping them to the floor, he began smiling when 
their eyes met. 


"What's yer name, miss?" 


She paused for a moment. "They said | have to say D-ninety-nine 
eighty-nine." 


"Yeah, but what's your name?" He smiled at her, waving his hand to 
invite her to sit next to him on the table. Sitting by his side was a 
stool painted silver, with a small plush cushion resting upon the seat. 


"My name's Latoya Spence." Squinting at the strange creature 
inviting her over, she tried to see if he had any more gems or sparkly 
things. "Why'd you have those in your nose, mister?" 


The rich man shrugged. "It's what I'm here for, it's my namesake. 
I've got a lot bought and sold in my past, and | need money to do it." 


Latoya frowned at him, crossing her arms as she stared into his 
smiling visage. "What's your name? Are you the one who..." 


"Bought and sold, bought and sold. | tell ya, | Know what it's like. 
That's my whole life, my sum of the existence, nutshelled for your 
enjoyment. Name's Mister Money." 


"Did you buy... me here, or did someone buy you?" 


Mr. Money shrugged, and a few emeralds began rolling out of his 
armpits and out his sleeves, clattering and clacking on the floor as 
they scattered across the room. "I'm the reason you got brought or 


bought here. Not directly, but you're here now, so this is a reason. 
Who might've gotten you sold to a place like this?" 


Dropping her eyes to the table, a quiet voice said, "My parents." 


"That's a shame. Big boon for the Foundation, though. It's a big, 
wide web of an institution that you guys are a part of." 


"Are you saying this was a good thing?" Latoya looked up with 
daggers. "Nothing could be worse than this." 


Surrendering with raised hands, Mr. Money began leaning back on 
his stool. "Oh, no, no, miss, | didn't mean it like that. | was just 
following the money. | don't know what they've told you, but it's 
probably nothing great." 


Saying nothing, Latoya's eyes continued chopping into Money's 
mug. Sighing, he leaned forwards, clasping his hands together. 


"You're going to have to learn the economy of this place if you want 
to make some kind of life. | can give you some words, if you want. 
I'm in here with you, you know. We're one and the same. Prisoners." 


Mr. Money glanced over to the glass panel slated behind Latoya, 
and his own distorted reflection. The sheen of the light above 
covered his reflection's face. Looking up at him, she began slowly 
nodding. "I don't know anything. | don't know what I'm doing." 


"You've got the most important thing down. You haven't gone to 
pieces. At least, | don't think you have. If you can keep that together, 
that's gonna be your most important asset." 


"| don't know | don't like it." Harrumphing, and re-folding her arms, 
Latoya gave Mr. Money a resentful look. "I can't do anything about 
anything here." 


"You have a few advantages, going into things." 
"Like what?" 


"Luckily, you're a little lady. Most of the feminine types here, in your 
line of work, they're the non-violent types. Low-income folks nobody 


was going to miss, people born in the wrong place at the wrong 
time, that sort of thing. People like you. 


Now, a lot of the boys aren't like that. The dregs of society are a 
much larger percentage, thugs and prisoners. Be careful around 
them. The white coats do a pretty good about keeping things in line, 
but always be wary. It's not a safe place here." 


Turning her head away, Latoya's voice grew quiet. "| don't want to 
talk about this anymore." 


"Oh..." Running his fingers through his hair, Mr. Money tried clearing 
his throat. "Well, perhaps | can engage in a bit of speculation?" 


The doors opened, and two individuals, adorned with white coats 
and head-covering rubber masks, stepped in, gesturing towards 
Latoya. Looking back at Mr. Money for a moment, she hopped off 
the stool, and slowly began walking with her captors. 


Walking down the hall, she strode forward with eyes closed. This 
wasn't an unfamiliar path anymore. It was her life. Someday she 
might be lucky enough to forget anything else. 


AQUARIUM AND BOY 


Tim felt the pride swelling in his chest as the gaze of his many loyal 
fish friends flowed over him. His adventure complete, the day saved. 
Many titles had been earned along the way, Lord of the 
Undercurrent, Master of the Great Tank, Circumventer of Bubbles 
and Defender of the Glass stood at the height of achievement. All 
around him, the court of the Gill Kingdom were standing and 
applauding him and his heroics. 


Princess Fishsticks stood beside him, and next to them the Knights 
Coral and Carol, and finally the King Nematode, in all his glory. Not 
as much glory as that which Tim was nearly broadcasting to the 
universe, but he carried himself in his own way. 


The sound of the proclamations still rang in the air. Rejoicing was at 
hand. The adventure to save the kingdom had come to a close. 


In the hall, nobody was moving. They all stared, smiles fixed, 
watching and waiting as Tim beamed out at them all. King 
Nematode, clearing his throat, stood up from his throne. "As Tim has 
saved us from danger, we shall forever be grateful. It is, however 
time for him to return to his home." 


The word ‘return’ echoed in Tim's mind. That could not happen. This 
was such a wonderful place, to swim and be free from any 
constraints. The creatures he had met here had taught him so much. 
How to swim, how to fight, who lives, who dies, who tells your 
story... Clearing his own throat, Tim spoke out in his clearest tone. 


"I can't possibly. There's still so much to do here, your fishiness. 
Fixing the filter, defeating the dastardly Beta Battlers of the Bottle 
Filter Fortress..." 


Shaking his head, the King tapped a green trident on the floor. The 
audience began filing out at once, slipping through the gates to the 
great hall and out of sight. "You have already saved us from great 
crisis, son. Crawdad Steve has been reduced to a shell of his former 
self, and we have you to thank for that. But now we must take 
matters into our own hands." 


Raising a hand to speak, Tim felt the webbed hand of the princess 
on his shoulder. "It is for the best, Ser Tim-Tim. You have much to 
return to." 


Tim shook his head, sinking slowly to the floor. "No, no. | can't. I've 
hardly begun to live a life..." 


The hall was empty now, of all friends and allies. All those smiling 
fishy faces departed, leaving only bubbles and the gentle current of 
their wake. 


Sitting down next to Tim, King Nematode extending an arm around 
his shoulder. "Do not forsake your world for ours, there is much 
more for you there than there is here." 


Tim wasn't looking at him. "There's nothing for me up there." 


"There's nothing for you down here, either. We're done playing, Tim. 


It's time to go home." 


Pushing back tears, waiting for just a moment too long, Tim looked 
up to the King's face and saw empty space. The majesty of the room 
had disappeared, on the floor the words "THANK YOU FOR 
ENJOYING THE AMAZE-O DIVE TANK - DR. W' burned in the floor 
for a moment. 


Sitting alone, Tim wept into the ether of water. Gurgling draining was 
pulling at his body, pushing him upwards. Resisting was futile, and 
Tim allowed himself to surrender to the pulling force of reality. 


Fuzzy whiteness blinded Tim for just a moment. The sound of the 
machines faded back in, and he felt the shallow wetness of the tank. 
Back in the testing chamber, neck-deep in a glass fishtank. Two 
masked technicians, in baggy white jumpsuits, lifted him out, and 
gently placed him back in his chair. The letters and digits D, seven, 
one, four, four floated through his brain. 


Tim closed his eyes and when he opened them again, the orange 
jumpsuit was back. The numbness, all over, was back. Twisting his 
neck, his eyes drifted past the technicians strapping him back into 
the mechanical contraption that served as his bodily prosthetic. 
Coming to land on the fish tank, he watched as blurry shapes flitted 
in and out of his vision. 


They pushed him out and they were gone. 


ROBO-DUDE AND INFANT 


David wasn't happy from the moment his swaying, crying form had 
been plopped upon the playhouse floor. Robo-Dude stood watching, 
as apprehensively as a robot could muster. Wailing and weeping, 
David slapped his hands on the floor and was throwing his toys in 
vain. 


Taking a few steps towards the boy, Robo-Dude looked up with his 
cubical metal face. 


"ROBO-DUDE GREETS YOU, HUMAN CHILD." 


Almost instantly, David was scrabbling away from the noise. If it 
were possible, his weeping even intensified. This went on for quite 
some time, with David flapping around carrying on and making a 
scene. Robo-Dude stood patiently. Repeating the words he had 
said, more and more quietly, until it was hardly more than a whisper. 


Screaming turned to hiccuping, and from there, quiet curling and 
crying. Robo-Dude watched, quietly and repeatedly introducing 
himself in close proximity to the child. Standing watch, the bot toy 
watched as David finally closed his eyes, and slept. 


Dimming lights signaled a nap time, and for a few hours, the only 
noise in the chamber was the bare whispering of Robo-Dude's voice 
box. Finally, David's eyes cracked open again. The calm, 
monotonous repetition of infinite introductions got his attention, 
David began watching. 


Seeing his audience's attention, Robo-Dude began acting at once. 
"GREETINGS HUMAN CHILD. ROBO-DUDE IS HERE TO BE YOUR FUN-TIME 
BUDDY. ROBO-DUDE WILL NEVER BETRAY YOU, AND HAS BUBBLES." 


Bubbles began billowing out from the robot's chest. Eyes opening 
wide as walruses, David sat up, watching the bubbles float lazily 
past his face. Sitting for a few minutes, David looked as stunned as 
any infantile person might be seeing such a scene. One bubble 
ambled its way to his face, and came to rest on his nose. Slapping it 
with his hand, David was delighted to find it popped, and he quickly 
began making short work of the other bubbles. 


Bubbling with joy, David was laughing. Laughing and playing, sitting 
in place, sticking close to the Robo-Dude. Eventually, all good things 
come to an end. White coats with black goggles came for him, 
picking the baby up and out. David's whining echoed down the hall, 
as Robo-Dude watched him go. 


MR. LAUGH AND GIRL 
| hadn't popped my limbs off in awhile, so waking up with sore joints 


is always a fun way to start the day. Rubbing my elbows and knees, 
| thought about what might be tested on me while waiting for 


Foundation handlers to come and collect me. They hadn't scheduled 
a new slough of tests for awhile, hopefully they've got something 
new. 


Once you've seen one of the kids the Foundation brings in, you 
know them all. My eyes started stinging as light beamed in from the 
now-open door. A nurse, wearing a bright pink apron and an air-raid 
mask, is bringing me tea. | take a deep sip, and wipe my mouth. It's 
time to go. 


Whenever I'm walking through the halls of the Foundation, | always 
feel like I'm backstage somewhere. | don't know why, never even 
been to a concert much less get a backstage pass, but | guess they 
stuck the feeling in there somewhere. Part of the cobbled concoction 
that is me. 


Two sterile gray chairs, with a glass table standing in the middle. No 
guards in the room today. My joints twinge with pain as | sit down, 
but with some grimacing, it's bearable. Rubbing my wrists, | begin 
preparing myself to get this over with. Two deep breaths, close 
eyes, heads up. 


Opening my eyes, | see a kid sitting across from me. Young, with 
smooth dark skin and black freckles running across her face. 
There's a hawkish intensity to her eyes, an unusual fierceness for a 
kid. Reminds me of when | used to try and make Mr. Mad chuckle. 
Not smart. 


"Hey there, sport. I'm Mr. Laugh." 


Nothing. Squat. | try to look at her mouth, looking to convince myself 
she's stifling a giggle. Her expression is derelict of laughter. 


"You're not much of a laugher, huh?" Glancing down, | feel my 
mouth dry up. One of the kid's legs ends halfway down her thigh. It's 
red, scraped and irritated. A black knob of her body's creation 
protrudes at the tip. Maybe bone. It looks painful. 


Looking up at me, she squeaks. "I don't laugh." 


"Well, if you're going to be living around here, you should take it 


In addition to its vaguely unsettling effect, SCP-884-4 
had a longer term symptom that was not discovered 
during testing due to the regular terminations of Class-D 
subjects. Between four to seven years after exposure, 
victims of SCP-884-4 begin to experience what Dr. S 

has called "doubt." Symptoms begin subtly, generally 
notable only as a checking and rechecking of reports and 
results, making sure doors are locked, etc. The early 
onset is almost indistinguishable from mild obsessive 
compulsive disorder. 


Later symptoms develop over the following two to six 
years, resulting in an increasing disability to create "final" 
reports, struggles to make simple choices, and, 
eventually, a complete inability to make decisions. Thus 
far, Dr.S has found no way to cure these problems, 
and personnel affected are to be placed in low-risk 
positions. Until later stages set in, they have been 
discovered to be extremely useful due to their 
fastidiousness, and the Foundation has saved significant 
resources by using them in this capacity.