Mansani gestured back towards the stairs. "He's coming." He saw 
the next question forming on Helen's lips. "Maine's dead," he said. 


"How - 2" 


"You don't want to know. Christ." He pulled her towards the main 
entrance. She was about to protest, when she saw Aidan's bulk 
appear at the bottom of the stairs. He shambled towards them on his 
walking sticks, his folded lung palpitating in its ruined housing. 


"You two... fucking idiots... still here?” 


"Maine's dead?" Helen asked. She needed to hear it from Aidan, 
otherwise it wouldn't be real. Aidan nodded as he caught his breath. 
"Yes," he said. "Bastard fought, I'll give him that... We need to get 
out of here. Jesus, | think I'm hurt." 


He pulled his coat aside; a blue and red patch was spreading 
outwards through his shirt. "Fuck knows what that is," he said. 


"Heart? Brain? Balls? No idea what part of me that is. Like | said, 
the bastard fought." He grimaced and mopped his brow with his 
sleeve. Mansani walked out the main door and half ran to his car, 
parked just outside the entrance. He fumbled with the keys. 


"Like | always said," Aidan wheezed, "the guy's a fucking idiot." 


Mansani triumphantly unlocked and opened the car door and got in. 
" Okay - fucking go," said Aidan, and he started to herd Helen out - 
but she stopped suddenly and shook him off. 


"| have to see for myself," she said. "| have to see him dead." 


Aidan squared up to her. "We don't have time," he said. "And it 
would upset you. We have to go." 


"You go," she countered. "| have to see. | have to know it isn't some 
trick." Aidan began to remonstrate, but she took no notice. She 
strode back up towards the stairs determined to be sure. 


"Fuck," said Aidan. 


Helen made her way back up to the fifth floor. The grille and door 

were shut but not locked. She opened them both, the metal grate 

swinging out resentfully, and the wooden door heaving inwards on 
its creaking hinges. The apartment was dark. She stepped inside 

and switched on the light. Eveything looked normal, more or less. 

No blood, no upturned furniture. 


She walked through the living area. No sign of Harold Maine, living 
or dead. She felt fear rising up inside her. What if this was some 
trick? What if he had feigned death, and was even now 
contemplating his revenge? 


Just as she turned to leave, her curiosity overwhelmed by dread, 
she caught sight of a shoe poking out from the bathroom. She drew 
nearer, morbid fascination holding its own against her terror, and 
pushed open the door. 


The shoe was attached to a leg, which was itself attached to the 
motionless, slumped body of Harold Maine, his head stuck fast face 
downwards in the toilet. The room still stank of Aidan, who even now 


was huffing and puffing into the apartment. "Very dead," he offered. 
"Really, most sincerely dead." 


"| had to see it with my own eyes," Helen said. 


"Yeah well, here isn't the place to be right now," Aidan said. The 
woman didn't respond. "Helen. It's no good being here. We have to 
go. It's over." 


"What about my hands?" Tears welled up in her eyes. "Am | like this 
forever? | thought we'd change back once he was dead." 


"We might do," said Aidan. "It might take time. | don't know." 
"How did he do it?" 


"Oh Christ, Helen. We have to go now. Now." Aidan wheezed back 
to the doorway. "Let's just get the fuck out of here. Whatever 
happens, happens." He extended a claw out to Helen. "We'll still 
have each other," he said. And then, with a snort: "Christ, that's so 
so depressing." 


Helen sighed and followed him out of the room, down the stairs, out 
of the lobby and into Geoff Mansani's waiting car. 


=f 


"Is it him?" 


Dimitri pushed the bathroom door open. He stepped past the prone 
body and tried to lift the head up to see the face. "Jammed tight," he 
said. "Body matches the description though. What a way to go... I'm 
gonna run some DNA checks. Maybe see if | can't pull his head out. 
Wonder where F1/M2 are?" 


"Long gone, if they were ever here," said Paris. She turned away 
and waved Agent Fielding over. "Okay, what do we have so far?" 


"Two hundred and seventy three thousand, six hundred and sixty six 
dollars in cash in various bags and drawers scattered around the 


SCP-827-A instance was fully formed; subject was humanoid in 
appearance, but severely malformed. Skull had been flattened out in 
a mushroom-like shape to account for a brain that had been 
unfolded and spread flat. Furthermore, the intestines of the 
SCP-827-A instance had unraveled, but the spinal column was too 
weak to support it and collapsed when removed from SCP-827, 
killing the instance. Before removal, the instance wrote the letter "G" 
several times in an attempt to communicate. 


Sample: Two sets of bones taken from human hands, from two 
different donors 

Result: A vaguely serpentine instance of SCP-827-A was created, 
assembled entirely from the various bones found in the human 
hand. The instance was capable of independent locomotion, and 
began growing musculature and skin resembling that of a human 
arm. The instance escaped SCP-827 and was capable of surviving 
for six days despite the lack of any digestive or respiratory system 
before being neutralized by a security agent. 


Sample: One human brain. 

Result: After 18 hours, SCP-827 produced a reconstruction of a 
nervous system, but anomalous in construction; the brain was triple- 
lobed, and appeared to be built for a hexapodal humanoid, with four 
arms and two legs. Appeared to be self-sustaining within SCP-827. 
Upon removal from SCP-827, the instance expired. 


Addendum: Recovery Log: 


SCP-827 was recovered at the lab of one Dr. George Farrow in 
[REDACTED], Idaho, USA. Dr. Farrow had disappeared after being 
diagnosed with malignant pancreatic and breast cancers, and was 
expected to live less than six months. According to excerpts from Dr. 
Farrow's personal notes, he was intending to rejuvenate his organs 
with self-administered stem cell therapy. It is unknown if SCP-827 
was the result of that therapy, or the method Dr. Farrow used. 


The following are excerpts of notes taken by Dr. Farrow shortly 
before his disappearance. 


The cancer's not going away; the therapy should be 
working! Instead, there are strange lumps all over my 


apartment. One diary with two hundred or more entries detailing 
interactions with various associates and colleagues. Nothing else 
yet but we'll get everything catalogued." 


"TEMPLAR readings?" 


“Temperature within expected ranges. Uniform. Humidity is 23% 
higher than expected. Magnetics are normal. Pressure is 18% 
higher than expected range tolerances. Light levels down..." 


Paris nodded silently, her eyes settling on a TV dinner table, white 
metal fold - up legs and stained scuffed surface. Next to the remote 
control sat a small, black object the size of a packet of cigarettes. It 
held her attention somehow; mundane yet mesmerising. She 
checked to see if Dimitri was watching, and then she picked it up. 


There was a sucking noise from the bathroom as Dimitri finally lifted 
the jammed head out of the toilet."Positive ID," he said. "It's Maine." 


Paris allowed herself the slightest feeling of relief. The worst was 
over. She would ring her father that night and give him the good 
news. As she imagined the conversation, she swiped the phone 
screen. Televono Telefex Secrecy-8. Not a make or model she'd 
ever heard of. Her fingers once again skipped over the smooth 
glossy surface; it asked her for a PIN, and she made one up. 


Amazingly, it worked. She glanced up quickly to make sure Dimitri 
was still busy, and navigated to contacts. 


She gasped as the most recently used contacts came up: Paris, 
Sarah. Paris, Ellen. Her daughters. 


Agent Fielding looked up from his tagging. "Everything okay?" 


She slipped the phone quickly into her pocket, her heart racing. Why 
did Harold Maine have her daughters’ contact details? Fielding 
repeated his question. "I think so," she flustered. "I don't know. | 
need some fresh air." 


"Could be a symptom of the TEMPLAR figures," Fielding suggested. 
He turned to the bathroom. "You feel okay, Delta?" 


"Fine," came the response. "Apart from my hands are covered in 
you know what." 


Paris shook her head. "I've been feeling off all day," she lied. "Can 

you guys handle this on your own? Text me on the usual if you find 
anything." More than anything else, she knew she had to be away 

from this mundane, malevolent place. 


"Wait," said Fielding. "Just like that? You're going? You know we're 
not to operate just the two of us." 


Paris headed for the apartment door. The phone was a solid 
presence against her thigh. Harold Maine had her daughters’ details. 
She had to know why. She was starting to get a tension headache. 
"I'll send Kimura up," she said as she left. 


Fielding looked at Dimitri and shrugged. "Pleasure's all mine," he 
said. 


+ 


Exactly one week later, on Tuesday 10th February, Agent Carol 
Paris would hand in the cellphone from Harold Maine's apartment to 
her superiors. The phone would be given the designation SCP-2982. 
She would be suspended from her post and then be given her own 
SCP designation. 


On Thursday 12th, her father Calvin Paris would undergo a medical 
examination by his own employers. He would pass with the highest 
possible fitness rating - A1. On Sunday 15th, he would die in his 
sleep, cause of death: advanced bronchioloalveolar carcinoma. 


Commencing Thursday 19th February, Chief Global Suppression 
Manager Alexander Lazarus would spend two days at Site-23 trying 
to assess the implications of the phone's behaviour. 


On Friday 20th, Lazarus would disappear, as would SCP-2982. 


On Monday 28rd February, Agent Carol Paris would die of stress 
cardiomyopathy. 


Neither Lazarus nor the phone would ever be recovered. 
Prev 


Next 


Denton and McDowell Save Sixty Dollars 


April 7, 2016 T-Minus two years from The Incident 


Agent Sam Denton flipped through a Sports Illustrated in the back of 
the cramped coach bus to Portland, his partner Agent Jim McDowell 
seated in the overly padded and potentially anomalously 
uncomfortable seat next to him. His eyes scanned over the page, 
skipping over the text of an article about a rival team. "Fucking 
Patriots," Sam said, muttering over his bristling mustache. 


Agent McDowell turned his head from the window, eyes glazed as 
they passed through flyover country. He raised an eyebrow. "Sam, 
that issue is like three years old. | swear I've seen you read it like 
ten times," McDowell said. He shifted in the seat to face towards his 
partner, tapping his fingers on his knee as he did. The heavy pewter 
ring on his third finger, right hand stood inert for once. 


Sam didn't look up as he continued to scan the page, an identical 
ring on his own hand mercifully silent as well. "Yes, and every time, | 
still get pissed off. | swear to god, they should have been thrown out 
of the post season. Deflategate was bullshit. We could have won 
that game." 


Jim rolled his eyes and turned his head to look out the window. 
"Yeah, sure. The fact they were eleven and five, and hadn't beat the 
Patriots in years had nothing to do with it." He turned his wrist 
slightly, checking the time. 


Sam put the magazine down, and turned to look at Agent McDowell, 
"Oh bullshit. They could have won it, there's such a thing as an 
underdog, you know." He stowed the magazine in the backpack at 
his feet, withdrawing a protein bar as he did. He unwrapped the 
processed carbs and protein and wolfed it down in three bites. 


"Uh huh, sure. The Colts could have won it, just like that powerbar 
stood any chance against you, eh?" Jim's face split into an easy grin 


as he ribbed his partner. 


Sam's hand shot out, smacking Jim in the stomach off-handedly as 
he finished the power bar. "Oh fuck off, | stress eat. Always have." 


Jim shrugged, "Yes, but we're no longer young salty agents, running 
around, burning calories. We're on a bus for chrissakes, since 
someone didn't want to fly. Try dieting." He reached down to his own 
backpack, pulling out a small bag of baby carrots, crunching a few 
down. 


"Listen, I'll start dieting when your sister stops hitting on me every 
time | see her on-site," Jim's face had distorted into the usual vague 
annoyance. For one, he didn't have a sister. For two, Sam was 
nothing special to look at, "She can't resist my charms. I'm telling 
you man, she's all over me every time—" 


The bus rocked; a loud clanging shook the superstructure of the 
heavy vehicle. The bus skidded to one side, then the other, both 
agents snapping to attention and bracing themselves against the 
seats in front of them. 


The other passengers let out various shouts and sounds of alarm as 
the tires made a tortured noise. 


The bus careened off the road, and came to halt a few feet into the 
grass beside the lonely stretch of highway. Sam looked over at Jim, 
holding his breath momentarily. "You alright?" 


Jim nodded, eyes scanning around the road for signs of trouble. A 
few tense moments passed, before he let out a breath, "Maybe it 
was just the serpentine belt snapping or some—" As one, both 
Agents' thaumic rings started to buzz. Something within a mile of 
them was anomalous. The buzz intensified until it came to a quiet 
hum, shaking their fingers. Whatever it was, it was strong, and it was 
practically on top of them. "Well. Fuck me sideways." 


Agent Denton disgengaged the seatbelt and stood, walking towards 
the front of the bus. He stopped and asked each passenger if they 
were alright, tacitly passing his ring-hand closer to each one as he 


‘checked for injuries’. 


Agent McDowell strode past Denton, and approached the bus driver. 
He flashed some fake credentials which listed them as FBI agents, 
"What happened?" he asked the bus driver. 


The elderly bus driver wore a too-large set of pants and a white 
shirt. His eyes were practically the size of quarters from the stress, 
and his hands shook. "I have no idea, officer—" 


Jim held up a hand, "FBI has agents. Police has officers." 


The bus driver looked taken aback for a second, before adjusting 
himself and nodding. "Sorry uuhh... Agent. | uhh, | don't know, it just 
says somethings wrong with the engine, | was gonna take a look." 
He reached down, and pulled the door release for the main door of 
the bus. 


Jim waved him back, and smiled, "Sir, let my partner and | take a 
look first, make sure nothing dangerous is out there, okay? Don't let 
anyone leave the bus." 


The elderly man nodded, and sat back down, pulling out the small 
radio from the intercom. "Attention folks. These two men are with the 
FBI and are nice enough to check out the back of the bus for us. 
Everyone stay put for a minute, until they say, all right?" 


A quiet murmur of assent went through the passengers, as Denton 
and McDowell dropped out of the bus and on to the slick grass that 
bordered the long stretch of road. Both agents drew service pistols 
from beneath their jackets, and Sam slipped in front of Jim, taking 
point position. Jim tapped him on the shoulder, and the two 
advanced towards the back of the bus. 


Nothing jumped out at them as they approached the engine 
compartment, which was always good. The two circled wide around 
the side of the bus, and checked under the bus for potential threats. 
They approached the engine compartment cautiously. The back 
panel of the bus had been blown off around where the skid marks 
started from the road. A steady stream of components from the 
engine trailed to the slightly smoking ruins of the back of the vehicle. 


Jim frowned, "I think it's broken."