“Listen...Hey, listen up...guys...LISTEN UP!” Roy shouted into the 
common room, quieting the rumble of voices from the Zeta-9 team. 
A few more members ambled out of the equipment room in full suits, 
clomping across the room like shock troopers from every Evil 
Empire in sci-fi history. Several men strengthened up in their chairs, 
elbowing others with a whispered “knock it off!” as the room quieted. 
After a look around the room, to assure everyone’s full attention, 
Roy cleared his throat, and addressed the men. “Alright folks, | know 
everyone’s heard the rumors about us getting mothballed after that 
SCP-455 cock-up last year. Let me lay those to rest right now. At 
0900 hours, we received a dispatch order. Everyone is to suit up 
immediately after this meeting, and report to Dispatch. I'll turn this 
over to Lev for the details.” 


Roy sat down amid a murmur of hushed conversation and 
suppressed groans. Two younger men looked at each other, 
grinning excitedly. The murmur stopped when one of the suited men 
stepped forward, cracking the seal on his helmet and removing it as 
he stepped into the center of the circle of men. Lev Shatterman’s 
face, looking oddly small on the bulky, armored suit, was as grim as 
ever. His deep voice boomed into the room, the thick Russian 
accent giving everything a heavy note of command. “Comrades, we 
have lost contact with the support team inside SCP-110. Hostile 
activity has been suggested as a cause. The site is currently locked 
down to prevent any further containment failures. Someone is 


needed to crack the seal, restore containment, and find out what 
happened. That someone will be Team Zeta-9.” 


Cheers and groans rose up in equal amounts, the two younger men 
exchanging a high-five and grinning. Lev cleared his throat hard, 
silencing the room. “We will be working with many support services 
and teams, and will function as forward recon. We have been 
selected for our small size, high mobility, high survival rate, and 
large-scale SCP experience.” Lev paused a moment, shifting his 
helmet in his hands as the men murmured quietly. “Due to the high 
probability of hostile resistance inside SCP-110, we will be teamed 
with a combat-based response team to provide combat support, with 
our function being focused on recon and investigation.” 


The room went silent as everyone slowly turned to look at Lev. Roy 
was the first to speak. “Lev...what the hell does that mean? Are you 
saying we have to work with some guns-blazing, gung-ho strike 
force full of kids who think they'll be the world’s next big hero?” Lev 
shook his head, readying his helmet in his hand. “No. As | 
understand it, our support team is more close-quarters based. We 
will receive support from Team Omega-7, lead by SCP-076-2. 
Dismissed, everyone report to dispatch in one hour.” 


Lev snapped his helmet back into place, and strode quickly from the 
room. The remaining men were stone silent, still staring where Lev 
had been. They started to file out, slowly, the two younger men pale 
and almost sick looking. Roy watched the room empty, and shook 
his head, muttering under his breath. “...might as well just shoot 
ourselves now and get it over and done with...” 


Dispatch issued to Zeta-9 at 0900 hours. All teams 
proceeding to set rally points. Operation will commence 
ASAP. Request by SCP-076-2 to remove Zeta-9 from 
operations denied. Request by multiple members of 
Zeta-9 for temporary leave denied. 


The Lockdown —- Closed - Under Construction 


The Loft 


“Hurry up, we’re gonna get caught!” Jenny whispered, failing to stifle 
a giggle. 


“Come on,” | muttered, “I’ve popped harder locks in my sleep... 
there!” | stood, one hand on the jimmied doorknob, and said to 
Jenny, “Last chance to back out.” 


She snorted and replied, “Like I’m scared of some old ghost story. 
Just go in before someone sees us!” 


| cautiously opened the door and started to look around inside when 
Jenny pushed me in. “Come on, you goober!” she giggled, following 
me inside and closing the door behind her. | pulled a couple of 
flashlights out of my jacket and handed one to Jenny. The loft was 
dark and dusty—no surprise since no one had lived there in who 
knows how long. 


“Whoa, freaky!” | exclaimed, shining my flashlight on a... sculpture, | 
guess. | didn’t know what else it could be. It looked sort of like a 
person, but its face was distorted, its body was twisted and 
stretched, and its arms and legs were in positions | didn’t think were 
possible. It looked like it was made from some kind of stone, maybe 
marble. 


“Look,” Jenny called, “there’s a whole bunch of them in here!” 
Shining our flashlights around, we saw several more sculptures 
scattered around the room. They all looked like horribly misshapen 
people, some made out of wood, some metal, some from that same 
stone as the first, and a few that... | didn’t know what they were 
made of. “Talk about artistic license,” Jenny murmured as she 
stepped closer to one of the sculptures. 


As she examined the sculptures, | decided to see what else was in 
the loft. In the next room, | saw more of those weird sculptures, but 
also a table with what looked like dozens of tools on it. “Hey, Jenny, 


come check this out,” | called out as | approached the table. Neatly 
arranged on the table was a large assortment of hammers, chisels, 
files, and other tools | guessed a sculptor would use, as well as 
vises, tongs, saws, knives, and several tools | had no clue what 
were. 


Jenny came into the room a moment later. “Something’s weird about 
those sculptures out there,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. 


“Yeah, they’re creepy as hell. Come look at all these tools...” 


“No, | mean... something’s not right about them. | don’t know what, 
just... jeez, it’s cold in here!” 


“Well, yeah, we’re in a vacant loft in November,” | responded as | 
picked up a crescent-shaped tool off the table. 


“No, look, | can see my breath in here... hey, how come there’s not 
any dust on those tools?” she said as she pointed her flashlight to 
the table. She was right—though the rest of the loft was dusty, the 
table and tools were completely clean and shiny, like they’d just 
been polished. “Someone’s gotta be here,” Jenny said, starting to 
sound hysterical. “Let’s get out of here!” 


“Relax,” | said, “no one’s been here in forev—OOF!” 


Something had knocked me over, pushed me down hard onto my 
belly. | tried to get up, but it felt like something huge was on top of 
me, pinning me down. | tried to yell but couldn't draw a breath. | 
heard Jenny scream, but she was cut off with a loud thump. 


The weight on me spread, covering my whole body, smothering me. 
| couldn’t move. | couldn’t breathe. | tried to call out to Jenny but | 
couldn’t even whisper her name. | was suffocating... drowning... 


...| don’t know how long | was out. Minutes? Days? | can’t tell. | still 
can’t move, even though | don’t feel the weight on top of me. | try to 
open my eyes, but... it feels like they’re already open. But | can’t 
see. 


| try to say something, but | can’t move my lips. It feels like I’m 
smiling, but my mouth feels like it’s twisted around and under my 


face. Instinctively | try to run, but | know it’s useless to try. | don’t 
want to feel my legs, or my arms, but | have to. 


That’s all | can do now, feel this twisted body, sculpted into an 
impossible pose—and think about what happened to me and Jenny. 


The Lonely Road 


Whether one passes on or remains is all the same. 
That you can take no one with you is the only difference. 
-From the death poem of Tokugawa leyasu 


Another world, another life, another name. | like this planet so far. It 
sounds very different from when Mather visited it. Now the dominant 
life forms are bipeds with a bilateral symmetry. And they only have 
two genders! That’s so cute! I've settled in a quiet little metropolis. 
My job is not exactly illegal here, and it's not regulated either. Cool! 
It will be easier to stay unnoticed. But the weather sucks. 


I'm making friends with a few other workers. Such nice people. Life 
is lonely sometimes, wandering across the galaxy. | wish there was 
a way to have friends that | would not have to leave. Nancy brought 
me to what they call a Costume Party and everyone complimented 
me, although I'm not sure why. Nancy is trying to convince me to 
use their strange technology to meet gentlemen. It would be easier, 
safer. She told me to just use fake pictures; a lot of the more homely 
ladies do that all the time. | told her trickery is against my nature. I'm 
honest and | give a genuine service. People can feel that and that's 
one reason why they love me. Doing the negotiations in public 
places is more risky here and | have to be extra careful not to attract 
attention, but it's soooo much more fun. | love the direct approach; 
to see the struggle between doubt and desire on their face, and to 
finally win them over. Like tonight's john. Poor baby had never been 
with a woman. Well, he still hasn't of course. Anyway, most of the 
people here have never seen real tentacles before. It's like a first 
time for all of them. 


They rarely come with me more than once and it's all for the best. 
Except for that funny little old guy, Dweing or something. | can never 
get his name right. Most customers need a bit of convincing, but not 


SCP-965: The Face In The Window 


Item #: SCP-965 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-965 is contained within a 
framed, ready-to-install window (henceforth referred to as 
SCP-965-1) composed of at least six (6) panes of clear glass (or 
similar material) measuring at least 15cm x 30cm. SCP-965-1 must 
in turn be kept within an environmentally controlled storage facility 
capable of withstanding significant seismic disturbances. SCP-965-1 
should be inspected at least once per week to check for degradation 
of material. At all times, at least two (2) similar framed windows must 
be present and within separate chambers in additional padding and 
insulation, with no other window pane measuring greater than 14cm 
wide or 29 cm tall between them and the current SCP-965-1. The 
lighting within the chamber containing SCP-965 must be ata 
minimal of 130 candelas at any time personnel are within said 
chamber, except during research. 


While SCP-965 is currently contained within SCP-965-1, our inability 
to control its movement upon destruction of SCP-965-1 through 
means beyond proximity have prompted its elevation to Euclid 
status. Research into a more permanent means to contain SCP-965 
is ongoing and individual experiments may be carried out by 
Clearance Level 1 personnel after approval by Level 3 
administration. 


Description: SCP-965 is a visual manifestation that occurs within 
framed windows. This manifestation takes the shape of the 
shadowed face of an apparently pale-skinned male that is looking 
through the window. The exact details shown vary, as does the 
direction of orientation as well as the age of the person; however, 
sufficient detail shows it to consistently be the same being at 
differing points of its life, between the approximate ages of 10 and 
55. Research into an individual matching SCP-965 has thus far 


him. He seems to have a fascination with what local people would 
consider bizarre. He said he finds something interestingly 
arborescent about my figure; my slender ramified tentacles, my 
elegant copse of antlers. A weirdo, but a harmless one. He always 
takes two hours and spends most of his time chatting and talking 
about stuff. "Lecturing" would be more accurate. I'm not sure what 
he's doing now for a living, but he must have been a teacher or 
something. When he paid me the first time, he opened his old wallet 
and pulled out some leafs of Zoon Mandragora, my favorites, still 
fresh and juicy with warm blood. | was not yet familiar with their local 
currency, and it was a while before | learned that this is not usual 
behavior. Speaking of money, they have someone that looks a bit 
like me on one of their coins, and when | ask people who it is they 
just laugh like they think I'm joking. 


| could never stand the greedy lovers who don't understand when 
their time is over. I've learned much from Dweyn and now | can 
better express what | only understood intuitively before. Nothing 
lasts forever. The sooner we see the beauty of that truth, the happier 
we are. People think true love must last a lifetime, but eventually 
everything is forgotten. That doesn't mean it's worthless. What does 
it matter if passion lasts for 2 years, for 2 to the power 1972 years, 
or just for an hour of 50 minutes? Every new lover is a rebirth. The 
previous ones forgotten, but still a part of you; another dream in our 
eternal transmigrations. We don't measure the value of a life by its 
length; why should we measure the worth of a relationship by how 
long it lasts? Of course, things are never so simple. There are other 
practical considerations. 


Some policemen came to see me concerning a complaint from the 
neighbors. | guess they had no idea how they would write their 
report, so they just gave me a warning. It's so easy to manipulate 
these Humans by pretending to be an empty-headed floozie. The 
law enforcers here are especially laid back compared to others | 
know. I'm not worried about them, but I'm starting to attract too much 
attention. Time to move on again soon (and just when the weather 
was starting to warm up!) Who knows how all this will end? The 
vagaries of Fortune are irrelevant; there is only the Way. One peak, 


with a thousand paths leading up to it. Some people make flower 
arrangements, some people practice carpentry. Like Dwaeng 
thought me, "we all shape the same energy to improve ourselves 
and make the world a more beautiful place in any way we can". | 
have an idea that will improve people's lives here a little. Maybe it 
will compensate for some of my past mistakes. "Put yourself into it. 
Work hard and you will get results.” | won't have time to finish that 
project before moving on, but Nancy can take care of the rest. She 
knows some people in the fashion industry. 


The Long Game 


[T -11 days] 


On the 2nd of November in the year 2000 my dad's dreams died. He 
never recovered. Not really. He wasn't alone, of course. All our 
dreams died that day. We'd been so close. Excruciatingly close. 


He'd grown up, as we all had, assuming that our job was to keep the 
dream of the Great Work alive for future generations. And he was 
satisfied with that. He had a normal job as a butcher, he served his 
community well and every 28 days he would meet with 7 friends and 
discuss the coming of the Beloved. 


It was fun, back then. They shared anecdotes about new encounters 
with The Beloved, read letters from other branches and dreamt of 
the maybes and the could have beens and the what ifs. 


Then the letter came from the London office. The Lucid Crown had 
been found. The Lucid Crown had been tested. The letter could not 
have been clearer: It's time. 


[T +10 days] 


| can't make this place let me die. | slam the doors and pull the 
levers and | press the buttons over and over, every possible 
combination. | try to ignore the angry noises it makes in reply. 
There's a computer but it makes no sense to me and | can't 
remember how it works but | must try. 


| have been at this for two days. Or two hours. Or forever. Or | 
haven't even started. | can no longer tell the difference between 
imagining a thing and doing a thing. 


| see you sometimes. | ask you to help me but you're just so far 
away. 


Something | have done has worked. | am the proverbial monkey on 
the typewriter and | have somehow managed to type a real word.