The next one was no surprise. Clef was shocked that he himself had 
been ‘contained’ before Kondraki, one of the earliest results of the 
Foundation's changing ambitions. The face of his sometimes friend 
was twisted with rage, open in a still silent scream, eyes narrowed 
with anger and disbelief. Next to him, frozen alongside his static 
form in the clear, perfect ice, a few butterflies remained, still 
shimmering. Clef raised his hand and placed it on the unit. 


A few seconds later, he removed it and smiled. “You always were a 
son of a bitch, Kondraki.” 


He turned back to Lore. “You bastards have anyone else | know in 


here?” 


“Not really,” said Lore. “Mostly a few witnesses who were immune to 
Class-A’s. One or two trespassers, some of Dr. Bright’s other 
selves.” 


“Jack’s still around?” 


“No,” said Lore. She was lying again, Clef knew. He always knew. 


Clef sat across the table from the short, dowdy woman in the white 
lab coat. She had been scowling at him since he walked into the 
room. Clef, for his part, wasn’t paying attention. He’d sat with the 
robe at its most revealing, reading the file he’d been given as slowly 
as he possibly could. Once or twice, he looked up at the woman, 
smiled, and returned his attention to the file. 


After a while, he stopped, laid the file down and looked at her. 
“Are you all complete fucking morons?” he asked. 


“Excuse me?” said the woman, whose name Clef hadn’t even 
bothered to learn. 


“Psychological tricks? Crushing force? Stabbing her with a knife? 
Shooting her with a gun? Where the hell are the backup plans?” 


“Each test was approved by a majority of the O5 command and | 
don’t see—” 


“Do you know how to read?” asked Clef suddenly, dangerously. 
The woman didn’t reply. 


“I'll take that as a no. I’ve completed, either alone or with some aid, 
the disposal of more than fourteen reality shifters for the Foundation 
alone. More than fourteen confirmed kills. | can’t say more than that, 
because no one will tell me what’s still classified, but I’m sure that 
even with what | must assume is your piteously low security 
clearance, you were allowed to read at least some of my exploits?” 


“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve read the termination reports for several of 
the SCP’s you were inv—” 


“Did you pay attention?” interrupted Clef again. 
“What?” 


“Did you pay attention to a single, goddamned thing | wrote in 
them?” 


“Of course. The methods you used have been tested and found 
lacking for our purposes.” 


“Those ‘methods,’ as you call them, are merely scaffolding. You 
have to build on the scaffolding for it to hold up anything. Did you all 
just freeze everyone who was worth a damn around here?” 


The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not looking at Clef. 
“Then what do you propose, Doctor?” 


“Simple,” smiled Clef grimly. “Since her subconscious defenses 
have been refined so far... I’m going to wake her up.” 


“You're waking her up?” yelled Schmetterling, turning suddenly and 
looking through the ten inches of transparent steel, as if the figure 
on the other side might have heard him. He dropped his voice, but 
his anger remained. “Are you all insane?” 


“No,” replied Gears. “We have our best operative on the case.” 


“Who?” snapped Schmetterling. “Who the hell do you think is 
capable of removing a Type Green that you’ve allowed to progress 
this far?” 


“Dr. Clef,” replied Gears. “We've released him from confinement for 
this task.” 


“Clef?” asked Schmetterling. “Alto Clef?” 


“Do you know any other Clefs, Commandant?” 


“Well, yes,” the representative replied, looking back through the 
steel at the sleeping form. Gears made a mental note to check in 
Schmetterling's claim, and then moved to stand next to him. 


“You've nothing to fear, Commandant,” replied Gears. “The situation 
is well in hand.” 


Schmetterling’s jowls quivered as he turned back to Gears. “So you 
say, Doctor. Tell me. Aren’t you worried about this?” 


“Oh, yes,” said Gears, his expression unchanging, his voice 
perfectly, almost supernaturally level. 


Dr. Clef is to be given access to any materials he 
currently requires. All personnel are to assist Dr. Clef by 
any and all non-carnal means. However, Dr. Clef is not 
to be informed of the continued existence of any 
personnel involved in his capture. Dr. Lore is designated 
as go-between for Clef and any wishing to contact him. 


Clef walked into the Victorian styled study and smiled at the 
fragrance of pipe smoke and old books. The old man was seated in 
high-backed chair with a hardbound copy of Don Quixote open in his 
lap. The old man looked up and started with surprise before smiling. 


“Doctor Clef!” he exclaimed, his grin widening until the wrinkles of 
his face became subsumed by it. 


“Hello, 343.” 


“Oh please,” said the old man, waving away the designation. “No 
numbers between friends. Sit. Please.” 


Clef knew the chair would be there before he even bent his knees. 
He settled into a comfortable, overstuffed chair and looked at the 
elderly gentleman. 


“We both know what you are,” said Clef, as seriously as he could. 
“ve never said anything about you, not to anyone, nor 
recommended your termination, mainly because you stayed at Level 


3 and never posed a significant threat.” 

The old man continued to smile happily. 

“You remember me from the G.O.C., then? Geneva? 1989?” 
The old man nodded, not quite as happily as before. 

“And you remember that you owe me a favor?” 


The aged gentleman's smile faded slightly. “Yes, Doctor. | 
remember.” 


“I’ve come to collect. There’s another Type Green. This one has 
progressed to Level 4.” 


“I’m very old now, Doctor. I’m not sure how useful | can be. 
Sometimes, | look for books, but | can’t remember their names. And 
they’re just not there anymore. Just the other day, a young man 
came in here to ask me about... about something. And | forgot he 
was here. And then he wasn't. Just gone, and | can’t remember him. 
No one wants to say anything...” 


Tears formed at the corners of 343’s crinkled eyes. Clef almost felt 
sorry for him. Almost. Until he remembered Geneva. 


“Your aid will be necessary.” 

“lam aman of honor, Doctor. | will do whatever you need.” 

Clef stood to leave. The hard part was over. 

Clef sat at the table, going over his plans once again. SCP-343 
would be located in the middle of the fallout zone. Clef himself would 
be the bait. 239 should remember him, and once awake, her 


subconscious defenses would be significantly weaker. That should 
allow him to— 


Clef heard the door open and looked up as Schmetterling entered. 


“| didn’t think you would ever be released, Doctor Clef,” said 


Schmetterling. 
“Do | know you?” 


“I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me,” replied Schmetterling. 
“It's been a long time.” 


Clef merely shrugged. “What do you want?” 


“Only to give you something. A reward, for your service to the 
G.O.C.” 


Schmetterling reached toward his pocket, but stopped as the 
shotgun suddenly became leveled cleanly at his face. 


“The outline of your pocket looks like a gun,” replied Clef. 


“It is a gun,” said Schmetterling. He reached into his pocket, and 
slowly pulled out the purple revolver. He turned it slightly—handle 
first—and passed it to the other man. 


Clef smiled. “This used to be one of ours, didn’t it?” 


“The Atomic Revolver. Reported lost by your Foundation several 
years ago. We found it.” 


“And you had nothing to do with the original disappearance?” 
“The G.O.C.? Of course not,” said Schmetterling. 

"| wasn't asking about the G.O.C.," replied Clef. 
Schmetterling merely shrugged. 


"It was good to see you again, Doctor Clef. | wish you the best of 
luck." 


Clef nodded, watching the other man’s back as he left the room. He 
quickly picked up the purple revolver and slid it into his pocket. 


Lore walked in carrying two drinks and set them down between Clef 
and herself. “What'd the Commandant want?” 


“To talk about old times,” replied Clef. 

“Funny,” she said. “He never mentioned that he’d worked with you.” 
“He didn't,” said Clef. 

Clef shut the safe, taking the small box carefully in his hands. He 
smiled. His trump card was ready, and everyone would soon be in 


place. He still had no idea what exactly he was going to be walking 
into, but he owed the Foundation this one. 


He shivered, remembering the coldness of his preemptive coffin, 
and cracked his knuckles. 
“Do you really think this will work?” asked Lore. 


“It should. She shouldn’t be able to do anything about it from the 
other side.” 


The mirror was slowly raised into place by the workmen as Clef 
palmed the jasper colored disk back and forth in his hand. 


“And if it doesn’t?” 


“Then break the mirror before | get back.” 


Clef looked at Gears, examining the shorter man briefly. 
“Dr. Clef. You are looking well.” 

“Gears. You look old as shit.” 

Gears merely handed the keycard to Clef. 


“This will get you all the way through the designated path. You'll find 
the telekill body armor in the observation room, as well at the 
equipment you requested. Good luck, Dr. Clef.” 


“Is that all, Gears?” 


“Pardon, Dr. Clef?” 


“You locked me in a frozen hell for eleven years, and | don’t even 
get an apology?” 


“You were trying to kill our colleague, Dr. Clef. | was ordered to 
assist in your capture.” 


Clef grimaced at Gears and turned to walk into the Observation 
Room. 


“Alto?” 
Clef stopped. “What, Gears?” 


“It was... a regrettable set of circumstances.” 


The chamber was quiet, except for the quiet hum of a dozen 
computers. This was the core of the facility, where everything was 
stored. Dozens of firewalls, hundreds of security protocols. All of 
them bypassed. 


The man at the control panel typed for a few moments, laughed, and 
typed again. He walked over to the nearest set of panels, pulled out 
two of them, and slid the archival system into place. 


Clef watched Gears walk away, heading to the last of the evacuation 
choppers. Site 19 was now abandoned, mostly. Those handful 
remaining were either vital to Clef’s plans or wouldn’t interfere with 
it. 


He waited for perhaps fifteen minutes, looking through the steel at 
239’s sleeping form. She was a young woman now, mature. And 
thanks to years of wrongfully committed attempts, particularly hard 
to kill. He watched her, watched the fading phantasms of her id 
flicker about the room, scratching at the telekill walls. 


He turned and picked up the thin helmet, strapping it to his head. 
The body armor was a little bulkier than he’d anticipated, but it fit 
well enough. He pulled on the gloves, fingered the purple gun 


underneath his jacket, and felt through his pockets until he found the 
tiny box containing his emergency backup. 


He grinned and picked up the keycard Gears had given him. Sliding 
it into a control panel in front of the glass, he flipped the switches all 
down into their off position and pulled out the revolver, bringing it up 
to point at the slowly rousing reality shifter. 


The hammer fell, and a loud crack echoed through the room as the 
steel bent and shattered inward. 


Clef was running very quickly. He could feel her back there, floating 
somewhere. He risked a glance backward, watching the floors 
buckle into water and piss, dirt and air. He hoped she would be off- 
balance enough from the medications that she would be less 
capable, less able to affect the environmental changes on the 
universe. 


He was pretty sure it was a pointless hope, now. 


He rounded the corner as the walls slid into chunks of burning 
babies, the smell of human flesh turning his stomach slightly, then 
making it growl uncomfortably. One more turn, and he'd be at 
ground zero. 


Another ten feet, nine, eight, seven... 

He burst through the doors, looking expectantly for 343 to be 
standing in position. 

Lore was waiting next to the large mirror as Clef pounded through 
the double doors panting. He looked at her, incredulous. 

“The fuck are you still doing here?” 

“You guys never work alone, right? I’m here to help.” 


“I’m not alone!” screamed Clef, as the doors behind him became a 
series of kittens with Barbie Doll arms sticking out of their eyes. 
“Where’s 343?!” 


The doors opened slowly. 


The being floating through them didn’t look like it was now or had 
ever been a little girl. Years of atrophy had turned her limbs into 
spindly wires of flesh wrapped around bone. She wasn’t able to lift 
them, or even to turn her head. The tubes that had hung out of her 
arms were now Crawling over her body like centipedes. The wall of 
kittens began to mew/l, plaintively. 


She opened her mouth, trying to say something, but only a gurgle 
came out. She looked at Clef and gurgled again, louder, angrily. Her 
bowels began to empty black, blood smelling feces onto the floor, 
which in turn morphed into coals, and began to spread out slowly, 
burningly. Clef was preparing to make a mad dash when the floor’s 
progression slowed and stopped. He blinked twice and looked 
around the room. 


343 was standing just behind Lore, his face knit in concentration. 
The old man’s nose had a drop of blood forming from the left nostril, 
slowly running down over the crest of his lip, and dropping to his 
shirt. 


343 flinched. “If you’re going to do something, Doctor...” 
Clef raised the gun again, and clicking the hammer back, let it fall. 


The gun popped slightly, bars of energetic power running over its 
metal surface. 


“FUCK!” screamed Clef. “A goddamned recharge rate?!” 


The girl screamed in rage, and 348 cried out, staggered by the 
changes she was forcing into the world. The drugs in her system 
were quickly dissipating, her control over the world around her 
returning. 


Clef grabbed Lore and pushed her hard, leaving her tottering toward 
the far wall of the wide room as he madly dashed for the opposite 
side. 


The floating woman turned the air into chlorine for a moment, just a 
moment, before 343 could stop her. A child in an adult body, broken 


SCP-983 is completely harmless and inert under most 
circumstances and may be handled without special precautions so 
long as the handler is not experiencing the 24-hour period 
considered the anniversary of his birth. Once SCP-983 physically 
comes into contact with an individual on their birthday, it will spring 
to life and do a single back flip before raising its bell and singing a 
simple song. 


A RING DING DING DING IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY! 


This single verse will be followed by the monkey striking its bell 
producing a tone that varies in pitch from quite high to rather low. 
SCP-983’s singing was found to vary slightly in pitch as well but 
maintained a very excited and happy tone. 


SCP-983 will sing this song once every three to four seconds, 
pausing only to ring its bell, until the new owner has died or met the 
sing-along requirements, which as of yet are not completely 
understood but are believed to be based in timing the sing-along 
properly with SCP-983. 


Each verse sung by SCP-983 appears to age the ‘owner’ of the item 
by what is estimated at one year. By singing along with SCP-983, 
the ‘owner’ may deactivate the monkey which, once done 
successfully, results in a triumphant declaration of ‘BIRTHDAY!’ 
from SCP-983, at which time it will ring its bell once and produce a 
single gumdrop-style candy from the bell.