The entity's smile took on a bit of a melancholy cast. "Longer life, 
hmm? It's been quite awhile since I've had someone request that 
one. And no one has ever been willing to pay the price. Strange, 
considering how much you frail creatures value your existence." A 
flawless mask of regretful reluctance passed across its face. "Well, 
in any case, I'm afraid the price for that is quite steep indeed. I'm 
sure we can work out some-" 


He was in no mood for haggling. Finally, the means to be well again 
was within his grasp, and the thing was wasting his time. "Do | look 

like | give a damn?! | don't care what abstract shit you take from me, 
just heal my body!" 


Shrugging, the entity replied serenely, "As you wish. I'll draw up the 


contract." 


Abruptly, two drawers on the desk opened of their own accord, and 
a few pieces of creamy parchment flew out of one, while a stylized 
golden pen rocketed from the other. The pen set to writing 
independently, furiously scratching clause after clause. Michaelson 
almost salivated at the sight. At last, he was going to be free of his 
illness, he was going to run again. Perhaps, most importantly he'd 
finally be able to earn the recognition he deserved. He wouldn't be 
sad Michaelson, the dying, pointless researcher. He'd be 
Michaelson the Triumphant, victor over sickness, brilliant doctor, 
accomplished SCP researcher. They would pin medals to his chest 
and sing his praises. He could see it all in his mind, and it was 
glorious. 


As suddenly as it had begun, the pen ceased its motion and fell 
limply to the desk. The entity leaned back forward, the legs of its 
throne landing with a soft click. It pushed the very last page of the 
contract across the desk and slid the pen along after it. Its finger 
rested gently on a blank line. "If you'd please sign here, the contract 
will become binding, and your body will be healed." 


He didn't even bother to give it a second thought. Normally he tried 
to slow down his writing, to accommodate his shaking hands. Now, 
he was too excited to bother slowing down. With the researcher's 
mangled signature scrawled along the bottom of the page, the entity 
smiled, took the contract, and placed it inside the desk, along with 
the ornate pen. It reached out one hand to the dying researcher ina 
jovial manner. "Shall we shake on it, Mr. Michaelson?" 


Without another word, Michaelson took the thing's hand in his own. 
It felt exactly as the salesman's had, slightly clammy with a firm grip. 


The second their hands separated, the researcher felt a burning 
heat suffuse his entire being. He would have screamed, but the pain 
seemed to radiate out from his lungs, and he could no more draw 
breath than he could catch the Sun. Before he could even begin to 
regret the deal he had made, the pain vanished. Slowly standing 
from the chair, Michaelson felt tears run down his face. He took a 
long, slow breath. Air fully filled his lungs in a way it had not in nearly 
three years. He felt like jumping, shouting, sprinting through the 


SCP-810: The Never-want Lamp 


Item #: SCP-810 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-810 is to be kept ina 
transparent container and should be kept under video surveillance at 
all times. During experimentation, it is only to be handled by Class-D 
personnel or while wearing gloves. After experiment is concluded, 
any Class-D personnel who may ‘own’ the SCP are to be 
terminated. 


Description: Object appears to be a standard oil lamp dating back 
some 1-2 thousand years. No biological material has been observed 
on the SCP, and the circumstances of its recovery make exact 
dating impractical. When touched by a human, an inscription 
appears in Aramaic. It reads, roughly 'Ask what you will, and you 
shall never want for it.’ If the SCP is firmly grasped by a human for 
at least thirty seconds, the inscription will change to the holder's 
native language. This change is physical, and has been recorded. 


If the holder of the object expresses any of their desires verbally, the 
SCP will vibrate briefly. The holder must, on some level, genuinely 
want what they wish for. The holder will, from then on, have no 
desire for what they wished for. This would appear to include 
overriding basic instinctual needs (see experiment log SCP-810- ). 
Once a person has been granted a 'wish' by the SCP, it has no 
effect on them for at least 4 years (longest recorded time between a 
previously affected person being affected and touching the SCP 
again). 


If a person touches SCP-810 and does not express a desire while 
touching it, the SCP will 'attune’ to that person. The SCP will, when 
unobserved, disappear and reappear in the possession of whoever it 
has attuned to (hereafter referred to as the ‘owner'). Although it will 
always appear amongst personal possessions of the owner, the 


halls. It seemed like he was so full of vigor he would burst. 


Turning to stride from the testing room, he heard the entity say, in 
the same friendly voice, "Not so fast, Mr. Michaelson, you have yet 
to fulfill your end of the contract." Cold fear crawled down 
Researcher Michaelson's spine. Now that he was no longer 
knocking on death's door, he felt far more afraid of what the thing 
could take from him. Feeling more than a little panicky, he wondered 
just what he had agreed to. Racking his brains frantically, he 
couldn't remember ever hearing just what the price was for his 
returned good health, only that it had been "steep." 


Of its own volition, the contract he had signed came zooming back 
out of the drawer. "You'll see here in this clause, that in requesting 
the healing of your body, you did not specify what mind was to 
inhabit said product. Since said attribute of the post contract product 
was not enumerated directly in the initial agreement, it allows for 
ownership of said product to be transferred via a properly binding 
contract." The entity pressed a finger down on the parchment, 
running his finger under a line. "Now, normally the ex post facto 
change in ownership would null the agreement, but your phrasing 
was ambiguous enough to allow a proper change in ownership, - 
which was enumerated in page three, paragraph nine- while still 
retaining the positive gains of the contract." 


Michaelson couldn't even pretend to understand the hurricane of 
legal dogma being thrown at him. However, the mention of 
transferring ownership of his body was beginning to really sink in, 
and his pensive expression quickly soured into outright fear. 


The entity paused for emphasis, still smiling warmly at his pale face, 
"In this final clause you agreed that in return for the restoration of 
your physical form, and the following increase to your natural 
lifespan, that you would allow the being with which said deal was 
made, that's me, by the by, sole control over the repaired product." 
Its grin was becoming wider than the human face could stretch, 
going nearly from one ear to the other. "If you'll forgive my 
temporary lack of professionalism, | must say that I've been trying 
for decades to get someone to sign that particular clause. Usually, 
the rules prohibit me from even offering that as a price, but you are 
an exceptionally greedy man. Healing is nothing, but longevity? That 


is an entirely different order of magnitude." It beamed lovingly at the 
contract's last page. "Oh, how | have waited for this day. Thank you, 
Mr. Michaelson, for being the desperate fool | needed." 


Michaelson's slowly dawning horror was reply enough for the entity. 
A feverish light was in its eyes and it smiled at him again. Suddenly, 
he could see nothing pleasant or warm or even mirthful in that smile. 
Now, it was the rictus of a predator that has finally caught its prey. 
He had made a miscalculation. For all his schemes, all his ingenuity, 
Michaelson hadn't thought to account for the very element of the 
plan that he had thought would ensure his survival. 


"Really, Mr. Michaelson, did no one ever tell you to thoroughly read 
contracts before you signed them?" 


His mouth was dry. "I- | didn't- | didn't know, there was no- | mean, | 
couldn't have-" 


The entity silenced him with a glare, a sudden departure from its 
normal jovial expression. "Mr. Michaelson, really, show some 
dignity. If you find your end of the contract odious, maybe you 
should have read the deal before you signed it. | was even going to 
tell you what the price was and allow negotiation, before you so 
rudely interrupted me." It paused to take a deep, satisfied breath. "| 
am now the de facto owner of the merchandise | repaired. And | 
think I'll take possession of my property. | do so hope you enjoy 
whatever comes after death for your species.” It tapped its chin 
thoughtfully. "Though | do seem to recall most of your belief systems 
tend to look down on deals like the one you just made.” It chuckled 
quietly. "Well, | suppose you had best hope they're wrong." 


"Oh, don't look so worried, there's a warranty clause. Should the 
warranted property prove insufficiently restored, or if the 
malfunctions it was cured of should return, the whole contract 
becomes null and void." Its eyes danced with amusement. "Of 
course, the entire warranty clause in and of itself will become 
meaningless upon the cessation of life of either party, leaving the 
use of the property in question up to the sole discretion of the 
surviving party. Unfortunately, you humans are just so fragile without 
your leased containers. I'm afraid your demise will come rather 
swiftly after your eviction." 


He tried to run. It was a meaningless endeavor. The entity didn't 
even have to move to take him. It was all in the contract after all. 
Michaelson tried to scream one last time, but the words wouldn't 
pass his lips. They weren't even his lips anymore. 


The entity stretched slowly, popping every joint it could in its new 
body. Looking at the throne-like chair it had spent so many centuries 
in, it felt a slight twinge of sadness. A prison it might have been, but 
a gilded cage is still gilded. Still, freedom beckoned. Before it left, it 
opened two drawers of the desk and retrieved a large stack of 
parchment and several black pens. It could always make more, but 
waste not, want not. It pushed the drawers shut, and they seemed to 
close with a certain reluctant finality. 


Smiling slowly, it strolled quietly to the door of the testing room. As it 
walked out of the observation area and back into the general 
hallways, the entity began to whistle the tune to an old hymn heard 
often in the Cardinal's chambers. It was one of his old favorites. 


Cells 


The Commander sternly stared over his crew. They were a good 
crew, rich with protein. For a moment, he steeled his nerves. "Alright 
squad. This is it. Today, we infiltrate the hated Foundation's fortress 
of death, and take our hostage!" 


The soldiers buzzed with anticipation. Many whipped their hair 
around, or took off into the air. The excitement in the air was 
palpable. It was a scene of total exhilaration. 


"Today... the Queen's Navy breaks into Site-77!" 


Crew members erupted into applause. "To the battlestations!" yelled 
the Commander. "The Queen's Navy shall not be denied! Our 
enemies will be vanquished! Our allies liberated! This is our turning 
point!" 


Still cheering, they flew like the wind to their positions. The 
Commander sat himself in the command module, looking out his 
windows to the world. "Now... we use stealth. Infiltration tactics. Like 
only we can do." 


Security Officer Macintosh was manning the security compound 
component of Site-77's entrance chamberlock. She probably 
wouldn't have even looked up for more than the second it took to 
visually confirm that it was Dr. Roget entering. But today, like many 
other days past, Dr. Roget was using somebody else's keycard. She 
buzzed the intercom, and peered through the tinted window as he 
repeatedly stuck the ID card into the identifier. "Dr. Roget, why do 
you have Researcher Davis' keycard?" 


"I, uh..." 'Ralph' coughed, and shifted his weight. He was wearing a 
hat and dark glasses, with his collar pulled up to his cheeks. His 

voice was hoarse. "We were both at a real wild party last night, after 
my flight got in. I've got, like, the worst hangover ever. Do you think 


we could skip the biometrics? | just want to go to my desk and die." 
"Where's your ID card?" 
"Davis has it. He'll be along later, let him in too." 


She sighed. "Alright Ralph. This is the last time, though. Your gram's 
been on our asses about this. Says we're enabling you, and it does 
pose a security risk. Obviously, not saying you're going to do 
anything, but you know how it is." 


Ralph grinned at her. She couldn't see through the glass, but his 
teeth were a grocery bag brown. "I'll smooth things over with her, 
don't worry. She usually drops by my office for a chat in the 
afternoons, so I'll talk to her then. Sound good?" 


The heavy blast doors answered for her, pulling open and allowed 
Roget to enter Site-77. 


Macintosh went back to watching the cameras. 


The Commander piloted the HMS Not-Roget into the bowels of 
Site-77. 


Finding Roget's office wasn't the main difficulty, but moving there 
undetected was. It was nerve-wracking, having to exchange 
pleasantries with so many Foundation personnel. How could one 
man know so many people? It seemed like every other person had 
nosy questions about the trip Roget had taken, or how he was 
feeling and asking why his face looked like that. The Commander 
brushed them off. Just get to the office... 


Finally, the vessel slipped behind the office door, and locked it. As 
the Commander ordered the Not-Roget to sit down at the desk, he 
grinned internally. Sooner or later, she would come. Then, the 
standoff could begin. Their comrades-in-arms illegitimately 
imprisoned in Site-58 would not have to wait for long. Soon, their 
liberation would be at hand. 


As the Commander waited, he found himself amused by the 
contents of the office. Their intelligence had been dead wrong. 


They'd predicted a messy environment, perfect for laying lots of 
scouts in waiting. Instead, it was incredibly neat and tidy. The plants 
had plastic covering them, and the desk was positively sparkling. 


The Commander ordered the deployment of the scouts. That was 
when the gas began to seep in. Instantly, the alarm was raised. 
Retreat! Flee! The operation was compromised! The Foundation 
knew? Oh, god, how did they know? 


The HMS Not-Roget managed to get to the door, but collapsed with 
one hand on the knob. Before long, it was all over. The Commander 
went down with his ship. 


INCIDENT REPORT 2324-77-A 


PRINCIPALS INVOLVED: SCP-2324 Doctor Ralph 
Roget, Security Officer Angela Macintosh, Director 
Shirley Gillespie, Junior Researcher Donald Davis 

(DECEASED) 


INCIDENT DETAILS: On / /_ , an instance of 
SCP-2324-A was able to infiltrate Site-77 by 
impersonating Dr. Roget, who was due to return from a 
vacation to Toronto that day or the next. The host vessel 
was Junior Researcher Donald Davis, who is believed to 
have been infected by unknown means within 24 hours 
of the incident. Gross lapses in security protocols by 
Officer Macintosh allowed this Keter-Class entity to 
reach the administrative offices. Further tragedy was 
averted when a scheduled fumigation in Dr. Roget's 
office terminated all instances of SCP-2324. 


Director Gillespie is believed to have been the target of 
this infiltration. The Director has ordered a full overhaul 
of security protocols, and a complete replacement of 
security personnel within Site-77, to be implemented by 
Security Chief Anderson. Doctor Andy Toxie, Foundation 
toxicologist, has been commended and recommended 
for a Foundation Star by Director Gillespie for the 
potency of his fumigation, which saved countless lives.