“We were on our way back from a recon mission that turned up 
nothing. Had a report of a SCP escape during transport. It'd gotten 
loose and was inside a hospital. MTF teams were en-route, but all 
available Agents were ordered to report to help contain fallout and 
such. Morons we were, we responded even when they said it was 
SCP-106. This was shortly after they grabbed it the first time, didn't 
fully understand it...makes sense now why it ran for a hospital. 
Anyway, we responded, secured the outside, which wasn't hard 
because everyone was...gone. That black shit was all over the lower 
doors. Heh...ended up busting open a window rather then get near 
it, said we'd write it up as ‘tactical entry’ in the report.” 


He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his shoes. “We weren't the first 
team there. Found two of them still mobile, trying to get the hell 
out...it took them in front of us, yanked them in to a wall, grinning at 
us the whole fucking time. It...grabbed in to their flesh like how you'd 
grab a pile of dirty laundry, just...sank in. That black shit started 
spreading, and...yeah. We tried to fall back, or get out, but it 
wouldn't...let us. Kept herding us deeper, driving us...Hon lost a 
foot, Billik got his liver punctured...just kept picking at us. It...we... 
lost Billik in Surgery. It'd made a...thing...out of the tools, and Billik 
went to look. It...it pulled him in to it, rubbing him on it, mumbling 
something while Billik's face went to shreds, everything just...ripping 
and...it pulled him in, eventually. | say he was dead when it did. 
We...tried to get out again, but it kept pushing and pushing. Ended 
up in the natal unit, and...we...” 


His voice faltered, and he put a hand to his head, gently, a tiny 
tremor in his fingers. Kramer watched, silent and still as a gargoyle. 
Harken's hand curled, nails pushing against his skull, holding for a 
few seconds, twitching, before he lowered it again, eyes returning 


fixedly to his shoes. 


“It was bad. We tried to make a breakout, just flailing, really, and it 
grabbed Fourteen, yanked her back to...yeah. Me and Hon, we 
started trying to get the hell loose, just taking curves at random, 
running and running. You know how they say 106 isn't sapient? 
Bullshit. At the very least, it's a good mimic...it...kept singing. 'My 
Bonnie Lies Over The Sea’ of all things...and just that line, over and 
over, in that grating, bubbly voice. We hit the main admittance hall, | 
mean we SAW the doors...and then we heard Fourteen.” 


“She came around a corner behind us...maybe thirty yards? She... 
she was a wreck, had bits missing, something wrong with her jaw... 
but she was limping, trying to scream after us. We froze, looking, 
and we saw that thing slipping out of the ceiling behind her. It just... 
fell, landed in a heap, then stood up and started to go for her. She 
screamed and screamed, begging us...Hon ran, tried to grab her, 
pull her along, but it...lunged. It grabbed both of them, and started 
sliding in to the floor, that black stuff seeping and spreading 
everywhere, in the floor...in to them. It started touching them, not 
rough, just...gentle, teasing, even as they screamed, and fought, 
sinking in to the black floor.” 


He paused, taking a deep, slow drag. “I heard them dying.” 


“|... froze. They were holding out to me, begging. It had them, 
grinning at me, just...flat, dead...like looking at a painting. | ran. | 
ran, and | got out a little bit before the MTF teams rolled in. They 
didn't find anyone, got the old man recovered...! went before a 
oversight board. They said | acted in service to mission integrity, that 
| was at least able to report, probably saved some lives, blah fucking 
blah blah BLAH. Requested time off, got it, and stayed blind drunk 
for about...two weeks? Maybe three? Came back, got a bunch of 
evaluations, kept drinking, got in trouble, didn't really care. Kept 
getting shifted deeper and deeper until | ended up at the training 
center. Left me there to rot, until they needed someone to deal with 
your barrel of laughs.” 


Kramer watched in silence, finally speaking, eyes still intent and 
fixed. “It wasn't your fault, you did-” 


SCP-902: The Final Countdown 


Item #: SCP-902 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-902 has been relegated to 
Arctic Base Theta-12, the only SCP to be contained at this site. The 
site is to be staffed by a team of fifty security personnel. At this time, 
no research is to be done on SCP-902. Knowledge of SCP-902 
beyond its number is to be limited to level three staff and lower. It is 
imperative that only a limited number of Senior Staff know of the 
existence of SCP-902. Only one O5 is allowed to know about 
SCP-902 at any time. In the event of a security breach from inside 
Arctic Base Theta-12, the onsite hydrogen bomb is to be detonated 
remotely. SCP-902 must be guarded at all times against premature 
destruction. 


Description: SCP-902 is a box roughly the size of an adult human 
head. It measures 30 cm x 15 cm x 19 cm. It appears to be an 
ammunition box of a type used roughly thirty years ago, despite this 
item having been in Foundation custody for roughly sixty years. 
SCP-902 is made of lead. The composition of the item inside 
SCP-902 is unknown. SCP-902 emits what has been described as a 
‘ticking’ sound, and anyone who hears this sound becomes 
convinced that the item is counting down. When opened, the box 
appears empty. However, the ticking remains, the object continues 
counting down. Anyone who becomes aware of SCP-902, whether 
through personal interaction, or by reading this report, becomes 
convinced that whatever is in the box is horribly dangerous, and 
needs to be destroyed as soon as it finishes counting down, and not 
before. Staff exposed to SCP-902 will typically continue to attempt to 
open and then close the box, trying to find the object inside. 


There is no object. There is an object. It has to be destroyed, when 
the countdown stops. We are doing great work. We have to be 
stopped. 


Harken's eyes widened, wheeling over and glaring, mouth fixed in a 
line of fury. “FUCK YOU. No, no, you shut the fuck up right fucking 
now. I've heard that bullshit from everyone, ever, and it's just that, 
bullshit. | don't need fucking platitude from you, fuck you. You 
wanted to fucking know, you just HAD to fucking pry, so there it is. 
I'm not asking for your ‘interpretations’ or 'solace'’, or any other 
bullshit tripe that people swallow to feel fucking great about their 
fucked decisions. | let my friends die so | could live. End of story, no 
frosted coating, no ‘yes, but' feel-good after-school-special lesson at 
the end. Drop it.” 


He was almost panting, looming up over Kramer's hunched form, 
heedless of the amounts of death contained in that unstable 
package. He sat again, heavily, flicking his cigarette off the roof in 
disgust. Kramer stayed fixed, perhaps a bit more curled up, more 
tightly compacted in to her corner. Harken's departing rage seemed 
to waft off him like heat. She blinked slowly, a tiny click coming from 
somewhere in her sockets. 


“I notice your childhood didn't make it in to that story.” 


“Wow. Really? What the hell, wanna hear about me fucking my 
cousins, or my mom trying to shoot my dad, first?” 


“Yeah, you're right, got a goddamn mission to do.” 


The silence yawned open like the space of a broken tooth. 


Love In Leetspeak 


Margaret couldn't have shoes. There was something about this 
entire experience that was so surreal, so far outside of her range of 
experience, so beyond anything she was prepared to deal with, she 
was too confused to be angry or sad or scared. So all her mind 
could focus on was the feeling of her feet on the cold tiles as the 
(soldiers? doctors?) half-dragged, half-pushed her down the hall. 
She couldn't have shoes. They wouldn't say why. 


She had met plenty of the soldier-doctor people in the last day. 
Some of them were sympathetic, or pretended as much. Some were 
coldly clinical and ignored her, talked about her like an object, 
assigned her some kind of prisoner number, refused to talk to her 
directly. 


SCP-2122. It's all they ever called her. 


She hadn't seen any other prisoners here, wherever she was. They 
pushed her down the hallway and into a smaller room. She saw a 
bed and a desk. Her cell, she supposed. They muttered something 
at her about good behavior; she wasn't listening. She just walked 
over to the small bed, climbed in, pulled the sheets over her head, 
and cried. She heard them walk away. 


Maria, 


Captured a new skip today. Humanoid, female, aged 
seventeen years, 132 cm in height. Body in some sort of 
perfect biological stasis; nearly unbreakable skin, nails, 
teeth, hair, everything; doesn't shed or regrow skin cells 
as far as we can tell. Got in some fights in school and 
drew some unwanted attention. Will send full file later 
today. More thorough experimentation to begin 
Wednesday. 


—Dr. Husmann 


There was writing on the wall of her cell. Literally. She knew that 
was the standard cliche, the "MARGARET WAS HERE" scraped 
into the brick, passing someone's last message from one poor soul 
to another. This was different, though, because she had been here 
almost a full day, and she was almost certain that this wall had been 
blank. Sterile, cold, and perfectly blank. She squinted at the writing. 


HI YOuR N3w WH@75 yOUr n@M3? 


Now that was strange. How did the author expect to get a response 
to that one? She didn't care. Half out of boredom, half out of a 
desperate urge to make any sort of rebellion, she used her 
thumbnail (that perfect thumbnail, the only nail they didn't try cutting 
off, the one they'd probably end up pulling out of her skin) to carve, 
little by little, 


Im Margaret and Ive never been in hell before 


into the white wall, just beneath the other writing. Harder than she 
thought it'd be; she had an appreciation for anybody who could 
carve an ampersat into a wall without special tools. She rolled over 
and lay on her bed. 


An odd scraping sound beside her. She whipped her head around. 
The old writing and hers were both gone. Now the words 


M@RG@r37 yOu 50UND pr377Y | IIK3 yOu wiIL yOU b3 h3r3 LOng 


were the only things on the wall. How the hell did he do that? she 
thought to herself. But of course, she was the one with a fingernail 
like an X-Acto knife. How weird were the other people in this place? 


Where am |? 


7h3Y C@II 7HI5 site 19 th3R3 aRe 107s Of P30PL3 h3r3 FRI3nd5 yOu 
c@n H@V3 Fril3ND$ | b3t YOu cOUld M337 Irls 5h3'd li3K you 


Margaret thought about it. Home life had never been good for her. 
School was hell. And it sounded like there were other freaks here 
like her. But she thought about some of the things that creep 
Husmann had said. He tried to act aloof and detached, but he kept 
looking at her the way the boys in her class did, and he kept saying 


something (when she was paying attention) about "advanced 
experimentation.” It reminded her of things they read about the 
Holocaust in her history classes, the euphemisms they used. She 
didn't think they were going to let her run around this site19 place 
making friends. 


| think they're going to hurt me where are you? 


Im eV3rywH3R3 $0r7 OF I3t Me $33 if 7h3ir gOINg 70 HUr7 yoU i 
DON'7 WaN7 +H3M t0o 


Margaret waited. She didn't know how her messenger friend was 
going to help, but she didn't have anyone or anything else at this 
point. Scraping again. She looked back at the wall. 


your in (@NG3R dd yOu W@nt m3 tO Ge7 YOu oU7? 
YES YES YES can you do that? 
giv3 me tw0 HOuR5 


Margaret waited yet again for her graffiti-scrawling knight to save 
her. She rolled over and tried to sleep. 


The office of RAISA was quiet when Maria Jones checked her email. 
Mostly mundane stuff; more proposals for killing 682 (which never 
found their way into her spam folder the way they were supposed 
to), vaccine research for 008, potentially increased activity from 877, 
nothing too interesting. One email stuck out, though, from Dr. 
Husmann. Recent transfer from Site 38, a little creepy but seemed 
reliable in his position at Site 19. She clicked on the email and 
cursed the lag, even worse than usual. It opened eventually. 


Maria, 


Found this sexy little thing in one of the reports the MTFs 
sent me. Got into a couple of fights, drew attention to 
herself, hard to injure or something. Just about legal, not 
that that matters to us lol. So...can | keep her? I'm 
sending pictures. 


—Husmann 


This had attached to it several pictures of an underage, clearly 
distressed girl being strip-searched extensively by a grinning Dr. 
Husmann. The pictures looked...off, slightly, as though they had 
been Photoshopped, but whether Husmann took these pictures or 
made them, Maria was sickened. She forwarded it to the director of 
Site 19, with a note added on top: 


Get her out of there and stick him in her cell while we figure this out. 
This is disgusting. 


The head of RAISA hit "send" and left a note on her secretary's desk 
that she would be taking the day off. 


Margaret awoke to the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. 
Frantic, she turned to look at the wall. 


NiC3 kNOwinG yOu, GoOd luck, Love yOU 


The words disappeared when the first soldier-doctor reached the 
door. He opened the door and put a pair of slippers on the floor. "If 
you would come with us, please, ma'am," he said sheepishly. 
Margaret stood up and walked to where the slippers were, sliding 
her feet into them. She walked down the hall, one soldier-doctor in 
front of her, one behind. She felt a cold needle slip into the side of 
her neck and fell into the arm waiting nearby. 


Dr. Husmann had no idea what the hell was going on. He would be 
sure it was some kind of hazing prank, if he hadn't heard someone 
mention that the skip he just caught, one of his first, had just been 
set free. Some kind of procedural error or something, but he'd be 
hard-pressed to find this one again unless she drew attention to 
herself again. Meanwhile, he was sitting in the very containment cell 
he had her in. He had more pressing concerns. 


She had only been here for a couple of hours, so it couldn't have 
been her who did all this carving in the wall. No, in every wall, 
Husmann noticed. And the ceiling. And the floor, for God's sake. 


And everywhere, all the carvings said the same thing. 


b3 w@7chiNg You 


Loyal to the Cause 


Dr. Ersen sat on the tram, idly flipping between pages on his laptop, 
not really reading anything. The shuttle whirred softly, the lights of 
the tunnel slashing past windows that really had no reason to exist 
on a purely underground vehicle. He wondered what the tram was 
powered by: it was incredibly fast, though he couldn't say exactly 
how much so. It was taking him from Vancouver to a site he was 
pretty certain was under the Northern Canadian Rockies, coming up 
from somewhere South of Seattle; the trip took less than an hour 
from his end. In the corner of the hushed, fluorescent-lit car, another 
commuter sat with his head leaning against the window, a visible 
trickle of drool running out the corner of his mouth. Two Agents, 
Turing and Ueno, sat near the front, laughing together softly. Ersen 
wondered idly if Ueno had asked Turing out yet, and if he ever 
would. That took his thoughts somewhere he'd been trying to avoid, 
and Ersen stared at his laptop futilely for a few more minutes.