Mitchell looked Truman over. His eyes were glassy and he writhed 
with pain. The pool of blood had expanded. Mitchell wasn't sure if he 
was aware of what was happening or not. What was clear was that 
the desk they were hiding behind wasn't bulletproof, and the only 
reason why it hadn't already been riddled with gunfire was in fear of 
hitting Truman. 


He supposed the story about micro-bomb implants was false, 
otherwise he'd be vaporized by now. 


"Yeah, he's alive. Just... incapacitated." 
"How? D-300-" 
"Look, I'm done talking. Okay?" 


"Mitchell, my name's Paul." The switch from his Foundation 
designation to his real name didn't escape his notice. "I'm a Captain 
with site security. I'm going to need either visual or verbal 
confirmation that Truman's alive." 


"Okay, you've got my verbal confirmation." 
"Umm — | need it to come from him." 


Mitchell didn't know why he bothered conversing. Maybe it was just 
that this was the end of the line, and he was procrastinating. They 
couldn't kick the door in, not with the rod in place, and the loopholes 
were too small to reach through. They could probably rip it off or cut 
it down, though. Or maybe they'd come through the floor or ceiling; 
repel from the roof and crash through the window. 


"Mitchell, this is Paul again. Listen, we don't want anyone to get hurt. 
Why don't you come over here and unlock this door so we can talk 
about this. | promise you no one will lay a finger on you." 


"What the hell was that?" Mitchell laughed. "Was that you 
negotiating?" 


"Mitchell, in just a few minutes the MTF is going to be up here with 
drills and torches. They're going to cut this door from its hinges, and 
when they do that, it's going to be too late. | won't be able to help 
you. | can help you, but it's got to be right now, no more delays, and 
in order to do that | need confirmation that Mr. Truman is okay." 


Mitchell leaned out with the M4A1 gripped in both hands, toggled the 
automatic setting and sprayed the door. The sound was incredibly 
loud in the office, like standing under a waterfall. He ducked back 
into the desk and turned to Truman whose eyes were now clear and 
focused, maybe from the jackhammer burp of the rifle. Mitchell laid 
the muzzle of the gun against his chest and fired two rounds, then 
reversed his grip and stuck the scalding barrel under the shelf of his 
own chin. 


It was over. He'd expected a surge of relief to wash over him, a 
lifting of pressure, like waking up one day after a long illness to find 
yourself miraculously well. It didn't happen. He felt no different. 


There was just one last thing to do... 


Mitchell knew they'd be coming in fast now after he fired those last 
shots. Probably with gas and rubber bullets, or some other non- 
lethals. They'd want to take him alive if possible, and avoid serious 
injury to Truman. 


He was distantly aware of activity around him; tubular objects 
descended from the ceiling and bounced across the floor toward 
him. They exploded in phosphorescent novae. Claps of thunder 
reverberated in Mitchell's ear drums and rattled his chest. A 
concussive wall of heat swept through the room, whipping up scraps 
of paper and scattering bullet casings. He squeezed his eyes 
against the starbursts and searing wind, and he saw Marilyn, her 
arms stretched out, beckoning him into their fold. A glimmer of gold 


confirmed she was wearing her wedding ring, and when he looked 
down at his hand he saw that his, too, had somehow returned. 


He ran to her. 
6 


They'd quietly unscrewed the hinges from the door. When the D- 
Class started shooting again he called it. They deposited flashbangs 
and breached the office. 


Captain Paul Wilson picked his way through the room. It looked like 
it'd been hit by a tornado. The stun grenades smoldered in melted 
patches of carpet. What a mess, he thought. The two bodies were 
strung along the far wall, wedged between it and the desk. It was 
hard to tell, but it looked like Truman had suffered several gunshot 
wounds to the abdomen and pelvis. The D-Class had chosen the 
easy route, taking his own life by blowing a hole the size of a golf 
ball through the roof of his skull. A spray of blood and bone and gray 
matter painted the wall above the corpse. 


Paul rubbed his forehead. There would be an internal investigation, 
and he already had a sinking feeling that it would close without a 
satisfying resolution. The D-Class's cell was currently being tossed, 
but no note had turned up yet, and it probably never would. He'd 
glanced at the D-Class's file when the call had come in — nothing 
had immediately jumped out at him, but he'd mentally checkmarked 
the Keter assignment from last year for further review. There was 
something familiar about that. 


His team was on its way out; forensics had arrived along with the 
on-site medical examiner. Paul was turning to leave when he saw a 
crumpled picture on the floor. 


"Hey, what is that?" he said to the technician hunkered over it. "Let 
me see that, will you?" 


The forensic tech passed him the photograph. It was blistered from 
the flashbangs, the edges curled, but he recognized the woman as a 
researcher's wife. He'd been introduced to her at a Christmas party 
or similar work-related event. And the picture wasn't exactly the type 


you framed and put on your desk for anyone to see. He couldn't 
remember the name of the researcher at the moment, it'd been last 
year or the year before. Paul made another mental checkmark to 
ask around and find out who the researcher was as a possible lead. 
Maybe Truman and this guy's wife were having an affair, but if it was 
related to the murder-suicide, he couldn't imagine how the D-Class 
had become involved. 


He handed the photograph back. "Thank you," he said, and left the 
office, rubbing his forehead. 


7 


He's ordered to step inside the cell of a giant midge. It clings to the 
ceiling like a parasitic chandelier. 


A voice over the intercom assures him it's sedated. 


There's an unsettling smell, metallic, like plunging your nose into a 
piggy-bank. As he inches deeper inside the room a gallon of 
digestive juices is dumped on his head from the skip's proboscis — 
a showerhead raining acid. There's a parchment rustle of its wings 
as they unfold and it swings from the ceiling in a languid, graceful 
drop that seems to play out in slow motion. He stumbles toward the 
outer containment door, already sealing shut on him, and when he 
glances over his shoulder his corroded face stares back, reflected 
and distorted a hundred times in the midge's compound eyes. It's 
like watching himself melt in a shattered fun-house mirror. And as he 
looks on, barely recognizing himself, a pocket rips open in his 
cheek, releasing an effluvium of blood and steam. The lobe of his 
ear is distended and droops to his shoulder in the shape of a tear 
drop. He's screaming and then — 


D-29840 snapped awake. His pillow was soaked with sweat and his 
heart was racing. He thought he'd be used to it by now, it'd been 
years, but every night it was the same. 


He climbed out of bed. It was easier now that the bottom bunk was 
vacant. 


The cell door buzzed. He hopped out and lined up along the yellow 


band to start his day. He was practically asleep on his feet; the last 
forty-eight hours had been spent in a cramped, stale room getting 
shouted at and accused by jackbooted interrogators itching to lay 
their hands on him. When he did manage to close his eyes it was 
the midge he saw. 


Yes, his bunkmate had been acting strange the past few weeks. 
How so? Just different, more introverted and depressed. No, he 
didn't know the cause of it or what he’d intended to do. 


He'd been cooperative while supplying them with no useful 
information. If they had an anomalous lie detector or truth serum, 
they didn't use it. It'd been myopic to use Mitchell, he knew he'd be 
fingered as a possible accomplice, but he couldn't have allowed the 
opportunity to slip away. A new amnestitized transfer and they 
practically dropped him in his lap. 


After roll call D-29840 showered, powdered his stump with talcum 
and fastened his prosthesis. He'd managed to squeeze through the 
containment chamber's door... or most of him had. The last thing he 
remembered before passing out — and the point where the dream 
always ended if he didn't wake up first — was the midge on the 
other side of the door, its feeder inserted into the heel of his shoe, 
vacuuming all the liquids from the foot still lodged inside. The 
translucent straw turned pink as it greedily sucked up blood, while 
another orifice on the end of the proboscis vomited enzymes to 
break the flesh and bone down into a consumable puddle. 


Best not to think about it, but impossible to avoid. Might as well try 
pissing in the wind. After tightening his prosthetic foot he moved to 
the sink to brush his teeth, where his disfigured face waited, lurking 
inside the fogged mirror. They'd been able to stitch up the hole in his 
cheek; it was nothing more than a puckered scar, the standard train 
tracks of a suture seam. What remained of his ear was a pulpy 
nodular, and his eye was the blank white orb of a feeding shark. He 
was blind and deaf on that side. 


He limped to the cafeteria and grabbed a tray of food, always last in 
line. He chose a secluded seat and eased himself into the chair with 
only a slight twinge in his back. The plastic fork was unwieldy, 

gripped clumsily in his right-hand; a natural southpaw, his dominant 


hand had caught the brunt of the midge's caustic downpour while 
trying to shield his face, and now all that remained was a partial 
thumb and index finger, like a pincer. 


Not that he was complaining. It was important to remain useful to the 
site, even if it meant picking up their trash and scrubbing their toilets. 
Light custodial work was all he was good for since the accident. If 
you didn't tow the line you might just wake up one day assigned as a 
chew toy for a non-Euclidean nightmare surfer. 


D-60914, a recent transfer that went by the ridiculous moniker of 
Gucci, sat down in the chair across from him. D-29840 didn't look up 
from his breakfast as he shoveled food into his mouth. 


"What's this bastard's name again?" Gucci asked, also not making 
eye contact. 


He's in the ICU for three months, fading in and out. His entire 
existence is trapped in a womb of pain, swadaling him, cradling him, 
unrelenting, refusing to release and birth him. There's nothing 
except the pain, no time when it wasn't present. When he’s awake 
he dreams about falling through the ice of a frozen lake, the water 
so cold it numbs him to the marrow. When he's asleep he dreams 
about the midge. 


He's kept in a plastic tent, lying on a hospital bed. He's swathed in 
bandages that constantly need to be changed because his body is a 
single weeping blister; the skin stretches so tight it cracks like a dry 
river bed and secretes pints of a clear, fetid fluid. IV drips appear to 
feed the fluid straight back into him. The tent expands and contracts 
with the respiration of some machine — he's surrounded by a lot of 
machines, all beeping and flashing numbers, an entire appliance 
store, toasters and microwaves and cathode rays... 


D-29840 said around a piece of buttered toast, "His name is Leo 
Cherri. He's the head of the site infirmary.” 


"Leo Cherri," choruses Gucci. 


He recognizes the voice of one of the doctors, and knows he's 
awake because the midge isn't there. The doctor is silhouetted 


to report to duty on January 11,19 . 


Addendum 7: SCP-884-4 

Report of Dr. Rasmusson, January, 19 : After two years, continual 
tests have repeatedly shown no additional abnormalities in 
SCP-884-4. Due to the persistence of the threat by the Insurgency, it 
is recommended that extreme care be taken in protecting 
SCP-884-4, and Agents be assigned to uncover the information the 
Insurgency apparently has concerning SCP-884-4. 


Addendum 8: SCP-884-4 

Field Transmission of AgentL __, 20 , Upon Receiving Final 
Communique of Agent P _ : Following the deep cover placement 
and reception of Agent P ___, significant information concerning 
SCP-884-4 has come to light, most having originally been removed 
from Foundation files before the split with the Insurgency by 
members of the faction, particularly the head researcher, Dr. G 
SCP-884-4 must be placed in secure lock down, and all Foundation 
employees who have come in contact with it must to report to Dr. 

S__ for immediate examination. Final report will be submitted to O5 
via personal courier within 24 hours. 


Addendum 9: SCP-884-4 

SCP-884-4 is to be placed in Deep Storage at Site- . No further 
contact is to be allowed with SCP-884-4. SCP-884-4 is now 
reclassified as Euclid until final prognosis is made by AgentL and 
Dr.S_ .-O5-2 


Addendum 10: SCP-884-4 


Final Report ofAgentL : Having now worked on 
this case for close to eight years, it is with some pleasure 
that | close it. SCP-884-4 has been a continual mystery 
in containment circles, with the interest of the Insurgency 
(including the sacrifice of no fewer than twenty of their 
members) in acquiring the object leading to much 
interest. It was only after the Foundation's own agents 
were successful in discovering the motives of the 
Insurgency that the truth has come to light. Even then, 
the full ramifications may never be discovered. 


against the tent as a dark splotch. The doctor is speaking to 
someone on the phone — to him it's a one-sided conversation. 


Gucci raised a mug of coffee to his lips but didn't take a sip. "Okay," 
he said. "Why'd he do it? | mean, did | do something to this guy?" 


"What could you've done to him to warrant this?" he retorted. "Spill 
his drink? Not address him properly as ‘doctor’? No, you didn't do 
anything to him, not that I'm aware. He's just a petty, vindictive piece 
of shit, likes to throw his weight around and take his crap home life 
out on us." 


"Hey, I'm done with this guy. He's not improving, and I'm not wasting 
anymore resources on him. Even if he did pull through he’s not 
going to be a productive Foundation employee. ... The Hippocratic 
oath doesn't mean | have to spends months trying to save a lost 
cause. ...| don't know why you're making such a big deal of this. 
He's probably a rapist or serial killer or something. Why do you 
care?" 


He's burning up. If a drop of water fell on him it would sizzle and 
dance like he's a hot skillet. He tears at the bandages, pulling damp 
wrappings off his forearms, along with bits of skin and scabs. 


If the doctor notices his distress he ignores it. "Well, it's unfortunate, 
but these things happen. How long are you going to keep blaming 
yourself? ...It's not just about the cost, although | admit that's 
certainly a factor. We have a finite supply and these things aren't 
cheap. Believe it or not the Foundation's coffers aren't bottomless, 
and | have to answer for my department's budget. ... What long-term 
effects? He's got third-degree chemical burns over fifty-percent of 
his body. Nothing's going to change." 


D-29840 knew his reach, both literally and figuratively, was short. 
He'd never be able to get to the site director, and he wasn't even 
sure what an O5 was, exactly. He'd settle for what he could grab, 
the lower rungs on the ladder. A lifetime of poverty had cultivated his 
palate so that the most tasteful morsels were also the cheapest cuts. 
He'd manipulated Jordan into murdering the Level-2 researcher that 
had failed to ensure proper containment procedures were followed, 
leading to his current disfigurement. Mitchell had — according to 


recent gossip, and the agents interrogating him hadn't dissuaded 
him from the idea — somehow blown Truman up and taken ona 
whole task force with just a dowel and a piece of string.