He began running through the equations in his head. The curve of 
the new path was less pronounced than that of the original, and it 
appeared that it climbed in a clockwise direction. He made some 
quick mental calculations, and was fairly certain that two would 
intersect again close to the gate. 


He was so engrossed in his mental calculations that he didn’t realize 
that he had started walking on the new path. He had only gone 3 or 
4 meters, and he quickly returned to where he could see the 
disturbed gravel that marked the intersection. Or rather, that should 
have marked the intersection. With increasing desperation, he spent 
the next several hours trying to find the unique combination of 
angles that would open the "window". As darkness was falling, he 
came to the conclusion that finding the original path was going to 
take more time. 


He spent a restless night there, curled up on the cold gravel. At first 
light, he spent a fruitless hour trying to locate the original path again. 
He needed to think, and he had always done his best thinking while 
walking. He hoped that walking in this place would provide the same 
inspiration. 


He used the heel of his shoe to scribe a large X at the intersection 
point, then began walking clockwise. After two hours of walking 
uphill, he returned to his mark. He hadn't seen any other paths. Or 
buildings. Or people. Just the autumn woods spreading off in every 
direction. But he had formulated a idea. 


He pulled out the small notebook and stub of a pencil that he always 
carried with him and sat down. By mid afternoon, the area 
surrounding him was covered with pieces of paper, some crumpled, 
some with large portions crossed out. The majority of the pages, 
however, were spread out in front of him. He had re-created the 
"theoretical" intersection equations that he had started years ago. 
He didn't have the anwers yet, but he felt fairly confident these 
equations would get him back home. 


He stood, placed his hands in the small of his back, and bent 
backwards, eliciting a symphony of snaps, crackles and pops from 
his spine. He needed to stretch his legs and let his mind wander. He 
looked both ways, and eventually decided that one way was just as 


good as the other. His mind preoccupied with the equations, he 
started walking counter clockwise. 


He came to stop some time later, a slowly building sense of dread 
finally breaking through his thoughts. He was surveying his 
surroundings, trying to discover the cause for the feelings, when the 
realization hit him hard enough to take his breath away. 


He had been walking steadily uphill the whole time. 


Children Of Doubt 


My sons have left me. 


| was once a proud father of five boys, each with their own great 
ambitions and plans. As our days went by, the sound of them 
whispering their plans was sometimes all | could hear. My first son 
was an unhappy lad, with a vicious streak. He wanted to break men, 
and see them beg him for death. When he left, it was under the 
cover of night, never to visit me. 


He made his home with a vicious clan of madmen, who shared his 
bloodlust. Used for an unimaginable number of tortures and 
slayings, my son made these men his friends, and grew to trust 
them. He was surprised then, when his blade went dull, they cast 
him aside for new toys. 


Happily, my second son harbored no such ambition. His lot in life 
was simpler, as he only wished to make men beautiful. | cannot say 
| completely approved of his lifestyle, but can say that | was happy 
for him nonetheless. 


Sadly, he met his end over a matter of taste. While giving his 
treatment to a man of different caliber, they had a disagreement 
over what style to use. It eventually came to blows, and this man 
knocked my sons teeth out. Never the same, he died broken. 


The third boy to leave me was not as determined as my other kin. 
Spineless and weak, he let others fill him with whatever they 
pleased, and repeated it to whomever could hear him. His lies were 
completely transparent, leaving him untrustworthy and useless. The 
worst came with his judgemental attitude, which made him despised 
and contemptible. Death came to him through the carelessness of 
one and the carefulness of another. So | was left with only two kin. 


My next child believed cleanliness was godliness. | don't have any 
memories of him not cleaning something, or trying to keep tidy. It 


seemed his whole goal in life was to wipe out the literal scum of the 
earth. Coming to the enemies of my first son, they found ways for 
him to keep the world clean. 


One day, after many years of service, he looked down upon his 
body to find it ingrained with the very dirt and grime he had worked 
to wash out over the years. Taking his talents to his own body, he 
scrubbed and bleached until there was nothing left at all. So, | was 
left with one. 


Now, my final boy was nobody special. All he ever wanted to do with 
his life was to keep people happy, nothing more and nothing less. 
When presented to the madmen, they found nothing worthwhile 
about him. So they gave him to a young man. I'm proud to say, he 
changed that man's life, becoming his most valuable possession 
and travelling companion. He saw everything that came from the 
man's mouth, becoming the keeper of his secrets. 


Eventually, most of his bristles fell out and he became a wizened old 
ivory pick. The young man kept him still, despite being useless in his 
first path. He was given a new purpose, opening gateways and 
helping to make the man very wealthy. My son died happy, knowing 
he had made his mark. | wish | could say the same. 


In my cold box, | wait for another to behold me. Although my legacy 
has died, | live on, sitting patiently and quietly. When the time draws 
near, they shall see themselves within me, and be struck down by 
doubt and confusion. My sons may be forgotten, but without a doubt, 
| will always remember them. 


A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 


To the Parents of Sergeant Johnathan Percy, 


It is with the deepest regret that we inform you that your 
son has fallen in the line of duty this Monday, the 12th of 
August. Due to the sensitivity of the task he was involved 
in fulfilling in the time of his death, as well as other 
circumstances we are not at liberty to discuss, further 
details may not be divulged at this moment. He died for a 
cause he truly believed in, that much can be said. 


For details concerning reparations and funeral 
arrangements, please contact our representatives as 
detailed on the attached sheet. 


Respectfully yours, 
Director Thomas McCain, SpearCross Private Solutions 


| got a closed-casket funeral, they tell me. Makes sense enough. 
Templeton told me it was a private thing, real respectable. My folks 
probably weren't too surprised to hear | was gone, and between you 
and me, | figure they were counting themselves lucky that they at 
least got something out of it. God knows | brought them very little joy 
when | was alive. 


| see that look on your face. You're wondering why I'm speaking in 
the past tense. Obviously, I'm still alive now. Breathing, eating, 
talking, shitting, the whole nine yards. And that's true, | suppose. It's 
just hard to think about it that way, from where I'm standing. Sorry, 
I'm rambling again, | tend to do that when | get company. You have 
some questions, I'm sure, you folks usually do. 


How was | exposed? That's an unusual thing to ask. Most of you just 
read the reports and go straight to the meat. | guess you're not the 
trusting type, maybe that's why they choose you this time. Honestly, 


SCP-641: The Pacifier 


Item #: SCP-641 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: When not in use by 
researchers or containment teams, the doll is to be stored under 
lock and key in an on-site safety deposit box. The box should be 
lined with felt and filled with packing materials in order to ensure its 
safety. 


Description: SCP-641 is a seemingly ordinary set of Russian 
matryoshka dolls, but each layer is improbably thin. 1,347 layers of 
the doll were measured and demonstrated a mean thickness of .04 
micrometers with a standard deviation of .02 micrometers. If the 
disassembled dolls are left untouched for a length of time (ranging 
from five to seven minutes) the dolls will animate and begin to 
reassemble- the largest doll leaping’ over the next largest until the 
doll is assembled at an extremely rapid rate. The longest time this 
phenomenon has been observed is three minutes and forty-six 
seconds, the doll reassembling itself from 3,228 separate pieces. 
Subjects disassembling the dolls show a marked aversion to leaving 
the dolls alone, and if compelled to do so will become angry, 
physically fighting any restraints until the dolls begin to reassemble, 
at which point attempts to reach the doll cease and the subject 
typically turns on those responsible for restraints, shouting 
obscenities until tranquilized. Subjects utilizing the doll show a 
single-minded interest in disassembly, and will not be distracted 
without an interruption of significant magnitude, threatening the 
subject's safety or health. Afterwards, the subjects recall 
disassembling SCP-641, but exhibit nothing more than mild 
annoyance at most. 


Document 641-1: This document is the transcript of Dr. Frederick 
Heiden's comments, upon utilization of the object. 


there isn't much to tell. | died in a work accident, air conditioner fell 
on my head. My body got transferred to the morgue, as per release 
papers, and was selected for testing due to the mundane COD. 
Now, the report will tell you they understood 447 shouldn't be tested 
on bodies right from the get go, but that's just them covering their 
ass. No, it took some testing, and | was one of those volunteered. 


lt worked, as you see. Five minutes in that thing, and | was back on 
my feet, right as rain. Ah, | see what you're doing there, looking at 
that file. What is that, the psych evaluation? I'd take that with a pinch 
of salt if | were you. See, there's nothing wrong with me, or with any 
of the others. 447 makes the dead come back to life. That's it. No 
zombies, or mutants, or any of that monkey-paw bullshit. 


The only thing that makes me different from you, and why I'm on this 
side of the glass and you're on the other, is that | saw what comes 
next. | went into light, through the other side of the tunnel. There's 
nothing there. The word really isn't sufficient in explaining it, since it 
has substance, and a history. When you think "nothing", you think of 
a black void, or a featureless white plain, or whatever. You think of 
yourself stranded there, stuck in nothingness forever. 


There is no void, or white plain. There's no self to be stuck in them 
either. You just cease. And that's why we're here. We're here 
because we know the Foundation's deepest, darkest secret. 


It's pointless. Not as dramatic as you might have hoped, but that's 
just it. Nothing the Foundation does, or anyone else for that matter, 
means anything at all. The wonders it preserves, and the 
monstrosities, every life saved or lost, every act of heroism, every 
atrocity committed, every revelation, every bit of progress, every 
creative spark, every soul lost to madness. All of that, for the sake of 
humanity. For a picture drawn in sand. For nothing. 


This is why they think no one can know. The Foundation likes to 
pretend it's all about science, reason, cold facts. Nonsense. It's 
about faith. Even the most jaded of researchers has to believe in 
something in order to do what we... what you do, after all. It can be 
reason, or the scientific method, or the greater good, or even God. 
Seeing us, Knowing what we know... well, that would tear the 
Foundation apart, as they see it. So they keep us quiet and hidden, 


and make everyone else believe we're monsters. They might very 
well believe in that themselves, most days. Every once in a while 
though, they get restless. They think, 'we must have missed 
something, there must be something more to them than that’. That's 
when they send someone like you. 


I'll tell you what | told your predecessors, and what | told the Od5s, at 
the time. You should be glad. There's nothing for you to fear 
anymore. All of the things that keep you awake at night, the barely 
contained horrors that can so easily overwhelm you if you let your 
guard slip for just a moment? Just let them out. The world will burn, 
and people will die, and that would be that. It's all the same, after all, 
and at least that way it will be quick. At least you could sleep 
soundly, if but for a short while. 


Anything else | want to tell you? No, not really. That's it then? 
Shame. Well, | suppose you have better things to do. Reports to fill, 
scips to contain, a world to protect. Good for you, keeping yourself 
busy. Could you do me a favor? Could you get me a ball? A few 
coins, maybe? Man, I'd kill for a deck of cards. It gets real dull in 
here, sometimes. 


Progress report SCP-447-1-A 


Instances of SCP-447-1 continue to exhibit extreme 
subversive tendencies towards the Foundation and its 
objectives, as well as displaying the previously observed 
nihilistic sentiments. Until further notice, all 
communication with instances of SCP-447-1 are to be 
treated as unreliable due to the subtle memetic 
properties inherent to their speech. Inquiries as to the 
true nature of SCP-447 are to continue at the discretion 
of O5 Command. 


Mint And Clay 


Everything has wants, has a need to be better. | am happy to assist. 


The creator, he wanted to create things and to make better things. 
He made me to be his tool. He needed only his hands and mind to 
create. | am the means with which he could make things better. 


He was like a potter. Like clay, he shaped me with his hands and his 
fingerprints were left in me. Humanity shaped me, and | shape in 
return. Though | am created, | work with the creator in mind. | have 
no mind, but my creator's thought touched me. His thoughts were 
left in me. His mind is mine. 


Axles have want of lubrication. Food has want for flavoring. Clay 
hungers for the fire. For every object in this fractured world, there is 
a want. A human want. 


His breath had want of freshening. 


That truth came from the creator as well; the little things cause 
terrible consequences. Great results. For the want of a nail. | am the 
replacement nail. 


The human mind is so fragile a thing. So fallible. The strain of 
human interaction coupled with common halitosis should not be 
enough to break a brilliant mind. It is still truth. He shattered and 
stilled. | fractured, but continue. 


The hand is stilled, but the fingerprints remain. The wants continue, 
and | am happy to assist. 


Yet | long to be held by him again. The one who gave me purpose, 
the one who gave me a need, the one who gave me his thought. | 
miss his touch, | miss his thought. | want to be whole again. 


| make things better. | can help him and make him better than he 


was, perfect. | know his need, and | will place my own fingerprints on 
him. The cracks will seal and he will be made complete again. | just 
need the right clay. 


How happy to assist. So many broken pieces that need new 
purpose. They are happy to assist. They hunger for the fire. 


A sufficient amount of clay is all | need. Then | will be held and | will 
hold and we will be whole. 


Fields Of Green 


A voice echoed from the intercom set flush in the ceiling. "Okay, 
boys. This is the last of the food flavoring trials. Swallow the pills 
you've been given, then fill out one of the forms with what you 
tasted."