Tristan smiled softly at the plaque, touching the engraving before 
walking down the hallway, whistling a Christmas carol to himself. 


Love and Relative Safety in Sex 


~ previous 


"Furthermore, SCP-447-2 can be refined (see Appendix 447-C: 
Distillation Process) into a useful lubricant approved for use at all 
SCP Foundation installations, so long as said lubricant is never used 
to lubricate dead bodies." 


The junior researcher set the copy of the document down on the 
desk with a sigh. "...Oh hell.” 


"Come on." 


"Dude, I'm not paid enough. And, notably, my ass isn't an 'SCP 
Foundation installation’, it's just my ass. It's always been there, 
Foundation or no Foundation." 


"Well it's about to be one. Look, | thought you and | had a thing 
going for a little while there. Hell, | kinda thought we were still-" 


"You and | do have a thing going, Alto, but that's between you and I, 
not you and | and a pile of sludge." 


"Man, | already told the assistant research director that we greenlit 
this testing-" 


"Well, what are you gonna do to convince me?" 
"...I'll cook us waffles in the morning." 

"That's it? Wait, not- not those waffles, right?" 
"Oh, no, the normal ones." 


The researcher sighed and stood up out of his chair. "Alright. Deal." 


Alto Clef was a man of his word, to say the least. When he told a 
project director he'd get something done, he got it done. But when 
the Site's research heads were pressing for more extensive 447-2 
testing, he got a little uneasy. There was only so much people could 
come up with after a few years of experimentation, after all. 


But he was just stressed. It'd all be fine. His flirtatious, wonderful, 
kind, awkwardly submissive, probably-too-low-of-a-clearance-level 
boyfriend was waiting for him in the employee quarters. He just had 
to get that sample and they'd be able to proceed with their plans of 
last night. 


"Where's that sample?" Clef asked no one in particular, spinning 
around in his chair. 


"Almost here, sir. We had a minor computer error, and couldn't take 
it out of the inventory until it was repaired." 


"A computer error? Of what sort?" 


"An LMAPO error. Logistical Mapping and Procedural Officiator, the 
research lab's Al. You know the one." 


"Ah yes, good ol’ LMAPO." 
"LMAPO." 


"Alright, well once you all sort out that LMAPO situation, I'm gonna 
need to get that sample and turn in for the night." 


A few of the researchers hunched over low-priority tasks in the 
corner shot confused and concerned glances at each other, but 
knew better than to question anything. 


"Sure. I'll go down the hall and get it once LMAPO's self-repair is 
complete." 


"Marvelous." 


Junior Researcher Jaime Abraham sat on the edge of Clef's bed. He 


never felt particularly welcome here, between the multiple loaded 
shotguns in three of the four corners and the vaguely disconcerting 
scent of stale maple syrup. He twitched his legs. "Nghh, this is 
gonna be weird-" 


"Oh my fuck, Abraham, it's just lube. | bet this is better than that KY 
shit we've been using." 


"Are you ever gonna call me by my first name?" 


Clef put the vial on the nightstand and turned most of the lights off, 
leaving the room in only the green glow of the emergency light. 
What a situationally relevant color, he thought. Really set the mood. 
"Of course not. That's against protocol," he explained, stumbling out 
of his pants. 

"Uh..." 


"I'm just messing with you. It's actually because | thought Abraham 
was your first name up until like three weeks ago, so | still get stuck 
with it." He took a condom out of the bedside table's drawer. 


"What? Why?" 

"Because they wanted it for the test procedures." 

"No, my name! We've been dating for like eight months!" 
"It was a simple mistake!" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 


"It means we don't want my jizz interfering with the process. This is 
basic research standard, you know." 


"No, not that, the other thing!" 
"Man, don't worry about it. Let's just move on. You hard yet?" 
"Why do / need to be hard?" 


"F- | don't fuckin' know! Because that's fucking normal? What's 


gotten into you, Abraham?" 


Abraham grimaced and rolled over onto his stomach. "Don't you use 
that head researcher voice at me, it makes it weird-" 


"It's always gonna be weird, unless you're on one of my teams." 


"That would be really weird. Please don't ever make me work under 
you." 


"Uh, phrasing." 
"In a non-sexual way." 
"... This is sexual. We're about to have sex." 


"Christ alive, you know what | mean." He closed his eyes and 
started laughing. "Just fucking start already." 


"Mmm-hmm." Clef rolled the condom onto his massive eight-inch! 
cock and proceeded to lubricate himself with the 447-2 before 
grabbing the younger man's ass in preparation. 


"| want a shower already." 


"Just stop thinking of it as anomalous slime and think of it as- | don't 
know, something relaxing, like- like-" 


"Like what?!" 


"| don't know, fucking coconut-scented tanning lotion or some shit! 
Some of that fancy shit you like to slather all over yourself!" 


Abraham grunted. "Can you slow the fuck down back there?" 


Clef looked down in the dim lighting. He had slid in easily. He'd have 
to make a note of that. "Have | ever told you about the time | fucked 
someone from an alternate reality?" 


"Which of the hundreds of GOC missions did this one happen on?" 


"No no, this was just last year." 


"Can you tell me about it at a time when you're not shoving your dick 
in my ass? Better yet, can we not make any casual conversation 
while we're-" 


"Sure, sure. My bad. But dear God, this is slippery." 


"You log it; I'm tired." 


"| Know, | know." Clef got up and put his pants back on, thudding 
down at the computer. "I'm gonna have to add this to the experiment 
log, you do realize." 


"Please don't name me in it." 


"Well | don't wanna name myself either! I'm the fucking project 
head!" 


"Okay, fine, just blame it all on me then-" 
"| told the other researchers it'd be you doing it-" 


"Do you have a problem with the 'other researchers’ knowing I'm the 
bottom or something? Why can't we tell them it was your dick?" 


"No, just- | have my methods, dammit! They won't notice! Now, what 
do you have to say about the test?" 


"I'm thinking, I'm thinking." Abraham put his head in his hands. "Ugh, 
just- just say 'l could market this as that kind of lubricant, but | don't 
think a warning label is enough to ensure that some necrophiliac 
doesn't use it on a dead body.' Does that sound comprehensive 
enough?" 


"Of course. All for the sake of research, you know." 
"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and enter it in the database, | guess." 
"What are you worried about?" 


"I'm just wondering if that was safe. | mean, | know it was, but that 
felt kind of-" 


Clef smiled. "But... of course it's Safe. | wrote the Object Class 
myself." 


"...God fucking damn it.” 


Date: / / 
Test Subject: One (1) Trojan condom 


Procedure: Dr. A placed the condom on his [DATA EXPUNGED] 
and applied SCP-447-2 onto it. He then tested the SCP-447-2- 
covered condom by [DATA EXPUNGED] 


Results: [DATA EXPUNGED]. Dr. A reports that the procedure 
"went really well." 


Notes: "I could market this as that kind of lubricant, but | don't think a 
warning label is enough to ensure that some necrophiliac doesn't 
use it on a dead body."—Dr. A 


Footnotes 
1. 20.32 cm 


takes slightly longer to animate into a juvenile 
great white shark. SCP-777-1 does not 
suffocate when water is removed from the 
tank, and is subsequently destroyed by 
security. 


Test 777-1g 

Materials used: Sand taken from SCP-777 
formed into sculpture of a cat. 

Result: Water is applied to sand. Sand 
animates into three (3) abnormally large 
scorpions. SCP-777-1 destroyed by security 
without incident. 


Test 777-1h 

Materials used: Sand taken from SCP-777 
placed next to a small plant. 

Result: Water is applied to sand. Sand 
animates into an unknown form of plant life, 
which appears to strangle the plant. 
SCP-777-1 destroyed by security without 
incident. 

Note: /t appears SCP-777-1 manifests itself as 
whatever is deadliest to the nearest organism. 
- Dr. 


Interview 777-1 
Interviewed: 
Interviewer: Dr. 


Foreword: This interview was conducted after 
was retrieved from SCP-777. Interview is taking place to 
ascertain SCP-777's nature. 


<Begin Log> 


Dr. : Hello, . | just need to ask you a few 
questions about what happened. 


A Visitation 


Outside the apartment’s windows, the sound of children laughing 
drifted from the park, a block away. 


Professor lan Thomas sank into his couch without really looking 
around the room. He closed his eyes. It had been a long day. The 
historian could not remember the last time it had been a short day. 
He let out a long sigh and rubbed at his temples, reaching for the 
bottle of bourbon he saved in the cabinet nearby for serious 
emergencies. 


It wasn’t there. 


“Check the coffee table, Professor.” It took a moment for the voice to 
register for him, and when it did, it was nonetheless peculiar. 
Adjectives filtered into his mind without actually corresponding to 
definite details. He knew the voice was even, cultured, the slight 
hints of a strange accent ... but he could not identify a gender, an 
age, or a precise tone. 


His instincts screamed at him, but he found himself reaching 
leisurely for the filled glass on the glass surface all the same. Like a 
man struggling against the tide, he tried to focus on the source of 
the voice and found a pair of eyes in a face that, like the voice, his 
mind refused to describe. 


“Relax, Professor,” the black-red eyes said. “Have a sip, it’ll make 
this go easier. It’s quite good, if you don’t mind me saying so.” The 
eyes raised a half-filled glass in a slender hand and tipped it towards 
him. “I've been sampling it. You will pardon me my transgression, | 
hope. | was raised in slightly different codes of hospitality.” 


The historian brushed away the cobwebs of his mind and sat up 
straighter. He knew his uninvited guest; his mind was racing down 
remembered pathways ... accounts of blood and fire. He swallowed 
and set the glass firmly down. “I think | will wait,” he said ina 


quavering voice. “How did you find me?” 


“Come, Professor, you’re well-acquainted with me,” the visitor said. 
“I’m pleased to see you and your colleagues so enthusiastic about 
my memoirs. The amount of energy you have put into collecting 
them astounds me.” 


“You are-” 


The eyes narrowed slightly. “Let’s use your colleagues’ term for me, 
Professor. Keep this professional.” 


Thomas swallowed hard. “You are SCP-140-A,” he said. 
“Quite so. Are you surprised?” 


The historian shivered. Despite his best efforts, his fingers began 
tapping nervously on the coffee table. He felt the other’s wry 
amusement and cursed the weakness of his knees. This was not 
supposed to be his element. “I’m ...” he swallowed, licking his lips, 
“I’m sorry, but you have me at a disadvantage.” 


“Of course | do. | would not be here if | did not.” SCP-140-A’s eyes 
were hard to read, but he felt the amusement growing. “Professor, | 
have not survived for centuries by being incautious. | learn. | listen. | 
adapt. | have no interest in exposing myself to unnecessary risk. | 
chose you because you are an educated man. Because my sources 
indicate that unlike some among your colleagues you have no 
proficiency in the use of the regulation pistol you are presently 
fumbling to grasp, while | have killed before and will do so again with 
a smile.” 


It laughed, and something about the sound made Thomas think of 
breaking glass, skittering across his nerves. “Relax, Professor. You 
are my host. | have no interest in violence tonight, but in the event 
you attempt a facsimile of cheap heroism, my snipers will put a 
bullet in your brain before you hear the crack of gunfire.” 


Thomas dropped the useless pistol with the faintest flicker of secret 
relief. He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and did his best to look 
the well-dressed intruder in the face, though his eyes smarted when 


he tried to look too closely. “Then why are you here?” 


“Your Foundation has sought me for some time,” SCP-140-A 
replied, “much as the Inquisition and the Templars and the ghazis 
before them. In my time, leaders met each other face to face.” It 
smiled with teeth like a row of gleaming knives. “I felt it necessary to 
provide you the same courtesy.” 


The historian swallowed again and nodded. “I see,” he said. “I don’t 
suppose you would be interested in formal negotiations with 
Foundation authorities.” 


“Somehow, | doubt they would be conducted in good faith,” 
SCP-140-A replied. It sat back on the couch opposite Thomas’, 
looking uncomfortably at home. The ... whatever it was let out a sigh 
and set its drink down. Thin hands pressed tightly together before 
their owner’s face. 


“Yours is a strange era, Professor,” it said. “I’ve learned much of 
your colleagues. My time was an age of kings. Blood was spilt in the 
name of gods and glory. Your colleagues do not fight for either.” It 
laughed sharply. “I don’t pretend to understand all your methods, 
and yet | Know your capacity for ruthlessness. But not in search of 
land, power, not even peace. Your sacrifices are in the name of ...” 
it made a disgusted sound, “normality.” Could you think of no better 
cause but the preservation of the mediocre?” 


“Is that why you wrote it?” 


“Need it have been in the service of some nefarious plot?” SCP-140- 
A replied. It crossed one long leg across the other; the red-black 
eyes half-lidded. “Perhaps | was merely lonely. Nostalgic.” 


“Yes. The good old days. How | miss my ritual sacrifice.” 


“Come, Professor, you’re wiser than that. You know how brutal and 
violent the ancient world once was.” SCP-140-A sounded thoughttul. 
“And yet from the wreckage of an empire that salted fields and killed 
One in ten for disloyalty, your people built this age of technological 
wonders. Do you think these marvels of science and steel any less 
forged in blood?” 


“We didn’t do it literally,” the historian replied. He took a sip of his 
drink, despite knowing he should stay on his toes. “You had your 
chance.” 


“And yet you remain curious,” the guest said. “The Foundation 
snatched you from a promising career in academia, if | recall 
correctly. | Know you’ve mused about what would happen in the 
case of another ... | believe you call them ‘expansion events,’ yes? 
Any honest historian would.” It smiled. “But you haven’t really been a 
historian for years, have you?” 


“Excuse me?” 


“You resent your employment,” it replied. “I don’t blame you. How 
many of your colleagues share your passion?” It took a sip of its 
drink and shook its head. “Your expertise is met by disdain, even 
contempt. | saw Alexandria burn, Professor, and the Bonfire of the 
Vanities, and the fires in Munich. And | wept. So much knowledge 
destroyed. Your colleagues would have you preserve a new Dark 
Age.” 


“And your alternative is ... what, exactly?” the historian asked, trying 
to ignore the uncomfortable, nervous way the other's words bit at 
him. His fingers drummed unconsciously on the table’s surface. 
“Usher in one myself in a fit of pique? Or are you just suggesting | 
make it public?” 


“Why else didn’t you warn them about the dig site, Professor?” 


A lump of glacial ice dropped into Thomas’ guts. “I don’t know what 
you're talking about!” he snapped. The bourbon in his hand was 
beginning to look more tempting by the moment.