Description: SCP-868 is a meme that resulted from a memory 
improvement therapy designed by Prometheus Labs, Inc. Surviving 
documents indicate that the researchers responsible for creating 
SCP-868 were unaware of its memetic properties until shortly before 
the facility was destroyed. The process and materials necessary for 
administering this treatment have not been recovered, although 
recovered materials do not indicate that its creation required 
anomalous items. 


SCP-868's transfer mechanism is poorly understood; however, it is 
believed to be transferred via two-way verbal communication! with 


with a minor sexual deviation than a condition which is known to 
affect judgment? You still haven't learned to think like a doctor. It 
takes time, but if it's meant to be, you'll get used to it." 


"| just don't get it." Alex motioned to the busy cafeteria. "We're 
scientists! We're specialists! We're all the best minds humanity has 
to offer. How can people like Jack Doe slip through the cracks? 
You'd think the Foundation was run by complete idiots, playing with 
skips and hiring psychopaths for laughs." 


"Not idiots, Alex. Just people." 


Alex fidgeted uncomfortably as Andrea went on resignedly. "Just 
people. People who pursue things that will ruin them just because 
they feel like it, people with unimaginably fragile grips on reality, 
people who are so unpredictably affected by the sort of trauma that's 
par for the course here that we never know for sure when 
Researcher Doe is going to snap and take half the site with him. 
That's the Foundation's most awful secret, Dr. Baxter, that we're all 
far closer to utter collapse than we dare to admit because the 
Foundation is made up of people." 


Andrea leaned back and continued pensively. "When Jack Doe, the 
one with the gambling problem was hired, he was completely stable. 
Cleanest bill of psychiatric health I've ever seen. My colleagues will 

say that he was a time bomb, but | don't think that's it." 


"What do you think happened?" 
"Do you really want to know?" 
Alex paused before replying, indecisively, "Yes." 


"It's working here that did it. We've got so many anomalies that we 
might as well start referring to 'the friendly suggestions of physics’. 
Everyone reacts to trauma and extreme chronic stress in different 
ways, and some people develop defense mechanisms that can end 
the world as we know it." 


"And we can't really tell in advance who those people are going to 
be, can we?" whispered Alex. 


Andrea leaned forward with a sardonic smile. "Oh, we can to some 
extent. That battery of tests they put you through wasn't for the 
pleasure of the examiners. But despite our best efforts, some people 
just slip through the cracks. My esteemed colleagues believe that's 
a failing of our methods and that we just need bigger and better 
tests. Me, | think doing what we do here will cause some of the most 
stable people in the world to snap, and no test will tell you who. All 
you can do is stay vigilant and hope that you're not one of those 
people." She stood up to throw away her leftovers and looked back 
for a parting remark. "| hope you understand just how important your 
job is now. Psychiatrists are the immune system of the Foundation. 
We secure the unstable. We contain the effects of their symptoms 
on the workplace. And we protect the asylum from being taken over 
by the patients." Andrea grabbed Alex's trash as Alex stared in 
shock at the table. "Welcome to your first day on the job. It's not too 
late to hand in your resignation," said Dr. Segerstrom as she walked 
away. 


Alex looked around the cafeteria with a new sense of vigilance. The 
high pitched, almost hysterical giggle of a research assistant, a 
dulled affect of a MTF captain, the silent weeping of a security 
guard. Panic welled in Dr. Baxter's chest. Reflexively, she began 
tapping a structured, exacting fifteen-beat rhythm on the table with 
her left pointer fingernail. The panic flowed out of her chest and 
through her arm, dripped out of her fingernail like a medicine 
dropper, and expelled itself onto the table. As she calmed down, Dr. 
Baxter continued to tap, ritualistically, robotically, precisely. Nothing 
bad would happen, as long as she continued to tap. The tapping 
would save everyone. The tapping would jar loose the unstable 
elements of the site and restore the Foundation. A tapping a day 
keeps the nutjobs at bay. 


The friendly din of the Site 33 cafeteria continued, and the tapping 
went unheard, unseen. 


Her Masterpiece 


It’s all his fault. If he hadn’t been around, the baby would still be 
here. The beautiful product of our flesh and blood. 


It's easy to smash his skull in with the baseball bat he kept around. 
And much less noisy than a gun. He’s heavy, and a mixture of blood 
and brains leaks out of the gaping wound on his skull from the living 
room down to my art studio. 


He’s still heavy, and still bleeding, as | position him inside the metal 
frame for my latest masterpiece while waiting for the concrete to be 
useable. When it is, | get started with smothering his treacherous 
corpse in the thick, gritty substance. It mixes with his blood and my 
sweat. Hours, days pass while | repeat the process. Mix, slather, 
repeat. 


It's been a week. My studio smells of progress. Of blood. Of cement. 
Of art being created. The basic shape is done, the head of my 
masterpiece towering over me. | grab my paint and get to work. 
Using big strokes of the can, | get the entire thing covered from the 
top of its head as bulbous as my stomach was when | was carrying 
a new life, to the feet as large as the traitors were. The details take 
longer than the main part of the job, but when they’re done, | feel 
like crying. | gaze at my creation, marveling at its beauty. All of 
which came from my pain and suffering. When nature finally calls, | 
turn to leave my new baby. 


| hear a sound like stones moving against each other. 


And all goes dark. 


Here There Be 


Monsters? 


No, no, no, it wasn't like that. We began with the best intentions. 
That might've gotten lost along the way, but it isn't how we started. 
We were young, and idealistic. | was in love. We were all eager to 
save the world from itself. The boss had led us to defeat the great 
Beast, and we twelve loyal apostles were willing to follow him back 
out of hell, and start building paradise. | wasn't a monster then, I'm 
sure of it. 


The Beast. | still think of it, from time to time. In the middle of the 
night, | wake up in a cold sweat, phantom images swimming before 
my eyes. Some of my fellows, my beloved amongst them, erased 
the memories from their heads, if only so they could sleep 
peacefully. | could never bring myself to use the damn things. | 
always figured every memory was worth having, you know? Even 
the ones you hated, you learned something from. | still think the 
Beast is the worst thing we contain, despite our efforts to put it to 
good use. 


I’m sad to say, it was my idea to use the Beast. The engines were 
still running, the engines were greased. It would have been an insult 
to those fed to it to have made their sacrifice be in vain. | thought we 


could control it, use it to thwart our enemies. Heh. How wrong was 
I? 


It helps that in those days we had proper villains, not the 
conglomerations you get nowadays. Faceless corporations, or trust 
fund babies who think they can freak people’s minds with far-out art 
performances. Nothing like what we fought, back in the day! The 
fights we undertook were in black-and-white, good versus evil, all 
those trite old tropes. People with power seeking to abuse it, and 
calling themselves by monikers that explained who and what they 
were. The Winter Wolf. Grendel. The Trollen Tribe. The Last Ghoul. 
Each of them unique and interesting, with their own plots and 


machinations. But at the same time, the majority of them the type of 
people whom, if you happened to run across in a bar when not on 
assignment, would buy you a drink, and reminisce about previous 
encounters. Or at least not shoot you when they recognized you off 
the clock. 


| remember when all that changed for me. 


Don’t tell my wife, but it all started at a high class brothel, back in- 
Was it the thirties? May have been the twenties, or the teens. They 
all blend together after a while. | know | was promoted out of Senior 
Staff before the second World War. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t 
matter. Let’s just say, pretty girls look good no matter what year it is. 
Don’t look at me like that, | was tracing a lead! A very attractive 
lead... It was another time, standards were different. Anyways, | was 
chasing down rumors that the necromancer who called herself 
Dancer was using the sex slave trade to raise herself her own little 
army. | was there to shut her down, if | could find her. 


| was, ahem, chasing my lead, and If | may say, | was doing a 
fantastic job of it, when all hell broke loose. Apparently, someone, 
and | blame that traitorous preacher, had let Dancer know that | was 
seeking her out. So there | am, courting this dear lady, when the 
door bursts open, revealing a slavering horde of undead whores, 
calling my name! Well, it felt like a horde. More like a whored, hey? 
Heh, sorry, puns ARE the lowest form of comedy, | know, | know. 
Probably only a dozen or so, but when your pants are around your 
ankles, and your gun is in a jacket across the room, even three 
would feel like a horde. | bid the lady a polite good night, and dove 
for my gear, hoping to outrace the grasping claws. | had just got my 
hand on my jacket when one of the zombies knocked me through 
the goddamn wall. 


So, picture this: Me, no pants, still in a state of... ahem, activity, 
blasting through this plasterboard wall, hard enough that | lost all 
sight of my pants, and | have the good fortune to fall into bed in the 
next room! A soft landing, because the bed is already occupied! I’m 
trying to give my excuses to the duo, explaining that | wasn’t trying 
to make it a trio, when the gentlemen and | finally make eye contact. 
Even without that damned wolf mask, | recognize his eyes, and it’s 
clear he recognizes me from the way he’s forming ice claws on his 


fingers, and starting to snarl. The bloody Winter Wolf himself, in the 
middle of taking his pleasure. Not an image | can easily forget, | tell 
you what! 


| extricated myself quickly, trying to make excuses, when HIS door 
bursts open, his own horde of zombies prostitutes calling for his 
head. A glance is exchanged over the living girl's head, and we both 
nod at each other. Now, | still had my shirt on, unbuttoned, but the 
Wolf, he’s completely naked. His body swells as he rises off the bed, 
grabs a chaise lounge, and begins to beat the undead menace 
soundly with his improvised melee weapon. So, naked beastman 
beating undead zombies with furniture, as I’m struggling to pull my 
hand cannon from the armpit holster | had stupidly removed. 


Let me tell you, the guns we had back in the day, they were 
something else. Filled with blessed rounds, well, not always, but in 
that situation, because, necromancer, and you could easily slip in 
whatever ammo might be needed. | always kept a couple of silver 
bullets on-hand, just in case. Hand-tooled back at the Factory, 
designed for the agent on the run, large bore, but little-to-no 
kickback. | found myself trying to shoot past the now-completely 
iced-over and armored Wolf, zombie heads popping like corn, when 
what should happen, but the damned ceiling caves in, a whole shit 
ton of undead dancers falling on top of us. 


The Winter Wolf and | wound up back-to-icy-back. I’m getting torn 
up, cause someone has armed these creatures, knives and the like, 
but since they don’t feel pain, they just keep coming! My gun runs 
dry, and | start using it like a club to beat off these girls. Always use 
a big gun; that way you can hit someone with it if you run out of 
bullets. And if anyone tells you you’re overcompensating, you can 
shoot them. | was able to snag a machete off one of the dead girls, 
but you ever try to chop through dead flesh? Well, all right, the flesh 
isn’t an issue, but the bone gets in the way something awful. It got to 
the point where | was just maiming them, and then spinning so the 
Wolf could finish them. | could feel the beast's armor getting thinner, 
and heard him getting hit, but | couldn’t afford to turn to look. 


It felt like we fought there for hours, but it was probably no more 
than 15 minutes. When all the bodies had stopped twitching, we 
finally were able to turn to each other. We both kept our eyes above 


the waist. He was bleeding, but so was I. And we looked at each 
other for a long time, as | slipped my coat back on, in hopes of 
covering myself at least a little bit. | do try my best to always look 
like a gentleman. | think that’s where my eldest got his affection for 
pristine suits. The walking cane is all his grandfather. My hand had 
slipped into the pocket of my coat, palming a single silver bullet. 


“Dancer?” he said, although it was more of a growl. In his 
transformed state, everything he said was more of a growl. 


“We were trying to put a stop to her. You?” | didn’t back down from 
his glare, despite the extra foot of height he had on me. Any display 
of weakness, and he would have likely gone for my throat. 


“Trying to recruit her. Apparently, she prefers to play alone.” He 
sneered, but with a snout like that, most of his facial expressions 
looked like sneers. 


We stood there for several more minutes, just looking at each other. 
| clutched the bullet tighter in my hand, and wondered if | was fast 
enough to load and fire it before he tore my throat out. And then he 
just nodded at me, | nodded at him, and he scampered out the 
window, while | borrowed a pair of pants from one of the dead girls, 
and went to meet my driver outside. 


You’d think that was the end of that story, but you’d be wrong. 


About three weeks later, my middle boy comes running in, all “Papa 
papa, there’s a man here to see you!” | ruffled his hair, and went to 
the door, and could feel the blood drain from my face. The Winter 
Wolf was at my door. He was dressed, well, rather ordinary a nice 
suit and tie, a good fedora, but it was hard to forget those eyes. He 
smiled at me, but it didn’t reach those cold dark orbs. He raised a 
hand, in which he held a familiar wallet. “You lost this.” That was all 
he said. 


He studied me as | studied him, then he turned his attention to my 
house, with the children playing in the yard. “You're not what | 
expected,” he said, not looking at me. “I didn’t figure one of the 
Foundation's hired killers-“ 


“’m not a killer,” | recalled protesting. The lie hung hollow on my lips, 
even then. | wasn’t an assassin. | was a researcher, and sometimes 
agent, when it was needed. It didn’t matter that some people died, | 
wasn't sent to kill them it was their own fault they resisted! At least, 
that’s what | told myself. 


“-to be a good family man,” he continued, as if | hadn’t even spoken. 
“I came here to kill you.” He said it so nonchalantly, as if he had said 
he was going to pick up a dozen eggs. | didn’t move. None of my 
guns were close enough to matter. “I was going to kill you, as an 
object lesson. Well. That is what | told myself. | knew in my heart the 
real reason was revenge, plain and simple.” He turned those dark, 
burning eyes on me, and his lip twitched slightly. “Your little 
Foundation destroyed my pack. My mate, my brothers. All under the 
excuse of protecting society.” 


He turned away from me, his gaze on the cherry tree, blooming in 
our yard. “You made me a monster.” 


“But | can’t do that to some one else’s pack.”