| pass by researchers, of course. There's a ton of us down here. 
Some, | know; others, | don't. The lucky ones have been here for a 
while. The unlucky ones? They're fifty dollars. Yeah, yeah. I'm sick. 
But the guy who runs the betting is the same guy who comes up 
with the cover stories for their families. Hah! He pockets ten percent, 
then tells them how a crane fell or a beam collapsed or something. 
They never hear about how someone was dissolved or unexisted or 
some shit. Its hard, though, coming up with excuses when there's no 
body. You gotta respect the man. 


| head down the corridor past the Level One and Two offices. Shiny 
nameplates hanging on the doors with nice, generic names. The 
lucky kids who only know about the Safes or maybe a Euclid. Must 
be nice. Past that, | take a left past the minimum security wing. 
Some safe class skips. Dozens of guards, but they all know me. And 
they know if | made it in, that I'm cleared. No one pays me attention 
except the new guys, who stiffen when | walk by. They'll get over 
that, eventually. Or maybe they won't. The ones that don't live the 
longest. 


And... break room. Finally. | pick up the scent of muffins, then the 
sound of her voice—in that order. She might have brought the 
muffins for everyone, if | was lucky, but chances were... 


| rounded the corner, and there she sat. Agatha Rights. Doctor 
Agatha Rights, | had to remember. Five foot four, built to adore, 
knockout and snore. Damn. And she was eating the last muffin from 
a plate. Damnit. So, no treat. Maybe | can get something else. 


"Well, well, well. Hello, Rights." Charming smile again. Let's roll. 


She turns around and smiles. A happy grin, as usual. An oddity 
down here. Somehow, she managed to avoid the really horrible 
stuff. Likely to keep from causing a problem. | mean, not that’s she’s 
terrible at things, she’s just... motherly with the staff. 


"Hey, Berg! Want a muffin?" | hated how fast that one seemed to be 
spreading. 


"That isn't the last one?" 
She looked at the muffin. Then the plate. Then me. 
"...Maybe." 


"No thanks. But make some cookies, and you know I'll take some." | 
smiled a bit more. 


"Oh, fine." She placed the empty tray on the counter. She'd bring 
them in tomorrow. 


"So... got any terrible paperwork buildup you need taken care of?" 


Might be nice to help her work through things. Give me a few nice 
hours before | had to drudge through my own. 


"Oh, not right now, sweetie. | can handle some things. Besides, the 
administration has threatened to reassign me to one-thirty if they 
don't actually see me write a report on my own, for once. Puts a 
small damper on my plans." 


"Ah, well. Too bad. Well, you know where my office is if you change 
your mind." 


"Oh, trust me, | do..." She smiled. "And just out of curiosity, if | make 
cookies, what kind do you want?" 


Score. 

"Double chocolate chip. It's my favorite.” 
She grinned. "Good, mine too." 

"See you later, sweetie pie." 


She waved goodbye, and | headed to the coffee pot. I’d hate to see 
her go, but I’m still not entirely sure why she’s still a researcher here. 
| guess because people like her, or she would have been terminated 
a while ago. Maybe they keep a few people with tender hearts 
around to keep the rest of us sane. Maybe. 


It's a short walk back to my office, and | spend most of it drinking my 
coffee from a styrofoam cup. | got out my keycard, then noticed the 
nameplate on the door. Someone had covered up the ‘Ice’ in my 
name. | sighed, trying to wipe it off with my sleeve, but it didn't 
budge. I'd have to submit a work request, and when it wasn't vital... 
They'd get to it ‘sooner or later.' 


There was a large stack of files next to the door. Another round of 
paperwork to slough through. Everyday. Well, at least it was 
relatively safe down here. Unless my inbox had become anomalous. 


| sat down at my computer, shaking the mouse to wake it up, then 
checking my email. Only two alerts, one last night, and one... Hell, 
fifteen minutes ago? | checked it, and felt a sudden creeping 


sensation lurching up my neck when | saw the number. 035. And the 
list of deceased included two Class-D's and... 


"Yes \" 


The rush of elation at reading MacCarrick's name was immediately 
dampened by a sudden twisting in my gut. Fuck. The nod had been 
too much, | guessed... | sighed, closing my eyes for a moment, then 
turned and grabbed the top file off the stack, opening it and 
proceeding to enter the data. 


Maybe Rights would bring the cookies tomorrow. 


...Like a Russian Racehorse 


Agent Strelnikov sat in his office, reading the latest reports on the 
recent round of tests on SCP-682. Nothing unusual. A few (actually, 
not so few) D-Class deaths, and a near-escape by that damned 
lizard. 


Typical. 


As he finished reading the section on the proposed use of other 
Keter SCP's when he heard a single *THUD* on his door. It was too 
hard to be a knock, but too light to be an attempt at entry. If nobody 
wanted to see him, and nobody was trying to kill him, what was it? 


As usual, he answered the door with a loaded Makarov. Nobody 
stood outside the threshold. But there was a note stuck to his door 
by a small length of duct tape. Raising an eyebrow, he took the 
single sheet of 8.5" x 11" paper. 


What he read made his eyes go wide. Wide with a burning, intense 
hatred, easily enough to scare even the most threatening SCP. 


Dear Agent Strelnikov: Exactly one mile north from the site 19 
entrance is a cache of exactly 144 bottles of Rodnik Gold Vodka. In 
case you don't know (which | highly doubt), this is some of the most 
expensive, authentic Russian Vodka on Earth. Do not use a vehicle 
to get to it. Do not use an SCP to get to it. I'm watching. You MUST 
get there on foot. If you DO violate these rules, | will detonate the 
entire cache using ten whole pounds of C4. Oh, and there's a time 
limit: 4 minutes from the very second you Set foot outside of this 
facility... or KABOOM. No vodka for you. Happy April Fool's day. 


Wasting not a second, he snatched his Soviet-era military uniform 
hat, placed it atop his head, and raced to the main entrance of site 
19. He knew that those in Olympic-athlete condition could run a 4- 
minute mile, and while he was certainly in great shape, he was no 
olympic athlete. But, knowing what was at stake... he ran as aman 


on some abominable mixture between cocaine and meth. 


Rushing straight through the exit's security checkpoint, he drew a 
small amount of fire, but was sprinting at such speeds, that the 
guards barely had time to aim. He burst out of the site, the image of 
a 4-minute countdown glaring in his mind. 


tick-toc 


He dashed through the area, going in a nearly impossible straight 
line. A straight line north. 


tick-toc 
Two minutes, twenty-eight seconds. He felt it. He pressed on. 
tic-toc 


One minute, four seconds. He felt his legs beginning to succumb to 
the pain of lactic acid production from the lack of oxygen. 


But the prize was in sight. A crate with the word 'RODNIK' 
emblazoned on the side. On top was a relatively small object with a 
timer on it. 


tic-toc 


Sixteen seconds. Only a 120-foot sprint lay between him and his 
prize. 


He was going to make it! He was going to- 
Boom. 
"No." thought the man. 


"No! | followed the rules of bullshit! Son of bitch, what did | do 
wrong?" 


He began to sob... 


"What... did... I... do... WRONG!?!?" 


Then, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov fell headlong, unconscious 
from the massive effort of his mad dash. 


Two figures watched from a distance through a pair of high-powered 
spotting scopes. 


"You have done... well enough." said the first, in a deep, 
purposefully strained voice. 


"| got the job done right." said the other, a hooded man, a hint of 
anger in his voice. "Don't tell me that like it didn't go as planned." 


"You shouldn't speak to your superiors that way. It could get you 
terminated." 


"That's bullshit, and you know it. As strict as Foundation regulations 
are, | refuse to accept that even the lowest non-D-class personnel 
are that expendable." 


"Perhaps you're right... perhaps you aren't. Either way, we have the 
results we needed to see. Strelnikov can be easily manipulated into 
acts of greater-than-normal feats of human physical prowess with 
the promise of valuable alcohol." 


There was a short pause. 
"...particularly vodka." 


"| don't understand why you needed an experiment to know any of 
this. It's pretty much Foundation-wide knowledge." 


"Perhaps. But did you really think that he could do this? A mile in 
under four minutes is nearing super-human." 


".,.to tell you the truth? No. Now | have one question for you." 
"Shoot." 
"...why did you detonate the cache before he got to it?" 


"It was empty. He would have died of pure disappointment, most 


likely, if he found he put in that much effort for nothing but an empty 
crate. He's probably extremely disappointed as is, but if he knew 
there was nothing in the first place..." 


"You O5's are sick bastards." 
"It's pretty much a pre-requisite for the job." 
The hooded man began to walk away. 


"Don't forget..." called the O5, "...speaking of this to anyone other 
than an O5 is grounds for termination." 


The hooded man simply got into a black car, and drove away. 
The O5 smiled, and walked over to a seemingly-innocuous boulder. 


"I'm alone.", the now-female voice called. The rock shimmered, and 
disappeared, the holographic projecting device recognizing the shut- 
off command. In its place was a crate marked 'RODNIK'. 


"Ah, yes." cooed the O5. "And now, for some time to myself, alone 
with my ill-gotten gains. They don't pay us enough for this damn 
job..." she complained, using a crowbar to pry the top of the crate 
open. "We're administers for one of the most powerful shadow- 
organizations to ever exist, and what do we get paid? A measly-" 


"You are not alone." came a rough, thickly-accented voice. "You are 
dead." 


That O5 never reported in to the Foundation the next day. 


Nor the next day. Nor the next day. Or even the day after that. In 
fact, she was never heard from again. 


After a month of searching, the other O5's decided that the 
Foundation's resources were best spent elsewhere. A new O5 was 
chosen, and things resumed, more or less, as usual. 


Nobody asked Agent Strelnikov where he got the massive crate of 
Vodka that day. 


SCP-895: Camera Disruption 


Containment Area 895-06 Live Feed (30 m) 


Item #: SCP-895 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-895 is sealed closed and 
stored in an isolated underground containment cell at a depth of 
approximately 100 meters. No cameras, microphones, or other 
surveillance equipment may be brought within the 10 meter "Red 
Zone" radius of SCP-895 without express permission from at least 
two (2) Level 3 personnel. 


Any on-site personnel exhibiting unusual behavior or signs of 
psychological trauma are to be screened immediately, and removed 
from the site or terminated as the situation warrants. 


Description: SCP-895 is an ornate oak coffin recovered from the 

Mortuary by SCP personnel on // , following reports of 
unusual footage captured by surveillance equipment installed at that 
location. When questioned, mortuary staff were unable to determine 
the source of SCP-895 and how it was transported to the location. 
Upon attempting to open SCP-895, agents on location found the 
object empty; however, observers viewing the live camera feed were 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. Until further notice, SCP-895 must remain 
closed at all times. 


SCP-895 causes disruptions in video and photographic surveillance 
equipment within 50 meters similar to vivid, disturbing hallucinations 
with variable duration and regularity corresponding to the camera's 
proximity to SCP-895. Within a range of 5 meters from SCP-895, 
footage captured can cause severe psychological trauma and 
hysteria in most subjects. These disruptions do not extend to 
observers physically present within the area. 


Addendum 895-01: Audio excerpt from the SCP-895 Recovery Log 


Like Clockwork 


“So how do we do this?” Harken asked, stubbing a cigarette into the 
growing pile on the console ashtray. 


Kramer looked around inside the car that had been their mobile 
home the last few weeks. Not overly flashy to begin with, the interior 
been rendered a wreck by Harken's chain smoking, snacking, and 
general disregard for property. Perfect camouflage yes, but even 
with her olfactory senses dialed all the way down, it still stank of 
smoke, sweat and nervous tension. 


“You still in there, cupcake?” he asked, tapping on her nose. Almost 
before he'd touched her, five scalpel-sharp blades sprung from her 
thin fingers, the lethal hand poised a hair's breadth from Harken's 
eyes. He pulled his hand back with a smirk, more amused then 
afraid. “At least you're still with us. So how are we doing this?” 


She ignored him, turning to look at the “Open Hands Outreach 
Center” across the street. A combined thrift store and community 
outreach center, it was also a cover for one of the largest Church of 
The Broken God communities in the midwest, with an extensive 
underground network of rooms and tunnels stretching far and deep. 
She absently cycled to infrared, watching the vague heat-ghosts 
wander through the building. 


"We are not doing anything. You are supporting.” 
“Oh to hell with that, you can't smash up a church all by-” 


“YOU can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, and you have 
all the physical combat skills of toast.” 


He huffed, throwing up his hands. It was cheap, childish, and 
absolutely true. 


“There's a vent beside the air conditioner that leads to the main 


chamber. | can dislocate my ribs, arms and legs, and slip down 
almost on top of them.” She smiled with predatory satisfaction. 


He cringed, looking at her sidelong. “Jesus, do it the hard way, why 
don't you?” 


“It's the quickest way in. | can't just crash the front door, and waiting 
for the bishop to come out and wander into a bullet could take 
weeks. Quick in, quick out, no time for anyone to really realize we're 
here... it's sneaky. | thought you'd be pleased.” She grinned at him, 
radiating the sweetness of a cat with a bloody muzzle. 


Harken stared at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth a grim line. “You're full 
of shit, you know that, right?” 


“My, what ever do you mean, Agent Harken?” Kramer was 
practically purring now, her voice tinged with a nearly seductive 
anticipation that had nothing to do with sex. 


“You just want to watch everyone run in terror.” 


She smiled, stepping out of the car with a wink. “See you after work, 
sweety,” she giggled, winking a eye cycling between green, yellow 
and white, striding across the street with a exaggerated wiggle of 
her thin hips. 


Harken smouldered in impotent, frustrated fury, managing to light 
two cigarettes backwards before letting it go. 


The brothers walked down the hall slowly, heads bowed, the dull 
beat of the machinery deep below them like the warm pulse of a 
mother's heart. The two men stepped in time to the throb, letting it fill 
their Broken bodies, the richness of the Silent Voice tugging deep 
inside. Their reverie was so deep, so profound, they didn't hear the 
wall grate open, the soft sound of scraping flesh as it oozed from the 
confined space. 


Brother Cam looked up at a sudden noise, his meditation broken by 
what sounded like a...a chirp, or a squeal. He looked, then suddenly 
turned more, searching, trying to find Brother Han. He'd been right 


there, walking beside him. Brother Cam heard another noise, like a 
soft tap, and he leaned in to the semi-dark hall, trying to place the 
sound. 


A thick metal hook tore his skull open like a rusty can.