"On it," Kramer nodded, making her way to the manager's office. 


The rain from the broken skylight was starting to flood the inside of 
the bank; already, the agents could feel their socks getting wet 
inside their boots. The low growl of the werewolf handing the guard 
emanated as the sound of police sirens started tearing through the 
rain. 


"Goddamn alarms," Susan hissed. "Shouldn't have shot out the 
glass. Sorry." 


The city's government didn't tolerate the existence of the Foundation 
within city limits. If they were caught here, the organization would 
disavow them, and they'd most likely rot in jail for a decade or two. 


Leah could afford to lose that time, but nobody else could. She 
popped in another pill, and licked her lips as her tongue trailed out of 
her mask. "I'll handle them. Gonna try not to kill any." 


"Luck, L." Susan nodded, wondering what was taking Kramer so 
long to get the bank manager. 


Kramer's better eye couldn't see shit. 


The walls of the manager's office was lead-lined. She couldn't see 
anything through the walls or floor, on any spectrum. If the panic 
room was here, she couldn't see it— or rather, that would be the 
case, if not for the rain. 


Lightning briefly illuminated the office, and she saw that there was a 
conglomeration of debris on a particular point on the floor, ina 
somewhat squarish pattern. Grinning, she produced a collapsible 
crowbar from her side, and stuck herself with the syringe that she 
had been given. 


She had used this particular brew so often she hardly felt its effects 
anymore— no more rush, no more giddiness. She would have to 
ask Stoker's girlfriend to make her a new batch, something stronger. 
Or maybe she should just see an addiction therapist. 


But that wouldn't be as fun as sticking the head of the crowbar 
against the floor tiles and yanking it upward. Underneath it, in the 
panic room's space, was a cowering Eventideian in a black suit. 
Kramer knew how to get them to talk. 


Kathryn Kramer's eye lit up with UV radiation— simulated sunlight. 

She looked down at him, lifting her mask aside to reveal the shining 
eye. "You have ten seconds to tell me what the vault's combination 
is, or | give you sunburn." 


"O-okay, okay," the man winced. "It's—" 


"8-6-7-5-3-0-9." Stoker punched in the code with a frown; at thirty 
seconds left, the vault opened. "Seriously?" 


"Jenny don't change your number," Smith shrugged, turning on her 
flashlight. "Right, we're looking for a small statue with a jackal head, 
maybe a foot tall. You take the deposit boxes on the left, I'll take the 
ones on the right." 


Drawing his crowbar, Stoker started tugging open the safety deposit 
lockers, one by one. He found bonds, bank statements, jewelery, 


even whole ingots— but no statue. "I got jack shit," he complained, 
moving onto the back wall. 


Smith had better fortune; on the last locker on her wall, she found a 
small, granite statue. Grinning, she pulled it out. "I got it. Let's 
vamanos." 


"Vamonos," Stoker corrected. "Vamanos is ‘handcuffs’. 


"Oh. Let's avoid those." She stowed the statue in her duffel bag, 
making sure its head was sticking out, and started for the vault's 
exit. As they entered the lobby, gunfire erupted. 


True to her word, Leah wasn't trying to kill any of the officers, but it 
was damn hard to do. 


Her saliva contained an agent which could knock people out in large 
amounts— with her three-foot-long tongue, it was easy enough to 
lick the officers, even under the mask. Jacob had already managed 
to skedaddle, and with good reason. The EPD was using silver 
ammunition. It didn't hurt her too much, but the wounds would take 
longer to heal. If it was beryllium-bronze bullets, like the Foundation 
had, that would be a different issue entirely. 


"DOWN!" Stoker yelled from behind her. Leah looked back in time to 
see him inject "the Juice” into his neck. Her eyes went wide, and she 
dove past the members of the EPD as Stoker started speaking 
words of power. Amplified by the thaumaturgical juices flowing 
through his veins, hell broke loose. 


In one second, all of the police officers started vomiting blood. 


In two seconds, they were flying through the air, as if being carried 
by invisible ropes, into the bank's lobby. 


In the third second, they had been suspended from the frame of the 
broken skylight. 


In the fourth and final second, Leah found herself, and everyone 
else, in the van. Stoker was driving. 


"Should you really be doing that?" Leah asked. "A four-second dose 
can kill you, and | don't want to die in a crash." 


"I'm fine," he panted, wiping blood from his lips. "Let's get this thing 
back to Site-51 and get it in containment." 


Leah looked at the statue; the inscription at the base was in Greek, 
and yet it depicted something with the head of a jackal. "This gonna 
get classified as a proper skip?" she asked. 


"Maybe," Smith nodded, removing her mask. "But if so, that means 
we have more paperwork to write. And paperwork means detox." 


"Fuck that noise," Kramer shook her head. "We class this as an AO 
and leave it at that." 


"| think that some of the eggheads are gonna object,” Stoker rolled 
his shoulders. Thunder rumbled throughout the darkened city as 
they made their way to the one beacon of light that still remained, 
immune from the power outage— Site-51, which lit up the night. 


Housework 


Housework 


Nobody could say that it’s always cold here. 

There are those rare days around mid-august when the sun puts in 
some extra effort and occasionally you only need one layer of 
clothing when going about your business. 

But it wasn’t mid-august and | was wearing a heavy raincoat as a 
result. December had been and gone and February was letting out a 
slow death rattle in the form of gale-force winds. | wore my hair short 
which meant is wasn’t snatched this way and that like most of the 
people | had passed today but my earring had had to be removed 
before the wind did the job for me. 

Somebody said to me once that it’s only ever windy or cold; never 
both. This friend of mine had never been to the city however, so | let 
them keep believing it. 

The wind would have given me a good excuse to stay inside but 
when I’ve a job to do | try my best to see it through as soon as 
possible. 

Get it out the way, so to speak. 

That in mind | had been staring at the front of the pub for quite some 
time. 

It was more a reluctance to go inside than to do the job — I’d made 
all the effort to be warm outside that I’d be boiled like a lobster the 
moment | went inside. That was the problem with this city; you could 
only be too hot or too cold. 

The pub itself was in a very good condition compared to the 
buildings that surrounded it. When you serve the locals around here 
you were bound to make quite a lot of money. It was painted mainly 
in reds, though the window sills were matte black as was the sign 
above the door. The Splayed Drifter it was called and in my mind it 
was only named that so you’d never forget it. | could hear the 
sounds of subdued Sunday carousal inside but the thought of other 
people was never a tempting one. But | knew I'd have to go in 
eventually or my client would leave. So | braced myself and pushed 


* A giant centipede with human arms instead of legs. 


Specimens of SCP-870 are highly predatory, and will typically stalk 
their prey for months and years without eating. It is unknown how 
they manage to last this time without succumbing to malnutrition. 
Eventually, at a seemingly random time when their prey is alone or 
in a secluded area, SCP-870 will kill and swallow their prey whole. 
(See Interview 870-1) 


SCP-870's method of reproduction is currently unknown, but the 
journal of schizophrenic researcher speculates that they do 
not actually require sustenance to survive, and instead re-purpose 
the body of their victim into their young over a large period of time. 
This theory has not been verified, and research is underway to test 
it. 


The specimen of SCP-870 currently in Foundation custody 
frequently attempts to breach containment, and has proven hostile 
to all personnel. Banging noises are audible from SCP-870's 
containment area at all hours of the day. Research is ongoing to find 
a way to perceive SCP-870 without being schizophrenic, but this 
may take a considerable length of time. 


It is currently believed that there could be dozens, if not hundreds of 
SCP-870 in the world. They are a clear and present danger to the 
public, and steps must be taken to destroy or contain the species. 


Interview 870-1 
Interviewed: Mr. 
Interviewer: Dr. 


Foreword: On / /20 , Mr. reported to police that he 
had killed a 'monster' at his home in . Mr. was 
later found to be schizophrenic and the Foundation, 
suspecting SCP-870 involvement, brought him in for 
interrogation. 


<Begin Log> 


Dr. : Hello, . How are you? 


my way inside. 


There was a football match on the corner set. Funny, it was one of 
those old-fashioned televisions you’re always surprised to find still 
existing. Considering how well the place was doing for itself | would 
have expected at least a flat screen but then maybe that was the 
attraction, that sense of nostalgia. Most of the regulars were well 
past their sell-by date and sitting here pretending it was the good old 
days was often the only barrier between them and a quiet, miserable 
end to life. | didn’t raise a comment when | entered and no awkward 
silence descended. | wasn’t the only non-regular after all and | was 
barely noteworthy material in the first place. Apart from my eyes of 
course but that goes without saying really. 


Not seeing my client straight away | sat down at the bar. 

A woman in her forties came over to me as soon as she was 
finished chatting with one of the other patrons and pulled a pint 
glass down, before looking to me with a smile. 

“What’ll you be having, dear?” she asked. 

“Coffee, please. Black three sugars.” 

“Beer?” 

“No thank you.” 

“Everybody wants beer.” | sighed. 

“Not me. These days absinthe is all | really touch. Or the coffee | just 
asked for.” 

“Everybody wants beer.” 

| looked her in the eyes and she froze up a little. She quite clearly 
wanted to look away but true to form she just couldn't. I’ve never 
been able to explain the phenomenon other than the guess that my 
gaze is just as fucked-up strange as | am. 

“Coffee. Black. Three Sugars. Please.” | said as gently as | could. 
She nodded and | looked away. Relieved, the woman walked off to 
the machine. 

| relaxed and looked around the room, trying to pick my client out 
from the crowd. 


It was easy enough to be honest. All | needed to look for was those 
green stains we can’t help but leave behind us. Normal folks don’t 
and | don't, but the ladies and gentlemen moving in my circles had 
no choice. You have to be out of the ordinary to see it but the stains 


are often everywhere. Faint and pale usually but always prevalent. 
Sure enough there was a man sat with a small group of others, 
telling a story. They crowded around him looks of mirth on their 
faces and raucous laughNter filled the place as he reached a 
punchline. 

He briefly looked up and | beckoned him over. He double-took and 
his face went rapidly to concern but he masked that almost as soon 
as it showed. He made some excuses and headed up to the bar, a 
rough type clapping him heartily on the back as he went. 

He got to the seat next to me about the time my coffee arrived. He 
pushed a note into the bar woman's hand and she thanked him 
before walking off to serve others. 


“Are you...?” 

| took a sip of my coffee. Burnt, damn it. 

“No.” | replied. “I called you over so | could knock you out and steal 
your kidneys. The hell do you think, Seamus?” 

He gulped and his face flushed a little. He didn’t say a word for a 
moment or two before it hit him. 

“| never told you my...” 

“Not the only thing I’m not supposed to know. It’s the circles you 
move in now.” 

Actually | had just run a background check on his picture but the 
new kids on the block were always easy to play with. They didn’t 
understand that having some contacts with the police and knowing a 
decent hacker did more than mystic tomes and summoning 
abominations ever could. 

“So Seamus.” | said taking another sip. “What is it you’re paying me 
for?” 

“I, uh... kinda let something happen.” 

“So does everyone. Be blunt.” 

“...[ think it’s like a ghost or something. It’s in my house.” 

| sucked my teeth. 

“Well that’s certainly a downer for you I’d imagine.” 

“Someone told me you... do things about it.” 

“Did they tell you my price?” 

“| guess so.” 

Good enough. 

“And you're willing to pay?” 

“I can up front if you like.” 


He reached into his pocket and brought his wallet back out, tugging 
at the zip on the side. | brushed his hand away and shook my head. 
“No. Leave it until the job’s done.” 

He put it back in his pocket, confused. 

Now for the important question. 

“Seamus, how much do you know?” 

“What... what do you mean? The ghost-thing acts kinda like-“ 

“No, no, no, no, no. Not what | meant at all. How much do you 
know? And how long have you known?” 

He thought about it. 

| waited and finished my coffee as he thought. 

“Not much. | think | first found stuff out last year. The first lot | met 
tried talking me out of it all.” 

That was all | needed. 

| thanked him and bought him a drink. No need to ask directions, | 
already knew the place. 

Anyway, | had some preparation to do first. 


All the lights in Seamus’ house were properly fucked. 

| flicked every switch | came across and nothing. | had a maglite so 
it wasn’t an enormous problem but it would have been a lot nicer. 
The place was dusty; he hadn't been here for a week or more at a 
guess. Cluttered too. Seamus clearly did not concern himself with 
tidying up very often. 

Other than that it was pretty clear that he had a good amount of 
money. Top of the range electronics — dead as the lights if you were 
wondering — rich carpets on most of the floors, an especially fancy 
bathroom and even a large collection of antique books. 

| groaned. It was always sodding books. You never found somebody 
who'd pulled back The Curtain via a skiing accident say, or by 
dancing unknowingly an ancient summoning dance or something. 
No, people always had to find some tome not meant for mortal eyes 
blah, blah sodding blah and then next thing you know I’m breaking 
into some idiot’s house to see why he disappeared after screaming 
to his family about the tentacles. 

It was just so damn cliché. 

But ours not to reason why and all that. Il’d have checked the books 
out but in all honesty | couldn’t care less about them and | had better 
things to do. 


Like figure out where the dead-thing was watching me from. 

I'd felt the eyes on me from the moment | opened the door but so far 
nothing. Some of the stains in the house were so dark green they 
may as well be black so it had definitely been hanging around. It had 
dropped the temperature a few degrees after I'd checked the 
bathroom but | think that was more because of how long I’d been 
here rather than where I'd explored. 

| hate it when you know that something is watching you but you can’t 
see it. If there was ever a better way to unnerve someone it clearly 
fell out of fashion some time ago. And this dead-thing was a patient 
one in all likelihood. In most cases they had to be.