"lam not a Frau." Her hand was on the blinders. "| am Polish. | am 
free!" 


The others realized where her hand was going . The officer drew his 
gun. Kazia pleaded and turned away. Odetka begged, and shut her 
eyes a fraction too late. Tolek remained curled up on the street, as if 
a bomb was coming for him. 


Stefania pulled the blinders off of the basilisk. 


Tolek Lisiewicz was left alone on the street, with the shuddering 
sound of his companion's last breaths. He knew what had 
happened. The boy crawled towards Stefania, eyes still clamped 
shut, and felt her stony legs. She, too, had looked into the eyes. 
Intentionally, or inadvertently, it did not matter. She was dead. He 
believed the others to be as well. 


He felt his way up her body, mumbling apologies the whole time, 
until he came to the basilisk, trapped between her tight, stone- 
encrusted hands. 


Its neck came between his fingers. 


His hands twisted in opposite directions. The Basilisk of Warsaw 
was no more. 


Eyes still clamped shut, sobs suppressed and swallowed, he limped 
his way back down Basilisk Street, fearing that if he looked back, if 
he even opened his eyes to blink, he would put a picture to the 
horrific sound that he heard from the instant he snapped the 
basilisk's neck. 


Tolek heard screams, barely muffled by stone. Of them, Odetka's 
was the loudest. 


Underneath Basilisk street, in a disused cellar, an egg laid by a 
rooster began to hatch. 


Be a Dali and Help a Mann Out, or The Lamentable 
State of Modern Art 


When he was first partnered with Dr. Mann, Lament was handed a 
remote. As he was partnered to the doctor, so it was partnered to a 
small explosive implanted in the doctor's chest without his 
knowledge. 


Administrator Bunbridge had couched it in gentle terms. "Only as a 
last resort, you understand," and "Kindest thing, really, if it becomes 
necessary." 


Some days, Lament was depressed by the whole idea of an 
organization that would prepare to kill its own people just in case 
they went rogue. Other days, after being barraged with the Bee 
Gees, Abba, and KC and the Sunshine Band, he thought of the 
button longingly. But he'd never been seriously tempted to press it. 
In fact, some days, he forgot to take it with him, and it was left 
neglected on his coffee table. 


This was one of two mistakes Agent Lament realized he had made 
when he heard a low thud somewhere outside his bathroom. The 
other (obvious in hindsight) was to leave Mann unsupervised in his 
home. 


He rushed to the living room, barely taking time to button his 
trousers, mentally rehearsing the excuses he was going to have to 
feed to the Administrator, when he caught sight of Mann, holding the 
remote and pressing the button repeatedly. "I think your remote's got 
a dead battery," he said. "The telly won't turn on." 


"Um," Lament said, trying to piece together why Mann was intact. 
"That's... that's not for the television, Mann. That's for..." he 
searched around, "...for the dog door. But it, uh, doesn't work..." 


"Because you don't have a dog!" Mann said. "Of course. | should 
have realized." He smiled from under the mustache, as the world fell 


into place for him. 


"So, why did you have me bring you over?" Lament asked, trying to 
sound casual. 


"Oh, yes!" Mann said. "I think someone's trying to kill me." 


"Ah..?" Lament said, glancing at the remote. "What makes you say 
that?" 


"Well, they put an explosive in my chest. That's definitely 
suspicious," Mann said. 


Lament forced his eyebrows to raise up in surprise. "So you found... 
you have a bomb in your chest?" 


"Oh, not anymore. | took the thing out. | decided to play it safe." And 
this was indeed an unusual amount of self-preservation for Mann. 


"Then... where is it now?" Lament asked, thinking back to the thud 
he'd heard earlier. 


"Oh, where did | put it? Oh, | know. | left it in your car," Mann said 
cheerfully. 


| just finished paying it off, Lament thought. Well, of course it would 
be blown up. | should have expected it, really. 


"But not to worry,” Mann said. "I'm sure | know precisely who's 
responsible." 


"Do you?" Lament asked weakly. 


"Oh yes. Means, motive, and opportunity, Lament. That is the 
formula. Find those, and you have the culprit.” 


"Then who is it?" Lament thought desperately to his sidearm, 
currently by his bed, upstairs. 


"At first | suspected the Church of the Broken God. What is a bomb, 
Lament, but a mechanism for murder? And we all know how they 
love to tinker with human bodies." Mann's voice held no trace of 


irony. 


"But..." Lament listened in somewhat horrified fascination. Listening 
to Mann expound was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine, 
except that the machine could be expected to accomplish something 
at the end. 


"But the bomb uses an electronic trigger. Not their style. So next | 
looked to the Chaos Insurgency. They do like to sneak around. But 
they're not sly enough to get into my chest. My stomach, maybe, but 
they could never penetrate my rib cage and its secrets." 


"Granted," Lament said, as he tried to decide if he should come up 
with a cover story, or just rush Mann off to the site to let someone 
else deal with it. 


"But what of Wondertainment? So little we still know of the 
toymaker. Does he employ elves? Are they union? Surely if he can 
make a custom people as playthings, his knowledge of biology 
should make a simple chest bomb... well, child's play!" 


"And yet?" 


"What would he gain? I've almost saved up enough box tops for his 
Mikey Medula's Brain Surgery Kit. No, he'll not give up a potential 
sale so easily." Mann rubbed his chin. "| next suspected the Global 
Occult Coalition." 


"Because..." 


"Because they're opposed to our containment. | am, of course, a 
linchpin of the Foundation's operations, so I'm a natural target. But 
I've met their top surgeons. A bunch of amateurs, the lot of them. By 
no means capable of concealing such an invasive surgery, unless 
they tried some manner of... of sorcery, and | think we can discount 
that possibility. Are we not... Begging your pardon, Lament. Am / not 
aman of science?" 


"...For the sake of argument, sure," Lament said. 


"So clearly not them. The Serpents Hand could certainly have 
inveigled themselves onto the premises. But that bunch of long- 


haired ne'er-do-wells lacks the mechanical expertise for an 
explosive. Next, | turned my mind to Prometheus Labs. A bomb 
would be mere child's play for the least of their technicians." 


"And..." 


"But they've been defunct for years. No, they haven't the means to 
discover me, let alone to isolate me for surgery. So | turned my mind 
to Nobody. But obviously he couldn't have done it." 


"Because he doesn't exist?" 


"No," Mann said, shaking his head, "because he's in Toledo this 
time of year. So there's only one possible group that could have 
possibly pulled it off. Are We Cool Yet!" 


"...Seriously?" 


"Yes, Are We Cool Yet. | see your disbelief, but when | lay out my 
evidence, you will see-" 


Lament had had enough. "No." 

"No?" Mann frowned. "But wait, you see-" 

"No. Just... just no. I'll take your word for it." 

Mann's face fell. "But... But it's awfully clever. |... | made diagrams." 


"No. Mann, look, I'll go along and look into this with you. Just... don't 
explain it. Please." Let me continue to live in a world where | haven't 
heard yet another of his explanations, he pleaded with the universe. 


"Oh, all right," Mann said. "Terribly clever, though. You're missing 
out." 


"So, what do you plan to do about this?" Lament asked. 


"Why, seek revenge, of course!" Mann scowled. "I haven't been this 
vexed since Doctor Vang put hair remover in my mustache wax. The 
part that makes me angry is that they mucked about where I've 
already performed surgery. It's almost like... like a critique. Imagine 


SCP-797: Curious Poltergeist 


Item #: SCP-797 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-797 is to be contained in a 
room six (6) metres in length and six (6) metres in width. Walls 
(including floor and ceiling) must be at least 10 cm thick. Room is to 
be air-tight, with filtering system to clean the air of any bacteria. 
Every seven (7) days, a human cadaver of any age, condition, 
gender, or race is to be deposited in SCP-797's containment. After a 
period of twenty-four (24) hours, the cadaver is to be removed. 
Under no circumstances are any personnel to interact with 
SCP-797. Should SCP-797 enter a rage state, SCP-797-01 is to be 
eliminated via incineration and a new cadaver wheeled in, prompting 
a re-set of schedule. 


Description: SCP-797 is an oval-shaped object attracted to either 
dying or freshly deceased humans. SCP-797 is almost always seen 
with SCP-797-01, a collection of human flesh from various cadavers. 
When accompanied by SCP-797-01, subject will attempt to interact 
with any living human entering its containment. 


Testing on SCP-797 reveals that it does not react to non-human 
bodies, although it is known to 'mistake' organs from other animals 
to be human, provided the organ is of comparable size and shape 
as that of a human. The subject appears to have an understanding 
of human anatomy and will attempt to interact with any personnel 
that enter its containment, with varying degrees of success. Upon 
failure, SCP-797 will enter a rage state and begin to dismantle 
SCP-797-01, launching pieces of flesh at those whom it had 
attempted to interact with beforehand at a velocity recorded of at 
least 70 m/s. Contact with the pieces cause no harm beyond normal 
consequence of being exposed to rotting human flesh. The impact 
has been known to cause broken bones, cracked ribs, torn organs, 
and internal hemorrhaging. 


how you would feel if someone criticized your shooting, and 
shouting, and so forth." 


"| don't have to imagine," Lament said. "Because you do that. All the 
time." 


"Yes, well, I'm an expert surgeon, so it's a bit different." 


"Are you saying I'm not good at... shooting?" Lament asked, 
eyebrow raised. 


"Well, you did miss that fellow at the factory," Mann pointed out. 
"It was a warning shot!" 


"Oh. Well. Was it really?" Mann said. "| suppose that explains why 
you were so cross afterwards." 


"| wanted him to talk," Lament said. 
"And so he did, after a fashion," Mann said defensively. 
"Gurgling does not count as talking, Mann." 


"Anyway, | do feel your shouting could use more work," Mann said. 
"Not to criticize, but you have to feel it. Make it come from the 
diaphragm." 


Inside his coat pocket, Lament ran his thumb along the button. What 
might have been. "And my... so forth?" he growled. 


"Actually, no complaints there. I've always thought you were 
exemplary in the field," Mann said. 


"_..The field of so forth." 


"Yes, not many are so gifted," Mann said. "Anyway, let's be off. | 
know exactly where to find them." 


The car, happily, was still in running condition, though all of the 
windows were blown out. It hadn't been a terribly large bomb, all 
things considered. It hadn't needed to be. 


Mann directed Lament to drive downtown, until they reached a fairly 
nondescript office building, housing businesses dealing with 
corkboard, investment banking, and posters with cats on them. 


"What makes you think Are We Cool Yet is here?" asked Lament. 


"| realized that if they hadn't been found, they naturally must have 
taken the most devious, clever hiding place possible. So | asked 
myself where would | never think to look, even if given a thousand 
years. And here we are." 


A pained expression crossed Lament's face. On the one hand, he 
was glad Mann didn't actually know where to find the Gol, which 
should keep this from being too horrible an evening. On the other 
hand, he wondered where his life had gone so wrong that he 
regularly let Mann talk him into things like this. 


After wrestling with this profound betrayal of logic for a moment, he 
sighed and said, "All right. We'll go in, look around, and then head 
out. Just a little light reconnaissance. Then we report what we've 
found, and we let an MTF take care of them." 


"I'd like to show them the old vinegar, but | suppose you're right. 
Best leave it to the professionals." Mann twirled his mustache. 
"They'll regret messing with my thoracic cavity!" 


They snuck into the building, quietly moving from floor to floor. With 
each empty office, Mann grew more and more anxious, and Lament 
more relieved. 


"Okay, this is the last floor," Lament said. "If they're not here, we'll 
just have to go home, and report everything to the administrator." 
And hopefully he'll put an end to all this nonsense. 


"Right," Mann said, grimly. 


Lament slowly opened the door, and was blinded a moment by the 
bright light on the other side. A surprised looking man in an artist's 
smock was staring at him, surprised. Not so surprised, however, that 
he didn't punch an alarm and duck behind a wall. 


"Run!" Lament said, and started pushing back. Unfortunately, Mann 


misinterpreted the direction, and ran forward, colliding into Lament's 
back. The two fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and while they 
attempted to regain their feet, they were quickly surrounded by a 
bunch of college-age men and women who were surprisingly well 
armed. 


Lament wasn't sure which part was worse: the fact that they had 

been caught, or the fact that Mann had been right. His eyes rose 
upwards, as if to say to the universe, "This demeans us both, you 
know." 


"Who are you supposed to be, Salvador Dali and company?" asked 
their leader. He was a middle-aged man, with graying hair and 
noticeable paunch. "What the hell are you even doing here?" 


"We came to put a stop to your vile machinations!" Mann said. "You 
shan't take a single Foundation life this day!" 


"What machinations? It's finals week, you hopeless philistine. Do 
you have any idea, any idea at all, how many papers | have to 
grade? How many idiots who can't tell the difference between Van 
Gogh and Vin Diesel? | have far more important things to do than 
mess about with your idiot bourgeois Foundation." He lowered his 
half-moon glasses and gave the pair a serious look. "This really is a 
bad time, gentlemen." 


"Then who put the bomb in my chest?" Mann said. 


The artist's eyebrows raised. "Not |. Any of you gentlemen or 
ladies?" he asked those gathered, only to get a chorus of shaking 
heads. 


"Oh," said Mann. "Um. It appears there's been a mistake." 
"Yes, that seems to be the case," said the artist. 
"Well, we'll just be going..." Mann said. 


"Oh, no." The artist chuckled. "We can't simply let you go. No, I'm 
afraid that you'll be seeing... our gallery." He paused, then frowned. 
"Our... gallery." He paused again, expectantly, then glared at one of 
younger men. "Jason." 


"Oh! Sorry." He struck a picture of a lightning storm with a fist, and a 
peal of thunder rolled out. 


The artist sighed. "We try, really. Anyway, the gallery." Thunder 
rolled out again. "There we go." He gestured, and Mann and Lament 
were dragged to another darkened room. 


"You fiends!" Mann said. "Um. What happens next? I'm sorry, I've 
never been subjected to your gallery." 


Thunder rang out through the building. 


"Yes, thank you Jason, that's enough please. Here, you will be 
subjected to our darkest works. Our most terrifying pieces of art. 
Prepare yourselves, as your very souls are laid bare." 


"Can't you just shoot us?" Lament asked. "You have guns. With 
bullets. We saw them on the way in." 


"No! Instead, you must face... the Crushing Banality That Is 
Existence!" The man threw back a curtain covering a canvas, his 
face lit with maniacal glee. "DO YOU SEE IT? MY RAGE? LOOK AT 
MY RAGE!"