Agent Navarro stood quietly over the grave of Pyotr Astapenov. He 
had wasted no time in obtaining clearance to re-exhume the 
remains. As much as he hated to admit it, the voice had been right 
to a certain degree about his curiosity. This seemed as good a 
means as any to put that feeling to rest. 


Eventually the crew succeeded in reaching Pyotr’s casket. Upon 
Navarro’s order they opened it. Pyotr’s body was still present and 
displaying the expected decay of a man buried in 1959. 
Unfortunately, there was a small piece of paper held tightly within his 
right hand. One of the crew quietly handed it to Navarro. It contained 
a single note. 


Daniel, 
| knew you wouldn't be able to resist. 
See you soon. 
ee ap 


Navarro sat down on the edge of the grave. He buried the note in his 
fist as he gave a nervous laugh. 


“Well shit.” 


«START | Hub | Meeting Over Coffee» 


Meeting Over Coffee 


Daniel Navarro sat alone at a secluded table in a coffee house in 
Portland. Rather than the usual attire he wore while acting as an 
agent for the Foundation, here he sat in a set of street clothes. 

Spread out on the table before him was a series of eleven notes. 


The clock has struck one, Daniel. 
~JTH 


The clock is at two. 
~JTH 


Tick tock, we’re now at three. 
~JTH 


The bells toll four. 
~JTH 


Time is running out, Daniel. The clock strikes five. 
~JTH 


Half way there. The clock strikes six. 
~JTH 


The hour is seven, Daniel. 
~JTH 


The pendulum swings, and now it is eight. 
~JTH 


Time grows short. The ninth hour is at hand. 
~JTH 


Are you frightened, Daniel. The clock strikes ten. 
~JTH 


Hour Eleven. See you soon. 


oo) Vit 


Each one had been found at the last eleven anart sites Navarro had 
been assigned to. While he was not one to scare easily, Navarro 
would be lying if he said he wasn't feeling slightly uneasy. Whoever 
JTH was, it now appeared they were making good on their promise 
from Belarus. They were coming to see him soon. 


Navarro quietly folded up the notes and placed them in his jacket 
pocket. He then took a sip of coffee as he rubbed his temple and 
waited for his guest to arrive. 


A short while later she did. 


Navarro waved to her as she found her way to the back of the coffee 
house. She was a tall, pale woman in her mid-thirties with short 
black hair, dressed in a black rain jacket. Without a word she 
approached, choosing to stand by the table rather than take a seat. 
For a moment the two stared at each other, waiting for the other to 
speak. 


“You know,” Navarro broke the silence, “I was half expecting you to 
not show up. Please, take a seat. Do you want anything to drink?” 


The woman shook her head as she sat down. 


“| figured that if | didn’t make an appearance here, you'd take it upon 
yourself to visit me at home or work,” she replied. 


“You got me there,” Navarro said with a shrug. “How are you, Jill? 
Still teaching at that high school?” 


“The school was closed down in 2008,” Jill said, “I’ve been working 
at a graphic design firm since.” 


The table then fell silent. Jill simply starred at Navarro, her eyes a 
mixture of anger and sadness. 


“| suppose | should get to onto business then,” Navarro sighed. 


“That would be appreciated,” returned Jill. 


Navarro then pulled a file out of his pack and slid it across the table, 
allowing Jill to open it before he spoke. 


“My sources tell me you're still involved in the Portland anart scene 
from time to time, | was hoping you could point me in the right 
direction of a particular artist. They’ve been making animated lawn 
gnomes. Normally they are harmless enough, stealing bits and bobs 
from sheds, moving things around at night, so on and so forth. 
However, recently a group of ten of them pummeled a local 
teenager unconscious and stole, among other things, his shoes,” 
Navarro chuckled slightly before taking another sip of his coffee. 
“Naturally, my employers sent me in to see who is making them and 
get things to cool down a bit.” 


Jill closed the file and slid it across the table, folding her arms as she 
shook her head. 


“Sorry, can’t help you out.” 


“| see,” Navarro replied, setting his now empty mug down on the 
table. “Well, then, would you know someone who would know?” 


“No.” Jill countered. 
“Of course not,” Navarro sighed. “I’m sorry for bothering you then.” 


He then placed the file back in his bag, a small smile on his face as 
he stood up. 


“If you’re still married to Tom, please tell him | said hi,” said Navarro, 
“| saw that sculpture of his at the Portland Art Museum. It looks 
nice.” 


Jill shook her head in response. 
“How do you sleep at night?” 


“Preferably on a bed,” Navarro replied, “But, I’m sure that’s not the 
answer you wanted.” 


“When we heard you were nabbed by the Suits, we thought you 
were dead!” Jill hissed. “I don’t know about your friends in other 


cities, but we held a fucking funeral here! Myself, Tom, Eric, 
Jackson, Alexis, hell even Jericho was there!” 


Navarro opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t get the words 
out before Jill unleashed another wave. 


“Now imagine how we felt two years later when we heard, not only 
that you were alive, but were working for the Suits, and leading 
a raid on the Baker’s Seattle studio! How could you? Of all people, 
how could you work for them?” 


Jill’s hands were now closed into tight fists, the intensity of her glare 
enough to burn a hole through steel. 


“And to top it off, you think you can just roll in here after all this time, 
as if nothing has happened, and ask me to help you?” 


Navarro sighed and returned to his seat. For several moments he 
remained silent. 


“Jill, humor me for a second,” he began. “How many anartists do you 
personally know? No names, just give me a number.” 


“What does that have to do with...” she began, her expression now 
one of confusion. 


“Just a number Jill,” Navarro interrupted. 
“,.. Eleven.” 


“Right, and | bet for the most part they are harmless, relatively 
normal people who picked up anart the same way someone picks up 
other hobbies, like you and your sketches,” said Navarro. “For the 
most part they don’t want to prove some point about society or harm 
people. But there are anartists out there who are like that. And the 
‘Suits’ as you call them; they aren’t in the habit of taking too much 
time to do the delicate task of determining the difference.” 


Navarro then reached back into his pack and pulled out the file and 
sliding it back across the table. 


“That’s where | come in,” Navarro continued. “That’s why | go to 


sent to determine the threat level posed by the newly designated 
SCP-599. 


| received a fairly warm reception upon arrival. It almost seemed like 
they knew | was coming... 


Am very tired from my trip. The locals agreed to put me up ina 
nearby motel. | was reluctant to actually sleep inside a designated 
SCP, but didn’t seem to have much choice. | checked in using the 
fake name and dummy credit account provided by the Foundation. 
According to the guestbook, nobody else has checked in for quite a 
while... 


bat 
Day 2 
| heard noises in the motel all night. The guestbook still shows no 
entries but mine. 


Attempted to acquire information on the inhabitants of SCP-599. City 
Hall contains names and addresses of all inhabitants, but no records 
of births or deaths. 


Was asked on three separate occasions if | planned to move into 
. Each time, | supplied the answer “I’m thinking about it.” 
Which isn’t technically a lie — I'm thinking that the answer is no. 


at 
Day 3 
My door was unlocked this morning. It was locked from the inside. 
Someone went through my things, but nothing seems to be missing. 
There isn’t anything in there that contains any real information on 
me, anyway. 


| found a street in the residential district today that I’m certain wasn't 
there yesterday. Several houses were present, but none were 
inhabited. The people living nearby claim that the previous 
occupants “moved away,” adding that “it’s been so lonely ever 
since.” Again, City Hall has no records of anyone ever moving away. 


it 
Day 4 


people like you to find out who artists like whoever made these 
gnomes are, because if | don’t find them first another agent will and | 
can almost guarantee they probably will not do as good a job as | do 
of keeping things civil. Unlike me, they haven't been on both sides of 
this. Yeah, maybe how | handled the uniform change wasn’t the best 
way to go about things, but | do what | do to keep people like you 
out of the crossfire.” 


Jill fell silent as Navarro placed the file back into his pack. He then 
pulled out a box and placed it on the table. 


“By the way, | almost forgot to give you this.” 


Jill opened it to find a small metal picture frame. Inside was a 
colored pencil sketch of a blue sailing ship at sea, the image moving 
over the waves on the paper. On occasion a bank of fog would 
appear, and then vanish, taking the ship along with it. The ship 
would reappear at the center of the image a few moments later. In 
the bottom corner she could see her initials. 


“| stumbled across that in a raid on the east coast,” Navarro said as 
he placed his pack back on his shoulders. “Since my employers 
were just going to place it in low priority storage until the end of time, 
| felt maybe it would be best if it just vanished one day and was 
returned to you.” 


Jill covered her hand over her mouth as she looked down at the 
picture and slowly nodded a ‘thank you’. 


“If | give you a name, will you promise they won't be hurt?” She then 
asked. 


“| promise,” Navarro replied. 


“And you'll leave? Tom, Jackson, Alexis, and me; we'll never see 
you again?” 


“If that’s what you want.” 


Jill then quietly grabbed a napkin and quickly wrote down a name 
and address. She then folded the napkin up and handed it to 
Navarro. 


“Thank you very much,” said Navarro as he pocketed the 
information. 


Jill nodded and quietly placed the lid back on the box. 
“You have a nice life, Jill.” 


Without another word, Navarro stepped out of the coffee house and 
into the rainy Portland night. 


Navarro traveled on foot for quite some time, gathering his thoughts 
as he made his way across the damp city-scape. As he stepped 
across an alley, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck, as if he 
was bitten by a bug. Quickly, he slapped at his assailant, only to find 
a piece of paper. Navarro silently read it to himself. 


The clock strikes twelve. 
Hello Daniel. 


Navarro then glanced down the alley. There he saw a tall figure ina 
dark coat, a hat pulled low over their face, obscuring all view. 
Navarro watched as his vision then blurred, and his legs gave out 
from underneath him. He could see the figure begin to make its way 
down the alley toward him. 


“Well shit,” Navarro mumbled as he finally blacked out. 


«Part One: 15-11-2012 | Hub | Part Three: J. T. H.» 


J.T. H. 


Navarro groaned loudly as he placed his right hand to his head. He 
felt as if someone had attempted to crack it open, but failed and 
decided to punch it repeatedly instead. Slowly, he propped himself 
up and opened his eyes. 


“Well then...” he mumbled to himself as he looked around. 


Navarro was on top of a large polished steel platform in the center of 
what appeared to be an otherwise empty warehouse. At least three 
spotlights were shining down on him from somewhere above, 
making it difficult to see his surroundings. His jacket had been 
replaced with a black metal breastplate. The symbol of the SCP 
Foundation was engraved above his heart. Looking down, Navarro 
could see his reflection in the surface of the platform. 


“God damn it, they made me art again, didn’t they...” he said as he 
rubbed his temples and very carefully got to his feet. It was then that 
a man’s voice pierced the darkness. 


“If you value keeping your head and limbs attached to your torso, 
you'll stay on the platform,” the voice said. “That breast plate has 
been rigged to seal off all holes in the event you step down from 
there. The same will happen if you try to remove it yourself. You'll 
need someone else to do that for you. Oh, and don’t try anything 
magical. That will trigger it too.” 


The voice was deep, and surprisingly non-threatening. Almost like a 
game show host. Navarro squinted against the spotlights and could 
barely see a tall figure standing in the distance, presumably the 
voice’s source. 


“So what, the armor protects me, but is also deadly in and of itself?” 
Navarro addressed his host as he watched the figure meander 
closer. 


m9 


“| call the piece ‘Reflections of Daniel Navarro,” the man replied, 
stopping his gait just far enough to keep his face obscured in the 
darkness. He was dressed in a black business suit. A single leather 
glove covered his right hand. “Quaint, don’t you think?” 


“A little too obvious if you ask me...” Navarro began as he looked 
down at his reflection in the platform. “I take it you’re JTH?” 


The man didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled a small, black, leather 
bound notebook out of his pocket and quietly flipped to a page near 
its center. 


“June, 2004. Daniel Navarro is apprehended by the Suits. He is 
assumed dead by a majority of his friends and family. A funeral is 
held for him in Portland, Oregon,” the man read aloud. “November, 
2005. Daniel Navarro is spotted, both alive and well, leading a Suit 
raid on a studio in Seattle. The raid results in the destruction of at 
least $100,000 worth of art and materials that | had personally 
provided, and the arrest and presumed death of artists Francis and 
Elizabeth Baker, both of whom were acquaintances of Navarro prior 
to his apprehension, and were dear friends of mine. The local anart 
community is both in shock and pain from Navarro’s apparent 
turncoat nature.” 


“They were building giant, lead sculptures of spiders that easily 
could have killed hundreds of people if they were...” Navarro 
protested, but paused as he felt the breast plate tighten around his 
torso. Looking up, he saw his host pointing at him with his gloved 
hand. 


“Please, Daniel, if you’d be so kind as to let me finish, that would be 
appreciated,” the man said. He then flipped to the next page in his 
notebook. “March, 2007. Navarro personally leads a raid on a cache 
of supplies, which was due for shipment the following morning. The 
clay is subsequently destroyed, resulting in the stalling of at least 
five different projects, and a net loss of nearly five million dollars on 
my end.” 


The man paused and looked up at Navarro before shaking his head. 


“| lost a lot of ‘friends’ after that one,” he chuckled. “It’s pretty 


astounding how fast some people will drop you when the weather 
turns foul. It didn’t have to be that way though...” 


The man then snapped his head back to his notebook, and 
proceeded to read. 


“June, 2008. Agent Navarro leads an effort to destroy a piece titled, 
‘The Folly of the Censor,’ killing its creator, Damion Cartwright, in 
the process,” the man continued, stopping as Navarro laughed to 
himself. 


“Let me guess, another friend?” Navarro asked, stopping as he felt 
the armor tighten again. 


“A very, very, Close friend,” the man said between clenched teeth, 
his gloved hand clenched tight as he held it at Navarro. “And if 
eyewitnesses are to be believed, you engulfed him in nuclear fire, 
and then shot him in the fucking head.” 


The man then relieved the pressure, and looked down at his 
notebook again, chuckling as he then shook his head.