On the way to his bunk, Stuart remembered the object slipped into 
his pocket back in the tunnels. He pulled out a folded note, and read 
its contents. 


Stuart, 


I'm sure you're questioning this place just 
as much as |. Get some rest and as soon 
as you can, please accompany me in the 
Reactor Room. Once you exit the Living 
Quarters, make a left. It's immediently after 
a bend in the path, and lit identically to the 
Living quarters. 


Don't attract attention. Bring your sword. 


-Clovis 


His baggage would have to wait; he kept Clovis waiting for long 
enough. Putting in the bare minimum of work into unpacking, Stuart 
merely secured his belongings after snatching up his wooden toy 
and making his way to the door. 


As he opened it, he was suddenly reminded of the pitch blackness 
that stood on the other side. He briefly considered backing down 
from the endeavor, but he knew he couldn't stay in the living 
quarters forever. He needed to come out sometime. Might as well be 


now, rather than later. 


Turning left into the dark halls, Stuart opened his eyes widely in the 
hopes that perhaps his eyes would adjust to the darkness faster. 
They didn't. If anything, it probably hindered his vision. 


After a minute or two of fumbling down the corridor, Stuart took a 
step too far, and clashed his pinky toe against the cold metal walls. 
The pain was sharp but quick, at least at first. Shortly after the initial 
blow, the pain shot up his leg and wracked up to his spine as he 
screamed out in pain, his yell echoing throughout the complex 
before falling again into a brief silence. 


Still wincing, he leaned against the side of the tunnel for support. He 
reflexively lifted his foot so he could examine it before remembering 
his current lack of sight. As Stuart defeatedly began to lower his 
foot, he heard the sound of rusted metal scraping together shortly 
before being stunned with a light comparatively brighter than the 
abyss he just trudged through. 


"Stuart?!" a voice called out from around the corner. "Where... 
Stuart!" 


Stuart let out a sigh of relief after realizing that the concerned voice 
was only Clovis. She continued "Are you alright!? What happened? 
Are you hurt?" 


"Clovis? Days... Don't worry, I'm fine. | just ran my foot into the 
wall." 


"It sounded like it was painful. Come in, let's take a look at it," she 
said, motioning towards the room she came from. 


Walking into the room, the first thing to catch Stuart's eye was the 
metal behemoth in the center of the room. He knew that it was 
mechanical in nature, but nothing past that. It seemed to purr in 
tandem with a smaller, less wired version. They both seemed to be 
from the same manufacturer, having small labels displaying "110% 
tough as nails!: Anderson's Select!" 


"You gave me a scare, you know," she said, pulling up a couple of 


stools. "Let's take a look huh? Take a seat, put your foot on my lap." 


Stuart complied, though the pain from the event has already 
subsided. 


"Let's see... Aw, you should be fine, see? Just a little red." 
"| figured... It still hurt though." 
"| believe you; | could hear your scream through the vault door." 


"There's no need to exaggerate. These walls are thick, there's no 
way you could've heard me through that." 


"... Yes. Sorry sweetie. So, moving on," Clovis said, releasing 
Stuart's foot. "We should talk about this place. Tell me, what have 
you seen so far?" 


"I'm... Not sure. This place looks more like a sweatshop than a 
home, but its actual purpose and architecture baffles me. Also, from 
what you've taught me before | left, I'm sensing some themes here." 


"l-| was too. Actually, | was just about to tell you about this 
generator. What did you find?" 


"There's a kid here, Espen. They seem to work in a butchery, but 
they have access to large mercury reserves. Looks to me that 
they've been dabbling in some summoning." 


"Summoning?... I'd disagree under any other circumstance, but I'm 
not seeing many other things that it could be. I'll have to look into 
that. Espen?" 


"Yes. Kind of thin, dark hair, soeaks through a toy bear they usually 
Carry around, you can't miss them. So, you said something about 
this thing?" Said Stuart nodding towards the clunky scrap heap next 
to him. 


"Ah yes, I've noticed some things about this generator. It's working 
far past what it should be capable of. The state of disrepair, it 
managing to work continuously with little supervision, the output; I've 
seen newer models of this break down constantly, but this? | haven't 


seen this break down once; only when it needed fuel. Why is this an 
exception? And there are nine others like it too." 


"Morgan told me at some point that Haven sells excess power to 
someone. Ten generators sounds a bit much for just Haven." 


"Yes. Quite honestly, this generator seems more than enough to 
power this place. Maybe the other nine are dedicated to powering 
the surrounding towns?" 


"It would give this place more of an income. From what I've seen of 
Morgan, it would make sense of him." 


"Yes, | overheard your conversation back at the estate when you 
first met with him. Disgusting... Listen, sweetie? | need you to do 
something for me." 


"Yes?" 


"You should start keeping a journal. If anything strikes you as 
peculiar. | have a feeling it will help the both of us if we keep a 
record of whatever goes on here; set things straight for later. Let me 
see it when you've finished too. 


"If that's what you think is best,” Stuart said, tilting his head slightly. 
"What do you think is going on?" 


"I... [don't know. Hopefully, it's just a means of industrial efficiency. 
Is there anything else | should know?" 


"... Did | tell you about the wolf?" 
"... Wolf?" 


"Yes, one of the other kids told me about a wolf that walks around 
here in the underground floor." 


"... Did you get a name?" 
"What?" 


"Did you hear a name? Does the wolf have a name?" 


It was hard to read Clovis's face: the only parts of her face that 
weren't bone or fleshy holes was the tissue just above where her 
nose would be. Despite this, Stuart could easily sense an uneasy 
look in her eyes. 


"... Yes, actually. Its name was Fred | think? A kid told me that 
Morgan put him there. Clovis? Are you okay?" 


"I'm-I'm fine... Stuart, you should come by tomorrow, as soon as 
you've done everything you're supposed to. And I'm serious about 
that journal now. Anything out of place, and if not, anything of note." 


"Why? What's going on?" 


"Nothing," she said, already preparing to move out the door. "Get 
some rest. Or some work if you're starting that now. We will continue 
the lessons further. I'm sorry, | have some preparations to make." 


"But-" 


But he spoke too late. She had already shut the door behind her, 
leaving Stuart to himself, in near silence. 


The only thing left accompanying him was the persistent hum of a 
motor in the background. 


Chapter 9 


Day 1; (Friday) 
Morning (First work day): 


Starting this journal off, | suppose | should start off by 
stating its purpose. I'm going to try and record 
everything | can here, whether it be from Morgan or 
Joey or you or whoever does something | don't want 
to forget, personal reasons, or no, so I'm sorry if | 


repeat something that you already know. Who knows, 
it might help. 


Now, that out of the way, of all the things that worried 
me, I'm glad to say that working at First Hound will 
probably be one of the least of my worries. 


After talking with you, | pretty much headed straight 
there. It's a pub. It's rowdy, full of drunks, and the 
music is a front for a more... visual entertainment half 
the time, but it's filled with a certain happiness. That's 
more than | can say for anywhere else in Haven. The 
job's reasonably easy; stand in a corner, wait for 
someone to come along, shine their shoes, wait for 
the next one. 


There's a bit more to it, | have to be agreeable with 
whatever they spew from their mouth. Wives, bosses, 
slaves, it doesn't matter what it is. 


Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir, all that and this. | doubt they 
even process what I'm telling them, they're so drunk. 
Still though, the Hound does get some nice acts. Most 
of the work | do is done at closing time though, 6:30 
AM. Then | get to clean sludge off the floor. Child's 
play really, I've done more than that back at the 
Estate. Also, the Hound does have an excellent fish 


fry. 


| do question the origin of the messes though. It's as 
black as the shoe polish | use. To tell you the truth, | 
thought that was what it was at first, but it's too runny. 
Plus, they looked more like spills than tracks. Might 
want to look into that. 


| still haven't seen this wolf down here. | was 
beginning to wonder if Joey was pulling a joke on me, 
but the way you acted when | mentioned its name, I'm 
reconsidering that. You haven't struck me as 
someone who'd joke about that. 


can bite objects with an estimated force of 5000 N while eating. 
SCP-913 is unable to display this strength outside of his trance 
state. 


Examination of SCP-913's liver tissue shows that it will produce new 
enzymes in response to foreign material. These enzymes will 
metabolize the substrate at ~98% efficiency, effectively detoxifying 
any drugs or toxins. This includes amnestics and anesthetics. 


SCP-913 was discovered at entrance [EXPUNGED] of Site- . 


Addendum 913-1: The words "Mr. Hungry, from Little Misters ® by 
Dr. Wondertainment" are tattooed upon SCP-913's right calf. Upon 
discovery SCP-913 had been wearing a shirt and dress pants, both 
with the brand name "Doctor's Orders" sewn into their tags. This 
designation appears as "7" in Document SCP-909-a. 


« SCP-912 | SCP-913 | SCP-914 » 


Thankfully, the day is over. Despite everything down 
here, everything seems almost normal topside. For 
now though, I'm very tired. 


It feels like it will be one of those mornings where I'm 
too exhausted to sleep. 


Day 2; (Friday/Saturday) 


Evening (Moved out): 


Referencing the previous entry, yes, it was one of 
those mornings. On top of my exhaustion, the other 
kids would not let me rest. | had to explain to each 
One, one after another, that | work a night shift, and 
worked under a different schedule than them, but 
even then, they wouldn't be quiet. Espen doesn't 
seem to sleep at all, and there was a girl who wouldn't 
stop screaming about what was hers. 


| eventually had to leave the room altogether to sleep 
in the reactor room with you: | refuse to put up with all 
that. | suppose it's for the best, because you said we 
needed to practice some more, and sleeping here will 
save me the walk over. Plus, the hum of the engine is 
strangely soothing. Rhythmic. 


| only wish | could stay longer. Had to reserve some 
time to get ready and write this before work. Almost 
out of time. Maybe I'll find out some more tonight. 


Morning (Wolf's Pitch): 


| looked into it, but | was not expecting the sludge to 
be a drink. Apparently, it's something called a "house- 
brew", and unique to the First Hound only. They call it 
"Wolf's Pitch" apparently, which is appropriate | 


suppose. Seems to be very popular with the patrons, 
it's all | ever see in their glasses come to think of it. 


One of the patrons offered me a glass when | was 
expressing an interest. After knowing it was a drink, it 
did look appetizing. It was thick for a liquid, and 
obviously alcoholic, but the way it moved in the glass, 
and its reflective, solid black... I'm not going to lie, it 
looked very appetizing. 


| couldn't help myself. I'm not a stranger to alcohol; | 
drank champagne, wine, vodka, a lot of things from 
Acacia's cellar, and | can honestly say that I've never 
drank something like that before. 


I'm not particularly well versed in beverage 
descriptions, but Wolf's Pitch's distinguishing quality is 
how fleshy it is. It didn't feel like | was drinking 
something, it felt like | was eating a particularly 
slippery steak. It's thick. Thicker than any molasses, 
but at the same time, very smooth. Velvety? 


| almost drank the entire pint because of its (literal) 
weight. | was expecting it to ooze slowly out of the 
pint. And it would have gone down too. For the half 
that actually did, | didn't even get the chance to 
swallow it voluntarily, it just rushed down my throat by 
its own weight and general slipperiness. It's very Big? 
Elegant? Opulent. Very, very opulent. 


As for the taste, it caught me off guard. Its darkness 
implied a sort of charcoal taste, but I'm not sure how 
to place it. | hardly managed to taste it in my mouth 
before the after taste set in. It has a very cigar box- 
like taste too, very sweet, very smokey, though | 
wouldn't call it very woody. 


It's heady as hell too. | went from sober to 
embarrassingly drunk seconds after | drank it just for 
reference. And it was just half a pint! I've had vodka 
that did less than that in more time! 


... I'm now beginning to realize how unusual Wolf's 
Pitch is from how alcohol usually works. | know | 
tasted a bit of alcohol, but for that kind of effect, I'd 
expect a more... obvious taste to it. Judging from the 
effects, | should have tasted something like paint 
thinner, not... well, that. 


And shouldn't my sobering up have been more... 
gradual? Everything seemed very sudden, going from 
normal to debauched in seconds, debauched to 
pleasurably buzzed in thirty minutes, and maintaining 
that buzz ten hours later... | feel like | was sold 
answers, but | only got more questions... 


| feel off... but | really want more. The drink, this 
feeling, it all seems oddly familiar. 


Day 3; (Saturday/Sunday) 


Evening (A dream, lessons, and service): 


| had just woke up from a dream. It's rare that | ever 
dream, so this one struck me in particular. I'm unsure 
how to describe it, but | had no control over myself. | 
was the predator in a forest engulfed by flames. 
Definitely not human, | distinctly remember being on 
all fours. 


Bodies, animal bodies, were pinned to these planks of 
wood, either burning or upside down and covered in 
some kind of mud. The latter reminded me of 
someone getting sentenced to be tarred, but... You 
never think of how painfull something is unless it's 
right in front of you. It's like once someone gives 
something a term, you never think about its 
implications unless it involves you somehow. 


"They were burned or tarred" doesn't hold the same 
weight as the actual sight. | winced from looking at 


them. 


| wandered by myself until the flames died down, and 
everything was burnt to charcoal. It must have been a 
while, but | realized that snow began to fall. That's 
when | saw a snow rabbit approach me. At first, | was 
terrified that I'd do something to hurt her or her me, 
but | didn't. She didn't. 


Instead, she put her head against mine, and the 
charred forest around us turned white with snow. She 
led me away from the bodies, but not before | noticed 
the snow pull them all down beneath it. It's hard to 
explain, but | felt happier with her, and she seemed to 
share my sentiment about what happened here. She 
led me to a small clearing, and we lied down together. 
It's odd. The snow should have been cold as it formed 
a blanket over us, but it was warm. Comfortably so. 


Despite this, the moment felt very somber. Mournful 
even. As | fell asleep in the dream, | woke up on the 
surface, coming here to write this as soon as | woke 


up. 


And it's only until now that | realized I've been 
referring to the rabbit as a she... Does this rabbit 
represent anyone? It's not you, it's definitely someone 
else. The way the rabbit moved, the way | felt towards 
her, it doesn't correlate to you.