Cain smiled and inclined his head politely. "If you would give me a 
moment?" He took a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and 
slipped them on over his metallic hands. His shirt, she noticed, had 
the characteristic sheen of cheap polyester, in contrast to the fine 
cut and tailoring of his suit. 


Cain smiled again. "My unique condition prevents me from wearing 
any cloth made from cotton or linen," he said, "and wool shirts tend 
to be less than comfortable." He clasped his hands behind his back 
and led the way through a sliding glass door and into the dimly lit 
warehouse beyond. The air here was cool and dry, and smelled 
oddly metallic. "A useful side effect of my condition," Cain said. "It 
inhibits the growth of microorganisms in this place, preserving the 
contents." 


"What... exactly is this place?" she asked suspiciously. 


"Officially, it is called Archival Storage. As you can see, the staff has 
their own name for it. The things stored here were previously used 
by Foundation personnel, but were sent here after they were no 
longer needed." 


"Because they died," she said, as understanding dawned. 


"... or retired. Or simply did not need them any longer,” Cain said 
gently. "Not everything here is stained with blood." 


He flipped a switch, and the lights activated throughout the 
warehouse. She gasped as the size of this place was finally made 
evident to her. Rows upon rows of desks, chairs, lamps, and 
cabinets. Some of them in good condition, others damaged and 
battered. Many bearing reddish-brown stains that spoke volumes 
about the circumstances in which their prior owners had... ceased 
ownership. 


"The first item on your list is a desk," Cain said. "I believe that this 
one will suffice." He stopped in front of a wide desk with crawling ivy 
patterns carved over the front and side panels. The wood appeared 
to be in good condition, and she did not immediately see any 
suspicious-looking stains or claw marks. 


Cain took a thin yellow plastic tag from the pocket of his coat and 
affixed it to the desk, scrawling a few letters on it with a Sharpie. "So 
that the movers will know where to take it," he said, doing the same 
for a couple of lamps and an office chair. 


From there, they moved on to an aisle labeled "Office Supplies." 
Cain picked up a yellow plastic crate and handed it to her, filled it 
with a variety of paraphernelia essential for any office worker: 
stapler, tape dispenser, desk blotter, pen holder, inbox, outbox, 
letter holder. 


"You will have to speak to Patrick Gephardt for your computer," Cain 
said, as they walked past an aisle filled with battered old CRT 
monitors and televisions. "And your rubber stamps you will have to 
get through Requisitions. The only ones | have are not in workable 
condition." He demonstrated by passing her a self-inking stamp 
labeled "ORIGINAL." The lettering was worn smooth, and the swivel 
had snapped. "Likewise, your papers, pens, and other such 
supplies." 


"Doesn't the Foundation ever throw anything away?" she asked, 
awestruck. She lifted the stapler out of her crate. A couple of 
stickers depicting gold stars and cartoon characters had been 
affixed to it at some point, but they had mostly rubbed off over time, 
leaving behind a faint residue of stickiness. 


"We do sometimes," Cain answered. "But not often." He gave her a 
wry smile. "It is, after all, our organization's purpose to collect 
things." 


It didn't take long to collect everything on her list. She was walking 
out with her arms full of office supplies when she noticed the snake. 
It was looped over a large piece of driftwood, and regarded her 
balefully through lidless eyes. 


It wasn't the only living thing here, she realized, as she put down the 
crate and walked down the darkened aisle. Under a heat lamp, a 
bearded lizard rested atop a piece of broken slate. A box turtle 
swam in a tank that was green with algae. "Pets?" she asked. 


"Left behind by their owners," Cain said. "The dogs go to the 


kennels. The cats are usually adopted by others. These..." he 
shrugged, "were considered less desirable." 


She ran her hand along the cages and aquariums, then paused in 
front of a thin plastic box filled with wood-and-glass frames. One of 
them held a variety of colorful snail shells. Another a series of 
pressed flowers. She lifted up one that had nine butterflies pinned to 
cardboard, with the common and scientific names neatly printed ina 
precise hand. There was a slip of paper affixed to the side. 


Kondraki, butterfly collection, 1 of 3. 


She put the frame down and wiped her hands off on her skirt. 
"Personal effects?" she asked. 


"Yes," Cain said softly. "Sometimes, family members or friends 
come by to collect them. Most of the time, however, they end up 
here." 


There were other aisles, with other contents. In one, a bin full of 
watches, all of them stopped, most of them tagged with their former 
owner's name. In another bin, dozens upon dozens of wallets, with 
their cash, IDs, and credit cards left untouched. Hundreds of coffee 
cups, some of them with cartoons that had never existed. One shelf 
contained nothing but phones, ranging from old rotary-dial models, 
to unwieldy "brick" cellulars, all the way through modern smart 
phones (each one with a small plastic tag). 


One aisle contained a variety of liquor bottles, ranging from rotgut 
whiskey to Napoleon brandy. They were grouped under small, 
handwritten tags with labels like, SCP-682 is Terminated, or 1148's 
Purpose is Understood. "Willed by Foundation personnel to those 
who would come after them," Cain explained, "only to be opened in 
the event that the requested milestone is reached." 


The largest collection of bottles had a shelf to itself, labeled simply 
Quiet Days. 


There was one aisle labeled "D-Class." It contained mostly 
toothbrushes, half-empty tubes of toothpaste, and electric razors. 
Also hundreds of orange jumpsuits, neatly folded and stacked... 


when their physical condition would allow. 


The last aisle was the smallest, but it was also the most unusual. A 
stack of Norman Rockwell prints. Desk toys, including hula girls, 
bobbleheads, and little ceramic dinosaurs. A few golden Buddhas 
and lucky cats. Some jewelry boxes, including at least one 
engagement ring. And a very small box of baby clothes that she 
hoped the owners had simply outgrown... 


At the end of the last aisle was a door, which led to a library. At one 
end were the novels, nonfiction, and textbooks. About halfway down, 
they gave way to notebooks, binders, and lab books. Then came 
stacks of letters, each stack neatly bound together, with a familiar 
plastic tag affixed. All of the bookshelves had glass covers on them. 
"In case | make a mistake," Cain said. "I try to be careful, but one 
unprotected touch could destroy them." 


At the far end of the library was a shelf with dozens of photo albums. 
On a nearby table, an album in the process of being filled. A 
shoebox of photographs, depicting a smiling, bald-headed man with 
a brutish but friendly face, often standing next to a bunch of other 
people wearing familiar uniforms. M. Lombardi, a small banner at 
the top of the page read. Here, In This World, He Changed His 
Life 


"You do all of this?" she asked. 


"It helps to pass the time,” Cain said. "Especially these days, when 
my services are less in demand." He ran a gloved finger along the 
spine of one of the photo albums, sniffed with displeasure as he 
rubbed the dust off of his fingertips. "The Foundation has no 
monuments and no memorials. These are often all that remains of a 
friend, a lover, or a partner." 


They left the library, and she picked up her crate of office supplies, 
and somberly carried them out of the warehouse and into the front 
office, whereupon Cain flipped the switch that turned the lights out. 
She lingered in the doorway, holding her crate of mismatched 
tchotchkes, shifting her weight from foot to foot, unsure what to say. 


"There are three types of people who come here," Cain said, 


Despite this, SCP-906 specimens have been destroyed via means 
of incineration, freezing, and full body disintegration. Should the 
need to destroy SCP-906 ever arise, use of flamethrowers or liquid 
nitrogen is permitted. However, SCP-906 specimens will split 
themselves and "multiply" over the course of several hours should 
the larger mass be severely reduced. If SCP-906 is ever required to 
be terminated, all specimens must be eliminated to prevent 
SCP-906 reforming. In order to keep SCP-906 in a more controllable 
state, the enclosure it is housed in is to be kept at a temperature 
below five (5) degrees Celsius at all times as this is shown to reduce 
the movement, reaction time, reproduction abilities, and metabolism 
of SCP-906. 


Addendum 906-05-01: Testing of SCP-906 resulted in a Class D 
being targeted before a cow. A second test was then conducted in 
this manner wherein a pig, sheep, dog, and horse were all placed 
alongside a Class D. SCP-906 once again targeted the Class D first. 
Second targeted animal was the pig, followed by the sheep, the 
horse, and finally the dog. 


Addendum 906-05-02: During routine enclosure maintenance, 
SCP-906 reportedly "spoke to" a supervising staff member by saying 
his name several times. The reason it did this is unknown and the 
staff member, one Dr. Anthony Richards, reports being "very 
disturbed" by the proceedings and has expressed a desire to be 
kept away from SCP-906 in future. 


« SCP-905 | SCP-906 | SCP-907 » 


interrupting her awkward silence. "The first type rummage through 
the stacks, find something that makes them pause, then they leave, 
often empty-handed. The second type come full-knowing that they 
are looting the dead. Those | turn away before they can enter." 


"And the third?" she asks. 


"Come to remember," Cain said. "Sometimes they go to a specific 
point in the warehouse, find a certain object, and linger there for a 
long time. Most often, they go to the library, find a certain photo 
album, and flip through the pages until they find one they are looking 
for. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they laugh. But they all 
remember." 


She swallowed back the lump in her throat. 


Cain gave her a gentle smile and returned to his seat, cross-legged 
atop the steel desk. "I will have your things delivered by tomorrow 
morning," he said. "Have a good day, Miss." 


And with that dismissal, she left, closing the door behind her, and 
the hollow sound of its closing was like a mausoleum clanging shut. 


CODA 


It was later, when she was putting her things into her newly- 
delivered desk, that she discovered that all of the previous owners 
had carved their names onto the inside of the top drawer. Davidson. 
Kingsport. Iceberg. 


She froze, feeling the same sense of solemn silence that had 
overcome her in the warehouse. It would be two full weeks before 
she had the courage to carve her own name into the wood. That 
night, as she lay in bed, she wondered who would use the desk 
next, once her time with it had ended. 


Memetics and Infohazards Division Orientation 


Alright everybody, welcome to the orientation for the memetics and 
infohazards division. Now this is a full week of training, and a long 
day so be sure to get some coffee or a donut, because we won't 
have time to go get food until lunch. 


I'm Junior Researcher Zack Ekshun, and, I, ah, yes? A question like 
‘How am | perceiving this message from that very handsome man 
saying other words?’ or 'Whose voice does this sound like in my 
head?' But those are not the most important questions right 
now.Question? 


Why aren't | having any coffee or donuts? Heh, looks like we have at 
least one veteran of the reality benders orientation. Well to put your 
mind at ease, why don't you get me some coffee and a donut or two. 
Usually | take it black, but add some milk and sugar just to cover all 
the bases. Hey sprinkles! Nice. 


Now, you're right to be suspicious. You get lied to a lot at the 
Foundation. Little things like 'We only put tracking chips in D-class', 
‘This will be the first time you receive amnestics' and the location of 
the site you're currently sitting in. 


Some of you. But today, I'm going to be completely honest with you. 


Which gets us to the important part, you don't have to worry about 
us secretly feeding you drugs. We will be very openly feeding you 
lots of powerful hallucinogens. 


The reason we're not bothering to hide it is because, like most 
infohazards, our psychedelic testing regimen works whether or not 
you know about it ahead of time. The reason we're making you trip 
balls is that we need to make sure you can handle your shit 
regardless of what your brain thinks is going on. 


It doesn't matter if the walls are melting and cats with your 


grandmothers' face are telling you the secret history of the world. 
You write your reports, conduct tests and follow the containment 
procedures. You document everything the grandma cats tell you and 
ride it out until you punch out. Most of the time. What's in your head 
can't hurt you unless you let it. 


To work with infohazards you need to notice when things don't make 
sense, and this is the important part, respond accordingly. Do you 
suddenly have a spouse you didn't this morning? Well, maybe you 
shouldn't consummate that relationship. Were you always taking 
advice from the omnidimensional blood gods you're thinking about 
building a shrine to? Maybe instead you should talk to your 
supervisor, because we sure don't need another prophet to 
Welcome. 


Hey! That got everybody's attention. Yeah, part of what you'll learn 
is how not to say things. Did you know that Hi% of redacted 
information is memetic censoring? It's written there as clear as day, 
if you have the clearance and counterprogramming. Want to know 
how it's done? 


Well first Welcome to the real orientation. If you can perceive this 
then you'll be working with us in the real Memetics and Infohazards 
Division. It should come as no surprise to you that there are many 
layers to our Division. Everyone else nodding out right now are just 
the cover. They will be playing an important role in misdirection and 
counterintelligence as well as handling all the busywork. 


You get to do the real work, and it takes more than just a week to 
get you to that level. This week will provide the basics the others 
get, with the real preparatory seminars transmitted through a variety 
of unconventional channels. The testing has already begun to see 
who can pick up all of it. 


You all carry some form of the Sorry gene which is present in .NO% 
of the population, which the Foundation screens for. While you can 
perceive this you also have an increased risk for schizophrenia and 
dissociative identity disorder. But don't worry! If you've made it this 


far you have a much higher likelihood of being driven mad by your 
work material than your genetic makeup.