Last | heard of my mother, she was teaching kids how to dance for 
cheap. Wouldn't come to America. There wasn't enough money in it 
for her, and even if there was, what could she tell everyone back 
home? Her son became a faggot? She could at least understand 
that part if nothing else; that's more than enough. If she's still alive, 
I'm sure she would continue teaching. Maybe she's learned some 
English by now. Perhaps she would love to hear | still speak 
Portuguese too. It's like training wheels after all. 


To think, had we never been locked up, we could have started our 


own dance studio. Luis e Altair, o dangarino esconaido. | wish you 
had been taught the rhythm of Puerto Rico so you could teach me 
as well. 


Aaaaaah... ah, ah, ah ahhhh... 


A whole decade, and they believe that you're still dangerous 
because of me. | Know better. | know deep within your heart and 
your soul, you're as dangerous as a dead mouse. But we're only at 
the mercy of each other. Committing crimes only to sustain 
ourselves, blaming each other. Hey, how much of that do you wish 
you could take back? Is life better here, or could we have steadied 
ourselves for a new home? Ba-dahhh, dun duh-dahhh... | don't think 
it mattered. Here, we're the most docile we've ever been. | can't 
even feign hating you for whatever you've done now. It's our 
honeymoon. How soft we've gotten. | don't even long for pills 
anymore. Do you feel the same way? 


...| would hope so. 


It's a good change of pace. A new rhythm for us. | am simply 
tethered to you. And that's all. We're no more special than anything 
else here. It's perfectly okay. Wherever you go, I'll follow. Try to work 
your way into Heaven for the both of us. | need to see something 
new. 


It's too lonely and quiet. Oh well. Ghosts don't need sleep, just stuff 
to do. Bum bum hmmmm ooooh doo... Does it matter if you aren't 
awake, anyway? I'll simply dance for two. Vamos, menino! You'll 
have to pick up the pace for me later. 


It Had All Been For Nothing 


The monsoons had come. 


There were no windows and one foot of solid cement in between 
Clef and the outside, and yet the rain’s steady hammering echoed 
loud and clear. Too loud, in fact, as the doctor could barely hear his 
own thoughts over the chorus. 


Sighing, Clef snapped the laptop closed, his hands reaching under 
his glasses to massage tired, heavy eyelids. 


One sip of coffee, and he was back in business. 


Tip, tip, tap, tip, tap. 


He began to feel his left foot prickle with the telltale sharp pains of 
pins and needles. How long had it been since he had moved? One, 
two hours? 


Tip, tap, tip, tip, tap, tap, tip... tap... tip... tip. 


His typing slowed to a crawl, and then finally to a stop as his finger 
bounced off of the last key. In the silence after that, as the steady 
patter of the rain and of the business around him began to fade in 
once more, he paused to look on what he had wrote. 


To whom it may concern, 


Due to the numerous breaches it has caused and the 
uncountable personnel it has killed, it has been generally 
known by the majority of the Foundation for a long time 
that SCP-682 is too dangerous to contain, and must be 
neutralized for the safety of humankind. Although, 
unfortunately, it is also generally known that SCP-682 
cannot be injured or terminated by any known means, 
and thus it continues to live in containment to this day. 


So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to shove 
SCP-682 into SCP-914, put it on the “Rough” setting, 
and hope for the best. If we’re lucky, SCP-682 should 
come out completely neutralized. If not, well... there’s a 
reason I’m sending this to you. 


With a final click, Clef pressed send. It was done, and there was no 
turning back now. 


The recipient, whoever it would end up being, was going to have 
one hell of a night. 


Clef began making his way to SCP-682’s containment chamber, 
waving, smiling when necessary, and acting like an otherwise 
normal person along his way through the labyrinth of twisting white 
hallways, only hoping the other staff, in particular the more intuitive 
ones, would buy it. 


Considering the fact he found his journey unimpeded, perhaps his 
efforts must have worked. No one suspected a thing. 


He paused at the door, keycard hovering just over the reader, and 
smiled, almost chuckling to himself. 


It always was a common myth among the newbies that the great 
Benjamin Kondraki had ridden SCP-682. 


And it seemed that now, in one way or another, that myth would 
finally come true. 


Clef had no idea how he had managed to fit SCP-682 through a one 
by three meter door, but somehow, it had happened. Once the lizard 
managed to crash through the door, its claws hit hard tile, began to 
slide, just as planned, right towards the input chamber of SCP-914, 
its door wide open and waiting for its oncoming test subject. 


By the time the lizard knew exactly where it was headed, it was too 
late. Clef leapt off the thing’s back as it tried to twist around, eyes 
bulging in a primal fear, claws desperately skittering on the 
practically frictionless surface. But in the second it took for SCP-682 


to whirl around and realize its plight, it had already collided with the 
back of the chamber in one sickening clang. 


Clef, meanwhile, landed on his back with a sickening thud, all the air 
knocked out of his lungs in one giant reverse gasp. ‘Twere it any 
other time, he would have taken a second to regain his bearings. 
But a second was time he did not have. 


Stumbling from side to side, the walls spinning before his eyes, the 
doctor carried himself to the door as fast as his legs could carry him, 
gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white and throwing all his 
weight opposite to the door, slamming it shut just as SCP-682 
lunged towards him, ramming his head against what was once an 
opening with a sickening metallic clang. For a moment, the entire 
chamber shook with the impact. 


And then... silence. Still and quiet, with nothing but Clef's own heavy 
breaths to be heard. 


Suddenly, the chamber trembled once more, another lurching clang 
reverberating through the air. 


Clef watched in horror as the door to SCP-914 suddenly groaned in 
what almost seemed like metallic pain, the door beginning to buckle 
in a head-shaped dent. 


Another clang sounded. 

And then another. 

And another. 

With each one, the dent in the door grew larger. 
There was no time to lose. 


Staggering from the convulsions of the trembling chamber, Clef 
made his way to the center of the machine, upon which sat a single, 
blood red dial. Grasping the dial, he prepared to jam it to the left as 
far as his arm could take him. 


But then, another tremor shook the ground beneath the doctor, 


knocking him in the opposite direction until his hand finally fell away, 
and he crumpled to the ground in a broken heap. 


Slowly, Clef brought himself to stand as the room once more 
spinned around him, his vision blurry and warped. It took a second 
for everything to finally come into focus, but when it did, the doctor’s 
heart jumped into his throat. 


There, before him, was the blood red dial, its pointed edge jammed 
all the way to the right, towards “Very Fine.” 


Oh shit. 


SCP-914 whirred to life, and the lizard within began to shriek. Clef, 
did as well. He screamed, he banged on the doors, gripped the dial 
with all his strength until his knuckles turned white, did anything he 
could, hoping some miracle would happen. 


But none did. 
Clef fucked up, and now the world was going to pay for it. 


The process was agonizingly slow. He could feel the seconds ticking 
down, one at a time, wearing at his chest, whispering of his folly in 
his mind. And slowly, but surely, over that long minute, he came to 
the final realization that the world was going to end, that everyone 
he ever knew was going to die, and everything the Foundation did 
had, in the end, been for naught. 


And it was all his fault. 


‘Twere he any other doctor, he might have curled up in a ball and 
cried. 


Finally, the whirring stopped, and from the machine emanated a 
pleasant ding. 


The doors to the output chamber hissed open, revealing behind it a 
blinding light, one even Clef could only look away from, blinking 
repeatedly to clear the spots that had now appeared in his vision. 


The doctor raised his gun, despite knowing how useless bullets 


would be against what was once SCP-682. And yet, despite 
knowing the futility of it all, the pointlessness of his actions, he was 
ready. He was ready to be humanity’s last bastion against its 
destruction, as well as its first casualty. It was funny... Clef never 
thought that, despite everything, he would be so calm in the face of 
death. But in the end, he was ready. 


Raising his head high and squinting, he faced the light. 


And there, in front of him, stood a gecko, nigh one foot tall, his 
scales a pleasant shade of green which reminded one of tranquil 
meadows under bright blue sky, a smile upon his face so warm and 
calm even Clef himself felt a sense of serenity wash over him, over 
the room, over the world itself as it breathed a gentle sigh. 


“Hello, sir,” said the gecko, with a voice so serene and inviting, like a 
mother cooing to her babe as it slept serenely, swaddled in her 
arms, “did you know that fifteen minutes or less can save you fifteen 
percent or more with Geico?” 


Humanity began to cry tears of joy as one, for now was the day it 
was truly born. 


It Might Have Been 


Item #: SCP-343 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-343 is currently 
uncontained. No reliable method of containing SCP-343 has been 
found. 


SCP-343 has taken up regular residence in humanoid containment 
chamber 208 within Site 17. All contact with SCP-343 is to follow 
standard humanoid interview protocols. In the case of unauthorized 
contact, personnel are to politely decline conversation with SCP-343 
and report the incident to the nearest supervisory personnel. If 
contact cannot be avoided, all information gathered is to be likewise 
reported. 


In the case of SCP-343 making contact outside of the Foundation’s 
direct jurisdiction, appropriate cover-up countermeasures are to be 
taken as soon as the extent and content of contact has been 
ascertained. 


This document has been modified by Matyas Buki, known to all as 
SCP-343. 


Description: My friends, it is high time that | leave you. | must be 
moving on. Thank you greatly for your hospitality in my time of need. 
However, it is no longer safe here, and while this is no fault of yours, 
| cannot with good conscience allow myself to remain. | have taxed 
your kindness enough. 


| will admit, | have not been entirely truthful in these past years, or 
entirely cooperative. My squatting in your facility like a homeless 
beggar doubtlessly caused a great deal of frustration and 
unnecessary panic, and for that and a great many other things, | 
apologize. 


While it cannot repay what you have done for me, in return for your 
kindness, | will tell you a story. 


This story begins with a poor boy of Prague, born many long years 
ago to a poor mother and a poor father. Life was hard. It often is in 
these stories. There was little food to be had, and many mouths to 
feed. My mother made a little coin as a washer woman. My father 
worked in the factory. He was not an unkind man, but as many poor 
men are wont to do, spent much of his meager earnings on the 
bottle. 


This was when | first learned of what | could do. My father returned 
home, late at night, far more drunk than he had ever been before. 
He was raging and cursing about, maddened with liquor. My mother 
tried to speak to him, to calm him, but his slurring became angrier 
and angrier in argument, and eventually he struck her, and 
threatened worse if she did not “shut up and please him”. 


| was terrified. In the darkness, | could not see his face. It did not 
seem like my father, but in my heart | knew it was, and that made it 
all the worse. My mother was screaming, and my brothers and 
sisters were crying. | screamed at him. “Stop!” | said, and he did. He 
stopped. 


Like a statue. Frozen in place. Not even the folds of his clothing 
would be moved. His face was twisted up in drunken rage, but his 
eyes were different. There was no anger there. Only fear. Fear of a 
kind that made my own seem paltry in comparison. In my father’s 
eyes | saw a man who was looking into his own damnation. 


And though they did not move, | knew he could see me. Somehow, | 
knew that | had not killed my father. | had done something far worse. 


| ran. | knew not where to, but | ran into the night, leaving my 
brothers and sisters and mother behind me. To this day, | do not 
know what happened to them. | pray they were spared what came to 
follow me. 


Years passed. | begged and stole and clawed my way across 
Europe, without direction, half-feral and half-mad. Death followed 
me. My curse was no longer content with simply leaking out with my 


words: it lashed out on its own, wild and deadly. In time | found | 
could control it with thought, but the act left me exhausted, and the 
curse only grew more violent as | tried to control it. | began to attract 
unwanted attention. 


It was a group of Roma who had found me first. | had become so 
unused to speaking with human beings that | could do nothing but 
croak like a frog for days. Eventually | would whisper, but they did 
not understand me, nor | them. But they fed me, and | watched them 
as they practiced their arts. They did not seem to fear me. Here, | 
thought, here is where | may learn to control the curse. 


| never spoke to them about it. The crows came first. | called them 
crows, for the black coats they wore. They descended upon us, tore 
apart the camp. They were not interested in the Roma: they had 
come for me. 


| killed them. Not all of them. But many. 


| fled again, and here is where my struggle began in earnest. They 
had found me, and | was dangerous, and they would stop at nothing 
to have me. | fled, and | learned. | taught myself. My curse became 
more a blessing. | lived a secret little war, and as | fought, | learned 
more and more. How to take the shape of another. How to make a 
mouthful of bread or a handful of water. The crows returned again. 
They were British. There were others, the French, the Prussians, 
some of my own Empire, members of the Church and even an 
American. They hunted me, and in return, | hunted them. 


More years passed, though | barely noticed. My blessing still 
attempted to bite me and at times it did, but | had learned. | could 
walk upright, hiding but a little, fearing little. | existed as the faceless 
man walking down the street, seen once and forgotten forever. My 
belly was full, and my wits were wary. | picked up languages, 
identities, scraps of knowledge that would aid me, weapons and 
defenses against my enemies. But, as things happen, my enemies 
had learned as well, and they had learned better than me. 


| was ambushed. My guard was down, and they sprung. They had 
ways to prevent me from healing myself, ways to prevent me from 
escaping, weapons that could hurt me. They drove at me, razing my 


never displayed any form of aggression towards humans during 
containment. The milk and meat of SCP-886-B may be consumed 
safely; the anomaly does not appear to be infectious. 


At the age of two and a half years, each specimen of SCP-886-B will 
spontaneously become pregnant, each with a single human infant. 
Infants born of SCP-886-B are genetically identical to SCP-886-A- 
alpha, designated SCP-886-A-XX. SCP-886-A-XX will develop as 
normal human females until age 15, when they will begin to exhibit 
the anomaly in the fashion previously described.