[Next question: how do you perceive what | am writing?] 


The drawing of a girl picked up a drawing of a piece of chalk and 
wrote on the drawing of a blackboard next to her. 


[| hear it.] 

[But you can’t see us.] 

[No.] 

[Do people sound different to you?] 

She erased the board to make more room. 


[A bit. Sometimes a lot. Some people mumble, and some people 
sound really uptight and draw out their words. You sound normal. | 
can tell the difference, but it’s subtle.] 


Hmm...probably dependent on handwriting. 


Francis scratched some more notes down on his own tablet before 
writing once more on the larger sheet. 


[Thank you. That'll be all for today, Cassie. I'll send up some new 
pictures for your wall this afternoon.] 


[Wait! Could you stay? I’d like to keep talking.] 


[I’m sorry: | have work to do. Agatha or Simon will be around 
sometime after lunch, | promise.] 


[Oh. Okay. Goodbye.] 
[Goodbye.] 


Francis watched the sketched girl begin to doodle forlornly on 
blackboard for a few moments before he stood up from his chair and 
left the room. He signed out on the time sheet hanging next to the 
door. A little hollow hole sank in his gut, as it always did after visiting 
with Cassie. Simon had “officially” confirmed that she was 
depressed, but that was obvious to anyone who spoke with her. It 
was like visiting your great-grandmother in the nursing home. All she 
wanted was someone to talk to, to break the monotony. 


The staff did what they could for her, but with juggling recruitment, 
management, studying other items, and maintaining the fagade as 
they stealthily wrapped up their outside lives... 


Oh well. Off to the next job. 


Francis’ footsteps echoed in the empty hallway for a minute or so, 
before they were drowned out by a blaring alarm klaxon and the 
amplified voice of Dr. Crow’s over the intercom speaker. 


“Attention all personnel. A security breach has been detected in 
Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown 
has been initiated. Please proceed to your designated safe zones.” 


Tower three. He was in tower three. He was in a locked tower with 
the lizard. Alone. 


Francis automatically ran his left thumb over the smooth scarred 
depression in his right. 


Son of a fuck. 


“So. Dmitri. Where’d you find these pieces of work?” John motioned 
to the four men sitting around the conference table, his toothpick 


held between his first two fingers. Fucking administration and their 
no-smoking policy. 


Strelkinov pointed to each in turn. 


“Vasili is good friend from army days. Boleslav, he kill Afghans with 
bare hands. Live in mountains alone after war. Stanimir work for the 
KGB. Very classified work. Listed as KIA. Matvey, he is mafia.” 


John raised an eyebrow. 


“Not even going to ask. They’re your problem. Any of them speak 
English?” 


“No.” 


“Your problem then, you give them the spiel.” John walked off 
towards the door. “I gotta take a piss.” 


“Ah. Okay. Mm-hmm. [Hello, gentlemen...] 


John pissed like a racehorse. Too much coffee. Fucking no-smoking 
policy. Toothpicks, gum, coffee, nothing worked. He needed 
tobacco, dammit. He was jumpy, rattled, razzled, and supremely 
agitated. No smokes in four days. No sun in four days. 


Easy, John. Relax. Just fucking relax... 


The recruits. He focused on the new recruits. That was his job 
anyway. With these four, it brought the total number of security staff 
to sixteen. The others were a scattering of mercenaries, ex-cons, 
homeless vets, several other Russians, and one retired state 
trooper. Crow had been steadfast that they get a reliable security 
staff up and running as fast as possible, and John agreed. What 
irked him was that he and Dmitri were in charge of all of it, and it 
was not easy. Dmitri may have been able to pull old war buddies out 
of his hat like rabbits, but it wasn’t like they could just put out 
personal ads for this shit. 


Still better than working for the CIA, though. 


The stream finally trickled off. He had just zipped up as the alarms 
went off: his coffee and withdrawal-wrecked nerves shot him a good 
two feet in the air. He barely had time to land before the bathroom 
door was kicked open and he felt a large hand grab him by the collar 
and drag him backwards. 


“We are having an emergency! We must be fast!” Dmitri pulled him 
out into the hall and threw him upright. John wobbled to a stable 
pose as Dr. Crow's voice came over the intercom. 


“Attention all personnel. Security breach detected in Tower 3, Level 
5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been 
initiated.” 


“Shit on a biscuit!” John spat out his toothpick. 
“That will not help us.” 


“Goddammit Dmitri you know what | meant? 


Francis was alone, and he was very scared. He held his mop ina 
vice-like grip, creeping with his back flat against the wall, and trying 
to control his breathing, as he had been doing for the last half hour. 


He was terrified of 682. He would admit that. The last time he had 
worked with it, it fit in his palm and took a chunk out of his thumb. It 
wasn’t so small and cute now. 


“Come on out, little guy. I’ve got a mop with your name on it. A nice 
dirty mop. I'll mop you good. Beware my mop, boy. Respect the 
mop.” 


Nothing beyond an empty hallway responded to his whispered 
bravado. Nothing at all. 


Wait. 


He leapt into the middle of the hallway, whipping out with the mop 
and hitting nothing. There was still nothing there. 


« SCP-782 | SCP-783 | SCP-784 » 


Still nothing there. 
There was a vent, though. 


Something hit Francis in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Now 
there was something there. It was right there, actually. Right on top 
of him. 


The lizard was about the size of a large cat, and held itself in much 
the same way: hunched and bunched up, ready to lash out, tail 
flicking back and forth. Its hide was knobbly and thick, a dull 
greenish yellow-brown with faded dark spots. The teeth were 
crooked, like the jaw wasn’t fit for them, but they were sharp. Very 
sharp. Francis could feel its breath on his face. It glared at him with 
yellow eyes that looked thoroughly evil. Francis shut his own eyes 
tight. It looked like it had been smiling. 


This was it. This was mauling time. He was going to get mauled. He 
clenched everything he could clench and readied himself for the 
pain 


The weight lifted from his chest. Snarls broke out once more, this 
time a few feet above him. 


“Mr. Wojciechoski.” 


Francis opened his eyes. Dr. Gerry stood over him, wearing a 
stained apron of thick leather and matching gloves that went up to 
his elbows. He held 682 by the scruff of the neck in one hand. It had 
stopped struggling, and the cause was clear: a frighteningly large 
hypodermic needle held in Gerry’s other hand. 


“This will suffice for the moment. | will place it in the backup 
containment unit before it adapts to the drug.” 


Gerry turned and began to walk off, carrying the unconscious lizard 
as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. 


“Now then, | believe you are still scheduled for overseeing 
experiments this morning. Good day to you, Mr. Wojciechoski.” 


Francis fell back on the floor and began to laugh. He had been there 


the whole time. Of course he had. 
Of course he had. 


“I’m sorry you weren't able to see your new recruits in action, 
Dmitri.” 


“Win some, lose some.” 


“That said, I'll be revising 682’s containment procedures to include a 
permanent guard station. It’s become far more adaptive than | had 
originally foreseen, and | don’t want it getting out again.” 


“Very well. | go speak with them.” 


“Two decades of work and the only variant of the prion that works 
leaves us with a psychopathic gecko. It's a pity Sanderson isn't here, 
Connor. He'd be calling this a massive success. | miss his 
enthusiasm.” 


“His absence is regrettable.” 


“And will continue to be, because he's been in the ground for twelve 
years. He would have loved to see this. Probably would have put a 
collar on it and called it Leeroy or something.” 


“AS yOu Say.” 


“...You really are a bore nowadays, Connor. Has anyone told you 
that?” 


“Regularly.” 


And so the Crows Laughed 


There comes the King and his 
crowd, 


His subjects turned against him, 
taking his crown. 


The cheering comes with flames 
of hate, 


Burning and raging, bring the 
palace down. 


Gold and diamonds scatter on 
the ground, 


Bodies of the royal lie around. 


A mask from masquerade 
stained and broken, 


As is his ruling falling apart. 


Rags on his body chains all 
around, 


The King old and weak, losing 


his power. 


A crow laughs and the jester 
cries, 


The skeleton of a lion roars but 
halts. 


Upon the old tree the King was 
hanged, 


His former subjects silently 
watch. 


The chains are rusted and the 
rope is long, 


Strangles and tightens 
squeezing the breath out. 


The King mumbles and whispers 
as he lingers, 


Praying to the dark gods we 
know not about. 


Life slips from his body but 
deaths comes not, 


His eyes cold and empty, his 
voice speaks of dark. 


Half-alive when he is buried, 
Half-dead when he escapes. 


Coming back to reclaim his 
kingdom, 


With blood and rage and horrors 
from beyond. 


But a dead King rules not the 
living, 


Until the living too find their 
tombs. 


So the old kingdom is destroyed 
once more, 


Only to build a new one for no 
mortal soul. 


And thus the Hanged King sits in 
his palace, 


His lords serve him with broken 
masks. 


But the chains bind him with 
pain and torment, 


And the crows of death shall 
forever watch. 


The grand palace of the King trembled as flames licked its surface of 
gold and silver. The kingdom's long suppressed subjects had 
reached the King's dungeon, where he tried to hide as his guards 
stood defenseless against the mob. They dragged him, the once 
King, now deprived of his crown and throne, through the carefully 
polished marble floor, putting rusted chains around his hands and 
ankles. The very chains that the King had used to imprison his 
opponents. They rid him of his long gorgeous robe, using mere rags 
to cover his now scarred body. The old King murmured, but his 
mouth was soon slammed shut by the angry crowd. 


The riot went on, with exploited farmers and workers and even the 
once loyal and lawful citizens, rushing into the palace to grab their 
share of the treasure. The followers and servants of the King were 
all butchered with knives and swords or even by heavy sticks and 
stones. Even the jester of the court was not spared. He was caught 
crying as the people put his head against the beautifully decorated 
palace wall. His mask lay broken on the ground, and his blood soon 
stained the royal carpets as the fire grew silently, taking the palace 
slowly apart. 


But the wiser men of the city did not join this parade of madness. 
Unlike the uneducated crowd, they knew very well what the things in 
the King’s dungeon meant. Not just corruption and indulgence of 
pleasure, but something darker, whispers and prayers to things that 
should not be remembered. The tomes and symbols reminded them 
too much of the ancient gods of down in the abyss, the dark red 
liquid in the silver cup unsettlingly resembled blood. A lion, which 
was once the King’s pet, now reduced to mere skeleton, had 
carvings on it that they wish they could unsee. And they knew that 
the soldiers fell before the angry people not because their weapons 
were not sharp or their armors were poorly-made, but because their 
bodies so weak, that they weren’t even able to put up a fight. The 


soldiers were hardly the young men in good health they were when 
they were recruited, as they appeared lost and confused with a 
broken soul, as if something had sucked their life dry over the years. 
So they fled, scholars grabbing their scrolls, painters taking their 
paintings and tools, leaving this cursed city without looking back. 


The cheering in the city however, did not cease. The people 
celebrated their victory, throwing filthy things towards the King, 
picking up stones to break his fragile bones once more. Even the 
smallest children had come up and kicked the old man, leaving him 
crawling in the mud. They hardly understood what this all meant, but 
they too laughed with the crowd. The crows gathered on the 
branches nearby, and they made noises harsh and shrill, as if 
mocking the men below. 


Tortured people had taken their revenge, but even those who had 
been the King’s accomplice had joined their rank. The criminals who 
had murdered tens of people stood alongside those who were too 
afraid to even speak ill of the court, and they all cheered and 
cheered. The thieves walked proudly in broad daylight, for on this 
one day, the only thief was the King, who stole the Kingdom from its 
people, and everything else done was to serve justice. Innocents 
had died and the ones with blood on their hands were praised 
heroes, but the crowd did not care. They were vultures, feasting 
upon the dead body of a giant, who had been weak and sinful, now 
a lair for things so much more filthy than he was. 


And the climax of the feast came when the King was taken through 
the long streets and out to a small hill where an old tree stood. They 
were going to use the gallows to hang him, but someone suggested 
that the King did not deserve a formal execution, but should die 
nameless and forgotten. So they took him here, a deserted place 
where the tree happened to be big and tall enough for him to be 
hanged. The King, who had crawled on his broken knees all the way 
there, hardly resembled a king anymore. Covered in dirt and rags, 
he was more along the lines of beggars than anything of royalty. But 
even as people spat at him and cursed him, nobody dared to look at 
him in the eyes. Even with his jaw broken, he murmured unholy 
words that no one wished to hear. So the crowd shouted and yelled 
as loud as they could, trying to hide the unsettling feeling stirring 


their hearts and minds. 


The execution was done easily and swiftly, as it merely took a long 
rope around the King's neck with its end tied to a large tree branch. 
The King was hanged, heavy chains still on his body, for the people 
felt unsafe to take them off. He had struggled like every hanged man 
in human history, but the words slipped through his lips were unlike 
anything others had spoken. He did not ask for forgiveness, nor did 
he curse his rebellious subjects for he knew they had already been 
cursed. He spoke inhuman words that came from places of dark, 
and then laughed and laughed until his final breath. Then there was 
silence, as his hands and feet finally stopped moving. 


There was no longer cheering, as everyone tried to get out of the 
place as soon as they could. Nobody wanted to look at the Hanged 
King for a second more, as his eyes, now lifeless and wide, still 
seemed to be staring at them. The courage they built up when 
taking the palace was gone, the pride and the triumph they felt now 
reduced to void and fear. The King was hanged, but it was as if his 
laughter was still echoing on this small hill.