“The birth of her world would have meant the death of everything in 
this. Like two babies fighting over a breast with only enough milk for 
one, and her children would be the stronger.” 


“And why would you care about our world so much?” 


“It is...difficult to explain. | was not like my brothers and sisters. | 
could not be. | was Mother’s messenger outside, out amongst you. 
To do so, to pass through the barriers, | could not be with her. | 
could not be bonded with her as the others are. | had to be 
separated from her. Your world was my world.” 


The woman wrote a few things down on her clipboard. 
“Continue.” 


“This world is my home. My real mother. | was the only one of her 
children who knew freedom. | couldn’t let her take that away from 
anyone.” 


She exhaled, the sound something close to a snort. 


“It took me a long time to realize that, though.” 


Clef had only seen photos of Able before, and they were blurred, 
chaotic ones at that. More often he saw the carnage that was left 
behind after a breach. Neither of those really compared to seeing 
the actual article now filling the screen before him: a remnant of an 
age long past, built for and hardened by more wars than most men 
could comprehend. His eyes had rage rumbling underneath the 
surface, restrained by some incredible act of will. At least for the 
moment. 


Despite being separated by hundreds of feet, most of it water and 
concrete, Clef was filled with unease. He couldn't exactly place why, 
but it was there. 


Clef looked over to Dr. Hornburg on his left. 
"Translator ready?” 


“Translator ready,” Hornburg nodded. He was the Coalition’s expert 
in matters Daevite, most likely the only person truly fluent in their 
long-dead language in the world. Enough of the god’s speech had 
been pieced together from footage of his rampages to discover that 
he had been speaking, among other indeterminate things, Low 
Daevic. 

Clef pressed the transmission button. 

“Hello, Able.” 

[Hello, Able.] Hornourg echoed. 

The god scowled, even more than his usual expression of distaste. 
[Is this a jest, or have you found a face at last?] 


Pretend you’re Ukelele, they had said in the car. He wants to talk to 
Ukelele. You're a good actor, it shouldn't be too hard for you... 


“As a matter of fact, | did. Took me long enough to find a good one.” 


The scowl returned to normal. There may have been a twinge of 
amusement at the corner of his mouth. 


[It ill suits you. Nonetheless, it is good to see your madness has 
passed. | 


“Safe to say | don’t remember much of it.” 
[It is for the best. Your idiocy was hardly amusing.] 
“Why did you want to see me?” 


[Why? To speak with my brother in chains.] 


Clef raised an eyebrow at Hornburg. 


“| take that to be the metaphorical kind of brother.” 


” 


“Yes. 
“Just checking.” 
Able continued. 


[| Know those worms are listening, but | will soeak anyway. Let them 
hear it, and let them fear it. Our slavery is an abomination, brother. 
They used you. Chained you and used you to keep me in mine. | 
know not what sorceries they have bound you with, but if there is 
any will left in your mind, | beg you, break your chains. There ought 
be no quarrel between brothers, and together we could bring down 
these worms.] 


“’m not chained: | chose this job. | protect these people.” 


[You chose? Your madness returns, brother. A slave does not 
choose his shackles. He may only choose not to see them.] He 
shook his wrist at the screen. [I will not forget. You may protect and | 
may destroy, but a slave does not choose. | 


“Who made your chains?” 
Abel spat on the floor of his chamber. 


[You don’t know? Blessed ignorance. The Daevas forged my 
chains.] 


“I'm familiar with the Daevas. | don’t suppose you know the Mother 
of Them All, then?” 


[The Mother? | met her once, long ago. A poxy bitch, that one. Why 
do you speak of her?] 


“Just thought you'd like to know that | killed her last night.” 


For a moment, genuine shock came over Able’s face. A few 
unsteady seconds passed before he threw back his head and 


laughed. This continued with growing intensity for a full minute, 
leaving him bent over double and teary-eyed. 


[You killed the Whore? Ha! You are a true brother of mine, then. | 
wish | could have fought alongside you and put her in her place.] 


“Maybe you can in the future. It could be done, Able. | can free you 
from your chains. | only have one request, from one slave to 
another.” 


[Name it. The price will be worth it.] 
“Leave my charges in peace.” 


Able’s face turned to something like melancholic half-frown, the 
expression of a man well out of practice with the emotion. 


[A difficult request. My chains are stronger than yours.] He began to 
walk away from the camera. [Restraint tires me. We will speak 
again, brother.] 


Further communication between KTE-0706 / SCP-076-B and Agent 
Clef will be allowed under both Foundation and Coalition 
surveillance, in order to locate and terminate other threats related to 
the Daevite civilization, as well as extending our knowledge of the 
Daevas, and in doing so discover or devise a method of liquidating 
or neutralizing KTE-0706 / SCP-076-B itself. 


- Approved by the Foundation Overseer board and Directors’ 
Committee 


Nightmare 


It was a hallway, corridor, somewhat familiar, but dark. Clean. Cold. 
Sterile. Emergency lights flickered, but it was dark. Rosalind 
wondered where she could possibly be. 


She walked down the hall, looking at the doorways, trying to figure 
out why it seemed so familiar. It wasn't Area 354, was it? The 
Biology department from University? Maybe...there's a door. 
Rosalind opened the door and... 


It is the Biology department of her university. No, it's a high school 
chemistry lab. All the Bunsen burners light at once. 


She starts running, as the room behind her catches fire. There's a 
staircase. There's a staircase? It only goes up. She climbs the 
stairs. 


She's running from a room on fire down a hallway. There are stairs. 
She can only go up. She climbs the stairs. 


She's in Joseph's room. There are no stairs to Joseph's room. The 
stairs are gone. The persistent ticking of a clock is in the 
background. Rosalind turns around. Why is she in Joseph's room? 
She's alone...no, there he is, lying on his bed, asleep. His tattoos 
twist strangely on his body, changing shape, slithering like snakes. 
She goes to touch him. 


She's running from a room on fire. There are stairs. She climbs the 
stairs. To outside. It is cold. 


Snow and ice are everywhere. She feels all of it. Every individual 
shard of ice, the seeds sleeping underground, the trees pulling 
sustenance from the ground and changing sunlight in their leaves. 
The creatures there, she feels them huddling together for warmth as 
IT comes. Coming to devour everything, and there is nothing but 
pain. 


Pain...pain...pain. Rosalind is in a chair, strapped down, in so much 
pain. She opens her eyes and finds her arm is open, right where that 
kid cut her. But it's being kept open; the skin stretched and pinned 
like something on a dissection table. She realizes other parts of her 
body are open the same way. She starts screaming. 


A hunched figure at a nearby table says, “Oh, come on, it doesn't 
hurt that much.” The figure comes over, dressed in a leather apron, 
gloves, surgical mask, safety goggles, wielding a scalpel. 


“Lass, are you there?” It's Joseph's voice. He comes down a 
staircase, looking happy and cocky. The figure puts down the 
scalpel, takes off the mask and goggles. It's a woman. Joseph picks 
her up and kisses her. “My Rosie,” he says to the woman. Rosalind 
watches, tied to the chair. She looks again at the woman, some kind 
of surgeon/butcher. It's her. She's the surgeon/butcher. Surgeon/ 
butcher Rosalind has tattoos? 


She hears herself say, “What do you think of my latest 
masterpiece?” Rosalind feels herself gesturing to the chair she's no 
longer tied to. She really is the surgeon/butcher. 


“It's grand,” Joseph says, beaming. Rosalind turns to look at the 
chair, expecting to see herself. It's Spencer, displayed out like a live 
dissected frog, heart still beating, blood oozing and melting into ichor 
as the head raises and it's Lisa in her containment cell. “It's not fair! | 
want to go home!” the plant child says. 


“I'm sorry sweetie, I'll get you home as soon as..” 


“Not good enough!” Lisa twists into thorny vines, tearing at 
Rosalind's arms, legs, everything. She notices a body on the 
ground, already dismembered. It's...she's not sure. 


The lab is on fire. She needs to run. There are stairs. They go up. 
Rosalind runs up the stairs, but something is calling her back. 


She's in bed. Joseph's bed. He's right there, next to her, sleeping. 
Rosalind hugs him, but there's a warm breeze. A woman hovers 
over Joseph, made of air or smoke, almost invisible. Rosalind can 
barely see her, but she knows this phantom's shape is perfect. 


Joseph begins to stir, his tattoos shimmering, like they're dancing on 
his skin. The phantom moves closer to him, and Rosalind wraps 
herself around him protectively, yelling, “No!” 


The lab is on fire. She needs to run up the stairs. Did she leave 
something in the lab? She turns around. 


Cold, snow, ice. But the massive thorn plant...that doesn't belong 
here. A voice calls out, “Il want to go home! It's too cold!” The voice 
rocks the world. It rocks so hard, Rosalind is thrown off her feet, her 
world drifting away. She scrambles for it. 


“Let me go! Please. Let me go...” The man strapped down in front of 
her is almost crying. She can't see his face. The voice is familiar, but 
she can't place it. She hears herself say, “No. You used me. You 
hurt me. Now, I'll make you suffer.” The man screams as she feels 
herself slicing him open with her scalpel. She feels calm and 
meditative as he begs for mercy. The most horrifying thing is feeling 
how much she enjoys it. 


The lab is on fire. She left something important in it, but she needs 
to run up the stairs. 


She's face-to-face with herself. The other Rosalind has almost as 
many tattoos as Joseph. Every time she tries to look at them, they 
become indistinct. The tattooed Rosalind looks disgusted. “Did you 
really think he'd stay with you? Boring, wimpy girl? Pathetic.” Wisps 
of smoke seem to curl around her tattooed doppelganger. “I...1...” 
“And stop stuttering!” 


The lab is on fire. Something important is in the lab. She needs to 
get it. 


The lab is on fire. She needs to run. There are stairs. 
The lab is on fire. Joseph is in the lab. He isn't running. 


Rosalind runs to the lab. All the Bunsen burners are on, and there is 
smoke. There is no fire. There are figures in the smoke. One is 
Joseph, lying about eight feet in the air. The smoke woman is over 
him, surrounding him. Rosalind tries to get him down. There's a 


blast of hot air. She's blown away. She needs to help Joseph! 
There's a blast of hot air. She's blown away. She needs to help 
Joseph! There's a blast of hot air... 


SCP-912: Autonomous SWAT Armor 


Item #: SCP-912 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-912 is to be kept at 
Research Unit in a standard containment cell. The cell door must 
have a damage resistance rating of 3A or above. Direct physical 
handling of SCP-912 causes a potentially dangerous reaction and 
should be avoided except as part of an authorized testing protocol. 


All researchers involved in SCP-912 must receive briefing 
SCP-912-002A (“Safe Handling of SCP-912”) and SCP-912-002B 
(“Dealing with ‘Arrest’ Behaviour by SCP-912”). In the event of 
“arrest” by SCP-912, researchers are to offer minimal resistance and 
await rescue by an associate wearing the uniform of the PD. 


Experiments that involve the use of firearms or the CQ firing range 
require authorization from Dr at least 24 hrs in advance in order 
to permit route clearance and schedule deconfliction. 


Description: SCP-912 consists of several items of police-issue 
body armour, clothing and equipment that together form a discrete 
entity capable of independent movement and action. Both the 
method by which this ability has been acquired and means by which 
itis achieved have yet to be identified. The elements that comprise 
SCP-912 conform to the standards of uniform worn by the PD 
SWAT as of /20 (the approximate date of acquisition). Uniform 
elements float in mid-air as though worn by a man or woman around 
185 cm (6'1") in height, but no such presence can be detected. 
SCP-912 does not directly respond to communication attempts, but 
will follow simple orders in English given by personnel wearing the 
uniform of an officer of the PD. 


SCP-912 consists of the following: 


No Dating At Work 


The cold, unforgiving silence that always filled the auditorium at Site 
19, regardless of the number of people present, was broken only by 
the soft click of dress shoes moving across the stage. An assembly 
was never good. It meant one of three things: a major change in 
initiative of some sort, an announcement of some imminent threat 
that was inimical to all life on earth, or-—possibly the worst—a new 
initiative from the O5 Council designed to ‘help’ the common 
workers of the site. Most often, these ended up causing more long 
term harm than short term improvement, a fact that was 
exacerbated by the fact that it was Dr. Gears slowly moving across 
the stage. 


He moved with the normal, shuffling gait of a man who had 
progressed in years, though he held his back straight and even. He 
stepped up to the podium, then shifted a three ring binder of pre- 
prepared notes out from under his arm, opening it and then pressing 
one of the controls along the edge of the lectern to dim the lights 
and start the projector in the back of the room. 


"lam here to announce a new O5 initiative," Gears said, his voice 
flat and even. 


At once, the air seemed to go out of the room. The collective 
assholes of approximately six hundred personnel clenched, most of 
them lowering their heads in resignation as Gears pressed the 
button for the projector, bringing up the first slide. 


"This is a standard, Class-3 plastic liquid containment vessel," 
Gears began, turning and gesturing toward the wall behind him, then 
looking down at his paperwork again. "Recently, there have been a 
rash of incidents caused by the improper use of these devices in the 
line of work, and we are making efforts to correct these 
misconceptions. Please note that these devices can be used to 
contain any number of approved substances. A memo has been 
distributed site-wide which lists the correct—" 


There was a soft cough from the front row, a hand raised slightly. 
Faces turned and looked at the man sitting there. Most of them 
somewhere between shock that someone was interrupting Gears 
and relief that, for the moment at least, the new initiative seemed to 
be on hold. 


The man stood, brushing at nothing on the front of his lab coat and 
shirt. "Dr. Gears, sorry to interrupt. My name is Dr. Bridge. Sir, | just 
want to be entirely clear... That’s... that’s just a bottle, right?" 


Gears expressionless face regarded Bridge for a moment, and then, 
he nodded slowly. "Yes, Doctor. This is a standard, Class-3 plastic 
liquid containment vessel." 


"Yes," agreed Bridge, "but that is... just a bottle. Right? There’s no... 
special structure to contain Euclid threats or something weird like 
that. Right?" 


Gears paused a moment, turning to look at the slide, then back to 
Bridge. "In layman’s terms, yes." 


"So... We're being called here because there’s a misuse of... 
bottles?" he continued. 


Gears didn’t frown—he never did, as far as anyone knew—but he 
might have narrowed his eyes in a method that anyone not close to 
him would have called imperceptible. 


"Yes," Gears said.