"Yeah, you know..." said Wren. The phantom sensation of a pulled 
trigger ached in her finger as she spoke, and ghostly warmth from a 
vast fire rushed against her. She could feel herself prying out one of 
her teeth, feel herself walking through a field of bleeding soldiers, 
feel herself smiling in the face of a hundred more hale ones. "For 
forgetting.” 


"Your loss will be felt, | promise. You were always a good agent, but 
sometimes retirement is what's best for everyone. We'll get you 
some happy memories, and —" 


"No, no way! | refuse. I'm good at this. This is the only thing I'm good 
at! You can't do this to me!" 


"Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be. Think of 
what's best for the Foundation." 


"Right, |am." Wren smiled again, and it spoiled before she could 
finish. "| want to make an appeal." 


"Granted," said a voice pitched higher than either of their own. What 
little color was in the room drained out of it as Wren looked for the 
voice's source, and the walls peeled away one by one. The chair 
she sat on vanished, as did the table in front of her, and then the 
floor below. Wren was momentarily engulfed by a terrifying 
nothingness that resembled nothing quite as much as a sky in which 
every star was long dead. 


A moment later, Wren found herself in a blindingly bright room. The 
light was cold, sterile, and harsh enough to obscure everything but 
the ornate desk in front of her and the woman sitting behind it. Dark- 
haired, dark-skinned, and severe in expression, her hands were 
clasped in front of her, one bare and the other heavy with rings. 


"I've been listening," she said, each word heavy with enough 
authority to erase any doubt about what position she held. "State 
your case. Quickly. Clearly." 


"Of course, Overseer. Like Coxswain said, | wasn't in control of my 


actions, so | shouldn't be blamed for them. | know | can't go into the 
field like that, but there has to be something else | can do. Right?" 


"But you were in control, weren't you?" said the Overseer, pausing 
to shift her hands so that the ringed one lay atop the other. 
"Forgetting does not excuse treason, no matter how completely you 
managed to do it." 


"| would never!" 


"Wouldn't you though? Didn't you? Tell me honestly that you think 
you're innocent." 


Wren bit back a quick denial. She was walking through a minefield, 
no doubt about that, but she wasn't dead yet. "| may not be 
innocent, but I'm not guilty either. Some version of me might have 
done whatever it did, but that version isn't me anymore." 


"What you did was kill twenty-six of your fellow agents, destroy a 
great deal of valuable equipment, and sell some very important 
secrets to the Autumn Firm." 


The mines felt awfully close to the surface here, but Wren pushed 
on regardless. "Those are useful skills though, right? Aren't they? 
The Foundation's going to need people like me once all the 
weirdness is taken care of and other people are the problem. 
Turning me into a... a farmer or something would be a waste!" 


"The 'weirdness' is already more under control than you could 
imagine, and our enemies are different from what you think. That 
said..." 


Wren sat silently as the Overseer considered her. She felt a bit like 
the room she had just been sitting in, with each and every bit of her 
peeled away and discarded just to expose something deep inside. 
More than just being exposed, she was analyzed. Broken down into 
her component parts and weighed. Poked, prodded, and probed. 
Judged. 


"| may have a use for you," conceded the Overseer. "That is, if you 
truly want to keep doing this sort of work." 


| do!" 


"Serve me well then. Hurt who | say to, and kill those | need you to. 
I'll pay you, give you new teeth, and new allies too. Betray me, and 
I'll make you remember everything you think you've buried. Swear 

it.” 


Wren was about to say something snide about how ridicuous the 
woman sounded, but thought better of it under her sharp glare. 
"Yes, Overseer. | will. | swear." 


Anything was better than the alternative. Anything was better than 
forgetting all the things she had cut away at her memories to 
preserve. And if nothing else, this was what Wren was good at. 


Wren sat on a bench in northern Florida two days later, chewing 
gum and wishing it wasn't quite so humid. She kept running her 
tongue over her new teeth and worrying over how sharp they felt. 
They had been safe so far, but it only felt like a matter of time before 
she managed to hurt herself. Well, she had other people to hurt first. 


Two men and a woman passed in front of where she was sitting, 
speaking quietly to each other and reeking like they just walked out 
of a chemical plant. Importantly, each matched one of the 
descriptions she had been given. More importantly still, they moved 
with the kind of intent people only had when they were doing 
something serious and secretive. Wren waited a minute after they 
passed before rising, languidly stretching, and giving slow chase. 


The small group moved as the Overseer had predicted, heading 
toward the location of some important meeting she was currently 
embroiled in. Knowing that, tracking them was as easy as it would 
have been with the drone arrays and subverted cameras Wren had 
enjoyed in Alpha-1. Five blocks from where they started, she walked 
into a long, narrow alleyway just a few steps behind them. Wren 
reached through her sweatshirt's open zipper, drew her pistol, and 
fired. Twice into the back of the closest, once into the head of the 
next, and three times into the chest of the last. Not a good showing 
from the Ethics Committee, but she hadn't expected much in the first 
place. 


She shot each of them once more before walking off into the wet 
night. It seemed like an excessive solution to the Overseer's 
problem, but Wren wasn't going to complain. Not when she was 
being put to good work again. She looked up at the night sky as she 
went. Even if some of the stars above were already dead and gone, 
their light still shone all the same. 


« Previous Tale | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun |Next Tale » 


Forgiveness 


Note: This is part nine in a multi-part story based around 
the events leading up to the containment of SCP-2982. It 
is recommended that you read the previous entry 
Comfort Breaks first, or start from the beginning At the 
Library. 


“How long’s the shower been broken?” Dimitri asked. Helen 
shrugged and dried her tears on her blouse. “Damned thing,” he 
continued. “Keeps switching itself back on.... You okay?” 


Helen took a deep breath. “No,” she admitted. 


“That's understandable.” There was a long pause. “I thought | heard 


“ 


you... 
“Talking to someone?” 

“To yourself, | figured, or Angela.” 
“It hasn't sunk in yet. If it ever does.” 
“It will,” said Dimitri. “It'll take time.” 


Helen nodded slowly in acknowledgement. “Can | stay here tonight? 
It's late. | don't want to go somewhere else.” 


Dimitri opened his mouth to speak but Helen continued over him. “It 
feels like she's still here,” she said. “It feels like I'm with her. Not so 
alone. Please.” 


Dimitri waited long enough to give the impression he had a choice. 
“Okay,” he said. “I'll get someone to stay in a car outside or 
something. You'd better take this.” He started to put something 
around her neck but then stopped, and instead handed her a small 
orange box; a rape alarm. “Just in case.” His tone was apologetic. 


civilian entities imitating individuals whom the subject has wronged 
or been wronged by during this period of time. 


After seventeen (17) hours have passed in SCP-849-1, the quality of 
the imitation will begin to rapidly degrade. Effects of this process 
include, but are not limited to: 


¢ Bizarre and nonsensical situations 
 |llogical changes in civilian entity appearance and biology 
* Impossible geometry 


During the last fifteen (15) minutes of residing in SCP-849-1, 
subjects have reported the breakdown of physical laws such as 
gravity, often causing stress and anxiety. After twenty-four (24) 
hours have passed, all subjects will be forcibly ejected from 
SCP-849-1. 


« SCP-848 | SCP-849 | SCP-850 » 


She took it awkwardly and put it next to the basin. It made her skin 
crawl. 


“We're still looking for Aidan Brown,” the lieutenant said. “If he tries 
to come back, we'll pick him up.” 


“Do you think that's likely?” 


“Him coming back? No. He hasn't been seen in weeks. Not by 
anyone but you, anyway. | think we need to go through some more 
questions tomorrow, if you're okay with that.” 


Helen nodded. “Okay,” Dimitri said. “I'll get someone to come over. If 
Aidan contacts you, let me know. I'll see myself out.” 


Helen waited until she heard the front door close, turned back to the 
shower, and switched it off. She regarded Aidan numbly as he 
shifted position in the bathtub, his carapace grinding as he tried to 
make himself more comfortable. He looked up at her but couldn't 
maintain eye contact. “I'm sorry,” he said. 


Helen sat on the edge of the toilet and picked up Angela's 
toothbrush. She held it in her three left fingers and turned it over, 
trying to find some significance to this most mundane of everyday 
items. There were memories wrapped up inside, memories of happy 
times when they'd laughed and played as she taught her daughter 
how to brush her teeth. You make the foam like this; not too much or 
it hurts. Swish your mouth out with water when you're done. If you 
gargle it makes a funny noise but if you're not careful it'll come out 
your nose. Angela had a beautiful smile. Two gaps where milk teeth 
had come out that only made it more adorable. 


Those memories were still there, but the meaning was lost, or 
locked away where they couldn't hurt so much. For now, she had 
nothing. 


In time she looked back towards Aidan. He had stopped crying. 


“Why?” She asked, her focus still on the toothbrush. Aidan didn't 
respond. “The police think you saw a vulnerable single mother with a 
young child. That you befriended me to get to a seven year old little 


girl. That that was your intention all along.” 
Aidan started to weep again. 

“Don't,” she said. “Just give me answers.” 
“It’s not true,” said Aidan. 


Helen laughed softly, entirely without humour. “Maine put those 
urges into your head, didn't he? Turned you into a child molester. 
Probably wrote it down somewhere. How can | hate you? | want so 
much to hurt you right now, but | can't. Even if | wasn't like this.” She 
raised her disfigured arms and fingers to him. “Even if | could, | 
couldn't. It isn't your fault. This goes deeper than either of us.” 


Aidan Brown sobbed uncontrollably again. Helen's forgiveness was 
so much more unbearable than her hate. “If | could change things - “ 


“Don't,” Helen warned. “Don’t. | can't cope with what-ifs right now. | 
have to focus on what's real. What can't be changed. Accept. Move 
on...” She exhaled slowly and put the toothbrush back in its place. 
And then another thought sprang to mind. “Might you do this again? 
To other children?” 


Aidan took a deep breath as well as his dysfunctional lung would 
allow. He thought long and hard, imagined scenarios where 
conscience and kindness would struggle against opportunity and 
desire, and be victorious; imagined similar struggles where 
conscience and kindness would lose badly every time. The latter far 
outweighed the former. 


Helen looked across at him. “Well?” 
“Yes,” he admitted. There was no reason to lie. 


“Jesus,” she said, quietly. Aidan moved uncomfortably in the 
bathtub. 


“I can't give myself up,” he said. “Nobody can see or hear me. After 
|... After... Afterwards | came in here. Turned the shower on and 
curled up under it. The police came. Broke down the door. They 
switched the shower off, | switched it back on. Cried all the time they 


were here. They didn't hear me. They didn't see me. Tried to grab 
them, they moved away. | just sat here under the shower. | couldn't 
interact with them.” 


“But you interacted with my daughter,” Helen countered abruptly. 
“You managed that.” 


“| Know. It... wasn't easy.” 


Helen looked down at the floor with red stinging eyes, and the 
emptiness was all around her. This was surely the end of her life. 
Aidan Brown must have been thinking the same thing; another 
rasping deep breath, then: “I don't want to be alive anymore,” he 
said. 


Helen nodded in dejection, then looked at him fiercely. “Don't you 
fucking dare,” she hissed. “Don't you fucking dare even think about 
it. You're not done here yet. Not by a long way.” 


“But -” 
“No.” Helen stood up and advanced on Aidan. 


“You don't get it, do you?” she asked. “You can commit murder 
without getting caught,” she said. “You don't take the easy road until 
the hard road’s done. Do you understand?” 


Aidan nodded. Shower run-off puddled around his bulk. He shivered 
and wrapped his legs around himself. “I understand,” he said. 


“Until then, until you've done everything you can to honour my 
daughter's life and avenge her death, until you've made reparations, 
you stay here - or | swear to God | will come down to hell and hunt 
you down, and satan himself will cower at my coming.” She saw the 
fear in Aidan's face and softened slightly. “No,” she said. “You stay 
here until the hard road's done. Maine has to die. After that, you 
crawl under a rock and you die however you want.” 


Aidan nodded again. “Okay,” he said, and he was scared and 
relieved at once. He had murdered this woman's daughter, and she 
did not hate him. He had ruined her life, and yet she allowed him his. 


“I'll do whatever it takes,” he said, and despite the circumstances 
that had brought them to this point, there was something akin to 
belonging between them. The fact was not lost on Helen that Aidan 
had irrevocably destroyed that which was most precious to her, but 
likewise she knew she was to blame for it all; she had involved him, 
when all was said and done. 


But, she thought, how did Harold Maine know that? 


ooo 


Foundation agent Carol Paris walked through the Laundromat, down 
the stairs, and into the office. Pass code, retinal scan, pass code, 
pheromone scan, pass code, fingerprint scan. The final door opened 
up in front of her. 


She'd left this room quiet and empty. Now it was full of noise, full of 
colours, Thirteen HD screens, each one a visual monitoring aid with 
twenty or more lines scrolling slowly across it, each one focussing 
on particular areas of concern that the Site Director deemed worthy 
of attention. 


Five of the lines were red, another eight turning from green to 
orange in front of her eyes. She was waved over by Agent Caruso. 
“What’s the story?” she asked. 


Caruso, a small, wiry rat of man, smiled tiredly and handed her a 
coffee. 


“Escalation Procedure 926-Infosec-008.” 


“No K-class? Never mind.” Paris sat down at her desk and booted 
her machine up. “Maybe next time. What's up?” 


“Rape and murder of a minor in Beacon Hill yesterday.” 
“And?” 


“Initial forensic report’s triggered five deviations from normality 
patterns, another eight possible - well you can see the screens.” 


“Go on.” 


“Traces of human and crustacean sperm at the scene. As in, in the 
same DNA strand. Not physically possible, obviously. Injuries 
consistent with crush trauma from claws, fragments of human skin 
and chitin under the fingernails. Human skin between seventeen and 
thirty seven per cent crustacean. Chitin between eight and twenty 
four per cent human. Thirty page synopsis, four hundred page full.” 


“| see.” Already she knew. It was obvious. “What kind of 
crustacean?” 


“Limpet? Lobster? Does it matter? Wait a sec, got it written down 

somewhere... Yeah. Homarus Americanus, American lobster. No 
one saw any intruders, no comers, no goers. And no one saw any 
half-lobster monsters either.”