Crayne swallowed hard, made sure to put his gun down on the 
ground, and then showed his face around the corner. 


"Here | am, princess," he said and slowly moved into view. He held 
out his hands, palms up and waited. Crayne tried, but failed to 
ignore that his jeans and nondescript red t-shirt had somehow 
changed into a burlap sack. It itched. 


She had long blonde hair, bright green eyes, and was sitting in the 
middle of what must have once been a bedroom. Its walls had been 
transformed from wallpapered drywall into coarse stone mortar 
work. In glancing, he noted the stones were uniform and featureless. 
The one window had lost its glass and showed a view of rolling hills, 
sprawling forests and even a distant shoreline. All perfect storybook 
material. He knew that out in the real world, his colleagues were 
staring up at that window. 


Anderson comforted the mother, following protocol as the amnestic 
began to take hold. He repeated back the cover story Planning and 
Control had issued him. Her daughter had tragically fallen down the 
stairs when she'd tried to go downstairs after an afternoon nap, and 
broken her neck. Her wails cut through him like a knife, but he kept 
his voice level and went on to explain that her daughter would be 


buried next Tuesday in a nice, quiet affair. It really was all for the 
best. 


Crayne hesitated and then curtsied, his lack of interest in medieval 
etiquette showing. 


"Milady. | have come to tell you that we need to flee the castle. A 
dragon is coming." 


He regretted his hastily chosen words the moment they'd left his 
mouth. When he got back, he'd probably be locked in a room with 
the manual on child reality benders. 


"A DRAGON?!" she shrieked and Crayne immediately heard the 
sound of a bedsheet hung out to dry, flapping in the wind. 


Okay, that was fucking stupid, he thought and wished he had 
brought his gun. Wouldn't have done me much good anyway. It'd 
probably have been turned into a goddamn pitchfork. 


"We can run, princess. The queen is somewhere safe already, but 
we need to go now," he said, hoping he'd put enough urgency into 
his voice. 


The girl looked up at him and he saw something behind that gaze. 
"Where's my mommy?" she asked and nearly cried. 


Crayne noticed a slight movement ripple through the walls, the 
return to mundane subjects having a direct effect on her 
surroundings. 


"Mommy's fine, Lily. | can take you to her right now, before the 
dragon gets here." 


A roar sounded. It was...cartoony. He'd heard plenty of roars in his 
time, usually right before someone got bitten in half by some 
godforsaken mutated thing with too many teeth. That thing out there, 
beyond the window, might be in his league. Then again, it might not. 
He wasn't about to take the chance. 


Now genuinely frightened by what her own subconscious had 
served up, she looked up at him expectantly. 


Crayne stuck out his hand and bowed once more. "I'll help you 
escape the castle. We'll go beyond the gate to your mom, princess 
Lily.” 


That at least got a little giggle again. Another roar sounded, closer 
this time. She cringed and took his hand. 


That flapping was beginning to get on his nerves. 

"Okay then, but you have to promise,” she implored. 

"Promise what, princess?" 

"Promise me that you'll kill the dragon," she whispered anxiously. 


"| will, princess. | will," he said as he quickly administered a dose of 
sedative. 


And the roar was no more. 


The Promotion 


"You're being reassigned," Director Fordham said, his pen never 
stopping across the page. The pregnant silence that followed could 
have strangled a thesis. The cheap wood-esque paneling that 
Fordham had put in when he took his post always felt suffocating. 
Like all the air in the room was backwash from a giant set of lungs. 


"I—. What? I'm being reassigned?" Researcher Scholl blinked a few 
times, confused. Their feet sunk into the deep forest green shag on 
the floor. The overhand fan spun in a lazy arc, as the seconds ticked 
by. A spectrum of thoughts cascaded through their mind, as they 
searched for a reason. "Is my work...not sufficient on SCP—" 


Director Fordham looked up, and gave them the fixed, pointed stare 
they'd grown to dread over the past six months. "Of course not Jake. 
| recognize what you've done, and we want to put you somewhere | 
feel you deserve. And serve the Foundation, of course. We're 
putting you on a very important, and special object." 


Jake Scholl's eyes fell to the desk. Reassigned. Their work with 
SCP-3872 as a consulting chemist was going slowly, to be sure, but 
they didn't think it was to the point they needed reassignment. "A- 
Alright. Which project am | assigned to?" 


Fordham reached over to the glass panel, at odds with the decor 
which belonged in the late 1970's at best. He tapped a few symbols 
accessing Scholl's profile, and added an entry in their security 
clearance. He hastily swiped away all the other files listed and 
turned back to face Scholl. "You have access to it now. Please get 
on the first plane to Site-19. Your dormitory contents are already 
packed up." 


Jake stood up woodenly, their hand slipping into their pocket, and 
absently checking the notifications on their cell phone. 


[SCP-DB NOTIFICATION] > 


SCP-3872. FILE REMOVED. 


[SCP-DB NOTIFICATION] > 
SCP-2593. FILE REMOVED. 


[SCP-DB NOTIFICATION] > 
SCP-173. FILE ADDED. 


They turned around, and walked slowly through the corridors, 
towards the transportation hub on the outskirts of the site. They 
opened the file on their phone, and quickly scanned the oddly 
phrased report. 


Scholl's eyebrow raised as they noticed the timestamp on 
containment. SCP-173 was one of the first. One of the few objects 
that the Foundation came to posses through some organization or 
another, without losing its information. 


Swiping down, they came to the section about assigned researchers 
and their eyes went wide as they read the list. 


[Dr. Kondraki] [Dr. Gears] [Dr. Rights] [Dr. 
Clef] [Director Strelnikov] [Dr. Bright] 
[REDACTED] [Researcher Scholl] 


At least one of those was rumored to be an O5 by now. All of them 
were legends. Jake's heart started to pick up, as they approached 
the transit hub, and the security officers located there. Maybe this 

wasn't so bad after all. A promotion to Level 3 was included in this 
reassignment, either way. 


"Can | help you?" A bored looking level 1 Security officer looked up 
from a magazine. 


Researcher Scholl straightened their tie, and stepped up to the off- 
white counter, nodding. "I need the first plane to Site-19. I've been 
reassigned." 


Six years. Jake Scholl couldn't believe it had been six years. Six 
years assigned to SCP-173. The legendary object. The first, the 
original, the Statue. 


And it was torture. 


When they'd arrived, they quickly reviewed the research materials. 
Every word had become burned into their memory. All 233 words of 
them. The "additional research materials" turned out to be a few 
scribbled pages by bored researchers. A few had made hypothesis 
which had all turned out to be nonsense. There was a locked filing 
cabinet, but every time Scholl requested it opened, maintenance told 
him that the control room was designated "low priority" and they 
would get to it eventually. 


Over the past six years, Jake Scholl had made 18 separate transfer 
requests. All of them had been denied. They were stuck here, 
technically a Level 3 staff now, but without any rights to view or work 
on any other objects. 


They were assigned a staff of four. Three D-class, all of which were 
older men, and a level 2 Security Staff, who sat in his office, and 
was frankly going to seed. Jake could probably outrun the rapidly 
expanding security officer by now. 


The D-class were all pretty docile, overall. They came in once a 
week, mopped the floor, mumbled "Clear" to each other, and left. 
Their days passed slowly...so slowly. Occasionally, there was a 
scrape, and the sounds of movement. Jake would flip open the 
observation ports on the double-concrete lock, and look at the damn 
thing. 


Just concrete and rebar. Some spraypaint. That was it. There was 


nothing to find, nothing to determine. 


When Jake first got there, they'd had the D-class, and their security 
staff hold steady as they collected samples of the concrete, some of 
the rebar, some spray paint. They were determined to find 
something worthy of research. 


After four weeks, they'd finally gotten sick of getting no replies from 
admin, and cracked the lock on the filing cabinet, finding the 
research notes of all the previous researchers. All of the "legendary" 
doctors’ notes turned out to be doodles, and random to-do lists 
which had nothing to do with the object. 


After six weeks, they'd turned up nothing from their samples. 


After eight weeks, they'd brought a Gameboy. After ten, they started 
bringing in anything they could to pass the time. 


These days, they shuffled in, waved at the guard, and sat down at 
the dingy little control room where there was a terminal, which didn't 
have an internet connection, and tried to stay sane. 


Ten years. They hadn't been kind. Jake had put on a lot of weight. 
Now pushing 400 pounds, Jake stood with a grunt, as the light came 
on, and the three D-class were escorted to the control room, with the 
mops and buckets in tow. 


"Thanks Jimmy." Was the only conversation they had with the new 
security staff. The old guard had retired sometime in the eighth year. 
Honestly, Jake couldn't remember. 


The D-class had gotten older too, most of them now grey haired, but 
still assigned to the project. At least one of them was starting to look 
the worse for wear. 


The security guard walked over, and thumbed towards the break 
room. "Hey Jake, I'm going to get coffee. If anything happens, seal 
the door, you know the drill. Just keep an eye on the D's" 


"Mmm. Hurry back Jimmy." They buzzed the doors open, and stood 
inside the door frame, keeping their eyes on the statue most of the 


on fetching his water. He claimed that 
Researcher Taylor had previously had black 
hair, whereas she now had blonde hair. At no 
point during the experiment had Taylor dyed 
her hair, and colleagues claim that she has 
had the same hair colour for nine months. 
Taylor admitted that she had considered 
colouring her hair black the previous night, but 
chose not to. Examination of the subject's 
recording indeed showed Taylor with black 
hair until the 205th iteration. On further 
examination, other small differences between 
iterations were noted. The experiment was 
called to an immediate end. 


| take it back. Further testing is necessary. - Dr Jung 
Experiment-03 


D-970-296 was given a chipped card 
containing the following items of data: 


* a 16-bit pseudo-random number, called 
Datum A; 

* the final score of a football match that 
finished twenty minutes before the 
experiment began, called Datum B; 

* the morning's DOW Jones index, called 
Datum C; 

* a five-day weather forecast for the 
continental United States, from two days 
before, called Datum D. 


A scanner was erected by the west door to 
record the data as the subject walked through. 
D-970-296 was once again instructed to repeat 
the instructions of Experiment-01 for as long 
as he felt able. 


Datum A diverged from its original value after 
the first iteration, as expected. 


time, but wandering over the containment chamber. A long time ago, 
they might have been concerned, but the D-class they worked with 
weren't violent. Frankly they had worked with these men long 
enough, that they extended a small measure of trust. All of them did 
their jobs without complaining, and had never made a mistake in ten 
years. 


Unfortunately procedure says they had to have someone armed in 
the room with any D-class. Jake looked down at their hip, double 
checking the pistol there. They knew how to use it, but had never 
actually had to draw it. 


"Clear." 
The soft swish of a mop, followed by a splash of water. 
"Clear." 


The scraping of a bucket on concrete, the D-class grunting and 
straining with the weight of water, and years. 


"Clear." 


The familiar refrain felt like it was slowly turning Jake's grey matter 
to jelly, but it continued, as they absently traced a line on the hip rig 
of the holster. The only sound out of the ordinary was one of the D- 
class breathing heavily. Another goddamned week of mind-numbing 


"Cl.. Cl... fuck | think I'm having a—..." snap 
"What, hey Nick, are you—" snap 
"Oh fuck, no | don't wanna—" snap 


Jake's eyes shot up, as the Statue stood inches away. Its eyes a 
simple painted green, but staring directly into their soul. In their 
periphery, Jake could see the three D-class with their heads turned 
at odd angles. 


Jake desperately reached out for the emergency containment button 
on the wall. They hadn't had to use it ever, and it was supposed to 


be easy to find. They recalled the manual saying Move your hand 
anywhere along the right hand wall, the button takes up most of the 
wall. It will seal off the containment chamber, and SCP-173 from 
breaching containment. 


It wasn't there. Jake's hands grew desperate, as their eyes began to 
water. Just as they started to close, a last thought crossed their 
mind. Move your hand anywhere along the left hand wall, the 
button takes up most of the wall. It will seal off the containment 
chamber, and SCP-173 from breaching containment. 


Their hand darted out to the left, and they started to push down on 
the button, the red of the emergency button filling their vision, as the 
green eyes of SCP-173 slipped just barely out of— snap 


"Fordham. Do you remember Jake Scholl?" Director Kingsley stood 
outside of the meeting room, a few minutes before the weekly 
briefing in the Site-217 administrative wing. 


"Sure do." Fordham's hair had long since thinned out, his mustache 
turning into a grey curtain above his lip, stout, and unyielding. 


"Just got a report from 19. Looks like there was a breach, and they 
bit it." Kingsley's jowls bounced slightly as they grimaced. His watery 
blue eyes narrowed slightly as he looked down at his phone. 


"Damn. And | was just about to approve their transfer." Fordham 
waved to the colleagues as they streamed into the meeting room. 
Just a few more minutes. 


"Really?" Kingsley's eyebrow went up, genuinely surprised. 


"Of course not." Fordham smiled. "The only researchers to ever get 
out of that post needed Friends in very high places. Scholl, to their 
detriment, did not." 


"Alas," Kingsley flipped a few sheets of paper on his clipboard. 
"There's already a new researcher lined up for the head of the 
project. It'll come up in the meeting." 


Fordham winced. "What did they do?" 


Kingsley smirked, and shuffled a few more pages. "They burned 
O5-7's coffee one too many times in the morning, | think. What was 
it that Scholl did exactly?" 


Fordham shook his head. "The number of times that idiot parked in 
my space. | swear." 


Kingsley frowned. "Site-217 doesn't have assigned parking.” 


Fordham waved the other director into the conference room as they 
took their places at the head of the table. "No, but that was my spot. 
Let's get started." 


The Queen of Site-18 


The D-Class assigned for the application of the SCP- serum onto 
the mundane object entered the room tenuously. He was outfitted 
with gloves coated with a special fiber that neutralized the effects of 
the SCP for the purpose of testing. He slathered the anomalous 
ointment on the shaft of the plunger and then left the room. Shortly 
afterwards Dr. Mayreder and Researcher Sanders enter. 
Researcher Sanders is carrying a notepad, Dr. Mayreder is standing 
close by observing the plunger indifferently.