The three men named Con Murphy sat in the car, watching Robin 
Puck walk across the carpark. Robin Puck waved his hands in the 
air, embracing his freedom from the restrictive cuffs, then pulled the 
car keys from his pocket. The three Cons watched him enter the 
vehicle, reverse out of his park, and drive down the street into the 


distance. Constantine turned around from the driver's seat, smiling 
at his brothers. 


"Nicely done." 
Four minutes later, Robin Puck's car exploded into flames. 


« Vaccination | Hub | Livery Administration » 


The Corpse, The Twister, And The Veteran 


There was a boat on a lake in the dead of night. The moon was out, 
a whole shining circle. There were three people on there. The boat, | 
mean, not the moon. One of them was a tall male behind the wheel 
of an enclosed helm, one was a shorter female, carefully stretching 
the muscles in her arms and legs, and the other one was dead. The 
dead one yawned. 


Justice died about five years ago. It wasn’t a comfortable process. It 
involved the insertion of a thick rod of titanium through its heart at 
about twice the speed of sound. It was somewhat of a surprise to 
Justice, then, when despite the death of its body, it was still alive. 
Well, conscious at least. 


Justice, as it turns out, had never actually been a human being. 
Justice was not being sustained by a metameme, or an antimeme, 
or any of that family of concepts. Justice wasn't magic, or at least, 
wasn't from any of the 27 well-established (if not completely 
understood) esoteric paths that was familiar with. There were no 
neurons firing, no electrical impulses through its body - no muscular 
contractions, only movement without apparent cause. Justice 
definitely wasn't technological, nor extradimensional, nor reality- 
bending, nor Hume-emitting, nor aliphonious, nor xelembical, not 
paraphysical, metaphysical, hyperchemical, hypochemical, 
paramecian, ectoplasmic, pneumopsychological, nor, in any way 
beyond continued animation, alive. 


This was astonishing, most of all to Justice itself. 
Back to the boat. Olga started talking to Justice. 


"We're about twelve miles out. We'll have about fifteen minutes to 
get what we're after." 


"Should be plenty of time." 


"Quite right. Stand up, let me get your harness on." 


Olga had been taught esoterics since she was 12. Her father had 
made sure of that: he'd been in the Working business for decades, 
as had his mother, and her father, and his mother before him. It was 
an odd quirk of the bloodline that the sex of their offspring alternated 
each generation. Olga's father had taken it as fact that she'd be 
Working for a living. As it turns out, she realised at the age of 17 that 
she enjoyed Twisting quite a bit more. Explaining this to her father 
had been difficult. 


"No daughter of mine's going to become a damn Twister. You'll 
Work, young lady, and you'll like it, so help me K-n." 


Fortunately, being somewhat of a polymath when it came to 
esoterics, Olga was able to Change his Mind. He sent her to 
Tylemikus - which suited her fine, she wanted nothing to do with 
those pretentious dolts at Alexylva, anyway - and she graduated in 
the expected 4 years with a Twister's Diploma. recruited her the 
same day she sent through her thesis. 


Back to the boat. Olga pulled the straps of Justice's harness taut, 
then hit a button on the leg strap. Justice felt its body start drifting 
into the air, grabbing onto a railing on the side of the boat to keep 
itself steady. Justice turned around and bared its teeth. 


"Thanks. Want help with yours?" 
"Nah, | should be fine. Go check on Leroy." 


Justice turned, pulling itself along the railing, edging towards the 
helm of the boat. Leroy looked towards the ghoulish, floating thing, 
dragging itself towards him, and felt goosebumps raise on his arms. 


lt wasn't that he disliked Justice. No, they got along quite well, all 
things considered. He knew Justice wasn't a zombie, per se. Just 
that, well, it looked like one. Leroy had taken too many trips through 
the uncanny valley to really feel comfortable around anything 
vaguely humanoid any more. Even other humans. Back when he'd 
joined up with about 30 years ago, they'd regularly had to deal 
with bipedal monstrosities, shambling around with a discomforting 


gait. They hadn't been sapient, of course. None of them had been 
sapient, he'd told himself as he stared at the ceiling, unable to go to 
sleep. Their minds had gone, it was like putting down dogs - no, 
stop, you like dogs - no more intelligent than bugs - but bugs are 
scary, too, inhuman, gross, disgusting - this isn't working, take the 
pills, dreamless sleep, dreamless sleep. 


Yes, last night had been one of the easier ones. 


Justice pulled itself into the helm - at least it had the decency to 
keep its corpse clean, Leroy thought - and grumbled a greeting. 


"We all good?" 


"Uh, yeah, it's... we're good. Deflectors seem to be working fine, 
they haven't seen us yet. If they had we'd be being lit up or shot at." 


"Good to hear. Give us the signal when we're good to go, alright?" 
"Sure, sure. You, uh..." 


Leroy stopped himself from saying "don't die out there" to the 
corpse. 


"You... stay safe, okay? Don't let them ventilate you too bad." 
Justice bared its teeth and cackled. Leroy winced a little. 
"Same to you, buddy. See you when we're done." 


Justice pulled itself back out of the cabin, then towards Olga, who'd 
just activated her own. She was laughing as she turned to Justice. 


"Ha, oh K-n, we're really doing this, aren't we?" 
Justice nodded. Olga's smile faltered a bit. 
"Okay. Alright. Woo. Hah. Yeah, this... this'll be fine, right?" 


"We'll be fine. You'll be fine, I'll Keep an eye out for you. Don't worry 
about it." 


"Brilliant. Okay. They can't be that ready for us, right?" 


"Olga, nobody in the world is ready for us." 
Olga returned to her grin. 
"Right." 


She sighed, and turned to stare at the moon-illuminated silhouette of 
Site 27. 


"Yeah. We'll be fine." 
They weren't. 


Incur/Recur | | Dull Ache Hand 


Dull Ache Hand 


Site 27 is where people's throats get cut. 


There's a reason for this, of course. Kill words, though difficult to get 
into a person's brain without haemorrhaging it, are some of the most 
effective personal weapons in the world. Unlike a gun or a blade, 
they can't be physically stolen from you. They don't need 
maintenance and they don't break down. They can end a life in any 
of a million different ways. So, when you have prisoners who can kill 
with words, there are a few ways to deal with them. 


First, the removal of the word from the mind. Amnestics don't help 
as much as might be hoped. It is impossible to chemically target 
only the language centre of the brain (or more accurately centres, as 
Broca's and Wernicke's area are two separate locations). Often, 
retaining other brain functions of a subject is a very low priority, so it 
is acceptable to simply wipe the dominant hemisphere. It is, 
however, possible to drill through the skull and physically access 
those sections of the brain. Dangerous, yes, but after surgical 
removal, most subjects lose the ability to form any words at all. This 
doesn't stop them from trying, though. In Site 27, there are corridors 
of people screaming, cackling, burbling, giggling, popping their lips 
together, smacking their faces, trying to push out coherent thoughts 
from their minds to no avail. 


Next, the removal of the ability to speak. If you Know the phonemic 
components of the kill word, you can narrow down your butchery to 
the minimal amount of flesh needed to be carved out. Often, simply 
removing a person's lips makes it impossible for them to compose 
the words they know. It may be necessary to remove teeth, or fuse 
the top and bottom jaws together. It is difficult, but not impossible, to 
carefully remove specific muscles from the throat, making it 
impossible to form particular vowels. To block voiced consonants, 
simply remove the vocal chords. If the kill words they know make 
use of the nasal phonemes, one can simply fill the nasal cavity with 


the door once for each member of staff present before entering, 
even for routine maintenance. All other doors within the house have 
been removed. 


SCP-717-1 is a white cloth mannequin and is to be kept within this 
room at all times, preferably seated before its table. Staff are to note 
its position and markings once per day. Any changes or signs of 
movement are to be reported immediately. A lamp, set of writing 
implements, large block letters and a modified Ouija board must be 
kept on the table before SCP-717-1. 


No other items are to be placed on this table. If SCP-717-1 shows 
signs of movement, one staff member is to sit at the table and 
remain in the room with it. The staff member present must turn on 
the lamp and point at the word "WAIT" on the modified Ouija board, 
then immediately shut the lamp off. Staff is advised to remain quiet 
and breathe steadily until relieved. 


SCP-717-2 is sealed behind a titanium alloy vault door, lined with a 
plating of [REDACTED] alloy. It is mounted on the wall behind 
SCP-717-1. The vault is to remain sealed per mutual agreement. If 
any whistling is heard from the vault, maintenance must be 
performed immediately to prevent a breach. 


If the SCP-717-2 vault is breached from the far side, it is to be 
considered a hostile act. Communication with SCP-717 is to 
immediately cease and staff are to equip weapons to repel invaders. 


Addendum: Unauthorized staff are not permitted to communicate 
with SCP-717-1 beyond requesting its patience while authorized 
personnel arrive. This can possibly take days, and SCP-717-1 
should understand this. Prolonged exposure to SCP-717-1 can 
produce feelings of unease and discomfort. This is attributed to its 
jerky, twitching movements as well as the mannequin's limp neck 
and unnatural chill. Although direct exposure to the entity within 
SCP-717-1 has been shown to cause [DATA EXPUNGED] therefore 
it can safely be assumed that SCP-717 is even less enthusiastic 
about contact than we are. 


If authorized personnel do not arrive within 24 hours, staff on site 
may leave the room after tapping the word "WAIT" three times in 


a permanent sealant, making it impossible to form "n" or "m" 
sounds. Often two or three of these are done at once. 


Pinch your nose. Try to say the word "Mother". "Mercy". "No". Use 
your other hand to keep your lips apart from each other at the same 
time. Try saying "Help". "Please". Imagine a hundred such voices, 
distantly echoing through labyrinthine, clinical white halls. 


The security personnel in the corridors of Site 27 wear earmuffs, 
some of them fluffy and pink. 


Gan Ceann knew 48 different kill words. Of those, she'd personally 
invented 9, two of which she'd found could be non-fatally 
communicated to others with sufficient training. She was proud of 
this. The methods previously described were not effective on Gan. 
Her skull was impenetrable to the drills at hand (though the attempts 
were still exceptionally painful). Her body rejected any sealant 
placed inside it, breaking it apart and peristaltically pushing it out, 
piece by painful piece. Muscles re-knitted themselves in her throat. It 
was a simple fact of her biology: she could not stay without voice. 


Very much against her will, Gan had her head removed from her 
body and placed in a jar filled with formaldehyde. 


This was not as bad as might immediately be thought. Sure, this 
splintered her consciousness, but it was hardly the first time that had 
happened. Yes, it constantly felt as though she was drowning, the 
stinging fluid circulating and mixing with her own blood. Sure, she 
didn't have much to look at, faced as she was towards the 
nondescript wall. Yes, it might sound like this is all building up to 
some kind of positive, but no, it was all quite utterly awful and she 
wanted to get out of there as soon as possible before she lost her k- 
ndamn mind. 


Gan's body, conscious unto herself, had other thoughts. She knew 
48 different kill words, true, but no mouth (nor, any more, head) to 
form words with. They had, however, made the mistake of throwing 
her into a cell without binding her hands. 


Here she made the equivalent gestures for "sign language, 
motherfucker". 


Infiltrating an Auditory Threat Research Facility is made far easier in 
that employees are not permitted to directly observe any sound at 
any time. Thus, the major disadvantage of Lighttwisting - or, as the 
uninitiated would refer to it, "glamour" - is overcome: provided you 
appear as someone who should be present, your inability to mask or 
disguise your voice becomes irrelevant. Vocal mimicry is far more of 
a Taking skill than a Twisting one, and is far more complicated if you 
are attempting to provide a voice to another. Fortunately, 
Lighttwisting constructs are persistent, and can be anchored to a 
surface. Thus, Olga had been able to Twist both Justice's 
appearance and her own without needing to personally maintain it. 


Justice and Olga walked down the corridor. Justice didn't need to 
block its ears - its physiological biostuff served little purpose beyond 
puppetry, and so Auditory Threats were for the most part irrelevant 
to it. Olga was wearing fluffy pink earmuffs. 


They stopped at a map. Justice gave it a quick look over, then 
confirmed it matched what they expected with a brief thumbs-up. 


They started walking towards Gan's body's cell. 


Gan's body had felt around the walls of her cell until she figured out 
where the door was. If she'd had a mouth, she could have just 
Unseelie'd the thing. Instead, she backed up from the door, sat 
down, removed her shoes, stood back up, and prepared her hands 
for the gesture. She'd feel it in her soles when someone was 
approaching. 


Olga Twisted the lock open, pulled the door wide, saw Gan's body 
wildly flailing her arms, and promptly started puking blood. 


Justice saw this happen, crossed the room, grabbed Gan's left arm 
with both hands, and tapped out" "in Morse against her wrist. 
Gan stopped flailing. Olga continued puking blood. 


Gan grabbed Justice's arm and tapped out "KNOW DIRCSHN OF 
HED USE AS CMPASS BUT GUIDE FRM WALS". Justice tapped 
back "OK". Olga didn't stop puking blood. 


"ALSO OLGA PUKING BLOOD PLZ REVERSE" 
"SHIT POINT THS WAY" 


Justice grabbed Olga's head, pushed her mouth shut, and rotated 
her skull so that she'd see Gan as Gan, again, flailed wildly but in a 
bit of a different way. 


The puking slowed to a dribble, a cough, another heave, a cough. A 
wipe of her sleeve against her mouth. Justice stared. Olga was able 
to stay conscious despite the extensive blood loss. She felt like shit, 
though. Like total shit. Like freshly shat shit, all shitty n'... shit. Wow, 
she thought, the ground's awful red today. 


Olga collapsed. 


This was bad. Justice needed Olga to glamour Gan, or there was no 
way they'd get out in one piece. A blood transfusion, maybe... but 
from who - Justice's heart hadn't pumped for a long time, and Gan 
was operating on alternative physiology. 


That said, thought Justice, there's all this blood on the floor, and | 
know it's a perfect match... 


Olga was fine for a while - they all got out okay - but that blood was 

puked, and you really, really shouldn't siphon gastric juices into the 

circulatory system. She got real, real sick - the bad kind of sick - but 
made sure she got better. 


That's just the kind of _ that is. 


The Corpse, The Twister, And The Veteran | | Infer A Penny 


Tales of Mr. Collector 


Wow! You just found yourself the Tales of Mr. Collector, a limited 
edition story collection from Dr. Wondertainment! 
Read them all and become Mr. Reader!! 


1. Mr. Headless by Anaxagoras 
2. Mr. Clank by Dr. Gears