Another popular story was of the D-Class at Site-15 rioting. 
Depending on who was telling the story they were either a ragtag 
team of organized rebels or a bunch of idiots too stupid to know 
when to fold. No matter who you heard it from it always ended the 
same way: lockdown and MTF intervention, with every D-Class 
participant earning themselves a copper medal, right behind the ear. 


Roughly a quarter of the staff at Mitchell's site were ex-military. The 
Mobile Task Forces consisted of combat veterans culled from elite 
SMUs like Delta, SAS, and Mossad. They were usually on active 
duty deployed across the world, but the MTF Eta-Seven "Creepy 
Crawlies" team was headquartered at Mitchell's site, and could 
occasionally be glimpsed prowling Euclid corridors and 
subbasements, or conducting training exercises beyond the yard. 
Although their interactions with D-Class were limited, there was a 
grudging respect between the two disparate groups, as they were 
often assigned the most dangerous tasks. 


Other military personnel filled a plethora of roles within the 
Foundation, anything from guards and agents to strategists and 
intelligence desk-jobs. 


1600: End of shift. Exercise and train. 


The Foundation functioned on the principle that any insurrection 
would end in death. Even simple defiance could result in 
termination. Whether it was by a gun or some stygian crustacean 
was their choice. The opposite side of the coin was the necessary 
fairytale they sold and everyone swallowed: if you followed the rules 
and played the game there was a slim chance you could make it out 


SCP-884: A Shaving Mirror 


Item #: SCP-884 
Object Class: Safe Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-884-4 is to be stored in 
Locker 147 at Site- . SCP-884-4 may be requisitioned for research 
with approval of either Dr. Cho or Dr. Ignit. Due to the events of 
January 11, 20 , all access to SCP-884-4 is currently denied, and all 
requests to examine or test SCP-884-4 are to be submitted directly 
to O5- for approval. SCP-884-4 is to be placed in Deep Storage at 
Site- . 


Description: SCP-884-4 is a men’s shaving mirror, made of glass 
and ivory, presumably constructed at some point around 1974. It is 
the last remaining object in what was originally a complete set of 
men’s grooming tools, the others having been lost to testing and 
theft early this century. (Other notable examples included 
SCP-884-2, alias “The Razor,” which was stolen by the Chaos 
Insurgency during their split with the Foundation, and SCP-884-6, 
alias “The Comb,” which was neutralized following Incident 
SCP-884-6-41 72. For additional information on the remaining 
objects classified as SCP-884, please see file SCP-884: Original 
Collection.) 


SCP-884-4 possesses a mild hallucinogenic quality. Subjects who 
have used it while shaving reported an inability to perceive the 
removal of hair, causing repeated attempts to shave areas of the 
face that, in reality, have already been shaved. This usually results 
in irritation and has, in one instance, contributed to the accidental 
severing of the carotid artery. Other than this, no significant effects 
have been recognized. As of December 12, 19 , SCP-884-4 is 
remanded to Storage Locker 147 at Site- . See Addendum 884-4-9 
and Addendum 884-4-10. 


of this alive. 


Mitchell wasn't buying it anymore. He had no illusion that he was 
going to spend his golden years on a tropical beach somewhere, 
feet planted in the sand and a fruity rum-drink at his elbow. 


2200: Lights out. 
"You still mean to go through with it?” 


Mitchell was again practicing tying knots around the dowel. "Yes," 
he replied. 


"When?" 
"Soon as | get my chance." 
"Anything | can do to help?" 


"No," Mitchell said. "You've already done too much. When it's all 
over, they're going to come at you hard, interrogate you with 
everything they've got. It's better — safer — the less you know." 


4 
On a Tuesday in April, Mitchell got his chance. 
5 


Staff often assigned minor tasks to D-Class at random, either 
because they were too busy or too lazy to do it themselves. Mitchell 
had gotten into the habit of volunteering for any inter-office errand, 
usually delivering parcels and messages between departments that 
couldn't be sent electronically. Nowadays they didn't even ask, just 
told him to 'go there’ and 'carry this’. 


"Bring this to Mr. Truman in Resources," Dr. Dias said as she 
scribbled out a form. "You know the guy, up in Human Resources?" 


Mitchell visited the Resources department once or twice a week, 
was on a first name basis with the guards. "Yes ma'am." 


"Witness and sign, bring me back the pink copy. You know the drill. 
He can keep the thing if he wants, but bring it back to me if he 
doesn't." Dr. Dias hurriedly passed him a metal box the size of a 
restaurant take-out container along with the form. 


On his way to Resources Mitchell made a pit stop to a restroom. By 
now his hands were clammy and his stomach was doing 
somersaults. His endocrine glands were dumping all their adrenal 
reserves. This was actually happening. His face was febrile to the 
touch. He'd been planning for this moment for months, and now that 
it'd finally arrived he felt totally unprepared. Was he really going 
through with this? 


He saw her then, his ingénue. She was sprawled across the 
mattress as in the photograph, skin poured cream, hair spilling 
around her shoulders in amber drifts. A ray of sunlight shone 
through a nearby window. It dappled her thighs and highlighted the 
soft down on the nape of her neck and arms. If he ran his fingertips 
teasingly through that down, would she shiver and break out in 
goosebumps? He believed she would. 


Yes, for her he'd follow this through to the end. 


He removed the garbage bag out of the bathroom trash. 
Underneath, in the bottom of the canister, were two wooden dowels. 
He'd stashed many of them across the facility, not knowing when 
and where he'd need them. The trash was removed by D-Class, and 
usually they just swapped the bags out, never bothering to clean 
whatever may have fallen outside of it. 


Mitchell stuck the two dowels inside the elastic waistband of his 
pants, at the small of his back, and then returned the bag. 


He ran a cold water tap, cupped his palms beneath the faucet, and 
splashed water on his face. He couldn't recall ever seeing this done 
outside of movies, but had to admit it felt pretty good, and so did it 
several more times, dabbing at his ears and the back of his neck. In 
the laminated mirror his reflection looked feral; dripping wet, flushed 
with a cocktail of neurotransmitters, the bangs jutting straight up like 
a cartoon. He leaned his head into the sink and drank from the 
faucet, a long draught, and used paper towels to clean himself and 


straighten his hair. After half a roll he almost looked presentable and 
felt much better. Calm. He told himself that in less than an hour he'd 
never have to worry about anything again. He could finally go to 
sleep and dream with his wife. 


The facility was compartmentalized for safety purposes, and 
entering different sections required passing through security 
checkpoints as tight as an airport. Most guards — and they were 
actual guards at these checkpoints, ex-military, not D-Class kapos 
— recognized Mitchell from his frequent errands and simply waved 
him through. As a precaution he still had to remove his shoes and 
pass through a body scanner that utilized backscatter x-rays. 


He set the metal container on the conveyor belt and raised his 
hands above his head as he stepped inside the body scanner. The 
D-Class uniform was similar to other prisons: loose-fitting blue 
scrubs with no pockets. It was difficult to hide anything inside it, and 
besides that Mitchell wasn't certain whether wood showed up on the 
x-ray machine or not. If it did register and flag the dowels the guard 
would follow-up with a pat-down that would reveal the contraband, if 
not their actual purpose. 


It was a risk he had to take. 


Mitchell recognized the guard on duty as Brian Clark. He wasn't the 
most stringent of guards, but he was professional, and if alerted to 
any irregularity Mitchell had no doubt he'd pursue it. 


A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. The scanner only took 
around fifteen seconds to complete, but today it felt much longer. He 
studied the guard at the machine's console. What do you see on 
that screen? wondered Mitchell. /s it sharp and defined? | hope not. | 
hope it's about as defined as my past. 


The guard looked up and motioned him through. "What you got for 
us today, Mitch?" 


"Package for Mr. Truman, sir," he said, and handed over the papers 
and box. He swiped his ID badge to electronically check-in while the 
guard reviewed the forms. 


"His eyes only, huh? With you as a witness.” 
"Yes sir," Mitchell confirmed. 


The guard smiled and mockingly whistled at the package's overly- 
sensitive classification. Mitchell surprised himself by manufacturing 
a smile of his own while the guard picked up the station phone and 
thumbed an extension. After a brief conversation Mr. Truman 
appeared at the checkpoint. He was a nondescript forty-something 
in slacks, wore a tie but no coat. He'd barely glanced at the form 
before ushering Mitchell down a short corridor and into his office. 


"Close the door behind you," Mr. Truman ordered. 


Mitchel read the nameplate on the door: STEPHEN J. TRUMAN, VP 
RESOURCE AND ASSET ACQUISITION. 


The office occupied a corner on the fourth floor of the main facility. 
There were two windows that looked out onto the yard and the site 
grounds beyond. Mitchell noticed that even here the windows were 
barred. 


D-Class were frequently utilized to circumvent the daily minutiae of 
paperwork and clearances. As they were incarcerated within the 
facility with no means of outside communication, they filled a unique 
niche as simultaneously being the lowest ranked staff members 
while possessing some of the highest security clearances. There 
was no fear they'd have one-too-many at the local watering hole and 
confide to the bartender, no risk of venting to the wife about how a 
skip had possessed their boss the last two weeks, but now it had 
been exorcised and the old boss was back, and dammit if the skip 
wasn't better to work for. The only people a D-Class could talk to 
were other Foundation employees, and so in their limited, confined 
capacity as prisoners, it was a general rule that confidential 
information couldn't be leaked, at least not beyond the facility. 


It was for this reason that Mitchell found himself, on a Tuesday in 
April, standing alone with Truman in his office. Mr. Truman, the 
departmental head of Resource and Asset Acquisition. Mr. Truman, 
the man who'd stumbled upon Mitchell's marriage by chance and 
didn't hesitate to report it, setting in motion his wife's transfer — if 


she was even still alive — and Mitchell's subsequent erasure of 
memories. 


Mitchell closed the door. 


Truman turned his back and set the steel cube on his desk. "Dias 
tell you what this is all about?" 


"No sir." The ribbon was tied loosely along his bicep, concealed 
under his shirtsleeve. He unraveled it, plucked the dowels from his 
waistband, and behind his back he knotted the ribbon at each end 
around the dowels. 


"Well, let's take a look at what she's cooked up this—" 


Mitchell swung the makeshift garrote up and over Truman's head. 
He cinched it taut around his throat and pulled him backward, away 
from the desk and into the middle of the room where there was 
nothing to grab. His legs scissored while he clawed at his neck and 
his breath escaped in a kettle wheeze. Mitchell planted his knee in 
his spine and forced him prostrate to the floor. Truman thrashed and 
wriggled but couldn't break loose. Mitchell's fingers turned purple 
from a lack of circulation as he squeezed as tight as he could. The 
ribbon was made from parachute silk he'd taken from the textile 
workshop. 


It would hold. He was more concerned about the dowels snapping. 


The strength quickly ebbed from Truman. He made a wet keening 
sound in the back of his throat, still frantically trying to get his fingers 
under the ribbon, and then went slack. Mitchell continued to apply 
the garrote, counting to ten before releasing him. 


Each staff member, including D-Class, was required to wear an alert 
bracelet at all times. It was worn on the wrist like a watch, and it 
monitored pulse rates and GPS coordinates, among other features. 
It could also be manually engaged. Mitchell glanced at the face of 
Truman's. The readings appeared normal; no alert had been issued. 


Mitchell worked fast. He slammed home the deadbolt on the office 
door and activated the level handle lock. Then he raised the police- 


locking bar, wedging it at a forty-five degree angle between its floor 
mount and the notch. The door was old, installed when the site was 
originally built, made of thick steel. There were circular plates 
spaced evenly across its surface, but he wasn't sure what they were 
for; maybe ablative shielding or armor reinforcement. 


The office had been designed as a fortified emergency shelter — 
there was at least one in each department, a place for employees to 
fallback in case of containment breach, offering more protection than 
a standard room. 


He picked Truman up and sat him limp in his office chair, using the 
phone cords from his Avaya set to lash his wrists to the armrests, 
cinch his feet together, and as a final precaution, secure his chest to 
the back of the chair, threading the wire under his armpits. As he 
completed the last knot Truman stirred, his chest hitching with a 
sudden gasp. He'd been out less than a minute. Mitchell 
repositioned himself behind the chair. 


Truman's eyelids fluttered open. His diaphragm expanded as he 
gulped air. Mitchell tightened the garrote around his neck but 
allowed enough slack for respiration. 


When Truman fully came-to Mitchell leaned over and whispered into 
his ear: "Do exactly as | say and you might get out of this alive." It 
was a lie, of course, but like the prospect of freedom for the D-Class, 
he thought it'd persuade Truman into doing what he wanted. He 
rolled the chair on its casters to a large safe tucked into the corner of 
the office, next to a potted ficus plant. "Unlock it. Don't open it. If you 
open it, I'll choke you to death." 


Truman croaked, "What the hell is—" 
The garrote constricted, cutting off the words. 
"Don't talk. Just open the safe." 


He moved the chair so that Truman was able to extend his fingers 

and punch in the keycode. There was a beep and an indicator light 
turned from red to green. Mitchell wheeled Truman out of the way 

and opened the safe. 


Inside was a cache of containment breach emergency supplies. It 
came standard with the emergency fallback offices. There was an 
M4A1 carbine and three thirty-round magazines. He loaded a clip 
and placed the assault rifle on the desk's blotter. There was also a 
9mm Glock, a truncated shock-stick, a gasmask, an assortment of 
pills and tablets and capsules, a three-ring binder with procedural 
manuals, a radio, and a first-aid kit. Mitchell selected the Glock and 
used the binder to keep the safe propped open, in case he needed 
quick access later. 


He towed Truman's chair around the desk to the opposite side, then 
pulled one of the chairs reserved for visitors next to him and sat 
down, so that they sat across from each other. The pistol remained 
in Mitchell's hand. 


Truman struggled to speak. A blood vessel had erupted in his right 
eye. There were scratches and crescent-shaped gouges on his neck 
where his fingernails had scrabbled and peeled the flesh away trying 
to get at the garrote. The garrote itself had left very little evidence 
behind — a pink band that might bruise.