For patients undergoing psychotherapy, it helps 
them process stuff a lot easier when they explain 
what they are feeling or remember of events. A 
manifestation is still just a manifestation, but 
you are you yourself. So you should say it. 


TALLORAN 
You're no fun. 
GLASS 
I'm only fun on my off-days. 
(GLASS bites into the apple.) 
TALLORAN 


It was... about my teenage years and young 
adulthood. I had a real rough time surviving 
before I got picked up by the Foundation. It's 
tough. But it's hard to remember that many details 


about it. I just know quite a bit of it was my own 
fuck-—ups. 


Il-1-12 
GLASS 
Like? 
TALLORAN 


Again, hard to remember, but... not taking the 
chance to move houses when I had the finances, or 
not sticking up for myself when it would have 
saved me jobs. Shit like that. 


GLASS 


Maybe The Being is eating up your negative 
emotions. That could be likely, especially if 
you're at the point now where you're unstressed 
enough that you can spend time here and enjoy it. 
I mean, relative to everything else. 


TALLORAN 


Fuck, I don't like that. That'd mean that being 
hurt for all this time is supposed to be a 
positive! 


GLASS 
And to you, that'd be wholly negative, ri — 
TALLORAN 


Yeah actually, it would be! Hey, Yamada, aren't 
you still there? 


(TALLORAN looks up, only to see YAMADA completely 
gone.) 


GLASS 
Oof. Unfortunate. 
TALLORAN 


W.. what? But I can still remember her. Why isn't 
she here? 


GLASS 
I think our subject of discussion's finding you. 


(The two remain silent for minutes. THE AUDIENCE 
grows impatient. The world gradually shifts itself 
again. GLASS looks up at the sky.) 


II-1-13 
GLASS 


Hey.. our session is almost up. But I just want to 
ask you about something. Earlier, you talked about 
the Foundation being traumatizing, and having a 
rough young adulthood. But you didn't say anything 
about it being wholly your fault when it wasn't, 
and vice versa, right? 


(TALLORAN remains silent for twenty seconds.) 
GLASS 


Do you think you've accepted that oftentimes, the 
bad shit that happens to you isn't your fault? And 
that when it is your fault, you know it and can 
accept it? 


(TALLORAN remains silent for another minute. THE 
AUDIENCE starts to riot.) 


-1-14 
GLASS 


Sometimes, if you shift your point of view, you 
can reach new levels of understanding with 
yourself, and with your actions. I didn't have 
time to teach you that out there in reality, but 
here I think you understand. 


TALLORAN 


(As TALLORAN stands up, the physical form that is 
taken begins to gradually break off and 
disintegrate. Bits detach, and TALLORAN shakes, 
staring at GLASS surprised.) 


GLASS 


Who knows when our next chance at calm is? But 
when you get it, remember what you learned on your 
way there. 


(THE AUDIENCE floods the stage, taking the form of 
THE BEING now, and the world shatters. TALLORAN 
hesitantly nods and reaches out to GLASS, before 

the body completely breaks and there is no 
remaining light.) 


(BLACKOUT ) 
(CURTAIN) 
(END OF ACT) 
(FIN) 


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SCP-668: 13" Chef's Knife 


Item #: SCP-668 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: [REVISED] As of [DATA 
EXPUNGED], no special containment procedures aside from 
standard security are required. SCP-668 is to be transferred to a 
locked safe-deposit box at Site 19's High Value Item Storage 
Facility. Standard defenses against intrusion (explosive, chemical, 
biological, and memetic) are to be in place at all times, according to 
standard operating procedure. 


SCP-668 may only be removed from its safe-deposit box by 
personnel with Security Clearance 2 or higher. Individuals wishing to 
make use of SCP-668 outside Site 19 must first submit a Form-668 
Requested Course of Action form to O5-11 and be fitted with an 
explosive killswitch collar on a 24-hour timer before taking SCP-668 
into the field. An Auditing Officer with Security Clearance 4 or higher 
must confirm that SCP-668 has been returned to its safe-deposit 
box before the collar is deactivated. 


Description: SCP-668 is a 33cm (13in) chef's knife with a rosewood 
handle and full-tang construction, crafted at some point from the late 
1930s to the early 1940s. When first acquired by field operatives, 
SCP-668 was in badly rusted condition, with heavy pitting from 
blood stains and other bodily fluids trapped in micro-crevices within 
the blade. Following thorough analysis, these irregularities were 
removed for aesthetic purposes. This has had negligible, if any, 
effect on SCP-668's special properties. 


The first recorded appearance of SCP-668 was in the 1960s, during 
the infamous [DATA EXPUNGED] case. [DATA EXPUNGED], a 
New York woman living alone, was allegedly raped and murdered by 
subject [DATA EXPUNGED]. Despite the fact that 38 witnesses 
reported hearing the attack, none of them attempted to aid the 


Only God Can Judge Me and More 


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Year 14,999,999 


Here’s a joke | remembered liking at some point. 


A Foundation employee goes to ask the Records Department to 
change their name and gender. After filling out many forms and 
having to carefully explain to the staff what they are doing and why 
they are doing it for hours on end, the process is finished. 


‘See, that wasn’t so bad!’ And the clerk was right! It was a lot easier 
than expected, even if bureaucracy will still make the paperwork 
take ages to go through. ‘There’s just one last part of the process on 
your end, however. Please put on these laboratory gloves.’ 


‘Anything to get this done and over with, sir,’ the Foundation 
employee states. After they put on the gloves, they then are handed 
SCPr-1i13. 


‘Once you get back to your living quarters, you are instructed to use 
this once every other week for two months until your forms are 
processed and approved. Then you may bring it back, and you are 


Officially all done.’ 


As reluctant as the employee is, they know they just need to get 
through it. So they comply. For four months, they use 113, 
"switching" between genders constantly, undergoing what is now 
classified as a "Class-—Diogenes" phenomenon, appearing visibly 
more androgynous. After four months, they are notified that all their 
forms have been approved! Now they can bring 113 back to the 
Records Department. With haste, they make their way back and 
approach the clerk! 


‘Thank you very much for your patience, your name and gender 
changes have all gone through. One final question we need to ask 
before you are free to leave; have you noticed any changes with 
using SCP-113?' 


'No sir, | can't say | have,' the employee replies. 'Why is this 
mandatory to use, again?’ 


‘So you can see what living as both a male and female is like,' the 
clerk replies in a stuffy, bored voice. The employee is stunned! 


‘With all due respect, that sounds crazy. I've already spent my life 
trying to live as both; it's a real garbage fire.' 


Cue my nervous laugh, my stomach sinking. 


I'm pinned on the conveyor belt of a grand machine, overlooking the 
entirety of my existence. Its mouth is a howling beast with the skull 
of a human, full of insecurities and paranoia. "I'm struggling, | don't 
know what comes next, I'm doing my best, please like it, please like 
me," it cries out in a tinny gasp. Still it churns on, and still | get ever 
closer to it. Any second now, it'll pierce me, and that will be it. 


When its jaws come hurtling into my body, | don't end up dead. 
Instead, it stops at my neck, slowly dragging its way down my body. 
Breathing becomes harder. Its jaws stop at my torso, snapping it off; 
| feel no pain. 


"Talloran, why do you feel no pain?" the Voyeur questions. "Have 


you gotten used to your pain? Do you look forward to it now?" 


"| thought you were the one inflicting the pain on me!" The Voyeur 
circled around, burrowing itself into my corneas. 


"No, I'm merely the arbiter. | only bring what was already there. 
Hmm... there's just no physical pain here to bring." The jaws' claws 
work its way up to my head now. "In much the same way as a writer 
is the one bringing out its' characters present in the story, so am | for 
your hatred to yourself. It's simply..." The jaws break off the front 
portion of my head. "...simply just the messenger." 


The machine scoops up my brain, and though my body is limp, | still 
feel and sense everything around me. With its hand, it splits me 
apart, gently guiding both halves into its skeletal form; one for its 
head, and one for its crotch. 


‘Talloran, do you understand now, who you are?’ 
lam... Researcher Talloran. 

‘Do you know what you are?’ 

Human, in the loose sense of that word. 

‘How would you describe yourself?’ 

| can't. 


‘Why do you avoid referring to yourself in here as anything other 
than yourself, or Talloran?' 


| guess... it's because... 
‘Are you a guy?’ 
I'm unsure. | don't know. 
‘Are you a girl? 
I'm unsure. | don't know. 


‘Do you remember how you were before you sentenced yourself?’ 


Yes. 

Then why the lack of responses? 
I'm unsure. | don't know. 

I've never known, | suppose. 


Have | always never really known? Or is this just a recent thing? 
What if it's all fake and in my head? 


Wouldn't be the first thing to doubt in here, that's for sure. 


"Gender's that much of a worry for me, huh." The words came out 
from somewhere | could recognize as being me, but | wasn't sure. 
They transformed into neon colors resembling a Rorschach test. 


[[span style="color:#000000;"]|"What's my biggest fear?" The fear of 
not knowing. "What's my biggest concern?" That | am simply faking. 
"Is it so important to entrust myself and my safety to everyone 
around me?" Yes. "Even in a place like the Foundation?" Yes. 
Especially in the Foundation. "To be neither a man nor woman, huh, 
nor truly either or." Yes. "Do you think not being yourself any 
moment of the day is an actual problem?" Yes, because | am the 
root of this problem. "And not your environment?" [[/span]] 


| don't think so... it's just easier to blame myself and be a sad-sack, 
isn't it? 

But if that were true... it'd be a sad story. There's more for me out 
there than a sad story, isn't there? 


"The machine isn't interested with feasting on you... what do you 
feel right now, that you can truly feel nothing in your situation here, 
but contemplation?" the Voyeur asked. Irritation seeped in for the 
first time. 


"| feel... like | want to be alone and think." And so It left me alone. | 
spent every second contemplating, feeling myself out. 


| got stronger. 


2016 


Talloran heads to the Records Department. 


Year 15,000,000 


I'm one step closer to surviving. 


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The Moon Is a Dead World 


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Year 1,600,000 


Talloran immolates. For every month they burn, they get to watch 
two loved ones die. 


Year 1,659,455 


Talloran drowns. The ocean brittles their body, the sea-life spits 
them out, and they become part of the life cycle. 


Year 1,736,442 


Talloran crashes. Their heart races a hundred beats in a month, 
then a week, then a day, then an hour, then 30 minutes, then one 
minute, then 30 seconds, then one, then a half, then a quarter, then 
an eighth, then — 


Year 1,777,777 


Talloran experiences divination. Awaken, my love, he cried out. 


Year 1,786,108 


Talloran snaps. They lose their will again. 


Year 1,786,109 


Talloran revives. They regain their will again. 


Year 1,831,537 


Talloran suffers. It starts to get boring. 


Year 1,840,622 


Real boring. 


Year 1,892,777 


That’s the problem with suffering. There are only so many bastard- 
filled ways to die, so many righteous punishments to undergo, so 
much limit to abuse, that it soon becomes nothing more than a 
fleeting blip. Only the one in charge of Hell can keep up with that 
kind of track record, and the One overseeing it now has lost Its 
touch. 


Because the only one who can keep that luster alive is the self, and 
Talloran has better ways to spend their time. 


January 3, 2017 


Two people curled up to each other in bed. They were more than 
lovers; they were cosmological bastions of safety for each other. 
Researcher James Talloran and Agent Draven Kondraki have a 
moment's worth of peace in between their hectic schedules. Half- 
asleep, and the only things of interest are the snow outside 
illuminated by the balcony lights, and each other. 


Talloran feels Draven's heart rise and fall. It's obvious what this 
means, having been together for this long now. 


"The transition to Site-118 won't be that bad for me. I'll be focusing 
almost exclusively on Keter objects, but staff know what they'll be 
assigning me to. | won't be at risk." 


"You just won't be around here any longer." Draven kisses Talloran's 
neck, a reaffirmation of grounding. 


"Yeah. I'll video call every day." 


"What if your schedule is too different?" 


"Site-17 isn't that far away from where I'm going, you know. Even if it 
is, it's not like either of us sleep much anymore." 


"It's only been a month since we moved into this apartment anyway. 
It'll miss you." 


"I'll miss it too, Draven, hon." 


"Mmhmm. Who's going with you?" He was curious to know; he knew 
there were some reassignments, but to Site-118 in particular was 
odd. It seemed well-staffed enough. 


"You remember Dr. Yamada, right? She's coming with me... | guess 
to look over me. Glass won't see me anymore, but I'll be seeing 
someone there. | can stay sane enough." 


"Sure." Neck kiss. 


They stayed quiet for another half-hour. The songs snow made 
when it fell rivaled that of any musician, and its existence made the 
season more colorful for them. Lingering silence never bothered 
either one of them in each other's presence, nor any of their 
characteristics and mental traits that made others such a pain in the 
ass to deal with. They weren't pure, but all they needed to be was 
transparent. 


Talloran turned around, facing Draven now. The both of them were 
exhausted, but Talloran... they were borderline asleep. Even 
through half-opened eyes, Draven... he was cute. There's so much 
love to give and so much space for that love and so little time to love 
and it kind of hurt to not be able to keep giving that love as much as 
they wanted to. In the grand scheme of things though, 95km would 
ultimately not be as devastating as it otherwise could be. The 
Foundation, as draining as it was, at least made sure to give some 
consideration to Draven's family. 


"I'm still not sure about a first name, hon. James doesn't quite fit me, 
I think." Mumble mumble. 


"Too attached to your old self, or something or other." Mumble. 


young woman for over six hours, until her eventual death. Whether 
the item received its properties due to this event, or whether it had 
them beforehand, is a matter of debate (see Dr. [REDACTED]'s 
paper re: the Bystander Effect, vs. Dr. [REDACTED]'s theory 
regarding psychic imprintation.) 


What is clear, however, is its current properties. When carried by a 
human or humanoid entity with violent intent towards another human 
or humanoid entity, SCP-668 broadcasts a psychic signal that 
renders all sentient beings with a Psionic Resistance Index of 97 or 
lower incapable of assisting the victim. Affected entities report a 
sudden sense of apathy while under SCP-668's influence: sensory 
input is not affected, and affected entities report feeling revulsion 
and horror, but are simply incapable of acting, even indirectly, to 
assist the victim. Meanwhile, it renders the victim incapable of 
defending themselves against their attacker.