"| know. The last research team that worked on it saw that the place 
where the spine snapped differed. We were supposed to find out if 
there was a pattern of some sort. It took us 10 fucking tries, Mark. 
10 tries. And you know what we found out? Absolutely nothing! 
There is no pattern. Yet, we threw away 10 D-class to find out jack 
shit." Dr. Louef got more and more emotional as his account went 
on. He put his head into his hands as he leaned forward, a tear 
streaming down his face. 


"They were even worse. They didn't even die; they just kept 
moaning and screaming for god knows how long. They took them 
away, and you and | both know what's happening to them," Louef 
spat out. 


Dr. Vange was quiet until his patient recomposed himself. After a 
moment, Dr. Louef sat up straight again. 


"| did research on mostly Safe-class SCP's before this new transfer. 
I've never had to deal with something like this before. | miss my kids, 
Mark. My wife, my kids, my home." sighed Louef. 


Vange nodded. “It’s expected from a transfer of new SCP's, anda 
shift like this. Did you read the new report in Foundation?” 


“I skimmed it.” 


“The psychology department has come up with a new disorder, and 
added it to our version of the DSM. We call it Moral Ambiguity 
Disorder.” 


“MAD?” 


“It’s an unfortunate acronym, yes. But it’s important to note. We’re 


noticing that a large number of our researchers are dealing with 
extreme emotional stress, and reporting signs of anxiety, 
nervousness, irritability, and lack of social activity.” Dr. Vange stood 
up, and browsed the shelves of his office. He pulled out a journal 
from the shelf, and opened it. 


“MAD is caused by witnessing traumatic incidents during testing, 
and developing a moral dissonance within the self. The condition is 
aggravated by stress and too much work, without adequate periods 
of rest. Why do you think that we started all of these social events 
and game nights? MAD is crippling a lot of the effectiveness of 
researchers.” 


Dr. Vange showed Louef the copy of the journal. It featured a whole 
page of graphs and diagrams, all detailing MAD and treatments for 
it. 


“After implementing these activities, we had a 50% decrease in 
attacks of MAD at Site 89. It’s clearly working, which is what my 
advice to you is. Relax a little. We may be the Foundation, but the 
world’s not going to end if you relax a little while off duty. You’re 
here, but you may as well enjoy your time outside of work.” 


“I don’t know-” 


“Well | know. I’m a psychologist. It’s my job to know these things. Go 
out and have some fun, John.” Dr. Vange smiled at Louef as the 
latter rose to his feet. The psychologist extended a hand. 


Dr. Louef hesitated for a moment before accepting the handshake. 
“T-thank you, Mark. I'll think about it.” 


“...And once again, welcome to the 4th Annual Site 118 Christmas 
Party, ladies and gentlemen! Remember, 2 glasses of wine per staff 
member! We can’t exactly print money, right?” Dr. Vange cheerily 
said. The audience tittered politely. 


“Now, don’t let me spoil your fun. I'll shut up now, and let the rest of 
you have fun, eh?” Dr. Vange stepped down from his spot at the 
podium as the gathered staff members of Site 118 applauded, partly 


out of respect, and partly out of relief that the speech was over. 


Dr. Louef walked over to the refreshments table. He picked up a 
glass of wine, and leaned back against the wall, drinking to himself. 
He was interrupted by the arrival of a much more lively colleague. 


“Evening, John. Enjoying your Foundation mandated-fun?” Dr. 
Wensley strolled up to Louef, a glass of wine in hand, and a smile 
on his face. 


“Go to hell, Al,” Louef replied, sipping from his glass. 


“Can't. Don’t have the requisite clearance for that,” Wensley’s grin 
got bigger. 


Louef and Wensley both chuckled. 


Wensley leaned against the wall with Louef. “How’s the testing 
going?” 


“Better. I..uh...went to talk to Vange.” 
“That’s good. Did it help?” 

“Yeah. | think so.” 

“So, are you going to enjoy the party?” 


Louef sighed. “It’s not exactly where | wanted to be. Sam and Jenna 
are both wondering where their dad is. What am | supposed to do 
about that?” 


Wensley put his hand on his colleague and friend’s shoulder. “Look, 
| know that this isn’t exactly what you wanted. This shift is tough, but 
you have to look on the bright side. This may not be the kind of 
Christmas that you wanted, but it’s better than nothing, right?” 
Wensley offered a smile. 


Louef gave a small smile back. “I suppose so.” 


“Don’t stand here moping all night, alright? | need to track down one 
of my assistants.” Wensley gave Louef one more smile before 


turning around and merging back into the crowd. 


Louef went to take another sip of his glass before noticing that it was 
empty. He stared down at the glass for a long, hard moment. 


And then he set it on the table and walked into the crowd. 


Lemuridae 


When | retire, | want to live a quiet life. 

Sorry. 

Here. /fl retire, | want to live a quiet life. 

It's not an easy task. In my line of work, life expectancy is short. 


| might get killed during our next containment breach, when the 
various monsters we keep locked up get bored and decide to have a 
snack. | might meet my end on a field mission, by getting eaten, 
vaporized, or crazied to death by some hitherto undiscovered scip 
that defies all laws of science as we know it and has decided to use 
these powers to kill me in a spectacularly gruesome fashion. Or | 
might simply die in a good old-fashioned shootout with the 
Insurgency or GOC while I’m on a mission. Agents that work for the 
SCP Foundation don’t live very long, as you might have guessed. 
The bad ones, at least. 


Me? | like to think that I’m a good agent. If nothing else, I’m a lucky 
agent. | keep my head down on the job; | submit my reports on time, 
and, if necessary, | go out and kill a few people in pursuit of a scip. 
Do | sleep well at night? Sometimes. 


Well, no, that’s a lie, not really. Soending your life surrounded by 
murderous reptiles, killer statues, and with God knows how many 
other nameless horrors lurking out there does not for a good night’s 
rest make. 


| have nightmares a lot. Sometimes, God help me, | even enjoy my 
night-time terrors; the one where 173 chases me down a hallway, or 
that time where 682 decides to turn me into meat puree. They 
remind me that, beneath the detached demeanour | put on at work, 
there’s some small part of me that’s still human, still a fearful little 
man in a universe of unimaginable horror. 


Of course, there are times when | don’t want to be human at all. 
Sometimes... | want to be a lemur. 


Go ahead. Laugh. Chuckle at the weirdo who entertains a hopeless 
dream. | don’t know where this dream came from either. At my age, | 
should be fantasizing about fast cars and attractive lingerie-clad 
women. But | don’t. When | imagine my ideal life, | find myself 
drifting off to the rainforests of Madagascar, where | can spend a 
quiet day eating fruit and swinging through the trees with my 
brothers and sisters. 


And only there, in the trees, with sites and agents and scips so far 
away, do | feel truly safe. In any other profession, this dream might 
seem foolish, unattainable, but when your co-workers include a 
talking dog, immortal monkey-man, and whatever Clef is, you'll 
quickly find out that “impossible” is far from constant. 


The most vivid memory of my mother that | have is my five-year old 
self and her visiting the zoo. We watched the tigers, the elephants, 
the lions; but it was the lemurs, the little hyperactive prosimians 
jumping up the chain-link fence, little hands reaching out for our 
peanuts, that made my mother laugh hardest. We watched them for 
hours, until finally the zoo closed and we were shooed out. 


She was hit by a car three days afterwards. 


Working for the Foundation really does change a way a man thinks. 
Even when you’re off the job, you begin eyeing every thing 
suspiciously. That coffee mug, that table, the newspaper- is it a 
potentially undiscovered scip? What’s lurking behind that dark 
corner? Could that weird television show be a potential memetic 
threat? No matter how much the others deny it, I’m sure I’m not the 
only Foundation worker who eyes the shadows of my night-time 
bedroom with a mixture of suspicion and fear, before the nightmares 
take me. 


But then, on those few nights where the nightmares slip away, | can 
feel the rough bark of the tree beneath my prehensile toes. | hear 

the familiar calls of a troop scampering along the ground, and | leap 
down and join them. In the hot afternoon sun of Madagascar, there 


are no unexpected horrors, no nightmares, and no fear. | remember 
my mother, and our laughter. 


And, then, and only then, do | feel safe. 


Lepidoptraetheia 


...Lepidoptraetheia. Tiny nuisances to be destroyed. Eat up aether around 
your experiments. Easily dispatched with the fulminous aether... 


-Excerpt, Alchemical Creatures, K. Ledenoff, 1213 


Ruslav Diaghilev looked down at the scrap of paper in his hands. 
He'd scrawled something on it the other night in his sleep, but 
couldn't easily make out what it said. His divination had worked 
perfectly, his penmanship, not so much. "Kir...kir........ | cannot even 
read my own handwriting anymore." He grumbled as he walked 
silently down the hallway. His flowing robes earned him no lack of 
stares, as he walked through Site 19, unfamiliar with the layout. 


Behind him, Arturo Genuomo struggled to keep up, weighed down 
with a large backpack full of clinking glassware, and topped with a 
cast iron cage. The young man's much brighter robes were cut 
short, almost in the style of a labcoat, and his sandy blonde hair was 
perpetually disheveled as he tried to keep up with the Elder 
Alchemist. "Master, you did write it in your sleep. You can't exactly 
expect perfect accuracy. I've told you about keeping your pens inked 
up, your pen was basically dry when you wrote this. It's why you 
couldn't finish the note." The cage appeared empty to those not 
trained to be sensitive to the Aether flows. Inside, there were dozens 
of tiny creatures, but they'd run in to a bit of a snag, and it was time 
to consult an expert. 


"Excuse me." Ruslav held up a hand, stopping a nearby labcoated 
doctor. "Is there a researcher Kir..." his voiced rumbled out again. 
"Is there a research lab with a butterfly expert here?" 


The man in front of him blinked a few times, taking in the flowing 
bottle-green robes and bright purple shoes on his feet. "I...are you 
lost?" The doctor reached towards his belt, to the small pager 
located there. 


"lam not lost. Nor am | a security threat." He indicated towards the 
badge on his chest, which helpfully stated 'R. Diaghilev. Director, 
Alchemy Division. Level 4/ASCLEPIUS.' "| am, however, looking for 
someone." 


"|...0h. I'm so sorry." He held his hand out awkwardly. "Dr. Zartion, 
but you can call me Christopher if you prefer. Apologies for the mix- 
up director. I'm not sure if you're referring to a specific researcher or 
not?" 


Ruslav nodded his head, shaking Dr. Zartion's with his right, the 
heavy knuckles of his left hand holding up the scrap of paper. "| 
divined that there is a researcher here, who understands butterflies. 
They work in some specialty lab. | cannot read the handwriting." 


He looked down at the scrap of paper, with the badly scrawled 'S19. 
R. K | R' with a trailing few letters. "| know that feeling, getting old 
sucks." Behind the Doctor, Arturo passed one hand over his head, 
and made a quiet 'woosh' sound. 


Ruslav smiled slightly in amusement, as the Doctor tapped his 
temple with one finger, "I think Kiryu labs has a researcher who's 
interested in butterflies. | hope that helps. Excuse me, Director." He 
smiled, and walked down a hallway towards some other section of 
the facility. 


Ruslav nodded with a ponderous motion of his head. We must find 
this Kiryu labs, apparently." 


The pair of alchemists set off with silent steps, the only sounds of 
their passage being the clinking of glass, and rattling of cast iron. 


...-Are to be immediately recalled, as they present a harmful picture of 
Alchemical Creatures to all involved. Any copies turned in are subject to 
compensation in the amount of 17 thaler per copy... 


-Excerpt, College of Alchemists literature review, 1751 


A few more odd stares, and some directions from a security officer 
who thankfully respected Ruslav's position more than his own 
curiosity left the Elder alchemist at a door in a small attached wing to 


internal organs. Autopsies have revealed that damage to internal 
organs is consistent with bite patterns made by subjects on bitten 
fruit. Most subjects, even after the initial bite, continue to consume 
the fruit, claiming that it "is delicious." Subjects are oblivious to any 
pain that would normally arise from extensive damage to the internal 
organs, as well as to the fact that they are consuming their organs, 
as opposed to a fruit. After three to four bites, the subject usually 
dies of internal bleeding and trauma, though subjects can remain 
alive if the targeted organ is non-vital. Cutting, slicing, or usage in 
cooking does not negate the fruit's effects. 


Consumption of apples grown within SCP-891 results in [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. It is unknown why apples are the only fruit to produce 
such an effect, though it is hypothesized that consumption of the 
apples results in a reverse [DATA EXPUNGED]. The first and only 
known instance of [DATA EXPUNGED] resulted in Foundation 
casualties. died later as a result of third degree burns sustained 
during the attempt to contain [DATA EXPUNGED]. agents 
vanished entirely from the immediate area; Foundation tracking 
devices were unable to pinpoint their location. [DATA EXPUNGED] 
pending classification as an SCP object, though its nature may 
prevent effective containment. 


Addendum-891A: SCP-891 was brought to the Foundation’s 
attention when an abnormal number of missing person reports was 
filed in —_, California. All missing persons were last seen at 
Strawberry Farms, the previous name of SCP-891. Police and 
government investigations did not return within seventy-two hours, 
which alerted Foundation members stationed in the nearby city of 

. Foundation staff eventually apprehended , the owner of 
the farm. Searches of ’s house revealed [DATA EXPUNGED], and 
psychological testing found to be clinically insane. was 
subsequently terminated. No apple trees were found when SCP-891 
was originally recovered. It is possible that Mrs. | was unaware of 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. Since the Foundation's acquisition of 
SCP-891, there have been counts of natural deposition of seeds 
in SCP-891; seventy five percent of these natural depositions have 
been the deposition of apple seeds. It is unknown if the 
disproportionate number of apple seeds being sown by natural 
causes in SCP-891 is an effect of SCP-891 or simply bad luck. 


Site 19. He swiped the magnetic badge through the access panel, 
and held the tiny NFC chip for verification. The door slid back with a 
soft woosh, to reveal a series of rooms and offices surrounded by 
large windows. The light from between the nearby trees flowed in 
naturally, and lit the offices with a soft green glow. 


The two alchemists strode in to Kiryu labs, and Ruslav couldn't help 
but smile. Most of the Foundation's alchemical flows were minimal, 
as most places were after the Seal. Even still, the clinical and 
detached nature of the Foundation caused the currents to seep 
slowly through the cracks in the doors, and along the floors.