even if he was a beet of a downer. He always brought good flowers 
and fruits to trade, that, apparently, he grew himself! In return, the 
bee gave him technology that the hive couldn't use, usually things 
with buttons. Cell phones could have worked, but the power had 
gone out about ten years ago. Plus, who needed cell service when 
you could just communicate with pheromones? Mail composed 
entirely of scent, forming wonderful little packages, he loved it. 


Monthly stepped up to the counter. 
"Brought in the usual, twenty pounds of apples, plus the flowers." 


Always being polite, Monthly made sure to transport the whole 
flowerbeds. Most people would just cut up the whole thing. 


"That sounds wonderful, let me just see what we found this month. 
Your generator still working?" 


"Yeah uh, | mean, some bees, no offense | mean, tried to build a 
hive in it. Found it when | came home one time. Had to smoke them 
out." 


"Oh no, | understand. The little guys are sweet but they just don't 
understand, you know?" 


"Yeah." Monthly tapped on the counter with a rubber glove, glancing 
around the store. The bee turned and looked through the shelves, 
trying to find something that could be a fair trade. Aha, an Xbox! Still 
worked it seemed, plus the place they found it at had some games 
that could be played. 


"You got anything to keep you occupied? Got an Xbox here if you 
wanted, could throw in some games." 


"How much for it?" 
"How many apples did you say you had again?" 
"Uh, ‘bout nine or ten, give or take." 


"I'll take three for this, then | can give you an even trade of honey. 
How much?" 


"Just a pound then." 


"So four pounds of apples? Sounds good!" The bee set the Xbox on 
the counter, then went over to grab a few jars of honey. Monthly 
went out and grabbed two bags, one in each hand. Coming back 
inside, he set them on the counter. 


"Hey, if you uh, don't mind me asking..." 
"Yeah?" 
"You guys all this happy and carefree?" 


"Oh, well, I'd like to think our little hive is, but you know, it always 
depends on the flowers and the people." He twitched his antenna in 
an equivalent of a smile. 


Monthly didn't seem to recognize it, nodding quietly. He set the bags 
down on the counter. 


"You mind if | ask you something in return?" The bee asked, holding 
honey. 


"Yeah, sure." 


"Do you ever get lonely? You know, living by yourself for years. 
Can't recall you ever mentioning a dog or kids or anything.” 


"Uh, no, not really." A quick frown flashed across Monthly's face, the 
man bad at hiding his emotions. The bee was saddened. He was 
social, used to being surrounded by family members and his loved 
ones. Being alone would bee like suicide. 


"You know, you don't have to...change or anything, but you're 
welcome at my house if you'd like. Like I've said before, if you just 
wanna come to hang out, maybe have dinner, you're always 
welcome." He grabbed the apples in trade, setting them down 
behind the counter. 


Monthly looked at him. "Thanks for the offer, but, I'm gonna have to 
say no. Wouldn't be able to eat anything really, not with this thing 
on-." He gestured to his suit. "Plus, | gotta conserve fuel, already 


remaining adults. When SCP-_ was subdued and recovered, 
inspection revealed traces of a powerful hemotoxin and tissue 
necrosis in areas where SCP-994 had attached. SCP-994-20 was 
severely injured during the incident, and died of complications during 
surgery four days later. 


Addendum-01: 09/20/20 :Dr. has requested to be assigned to 
an alternate project, due to claims that SCP-994-34 was “stalking” 
him and “spying on everything [he does].” While SCP-994-34 was 
indeed following Dr. _, and this behavior was deemed unusual, no 
hostile behavior on the part of SCP-994-34 was actually recorded. 
The request has been denied, but Dr. has been granted minor 
sabbatical leave for psychological evaluation. 


« SCP-993 | SCP-994 | SCP-995 » 


eating it up with these trips." The bee shrugged. 


"Well if you ever like to come, you're always welcome at our table. 
That all?" 


"Yeah, itis." 


"Well, have a nice day." The bee said kindly. Monthly only nodded in 
response, grabbing his goods. Stepping outside, the bee felt sorry 
for him. Monthly was a man who was alone in the world, both by his 
own exile and by biology. 


The man drove home, silent. A damn freak got to him. He didn't 
need its sympathy, perfectly fine being alone. Pulling up into the 
driveway to his cabin, he stepped out of the car, getting the Xbox 
and honey. Heading inside, he was greeted only by the hum of his 
generator. The air was still, and it smelled, a mix of body odor and 
sawdust. Putting away the Xbox and honey, he started to take off his 
beekeeping gear. Underneath, he only had on a t-shirt and jeans. 
Glancing out at the setting sun, he yawned. It was early, but sleep 
called to him. He unrolled his futon, turning it into a bed. After setting 
out blankets and pillows, he turned off his generator. Finally he 
slipped into his sheets. Sleep hit him easily, brain falling swiftly into 
the blackness of REM. 


There was a humming noise, he noticed when he woke up. Getting 
up and stretching, he thought nothing of it, thinking it was his 
generator. Until he realized that his generator was turned off. The 
hum got louder, like a speaker blaring into his ear. Something was in 
his ear, and he knew what. Turning, he saw the door to his cabin 
cracked open. It must not have shut it all the way last night, letting a 
swarm get in. He started to panic, remembering the fate of everyone 
else who had the bees come in. Frantically, he looked for something 
to end it, not wanting to end up like everyone else. But, at the same 
time, some part of him accepted his fate. He knew that was the 
bees. It was them working to keep him alive and trapped in their 
hive. They wanted him to be with others, and the only thing he could 
do was obey. Not bothering to put on the beekeeping suit, he ran to 
his truck, getting in and driving to town. The only thing he could hear 
was the hum of the bees as they went to work. 


He arrived in town, stumbling out of his car. Some citizens of the 
hive watched in mild surprise, as the man they christened Monthly 
wasn't wearing any of his usual gear. Something had to be wrong. 
One came up to him, confused. "Hey partner, everything okay?" 


"No damn it, everything is not okay!-" He stuttered his words, 
heading for Hanson's General Goods. The bee was there, stocking 
shelves as usual. Turning to see who had entered, he saw the man 
standing in the doorway. "I'm changing damn it-" 


"What? Changing, what do you...oh, you mean-" 


"I'm beecoming, | mean, becoming a freak, just like all of you. And, 
and | can't do this alone, my body won't let me." He winced, looking 
at the bee. "God, I-I'm so lonely, you were right, really, just let me 
bee by you, please-" 


"Of course, | know exactly what you're going through, just take a 
seat. I'll go get someone." The man took a seat in a chair by the 
counter, head in hands. He had been so prepared, so cautious, and 
now it had all gone to waste. The planning, the work, all of it was 
useless. But part of him accepted that, the feeling spreading. 
Eventually, he calmed down, only one thought in his head. 


How bad could this be? 


The bees sat around a dinner table, buzzing a prayer before eating. 
The same bee who ran Hanson's looked around, seeing all the 
faces. It was good, he thought, to see his friends and family. And 
seeing the new face, the one who had just finished his change a 
month or two ago, was wonderful. Really, the bee thought, he was 
glad that Monthly had finally gotten that chance to come to dinner. 


Glancing outside, he thought. It would be a good day to check on 
the crops. Winter was finally letting up, and spring seeped through 
the snowy hills. He was excited. He could tell, it was going to be a 
beautiful spring this year. 


As the bees ate, their buzz resonated with the others in the hive, 
and the collective buzz there resonated with the next hive over, and 


so on and so forth, until the entire world buzzed in harmony. The 
world finally seemed to be at peace, no wars, no death, just a plan 
to work towards the greater good. 


What if they weren't... 


"|-I'm out?" He looked up at them, more confused than shocked. 


"Yeah, your number is up. Get up on your feet. We'll escort you to 
the debriefing room." The guard moved out of the doorway and 
pointed down the hall. He had his taser in his other hand just in case 
D-9897 tried to do something stupid. Not that it ever happened on 
release day, but it's better to be prepared. 


Together they walked down the hallways, the other D-class in the 
cell block were holding back their cheers for Marcus and simply 
giving him a respectable nod for 'Ya made it.’ Marcus might as well 
have been floating through that hallway. He was done. The month 
was over. No more feedings. No more cleaning. No more poking or 
prodding. It was all over with and his reward was in reach. 


They made it to the debriefing room and Marcus is ordered to sit. He 
obliged with almost a smile as they strapped the restraints on his 
legs and arms. Still have to follow protocol even though he was 
minutes away from release. A balding well-dressed man stepped 
through another door, looked back at the long one-way mirror 
adjacent to him, and sat across the table with Marcus's file. 


"So! March tenth to April tenth. Dee nine eight nine seven. Marcus 
Stuart Turnbull. No immediate family.. well... no surviving family it 
seems. Incarcerated and sentenced to death row by the state of 
Texas. Four counts of murder in the first degree-" 


The man flipped to the next page. 


"-three counts of murder in the second degree, six counts of assault 
with a deadly weapon, two counts of vehicular manslaughter, fifteen 
counts of human trafficking, and one count of aggravated sexual 
assault of a minor... and you have some other pending cases it 
seems, but no matter. You served a total of two hundred and thirty 
four days on death row before being requisitioned by the 


Foundation." 


The man closed the file and folded his hands. "You ready to reenter 
society, Mr. Turnbull?" 


Marcus gulped audibly. "Y-yes sir. | am. I've done my time." 


The man nodded and opened another and much thinner file. "So the 
details of your release are all set up. From here you'll walk through 
those doors and into another room where we'll begin the procedure." 


"Procedure?" 


"Yes well-" The man held back a chuckle. "-we can't let you just 
leave here knowing what you know of course. It's actually pretty 
painless. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes.” 


Marcus let out a tense sigh and nodded. "All right then. I'm ready 
when you are." 


The man swiveled out of his seat and unlocked the straps to 
Marcus's chair. "Straight through there, Mr. Turnbull." 


Marcus stood up and rubbed his wrist as he shambled nervously 
over to the door, suddenly flooded with internal doubt. Was this a 
trick? A test? A firing squad? His trembling hand gripped the chrome 
plated door handle. 


"Oh, and Mr. Turnbull!?" 
"Y-yeah?" 

"Congratulations and good luck." 
"Thank you, sir." 


Marcus opened the door and stepped through. As the door clicked 
closed, the man took his pen and crossed out an entry on his 
clipboard. 


= D-9893: Vincent R. Kinnear 
« D-9894: Duane L. Mateiro 


= D-9895: Charles J. Avitto 

= D-9896: James F. Clark 

= D-9897: Marcus S. Turnbull 

= D-9901: Lewis T. Galvan 

« D-9900: Andrew M. Sagendorf 
« D-9899: Paul O. Pedigo 

« D-9898: Sheryl G. Williams 


The man walked back into the observation room where his older 
white bearded colleague was waiting. "All done?" 


The man nodded. "Yeah, he didn't ask too many questions, this one. 
Went right in." 


The older man clicked his tongue as he watched the procedure take 
place. "So the new implants... | hear they don't show up on the X- 
rays?" 


"That's right. Opted for a thin composite casing instead." 


The surgeons below worked feverishly on Mr. Turnbull's brain as the 
small device was delicately implanted onto the brain stem and 
connected to both cerebral ventricles. 


"We still using the Class-F amnestics on these ones?" 


The man again nodded and stuffed the files into his briefcase. "It's 
been working well enough. The retention rate is a tad lower than 
what we originally predicted, but it's within the limits." 


The older man shook his head, reminiscing on the previous years of 
D-class asset decommissions. "Seems like a lifetime ago... we'd 
just, you know, monthly terminations being what they are... or were. 
I'm actually pretty satisfied with this alternative. The older methods 
left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. Wasn't good for morale." 


The briefcase snapped closed behind him. "I agree. And with the 
implants, there's no risk of an information breach. A triggered dose 
of potassium chloride in the right spot-" He snapped his fingers. "- 
death in ninety seconds or less. Quick, efficient, simple." 


"So what would set it off?" The older gentleman looked over his 
shoulder. 


"Well, with the integration of the Class-F amnestic and the identity 
reconditioning program following, we just have the original post- 
conditioned memories set off very specific nerve activation signals /f 
they ever get past the neural interlocks." 


"Sounds complicated." 


The man confidently walked over to the monitors, briefcase in hand. 
"It's not as complex as you think; ever wake up from a dream you 
couldn't remember? Basically the same concept and the results are 
well worth it. | mean, their original lives are nightmares compared to 
what we are setting them up with." 


In front of where he stood, hundreds of individual monitors were 
streaming live feeds from other conditioned individuals since the 
induction of the program. "Incognizant agents integrated into the 
civilian populace. Living and breathing like normal members of 
society. Students, businessmen, construction workers, pilots, stay- 
at-home mothers, pastors. And to think, total surveillance could be 
achievable within our lifetimes." 


"Maybe in your lifetime. Still, it's something we could only dream of 
when | started." 


A blank monitor flickered on casting an image of both men from a 
perspective below, outside the observation room. Mr. Turnbull's 
unconscious eyes fixated in their direction, unblinking and online. 
Both men sighed in contentment over their work. 


"So what's this one getting assigned as?" 


The man squinted his eyes trying to recall that bit of information. "A 
truck driver, | think. We'll have him stationed somewhere in Montana 
with his new identity." 


The older man chuckled in disbelief at this. "Wow. Unbelievable that 
it's that simple. You're doing good work." 


"This is why | joined the Ethics Committee. So glad we can put 


these people to use rather than disposing them." 


The man shook his older colleague's hand. "We still on for lunch 
tomorrow?" 


"Sure." 


What Is Wrong With You 


There's a reason | keep the lights out when | work. For all the 
world's infinite variety, | get stuck with the very worst of what it has 
to offer. The light can only bring knowledge and pain. 


So even though staying in the dark exposes me to the monsters, 
though it means they can snap my neck, crunch my bones, cut my 
flesh, stalk behind my back and devour my soul, | work in the dark. 


It doesn't cut out the screams or dull the touch, or negate the reality 
that I'm filling them with needles and serums. 


But it keeps me from seeing that I'm one of them. 


KKK 


"Researcher Harrison, this is the sorriest excuse for a suicide note 
I've ever seen!" 


David Harrison, recently rescued from an attempt to hang himself in 
his own quarters, looked up from his feet. He coughed a little, and 
asked, "Sir?"