| grasp the parking brake, the only thing keeping the beast from 
launching forward. The basement door bursts open, a man in 
combat gear standing in the threshold. He tells me to step out of the 
vehicle as | thumb the lever's release button. He brandishes his 
weapon and restates his command. | take a deep breath, steel my 
nerves, and pull the lever. An ungodly roar drowns out all sound, my 
vision blurring as the vehicle rockets forward. 


Hold on, Alan. I'm coming. One way or another. 


Hello, Little Girl 


We are heading for D-block, snaking through the periphery corridors 
to avoid the last stragglers. Annette can hold their own, but now | 
must be accounted for. Ears stuffed with paper towels can only hold 
so long. They are moving ahead of me, left hand flat against the 
wall, body bent into a half-crouch. Their right hand is angled ahead, 
and their wrist is tuned like a snake's tongue, fingers contorting, 
flicking, probing. Though they are moving quietly, | am finding myself 
having to jog. 


They did not let me take the gun. That was understandable. But they 
must have noticed me take the bullet: either they did not mind or did 
not know enough. The latter is fine by me, but the former is not. It 
means that they are trusting or desperate. Neither possibility 
particularly inspires me, so | put the thought away. 


Another left, then a right. Security cameras whir as we turn every 
corner, but | do not think anyone is left to watch us anymore. 


Sure, there were the two bodies, stacked against the first door we 
came across — | failed to divert my gaze from theirs, and now | can't 
shake the sight of black eyes from my head, pupils dilated wide — 
for a moment | felt the chart in my head start to unfold, but | quelled 
it just in time. 


(FEARFUL HERON, it must have been; our soldiers’ proprietary 
stimulants tend to scream a little louder than the garden-variety 
amphetamines.) 


Up ahead, we skip the elevator, but Annette starts for the 
downwards stairs and | have to pull them back up. They glare at me, 
glass eyes swiveling, so | gently tap on the rail with my knuckle: 


D CELLS NT SAFE 


Then, in slightly less broken Morse: 


TOO MANY PPL 


They cock their head, make a chewing motion with their jaw. | think 
for a second, compacting the message in my head before sending: 


GO BEHAVIOURAL LABS 


Annette stops chewing. | think they understand what | am getting at. 
It is not a pretty option, but it is a better one. For once, they let me 
take the lead. 


D-block's labs go up to ground level. It gave us easy access to field 
testing, when we still thought we mattered, and it fit the site's 
pharmaceutical cover. Of course, that openness did not help us in 
the slightest when we became the center of it all. Those of us who 
knew better fled first. | do not think we need to fear the ones who 
stayed. It takes a certain level of self-pity to make a life out of 
computing path integrals over semiotic maps; we will not need to 
worry about our infected colleagues keeping themselves alive. 


The labs, the eye of the storm. | hope | will find who | need. 


Behind me, Annette's steps are measured, constant, echoing. 
Halfway up the stairs, the lights switch into dull emergency red. Ona 
loose step — is it the seventh flight or twenty-third? — | trip, hands 
slipping on flaking rust. Annette catches me before | twist anything, 
and together we stagger up the last few steps, bursting through the 
fire doors. 


As | expected, the mains are out. We had taped the windows shut in 
the first few hours of the complex's spread. Still, the pitch black is of 
no consequence, because | know where everything is. 


Somewhere behind the walls is a hum. Only one thing should be 
running. Here is the antechamber, the reinforced central room that 
caps the site's central shaft, and | put my hands out, feeling familiar 
surfaces: the pot of the long-dead money plant, the water cooler 
(regrettably empty), Kelly's old desk. On the whiteboard is a patch of 
black mold. The chart in my head goes HZZ-ZZT for a moment; | 
recoil and put it out of my mind. 


Beside the whiteboard is the panel for the hermetic door, its light 
blinking a weak red. Feeling past it, | reach for the seam, which now 
comes apart with little effort. 


They built the cells directly below us for a reason. The complex 
evades pure mathematics, requires base conditions to compute. 
Raw subjects are insufficient. Pick a person off the streets and they 
have far too many dependencies installed, far too much junk data. 
The people were why we needed the cells; the junk data was why 
we needed the oubliettes. 


Past the airlock, the first of them should be on my right. | hit the 
raised concrete block with my left shin; stifle a scream long enough 
to drop to a crawl and run my fingers over the surface. The metal 
hatch in the middle of the oubliette is cold, closed, and still. Not what 
| am looking for. Annette steps over me. Presumably they have 
caught on. | cannot see them, but | imagine they are crawling over 
the remaining hatches in the room (thirteen in all, and not counting 
the miniatures) running their hands over them, feeling for any sign of 
activity. 


They finish quickly. A shadow — theirs — moves over the blinking 
red light of the panel opposite the room and slides the hermetic door 
open. | get to my feet — slowly, now, putting weight on my right side 
— and follow Annette to the next chamber. 


The hum is louder here. Ten seconds in, we find its source. | touch 
its hatch, feel that it is warm to the touch, feel the pumps running in 
the space behind the wall. We have reached our destination. 


Before | can tap a message, Annette grips the wheel and twists it 
with all their might. The hatch swings open. From under six inches of 
psychotropic cocktail, the subject begins to scream. 


For someone that has been under for a week, she has a lot of fight 
left in her. (Come to think of it, it has been three days since my 
voluntary confinement; it must have been another seven before that 
when she was last left in the oubliette.) Her fluids make it hard to get 
a grip. It takes the two of us to wrestle her out of the hole, grabbing 
onto the rings on the sides of her straitjacket slicked with oily 
scopolamine derivative. My left side gives again and | let go, 


contradiction. 


Time: 3:02 PM 

Subject: D-11501 

Procedure: Dr. Everly fired SCP-865 point-blank into 
D-11501's cranium. 

Result: D-11501 became comatose for six days. Upon 
recovering, D-11501 exhibited signs of severe brain 
damage and amnesia; an IQ test administered by 
medical staff produced a score of 65. D-11501 lacked 
the mental faculties to explain how or why he had 
become thusly impaired. 


+ Show Addendum 


Addendum: On / /20 , two days after the series of 
tests described above, Dr. Everly reported to the Site 73 
infirmary reporting that she had discovered a large scar 
on her abdomen that she did not recall acquiring. Dr. 
Anderson identified the mark as a Caesarian section 
scar. An examination of Dr. Everly's records indicated 
that she had undergone a C-section in 1998, and that 
her child had died of a congenital defect six hours after 
delivery. Dr. Everly denied undergoing a C-section and 
has stated that she has never been pregnant. 


-[t appears that SCP-865 has an effect on the user that is 
inversely related to its effect on the target - it erases 
traumatic memories in the person pulling the trigger, and 
inflicts new ones on its target. In light of this discovery, | 
recommend that any further testing be conducted by D- 
class. We can't afford to have good people losing their 
minds over this thing. -Dr. S Samesh 


-Request granted. -O5- 
« SCP-864 | SCP-865 | SCP-866 » 


screaming. Something hits the ground. | hear a struggle, but she 
does not get very far; there is a sound of a joint cracking, and the 
screaming muffles over. 


It sounds like she is yelling through Annette's hand now. Some kind 
of mantra, maybe something she thought of when she was under, or 
something programmed into her along the way. 


"Helpmemynameisallisonbrownagethirtysixiliveinmiamifloridapleaseletmeou 
eight three four two five nine one one one one one - " 


Placeholder data, really; easily sanitised. There is always a bit of 
shame when one realises that the oubliette has really done its job. 
(Kill a mind to save all of humanity? That used to be the moral 
calculus, yes. But if nothing matters, anyway, then all acts are 
justified — | think to myself that it will be a great act of moral 
courage to be able to do anything at all.) 


My first instinct is to start the job where we are and carry the result 
in my head. But it is growing clear that we cannot stay here for very 
long. The subject is only going to be more trouble the more she is 
lucid. | give the body a tug, then prepare to retrace my steps. Back 
to the first room, back to the antechamber, back to the stairs. 


All | need now is a marker pen, which | can grab from the desk on 
the way out. A light source would help, too, as would a piece of 
black card, or a file. Thanks to the straitjacket, | do not think that | 
will need a gag or a bit. 


| realise | am staring into Annette's eyes, and that they have been 
facing me for some time. A light glints over them. 


Panel indicator light? Annette does not think so. 


They dive to the right. The subject screams. Gunshot. The sound of 
metal on metal: is that buckshot? 


Indiscriminate aim in a near-dark room: the attacker is shooting to 
kill. | throw myself to the ground, scrambling behind one of the 
oubliettes. Even through the paper towels, it feels like my eardrums 
have been perforated. The darkness might save us for a little while, 


if not for the fact that the subject has started babbling again:"- 
mynameisangelabrowniamthirtytwoiliveinplumwellmississippipleasedocallm 


Gunshot. The babbling stops. So much for Plan A. 


| perceive the shape of someone at the door. Somebody about my 
size. 


The shape clears its throat. 


"Who's there?" it speaks. 


| almost do not recognise the voice. "Brandt? Is that you?" 


"A-hh. | know you. Jenkins. Can't w-hhelieve you're one of the lucky ones, hh- 
aha." 


"Doctor Brandt? Project Head Brandt?" Something sounds off. | 
cannot tell exactly what it is through the ringing in my ears. He is 
breathy-voiced, that is for sure, and his words come out in soft 
coughs. 


"Hhwoject head. Di-hrector. Site o-hhisser. Sa-hhtey and Hh-ire Co-hwand o- 
hhiser. Don't know, don't know how wany hh-rowotions wy now, ha-ha. They're all 
dead-t, ha-hhen't you heard?" 


Footsteps. He is getting closer. Opposite the room, | sense Annette 
tensing for action. They might not know his voice, but they can 
recognise his footsteps. It is not hard to identify the veteran field 
agent's lockstep, with the caveat that he wants to be heard — or 
does not care if he is heard. This is Brandt, all right, and there is no 
question about it. 


"S-hhit, | could ewen we Oh-Hhive wy now, ha-ha." 


For all their aptitudes, Annette cannot sense his tone, but | can feel 
him just fine even in my half-deafened state. It's fear, the business 
end of it, the cornered fox baring teeth. 


The metaphor strikes me out of the blue. That's when | get it. Of 
course, that's the sound: he's missing his lips. The poor sod must 
have bit them right off. 


"Y-you're a hh-ine wan, Jenkins, hh-wut I'n sohh-wry to say | don't think it's you 
right there, right now." 


| hear him cock his shotgun. He is headed in my direction. 


This is not good. My fingers are already in my pocket before | realise 
what I'm doing, curling around the bullet, reaching for the electronic 
primer. Do not look at the flash, do not listen to the screech, count to 
three, clear your mind, and snap - 


Gunshot. Buckshot on metal. Screaming through uncovered teeth. 
Annette is on him like a tiger. From the sounds of it, their fingers are 
in his eyes, and it hits me as slightly humorous that they do not 
know it is pitch black. 


| pocket the bullet for another time and sprint for the opposite door, 
stepping in something wet as | go (Blood? Drugs? | do not care 
anymore). When | reach it, | throw it open, and stamp on the ground 
as hard as | can: 


Which is the most succinct way | can think to tell Annette that it is 
time to run. 


If Brandt thinks he has got himself sorted out, it is slipping now. His 
gunshots have saved me for now, but his screams are starting to 
ring of static — unintended effects of the chart resonating in my 
head, though it will only hold for so long — and in the darkness | 
think | am beginning to see the faint edges of stars. 


No, not here, not now, please, hold. 


Suddenly, Brandt's voice hits a crescendo, and | hear someone 
scrambling to their feet. Splash of footsteps on wetness. Sound of a 
bag being lifted off the ground. Then Annette's form brushes past 
me, smelling of blood; they take a hard left right out of the door. | 
follow them, sprinting, adrenaline dulling the pain in my side. 


Behind us, Brandt's footsteps, unerring, regular. 


"| see now." h€ SayS. "Annette. Of course. They'the got you, hawen't they? You 
are not insane, you are just co-hhn-hwelled. It is okay. Let we set you on the 
straight." 


| do not reply. He can still see doors, and he is still lucid, and the fact 
he has not blown his head off with his weapon speaks volumes 
about his self-control. But the vial of Class-C he always kept 
strapped to his wrist will not save him from the complex in the end. 


Through the next door, | nearly ram into Annette. It is a dead end. 
How could | have forgotten? Now Brandt is rounding the last corner, 
probably bringing the shotgun to his shoulder. There is no element 
of surprise anymore, and Annette cannot strike faster than a bullet. 


| glance around the room. It is little more than a storage closet, just 
shelves and boxes, neural emulator gear and autoinjector sachets 
and other departmental logistics. Marker pens, too. | grab one to be 
safe. Above all else, what is different? What can we use? What is 
there? Where are we? 


Silly me. | remember where we are. Faint light has been peeking in 
from the sides; that is why | can see. | step up to the window, and 
turn around. 


Brandt is at the door. "Jenkins. Don't hh-anic. Don't trust thehnn. Just listen. 
To me." 


My eyes are already adjusting to the dim. Brandt's eyes are staring 
straight at me, but his weapon is trained on Annette. Their body is 
stock-still; they are at a real disadvantage, and they know it. | will 
have to play my cards, now. 


| reach my hand behind me. "Doctor Brandt, sir, | do not come with 
tricks," | say, carefully. "I will listen to what you have to say, but | do 
not think you are in a position to give good advice right now." 


"Don't hh-ind about the 422Z-Z2ZT, Jenkins. As you can see, | an well under wy own 
control." 


The static in his voice settles it. My finger tenses. | step forward, 
taking some of the tape with me, my eyes locked straight at 
Brandt's. 


"lam sorry to tell you, sir, but none of us are in control any more." 


Moonlight illuminates his face. His jaw is exposed, and blood streaks 
from what is left of his right eye. The more | look at him directly the 
more | realise | can't, so | turn around in a manner | hope he thinks 
is submissive. He swings the shotgun at me. 


"Jenkins," he whimpers, "| do not think you know what you are doing." 


| rip the second strip of tape off, then the third. In the window's 
reflection, Brandt is quivering. He is not looking at me any more. He 
is staring at the night sky. Disbelief dawns across his face: are those 
the stars | see in his eyes?