She didn't know when it stopped, or when the dying ended. She was 
only even vaguely aware when the three monsters in their plastic 
suits left the room, or when someone lit a fire and burned down the 
laboratory. She did remember being carried out. She remembered 
curling up in his arms and weeping into his shoulder, feeling the 
distant, comforting sensation of the microorganisms in his body, 
wanting to pull them into her, but knowing that if she did, the flames 
rippling through her would simply kill them off. 


It was just as she was being placed into the back seat of a car that 
her mind decided it had had enough and decided to cut out. Oblivion 
overcame her and she embraced it gladly. 


"Pull over," Michel ordered. 


James pulled the van over to the side of the road, and Michel got out 
and walked over to a tree. He leaned against it, then vomited noisily 
into the grass. 


"Fuck," Sandra grimaced. She reached for a box with a biohazard 
label on it taped to the side of the plastic-lined compartment, but 
was interrupted by the Professor putting a hand over hers. 


"Wait here," the old man said. "I'll let you know if you need to worry." 


He exited the makeshift quarantine compartment in the back of the 
van and walked to the side of the road, where Michel was now 
sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and tears streaming down 
his face. The Professor sat down next to the big Frenchman and put 
an arm around his wide shoulders, pulling him close. "I'm sorry," he 
said, simply. "It needed to be done." 


"Did we have to do it like THAT!?" Michel asked. "That was... 
UGLY... it was..." 


"| Know," the Professor said. "| know. It was an unpleasant, hideous 


act to do to another human being. But so was what she did to Kevin. 
Justice needed to be done. A lesson needed to be taught." 


"I'm done," Michel said. "| can't do this any more. Not after that." 


The Professor nodded, and hugged the big man again. "You're a 
good soldier, Michel," he said. "You have fought well for the cause. 
Go home and be with your loved ones and enjoy the new world you 
are creating. Thank you for your service." 


He helped the big man get to his feet and led him to the van. The 
rest of the trip passed in silence. Nothing needed to be said. 
Everyone understood. 


She didn't remember much except that it was incredibly unpleasant 
and incredibly humiliating. On top of the pain of the serum racing 
through her body, there was the devastating effect it had on a body 
that had developed an equilibrium with billions of different kinds of 
lethal microorganisms, as well as many which were nonlethal. The 
effect on her digestive system alone didn't even bear thinking about. 


The worst part where the nightmares. Every time she closed her 
eyes, she saw demons in white coats and surgical masks wielding 
syringes full of death. White rooms lit with fluorescent tubes that cast 
no shadows. A man with no head cut her apart with a scalpel, held 
the pieces up to the light, then dunked them in a greenish liquid and 
put them back where they had come from. Grinning midgets with 
wide mouths full of too many sharklike teeth sat in the rafters and 
cackled. "You'll never get out. You'll never get out." 


The only comfort was when the Angel came. That was how she 
thought of him, for in her pain-induced delirium, his handsome face 
seemed suffused in a holy light. The Angel was the one who would 
wipe away her sweat from her feverish forehead. The Angel was the 
one who cleaned her up and changed her IVs. He held her hand 
throughout the worst of the pain, and whispered soft lullabies to her 
when she whimpered. 


In her hour of loneliness, he was her friend, and she loved him for it. 


primarily from a human 
head. SCP-857-1i are 
identical to SCP-857-1a with 
the exception of more 
pronounced 'arms' and the 
presence of opposable 
thumbs. SCP-857-1i 
specimens are fairly 
intelligent, and reside in 
simple tribal structures. 


« SCP-856 | SCP-857 | SCP-858 » 


When she finally emerged from her drug-induced delirium, she 
found herself lying on clean sheets in a soft bed. The sun was 
shining through a window in the attic room, casting a square of light 
onto the cheerful flower-print wallpaper. There was a framed cross- 
stitch on the wall across from her depicting two children playing on 
the front lawn of a red brick house. "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART 
IS," it read. 


She felt empty... drained... alone. For the first time since she could 
remember, she was a single person, without the familiar warmth of 
her old friends nestled inside her. She closed her eyes and reached 
out, calling to her beloved microscopic companions: a virus here, a 
bacterium there. She called them to her, and they answered, and as 
they did so, she felt her strength return to her, felt her broken spirit 
rejuvenating. 


The door opened, and a young man wearing an apron over his jeans 
and t-shirt walked in, carrying a large hot bowl of chicken soup. 
"Feeling better?" he asked, setting it down by her side. "It's good to 
see you awake again.” 


Vector looked up into his face, and she blushed. It was the Angel. 


"Don't get up just yet," he said. "Let me check your vital signs first." 
He sat down next to her and checked her pulse and blood pressure, 
nodded at the numbers. "Much better," he said. 


"How long was | out?" she asked. 
"About a week. How are you feeling?" the young man asked. 


"Better," Vector said. She twisted the sheets under her fingers 
tightly, nervously. 


"You look better," the young man said kindly. "Is there something | 
can do for you?" 


She felt a familiar taste in the air, and she smiled. "Yes," she 
whispered. "You can die." 


Staphylococcus aureus is a contradictory bacteria. It is constantly 
present in the environment: on the skin, in the mucus membranes of 


the nose and throat, in acne. Approximately one in five humans is a 
carrier and, for the most part, coexist with it in relative peace. 
However, that same bacteria, which is harmless enough in most 
places, turns into one of the most virulent and deadly organisms 
known to man if allowed to infect the wrong tissues. In the skin, it 
causes necrotizing fasciitis, which literally eats skin and muscle 
tissue at an alarming rate. In the blood, it causes toxic shock 
syndrome, which can kill in hours. In spinal fluid, it causes 
meningitis, which can lead to brain damage and gangrene. In the 
lungs, pneumonia. 


Vector hit him with all of them at once, then boosted the virulence as 
hard as she could. He was dead within seconds. 


She stepped around over his twitching, decaying body and went to 
the wardrobe in the corner. As expected, all the clothes were some 
sort of hideous floral print frocks that looked like something a mother 
from a Norman Rockwell painting would wear. She picked the least 
disgusting looking one and changed into it, then threw an overcoat 
on over it. No shoes, but if she could just... 


There was a loud crash, and then shouting. Gunfire cracked in 
bright, staccato beats: the high, bright crack of an assault rifle, 
underlaid by the lower booming of a shotgun. Then silence. 


She ran to the window. There were men outside, wearing black 
tactical gear, and they were dragging two dead bodies into the back 
of an unmarked white van. Several more were moving towards the 
house with the smooth, practiced movements of professional 
soldiers. A couple more were pushing a nondescript white Toyota 
Camry off the dock and into a nearby lake: it splashed into the water 
and quickly sank from view. 


The door opened, and a man wearing full hazmat gear, carrying a 
submachine gun, walked in. He held up a photo and nodded. "It's 
her." 


Another man slung his rifle and drew a pistol, shooting her twice in 
the chest. She looked down and saw the yellow tassel of a dart 
sticking from her body, then the drugs took hold, and she passed 
out. 


"This is Bobby. Tell Dark we have her." 


Harken woke up around midnight with the distinct feeling there was 
someone in the room. Then he saw the silhouette standing at his 
window: the silhouette of a tall man wearing a fedora and long 
overcoat. 


"You must think you're very clever, Mister Harken," the stranger 
said. 


“I... ahh... like to think so, yes.” 
"| will admit, your ruse was almost successful." 


Harken thought for several seconds about denying it, but didn't see 
the point. “Only almost?” 


"Just so. Let me tell you about the full consequences of your 
actions, Mister Harken," the stranger continued. "Because of your... 
tip... the GOC pulled elements from their strike team shadowing the 
girl known as 'Vector' to investigate the warehouse in question. The 
strike team was seconds away from breach when the overwatch 
element recognized the person known as "Boomer." They were 
barely able to abort the mission before what would certainly have 
been a costly and fatal mistake." 


"Damn. Well, good on them. No harm no foul, | suppose?" 


"But there was harm, Mister Harken. Because the GOC diverted 
elements to the warehouse, they dispatched only two agents to 
investigate the next likely lead: a farmhouse in Colorado. When they 
arrived, the agents were ambushed and killed. Shortly afterward, a 
UAV doing surveillance of the region showed several known 
employees of Marshall, Carter, and Dark carrying an unconscious 
female in her mid-twenties to an unmarked vehicle. The female was 
later confirmed to be the target in question." 


Harken felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed hard. "The richies got 
the germ girl." 


"All thanks to your little 'tip," Mister Harken. All thanks to your little 
tip." The stranger walked to the bathroom door and waited with one 
hand on the handle. "Mister Harken. This is a war. You and yours 
need to seriously consider whose side you are on." 


"Yeah? And whose side are you on?" Harken growled. 


"You already know the answer to that, Mister Harken," the man said. 
"I'm on Nobody's side." 


He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 
Harken already knew that by the time anyone else opened that door, 
it would be empty. He still rose and threw the door open on the cool, 
tile lined darkness. Not surprising, really. 


After all, Nobody could get out of a locked room with only one door. 


He sighed heavily, thinking of the report he'd have to file, leaning on 
the door frame. 


“Kramer's never gonna let me hear the end of this.” 


Game Day Phase 2: Second Language 


[Tempest Night, 18:43] 


Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful 
to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop 
screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was 
painful — there was no room for the new memories, so the old 
poured out — but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go 
— Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343. 


He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that 
it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, 
nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of 
them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing 
things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, 
and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English 
study. 


343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace.“ -- ,Ive 
been expecting you.” 343 said calmly. 


Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. 
You could expect no less of “God.” 


“If you Know who | am, then you know why I’m here. | have a gift for 
you.” 


He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The 
battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and 
it would be over, one way or another, in minutes. 


The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next 
morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what's left of the fellow who 
brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," 
SCP-343 said. Smug as always. 


Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343’s voluntary 
containment area, noting the lack of damage. 


“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could 
have helped, you know.” 


“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, 
slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, 
sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. 
Maybe you'll understand one day.” 


Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked 
Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters 
load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out. 


“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked. 


“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up SCP-911 and dropped it into the 
waiting bag. “Don’t touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, | mean, 
anomalous. | think | need a nap.” 


"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 
and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, 
someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired. 


The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was 
glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of 
years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, 
not from him. It had been in Clarkson’s thoughts, something he had 
learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” 
What odd names people had these days. 


“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” 
Clef had said, and someday 343 911 would be pleased to tell Clef 
that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to 
learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English. 


He closed his eyes and began taking his nap. 


"Sometimes You Get the Bear..." 


The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved 
up the hill in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage 
uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden 
behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated 
night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns 
in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They 
were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, 
the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they 
were going to take this house DOWN. 


Then some asshole on the second floor of the target house ruined 
everything by shooting a cheap-ass Vietnamese-made version of 
Chinese knockoff of an AK-47 assault rifle at them and waking up all 
the neighbors. 


The next few minutes didn't go so well for the members of MTF- 
Rho-Niner. 


"Fucking EMPTY!" Agent Chimes shouted, slamming his assault 
vest down onto the steel table. He slammed his fists down onto the 
table, then buried his face in both hands in frustration, smearing his 
soot-black face paint. "Third fucking time!" 


"At least we got the guy that was shooting at us," Agent Chu said. 


"Hey, Chuface, get a clue. That's what that asshole was 
SUPPOSED to do: slow us down so that the rest of the 
motherfuckers could bug out. Fucking SHIT! Third fucking time!" 
Chimes shouted. "What the fuck!?" 


"Pipe down, Chimes, you're starting to piss me off," Sergeant Minh 
growled. "We're all pissed, no need to scream about it." 


"That's right," Lieutenant Jameson agreed. "We've got bigger 


problems to deal with." 


"Like explaining how a fucking million dollar neighborhood in richville 
California got shot up by a bunch of bozos in black suits?" Chimes 
asked. 


"What? No, that's easy. We blame it on terrorists or drug traffickers 
or something. My issue is, how the hell did they see us coming?" 


"Easy," Chimes said. "Some newbie fucked up: forgot to blacken a 
buckle or silence a tag or something. That's how all these things get 
fucked up."