The summer sun hung low in the sky, turning the clouds all shades 
of orange, red, and purple, sunbeams shining through the pine trees 
that lined the sides of this unpaved road. They drove slowly in their 
rental car, taking time to drink in the environment and just to enjoy 
one another’s company. The vacation had been Dmitri’s idea—he 
needed it—but he was glad to have the others along. A vacation 
alone was the last thing he wanted right now. It was good to be 
home, and he enjoyed acting as tour guide for his friends. Few 
people understood the beauty of the Russian countryside; the 
steppe is as deep a part of their collective soul as borscht or vodka. 


He had taken them to his birthplace, Moscow, first. They had seen 
the rainbow spires of St. Basil's Cathedral, the towering red brick of 
the Kremlin walls, Lenin’s mausoleum, the terrifying fagade of No. 2 
Dzerzhinisky Square and the crumbling remains of Stalin’s pride— 
the White Sea Canal. They strolled along its banks and viewed the 
oily, filthy water with disdain, recognizing it as the slave labor project 
that it was. They saw the tiny plaque and paid homage to the dead, 
marveling at the fruits of their labor and clucking their tongues at its 
current state of disrepair, noting that not a single vessel had 
traversed it during their time there. Strelnikov sighed to himself and 
viewed it with longing. They did not, could not, understand its true 
meaning. 


He continued driving, allowing them the pleasant respite of the car 
seats and the soothing sound of gravel under the tires. The road 
stretched in both directions for miles, small side roads shooting off 
and leading their travelers across the expanse that was modern-day 
Russia. He smiled inwardly, a knowing smile that he saved for 
special occasions such as this. He’d told them that he wanted to go 
home for a few days, and now he truly was—this was their last stop. 
The car pulled onto a winding side road and slowed to a stop, a 
large Russian summer house in the traditional style looming ahead 
of them. The others perked up and looked around in surprise as he 


stepped out of the car. 


It had belonged to her mother once, she herself purchasing it just 
after the collapse in 1992 when you could buy property for as cheap 
as a piece of Japanese electronics. They had fixed it up and spent 
their summers here, away from the confines and the madness of 
Moscow proper. He gazed up at it, hands at his sides. The paint was 
faded to grayness and large portions of it had been peeled and 
stripped away by the harsh winter elements. The eaves sagged with 
decay, and the porch swing sat molding, its rusting chains folded 
underneath it. He heard the car doors close behind him as they 
exited and stood behind him; he paid them no attention, just stepped 
onto the porch. It groaned from the pressure, the wood joints no 
longer sturdy. 


Strelnikov tried peering through the front door, but it was covered 
with a sheet of plywood. He tried the door—locked. It took him a few 
moments to remember the key stashed away in one of the porch 
beams; he pried the panel apart with his knife and reached in, 
ignoring the cobwebs and retrieving the tarnished brass key. It fit the 
lock perfectly, and he swung the door open and stepped in, the 
others following suit. He remembered coming here for the first time, 
seeing the furniture covered in plastic to keep the dust off, 
remembered the musty smell, remembered her sweeping the dirt 
through this very door and into the hazy summer air. There was no 
furniture now, only years of untended dust and dirt. 


Stepping further through the hall, he saw the kitchen—its 
strawberry-printed trim lining the ceiling had faded into 
unrecognizable shades of white, the only appliance left was the 
stove where together they had once cooked breakfast. He looked 
away quickly, casting a nervous and embarrassed glance to his 
friends. 


“...Was my summer home,” he said sheepishly. They nodded and 
gave him supportive smiles, watching carefully and waiting in the 
hallway, choosing not to follow as Dmitri walked up the stairs. The 
wooden planks sighed with each step, bowing dangerously as he 
climbed and only reluctantly supporting his weight. The upstairs was 
much the same, save for one room—their bedroom. 


It was empty but for a small table with a blue tin box resting atop it. 

This, too, required his knife to open, but after some fussing he pried 
it apart and looked inside. His eyes fell upon the note first, and with 
trembling hands he unfolded it, scanning it in silence. 


“My dearest Dmitri,” it began, written in her elegant, wavy Cyrillic 
handwriting. 


“It has been almost two years since | received word of your death. | 
have waited as long as | can. The other girls tell me to have hope, 
but | know it is misguided and foolish of me to have even the faintest 
belief that you will ever return to me. It is so hard without you— 
sometimes | swear | hear your voice being carried in the breeze, and 
for the briefest moments it is like you are near to me again. | have 
waited, Dmitri. But | can wait no longer. 


“Maybe the telegram really was a mistake, and you will return here 
someday to see me. | am leaving you this letter and these small 
remembrances in the hopes that maybe it will help you to 
understand and move on, as | have. | held on to them as long as | 
could, but the hope that you will ever see them is all but vanished 
from me now. | cannot bear to stay here any longer; it just reminds 
me of you. 


“| want you to know that you meant everything to me; please believe 
me when | say that | will never forget the way you made me feel, 
while we were together here. | try to shut out the bad parts as much 
as | can, and leave the good for another day. | always loved you, 
and | always will. 


“| hope you can understand.” She signed it, as beautiful as ever, Eva 
Katarinovna Strelnikova. It would have been her name had he ever 
come home to her. 


The memories flooded back at once, taking his breath away and 
making him weak in the knees as soon as he saw the photographs 
underneath. He put them down, realizing he didn’t need them; he 
saw them every night in his sleep. 


He saw her standing in the kitchen, the way the sun shone on her 
hair and illuminated her face like the angel she had been to him 


when she would cook, wearing her strawberry-patterned apron that 
matched the décor of the room so well. Worse yet, he saw the look 
on her face when he told her he was leaving, saw the anguish and 
the worry, and the glimmer of hope in her eyes when he kissed her 
and promised that he’d be back for her in one piece. 


He felt her in his arms when they sat together on the banks of the 
White Sea Canal, the way she sprawled across his body and slept 
with her ear to his chest, listening to him breathe and being soothed 
by the beat of his heart as they watched the ships drift by lazily. He 
remembered the soft touch of her skin and the way it glowed in the 
moonlight when they slept together, the way her hands would curl 
and lock around his own. He felt her strength and her weakness at 
the same time as he held her once again, telling her it would be a 
short war and that he was only there to keep the peace, knowing it 
was a lie and knowing that she was all too aware. 


He heard the soft coo of her voice as they planned their future, 
talking of how they would sit on the veranda and watch the sun set 
across the fields, just as it had done today. He remembered her dry 
laugh when he’d make a terrible joke or do something stupid, and 
the smile that always accompanied it. In a flash, she was with him 
now, standing before him, if only in the depths of his own mind. He 
realized then that she had always been there. 


She had been with him during the shelling, when the Chechens 
flung their rockets at him and when they trained their ancient 
weapons against him. She had been next to him when he was shot, 
held his hand in the field hospital and stroked his hair tenderly. 
She’d been with him up until the Foundation recruited him and took 
him away from her forever, their liaisons sending word to the 
Russian Military that he’d been killed in action near Grozny, leaving 
her nothing but a telegram and an engagement ring. 


That was nine years ago. 


He held up the stack of photographs, feeling something move 
underneath. It glinted hauntingly at him, and he recognized the gold 
band he had given her when he asked her to be his bride two weeks 
before leaving for the second Chechen war. He saw it, and at that 
moment he knew it was over—there was nothing left for him here. 


He tucked the box under his arm and returned downstairs in silence, 
his fellow travelers eyeing him with curiosity and silently offering him 
their support. He knew it to be sincere. 


They exited together and returned to their rented cottage to sample 
the stores of vodka. His three compatriots got drunk and spent the 
night partying in the upstairs bedroom. 


He slept alone. 


Memory 


...and down it with water. Done. Soon I'll believe that 21st of 
December 2012 was a regular boring day. I'm glad | can forget the 
experience. Those who rank higher will always retain the memory. 
That is their duty. Small time personnel like me are only meant to do 
one thing - to execute orders. Long-term memory only makes things 
complicated for us. The amnestics are kicking in, mind getting blurry, 
and only the brightest shards of my memory's kaleidoscope shine 
through the fog... 


KKK 


"You up and about?" 


The pain in my head after being struck with the buttstock. The pain 
in my hands wrung behind my back. The pain in my neck after the 
needle. But the worst of all is shame - burning, merciless shame of 
remembering what happened to me. It's not my fault that my brain 
was defenseless in the wake of the mental attack, but | can find little 
solace in it. Dancing barefoot in the snow in the laboratory's ruins, 
chanting praise for some creatures | didn't even know before, 
chasing my lab assistants with a scalpel in my hand. Good thing 
they were faster. Lovecraftian insanity, no less. Horrible shame, like 
that after a massive binge. I'm writhing on the floor, even though no 
One is restraining me now. 


"Up and about," says the MTF lieutenant, deftly lighting a wet 
cigarette. "How many fingers? What's your name, you remember?" 


"N-Noir. That's a codename. Two fingers." 


"Correct. Lieutenant Moroz, Tau-22. We have an order to evacuate 

your Safe-class along with you." He's looking at some records in his 
tablet. "Six diminutive semi-sentient beings and four small artifacts, 

right?" 


"Right" 


"Get your boots on and go pack your zoo. And wear this, looks like 
you'll need it." 


He gives me an army helmet with an integrated headband made of 
Prometheus TK-1, a light version of some alloy that comes in handy 
in times like these. 


"Thank you" 


"You should thank Sgt. Glushakov for not shooting you. He wanted 
to. OK, let's move, Moire." 


KKK 


The downtown is impassable. City square is littered with human and 
inhuman corpses. Independence Monument lies in ruins before us, 
like a huge corpse staring into the sky with unseeing eyes. And 
mortar shells still Keep exploding. 


"We're in deep if those guys behind the 'Chimaeras' are infected," | 
whisper to Sgt. Glushakov. "They say they got a tank and some 
artillery." 


"They aren't, they have ‘tinfoil hats' too," says the sergeant after a 
pause. "They're just jerks, firing blindly into the world. GOC is as 
GOC does." 


"Hey, Amour, whatsyourname, shut your whining!" grumbles Lt. 
Moroz, chewing his cigarette violently. "Your lab girls are doing fine, 
look at them, so why aren't you in shape?" 


Helen is looming over the skip cage - they actually look like nestlings 
- and whispers something to them tenderly, probably a lullaby. If the 
creatures get worried, they may cause some trouble, even if they 
are Safe. Nadya is bandaging a soldier's leg. A bullet wound, 
actually. The creatures attacking us are actually less dangerous 
than people under their influence, especially if said people are 
armed police officers. 


"Get those [EXPLOSION] GOCs behind the House with Chimaeras 


online and tell them to cut it out already!" the lieutenant is screaming 
into his radio. "That P.O.S. is already blown to [EXPLOSION] bits, 
so now will they please shut their [EXPLOSION] mortar and let us 
pass. And yes, tell them we said thanks." 


Soon the mortar sounds cease. Our APC is moving on, like an 
icebreaker wrestling through solid ice, carrying valuable SCPs with 
us. Some figures clad in GOC uniform appear from behind the 
House with Chimaeras, one of them waves to us. We wave back. No 
matter how we've been brawling with the Coalition all these years, 
their help was very welcome now. | don't think our small envoy 
would have broken through the square without artillery assistance. 


On the turn | look back and see the ground next to the House with 
Chimaeras give under, dragging the diminutive black-clad figures 
below... 


KKK 


We're near the Nicholas Chain Bridge. People are running over it, a 
lot of people. They are being chased by an indescribable black mass 
that stops every now and then, consumes those left behind and 
presses on. 


"Blast it!" screams the bomb technician captain. "They're done for 
anyway, blast it!" 


Pieces of the bridge, people, and those vile minuscule creatures 
composing that black mass are floating in the air above the Dnieper 
for a few seconds, then it all comes crashing down into the river. 
Someone in Central Command must have known that these things 
cannot swim. No wonder we were told to stay close to the water. 


The field engineer is as pale as snow. Captain sits next to him and 
places a hand on his shoulder. 


"Calm down. It's like a gangrene, you know? Cut off a hand to save 
the rest. And we're saving the world now. Too bad about the 
people,” he nods towards the broken bridge. "Did you hear a whole 
continent went below the water?" 


planet. Many planets appear to be located in other galaxies, making 
identification through positions of known stellar objects impossible. 
No traces of life have been found on any planet reached via 
SCP-907. 


SCP-907 itself, and all conditions within, will not be affected by any 
outside conditions. So long as an object or person is completely 
within SCP-907, even if there is an open door or window present, 
they will be unaffected by the outside environment. 


SCP-907 will return to Earth in the same location as its departure 
after five to fifteen stops. The vehicle is seen to undergo a minor 
relativistic effect during transit, where a longer period of time will 
have transpired on Earth than it has in SCP-907, but this time period 
has yet to exceed a lag of two weeks. 


Addendum: While over three hundred extrasolar planets have been 
catalogued through usage of SCP-907, several have been 
encountered on multiple occasions. These include: 


¢ SCP-907-A: Terrestrial planet approximately 1.5 times Earth’s 
mass, orbiting a M-class star. No atmosphere or moons are 
present. The landscape is covered in a thick layer of graphite 
with surface formations of diamond due to seismic upheaval. 
Surface temperature averages -200 °C. 


¢ SCP-907-B: Terrestrial planet with an atmosphere of methane 
and carbon dioxide measuring approximately 90 AMP. 
Exterior temperature at ground level is in excess of 550 °C. 
Trace compounds of unknown chemical composition give the 
lower atmosphere an iridescent quality. 


¢ SCP-907-C: Insufficient data: Believed to be the semi-liquid 
core of a standard hydrogen gas giant.