"Sorry, not ringing any bells. Are you calling from prison?" 
"No, I'm not." 

"| see. Are you out on parole?" 

"Not as such. It's complicated." 


"Okay. Do you have my email address?" Her voice started to sound 
a little strained. "If you want to email me over what you wanted to 
talk about, I'm sure | can arrange..." 


"| have information about the SCP Foundation," he said, cutting her 
off. 


Silence for a moment. Then, in a terse whisper: "How do you know 
about that?" 


"You told me about it. Then, for the last month I've been inside one 
of their facilities. You really don't remember coming to Wormwood 
Scrubs and talking about this?" 


"I—I don't. Let me get a pad and I—” 


Tissue Test Record: 
Overridden by O5-Command 


Termination Test Record: 

SCP-682 was heavily sedated before SCP-012's container was 
lowered into SCP-682's containment cell. SCP-012's container was 
opened via remote-control. SCP-682 seemed to be under 
SCP-012's effects, as it began to claw at itself in an attempt to draw 
blood, which seemed ineffective. After several minutes, SCP-682's 
left forearm, back left leg, and approximately 32% of the mass of its 
main body had been removed before SCP-682 realized the 
composition could not be completed. SCP-682 then entered a rage 
state and breached containment, causing casualties before 
SCP-682 could be recontained. 


Notes: | was really hoping we could get SCP-682 to commit suicide 
with this. -Dr. 


Item: SCP-173 with a photograph of SCP-096 attached to it 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 
Denied by O5- 


Notes: No. Absolutely not. Setting aside the problem of SCP-682, an 
SCP-173 that cannot be observed for fear of triggering a response 
from SCP-096 is a self-perpetuating catastrophe that the Foundation 
does not, under any reasonable circumstances, have the slightest 
desire to unleash. Denied with vehemence. 


Item: SCP-372 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 
SCP-682 introduced to testing chamber under heavy sedation. 


"I'm not talking about this over the phone," Keagan said. "I'm going 
to run out of credit anyway. Look, I'm on the Isle of Wight right now. | 
need you to book a ticket in my name on a ferry from Cowes 
tomorrow." 


"Why can't you just—OK, | take that back. | don't want to know. No, | 
mean—| do need to know what's going on. Are you an escapee? 
There are some limits on what | can do ethically as a reporter. And 
how do | know you have anything relevant to tell me?" 


"Okay," Keagan said. "As far as | have this worked out, | haven't 
actually escaped. It was sort of accidental, | think. Or at least, | didn't 
know it was happening. | don't know if the Foundation understands 
what's happened, but I'm pretty sure the regular police won't be 
looking for me. | mean, not for that, though | did take some guy's 
holiday cash. And his phone." 


"Oh Christ,” said the reporter's voice faintly, but Keagan pressed on. 


"Anyway, I'm a source. I'm not even asking for money, just a ticket 
off this island. Look, I'll give you a name. There's a researcher—not 
a prisoner, a staff member—who entered the Foundation because 
he was being threatened by another organisation, some sort of club 
for politicians and rich shits. Edward Gradley. Look into him. He's 
been there for at least a year or so—he lived in the City but hadn't 
heard about the Dockland Massacre. He was some kind of banker." 


"And he's with the Foundation now?" 
"Yes. He didn't seem very happy." 


"Right." A scritching in the background as the reporter jotted down 
details. "If your lead checks out, I'll pay your travel expenses as far 
as Southampton. Contact me when you're on the mainland and we 
can arrange a meeting." 


Keagan thanked the reporter and after agreeing a time for the ferry, 
should she decide his information was good, gave her his email 
address to send the ticket details to, which, he realised about five 
seconds after ending the call, probably no longer existed if the 
Foundation was as thorough as it seemed. He tried accessing the 


web through the feature phone, but it took so long that he eventually 
decided it wasn't going to work and spent the afternoon browsing 
the shops in Bembridge, keeping an eye open for an internet café. 
Although unsuccessful in this goal, he did manage to put together a 
few items he thought would be of use—a hiker's backpack, several 
packets of nuts and dried fruit, a paper roadmap of the UK, anda 
new pair of boots, all put together accounting for a good £80 of the 
money he had swiped from the Eper. He briefly considered hanging 
onto the plimsolls to show Sam Deloitte, but reasoned that slapping 
a pair of scuffed-up, odorous gym shoes with no identifying marks 
on them on the table as proof of the existence of a clandestine 
organisation with tendrils throughout the UK justice system was 
unlikely to gain him much credibility. You've still got the underpants 
if it comes to that, he thought. He turned his head, suddenly— 
something kept intruding at the edge of his peripheral vision, a 
presence that seemed to linger as he moved from scene to scene. 
Nothing seemed out of place, though. He was tempted to dismiss it 
as nerves, but the thought that someone from the Foundation might 
have noticed his unexpected departure from 554 and followed him 
was enough to keep him on edge. 


He caught a bus to Cowes, arriving as the sun showed signs of 
setting, and checked into a B&B, ordering bangers and mash from 
the elderly couple who ran the establishment, on which he slathered 
enough brown sauce and mustard—condiments, how he missed 
them!—to draw curious glances from the other guests. The sheets 
were soft and recently laundered, and it was only by chance that the 
antiquated phone had an alarm set for 7.30am that prevented him 
sleeping in. He tried to remember what he had dreamed, but it was 
already thin and insubstantial, though it had seemed so important at 
the time. Brief, disjointed flashes came to mind—a door with a name 
on it, just out of focus, digging with his bare hands, somewhere cold, 
then, still shivering, somewhere else, pulling himself out of chill, dark 
water. That was all. 


He was still unable to determine whether or not he was still the 
account holder of ku.oc.sriaperotuahtebmall| 
llieno.k#ku.oc.sriaperotuahtebmal|llieno.k by the time the 08.00 ferry 
from Southampton pulled into the harbour, but he bluffed his way 


through at the ticket office after the staff were able to pull up the 
reservation with his name on it. No, no ID, said Keagan ruefully. 
Some bastard had nicked it, together with his floppy hat and towel, 
and all his credit cards. They commiserated with him, gave him the 
ticket (turned out he could have paid in cash on the day after all) and 
left him to wander the docks for the half hour or so until the ferry set 
off. The niggling presence at the edge of his vision he had first 
noticed in Bembridge had followed him, he noticed with some 
disquiet. He was still unable to focus on who or what might be the 
source of his misgivings—nobody seemed familiar or out of place— 
but he was struck by the conviction that they should not be able to 
trace him to the mainland, and accordingly dawdled until the very 
last minute before making a dash for the pedestrian boarding 
platform. The luxuriantly mustachioed boarding official blew his 
whistle impatiently but held the gate open until Keagan cleared it. 
Follow that, Keagan thought. 


The ferry shuddered under Keagan's feet as it set off, and he and 
the other passengers wandered around the interior until the 
announcer had completed her rather tinny explanation of the fire and 
evacuation drills. Thereafter it seemed much too warm to remain 
inside the glass-walled cabin and Keagan proceeded up the stairs to 
the observation deck, where the wind whipped at him fiercely, 
forcing him around to the rear of the vessel where he was protected 
from the worst of the elements and afforded some shade by the 
cabin. He watched as the ship left the harbour and the island (the 
old joke: what's brown and steaming and comes out of Cowes? The 
Isle of Wight ferry.). 


A young woman, perhaps five or ten years his junior, strolled over, 
holding a Dr Pepper presumably purchased from the onboard shop, 
and came to stand beside him, looking at the waves. He looked at 
her out of the corner of his eye—she was attractive, broadly 
Caucasian but with very striking eyes that suggested Asian 
parentage. 


"| love looking over the side at the waves hitting the side of the 
ferry,” she said, evidently trying to strike up a conversation. "The 
wake can be quite hypnotic when the sun hits it." 


"Oh right," Keagan said, clumsily. "Do you travel this way often?" 


"| get out to the island whenever | can. My parents own a café on 
the beach, near a holiday park, then come back to the mainland for 
the winter." 


"Sounds like a good idea for a gentle family business." 


"You'd be surprised," she retorted. "Can be quite cutthroat. There's 
always several cafés per beach, and they're all competing for 
custom during the busy period. Dad told me one time during a wet 
spell someone sneaked in overnight and slashed all his umbrellas." 


"| see." 


"And what about you?" she asked, smiling. "You don't strike me as a 
frequent traveller." 


"Just on vacation," he said. "| don't get out much, usually." 


"And are you still on vacation?" She edged a little closer. "| wouldn't 
mind some company, if you're free?" 


Keagan looked up at the perfect blue sky and the waves, and across 
at the woman on the deck. He had made up his mind to say he had 
a few days free, but then he remembered Lauren and felt vaguely 


guilty. 
"Sorry," he said, looking away again. "All business from here on in." 


"That's a shame," she said, and moved off. Keagan went back inside 
and ordered a rum and Coke to console himself. 


Southampton harbour was an ugly, jagged mess, concrete docks 
jutting out from the coast at seemingly random intervals. Relics of a 
proud naval history, now mostly reduced to ferries and the 
occasional P&O cruise liner. The city now belonged to men like 
Cameron Moat. Keagan wondered if anyone had taken over his 
empire or whether the splinters were still squabbling for territory. 


When he was safely esconced on the Southern Railway service to 
London—apologising to the young man in the Che Guevara beret 
and as-yet unfulfilled promise of a wispy moustache who tripped 


over him in the aisle—settled himself in a window seat. It was warm 
but not unpleasantly so and he felt himself beginning to nod off. He 
was jolted awake by a hideous tinny samba sample he eventually 
determined was the stolen phone's ringtone, courtesy of the man in 
the Fiat Eper. It hadn't been cut off yet, then. He took it out and 
clumsily prodded the resistive screen until he found the precise 
angle that would allow him to accept the call. 


"Hello?" a female voice said, "Keagan O'Neill?" 


"My lead was good then,” he grunted, looking out of the window as 
the world blurred by. 


Sam's voice when she replied was distant, thoughtful. "Sort of. 
Edward Gradley's dead. At least officially. There's a murder trial still 
ongoing involving several partners at his firm—police reckon they 
were trying to cover up some kind of insider trading scandal. But the 
case records are full of redactions; there's clearly something going 
on they don't want the general public knowing about. So yes, it was 
good enough for me to pay your way. Now, | want everything. 
Names, dates, locations." 


"What happened to the meeting? To be honest I'd rather talk about 
this sort of stuff in person." 


"Well," she said, "I'm not so happy about it. | spoke to the paper's 
lawyer..." 


"Why the hell did you do that?" said Keagan, finding himself getting 
annoyed. 


"Let me see, because you say you were serving a life sentence then 
‘accidentally' escaped? Or because you contacted me out of the 
blue, claiming to know me, with details of an investigation I've kept 
off the records? He thinks | should give the police your number." 


"Look," Keagan said, "there's got to be a mutually agreeable place 
we can do this. A café or something with lots of people around." And 
fucking hard to get out of if she just tells the authorities that's where 
I'll be, he thought, immediately regretting the suggestion. 


A pause. "Okay," Sam said. "There's a salad bar on Bermondsey 
Street in Southwark. Called Urbanity. You know it?" 


"| Know the street," he said, though the entire concept of a 'salad' 
bar had clearly passed him by. "What time?" 


Having thus agreed to bait what seemed like a very possible trap, 
Keagan turned the phone off to preserve its already dwindling 
charge and busied himself reading the ‘Quiet’ signs above the 
windows. Apparently he wasn't supposed to have taken a call in this 
carriage, which probably explained why the purse-lipped old lady 
across the eye kept glaring at him. The young guevarista behind him 
didn't seem to be paying much attention to the signs either—Keagan 
could hear the drum and bass thumping out of his earbuds. 


The world put itself back together again, one building at a time, and 
soon they approached the outskirts of London. The meeting had 
been set for 5.30pm that afternoon, but Keagan had rehearsed 
another appointment in his mind since the ferry, and it couldn't wait. 


He got off at Clanham Junction and walked a half mile or so along 
twisting pavements until he found the route he had driven every day 
on his way from the shop. He turned his collar up against the thin 
drizzle which had arrived to ruin the sunshine—or perhaps it had 
been here in London all along. Welcome home. He let the 
pedestrians and sluggish traffic fade away into the background until 
he was walking alone, almost in a trance. 


He walked up to the apartment building, realising he didn't live there 
anymore, that the key, if the locks hadn't been changed, would have 
been handed into the custody of the Foundation with all his other 
earthly possessions, and if Agent Howard had been telling the truth, 
had since been consigned to the furnace. A myopically hunched 
elderly man saw him staring futilely up and down the door, and 
asked him if he was a resident. 


"No," Keagan said (you could have lied and said you'd lost your key, 
the little voice said, why didn't you?), "I'm here to see—to see 
Lauren Vale. In 212, if she's still here." 


"Oh!" said the old man with some surprise. "I think she might be out. 


But I'll let you in—there's a sofa in the entrance hall if you want to 
wait, if you like." 


Keagan nodded mute agreement, and as they came through into the 
space he had traversed every day for almost two years, he found 
himself compelled to remark, for reasons that baffled him, "It's a 
lovely place, isn't it?” 


"Yes, definitely—’ agreed the old man. "And very reasonably priced, 
at least for London. | only moved in recently." 


Keagan sat on the sofa for a few minutes before he decided the old 
man might have been wrong about Lauren being out and ascended 
the staircase. It was true, it had been a lovely place to live. They 
could never have afforded it on his income from the auto shop; 
Lauren had contributed the lion's share of the rent from her earnings 
as a hotel manager.