running. There were no people who survived exposure to 106. At 
least, none who survived for long. The straightaway ended in a dark 
doorway, and as Lament stepped into it, he pulled out his revolver 
and fired two shots down the hall at the advancing 'man,' prompting 
another of those broken, painful to hear laughs. "He. He. He. He. 
Hee." 


"God damn it," Lament muttered. "Get in, Sandy,” he ordered. 
"Jesus, just get into the damn room!" 


Sandlemyer dashed in first, followed by Lament turned, pawing 
desperately for a light switch for a moment, then feeling cold metal 
slap under his hand. Cold metal that felt rounded and damp. Pipes. 
And next to it, another. Sandlemyer's flashlight blazed to life, and 
Lament immediately recognized where they were at. 


"Oh fuck." 


The pipes. Gears had mentioned them as a plausible, future 
containment issue, but he hadn't realized... 


They twisted and turned on each other, coining one about the other. 
It wasn't as he'd imagined it—strict, orderly plumbing—but instead a 
roving cephalopod nightmare. "Look for the widest opening,” he 
ordered quickly, slapping the door control and backing away from it 
as the metal started to blacken and rot. 


"Go... Go!" he shouted. 


He knew there were more entrances and exits within the mass. You 
just had to find them. Find them and desperately hope. They were 
both running again, the flashlight jerking along, jumping and shaking 
as they fled the terrible, old man. 


"Hee. He. He. He. Hee." 


They ran for hours, panting. And it always sounded closer. Closer 
and closer to them. At one point, Lament thought he felt something 
graze the sleeve of his jacket, and the mere possibility of 106 sent 
adrenaline rushing through his body. Every time it seemed to burn 
out, there was something else. A laugh. A scent of rot. Eyes in the 


revealed it to be ordinary in every way, though it is noted 
that Mr. Deeds was not suffering from any noticeable 
disease or physical condition, and was in fact in near 
perfect health at the time of death. The contents of his 
stomach consisted of Southern-style sweet tea, normal 
stomach acids, and no more. 


Mr. Deeds’ body was then left on the operating table 
while the lights in the room and cameras were turned off. 
All personnel left the room, and upon return, no trace of 
Mr. Deeds, be it blood on the instruments used or other 
physical traces such as organs removed, let alone the 
actual body, remained. 


Further ringing of SCP-662 resulted in Mr. Deeds' 
appearance after three minutes. He showed no signs of 
injury, and was well dressed once more in a modern 
uniform commonly worn by butlers. As expected, he 
could not explain how he had managed to survive. He 
was then ordered to give Dr. Mirth a full body massage, 
which he performed much to Dr. Mirth’s satisfaction; Dr. 
Mirth claimed it was “the best damned rubdown I’ve ever 
had, my back pain is completely gone”. 


dark. 
Again and again. Pursuing. Chasing. 


And then, they finally spotted another source of light. One of the 
Foundation floodlamps that were always placed near the other exits. 


They both ran toward it, lungs burning as Lament hurried to the door 
panel, typing in his emergency code. 


*Denied* 

He stared at it. Then entered it again. 

*Denied* 

"He. He. Hee. He. Hee." 

"Lament... Lament, what is the fucking problem?!" 
"It's not opening!" 

*Denied* 

"Hee. Hee. He. Hee. He." 


He felt like crying. He entered it again and again, slapping the 
buttons harder and harder each time. "You son of a bitch. Open you 
son of a bitch!" 


*Denied* 


He felt it more than he saw it. It was an oppressive feeling, like 
someone standing right behind you, breathing down your neck. 
Someone with a knife, or a gun, or claws, Someone who would hurt 
you, kill you, cut you, and laugh while they did it. 


"Hee. He. He. Hee. He." 


He turned. He looked at it. Moldy, rotten skin. Sunken, dead eyes. 
Yellowed, broken teeth. Lank, greasy hair fell around the sides of its 
head. 


It took a step forward. 
*Denied* 

"God damn you." 
Another. 

*Denied* 


Lament turned and emptied the rest of the shells into its head to no 
effect. "He. Hee. He. Hee. He." 


"Jesus... Oh Jesus, we're gonna die..." Sandlemyer panted. 
*Denied* 


It was in arms reach as Lament, tears running down his face, 
slammed the keys a final time. 


And the door opened. 


He was through it in a second, into the exit chamber, looking back. 
"Sandy!" 


106's hand closed on the back of Sandlemyer's neck as he turned 
and stepped through the door, squeezing for a moment. 
Sandlemyer's hand shot out to Lament, reaching for him, begging 
for help, but as Lament dove for it, 106 was pulling him away, pulling 
him into the recesses of the pipes, into hell and damnation. 


Lament raised his gun, took quick aim at Sandlemyer, and did what 
he hoped any other agent would do for him in a similar situation. He 
pulled the trigger. 


The hammer fell on the empty cartridge with a hollow click. And then 
they were both gone, and Lament was staggering back against the 
wall, sliding down it, staring into the mass of pipes. 


When they found him, it had been seven minutes since 106 had 
breached containment. 


« Interlude 4 | HUB | Interlude 5 » 


In His Own Image: Interlude 5 


August 16, 2007: 


Agent Lament stood in the mess of Site 19, staring out the window 
and looking at the landscape, part of his mind making an effort to 
register that the world was, in fact, still there. That everyone was 
actually alive. That it had happened. His stomach was twisted in 
pained, difficult knots, and he really just wanted privacy. But he 
wasn't alone. 


He could hear the two men, both low staff, talking across the mess 
from him. Their voices carried, but he wasn't really paying attention. 


"What's that guys problem? He onna them montaukers ?" 

"Nah," the first one said. "He works with Gears." 

The other one laughed quietly. "So? Gears seems like uh good guy." 
"Good as any of 'em, ennyway." 

"Well, hell, then. I'ma go ask him what his problem is..." 


A sound of a slight scuffle somewhere behind Lament brought his 
attention back to the room. He looked at their reflection in the glass, 
the taller one holding the other's arm solidly in his grip. 


"Don't," the first one said quickly, his voice dropping. "Lesson 


number one about workin' around these guys: there's some things 
you don't want on your conscience." 


« Part 5 | HUB | Part 6 » 


In His Own Image: Part 6 


November 27, 1998: 


Lament sat on the floor of the medical ward, leaning against the 
wall. He was rubbing both of his arms for a moment, until he realized 
what he was doing and stopped. It was an awkward moment, 
looking around, seeing all the legitimately injured people and then 
realizing that he didn’t have any real right to be here. And with all the 
doctors running around attending to burns, wounds, and various 
exposures... 


He pushed himself up, walking as smoothly as he could from the 
room and into the hall, maneuvering around more injured people 
and bed, finally making his way out into open hallway. He wasn’t 
sure where he was at, but a lot of Site-19 looked the same. He just 
picked a direction and started walking in it. 


Once, he was almost certain that he’d heard 106 laughing, but as he 
turned to look at the empty wall the sound had issued from, it was 
clean and unmarred. 


All evidence from the recovery group that had found Sandlemyer 
suggested that 106 had somehow gotten itself caught in 015, 
tangled in the pipes somehow, screaming bloody murder. It would 
hold the damned thing. Seal it. Maybe eat it like it ate other people. 
And he'd write up a file. Give it to Gears. Walk away from this. Walk 
away from this hell that he'd found himself in. And for some reason, 
knowing that—finally—he had found a way to contain the damned 
thing was more of a comfort than anything else at the moment. 


He looked at the wall again when he thought he heard the laugh a 
second time. He stepped closer and ran his fingers of it, then 
stepped back again. 


In his head. It was all in his head. 


November 29, 1998: 
“What do you mean it was ‘playing’?” 


Gears expressionless face betrayed neither pity nor concern. “It was 
playing with us, Agent. Cat and mouse." 


Lament swallowed. “So... 015...?” 


“The Overseers would never have allowed such a program to exist 
long term, Agent Lament, even if it had worked,” Gears continued 
flatly. “As it is, the men putting the next level of containment in place 
were attacked and utilized by 106 with—” 


“Utilized?” Lament laughed. Laughing was all he could do, at the 
moment. He was inches from hysteria. That voice the night before. 
That mocking laugh as he walked down the hall... Had that been 
him? Had he been ‘playing’ again? ‘Utilized.’ It consumed. It 
devoured. 


And it apparently played. 


Gears waited patiently for him to stop. "The men putting the next 
level of your containment plan in place were attacked and utilized by 
106. Three dead on the scene. Four more deceased over the next 
week from the initial attack. Another twe—" 


"Please stop," Lament said, closing his eyes tightly. He leaned 
against his desk, gripping the top of it tightly, not letting go. 


He was close to breaking when he felt Gears’ hand on his shoulder. 
“Dr. Glass informed me that you’ve not been in for your quarterly 
psychological evaluation.” 


Lament looked up. Gears was right. Lament hadn’t been in for it yet. 
It had been scheduled for the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, and 
he’d had other things on his mind that day. This was Foundation 
compassion, then? 


“No, sir, | haven't,” he answered. 


“’ve scheduled your appointment for this morning,” Gears said 


emotionlessly. 


Lament’s fingers drummed for an instant on his desk, and while he 
didn’t necessarily want to go, he couldn’t think of any other excuse 
to get away from Gears for the morning. And getting away from 
Gears was exactly what he needed at the moment. 


“It’s a natural urge,” Glass said. “Everyone is afraid at times. This is 
the way the Foundation helps its people deal with fear.” 


“I’m not taking them,” Lament said, staring down the doctor. He'd 
met with Glass many times in the past. Quarterly psych evaluations, 
voluntary sessions. 


"Lament, you can’t just... ignore this," Glass continued. "These 
policies and practices were developed by people with far more 
experience than either of us. Sometimes, you just... need to forget." 


“| don’t want to forget.” How many times has the doctor heard that 
same response? 


“Why would you not want to forget watching your friend being 
devoured by a supernatural... thing?” asked Glass. "You saw him 
when they got him out. You know he was still alive for a few hours 
after that, Lament. Why would you want to remember him like that?" 


“Because he was my friend.” How many people had he gotten to do 
this before me? 


“You don’t have to forget him. Dozens of people ‘transfer’ out at the 
last moment, Lament. Take a Class-B. Forget the last couple of 
days. If you hold onto this too long, then when you finally get rid of it, 
you'll have to get rid of him entirely.” 


Days? Lament frowned. For a moment, he turned his mind 
backwards, trying to remember something... Blindly reaching into 
gray. “Doctor... Can | ask you something? Something about those 
pills?” 


Glass nodded. “Of course.” 


“Which one did | take when | joined?” he asked. “When you all 
erased my family.” 


Glass’s hand tensed on the arm of the chair for a moment, and then 
relaxed. Lament actually found himself admiring the man when his 
voice came out even. He'd either not known or had forgotten. 


“You were conscripted?” Glass asked. 

He hadn't known? 

“Yeah," Lament said. 

A moment. “That would have been a Class-A,” said Glass. 


“And is there a cure for these things?” Lament asked. He kept his 
voice conversational, but there was hope there. Hope for parents he 
couldn't remember and a dozen friends or colleagues he wasn't sure 
he'd ever had. 


“Occasionally,” Glass said. “Sometimes, they don’t take. Something 
inside your brain refuses to accept it. Those are rare cases, though.” 


And... that. Only stress and a touch of bitterness was present in 
Lament's voice now. “But nothing after the memory is gone?” 


“No.” 


Lament drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair for a 
moment. “Then I’m not taking them.” 


“It's your choice, Agent. But | wish you’d reconsider.” 
“Stick ‘em up your ass,” Lament said. “See you in three months, 


Doc.” 


« Interlude 5 | HUB | Interlude 6 » 


In His Own Image: Interlude 6 


August 18, 2007: 

"I'm sorry... | really... really am..." Lament said, swallowing to keep 
his voice from cracking. "You're... You're like a father to me... You 
don't understand that I... that | just... | can't do this anymore... I've 
asked to be transferred to active duty. Site14." 

Gears looked at him, his face blank and expressionless. 

"|... Anyhow..." Lament placed a small, square package on the desk 
in front of the balding man. "Happy Birthday." 


« Part 6 | HUB | Part 7 » 


In His Own Image: Part 7 


December 22, 1998: 


Lament leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and reaching for 
his sandwich, taking a bite. Lunch had become a private affair, 
especially after he learned that everyone else had chosen to take 
the pills. He'd included a picture of Sandlemyer's corpse—a body 
that in no way reflected the man who had once been—in the file for 
106, setting the heavy document on the corner of his desk. 


He turned his attention to 884 for a moment, glimpsing over it again 
and sighing, thinking back to what Sandy had said. 'Get someone 
inside the Insurgency...’ Why the hell not? Anything was worth a try 
at this point. 


He sighed and reached for his phone, dialing the number and 
rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 


"Hello? Agent Strelnikov?" he asked. "I'm not sure if you remember 
me. Lament. We met on my first day." A pause. "Yeah, Gears' kid. | 
was looking for someone for a possible assignment. Deep cover." 
Annoyed Russian from the other end of the phone. "I know, but 
you're the only person | know over there, so | figured you'd know 
who to bother about it..." 


August 10, 2007: 


A smirk was worming its way over Lament's lips as he closed the 
file, leaning back in his chair, laughing quietly to himself. There was 
no one else to laugh to, after all. He looked over at Gears, hoping 
that the other would ask him what he was so pleased about, waiting 
and hoping, waiting and hoping, then leaning forward, staring at him 
until the doctor raised his head and looked at him. 


"Yes, Agent?" 


SCP-663: Living Water Filter 


Item #: SCP-663 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-663 is to be kept in the 
second floor break room at Site 19. It is to remain in view of the 
security cameras, in a marked location near the sink. SCP-663 is not 
to be touched while processing. Only tap water is to be processed, 
with the reservoir filled every six hours. In the event that filling the 
reservoir ceases to effectively subdue SCP-663, it is to be placed in 
a soundproofed isolation chamber for seven (7) days. The 
desiccated human heart is then to be removed from the filtration 
chamber by one Level 2 researcher, and contained for study. The 
filter core is to be placed back in SCP-663, and then returned to the 
second floor break room. If SCP-663 is filled more than twice within 
six hours, it is to immediately be transported to a thermally shielded 
containment room by Level 1 personnel, and remain under thermal 
camera observation until it returns to room temperature.