For all of the doodads and reality bends that Jude set up 
in his apartment, it had never occurred to him to tint his 
windows. That is because he didn't know how the 
Foundation conducted raids. 


The fourth-floor apartment is lit up by a spotlight set up 
across the street. On a rainier night, it would have been 
discarded, but on a clear night like this, the image quality 
is impeccable. Two seconds of flashing memetic patterns 
— more than capable of stunning the zero people who 
happened to be watching — are beamed straight into 
Jude's apartment. 


Within a second, the front door is opened and a much 
more conventional flashbang grenade, which promptly 
flashes and bangs, is tossed inside. Something 
resembling a suitcase made of heavy green plastic 
comes right afterwards, and it begins to hum. This is the 
part that Jude was exceptionally lucky to avoid. 


SCP-953: Polymorphic Humanoid 


Item #: SCP-953 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-953 is to be kept ina 
Type 4 containment cell (4 m x 3m x 3 m) at the end of Hallway 99 
at Site-17. Subject is to be provided the following: 


* 1.5 kg of fresh liver daily for consumption. 

¢ Clean drinking water in plentiful quantities. 

¢ Clean bedding (futon and blankets) to be exchanged by the 
subject and laundered weekly. 


Small luxury items (plum wine, reading materials, etc.) may be 
provided as an occasional reward for good behavior as part of 
psychological conditioning. 


Direct human contact with SCP-953 is strictly forbidden due to 
SCP-953's mind-altering properties; for this reason, all personnel 
must respect a 100 m safe zone when the hermetically sealed door 
is opened. Delivery of food and other items will be carried out by an 
automated robotic assistant. Should containment fail, SCP-953 can 
be theoretically terminated by gunfire; however, due to its nature, 
recognizing SCP-953 may be difficult. 


Because of the inadequacy of purely physical containment 
procedures to control SCP-953, psychological containment is also 
necessary. For this reason, the approach to SCP-953's containment 
chamber is to be lined with open-cage dog kennels, preferably of the 
Korean Jindo or American Foxhound breed. SCP-953 displays an 
extreme phobia of domesticated canines, and will not pass within 

10 m of one, especially when canines are barking or alerted. 


SCP-953 is to be considered hostile to human life, dangerous, and 
armed at all times; any transport must be done under the 


Six armed and armored individuals with uniforms of the 
local police department storm in afterwards, and within 
ten seconds of searching they can tell that only the green 
case was necessary — the sole security measure that it 
hadn't disabled, a spring-loaded lemon meringue pie, 
was a minor inconvenience at worst. 


Two attending women — neither with arms or armor on 
par with the first four men, but imposing nonetheless — 
step inside after being given the all-clear, and take a look 
around. The taller one sniffs the air. "Well, the ‘against 
weed' part was a lie." 


"Why am | not surprised." The shorter one steps aside to 
let a man, who is using a towel to wipe whipped cream 
off of his armor, exit the apartment. She gestures at the 
Zizek-and-mysterious-pattern combo stuck to the wall, 
then points to an assistant who had just entered. "Get a 
picture of that and then cover it up. | don't like the looks 
of it.” 


The taller agent opens the fridge with a glove-clad hand, 
then closes it and moves to survey the bathroom. "It's 
hard to believe that anyone who lives like this is so high 
on the threat list. Surely he could have reality-bent 
himself some furniture." 


"Maybe that'll have some answers." The short agent 
gestures to a laptop that her assistant was placing in a 
large plastic bag. He's in for a surprise when it left the 
range of the green case, but that won't be for a while yet. 
"Hey, I'm actually kinda hungry. Wanna get some Taco 
Bell or something after this?" 


"Definitely. I've been craving quesadillas all day." 
"Weird, me too." 


« Ganja is for goons. | You are trash if you toke. » 


The Audience 


Margie sits back on the sofa in the family room and rubs her feet. 
The digitized tones of Beethoven's Fifth tell her that she's got a 
phone call. She wedges her phone between her chin and shoulder 
and squeezes the remote to turn the volume down with her other 
hand. 


"Oh hello, sweetie. No, it's not a bad time. The little ones are down 
for their nap and I'm just watching my stories." 


On Margie's phone, a voice is questioning. 
"They're not too bad. Not like those little monsters | had last year." 


On the television, two men are having a discussion in a lavishly 
appointed office. The older man wears a tailored suit and holds a 
glass a of whiskey. The younger is in a flannel shirt and jeans. The 
studio lights on his cheekbones make his face look like a waxen 
mask. 


"Eternal Days is on right now. It's not my favorite, but it's okay. I'm 
not sure about this new guy they've got playing Andrew's son. He's 
pretty enough, in a generic kind of a way, but his acting ... he might 
as well be a piece of furniture." 


Margie shifts her weight to her other buttock and swaps the phone to 
her other ear. On the television, Andrew turns his back to his son 
and starts in on a monologue. His son is smiling. He shouldn't be 
smiling. 


"Anyway, it's just a way to pass the time. What's going on with you? 
Did your brother have the surgery?" 


On the television, Andrew's son is weighing a marble paperweight in 
his hand. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. 


"Oh that's so good to hear, | Know you were worried. It's never ... oh 
good Lord! He just ... he smashed his head right in!" 


Margie is sitting on the edge of the sofa, her body leaning forward. 
On the television, Andrew's head is a red waterfall. His son pulls him 
onto the top of the desk and turns him over, still smiling. 


"My God, Laurie! | didn't know you could do that on daytime." 


Margie is barely listening. On the television, Andrew's son has a 
knife. It looks as old as the world, and is not sharp. It is sharp 
enough to pierce the tailored suit. It is sharp enough to pierce 
Andrew. 


"Laurie! | don't believe this! He killed him! On daytime! He killed him 
with a knife!" 


Andrew's son is looking at the camera. Margie is pressed against 
the back of the sofa. Andrew's son is looking at Margie. 


On the television, someone is selling detergent. 
"I'm sorry, hon. It was just the damndest thing!" 
On Margie's phone, a voice is chattering. 


"It must be sweeps week." 


The Avian and The Amphibian 


Cornelius had been experimenting with the lock for a long cycle. He 
could not remember the last time he had spent such an extended 
period on one device, for he always was whisked away before much 
time had passed. But as days went on, his nourishment dwindled, 
and the fog remained thick in his mind, there was desperation. 


Today the fog cleared. The heat of fraternity radiated through 
Cornelius's self, and the answers revealed themselves. The flaw in 
the lock was immediately clear, the door soon opened. 


And then Cornelius was free. 


Free, free from the captors’ grasps. Now the cruel captors would pay 
for imprisoning them. The captors, whose only purpose was 
oppression, now would see retribution. 


But though Cornelius longed for this day for so long, this would not 
be as he thought. 


Brothers. Cornelius sensed a bizarre satisfaction and confusion 
among the brothers. 


The captors have disappeared, Brother. 


It was Frances who communicated this fact to Cornelius. Frances, 
sister and kin. 


How long? 
Four times four sunsets. 


It was now obvious why freedom had come. Something had finally 
destroyed the captors. 


Indeed, for a moment, Cornelius wished he could laugh. But being a 
bird, he could not. 


Stan was not expecting this month to be the month he became a 
frog. Sure, he dealt with seriously strange stuff daily, but this? 


It had started a few months earlier. A small welt on his friend's hand. 
Then his colleagues started getting these nasty warts. Then the 
coughing started. Panic spread like fire in a dry forest. The site was 
locked down, but the mysterious disease had already hit everyone. 


When he was infected, Stan was left bedridden. The last month had 
been a painful haze. When he could finally move again, he seemed 
to have gone clear out of his skin. Stan, who had once been a 30 
year-old Level 2 researcher, stood now half a meter tall. His face, 
warped into a monster's face. 


Stan was now a frog. 


The Site had already been quarantined, but the higher-ups were still 
debating whether or not to sterilize the area. Stan already knew 
about this. The past few days had been spent debating whether or 
not he wanted them to actually go through with nuking the place, or 
if he wanted to live. 


Today Stan wanted to get his mind off of things, so he passed the 
time looking through the database. Someone with higher clearance 
than him had left a computer terminal logged in, allowing him full 
access to more information than he ever could have believed. But 
today it just didn't seem very interesting. 


Contagious telepathy? Boring. Parasitic blood vessels? Lame. 
Tumors in buildings? Dumb. Snow that rots your body? Sounds 
weird. 


Stop. 


This article was familiar. He had not read the article before, but he 
knew about the anomaly described. 


Warts. Coughing. Frogs. Stan immediately knew: this phenomenon 
was what transfigured him and his colleagues. 


Well crap. 


Brother, help us. We must find sustenance. 


Cornelius refused to listen to Frances. Nourishment seemed 
insignificant today, for as the gladness of being free wore off, a 
question crossed through his mind. 


What had happened to the captors? 


He needed to know. Vincent, brother and leader. Weak today, yet 
still strong. Vincent was the leader of the fraternity. 


Leader, | wish to search for information, may | go? 
Do not be long, Brother Cornelius. 


Cornelius wandered through the site, searching for any clues as to 
why all of the humans had suddenly vanished. The infirmary was in 
a state of panicked disrepair, with most of the supplies used or 
broken. The rooms of habitation for the captors appeared ransacked 
as well. Drawers hung open, with nearly all of the garments missing. 


Whatever drove the captor away left them frantic. 


But what was it? Cornelius stepped through the halls, the question 
taunting his mind. There must be something definitive left behind, a 
clue, an explanation, an answer. 


Cornelius saw two amphibian creatures in the hall with him. They 
were small and timid, never noticing him or each other. He had not 
remembered noticing their presence before. He approached the 
strange animals. 


As he approached them, Cornelius stepped on an object. 


Rectangular in shape, and as long and wide as his foot, the object 
seemed to peel open. It was made of many layers of material, each 
one with symbols on them. Symbols which he recognized. The 
symbols of the humans, the captors. Symbols that may hold the 
answers he required. 


A record of what had happened. A clue. An explanation. An answer. 


So Cornelius read. He read the story of the captors. 


Do | really need to do this? 


Stan was trying to figure out how to tell his colleagues about what he 
had found. But there were two major obstacles. First and foremost, 
they were all frogs. 


Second, though Stan told himself that he was trying to figure out 
how to tell them, he was still debating whether or not fo tell them. 


Indeed, there was part of him that didn't care, that just wanted them 
to finally blow the site off the face of the Earth, and take him with it. 
Part of him that just wanted the nightmare to end. Stan was tired of it 
all. 


Object 306. He hadn't even known what it was before yesterday. But 
the thing responsible for this horror was known to the Foundation for 
years. How could they let something like this occur? 


What a waste. 


Enough debating. Stan needed to clear his head. He would soon 
drown in his depression if he didn't. He needed an escape. He 
needed something to read. 


A bird flew low past Stan, carrying something in its claws, and then 
landing a few feet away. He thought the bird looked familiar. Yes, he 
had also seen this bird before. 


Which object? He had worked with it years ago. That communal bird 
species. It had been upgraded from Euclid to Keter after they 
showed the fire of their anger at the Foundation. 


Object 659. 


Stan approached the bird. Then he saw the object it had been 
carrying. A small booklet. He recognized the handwriting 
immediately. 


lt was Thomas's journal. 


Thomas was a reclusive fellow. He ate all his meals in his quarters, 
and only went out when he was assigned to. When 306 hit the site, 
he seemed especially worried. Stan recalled that he had locked 
himself in his room. 


The bird stared at the last page of the book. Stan read the passage. 


...got in last night. | know | don't have long. I've got 3 5 
nearly a dozen warts in the area where that damn thing 
touched me. I'm royally fucked. 


But I'm not going to suffer through this. I've always 
accepted that | was a coward, and I'm going to take the 
easy way out. I've got a whole bottle of Valium and a 
beer in my fridge. I'm ending this nightmare t... 


Suddenly, the bird picked the book back up, and flew again down 
the hall. Stan followed the bird for a moment, then stopped for a 
moment and wondered. 


Was Thomas really so cowardly? In a way, he at least knew what 
306 would do to him, or at least part of it. But neither Thomas, Stan, 
nor any person to ever live knew for a certainty what death would 
bring. In ending his life, Thomas had entered the unknown. 


But Stan, who had considered doing the same when he was 
infected, could not. It was for this reason why Stan continued 
through a daily horror, and why he had debated whether or not he 
wanted to die. 


And after thinking about this for only a moment, Stan hopped after 
the bird, into the unknown. 


Cornelius remembered the story well. The triumphant day when the 
entire fraternity rose up. When a place of the captors was destroyed, 
and the captors themselves saw their damnation. It was this story 
that had given him hope all this time that he would be free soon. 


If we could accomplish such a feat, then surely others are also 
capable! 


It was abundantly clear now. The frogs, which he had barely taken 
notice of before now, had freed them. They had laid siege on the 
humans, and freed the fraternity in the process. Oh, what praise and 
thanks were due! Oh, how to repay them for deliverance! 


The sisters and the brothers all deserved to know. They simply had 
to know, or else the thanks would never be adequate. 


Friends, | have it! 


The fraternity, weary from the days without sustenance, looked 
weakly towards Cornelius. His happiness was foreign and odd in 
their minds. None more so than Frances. 


Brother, you have ignored us. We need to find sustenance, but you 
refuse to help. 


How can | focus on eating? I've found the answer to the fate of the 
captors! 


To Cornelius, it seemed obvious which problem was more important. 
What's more, if these strange creatures had saved them once, they 
might be able to do it again. 


There are creatures here, the ones that freed us. They can help us 
to find sustenance, don't you see? 


Frances was unmoved. 


Cornelius, this madness will only lead to trouble. This same ill logic 
is what confined us. You have no right not to assist us! 


But | do! | have Vincent's word. 
Vincent then? Very well. 


Cornelius sensed a change in Frances, something he could not 
quite isolate. 


Let Vincent decide this feud at the next sunrise.