Sandy laughed, but the man sitting next to him, a researcher named 
Chubert, laid down his fork and looked at Lament seriously. "You 
know, Lament... You should probably transfer out of there, soon..." 
he suggested. 


Lament peered up at him. "Why?" 


It was another man down the table who agreed. "Yeah. | mean, you 
don't wanna be Iceberg part two," he said seriously. "And a gag 
order was how that one started too." 


"What?" Lament asked. Iceberg... Djoric had said something about 
an Iceberg... 


"Doctor Iceberg," Chubert's eyes were still locked on Lament. 
"Gears' old assistant. Was with him for... God... almost a decade? 
Eight years, at least," he said solidly. "Explosives expert when he 
came in. Gears recruited him to work on a couple of projects, and 
then he liked him or something, and he kept him around." 


Lament raised an eyebrow. "So?" he asked. 


"He worked with him day after day for years," Chubert said. "Years. 
Do you have any idea what working with someone like him for that 
long will do to you?" Chubert paused for a moment. "How long have 
you been with him now, Lament?" he asked. 


"Just over a year," he said. 
"Good. Next review, tell them you want a transfer." 
"They'll want to know why." 


"Then tell them you don't want to blow your brains out like the last 
guy did." 


To: O5- 
August 1, 1997 


After failure to report for his duties, | inspected the 
quarters of Dr. Iceberg. It was there that | found him 
deceased at his desk. Cause is believed to be a single 
gun shot wound to the roof of the mouth. The note 
present was confiscated and sealed, in accordance with 
containment procedures on SCP-__. His body was 
cremated the following morning, and his non-personal 
belongings were redistributed in accordance with 
Foundation procedures. 


-Gears 


Lament laid the file back down on top of his desk. Ten years Iceberg 
had worked with Gears, and now... 


He looked at the file. It was two pages. One that listed his 
qualifications, and the second one, a yellow, carbon paper copy of 
Gears' memo. This was it. This was ten years with Gears. 


He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes again, thinking. 
Thinking. Why hadn't he looked into this before? He wasn't qualified. 
He was barely qualified for the agent level work he'd been given. 


He opened his drawer and stuffed the folder into it, not wanting to 
think about it. Not wanting to think about anything. What secrets had 
Iceberg expunged with that bullet? Lament took a shallow breath, 
then pulled out the paperwork he'd taken from Human Resources 
that afternoon, looking down at it. 


He started filling out his transfer slip quickly, then folded it and 
stuffed it in an interoffice envelope. He dropped it in his outbox, and 
walked back to his quarters, his hands shaking. 


« Interlude 2 | HUB | Interlude 3 » 


Mr. Deeds: Certainly it is possible, Dr. Mirth. Might | 
suggest having me cut my own throat so that | am 
exsanguinated? The buck knife from when | killed Mr. 
[REDACTED] is conveniently at hand, and although 
other methods are of course available, they would either 
take longer, or damage my organs such that they are no 
longer accurately representative of my pre-mortem state. 


Dr. Mirth: |, er, | suppose that will be acceptable — (at 
this point, Mr. Deeds took the buck knife and placed the 
edge of the blade against his throat) — wait! 


Mr. Deeds: ...yes, Dr. Mirth? 


Dr. Mirth: Before you do it... you will come back 
afterward, correct? 


Mr. Deeds: I'm sorry, Dr. Mirth, | don't quite understand. 


Dr. Mirth: After the pawn shop incident, when you were 
killed. You came back to life afterward when Sergeant 
rang the bell. 


Mr. Deeds: If you say so, Dr. Mirth. 
Dr. Mirth: Will you come back to life again? 


Mr. Deeds: | have no idea, Dr. Mirth. If | did before, then 
presumably | will again. Unless something has changed. 
Have you any further questions before | make the 
incision? | do recommend you step back, as | would hate 
for my blood to soil your clothing. Death throes can be 
untidy. 


Dr. Mirth: ...no, | suppose not. Carry on. 


Mr. Deeds: Very well, Dr. Mirth. And in the event that | 
don't come back to life, it has been a genuine pleasure to 
serve you. 


Mr. Deeds then sliced through his own throat, and bled 
to death. A post-mortem examination of the body 


In His Own Image: Interlude 3 


July 5, 2004: 


It was an unholy din that surrounded the pair, people shouting and 
clamoring. There was a fifteen minute window when Site19 could 
have the yearly photo made, and currently, Dr. Glass was having a 
hard time getting people to listen, much less position themselves. 


"C'mon, guys! Please! This shouldn't take long if you'll all just get 
into your places." 


Lament found himself smiling. Waving at some friends as he worked 
toward the left of the room, moving to stand behind Gears' shoulder. 


When he looked around, he saw Agatha, giving him a significant 
look. He looked back at her, tilting his head and shrugging, giving 
her one of those—'hell do you WANT me to do'—looks. She gave it 
to him again, and he sighed, tapping Gears' shoulder. 


"Sir?" he asked. 

"Yes, Agent," Gears replied without turning around. 
"Smile, sir." 

"And what purpose would that serve, Agent?" 

He took a breath. 


"Smiling would serve to put the others at ease, sir. As this is a social 
function for the entire site, your smiling could aid the others in the 
establishment of a more efficient and normalized workplace, 
something that | believe your own reports have called essential 
when dealing with the unnatural world in which we work." 


It was obviously prepared. Rehearsed. Practiced. 


Gears turned and looked at him. After a moment, the corners of his 
lips inclined in a corpse-like rictus that never touched his eyes. 


"Is this sufficient?" 

Lament found himself grinning now. Genuinely. 
"Yes, sir." 

"Everyone!" shouted Glass. "Say... Butterflies!" 


"Butterfliiieeessss," said the chorus. 


« Part 3 | HUB | Part 4 » 


In His Own Image: Part 4 


November 8, 1998: 
"Denied, Agent." 


Lament looked up at the panel of three doctors, swallowing and 
licking his lips slightly. "Ma'am?" 


"Denied," she repeated. He only knew two of the three doctors 
seated at the table: Sorts and Vang. The woman in the middle was 
the one talking to him now, professional and stolid. 


"Can | ask why?" 


"No," she said simply, closing the file, looking to the side slightly, 
away from his face. She seemed almost motherly for a moment, like 
she was about to tell her child that the puppy he'd loved was in 
Heaven now, and no, it's alright, don't cry. 


This wasn't fair. He'd followed all the correct channels. All the 
correct forms were filled out, everything should be cut and dry. 


"Can | ask who, then?" he asked. 


She didn't speak for a moment, and it was Sorts who leaned 
forward, piping up. "You're aware that supervisors have to approve a 
transfer?" he asked. 


Lament ignored the question. "I'm not qualified to be a research 
assistant," he countered. "It was..." He chose his words carefully. 
"... an unfortunate set of circumstances that landed me there to 
begin with. All of you know that. | don't have the degree. | don't have 
the credentials." 


"Jesus, son," muttered Sorts. "Will you pay attention?" 


Lament's voice finally cracked as the anger found its way into it, the 


placidity giving way to a harsh firmness. "Why the hell am | still 
here?" 


"In this... particular case, an exception was made," the woman said. 
"The problem of your credentials has been overlooked, as well as 
your training. South Cheyenne is there, if you want to finish your 
doctorate, and there are several groups that can aid you in meeting 
the qualifications." 


Frustration. Bitterness. "By who?" 


She sighed and looked at Lament, pushing a bang back over her 
ear. The motherly look was back. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. A 
small gavel smacked a small sounding block. 


"This panel is dismissed." 


He hadn't cooled down when he reached his office, and it took him a 
while to finally step inside of it. When he did, the anger flared back, 
and Lament found himself simply staring at Gears for a long moment 
before he finally sooke, Keeping the edge out of his voice just barely. 
"Why?" 


A placid and calm expression stared back as the doctor answered. 
"Your skills are more than sufficient for the work we've been doing, 
Agent." 


"That's not what | mean, damnit!" he said, turning away even as he 
did, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see his face, content 
to imagine the disappointment and contrition that he knew would not 
be there. "You know what | mean." 


Gears was silent for a moment. "You were a stop gap," he said 
flatly. "After Doctor Iceberg's incident—" 


"Suicide." 


"—incident, | needed someone who could pick up where he left off, 
which was the containment of SCP-106. That has been and will 
continue to be my primary concern. Containment is your 
specialization. Once we have arrived at a solution, if you still wish to 


transfer, then | will not deny it." 


Lament sat there, taking slow, deep breaths. He didn't know what he 
should have expected. What he was expecting. Logic and 
straightforwardness were not always the things he received in these 
situations. 


"All right," Lament said, the tightness in his chest still not abating. 


"Do you work well with Assistant Researcher Sandlemyer?" Gears 
asked. 


That... That was an unexpected question. "He's my best friend, sir," 
Lament admitted. No sense in lying. 


"Do you work well with him?" Gears asked again. 


"Yes," Lament said with a sigh, wondering where this was going. 
"Before your gag order, | discussed several of my projects with him." 


"Very well," replied Gears. "I will inform Dr. Djoric that he will be 
assisting us with 106 for the next two weeks. Please update him fully 
at your earliest convenience." 


"|... Yes, sir," Lament mumbled, surprise sapping articulation. 
"You're dismissed, Agent. Enjoy your day off." 
"| dunno..." Lament said, talking quietly over a cup of coffee in 


Sandlemyer's office. "I think he's trying to make me happy or 
something..." he suggested. 


"| didn't think he was the kind of person to care," Sandy replied, 
laughing softly. 


Lament looked up at the other man. "He's not like that," he said. 
"He's not... mechanical or robotic or... He's just..." He paused for a 
long moment. "Cold," he finished. 


Sandy shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I've got no specialization 
in containment, man. And I'm not sure why he's dragging me on 


board or what he expects me to do." 
Lament shrugged. "Me neither..." 


He looked around the room at all the various shelves filled 
haphazardly with files, books, and papers. The low watt, 
incandescent bulbs. This office felt homey. Comfortable. Lived in. It 
felt... good. 


"I'll see you in the morning, Sandy," Lament said, setting down the 
cup on the table. 


"Seeya, Lament. Hey! This'll be fun, right? Like when you were over 
here with us for a few weeks.” 


"Yeah," Lament said. "Sure." He just wished he could believe it. 


« Interlude 3 | HUB | Interlude 4 » 


In His Own Image: Interlude 4 


February 19, 2009: 
"He. He. He. He. Hee." 


Lament sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, the laugh still echoing in 
his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, forcing the sound 
out of his head, then swinging his legs over the side and walking 
toward the shower. 


He stepped into it, letting the cold water course over his back, 
feeling it slowly begin to warm as the echoing nightmare finally, 
slowly stopped... 


He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. For a moment, he was 
almost certain that the porcelain of the shower wall was giving way, 
handprints emerging from it like a child's hand playing with their 
blankets. Mocking hands that would reach for his throat and 
squeeze the life out of him, but he wouldn't die. No. He'd live while 
the owners of those hands played. Played and laughed. "He. He. 
He. He. Hee." 


As he briefly considered reaching for his sidearm on the sink, the 
effect faded. For a moment, he still considered reaching for it, for 
another purpose, and when he realized it, he slumped down the wall 
of the tub, sitting under the water until it had long run cold, staring 
weakly at the drain. 


Wishing he didn't remember, but glad that he did. 


« Part 4 | HUB | Part 5 » 


In His Own Image: Part 5 


November 26, 1998: 


Lament frowned at the glass, looking at the hovering box beyond it 
with some odd mixture of reverence and fear. It was... disturbing... 
to see it for the first time. He wasn’t part of the crew of soldiers who 
risked their lives for it on a daily basis. He wasn’t even one of the 
primary researchers assigned to the project. He was just the guy 
trying to keep them safe. Trying and failing, currently. 


“The magnetic fields are working, but the corrosion is still spreading. 
It's like mold... We thought we had him locked up until he ate 
Grange last night,” the researcher said. The speakers made an odd 
whining sound, and Lament winced, losing his thought. Thankfully. 


"How'd he manage that?" It was Sandlemyer who spoke. "! thought 
we had all the same safety protocols still in place on this thing.” 


The researcher shrugged a little. "We lose one or two people every 
coupla weeks with this thing. Regardless..." 


Lament frowned, a pit forming quickly in his stomach. Failure didn't 
feel good, no matter how expected or anticipated it was. Especially 
when dealing with the deaths of fellow agents. He knew 106 was 
going to be a problem, but he didn't realize how much of one. 


The speakers made another loud, mind crippling screech, sounding 
like painfully loud feedback. "Damn," Lament muttered, covering his 
ears. 


"Eh. They go on the fritz all the time," the researcher continued. "We 
try to replace them, but it doesn't seem to do any goo— " 


The alarms suddenly blaring made Lament glad that he'd covered 
his ears a moment before. He turned, looking at one of the screens. 
"The repulsors are going down!" he shouted. "Evacuate!" 


But the researcher was already yelling into the microphone. The 
order went out, just as Sandlemyer reached over and flipped off the 
alarms in the booth, all three men turning to look out the window as 
the huge, rotting metal box fell the bottom of the containment 
chamber, cracking open. 


The speakers whined again, loudly for a moment, then cut out. And 
a low, dark, broken laugh slowly filled the silence. 


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


When he was finally able to look back on the day without some sort 
of breakdown, Lament was certain the reports were wrong. That the 
hours and hours he felt couldn't have been minutes. That the door to 
that containment unit should not have been open. That the entire 
thing couldn't have been orchestrated just to fuck with him. But the 
mouse never really understands the true motivations of the cat. 


Sometimes it's hungry. Sometimes, it just wants to play. 


Lament pivoted quickly, running as fast as he could, Sandlemyer 
quickly on his heels. He was breathing hard, painfully hard, his chest 
close to bursting as he looked desperately for any point of escape. 
The alarms were blaring, guns firing at walls, at nothing, at 
everything. 


An explosion behind him had the floor shaking hard enough that he 
fell. In a moment, Sandlemyer's arm closed around his arm, 
dragging Lament back to his feet and sending both of them down a 
narrow straightaway. 


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


It was coming over the speakers everywhere now, echoing against 
his teeth and shaking his jaw. "Jesus Christ," Sandy muttered, 
panting and out of breath as he looked over his shoulder. "Fuck. It's 
coming this way Lament. It's coming this way!" 


He didn't bother looking back. Training was kicking in, and he was