"D-7294, you were instructed not to damage the item. Testing is 
over." The guards opened the door and started to forcefully drag him 
out. He didn't resist, continuing to stare at the mannequin until the 
doors closed. He sighed, feeling slight disappointment mixed with a 
rush of thrill. 


Fifty meters away from the area, heading towards an interview 
room, he could hear screaming and the sound of something 
breaking. He grinned and felt warmth in his head. 


SUSPECT’S NAME RELEASED IN 
TALLAHASSEE DOUBLE MURDER 


by Jesse Sorin, 05/01/2013, 10:36 P.M. 


Tallahassee police have announced that Zeke Don was 
the suspect arrested at 7 PM last Saturday for the killing 
of Mary Mitchell, 34, and Stella Mitchell, 13. 


Police were called to investigate a disturbance at a 
Tallahassee residence, where they found Don, 37, 
covered in blood as he dug holes outside. Responding 
officers found Mary and Stella Mitchell’s bodies in the 
living room. 


Officials found parts of five to eight more partly- 
decomposed bodies in the basement, kitchen, and 
bedroom of Don’s home. The additional victims have not 
yet been identified. 


While preliminary investigation had suggested that the 
Mitchells were killed by gunshot wounds, an autopsy 
found that both died of blunt trauma several hours after 
being shot, as well as having been mutilated for an 
extended time after death. 


Don is being held without bail, accused of at least seven 
first-degree murders. Prosecutors say he will not be 
charged until the number of victims can be determined. 


Officials added that investigation is continuing and more 
details will be released in the coming weeks. 


Related Articles: 


¢ Locals remember the Mitchells: "Their charity will 
never be forgotten." 
¢ Protests surrounding the death penalty[...] 


7294 laid in his bed that night, absentmindedly thinking of the 
encounter earlier with the mannequin. It was the first real sense of 
enjoyment he had gotten in months, although from how the 
researchers had talked to him, he had a distinct feeling he wouldn't 


be returning to see it again. It was fun playing with it while he could 
at least. The memory of his fun was burned into his mind to enjoy for 
nights forwards. 


He rolled, looking up at the ceiling, sighing. He stuck out his thumb 
and index fingers to resemble a tweezer and started plucking at 
nothing, humming about Mary's little lamb, her fleece as white as 
snow. 


Lessons for Old Dogs 


« Counterpoint | Hub | Duets » 


"Mike, look out!" yelled Zhao. 


The brass city was collapsing around them. Mike slammed to a stop 
as an enormous bell crashed to the ground in front of him. 


"The players must be - huh - losing precision," he panted. "Why did 
they - hooh - use a brass band?" 


Zhao yanked him onto the pavement as the drumskin street tore 
open. "Trust me," she said, "you don't want to be here when it's 
catgut and piano wire." 


Lifting a streak of silver-grey hair back from her temples, Zhao 
spoke into her headpiece. "H, where are you? We need to get out." 


Four blocks away, Agent Hennessy looked past the text on his visor, 
at the massive beast a few feet from him. Its powerful metallic legs 
were curled into a crouch, valves pulsing rhythmically. It turned its 
head back and forth, and its cymbal-jaws opened, emitting a long 
horn note of challenge. If he ran, if he made any noise, it would 
sense him. 


His right hand pressed the the communicator at his belt, trying to 
move as little as possible. 333-C. Stuck. You go. 


A nearby flute-tower crumbled and fell, scattering nickel silver keys 
across the road. SCP-333-C sprang instinctively towards the noise, 
turning its back on Hennessy. 


He ran. 


Carter and Zhao were running too, desperately trying to avoid the 


of SCP-691 that may be available to the general public. 
+ Incident SCP-691-11 
Person(s) involved: Dr. 


Profile: Dr. was a reliable and conscientious 
Foundation employee. His work on SCP- and SCP- 
has been of great use to the Foundation. Testimony from 
Dr. 's wife revealed that Dr. was in substantial 
financial difficulty around the time of the incident, 
although it is uncertain whether or not this was a 
contributing factor to SCP-691-11. 


Report: 
05/ /20 , 1325: Dr. enters the cell of subject 
D-691-25, and begins SCP-691-INV-30 


05/ /20 , 1331: Dr. concludes his investigation and 
D-691-25 is removed from cell for termination. Dr. 
reviews Dictaphone and transcribes recording. 


05/ /20 , 1335: [DATA EXPUNGED] 


05/ /20 , 1403: Security footage shows Dr. exiting 
Site- . Gatehouse security reports that Dr. cited a 
"personal errand” as his reason for leaving. 


05/ /20 , 1415: SCP-691-0 is reported missing by Site- 
security. Security footage is reviewed and a retrieval 
team is scrambled to Dr. ‘s home in accordance with 
Foundation missing object policy. 


05/ /20 , 1435: Retrieval team finds no trace of Dr. 
despite a thorough search of his home and the 
surrounding area. 


05/ /20 , 1600: Dr. 's credit card statement shows 
that he bought a personal cassette player from a second- 
hand shop in ‘ , at around this time. 


06/ /20 , 0930: Dr. is reported as a missing person 


rain of bronze and steel debris. Ahead, Mike could see the 
performance hall - the exit. As they reached the doorway, he turned 
back to look for Hennessy. The streets were full of twisted metal, but 
empty of life. The doorframe shook as another building fell. 


Zhao was shouting into her headset. "H, please! Tell us where you 
are!" 


Hiding. Too far. 


"Where? We'll find you." Even as Zhao said it, they heard the 
bellowing horn again. 


No. Get out. Tell them stop playing. 


The shaking was getting worse. A door-sized reed slid from the 
hall's roof and thudded into the pavement in front of them like a 
guillotine. 


"If they stop playing, you'll die!" said Zhao, frantic. 
Not dead. Stasis. 


The howls of the -C were louder now. Mike saw it burst out of a 
building up the street. It ran towards them, claws tearing through the 
shining sidewalk. 


"Zhao, it's coming for the exit. We have to go!" 

Mike grabbed Zhao's arm. She looked at him with pleading eyes. 
The beast was almost on them. 

"H, | can't -" she said into the headset. "I -" 

Come back for me. 


They leapt through the doorway. 


The concert hall was silent, expectant. 


She looked out, dazzled by the stage lights. If there was an 


audience out there, it was shrouded in the blackness beyond. 
Blackness like the mouth of a deep pit, like an open throat ready 
10:.. 


Emma found her focus, bringing herself back. She was wearing a 
black shirt and trousers - appropriate for a performer, but also 
reminiscent of her new MTF uniform. 


She wanted to look to her left, but couldn't manage it. She needed to 
look professional in front of the darkened hall. Instead she stole a 
glance downwards. There was a music stand in front of her, but the 
score sitting on it seemed blurry. Still, she didn't need it. 


Behind her, Emma sensed the unseen orchestra as it stretched itself 
and then coiled, ready to spring, waiting for the baton's signal. Who 
was it holding that baton? Emma still could not turn to look. 


The moment stretched endlessly. The bright stage, the enveloping 
dark: all on a razor's edge. Emma felt a prickling at the nape of her 
neck. 


As the orchestra took off, Emma strained to concentrate on the 
music. She could hear notes, even the occasional chord, but the full 
sweep and scope of the work eluded her. What was left were scraps 
of jangling discord, impossible to piece together. 


Emma breathed deeply. Her cue was coming. From the corner of 
her eye, Emma saw the conductor half-turn. This was her chance. 
As the baton flashed down like a lightning strike, Emma spun 
sharply to look left. 


The conductor was shrouded in black, darker even than the hall 
itself. Its face was a pallid carnival mask, featureless but for a 
leering grin. The eyes were black and empty, and as Emma stared, 
it lomed closer and larger above her, seeming to fill the hall, to fill 
the world. 


And Emma heard it scream. 


She woke to the sight of Agent Sherry Wilson leaning over her. 


"Hey, how are you feeling?" came Wilson's calming voice. 


Eyes adjusting to the lights, Emma looked around the sleep lab, 
adrenaline still pumping. 


"Did you see it?" she asked. 


"Most of it," replied Sherry. "| was in the back of the audience. But it 
went differently this time, right? You seemed to have more control." 


Emma breathed deliberately, trying to slow her heart. "Yes. | 
changed my clothes, and | managed to turn." As the dream faded, it 
was easier to remember why she was doing this. "| could even hear 
the music - some of it, anyway." 


"Hmm. | could see them playing, but | didn't hear anything." Sherry 
scanned through the readings on the touchscreen next to Emma's 
bed. Of all the members of MTF Omicron-Rho that Emma had 
worked with, she seemed the most thorough, the most collected. 


"This is much better, Emma," she continued. "Good alpha-wave 
levels, and your breathing stayed steady. Just need to work on 
staying locked in the dream, even when something surprising 
happens." 


"Actually, | won't need to worry about waking up," said Emma. "How 
have the others been going?" 


Sherry gave an involuntary glance across to the empty beds on the 
other side of the room. 


"They're definitely improving. We tried Hennessey, Zhao and Carter 
in a few SCP-333 scenarios." 


"The musical city? That's appropriate." Emma smiled, and sat up. 


"They're adapting well to the dream, staying lucid, finding solutions." 
Sherry sounded genuinely impressed. "Hennessey actually came up 
with something | hadn't seen anyone try before." 


"Good." Emma's smile grew determined. "That's very good. I'd like 
to run the same scenarios, please. When can you schedule me in?" 


Sherry's look of concern only lasted a fraction of a second, but 
Emma spotted it. 


"I'm not sure," said Sherry, folding her arms. "Unless you're fully 
trained, we normally wouldn't advise more than three sessions a 
week." 


Emma frowned. "Let's make it tomorrow. | don't have that much 
time." 


Agent Sandra Dee staggered from the tunnel, the ringing in her ears 
fading. She dropped to one knee, out of breath and trying not to 
retch. From the corner of her eye, she could see a man step towards 
her, holding a clipboard and stopwatch. 


"Thirty-seven minutes, nineteen seconds," said Sergeant Graham 
Towers of MTF Zeta-9. "Not bad for a first run through the grinder, 
especially at your -" 


Dee swung her head up fiercely, but the movement was too sudden 
- black spots filled her vision, and she almost collapsed. She waved 
away the agent's proffered hand, and shut her eyes tight. 


Sergeant Towers had clearly been trained to keep candidates 
talking after they got through the course. "You never considered 
joining the Mole Rats then?" 


"Wasn't ... an option at the time," said Dee, through gritted teeth. 


"That's a shame. You did a good job, particularly with the 
gravitational distortion sections. A tip for the perspective-null room - 
you can often make quicker progress with one or even both eyes 
closed. Although you got unlucky with your route, hitting that straight 
after sensory deprivation." 


"Uh huh." Dee had heard enough. Her head was still throbbing, and 
she lifted herself gingerly into the chair Towers offered. 


Twenty minutes later she was still sitting there, just outside the exit 
from "Mole Rat Maze", watching the Sergeant look anxiously at his 
watch. 


"An hour is the limit, I'm going to have to go in," he said, more to 
himself than to her. 


Just as he put down his clipboard, there was a noise from the 
tunnel. Towers raced over as Roger Anderson emerged, slumping to 
the ground and rolling on to his back. Anderson's chest heaved, and 
Dee watched as Towers checked his pulse and pupils before 
grabbing some oxygen from the med-pack. 


Dee stood slowly, making sure she had her balance back, and 
strolled over to where Roger was lying. He had taken off the oxygen 
mask, but was still too weak to sit up. 


Agent Dee brought her boots together with a snap, right next to his 
head. "So, Anderson. Looking forward to being back in the field?" 


Towers shot her a look. She met his gaze. 


"Come on, Towers," she said, "surely he's set a new record for the 
octogenarians?" 


She spotted the stopwatch, still around Towers’ neck. 
"There you are, Anderson. Fifty-nine minutes, twelve seconds." 


Roger groaned. "Why is it always twelve?" 


Emma was starting to get used to meetings in the Site Director's 
office. She tried to sit still while Director Arora walked slowly around 
his desk to sit across from her. 


The Director unclasped his hands and spread them apart, palms up. 
Clearly a practised gesture. "So Commander Stark, how is the 
training going?" 


He was stalling; Emma knew he had seen the reports. She aimed to 
keep her voice light. "The team is performing well, generally strong 
results, considering. We could use a few more members though. 
Have you had any luck with recruits?" It wasn't what she had 
scheduled the meeting for, but it would be a start. 


Director Arora was clearly growing accustomed to her newfound 
directness. He smiled, but she thought she caught a flash of 
misgiving behind it. 


"| think | have two pieces of good news for you there," he said. "Dr. 
Bettina Reynard is a senior Memetics researcher who is joining us 
from Site-17, and Charla Flores had just been recruited to 
Cognitohazards, but her supervisor has gone on medical leave." 


"That's good," said Emma. "We could use some more specialists. | 
know exactly what Dr. Reynard can start with. | don't suppose they 
have any musical background?" 


"Honestly, I'm not sure," replied the Director. "But they should be 
with you soon, so you'll be able to find out. We have a D-Class who | 
understand is very musical, but, uh, I'm not sure you would want him 
in your squad." 


Arora paused. Emma waited. 


"About your other request," he continued, finally. "| can see why you 
want to do it, but | just don't know if | can authorise -" 


"Sir, with respect, if we're serious about learning more about Twelve, 
then | think it's the best way forward. The team will be ready." 


"Will they?" said Arora. "I'd like to hear your full risk analysis first." 


Emma tried to stay calm. "Okay sir, there are four key elements to 
consider..." 


As she left the room fifteen minutes later, Emma realised her hands 
had been clenched so hard they'd left fingernail marks on her palms. 


The spare lab-room was almost empty as Mike and Hennessy 
walked in. All of the equipment had been cleared out, leaving just 
four rows of benches and stools, one of which was occupied by a 
dark-haired young woman, reading. 


"Hi," said Mike, "you must be Charla." 


The woman looked up from her text. "Charlie," she said. "That's 
what my family always called me." 


"Nice to meet you, Charlie. I'm Mike, and this is H." Mike indicated 
the smiling Agent Hennessy beside him. "Welcome to Eta-11." 


"H?" asked Charlie with a quizzical look. 


"For Hennessy.” Mike turned to him, grinning. "Or is it Hearing Loss? 
| can never remember." 


"Hey!" said Hennessy loudly. 


Turn it down, signed Mike, and continued, "H is deaf, as you may 
have worked out. He can talk, but we try not to let him. Never has 
anything interesting to say." 


I'll give you interesting, signed Hennessy, and then saw Charlie's 
nonplussed look. Mike, you're freaking her out. Stop being weird. 


"What did he say?" Charlie asked, unsure where to direct the 
question.