“Because, one, Aunt Claire was a LOT more powerful than me,” he 
said as he held up a finger, then flicked up a second to join it. “And 
two, she was focused HARD on that moment. Like, she used up a 
shit ton of power to cut through the various possibilities to find the 
true future. It was her masterpiece, really, that one great prophecy 
that will outlive her.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Damned if | know 
why she wasted it on us.” 


“All right. Okay,” Serra said, organizing her thoughts, “but, then, if 
you don’t do the great prophecy thing, what is it you do do.” She 
pulled a face at herself. “Sorry, my phrasing there was shit.” 


“| like movies. Science fiction, for the most part. Explosions are 
easier to understand without seeing them, nuanced emotions you 
get in drama and comedies, less so. Books on tape are a godsend, 
let me tell you. I’ve been experimenting in the kitchen, trying to find a 
good use for curry in everything. | do a curried pot roast you would 
not believe. | have a couple of boyfriends, but nothing serious. Most 
guys seems impressed | can actually find their cock, like, Jesus 
dude, I’m blind, not dumb, it’s going to be in the same place on 
EVERY guy, unless you're alien, and even then, I’ve blown enough 
of those to get the idea of where it might be.” He sipped his coffee 
nice and slow, as his cousin splutters through hers, trying to laugh 
and swallow at the same time. “But | feel like you meant what do | 
do for my side. The answer to that is rather simple. I’m just like 
Uncle Jack. I’m a recruiter.” 


“Jack isn’t-“ She starts to say, but cuts herself off. She remembers 
when he came to her, to tell her about, well, everything. She recalls 
chatting with Alice, and Yoric, both of whom mentioned that Jack 
was the one who brought them in. “He is, isn’t he?” she said, quietly, 
almost to herself. 


“I’m pretty sure it’s one of the reasons he keeps his spot as a 
personnel director, instead of taking a better, higher paying job. 
From there, he can direct your recruiting tactics, make sure the right 


Well, this might be useful if we ever have reason to destabilize the 
entire region. Shame it's anomalous, it'd look rather nice in my 
Office. 


- Dr. Major 
« SCP-799 | SCP-800 | SCP-801 » 


agent is in the right place to pick up a useful, normal family 
member,” David said. He gestured at her with his cup, almost like a 
salute. “The ones who fit in, anyways.” 


“And the ones who don’t fit in?” She said, encouraging him to 
continue. 


“Well, that’s for me. | take care of all the lost, misplaced souls that 
have a drop of Bright seed in them somewhere. The half human 
hybrids, the ‘talented’ byblows of born on the wrong side of the 
sheets, the genetic experiments trying desperately to escape their 
creatrix, the bear.” He shrugs. “Anyone of the family who doesn’t 
have a place to be, | find them one.” 


“With the Serpents Hand.” 


“With anyone that makes them feel like a real person, and not 
locked away as a puzzle to be taken apart, dissected, and used!” 
His hand slammed against the table to punctuate the point. Serra 
almost drew her gun. 


“All right, all right, | understand you-“ She held up a hand, eyes 
closed, replaying the conversation. “The bear?” 


“You'd have Jack to blame for that one,” he said with a smirk. 
“Apparently there was some kind of testing to see if his willpower 
was enough to over-ride certain natural drives, and the end result 
was he knocked up a bear.” 


“Is...” She bit her lip, worried at it. “Is it a supernatural bear?” 
“Nope. And he, not it.” 
“Extra smart then?” 


“Nope. Just a bear. But still family.” He shrugged. 


“So, you put this bear, who is a family member because there is 
apparently nothing our family will not stick its dick into, where 
exactly?” Words she never thought she’d say. 


“Oh, he’s in a zoo.” 


There was a moment of silence between them. David simple sipped 
at his coffee. Serra tapped her fingers on the table, wishing that he 
could see the look that she gave him. 


“Not locked away, huh?” She finally said. 


“He’s actually very happy there. We offered to let him out in the wild, 
but our animal speaker said he was much happier in a zoo, being 
able to watch people go by, and sleep with a bevy of sexy bear- 
ettes. | do drop in on him, every couple of months, with an Doolittle, 
to see how he’s doing,” David said. 


"Doolittle?" 


"Common slang for anyone who talks to animals, and can 
understand what they say back." 


“All right, fine.” She sat back. “Okay, then, tell me this. Aside from 
that, who’s the weirdest member of the family you know?” 


“| have an uncle who’s-* 


“Green, right?” She interrupted. “You know, I’ve heard that from the 
uncles. ‘I have a brother who’s green.’ | always thought it was some 
kind of obscure family in joke or something. | mean, what’s so odd 
about green skin?” 


“If he just had green skin, it wouldn’t be such a big issue. He’s 
actually the color green.” He tapped the side of his nose 
conspiratorially. “Legend has it, old grandpa Adam was involved in 
some kind of space civil war, between entities that were concepts of 
colors, or some shit. Blue vs Yellow. Well, Adam is just as much a 
Bright as any of them, and so he came back from this excursion with 
a weird new STD, and a child that only exists as a shade of green. It 
works for me, mostly. It seems to be happy.” David paused. “At this 
point, if you don’t leave within the next ten minutes, someone will 
stumble upon us who we don't want to. Now that you know me, we 
can always meet again, but | figure you’ll want some time to 
corroborate my story, make sure |’m telling you the truth, yeh? So 
come on, give me one more question, and then we can go our 
separate ways.” 


She pondered a moment. She could draw this out, see who caught 
them. But it might not be her side. So, with only one question left, 
she went for one that had been bothering her. “I had an odd 
experience last week. Kinda like this. A guy came up to me in the 
middle of shopping, and started gushing about how glad he was to 
meet another member of the family. He was super shady, could 
barely get a word in edge wise, called himself Joshua-* 


“Bright.” David snarled. "Really handsome guy? Talks a mile a 
minute, without ever saying anything? Always dropping little hints 
about other family members, or projects he's working on?" Serra 
nods silently. “Oh, | fucking hate that guy. Most of the family refers 
to him as Darth Maul Bright. ” 


“Wait. Darth Maul?” 


“Oh, because of how he looks and acts cool, but is completely 
useless. He’s... he’s a poser. A Bright wannabe. Somehow he 
stumbled onto evidence of the family, and immediately convinced 
himself he was one of us. He shows up at the weirdest times, throws 
everything into confusion, and then fucks off, scott free. He’s got the 
damndest luck, as evidenced by the way none of us have managed 
to kill him yet. If you get a chance, please shoot him.” He checked 
his watch. “And with that, you need to be going.” 


She found herself on her feet, empty cup heading for the trash 
without even thinking about it. He followed her, far enough back to 
not be a threat. “It was nice talking to you.” She said over her 
shoulder. 


“It was nice to be talked to, and not yelled at.” He replied. 
She paused as she reached for the door handle. “Your... pet.” 


He smiled, head cocked to the side. This question, he’d been 
expecting. “Yes?” 


“Is that really a seeing-eye-" 


"Chupacabra/poodle crossbreed? Yes, her name is Misters 
Snuggles." 


"Her name is Mister-" 


"Do you want to argue with her about it?" 


Blood Is Thicker Than Water 


Note to Researcher Miller 


The increase in volume of excretions from SCP-173 have continued 
at the expected rate. Enclosure cleaning schedule updated to 
weekly as instructed. Activity within SCP-173’s container has 
continued fluctuating with periods of hyperactivity and long periods 
of dormancy. Please advise. 


- SCP-173 HMCL Supervisor 


All this fancy tech and they can’t even install an automated cleaning 
system. Typical. After working cleaning duty for as long as he could 
remember Mark Stevenson, currently designated D-6518, was 
starting to tire of the same old routine. He had heard rumours of D- 
class duties far better, hell, even one where all you had to do was 
eat cake all day. But far more frequent were the horror stories, never 
whispered above a breath. For all his complaining D-6518 was 
grateful he was just stuck on cleaning duty for some concrete brute. 
Even if it wasn’t toilet trained. 


“All D-class personnel assemble in your pre-designated positions. 
Doors will be opening in five minutes. Researcher Miller will be 
accompanying; obey any commands she issues but otherwise your 
duties are as follows: All blood and faecal matter must be...” 


The voice droned on with the usual dross as D-6518 picked up his 
shovel and bucket and prepared himself. A researcher on board was 
never a good thing. The only reason she’d be here was to try 
something risky or to get in his way, either of which could lead to a 
quick death. He loosened his strained grip on the shovel, relaxing 
his mind and blinking his eyes a few times. The researcher muttered 
to herself softly, fixing her suit with a nervous energy. The 
countdown to the doors opening reached its end and everyone 
turned their eyes doorward as it scraped open. 


And there it was. SCP-173. But something was off. Instead of its 
usual upright posture, arms braced against a wall mid-assault, it was 
crouched in the furthest corner of the container, oddly hunched over. 
Then the stench hit him, blood and faeces mixed into a thick slurry 
that pooled out the doors. It was a smell you never got used to but 
this time it was worse. The usual thin coating on the ground was 
now a thick layer slopped onto the floor, the volume increasing 
dramatically towards the corner SCP-173 crouched in. D-6518 
cursed, his nose stinging as he entered the enclosure, shovelling the 
mess into his pail. 


He worked quickly and methodically, only pausing momentarily to 
focus his full attention on SCP-173 when one of the other D-class 
had to blink. Researcher Miller stayed near the entrance of the 
container, and D-6518 could hear her crouching down to take 
samples of the filth that covered the enclosure. There was still the 
sense that something wasn't right hanging in the air; the researcher, 
the massive increase in blood and faeces, SCP-173’s strange, 
huddled posture. Then he noticed something else. Upon closer 
inspection of the ground surrounding SCP-173, what he previously 
thought were just clumps of faeces, he noticed blood clots in small 
mounds. Even despite his senses being numbed from his time on 
cleaning duty D-6518 felt himself gag, pausing momentarily. 


“Wait.” Researcher Miller’s voice cut through the air and D-6518 
froze, keeping his gaze on SCP-173. Wet footsteps moved towards 
the hunched figure, the sound of boots stepping through the muck. 
One of the other D-class cursed, shouting out a blink alert and 
muttering something about that “goddamn smell” before wiping his 
eyes. Researcher Miller disregarded him, speaking softly. Her voice 
low, scared almost. 


“Something isn’t right here.” 


She took another step forward and D-6518 sidestepped to maintain 
eye contact with SCP-173, kicking over his bucket to let forth a wave 
of foul smelling waste. The other D-class gagged again before 
vomiting, staggering into the wall. His boot lost traction with the 
ground and he slid, landing prone in the slurry and causing it to 
splash up on the other three personnel in the room. 


A sudden thud, incredibly loud, as an impossible number of concrete 
footsteps sounded at once. A sickening snap, the noise of bones 
being broken with the ease that comes from precision and force. A 
chilling scream. 


It took D-6518 a moment to realise it was his own voice. It took 
another moment to realise SCP-173 still crouched in the corner. His 
thoughts moved slowly, too slowly. A broken neck wouldn't allow 
him to scream. The room was suddenly silent save for the gurgling 
cough of the now upright D-class, struggling to clear his clogged 
lungs. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dr Miller staring at 
him, or rather, at his feet. Unblinking. D-6518 cursed himself before 
tearing his gaze away from SCP-173, looking down at his leg. Or 
rather, what remained of it. His leg ended at the ankle where it had 
been swiftly snapped sideways, his bloodied foot dangling limply. 
The only reason he remained standing was a tiny statue, no more 
than a half meter tall, its tiny stumps of arms clasped around the 
break. 


Hereby designated SCP-173-1. 


Blood, Sweat, and Beers 


12. STEP 14/3 


One Beta will collect the rings from each of the Alphas. 
All five rings are to be brought to the River City train 
station, and placed in locker #212. 


The man stepped back and let me into the apartment. | followed him 
through to the living room; the TV silently looped the DVD menu of a 
movie | didn't recognize. A standing lamp dimly lit the low table in 
the centre of the room, which held several empty beer cans, an 
ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a dinner plate with a 
small mound of white powder sitting on it. Next to the table was a 
worn-out couch, which held a skinny young girl until our host tersely 
ordered her to go for a walk (he'd text her when she should come 
back). 


She must have been used to this, | figured, because she stood to 
leave without a word. Scratching a non-existent itch on my head, | 
pushed my knit cap further down over my brow before she passed 
me on her way out. As the man returned from locking the front door 
behind her, | pulled up a chair from the adjoining kitchenette. He 
retrieved two fresh beers from the fridge, handing one to me before 
sitting back on the couch. One wordless toast and two big swigs 
later, | decided to get on with the business at hand. 


"Let's get this going. Time's a factor, eh." | said to him. He set his 
beer on the table and narrowed his eyes at me, but didn't say 
anything. "Show me the ring?" | pressed on, my tone about one 
quarter pleasant if you'd be so kind, sir and three quarters impatient 
| don't have all night for your bullshit, bud. 


"Let me show you the thing," he said. Whether that was some kind 
of attempt to be in control of the conversation, or if he was actually 
oblivious to what I'd just said, | wasn't sure. But he leaned down and 
took a shoebox from the floor beside the couch, putting it in his lap 


and opening it. From inside he produced a plain-looking silver ring 
and placed it on the table, halfway between us. 


| didn't move right away. | took a long pull off my beer and eyed the 
ring suspiciously, then turned my gaze to him. A few more silent 
moments passed before | said plainly "Show me." 


"What?" He rolled his shoulders and stared a hole through me. | did 
my best to suppress a shiver, but expect he still copped to the 
nerves. Whatever, let him feel like a tough guy. I'm not here for a 
fight. 


"You're going to use it, no?" | said, trying to keep my voice calm and 
level. "Show me that it is what it's meant to be?" | killed the last of 
my beer and set the empty can on the table. 


He shook his head at me. "Not how this works, son. You just take it. 
You know what to do with it." 


| played confused. "The instructions | got," | leaned forward and took 
the paper from my back pocket, "said you'd show me..." | put the 
sheet on the table, leaning further forward to slide it towards him. 


He leaned forward to get a look at the letter, and | put a hole in his 
head. He slumped back into the couch, blood running through his 
greasy hair; | tucked my pistol into the back of my pants and pulled 
my sweater down over it. He was dead, and | needed another beer.