It was certainly fancy. Fendrel and Dain's had a runway, an 
operational staff of designers, seamstresses, photography studios, 
prop departments, lighting personnel, and, obviously, translators 
who skittered about like mice. The tall man put them all into different 
duties. KreSimira was assigned to a team of designers and 
photographers. They posed all day and cycled through every facial 
expression there was. Runway walks were treated almost like 
fitness exams and there was even a small platoon of nurses and 
medics on hand to treat and (randomly) inspect them. At night, they 
were all checked into a nearby hotel and given a very cheerful 
allowance. 


For the next few weeks, KreSimira felt as though she was doing an 
abnormal amount of work for a model, and no work at all as an 
intern. Day in and day out, she was doing photo shoots, fittings and 
walks. And with a peculiar frequency, she was also routinely 
inspected by physicians who checked out everything from her 
eyesight to her blood. The days often ended with her exhausted and 
eager to sleep. 


On the other hand, she was also learning near nothing. There were 
no senior models to offer tips or education on the subject, and the 
whole thing began to stink the more Fendrel and Dain's sweetened 
the pot. All the interns were given hotel rooms and cell-phones, with 
staff already listed in as contacts. The little allowance that they all 
got was too generous to be an actual wage. They felt like bribes. 


"There's something wrong here, Bojan," Kresimira said. 


"Oh no. Mira don't tell me you also think this is a scam. All the time 
at school it was 'l, KreSimira, will be on the cover of this magazine 
and that magazine’ but now it's fishy?" 


Bojan Novak was spread out lengthwise over the lobby’s sofa. He 
was a handsome person now, but he wasn't always. Back when she 
still attended classes, he slouched, had glasses, brown eyes and a 
smile that would make the yellow sun envious. Now he looked ready 
to put the digital touch-up industry out of business: even his teeth 
seemed bleached whiter than snow. 


"Think about it. We have one figure of authority, the tall American. 
The designers make variations of the same dress and suit over and 
over again. And if they don't do that, then they're using material from 
others. Look here, this is from that show, Project Runway, from 
years ago." 


"Mhm." 


"Mhm? It's the same gown | wore today, Bojan. You were in a photo- 
shoot with it today." 


"Mira," Bojan threw his hands up, "this is a shit brand that can't pull 
a decent design out of its ass to save its life. But it's real. Look here- 
give me your phone." 


"Use your own." 


"It's not even yours, silly. Fine. See here; 'Fendrel & Dain's unveils 
an ugly tapestry of rigid and unoriginal designs at Fashion Week 
here in New York' blah blah blah 'Fendrel & Dain's accused of 
plagiarizing Hugo Boss' line of suits. Cease and desist enforced.’ 


Blah blah blah. Fendrel & Dain's is a dumpster. But it's desperate for 
talent and we're desperate for a way into the industry. This is how us 
desperate but beautiful people help each other, you see? We don't 
get ahead by seeing a helping hand and questioning if it's real." 


Kresimira wanted that to be true. The lobby they were sitting in had 
red carpets and golden trims. It was a palace and they looked like 
they belonged, wrapped up in designer (albeit ripoff) threads and all 
made up. By the grand staircase, the hotel staff was even beginning 
to put up a Christmas tree that nearly reached the crystal 
chandeliers. If it was all a scam, then she was going back to Croatia, 
to her father. If not... 


KreSimira dug her phone, her old one, out of her purse. She 
checked her bank account. Her wages were there, they were real. 
They didn't retreat into the electronic ether when she made 
purchases or sent lump sums back home. It was real money. She 
closed out of her banking app and saw her recent calls log. The 
number of calls from home had reached the hundreds. She didn't 
even open the texts to read what was inside; her father would likely 
have thrown in some pictures of mother to punish her, show her how 
bad things had gotten. He should be using the money he was 
sending her. He should be. Bojan offered to take her drinking with 
some of the other interns, to get the true American experience. He 
may not have looked like the bespectacled runway hopeful from 
college anymore, but his actual self, or at least the amount of 
respect he had for his liver, had persevered. 


"It's me." 
"Mardbury? Do you know what time it is?" 
"Tell me about the procedure." 


“Tomorrow morning. Over coffee." 


"No. Is it surgical? Is it safe? What happens to my old body? Are 
you absolutely sure that the clones don’t have brains?” 


"Yes to the first two. What happens to your old body is up to you. 


You could turn it into a tree if you fucking want. Or you could bury it- 
meh no one falls for that anymore. As for the clone brains... what, 
you think we have a big garbage can labelled ‘put brains here’ or 
something? You think we wrap up all our spare brains in spare 
Walmart bags and watch the garbage truck load them up for the 
landfill? Good night." 


"I've made a decision." 

"Wonderful. Over coffee.” 

"| texted you the photo. What do you think?" 
"Oh for fucks sake, Mardbury." 

"What's wrong?" 


"Nothing it's just... well. | mean... you have a good eye for 
aesthetics. Can | ask why?" 


"Sure! It's like you said, this might very well be my only one. I've 
seen the prices. So why have more of the same? Why simply do a 
reset when you can switch to an entirely new system? Think of the 
entire new slate of experiences, opportunities... pleasures that 
would come with this." 


"Don't get too giddy on me, schoolgirl." 


"I'm sorry it's just... the more | think about this, the more excited | 
am. You're absolutely sure this is safe, right?" 


"Mardbury! | don't think your neighbors heard you clearly enough, 
please speak louder. Scratch coffee. Tomorrow, come to my place. 
We'll finalize everything there, and I'll even bring the operating 
doctor." 


"I'm sorry. It's just overwhelming. Thank you, again and truly, for 
this." 


"Good night." 


KreSimira left the bar for some fresh air. She was standing with her 
winter coat wrapped around her, watching the wisps of vapor that 
danced out of her lips get torn apart by the shoulders of street-goers 
passing her by. To her left, a beardless Santa rung his bell in front of 
a cast-iron pot. For all their talk, KreSimira understood none of it. 
She kept her head down and her hair messy by habit, something 
she picked up from her childhood in Zagreb. 


Then she heard it. There was a screech, human or tire she didn't 
know, that pulled every face towards the road. A dozen brake pedals 
were slammed in unison and the smell of burnt rubber burrowed into 
KreSimira's nose. There was the sound of metal bending, shattering 
and cracking, and the laborious groan of heavy material falling to the 
ground. Over the line of paused pedestrians, KreSimira saw glass 
and a car bumper fly through the air. Then it was all quiet, and the 
crowd began switching their phones away from the cameras and to 
the 911 dial. 


Bojan and the others came out of the bar, tipsy from drink and 
curious to see. They pushed themselves through the crowd, 
KreSimira following in their wake. It was a car accident. 


A truck, one of those mammoth 18-wheelers, had skidded into an 
intersection. A few SUVs and sedans had plowed into its side, but 
the damage wasn't too bad. She could see some of the drivers 
wandering out of their cars, massaging their necks and already 
dialing their insurance companies. But there was one car, a sports 
car- Italian by the looks of it. It was low enough to the ground that 
when it sped up into the truck, its bottom half had slid right 
underneath the truck while the hood was sheared off. KreSimira saw 
most of the car sitting idle on the other side of the truck, and she 
saw the driver. Some of the onlookers began to notice too and 
KreSimira felt dizzy as the screams began. The body was wearing a 
suit, but its tie had fallen down to the waist. There was nothing from 
the neck up and the suit was glistening red. 


Behind the truck, by the scrunched-up roof of the sports car, there 
was a head on the pavement with bits of metal embedded in its 
forehead. Its mouth opened and closed, a fish ripped from the water, 
and its eyes darted around frantically. She saw the pupils lock on 
her group, on Bojan, and she quickly pulled him away. 


to that of another, determined by the colors of the pills and the order 
ingested. This usually causes a catastrophic reaction (See 
Experiment Log 876). The second pill will cause this effect 
regardless of time elapsed. For transparent capsules, a small 
sample of the element in question can be observed inside, excepting 
radioactive elements—in those cases, there is no sample. 


Analysis has shown the colors to follow a simple pattern. If the 
atomic number (number of protons) for the corresponding element is 
divided by 11, and the remainder taken, one can match up the 
quotient and the remainder to two colors. For example, a remainder 
of 6 will invariably have a purple-sided pill. Therefore, purple means 
"6". 


Refer to the table to determine which number means which color: 
[DATA TABLE EXPUNGED] 


Unfortunately, a red-and-white pill is indistinguishable from a white- 
and-red pill. For this reason, it must be recorded which of the bottles 
the pill came from. 


When replacement occurs, the new molecules are usually highly 
unstable. Spontaneous combustion is common. For combinations 
that avoid this problem (nitrogen to phosphorus, for example), death 
is immediate due to complete body chemistry failure. 


In rare cases, the effects are beneficial, but this is always because 
of the replacement of elemental toxins. 


The newly formed element always has the most stable number of 
neutrons: uranium extracted from test subject cadavers is entirely 
depleted. 


Addendum: See Experiment Log 876. 
« SCP-875 | SCP-876 | SCP-877 » 


Bojan escorted the still shaking KreSimira back to the hotel. Bojan 
back to his room was swaying from too much "authentic American 
alcohol" the whole trip back. He only had four Bud Lites. 


KreSimira lay on her bed alone. She could hear the sirens outside, 
and she brought her hand to her neck. She lay awake thinking of 
breaths without lungs, and a maggot-filled corpse calling out her 
name. She grabbed her phone and quickly transferred the week's 
salary back home before thrusting her face into the pillow. Sleep 
dragged its feet. 


"Creepy lady." 


"Don't let her fool you; Dr. Dain is the best we have. Now, before 
you lock anything in, do you have any more questions?" 


"What about paperwork? | obviously won't use the same passport." 


"We can set you up with a brand new name and identity, just as | 
did. As far as the world is concerned, Greene and Bo-many of our 
other customers just disappeared off the face of the world while 
names like Fendrel just appeared out of the mystic mist." 


"You've thought of everything. | don't know... what about the pills?" 


"Tablets. Dissolve two of them in water, chug it all down before bed, 
or if you start feeling sharp neck pain." 


"What happens if | forget one day?" 


"Sharp. Neck. Pain. | mean it, this isn't a prescription you want to 
mess up. Those tablets keep your brain and the body's spinal cord 
talking with one another until they get married, anatomically. You 
really don't want that conversation to stop." 


"Okay, okay. | don't know... what should | do after it's all done?" 


"Live of course! Experiment, have fun, look in a mirror, don't look in 
a mirror, try on new clothes, go to bed, do drugs, enroll in college or 
whatever else you want. Heck, we'd look well together; | could guide 
you around the whole thing and get you used to it all. I'd be like the 


car salesman who buckles up next to you during the test drive." 
"But this is permanent." 


"Bad example. You get the idea. It'd be downright monstrous of me 
to just leave you adrift in this brave new world after getting you that 
far, wouldn't it?" 


KreSimira pushed the refrigerator in front of her hotel door and 
scattered cereal flakes over the floor. It was the middle of the night. 
It was her new routine. Bojan was gone. 


It began with the first actual show. KreSimira had actually felt proud 
of herself after that one; they’d brought in a bunch of viewers to 
watch and she figured it to be her first, genuine interning experience. 
It was all scheduled for Christmas Day and the entire outfit rack felt 
original, for once. 


Then the guests came backstage. They looked the models up and 
down, directing their questions to the tall man who leaped from 
model to model like a cars salesman. She didn’t know what the 
viewers had to say about her, or what the tall man said about her, 
but she did notice the tall man deflecting inquiries away from Bojan, 
as though he was unappealing... or off limits. 


The next day, Bojan was accepted into another fashion house in 
New York City. But that couldn’t be, Kresimira thought, Bojan hadn't 
even walked the runway because of a wardrobe malfunction; what 
talent could he possibly have shown off? 


Bojan wasn’t the only one. There were near a dozen transfers out, 
and near fifty transfers in. The new group came from the Phillipines. 
Nobody spoke English, as expected. The tall man said that, since 
they did so well the first time, they were going to have another 
showing next week. 


KreSimira stared at the hotel door, still wearing the dress she had on 
for the show; she was first on the runway but the tall man had kept 
the viewers away from her like she was a museum painting. The 
rancid apartment in Croatia seemed so welcoming now, and no 


amount of fury her father could muster could compare to every 
footstep outside the door. 


KreSimira turned her head out the window and saw an airplane pass 
through the clouds. 


She could run again. 


This wasn’t Croatia: she could easily get a cab to the nearest airport. 
She pulled out her phone, her old phone, and switched off the 
hotel’s internet to use cell data. She pulled up the airport website 
and tried to buy a ticket. She was met with an error message. It was 
becoming clearer. Fendrel and Dain’s had no qualms about letting 
its victims buy beer or send money to the family, but it certainly 
wouldn't permit buying an escape. Fenderal and Dain’s couldn't do 
anything about cash though, and there was an ATM in the lobby, 
just a few meters away from a taxi drop-off point. 


It was one in the morning. Fendrel and Dain's had provided her 
entire wardrobe, and she bitterly regretted not buying something, 
even a simple sweater, to not draw attention to herself. She'd be 
making her getaway in runway clothes. She'd buy something less 
outlandish at the airport. She slid the refrigerator aside and left her 
room. 


She walked past the rooms of the other interns. She heard some of 
them partying, cheering in Croatian and Filipino. She heard a few 
talking with relatives, gushing about their futures in the fashion 
industry. She made it to the elevator and found it empty. She 
pressed the button to the lobby and the doors closed. She was 18 
stories away. 


KreSimira Kovacevic stood in the elevator, the backs of her feet 
itched against the shoe-straps and the elevator hummed as the cord 
sent it sliding down the building. 


The elevator stopped at the 16th floor and the tall man walked in, 
still wearing his aviators. He said nothing and the elevator 
continued. 


The elevator seemed to lose speed. 


"Your name is... KreSimira Kovacevié, yes?" the tall man asked, 
"Y-yes.” Kresimira said. 

"Are you unwell? You have rings under your eyes."