SCP-793's reversal effects only regard any damage it causes a 
human. Bodies whose deaths are attributed to other causes (such 
as normal Human Congo trypanosomiasis) will not be affected. 
SCP-793 does not seem to appear on anything that is not a living 
human body entering the Zone of Denial does not appear on 
anything that is not living human tissue. Appearance of SCP-793 
does occur on partial entrance of a human to the Zone of Denial and 
is limited to the fraction of the human that is in the Zone of Denial. 


Items brought out of the Hospital have no unique effect attached to 


present some curiosity to us, but it's... Certainly not a definite 
symbol of anything. Research is... R-research is ongoing." The 
prompter was black. Silence. 


"Why didn't you tell us?" A voice screamed. A civilian somewhere. 


"We, uh, we didn't want to g-get anyone's hopes up..." The mass 
broke into screams and boiled like a pot of water. | felt sick. | felt like 
a monster. Security rushed in. The meeting ended shortly after that. 


They had to change our hotel reservations. They put security in the 
lobby. Nobody found us. | called Maddy, asking about the Artifact. 


They had found nothing. They had bounced light off of it, scanned it, 
studied it, measured the ridges, put them through our best 
codebreaking programs. Nothing at all. And news of it had encircled 
the planet by now. 


| slept with my two mates that night, Jai and Adel. None of their 
comforting, their nuzzling, their reassurances helped. Eventually 
their soft words and contact degraded into the slow, heavy, silence. 
When | tried to sleep, | tossed and turned helplessly. | latched onto 
the thought that the Artifact, instead of being a greeting or a chance 
occurrence, was in fact a plea for help from another dying world, a 
planet similarly falling apart. Another world running out. It would be 
unbearable. 


In the morning, | woke up early. | snuck into the security guard's 
break room between shifts, took a gun, and slipped back into my 
hotel room unnoticed. Jai and Adel slept peacefully, still holding my 
nonexistent form. 


| had to turn away. | was a coward. | held the gun to my head. 
Straight through the upper eye, that would do it. The people were 
angry, furious, and they had every right to be. Their water sources 
had failed them. Their food sources had failed them. Their 
ecosystem had failed them. We had failed them. They wanted to see 
the Thirty Year Plan? This was the Thirty Year Plan. | closed my 
eyes. The phone rang. 


| jumped, and turned to see if Jai or Adel had noticed. They hadn't. | 


shoved the gun into a drawer, and stepped into the hall. "Yes?" | 
asked tiredly. 


"Rook, this is Maddy. The artifact." 
"...What about it?" 


"We made it work. Look, you know the side with the ridges? We had 
to balance a pin over it, attach a speaker, and spin it at a very 
precise rate." 


"Almost like a code." 


"Maybe. But you have to get over here right now. It's making noise. 
It's singing." 


| was there in under an hour. 


By that time, they had reached the apparent end of the recording, 
and had to reposition the device to make it play again. We sat 
surrounding the little makeshift player, as the disc spun, absolutely 
silent. 


| heard sounds, the likes of which | had never heard before. Short, 
organic, staccato beeps and clicks. A low buzzing that rose and fell. 
Vibrant, voice-like vocalizations from the throats of strange animals, 
showing anger and joy. Hundreds of sharp, short, airy, melodious 
whistles, that fell into wondrous natural tunes and songs. A long, 
low, howl that seemed to swell out of silence, like a mountain out of 
water, like the sun out of night. Then there was the music. 


All different styles, all different sounds. Some like water falling over 
rocks, some like heartbeats, like screaming, like falling, like love. 
Unintelligible singing voices wove in and out of them. It was rhythmic 
and beautiful. 


"That's not all," Maddy explained excitedly. "We translated the star 
maps. We found our star. If we're right, this came from a planet ina 
solar system 7.7 light years away." Well within reach of the starcraft. 
| could feel the Thirty Year Plan, and all of my doubts, wither away. 


The music ended soon, replaced by tuneful, punctuated voices, all 


diverse in their influences, all saying things we couldn't interpret, but 
understood precisely. The music had ended, but | was listening to 
the most glorious song | would ever hear. 


Hello. 
Hola. 
Bonjour. 
Jambo. 
Ni hao. 


| could barely give the muttered instructions to prep the starcraft. 
This was the song of salvation, of hope, of deliverance. A song of 
plenty, of a land of space and air and animals and voices. We thank 
our otherworldly saviours like tribal ancients, showing gratitude for 
the lives of the animals they were about to hunt. 


So this message is to you, to your planet, to your world that howls 
and speaks and sings. Thank you for your for your expressions of 
welcome and invitation, and for your offerings of hope and life. 
We hear you. 


And we're coming as soon as we can. 


At the Library 


Note: This is part one in a multi-part story based around 
the events leading up to the containment of SscPp-2982 


Harold Maine sat at the desk and leafed through the medical 
dictionary. 


"Did you even hear me? I've paid you what | can." 


He looked up, suddenly remembering the woman and child standing 
before him. He regarded them intently and counted up to five in his 
head before responding. He'd read somewhere how that made 
people feel uncomfortable. 


"How did you get here today, Helen?" 


The woman looked confused. "The bus," she answered. "| came by 
bus." 


"Then you can still pay more," Maine smiled. "Next time, you'll have 
to walk." 


"But |-" 


Maine raised his hand to silence her. "Do you love your daughter? 
Hy-per-tri-cho-sis would be bad for her right now, don't you think? 
Werewolf syndrome. Very hairy. Life changing, but not life 
endangering. Yet." 


The child clung to her mother's leg. "Mommy?" 


"Don't worry Angela,” Helen said. "| won't let anything happen to 
you." 


"Pardon me," Maine chuckled. "I'd laugh out loud but this being a 
public library and everything, | need to maintain my decorum." 


"How am | supposed to pay you," Helen whispered, conscious of the 
silence, "if | can't work because of you?" She looked down at what 
used to be her arms. She had been elegant, once. Her limbs were 
lithe and long, her body in perfect symmetrical proportion. A ballet 
dancer's figure. And then Maine had come along. Admired her from 
a distance somewhere on the far side of plausibility. Crashed his car 
into hers to get her name and address and phone number. And 
then the texts, and the romantic slime, and - after the rejection that 
would surely come when a fat, greasy, balding middle aged man 
asked a 23 year old goddess out - after that, the cajoling and the 
threats. 


And then one bright, blame-free sunny day she told him exactly what 
she thought. Told him firmly and in no uncertain terms that she was 
not, nor ever would be, interested in him, in any way. And that was 
an end to it, she'd thought. She put her child to bed at night, brushed 
her teeth, watched a DVD with a glass of wine, and retired for the 
night. 


She woke up at 04:27 the next morning to find her arms and her 
elegant slender fingers gone. Replaced with these. She fought the 
desire to cry; she had to be strong for Angela. 


"Yeah sorry about those," Maine said. "Didn't even know what 
‘thalidomide-impaired' meant at the time. Who woulda thunk it? No 
hard feelings. Hey maybe if you do wonderful things for me, like pay 
me what | fucking tell you, when | fucking tell you, I'll put you back to 
normal. Maybe make you rich too. Would you like that?" 


Helen could not speak; the words were caught in her throat. 


"I'll take that as a yes," Maine smirked. "| could just change you 
again anyway. Make you obedient to me." He looked down to the 
little girl. "Go play somewhere else," he said; the child ran off to hide 
behind a bookcase. 


"Y'know," he continued, addressing the woman, "! could make you 
my willing slave. You know | could." He studied her eyes, saw the 
tears welling up and overflowing. His gaze drifted downwards again. 
"Wow," he laughed softly. "They're not even hands, are they? What 
would you call 'em? Claws? Pincers? Holy fuck." 


Helen shuddered. She tried to hide it, but could not. Harold Maine 
saw it, and smiled again. "But no," he said. "This way is better. Why 
have someone willingly do what you want, when you can make them 
do it instead, even though it destroys their soul?" 


"My soul is fine," she answered. "Just fine." The defiance in her 
voice was unconvincing, but she knew by now that he liked her to 
have a certain 'resistance’. Too much and it angered him and he got 
cruel; too little and it bored him, and he got cruel. 


"Maybe it is," Maine said. "Maybe it isn't. Hey what if | overtype your 
star sign with damned for all eternity?" 


"Overtype?" 
"What?" 
"You said overtype - " 


Maine became angered instantly. "Forget | said that," he snapped. 
"Just forget it or I'll fix that stupid daughter of yours so she eats 
through her ass and shits through her mouth. You think | wouldn't?" 


"I'm sorry," Helen said. "| promise. I'm sorry." 
"Because | could do that. Easily." 


"Yes, Mr Maine." She used the formal term now; he would accept 
that. "I just - I'm sorry." But for the first time in weeks she felt hope. 
He had let something important slip. She had a clue now, a hint, no 
matter how vague, as to how he worked his horrific, twisted 
miracles. He changed - he overwrote - something, and the changes 
came true. What though? A book? A diary? 


Maine leant back in the chair and closed the medical dictionary. The 
noise echoed around the empty library. When it faded into nothing, 
Helen was left with the sound of her own heartbeat hammering in 
her chest. After what seemed like hours, Maine finally looked up at 
her again. "I loved you,” he confessed. "Still do. | could make you so 
happy. If only you let me." He took the eighty six dollars from the 
desk and stuffed them into his wallet. "You can keep the small 
change," he offered. Again his eyes settled on her deformed limbs. 


"Oh you can't, can you?" 


Helen's daughter ran up, spaded the coins into her hands, and ran 
off again. "Goodbye for now, Future Mrs Maine," he said, and the 
woman turned and left; her head bowed in defeat. Within ten steps, 
her head was held high again for her daughter, and within another 
thirty she was gone. 


Harold Maine reopened the dictionary. "Who's next - Maria 
Fernandez. Fregoli Syndrome? Too abstract. Cotard's Syndrome? 
Hmm..." There was a sudden scream of horror outside. "Ah good. 
Aiden Brown's arrived. Maria can wait." 


"It's a funny thing," he mused, thinking of the proud, broken, 
humiliated, undefeatable woman who had just left his presence. "If | 
could rid myself of my longing for you | would. If | could make myself 
young, good looking and rich, | would. But," and here, he laughed 
out loud, and the sound reverberated around the library, cold and 
stark and totally without humour. "But | can't. | can change anyone 
in any way, except myself.” 


Still self-absorbed in musings, he didn't see the shambling, groaning 
half-man-half-lobster advance awkwardly and wetly towards him 
from the entrance. Ignored, invisible to everyone else except Helen 
(who had reacted to it the only way she could, with screams of 
horror and pity) the monster pulled its bulk slowly towards the 
reading desk where Harold Maine sat. Once there, it wneezed and 
gasped and shifted position, desperate for comfort in a form where 
none could be found, and waited to be addressed. 


After counting up to five in his head, Maine looked up. "Ah," he said, 
looking into the ruined face, the corrupted body, the ribs fused with 
shell, the one remaining lung exposed, folded over, and grinding 
against itself as it struggled to breathe. "Mr Brown. What have you 
got for me today?" 


Next 


Audio Log 185-53 


Background: During regular testing SCP-185 was set toa 
Foundation used frequency and the year 20 was entered into the 
keypad. The following transmission was recorded. 


<Commence Log> 


Research Assistant Corbette: Hello! I'm your commentator, 
Salman Corbette! 


"Redacted" Pagan: And "Redacted" Pagan with the fourth annual 
Anomalympics, hosted this year by the Foundation itself, in 
conjunction with the Global Occult Coalition: "Protecting Humanity, 
whether it likes it or not!" 


Research Assistant Corbette: Haha, let's not be too harsh on 
them, Pag. We've also got a few guests from the Chaos Insurgency, 
Agents and , Participating in a few events. 


"Redacted" Pagan: We even have a few members of the enigmatic 
club from Europe, Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd., competing. It's 
amazing to see the kind of sportsmanship that comes around this 
time of year, wouldn't you say? 


Research Assistant Corbette: Well, it's always good to just place 
politics aside and have some nice, friendly competition. 
Unfortunately, the ORIA agents were not able to make. Some sort of 
nuclear crisis going on. But, let's get started, shall we? 


"Redacted" Pagan: Of course. For our first event, we have the 
beloved classic 1000 Yard Dash! From the SCP Foundation we 
have SCP-076-2, otherwise known as Able, who has chosen this 
event to show off, in his words, "What it means to have fun." 


Research Assistant Corbette: From The Chaos Insurgency Agent 
will be "proving superiority", and apparently Mr. from 


Dark Ltd. will be racing under sponsorship. We also have guest 
competitor Dr. Bright, who claims that his monkey legs aren't going 
to stop him from doing anything. 


"Redacted" Pagan: And the firing of the Sun Launcher signals the 
opening of the competition! Agent of the Chaos Insurgency 
seems to take an early lead, with Able tripping over his unlaced 
shoes! He's muttering something in Sumerian, but that's not 
important right now. 


Research Assistant Corbette: Wait, hold on, I’ve just gotten word 
that due to the anomalous nature of several contestants, the event 
has been changed to the 1000 meter dash. Officials are lengthening 
the track right now... And Mr. is catching up to the Agent. | 
must say, doesn't he look good with that Bauer sponsored helmet 
on? 


"Redacted" Pagan: Very much so, and it seems as though wearing 
a helmet has paid off, as Dr. Bright has procured a banana peel 
from his racing leotard, thrown it across the field, and has caused 
Mr. to trip! | would say that's cheating, but with Able on the 
field, | guess nothing is! 


Research Assistant Corbette: Oooh, | don't think he's going to 
recover from that setback. And it looks like Dr. Bright and Agent 
have caught up to one another, with Able just lagging behind. 


"Redacted" Pagan: It's a very close race, very close indeed but... 
WOW it seems Agent just went topless to stun Dr. Bright! Now, 
sexual warfare is just a low-blow, but we should have expected that 
from our friends at the Chaos Insurgency! 


Research Assistant Corbette: And with Dr. Bright sent stumbling, 
Agent wins the race! But Able doesn't seem to be happy. 


"Redacted" Pagan: Ah, he'll get over it, it seems 73, Cain, is 
coming over to help up his brother, and is teaching him how to tie 
his own shoes. Now that's the kind of thing we want to see here at 
the Anomalympics. 


Research Assistant Corbette: Good thing too, or else the Chaos 


Insurgency might be out for the three-legged race. (Laughs). 


"Redacted" Pagan: Ah, those violent days of Able are over, 
Salman, ever since we convinced him of [static for 23 seconds] he's 
happy to lend a... rather competitive hand!